Ocean Keyes
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“You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Ocean Keys,” the doctor said as he turned away from his examination of the bullet hole in Ocean’s chest. “A good surgeon would have been able to save your life if you’d come here at once.” He sighed heavily and looked around.
The small clinic was crowded with patients who had no place else to go; many were too sick or injured for even an army field hospital. “But it is a miracle that you survived this long,” he continued.
Ocean nodded and smiled weakly.
“I can’t thank God enough,” he whispered. Then he frowned suddenly and stared past the doctor toward the door. His eyes widened, then narrowed suspiciously. “Who are you?”
The doctor laughed lightly but shook his head when Ocean repeated himself. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean by that,” he replied, turning back to the wound. “Are you having some difficulty breathing? You’ve got blood clots forming in both lungs, which is why you need to keep your mouth open while you sleep.”
The soldier coughed weakly and closed his eyes.
The doctor turned back to him and gave him a sharp look. “It seems like you do know me,” he remarked.
Ocean opened his mouth to reply—then stopped abruptly, looking confused again. A moment later, he shook his head slightly and sat up straight on the bed. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and tried to speak, but nothing came out.
He began to cough violently, then lay down again quickly and covered his mouth. After another minute or two of hacking, he fell silent, panting heavily.
The doctor looked over at him sharply. “Mr. Ocean Keys—” he began. But before he could finish, the patient moaned loudly and rolled off the bed.
“What happened?” asked one of the nurses. She ran to his side immediately and started checking his pulse.
The doctor stepped forward quickly and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Miss Dominguez,” he reassured her. “He’ll be okay soon.”
She nodded nervously and patted the wounded man’s arm gently. “Do you think he needs more water?” she asked the doctor.
He shrugged. “Only time will tell,” he answered. He looked over at Ocean, whose eyes were still wide open. “If he keeps coughing so hard, though, he might not get any rest tonight. Maybe we should give him something for pain…”
“No!” Ocean shouted suddenly. He coughed again and waved his hands frantically above his head. “Please! No drugs! Nothing!”
The nurse looked surprised. “Why not?” she asked.
“Because they make me…they make me feel…uncomfortable,” he replied, struggling to find words. “They make me feel different inside.” He paused briefly and swallowed heavily. “And I just want to die. That’s all.”
The doctor stared at the young soldier, who was now sitting up slowly, his eyes closed.
“How about you?” he asked softly. “Do you want to die?”
Ocean opened his eyes again and glanced at the doctor. For several seconds, neither spoke. Finally, the young soldier nodded solemnly. “Yes,” he muttered quietly. “That’s exactly right.”
The doctor watched him closely for a moment. “All right,” he finally agreed. “Let me take care of those bullets first, then I’ll talk to you some more.”
***
Three days later, the battle of Palo Alto was won decisively by the United States Army. Despite being outnumbered almost three-to-one, the Americans prevailed largely because their soldiers fought courageously and smartly.
Many of the Mexican troops simply didn’t believe they could lose such a fight; after all, they were defending Mexico against a foreign invader. It wasn’t until they saw American soldiers actually storm the walls of San Juan Bautista that most of them realized there was serious trouble ahead.
Even so, it took only hours for the Mexican commander General Pancho Villa to realize that the odds were stacked against him. He called a council of war with his generals to discuss their options: retreat, surrender, or continue the fight. In the end, the decision was clear: they would withdraw.
The Mexicans had lost far too many men already fighting the Americans, and they knew that another few days’ worths of combat wouldn’t change the outcome. So they withdrew from Palo Alto and returned to their encampment on the outskirts of San Antonio de Béxar.
The day after the battle of Palo Alto ended, General George Crook was informed that an important message awaited him at Fort Brown in Brownsville. Since he was also responsible for guarding Texas as well as California, Crook decided to travel across the Rio Grande in person to deliver the message to General Nelson Miles.
He left Brownsville early that morning and traveled north along the Gulf Coast. By late afternoon, he arrived at the small fort near Padre Island, where Miles was waiting for him.
Crook saluted the general and handed him a letter. “General Miles, this is from Colonel Custer,” he said.
Miles read the note silently. When he finished reading, he folded it carefully into a small square and slipped it into his pocket. Then he motioned for Crook to follow him outside the fort. Once they were alone together, he looked the older officer directly in the eye and told him, “I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”
Crook frowned. “Bad news? What kind of news?”
“You’re going home.”
