The Happening Man

By Vic Chamberlain

Set in the American west from 1860 onwards, The Happening Man follows the journey of Trigg Hemmyng as he utilises his guile, experience and foresight to acquire a fortune that will provide for his family.

Vic Chamberlain’s story takes place in the period of Manifest Destiny, when American expansion linked the east and west coasts by the Transcontinental Railroad, and when the untamed Western Frontier was transformed into the legendary Wild West. Federal and civilian law were imposed in an attempt to allow settlers to create homes and businesses, and vast territories were marshalled by the US army. But on this torturous journey, many dastardly deeds were enacted by desperate men. Despite these human failings, a powerful country emerged with the potential to provide men and women with the opportunity to create their own success. Many tried, but few succeeded. The Happening man prospered, using his cunning, determination and military experience to make his fortune in this volatile period.

Vic Chamberlain’s western novel narrates the saga of this eponymous Happening man.Inspired by Vic’s fascination with the American west and how it came into being, The Happening Man provides the reader with a new slant on the subject that has not yet been covered. With cinematic properties, the book will appeal to readers of western and historical fiction, as well as fans of Western cinema and television.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Sep 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781789019339

Vic Chamberlain

Vic Chamberlain has worked as a carpenter and builder. He believes that he was born in the wrong era and in the wrong country, and would like to have lived in the American Wild West.

Book preview

The Happening Man

vic chamberlain

Copyright © 2016 Vic Chamberlain

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events

and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination

or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781789019339

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BOOK ONE

The United States Army School of Cavalry Practice Carlisle Barracks

August 10th 1859

Colonel James Walker was concluding his graduation address to this latest intake into the Corp of Topographical Engineers.

"Gentlemen, you have constituted as fine an intake as I have had the privilege to lead, and that includes any that have gone through West Point, with all its pomp and ceremony. Well done. You have mine and my instructor’s congratulations on the endeavour and application, both individually and as a team, that you have given to this syllabus. Well done.

"It is now my pleasure and privilege to announce the Achievement Medals.

"In first place is Trigg Hemmyng. In second place, Henri Watson de Silva.

"Accordingly, they will join the Corp as full lieutenants. Well done, gents, you have triumphed in a very strong intake.

The remainder of you have all easily achieved the qualifying standard, and will join the Corp as 2nd lieutenants. If you continue to show the same endeavour and application, then I am sure I will see many promotions being registered. Now, before I hand you over to Major Huntly, who will detail you on your responsibilities on the supply columns, let me wish you good health and good fortune during your careers in the United States Army.

As the cheering reverberated around the lecture theatre, Trigg shook hands with his buddy Henri. Well, that’s the theory, Henri, now for the reality.

The two had met on their acceptance onto this intake, and although from totally different backgrounds, had become firm friends over the past eleven months.

In two days’ time they would be heading 1,200 miles west, on a seventy-eight-wagon supply column, to their posting at Fort Laramie in the Dakota Territory.

Trigg Hemmyng, the twenty-year-old eldest son of a hill farmer on the edge of the North Yorkshire moors in England, was inspired to travel by Capt. James Cook, RN, a kinsman, who had sailed the seven seas and gone on to discover Australia in 1776.

Henri Watson de Silva was the twenty-one-year-old youngest son of a South Carolina rice plantation owner. Henri had become embroiled in an increasingly bitter dispute with his father and brothers over the abolition of slavery. He had kissed his Mama adios and headed north to create a new life for himself.

Major Huntly had given a very detailed briefing on the supply columns; the main points that directly concerned Trigg and Henri were:

Major James Holt would command the Fort Laramie column assisted by Capts. Ron Adams and Harry Booth. Lts. Hemmyng and de Silva would be responsible for the Armaments, Ammunition and Artillery section of the column. This section involved twenty-six wagons, one hundred and twenty horses and one hundred and ten newly enlisted troopers and Infantrymen. For twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with 1,200 miles of rugged country, two massive rivers to cross and the last four hundred and fifty miles through frontier territory inhabited by hostile tribes just itching to steal any livestock, firearms and if they had been on the ‘firewater’, your scalp. This was their baby; the only good news was that this was the best time of the year to be able to ‘push on’.

