Lemuel motioned to one of the warriors. The man hurled a burning oil lamp through the wide glass window of one long wooden structure. Except for the sound of wood crackling as it burned, or the brief, intermittent cries of women and children as they ran into the street, the night was strangely quiet. One unarmed man stood in front of a woman, trying to shield her, as two warriors rode toward him, swinging their war clubs. The woman’s scream was cut short as a club caught her in the head.
The men here had been foolish, thinking that they would not be found out, doing nothing to protect themselves and this town. They deserved to die for their carelessness and their murderousness. Lemuel watched as the town burned. The flames would make ashes of his grief.
Reports had been streaming into the offices of the Chicago Times by telegraph ever since the departure of the trains carrying the Indians and several companies of the Army of the West. Clinton Snowden had been reading stories from Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Buffalo—stories from just about everywhere except from those newspapermen who were traveling with the Western forces. That was understandable; Crook and the other officers would want the Council in Washington to have as little information as possible about their intentions. Everyone in the big cities knew that the Western forces were on the move by now, moving fast enough that by the time word got out about their presence in one place, they had already moved on to another city.
A couple of days ago, companies of the Army of the West had been sighted in Charleston, West Virginia, and in Dayton, Ohio. There had been some sabotage on sections of track in Iowa and Missouri, which had been followed by retaliatory raids on the nearby towns by parties of wild Indians. Since then, it appeared that any people not overtly sympathetic to the Westerners preferred simply to keep out of their way. Trying to fight for a group of men in Washington who had seized power without the consent of the people was not a cause that was drawing many recruits. Even fewer wanted to provoke savage redskins into raids against defenseless people.
Snowden sighed, and wondered again where the hell John Finerty was.
There was another story out of Cincinnati about the riots there. Apparently all of the trouble there had started when a company of United States soldiers had tried to shut down Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show. From what Snowden could gather, that incident had transformed Cincinnati from an outpost of neutrality into a hotbed of anti-Washington sentiment.
He turned to another story, written by D. Randolph Keim of the New York Herald. Both the Democrats and the Reform Republicans of New York City had issued a statement in support of a resolution passed by the Massachusetts state legislature. The gist of the Massachusetts resolution was that, despite its sympathy for the efforts of the Council of the United States to prevent more states from breaking away from the Union, the legislators of Massachusetts considered the Council an illegitimate and unconstitutional government. Fine, Snowden thought, even if that particular sentiment was being expressed by those New Englanders somewhat late in the day. What interested him more was the appointment of an Emergency Counsel by the New York State government in Albany. The purpose of this Counsel was to “aid and advise the governor during the present crisis,” but it was the name of this newly appointed official that had caught his eye.
Ely Parker, former commissioner of Indian Affairs under President Grant, had been named to the post. Ely Parker, Snowden mused, who had so unsuccessfully tried to pursue a peace policy toward the Plains Indians he had regarded as his brothers, and who, Keim noted in his story, was an Indian himself. It sounded as though the good people of New York had placed their bets on who was likely to win out, and wanted to be on good terms with the victor.
Annie Oakley Moses sat at the edge of a field of tobacco leaves with Frank Butler. Mr. Cody had bribed their way across the Ohio River to Kentucky. All she and Frank had now was their firearms and their horses. It didn’t look like Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show was going to make any more appearances.
“I wonder what’s taking Bill so long,” Frank muttered, looking down the road that ran past the tobacco farm. Mr. Cody had ridden back to Covington to see what he could find out. Annie sighed. All they’d had to eat today, thanks to one of the daughters of the tobacco farmer, were a couple of pieces of pecan pie. Pretty soon she would have to go rustling them up some quail, the way she had hunted to feed her family when she was a girl, after her father died.
“He shouldn’t have gone,” Annie said. She had tried to talk Mr. Cody out of riding to Covington, not that he would have listened to her. All he needed was to run into somebody who had seen the Wild West Show across the river in Cincinnati, and he might end up being arrested. He might already be cooling his heels in jail, or worse. She thought of how Cincinnati had looked above them while they were making their way down the bluffs with their horses to the ferry. The fires had spread to the waterfront by then. The whole city might have burned if rain had not fallen that night.
