Not knowing white culture, however, left many gaps which were filled with unquenchable conjecture. What weapons might the soldiers bring with them? How many blue-coated men might be sent out? Would they be good riders? Would they have good scouts? Would they be willing to fight? Invariably, the speculations focused on a single name that was spoken so often that men, women, and even children invoked it as if it belonged to someone they knew. The white people always followed one man in war and it was widely agreed that the one called Bad Hand was likely to lead them. But no one knew what kind of man he was and talk of what he might do led nowhere. Even Dances With Wolves knew nothing about him.
Chapter XLIV
The defenders of the plains gave no thought to the personal life of General Mackenzie. His marital status, his fondness certain foods, the highs and lows of his young life — none of these was the sort of issue Indians pondered. They were concerned only with the practical question of how brave he might be, how shrewd and how determined he would prove to be in the field.
The answer, had they known it, would have been unsettling.
In the field, General Mackenzie was a living fusion of strength and perseverance. He faced the most heinous weather, the roughest terrain, the severest privation with equanimity, regarding them as mere annoying impediments to bringing the enemy to heel. Though his marches routinely strained human endurance, and despite his frequent, inexplicable explosions of rage, many men were eager to serve under him because Mackenzie's name was synonymous with success.
Yet for all that was known about the handsome officer who performed formed so brilliantly, his true identity was a mystery. Beneath the of his existence ran a dark, angry river of pain, unseen by all but the man whose life it ruled with unrelenting cruelty. Pain was Ranald Mackenzie's sole and constant companion. He ate and slept with it, laughed with it, defecated with it, and dreamt with it. It accompanied him through every waking moment and released him only for brief naps at night.
His face was untouched but beneath the uniform his body was covered with a latticework of wounds and attendant scarring, a secret world throbbing with torment. An angry tear that made the stumps on his hand trivial in comparison ran in a jagged line down the middle of his left pectoral and along the rib cage. The jumble of scar tissue twinged with every breath as did the tenuously grafted breaks in his ribs.
Several pieces of lead, embedded in his knee and hip, grated against bone at the slightest movement and provided him with advance, if painful, knowledge of changes in the weather. A twice broken shoulder often ached as if a knife blade were embedded in bone and gristle, cutting him repeatedly as he rocked back and forth in the saddle.
For years he had gotten no relief. Often the pain would radiate across his torso with such vengeance that he was forced to lie down on some pallet and match his own steely reserve to the demons bedeviling his flesh.
At first he had experimented with painkillers but only the most powerful had any effect, and these he could not take for they made his mind too fizzy to perform his duty. His only weapon against the grievous attacks that tormented his body was his clear, incisive mind, a mind which he trained to combat his suffering while he functioned. He fooled the doctors who administered his yearly physical, and while the men who worked closest to him knew of his infirmities, no living being guessed at the depth of the daily torture that was his life.
Defeating pain had become his reason to be. Every phase of his existence was based on the never-ending competition between mind and body for dominance, coloring every action he took. All that he did, whether it was conducting a field operation or merely getting out of bed, was a mortal challenge to the tenacity of his will, which he used in every instance with unflagging dexterity, elevating mind over matter.
He personally supervised the care of the elm trees that were planted on the perimeter of the parade ground, insisting, to the consternation of the soldiers who plodded back and forth to the creek, that they be watered regularly. Otherwise, it could not be said that the general had anything approaching a hobby. He drank lightly, slept alone, eschewed games of chance, did not smoke, and had no friends. Pursuit of pleasure was unknown to him.
His characteristic lack of passion was nowhere more evident than in his reaction to the various Indian leaders who were preparing to embark for Washington. Twice he met with them, smoking the pipe and sharing a meal of venison on one occasion. Mackenzie said little at either meeting. His most pronounced expression was a thin, noncommittal smile that followed several good jokes. He noticed a high degree of intellect in an old Comanche man and was impressed by the adequate command of English in another younger Comanche but that was the extent of his feeling.
The general saw no value in discourse with a group of primitive men on their way to meet the president. Such things were simply not part of his job, and Bad Hand was delighted when the delegation of twelve tribesmen departed for the eastern railroad. With all distractions cleared away, he could immerse himself in applying the finishing touches to the coming campaign.
His excitement in taking the field was high. General Sherman had cleared the way for the mountains of provisions and munitions that flowed into the fort. His staffing was only a few souls shy of one hundred percent, and the rank and file could count quite a few veterans among them.
Best of all, General Mackenzie knew that once he was at the head of a column seeking to engage the enemy, his pain would become more manageable. He had never pondered the connection, but when he was in the field the torture never failed to wane.
There was a sharp drop in his pain the same day the Indian delegation ventured east in a convoy of open wagons, and later that afternoon Bad Hand composed a thorough set of orders to be transmitted by wire to Fort Richardson, a post far in the south.
The orders were directed to a young captain by the name of Bradley the same man who, as a lieutenant some months before, had been humiliated by Wind In His Hair. His narrow aversion of disaster on that occasion had seasoned him, and Captain Bradley was proud to receive instructions directly from General Mackenzie.
