Part 12
Ned did not stay unconscious long. He was half-conscious. He dimly heard the pleading voice of little Mary, he felt her caresses, he was aware that the shots and the shouts and the whoops continued, he felt the throbbing pain of his wound, he felt himself lifted and carried, lax, and deposited again; and he felt a sharper, sickening agony as fingers manipulated the arrow, while a kindly voice soothed him. That must be the surgeon, Dr. Lippincott.
He shut his lips firmly, not even to groan. It was the part of the soldier to bear pain; and if he was only a boy, he also was a soldier. A “snip” sounded, upon the arrow, and for a moment the shock was almost too much to stand. Then the shaft was gently but firmly slipped from the hole. The surgeon had cut off the head and had drawn the arrow out backward, for the point was of course barbed.
“You’ll do nicely, my lad,” spoke the surgeon. “It’s only a flesh wound. It followed outside the skull. Good!”
Soft touch applied a bandage.
“Can’t you see, Ned? Please see!” implored little Mary.
Ned rallied and opened his one eye. He was bolstered up, on a heap of buffalo-robes. Mary was trying to hug him. He hugged Mary. They were in an open space amidst the tipis, where the field hospital had been established. Around-about them were other wounded soldiers. Colonel Barnitz was lying near, as pale as if dead. Doctor Lippincott and his assistants were busy here and there.
The rattle of rifle and carbine, the quick orders, the defiant yells, betokened desperate battle. The strains of “Garryowen” sounded wild and inspiring, as the band, posted on a little knoll by the village, played on and on. But higher, more piercing, penetrating all the clamor, not unlike the howl of wolves rose an incessant chant—the mourning wail of sorrowing squaws.
The charge had been successful. The troops had the village. Now the surrounding hills were alive with Indians; the soldiers were in the center; and the day was not yet noon.
Rapidly came the news, brought in by the wounded, or drifting in hap-hazard from hurrying fighters. Captain Hamilton had been killed—shot through the heart in battle, just as he had desired as a soldier’s end. Bluff Colonel Alfred Barnitz was desperately wounded by a ball through the body. Lieutenant Colonel Tom Custer had been wounded, and Lieutenant March. Nothing had been seen, since the first attack, of Major Elliot or Sergeant-Major Kennedy. Black Kettle and Chief Little Rock were slain. Major Benteen had encountered Black Kettle’s young son, not fourteen years of age, and after being fired upon repeatedly by him and having his horse shot under him, had been obliged to shoot back and kill the gallant young warrior. Squaws and children had fought wickedly, helping the warriors. One squaw, fleeing with a captive little white boy, had stabbed him rather than surrender him. She had been shot down at once; but too late. Romeo the interpreter had gathered the captive squaws into a large tipi, and California Joe had herded nine hundred ponies. This was the Cheyenne village, with a few Arapaho and Sioux tipis in it. But one of the squaws had informed the general (who was unharmed) that below the Cheyenne village extended for ten miles the villages of the Kiowas and of the Comanches, more Cheyennes, the Arapahos, and some Apaches. Aroused by runners and by the noise of conflict, these warriors were rallying by the hundreds to the attack and the rescue.
Captain Smith came riding hastily through; by the motions of his hand he was counting the tipis; and he was in a hurry because every now and then some angry squaw shot at him.
“Fifty-one,” he called, to an orderly.
General Custer himself appeared, flushed and energetic, on Dandy plashed with froth and frozen mud and water.
“Hello,” he cried, at sight of Ned. “Hurt?”
“Yes, sir,” and Ned tried to salute.
“Bullet?”
“No, sir. Arrow.”
“It didn’t go through his head,” piped little Mary, bravely. “It just stuck there.”
“I’ve found my sister, sir,” informed Ned, eager to let him know.
“Good!” And the busy general turned to other matters. His eagle glance measured the hospital. “You must get ready to move out of here, doctor,” he said. “We sha’n’t stay.”
“All right, general.”
And the Yellow Hair dashed away.
