A Deadwood story -- counting coup, part 2

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Traveling First Class, army style.

Lieutenant Wilcox knew that the Army could be frugal, but he didn’t realize how utterly, drop-dead tightfisted it could be, until he discovered that he and his detachment of new recruits would be traveling most of the way to their first duty post in a Union Pacific boxcar. Sergeant Bogart, however, gave no evidence of being surprised at this, and the men just seemed pleased that they would be making a large part of the trip by rail, instead of having to ride their horses the entire way. A good many of them, after all, were somewhat new to the art of horsemanship, and they were probably more comfortable gaining experience on horseback in smaller doses.

The same train included a number of additional freight carriages that were identical to the one that was occupied by the men, but these were laden with supplies and provisions destined for Fort Sidney and Camp Robinson, as well as the Red Cloud Agency. There were also a number of stockcars loaded with horses--a number of re-mounts as well as the animals assigned to the recruit detachment. The Army, in its infinite practicality--and a desire to make sure that the new troops would not have too much time on their hands while en-route--had detailed the recruits to water and feed the horses during the journey. The men were also to have the pleasure of mucking out the cars at rest stops.

Although it was not specifically among the tasks that had been assigned to them, the Sergeant had respectfully suggested that the Lieutenant detail some of the men to stand guard around the train when it made stops, in order to prevent any larcenous-minded miscreants from breaking into the boxcars and making off with government property.

Wilcox took the suggestion. He appreciated that the Sergeant had brought the idea to his attention, as he quickly realized that even though he hadn’t been instructed to post guards, if something did turn up missing, he would very likely be held responsible for not taking any proactive steps to prevent such an occurrence. As a new officer, he also appreciated the way that Bogart had approached the issue. He had quietly brought the matter up with the lieutenant outside earshot of the men, so the impression was that Wilcox had initiated this course of action.

The Lieutenant soon realized that the Sergeant was working in a variety of small and subtle ways to build up and strengthen the new officer’s standing with the men. Suggestions often came in the form of questions:

“Beg pardon, Lieutenant, shall I take a detail and get some fresh straw for the men to bed down on?”

“Lieutenant, shall I have the men air the blankets now and sweep out the car?”

“Excuse me Lieutenant, I believe we will be here at this stop for a while, may I have the men make some fires and cook up some bacon and boil coffee while we have the chance? Oh and sir, the water cask is getting low...request permission to detail Willich and Ericson to get it refilled.”

To his credit, Wilcox immediately knew that the only possible answer to all these questions was “Yes, Sergeant, carry on, please,” expressed with a nonchalant air that implied that he had, in fact, been intending to issue precisely those orders.

Now, considering that--as you will recall--2nd Lieutenant Wilcox had expected army life and his role as an officer to be somewhat more formal and “regulation” when he had first arrived at the Cavalry Depot in St. Louis, you may be feeling a certain degree of astonishment (if not incredulity) that he was so readily adapting to the reality of how things worked in frontier units.

Well, first off, let me explain that, yes, Mr. Wilcox may have been young and enthusiastic, and he may have left West Point with his head full of all kinds of pretensions and grand notions...but he was not a goddam idiot. The time he had spent at the Cavalry Depot waiting for the recruits to be released into his care had been quite a lesson. He had witnessed first-hand what the Sergeant and other non-coms at the depot were accomplishing in training the new men. Furthermore, Wilcox had been given a good "talking to" not just by the commandant, but also a number of other experienced officers as well. Some of these individuals had been rather forceful in making their points: their stories about what had happened to officers who fell prey to their own ignorance and arrogance had been stomach-churningly graphic. Several of these men had been present at the aftermath of the Custer fight, and described in detail the horrible process of trying to find and identify the bodies of their friends.

As I said, the young man was not a fool, and quickly saw the desirability of not ending up as a naked, mutilated corpse rotting on the plains.