Though the orders appeared to call for a routine reconnaissance scout into Indian country, they were, in reality, much more than that. The force under Captain Bradley would be large, more than a hundred men, and it would scour the country for a month, far longer than the usual week or ten days. Instead of traveling in a loop, the command was directed to weave to and fro, constantly angling north in a sweeping fashion.
The directive clearly stated that engagement of the Indians was to be strictly avoided, unless, of course, Bradley and his men were fired upon. Nor were Indians to be chased. In fact, the orders stated repeatedly that a primary feature of the captain's mission was to conduct the action as peacefully as possible.
But Captain Bradley understood that the true object of his mission was to gently herd the savages north, bringing them closer to General Fordike's column traveling down from the northwest and General Mackenzie's advancing from the east. Pressed from three directions at once, it was hoped the hostiles would be constricted into a shrinking, inescapable circle of resistance which could be efficiently annihilated.
No one wanted a long war.
Chapter XLV
At the first forward lurch of the train, its special passengers, in a coach reserved exclusively for their use, made a mighty effort to hold off the temptation to panic. Their eyes shot everywhere at once and their car echoed with spasmodic grunts of fear at the unknown.
All were mesmerized at the speed of the land flashing past their windows and the unearthly power of the great engine pulling them along the tracks. Had they been alone they might have spontaneously jettisoned themselves through the first available exit, but the constant reassurances and relaxed manner of the whites traveling with them kept the tribesmen at rigid attention in their seats.
In a remarkably short time the novices acclimated themselves to the velocity and motion of the alien conveyance and were able to turn their attention to the m
any other mysteries surrounding them. They were inducted into the use of an onboard toilet, tutored unsuccessfully on the mechanics of time, and given a demonstration of the wonders of writing implements. Before long they tested their palates on white man food and filled the car with smoke from the white man's hand-rolled cigarettes.
They remained on the rain throughout the first long leg across the plains, for their safety would have been at risk in the rough settlements of the frontier. In eastern Missouri, when they were allowed off to stretch their bodies on the unmoving platform of a sizable community, a surprising phenomenon presented itself for the first time — one that would become more common the farther east they journeyed.
Despite the early hour, the platform was crowded with white people who had gathered in anticipation of their arrival. As Kicking Bird and Ten Bears and their friends alighted, the throng drew back in momentary awe, then crept slowly forward, entranced by the living embodiment of their imaginations.
The escort had prepared the twelve exotic men for the experience of crossing the Mississippi River, but as they started over the bridge, one of the Cheyenne, a man named Hollow Horn, was suddenly seized with the certainty that they were going to fall into the water. With a curdling cry he leaped to his feet and chopped at the inner flanks of the car with his ax, hoping somehow to slay the monster before it carried the party to a watery death. He was restrained before he could do much damage, and after the crossing Hollow Horn remained seated in a cocoon of mortification.
For some reason no one traveling with the befeathered men from the prairies had anticipated what effect passing through a mountain in total darkness might have on their charges, and when the idea did occur it was too late.
The train had been climbing through a range of low mountains for about half an hour and several of the tribesmen were dozing when it rounded a sharp curve and disappeared into the black maw of a long tunnel. For a full minute, shrieking Indians flew about in the pitch, the racket they raised drowning out the thunder of the engine ahead.
After a sixty-second eternity, a dim but growing light began to suffuse the car, then all at once they were outside again. Most of the men recovered immediately, but one Arapaho, a man named Striking Eagle, was still on the floor in serious difficulty. His long frame was drawn up in a trembling, fetal ball, and after all attempts to rouse him failed, it was concluded that Striking Eagle had suffered a breakdown. Still encased in his imaginary womb, the stricken Arapaho was carried from the train at the next stop. Adamant in his refusal to go any farther, Hollow Horn also disembarked, leaving ten shaken but stalwart comrades to face the wonders that lay ahead.
Oddly, the one among them who took the new world most in stride was also the oldest. Ten Bears had been asleep when the train entered the tunnel, and though he was jarred awake by the ensuing tumult, the old man simply assumed he had slept through sundown. He had been remarkably composed from the trip's outset, and as light again washed into the car, he followed form. He barely glanced at the aftermath of chaos strewn about him and for several minutes was oblivious of Striking Eagle's collapse.
Instead, the old man gazed serenely through his spectacles at the receding tunnel.
We went through a mountain, he thought to himself. It was made to open its body to this snake of metal and wood we are riding. The whites possess incredible magic.
A few moments later, Kicking Bird slid into the seat next to him and related the trouble with Striking Eagle. Ten Bears peered over his spectacles.
"Maybe a ghost got into him."
"I think he is afraid," Kicking Bird replied. "Someone heard him yell about the sun being killed."
"It's shining now," Ten Bears observed.
"Striking Eagle's mind can't see it. He can't move."
"He needs to get off this thing," Ten Bears said, a hint of condescension discernible in his tone.
Kicking Bird's chin vibrated with a quick succession of reassuring nods.
