cartridges swell and stick in the breech. Got to pry ’em out with a pocket knife,” I said.
Sonora nodded his head. “Single-shot’s a great idea for cavalry. Reloading one’s real easy, especially when you’re galloping at the enemy,” he added sarcastically.
“Heard they were considering the Remington Rolling Block for a while,” I commented.
“Never had a chance,” he replied. “Sure, it’s a better rifle, so’s the Sharps for that matter. But it’s a lot easier for the government to retool old rifles and pocket the difference. Never mind the men what’s got to use ’em.”
The drill continued as we walked past.
“You’ll get a full sixty rounds a month for target practice, so make ’em count.” The instructor sounded less than convincing that it would be enough.
We passed through the buildings and onto an open field in back of the fort, where we found a dozen or more two-man pup tents staked out in equal columns. Standing out in front of them, talking to a couple of his men was a sergeant who, judging from Sonora’s description, had to be the man we were looking for.
Sonora Mason could hardly be described as soft, yet here he was hugging his friend and thumping his back, happy as a kid at Christmas. The fact that Sergeant Freeman was a good man was immediately obvious to me, but at the present time he was also an embarrassed one.
“Let me go, ya big idiot, afore you crack a rib,” he gasped.
“Damn it’s good to see you, Nate.”
“Sure it is, kid, but Ah’m on duty. Army cain’t have its noncoms going ’round huggin’ other men.’ Specially not someone ugly as y’all.” He laughed.
Sergeant Nathaniel Freeman was a man of average height, but solidly built. His short-cropped, curly gray hair was thinning, and his face wrinkled, but he walked tall and his uniform was sharp, unusually so for a Southwestern post.
“Glad ya got mah letter, but Ah didn’t expect ya’d come all this way. Whose the galoot with y’all?” he asked, glancing my way.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, Nate. He’s white, oversized, and he’ll talk your ear off given half a chance, but he’s a friend of sorts,” Sonora said, looking over at me.
“Thanks a lot, Sonora” I said. “Don’t bust a cinch loadin’ on all that praise.”
“Sonora?” The sergeant looked puzzled. “That’s what you callin’ yourself now, Isiquiel?”
“Isiquiel?” I laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Never you mind,” he growled. “And you just better keep it to yourself,” he added.
“Sure thing. I can keep a secret as well as the next man…Isiquiel.”
Before he had a chance to reply, I turned and extended a hand to his friend, introducing myself. “Sonora said you’re with the Tenth Cavalry. A mite far from home, aren’t you?” I asked.
“The Army’s cut down a lot in the last couple of years. Only about fifty-seven thousand in the whole shebang now, so they’s usin’ colonels for inspection duty. We’re here as aides, and as an honor guard unit for Colonel Benjamin Grierson.”
“How’d you get so lucky?” asked Sonora, looking over at the tents unhappily.
“Supposed to be a special detail,” grunted the sergeant. “Ain’t very excitin’ but Ah wanted this postin’ ’cause it pays extra. Ah even had to compete with some other sergeants for the job.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Army had a contest, and as part o’ the competition they held a surprise inspection. Checked everything from soup to nuts. Boiled it down to just two o’ us. When they had us turn out for the full dress uniform inspection, it was so close they couldn’t choose between us, so the colonel finally had us strip down. Sergeant James was always crisp as a new bill, but, as it turned out, he was wearin’ store-bought civilian long johns. Most o’ the men do ’cause they’s more comfortable, but that was enough to disqualify him. Ah might’ve been wearin’ them, too, but Ah’d heard about that little ol’ trick from a captain Ah’d once served with. When the colonel saw Ah was the only one wearin’ Army issue undergarments, Ah got the job.”
“To the victor go the spoils,” I joked.
“They treatin’ you OK, Sarge?” Sonora was genuinely concerned.
“Sure, son. Ben Grierson’s a good man. In fact, Ah once heard him take on another colonel from the Third Infantry who claimed we was nothin’ more than a nigger unit. Said that he didn’t want us forming up next to his men on parade drill. A real uppity sort. Well, Ah’ll tell ya, Colonel Grierson laid into that son-of-a-bitch like Ah never seen done. Told him the Tenth was takin enemy positions while his men were still wipin’ their asses in the latrines.”
“Your unit has been getting some good press lately,” I commented.
“Shit, a black man does his job well and all o’ a sudden the press is surprised. Hell, there’s been a whole bunch of black Army units, the Twenty-Fourth and Twenty-Fifth Infantry, for example, and the Ninth Cavalry. There’ve been black men fightin’ all the way back to Bunker Hill. But you wanna know how it really is? The Tenth Cav’ whups a few tired and hungry Injuns and all of a sudden we’re heroes.”
“I doubt they were that simple to beat,” I said.
“Nate here’s a real hero,” offered Sonora, whacking his friend on the back again. “Medal and all. Bunch of ’Paches had a whole column pinned down. Ol’ Nate here strolled up by his lonesome, calm as Sunday goin’ to meetin’, and took out five of ’em. They promoted him all the way up to sergeant-major.”
“Ya always did talk too much,” replied the sergeant. “And what do ya mean ‘ol’ Nate’? Ah kin still whup yo’ ass any day.”
“I’ll give you that, Sarge,” Sonora conceded in good humor.
“Right about one thing, though. Ya cain’t git any better than this ’cause there ain’t no black officers in this man’s Army.”
There was obviously a lot of depth, courage, and humility to this grizzled old man, and I could sympathize with his disappointment.
“Give it time, Sarge,” I said encouragingly, but there was no reply.
After an uncomfortable silence Sergeant Freeman turned to Sonora. “You boys had anything to eat?” When we shook our heads, he led us back to the mess tent and saw to it that we were fed.
Chapter Eighteen
Sergeant-Major Freeman, we soon learned, shared a two-man tent with Corporal Carl Mathews who we found arranging his haversack as we entered the tent. The contents of the pack scattered on the floor were fairly standard: a metal plate and eating utensils, a dozen or so slightly moldy hardtack crackers, a change of socks, matches, a twist of tobacco, a bag of coffee beans, his razor, and a small sewing kit. The daily rations also included about six ounces of pork (occasionally maggot-ridden), a few dried apples, beans, and a potato.
“Corporal,” the sergeant asked after introducing us, “you suppose we could find quarters for these two stragglers?” Nate Freeman took three cups from off a tack box near his cot and reached for the coffee pot.
“If we move Johnson over in with Williams, they can use the extra tent. I’ll go see to it, Sarge.”
“Thanks, Carl.”
Corporal Mathews finished folding his pack and left, dropping the tent flap down after him.
“Hope you boys take it black. Ain’t got no cream or sugar, Isiquiel,” Nate said with a shrug.
Sonora shot him a dirty look. “That’s just fine.”
“Fine with me, too,” I said, chuckling.
“Sarge, you know anything about a herd of Spanish horses passing through here lately. They’d have a brand that looks something like this.” I drew an EH in the dirt floor, closing it off as Pete Evans had described to make four boxes. I briefly explained my situation.
“Sorry, son. We only pulled in here two weeks ago and the colonel’s had us camped back here the whole time. Only thing we’ve seen is the drill field, the back of the stable, and this tent city.” He paused a moment in thought. “You boys might check with Major Gilbert, though. He’s the fort’s commanding officer. Ain’t nothing goes on around here he don’t know about. Tell ya what, Ah’ll take ya over to see him soon as we get y’all settled.”
