BLUECOAT
By Mike Lewis
CHAPTER ONE
Little Bighorn: Sunday, June 25, 1876
Why, oh why, did it have to be us?
But then I guess those Cheyenne, whose lifeblood made the Washita run red, must have felt the same eight years back.
We were supposed to have swept through that valley like angels of God. Now it'll be left to others to pick over the bones of this debacle; just as the crows and buzzards will feast on ours.
And the roaring waterfall between my ears cannot drown the maddening strains of our marching song ‘Garryowen’ fluttering within my skull akin to a moth drawn to flame.
‘Let Bacchus’s sons be not dismayed…’
You know, if I weren’t so damned afraid I’d have to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. Four years since signing up for this storied regiment in Chicago town and it’s all to end like THIS?
A mad flight through the ranks of the enemy who have scattered us like a handful of corn borne by the prairie wind.
‘but join me with each jovial blade…’
A panicked scramble on foot towards a river that may or may not prove our salvation; whether our escaped mounts are watering down there we have no way of knowing.
1.
‘come booze and sing and lend your aid...’
An unseemly dash on weary legs to escape this reeking hill of the damned.
‘to help me with the chorus:’
Looks like the gypsy’s curse has done for me and praying won’t do no good. Sweet Jesus, please grant me the one solitary bullet so I won't have to hear bloody Garry Owen no more!
‘instead of spa we’ll drink brown ale…’
How in God’s name did we get mired in this terrible lot?
‘and pay the reckoning on the nail…’
Whither the pack train, our Montana and Wyoming comrades and our deemed saviour Benteen?
‘for debt no man shall go to jail…’
All ears strain for the trill of a distant bugle above this infernal din, yet there is none. Fate has dealt our final card.
2.
‘from Garry Owen in glory.’
I should be cackling in the face of death, standing tall, sabre in hand and spitting the Devil in the eye, not scrabbling around in this parched earth like some wretched cur.
‘We are the boys who take delight…’
The 7th are going to Hell in a handcart and I’m damn-near splitting my sides. Maybe I’ve gone plain off my chump, but right now it just seems the funniest thing ever.
‘in smashing Limerick lamps at night...’
What price all those tiresome drills, never-ending scouts and grand battle tactics now? Those earnest night-time parleys of our esteemed leaders aboard The Far West; the warnings by our Crow and Arikara scouts of a huge hostiles encampment up ahead?
‘and through the street like sportsters fight…’
All about as much use as this empty carbine discarded at my feet. We’re bereft of cover save for some dead mounts and since when did horseflesh ever stop a bullet? God help us, we will rest in this bone-hard soil for all eternity.
‘tearing all before us…’
3.
Soil? What soil? There is naught save billowing clouds of this infernal dust; nothing like the lush green grass of home; damn-all to hold a man in his grave.
‘Instead of spa we’ll drink brown ale…’
The lessening roar of carbines cannot mask the screams, curses and prayers of the dying – fellows who have never so much as set foot in church their whole lives.
‘and pay the reckoning on the nail...’
Staring death full in the face makes believers of most all, yet I know divine intervention won’t save my hide. If I am to fight my way out of here it will be through self and self alone.
‘for debt no man shall go to jail…’
But what to do? Bullets zing and arrows zip. The unseen menace all around, yet nowhere.
‘from Garry Owen in glory…’
Concealed by satanic curtains of smoke the painted fiends circle ever nearer, savage, exultant and primeval war whoops piercing the heavy air that grows darker all the while.
4.
‘We’ll break windows, we’ll break doors…’
Choking and half-blinded, I find myself scraping a shallow pit with elbows, knees, groin and face, burrowing my pale body down into the earth like some demented prairie dog.
‘the watch knock down by threes and fours…’
Anything to delay the spatter of flesh and bone heralding the onset of eternal darkness. Meanwhile, the overhead sun beats fierce, so why am I as stone-cold as a corpse?
‘then let the doctors work their cures…’
In company drill those ‘independent fire at Will’ commands always gave the boys real fits. Not so funny now the enemy’s guns are wreaking a heavy toll; soldiers falling.
‘and tinker up our bruises…’
Which military genius was it who reckoned Mr Lo couldn’t shoot straight anyway?
‘Instead of spa we’ll drink brown ale…’
And I’d wager you won’t find ordering a dismounted charge through the jaws of death flanked by gun-toting red men in most any US Cavalry field manual.
