VII
The odor of cigar smoke reached through the door of Major Wilson’s office before Charles knocked.
The major’s voice grumbled through the wood. “Enter!”
Charles steeled himself and did so.
The major sat behind a well-appointed desk, uniformed in dapper blue wool and golden buttons, fashionably trimmed hair and waxed mustache. He held a thin cigar between two fingers and fixed his steel-gray eyes on Charles. A portrait of the major hung on the wall behind him, next to a handful of medals glinting in a glass display case. On the desk was a decanter of brandy amid a tossed sea of paperwork.
Charles marveled for a moment at how thoroughly the presence of Donald Abercrombie, the civilian agent formerly in charge of White River Reservation, had been removed from this office. The uprising had resulted in all of the civilian agents on every reservation in South Dakota being removed temporarily and the agencies placed under command of the Army. Agent Abercrombie had not been a decent man; he had been nothing more than an ambitious politician looking for the next step to a more prestigious government appointment, with as much knowledge of Lakota ways as Charles had of South Pacific cannibals.
Sergeant Weatherly stood beside Major Wilson, fidgeting with a sheaf of papers.
Charles said, “Major.”
Major Wilson rose and extended a hand through the haze of blue smoke. Charles took it, noting the absence of any calluses.
“Brandy?” Major Wilson motioned to Sergeant Weatherly. The sergeant poured Charles a drink from the fine crystal decanter.
Charles accepted it, looking into the potent amber liquid, but all he could think about was how many doses of laudanum the cost of that bottle would buy.
The Major sat down, gesturing for Charles to do the same. Charles remained standing.
Major Wilson drew a long drag from his cigar and blew a cloud of smoke. “As you can see, I am deep in Army paperwork. Luckily for you, you took your time and arrived today instead of yesterday.”
Charles waved the smoke away. “We have things to discuss.”
Major Wilson sniffed. “Indeed. Last night, a weapon discharged accidentally, and now three of my officers are dead. I’m still trying to discern the whys and what-fors. As you can imagine, the men have been in quite a state today.”
Charles said, “I’ve been around the camp. They still are.”
“As I say, we are all shocked by these events.”
“And naturally saddened by their deaths.” Charles had not meant that to sound so sarcastic, but his mind had tripped over the details of the major’s words. “Three officers dead from one weapon discharge?”
“Four, actually.”
“And what does your surgeon say about this?”
“Sadly, he is the fourth. A most calamitous affair. I fear this incident will further delay our redeployment. My men are already restless at having to nursemaid a bunch of heathen savages for so long. There has been some friction.”
The military presence on the Pine Ridge, Standing Rock, and Rosebud reservations had already been redeployed, and the Nebraska National Guard troops massed at the border had been mustered out, mostly to ratchet back the pressure and allay the Lakota fears that the Army was preparing to exterminate the rest of the tribe. The current cessation of hostilities balanced on the edge of a knife. Charles wondered how those people out in the camp, those people beaten down so badly, could have much fight left in them.
“So, what do you need from me?” Charles said, “In lieu of your surgeon, am I inspecting the dead?”
“I would be most grateful if you just examined the bodies and signed a statement. Then you can be on your way.”
Sergeant Weatherly offered some paperwork to Charles, which Charles accepted.
Charles shuffled through the forms. “I will not sign off on four dead men without a proper inspection, Major. Give me until the end of the day.”
“Very well, Doctor. You may go.”
Charles tossed back his brandy, letting the warmth of the liquor suffuse the sizzle of anger in his belly. He paused to survey the room. “One of the women in the camp is dying. She needs a proper bed. And food.”
Major Wilson fixed him with a harsh glare and crumpled a piece of paper under his hand. “Quite the Indian lover, aren’t you, Doctor.” He flattened the paper again. “If I make one bed available, I must make them all. I don’t make the rules.”
The major’s dismissive tone set Charles’ teeth on edge. “The disease in this camp is going to spread unless we give them proper food and medicine.”
Major Wilson tapped away a column of ashes. “I am doing the best I can with what I have, Doctor.”
Charles looked at the fine crystal decanter of brandy. “I know you are, Major. Soon enough they’ll all be dead and you can go elsewhere.”
“Sergeant Weatherly will escort you to the infirmary. The bodies are there.”
The sergeant stepped forward, eyes downcast, the corners of his mouth weighted downward. “This way, Doctor.” He opened the door for Charles.
As Charles stepped outside, the major called after him, “And, Doctor. Say nothing of your findings to anyone.”
The door closed.