Acrid Smoke and Salty Delirium

It only takes one man to bring everything crashing down to the ground and this can be the difference between victory and failure

Acrid Smoke and Salty Delirium

 

Major Reno moved his detachment as if in a dream. The blazing summer sun beat relentlessly down on his back and his neck, making sweat break out over his skin and buzzing insects kept incessantly swarming all around him, repeatedly insisting the attention of his impatient hand. He could barely keep his eyes open anymore, the long night spent riding in an unforgiving saddle across an unforgiving landscape was taking its inevitable toll on him and as he came within sight of the Indian village, he wanted - no, he wished - he was anywhere but there.

 

Anywhere but this godforsaken, hostile Indian camp, led by George Armstrong Custer, a man who to Reno, was a delusional, inept fool who would lead them, for sure, to certain death. He had forced them to attack that day instead of the next when Gibbon would arrive and aid them and now, he wanted Reno to charge the village.

 

But Reno had made up his mind. And he wasn’t going to. Custer hadn’t directly mentioned a charge to him so there was a definite way he could wheedle himself out of it yet as he happened to glance behind him over his exhausted, bleary eyed men, he could see a man on top of the hillside. Even from this distance, the proud and probably grinning figure of Custer was unmistakeable.

 

He was watching them with those cold, mad blue eyes, watching them with that skin-crawling intensity. Because of this overwhelming tiredness, Reno could not even find the energy to display his infamous scowl but as Custer up on the ridge waved his hat in the air, he turned back to his front, shaking with what he only wanted to be fury and exhaustion. He didn’t want any of Custer’s damn encouragement; he didn’t need to be patronised. He just wanted - he just wanted…

 

Reno couldn’t think straight any longer. He wanted to go home but he wanted to be carried there in one of those regimental wagons and not on these stupid horses. And he wanted his regiment back too. And something for this splitting headache that felt like someone was hacking his brain apart.

 

Reno could feel his conscience slipping away at each imagined demand. It took his horse to suddenly shake its weary head and whine for him become to ripped back into a cold, harsh reality. A cold, harsh reality that had just thrown another obstacle into his already riddled way, the cruel master that it was.

 

In front of him, there was a wide, open plain, the green grass dancing slowly in the soft wind next to the gently curving river. It would have been a beautiful sight but Reno was being suffocated with pessimism and smothered by disillusion and the sight of the Indians beginning to pour out in small groups from their tepees, their shining eyes and shining guns pointed directly at Reno and his men was making his chest ache and stomach tie in knots. From lack of food and exhaustion, he repeated to himself, trying to desperately believe in that if nothing else.

 

The men were all staring at him, sitting there as still and as wide eyed as a frightened rabbit, and as the Indians spilled over the bluffs, he heard an officer implore him to do something. ‘’ Major Reno,’’ he urged, his voice distant although he was right there next to him. ‘’ For heaven’s sake…’’

 

‘’ Dismount!’’ Reno called then at last, speaking in a way he didn’t recognise of himself; so tiny and so ragged. Still, the men followed the order and Reno too slipped from his horse, finding he reached the ground faster than he’d anticipated. The Indians continued to approach, enough energy in their advance to mock Reno’s swaying detachment, and for a while, Reno remained on his hands and knees before them, trembling as he tried to get up.

 

When he finally managed to stand though, his legs insisted stubbornly on shaking, knees threatening to buckle. Around him, already in a weary attempt at a skirmish line, the men fumbled with their guns, some proving too heavy for their weak arms. Glancing at their pale faces and wishing Custer court martialled for downright cruelty, he braced himself with his own gun held high and waited, just waited as the Indians ran at them. The first few arrows soared in glorious arcs through the blue sky.

 

They came within metres of the line of false bravery and Reno panicked, prematurely ordering the detachment to fire. Bullets scattered forward in any direction, seemingly finding their own path and none of them came close to hitting their intended target. Reno, sweating even more now, forced himself to wait this time, though the view of the whooping Indians, soon accompanied by others decorated in wild war paint and on galloping ponies, was making his heart thud in his ears and throat.

