The Wanderer: A Novel of Red Cloud’S War

By John H. Corns

It is 1865 when Morgan Lewis heads to St. Louis for what he hopes is a new beginning. Now alone and nearly penniless after losing everything in the Civil War, Morgan strikes up a friendship with Corrick McCale who helps him secure work. But it is not long before destiny leads the pair to join the Army fight against Oglala Sioux leader, Red Cloud, who opposes white mans use of the Boseman trail on the Northern Plains.

As they build Fort Stout amid Indian hunting grounds, frequent attacks kill few soldiers until December 1866 when the Indians massacre an entire company. After Colonel Stuart Westerfield arrives with his wife, Prudence, to take command, he must rely on Morgans combat experience to help him achieve a great victory over the Indians, and more importantly, the brigadier general rank he lost at the end of the Civil War. But when Morgan urges caution and a different tactical approach, the strain between the two officers grows, especially when Prudence rekindles a former love interest in Morgan.

In this historical tale, a struggle between the Army and the Sioux Nation of the Northern Plains ensues as unresolved conflicts of earlier war and love rise to the surface and a colonel and an Indian leader battle for control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491754214

John H. Corns

John Corns is a graduate of Marshall University and a retired Army officer. He is the author of seven other books including the novels, Owain’s Own and The Bench. John and his wife, Carol, reside in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.

Book preview

Prominent Characters

Fictional

Ohio

Morgan Lewis The Wanderer

William Wesley and Alma Mae Lewis Morgan’s father and mother

Jillian (Jillie) Lewis Morgan’s sister

Herbert Sloate Jillie’s beau and husband

Theodore and Thelma Lewis Morgan’s uncle and aunt

Prudence (Prue) Thomaston Morgan’s Phantom of Delight

Jeffrey and Margaret Thomaston parents of Prudence

Stuart Westerfield Morgan’s friend and competitor

Thurston and Mary Lee Westerfield Stuart’s parents

Donna and Stephen Moses friends of Morgan’s parents

Indiana

Mark and Edith Williams Dinner hosts on the trail

St. Louis

Corrick McCale Morgan’s new friend in St. Louis

Robert and Ellen McCale Corrick’s parents

Breanna McCale Corrick’s sister

Julie Brent the girl at the tavern

Mr. and Mrs. C. S. Parman Morgan’s employers

Mr. David Corrick’s theater boss

Cecil Runyan livery owner

Maudie boarding house owner

Howard leader of Dugan’s Tavern political talks

The Northern Plains

Ex-Sergeant Burdin Plattsmouth words of warning

Ralph the Trader near Fort Laramie

Colonel Milton Brunyard Morgan’s regimental commander

Fergus McMinn regimental sergeant major

Amy McMinn sergeant major’s daughter

Billy Ballard Morgan’s company first sergeant

Crow Morgan’s Indian scout friend

Sergeant Hardy…Morgan’s top section leader

Lieutenant Steven Barstow Morgan’s company executive

Captain Joe Bearden fellow company commander

Lieutenant Rupert Groat fellow company commander

Major Harvey Thorsen highly decorated Civil War officer

Lieutenant Jordan Turner cavalry company commander

Captain Ron Terrell new company commander in ’67

Captain George Harless…. commander of Big Horn River fort

Captain West regimental adjutant

Captain Scott regimental quartermaster

Major General George Hyman commander, Department of the Platte

Robert Tarkin regimental chief of scouts

Torn Ear… Blackfoot assistant regimental chief of scouts

Three Hills Crow scout

Nose that Floods Crow scout

Stone Face Oglala Lakota Sioux Warrior

Sutler Krause fort store operator

Doctor Hall regimental doctor

Forrest Mudd regimental chaplain

Civil War

Colonel Robert Kietling Morgan’s regimental commander

Major Russell Hennessey fellow company commander

Sergeant Bernie Wagley Morgan’s company squad leader

Corporal Charlie Smears Morgan’s company squad leader

Historical

General George McClellan

Major General Francis H. Smith

Major, later General, Thomas Stonewall Jackson

General Ulysses S. Grant

General William Tecumseh Sherman

General Philip St. George Cooke

General Patrick E. Connor

Red Cloud Chief of the Oglala Lakota Sioux

Spotted Tail Chief of the Brule Lakota Sioux

Roman Nose Chief of the Northern Cheyenne

Crazy Horse Young Oglala Sioux Warrior

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CHAPTER ONE

INDIANA 1865

The rusted door hinges squealed as a slit of light shot across the dirt floor of the barn. Morgan closed one eye and held a hand up too late to block the light, nearly blinding his open eye. His other hand slid under the warm straw and closed on the grip of the pistol lying near his hip. He rubbed his open eye to focus. The barn door gaped and a bold glare quivered around the dark form of a man in the widening doorway. Morgan strained to see, still holding the one eye closed, saving it for the instant when he would need to shoot straight.

