For my Native American friends

The fourth chapter of The Perilous Journey Begins, the first book of Nor Things to Come: A Trilogy of the American West.

Chapter Four

Fort Sedgwick, Colorado Territory

June 1867

Joshua Hotah patted the neck of his faithful appaloosa, then scratched the strong-willed animal along the base of her coarse mane. The horse tried to step away, but he pulled firmly on the leather reins and coaxed the animal back. The horse pondered Joshua’s youthful face. He stroked the animal’s white-and-brown-spotted nose with a delicate motion. The appaloosa exhaled a defiant snort, but she did not step away this time.

“I know you want to leave this place and ride across the open grass, but we must wait outside until the new captain finishes his long conversation with the war general.” The appaloosa appeared to understand Joshua’s soothing words, but shook her head in mock frustration anyway. Joshua stroked the nose more vigorously. “I know. I know. But you must learn patience in your new life. You cannot always ride when you want to and where you want to. Sometimes you must wait a long time inside the sharpened tree walls of the fort until the white man is done with whatever he is doing. The same is true for me.”

Joshua Hotah had acquired the appaloosa from an aging Nez Perce warrior during the waning days of last autumn. At the time, Joshua had need of a new horse and the Nez Perce had need of a new rifle. Joshua traded a Sharps military carbine— converted to use the new .50-70 Government metallic cartridge—and thirty-seven rounds of ammunition for the spirited animal. Before the negotiations began, he concealed his Henry repeating rifle some distance away beneath a prickly yellowing bush to avoid any distractions. He preferred the range and accuracy of his Sharps, but had decided a repeater might provide more utility in his current occupation. The Nez Perce tried to barter the saddle and beaded bridle for more ammunition, but Joshua finally convinced him that he had given every last cartridge and might have to ride many days to find more. The Nez Perce chuckled at the conclusion of the transaction. Before pulling his horse around to gallop away, he declared: “I hope you are a very good rider, Joshua Hotah.” Joshua answered back: “Do not worry about me old man,” before he confidently mounted his new horse. The feisty appaloosa waited until Joshua relaxed, then instantly spun around and bucked him to the ground. Astonishingly, the animal did not run away, but instead contemplated his new “master” with a bemused look. Joshua brushed himself off and limped back to the defiant animal. His remarkable friendship with the appaloosa began at this moment.

Excerpt from A Glorious History of the American West

by Muireall Anne Ravenscroft

The Horse and the Indian: A New Way of Life

Although there is significant evidence that the ancestors of the modern horse thrived in both North and South America during prehistoric times, and that at some point these resilient animals migrated from North America to the eastern regions of Asia across an Arctic land bridge, horses nonetheless vanished inexplicably from the New World around 8,000 B.C. When the Spanish Conquistador Hernan Cortez first set foot on the Yucatan Peninsula in 1519, the horse was effectively reintroduced to the continent. The Mayans who inhabited the lands of the peninsula had never seen these magnificent animals before and, understandably, initially perceived the combination of horse and Spanish rider as a strange new entity beast. The Mayans, and later the Aztecs and Incas, learned to fear the mounted soldier during the bloody conquest of the peninsula, Mexico, and Central America.

King Charles V established the first Viceroyalty of New Spain in 1535 (a few years after the conquest of the Incas in 1532) to govern the new colonial territories in North and Central America. By the time Spanish rule of New Spain ended in 1821 this vast colonial empire extended south to Guatemala and north into the southwestern United States including the modern-day states of California, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. The capital of New Spain was located in Mexico City. The second Viceroyalty of Peru was established in 1542 and originally controlled most of South America from its capital city of Lima. The third Viceroyalty of New Granada was established in 1717 and primarily governed areas now encompassing Panama, Columbia, Ecuador, and Venezuela. The fourth and final Viceroyalty of the Rio De La Plata was formed in 1776, the same year as American Independence, and roughly bounded the countries of Argentina, Bolivia, Paraguay, and Uruguay, with Buenos Aires as the capital.

After initial explorations north of Mexico by the Franciscan monk Marco Di Niza suggested the possibility of great riches, the Spanish Conquistador Francisco Vasquez de Coronado led a major expedition into what is now western New Mexico. His advance guard reached (and then captured by storm) the primary Zuni city (called a pueblo by the Spanish) in northwest New Mexico in July of 1540. Coronado sent exploration parties in every direction and discovered a rich and populous region with twelve pueblos and around 8,000 inhabitants. After a brief period of peace and cooperation, the Pueblo Indians reacted with hostility and resistance to the capricious behavior of the Spanish. This in turn led to horrific reprisals including the burning of 100 Indians at the stake and the slaughter of hundreds more. The subsequent years brought more expeditions, continued hostilities, the construction of numerous Catholic churches, and the baptizing of thousands of Pueblo Indians. By 1630 approximately 50 friars provided religious services to 60,000 Indians in over 90 pueblos, including a small but wild Apache contingent in the eastern plains.

The year 1680 marked a calamitous turning point for both the Spanish and Pueblo Indians. Inspired by the leadership of Pope, a chief from the pueblo of San Juan in northern New Mexico, the Pueblo Indians mounted a widespread and coordinated uprising and in the process killed over 400 Spaniards, including 21 missionaries, and temporarily drove the Spanish from their lands. The Pueblos also destroyed every mission including all records and furnishings. As the uprising raged on and the Spanish retreated in chaos, thousands of Spanish horses were released into the wild and migrated north. Because of their farming culture, the Pueblos had more interest in sheep than horses and did not act quickly enough to capture them in significant numbers, but the Comanche Indians to the east and the Utes to the north embraced the new animal. The Spanish horses continued to move north on both sides of the continental divide during the following decades and found the Shoshone by 1700, the Pawnee by 1720, the Nez Perce by 1730, the Crow and Blackfeet by 1740, the Cheyenne and Sioux by 1770, and had even travelled into northern California by 1775. Although the arrival of horses did not fundamentally change the hunter-gatherer lifestyle of the Indians, they did provide new and unimagined freedom over the vast distances of the west, thereby allowing the practice of a truly effective nomadic culture for the first time. And not only did the Indians conquer distance and time with the assistance of the magnificent horse, they also transformed themselves into superb riders and hunters of the great buffalo herds and legendary warriors, all within a handful of generations.

