Rose's Rage: Mountain Man Series, #11

By Greg Strandberg

It’s 1812 on the Upper Missouri.

Mountain man Edward Rose fights with the Crow against the Hidatsa. Meanwhile on the border with Canada, old animosities flare-up as trappers from two nations meet head on.

America’s second War of Independence is starting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Strandberg
• Release date: Mar 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386799818

Greg Strandberg

Greg Strandberg was born and raised in Helena, Montana. He graduated from the University of Montana in 2008 with a BA in History.When the American economy began to collapse Greg quickly moved to China, where he became a slave for the English language industry. After five years of that nonsense he returned to Montana in June, 2013.When not writing his blogs, novels, or web content for others, Greg enjoys reading, hiking, biking, and spending time with his wife and young son.

Book preview

Rose’s Rage

Mountain Man Series, Book XI

Greg Strandberg

Big Sky Words, Missoula

Copyright © 2017 by Big Sky Words

D2D Edition, 2017

Written in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Connect with Greg Strandberg

www.bigskywords.com

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Table of Contents

Part I – As It Stands

1 – A Quick Retreat

2 – Fending Them Off

3 – Salvaging What’s Left

4 – Grim Discoveries

Part II – The Crow

5 – Standing Again

6 – A New Charge

7 – Regrouping

8 – A New Enemy

9 – On the Field

10 – From Above

11 – A Rescue

12 – On the Ground

Part III – Nor’Westers

13 – Near the Souris

14 – A Company

15 – Moving South

16 – Breaking Bread

17 – Spilling Wine

18 – Busting Chops

19 – Cleaning Up

20 – Fog of War

Part IV – The Hidatsa

21 – Warrior Ways

22 – Cold Move

23 – Over the Pass

24 – Staying Vigilant

25 – Winter War

26 – Hunter and Prey

27 – The Battle on the Pass

28 – Questionable Loyalties

29 – Parting Ways

Part V – The Mandan

30 – Arriving

31 – Officers

32 – Scouting

33 – A Meeting

34 – Betrayed

35 – Plunging In

36 – Survival

37 – Running

Part VI – The Sioux

38 – Captive

39 – Meeting Up

40 – Old Allies

41 – Reproach

42 – Ambush

43 – Killing Time

44 – To War

Historical Note

Map of Upper Missouri

Preview of Clark’s Campaign

About the Author

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Part I – As It Stands

1 – A Quick Retreat

Fort Osage stood tall and proud on a bluff overlooking the river. The U.S. Army had gone by Meriwether Lewis’s design, one calling for high walls of birch and pine surrounding four buildings inside the fort. The construction had started on the buildings but only two could rightly be called houses, one a long barracks that could hold a hundred men if it had to, the other a storehouse and counting room. It was the typical factory design that’d been perfected by the French and British for decades, centuries almost. The other two buildings consisted of a tanning and skinning hut, a place for fresh furs and other items killed in recent hunts, as well as the cold storage room. That latter had a dug-out floor, one that kept cold year round, allowing for meat preservation and even ice well into the early months of summer...if they were lucky.

The fort was Captain Lewis’s darling and sat on a high bluff above the Missouri. He’d named it Fort Clark in honor of his good friend, though that name didn’t last long. Captain Eli Clemson was sent out by the War Department to man the fort and right away he did away with Lewis’ christening. Formally, Fort Clark would be known as Fort Osage. That’s what Captain Clemson said when he arrived shortly after the fort’s construction and set about making things as he pleased. Lewis was not happy with it, was not happy with Clemson’s arrival. He felt he should be the sole person there, the main Indian agent and military man.