Furthermore, Wilcox simply was fascinated by the trade of soldiering, and he genuinely enjoyed learning about it. He was very glad to have the chance to receive more instruction in how it was actually done. In fact, he desperately wanted to ask Bogart about his fighting Comanches before the war and leading a company of Confederate cavalry. He was also intrigued to find out that one of the recruits, Private Willich, had been a Prussian lancer and had fought at Sedan in 1870. Wilcox ached to hear that man’s story as well. But even in the more relaxed atmosphere of the frontier, it just would not have been appropriate for him to have requested that these men share their personal experiences with him.

Still, when all was said and done, by the time the train finally arrived at Sidney, Nebraska under a gray and sodden sky, 2nd Lieutenant Josephus Wilcox was feeling slightly more confident about how he would acquit himself in this strange and dangerous environment.

At the station yard in Sidney, Wilcox was watching the men as they got their gear out of the boxcar and unloaded their horses when he heard the sound of horsemen cantering up behind him. The Lieutenant turned to see some cavalrymen splattering through the mud towards him, dressed in largely shapeless slouch hats and a mishmash of outerwear that included caped overcoats and canvas jackets among other things. The horseman in the lead, whose hat bore brass crossed sabers and the number “3,” was evidently in charge--the fact of which was confirmed to Wilcox when the man got close enough that captain’s shoulder straps were visible on his stained leather hunting coat.

“Lieutenant Wilcox, I presume?” the captain enquired.

Wilcox, saluted. “Yes sir.”

The man’s weather-worn features broke into a craggy smile and he returned the salute in a manner that was so crisp it seemed curiously incongruent with his rough and ready attire. “Glad to have you here...I’m Captain Welles. We’ll be setting off back for Camp Robinson as soon as we’ve sorted out which of the remounts and supplies are for us, and which will stay here at Fort Sidney....I understand First Sergeant Bogart was to come with you?”

“Yessir, he was,..um..is” replied the young officer. Wilcox turned to call for Bogart to report to him, but was startled to find the man already standing right behind him.

The one-eyed veteran snapped a salute at the captain that was so sharp and strictly regulation it could have struck sparks from steel. The mud bespeckled captain’s response was equally fit for a parade ground...but the grin on his face was the kind of thing reserved for old friends and comrades.

“Hello, Sergeant!” said Welles, his eyes with a bit of a sparkle in them. “Good to see you again.”

The old sergeant smiled too. “Thank you sir. Tis good to see you and the boys as well.” He nodded at the mounted men behind the captain, all of whom were smiling back...a few of them nodded in response and several touched their hat brims in greeting.

The captain turned. “Corporal Brill! Bring up the wagons and have the new men commence loading ‘em up. Mr. Pickens, take your detail and see to the remounts...have them ready to move out as soon as possible.” He turned back to Sergeant Bogart. “How are you finding St. Louis?”

Sepp smiled again. "Well, Captain, it’s a good bit o’ hard work and more than the usual ration of minor frustrations, but I find it tolerable enough. How are things at Robinson, sir? How’s the Major?”

The captain frowned slightly. “Oh, the Major’s fine. I shall give him your regards. But the situation could be better...we’ve just had a small group of Red Cloud’s young men decide they’ve had enough of agency life and they’ve bolted..probably gone to go do some raiding up in the Black Hills.”

Sepp looked thoughtful. “Have you anyone to send after them?”

Captain Welles coughed. “No, not really...not from the Third, anyway. Part of the command is down with fever, part is on a long patrol into Wyoming, and the Major wants the rest to stay at Robinson in case things get dicey on the Agency. He wants us around to keep any more of the young warriors from getting ideas in their heads. But Clouds on Big Mountain and some of his Crow scouts are on their way to the Camp even as we speak, and I have a few Arikara scouts who are available to go with them. Just wish I had a senior non-com or an officer to go with them...could help with the diplomatic side of things...I hate to send Indian scouts into the area of the gold fields on their own--those damned argonauts haven’t the vaguest clue regarding the natives...idiots will probably try to shoot our scouts on sight.”