The farmer’s low, strong voice relaxed Morgan’s finger from the trigger, and he dropped the heavy weapon back in the hay.

Mr. Lewis, the farmer said, I see you’re still with us, and we’re about to have breakfast. Why don’t you join my family and me?

Morgan pulled his hand from the hay that had been his bed on the barn floor and rolled onto his knees. He’d welcomed the cool earth under the hay and his best sleep since he left Ohio. Yet, his lower back froze in that position, all fours. The pain was not the result of the hard, packed hay of the night’s bed. The cause was the three years in a saddle and the many nights without a bed, either of hard earth or of packed hay.

You can freshen up at the well. I saw your horse was still here and told Edith to set another plate. Take your time, Mr. Lewis.

Morgan. The night before, he’d suggested that the farmer call him by his first name.

Right, Morgan. Take your time, Morgan. The farmer backed out of the doorway, freeing the bright light again. Morgan moved to the shadows and watched the man walk toward the back door of the house. Slender, more so than Morgan was, and about the same height, two inches under six feet.

He knew he should get back on the road, ride on. The farmer could make better use of his time than in hosting a stranger for breakfast. Even in the growing dusk of arrival the night before, Morgan had seen the overgrown hillocks where weeds had replaced the vegetable and grain crops of a few years before.

He felt for the gun in the hay, found it, and put it in the saddlebags that lay nearby. The gun should stay in the saddlebags, not within his reach. The war was over, yet the waking sense of alarm and danger at times lingered. He might shoot somebody. He tucked in his shirt and hurried out into the warm sunlight. He’d turned down the offer for supper the night before, leaving Mr. Williams free to think he had eaten late on the trail—a meal that Morgan had only imagined. He didn’t want to be a burden to the man, or to Mrs. Williams. Edith, the man had called her. He’d not seen her the night before. He dipped his hands in the trough beside the well, splashed water on his face, and ran his fingers back through the dark, unruly, brown hair. He should have washed his hair at the river crossing the previous day. If he had any soap left, he would have. The wind and winter sun under the prairie skies had tanned his face below the protection of the slouch hat. He didn’t feel comfortable entering a home just now. He pulled his palms down the front of his shirt, losing most of the dampness. He had no bandana. He rubbed his hands together and stepped up onto the back porch.

When he entered the kitchen, a pretty woman welcomed him and pointed to one unoccupied side of the table. She looked too young to be the mother of the two girls seated on the opposite side of the table. Mr. Williams introduced her as his wife, Edith. Morgan thanked her in advance of responding to her invitation to sit down and said he hoped he was not a bother. She said he was not and introduced him to Millie and Norma. They looked maybe six and four, and they looked clean. They seemed comfortable—safe. Their faces shone, as did their hair, clean and dark, like that of their father. Morgan had seen too many children in the last few years who hadn’t been clean and who hadn’t looked as if they felt safe. He noted the light, blue eyes, like their father’s eyes. Their mother’s eyes emphasized that he was the only person in the room with brown eyes.

Mrs. Williams asked her husband by his given name, Mark, to say grace and, with a tip of her head, bade the two girls to bow theirs. Morgan looked down at the table. Mark was brief and Morgan looked up to see Mrs. Williams rise and go first to the younger girl to cut her salted ham into small squares and then to the older, Millie, to correct how she was holding her knife as she cut the meat. Then she stopped at Mark’s shoulder and leaned down to cut the ham on his plate, in squares, neat and larger than those she had cut for Norma.

Mark Williams’ lower left arm rested below the level of the table. Morgan had been unable to ignore the shortened left arm the previous evening, and knew that the farmer had then picked up his stare and looked down at the place where a hand should be.

The war, he said with a slight grin. Shiloh. I spent the rest of the war in the quartermaster’s wagon. Lucky, maybe. It probably saved my life. Mark had managed a grin. Morgan had said nothing, and didn’t feel like grinning.

Morgan turned to cutting his ham in squares, noting that Mrs. Williams was doing the same. All was quiet. He found he could add nothing—no words.

The evening before, he’d stood in front of the farmer in the coming darkness. A missing hand. Morgan had lost no hand, no arm in the war. His wounds had been slight—mostly—and quick to heal. Yet, he had lost everything.

Where are you going, Mr. Lewis? Edith Williams asked.

Her voice was soft, polite. She smiled. She was being friendly. Morgan felt as if she had poked him in the eye with her fork.

Her face reddened. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, she said.

I don’t know, he said, finally. He felt an urge to say more. I mean, Chicago, or maybe St. Louis. I haven’t decided yet.

Well, we don’t want to get too much into your business, Mr. Williams said. But I must say, Mr. Lewis, okay … Morgan, that Terre Haute here is a good place to decide. Chicago is almost straight north and St. Louis is a tad south of west from here. The farmer went on to say that the name of the town meant high land and that his father had been one of the town founders.

