They made their way across the bridge and even from this distance he heard their high-pitched singing. The idea that George had been held by these people for so long….
What has he been through, Custer wondered. The boy is stronger than I thought if he’s come through this alive and unchanged.
“They’ll be coming up 15th Street,” Jacob said. “Meriwether is down there at the bridge terminus to guide them in.”
“Let’s just hope that the brutes don’t cause any more trouble,” Custer said. “I want this over with, and damned soon.”
“Now that sentiment I can whole-heartedly support,” said the Secretary of War.
Custer looked again through the binoculars. “They’re at mid-span, approaching the sand bar. My Lord, but they are a motley crew. Oh, Hellfire.”
“What’s wrong, sir?”
“Oh, nothing. Washington’s monument is in the way, is all. I can’t see the end of the bridge. Oh, well.” He handed the binoculars to Jacob. “Not a lot to see from this distance anyway.” He looked across the gardens, beds, and lawns of the south grounds and The Ellipse. Soldiers stood at attention along the proposed route of the advancing mob.
“They’ll practically fill the front lawn,” Custer sighed. “Libbie will have a fit if they tear up her rhubarb.”
Never in his life had Storm Arriving imagined that such things existed. They let their mounts walk across the railroad bridge that spanned the great river. He marveled at the rising structures on the far side. Immense square blocks of stone with openings covered by thin ice, like the ice that formed on the river edges during the Dust In The Face Moon.
How did they keep the ice cold, he wondered, in all that sunlight?
They approached the far bank of the river, singing as they had all the way with all the air their lungs could take in. The sides of the bridge were lined with bluecoats—hundreds of them, tens of hundreds it seemed—each one standing straight and fierce, each one with a rifle. The warriors sang their song of war and bravery, but Storm Arriving could hear their hearts failing.
“There are so many of them,” he said.
One Who Flies heard him but did not understand, so he said it again in the Trader’s tongue.
“Look at their eyes,” One Who Flies said.
Storm Arriving did. The bluecoats wore their hats low over their brows but he could still see their eyes. From beneath the shiny black brims he saw eyes that looked right and left and showed much white.
They are afraid, he realized. They are afraid. Suddenly he felt as if they might actually do this thing they came to do.
“Hearten, brothers,” he called to his fellow warriors. “Look! Their eyes are full of fear!”
The warriors looked and saw for themselves. They yipped and whooped like boys in their renewed confidence.
The song rose up again, this time with the strength and assuredness that befitted such a procession of the People’s might.
One Who Flies turned to him and the chiefs.
“See there? Up ahead? They will try to steer us to the left, up there when we leave the bridge. They want us to go to my father’s house.”
A bowshot ahead Storm Arriving saw bluecoats standing across the road, blocking their way. One Who Flies had told them that this would be the moment when the war party should strike.
“Here it comes,” he shouted to the others. “Where the bluecoats block the road.”
The word passed down through the ranks of men.
Two Roads stood on his whistler’s back and shouted to the warriors.
“Today, as one, we will count the greatest coup ever known. Be ready. Be strong.”
Every man raised his voice in a shout to show his fierceness. Storm Arriving saw several bluecoats shift their stance. He smiled at one of them and laughed at the man’s fear.
But every bluecoat had a rifle, and every rifle had a bayonet. Every officer he saw had a pistol and a saber. Many men would die today, he knew.
May we at least die well, he said to himself.
The thoughts of death ran through his mind and the turn came closer. The buildings beyond it grew larger, taller. He began to sing his death song, and three hundred men joined him.
Nothing lives long,
Only the earth
And the mountains.
They were at the turn. An officer in a blue uniform and a great deal of gold braid motioned to them with a white-gloved hand, guiding them to the left. Storm Arriving looked that way. Ahead was another turn to the left, with bluecoats all along the perimeter. They were riding into a three-sided box lined with rifles.
Give the signal, he prayed. Give it.
One Who Flies called to his walker and the beast gave voice with three rasping calls.
Haoh. Haoh. Haoh.
On the third call the men switched to their war mounts and kicked them into motion. A shout went up—a high ululation, the battle cry of the plains. The officer ahead of them stood aghast as the mounted host leapt toward him. He ducked. Others fled. Most held their ground. The riders hit the barrier of men and plowed through it like ducks through water. Storm Arriving shouted as he rode down upon a soldier. He pointed at him with his bow. The bluecoat raised his rifle and Storm Arriving saw down the length of it to the young man’s cool grey eye. The distance closed. Storm Arriving shouted again and the rifle spat smoke and fire. The bullet went wide and Storm Arriving struck the man on the shoulder with his bow as he passed him by.
“Héehe’e,” he cried. “That is one.”
Gunfire broke out behind him, a spattering like the first raindrops of a coming storm.
“Nóheto,” he shouted as they headed down the broad avenue.
They ran their beasts, a headlong press filled with the shrills of whistlers and the whoops of advancing warriors. Storm Arriving knew their goal. Even now it rose above the buildings and trees.