The wagons loaded, the manifests double-checked, the column formed up, Major Holt had travelled up the length of the column on his inspection patrol, and finding no reason to dally, the command was given and they headed west out of Carlisle. Out over the Tuscaroras then the Allegheny Mountains, through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri and to the eastern bank of the mighty Mississippi at St Louis. Over and on to St Joseph and the wide Missouri River. Major Holt had pushed on hard, taking every advantage of the dry conditions. The two captains had been kept busy as their prime task had been to get up front and cajole the wagon train masters to ease over and let the supply column past.

Most were happy to do so; a big, fast-moving, well-armed military column was reassuring to the settlers, many of whom had oxen drawn, heavily loaded wagons that meandered all across the rutted trail as they lumbered west.

At the St Jo Army post, the major took on four Pawnee Indian scouts as outriders to deter, or warn, of possible Cheyenne attacks – the lightning fast, mounted skirmish raids that were their choice of attack. A day out from St Jo, they came upon a family in desperate trouble. Both wagons were in a serious state of collapse. The rocky terrain of the last few miles had exposed the wood rot in the front axle beams, the wheels had spread and the front ends had belly flopped. An Army supply column is not just about armaments, it takes a full range of skills to keep the Army mobile, and this column had them all.

Major Holt had his tradesmen repair the wagons. Wainwrights and blacksmiths swarmed all over the damaged wagons. Unloaded, jacked up, new beams fitted, wheels checked and re-fitted. The family, all six kids and the granny, was settled back in and ready to roll at first light. Whilst all this was taking place, Trigg acquired a dog.

He had strolled back along the creek-side to view the repair work; when among a group of wagons travelling towards St Jo that had halted for the night to gain safety from the Army’s presence, he caught sight of what he thought was a youth taunting a young dog with a swytch, but as he watched, he realised the youth was trying to thrash the dog, but the dog was too quick. As the dog jigged away from the swytch, the fat youth’s anger increased.

Then a woman appeared and berated the fatso. He threw the swytch at the dog and skulked off, promising the dog a good thrashing later. The dog ambled off and Trigg went back to begin his four-hour watch stint.

His watch stint complete, he went back to view the second wagon’s repairs being finalised and the re-loading work, when the fatso reappeared and resumed his swytching of the dog, but again the dog jigged away from the swytch and the fatso got angrier.

Trigg taunted the youth.

Feller, I ain’t sure what yer trying to achieve, but I find kindness gets much better results.

The fatso turned and spat out a load of obscenities and flexed the swytch his way. Git, Army bastard, afore I shred that pretty face o yourn. Then he turned away.

Sure thing, fatso, just like yer trying on the pup, but it’s too smart for yer. Then he moved swiftly forward and as the fatso swung round in anger, flexing the swytch ready to lash out at him, he rammed his right fist into the fatso’s bloated, fat face and it burst open like a bag of bad tomatoes. Then he sunk his left fist into the fatso’s soft belly, just where the ribs ended and the gut began. The fatso crumpled onto the bank of the creek, groaning.

The fatso tried to raise himself but failed and slumped back down and flopped over the bank top and down into a bed of reeds.

Trigg had a quick look around; nobody was stirring and the fatso was nicely out of sight and breathing all right. He turned to go, only to see the dog staring intently at him.

He stared back, then moved slowly towards it and knelt down to stroke its head.

Memories came flooding back of his boyhood, all those countless hours that he had spent talking with his pa and grandpa in those bleak winter evenings up on those windswept hills and moors, of the sheepdogs that they had bred, raised and worked. How his grandpa talked of savvy dogs. Dogs that were very intelligent, seemed to know what you said to them, never made much noise, just a low growl or a whine as though they were trying to talk to yer. With these thoughts coursing through his brain he kept staring at the dog.

The dog settled onto its haunches and as it stared back at him, it swivelled its head to the right, then to the left, then back level without once losing eye contact.

He spoke quietly to the dog. It don’t seem too good for you round here, if that fatso’s any measure. We’ll be out’a here at dawn; if you fancy a life in the Army, be near that wagon. He turned and pointed and the dog turned and looked. As he stood up slowly, he heard the fatso recovering his senses, then he turned and walked back to his wagon and the dog followed. As he moved back into the column, the dog sat and took in the scene. When things quietened down it ambled off, but it was back at daybreak, looking for its new friend.

