The first rays of the early morning sun shot through the windows of “L” Company’s orderly room. George Aldridge, the first sergeant, took advantage of his position as the unit’s senior noncommissioned officer to enjoy a bit of leisure before beginning the day’s duties. Having to rush out to duty was the unhappy fate of lesser-ranking members of the United States Dragoons.
Aldridge poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot that sat on the small stove. In the wintertime, the wood inside the heating appliance would have been plentiful and burning brightly, making it hot enough to glow a dull red. But only a small fire was necessary to cut the chill of summer mornings at Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory.
Aldridge walked back toward his desk to enjoy the hot brew, when the door opened. ;
“Good morning, Mister Stephans,” the first sergeant said over his shoulder.
“It is not Mister Stephans,” a gruff voice replied.
Aldridge turned to see the company commander, Captain Darcy Hays, shutting the door. “What the hell are you doing here this time o’ day-—sir?”
“I’m taking reveille this morning,” Hays replied.
“You?”
“Me!” Hays replied. He and Aldridge had been soldering together almost thirty years, and one could read the other like a book. The captain frowned, saying, “Sergeant, may I take the liberty of inquiring as to what is so unusual about a company commander taking reveille of his own company?”
“That depends on the company commander we’re talking about, sir,” Aldridge said. “If that particular leader o’ men is you, then it is unusual as hell.” He was thoughtful for a few moments as he searched his memory. “By God, the best I can recollect is that you ain’t taken reveille in the last ten years. Most o’ the time you’re in your quarters snoozing away—if I may say so respectfully.”
“You may say it in any manner that pleases you,” Hays said. “It is simply that I am in a good mood this morning.” He looked at the stove. “Is that hot coffee?”
“It is,” Aldridge replied. “It’s been there steaming and inviting every morning for myself and Mister Stephans over these past ten years.”
The other man he referred to was Lieutenant Tim Stephans, who was Hays’s young second-in-command. Because of his subordinate position, the mornings always found that youthful officer at the reveille formations while Hays slept off the previous night’s drunk.
However, even Sergeant Aldridge would have to admit that Hays’s habits of arising late were practiced only in garrison. When the company was on active campaigning out in the field against hostile Indians, Hays was always the first up in the morning. He would be alert, eager, cold sober, and ready to get down to the business at hand.
Hays got himself a cup from several that sat on the windowsill. He poured some coffee and took a noisy sip. “Ah! Now, that’s the way to start the morning.”
“Does Mister Stephans know you’re taking reveille this morning?” the first sergeant asked. “It would be a shame for him to get up early for nothing.”
“Of course,” Hays answered. “I told him last night in the back of the sutler’s store.” He referred to the room where Fort Laramie’s officers gathered for drinks, card playing, and other recreational activities.
“Were you drunk or sober?” Aldridge asked pointedly. “I was drunk,” Hays answered just as candidly.
“And he believed you?”
“Of course,” Hays said, taking another sip of coffee. “He was drunk, too.”
“That explains it, then,” Aldridge remarked.
The notes of reveille interrupted any further conversation. This was immediately followed by the sound of bellowing noncommissioned officers rousting their men out of the barracks to form up for the day’s first formation.
Aldridge glanced out the window. “Our company is formed up proper, sir,” he announced.
“Then by all means, let’s hold reveille, good Sergeant Aldridge,” Hays said. “We mustn’t keep our brave dragoons waiting.”
The pair of veterans marched from the orderly room. Hays went behind the company while Aldridge went to the front. He called the soldiers to attention, then announced: “Section leaders, report!”
“First Section, two men guard, one man sick!” the leader bawled out.
“Second Section, all present and accounted for!” the sergeant in charge of that group reported.
As Aldridge made an about-face, Captain Darcy Hays marched around the company to spot in front of him. The men’s eyes opened wide at the sight of the captain taking the formation’s report rather than the young Lieutenant Tim Stephans. Some of the newer men had never seen their company commander that early in the morning except out in the field on campaign duty.