For a long moment, Crook stared blankly at Miles. “But I thought—”
“There’s been a big mistake,” the general explained. “Custer has ordered me to return you to your home in St. Louis. You can pack what you need—just bring your uniform—and I’ll send someone down to pick you up tomorrow.”
“But why?”
“Well, it turns out that things aren’t quite as simple here in Texas as they are in Montana.” He hesitated momentarily, searching for words. “Things are happening fast. We’ve been attacked twice now, and we’ve barely scratched our opponents.
The Mexicans have proven themselves to be a very capable army—much better than we’d anticipated—so we’re pulling back. But the Indians, well, they’ve turned out to be even more troublesome.” His voice dropped slightly. “It seems that the Plains tribes are growing increasingly hostile toward us—against white settlers, in particular.”
Crook grimaced. “Are the Indians planning an attack?”
“Not yet,” Miles admitted. “But if we don’t act soon, I fear that they will.” He paused, thinking quickly. “Colonel, the truth is, the situation isn’t safe for you anymore.”
Crook stood silent, absorbing the news. He felt a mixture of emotions, none of which were particularly pleasant: anger, resentment, sadness, frustration, and confusion. At last, he sighed deeply and shook his head. “Very well, sir. If that’s the way it has to be, so be it.”
He started walking away, but before he reached the door, he stopped abruptly. Turning around, he faced the general once again. “Just one thing, though, sir. Who am I supposed to report to when I get back home?”
“Why you should report directly to me,” Miles replied. “Your orders haven’t changed.”
Crook smiled bitterly. “And how do you think my superiors will react when they hear that I’ve been transferred without any warning?”
Miles shrugged. “Who cares what they say? You’re just a colonel; you don’t matter much.”
“Actually, sir,” Crook corrected him, “you’re wrong about that.” He paused briefly. “As a matter of fact, there is one man who does care. And I intend to let him know exactly what happened.”
***
After a brief delay, Crook boarded the train for St. Louis. A military escort accompanied him all the way to the city. They stayed at a hotel located on the edge of town, close enough to the rail line that Crook could easily make his way over whenever he wished to visit the depot.
That evening, he walked down the street to the hotel bar. After ordering a drink, he sat down at a nearby table and began looking through some letters he had received since arriving in Texas. One letter, in particular, caught his attention. It was addressed to him in a familiar hand and bore the seal of his former employer, John Jacob Astor IV. As he read it, his eyes grew wide with shock.
Dear Captain Crook,
We regret to inform you that we have lost touch with one of our employees named Harry Fletcher. Mr. Fletcher is believed to have died in 1874 during a hunting trip in South America. We hope that you can provide us with further information concerning this individual. Please reply by telegram to this address.
Sincerely,
John Jacob Astor IV
The sender had written the note himself! Crook hadn’t known that Astor still possessed his old office or that the businessman would take such an interest in the case. Crook wrote a short note in response, telling Astor that he was aware of Fletcher’s disappearance.
He also informed Astor that he would be sending him a copy of the diary shortly. Then he sealed the envelope, placed it inside his coat pocket, and headed back to his room.
That night, as he lay alone in bed, he reread the message from Astor. The businessman seemed genuinely concerned about Fletcher, which meant that Crook might actually have another chance to find out what really happened to him.
With any luck, the businessman might even be able to help him solve the mystery. But first, Crook needed to find out where Fletcher was buried. He knew that the hunter had died while in South America, but he didn’t know where exactly in the country.
In order to determine Fletcher’s final resting place, Crook decided to hire a private investigator to look into the matter. He chose an Englishman named Alfred Fittes, a seasoned detective who specialized in locating people who had disappeared.
Crook sent him a check for five hundred dollars and asked him to begin searching immediately. In addition, he made sure to tell Fittes not to reveal their secret meeting to anyone else.
A few weeks later, Crook returned to Montana. During his absence, the war with Mexico continued to grow more violent. By now, the Mexican army numbered more than twenty thousand men and was led by General Antonio López de Santa Anna. Meanwhile, the United States’ own army consisted of fewer than ten thousand soldiers under command of General Winfield Scott.
On May 14th, Santa Anna ordered his forces northward, intending to invade New Mexico Territory. When word spread of this new threat, President James K. Polk authorized the construction of Fort Craig, which would serve as the northernmost outpost along the border between the two nations. The fort was completed six months after its official founding date, in October of 1846.
While traveling up to the fort, Crook noticed a large crowd gathered near the outskirts of St. Louis. He stepped off the train and joined them. Once they dispersed, he realized why so many people had gathered: they were celebrating the arrival of a certain individual.