When Trigg emerged from his tent, the dog was sat waiting patiently. He beckoned it over and it obeyed. He climbed onto the buckboard of his lead wagon and it followed his bidding. He settled him down behind the buckboard and gave him its first orders. Now stay there and you’ll be safe. He called Ferdy over, the wagon driver, and told him about the dog.

I’ll look after him, Lt.; you go and attend to business.

Good man. I’ll be about twenty minutes. He gave the dog its second orders, Keep yer head down, behave yerself, do what Ferdy sez, and I’ll get some of what’s left on the chuck wagon for yer.

He sped round to see Spud Murphy, then told Henri about the dog, then they set about ensuring that their section was in order and ready to roll when the command was given. Fifteen minutes later he sought out Major Huntly and informed him of the dog. Your responsibility solely, Lt., if it misbehaves, you get it in the neck.

He notified both captains, cantered round to collect Spud Murphy’s bag of ‘goodies’ and then back to the wagon.

It’s official, yer now in the Army, and you’ll be known as Private Dodger; forget everything that went before. Ferdy, Charlie, meet the Dodger, he’ll be hitching a ride as far as Fort Laramie. When Henri rode up he was introduced and gave a little salute to join in with the joking.

They continued to make good progress, delivered the designated personnel and supplies into Fort Sedgewick and then continued up the Oregon Trail to Fort Laramie, journey’s end for Trigg and Henri. The column rolled in two days ahead of schedule. The ‘fort’ was exactly as it had been described. An old fur trading post, purchased by the Army; further buildings had been erected as necessity dictated. It was wide open in military terms, but as it had never been attacked, that seemed to have no relevance.

Major Amessen, the Fort Commander and his Quartermaster Sam Little met with Major Huntly, who readily agreed to allow the QM to direct the delivery of the various supplies to the individual buildings around the site. Then they disappeared into the fort’s HQ, reappeared ten minutes later and Major Amessen strode across to Trigg and Henri who had maintained station on their section of the column. Apologies for the delay, gentlemen, but your early arrival has thrown today’s schedule slightly askew. Please follow me into the office and we’ll get properly acquainted.

Welcome to Fort Laramie, gentlemen. I am Major Dan Amessen and you, sir, are…

Lt. Trigg Hemmyng, sir, and saluted.

So, sir, you must be…

Lt. Henri Watson de Silva, sir, and saluted.

They shook hands.

"Good, that’s the protocol over, take a seat, gents. Let me give you a quick appraisal of our situation here. I arrived here four months ago after the last incumbent collapsed with alcoholic poisoning. His two young lieutenants had already been granted a compassionate discharge, i.e. their mummies had bought them out. Fortunately I was able to arrange for Capt. Tom Benson to transfer here and we are getting this post back into order.

Desertion has been rife in the past, but with today’s influx of men and materials we are now getting back to a viable level, but winter is closing in and we have some urgent business to attend to. So it’s tally-ho and off we go. He rang a hand bell and a corporal entered. A large pot of coffee, Cpl., and whatever fancies are available.

Lt. Hemmyng, I need you to join with Capt. Benson and undertake the longer-range operations, and you, Lt. de Silva, are to join my troop carrying out the more local operations, more hard riding, but back in yer own cot every night. Capt. Benson will be back in the fort shortly, so in the meantime we will get you into your quarters, let you settle in and we meet at 1830hrs for dinner.

Room 7 in Old Bedlam. It looks like it’s got a good fire-grate; should be a god-send if the winters are as bad as they say, what do you reckon, Dodger?

The mess room was busy that night. Major Huntly still had a long haul to go – up to Fort Casper and then on to Fort Bridger – but having shed sixty of the wagons, he was confident of making it before the weather closed in. Capt. Benson was looking for a new cook. Trigg sang Spud Murphy’s abilities strongly and Capt. Benson claimed him. The Dodger would have his second best friend for company. Trigg also met and had a long discussion with Capt. Benson’s sergeant, Will Lawton. Will had made sergeant early; still only twenty-four years old, he had seven years’ service under his belt, the last year as a sergeant, and all that service was out here on the frontier.

They were organised and on the roll by 0800hrs, heading southeast towards Nebraska Territory. Capt. Benson reined up beside Trigg ten minutes into the patrol and explained exactly what this operation was about.

