Ride to Valor Read online

  James gazed about and noticed other mothers and daughters in bright dresses and bonnets and a few with parasols. “Is that why so many ladies are here?”

  “You make it sound piddling,” Mrs. Craydon said.

  “No,” James said quickly. “I didn’t mean it to. It’s a fine thing you’re doing, missus.”

  Mrs. Craydon brightened. “Why, thank you. What do we call you, by the way?”

  “Doyle, ma’am,” James said, and then remembered. “Private Doyle, if you please.”

  “Well, Private Doyle, you are the perfect gentleman. Isn’t he the perfect gentleman, Margaret?”

  “And handsome,” Margaret said.

  “So, would you like us to visit you next week?” Mrs. Craydon asked. “And if so, will it be cookies or a pie?”

  James was dazzled at how Margaret’s blue eye sparkled. “A pie would be nice.”

  The next day his army life commenced in earnest. The recruits were issued their horse gear, as some called it: a rope, a bridle, a saddle blanket, and saddle. James stared at his pile and scratched his head, wondering what in hell the judge had flung him into. Back in New York he had nothing to do with horses except to watch out for their piles in the street. Horses were everywhere, but the Blue Shirts didn’t own any, and besides, most people in Five Points used their own legs to get around.

  Squatting, he touched the saddle. It was alien to him. The only part he knew was the saddle horn. Oh, and the stirrups. The saddle blanket was easy enough to figure out. So was the contraption that he was to slip over the horse’s head. He picked up the rope, surprised at how heavy and stiff it was. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  A shadow blocked out the sun, and James glanced up. A huge block of a recruit was holding a bridle and grinning like a kid at Christmas.

  “Ain’t these something? They give us all this, and we don’t have to pay for it.”

  “They’re something,” James said.

  The big recruit chuckled. “Joining this here army was the smartest thing I ever done.” He offered a callused hand as big as a ham. “I’m Dorf.”

  James stood and held out his own. A vise clamped on his fingers. “Doyle.”

  “You’re not from hereabouts, are you?”

  “Chicago,” James lied. He had been lying about where he was from since he left New York.

  “A city boy,” Dorf said, and nodded. “Took you to be. I’m a local, myself. My pa has a farm about twenty miles yonder.” He pointed. “Him and Ma weren’t tickled about me enlisting, but I told them I had it to do.”

  “You did?” James said.

  Dorf looked around as if afraid someone would overhear him and then bent and whispered, “Don’t ever tell them or it will break their hearts, but I don’t much like farm life.”

  “You don’t?”

  Dorf shook his head. “My pa would be shocked but cows bore me. All they do is eat and shit. They are dumb as stumps, and there’s only so much dumb I can take.”

  “The only thing I know about cows is they taste good.”

  Dorf erupted in giant peals of mirth. He slapped his thick thigh and said, “That was a good one. I like how they taste, too, especially with a heap of salt. The fat’s the best. So juicy, I can’t ever get enough.” He smiled and walked away.

  James turned back to his pile. That was the first talk he’d had with any of the recruits since he joined. Short as it was, it made him dislike being so alone. He was bending to examine the saddle more closely when there was a thud next to him and another saddle and saddle blanket and bridle were next to his own.

  “I’m back,” Dorf said.

  “So you are.”

  “Since we’re going to be pards, we should stick together.”

  “Pards?”

  Dorf’s smile disappeared and a hurt look came over him. “You don’t want to be partners? I don’t have one yet, and I figured you looked likely.”

  “I don’t even know what a partner does,” James said.

  “Gosh. City boys don’t know much, do they?” Dorf showed his big teeth in a grin. “A pard is a friend, is all.” He thrust out his hand again. “What do you say?”

  James considered that hand and what shaking it would mean, and he shook. “Pards we are.”

  Dorf laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “This is a great day. Ain’t this a great day? And the afternoon ain’t even here yet.” He suddenly grew serious. “I know a couple of other fellows who might like to join up with us. We can stick together like some of the others do.”

  “Have our own little gang,” James said by way of a jest.

  “Oh, no,” Dorf said. “Gangs are mostly outlaws. You don’t call anybody a gang out here unless they are bad men, and we’re not bad men.”

  “What do we call ourselves, then?”

  Dorf regarded him as if he were the most brainless person on the planet. “Pards.”

  James smiled.

  The big farm boy went off again and when he returned he had two others in tow. Farm boys, like him, only nowhere near his bulk. One was short and thin and had strange hair in that it grew thicker in some spots on his head than in others. His name was Newcomb, and he was shy. The other was about Doyle’s size but with more muscle from hours behind a plow. His grip was almost as strong as Dorf’s. Daniel Richard Cormac was how he introduced himself.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dan,” James said.

  “No. Not Dan or Daniel or Richard or Rich or Dick even,” the husky young man responded. “Call me Cormac or don’t call me anything. I never was fond of those others.”

  Doyle understood. “As you wish.”

  Dorf nudged Cormac. “Tell him what it means.”

  “Stop it,” Cormac said.

  “Go on. Tell him. It’s a keen name. You should be proud of it.”

  “I am.”

  “Then tell him.”