The appaloosa, a spotted horse possibly derived from the Spanish Andalusian breed, deserves special mention. The Nez Perce Indians of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho was possibly the only tribe to consciously and selectively breed horses for strength, speed, courage, intelligence, and the quality of the spotted markings. As such, the appaloosa was highly regarded and sought after by other tribes of the plains. These capable and strong-willed animals served the Nez Perce well until the very end when in 1877, under the leadership of Chief Joseph, the last free Nez Perce surrendered to the U.S. Cavalry after an implausible 1,400 mile fighting retreat through what many thought was impassable terrain. The appaloosa horses were taken from the proud Nez Perce and distributed amongst white settlers, and the purity of the breed was forever diminished.

John Ravenscroft slurped tomato soup from an oversized spoon as he read to the end of the paragraph about Chief Joseph and the appaloosa horses and the U.S. Cavalry. He licked the spoon clean and nestled it to the side of the saucer below the curved porcelain bowl then set the page down next to his wine glass. When he raised his eyes from the manuscript they instantly found Muireall’s. “Not bad. Not bad at all. As a matter of fact, pretty interesting.”

Muireall slurped a spoonful of tomato soup. “Thank you.”

“Where’d you find this stuff? I’ve never heard about any of it.”

“In magazines. In books I purchased at that cute little bookstore in San Francisco last year. In the California Polytechnic School library. At the San Luis Obispo Carnegie Library. Other sources I can’t remember without checking the bibliography.”

“Impressive. And if I understand this section correctly, the horse began in North America, crossed over some sort of land bridge into Asia before disappearing from the American continent for reasons we don’t know, migrated west to Spain, boarded a ship with Cortez, crossed the Atlantic Ocean to the Yucatan Peninsula, travelled to Mexico with the Conquistadors, then journeyed back to North America with Coronado after an absence of around 9,000 years when a Pueblo Indian named Pope sent the Spanish packing.”

Muireall sighed. “Sounds about right, although you have condensed four pages and two days of hard work into an extemporaneous outburst of less than 100 words. I’m the one who should be impressed—with your gift of brevity.”

♦    ♦    ♦

Captain Ethan Plantagenet of the U.S. 2nd Cavalry stared blankly across the polished oak table, the only furniture in the room not covered with a thin film of dust, into the stoic face of General William Tecumseh Sherman. He generally found Sherman an honorable man, but occasionally struggled with the infamous “March to the Sea” of 1864. But then he reminded himself of his promise to set aside all such concerns in support of his rejuvenated career in the army, the only occupation that had ever provided him with true passion and commitment. He had tried shop keeping following the war, but after a drunken night of intense self-pity and a failed suicide he had sought out the military again the next morning. Distracted by these thoughts, and unsettled by the memory of the nearly-successful suicide, he did not choose his next words with care. “General…I think it ill advised to assign a Sioux half-breed to my company for what should be a straightforward mission. Frankly sir, I have not found any reason to trust them.”

General Sherman maintained the clarity of his calmly indifferent expression. “You mean to say…you are not willing to trust them.” Sherman lighted a cigar—recently imported from Saint Louis—and puffed a compact haze of smoke above the table. “Joshua Hotah is a superb Indian scout. His horsemanship is unsurpassed. He reads the trail with great skill. He is a better rifle marksman than any of the ragtag immigrants in your unit. He speaks both English and Sioux fluently, and a little Cheyenne and Nez Perce as well. He may speak other Indian dialects I am not aware of. I would not hesitate to trust him with my life in this savage wilderness.”

Ethan shifted his weight and squeezed a pair of white cavalry gloves behind his back. “And which half do you suggest I trust, sir—the white or the red?”

Sherman released his stoic countenance with a brief smile. “I see your problem.” He paused again to enjoy a long draw from the cigar. “An excellent cigar. Would you like one before you leave?”

Ethan shifted his weight again. “No sir. I don’t smoke.”

“A habit you should consider taking up. Nothing like a good cigar to break the tension of the moment.” Sherman lowered the cigar to admire it. “And which half do you suggest I trust, Captain Plantagenet—the gray or the blue?”

Ethan felt the sting of this question. “I assure you sir, that you have my full and uncompromising loyalty. The war is over for me.”

Sherman chewed on the cigar. “I know I do son, and I honestly have no doubt of it. But I assure you as well that you can trust Joshua Hotah with your life. Do we have an understanding?”

Ethan considered his next words more discreetly. He thought of pushing the argument a bit more, but then reconsidered. “Yes sir, we do.”

“Good. Then listen carefully. Lieutenant Colonel Custer and over one-thousand men of the Seventh Cavalry departed Fort Hays nearly a month ago to quell some Indian uprisings near the Platte River. According to information I have just received, the regiment is encamped at the forks of the Republican River, about 90 miles southeast from here. I have a critical communiqué that must be delivered to Custer as soon as possible. I have placed the message in this envelope.” Sherman slid the envelope, secured with his personal wax seal, across the polished table. “You alone are to carry the message. You alone are to personally deliver the envelope directly to Custer. Do not allow anyone to take the envelope from you and do not ask anyone to deliver the message on your behalf. Are these instructions clear?”

Ethan wrested the envelope from beneath Sherman’s tobacco-stained fingers and then deposited it into a black leather pouch slung at his side. “Yes sir, your instructions are quite clear.”

Sherman flicked a large cylinder of grayed ash from the end of the cigar. Ethan watched the ash float down and puff off the edge of the formerly pristine table. “Then you are to leave immediately. Take as many men from your company as you see fit, but I want you to leave the fort within two hours. Any questions?”

“No sir, none.”

“Then on your way. And take a cigar with you.” Sherman opened a leather box and presented it to Ethan. “You might change your mind.”

Without a hint of indecision, Ethan selected one of the cigars. “Thank you, sir.”

“And Captain…”

“Yes sir?”

“Don’t forget to take Joshua Hotah with you.”

“No sir.” Ethan shoved the cigar into the pouch next to the letter, saluted smartly, pivoted cleanly, and strode briskly from the office. When he had passed though the heavy wood door and crossed the covered porch at the front of the building, he found Joshua Hotah standing beyond the margin of the roof’s shadow and stroking an unusual spotted horse. He addressed him directly. “Are you the half-breed they call Joshua Hotah?”

Joshua looked up from his appaloosa, the oddly-feathered brim of his old army hat shading his face from the morning sun. “My name is Joshua Hotah.”

Ethan clopped indifferently down the two porch steps and approached Joshua at a leisurely pace until he stood less than an arm’s length away. Joshua’s dark-blue regulation army jacket, wide-brimmed-black-felt Indian scout hat with golden crossed-arrows insignia and red and white acorn-tipped braid, and light-blue pants with a blue stripe down each side were in order, but the multi-colored-bead-adorned leather moccasins represented a notable lapse of military decorum. “General Sherman has assigned you to my company for a patrol to the forks of the Republican River.” Ethan thought of the moccasins again. “I objected vigorously because I do not trust you or any other Indian scout. However, I have no choice but to bring you along because of the general’s insistence. General Sherman informs me that you speak fluent English. Is this true?”