Morgan thought to congratulate him; then thought better of it. He realized he didn’t know anything to say—about anything. They finished the breakfast in near silence. Morgan was uncomfortable, despite the warm reception and his first minutes in the house.

It was not her. It was the question, so similar to the words in the question asked nearly nine years earlier by another woman—a girl.

This woman, Edith, this warm hearth, the girls, the question. It all reminded him of what he once hoped he would, might, have—and had lost.

Later, he knew he made it worse when he left the Williams home. He thanked them again, which was okay. Then he offered them money. Neither of them spoke. He wished he hadn’t slept late. He wished he’d started early as he’d told Mr. Williams he would. He shouldn’t have stayed for breakfast. He felt he should apologize—for something. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure just what he felt right at that moment.

Where are you going? It had been a simple question, a polite little question. It was too much like the questions back there—back then.

What are you going to do, Morgan? she had asked in that foggy past, and more recently, Where are you going?

At those times too, he’d said, I don’t know.

He had been rude to Mr. Williams … or was his rudeness for Edith Williams? She was pretty in the same way. The little smile, the blue eyes, and the hair, the soft shade of sun-burnished wheat tassels.

The path he followed north was a shortcut; one that Mark Williams had said would get him most quickly on the road to Chicago, if that was where he wanted to go. Morgan hadn’t replied to the half question. It didn’t matter. Anywhere that was not the South or back east.

He saw the ferry raft coming slowly across the river before he was close enough to make out the sign, nailed to a large sycamore tree. An unpracticed hand had printed it. The faded letters: St. Louis and Points West.

He swung down off the horse and led the big gray toward the lean-to shelter that seemed to offer the only shade other than that of the broad sycamore with the large, multi-pointed leaves. A boy no more than twelve told him the cost of crossing and answered his questions about the time it would take, in days on horseback, to get to Chicago or to St. Louis.

Morgan leaned down and picked up a thin, flat rock.

Wet side, it’ll be St Louis, he said. He spit on the rock and tossed it into the air. It tumbled and fell, wet side up. He paid the boy for passage on the raft and walked the horse into the shade of the sycamore to wait out the just a little while that the boy said had to pass before the next crossing.

CHAPTER TWO

St. Louis was bustling. Streets crowded and prices high—for everything. There was a shortage of all things, except people and ale and whiskey at Dugan’s Tavern on Third Street. Morgan preferred the dark ale. After less than two weeks, he was nearly out of money. The livery costs for his horse, his own food, something called a sleeping house, and the dark, soothing drink at Dugan’s cost more than three times what he’d expected. He sold the horse to save the monthly livery costs. The liveryman agreed to keep his saddle and bridle for him for a small fee. He needed a grubstake before he set off into the dry dust and hostile lands of the new state of Kansas, west of Missouri. He could stay in St. Louis, for a while ….

Then he got lucky. He didn’t see it that way at first—not that night—and wouldn’t for a long time. It was in Dugan’s, nearly the only place he ventured beyond the sleeping house, day or night, that he met tall, lanky Corrick McCale.

He hadn’t noticed the young man because he towered over the other two men seated with him at a far table. It was the thin man’s laughter that caught Morgan’s attention, causing him to look toward the table where the man seemed to be using his arms to add emphasis to his words. Like most men in the tavern, he wore his shirtsleeves rolled up high in an effort to ease the heat of the August evening. His arms were not tanned and wind-dried like the arms of the other men. When the two men left his table, the lanky man stood, looked at Morgan, sitting alone in the corner, and walked over and asked if he’d mind a little company. Morgan waved toward the seat across from him. The man introduced himself as Corrick and folded into the chair.

I hear a bit of Irish brogue in your voice, Corrick, Morgan said, taking the man’s extended hand. He kept his seat and gave Corrick’s hand a firm response.

Just so. McCale, Corrick McCale, and you are?

Morgan. Morgan Lewis.

Ah, and that’d be a name coming out of Wales, would it not?

It is. My father was Welsh.

And your mother? Were you born in Wales too?

No, my mother was from Pennsylvania, English stock, born right there in Philadelphia, me too.

Morgan sat up straighter in his chair. What was he doing—all this talk, and with a total stranger.

Well, I wasn’t born in Ireland either, the tall man said. Actually born not far from where you and your mother were born: Connecticut. I came here with my family years ago. Where do you call home?

Nowhere. Not now. I came originally from Virginia by way of Ohio. I suppose you mean you came here to St. Louis with your parents. Morgan thought he didn’t really care where this man was born. He should get back to the sleeping house. He wasn’t sleepy, but he was short of beer money.

Yes, when I was five. This is my home. Home of the McCale family. My parents still live here. Your parents?

Gone. During the war. Morgan pushed his chair back from the table. Corrick seemed to him to rush to get out the next words.

I’m sorry. What do you do for a living? Corrick asked.

Nothing right now. And I need to fix that real soon.