But now Captain Lewis was dead, had been for nearly 3 years. During that time Clemson had been in charge...and he meant to keep it that way. He’d overseen this area of St. Louis’s trade, saw to the trappers coming and going, and made sure the Indians knew who laid down the law. He’d done well at it, but lately things had been changing. The Osage hadn’t been trading as much and other tribes had been showing up, disrupting things and making life at the fort more difficult. No attacks had come yet, but Clemson figured it was only a matter of time. The Indians of the plains and the Missouri River were growing restless, mainly due to the influence of the Prophet and his message. That’s why Clemson decided that the men would pack up the last of their goods and head back down the Osage River to St. Louis. They’d garrison there, making sorties out into the surrounding areas if needed. Mostly, though, Clemson knew that he couldn’t be out here by himself anymore, more than 200 miles from the city. He was a sitting duck, and more and more, the surrounding Indians knew that. Even Governor Clark was aware of the problems; he’d been the one to give the final order that the fort be abandoned. It was all that could be done in the face of the increasing attacks from area tribes, tribes that’d allied with the British.

So it was on that cold January morning of 1812 that a few dozen of Clemson’s company of men set about relaying the fort’s goods down to their two boats on the river. Somehow the hostile Indians in the area knew of this, and were ready.

The Indians had come at just the right time – when the men were outside the fort. Suddenly Clemson knew why they’d been seeing so many lone braves on the fort’s periphery. Bastards were casing us, finding our patterns...just waiting for the right time, he thought as the Indians poured forth from the trees.

What’ll we do, sir? one of the men said.

Clemson turned on him. "Goddamn it – get those men back inside, get them back inside now!"

Yes...yes, sir, the man said, then began shouting orders down to the men in the yard. Call ‘em back, call ‘em back, damn it!

A loud din arose from the gate as the men there began shouting too. They waved their arms and generally did whatever they thought might get the attention of those men heading down the bluff toward the river.

It’s no good, sir, another of the men said, they can’t hear us.

They’ll hear this, Clemson said as he stepped toward the man. He grabbed his rifle, pointed it up into the air and fired.

BOOM!

~~~

The few dozen men on the trail to the river turned their heads to look back at the fort. They saw the men at the gate waving and shouting, saw Clemson up on the wall waving his arm as well. All eyes went back to Sergeant Klein. The sergeant had been looking forward to going back to the city, and especially a pretty shop girl he’d taken a liking to. That’d been months ago now though, and a pretty one like that didn’t stay unmarried for long. The last thing he wanted, therefore, was some kind of hassle that might slow them down, or God forbid, keep them at the fort even longer.

What the hell’s that all about? he said when the commotion from the fort started up, more to himself than the men around him.

Something’s up, one of his soldiers said.

Injuns? another added.

Whatever it is, they want us back there...and fast, Klein said. He looked over at the other half dozen men that were mounted up like he was. Let’s ride.

With a kick to his horse, he did just that, back up the trail and toward the fort. Behind him, the other riders did the same while the remaining men started into a run.

~~~

Out in the field the Sauk tribe rushed forth. The Indians had historically been around the Great Lakes, but they’d been pushed ever westward. They’d allied with the French long ago, but those days were done. Now the British were their only hope against continual American incursions into their land. Emboldened by the words of the Prophet and led by the capable leader Black Hawk, the Sauk tribe was running rampant up and down the frontier. Today a band of them had found Fort Osage.

The tribe had two wings on horseback and a large group of braves on foot. The wings of horsemen went to either side of the fort, far enough away to stay out of rifle range, and then back around toward the front gate. There wasn’t a lot of room in front of that gate, what with the nearly 200-foot drop off to the rocky ground and river below just a couple dozen yards from it. That’s why the rightmost wing kept their distance. On the left, that wing of horsemen continued on, however, making their way toward the trail to the river.

~~~

Give it to ‘em, boys! Clemson shouted to his men, and a fusillade of rifle shots met his words.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Damn, Clemson muttered under his breath as he watched each of the shots miss. That leftmost wing of horsemen continued on, nearly at the river trail now.

Out of range, sir, a private said.

Clemson rolled his eyes to that, wanting to give a swift rebuke to the private’s words, but at the same time not wanting to dampen the men’s spirits anymore than the sight of the Indians already had. He held his tongue and gave an affirmative nod.

What’ll we do, sir? another asked.

Clemson bit his lip. What the hell are the Sauk doing here? They were supposed to be further north and to the east, more along the Mississippi than the Missouri. Yet here they were, and my how they’d one-upped him! The captain saw what was unfolding, saw the trap the Indians had set. He could send the men in the fort out the gate and toward that river trail. It might save the men there, but more than likely the rightmost wing of horsemen would turn and tear into them before they even reached that trail. Clemson could see it clearly, could see that he was beat.

Sir? the private said, shuffling his feet.

Damn it, damn it...damn it all to hell! Clemson said, pounding one fist down into his hand. He looked back at the men around him, then toward those at the gate. All eyes were on him, all waiting for the word. God help us, he muttered under his breath, then in a louder voice shouted, out of the gate, men – bring it to ‘em!

There was no cheer from the men at the gate as they went outside the fort, just frayed nerves and an uneasy anticipation. With rifles in hands, they moved out onto the narrow space between the bluff’s edge and the front of the fort, the river trail to their left and the sloping ground on their right. On that slope were the Sauk, charging forth with bows and rifles and tomahawks.

Please, God, Clemson said from his spot on the wall, please help us.