Joshua grinned. “Yes, I speak English. My father was a buffalo hunter who came from England in a ship.”

Ethan noted the annoying hint of a British accent. “Then not only are you a half-breed, but neither half is American. Truly enlightening.”

“My mother was Sioux.”

“So I heard. As I said—”

The appaloosa shook its head violently and nearly yanked the leather reins from Joshua’s hand. Joshua pulled the animal close and spoke soothingly in Nez Perce until the appaloosa had calmed. “I do not think my horse likes you much.”

Ethan stepped back to avoid the skittish animal. “Then I believe, Joshua Hotah, that we have an understanding.”

Joshua grinned a second time. “Yes, I believe we do…” and then the grin widened, “…old chap.”

Ethan did not find this British vernacular amusing. He slapped his thigh with the white cavalry gloves. “Then we leave within two hour hours. Do not be late. I do not intend to begin the patrol by disobeying a direct order from General William Tecumseh Sherman, but if you do not arrive on time, I will leave without you.”

♦    ♦    ♦

Two days after departing Fort Sedgwick with 20 men and a half-breed Sioux scout, Captain Ethan Plantagenet pushed himself up on the stirrups of his cavalry saddle and scanned along the north and south forks of the meandering Republican River for evidence of Custer’s Seventh Cavalry. As his vision swept across the horizon, his eyes paused at the strange image of Joshua Hotah—about 50 yards distant—on his hands and knees with his face pressed close to the ground only inches away from the spotted nose of the appaloosa. Although implausible, both man and horse appeared to find the same thing. When he squinted and refocused, it also appeared to Ethan that Joshua Hotah was conducting a discussion with the animal, and that the horse responded to each comment by moving its head. This observation did not improve Ethan’s original impression of the scout. He spoke to his sergeant, an immigrant from Ireland and a veteran of the final year of the Civil War. “Wait here with the men while I have a little talk with our scout.”

The sergeant spit. “Yes sir. A fine idea.”

Joshua Hotah poked a stick into the remains of the abandoned campfire and stirred. A jet of sooty dust puffed up against the appaloosa’s nose; the spotted horse shook her head and snorted. “You should not be so curious. Your only reward is a nose full of ash.” Still on his knees, Joshua explored the ground for artifacts. He noticed a discarded tin can. He crawled over to the can and sniffed it. The appaloosa sniffed the can too. “Custer left this campsite a few days ago, probably more than a few days. And they did not clean up before they left. Maybe they have many soldiers and do not worry about leaving a trail behind.” The appaloosa nudged Joshua’s shoulder in apparent agreement. Joshua stood and walked southwest, without holding the reins of his horse. The appaloosa followed. He kneeled to the ground by a set of wagon wheel tracks running north and south. Before he had finished inspecting the tracks, Captain Ethan Plantagenet rode up and stopped in front of him, a few yards away. When Joshua raised his gaze from the wagon tracks to Ethan’s face, he noticed the evening moon rising just above the peak of the captain’s hat.

After waiting patiently for a report, Ethan leaned forward against the saddle horn. “What have you and your horse found? Anything worth noting?” Ethan observed the wagon wheel tracks in the fading daylight. He followed the tracks to the north, where they likely began, and then back to the south. “Looks like wagon tracks heading south. I assume Custer has gone in that direction.”

Part of this observation impressed Joshua. “Yes, wagon wheels heading south. But I believe Custer has not gone with the wagon tracks. The path of the wagons does not have enough horse hooves. I believe Custer and the Seventh Cavalry must have followed a different path, possibly west.”

Ethan glanced down at the tracks again, the moonlight now providing more illumination than the fading glow of the western skies. “Nonsense. I don’t see how you can come to such a conclusion from the evidence right in front of us. I see wagon tracks and I see horse tracks, both heading south. I see absolutely nothing to suggest Custer and his main force went in a different direction. We camp for the night and follow the wagon tracks south at daybreak.”

Joshua offered the possibility that Ethan had more correctly read the ground. “I am not certain what I say is true. I can agree with you on this. But we should scout a wider area to find Custer’s path. If we follow these wagon tracks, we may not find him at all.”

Ethan pressed his hand against the leather pouch containing the message from General Sherman (and the cigar). “We’ve had a hard two-day ride and the men are tired. I’m not going to waste more time scouting this endless country when the evidence of Custer’s direction of travel is right in front of us. Tomorrow we follow these wagon tracks south. I am confident we will locate Custer before the end of the day.”

Joshua thought about telling Ethan about the campfire, but decided against prolonging the argument. He would wait for an opportunity tomorrow to prove the wagon tracks did not follow Custer and the Seventh Cavalry. Maybe then he could talk Captain Plantagenet into a different path.

♦    ♦    ♦

As the sun neared its zenith and the day continued to warm, Ethan halted the patrol. He rubbed the back of his neck, adding more sweat to a leather glove already soaked with sweat. He spoke to Joshua Hotah, now riding by his side. “Have you seen any evidence that Custer turned off this wagon trail? I certainly have not.”

“I have not. But we have ridden so fast and stopped so little, it is hard to tell what I have seen and have not seen.”

This obvious excuse did not convince Ethan. “Or maybe you are not as good a scout as General Sherman imagines.”

Joshua did not take offense. “Maybe not, if this is what you wish to believe. But it is difficult to read the trail when we are riding very fast above it.”

“It is really not necessary for you to read the trail at this point. These wagon tracks point to Custer, and we will follow them to the end.”

The Irish Sergeant jabbed Ethan on the arm. “Sir, we’ve got company, and I don’t think it’s the Seventh Cavalry.” The sergeant pointed.

Ethan followed the end of the sergeant’s finger to a long column of riders stretched along the top of a low ridge running southwesterly to his right, about 300 yards away. Ethan began counting them, but stopped when he reached a hundred. He pulled a small telescope from a saddle pouch, extended the tubes, and squinted at the riders. He lowered the telescope and declared, “Indians.” He handed the telescope to Joshua. “Ever use one of these before?”

Joshua did not answer the question. He took the telescope and held it up to his left eye. “Lakota…and Cheyenne. They have been following us.”

