Blood on the blue a tale of the 7th

The fog rolling off the Missouri River was thick enough to choke a man. It crept over the timberline in heavy, gray wool sheets, carrying the bitter scent of cold mud, river rot, and the sharp, chemical bite of fresh saddle soap. It was barely dawn on the seventeenth of May, but the air inside Fort Abraham Lincoln was already vibrating. Beneath the low-hanging mist, the packed earth of the parade ground shuddered under the iron-shod boots of seven hundred men, punctuated by the nervous, high-pitched nickering of horses that sensed the miles ahead of them.I pulled at the stiff, yellow-piped wool of my collar. The laundry starch was cheap and thick, digging raw into the skin of my neck with every turn of my head. I exhaled a long breath, watching the gray steam bloom in the Dakota chill before the wind whipped it away toward the river. Today was the day. The column was moving out.Before me, lined up with mathematical precision, stood the "Bandbox Troop."To General Terry, Custer, and the grand folk currently gathering with their binoculars on the porch of the commander's house, they were Company F—the glittering centerpiece of the 7th U.S. Cavalry. They were a flawless wall of polished brass buttons, immaculate sky-blue trousers, and matching bay horses groomed until their coats shone like fresh-minted copper. But I was the First Sergeant. I didn't see a living legend or a Currier & Ives print; I saw the grease behind their ears, the raw fear fluttering in their bellies, and the dry seams of their boots waiting to split open on the alkaline shale of the badlands.I stepped out into the gray soup, the iron plates on my boot heels clicking hard against the frozen dirt."Dress stone right, you lot!" I barked. My Galway tongue clipped the words sharp, cutting through the damp morning air like a cold razor. "Let’s see if you can manage to look like cavalrymen, or if I’m commanding a pack of corner-boys swept off the New York docks."I stopped first in front of Private William A. Lossee. The lad was barely out of short pants, a farm hand who had walked away from the plow for the steady thirteen-dollar-a-month wage and the promise of a fine blue coat. Right now, his knuckles were white. His hands were shaking so violently against the walnut stock of his Springfield carbine that the metal sling rings were rattling like dry bones against the barrel."Lossee," I said, leaning in until the boy could smell the bitter chicory coffee and tobacco on my breath. "Are you planning on shooting the clouds out of the sky today, or are you just trying to shake the rust off that piece before we even clear the gate?""N-no, Sergeant," he stammered. His eyes were locked straight ahead, wide and white as china saucers, staring at the brass buttons of my tunic."Then grip the bloody thing like you mean it, man. If you drop that carbine in front of Captain Yates, I’ll have you hauling water for the quartermaster’s mules until your arms turn to lead and your back forgets how to straighten. Do you understand me?""Yes, Sergeant," he whispered, his jaw tensing as he tightened his fingers around the wood.I moved down the line, my eyes scanning every leather strap, every iron buckle, every white cross-belt. I passed Private William Brady, whose uniform was neat but whose face carried the pale, sickly tint of a man who spent his last night of liberty drowning his senses in cheap saloon whiskey. Beside him stood Private James Carney and Private Werner Liemann, two immigrants who spoke barely enough English to understand my commands but knew the universal language of an NCO’s glare. They stood rigid, their eyes fixed on the horizon.I stopped in front of Blacksmith James R. Manning. He was a mountain of a man, born for the heavy leverage of the anvil, his thick shoulders straining violently against the tight, yellow-trimmed seams of his dress uniform coat. His face was already mapped with dark lines of grease and soot; he’d been stoking the forge fires all through the dark hours to ensure every horse in the company was shoed for the march."Manning," I said, reaching up with one gloved hand to violently jerk the heavy brass plate of his belt into perfect alignment with his tunic seam. "You look like a prairie bear stuffed into a flour sack. Keep those great shoulders back. When we pass the General's veranda, I want the very ground to shake under the weight of your boots."Manning gave a grim, low nod, the muscles in his jaw bunching. "They’ll shake, Sarge."Beside the blacksmith, Farrier Benjamin Brandon stood like another pillar of iron, his massive hands resting easily against his side. These were the company's muscle—men capable of pulling iron shoes off a bucking stallion with raw strength. If the black powder failed us, these were the men you wanted between you and the wild.I walked on, but the pride I was supposed to feel as the senior NCO of the finest troop in the regiment felt heavy, sitting like a wet wool blanket across my chest.Behind the flawless blue lines of the company, sitting quietly on their small, shaggy ponies near the edge of the cottonwood timber, were the Arikara scouts. They didn't wear the blue coats or the polished brass. They sat wrapped in buffalo robes and wool blankets, their faces painted in stark, jagged streaks of black and yellow greasepaint, staring at our grand parade with dark eyes that held absolutely no joy. Bloody Knife was among them, his head bowed, his fingers idly tracing the dirt between his pony's ears. They knew the country we were heading into. They knew the Lakota, and they knew the Cheyenne. And they weren't smiling.Suddenly, a sharp, piercing trumpet call shattered the morning gloom from the center of the parade ground.“Prepare to mount!”The command rippled down the line, passed from trumpeter to trumpeter until Trumpeter Thomas N. Way blew the sharp, brassy notes right at my back. Instantly, the frozen perfection of the formation dissolved into a chaotic, rhythmic scramble of leather, iron, and swearing men. Three hundred pounds of horse gear, saddlebags, side-lines, and ammunition boxes were swung onto the backs of thirty-four vibrating bay mounts. Horses crow-hopped in the mud; stirrups clinked against spurs."Watch that beast, Omling!" I shouted as Private Sebastian Omling’s horse reared slightly, its hooves churning the gray mud. "Get him under hand!"The heavy wooden gates of Fort Lincoln swung open with a grinding groan. At the head of the column, the regimental band struck up the first brassy, roaring notes of "Garryowen." It was an old Irish quickstep, a tune from the pubs and fairgrounds of home, full of artificial swagger and rhythm meant to make a common farm boy feel invincible against the world.But as the column began to churn forward into the deep, sucking mud of the road, the illusion of the "Bandbox Troop" began to fray. The families of the married troopers lined the ditch banks. Women clutched heavy shawls to their faces, their weeping and prayers completely swallowed by the aggressive blare of the trumpets and the roll of the drums.I swung my right leg over my bay mount, settling deep into the damp, cold leather of the McClellan saddle. My hands were steady on the reins, my uniform was immaculate, and my twenty-eight men were in a straight line of fours behind me. Captain Yates took his position at our front, his saber scabbard clinking against his stirrup ring.But as we marched out of the fort and into the vast, wet, waiting wilderness of the Dakota territory, the jaunty notes of the Irish tune didn't sound like a victory parade anymore. To my ears, bouncing off the wet clay walls of the fort, it sounded exactly like a dirge.