Mountain Calling
Chapter Thirty-three
Campaign
Retrospect
“ Numerical superiority is of no consequence.
In battle, victory will go to the best tactician.”
George Custer (1839-1876)
* * *
Dawn came early as the troop broke camp on the slow trail to The Hollows. The winds of an early winter rustled the surrounding trees, high up on the valley’s ridge. The weather pattern was changing with the rising sun; but on the valley floor, shielded behind a blanket of early morning fog, the men were quiet as they continued their duties on empty stomachs. The camps gray surroundings looked ominous, an omen,— gloomy as the desperation the men felt packing their animals without even benefit of coffee,— their remaining meager supplies, after an accident, had dwindled out the previous day. The company’s scouts never returned from the last night’s reconnaissance, perhaps abandoning them to a fate of starvation, lost among the rocky hills of this empty wilderness.
Late for their rendezvous and without escort, the commander was determined to valiantly continue the journey, but unfamiliar with the territory and without the benefit of a guide, the Captain was in a precarious position.
The Gatling gun they were moving was awkward for the hilly terrain; a .30 caliber ten barrel design, that could shoot up to 1200 times a minute, won the approval of the Ordnance Department in 1866 as a weapon of promise,— an improvement over Dr. Richard Gatling’s 1862 model,— a .58 caliber hand crank machine gun that had only six revolving barrels and fired on average, about 400 rounds a minute. The earlier version never won acquisition by the U.S. Government because of numerous problems; but in the post war era, Richard’s later achievement was adopted officially and deemed a valuable asset in the continuingly, increasing conflicts with hostile Native Americans.
Captain Jenkins was a man of moderate temperament and a stiff manner of control that held an unnerving power over the men under his command. He was under strict orders to move into the Northwestern region with his small contingent and support the failing efforts of the cavalry to suppress the escalating skirmishes.
The Gatling was the pride of his company, but after a week of pulling the weapon over the rocky terrain, limiting their advancement to a mere 20 miles a day, the men longed to dump the wagon wheeled monstrosity,— wishing they had dropped it over the narrow gorge where they lost the chuck wagon the previous week.
Captain Jenkins was of a different mindset and ordered the riggings set for another day when a call went out, and a panic erupted throughout the camp. Two men on horses thundered into the site yelling, “They’re dead,— they got um... they’re dead.”
At first, because of the fog, it could not even be determined where the riders were coming from. Men scrambled to their horses not sure if the enemy was advancing, when Captain Jenkins’ strong voice of authority resounded over the chaos, assembling the men in a large circle: a man about every ten yards apart, each with his animal by his side. A crew of four men wheeled the Gatling to the center on the higher ground, and prepared the magazine.
The riders broke the line, turning the heads of the nearby linemen and dismounted by the captain; their horses agitated and lathered, pulling at the reins wanting to continue their flight. With a quick salute, both men spoke at the same time in a panic, struggling to control their mounts.
“Gentlemen! One at a time,” exclaimed Jenkins. “One at a time.”
Corporal Sandgum, a small mouse of a man looked at his companion and nodded, quelling his excitement as best he could and reported: “Sir... we found the scouts on our recognizance this morning not a mile from here.” Sandgum took a deep breath and expelled it quickly. “Someone skinned them,— Sir.”
“What!” the commander barked in disbelief.
“Kettle and Oggal are hanging in a tree just over the next set of ridges dressed out like a shot deer,” squeaked the man, pointing in the direction they had just come from.
“Was it hostiles?”
“Sir,— I’m not a tracker. We found them fellers and broke it fer here.”
Suddenly, all the horses in the configuration spooked. Their charges, distracted by the confusion, broke formation when a crack like thunder erupted; and one of the men at the Gatling slumped over the axle.
“Corporal, man the gun!” The Captain directed, while placing his left hand on his saber. Turning his attention to his command, he paced the top of the ridge and yelled, “Mount up.”
A second crack dropped a horse soldier.
“Watch the left flank,” Jenkins barked in a manner of full control while drawing his sword.
Sandgum and his crew spun the weapon preparing for a charge.
“Blanket that pocket Corporal!”
The Gatling exploded into operation, showering lead over the left bank as an almost white flame whistled from the opposite side dropping another warrior.
“We’re surrounded men,— fire at will!”
Carbines spit and popped, but the fog limited even the simplest sighting of their attackers.
Two more soldiers were cut down by streaks of white lightning when the silhouette of a giant slammed through the lines and a private’s head spun to the ground at the commander’s feet. The ghostly form faded in and out with wisps of fog, rendering death in its wake.
The captain tried to understand the nature of the attack. In disbelief, he watched as a second phantom breached his left flank amid the hand-cranked, rapid fire of his company’s pride.
The outlined form that appeared without substance danced along the borders of the cavalry’s resistance,— then disappeared completely, only to spring back into view as the heavy moisture of the lowland cloud seemed to condensate about the specter’s features. The captain drew his pistol and fired instantaneously at the seemingly substance-less form which sprung lightly away, only to reappear behind Corporal Sandgum. The little man never knew what hit him as he slumped over the revolving barrels and was thrown into the spokes of the wooden wheels of the weapon. Horses bolted from their dead charges as the Gatling went quiet.