“Sir!” Aldridge, saluting, shouted in Hays’s face. “‘L’ Company has two men guard, one man sick, all others present and accounted for.”
Hays, wincing at the loudness, returned the salute. “Take your post, Sergeant.” He waited for the first sergeant to go around to the back of the formation. “Stand at ease!”
The company stamped into a position with feet spread shoulder-width and their hands clasped together in front of them.
“Good morning, men!” Hays said happily.
“Good morning, sir!” they replied in an orchestrated shout.
“I spoke with Mister Stephans last night, and he tells me that you’re going to be cleaning carbines all day today,” Hays said. “I want you all to take particular care in the work. Your lives depend on your carbines, men. When hostiles are on the warpath, a dirty weapon will mean your death and the loss of your scalp. That’s as sure as shit stinks.” He paused. “And we all know that is true from the way the latrines smell on a hot summer’s day.”
A bit of polite chuckling was exhibited by the men.
“But seriously,” Hays continued. “I just want to let you know what a fine group of men you are. Why, I don’t think I’ve commanded a finer company in my thirty years of service in this grand old United States Army.”
“We thank the captain!” came a disorganized chorus.
“I’m just asking you to keep up the good work at everything you do from drill to patrolling,” Hays said. He displayed a paternalistic smile. “That’s all I wanted to say to you.” He took a deep breath and yelled, “First Sergeant!”
Aldridge marched back around to the front and positioned himself in front of the company commander. He saluted.
“Take charge of the company,” Hays said. He turned and marched away.
Aldridge, with his duty roster in hand, watched the captain leave the area. He was more than a little puzzled by the unusual conduct, but had too busy a day ahead of him to give it a lot of thought at that particular time. He faced the soldiers, saying, “Now! As well as the cleaning of weapons, we have to furnish some men to dig sumps on the west side of the post. As your names are called—”
Hays, now out of earshot of the first sergeant, continued walking across the post until he reached headquarters. He bounded up the six steps to the porch, crossed it, and went straight inside. He rapped on the adjutant's door and stepped up to the man's desk.
The adjutant, a harried lieutenant named Hawker, was slightly annoyed at the interruption from his morning's first chore of preparing strength returns. “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.
“Just one thing, really, Hawker, old man,” Hays said. “But quite important, nevertheless. I would like the form to apply for retirement from active duty.”
Hawker forgot his work. “So it wasn't the whiskey talking last night, hey? You're really going to retire?”
“Don't you think thirty years of serving on the frontier, not counting that two-year stint down south fighting Mexicans, is sufficient service for one man?” Hays asked.
“If that man manages to only reach the rank of captain in all that time and turmoil, I suppose,” Hawker said with a sardonic grin.
“Well, now, Lieutenant, I'm sure you'll be at least a colonel, if not a general, when your anniversary of thirty years' military service comes around,” Hays said. “But those of us with fewer talents, and who also have a distaste for staff duty in offices, must do the best with what we’ve got.”
Hawker reached in his desk and pulled out a large cardboard envelope. He searched through it and pulled out a form. “Fill this out and return it to me along with a letter officially requesting retirement from the service,” he said. “I’ll see that it is all packaged up nicely and sent directly to the Adjutant General at the War Department to have you placed on the retired list as quickly as possible.”
“I shall comply with your instructions this very morning,” Hays said. “You should have it all on your desk before midday. I thank you most kindly, Lieutenant Hawker.”
“You are certainly welcome, Captain Hays,” Hawker said.
Hays, grinning widely, left headquarters and took a brisk walk across the post back to his quarters. The two-room building was nestled in a line of similar structures called Officers’ Row. These were the domiciles of the officers stationed at Fort Laramie. Although this included some staff from quartermaster, ordnance, and the engineers, most of the rankers were like Captain Darcy Hays, serving in the regiment of dragoons stationed at the post.
Hays went into his quarters and tossed his cap on the table by the door. After putting the packet of papers down beside the headgear, he walked to the rocking chair and sat down. Grimacing, he rubbed his knees where the rheumatism had gotten particularly painful over the past few years.