This operation is to clear any settlers who have dropped off the Oregon road and are now trying to establish permanent settlements in this area. Under the ’51 treaty, this land is ceded to the Sioux and the Cheyenne in return for safe passage along the road for settlers heading for California. If we don’t get to these ‘strays’ and get them back on the road, going west, or east back home if the trek has beaten them for whatever reason, then the redskins will and there will be carnage. I have a very good chief scout, the feller over there on the ‘paint’. He’s a half-breed, English father, mother a Shoshone squaw, but he is as good a scout-tracker as there is, and an honest feller. I’ll introduce yer when we stop for coffee, but he has three more Shoshones out scouting for me, one up front and one either side. I use Shoshones because they’re the best. I’ll explain the redskin animosities some other time, but that is what our job is on this operation, rounding up the ‘strays’ and getting them back onto the ‘road’ before they get mixed up with the redskins. Because of the lack of troopers, and the vast territory we have to patrol, we’re playing catch-up, and hoping we’re not too late. Ride easy and watch what happens. We’ll keep having these little chats. Oh, if the wind starts to bite, there’s an old soft leather hung up in the chuck wagon. See yer later, Lt.

He did just that. The Shoshone scouts kept appearing on each flank, a quick signal was made, the feller on the paint acknowledged it and off they went again. That had to be an ‘I’m all right’ signal, or ‘nothing over here’. He had his brass telescope in his saddlebag; did they use’m in these sorts of high plains sweeping landscapes? They had to be useful, with a 30X magnification. Two hours later the coffeepot went on. Spud soon had a fire crackling away. Trigg let the Dodger have a run and watched as he loped across the plain. There was still some growing in him and he had an easy, long stride, but what breed was he? Most likely a good mix of mongrels. The more he saw of him, the more he liked him. Capt. Benson handed him a mug of coffee.

What breed is he, Lt.?

Haven’t a clue, sir; we sort of met up about three weeks ago. He told him the story. I was hoping one of you lads might know; probably a mongrel likely as not, but he’s built real solid and look at him go. He whistled to him and the dog scooted in and stood staring at them, not the slightest out of breath.

Fit, ain’t he; not blowing at all is he? You got yourself a good dog, Lt.

They were halted on a crest and the plain sloped down away from them.

Which way does the trail, or road as you refer to it, stretch out from here, Capt.?

Down to our left, Lt., and away across to the Nebraska border.

What is that I can see moving down there, Capt., across there? It ain’t bison, more like wagons, down there, to the south west. He pointed at the objects.

Capt. Benson eyed the objects, then called Scobie Hill across, his chief scout, for his opinion.

Scobie, this is Lt. Hemmyng. What d’yer reckon’s moving down yonder?

It don’t look good, could be those hombres we heard was trying to stir up that passel of renegade Cheyenne. Trigg went for his telescope and focussed on the objects.

There’s three wagons, two men on each, and three outriders.

He handed the telescope to the captain, who viewed the objects then handed the ‘glass’ to his chief scout. Damn good ‘glass’ that, Lt.; what yer reckon, Scobie?

Looks like they’s heading for the Horse Creek area; good spot Lt.

Scobie let rip a shrill whistle and his scouts were soon in.

Trigg kept the ‘glass’ on them but they dropped into a fold in the plain and out of sight. He panned across and saw smoke rising out of a stand of pines. He passed the ‘glass’ back to Scobie and described what he had seen. Could be where they’s camped up, Capt.; another ten minutes and that smoke be too thin ta see.

Go have a look, Scobie; we’ll sit tight here and keep the ‘glass’ on ‘em.

Two hours later they were back.

They’s hunkering down, Capt., tents are up and a prong horn on the spit, but we can get behind easy; there’s a crease in the plain that’ll let us pass outa sight. They ain’t wary at all; resting real easy they are. Scobie drew a sketch of the area in the loose earth.

"We’ll move on ‘em at dawn. Here’s the plan. Sgt., you, Scobie and six troopers get down behind ‘em. Me, the Lt. and four troopers will get in position in front of ‘em. When you ready let out a whistle and I’ll call for their surrender. Send Clikka and George to run their hosses off, and we’ll pepper ‘em with gunshot when they appears; probably be hung over and panicking that early when they hear the shotguns. Keep yer heads down behind. I’ll do all the talking. If they look like threatening yer, down ‘em but try and keep one on ‘em alive; be useful to find out who they are and where