More and more Indians were gathering upon the ridges around the village. The head-dresses of the warriors could be seen. Word came that the overcoats and the haversacks which had been left by the center column when it advanced were captured and that the guard was obliged to scud hard for escape. Blucher the stag-hound had run out among the Indians, thinking that they were yelling for a hunt; and now he stiffened up there, with an arrow through him. Maida had not been hurt.
That was bad, to lose the overcoats and the haversacks of rations—although of course here in the village was plenty of furs and food. But what of the supply train, which Lieutenant Mathey was bringing on? From the hills the Indians would soon sight it, and while a thousand of them fought the cavalry, another thousand would attack the eighty men guarding the wagons.
The warriors surrounding the village did not seem ready to storm it and retake it; while a circle of the troopers, dismounted, kept them at long range, field squads sought among the tipis for the dead and the wounded on both sides.
A lull had occurred in the fighting. Now 200 soldiers were set at work heaping high the plunder from the tipis, and tearing the tipis down, to burn them. General Custer, in plain view, on restless Dandy, delivering rapid orders right and left to his aides, received report of the battle results.
There were 875 ponies and mules; 241 saddles, some (as could be seen in the pile gathered) very finely decorated; 573 dressed buffalo robes—some of these, also, very fine; 390 lodge hides; 160 raw robes, untanned; thirty-five bows, thirty-five revolvers, forty-seven rifles, 360 axes and hatchets, twelve shields, seventy-five lances, ninety bullet molds, thirty-five pounds of powder, 1050 pounds of lead, 300 pounds of bullets, 4000 arrows and arrow-heads, 470 Government blankets, ninety-three coats, 775 hide lariats or picket-ropes, 940 skin saddle-bags, 700 pounds of tobacco, and moccasins and dried meat and flour and so forth.
One hundred and three Indians had been killed, including sixteen chiefs; three squaws and a boy and two girls had been wounded; fifty-three were prisoners. Captain Hamilton had been killed, and three other soldiers; Colonel Barnitz, Colonel Tom Custer, Lieutenant March, and eleven men wounded; Major Elliot and Sergeant-Major Kennedy and fourteen men were still missing. It was rumored that they had pursued some Indians escaping down the stream.
After a few things had been picked out, to keep, the piles of lodges and belongings were set on fire. At sight of the flames, from the Indians upon the hills swelled a great cry of rage, and down they came, in party after party, charging the cavalry lines. The general ordered his mounted squadrons to charge back. Outfought, the Indians were forced to open a way wherever led the guidons. Thus breathing space was again given.
The whole column was being put in marching formation. The hospital had been broken—when now from the column’s rear sounded sharp volleys, and continued heavy firing.
An attack? Or was it Major Elliot and men cutting their way through to join their comrades? Or was it the supply train, in peril? No. Swiftly passed the word that the general had directed that all the captured ponies and mules be shot, except those needed to carry the prisoners. Eight hundred were being killed, by four companies detailed to do the firing.
This was cruel, but necessary in war. What could the column do, with all those wild ponies and mules? The Indians would fight fiercely to retake them; the Indians would be badly crippled, without them. So the general had set his heart hard, and had given the order. When the firing ceased, all the column was glad, for killing horses is not soldiers’ work.
Major Elliot and his fifteen had not been heard from. To delay and seek them might mean the loss of the whole column and of the supply train. How thick the Indians were swarming! Kiowa, Comanche, Arapaho and Apache and Cheyenne, in their war-dress they were rallying to avenge their fellows. Upon the tops of the hills they had posted lookouts, to watch the country around about, and the next movement of the invaders.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. The battle had lasted nine hours. At signal from the general pealed clear and defiant the bugle call of “Advance”; “For—r’d—march!” sounded the command.
The worst wounded, and the body of Captain Hamilton wrapped in a blanket, were in the ambulance. Ned could ride his horse; and beside him rode upon a pony little Mary, with her Indian finery and her white girl face and hair. The Osage scouts bearing many scalps—the mourning warrior now in war-paint like the rest—led; the captive squaws and children, on ponies, under guard closed in at the rear. Skirmishers rode the flanks.
Thus, in close order, with flags streaming and band playing, as if to attack the other villages down the stream forth from the battle-field and the lodge ashes marched all boldly the Seventh Cavalry.