 

Each time he shouted his orders, he heard his voice lose that defiance and assurance he craved so much more and more every time. He could see a few of the Indians getting hit and collapsing over their horses or onto the now trampled grass but for every one that was killed or injured, another seemed to appear, leaping from the village like a recurring nightmare.

 

Reno hoped that that was all this was but just as soon as that idea had attempted to build some type of security barrier to cope with these damn events, the man kneeling beside Reno was given the bittersweet award for journeying so far in this expedition and making a stand. An arrow punctured him straight in the chest and Reno momentarily forgot everything. He had seen worse but today was different - he was too exhausted to fight and Custer - Custer was going to kill them.

 

He couldn’t do this any longer. They had to get back.

 

‘’ Retreat!’’ he suddenly called without any more hesitation. ‘’ Retreat!’’

 

The men around him looked confused, their hands still reloading their guns instinctively and automatically yet as their commander made a hurried dash towards his horse, they had no choice but to follow.

 

His breath already starting to come out in pants, Reno spurred his mount into an immediate gallop and dashed across the open plain, half noticing that Custer was no longer on the hilltop watching them. He didn’t care if he was or not; he just wanted to get back to the cottonwoods by the river.

 

At the blessed woods, his men finally caught up with him and together they leapt over the tangle of foliage and shrubbery, arrows and bullets still searing past them. Gasping, Reno dared to glance behind him and saw the whooping Indians still approaching, flashing, mocking smiles spreading over their faces. He forced himself to slow down, his poor horse sweating almost more than him, and trembling, he tried to grab hold of at least a fleeting grasp of tactics.

 

But by this point, the exhaustion was eating him alive, throwing his perceptions in all directions and scattering them in a jumbled, indistinguishable mess. He didn’t know if his men were near or far or if the path he was making was North, South, East or West or even where he was going. He just had to keep moving to sate his thumping heart. When he called a dismount, he didn’t even know why, if not in a vain attempt to convince himself that he had any idea what he was doing.

 

Up in amongst the trees, Captain French kept one hand firmly around the reins of his horse, leading him over the hazardous, weaving timber on the ground, and the other on his gun, firing back at the Indians whose arrows and bullets were still piercing at the men at deadly speeds. Around him, the soldiers were still stumbling over their feet out of fatigue and the death trap beneath them and as he ducked sharply under another protruding branch, French cursed Major Reno again and again.

 

He was a coward and a disobedient, stupid one at that. They were meant to be fighting and not running away which, no matter what anyone said to gloss it over, was what this was. French wasn’t scared; he had worked as hard as his body would allow him to get this far and his chance to be rewarded was slipping away in front of him. And all because of Major Reno, the drinking, lying, incompetent fool.

 

He was running now, like he always was, darting towards the thicker brush of trees and still with the appearance of a frightened rabbit. Rage and exasperation flooded through French and fuelled by exhaustion, his tolerance was trickling away faster than Reno could hurry through the grass and vines.

 

Swaying on his over-worked, worn legs, he stumbled over to a felled tree and just as much as collapsed against it, fumbling to reload his gun. An arrow hissed past his arm, so close it almost tore the fabric of his much too thick, damp jacket, and he strove to work faster, though his hands were trembling incessantly from both the long, hard hours spent awake and from the impulses throbbing all over his hot body. Tears welled in his stinging eyes - for more reasons than the muddled French could name - and when he at last raised his gun, the world appeared hazy and blurry, marred by acrid smoke and salty delirium.

 

It took two hands and all his effort to steady the weapon but as he saw his fellow officers take aim on their targets opposite, he at last had his sights set on his own.

Major Reno wouldn’t know what had hit him. He was glancing wildly about, eyes wide as he watched the bullets and arrows bolt around him and cringing painfully each time a man was on the receiving end, clearly wishing - no, praying even though there were men here that were far more religious than him - that it wouldn’t be him next. French wept in fury as he pulled back the hammer and watched Reno through the tiny metal circle spinning around and around and leading his horse in ridiculous turns in a crazed attempt to look in all directions at the same time.

 

One shot - just one shot straight through his empty brain - and this would all be over. The traitor would be dead and this detachment could get to something that didn’t involve a thoughtless, gutless retreat.