Darcy Lafayette Hays had been born in Cumberland County, North Carolina, fifty years before. He was a member of the fourth generation of a tobacco-growing family that had prospered well since their arrival in America in 1645. Coming down from Maryland, Hays’s great-great-grandfather had literally hacked out farmland from the pine forest. His efforts were ultimately to result in a large plantation complete with a mansion, smaller houses, quarters for field hands, smokehouses, a blacksmith barn, stables, and other minor edifices so necessary in a large, prosperous organization. The captain’s great-grandfather, grandfather, and father continued the good work, each adding more riches and property. Hays’s pater took time off to fight the English in the American Revolutionary War. His military duty was sporadic during eight long years, consisting of riding with General Francis Marion— the “Swamp Fox”—in partisan warfare in the hinterlands of the Carolinas.
When Darcy Hays was born, he entered the full-blown life of the southern aristocracy. While such an environment consisted of many genteel and luxurious surroundings and conditions, the young gentlemen of that class were expected to be expert horsemen, hunters, marksmen, and swordsmen, and to possess other skills required for a rugged outdoor life. This included the demands to possess a great capacity to endure physical hardship and outright danger. It was not surprising that most of those scions of wealth entered young adulthood fully qualified to be damned good soldiers. Many, like Hays, were attracted to military life.
Hays’s father had no objections when the boy expressed a desire to enter the Army. With three other sons to run the family enterprise, Darcy could easily be spared to pursue another way of life, if he so desired. The newly established military academy at West Point, New York, offered a good way into the service as a commissioned officer. That was where Darcy went for his premier military training and schooling as a naive sixteen-year-old boy in 1821. Although the school had been authorized in 1802, it wasn’t until 1812 that it became a folly operative military academy. Thus, only nine years of classes had been going on when the young North Carolinian presented himself to become a cadet
Hays was no intellectual. He detested classroom work and was barely able to qualify for graduation or an army commission. He was a popular prank-playing, rule-breaking, demerit-receiving military student. The Corps of Engineers, the elite of the army officer cadre, had no place for such an individual. Thus, when Cadet Darcy Hays came off the West Point plain in 1825, he did so as a twenty-year-old second lieutenant of dragoons. One of his harried instructors, watching the young officer finally depart, said to a colleague: “Well, that’s that. As a dragoon, Hays will either break his neck through reckless horseback riding, or some damned Indian will scalp him!”
Hays proved himself to be a good officer in the field. A natural leader, he had a certain élan his men admired. During periods of fighting Indians or the soldiers of Mexico during the war in that country, he received numerous mentions in official military dispatches for his courage and tenacity in battle. However, brief periods of staff duties in which he served as adjutant or quartermaster were disasters. The tedium of paperwork bored him, he didn’t give a damn about pleasing anybody, and his attention span was extremely short when it came to detailed reports and documents. He was nearly cashiered for neglect of duty and incompetence on two occasions, but his battle service record saved him. Finally, it was decided to leave him with the line troops of the dragoons.
Now, on his last assignment of protecting immigrants on the Oregon Trail while operating out of Fort Laramie, Captain Darcy Hays had reached the end of his thirty-year haul. Aching from old wounds and increasing rheumatism, he felt tired and knew his effectiveness as a field commander was drawing to a close. Any incompetence on his part in a fighting campaign could mean the loss of good soldiers. That was something Darcy Hays would not allow to happen. He knew it was time to hang up his saber and spurs.
A loud knocking on the door interrupted Hays’s thoughts. He glanced irritably toward the flimsy portal.
“Come in,” he invited without enthusiasm.
Second Lieutenant Tim Stephans stepped into the room. He was a young man in his mid-twenties, relatively new to the Army. He had black hair, dark brown eyes, a slim build, and a boyish face that displayed a grin most of the time.
“Well!” the subaltern exclaimed. “It’s all over the post”
“The fact that I took reveille this morning for the first time in ten years?” Hays asked.