Away hastened the Indians, to rescue what they could before the merciless Chief with the Long Yellow Hair should strike there also. They went scurrying down the valley, and the most of them disappeared. But the Yellow Hair was wily. When darkness fell, without having attacked the other villages he turned his men about, and on the back trail marched fast until two in the morning. The men without overcoats or haversacks suffered. Colonel West was sent on to meet the wagon train and reinforce it; the rest of the column camped about huge fires, here in the valley of the Washita ere yet the trail veered off for the Canadian, northward.
The Osages hung their captured scalps to a pole in front of their fire, and discharged several volleys over them. Highest of all was hung Black Kettle’s grayed scalp, the prize of the proud young brave Koom-la-Manche.
This shooting, explained California Joe, who knew everything, was done to drive away the spirits of old Black Kettle and the others, who would be hovering about, trying to take their scalps back again.
California Joe was in great glee, and talked constantly.
“Fightin’?” he demanded, for general answer. “Call that fightin? I call it jest reg’larly wipin’ out the varmints. Yes, an’ sich a one as they won’t hev agin, I tell ye. I rather ’spec’ now them Injuns would be powerful glad to call it quits for a spell.”
Joe seemed to be right, for morning broke clear, cold, but peaceful. At noon the wagon-train was met safe and whole. Hurrah for blankets and tents and supplies.
That night California Joe and Jack Corbin rode off with dispatches announcing to General Sheridan the battle of the Washita. ’Twould be a long perilous ride, across the miles of hostile wintry country.
The wounded were doing well. Even Colonel Barnitz, who was thought to be mortally wounded, had survived all the jolting and according to the reports of Doctor Lippincott was likely to recover. Ned’s head of course ached considerably, and he could not blow his bugle or use the eye on the bandaged side, but he was able to ride, and soon would be as good as new—save for the scar. He and Mary had much to talk about.
When Camp Supply was almost in sight, California Joe and Corbin and another scout came riding with answering dispatches from headquarters. Joe and Jack had gone through in thirty-six hours, travelling mostly by night; here they were again.
That evening at guard-mount, with all the troops in line, by direction of General Custer, Adjutant Moylan read the dispatch received from General Sheridan: “General Field Orders No. 6,” dated “Headquarters Department of the Missouri, in the Field, Depot on the North Canadian, at the Junction of Beaver Creek, Indian Territory, November 29, 1868.”
It officially announced the defeat “by the Seventh regiment of cavalry, of a large force of Cheyenne Indians, under the celebrated chief Black Kettle, re-enforced by the Arapahos under Little Raven, and the Kiowas under Satanta, on the morning of the 27th instant, on the Washita River, near the Antelope Hills, Indian Territory;” and, like all such official reports of engagements in the army or navy it told the losses and the gains. But the last paragraph, read by Adjutant Moylan in voice emphatic, was what brought from the ranks the cheers:
“The energy and rapidity shown during one of the heaviest snow-storms that has visited this section of the country, with the temperature below freezing point, and the gallantry and bravery displayed, resulting in such signal success, reflect the highest credit upon both the officers and men of the Seventh Cavalry; and the Major-General commanding, while regretting the loss of such gallant officers as Major Elliot and Captain Hamilton, who fell while gallantly leading their men, desires to express his thanks to the officers and men engaged in the battle of the Washita, and his special congratulations are tendered to their distinguished commander, Brevet Major-General George A. Custer, for the efficient and gallant services rendered, which have characterized the opening of the campaign against the hostile Indians south of the Arkansas.
“By command of
“Major-General P. H. SHERIDAN.”
“Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!” cheered the ranks. It was good to be appreciated by such a soldier as Phil Sheridan.
Word was sent ahead by courier, that the next day the expedition would enter Camp Supply, and soon everybody knew that the entry was to be made in style. There was a busy evening and early morning applied to scouring weapons and buttons and patching clothing.
The day was beautiful. The sun shone bright, the snow had melted, the air felt warm. Just at noon the head of the column topped the ridge below which lay Camp Supply. The glad firing of rifles, by the Osages, who led, announced that the camp was in sight.
Over the crest of the ridge, and down the long sunny slope into the tent-dotted valley marched as for review the victorious eight hundred. General Sheridan and his staff, in full dress, were waiting, posted on their horses where the column would pass.
