Martha Tate, standing at her kitchen counter, filled the two tin cups with boiling coffee. She carried them outside, giving one to her husband Harry, and the other to Guy DuBose. The pair of sergeants sat in front of the Tate quarters enjoying the warm spring evening.
“Thank you for the supper, Mrs. Tate,” Guy said sincerely. “It was delicious.”
“I’m pleased you liked it, Mr. DuBose,” Martha replied.
“Where did you get those black-eyed peas?” Guy asked. “What a nice surprise. I don’t believe I have had the opportunity to eat any for more than three years.”
Harry Tate grinned. “I knew you’d be surprised.”
“I even had Laura Lee take some over to cook for Cap’n Blackburn,” Martha said.
“A sad waste o’ good southern food on a northern stummick,” Harry growled.
Their oldest daughter, fifteen-year-old Laura Lee, made extra money by working as a housekeeper and cook for various families among the officers. Mrs. Robertson, the quartermaster’s wife, had fetched her for employment in the Blackburn household.
“I bought ’em off that peddler that was through here a coupla days ago,” Martha replied. “We’d had you over sooner, but since Cap’n Blackburn has kept you so busy, we din’t have a chance.”
“That sonofabitch,” Harry said in calm tone, “is no good Yankee scum.”
“You’d better watch your choice of adjectives,” Guy warned. “Don’t forget you’re serving in the Yankee army yourself now.”
“I don’t know what a ad-jek-tif is,” Harry responded. “But if that’s what Blackburn is, so be it.”
Martha, who had stayed nearby, spoke to them from the door. “At least the men in the comp’ny have their evenings free again.”
Blackburn had decreed that every soldier in C Company would be confined to the barracks for an unspecified amount of time. To make matters worse, the captain saw to it that the evenings in quarters were made even more miserable by conducting numerous inspections of the strictest nature. He meticulously went over carbines, sabers, boots, accouterments, and the billets themselves. The slightest infraction or smudge brought immediate punishment to the offender.
The penalty for these infractions was an old army punishment. Rain barrels were rolled from their places at the bottom of the drain pipes of the barracks’ rain gutters. Those who failed the inspections had to stand on the barrel rims while holding their carbines above their heads. It was a difficult and painful feat. Those forced into it were quickly brought to the point of exhaustion from cramped shoulder and calf muscles. A couple had sustained bad injuries when they fainted and fell to the ground.
After three days of the routine, Guy finally protested. But he did so in a respectful, proper manner. He wanted to avoid any indication that minor sedition was in the making. Guy waited until there were no other troops around when he finally approached Captain Blackburn. “Sir,” he said to the officer in a calm tone. “I think we’ve reached the limit. Whatever lesson you’re imparting has surely been learned now.”
“The reasons behind this extra discipline seem to escape even you, Sergeant DuBose,” Blackburn had replied. “The message to this scum is that I am not an officer who will tolerate any breach of the regulations. I demand the utmost in conduct and efficiency.”
“They understand that, sir,” Guy replied. “And I beg your pardon, but this company has always been the best in the regiment.”
“Perhaps so, but that does not matter. I do not consider this regiment the best in the army. The top dogs of a pack of curs have no reason for pride. These aren’t honorable soldiers like the lads that served to crush you Southern rabble-rousers, Sergeant DuBose. This gang of loafers are in the army because they cannot earn honest livings in the outside world. For them, it is a matter of jail or the barracks,” Blackburn said. “You are obviously an educated man, and I don’t understand why you have chosen this life. Nor do I care. As far as I am concerned, you are as low-life as they.”
Guy’s face reddened, but he held his tongue. He tried to keep his mind on the subject of easing up on the men.
“Sir, there is nothing more to be gained by this activity.”
“I do not like your attitude, Sergeant DuBose,” Blackburn said. “I have felt since my first day in this regiment, that you are a whiner and a troublemaker. Don’t try your arrogance on me, or I shall ride you so far down in rank that the horses will consider themselves superior to you.”
