Monday-Monday Chapter 1

MONDAY-MONDAY

Chapter One

They call me Monday.

Most people think that's an odd name for a man until they understand how it came about.

My father, Heinreich Wilhelm Adolphus Von Stiehl, pronounced steel, was a Colonel in the Prussian Army; my mother was an Irish orphan. How these two managed to meet is a long but interesting story that I will save for a later.

After the defeat of Napoleon in 1815 there was very little demand for soldiers in Europe and soldiering was just about all my father knew how to do. Word quickly spread that the newly formed United States in the Americas was in need of professional soldiers, so my father packed up his bags along with his Prussian medals and Irish wife and immigrated to America.

Although there was a flood of ex-soldiers seeking the few vacancies in the fledging new American Army, my father had close connections, what is commonly referred to as coin connections. He greased the palms of a few influential men in the American capitol and was commissioned a Captain in the Regular Army and immediately assigned to frontier duty.

I was born in what passed for a small town in Kansas; actually just a ramshackle collection of tents and one old log store outside an Army Post named Fort Leavenworth on a bright Monday morning on the thirteenth day of March 1818.

According to my mother, at my birth my father exclaimed, "Vhat a keen day to haf a sohn," in the new fragmented English he was learning, and then his eyes lit up and he said with a big grin, "That iss his name, Anna. I vill name him, Monday. Monday Von Stiehl. No! I will add another name to please you and call him Keen Monday Von Stiehl. The Keen is for you as it be Irish, und if you read into der name don't you zee, keen steel? Ja. Sharp Steel! Iss is goot Anna." My father's sense of dry humor escapes me.

Fortunately, my mother had the presence of mind to spell my first name Keane instead of the Keen on which my father insisted. However, that didn't matter much because as soon as everyone learned that my middle name was Monday, from then on that's the only name I was ever called.

My parents died from a yellow fever epidemic when I was eight and a fellow officer and friend of the family took me in. Captain Albert Wilhelm Von Blucher und Earlich, was a much older man and had been a professor at a University in Vienna before he joined the American Army. It seems to me that everyone my father knew started their last name with a Von. He was also thought to be a bit addled because he would occasionally speak in Latin, French or German or some other strange language in front of his company, and he lived with not one, but three Indian squaws, two Sioux sisters and one Kiowa.

At leasy women were his only vice for he neither gambled nor drank which was very unusual for soldiers stationed on frontier duty.

He was a harsh taskmaster though. By the time I was sixteen I was forced to learn Latin, French, Spanish and Russian and a smattering of Arabic along with the German language we used at home; on which I was daily tested, and two Indian languages with their sub-dialects. In addition, science, mathematics, and engineering were my constant companions because he firmly believed that an educated person was closer to God.

Religion was the other passion of his heart and soul. Not just Christianity, with all it's different denominations, but Hindu, Buddhism, Islam, and half a dozen other religions that most Americans have never even heard of. Needless to say, he filled my head with so many religious beliefs, I wonder to this day how I managed to separate one from the other or even understand them all. Add to that the teachings of my three foster mothers and their Native American beliefs and you can easily see how thoroughly scrambled my young mind was.

Shortly before my seventeenth birthday, Von Blucher passed on to Heaven, or Valhalla, or whatever afterlife or new life was waiting for him, leaving me his few meager possessions. His dog-eared books I gave to the school teacher who was new at the Post, and his cabin and other possessions I left to his three Indian wives or concubines. I kept only his heavy cavalry saber and rifle, which I had learned to shoot quite well.

I had few friends on the Army Post and, although I considered soldiering to be a good and honorable profession, I had no desire to enlist in the Army at the age of seventeen. Besides, I knew all of the soldiers and officers stationed at the Post and most of them were not what you'd consider bright or intelligent; morons would be a more fitting description. I had even taught several noncommissioned officers to read and tutored them in mathematics, so I didn't like the idea of placing myself under their command. Not that I considered myself better, but I simply saw no particular future in it.