  Cormac looked at James and rolled his yes. “It means a man who rides chariots.”

  “Rides what?” James asked.

  It was Dorf who excitedly answered, “You know. Those old itty-bitty wagons with no backs that those Roman fellows rode? You know the Romans, don’t you? They wore skirts and carried swords.”

  James had only the vaguest of notions what a Roman was, or a chariot, for that matter.

  “My full last name is Dorfenbacher,” Dorf revealed. “My pa says it means people from the foresty hills, or some such, which I thought was funny since we live on the prairie and there ain’t hardly any trees.” He gestured at their fourth partner. “Newcomb’s name means farmer. Ain’t that something? His name means what he is.”

  “I’m a soldier now,” Newcomb said quietly.

  “Why does any of this matter?” James said.

  “My ma always says that our names are a part of us,” Dorf told him. “They’re important.”

  “To me a name is just a name.”

  “That’s not true. A name can tell you about a person or about a place.” Dorf pointed at where the top of the statehouse was visible in the distance. “Take Topeka. It’s the capital of all of Kansas, you know. But I bet you don’t know what it means, you being from back East and all. It’s an Injun name. A lot of places around here have Injun names. I reckon those who named them couldn’t come up with any white words.”

  James was curious despite himself. “So, what does Topeka mean?”

  Dorf stood straight as if making a grand pronouncement. “Where good potatoes grow.”

  14

  The army issued them horses. They weren’t allowed to pick. Their names were called, and each stepped forward and took the next animal in a string.

  James was nervous as hell. He still wasn’t entirely comfortable wearing a uniform, and he didn’t like his boots at all. They didn’t fit well. His feel always felt pinched. Dorf had told him the leather would loosen after a while and they would be comfortable as could be. “Your feet will feel like kittens in a pair of slippers,” Dorf claimed.

 
Whatever that meant. Now James stepped to the front of the line and heard the captain call his name and stepped to the string. He was supposed to slip the bridle over his horse and lead it back, but he had never used a bridle before. He thought he’d had it figured out, but the horse bobbed its head and he realized he was trying to put the bridle on the wrong way. He quickly did it right and started back, half expecting to hear laughter.

  Those who had already picked were admiring their animals. James stared at his in a sort of daze. The enormity of his new responsibility was sinking in. He was responsible for this creature. He was to feed it, groom it, take good care of it. As the sergeant told the company, “There are two things a soldier must always keep in good order: his carbine and his horse. Both can save your life. You need to get to know your horse as good as you do yourself. Treat it well, and when the arrows are flying, you’ll be glad you did.”

  Dorf was running a hand along the back of his animal and saying over and over, “Ain’t this something? Ain’t this something?” He looked at James and laughed. “A free horse. This army beats all.” He cocked his head. “Why ain’t you getting acquainted? That’s a fine bay. Don’t just stand there. Show him he’s your friend.”

  “A bay?” James said.

  Dorf, Cormac, and Newcomb looked at one another, and Cormac said, “City boy.” All three laughed.

  “What?”

  Dorf came over and draped his big arm across James’s shoulders. “Horses come in colors. There’re bays and buckskins and piebalds and sorrels and duns and more. See how yours is kind of reddish? But it has a black mane and a black tail? That’s a bay.”

  “I just thought a horse was a horse.”

  “You said the same thing about names,” Dorf reminded him. “What is it about you city boys that you see the world around you but you don’t know what you’re seeing?”

  James soon learned that horses were a lot like people. Each had its own temperament. Some were gentle. Others were ornery or outright mean. They bucked or bit or fought the bridle. A few couldn’t be ridden at all. The army weeded out most of the troublesome ones, but there was an incident a few afternoons later when the company was practicing how to move in formation. A horse kept giving a trooper trouble. He was trying to get it under control when it reared, throwing him. He broke his wrist in the fall.

  The next day they were issued carbines. Spencers, with a seven-round magazine. They were also given twenty cartridges and straps by which they could sling their carbines over their backs.

  Dorf actually giggled when the sergeant gave him his. “This army is just like St. Nick.”

  Targets were set up. Each man was allowed three shots.

  James surprised himself. He’d never fired a rifle or a carbine, but after the sergeant showed him how to line up the rear sight with the front sight and instructed him in how to steady his aim by holding his breath, he hit the bull’s-eye once and came close with his other two. That was a lot better than a lot of the others did. He felt a terrific pride.

  Someone was bold enough to raise a hand and ask as they were forming up afterward, “Why were we only allowed three, Sergeant?”

  “Cartridges cost money, Private Brown,” Sergeant Heston answered.

  “Surely that’s not all the practice we’re going to get, Sarge?”

  “Were it up to me, each of you would shoot a hundred rounds and even that wouldn’t be enough,” Sergeant Heston answered. “But the army keeps a tight budget.”

  “I bet the Indians practice more than we do,” Private Brown remarked.

  “From when they are old enough to draw back a bowstring,” Sergeant Heston said. “I’ve seen warriors put arrows into men while riding at a full gallop. So yes, for the most part they are better shots and better riders. Don’t ever take them lightly or you’ll regret it.”