What do you do when you are working? Corrick asked. Morgan felt the words were moving too fast and too close. He didn’t like this man’s nosiness; yet, he knew, he’d posed questions too, more really, and more questions than he recalled asking anybody—except her—in a long time.

I don’t know that I have a particular work to do—or ever have. Worked at my father’s side as I was growing up. That didn’t pay very well.

Doing what?

Morgan shifted in the chair and drained his mug. It had been nearly half-full. I really have to go, he said as he stood.

I talk too much, Corrick said. Everybody says I do. See you later, Morgan.

Morgan did not reply.

Two evenings later, Corrick came into Dugan’s and walked directly to Morgan, sitting at his corner table.

Morgan, I may have found a job for you, Corrick said rapidly as he strode across the room from the bar, signaling his need for a beer as he came. Julie was soon behind him with a freshly drawn pint of ale. Corrick smiled at her, which she seemed to appreciate. He thanked her and watched her walk away as if he liked her. Morgan knew why he might. Every man in the tavern liked the looks of Julie. Her hair was reddish blonde and she was trim, smiled easily, and was always friendly—or almost always. Sometimes a guest of the tavern talked in a way that didn’t deserve friendship. Morgan found he was always on Julie’s side of those happenings. She handled the men well. She never really needed the help of anyone else. The man behind the bar was nearly as tall as Corrick and far more muscular. The long, hewn, hickory stick leaning against the wall on the bar was the barkeep’s authority reminder. Morgan thought that every man in the tavern knew that.

How old you think she is? Corrick asked Morgan as he sat, looking back at Julie moving to the bar.

No idea, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, I’d guess.

Nineteen. She’s only nineteen, Corrick said.

The corners of her green eyes, regardless of how pretty they are, make her older than that Corrick. Who said she was nineteen?

She did. Corrick said, and sat back in his chair, chin out, like a gentleman ready to defend the honor of a lady.

And you believe her?

Yes, why shouldn’t I?

No reason, maybe. If she’s only nineteen, though, I’ll eat your hat.

I don’t wear a hat, Corrick said with a smile.

I noticed.

Corrick leaned forward, resting on one elbow, and took a short drink of ale.

You want to know about the job?

Morgan stopped the no somewhere before it had a chance to get out and said, Sure, who’s hiring?

I am. Corrick looked quite serious. He seemed to wait for Morgan to say something.

Doing what?

What I’ve been doing for over six months. Clerking in a store and keeping some ledgers.

Not interested. Clerking? A ledger? Morgan took a drink from his mug. You must have been bored with that.

I was. I am. Now I’m taking another job.

What’s that job? Maybe I’d like that better.

Acting, Corrick said, ignoring the quip. Morgan knew the man was inviting more, maybe wanted him to say something about acting. He didn’t.

I’m an actor, Morgan, and they’re re-opening the playhouse a couple of blocks west of here. Been closed most of the war. Used as a hospital at one point.

You’ll make a lot more money at the new job?

No—less. It will be far more enjoyable though. I’ll be expressing myself.

Doing what to yourself?

Oh, come on Morgan, you’re not fooling me. I can tell when I’m speaking with a college boy, even if he does have a Southern accent.

Am I supposed to be able to tell that you’re a college boy by the way you talk?

Of course, although I’m not in college now. Can’t you tell that I was?

Maybe. Should I?

Maybe not. I wasn’t really in college long and my voice is most likely all mixed up now, going from Missouri to school in Chicago and learning two foreign accents for my acting roles when I was supposed to be reading and studying to be a doctor.

How far did you go with the doctor thing?

Not far enough. My father found out I was acting and not studying and quit sending me money; so, I had to come back to St. Louis. He threw me out of the house when I told him I was going to be an actor here in St. Louis.

When was that?

Last night. Threw me right out. Slept last night at the livery. Old Cecil is a long-time friend of the family. Cecil runs the livery.

I know. My horse used to be there. Sold him to the man. I was paying too much for the feed and stall.

Well, that’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about, Morgan. I won’t make enough as an actor to pay for a decent rooming house. I could make it if you took my job and paid half of the cost of a room at Maudie’s Boarding House. What do you think?

About what?

The job. The room.

Morgan was about to laugh when he remembered the remaining coins and single greenback in his pocket.

Where do I apply for this great job?

Parman’s General Mercantile. I’ll take you there at nine o’clock in the morning. I have to study some lines later tonight, and I don’t want to start a habit of getting up early. Acting people sleep late, even when they’re not working in a play.

How do you know that?

I told you. I was an actor—in Chicago—for almost three years.

And you did no studying to be a doctor?

Some, for a few months my first year there.

How many years were you there?

This would’ve been my fourth, starting this fall.

So, your father isn’t likely to see a doctor in the family now.

Well, he was a doctor himself until he stopped practicing two years ago. Corrick leaned closely and whispered, Syphilis. Contracted from a patient.

Morgan leaned back in the chair, not sure what to say.