Ethan shifted in his saddle. He had bravely faced Union infantry, cavalry, and artillery in the war, but the sight of Indians on the plains of northwest Kansas frightened him in a way he did not think possible. “How many? What are their intentions?”

Joshua collapsed the telescoped and pressed it into Ethan’s hand. “Over one-hundred, with maybe more behind the ridge. I do not know what they intend.”

Ethan privately prayed that General Sherman knew more about Indian scouts than he did. “What do you suggest we do?”

Joshua answered, “I think we should ride east to Beaver Creek and look for cover. And we should not ride slowly.”

Ethan did not argue. He gave the order to the Irish sergeant. “Sergeant, you heard our scout. We are heading east to Beaver Creek, and we are not riding slowly.”

The sergeant answered stoically, “Yes sir. Sounds like a good plan to me.”

The patrol veered off the wagon trail to the east, and at the command of the sergeant broke into a trot. Some of the men could not keep their eyes forward, and regularly checked the Lakota and Cheyenne riders behind them. Captain Ethan Plantagenet did not look. After fifteen minutes of silence had passed, he renewed his conversation with Joshua Hotah. “What are they doing now?”

Joshua twisted just enough to see the Indians at the rim of his vision. “They are still following us. They are getting closer. They are riding faster than we are.”

Ethan looked back for the first time since the patrol had abandoned the wagon trail. “I see what you mean. What now?”

 “I think it is time to run.”

“Do you think we can outrun them?”

“No, we cannot outrun them. We should ride to someplace where we can defend ourselves. This is our only chance.”

This answer alarmed Ethan. “I see.” He turned to the sergeant. “Sergeant, it’s time to make a run for it and to find a defensive position. But don’t blow the damn bugle.” He turned back to Joshua Hotah. “Joshua, you take the lead. We will follow you.”

This time the sergeant smiled uneasily. “Yes sir.” He gave the troopers the order to gallop and the patrol rushed forward with Joshua Hotah and the appaloosa in front. This maneuver ignited an instant response from the Lakota and Cheyenne riders, and for the first time the troopers could hear the exuberant cries of the nearest warriors.

Joshua led the patrol easterly, the churning legs of the galloping horses—sweat-lathered and weight-burdened with cavalrymen and leather and wood and iron—smashing violently through the flowing grasses and scattered wildflowers of the prairie. The rugged ground began a gentle rise toward an undulating ridge running northeast to southwest. Beyond the ridge, in a shallow valley, Beaver Creek and Sappa Creek and Prairie Dog Creek flowed southwesterly and offered the possibility of a defensive position. Ethan strained to see clearly through stinging splashes of sweat and cutting slaps of wind as he watched the nimble appaloosa and Joshua Hotah bound over the ridge. When he had reached the ridge himself, he swung his exhausted mount around to confirm the proximity of the Lakota and Cheyenne. To his eternal horror, he beheld the closest warriors overtake two troopers at the rear of his patrol and beat them to the ground with stone clubs. One of the fallen soldiers, a recent immigrant from Germany and only one month in the saddle, stood and began staggering in small looping circles. The man struggled to remove his pistol, but a Cheyenne spear pierced him cleanly through the breast and drove him down again. Ethan spun his panting horse around and commenced a ragged gallop down into the valley.  Moments later he spotted Joshua and the appaloosa gesturing at him to follow them toward the swirling waters of Beaver Creek, now visible and seemingly within reach. When Ethan arrived at Joshua’s side, they renewed the desperate run to Beaver Creek together.  Nearby, another trooper—a young man from Massachusetts with two Lakota arrows plunged deeply into his back—finally released his flagging grip on the saddle horn and tumbled clumsily off his mount into yellow waves of prairie grass where the merciful ground instantly shattered two vertebrae at the base of his skull.

When Joshua and Ethan arrived at Beaver Creek, with the sergeant and 16 remaining troopers trailing in disarray, they pivoted abruptly and raced along the stream, splashing in marshy pools swollen beyond the meandering shore. Joshua suddenly pulled up next to Ethan and reached across the narrow space separating them and tugged at the blue wool of his arm. Ethan glanced over to Joshua, who pointed behind them before slanting away from the creek and slowing to a walk. Ethan and the remaining troopers did the same.

Ethan, his horse shivering with exhaustion, spoke to Joshua without moving closer. “Where did they go? They were right behind us.”

Joshua scrutinized the ridge to the left, now some distance from Beaver Creek, and then scanned along the creek to the northeast. “I believe they are walking the same path we do, but on the other side of the hill.”

 “Why are they doing this? They could have easily killed all of us.”

“They are taunting us. We should find protection quickly, because they will soon attack again. Some of the warriors may be moving in front of us now. We should cross Beaver Creek and move away from the hill.”

Joshua and the appaloosa trotted across the creek. Ethan and the sergeant followed without offering any commands, and the ragged line of troopers followed without speaking. Joshua turned at a gully littered with boulders and flanked with thorny bushes. Ethan and the sergeant pulled up next to him.

Joshua dismounted, removed his feathered cavalry hat, and coaxed his long black hair back over his shoulders. He swung around in a complete circle and studied the terrain, then appraised the position of the sun before walking to Ethan’s side. “It is not the best place, but the day will end soon and we do not have time to look for another. You are the soldier. Do you like this place?”

The leather of Ethan’s saddle chirped when he twisted back and forth to review the defensive possibilities of the rocky gully. “I agree it is not the best. I would prefer the high ground, but this is less exposed. I think we should make our stand here. Sergeant Doyle, do you have anything to add?”

The sergeant stiffened. “Yes, sir. Can you find another 50 troopers before dark? It would be a service, sir.”

Captain Ethan Plantagenet dismounted. “Sergeant, tie the horses up near those large boulders and spread the men out along both sides of the gully. Mr. Joshua Hotah, I want you at my side tonight. Right or wrong, we make our stand here. And may God help us.”

♦    ♦    ♦

The gloomy face of a new moon and the deafening howl of prairie wind offered little hope to the 19 men spread thinly along the jagged sides of the shallow gully. The sun plunged below the western horizon and bluish skies faded to murky blue then to inky blue then to terrifying blackness. During this darkest of nights, Lakota and Cheyenne warriors drew lots and then one-by-one waded noiselessly across Beaver Creek and crept silently over the grassy soil to the far ends of the gully where individual soldiers lay blind in the shadows of darkest midnight and deaf in the swirling rush of wind. And then one-by-one, the soldiers perished when a stony club crushed a man’s head or a sharpened blade slashed across his throat or a length of leather cut off the air from his gasping lungs. The silent killing proceeded down the lines of men throughout the dreadful night, and by dawn, when the rising sun finally dissolved the hideous shadows of night and the cool freshness of the morning diminished the relentless wind to a tender breeze, only Captain Ethan Plantagenet of the U.S. 2nd Cavalry and the half-breed named Joshua Hotah remained alive.