~~~

Sergeant Klein was the first to reach the top of the river trail. His eyes went wide. There before him not more than forty yards were dozens of Indian braves, most with bows but quite a few with guns.

Form up! he shouted out, not bothering to glance around at the horsemen, and the few riflemen that had managed to scurry up with them, who were behind him. He brought his rifle up to his cheek. Ahead of him the line of Indians was tight, there was no way he could miss. He fired.

BOOM!

One of the braves went down, a rifle ball in his shoulder. The wound likely wouldn’t be fatal, but the force of the shot had knocked the brave from his horse. He was out of the fight...for the moment.

Klein knew he couldn’t get his rifle reloaded by the time the braves were on him and the other men. It was hard enough reloading on the back of a horse, but even with his feet planted firmly on the ground he knew that he wouldn’t have the time. Thankfully he had his pistol, as all higher-ranking officers did, and he pulled it out. Just then the other mounted men behind him got up and they brought their rifles up. Together the dozen men gave the Sauk all that they could.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

BANG!

Klein’s pistol shot came last, as he’d wanted it to. He wanted to see where the others were firing. At least one brave was struck twice while about half a dozen more were struck as well. Just a couple flew from their horses, however, with two of those shot hanging on to continue their charge and the other twenty or so braves not fazed at all.

Reload! Klein shouted, though he knew it was futile, despite a few more riflemen making it up the trail. Already the arrows were starting to fly. Beside him a private was hit in the arm and chest and further down the line another took one in the leg. The first fell from his horse but the second doggedly ignored the wound and continued with his reloading. Fifty yards ahead of them the Indians rushed on. Now the savages opened up with their rifles.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Another private beside Klein was hit, but every other rifle shot seemed to miss. That’s what Klein thought, but shouting from behind drew his attention. The men on foot were now right behind them, but two had just gone down in that blast from the Indians.

Fire at will! Klein shouted, bringing his arm up and throwing it back down. The men behind him did so.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Two dozen rifles fired and the line of Indians was devastated, with a dozen going down and at least another dozen wounded. There were still at least ten to fifteen, however, and they had bows. Klein and his men just had their rifles and their knives. With no time to reload he knew it’d be a bloodbath.