Oh, not that. I mean, he was always very professional—and moral. It was from an examination. You know, well, no way he can practice after that got out, and he was the one who made it known. Nearly killed him—not the disease—it was not doctoring any more. Still, I think that knowing that some people would not accept that he contracted the disease clinically hurt him almost as much as simply no longer being able to practice medicine. Fortunately, for the family, he’d handled his money well. Most of it he put in commercial buildings here in the city. My parents are pretty well off, and still keep something of a special social life, even though there are some society ladies who no longer respond to my mother’s invitation or send her one.

All that put a lot of pressure on you to be a doctor, huh?

Yes, and I tried. Well, I tried a little. I just don’t like the studies, and I’d not like to practice medicine. I like to make people laugh, and I’m pretty good at it.

I’m sure you are.

You mean that, don’t you?

Yes, I think you could be a very funny man.

You don’t mean that as a compliment, do you?

Yes. Yes, I do.

Why? Why do you think that?

I don’t know, Corrick. I’ve only seen two or three plays in my life, and two were in …well, college, as you say, and all the girls’ parts were played by boys.

Did you act in those plays?

Lord no. I’m no actor.

You say that like you’re proud you’re not, Morgan. You don’t respect actors, do you?

Corrick, I don’t know one, single actor, except you. And I like you.

Corrick smiled. Morgan was not sure why he said that, or even if it was true.

Do you think the boss will hire me, Corrick? Wait a minute. Who is the boss? Where is this mercantile?

Well, his name is Parman, same as on the general mercantile sign.

I’m going to work in a mercantile? Boy, I’m glad nobody around here knows me. I have to tell you, Corrick, that as soon as I get some money in my pocket, enough for some trail food and a couple of new shirts, I’m heading west.

To do what?

Maybe to work for the railroad. They say the rails will soon run all the way to the Pacific Ocean. I may want to go see the Pacific Ocean.

Well, if I go west, it’s going to be up there in the territories, to dig me some gold, you know, Silver City or Alder Gulch, Corrick said. Would you consider that, going up to strike it rich?

Maybe. Maybe, if there wasn’t a good chance I’d lose my scalp to some Indian. I hear Silver City has about played out, and to get to the Montana gold of Alder Gulch, a man might risk having some Cheyenne or Sioux take his scalp. Maybe, maybe not. At any rate, my worry right now is whether your Mr. Parman will give me a job to get enough money to go anywhere.

I’m not sure, Morgan, when I’ll be paid or how long the play will run. If you get the job and agree, I can pay for half of the first four weeks of rent, for sure, Corrick said.

Morgan nodded, despite a sense that he was making a mistake on this young man. He had no desire to be obligated to anyone.

CHAPTER THREE

At the store, Mr. Parman hired him quickly with few words, and Mrs. Parman’s friendly and generous nature included an offer of a reduction in the price of anything he might want to buy for his own use. Mr. Parman made no comment on his wife’s generous offer. Morgan gathered he could rely on her promise and the better price if he needed it, and he probably would.

He found the numbers work easy, owing mostly to his studies at the Institute. He enjoyed the break when asked to move barrels and crates from the back of the store into the shelving spaces. The physical work was good for him, to include the unloading of wagons when the teamsters seemed set on doing as little of the unloading as possible.

Corrick was often at the store following the two weeks of rehearsals for the play and the first week after it opened. Morgan made the opening night, as did Mr. and Mrs. Parman and a full house of St. Louis people who were hungry for anything that helped them forget the war, even though Mr. Parman complained about the price of the tickets. Morgan did not find it a well-written play. His mother would’ve liked it. She would also have agreed that the writing of the actors’ lines was poor, but a good story.

Corrick’s role surprised Morgan. The director had cast his friend as an old man, maybe in his fifties or early sixties, and with a pillow around his middle and padded shoulders. He was, of course, tall, and with all the padded clothing, he was enormous. He performed well, except for his voice. Despite his effort to sound like an older man who also was gruff of manner, Corrick could not lower his voice enough to remove the boy-like, high pitch in his speech. It made it hard to find him believable in the role, which, while not the lead, was substantial in portraying the theme of wisdom and reliability of the old man toward his son, played by the lead actor. The crowd, however, was enthusiastic, and Mrs. Parman was first among them. Waiting to see Corrick back stage, she told her husband and Morgan how great he was in the role. Corrick was there soon, and she repeated her words to him. He looked at Morgan as if for a comment. Morgan only smiled and gave a meaningless nod. Later, Corrick drank too much at the tavern, and Morgan had his hands full getting him to the boarding house and in bed. He had stood above the bed and looked at his friend in the low light. Morgan was sure that Corrick was not pleased with his acting this first night in his hometown.