♦    ♦    ♦

Joshua slithered back to Ethan’s side and rolled over to his back. He raised his shoulder off a sharp rock and reported in a low voice, “It is as we feared. Everyone is dead. Only the two of us have survived this long night.”

Exhausted by lack of sleep but forced awake by apprehension, Ethan asked weakly, “The sergeant is dead too?”

“Yes. But I think he may have fought a little, because his throat is not slit and there is much blood on the ground. He may have stabbed his attacker before he died.” Then Joshua added, “Five of the soldiers are missing their balls.”

“The Indians took their ammunition?”

“Yes, they took their guns and ammunition too.”

Ethan pulled his Colt 1860 Army cap-and-ball revolver from its black-leather holster and rested it across his stomach. He had used the pistol throughout the Civil War, and found the familiarity of the polished steel barrel and hand-smoothed wood grips oddly comforting. “Not a pretty thought. Maybe we should try to make a run for it. We still have the horses. We could take two and scatter the rest to divert the Indians.”

Joshua considered this idea briefly. “A possibility, but I do not think our chances are good. We are probably surrounded and would have to ride through the Lakota and Cheyenne. The appaloosa might make it, but your horse probably would not.”

Ethan smiled darkly. “Any chance they will just let us go?”

“I would call it wishful thinking. But if we did run for it, maybe they would kill us in the saddle. Then we would not be captured and tortured to death. Maybe the men who died quickly during the night are the lucky ones today.”

Two gaunt ravens fluttered overhead and landed raucously in a scrawny cottonwood about thirty feet away. The ravens leered down at Ethan and Joshua, twisting their glossy heads right and left to improve the view. The raven to the left, the larger of the two, began issuing a strange chortling sound reminiscent of a contented cat while the other continued his thoughtful examination of the narrow ravine and the two men stretched out on the ground below.

Ethan removed his cavalry hat and pretended to adjust the sweat-soaked-dust-caked brim while watching the two ravens and listening to the odd sound. “Ravens have arrived to witness our demise. Do you think they know something we don’t?”

Joshua chuckled. “Ravens always know something we don’t. It is a bad sign. I have not had good luck with ravens around.”

Ethan carefully positioned the crumpled hat on his head. “I know what you mean. I felt pretty good about our situation myself until those two birds arrived. Now I’m really—” The raven to the right, the smaller of the two, exploded in a wing-flapping-squawking show of alarm. The other raven quickly joined in the display.

Joshua peeked above the rocks. A lone Sioux rider approached, a lance in one hand and a rifle in the other. The rider stopped about 30 strides from the shallow ravine and waited.

Ethan rolled and cocked the hammer of his Colt in the same smooth motion and prepared to take a shot. “I think I can hit him. I killed men at Shiloh from a greater distance while riding a horse. I ought to be able to shoot an Indian sitting still.”

Joshua reached over and pressed Ethan’s arm down. “Do not shoot.”

“Why? We might as well take a few of them with us.”

“He is my half-brother. I believe he has come to talk to us. Do not shoot.”

“Your half-brother?”

“Yes, our mother is the same.”

Ethan lowered the revolver until the barrel rested on a tuft of buffalo grass. “Astonishing. What’s his name? What do you think he wants?”

“Running Bear, and I think we should find out. Do not bring any guns.”

This alarmed Ethan. “I do not think it wise to walk out in the open without our weapons.”

“If you bring a gun, you will die. Our only chance is to walk out with empty hands. Put down your revolver and stand up.”

Ethan waited until his hand had flinched a few times, then sucked in a deep breath and exhaled and set the Colt gently on the ground and stood. Joshua stood in unison then rested his Henry repeating rifle against a rock with a melodramatic flourish. They advanced side-by-side to talk to Running Bear. When they had reached a small mound covered with wildflowers about two strides in front of the horse, they stopped. Joshua waited for his half-brother to begin the conversation.

After an unpleasant delay, Running Bear frowned and said, “Txay huh wan chee youn kay shnee.” (I did not see you for a long time)

Joshua raised his chin to see his half-brother’s face better. “Cante waste nape ciyuzapo.” (I greet you from my heart)

Running Bear waited again. “You would have died last night if I had not convinced the others to spare your life.”

“I thank you for sparing our lives, my brother, but what have you to tell us now?”

“Because we share the same mother, you may leave, but the soldier must stay.”

“The soldier is my friend. I will not leave him here so you can cut off his balls like you did to the others. You must let both of us leave, or kill us both together.”

This surprised Running Bear. He drove the lance into the ground in anger. Ethan touched Joshua’s arm. “What did you just say to him?”

Joshua snarled at Ethan without taking his eyes off his half-brother. “It is none of your business what I say or do not say to my brother.”

Running Bear chuckled. “Your friend is very stupid. Does he know what danger he is in?”

Joshua smirked, “Yes, the white man is stupid in many ways, but very clever in other ways you do not appreciate. You would do well not to underestimate him.”

Running Bear nodded slightly. “I do not have the heart to kill you today, even if you deserve it for helping the soldiers invade our lands and kill our buffalo.”

“Then you must let us both go. I will not leave without my friend.”

Running Bear glanced back at the Lakota and Cheyenne warriors waiting hidden behind the crest of the hill. “You are very presumptuous, but I must honor our mother. You may go with your friend, but the horses must stay.”

“It is a long walk. You should allow us to take one horse.”

“The horses are the price you must pay to live. Now leave before it is too late.”

“Thank you my brother. Until we meet again.”

Running Bear’s countenance dimmed. “I must tell you, child of my mother, the next time we meet I will kill you. You are given only this one chance.”

Joshua Hotah nodded. “I understand. Then I shall pray we do not meet again.” He pulled Ethan’s arm. “Start walking away from here. Do not look back. Do not say a word. Walk quickly, but not too fast.”

“I need to fetch my Colt.”

“No, you must leave everything here. We cannot take the chance.”

“No horses?”

“This is the agreement, but I think we will see the appaloosa again—after she throws her new rider to the ground and follows after us.”