Guy wisely shut up and went back to his duties. The harsh treatment continued for three more nights. Finally, at reveille on that fourth morning, Blackburn was shocked when 1st Sergeant McClary smugly reported:
“Sir, fourteen men absent.”
An initial pursuit was launched, but it brought in only two of the younger fellows who had gotten lost on the trackless prairie. The other twelve were gone for good, and Blackburn was required to report directly to Colonel Gatley to explain the unfortunate situation. After that very unhappy interview, he was forced to call off both his nightly inspections and the continued confinement to the barracks.
Now, relaxing for the first time in a week, Guy and Harry Tate worked steadily at the two bottles of whiskey that Guy had brought with him. Tate, his tongue loosened by the alcohol, gave his friend a long, pensive look. “Guy, I want to say something. But I don’t want you to take no offense.”
Guy, enjoying his own whiskey-laced coffee, looked over at him.
Harry took a deep breath. “You ought to be an officer, Guy, and that’s a fact.”
“My service in the Lost Cause prohibits commissioned service,” Guy said.
“Then, by damn, if you ain’t gonna be one, you shouldn’t be in the army.”
“I like being a soldier,” Guy said.
But Harry wasn’t convinced. “Say, don’t take this wrong, but you ain’t like the rest of us, Guy,” he said indicating the other N.C.O.s lounging outside their modest quarters. “I ain’t saying you don’t fit in, ’cause you do. You got ever’body’s respect and the fellers like to have a drink or two with you over to the sutler’s store.” He paused thoughtfully. “I think the best way to it is to say that if we was on the outside, I’d be working for you, Guy. I’d call you ‘Mr. DuBose’ like my missus does, and we wouldn’t have nothing to do with each other in the social sense.”
Martha Tate nodded her agreement. “Why you’d never come to our house to take supper, Mr. DuBose.”
Guy knew they were right. But he also knew they would never fully comprehend the reasons for his choice of life in the army. He only shook his head. “You’re all wrong.”
“No he ain’t,” Martha Tate said. “And I’d be doing the wash for you just the same.”
Harry continued. “As for me, I’m a natural borned enlisted soljer. I’ll do anything an officer or that Yankee bastard Blackburn tells me to do. It suits me to make myself the foreman. It’s in my nature. I might have thunk the cap’n was wrong as hell, but I kicked them boys up onto them damn rain barrels, and I kicked ’em again when they fell off. I’m a goddamned perfessional soljer—a sergeant—by God I’ll do the boss man’s bidding. If I wasn’t kicking asses here, I’d be doing it out on a plantation work gang.”
Martha Tate’s voice carried the tone of her conviction. “Mr. DuBose, you’re a boss man.”
“Now wait a minute, both of you,” Guy said, a little angry and extremely embarrassed. The conversation was bringing home the unhappy situation in which the war had placed him. “Harry and I have the same job. We work together at it. I am no better than you. I enjoy being invited here to eat, and I value your—”
The urgent notes of To Arms sounded from the parade ground.
“Holy Jesus!” Harry yelled. “It’s damned near dark too. Let’s go.”
The two sergeants, suddenly sobered, leaped up and raced to answer the call. The N.C.O. wives on Soap Suds Row called fearfully to their children, gathering their flocks around them. No one knew why the alarm had been sounded. There was the very real possibility that an Indian attack on Fort Alexander was imminent.
Other soldiers, coming from all directions, joined the throng that was now spilling out of barracks, the sutler’s store, and other places on post to form up in company and squadron formations.
Reports were quickly taken. Quite a number of men hadn’t responded to the trumpet’s summons. The members of the guard not on post were organized under their corporals to go out and seek the absentees.
The colonel, unable to waste time, called for all officers and sergeants to march front-and-center to form up close to him.
“I have just received an official report from Mr. Palmer Druce at the Red River Agency that the war chief Lame Elk has left the area and taken a half dozen warriors with him. While seven hostiles does not constitute a great threat, there is always the danger that the longer he remains at liberty, the more followers he will gain. Therefore, it goes without saying, that it is of the utmost importance to pursue and capture him. Lame Elk and his men must be brought back.”