The next day, a Sunday, Corrick said little. They visited Dugan’s just after lunchtime and some of the men spoke well of his acting the previous evening. Corrick smiled and ordered an early beer. It wasn’t clear what was bothering him. Morgan guessed it might be because his father hadn’t attended the play and had banned Corrick’s mother from attending. Back at the boarding house, after Morgan had turned out the lights the previous night, a very drunk Corrick had said, as if to no one, She would have come. Breanna would have come. Was the girl, the woman, whose name sounded like Bree Ahna, someone Corrick had known in Chicago, maybe a young actress friend?

When Morgan left Corrick at the tavern to check on his gear with Old Cecil at the livery, Corrick was ordering his second beer. It struck Morgan that this Breanna had been some unhappy relationship, despite what Corrick had said. He had not mentioned her to Morgan before. Morgan considered asking Mrs. Parman about her. She might not know the name at all, though, and Morgan didn’t want to intrude on Corrick’s privacy, at least not with Mrs. Parman. Especially since she’d been the one who told Morgan that the McCales would not attend the play—at Mr. McCale’s insistence.

Two days later Corrick came in the store at midday, and Morgan asked him to join him for lunch. Near the end of the meal, Morgan said, The other night, you said just before you went to sleep that someone, a woman called Breanna, would have been at the opening. If you don’t mind, is she someone from your time back in Chicago?

I don’t mind. Corrick smiled. Breanna is my sister. She’d have been there, just like I said, if she’d been in town, regardless of what my daddy said.

Where is she?

Oh, somewhere south in the Indian Territory where she’s been the last three years. She tries to act like she’s a doctor, I guess. They don’t have a doctor; but she may be as close to being a doctor as a woman can be, at least out here. She’s a helper, and my daddy says she’s a good one; could be a fine doctor if society were not so blind. I worry for her. The last time I saw her was over a year ago. She looked horrible. Tired and even thinner than I am. She’s the only one who ever said anything good about me liking the idea of acting. That was even before I went off to school to become a doctor. My daddy never knew of my interest in acting until a few months ago. I never told him, and my mother never knew. I don’t think Breanna would’ve told him. I don’t know how he learned about it. Breanna might have told him if she was angry about something. She can be very angry at times and she says things that she shouldn’t, especially to men—important men.

Men like your father?

That wouldn’t have happened. I don’t think a harsh word has ever passed between Breanna and our daddy. As far as he’s concerned, she never does anything wrong, and I suppose that’s true. No, the men she spouts off to are like teachers, government officials—and soldiers. Officers. She hated the Union officers, no love for the Confederate officers either. She especially hated Mr. Lincoln’s officers. She blames them as much for all the Indians dying as she did Mr. Lincoln and the Indian Agency men. I never heard her say anything hateful until that summer I was back and she was home for a few days more after I got here. I think she really does hate every government man, civilian and military, who has anything to do with the Indian Policy and how Indians are treated. Don’t get me wrong, everybody likes Breanna.

Morgan hadn’t heard Corrick speak of anyone as he did his sister. She seemed perfect. Maybe Corrick laid it on a bit too thick. Maybe he actually had some problem with her because his sister had pursued a life in medicine, and he had not. That could be hard on a young man, especially when it determined how he and his father felt about one another. Morgan was not about to pry further into Corrick’s personal life. He wouldn’t appreciate it if Corrick, or anyone, tried to get into his life. He preferred the fact that when Corrick, less frequently now, dropped by the store, the conversation was largely between his new friend and Mrs. Parman, and occasionally a local woman or man with whom they shared memories of earlier days in St. Louis.

By the end of October, Morgan had some money saved, and Mr. Parman seemed actually to like him. The man never asked much, and Morgan didn’t want to say much. He did tire though, of customers asking if he’d been in the war, and on which side. He dug the United States Army officer’s belt buckle out of his saddlebags under his bed and put it on. There seemed a steady flow of store customers voicing their view of how unfortunate it was that the people of the South had behaved in such a way as to bring on the great struggle. While sympathetic with that view to some extent, Morgan saw the war as a bit more complicated. He decided to let the buckle speak for him. He had no desire to refight the war or to try to explain his time at war to anyone—including himself—on matters he’d stopped trying to figure out.

Occasionally, some man in the store would speak up in mild defense of those who had fought under the Confederate flag. Seemed those who had supported the North wanted to brag a little. He had no desire to defend the North—or the South.

He knew that Corrick had noticed the USA belt buckle a day or so after he put it on. His roommate seemed to ignore it, and Morgan preferred it that way. Corrick had shown no inclination to talk about the war. Morgan bought a small trunk and put his Union riding trousers and Cavalry Colt revolver and holster in it. It had occurred to him early after arriving in St. Louis to sell the pistol and saddle. He’d kept it all, the saddle and reins still with the livery. He knew he could not get much money for the saddle, probably not one fourth of what one sold for in ’63. He didn’t want to part with the McClellan saddle. He might need it and the Colt pistol too, out west.

