We paused to watch the drill.
“What’s your opinion of the standard Army issue shoulder arm, Sonora?” I asked, watching the men struggle with the manual of arms.
“Some politician sure padded his nest with that one. You know damn’ well that group up north with Forsythe would never have survived the Beecher’s Island attack if they’d had these single-shot Springfields. Their Spencers was what saved their asses, and then the Army goes and trades ’em away.”
I agreed. Everyone knew the details of the battle for Beecher’s Island. Major George A. Forsythe had been detailed by General Sheridan to lead a small force of fifty men in order to draw out the Sioux and Cheyennes, who had been raiding stage and telegraph stations.
On September 16, 1868 Forsythe made camp in the valley of the Arikaree River, mistakenly believing that he had arrived undetected. At dawn the next day 600 Sioux, Cheyennes, and Arapahos led by Roman Nose moved in to attack. Fortunately for the cavalrymen some overeager young braves tried to stampede the Army’s horses first. Their war cries alerted Forsythe who managed to drive off the raiders and withdraw his force across the river and onto a small island before the main body of Indians attacked.
Forsythe’s men brought their mounts around into a circle and tied them to bushes, forming a tight barrier. The island was an ideal defensive position, but what really saved Forsythe, who was outnumbered more than twelve to one, was the fact that every man carried a Spencer repeating rifle with 140 rounds and Colt Army revolver with another 100 or so rounds. Four Army pack mules carried another 4,000 extra shells for the rifles.
Time and time again the Indian charges were broken by volleys from the trooper’s Spencer rifles, fully loaded with six in the magazine, and one in the chamber.
Under siege for over a week the men huddled in rifle pits dug with tin plates and hunting knives. Major Forsythe was wounded on the first day, but his courage continued to inspire his men. By the fourth day he had been hit twice more and his second-in-command, Lieutenant Frederick Beecher, for whom the island was eventually named, had been killed.
Roman Nose was a fearless leader and relentlessly continued the onslaught, leading one of the largest charges himself. Since they had little time to reload, Forsythe held his fire, ordering his men to shoot in volleys. The troopers were ordered to hold fire until the redskins were a mere fifty yards away. But those Spencers held seven rounds apiece, and, when they finally cut loose, wave after wave of Indians fell to its devastating firepower.
When the fifth wave collapsed, Roman Nose managed once again to rally his braves, and charged a sixth time. With only two more rounds left, the troopers fired and Roman Nose was hit point-blank, knocking him off his horse and into the shallow waters. The charge faltered, the Indians demoralized.
By the time the Army’s relief column finally arrived, what was left of Forsythe’s men had been reduced to eating the horses that had died during the fighting.
Cavalrymen everywhere were grateful for the extra firepower offered by the Spencer rifle, but the Army, with its usual logic, decided to replace it with the single-shot Springfield.
“Ever seen what happens to a Trapdoor that’s been fired a lot?” I asked Sonora. “The barrel heats up and the cartridges swell and stick in the breech. Got to pry ’em out with a pocket knife,” I said.
Sonora nodded his head. “Single-shot’s a great idea for cavalry. Reloading one’s real easy, especially when you’re galloping at the enemy,” he added sarcastically.
“Heard they were considering the Remington Rolling Block for a while,” I commented.
“Never had a chance,” he replied. “Sure, it’s a better rifle, so’s the Sharps for that matter. But it’s a lot easier for the government to retool old rifles and pocket the difference. Never mind the men what’s got to use ’em.”
The drill continued as we walked past.
“You’ll get a full sixty rounds a month for target practice, so make ’em count.” The instructor sounded less than convincing that it would be enough.
We passed through the buildings and onto an open field in back of the fort, where we found a dozen or more two-man pup tents staked out in equal columns. Standing out in front of them, talking to a couple of his men was a sergeant who, judging from Sonora’s description, had to be the man we were looking for.
Sonora Mason could hardly be described as soft, yet here he was hugging his friend and thumping his back, happy as a kid at Christmas. The fact that Sergeant Freeman was a good man was immediately obvious to me, but at the present time he was also an embarrassed one.
“Let me go, ya big idiot, afore you crack a rib,” he gasped.
“Damn it’s good to see you, Nate.”
“Sure it is, kid, but Ah’m on duty. Army cain’t have its noncoms going ’round huggin’ other men.’ Specially not someone ugly as y’all.” He laughed.
Sergeant Nathaniel Freeman was a man of average height, but solidly built. His short-cropped, curly gray hair was thinning, and his face wrinkled, but he walked tall and his uniform was sharp, unusually so for a Southwestern post.
“Glad ya got mah letter, but Ah didn’t expect ya’d come all this way. Whose the galoot with y’all?” he asked, glancing my way.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, Nate. He’s white, oversized, and he’ll talk your ear off given half a chance, but he’s a friend of sorts,” Sonora said, looking over at me.
“Thanks a lot, Sonora” I said. “Don’t bust a cinch loadin’ on all that praise.”
“Sonora?” The sergeant looked puzzled. “That’s what you callin’ yourself now, Isiquiel?”
“Isiquiel?” I laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Never you mind,” he growled. “And you just better keep it to yourself,” he added.
“Sure thing. I can keep a secret as well as the next man…Isiquiel.”
Before he had a chance to reply, I turned and extended a hand to his friend, introducing myself. “Sonora said you’re with the Tenth Cavalry. A mite far from home, aren’t you?” I asked.
“The Army’s cut down a lot in the last couple of years. Only about fifty-seven thousand in the whole shebang now, so they’s usin’ colonels for inspection duty. We’re here as aides, and as an honor guard unit for Colonel Benjamin Grierson.”
“How’d you get so lucky?” asked Sonora, looking over at the tents unhappily.
“Supposed to be a special detail,” grunted the sergeant. “Ain’t very excitin’ but Ah wanted this postin’ ’cause it pays extra. Ah even had to compete with some other sergeants for the job.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Army had a contest, and as part o’ the competition they held a surprise inspection. Checked everything from soup to nuts. Boiled it down to just two o’ us. When they had us turn out for the full dress uniform inspection, it was so close they couldn’t choose between us, so the colonel finally had us strip down. Sergeant James was always crisp as a new bill, but, as it turned out, he was wearin’ store-bought civilian long johns. Most o’ the men do ’cause they’s more comfortable, but that was enough to disqualify him. Ah might’ve been wearin’ them, too, but Ah’d heard about that little ol’ trick from a captain Ah’d once served with. When the colonel saw Ah was the only one wearin’ Army issue undergarments, Ah got the job.”