Horses fled before them. People screamed in healthy panic. Wagons and carts lay overturned and abandoned in the street but the flock of whistlers simply swerved around them or leapt over them entirely.
Ahead he could see more trees and fewer buildings. One building lay directly ahead and it kept growing larger. It was a trick, he decided. They ran as fast as whistler-back allowed and still they hadn’t reached it. It only grew taller, higher, larger than he thought possible. It reached so high it frightened him, but it was beautiful, too. Its dome was all white and gleaming in the sunlight. It was the lodge of white stone; the building One Who Flies called The Capitol.
More gunfire, this time from their left. Bluecoats barreled down upon them from on horseback, riding in from another broad roadway. The building was just ahead, rising from the ground like a thundercloud.
“To the right,” One Who Flies yelled. “Go around and take it from the front.”
Storm Arriving passed the word, though his friend’s gestures and the riflemen on their left were enough by themselves.
Bullets snapped around him and he heard whistlers and men go down. He saw One Who Flies turn his walker and aim it at the bluecoats. The pale-haired son of Tsêhe’êsta’ehe shouted at the soldiers of his own country. Storm Arriving kicked his mount into a sharp turn as he took off after the crazy vé’ho’e who had led them to within reach of their goal.
The walker roared and pushed toward the bluecoats with a fury born of her rider’s passion. But a walker, even a driven one, was no match for a whistler pushed to its limits.
Storm Arriving swooped in on the far side of One Who Flies, forcing his walker to turn back toward the building.
“They do not care,” he shouted at One Who Flies. “They do not care who you are, you crazy vé’ho’e.” He grabbed the walker’s halter rope and pulled it back toward the rest.
More shots cracked across the open square but the cavalry horses stamped in fear of the great beasts and unsettled the aim of their riders.
Storm Arriving and One Who Flies circled back and rejoined the war party as the last of them left the road
and headed around the side of the huge building.
They came around to the front and saw whistlers climbing the white stone steps to the main entrance. One bluecoat fired a pistol but a blow with a war club sent him reeling.
One Who Flies had described this place well, but it was still hard for Storm Arriving to comprehend it. It was so alien, and to think that such a mountain of stone was hollow!
The warriors drove their mounts up the steps and through the doors. Once inside, they went right or left according to their instructions. Storm Arriving was among the last to enter and when he did he gasped.
It was the place of his dream. White stone paved the ground and the walls and the roof above. There was a larger room ahead. He rode into it.
It was huge and round, like a lodge but many times larger. The walls were covered with paintings of men and horses, but the walls rose to another level where many vé’hó’e gawked and screamed and fled. Above that were dozens of high windows. The roof curved in but did not close overhead. Through its circular opening he saw another level, and more men who leaned over and pointed down to the invaders. Beyond and above that, he saw even more windows, more walls, all so high that they seemed to enclose the sky. The roof, high above, curved over into a dome and within that vault he saw a painting of the sun and clouds and men who floated in the air like spirits. It was overwhelming and for a moment he could only gape.
The voice of One Who Flies echoed through the room. “Shut the doors!”
Storm Arriving broke from his trance. “Shut the doors,” he translated.
One Who Flies and others ran to the doors and closed them. Outside, bluecoats pounded against them. One Who Flies went to each door and set blocks.
“Storm Arriving,” he shouted.
“I am here!”
George ran over to Storm Arriving. “When the Red Shield soldiers have secured all the doors, it will be time for the Kit Foxes and Crazy Dogs to start bringing all the people into the chamber.”
The pounding on the doors ceased.
“They’ll be back,” he said. “And with more.”
Two Roads rode up, still on his whistler. Storm Arriving told him of the situation and Two Roads spoke at length.
“Two Roads says we should give up the place-where-we-enter. If we fall back to the doors beyond it, anyone who comes in there will be in a three-way crossfire.”
“Who is best to hold this area?” George asked.
“The Little Bowstrings.”
“Good. Set them to it.”
Men rode in from the hallways, ducking as their tall walkers crouched to clear the doorways. George recognized them as men from the Red Shield soldiers.
“The doors are secure,” Storm Arriving translated.
“Thank them. Tell them to stack everything they can in front of the doors. Are the two main chambers secured as well?”
Storm Arriving asked and the men gestured that they were.
“Good,” George said. “Tell the Kit Foxes and Crazy Dogs to begin.”
Meriwether rode up to the south steps of the White House. He took off his white gloves and threw them on the ground at Custer’s feet.
“They’ve taken the Capitol Building.”
Custer grit his teeth.
“They’ve blockaded every entrance,” the general continued. “If we break our way through it will be a bloodbath.”
Still Custer did not speak.
“Mr. President. There are innocent people in there. The Senate was in session. For God’s sake, we’ve got to do something. We’ve got to get them out.”
“My son is in there, General. I won’t have you riding in with guns blazing.”
“Sir,” the general said, his face red with emotion. “With all due respect to you, it was your son who set it all in motion. He was in the vanguard, sir, and it was he who ordered the attack.”
“You’re daft, General.”
