Longarm gave Billy Vail a sideways glance and decided to let that one go by without comment.
The truth, of course, was that this Captain Fetterman—William, a name which Longarm had forgotten over the years but which Sam Beckwith certainly remembered well enough—had been a blowhard and, at least the way Longarm understood it, something of an asshole. And worse, an unlucky blowhard and asshole.
Fetterman had been serving at one of the Bozeman Trail forts—Fort Phil Keamy, if Longarm remembered correctly—during what was now known as the Red Cloud War. Brash and boastful, Captain Fetterman was fond of claiming that with eighty men he could cut a path clean through the entire Sioux Nation and give those Indians the thrashing they so soundly deserved.
Then sometime in the winter of—Longarm tried to remember—‘66? ‘67? He thought it was somewhere around Christmas-time in one of those years when a woodcutting detail came under attack by the Sioux. A relief expedition was mounted to chase off the Indians and escort the wood wagons back to the post. Captain Fetterman demanded the right to lead the relief column even though another officer had been initially ordered to command that body. Fetterman’s demand was met, and he set out with firm orders that he was to run the Indians off but under no circumstances was he to pursue them, just in case the lightly manned attack on the woodcutters was a ruse.
The relief column started out at once, seventy-eight enlisted men and Captain William Fetterman serving as the officer in command. By a curious quirk of fate two civilians had asked to ride with the column, thus giving Fetterman the exact number, eighty, with which he’d so often sworn he could lick the whole Sioux Nation.
The way Longarm heard it afterward, Fetterman found it easy to run the attacking Sioux off. The Sioux ran, and he gave chase. They ran over a distant ridge, taunting the soldiers and making rude gestures at them.
Fetterman’s orders had been clear. Relieve the wood train and return without a running chase. Except that this was the blowhard’s opportunity to prove how inferior those ignorant savages were. And, the reverse of that coin, what a dandy officer William Fetterman was. So ignoring the orders issued by his commanding officer, Fetterman and his eighty men rode over the top of that ridge and out of sight from the fort.
They rode into a beehive conceived and constructed by perhaps the greatest war chief the Sioux Nation ever had, Red Cloud. Not one of the men was ever seen alive again. Except, that is, by the Sioux who were waiting in ambush beyond—the name of the place was coming back to Longarm now—Lodge Trail Ridge.
Captain Fetterman and his entire command were massacred that day in an event that was, until the debacle at the Little Big Horn some ten years later, the second worst massacre ever experienced by United States military troops.
And personal loyalties aside, Longarm still didn’t see how anyone could claim that William Fetterman was anything but a blowhard and an asshole, judging by the performance he’d left written in the pages of his nation’s history.
Longarm realized all that, but for Billy Vail’s sake managed to hold his tongue. “You were sayin’ something about a Last Man Club, sir?” was all he said aloud.
“Yes, uh, so I was.” Beckwith continued to frown, but after a few moments his color returned to normal. “So I was, yes.” He paused in his pacing and pointed toward the cabinet where Billy kept a few bottles for the comfort of visitors. Obviously Sam Beckwith was not a stranger to this office.
“Gentlemen,” Vail injected, taking the hint. “What will it be? Bourbon for you, Sam? Longarm, why don’t you pour for us all, please. You know what I like.”
Longarm did as he was told, giving Beckwith a tumbler of bourbon whiskey, pouring a small Madeira for Billy—the boss was trying to cut back—and taking a tot of Billy’s first-rate Maryland distilled rye for himself. The air, not just the palate, seemed a little clearer for the break.
Sam Beckwith helped himself to a second bourbon and then resumed his explanation. “To return to the point at hand here,” he said, “at about that time, indeed some months before the tragedy involving Bill Fetterman, there was formed a Last Man Club among some of the younger officers assigned duties at the Bozeman Trail forts. And before you ask, Long, no, I myself was not a party to this. Although I would have been had things worked out a little differently. You see, we all—those young officers, myself, a few others—had been friends and comrades in arms since before the Southern rebellion. We, most of us, were classmates at the Military Academy at West Point. We served through the conflict and most of us were breveted to rather high rank. Then, of course, after the war the size of the army was reduced. We all reverted to our true rank, mostly that of first lieutenant, a few of us as captains. Most of our particular little group wound up in those Bozeman Trail forts. I myself took a different path. During the war I had had occasion to act as prosecutor, or in several instances jurist, on a number of courts- martial. I discovered an affinity for the law and if I do say so, an aptitude for it. The army granted me an extended leave of absence so I could read law and become qualified to join the Judge Advocate General Corps. Which I subsequently did, and served a number of years in that organization. Later on I resigned my commission to accept a position with the Justice Department, but that is neither here nor there at the moment.”
“Right,” Longarm prompted. “You were telling me about this Last Man Club your friends put together.”
“Exactly.” Beckwith tossed off his bourbon and looked around for another. Billy Vail obliged him while Beckwith resumed his story. “Where was I? Oh, yes. As you may appreciate, the group’s ranks began to diminish soon after the club was formed. The final member, the last survivor as it were, will be a wealthy man once all is said and done. There were twenty members in the club to begin with, each of them young officers of quality and breeding, and each man contributed one thousand dollars. Cash. The money was placed into a trust account, at a bank owned by one of the young gentlemen’s fathers, if it matters, and has been drawing interest ever since at the rate of one and seven eighths percent per annum. The principal amount has already become, well, to put it mildly, a sum of considerable substance.”
Longarm grunted. That was, like the gent implied, a hell of a bundle, all right. Twenty thousand. Plus whatever the accumulated interest was. And the interest on top of that interest. Anyway, he was sure it all added up to a snootful.
“In any event, the club was formed and the money put on deposit along with a letter of instruction that it be released to the last man living. It was to be this survivor’s duty to call together a group of young West Point graduates and tell them the story of these officers who had gone before them. Then all, including the last man, would raise their glasses in honor of the departed. It was intended that part of the money be used to finance the party. The rest, of course …” Beckwith shrugged. “I suppose it sounds rather sentimental now, but at the time …” Beckwith’s voice died away and he turned to cough into his fist.
When he turned back he said, “Bill Fetterman was a member of the club. I believe he was the first of them to die. Two more perished at the Little Big Horn. Another died with Crook on the Rosebud, and Joseph’s Nez Perce