 

His finger tightened around the trigger, squeezing softly, and just as the bullet was seconds - milliseconds - away from being discharged and knocking Reno into hell, a shoot of pain suddenly ripped through him. The gun dropped from his hand, firing into the unknown, and a spasm shuddered through his leg. Reno was momentarily forgotten as he irately tore out a bloodied arrow, crying out in something between anguish and torment, and by the time he desperately scrambled for his fallen gun, the major had run off again, his bloody fate narrowly avoided.

 

French yelled into the swarming, clamorous woods and swore violently, clutching at his seeping leg as he kicked harshly at the grass and twigs lying on the ground at his mercy.

Reno would never know how very lucky he had been at that moment. His head had been too far in the clouds, riddled with intense worries and distorted with the craving to be anywhere but where he was, and when he hurried over to one of the Indian scouts who had been ordered along with him, his legs were moving on impulse only, going towards any place with no other thoughts in the way.

 

‘’ How long can we hold them off?’’ he gabbled to Bloody Knife who was following the other men’s example and aiming with equal precision through the trees. In his true silent style, he didn’t reply. Reno glanced behind himself and then tried again, voice higher than anticipated as he attempted now to use sign language along with his frighteningly panic-stricken words. ‘’ Are they going to keep coming at us?’’ he rushed out without thinking about what he was saying. ‘’ What should we do, you know them better, what should we -’’

 

Reno stopped dead as a lucky bullet impaled at a nauseating speed through the smoky air and hit the Indian scout square in the back of the head. A spray of gore splashed in foul smelling splatters all over the revolted Reno. For a while, he didn’t remember anything happening after that. His legs were about to give up on him, a headache was still hammering at his temples and now he was smeared with God knew what else. His stomach turned and for a few painfully long moments, he feared that it was going to force up all of its contents. Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, he steadied his swaying body and heard orders blurt without permission from his mouth.

 

‘’ Mount!’’ he cried, tearing his handkerchief from his neck to swipe at his face and then clambering onto his horse. Similar yells echoed from his men and they all followed his example, heaving themselves onto their tired animals. But no sooner had they settled in the saddle when their commander witnessed a mounted man shot directly through the chest.

 

‘’ Dismount!’’ he shouted and that’s what his detachment did, still trying to keep control of both their hot guns and themselves. Reno remained close to his horse as he reached the ground, ducking low to scramble in the saddle bag. A flood of relief came over him when he found his flask, filled to the brim with whiskey. He’d remembered to make more than enough for the expedition and now, as he swigged back much more than he knew he should have, he had never been more grateful.

 

He might have already had a drink earlier that morning but if he was honest, he couldn’t recall. He made up for that now though, crumpling against his horse and taking gulp after gulp until his eyes were red, stinging and watering. Then he dragged himself, feverish, onto his steed again and screamed for another mount.

 

The smell of blood, gun smoke and death immediately struck him. It was so strong and he could taste it too, making his tongue tingle and throat ache. A gag and a splutter escaped him, followed by another at the sight of a man galloping madly in his direction with a pale, unchanging look on his face and three arrows in his back and one in the side of his head. He tumbled, bloodied and awkward, over the front of his frightened horse and came to lay, dead, at Reno’s feet, a sharp, morbid reminder of what he had done to his men.

 

Reno sobbed in distress, trying to prevent any further vulnerability. The words which followed ended up spilling from his mouth in a jumbled mess, lacking any real distinction.

 

‘’ Anyone who wishes to make their escape, follow me!’’

 

Then, without even checking if his orders had reached the ears of his men, he made a hasty turn and sped towards the river. A furious cry echoed from behind him through the smoke.

 

‘’ You’re a damn coward, Major Reno!’’

 

And Reno could not see any longer through the hot, defiant tears overwhelming his already irritated eyes and spilling down his red, damp cheeks.

 

He remembered no more of that day.

 

-END-

Author's Note

I wrote this a while back for the 134th anniversary of the Little Bighorn this year but hadn't written it up until recently. I was very happy with it when reading over it again. I would love to hear what you think :)

Reviews

[Cafe Reader]

A very enjoyable read!

[Cherrie Palmer]

you move this story forward with easy and intent. I enjoyed the characters this was a very good piece. The only thing I would add is a bit of; smell, taste, or touch. It helps bring the past alive.