The captain called for his men to regroup, but an eerie silence dispelled any hope as the commander walked along the top ridge of his last stand. An unknown enemy had leveled his forces in mere seconds; and now he stood alone amid an invisible death that appeared to haunt this wilderness like a ghostly pack of ravenousness demons, bent on war with flesh-and-blood. Could these wraiths even be killed?
“Show yourselves you bastards!” The captain screamed as he stumbled over his fallen. “Cowards,— show yourselves!”
Jenkins spun as a glimmer of movement raked his right field of vision. He raised his sword and parried a savage blow. The clashing of metal resounded over the lonely hill; but the man could see no physical form, only the empty shadow of an outlined embodiment. Strange that a ghost could exert such force against a steel blade.
The captain raised his pistol — shooting center of the shape and the specter lurched backward with the impact of the bullet; but immediately sprang to its feet apparently unharmed. The silhouette crackled, as a blue web of netted light, etched around its giant frame and in a twinkling of an eye the monster appeared,— dressed in what the officer guessed was battle armor. Bulging eyes with a deep red glow, burned behind the stone features of the insect shaped head. Curved horns pointed at the officer like Lucifer himself selecting a soul for special torment.
“What manner of demon are you?” screamed the captain taking a savage swing with his saber.
The beast jumped to the side and deflected the blow against a stout gauntlet with multiple blades that extended, forming hooks down its entire forearm. As it spun, it twisted sideways, backhanding as it moved.
The punch went wide as the officer ducked the sweeping swing, and locating a gap in the armor of his enemy lifted his colt and shot.
His opponent reeled under the impact, as a purple phosphorous fluid splattered from the wound and the creature howled in pain.
Captain Jenkins stabbed at the beast with his sword, but his antagonist easily rolled away and sprang back to its feet.
Two more of the creatures appeared as spectators around the life and death match, standing like chiseled forms of stone.
The commander was startled by their appearance and staggered backward to brace himself for a charge, but the enemy just looked on. The captain raised his pistol when his wounded enemy’s forehead lit up with a small red light and the horns on the creature’s head sprang to life spitting a streak of white flame that struck the commander’s left hand taking it off at the wrist; his pistol dropping to the ground a few yards away.
In shock, the captain stared at his injury when the beast unexpectedly charged, swinging a brutal blow with its strange bladed arm. Jenkins, with the grace of a skilled swordsmen, parried the strike which deflected off to his right, dropped to one knee and plunged his saber into the soft tissue of the creature’s left thigh, just behind its armor. Howling his enemy spun and swung again, but the captain stepped back as he pulled his sword free and easily dodged the mindless attack, again stabbing his enemy in a gap of its armor at its right side.
Bewildered, the creature paused with some distance between his opponent — seeming to examine its wounds as its pasty phosphorous blood flowed over its battle garb.
The captain took advantage of the break and looked at his own injury. It was strange to him. The initial impact felt like a hammer had smashed his hand, but now there was no pain or blood. In fact the captain wasn’t even sure if the events happening were real because it still seemed like the appendage was there,— just invisible and he was controlling and moving his fingers at will.
Noise interrupted the commander’s inspection as he raised his eyes back to his assailant. The creature was lifting off its headpiece, amid hissing gas, and dropped the mask unceremoniously to the ground. The giant was the ugliest thing the captain had ever seen. Wiry locks of stiff black rope that looked like a tangled weave of disjointed black widow legs. The matted and twisted jumble draped the contours of the small head exaggerating the appearance of the limited forehead. Its eyes were unusually large under the deep brow of a steep ridge that conveyed the thought of evil to the mind of Jenkins. But the most unnerving thing about the creature’s appearance was the tusks that lanced downward from the beast’s mouth. Like a saber tooth tiger’s fangs, the dagger like appendages, dripping with foam, — seemed to salivated like a disembodied soul hungry for blood.
“What manner of demon are you?” Jenkins spat with disgust.
“What manner of demon are you?” echoed back from the creature’s position, mimicking exactly the captain’s voice, followed by an eerie clicking and chirping.
Jenkins snarled and readied himself for attack. “Let’s finish this!”
The monster raised its left hand as the second gauntlet’s set of blades engaged with the grating sound of metal on metal. Then the creature paused crossing his weapon bearing arms over his chest and then dropped them to his side.
“Let’s finish this!” Repeated the captain’s words from the creature’s position and the demon charged.
The captain backed up gracefully dodging and parrying every blow even catching his enemy twice more with stabs in the right arm and left abdomen, but the creature seemed unaffected by the injuries and kept up its onslaught of blows in a mastery of a controlled attack. The commander was quickly learning his opponent’s moves, gauging his strikes and understanding his defenses when he tripped over the body of one of his fallen men. The blunder was disastrous. The creature jumped in for a final strike. The captain was able to jab his saber into the back of his enemies left ankle severing its large tendon, but as the demon fell it pinned the commander’s sword arm to the ground and plunged its right forearm into the man’s chest.
Captain Jenkins lurched foreword staring at his conqueror for but a moment,— spit in the demon’s face,— then fell back weakened and gasping for air.
The giant then peeled the vanquished’s flesh under the agonizing screams of the torture. The fiendish mouth seemed to revel in the atrocity. The demon’s fangs dripped of froth, as if salivating in the helpless terror of the dying man’s eyes.