“Sir, I saw it with my own eyes. Your son practically rode me down with that giant lizard of his. He’s leading an insurrection! I’ve a hundred other witnesses including a dozen officers who will attest to it.”
“You mean they’ll attest to cover their own hides, no doubt. To cover their own inadequacies.”
“I will remind the President that all of the entrances have been blocked. All of them. Main level and crypt level both; front, side, and rear. What do you think the odds are against a bunch of Indians from the territories riding in and successfully locking up one of the biggest buildings in Washington, all without the help of someone who knows the place?”
“I won’t believe it.”
“Your son, sir, has betrayed us. He is a traitorous—”
“Enough!”
The two men stood facing each other across implacable lines of battle.
“Just as it was between us during the last war, General, this issue we shall not resolve. Let us instead try to effect a solution that does not require us to agree.”
Some of the steel went out of Meriwether’s glare. “Well said, Mr. President, and good enough.”
“You say they have blockaded every entrance.”
“Yes.”
“Well, at least that shows that murder is not their intent.”
“You can’t know that, sir.”
“Yes, I can. An Indian never took a position unless he needed and intended to hold it. Murder does not require a headquarters. No, they’ve come for another reason entirely.”
“But what,” the general wondered aloud.
“I don’t know,” Custer answered him, “but I expect it is cross to our purposes.”
A soldier on horseback galloped up the drive. The horse sent gravel flying as it skidded to a stop. The soldier dismounted and saluted.
“General, sir,” he said. “Major Leeds wants you to know that they’ve released some of the hostages.”
“Thank God,” Meriwether said. “How many.”
“Several hundred, sir. Visitors and office staff, mostly.”
“But none of the congressmen?”
“No, sir. No senators or representatives were released.”
Meriwether turned to Custer. “So somehow these savages knew who was a congressman and who wasn’t. Do you still believe the boy is innocent?”
Within his breast Custer felt the beginning of a deep and bitter rage.
George pounded the gavel on the desktop. He kept pounding it, trying to be heard above the din.
“I will tell you, Senator. I will tell you what the meaning of all this is if you and your colleagues will please retake your seats.” He pounded some more, but he was only adding to the bedlam, and he threw the gavel down on the desk in frustration.
The scene was surreal. They were in the grand House Chamber with its dark wood and formal red carpet and its high, soaring ceiling. Senators and representatives stood at their seats and in the aisles, every one of them shouting and railing against George and his effrontery. Meanwhile, at each of the doorways were mounted soldiers, their walkers eyeing the crowd of portly men with a hungry eye. Up in the gallery, more soldiers lined the rails, looking and pointing at the members of America’s greatest legislative body like little boys pointing a the antics of monkeys at the zoo.
George picked up the gavel again and pounded some more, still to no effect. Finally he signaled to one of the mounted guards.
The walker’s blast of sound cowed the statesmen in a heartbeat. George rapped the gavel a final time, for effect rather than to call for silence.
“Distinguished members of Congress, the meaning of all this is to bring to light—”
“Shame!” shouted one of the representatives. “You should be ashamed!”
Others joined in with a chant of “Shame! Shame! Shame!” George pounded the gavel yet again, and this time they quieted down on their own.
“I am ashamed, sir. I am heartily ashamed. I am ashamed it has come to this.” He pointed to the soldiers who lined the gallery. “These men have come to you, to plead with you,
to make you understand what it is you have done to them. What I have seen…I am ashamed of my country—”
Shouts rose from some of the men on the floor, but others called for quiet. George had engaged them with rhetoric, and they responded to it, wanting to hear the rest.
“I am ashamed of the crimes my country has visited upon this people, crimes I have seen with my own eyes, crimes authorized by this very body.”
He let them protest that statement for a short while.
“Did you not,” he went on above their complaints. “Did you not vote to bring down the awful power of War upon them? Did you not? I have seen what your vote created. Women lying in the mud, slain by American soldiers. Children torn apart by Army bullets. The army and our president invited these people to a parley for peace and then attacked their families behind their backs. I should be ashamed? By God, I am ashamed. What I saw, what the army did, what you authorized was shameful!”
He looked the congressmen in the eye as he spoke, framing his words for each of them in turn. They scowled at him as he did so, but they listened.
“In fact,” he told them, “these men were attacked even on their way here, on their way to see you and to bring their case before you. We left the territories four days ago with four hundred men and on our way here we broke no law, stole no provender, and killed no man but in defense of our own lives. And what happened? The Army attacked us along the Cumberland Trail, and again here in this city, and over a hundred Cheyenne soldiers now lay dead because of it. And for what crime? For what offense were these men punished?”
The room, remarkably, was silent.
“For the crime of being Indians.”
“What do you intend to do about it?” said a bespectacled man in the front row.
“Sir, I intend to do nothing.” The congressmen exchanged confused glances. “My job here is nearly done. I have brought together the representatives of my nation and the representatives of the Cheyenne Alliance. Two warring factions, now face to face. From here on out, the work is yours. You will hear from them, and you will understand.”
The Year the Cloud Fell Page 31
