we’ll manage for the rest of the day.”
Lily studied his pale face and stooped shoulders. There was an air of resignation or...a lack of vigor...something that had diminished him. It was as if when his wife’s life drained away, his spirit had ebbed, as well. She and Rose did what they could to lighten his heart, but, in truth, all of them sorely missed Mathilda. Only after her death had Lily realized the extent to which her mother had been the family’s anchor.
Not quite six years before, a similar shadow had passed over the family and forever changed them. During the war she, Rose and her mother had prayed unceasingly for the safety of her father and brother, David. Lily’s chest tightened, as if a claw gripped her heart. David. So amiable and strong. It had been natural to idolize the big brother whose hearty laugh had charmed them all. In her innocence, she had thought him invincible. Until that awful news. The telegram from the War Department had stated in cold, impersonal terms that their beloved David had been killed in the Battle of Lookout Mountain.
She remembered the sickening feeling she’d experienced with the realization that he had been dead for many days before they received word. Days when he had still lived in her imagination—eating, laughing, singing and...fighting. That blow had been especially cruel since they had no efficient way to communicate with Ezra. Their father’s return following the war, though a cause for celebration, was a somber occasion, the four of them grieving for the son and brother who would never again grace their family circle. Recalling past family dinners where there was always one empty place at the table, she was reminded of last night’s meal.
“Papa, we missed you at the Hurlburts’ dinner.”
“I hope you and Rose enjoyed it.”
“We did. The new captain dined with us.”
“What did you make of him?”
“He seemed pleasant enough.”
Her father rose to his feet and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I worry about you girls being in this place. There are good men here, but others...” He grimaced. “Others you shouldn’t even have to see, much less come into contact with.”
“Captain Montgomery is no cause for alarm.”
He kissed her forehead. “I probably shouldn’t have brought you here with me, but we had been so long apart during the conflict that I—” his voice cracked “—needed you.”
“And we needed you, do need you.” She patted his arm. “Never blame yourself for our circumstances. Rose and I are fine, and, after all, we are a military family. Women do their duty, too, you know.” Then, to emphasize her point, she saluted airily and took her leave.
As Lily made her customary way from the hospital to the cemetery, the breeze carried a tantalizing hint of spring. Full sun warmed her back as she stood before her mother’s grave, pondering the exchange she’d had with her father. Finally she spoke. “Mama, we miss you so. Papa is lost without you.” She closed her eyes, picturing her parents embracing. “How he must have loved you. And you? How sad to die in a harsh place like this so far from the home you loved.”
Turning to leave, she glanced in the direction where yesterday she’d seen the new cavalry troops arrive, led by Caleb Montgomery. He had none of the arrogance of George Custer, who had been stationed at Fort Larned a few months ago, nor the affected dandyism of some of the others. Montgomery seemed...was solid the word for which she searched? Yes, that, but more. Dependable? Trustworthy?
She chided herself for attempting to pigeonhole the dashing captain. His essence would not be captured, even as she ruefully admitted thoughts of him had captured her, despite her best efforts to will them away.
* * *
Although it had been a week since his arrival at Fort Larned, Caleb had slept poorly, troubled by disturbing dreams. Awake before reveille, he dressed quickly and stepped onto the front porch to watch the sunrise. Smoke rose from the mess hall kitchen, and in the distance a horse whinnied. After a few minutes, he made out the form of the bugler, who sounded notes that brought the fort from quiet to bustling activity. Lantern light flared in the barracks, and he heard the raucous shouts of prompt risers rousing the slugabeds.
From inside, the lieutenant with whom he shared quarters grunted and coughed. Will Creekmore, a fellow from Wisconsin, began every day with prayer. While Caleb found the practice laudable, he wondered how it had served the man on the battlefield. He himself had struggled to find God in the chaos of armed conflict, finally latching onto the instinct for sacrifice, even love, that he observed in the way men in extremity cared for their brothers in arms. He had concluded that just as evil existed and tempted men to war, so was mercy present in the myriad selfless acts he’d witnessed. That thought was all that made his duties bearable. Yet his uneasy truce with God had suffered a significant setback at the Washita River.
He would go to his grave with the horrors of November 27, 1868. On that wintry dawn, he had led his troop to a rendezvous point above the Washita River where they waited in hushed darkness for Lt. Col. George Custer’s command to attack the camp of Chief Black Kettle and roughly two-hundred-fifty vulnerable Cheyenne. A survivor of the infamous 1864 Sand Creek Massacre, Black Kettle had negotiated for peace, but had been unable to control younger, more belligerent warriors, engaging in raids against white settlers.
Swallowing sourly with the memory, Caleb saw it once again in his mind’s eye. Their orders were to take woman and children hostage, but to kill anyone who fired on them and destroy the enemy’s horses. When the first rays of the sun illumined the horizon, the command came, bugles blew and the cavalry charged down on the sleeping village. It took only one shot from a single hapless Cheyenne to incite a frenzy of fighting. Screaming women clutching their children ran for the river, old people fell in their tracks, and bodies littered the snow.
In his nightmares he would forever see the little girl holding a cornhusk doll, a bullet hole through her chest and the lifeless body of a woman cradling beneath her a piteously mewling infant.
He had experienced horrific combat in the War between the States; however, that cause was justified and didn’t involve women and children on the battlefield. But the engagement on the Washita? That was different. It was a massacre. To his eternal shame, he had been unable to prevent it. No wonder he had lost his zest for soldiering. It was even difficult to believe himself worthy as a man.
The orange ball of the sun brought light into his dark thoughts. “God,” he whispered, “help me to understand. Why? Why?” Scraping a hand across his beard, he paused as if waiting for an answer, and then went back into his quarters to shave.
After breakfast, Major Hurlburt gathered the officers for a briefing. Spring wagon trains setting out for Santa Fe would soon be passing their way along with the usual supply wagons. Roving bands of Kiowas, Pawnees and Arapahos, angered by the white man’s usurpation of their tribal lands and hungry after a long winter of deprivation, were on the prowl. Scouts had already located Kiowas camped along the Pawnee Fork. Caleb and his sergeant were ordered to accompany a seasoned troop the following day to deal with the situation and familiarize themselves with the immediate territory.
That evening, keyed up in anticipation of action, Caleb sought the quiet of the post library. Before the war, he had entertained thoughts of studying at university, but now that was a distant dream. However, he reckoned the lack of formal education needn’t keep him from learning.
In a somber mood, he pulled a volume of Tennyson’s poems from the shelves. The book fell open to “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” and Caleb was transported instantly to the suicidal attack in the Crimean War.
