Cry of the Hawk

Both hands were hacked off. The large, white thigh muscles were cleaved open like hams from hip to kneecap, pink and rippling in glistening crimson. Four deep lacerations marked each upper arm. The belly lay open, the purple pink snake of intestine wriggling out into the summer heat, already attracting the buzzing of green-backed flies. The head lay darkened from eyebrows back, completely scalped, ears missing.

But it was the castration, along with seeing the scrotum and penis hung pendant over the young trooper’s chin that caused Jonah to gag on nothing more than his revulsion of fighting this sort of enemy who would desecrate its victims with such complete and utter abandon.

“Get that body over here, soldier!” shouted a sergeant, stomping toward Hook. “We ain’t got all day to lollygag here while them Injuns come down to stuff your cock in your mouth, Reb!”

“Sir?” he asked weakly.

“Grab his arms,” the sergeant ordered, hoisting his weapon sling over his shoulder. “What’s left of ’em anyway. I’ll get the poor bastard’s legs, boy. You know him?”

Jonah shook his head. About all he could do.

The wrists were sticky with blood, blotted with sand. That grit was about the only thing that kept Hook from losing his grip on the severed wrists until he reached the back of the wagon where the rest of the soldiers huddled, watching the taunting, jeering warriors shaking the bloody, still-warm scalps at the white men.

“About face!” shouted the sergeant. “Let’s keep it together, men. Easy … easy now. Don’t run off. Stay together, and we’ll all make it back!”

Jonah felt no relief back within the walls of Platte Bridge Station.

“You’re past the worst of it, Jonah Hook,” said Shad Sweete as he came alongside, placing his big ham of a hand on the Southerner’s shoulder. “Ain’t nothing ever gonna be as bad as seeing your first.”

Hook continued to stare into the icy blue of the scout’s eyes, unable to find any words to say. They were all choked down below that ball of bile and foul-tasting phlegm he could not hack up.

The shrill call of “Assembly” on the bugle yanked him back, hard. Captain Lybe waited for the last Kansas regular to shuffle into formation.

“Major Anderson has put me in charge of the defense of this post. I want details assigned to dig rifle pits. Another detail to pile up an embrasure of earth in front of our howitzers. Any questions?”

When there weren’t any, the captain went on. “Be at your assignments, men. We don’t know how long we have until they make a full assault on us. Dis-missed!”

“Captain Lybe,” called Major Anderson. “I’ve just been informed by our telegraph operator that we’re now completely cut off.”

“The Indians have dragged down the wire going east?”

“We’ve sent the last word of our desperate situation to Laramie.” Anderson turned to his adjutant. “Lieutenant Walker, I want you to mount twenty men, well-armed. I want the east line repaired. Take what supplies you need and depart in ten minutes.”

“Yes, Major.” George Walker saluted and was gone. To his dismay, instead of twenty, the lieutenant found only sixteen horses still fit for duty, what with exhaustion and battle wounds.

As the adjutant’s small repair detail cleared the post gates, Lybe climbed down the ladder from the banquette, signaling his Volunteers to form up.

“You men stay ready. Check your weapons. See that you have ball and caps in your kit.”

“We gonna be ready for them Injuns when they come?” asked a Georgia man.

“No, Private. We’re going out to cover that repair detail.”

“We ain’t been ordered out by the major,” grumbled an Alabaman sourly.

“I’m going to fix that right now,” Lybe snapped.

The captain was back in less than three minutes, a grim smile on his face. “Major wants us to proceed to that sandy mound overlooking the ford where the repair detail will be working. Let’s march, double time to catch up with those horses.”

The fifteen-man squad trotted in ragtag fashion from the post gate, moving down the Laramie Road to the east about the time the dust from the sixteen horses was settling.

Hook swallowed hard, his nose caked with the alkali silt stirred up by hooves, his stockings hot and itchy inside his boots. Then he chuckled to himself quickly. Glad to have a pair of boots after all. For the last few months of the war, he had fought barefooted, never lucky enough to be the first to come across the Yankee dead. Stripping what he needed from the blue-belly’s carcass.

Better hot, sticky feet than cracked, cold, bleeding feet.

The Indians stayed on the north bank, most remaining on the slopes of the nearby hills. Watching. A few loped their ponies up and down on the flat near the river timber, gesturing obscenely, shouting their oaths at both the horsemen and the foot soldiers. While Walker led half his men on east to the far end of the break in the wire, Lybe led his small platoon up on the rise that overlooked the ford and the hills across the North Platte.