He’d told Parman that he’d been a soldier for the North, remembering how his boss had raised an eyebrow the first time he saw the Union belt buckle, probably because of the accent Morgan had developed living the first sixteen years of his life in Virginia. Parman never said anything about sides in the war, or rank, or battles. It was shortly after that brief conversation that Parman told Morgan how smart Morgan was and that Morgan clearly had more education than he had. Mrs. Parman asked him once about a wife or a girlfriend. He told her there had been a girlfriend—once. Mrs. Parman never said anything about it again. She did try to get him to attend Church with her and Mr. Parman. He told her he wasn’t much of a churchgoer, and she let that go too. Actually, the Parmans were both trusting people considering the little they knew about him. Maybe that was because he did good work. Still, never a day passed that at least one young war veteran did not come in asking for work, and the Parmans had known some of them as children growing up right there in town. Morgan was not sure what kept them from encouraging him on his way and paying one of those young men less money for the same work. Whatever it might be, he didn’t intend to stay long, and he was sure the Parmans knew that.

He found it very easy to walk the extra half block beyond the boarding house each night for a beer at Dugan’s Tavern. He had early come to eat what passed for lunch and dinner there every day. There was only one food choice. Either you ate the daily variety of Irish, or some other stew, or you drank your meal. Morgan was pleased that the meal at times was a more familiar, for him, beef stew. The many regulars bemoaned any meal lacking lamb. Saturday nights he liked especially to be there when six or eight of Dugan’s most faithful regulars came specially to argue over things, often the Indian Policy. Corrick was performing at the theater each Saturday, and Morgan welcomed the chance to listen closely to what the men said. There was little argument among the group about the basic Indian issue. They all seemed in agreement that the best policy for the Indians was to kill them all. He came to know the members who were most vocal, not personally, for he chose to hang back in one corner. He learned their positions on a few questions they revisited regularly. A man they called Howard looked back to Morgan’s corner one night and invited him to speak up on an issue. Morgan said he had little knowledge of the matter, and Howard, as well as the others, continued to give him little notice. He preferred that.

Howard was the most serious thinker on the Indian problem. He apparently had recently spoken to a gathering of the city’s more influential citizens. He indicated that they too, from a business point of view, saw the Indians eventually dying at the hands of the Army because of their barbarous ways. Before and during the war, Howard had run rafting operations with two riverboats moving supplies for the Army up and down the Ohio, Missouri, and Mississippi Rivers. His current interest was in his financial backing of the wagon train treks out to Santa Fe and California. He was critical of efforts to establish a wagon road north from the North Platte River to the Montana Territory. The attraction there was gold and silver. The interference along the way was the Indians, primarily Sioux, Arapaho and Northern Cheyenne. Morgan knew something about that. Howard had been up to what he called the Powder River and Big Horn Mountains area, and he saw no good for business there until the Army ran the Indians off or killed them. He spoke of things getting worse every year, the worst having been this very year, 1865, which was not yet over. The men respected Howard, and he was a settling influence on the discussions, which too easily became a simple cry for more Army out here to protect the prospectors and settlers traveling to Oregon, California, Montana territory, and the Southwest.

Morgan had heard men like these before—men like Beaver Bob, the loudest of the group. They called him just Bob, although Julie had told Morgan his name was Beaver Bob and that he smelled awful, all the time. Morgan had occasional opportunities to confirm that. The burly, bearded man was a strange odor mixture of sour, moldy, and foul beer leavings. Bob was also a namedropper, citing a conversation here or there over a thirty-year period with men like Kit Carson and Jim Bridger. He claimed to have over twenty scalps of four different Indian tribes. Said they were safely in a secret place that he was not about to divulge. He said he’d taken every one of the scalps.

Stumpy Newbridge was an ex-railroad worker absent one leg whose greatest strength was in challenging Beaver Bob to let someone take a picture of Bob with all his scalps. Stumpy drank too much too fast to contribute many facts to the discussions. He never changed his final speech of the evening—that Beaver Bob was a stinking liar—at which point two or three of the other men in the group had to restrain Bob as Stumpy limped on a wooden leg out of the tavern.

Morgan found only one man that he fully disliked. They called him Sarge. He claimed to have been out on the frontier area since the days of the explorer Freemont back two decades and more. He talked with authority, as if he’d been with every United States Army commander who had led any effort to open up a peace talk or to punish Indians from the Canadian Border to Texas. Morgan knew that some of his account was very inaccurate. Sarge apparently had never met an Indian chief who wasn’t stupid or an Army colonel who was not more politician than he was soldier. His most repeated claim was that, left to the sergeants, the Indian problem would not be a problem—all of them would be dead or behind walls in some prison. Sarge hated the idea of putting Indians on so-called reservations and honest people having to pay for their keep. Those ideas, he said, came from the peace lovers back east who had never seen a heathen Indian.