First rode on their prancing ponies the Osage scouts. They and their ponies were brightly painted and fluttered with strips of red and blue, with feathers and trinkets; they had donned their gayest finery; from their spears dangled scalps—the spear of young Koom-la-Manche waving the scalp of Black Kettle. As they rode they brandished their weapons, they fired their guns, and sung wild songs of triumph. Little Beaver led. He tried to sit stiff and proud; but once he must beat his swelling chest and cry loudly: “They call us Americans. We are more. We are Osages!”
Behind rode in a line the white scouts, they also proud, but California Joe on his old mule smoking his black pipe as usual.
Then came the Indian families, gazing curiously, some of the squaws and children three on a pony, many in blankets scarlet and blue.
Then rode the general and his staff. After them marched the band playing “Garryowen.” In columns of platoons followed the troops, rank by rank, their officers in command.
Higher rose the yells and chants of the Osages; faster California Joe puffed his pipe; more stirring played the band. Weapons sparkled, the bright blankets and the Indian ornaments of silver and copper gleamed, the sabres flashed in a “present,” as rank after rank the victorious column passed in review before General Sheridan, repeatedly lifting his cap.
Not the least prominent in the ceremony were Ned and the other wounded, who felt themselves heroes all.
When the Seventh had gone into camp, here at the rendezvous again, there was a great time of congratulations and shaking of hands. That night the Osages gave a tremendous scalp dance, which lasted until morning and kept many people awake.
XVIII
TO THE LAND OF THE DAKOTAH
The Seventh went into camp about half a mile up Beaver Creek from the log stockade of Fort Supply. On the third day after, the body of Captain Louis McLane Hamilton was laid to rest under some cottonwoods on the bank of the creek. It was a solemn and tender military funeral; with muffled drums and slow march by the band, and in the ambulance a rude board casket covered with the American flag, and behind the ambulance the captain’s horse, draped with a black cloth, and bearing the empty saddle and the cavalry boots upside down. Over the grave were fired three volleys; Odell sounded “Taps.”
The Nineteenth Kansas Volunteers had at last struggled in, after losing by cold and starvation almost all their horses. General Sheridan had been waiting only for the Kansas soldiers, before he should start out himself, with General Custer and all, upon another winter march against the Indians. And he hoped to get some news of Major Elliot and fifteen men.
However, it was decided to send the prisoners and the wounded up to Fort Hays; and as Ned was not yet fit for duty (the arrow had made two large holes, one over his left eye, where it had gone in, and the other over his left ear, where it had come out), up to Fort Hays must he go. Little Mary of course went, too.
On the seventh of December, scarce a week after the Seventh had marched in, out marched again the famous “pony-soldiers,” together with the infantry or “walk-a-heaps.” General Sheridan, whom the Indians styled “Little-Big-Short-Man-Ride-Fast,” accompanied the column, but “Old Curly” (“Creeping Panther,” “Strong Arm,” “Long Yellow Hair”) was in command. They headed into the southward. For the northward trailed the invalids and the Cheyenne prisoners, under escort.
From the field reports came regularly through to Fort Hays. On the march southward the battle-field of the Washita had been revisited. Two miles below the Black Kettle village were discovered, in one little space of frozen ground, the disfigured bodies of the lost Major Elliot and Sergeant-Major Kennedy, and the fourteen others. Piles of cartridge shells showed that they had fought staunchly until one by one they had fallen. The Indians hastening to the rescue of Black Kettle must have surrounded them.
The Comanches and Apaches gathered upon the reservation. Satanta and Lone Wolf the Kiowa war-chief, were captured, and all the Kiowas came in. So did the Arapahos. And after to the Strong Arm, as they now called the general, they had surrendered two young white women, Mrs. Wilson and Miss White, so did the most of the Cheyennes.
The campaign had been a success; the battle of the Washita had shattered the tribes of the Southwest Plains.
Upon a bright day in March, 1869, to the tune of “Garryowen” the travel-worn Seventh Cavalry rode blithely home into Fort Hays. They brought more Cheyenne prisoners, and more tales.