Joshua Hotah and Captain Ethan Plantagenet hiked south until they reached Sappa Creek then southwesterly. The appaloosa joined them, as Joshua had predicted, about two miles before they rediscovered the wagon wheel tracks that had originally led them to disaster. They took turns riding the horse. They talked about many things. They smoked General Sherman’s cigar. And eventually the wheel tracks led them to Fort Wallace, about 40 miles from the massacre in the gully. They arrived at the fort hungry and dehydrated, but alive. Joshua waited outside an impressive stone building while Ethan gave an abbreviated report to the fort commander. They ate and drank separately, and then each slept for nearly two days—again separately.

Ethan discovered Joshua early in the morning a day later, preparing to leave with the appaloosa. He greeted him with renewed vigor. “Good morning Joshua. Where are you going?”

Joshua slipped a new Henry repeating rifle, donated by a sergeant at the fort armory, into a leather saddle sheath. He answered without turning his head. “Your sergeant has replaced my lost rifle, and for this I am grateful.” Then he turned. “I am no longer a scout. Today I head west, then maybe north.”

Ethan felt a tinge of melancholy. “What will you do? You’re a damn good scout, if anyone would care to listen to you. You should reconsider.”

“Thank you for saying it, but I have decided to look for my father and mother. I lost them some years ago, and it is time to find them again.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No. This is something only I can do, but thank you.”

Ethan held out his hand. “Then goodbye, my friend.”

Joshua grasped Ethan’s hand and they squeezed without shaking. “Yes, goodbye my friend.”

Joshua Hotah mounted the appaloosa, kicked the feisty animal in the loins, and trotted through the open gate. He rode about a mile before circling west. With the sun warming his back and cumulus clouds rising in the distance, he began the search for his parents.

For my readers in China

The third chapter of The Perilous Journey Begins, the first book of Nor Things to Come: A Trilogy of the American West.

Chapter Three

Nanjing, China

July 1864

Tseng Longwei—born of peasant farmers in 1819 in the mountainous region of Guangxi in southern China; educated in math, science, English, and the ways of Jesus by Baptist missionaries as a youth; hardened in the coal mines of Guangxi as a young man; swept away by the peasant revolt of Hong Xiuquan against the corrupt Manchu Dynasty in 1850; wounded by sword and arrow during the victorious advance of the Taiping Heavenly Army into the Yangtze Valley through the years 1851 to 1853; elevated to the rank of colonel and granted command of a full regiment during the disastrous and bloody Taiping march on Shanghai in 1861—walked. Tseng Longwei, his mind filled with worry, his stomach twitching from hunger, his joints stiff from too little rest, walked along the wide path atop the ancient and lofty stone walls near the east gate of the city of Nanjing. He slowed his pace at intervals to inspect the remnants of his shattered regiment, depleted to fewer than 300 men by fanatical defense of Nanjing and the privations of a two-month siege. He peered through a slotted opening in the stone battlement to gauge the more than 80,000 troops of the Imperial Army now besieging the city and threatening the very existence of the rebellion. And he tarried near the battlement above the east gate and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword to consider the meaning of the untimely death of Hong Xiuquan—spiritual and moral leader of the Taiping Rebellion—and the presently uncertain future of the Taiping Rebellion and the Heavenly Kingdom of Peace.

Unsettling rumors shrouded Hong’s death and flourished among his men. One said he had heard from a trustworthy source (someone close to one of the concubines) that the Heavenly King had deliberately poisoned himself to avoid the inevitable collapse of Nanjing and consequent shame from loss to the encroaching forces of the contemptible Manchu Dynasty.  Another had heard from a general’s assistant, who had overheard the whispers of Hong Xiuquan’s own son in a darkened corridor, that Hong had died of a simple illness—nothing more, nothing less—although the specific symptoms of the allegedly simple illness were not described in any great detail. One of the more believable rumors proposed that the Heavenly King had suffered a horrible death from food poisoning after eating putrid wild vegetables collected from a foul swamp near the wall protecting the city, but no one could remember who had told this story nor had anyone actually witnessed the harvesting of the vegetables. One of Tseng’s own captains—and only two of five remained in the regiment—declared on a daily basis that the Heavenly King had risen to Heaven to directly seek the protection of Nanjing from God himself, and that he would soon return with an army of angels, but only the most fanatical believed this outlandish claim.

Tseng Longwei had decided that insufficient information existed to sustain belief in any specific rumor, but he had not witnessed a public appearance by Heavenly King Hong Xiuquan for at least a month, and leadership of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom and its capital, Nanjing, had appeared to transfer to Hong Tiangui Fu, Hong’s eldest son, during this time. But only 16 years beyond the womb and unproven as a leader of any sort, Hong Tiangui Fu did not engender much confidence in Tseng Longwei’s regiment of battle-hardened veterans. Tseng Longwei had significant doubts as well, and with the Emperor’s Imperial Army surrounding the last stronghold of the Taiping Rebellion and choking off any possibility of escape or relief, a creeping splinter of cynicism encroached upon his thoughts and dampened optimism with increasing regularity.

Tseng Longwei found his senior captain—the one who had repeated, to anyone who would listen, the rumor of Hong’s travels to Heaven to muster an army of angels—crouched against the stone parapet directly above the massive arch keystone of the east gate. The captain had nearly finished restringing his favorite Tarter bow, in his hands a more accurate and deadly weapon than the clumsy flintlock muskets preferred by some of the men in the regiment. Tseng Longwei addressed the captain with much respect: “Have you seen any movement, or do the men of the Imperial Army continue to sit in their tents and do nothing?”

The captain tugged at his new bow string to test its strength and grunted. “I have not observed anything to suggest alarm, but they do not sit in their tents and do nothing. Today they have become herders of cattle instead of warriors, and are moving many cows along the banks of the Yangtze River to the north. You can see the long trail of dust for yourself.”

Tseng Longwei leaned against the rampart to view the Imperial warriors who had become herders of cows. He pressed his hand against one of the gigantic bricks of the serpentine wall and his fingers chafed along the Han characters embossed on the face of the brick. Instead of searching for cows, he studied the writing on the brick. “I have been told, by someone whose name I do not recall, that nearly every brick in this wall is identified with the location and name of its maker.”

The captain snorted his disbelief. “Why would anyone go to such trouble for a brick?”

“I have been told, by the same person whose name still eludes me, that should the brick fail the maker could be found by the Emperor’s civil servants and then tortured or put to death for incompetence.” The dust cloud began veering away from the river and commenced a gentle southerly turn.

The captain continued his air of disbelief. “A steep penalty for the profit of a brick.”

Tseng Longwei attempted a smile, but, when he surveyed the dust cloud, his lips refused to curl. “For one brick, yes. But for millions of bricks, possibly worth the risk.”