The quietest man in the group was half the age of the others, all of whom were in their late fifties or older. His name was James Mullins, and he was new to St. Louis, arriving early in ’64 as a reporter for a New England newspaper. He, by his own claim, had quit the paper when the editor refused to print what he had uncovered looking into the massacre of Indians at a place called Sand Creek in ’64. His comments the first time Morgan heard him made it sound like he was a misfit in these conversations. It did not take long to tell that young Mullins was a bitter man and the two targets of his sharp tongue were the idiots who ran newspapers anywhere and the Indians that he had come to believe were more blood thirsty than any soldiers who had butchered Indian women and children at Sand Creek.

Mullins behaved like a man who might kill himself with the bottle. He drank only whiskey from a bottle that he picked up from the barman when he came in the tavern. Sometimes he emptied a bottle and had Julie bring him another from the bar. It was not clear how the man paid for his food and drink or whether he worked now for a newspaper anywhere. Most of all, Morgan felt sorry for the man who was about his own age. What might James Mullins really think about the Indians and the Army? More than anyone other than Howard, he seemed to have talked with some people, maybe Indian as well as Army, who had been in some of these Indian fights. It occurred to Morgan that Mullins was a man who had learned too much and yet not enough about the Indian problem. In some of his words, he was a severe critic of the United States Army, all the way from the colonel who had commanded at Sand Creek up to the commanding general back in Washington City. He was graphic in describing how the Army soldiers mutilated the bodies of Indian girls and women. Howard had twice called him down, pointing out that a lady, Julie, was in the room. The young man sneered at reference to the girl whose only offense in Morgan’s thinking was hurrying about to carry drinks to and clean up the messes left by the classy clientele at Dugan’s. James Mullins could click off story after story of brutal Army treatment of Indians or just as easily switch to name incidents when Indians had mutilated white men, women, and children. Morgan felt some of the man’s confusion. Mullins appeared tortured by what he had learned. Mullins, more than Howard or anyone else in the tavern, seemed to be looking for the truth. When he spoke, other men in the tavern booed or cheered him. They booed most his claim that the Army men had been everything short of cannibals at Sand Creek.

Back in the boarding house before Corrick came in, Morgan at times lay looking at the ceiling, flickering patterns from the faint glow of the streetlight below the window. Just before the warmth of the alcohol let him sleep, he closed his eyes and invited a stream of memories. Clean, freshly turned out young men in a uniformed march, lines straight and perfect before and behind him, polished, black shoes striding forward to strike the parade field at the same time his own foot felt the grass-covered green of the practice grounds. Then days at war, turning his horse sharply with a tug of the reins, his brilliantly shining saber thrust toward a vague line of dismounted men in butternut gray, the smoke of their muskets rising and creating a small cloud into which he led his men. Then the men were not in gray. They were nearly unclothed, their bronze skins marked with brightly colored paints, running forward with rifle or bow high, yelling, and pressing toward him and the men beside him.

Somewhere in those late nights, as he aimed, fired, saw the bronze men tumble to the ground, charged his rifle, and fired again, he, or some force outside him, brought a curtain down over it all, as if to keep him from harm, and he slept. Later in those nights, as Corrick came in the room or woke him with his snoring, it was all different: not clear, not right, not a dream. It was more like a nightmare. The part he did not want to relive.

CHAPTER FOUR

In late November, Corrick’s play closed, and the owner announced the next play would not start rehearsing until after the first of the year. The play and the theater had been a well-attended success. After all the people in St. Louis who were likely to see it had done so, many more than once, the small cast went looking for jobs—at least, those, like Corrick, who had not held a job during the run of the play. Corrick frequented the tavern almost nightly after the play closed, and managed to get Morgan to linger after his meal much more often than Morgan had before. At the start, Corrick told him he was not interested in trying to get his job at Parmans back, or a job anywhere. Still, he managed to pay his part of the rent and to eat well. He also drank too well.

In early December, he told Morgan that he’d gone by his house to get some money from his mother, and his father had chased him away. He said that he didn’t know if his father knew his mother had been giving him money. He was not sure how she got the money without his daddy knowing it. Corrick showed guilt after a beer too many, swearing he would go the next day and would tell his father and mother he would never take another penny from either of them. Morgan asked him what he would do then, and he said he didn’t know—that was the problem. He hated taking the money, only wanted to act, and didn’t want to go back to Chicago—or anywhere else. Finally, one evening back at the room and again, after too many drinks, he told Morgan that he was not a good enough actor to get a good-paying role in Chicago anyway, once my thespian qualities were known there. He wanted to do something else. He was not sure what.

Late one evening at Dugan’s, he asked Morgan what he had done in the war; for the North, he said he knew, because of the belt buckle. Nobody else had really asked that since Morgan left Ohio. He told Corrick that he had commanded men, both infantry and cavalry. Corrick signaled Julie for another beer. Corrick talked about the stage and about how he was thinking he might write plays, or direct, rather than act out a role. Morgan knew little of all that. Morgan could tell that Corrick was questioning if he had what it took to be a good actor, whatever that was. Morgan listened. He knew his friend was