So much for that shop girl, he thought.

~~~

From the gate came the other men. They were led by an enterprising private named Everett, one with tales of his granddaddy’s War of Independence exploits going through his head.

Left wing, fire toward the trail, he shouted, right wing, at the horsemen near the slope!

The men stopped their advance out into the field, kneeled down, brought their rifles up, and fired.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

There were just a dozen of them but they managed to take down quite a few braves.

Reload and fire at will! Everett shouted, and as he did so he balanced his rifle on his knee and started the motions. Flip the cap on the powder horn, pour the powder into the metal charger cup, pour it down the muzzle, reach around for a ball and patch, place the patch down over the top of the muzzle, the ball on top, then the quick starter, a whack of the ball down the barrel, ramrod them down after that, flip the rifle, powder the...

It took Everett twenty-two seconds, two longer than it should have, and three longer than his granddaddy was capable of on his worst days.

SWOOSH!

Everett never got the pan powdered for a Sauk arrow came and took him in the stomach.

Ugh! he grunted and coughed, and a bit of blood flew from his mouth. He looked up, saw the advancing horsemen coming toward them, now just twenty yards away. A fusillade came from the fort’s walls, but it was just a few guns and only a couple of the braves went down. The rest continued on, right toward the men.

Everett dropped his rifle and went for his knife, a nasty thing with a curved blade six inches long. He didn’t expect to live, but he damn-well meant to take as many of the bastards with him as he could.

The pounding of the Indians’ horses grew louder, the arrows continued to fly. Beside Everett his fellows were cut down one by one, none of them managing to get another shot loaded. Then a horseman was bearing down on him. He brought his knife up as the Indian brought his tomahawk down. Everett aimed for the Indian’s side, hoping to give him a nasty would that’d take him out of the fight and maybe save the men in the fort. If enough of them died, Everett knew, then the others might get cold feet and turn tail. That was the idea at least, and as he used the last of his strength to lunge up with his knife, his heart held hope.

The Indian coming at him held something stronger, however, a European-made steel-bladed tomahawk with a razor sharp edge and at least twenty notches in the haft. Each of those notches was a dead white and the brave fully intended to add a few more while sitting around the fire later that night. He swung down as the white stabbed up. The tomahawk blade met the white’s forearm and severed it cleanly. Blood spurted up as the brave rode past, and Everett cried out in pain. That cry ended abruptly when an arrow slammed into his chest. The private’s eyes glossed over and the world began to spin. Then he fell to the ground and was no more.

Around him the battle raged on.

~~~

Clemson turned his head, for he just couldn’t watch. The men that’d rushed out of the gate were all gone now, each cut down with ball, arrow, or those dreaded tomahawks. The men on the trail were suffering the same fate, though hadn’t completely fallen yet. Each of the mounted men that’d ridden up with Sergeant Klein were now dead, though the sergeant was doing a valiant job rallying the men on foot and doing what he could. Already nearly two dozen dead braves lay before them, a testament to their fighting spirit. Their spirit was strong, but not indestructible. With the men that’d rushed out of the gate now gone, the rightmost wing of Indian horsemen had a clear path to the trail. They continued on, not caring about the sporadic fire that came from the fort, and were soon with the other wing. Now together again, Clemson watched in horror as they tore into the remaining dozen or so men that’d gone out that morning, sent out by Clemson...sent to their doom.

How could I have known? Clemson thought to himself as he saw the Indians reach the men. Sergeant Klein was the first to go, shot through with a rifle, then an arrow, and finally hacked into with a tomahawk. He went down in a bloody heap and behind him the other men’s courage broke, as did their line. Many turned to run, perhaps hoping they could get to the river and find some respite there. Not a one made it more than ten or fifteen feet before a Sauk arrow or rifle ball took them in the back. The rest were easily mopped up with downward swings of tomahawks, gunstock clubs, and even skinning knives. The whole engagement lasted but a minute or two and then the men were dead.

Sir, a private near Clemson said, what’ll we do?

The only thing we can, Clemson said, not taking his eyes from the field, die.

Without another word he turned and looked the private in they eye, then marched past him to the wall’s ladder. He was down quickly, then at the gate. There’d be no getting out of this one, the captain of Fort Osage knew, and he meant to go out like a man, fighting.

~~~

The gate was pure chaos. Private after private lay on the ground dead or dying. By the time Clemson got there only a few men were in sight, two of them out in the field engaged in hand-to-hand combat with some Sauk braves and the other at the gate, crying to himself.

Goddamn it, snap out of it man! Clemson shouted. We’ve got a battle raging here!

The man said nothing, just continued to cry and sniffle and mumble for his momma. Clemson rolled his eyes at the man and turned to the field. He did so just in time to see one of the privates out there get run-through with a Sauk spear. A few moments later the other was shot through with two arrows. Clemson winced at the