At this point, the lieutenant found the courage to speak. “Sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Wilcox?”

I ..um..that is..I would like to volunteer to go with the Indian scouts...if I may...unless of course, you were thinking of sending Sergeant Bogart...”

Welles looked at the young officer appraisingly. He then turned to Sepp and slightly arched an eyebrow. Almost imperceptibly, the old sergeant nodded. The captain looked back at Wilcox and folded his arms on his chest.

“Very well, I believe that would be acceptable. In fact, First Sergeant Bogart is not an option for us...his orders are to return to the Cavalry Depot with the next train heading east. And well...to be honest, Lieutenant, being as we are somewhat shy of enlisted men...even with the new lot you’ve done such a good job of shepherding here...we don’t really have a place for you quite as of yet. You are somewhat...ah...extraneous for now.”

Even with being labeled “extraneous,” Wilcox was feeling quite pleased with how this was developing. The fact that Sergeant Bogart had given him the nod...a stamp of approval that he wouldn’t just be a burden to the Indian scouts--and that the Captain had said he had done well with his assignment of delivering the recruits--all in all, he was feeling downright good about himself at the moment.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”

Captain Welles chuckled. “You’re rather excited about the prospect of this aren’t you, Lieutenant? Splendid. Matter of fact, several of the Arikara men are equally enthused about the task. They are rather young themselves...they have yet to count coup and are eager for the chance.”

Wilcox had been following all the conversation to this point but now he looked a tad puzzled. “Count coup, sir? As in killing an enemy?”

“The Captain waved his gauntleted hand dismissively. “Oh no, it's not about killing...they look on it as anyone can kill an enemy--it’s about getting very close and striking your enemy in a contemptuous sort of way, preferably with your hand or something harmless...like a riding crop...very important tradition for these people.”

“Ah...I see,” said Lieutenant Wilcox, even though he didn’t, really.

The Captain was already thinking about other things. “You know, it would probably be helpful if we could have you get in contact with someone up there..perhaps in Deadwood City or Lead..a community leader or responsible individual who isn’t a complete addlepated lackwit. Let them know what is going on, without causing some kind of panic...gather information on what is going on in the vicinity.”

“Yessir, that might be helpful," agreed the Lieutenant.

Welles turned to Sepp again. “Sergeant Bogart, you spent a goodly bit of time up in that neck of the woods...do you know of anyone who isn’t a feckless idiot that you could suggest as a contact person for the Lieutenant and the scouts to meet with?”

