Ashes of Heaven (The Plainsmen Series)

by Terry C. Johnston

  Rowland rubbed a red eye, irritated by the glare of sunlight glancing off the bright snow. “When these leaders wanted to see if you could give ’em good as Crook offered ’em, I figured I’d come north to translate … if you want me to.”

  Miles glanced at Bruguier. The half-breed shrugged and went back to chewing on the piece of hard-bread he held.

  “All right,” Miles replied. “Let’s have us another talk with these chiefs and see just what it is Crook’s using to bribe them.”

  After the ceremony of smoking the pipe and offering some food to his visitors, Miles slowly wagged his head, growing exasperated as the squawman explained just what the hostiles had been offered to surrender with the Sioux down in Nebraska.

  “And Spotted Tail told them they wouldn’t have to give up their ponies or weapons?”

  “That’s what they was promised.”

  “How can Crook really offer them an agency here in the northern country?” he grumbled, turning to his cadre of officers who stood against the walls of the hut. “This isn’t his department—so it damn well isn’t his land to commit!”

  Taking a step closer to the colonel’s desk, Rowland explained, “General Miles, these leaders don’t know nothing about that. They only come to see if you can give ’em good as they was offered to surrender down south.”

  “I know, I know,” Miles declared, waving a hand at the white man. “It’s perfectly understandable that these chiefs should want to go where they think they will be best treated. I can’t blame them.” He pounded a fist into his open palm. “But it’s plain as thunder there’s something else afoot here.”

  For the next few moments, Miles gazed over the Cheyenne and Sioux chiefs who had come to wrestle more concessions out of him, after he had unequivocally spelled out the army’s terms of surrender. On their last visit, these leaders had led him to believe they were going to return to effect their surrender!

  Now that elation soured like milk left out in the sun. Anger roiled inside him, but not so much an anger at these chiefs. His was a deep, abiding resentment for George C. Crook, for Alfred H. Terry back in St. Paul, for the quartermaster corps downriver who, all winter long, had seen to it that Tongue River Cantonment was deprived of nearly everything it took to provision a post of such strategic importance.

  Finally his eyes fixed upon White Bull, sitting there among the others in his army uniform, his braids topped with a black slouch hat. The Cheyenne holy man looked grave.

  I’ll bet he understands the seriousness of the dilemma I’m facing, Miles thought. He’s turned himself over to me as a hostage, and sworn in as one of my scouts. Now he finds his people might not surrender here to me, after having given their word they would.

  Miles felt a sudden flush of sympathy for White Bull.

  “Rowland,” he said suddenly, “tell these chiefs I will talk with them again in a couple days.”

  “Couple days—”

  “Two, maybe three. Explain that I want time to consider the import of what they’ve asked of me. I’ve already spelled out terms of surrender, but I will nonetheless reconsider their case. Tell the chiefs, while I will not feed or house the warriors who accompanied them here, I will provide tents and food for them while they are waiting for our next parley.”

  After angrily brooding on the situation that had been dropped in his lap, Miles met with the chiefs three days later. In that time some of the warrior society headmen had become surly, growing indignant at being made to wait by the Bear Coat.

  “They say they’re free men, General,” Rowland translated as everyone in the tiny office settled in for the conference, after the pipe made its rounds. “Most of them young bucks don’t figure they’ve got to hang around waiting for you to come up with something as good as what they was already promised down south.”

  “You tell them they will not dictate terms of surrender to me!” Miles snapped, feeling the first fracture in his restraint. “Tell them they are a defeated people, and as such, I am the one who will dictate terms to them!”

  It was plain to see how Rowland’s translation affected the leaders. The warrior society headmen began to murmur and shift about outside the log hut as those at the doorway passed on what was being said between their leaders and the soldier chief.

  Miles glanced over at George W. Baird. “Lieutenant, I want you to calmly, and without showing alarm, excuse yourself and alert the units that we may have ourselves some trouble coming to a boil.”

  Rowland started, “Go slow at this—”

  “What’re your orders, General?” Baird interrupted the interpreter.

  “Ready their weapons, and prepare to surround the Indian camp at a moment’s notice. Now, move calmly, and don’t give any of these Indians a reason to be alarmed by your departure.”

  As the adjutant slipped from the hut and made his way across the open ground, threading his way through more than 150 warriors, the squawman continued to translate, “General, they said maybe they won’t go in either place. Maybe they’ll go on hunting. Winter’s going to be over soon and Spotted Tail told ’em your soldiers aren’t going to be up here much longer—”

  “Won’t be here much longer!” Miles bellowed like a branded calf. “Where the hell did they get that idea?”

  Rowland admitted, “Someone down at Red Cloud told Spotted Tail this isn’t a fort, that your soldiers are here for a short time, and they’ll be gone come spring—”

  “You tell them that if they don’t start south for Red Cloud’s Agency,” the colonel growled between gritted teeth, fuming, “and they won’t surrender here—I’ll come looking for them! And we’ll have ourselves another fight like we did in January. You tell them I’m ready to be mean to them in war … or I’m prepared to be nice to them in peace.”