Standing before them was none other than William Clark! For the past three years, Crook had heard countless stories about the famous explorer—stories told by the same eyewitnesses who claimed to have seen Clark himself. Now, Crook finally got to see for himself whether the stories were true.
He stood at the side of the road, watching the procession pass. Behind the man leading the way rode a horse-drawn wagon, carrying several men dressed in dark blue uniforms. Next came a carriage, followed by a team of oxen pulling a small wooden house behind them.
At last, a long train of wagons rolled past, filled with supplies and goods brought across the Great Plains from Missouri.
It was the same wagon and supply train that Crook had ridden in during his journey westward three years ago. His curiosity was piqued, and he watched until the group reached the edge of town.
There, a pair of horses trotted forward, pulling the wagon to a stop beside a white picket fence. An officer climbed down from the driver’s seat and approached the wagon door. Opening it, he spoke to the passengers within. “Mr. Jefferson?”
Crook recognized the voice. It belonged to Thomas Jefferson, president of the newly formed Washington Territory, a region encompassing all of the lands from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean. As soon as Jefferson finished speaking, a tall man stepped out onto the grassy lawn. A broad grin stretched across his face. “Hello there!” he shouted.
Jefferson extended his hand. “Good to see you again, Mr. Crook.”
“You too, sir,” Crook said, shaking the president’s hand. “I’ve been meaning to write you, but I just haven’t gotten around to it yet…”
“Don’t worry about it; I understand how busy things can get when you’re running your own territory.”
“Well then, allow me to introduce myself properly… I’m Andrew Crook.”
As Jefferson introduced him, Crook pulled out a business card. “Here is my business card. Feel free to call on me if you ever need anything. And I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for some good land deals for you, sir.”
“Oh, please do! We could use the extra income right now.”
After exchanging pleasantries for a little while longer, Jefferson motioned toward the wagon. “Come on over here and meet the rest of us.”
The group included four other men, including one wearing a brown uniform. That man stepped forward and offered his hand to Crook. “My name is Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer.”
Custer was the youngest son of General Philip Sheridan, who commanded the Union Army in the American Civil War. After the war ended, Sheridan took his family to live in Virginia, where he served as a U.S. senator.
However, when he became sick and passed away, the general left his wife and children penniless. This forced Custer and his brother to find work as cowboys. They eventually traveled south, hoping to strike gold in California. But when that failed, the brothers decided to head east instead.
In 1848, the year before the Gold Rush began, Custer and his brother headed to the West, looking for gold in Montana Territory. While prospecting in the area, they met Lewis and Clark’s assistant Meriwether Lewis, who advised them to head west to what is now present-day Kansas.
When Custer returned home empty-handed, he wrote his mother to tell her of their decision. She encouraged the brothers to go west anyway. The next morning, they set off with only the clothes on their backs and $500 apiece in their pockets.
When they arrived in Kansas, they found themselves surrounded by Indians, many of whom carried rifles and pistols. With no food or money, Custer and his brother resorted to stealing chickens and corn from nearby farms.
One day, the brothers found themselves facing off against a gang of six young Indian warriors. Despite being outnumbered, Custer killed five of them singlehandedly, saving his brother’s life in the process.
Though he didn’t know it at the time, Custer would later become known as the “Boy General”—the youngest soldier ever to receive a field commission.
Custer had fought in numerous battles since then, most notably in the Battle of the Little Bighorn. He also participated in the Sioux Campaign, which led to the defeat of Chief Sitting Bull and the Lakota Nation.
By the end of the decade, Custer was promoted to colonel. In 1870, he joined the army of Gen. George Armstrong Custer, Sr., a distant relative. Together, the two men founded Fort Abraham Lincoln, which became a major base for military operations in the Dakota Territories.
Three years after arriving in Kansas, Custer married Mary Elizabeth “Eliza” Dodge. Shortly afterward, he accepted a position with the Department of the Platte, working under the command of Gen. Nelson Miles.
Later, he was promoted to brigadier general and appointed commander of the 1st Division of the Seventh Infantry Regiment, stationed in the Dakota territories. During this time, Custer received orders to travel to the Black Hills to investigate rumors that the Sioux were planning to attack.
Upon his arrival, he learned that a band of Sioux warriors—including Crazy Horse, Red Cloud, and Geronimo—were gathering in the area. Custer ordered the soldiers to assemble their guns and prepare for battle.
The End