Sepp grinned. “Yes, Captain, I believe I do....”

~~~

A Deadwood Story - counting coup, part one

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Second Lieutenant Jospehus Wilcox was about as unhappy as a newly minted officer in the United States Army could be. Freshly graduated from West Point, he had made the long trip by railroad and steamboat to the cavalry depot at St. Louis, expecting to be able to immediately begin carrying out his first assignment: to lead several sections of new men from the depot out to Camp Robinson in Nebraska. There, he and those fresh recruits would be become part of the 3rd U.S.Cavalry Regiment, helping watch over the 13,000 or so Lakota and Cheyenne who resided at the nearby Red Cloud agency.

But instead of being able to set out immediately, he had been informed that the depot commandant was not quite ready to release the men into his custody. This seemed to contradict his orders, as well as what he had been told to expect. Highly respected officers back at the Military Academy had assured him that the new recruits would simply be held at the depot until he arrived--that almost all training would take “on the job” out at the post, so the men could be molded into the kind of soldiers that officers like Second Lieutenant Wilcox wanted them to be. Instead...it turned out that the depot was experimenting with providing the “fresh meat” with some serious training under the direction of officers and non-coms who had only recently been on active service in the field against the hostiles. Evidently, there was actually a plan afoot to move the depot to St. Louis’ Jefferson barracks soon, and at that time the commandant expected the policy of training new recruits to become official and standardized...and apparently this plan had the backing of Army administrators.

Nonetheless, Wilcox had protested quite vehemently that he had been instructed to proceed immediately to Camp Robinson with these men. He was then told--in no uncertain terms--that unless he wished to have his posting to 3rd Cav abruptly changed, he had best learn to accept things and just shut the hell up and make good use of the extra time.

Upon reflection, he decided he had no issue with that...if the commandant was not going to let him proceed with his assignment, Wilcox concluded it would be a good opportunity to start seeing what the new troopers were like, and to begin establishing his authority over them. The men however, proved to be yet another disappointment to him.

They were a mixed and unremarkable bag. Half of the sixteen men (four sections of four each) were dutchmen or swedes who could barely speak any english. A few of the others were Irishmen, who looked suspiciously like potential troublemakers. The remainder seemed to be big city slum dwellers (and some, possibly fugitives from the law)...they were a rough lot, mostly scrawny, unimpressive physical specimens.

The group was under the direction and instruction of a First Sergeant who was attached to the cavalry depot...and to Wilcox’s surprise, in the short amount of time he had this scruffy crew under his tutelage, the sergeant had made some real progress. He had got the men accustomed to the basics of horsemanship (many of them had never been on horses before arriving at the depot), and handling their gear and weapons. They knew how the accouterments were supposed to be worn, they had the rudimentary basics of military courtesy, and they had tentatively dipped their collective toes into the arcane waters of dismounted drill. The sergeant had even begun giving them a modest introduction to convoluted ballet on horseback that was mounted drill.

But this sergeant...oh my...he really did not inspire confidence in young Wilcox’s mind. He looked to be nearly 50, his gear and uniform was a mix of old and new bits and pieces...he was a dutchman himself, explaining things in his his native tongue to the immigrant recruits instead of forcing them to speak only english...and he wore an eyepatch!

Finally, Wilcox could stand it no longer. He requested a meeting with the commandant to express his concerns. And the commandant, having had a good morning and feeling well rested and satisfied with the returns recorded by his quartermaster sergeant, was in a sufficiently generous mood as to be willing to address the issues that the Lieutenant had on his mind.

When the Lieutenant reported to the commandant's office at the appointed time, the senior officer bade the young man take a seat in his office and actually smiled slightly.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Sir I...must confess I am confused. Since I have arrived here..a number of things have puzzled me...though, I...I think I now understand the desirability of giving the men some preparation before sending them to posts deep in the interior...but..."

The Commandant chuckled a little bit. “It’s a different army out here isn’t it? Once you cross that big muddy river, it’s a whole different way of doing things from what you were taught..and what you saw at posts back east. Let me tell you this, Lieutenant, it’s just going to get more and more different, the further into the wilds that you get.”

Wilcox frowned. “But sir...I think I can..sort of understand that..but so many rules and regulations, and...orders...they seem to be largely circumvented or put aside... “

It was the Commandant’s turn to frown. “Oh? Such as?”

“Well,” the lieutenant continued, “Take First Sergeant Bogart for example...does he own the regulation uniform? On training details I’ve observed, he wears the old pattern short cavalry jacket, and the old forage cap...old style leathers and belt buckle..his pistol is an obsolete pattern...doesn't he own one of the new pattern blouses and the current set of accouterments?”