What I was interested in at that time was freedom to do what I wanted and go where I felt like going and the only place to find both was to head for the far mountains. Unknown to my foster father, as he would not have approved, I spent a lot of my time talking with the trappers and mountain men who often came to the Post to trade. They filled my head with visions of gold flowing in icy streams, of soft beaver pelts, fighting against bear and wolves, Indian war parties and the great yearly roundup where hundreds of trappers and mountain men would gather to drink, party, and brawl.

Yep! The wide-open spaces, fresh clean air, and privacy were just about all a man could ask for and that was where my desires lay.

I knew I could take care of myself. Not only could I out shoot most of the soldiers at the Post, I could out wrestle and out fight all of the boys my age and most of the older ones. Near seventeen I was an inch or two over six feet, weighed in at 180 pounds and I had learned a lot from my Indian foster mothers about living off the land. I guess I was passable as a looker because most of the girls at the Post tried to get into my pants. Then again, they tried to get into just about every boy's pants at one time or other. The only thing I needed was a good horse, because my foster father's horse belonged to the Army and did not come with my inheritance. The battalion Sergeant Major, John McGinnis, tried to solve that problem for me.

"Only ways to get a horse is to buy one, catch a wild one, or earn one lad," he told me. "Course you could steal one, but horse stealin' is a mighty fast way to get your neck stretched."

"There be another possible way," McGinnis continued with a sly grin, pointing towards a dandy looking young officer prancing around on the parade ground on the back of a beautiful black stallion. "Second Lieutenant Johnson over yonder says he can out shoot, out fight, and out ride anyone on this Post. Reckon if you were to wager something against his fancy horse you might be able to win the bet. Seen officers like him before, all talk and no action. Be nice to see him get his come-uppance"

I could tell from the way Lieutenant Johnson handled the spirited stallion that he was an excellent horseman and he had the lanky, well-built figure of a natural athlete. But, there was something about his handsome, almost too pretty looks that made me think he was all bluster and no brawn. Only thing was, I had nothing of significant value with which to bet. My rifle, though serviceable, was not exactly new, and he already had a cavalry saber with more gold inlay than my old hand-me-down.

Sergeant Major McGinnis could tell by the look on my face that I was mighty interested in offering a challenge but he was also smart enough to know I was a man of somewhat limited possessions.

"Possessions don't mean much to Leftenant James Henry Johnson the third," McGinnis said, shooting a stream of dark tobacco juice at a mongrel dog that shadowed him wherever he went.. "He comes from a rich family back East, Baltimore I be thinking. Put in for a transfer to the capitol e’ did I'm told, least wise O'Riley the battalion clerk done said. Word is he was turned down unless he could talk another shave-tail lieutenant into takin' his place here. Weren't no takers as I heard. No one wants frontier duty less they were born on the frontier."

"How's that bit of information going to help me to make a bet with him?" I curiously asked the wily Sergeant Major.

"Seein' as how the Tex-Mex have started a ruckus down South, the Army's short on men and officers. Done heard the government needs to build up the Army a wee bit just in case the Mexicans think of headin' north, or most likely, we think on headin' south. Now you havin' all that book learnin' you could get a commission with no problem at all. Soldiers would be calling you lieutenant shave-tail in no time. You could tell him you'd replace him so he could go back east where he belongs. I'm thinkin' he'd jump on a bet like that."

I liked Sergeant Major McGinnis and I knew he was a shrewd and hard man who was well thought of by all the troopers. But, I also knew he often used tricks to get the men to do things they didn't want to do and I was somewhat leery of him.

"That would mean that I'd still have to serve my commission time as an officer out here before I could head for the mountains. Seems like a lot of time to serve just to obtain a good horse."

"I said make the bet with him lad, not jump to conclusions. Just tell him you'll get the commission and take his place if he wins the bet. We both know he can't win. So, he loses, you get the horse, and soon you’ll be on your way. No need then to apply for a commission you don't want, now is there?"

What the Sergeant Major said made a lot of sense and the black stallion Lieutenant Johnson was pacing around the parade ground was no doubt worth his weight in gold.

The bet was made. To keep it honest, the Battalion Commander dictated that whoever won two out of three events would be the winner. The three events eventually settled on was horse racing, shooting, and boxing.