A new officer was in command at Fort Hays. He was General Nelson A. Miles, just appointed colonel of the crack Fifth Infantry, but in the Civil War he had been a cavalry officer. He sent out his Fifth Infantry band (a good one) to greet the Seventh, and with “Garryowen” to escort it into camp.
Clad all in buckskin, and still wearing his wide-collared blue shirt with the stars on the points, and his crimson necktie, General Custer led, on Dandy. He had grown a beard, during the winter; of bright red, and not very handsome. Clad in buckskin were many of the officers. The wagons were laden with trophies of robe and shield and embroidered shirt and savage weapon. California Joe smoked his black pipe.
Now back beside Big Creek, near to Fort Hays, where they had camped in the early summer of 1867, the Seventh Cavalry might enjoy a long rest; for the plains were quiet.
Mrs. Custer had hastened out from Fort Leavenworth, where she had been waiting; came with her, to join the “gin’nel,” Eliza the cook and Henry, negro coachman. Came wives of other officers. Mrs. Miles, married only a year, already was at the post.
It looked as if the Indian troubles were over. Only in the north the powerful Sioux were independent of the white man. But they had their own great region wherein to roam, and wherein white people were forbidden.
Ned’s wound had rapidly healed. Little Mary was placed with a kind family at Leavenworth. The Seventh were quartered at Fort Leavenworth for the winter of 1869–1870; they spent the following summer on the plains, in scouting and other routine work, varied by buffalo hunting, and in March, of 1871, they were transferred to Kentucky and South Carolina. Here, at small posts, they were to help break up unauthorized whiskey manufactories, and a secret society called the Ku Klux Klan, which interfered with the rights of Northern citizens and negroes. This was not soldierly work such as serving on the plains, and the Seventh did not feel particularly pleased.
The scouts, too, were well scattered. California Joe had disappeared. Reports said that he had gone into the mountains. Wild Bill Hickok had been attacked by some unruly soldiers, and as a result of his terrible defence with his deadly weapons he had been obliged to leave Hays. He had become marshal at Abilene—another rough and ready town, further east on the railroad. Romeo had married into the Cheyennes, with whom he was living. Buffalo Bill Cody was attached to the Fifth Cavalry.
As for Ned, it seemed to him that he ought to stay near Mary. So he was granted his discharge (with honor) from the army, and found a Government position in the quartermaster department at Fort Leavenworth. Here he might mingle with the soldier life that he loved, and also watch after Mary. She was doing finely, and growing into a large girl.
Once Ned caught a glimpse of the general, when in the spring of 1872, the general was returning from a big buffalo hunt on the plains with the Grand Duke Alexis of Russia. Custer had been assigned as his escort, by General Sheridan. Buffalo Bill had been the guide. The hunt was a great success, and the Grand Duke was much pleased.
Another year passed—and suddenly spread the news that the Seventh Cavalry were once more to take the field. They were ordered to assemble and as a regiment together to proceed to Fort Rice, among the Sioux of Dakota Territory.
That news was enough for Ned. It set his blood to tingling, it set his thoughts to dancing, it filled his eyes with pictures of camp and of march and of an alert, lithe, soldierly figure whose keen blue eyes and long yellow hair and clarion voice no boy ever could forget, any more than he could forget the cavalry guidons waving in the charge.
Ned re-enlisted, with request that he be assigned again to the Seventh. And as he was a “veteran,” and as the Seventh needed more men, for field service, he was ordered to report to his regiment at Omaha. There, the middle of March, with a few genuine recruits he was waiting at the station when in pulled the first section of the long train which bore the famous Seventh Cavalry, en route from the States to the best-beloved frontier.
Out from the cars boiled the blue blouses and the yellow stripes! There was the general—first, as usual. He was wearing the regulation fatigue uniform, instead of buckskin; he had cut his hair; he seemed whiter than when on the plains: but he was the same quick, bold, active spirit. And there was Mrs. Custer, with other ladies. And there was “Queen’s Own” Cook—and Lieutenant Tom—and Captain Benteen—and all the old officers, and several new ones. And there, poking out of the car windows and thrust from the steps, were familiar faces and forms of comrades.