  “What a thing to say to us,” Dorf whispered. “Injuns don’t scare me none.”

  They sure scared James.

  15

  That evening Sergeant Heston came to the tent James was sharing with his new friends and informed him that the captain wanted to see him.

  “What about?” James asked. He had been trying his best, but he was painfully aware of his shortcomings.

  “Don’t you mean, ‘What about, Sergeant?’ ”

  James repeated the question properly.

  “We’ll let him tell you.”

  James matched the sergeant’s brisk stride. Heston was highly regarded by the men. A career soldier, the sergeant did everything better than everyone else. Dorf idolized the man.

  The captain’s tent was larger than those for the enlisted men, with a flap that was tied open. Inside were a table and chairs. James was disconcerted to find not just Captain Pemberton but Lieutenant Finch and Second Lieutenant Myers.

  “At ease, Private.” Captain Pemberton had a paper in front of him and was reading it. He slowly sat back and thoughtfully regarded Doyle. “How does it feel to kill?”

  A bolt of apprehension shot through James and he swallowed, hard. “Sir?”

  “I said to relax, soldier.” Pemberton smiled and tapped the paper. “I have your history right here. You killed a man in St. Louis. In self-defense, I understand.” He paused. “Were there any others?”

  “Sir?”

  “Have you killed anyone else?”

  James was struck speechless. He imagined the army throwing him out and Judge Sullivan throwing him in prison.

  “I asked you a question, Private.”

  “Must I really say?”

  “It’s important.”

  James was light-headed. Already he could hear the prison door slamming shut in his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sergeant Heston start to take a step toward him, but Captain Pemberton waved him back.

  “Is there something the matter, Private Doyle?” Lieutenant Finch asked.

  “I don’t want to be thrown out.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to be thrown out of the army, sir.”

  Second Lieutenant Myers laughed. “Thrown out of the army for killing? Have you any idea what we do for a living, Private?”

  Captain Pemberton motioned and Second Lieutenant Myers sobered. Pemberton leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. “There seems to be a misunderstanding here. But it would help me, greatly, Private Doyle, if you would give me an honest answer.”

  “An honest one, sir? And it won’t get me thrown out?”

  “No.”

  James steeled himself. “Very well, then, sir. The answer is yes.”

  “How many?”

  “At least one, sir.”

  Pemberton waited as if to hear more and when James stayed quiet he turned to the two lieutenants. “What do you think?”

  “Two is more than any of the others,” Finch said.

  “Two is as many as me, and I dearly crave to do in more” was Myers’s reply

  Captain Pemberton stared at James. “Yes. You should do fine. The others will take you as an example.”

  “Sir?” James said in complete confusion.

  “As Lieutenant Myers alluded to a few moments ago, we’re soldiers. We took an oath to defend the United States of America from any and all enemies. To that end we must sometimes kill.”

  James nodded vigorously. “I understand that much, sir.”

  “Unfortunately, Private Doyle, killing isn’t a skill like riding or shooting. Those we can teach. The ability to take another’s life has to come from inside us. And it’s not an ability a lot of men have. We drill them and drill them, but we can’t instill in their hearts and in their minds the ability to calmly squeeze the trigger when the moment of truth comes.”

  “Calmly, sir?”

  Pemberton was warming to the subject. He nodded and said, “During and after the Civil War, studies were conducted. They found that in the heat of battle a lot of men reacted poorly. Some were so scared they ran. Others lost their heads and kept on firing even though their weapons were empty. Still
others went berserk and rashly exposed themselves to enemy bullets. So you can see why staying calm in combat is so important.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They found that, as the saying has it, experience is the best teacher. Those who had killed were the calmest about killing again. Once you’ve done it, once you’ve gone over that hurdle, it becomes easier.”

  James disagreed. It hadn’t been easy for him in the fight with the Florentines and it hadn’t been easy for him with that river rat.

  “Which brings us to you,” Captain Pemberton said. “By your own admission you have taken two lives. You are over a hurdle most of the men have yet to face. In addition, Sergeant Heston tells us that you were in the top third at target practice today. Your riding ability is poor, but that can be improved. As for the rest, you do as well as most of the recruits. All in all I’d say you’re the ideal candidate.”

  “Candidate, sir?” James wished he could guess where this was leading.

  “We have to pick several and for my money you’ll do nicely. Congratulations, Corporal.”

  “Sir?”

  “You are Corporal Doyle now. You’ve been promoted. It means an increase in pay. More importantly, you’re a link in the chain of command. A crucial link, I might add, between the sergeant and those under him.” Captain Pemberton smiled.

  “Anything to say?”

  James said the first thing that came into his head. “I’ll be damned, sir.”

  16

  James sat on a grassy knoll and gazed off across the Kansas prairie and did some thinking. The most serious thinking he had done in a long time. He wasn’t used to it. When he was little, he’d felt his way through everything. Then his father died, and he had to think about that, but no matter how hard he had thought about it he couldn’t understand why it had happened.

  Why were people born only to die? Where was the sense in Five Points? In some people being so poor while others lived in luxury? In a slum where it was dog-eat-dog and people did whatever they must to survive? He’d finally stopped thinking about it because it made no damn sense.