5.
‘and pay the reckoning on the nail...’
The scouts call this the Valley of the Little Bighorn. Up Shit Creek, more like, and – would you believe? – we lack so much as a paddle.
‘for debt no man shall go to jail…’
‘Ready yourselves, my boys!’ was the cry. ‘Tis do or die! ‘The river offers refuge and we must strive to reach it! Rally now you bravehearts! We men of the 7th Horse will cut a swathe through those red devils on our fighting retreat to safety!’
‘from Garry Owen in glory.’
Fighting retreat, my eye! Despite being dispossessed of sabres, officers, ammunition and horses with no sign of relief in sight? An ignoble rout or turkey shoot, in truth.
‘We’ll beat the bailiffs out of fun…’
And a kingdom for a horse be blowed! Right now I’ll take the fucking horse!
‘we’ll make the mayor and sheriffs run…’
6.
So how distant is this river I cannot see? A mile? Maybe less? Not that it matters overmuch. And it’s not this accursed smoke that’s making my eyes stream.
‘We are the boys no man dare dun…’
We are well and truly knocked up; ammo all but spent. Hunters now the hunted. This fighting retreat will be a buffalo hunt in all but name.
‘if he regards a whole skin…’
Toss aside those cavalry boots that’ll slow our charge, boys; let’s die with our boots off!
‘Instead of spa we’ll drink brown ale…’
As an exhausted fox succumbs to pursuing hounds surely we will all be ripped asunder?
‘and pay the reckoning on the nail…’
Yet, as all are born to die, can death truly be so terrible? Most all of us are just passing through.
‘for debt no man shall go to jail…’
Even the most craven coward must one day meet his Maker and all who tread the good Earth will in time face the long walk.
7.
‘from Garry Owen in glory…’
But, God in Heaven, why me and why now? Having wasted 27 years of life am I now to lose the other fifty? My greatest sin was not regarding each new morn as the miracle it is.
‘Our hearts so stout have got us fame…’
Dear Lord, I have not long met the girl I am to marry. How unjust to be taken now.
‘for soon ‘tis known from whence we came…’
Death, be warned! If thou art indeed to claim me, from Hell’s heart I strike at thee! With my last breath I spit at thee!
‘where’er we go they dread our name…’
I was known as ‘Will o’ the Wisp’ when young, a ne’er do well those damn peelers could never buckle; the scallywag who always escaped myriad narrow squeaks.
‘of Garry Owen in glory…’
If anyone can beat the odds this day ‘tis me, yet I’m shorn of means of flight. Damn you Custer! Damn you to Hell! You rolled the dice, gambled and lost. What I’d give now to look you dead in the eye one last time. Would you even dare to return my gaze?
8.
‘Instead of spa we’ll drink brown ale…’
Caked in grime and sweat, half-mad with thirst, by some strange quirk I next recall that book about a boy sweep which Elizabeth so loved as a young girl.
‘and pay the reckoning on the nail…’
My pounding head cannot recall its title. Something to do with water, perchance? The tortured young fellow, I do remember, sought sanctuary from his grim labours amid the healing waters of a gentle flowing river.
‘for debt no man shall go to jail...’
No man in the regiment can best me on foot! If I hoof it down Hell’s mile to the Bighorn I can cleanse mind, body and soul through the water’s cooling embrace!
‘From Garry Owen in glory.’
I could conceal myself by breathing through reeds whilst heading stealthily downstream!
I, too, could become part of the river!
9.
* * * * * * *
Comments
The writing style is…
The writing style is interesting and unique, but its consistent use across the first ten pages may make it harder for the reader to fully engage with the narrative.
It reads almost (not quite)…
It reads almost (not quite) like an epic poem, an excerpt from Homer's 'Iliad' perhaps but as far as the underlying narrative is concerned, it fails to deliver. The voice of the protagonist is loud and clear, fearful yet defiant in the face of insurmountable odds, but there is no real narrative into which it fits; no story with a careful set-up and characters with dialogue to bring this experience to life for the reader. We know it's based on fact and so we must be presented with a reality that reflects that if it is to be plausible.
Some interesting lines…
Some interesting lines throughout, and I like the premise according to the logline, but it's very hard to follow along. As a writer, it's clear in your head, but it may not be clear to your readers.