  But Miles knew he wasn’t prepared, either way.

  After the chiefs huddled together, they told Rowland that they would wait some more, while the Bear Coat deliberated on just what he could offer them if they surrendered to him. The emergency with the warrior society leaders was over, for the moment.

  Yet Miles had to acknowledge he was sitting squarely on the horns of a thorny dilemma. For the next two days he brooded on what faced him no matter what the Cheyenne and Sioux decided. If they ignored his threats of continuing his war on them and took off to return to wandering with their village for the spring hunt, Miles realized he couldn’t muster enough rations and supplies for both man and beast to sustain even a five-day march to chase the enemy. And, if they agreed to bring in their people and surrender to him at the cantonment, he did not have the manpower, the rations, or the facilities to manage all those who would give themselves up to him.

  And the reason behind his frustrating dilemma was General Alfred Terry’s poor management of the department, coupled with the low esteem Sherman and Sheridan both held for him and his regiment, as well as the neglect his men were suffering at the hands of the quartermaster corps. He was being hamstrung, prevented from prosecuting this war to its end. The way Miles saw it, as the only commander on these plains who was doing a goddamned thing about bringing the enemy to bay, it was nothing short of criminal what was being done to Nelson A. Miles!

  For another two days he struggled with his options, counting and recounting his stores of supplies, listening to the suggestions of his officers, and spending time dashing off letters to his Mary. But while he admitted to her that “the management of these people just at this time, considering the condition of my command, is a difficult question,” the colonel ultimately decided he could not back down from his initial demand of unconditional surrender of the enemy.

  Time and again he and his men had defeated these warrior bands. And while he might not have enough supplies to pursue the enemy in the next few weeks, spring would come, and he had faith he would find a way, find the necessary stocks that would allow him to prosecute this war all the way to victory. If supplies would not arrive from downriver when he was ready to march, then by God he’d get his
hands on what he needed from civilian contractors in Bozeman City. Come spring, an answer would present itself.

  Miles called the Cheyenne and Sioux leaders back to his office on the morning of the twenty-third.

  “Rowland, tell the chiefs exactly what I have to say,” he stated tersely. “Word for word, as close as you can make it. And, Bruguier—you translate it into Sioux.”

  He waited as both men nodded and turned toward their audiences, then the colonel drew in a breath, set his jaw, and began.

  “The Bear Coat’s soldiers have driven Sitting Bull north of the Missouri and he’s running for Canada.

  “Two months ago I whipped Crazy Horse and all of you in our fight up the Tongue River.

  “So you know that I am a man who can make war on you and your villages.

  “You know me as a man who will fight you if you want to make a fight of it.

  “If you don’t already, you will come to know me as a man of my word. I will not lie to you—I won’t tell you what you want to hear simply to get you to surrender to me. I speak to you with one tongue, whether you like the sound of my words or not.

  “You will trust me as a friend, or trust me as an enemy. But I will not be among those white men who will lie to you.”

  As the words were translated into both languages, those two voices bouncing off one another as the interpreters delivered the colonel’s stern admonition, Miles watched how many of the dark eyes lost their haughtiness, how some of the heads began to gently nod in resignation. If nothing else, he brooded, they will know me as a man who deals honestly with them.

  “Weeks ago I gave you your terms of surrender,” he continued. “You are in no position to come back and attempt to dictate new terms of that surrender to me. As I told you then, I can be a good man, or I can be a bad man to your people. What I said before still stands, no matter if it is winter or spring, or if I have to follow your villages into the summer and fall. You will surrender.

  “You will surrender at either of the agencies south of here, Red Cloud’s or Spotted Tail’s; or, as some of you have already decided, you will come here to surrender to me. But, you must surrender one place or the other. The only other choice for you … will be war.

  “If you do not want my soldiers to trail your villages, if you do not want any more of your women and children to suffer because you decide to pursue this war, then you must surrender to me without conditions. You must turn over your ponies to me. You must turn in all your firearms and other weapons as I will require. Only those among you who I trust to be scouts will be allowed to keep their ponies and their weapons.”

  Several of the chiefs turned briefly to glance at both White Bull and Little Chief who already had become scouts for this post. And that reminded Miles of a final point he wanted to impress upon these leaders.

  “Spotted Tail was wrong and you must not believe him when he talks about me.”

  He waited while those words were translated before continuing.

  “Yes, Spotted Tail was very wrong when he told you that this fort and my soldiers will be leaving soon. You cannot believe him. I am standing here to tell you that I will stay in this country until my job is done. My soldiers will be here until all of your bands have either surrendered, or I have made war on your villages. You will surrender, or you must fight me. And if you fight me, I vow that I will kill you before I leave this place.

  “This fort will stand. My men will remain. And I will lead them against you if you refuse to surrender.

  “Believe in my words. I tell you the truth. I can deal with you honestly in peace, or you can trust that I will kill you in war. It is up to you to decide.”

