DRAGOONS
Another of my Castle old west AU, alternate history stories, loosely based on a classic movie. With a few changes, additions and ideas of my own. Drama, adventure, hurt and comfort. Standard disclaimer applies. Colonel Richard Rodgers is an infantry officer commanding the 19th Infantry regiment. Kate Rodgers is his estranged wife; their son is a bone of contention Hope you enjoy and figure out what movie it's 'based on.
Author's note: Although dragoon came to mean heavy cavalry in both American and European parlance, the original concept was mounted infantry and that is how it is used in this story.
Author's note 2: Since this is an AU work of fiction, I am using actual U.S. Army unit names and forts. And the overall framework of the time but the events are entirely made up.
Author's note 3: In this story, Rick and Kate are only a year apart in age.
Chapter One
Colonel Richard Rodgers sat in his quarters, boots off, soaking his tired sore feet and smoking a cigar. He commanded the 19th Infantry regiment. Like most post war regiments, it was under strength. The regulation called for ten 100-man companies. He had the ten companies, but all were understrength. Totaling about 700 infantrymen, plus his staff.
He was a tall man, two inches over six feet and powerfully built. His hard life and army food left very little fat on the man and absolutely no flab. He'd been called ruggedly handsome in his younger days and still was, in an austere way. There was gray, now in the dark hair and drooping moustache and the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth were long gone, replaced by hard lines of decision and command and years of squinting into sun and wind.
Now dressed in only dark blue shirt and light blue uniform trousers with a dark blue stripe down the seam, the trouser legs rolled up a few inches to keep them out of the water,
His undress coat hung in his wardrobe; his plain, black sword belt hung over the back of a chair. His seldom worn dress uniform hung in the wardrobe with the showy gilt and blue sword belt and sword. On a shelf sat what he considered the ridiculous dress cap with its plume of white cock feathers. He'd been a highly successful commander during the civil war, ending as a regimental commander under General Sherman. But, after the war, like most others, he'd been reduced to his permanent rank of captain. It had taken nearly twelve years to struggle back to the rank of colonel. Now, three years later, he was where he wanted to be. On the frontier, away from the glitz and glitter of the eastern forts with their constant social whirl. Out here, there was only duty, his regiment, his men. The occasional regimental parties were the only social life he had; all he would permit. He only attended the formal balls because as the regimental/ post commander it was requirement of his position, He attended civilian partier. Only if he got roped, He indulged in only three luxuries. Fine, imported coffee beans, single-malt Scots whisky and good cigars. A fourth, couldn't be deemed a luxury, considering his profession, his personal weapons. At that time and place, officers bought their own, they were not issued. His duty side-arms were Single-Action Army Colt revolvers in .45 Colt. In the field, he carried a pair of them. His prize possession was a beautifully blued and engraved Smith and Wesson Schofield with Ivory grips. Housed in a velvet lined, walnut presentation case. It stayed in his quarters
He owned an M-1875 Officer's rifle in .45-70. His sword was an M-1850 Field and staff sword, which he only wore for ceremonies. He couldn't remember ever seeing an actual casualty inflicted by a sword. Even if only for ceremony, he refused to carry the M-1860 Staff and Field sword. In his mind, nothing more than a cake cutter.
He looked at his watch. It was almost five o'clock, nearly time for the retreat ceremony. He dried his feet, put his socks on and stamped into his boots. Putting on his coat, he fastened the sword belt around his waist, attached the sword, put on his forage cap and stepped out the door.
Captain Kevin Ryan, the adjutant saluted and said;
"Sir, the regiment is formed, all present or accounted for. He returned the salute and commanded "Post." With his staff formed behind him, he commanded;
Trumpeter, Sound retreat." The notes of to the colors, then retreat sounded as the flag was lowered. After the flag was folded and secured, he said;
"Adjutant, post the guard and dismiss the regiment."
The officer of the guard formed the guard, then the sergeant of the guard marched the guards to their posts.
Colonel Rodgers joined his officers for supper. It wasn't great, but it was hot and filling. Beef and beans, peas and a peach cobbler made from fried peaches for dessert and, of course, coffee.
The next morning, about ten o'clock, the sergeant major came into the orderly room and then into the colonel's office. He saluted. The colonel returned it.
"Top o' the mornin, to ye, Colonel Darlin, tis a fine mornin, sir." "I suppose that it is, Sergeant Major, just stop with the blarney and tell me what you have to say."
"Sir, the replacements are here."
"How many did we actually get?"
"Forty, sir."
"Wonderful. The war department promised me two hundred, not that I actually expected to get them. Any veterans, or all raw recruits?"
"A few veterans, sir. They probably served in foreign armies."
"That hardly matters, Sergeant Major, they are all Americans now."
"If you say so, sir."
"Give them the basics, Sergeant Major and I'll be out when you're done, to speak to them."