“No, sir,” Tim said. “About your application for retirement.”
Tim was the only other officer in Hays’s company of Indian-fighting dragoons. His intellect and attention to detail matched Hays’s, but there were marked differences between them. Tim’s age and his physical well-being were both in stark contrast to those of his superior officer. The lieutenant was healthy and robust, with a fresh outlook on life.
“Just think,” Hays said. “When I leave, you’ll command ‘L’ Company until a replacement is found.”
“That won’t be long,” Tim said. “I hear there’s a first lieutenant in the First Squadron at Fort Kearny with more than ten years in grade.”
“Well,” Darcy mused. “It’ll take a while for the paperwork mill to grind out that promotion and transfer. So you’ll be the leader of the ‘L’s for a year, maybe. But that doesn’t mean you’ll rule those dragoons like they’re innocent, ignorant children.”
“Of course not,” Tim said. “I plan to rely a lot on the sergeants.”
“I’m glad you realize that,” Hays said. “Don’t be bashful about asking First Sergeant Aldridge questions. He can be a big help.”
“I suppose,” Tim said. He laughed. “Here we are, talking like you’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
“I’ve a few months to go,” Hays said.
“Lucky you,” Tim said. “This isn’t an easy job, but I guess there isn’t much that can be done in an army with a chronic shortage of officers.” He looked at Hays. “I suppose I’ll be in your shoes someday, huh?”
“Do you mean after thirty years you won’t have very damned much to show for your military career?” Hays asked.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Tim said.
“Well, I suppose you’re right,” Hays said. “You’re about as dumb as I am, so I suppose your service days won’t be any brighter than mine.”
“I’m an engineer,” Tim said. “If I find my days in the Army not showing any promise, I’ll resign my commission.” He looked at his commander. “Did you ever consider that?”
A feeling of sadness quickly swept over the older officer at the unexpected question. He quickly recovered, saying, “Hell, no!”
Tim said, “Well, I have.” Like Hays, he was a West Point graduate. “I can get a good career in civil life in that profession.”
“You’d better hurry up and do it, then,” Hays said. “If you wait until after you have thirty years in the Army, you’re sure as hell going to be too far behind the times to qualify for any legitimate position.”
Another knock on the door sounded, and Darcy growled. “I might as well just open the place up and let the whole damned regiment tramp through here.”
Tim opened the door and found First Sergeant George Aldridge peering inside the small quarters. The sergeant looked past the younger officer at the captain. “The colonel sends his compliments and asks that you report to him.”
Hays chuckled. “Old Cowler probably wants a confirmation on my retirement.”
“No, sir,” Aldridge said. “You’ll be going to the field, sir. Trouble with hostiles.”
Hays leaped from his chair with such violence that stabs of rheumatic pain shot through both legs. “Ow! God damn it! Ow! Doesn’t he know I’m applying to go on the retired list?”
Aldridge grinned. “I reckon he does, sir, but he doesn’t give a damn.”
Hays limped over to the table and grabbed his cap and went to the door. “You two sons of bitches get out of my house!”
“What for?” Aldridge asked. “There ain’t nothing worth stealing.”
Hays winked at him. “What do you expect from a fellow living on a captain’s pay?” He exited with a wave at the two.
Tim and Aldridge stepped outside and watched the old captain walk over toward headquarters. Now that he was outside where people could see him, Hays hid the pain he felt in his legs. Forcing himself not to limp, he walked steadily and soldierly across the regimental parade ground.
Aldridge spoke in a low, respectful tone. “He’s hurting.”
Tim nodded. “Captain Darcy Lafayette Hays is one hell of a soldier.”
“Yes, sir,” Aldridge agreed. “Some folks may look on him as a failure, but those of us who’ve stood elbow-to-elbow with him trading shots with hostiles or Mexican soldiers know he’s one of the best damn field commanders in the United States Dragoons.”
Tim smiled to himself, thinking how proud he would be if the day were to come when some sergeant spoke of him in those terms.