“Annie,” Frank said, “I want to marry you. I want to make an honest woman of you.”
“You asked me that before, and I told you yes before.”
“I meant that if Bill comes back and says they aren’t looking for us, you’ll be my wife right now, I mean as soon as I can find a body in Covington to marry us.”
“Why, Frank.” She smiled at him.
“Not that I’m any prize catch at the moment.”
She saw the cloud of dust down the road before he did, and her sharp eyes recognized the buckskin-clad figure. “Hey, Frank,” she said, jabbing him with her elbow, “it’s Mr. Cody.”
He got to his feet. Buffalo Bill’s horse slowed to a trot. Annie could already make out the look of excitement on Mr. Cody’s face.
“Mount up!” Buffalo Bill shouted as he neared them. “Most of the rest of the troupe made it to Covington safely. We’re mighty short of Injuns, but we can still put on a show. We’ll be appearing tomorrow night.”
“What?” Frank said.
“In Covington.” Mr. Cody looked from Frank to Annie. “Can’t do ‘Custer Among the Indians’ without Rubalev and his redskins, but we can still give Covington its money’s worth.”
“Hold on, Mr. Cody,” Annie said. “What’s going on?”
“Tell you what’s going on. There’s something called the People’s Militia patrolling Cincinnati now, and what’s left of the U.S. Army’s been pulled out. Going by train to Baltimore, so they say, assuming they get there, ‘cause it looks like the United States, or what calls itself the United States, is at war with a whole lot of folks.”
“Say that again, Bill,” Frank said.
“War!” Buffalo Bill waved his hands.
“With Johnny Reb again?” Annie looked around nervously.
“Hell, no, with the West. With General George Crook and Touch-the-Clouds and Sitting Bull and the whole damn Sioux nation and anybody else who decided to come along for the party—maybe even what’s left of Custer and his Seventh Cavalry, for all I know. They’re going by train across the country, and they even picked up some volunteers along the way. Maybe Rubalev and his Injuns ran off to join them.’’
Annie tightened the girth of her horse’s saddle, then mounted. “Mr. Cody,” she said softly, “I don’t know as a war is anything to cheer about.” It was her Quaker heritage speaking.
“It is if everyone else is cheering. It is if everybody seems to be just letting Crook and the Indians get through without putting up much of a fight.” Buffalo Bill grinned. “And if it’s over fast enough, the Wild West Show might be making even more money.”
The first of Finerty’s dispatches had come over the telegraph wires two days ago, telling of General Crook’s meeting with Crazy Horse and an Iroquois called Rowland who was a blood brother of Touch-the-Clouds, followed by a brief description of a journey by steamship down the Platte. Old news, Snowden had thought, but still worth printing. Now a newsboy was in front of his desk thrusting a sheaf of folded papers into his hands.
“Man come from Charleston, W
est Virginia, with this,” the boy told Snowden. “Says he got paid to bring ‘em here on the train.”
Snowden gave the boy a coin, unfolded the papers, and recognized Finerty’s handwriting. Good old John, he thought, he found somebody to get this here.
The first dispatch was dated June 20, 1879, two weeks ago, and read: “I am writing this under a half-blanket propped up by a pole near a campfire. Lest the reader think that I am complaining, I am not. Indeed, given that I am now following General Crook and a large company of red Indians east on an expedition that may accurately be called an invasion, I have been able to travel in relative comfort, if one means by that expression being packed into a railroad car bereft of any but the plainest benches and filled with soldiers seated shoulder to shoulder. Whenever the train stops, the neighing of the horses in the adjoining baggage car assaults one’s ears, and we have the choice of opening the windows to admit the soot and sparks from the locomotive, or closing them to endure a heat comparable to that of the infernal regions. I have been told that we are now taking our rest somewhere in southern Illinois, where we are preparing to dine on some of the hardtack we brought with us.