The sergeant looked at the group of forty men standing in a rather sloppy formation and shook his head, sadly. He called out;
"Attention, I said attention. Try to stand straight, if you know how. I am Sergeant Major Liam Devlin. The Colonel is a good, God-fearing man, so it is surely I that have sinned, to be stuck with a sorry lot like you. The war department promised us soldiers! Soldiers, not a bunch of plowboys, drunks and sheriff dodgers. I wonder if some of you even know which end of a rifle the bullet comes out of! It will certainly be a devil of a time turning you into real soldiers. But faith and begora we'll get it done or bury the lot of you! I don't know where you came from, what you did, or what your names used to be. Here, you'll answer to the names on the roll. And before I'm done with you, you will be soldiers. Now, listen for your names and answer as I call them. "Anderson, John." "Here Sergeant," "Baker, Bill…. Rodgers, Robert., the sergeant major's eyes got wide as he looked at the young soldier. He paused for a moment, then went on reading, but thought to himself, Jesus Joseph, Mary and all the saints, it can't be! Not the colonel's son, not here. It just couldn't be, but there was no denying the evidence. Sorter, slimmer and blonde but the facial features were just a slightly more refined version of his father's and there was no mistaking those blue eyes. How am I going to break this to the colonel?
And then, it was too late. Colonel Rodgers came out of the headquarters and strode up to the formation the sergeant major saluted.
:" Sir, these are the new men."
"Good morning men. I am Colonel Richard Rodgers. The regimental commander. You are now members of the Nineteenth Regiment, United States Infantry. I only demand two things of you. Obey your orders and do your duty to the best of your ability. Do those things and all will be well. Fail in either one of them and I will break you. That is all I have to say. Sergeant Major, meet with the adjutant and get these men assigned to their companies."
About an hour later, the sergeant major came into the colonel's office.
"May I speak freely sir?"
"Of course, Sergeant Major, just close the door and take a seat. Drink?"
"Thank you, kindly sir." The colonel poured two drinks and handed one to the sergeant major.
They both took long swigs of the whisky, relishing the burn,
"Spit it out Dev, we've soldiered together for almost twenty years."
"I don't know what to say, or do."
"About my son?
"Yes sir."
"There's nothing to do, or say. He may be my son, but as far as I am concerned, as long as he's on this post, he is simply Private Rodgers. No different than any other soldier on this post. I don't want to hear of anyone going easy on him or doing favors. By the same token, I will tolerate no bullying or harassment other than the normal new comer pranks.
I had a letter telling me that Robert had washed out of West Point, failed mathematics, I never dreamed that he would enlist as a private soldier and I'd sure as hell like to know what spiteful idiot assigned him here. However, here he is and here he'll stay. Assign him to c company. First Sergeant Esposito and second sergeant Rawlins are our two best trainers. After he's assigned and stowed his gear, have him report to me."
The colonel's orderly knocked on his door, then stuck his head in.
"Private Rodgers is here, sir."
"Send him in."
The young soldier came to attention, saluted and barked out;
"Private Rodgers reporting to the colonel as ordered sir." Colonel Rodgers returned the salute.
"Stand at ease." The soldier remained at attention.
"I said stand at ease. You're not Mister Dumbjohn, braced at the academy any more. It's good to see you, and that you're looking well. I haven't seen you or your mother in fifteen years. How is she?"
"She is well, sir. But I'm sorry to say that I have no recollection of you."
"That's not surprising. None of that matters. On this post, you are not my son. You are simply Private Rodgers of First Battalion, Nineteenth United States Infantry. You will receive no special favors from me or anyone under my command. Neither will you receive any undue abuse for the same reason. Is that perfectly clear?"
"Perfectly clear sir. And I neither want nor would expect any."
"Very good, Private. You are dismissed." Private Rodgers saluted, did an about face and left.
The colonel sadly watched the young man go. I'm sorry Bobby, I wish that things were different but they aren't and there can be no other way. I'm an officer, and that's all that I am. I can't be a father, nor even a husband. I still love your mother, I always will. But my dreams died in the Shenandoah.
Stationed on the frontier, the Infantry was hard pressed to catch the mounted Indians, outlaws or Mexican raiders. Their only hope was to catch the enemy in winter quarters, which imposed extra hardship and danger on the soldiers. So, Colonel Rodgers came up with an idea. Mount his troops. After all, the precedent was there. From May 1846, during the Mexican war and up to August 1861 there had been the U.S. Mounted Rifles. As the title states, They were armed with the M-1841 rifle, later nicknamed the Mississippi Rifle
With the backing of Generals Sherman and Crook and the grudging acceptance of Sheridan, the regiment was mounted. It did raise some interesting incidents during training. Not so much for the new recruits as for the veteran infantrymen who now had to learn to ride and care for their mounts.
Friday evening, the end of the training cycle. Private Robert Rodgers wiped the sweat off his brow. He was so tired that he really didn't want to eat supper, but knew that he would need the energy. The past eight weeks had been hard, far harder than Jefferson Barracks had been, or even West Point. He had aches where he didn't know he had muscles. The colonel might not be big on spit and polish, but God help you if your rifle was dirty or your equipment not up to snuff. He might not emphasize drill and ceremonies but marksmanship, horsemanship and basic tactics were drilled into your head every day.
