“You mean you ain’t heared of the Fort Laramie Treaty yet, Lieutenant? Some call it the Sioux Treaty Hell, they been working on that treaty ever since the end of Red Cloud’s War back in ’66.”
“I’ve been back East since before the War,” Michael admitted reluctantly. “I can’t believe Red Cloud signed a treaty with white men, though.”
“He ain’t. Not yet, anyways. How do you know so much about it if you’ve been back East, like you say?” The mountain man eyed the soldier skeptically, drawing his own conclusions, his eyes dropping automatically to the soldier’s missing leg.
“Red Cloud and I knew each other as children. Things were a little more peaceful back then.”
“I reckon I know more than I want to about them Injuns, m’self. Been a scout for the army a long time. You hear things. More’n you want. They ain’t all as bad as the white men make out. I’d be madder’n hell if somebody was trying to steal my land and make up some cockamamie story to make it sound good back in Washington.”
He turned and spit another long stream of tobacco juice over the side and studied its trajectory, letting out a dissatisfied grunt when it disappeared into the churning waters hugging the side of the boat like a ladies underskirt.
“Side wheelers sure kick up a heck of a fuss in the water,” the mountain man allowed.
“Amazing,” Michael agreed. “Who would have thought it, huh?”
“I know. What’ll they invent next? Name’s Nathaniel Franklin, by the way,” said the mountain man, turning so he could hold out a meaty paw of a hand towards Michael. “Most folks just call me Big Nate.”
Michael placed his hand into that hand with a firm grip that surprised the mountain man. Using crutches a lot builds up a man’s strength without him even trying. “Well, Big Nate. It’s a pleasure. How much longer do you suppose it will take us to get to Fort Randall?”
“Well now, that all depends…..” Big Nate said, launching into another long-winded narrative that left Michael free to enjoy the riverbank passing by.
***
Michael looked around the minuscule cabin for a final time. The rest he had given his prosthesis on the trip had healed the galls on his thigh, so that he was able to wear it without too much pain. It would have been too humiliating to be borne; to arrive at his new post wearing crutches.
With his carpetbag in one hand, and his crutches in the other, he stepped out of the cabin and closed the door. Without even a hint of a limp, he walked towards the front of the upper deck of the steamboat, where he came upon the mountain man from that morning.
Big Nate leaned against the rail like he had not moved all day. Just before Michael reached him, the man launched a dark stream of tobacco juice over the side of the boat in a long golden arc. Michael noticed that seeing how far he could spit his tobacco juice was a habit of Big Nate's and a disgusting one at that.
Hearing Michael’s approach, Big Nate turned towards the sound, and seeing Michael, grinned around the cud of tobacco in his jaw.
“Lieutenant,” he boomed. “Don’t you look fine and dandy. I swear, you’re going to be the prettiest officer at Fort Randall. You better watch out for them boys what’s been there a while.” He winked at Michael.
“Has your arm taken root to that deck rail?” Michael gave as good as he got.
“Hell, it might have, I’ve been leaning here against it so long.” Big Nate grinned again.
Michael realized he liked the mountain man. He liked a man that could laugh at himself. Michael smiled at Big Nate, the first genuine smile that had creased Michael’s face in a long time.
“I ain’t never had much use for the indoors,” Big Nate confided. “I get to feeling like I’m trapped up or something. I get enough of that in the winter. I sure ain’t staying indoors when I don’t have to.”
“I know how you feel,” Michael agreed.
The steamboat rounded a bend, and up ahead Michael could see a boat landing. Fort Randall, he assumed. God willing, it would be the last fort he would ever be assigned to. Three more months left to serve. He hoped nothing happened this time to force his re-enlistment.
A bitter frown marred his features as he thought back again to that fateful day he and his best friend, Tolliver Johnson, had deserted the United States Army. The day Rose McGregor had shot him point blank with her uncle’ shotgun...
The day he had regained consciousness in the temporary infirmary belonging to the United States Army. The infirmary had been set up in the Plantation home the army had confiscated for its bivouac from the family of Rose McGregor.
Tolliver stood as his bedside. Michael misunderstood the shameless tears pouring down his friend’s cheeks; thinking they were for him. “I’m all right, Tolliver,” Michael had assured his friend. but there was too much pain, and he lost consciousness again. When he awoke the next time, it was dark. Tolliver was gone. In his place stood Major Jeremiah Roundtree himself, better known as The Butcher. The enlisted men called him that behind his back, because of his harshness. No one would have dared call him that to his face.
Michael’s bones turned to water as he looked up at the officer towering over him.
“I hear you ran into some trouble today,” Major Roundtree accused.
“Yes Sir. I did,” answered Michael through numb lips.
“We’ve been having a lot of deserters lately. You didn’t happen to see any of them while you were out there foraging, did you, soldier?”
Horrorstruck, Michael looked into Major Roundtree’s steel-gray eyes and knew that somehow, the Major knew the truth about him and Tolliver.
“No Sir. I did not. Only civilians, Sir.” Michael swallowed convulsively. His throat was dry as a prairie wind in mid-summer.
“Your Term is almost up, soldier. Only three months left to go. We need good soldiers like you and your good friend, Tolliver Johnson. He reenlisted today. Did you know that?”
Michael felt faint all of a sudden. He closed his eyes against the knowing glare in the Major’s eyes. Tolliver’s tears now made perfect sense. Goddamn Major Roundtree all to hell, Michael thought, for forcing Tolliver to reenlist. Just like he was now pressuring him to do the same, or go up on charges of desertion. The Major didn’t have to say the words. The threat was implicit in his tone of voice, his body posture, his knowing eyes.
“The United States Army is proud to have Lieutenat Tolliver for another term--just like it will be proud to have you for another three years.” He gave Michael time to let that sink in before he continued:
“you’re a long way from home, soldier and gravely injured.” He leaned down close to Michael, his face only a few inches from Michael’s own. Michael would never forget the garlicky smell of the Major’s breath as long as he lived. “My advice to you, son, would be to follow your friend’s example. So, we can take care of you. Ship you up North, where they have better medical care than we can provide in a field hospital down here amongst the confederates and the yellow-bellied deserters. Have I made myself clear?” He demanded. “Be a shame to see that leg go septic, now wouldn’t it?”
The Major stood up to his full height and just looked down at Michael. He shoved a clipboard at Michael. “Sign it,” the Major ordered.
Silent tears of helpless rage were slipping unchecked down the side of Michael’s face as he scribbled his name across the bottom of the page; condemning himself to another three years of this hell.
Despite his reenlisting, Micael's leg went septic anyways. The Major refused him leave to see his Aunt Lillian and Uncle George when they reached Savannah. He left there with them none the wiser as to his whereabouts. Tolliver was killed on the march to South Carolina.
Micheal wondered if he would ever be able to forgive himself.....Or, Rose McGregor?
The Lilly Belle was moving in close to the bank, when Michael became aware of his surroundings again.
“Well, Lieutenant, looks like we’ve made it,” Big Nate stated unnecessarily.
“Yep.” Michael gripped his bag and waited militarily erect for them to lower the gangplank.