Sergeant Major McGinnis and our Battalion Commander, Major William Wintworth, assured Lieutenant Johnson that I would have no problem obtaining a commission, and Company Clerk O'Riley even got the paperwork ready to forward with signatures and everything all legal and proper like. There was just one little problem with the entire crazy scheme.

I lost!

I won the shooting part, of course, because after three hundred yards Lieutenant Johnson couldn't even hit the target. I knew I'd have a problem winning the horse race. The Major let me use his fast mare but Johnson's black stallion left me standing at the starting line. It wasn't even a close contest.

Another thing, Sergeant Major McGinnis forgot to tell me that Lieutenant Johnson was the best fighter on his boxing team in college. Most of the fighting I had done was Indian wrestling and an occasional knock down drag out fight with the Miskelley boys, all of which I won. The Major told me that I would have to fight by the rules, and I honestly didn't know there were any rules in fighting.

When I got into the ring with Johnson, I didn't last more than ten minutes. He was fast, danced around so I couldn't hit him, and he pounded my face like it was his own private punching bag. Every time I thought I had the best of him the referee said I was not fighting by the rules. The Major called the bout after I lost eyesight in one eye and I was seeing three copies of the Lieutenant dancing and grinning in front of me.

"Next time you have the audacity to take on a real man, learn how to fight boy!" Lieutenant Johnson spat after the match. "Piece of white trash like you should well know not to take on your betters."

He was the most stuck-up, self-centered, arrogant person I had ever met and everyone on the entire post, including his fellow officers, despised his arrogance and better than thou art attitude. But, Congress had made him an officer and wealth had made him a gentleman, so there wasn't much the Post Commander could do about it.

So, the commissioning paperwork that was intended as a ruse was forwarded to the War Department, and since I had been taught that a man's honor was sacred and his good name the best-valued currency a man could offer, I stuck around to await my fate.

As I reckoned it, a one-year hitch in the Army couldn't be too bad. After all, I was born and raised on a military post, and just about everyone I knew was in the military or dealt with the military in one aspect or another. I already had a vast knowledge of military customs and courtesies and organizational structure. My foster father had gone into minute detail on infantry tactics, artillery battery and counterbattery, siege warfare, drill and ceremonies, logistics, and he was, as I noted earlier, a harsh taskmaster. The military education I had received at his hands was equivalent to, if not better than that offered at any prestigious military academy. The great battles of Europe and the strategies used to win them were often the topic of conversation during and after our evening meal.

Two months later, my world was turned upside down.

Major Wintworth sent Sergeant Major McGinnis to fetch me to his office. When we arrived, Lieutenant Johnson was standing in the orderly room looking out the single yellowing window. I could tell he must have had a rough night for his eyes were blood shot and his normally immaculate uniform was wrinkled and dusty. He was known to frequent the sutler store where he often drank too much and gambled incessantly. He glared at me, and if looks could kill, I would have died on the spot.

A nervous Private O'Riley ushered us into the Major's presence with a worried look on his face and, as usual, left the door slightly cracked when he returned to the orderly room.

"I'll be blunt gentlemen," Major Wintworth stated, picking up a dispatch from his desk and leaning back to read it. "The news is not what we expected." He slowly read the reply from the War Department. "As regards Mr. Steel's official request to be commissioned in the Army of the United States of America, a commission is officially denied. All present billets have been filled"

The Major laid the paper down and glanced up and glared at Lieutenant Johnson who uttered a quick curse, something to the effect that he should not have trusted white trash.

"A note from a friend of mine stationed in Washington states that a sudden glut of requests for commissions has been received at the War Department and most of them are from well to do families," the Major said. Men who can afford to purchase commissions and get their names at the top of the lists is what he really meant. He also told me, that based on the recommendations and qualifications I submitted, I appeared to be a prime candidate for commissioning should the War Department have future need of my services. “Right now your age is against you. However, the worst part is yet to come," the Major finished with a sigh, picking up a second document and reading on.