As tired as he was, he headed for the mess hall. The soldier in line ahead of him complained:
"Beef beans and peas, again, don't we get any variety around here?" One of his table mates snarked.
"What do you mean, no variety? Today we got beef, beans and peas. Tomorrow you get beef, beans and black-eyed peas."
"Man, what I wouldn't give for some fried chicken and mashed potatoes."
"Yah, keep dreaming Yonny Reb, dis ist der army not your mudder's farm. Missing Mudder babying you? Vat are you, a verdamdt kinder? Or maybe Mudder's's too busy at fancy balls and kissing her shhatze's.
"Stop talking about my mother!"
"Make me, Yonny Reb."
"Step outside, Groener." The two men took off their shirts. They were only issued three shirts per year and they couldn't afford to casually damage them. Groener was older, stockier than Rodgers, but shorter. Rodgers was younger, taller, a little faster. The rest of the soldiers from their platoon formed a circle and the fight began. Groener's blows hit harder, heavy bruising blows. Rodgers hit more often, opening cuts on Groener's face, splitting his lips. The spectators were yelling, creating a commotion.
Colonel Rodgers was taking his evening stroll around the post, enjoying the cool evening air, smoking a long thin cheroot. He heard the yelling. And called for the duty officer. The man came running, stopped, came to attention and saluted. The colonel said;
"What's all that commotion, Captain Delancey?"
"Just a fight sir, a common soldier's fight. Sergeant Esposito won't let it get out of hand. The men are just blowing off a little steam." "Be that as it may, Captain, the army is paying them to fight the Indians, not each other. Let's go break it up."
First Sergeant saw the two officers approaching. He yelled," Platoon, attention, the colonel."
The colonel glared at the two dusty, bloody men.
"What's going on here?"
"Just a soldier's fight sir, nothing serious/, sir."
"I'll determine that Sergeant Esposito."
"What started this?"
""I refuse to answer; sur." Groener said.
I refuse to answer, sir," Rodgers repeated.
"Very well. First Sergeant, get a boxing ring built. Any further fights will be held under Marquis of Queensbury rules. As for you to, brawling behind the barracks is an afront to good order and discipline. Two days in the stockade on bread and water and a fine of one dollar each All your lollygaggers are fined a quarter each.
Have the regimental surgeon look these two over, before putting them in the stockade."
Groener watched the colonel walk off. He squinted through one eye, already swelling shut., then shook his head.
"Der Verdammt Oberst is a yust like a Verdammt Prussian." It just being only a few years since Germany had been united, there was little love lost between the various states.
After two days in the stockade with nothing to do but eat their meager meals and talk, the two enemies had become friends.
Monday morning, officers call:
"I'm afraid that I have some bad news, gentlemen. Lieutenant Colonel Webb will not be returning to the regiment. He was severely injured in an accident while on leave and won't walk again. Major Greenlee, you will take over as executive officer, while remaining first battalion commander."
"There have been several raids on ranches and pack trains, and an army supply train. Six cavalry troopers of the escort have been killed. I will be taking two companies, A and C, leading them personally, rather than sending them out under their battalion commander, I intend to personally observe them, if action occurs. He grinned. Besides, I can't let myself get rusty. Major Greenlee, you will hold the rest of your battalion under arms, ready to reinforce us if needed. Major Briggs, your battalion will hold the fort if Major Greenlee rides out. Issue each man one hundred rounds ammunition and five day's rations, Departure after the noon meal. Any questions? Very well, Dismissed."
Rick made a final check of his weaponsThe Officer's Rifle was perfectly functional, but the highly varnished stock and the bright blued barrel were a hazard in combat. In the field, besides his two revolvers, he carried a short double barreled 12- gauge shotgun and a bowie knife.
The two companies were joined by four scouts. Two Utes, a Blackfoot and an old buffalo hunter. The natives wore blue army jackets and trousers, tucked into knee-length moccasins, the buffalo hunter, corduroy trousers, a buckskin jacket and a battered brown hat. The natives were armed with old Spencer carbines and large knives, the buffalo hunter with a .45-90 Sharps rifle, a pair of Dragoon Colts and a large Bowie knife. The companies formed; Rick commanded;
"Prepare to mount, Mount. By Column of twos, Forward march. Right wheel, march." With the post band playing "The girl I left behind me, the column rode out of the gate.
The first day out of the fort was uneventful, no sign of the hostiles anywhere, the troops sweating and cursing the heat and the dust. That night, they made camp in a small valley that was shaded by cottonwoods, with a clear cold stream running through it. The men picketed their horses, letting them crop the grass after feeding them a little grain. They ate their supper, posed guards and rolled up in their blankets and ground cloths. Rick walked out from the camp a little way and looked up at the stars, enjoying the beauty of the clear cool night..
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