“Yet none of these circumstances is a cause for protest. We have moved rapidly east by train, and thus far have encountered little resistance. Before the soldiers can become too fatigued, we should have reached our destination.”
Snowden scanned the rest of the page, then turned to the next dispatch.
“June 23, 1879: Although it is true that the Indians are now allied with General Crook, one must make allowances for their behavior. It was our misfortune to have to spend last night in close proximity to their camp while advance scouts went ahead of us to ensure that the tracks were clear. During much of the night, the Indians kept up a tremendous racket, pounding their drums and howling in a way that would exasperate even the most kindly of men, provided he wanted to sleep. One of the aboriginals, a comparatively civilized man whose Sioux name means White Eagle and who speaks a surprisingly fluent English, explained that his comrades are preparing themselves for battle by singing war songs, the music of which is fitter for Hades than for Earth, and uttering various prayers designed to secure the protection of what they call the wakan beings, or spirits. White Eagle told me of their various superstitious rituals without a trace of doubt in his voice, and this from a red Indian who has mastered telegraphy. It only demonstrates how great the gap is between us and the red man, and how much savagery exists in even the most civilized of the breed.
“One exception may be the Iroquois Lemuel Rowland, whose eloquence and bearing is the equal of many who would be termed gentlemen. It is he who serves as the intermediary between General Crook and the Sioux chief Touch-the-Clouds, and it appears that he has the trust of both men. Yet there is an intensity in his gaze, especially when he speaks of those he regards as his enemies, that seems as dark and savage as that of the most primitive of his red brethren.”
Snowden turned to another page.
“June 24, 1879: Our hordes continue to thunder eastward along what our red comrades call the Trail of the Iron Horse. What is most strange about our journey is how the people we have encountered along the way have treated us. As we passed through one Indiana town, our train was greeted by a brass band and a crowd of people waving banners that read ‘Free Elections, No Dictators’ and ‘States’ Rights and a Union,’ among other often contradictory slogans. The few people I was able to query in another Indiana town seemed to think that Crook and his Army of the West are fighting both to restore what they think of as a Constitutional Union and also for the freedom of each state to decide its own affairs. One of them explained this apparent paradox by implying that once each state had exercised its freedom, so to speak, it would then willingly return to the Federal fold.
“Even so, the sight of these people and their good wishes has clearly heartened Crook’s troops. At one station that we passed, our train slowed its speed enough so that the townsfolk were able to thrust baskets of pies, roasted chickens, meats, fruits, and other welcome delicacies at us. At a stop in northern Kentucky, we were even treated to a free showing of Buffalo Bill Cody’s production of ‘Calamity Jane, Squaw Woman,’ which featured Miss Annie Oakley in that role and which delighted our Indian brothers in arms as much as it did the rest of us, judging by the caterwauling and earsplitting whoops they emitted at the conclusion of this performance.
“It is indeed a peculiar sort of invasion where one is treated to cheers and good wishes as opposed to sabotage and resistance. And there is one banner that is especially prevalent among the crowds of well-wishers, one that has excited some comment among the men, a banner that reads, ‘May the Spirit of Custer Guide You.’
“If by some chance that fabled soldier turns up among us after his long absence from the scene, to fight at Crook’s side, there will be many who will attribute any victory to the valor of George Armstrong Custer.”
“Mr. Snowden.”
Snowden looked up from Finerty’s dispatches. One of the Times telegraphers was standing in front of his desk. “What is it?” he asked.
“News just in from Washington City,” the man replied. “General Terry’s whipped Forsyth and is moving up from Virginia toward Washington, while Colonel Miles is somewhere near Baltimore. And Crook’s coming at them from the west.” He cleared his throat. “Looks like the Battle of Washington is about to begin.”
Crazy Horse thought, I don’t know how to fight this war.