The commandant shrugged. “I am confident he does...you don’t suppose that he wants to get them worn and filthy, do you? I imagine he’s saving them for parade purposes. And as for his old kit and firearms...habit probably. This is First Sergeant Bogart’s final year of his enlistment..and he has been at this a while, let me tell you. He was...well, he was leading men in combat against the natives probably before you were born...”

"But sir..he wears an eye patch...he seems to be missing an eye, that is absolutely against reg...”

“Yes, Yes of course," the commandant interrupted. “Bogart lost that eye in the War. I am told he does own an artificial glass one for special occasions...and I assume when he signed up for service in the army some 11 years ago, he popped it in for the exam and the doctor didn’t notice...was probably either drunk or didn’t care. And even when officers at subsequent duty posts found out the truth, he was such an exemplary and experienced horse soldier it simply became customary to overlook it. I believe, however, that if he was ever on parade or under inspection conducted by an officer who might have protested, he simply put in his glass eyeball and avoided close eye contact.”

“Um...sir?”

“Yes?”

“You said he’s in the last year of his enlistment...but enlistments are for five years..and you said he is in his eleventh year?”

“Ah yes..you see Wilcox, he has in fact gone through two full enlistments since the War...but we wanted him for another year to work here with training recruits at the depot, so we made an arrangement with him....”

“Sir? How did...um...officially?”

The Commandant waved his hand dismissively. “No of course not officially. We just altered his records, giving him an enlistment date for a year after he first actually entered the US cavalry...it’s all taken care of.” The commandant smiled and folded his arms on his chest as if he thought this was all an eminently reasonable and appropriate solution.

But Wilcox was not quite done yet. “Sir? The Sergeant allows the men to do fatigue... and sometimes even drill...in their shirtsleeves. And he made the men turn in their Smith & Wesson revolvers and draw Colts. Furthermore, he's teaching them techniques with their weapons that I am sure aren’t in any manuals...”

The commandant looked at the junior officer as if he was just a tad feeble-minded.

“Good,” he said simply.

“Sir?”

“You’ll see when the men are actually in the territories on work details and on campaign and patrolling...they are going to look more like border ruffians than picture book soldiers. They will fight in their shirtsleeves and some of them will die in their shirtsleeves. Get used to it. As for the guns...we checked, and the companies of 3rd Cavalry at Camp Robinson carry the new model of Colt’s revolver...and perhaps you were not aware that the round that is used with the Colt is very different from the ammunition for the Smith & Wesson models. It will simplify the supply situation at the post.”

Lieutenant Wilcox sighed. He rather liked the Smith & Wesson No. 3 pistol, as it automatically ejected the empty casings when you opened it to reload...but he could see the sense of making sure that the enlisted men had the same weapons as the other fellows in their companies.

The commandant apparently could read his mind. “It’s quite all right Lieutenant...if you prefer the Smith & Wesson for you own sidearm, please feel free to continue usage of it...you have to purchase your own ammunition anyway. Simply be sure you are taking a goodly supply with you.”

“Yessir. I will be sure to do so.”

“Oh and as far as what else First Sergeant Bogart is teaching them...the things that aren’t in manuals...be very glad that he is covering that ground with the men. There are a great many things that books do not tell you. Nor do things always work the way the manuals say they should. You would do well to avail yourself of some of Sergeant Bogart’s wisdom yourself before reporting at Camp Robinson. Fortunately, you will have some extended opportunity to do so....”

“Sir?” The Lieutenant looked confused once more.

“Ah well, I have decided to have the Sergeant accompany you and the new men to your posting, just so....”

“So that he could help me to understand some things?”

The Commandant nodded. “Precisely Mr. Wilcox.”

The Young man looked thoughtful. “You say that First Sergeant Bogart was wounded in the war...may I ask if you know which battle that happened at?”

“Ah, I believe it was near Vicksburg in ’63. As I understand the story, his company was preparing to move out and one of our shells exploded among them, killing some of his companions and wounding him.”

“Umm...sir? One of...our shells, you say? Do I take you to mean that...”

“Oh yes...of course, Mr. Bogart was a Captain commanding a company of Confederate cavalry...one of the Texas regiments, I believe...in Ross’s brigade, most likely. And before the war he spent a good number of years as an officer of Texas rangers fighting the Comanche.”

The commandant paused and fixed the young man with an unwavering gaze, looking him straight in the eye. “Do you have any problem with that, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir!” came the crisp reply. “I shall look forward to...conversing with First Sergeant Bogart.”

The commandant was starting to feel a little bit better about this shavetail. He might turn out to be fine, after all.

“Lieutenant, it is nearly time for Noon mess...you will be so kind as to accompany me.”

“Yes, SIR. Thank you, sir.”

~~~