“And what is the name of the unfortunate individual who may have profited greatly from the making of millions of bricks or may have been tortured or put to death by the Emperor’s civil servants for the failure of a single brick?” The captain stood and pulled a fresh arrow from its quiver and tested the nock in the new bowstring, aiming defiantly in the direction of the herders of cattle.

Tseng Longwei bent closer to the giant brick and read the Hon characters: “The man who made the brick is one Yuan Zhuang of Shanghai, but he made the brick 500 years ago. I think he has probably outlived the risk of its failure.”

Satisfied with the fit of the nock on the bowstring, the captain relaxed the Tartar bow and returned the arrow to the quiver. “This may be true, but the Emperor’s civil servants could have put him to death in the most horrifying manner imaginable for the failure of another brick we do not know about.”

“What you say is most plausible, or the Emperor’s civil servants may have tortured Yuan Zhuang or put him to death for something unrelated to the manufacture of large bricks. There are many possibilities.” Tseng Longwei removed a small telescope from a pouch he always carried slung over his back. He extended the brass tubes of the scope and examined the dust cloud through the tiny aperture of the eyepiece. He swung the telescope left and right across the lengthening cloud, lingering at intervals to study some aspect of the moving dust more thoughtfully. He focused on the rear of the dust cloud with great curiosity. Satisfied with his observations, he lowered the telescope and collapsed the tubes and slid it into the pouch. “The Imperial Army is driving the cows onward to uncover the many traps we have set in the fields before this gate. There are several wagons loaded with barrels traveling behind the cows. It is likely the barrels are filled with gunpowder.”

The captain shrugged. “Do the Emperor’s cow herders think a wall built from bricks made by the legendary Yuan Zhuang of Shanghai (who may or may not have been tortured or put to death in the most horrifying manner by the Emperor’s civil servants for the failure of one brick), and which has stood for centuries can be breached by a herd of cows and few barrels of gunpowder?”

Tseng Longwei adjusted the brim of his bamboo hat until the shadow fell below his eyes. The cloud of dust had moved close enough to allow discernment of individual cows. “I fear the wagons carry more than a few barrels. I believe there may be hundreds.” He again removed the telescope from its pouch and nervously clicked the tubes to full extension before bringing the aperture to his eye. “The cows at the front of the cloud are approaching the initial array of traps.” A flash of early afternoon sun glinted off the polished scope’s objective lens as he watched the first unfortunate cows break through the thin mat of earth and light supporting structure and tumble into the shallow pit of sharpened bamboo spikes. The following cows and herders and wagons loaded with barrels of gunpowder and Imperial Infantry quickly separated and flowed around the exposed trap. “They have found the first trap at the cost of five or six cows, and maybe a cow herder or two, but it is difficult to see through the dust.” Tseng Longwei swung the front of the telescope across the line of dust and watched as cows tumbled into other traps. This pattern repeated until dozens of traps lay exposed. Tseng Longwei collapsed the telescope and set it on the stone parapet. “The Emperor’s Imperial Army and its militia of cows have breached the defensive line of traps, and are now converging on this gate.”

The captain offered the possibility of some optimism. “I assume at the loss of many soldiers and wagons loaded with barrels filled with gunpowder?”

Tseng Longwei did not look away from the advancing army. “I fear the traps have only killed a few innocent cows and peasants. The wagons and infantry have apparently passed through the field of traps unharmed. Ready the archers and musketeers to defend the gate.”

The captain saluted. “I will give the order. We will not allow the Emperor’s men to breach the gate.”

Colonel Tseng Longwei spoke without sentiment or change of expression. “Although it pains my heart to say so, take particular aim on the innocent cows and peasants. It may be possible to slow the assault by creating a mound of dead animals. Then we can redirect our bows and muskets to the men who crawl over the mound. If we succeed in stopping the wagons, I believe we can survive this assault.”

After the captain had departed to marshal the regiment, Tseng Longwei watched the cows and peasants and infantry and wagons loaded with barrels of gunpowder plod relentlessly toward the east gate. He stood erect and stoic as the archers and musketeers of his regiment, and those of two equally depleted regiments the captain had commandeered, lined the battlements above the gate and awaited the command to fire. He stood without flinching when the captain shouted orders up and down the line and hundreds of arrows and musket balls rained down on the unfortunate cows and peasants, creating the mound of corpses he had hoped for. He watched as the men of the Imperial Army broke through the mound and pushed ten wagons loaded with barrels toward the ancient east gate. He glanced to his left and right without blinking as dozens of his men slumped against the stone parapet or crumpled to the stone path, victims of the Emperor’s own arrows and muskets unleashed from below. He glanced up at the western sun and lost sight of the wagons when the peasants and Imperial Infantry pushed them against the gate.

The captain ran up to Tseng Longwei and spoke with great urgency. “It is my unfortunate duty, Colonel Tseng, to report to you that we have failed to stop the wagons. Do you think the gate will hold?”

Tseng Longwei drew his sword, anointed with the blood of more than 100 adversaries of the glorious Taiping Rebellion, from its leather scabbard and examined the chipped but still elegant blade. “Order the men to move off the wall and fall back, but do not allow them near the gate until after the explosion. We will defend the capital of the Heavenly Kingdom of Peace from the ground.”

Tseng Longwei’s shattered regiment, and the two equally-depleted regiments commandeered by his senior captain, raced down wide stone steps from the top of the east gate to the ground before deploying along the ancient stone wall to both sides of the gate. An explosion of nearly 40,000 pounds of gunpowder shook the ground and disrupted the tranquility of the warm afternoon. The concussive wave of the explosion ruptured one of Tseng Longwei’s ear drums. Blood trickling from his damaged ear, he fell against the engraved bricks of the wall and sank to the ground. He watched in puzzled silence as hundreds of men of the Emperor’s Imperial Army stormed through the cleaved gate—followed by several bewildered cows.

♦    ♦    ♦

Tseng Longwei, his ears still buzzing wildly from the explosion at the east gate, buttoned the collar of his recently-procured Imperial Army uniform and watched the new moon float peacefully above the fallen city of Nanjing. He stretched his shoulders and shook each leg in turn to lengthen the fit of jacket and pantaloons, but to no avail. He glanced down at the man stretched out naked and motionless at his feet. He considered the idea of killing another Imperial soldier a few inches taller, but decided against it. Although the dark streets and alleys of the capital of the Heavenly Kingdom of Peace now swarmed with thousands of soldiers of the despised Manchu Dynasty, many who likely wore uniforms that might fit Tseng Longwei perfectly, the frenzy of killing also swarming the ancient streets rendered the search for longer sleeves needlessly dangerous. Tseng Longwei dressed the bleeding corpse in his uniform, and, although it pained him to do it, strapped his beloved sword around the dead man’s waist. He did not much care for the weight and balance of his new sword, but did not imagine he would have a need to use it if he traversed the city, now littered with the mutilated bodies of his comrades, with the appropriate bravado of an officer of the Imperial Army.