"In view of Mr. Steel's ardent desire to serve his country, the War Department hereby accepts his enlistment into the United States Army with the rank of Private for one year. His official signature on the request for commissioning will constitute due authority for this decision. Mr. Steel's initial posting will be left up to the discretion of Major William Wintworth, officer commanding. Signed, John Robert Wiles, Lieutenant Colonel, Assistant Adjutant, the War Department."

My mind went blank and my mouth fell open. Sergeant Major McGinnis was looking at me and then back down to the Major as if he did not understand what had just transpired, and Lieutenant Johnson I noticed could barely contain the sudden laughter and delight boiling up on his face.

I picked up the letter from the War Department and read it through several times. "This can't be official," I said to the Major. "I didn't ask to enlist in the Army, I was only honoring my bet with Lieutenant Johnson. Not only that, they even spelled my name wrong. They spelled it Steel, not Stiehl and left off the Von."

"Unfortunately it's all too legal," Major Wintworth replied. "It's the Army's way of putting you in short range reserve. They could officially commission you an Ensign and reduce you in rank to Private, but this way saves on paperwork. They are very aware that you may one day be a valuable asset, and I am bound by law to uphold this order."

"And if I disregard this cock and bull and head for the mountains?"

"My duty would be to list you as a military deserter and respond accordingly." The Major glanced at Sergeant Major McGinnis.

"But I haven't even taken the oath," I stammered. "How can they legally bind me to something that I haven't even agreed to?"

"Your signature on your request for commissioning constitutes a binding oath, just as if you had signed an enlistment contract. A verbal oath is just a simple formality often overlooked and really not needed."

"This is all a joke Major," I blurted. "It was just a bet. A silly bet!"

"Your silly bet has landed you in the United States Army, Private Steel," Major Wintworth replied, suddenly growing angry at the odd turn of events. "Private O'Riley, I know you're listening in as you always do, please honor us with your presence."

O'Riley rushed into the Major's office with a list of rosters in his hand.

"Which company is the shortest on men O'Riley."

"That would be E Company Sir," O'Riley said, scanning the list of rosters. "E Company is short eight troopers and has three others scheduled for end of enlistment within two months, which will bring them down to eleven short, twice as many as any other company."
My heart fluttered at this final bit of bad news.

Companies within the battalion were officered according to their alphabetical listing. The most senior lieutenant, usually a first lieutenant, got A Company and/or the executive officer billet, the second senior officer went to B Company, and on down the line to the most junior officer who got the last company. In this case E Company since the post battalion consisted of five companies. And, the most junior officer on Post and commander of E Company was, of course, Second Lieutenant James Henry Johnson, III.

"Ye can't be thinkin' what I'm thinkin' you be thinkin'," Sergeant Major McGinnis stated, leaning over the Major's desk. "Ye can't put the lad in Johnson's Company Willie, ye can no be a doin' that."

"And since when do you tell me how to run this Battalion, McGinnis?" Major Wintworth replied with an angry burst. "It was your bloody idea to have the lad challenge Johnson to a bet. He is assigned to Company E. Add him to the morning report effective immediately, a one year enlistment ending on February 15, 1836. We'll forward a correction to add his proper name later."

I was still in shock. Law was not one of the subjects that my foster father had taught me so I did not know where I stood legally. I imagine I could have hired an attorney and gotten out of the bum rap, but that presented another small but important item, I was drastically short on money.

My life was a shambles. I had suddenly gone from almost Lieutenant Von Stiehl, to Private Steel and was now at the mercy of the only man I had ever disliked, and one who hated me with a passion, my new Company Commander.

"I'll see to ye uniforms and posting," Sergeant Major McGinnis said, putting his hand on my shoulder and guiding me out of the room. He gave the Major a nasty look as we left the room.

"You'll not be taking advantage of this situation."  Major Wintworth looked at a suddenly happy Lieutenant Johnson. "He's just a boy but he has a lot of potential. I don't want you abusing him. Is that clear?"

"Quite clear sir," Johnson replied. "He'll be treated no worse and no better than any other private under my command."

Which is about as bad as it gets, Major Wintworth thought, dismissing Johnson with a wave of his hand.