He and his warriors, mounted on their horses, grouped together in their warrior societies, were north of the city of the Great Father, but between them and the city lay the white man’s fortifications. A row of wooden structures and walls barred the trail leading to the city, guarded by a long line of Blue Coats. To draw the enemy Blue Coats away, to lead them into an ambush, was impossible here. He did not know this terrain. Even if he had, trying to trick the enemy soldiers into pursuing his men would be useless, with Bear Coat Miles and his men behind him and a countryside dotted with Wasichu towns.
Crazy Horse had put on his war paint of lightning bolts and hailstones and wore the feathers of a red-backed hawk in his long hair. He was stripped for battle, clad only in his breechcloth, and still the moist heat and muggy air of this land made his body damp with sweat. A small replica of his shield, with symbols of lightning and a bear painted on it, hung from around his neck, and he prayed that the powers of the bear would protect him. Coming here on the Iron Horse, being so far from the Plains and from the spirits must have driven him mad. He did not understand any of it. He should not have come here. He had not properly listened to what the spirits had told him about how to fight these people.
Rain-in-the-Face rode up to him. “The men are ready to fight,” he said to Crazy Horse. “The men want to count coup, they—” and then the spirit of the wind caught Crazy Horse and swept him aloft.
He was in the air, flying toward the city over the battlements that protected it. He soared above an impossibly straight trail that led toward the Great Father’s city, and flew on until he was hovering far above a great dome. Along another wide trail, to the west, he saw the white walls of the Great Father’s house.
To the south of the city lay the fork of two rivers. The wide river that ran past the western side of the city glittered in the sunlight, a river that seemed made of the yellow metal that the spirits had made for the Lakota in the Black Hills. That metal had helped to bring his people here, to buy them the weapons and medicine they needed to come to this place and demand that the promises made to them be kept. Two trails ran from the city across the wide river, and now he could see that there were boats on the river, floating south on the river of gold. Across the river, on the hills overlooking the city, Crazy Horse saw more warriors on horseback. Some of these men held feathered staffs. As he circled over the city, the warriors on the other side of the golden river lifted their staffs, as if saluting him, and he saw that Touch-the-Clouds was among them, wearing his war bonnet of eagle
feathers. Everything looked as the scouts who had forded the wide river had told him it would look. He knew then that they would take the Great Father’s city.
Suddenly the wind was pulling him back. Crazy Horse felt himself plummeting toward the ground, an arrow in flight. He found himself astride his horse once more, gazing toward Washington.
He said, “Our men have command of the hills on the other side of the river. There are boats on the river. I do not think the Wasichu here know how to fight, how to defend their great encampment. If we wait—”
But Rain-in-the-Face and the warriors nearest him were shaking their war clubs at him.
Rain-in-the-Face said, “You said that we had to carry the war east.”
Feather Earring said, “You led us along the Iron Horse trail.”
Standing Bear said, “We did not ride here to sit on our horses like women and wait for the Wasichu to ride out to us and surrender. We rode here to count coup and win battle honors.”
“I am a Fox,” one of the younger warriors with the Kit Fox society sang. “I am supposed to die. If there is anything hard, if there is anything dangerous, it is mine to do.”
Before Crazy Horse could speak, the men were calling out war cries. “Hoka hey! Hoka hey! It is a good day to die!”
“Stop!” Crazy Horse called out, but the men were already riding down the hills toward a long row of Blue Coats and artillery, screaming their war whoops. For a moment, Crazy Horse thought that they might break the line and scatter the Blue Coats, and then he heard the bursts of the white man’s spitting guns, the firesticks that could spit out many bullets at once.
The sound was that of a clap of thunder during the most violent of storms. Five thick clouds of black smoke billowed out from the row of Blue Coats. Suddenly the grassy hills below him were a mass of dead and wounded horses and shrieking injured men. One wing of warriors fanned out, as if trying to draw the Blue Coats into following them, and the spitting firesticks tore at the air again.
Climb the Wind: A Journey Into Another Past Page 43
