Cry of the Hawk

“If you boys plan on doing any harder work than lifting that whiskey glass and poking whores,” announced the army major, “I know where a man can earn good money.”

“Thirteen dollars a month and two squares?” hollered a dirty civilian from the back of the watering hole the major had just entered, leading an escort of four privates.

There came an immediate burst of laughter from those in the room. Jonah Hook grinned and turned back to his drink. He and Artus Moser, like so many others, knew all too well what hard work soldiering could be.

“Slave work—that’s what it is, Major!” yelled out another of the civilians.

The officer waited for the group to quiet itself. “I’ve come to offer enlistment in the frontier army. General William Tecumseh Sherman has already dispatched a large body of troops from this department to Indian country.”

“Injun country? What the hell you think that is right out that door, Major? The cobble-paved streets of St. Louie?”

More laughter followed the jeering catcalls from the civilians long at working on their thirsts in the dimly lit, mud-floored saloon that passed for a barroom in Dobe Town, just beyond the boundaries of the Fort Kearney military reservation in Nebraska Territory.

“Colonel Henry B. Carrington recently departed with hundreds of foot troops to protect the Bozeman Trail for emigrants heading to the mines of Idaho and Montana.”

“Now that’s where a man can make him some money,” Artus whispered into Jonah’s ear.

“If he makes it through Injun hunting grounds with his hair.” Hook watched Moser absently stroke a palm over the back of his head.

“Colonel Carrington’s mission in protecting the Bozeman Road has depleted this department’s manpower strength. General Sherman hopes we can enlist what we need in the way of good soldiers right here on the prairie,” the major went on.

Down the rough-plank bar from Jonah a man with a hawkish beak of a nose turned about on the major and leaned his elbows back on the bar.

“Major, maybe you should just take your enlisting outfit on outta here. Most of these boys already had their fill of soldiering—for either Uncle Billy Sherman or Robert E. Lee.”

The major turned toward the speaker. “I take it you fought for the Confederacy?”

“I did not, Major. From The Wilderness and Gettysburg, Cold Harbor and Manassas. And I fought at the siege of Atlanta under Sherman hisself.” He turned back to the bar. “I had enough of soldiering. I can make more at a poker table in a week than I can in a month of Sundays as a buck-assed private, digging privy holes and shining officers’ boots.”

“You, sir—are the sort of soldier the army needs on the frontier at this moment in history. With the great rebellion subdued back east, our Republic can now turn its attention to the matter of pacifying the plains.”

“Go tell that to the goddamned Sioux!” yelled a faceless voice from the smoky recesses.

“No one is saying it will be easy,” said the major, hurling his voice into the barroom once more. “What say you now? Any of you ready for adventure in the Army of the West? I’ll have enlistment forms ready at this far table when you’ve thought it over and want to join those who will fight to bring peace to this land, once and for all, now that the Rebels lost.”

Jonah turned. “We didn’t lose.”

The major turned back to find the tall, thin rail of a man who had flung his words at the officer’s back. “The South lost the war more than a year ago—in case you haven’t heard.”

“I heard, Major. And I was there. But—the South didn’t lose.” Jonah listened as the barroom behind him fell still again. The Union veteran at the bar had turned around once more, this time to study Hook.

“If the South didn’t lose, mister—what would you call it?” asked the major, slapping his gloves across the front of his britches, sending sprays of fine dust into the smoky, oily atmosphere.

“We was whipped.”

“Damn right you were whipped,” shouted one of the major’s escort.

“I don’t see any difference,” said the major.

“Big difference. If a man loses, that means he give up. And I don’t know of many who gave up fighting until Robert E. Lee told ’em he was done and wanted his soldiers to go on home.”

“You lose or you’re whipped. Same—”

“No it ain’t, Major. When a man’s whipped, it means his enemy’s got more strength, better rifles, more rifles. But it don’t mean he lost. It just means his enemy whipped him.”

“The man’s right, Major,” said the Union veteran as he inched down along the bar toward Hook. “It would be about like me and the Johnny here taking on the five of you soldiers because your damned big mouth won’t stop flapping.”

“I won’t be talked to like—”

“And if the two of us get whipped by the five of you—which ain’t really likely, me taking a hard look at your escort here—then we get whipped. But we didn’t lose the fight.” He turned to Hook. “Isn’t that what you’re trying to explain to this dunderhead of a major?”