During the gory retreat of his men from the east gate to the very walls of the Heavenly King’s palace near the foot of Zhongshan Mountain, Tseng Longwei had fought courageously until the last man of his regiment, the senior captain who still waited for an army of angels, held off a horde of Imperial soldiers long enough to allow his escape down a narrow alley. Just after midnight, as the final defense of the Taiping Palace collapsed and the buildings of the palace were set ablaze, Tseng Longwei had found temporary refuge beneath a pile of executed Taiping men. But now disguised as one of the Emperor’s officers, he strolled jauntily down the center of a large street to the west of the palace, hoping to find escape through one of the gates closer to the Yangtze River. He entered a large, open plaza southwest of the blazing palace grounds, and the sight of three Taiping women standing closely together invited his curiosity. He turned from his course and approached the women. A rectangular slab of wood with three neatly-aligned holes, the two sections of the slab secured together by heavy iron hinges, bars, and clasps, bound the unfortunate women together at the neck and weighed painfully down on their shoulders. The first two women wore the baggy sleeves, pants, and skirts of Taiping peasants. The third stood naked and shivered from exposure to the night air.

Tseng Longwei spoke cautiously to the naked woman, averting his eyes from her nakedness. “Who has taken your clothes, and for what purpose have they done so?”

The woman tried to step back from the Imperial officer who now spoke to her, but the heavy wood slab fixed her in place. “Your own men tore my clothes and violated me. When they had finished their work they did not have the decency to cover my nakedness.”

Tseng Longwei did not deny her accusation. He walked away from the three women. He searched among the hundreds of bodies littering the plaza until he located a dead woman slumped over a stone lion near a well. He judged the corpse about the same height and shape, and then stripped her including cap and shoes. He returned to the three and began dressing the naked woman.

She spoke with utter surprise. “You are a soldier of the Imperial Army. Why are you dressing me?”

Without saying a word, Tseng Longwei pulled the pants and then the skirt up to the woman’s slender waist and tied them off. He slit the front of the jacket open with his new sword and draped it around her shoulders. A platoon of Imperial soldiers stomped arrogantly across the plaza in neat ranks and files. The man leading the platoon glanced at Tseng Longwei briefly, but after noting his lofty rank resumed his march. Although Tseng Longwei had averted his eyes when he first spoke to the woman, he could not avoid noticing her loveliness when he dressed her naked body. “I do not have time to explain. Lift your foot so I can slip the shoe on. Now the other.” Tseng Longwei’s hand trembled when it touched the sole of her foot. He completed his work by setting the cap on the woman’s head and twisting it into place. When he had finished, he abruptly turned to walk across the plaza.

The woman clasped the front of the jacket tightly in the shivering fingers of her calloused hand and waved with the other, the tips of her fingers scraping across the rough underside of the heavy wood planks. “Thank you. Your kindness will be rewarded in heaven.” And then, impulsively, she said, “My name is Li Hua.”

Tseng Longwei trudged away from the three bound woman without speaking. He did not imagine the new morning would find them alive. When he reached an intersection of three roads at the far end of the plaza, brightly illuminated by the flames of a burning structure, he veered westerly. He worked his way across the chaotic center of Nanjing and then turned onto a narrow street aligned northwest. Although the key to his escape remained the masquerade of the Imperial uniform complemented by an aggressive display of arrogance, he still preferred the less-travelled roads to minimize the chance of confrontation and subsequent discovery. After following alleyways, small roads, and major streets for half the night, he reached the ancient perimeter wall and one of the western gates, less than a kilometer from the Yangtze River. He noted a subtle glow in the eastern sky and judged that an hour or less remained before sunrise. He shifted his attention to the gate. A dozen men guarded the route of his chosen escape. Without slowing his pace or modifying the swing of his arms—except to pull on the sleeves of his jacket to temporarily increase the length—Tseng Longwei marched defiantly up to the soldier who appeared in charge. He planted his feet widely apart, rested fisted hands below the belt of his sword, mustered his confidence, and spoke with appropriate conceit:

“Move out of my way, underling. I have important business beyond the gate, and I am already late to my task.”

The guard, a sergeant from Beijing, grimaced quizzically. “No one is allowed to pass through this gate tonight, not even someone with important business. I have specific orders from the captain.”

Tseng Longwei did not know the rank of the officer he had killed, but feigned great indignation nonetheless. “Do you not recognize my rank!?”

“Yes, you are a major in the Ever Victorious Imperial Army.”

A stroke of luck. Tseng Longwei had unknowingly slaughtered a senior officer serving with the elite Ever Victorious Army. “Yes. You are very observant. And what will happen when the general finds out that you, a lowly gatekeeper, have prevented one of his senior officers from passing through this gate to deliver a message critical to the final destruction of the despised Taiping Army? Do you imagine his pleasure will be multiplied by your incredible stupidity?”

“What is so important about the message?”

Tseng Longwei sputtered and stomped his foot. “Such incomprehensible insolence! It is no business of yours what the message contains or does not contain and whether it is important or not. I have no time for this lunacy. There is no more to argue. I shall return within the hour with an escort and have you put to death on the spot.”

The sergeant fidgeted. He thought of asking his men for advice, but decided otherwise. “I will yield to your command. But only because you have assured me of the importance of your mission. You may pass through the gate to deliver the message.”

Tseng Longwei shoved the sergeant aside. “When I return from my mission, I may still have you put to death for your insolence.”  He passed through the gate and marched beyond the ancient wall of engraved bricks and stone. Still maintaining the dashing stride that had brought him this far, he followed the path west and then north to the Yangtze River.

He walked along the river. When the morning sun broke over the eastern horizon and sparkled on the water, he encountered a fisherman and his family mending nets next to a small but well-maintained junk. After convincing the family that he did not belong to the Imperial Army—a task which required more effort than convincing the sergeant to allow him to walk through the western gate—he boarded the junk with the fisherman, his sun-leathered wife, and three sons. The fisherman and his wife raised the sail on the unstayed mast and pushed the vessel away from the shore. The junk drifted to the center of the river and, as a gust of wind billowed the sail to life, set a course downriver toward Shanghai.