The veteran Indian fighters among the troops relaxed a bit then. Only the rookies—and Captain Gordon Blackburn—remained excited.
The colonel continued. “Every officer, noncommissioned officer, and soldier of the regiment will be fully armed and draw the standard field issue of rations and ammunition. All garrison prisoners will be released as quickly as possible. Third Squadron will remain on post under full alert. I want them ready to take to the field at the shortest notice. Second Squadron will go immediately to the agency and stand by for any necessary action there. First Squadron, with the exception of Company C, will mount patrols that will remain within a five mile radius of the post. Company C will begin an immediate pursuit of Lame Elk and his six men. I want all squadron and troop commanders to report to me at headquarters for further instruction. Remaining officers and N.C.O.s will prepare the men for the coming activities. You are dismissed!”
Guy DuBose and Harry Tate turned immediately to tend to the things they had to do. C Company’s men, still disgruntled over the bad treatment, would have been harder to manage, but the prospect of again getting out of garrison raised their collective mood to a higher level. They quickly changed into their field uniforms, then answered Boots and Saddles. By the time Captain Blackburn had changed his own clothes and returned to the company, all were ready to ride out.
But Blackburn was not pleased. The picture he saw was not what he’d expected to see. Instead of the men looking like they were ready for another inspection, the troops seemed more as if they were a group of vagrants. Rather than wearing acceptable apparel, all wore old faded, mismatched uniforms. Most had sewn extra patches onto the seats of their trousers to make them last longer and be more comfortable during long hours in the saddle. They sported various types of wide-brimmed headgear which were obviously civilian. Bandannas, mostly red, fleshed out their most un-military appearance. If it hadn’t been for their carbines, they wouldn’t have looked warlike at all.
To make matters worse, both Guy DuBose and Harry Tate were dressed the same way. Blackburn, on the other hand, was impeccable. Not only was he wearing creased trousers and a freshly pressed tunic, but he sported a kepi and even had his saber attached to his well-shined pistol belt. He almost trembled with anger. “DuBose! Come here!” he hissed.
Guy walked up and saluted. “Yes, sir. The company is present and accounted for.”
“I won’t argue that point,” Blackburn snapped. “But I will let you know that I do not consider the company properly assembled.”
Puzzled, Guy looked around. The outfit, standing motionless and steady, was locked into a precise formation of two sections. Guy turned back to the commanding officer. “I perceive nothing improper, sir.”
“Neither you nor Sergeant Tate nor any of the men are dressed according to regulation, Sergeant,” Blackburn said. “Have you not noticed my own uniform?”
“Well, yes, sir,” Guy conceded. “But I had thought it was because your previous service did not provide you with old uniforms for field duty. Naturally, you also hadn’t had the chance to make any purchases of hats or bandannas at the sutler’s store. And I was most respectfully going to remind you that carrying a saber is both unnecessary and unwise in Indian warfare.”
“We will discuss all this later, Sergeant,” Blackburn said coldly. “Much to your disadvantage and distress, I might add.” He motioned to the company. “Let’s mount up and get on with our business, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Guy shouted the necessary commands, and the men responded. Within a few moments, C Company, with its brand-new, creased-and-shined proper commanding officer at the front, cantered out of Fort Alexander toward the growing sunset. The guard at the front gate presented arms as the unit rode past.
A lance corporal watched them gallop out into the vast prairie. “By Gott,” he said in a thick German accent. “You’d t’ink dat officer vas in front of der Kaiser parading.”
His companions, two American-born privates, frowned at his butchery of their native language, but one agreed. “Yeah. Cap’n Blackburn is riding out after one of the meanest damn Comanche war chiefs looking like he’s about to make Church Call.”
The other trooper laughed. “If ol’ Lame Elk doubles back and hits them boys, Blackburn’ll already be dressed up for his coffin.”