"They're going to put him off at the next stop."
"How will he get home?" Ten Bears inquired.
"They will wait for a train going west, Then they will put him on that."
Ten Bears stared briefly at the seat in front of him.
"Poor man," he sighed, his voice falling away to silence. A moment later, when he tilted his face toward Kicking Bird's, a smile was hovering, about his mouth. "He'll have to go back through that mountain."
Kicking Bird managed to avoid laughing out loud but his shoulders heaved convulsively.
"Are we going to pass through more mountains?" Ten Bears wondered.
Kicking Bird's levity vanished. He hadn't thought of more tunnels.
"I don't know," he said.
"I wonder if this thing goes through water too. Someone better tell us so we can close these openings. Otherwise the water will come in and we'll all drown."
Starting to the edge of his seat, Kicking Bird eagerly scanned the car's interior, searching for the little Quaker.
"Lawrie Tatum will know," he said absently.
"Oh, leave him alone for a while," scolded Ten Bears. “All you want to do is make that white man talk."
"What if water does come in?" Kicking Bird retorted.
"This thing has gone over lots of water,” Ten Bears grunted dismissively. "If it does go into water, the whites will close these things in time. I'm sure none of them wants to drown. How much farther is it to Washington?"
"Lawrie Tatum says it is one more sleep.”
"Is it the biggest white man village?”
"Lawrie Tatum says it will be bigger than anything we have ever seen. He says our eyes will see many things that do not seem real.”
"I believe him," Ten Bears said, nodding solemnly as he placed his moccasins on the footrest just above the floor.
The old man slid his pipe from its case.
"We should smoke for poor Striking Eagle.”
"Hmm," Kicking Bird agreed.
"I hope the food is better in Washington,” Ten Bears said, tamping a pinch of tobacco into his bowl. "They have so much magic, yet they can't make good meat. It's stringy and filled with grease.”
Kicking Bird nodded mutely.
"It goes right through my bowels,” Ten Bears groused.
"Mine, too," Kicking Bird sighed.
Chapter XLVI
Aside from the incessant, unseasonable rain which swamped the southern plains, the signs had been good for Wind In His Hair and the hostiles. They had been fortunate in striking several more small herds of buffalo and, despite having to dry the meat indoors, they had made enough to last beyond winter.
Everywhere their odyssey led them they met contingents of wanderers with like minds and, as the days until the deadline melted away, Wind In His Hair's camp swelled steadily. People from Comanche bands like the Antelope and the Liver-Eaters and Those Who Move Often had come together, as had significant groups of Kiowa, Cheyenne, and Arapaho.
With warriors in the hundreds to guide, Wind In His Hair was in constant council. Ten sleeps before the deadline, half a dozen parties of warriors had been selected, formed, and dispatched to specific corners of Comanche territory there to keep an eye on the hair-mouth soldier forts.
Wind In His Hair and his advisers had anticipated the army's plan, thinking the soldiers would try to push them from the south, and it seemed likely that the first enemies would come from the place called Fort Richardson. Owl Prophet, whose standing had been shaken but far from destroyed, declared adamantly that soldiers would be coming from the south.
Three Hard Shields — Dances With Wolves, Smiles A Lot, and Blue Turtle — had been chosen to make the far ride to Fort Richardson. The distance was great, as was the difficulty of sitting undetected under the soldiers' noses until their movements could be learned, but the hardest part was the unrelenting rain.
Descending the caprock required a man to be alert in the best of times but after a week of intermittent deluge the steep ground was greasy and the horses fought for footin
g all the-way down. The riders had to jump on and off constantly to give the animals a chance to stop sliding or gain their balance. Halfway down, Blue Turtle jumped off his pony, lost his feet, and might have gone over a precipice had he not been able to hang on to his horse's tail.
Bucolic streams had become racing, churning rivers, and at one crossing Dances With Wolves and Smiles A Lot were unhorsed when a large, thick log they were trying to avoid suddenly veered and struck both horses at once. For a quarter mile the warriors and their animals struggled in the current. Miraculously, both eventually made it to solid ground and were reunited with Blue Turtle. But Dances With Wolves lost his food, and from then on rations for two had to be shared by three.
Once they reached the vicinity of the white man fort, the three warriors were dismayed at how little spying they could actually accomplish. The best vantage point to be had was a thick growth of oak a quarter mile from the soldier fort, but with the incessant rain it afforded only fractured glimpses of enemy movement.
The sound of the rain, which dripped from every leaf of every tree, squashed all but the loudest noises coming from the fort, and for three days and nights the soaked, cold scouts huddled under the trees with their horses, nibbling at their dwindling supply of jerked meat.
They were too despondent to converse much, but when they did say something it usually pertained to the task at hand, and midway through the third day of their surveillance Smiles A Lot wondered if they should try to get some white man clothes, put them on Dances With Wolves, and let him go among whites.
Blue Turtle correctly pointed out how risky it would be to obtain the clothes and when they looked at Dances With Wolves for a response, he spat, “No more white man clothes," then rose from a squat and walked off through the drizzle.
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