  Miles turned slowly and stepped back to his crude desk. He leaned against it, crossed his arms over his chest and waited while both interpreters finished. As silence settled over that hut, and the crowd of warriors pressed close outside, all of them being slowly surrounded by soldiers, the colonel watched the faces of those Indian leaders. For the first time in all the sessions he held with them, these headmen did not immediately begin to confer among themselves. Instead, the chiefs either stared at him, or fixed their gazes on the walls or the floor in front of them—every last one deep in their own thoughts.

  For the first time, Miles brooded, I believe they’re really searching their souls on just what course they should take from here.

  Two minutes passed and still not one of the Indians stirred. At three minutes no chief had risen to speak. Four minutes passed and the only sound from his visitors was an occasional, muted cough. Then five ticked by in that uneasy stillness.

  At last Little Chief, the half-Sioux, half-Cheyenne leader of his own band, slowly stood, then stepped into the small patch of open floor between the chiefs and Miles. There, with solemn dignity, he threw back the front of the painted buffalo robe, which spilled from his shoulders until it hung from his waist where he had it belted. That act reminded Miles of how one of Caesar’s men might fling back part of his toga before addressing the Roman Senate.

  “I am a chief, Bear Coat,” he began, with Bruguier translating.

  “For many generations my fathers have been chiefs before me. For a long, long time my ancestors have lived in this country, hunted the buffalo, made our fires beside the rivers, and drank of these waters. We have given birth to our children, and buried our old ones in this land.”

  Miles had to admit, this was an impressive man. Tall, sinewy, and muscular, Little Chief was no less than an archetype. As the colonel listened to the half-breed’s translation, he studied the piercing scars across the Indian’s chest, the four slashing scars across each of his upper arms.

  “Ever since our people can remember, this has been our land,” Little Chief continued. “You are the invaders here. You have come here without our invitation, or our welcome. The white man has wronged us, come to our home to take what is not his.”

  Miles watched these strong, unvarnished words cause a ripple of emotion to course through the assembly. If they hadn’t been ready before, Miles prayed his soldiers stationed outside the hut were ready now for an outbreak.

  “The white man has run off our game, killed our buffalo, made his camps on the sacred land of my people,” the tall Sioux leader declared. “And when we would not be driven off like the beasts to slaughter, the white man sent his army against us.”

  This Indian had an eloquence that stabbed Miles to the quick, a dignity that struck him with the poignancy of the man’s words. The colonel found his sympathy pricked as Little Chief continued.

  “We did not make war on the white man. The white man came here to our country, to make war on us.”

  Miles thought, If this man stood in the assembly halls of our Congress, he would surely arouse an unbridled passion for his cause.

  “But we are weak, compared to you and your forces,” Little Chief suddenly admitted with finality. “We are out of ammunition. Our people cannot make a rifle, cannot make a bullet, or even a knife. In fact, we are at the mercy of those who are taking possession of our country.”

  Holding out both hands before him at the waist, palms up, the Indian concluded, “Your terms are harsh and cruel … but my people are going to accept them and place ourselves at your mercy.”

  Without ceremony, Little Chief turned away and settled again to the floor.

  What a tremor of joy shot through Miles at those words!

  All his hard work here on the northern plains hadn’t been for naught! The toils and sacrifices of his men had not been in vain!

  “Rowland, tell these chiefs that some of them can go to Washington City, there to meet the leaders of this country,” Miles gushed, happiness awash in every ounce of his being.

  One of the older Cheyenne chiefs rose and responded to that invitation. “Tell the Bear Coat I have been to this Washington before. There they showed me a map with this land on it. They pointed to all the country that the white man said was his and told me the Indians must keep off that land. Then they showed me a sma
ll piece of ground off in the corner of the map. Here the Indians were to go and stay, and the white people could not go there.”

  The old man’s red-rimmed eyes showed great sadness as he continued, “But the white men who told me this many winters ago lied to us. The white man did not keep off the land he said belonged to the Indian. The white man wanted that land too.”

  Miles saw how the eyes of the other chiefs now showed a similar sadness as the chief continued.

  “The Bear Coat has not lied to us yet. So I am going to try you. I am going to come in here to the Bear Coat’s fort. I am going to surrender to you.”

  As the old man sat again on the floor, Little Chief stepped forward once more.

  “I say these things to the Bear Coat before I shake his hand in peace,” he declared with great solemnity, while Bruguier translated.

  “Some of my people want to go down to the southern agency to surrender because their relations are already there. And some of us will surrender to you here and remain on the Elk River with your soldiers.”

  Little Chief drew himself up, holding out his hand to Miles as he said, “This war between our peoples must not go on. I say this to you: the killing is over.”

  Chapter 23

  Light Snow Moon

  1877

  BY TELEGRAPH

  THE INDIANS.

  Sitting Bull Heard From.

  ST. PAUL, March 7.—A Winnipeg (Manitoba) special to the Pioneer-Press says information has been received there of the arrival of Sitting Bull in the mountains of the British possessions. He had 1,000 horses and mules captured from the United States forces. A force of mounted police was sent out to interview him.

  With long faces and empty hands the peace delegates returned from the Elk River.

  At first, they told those in the great village, the Bear Coat had grown very angry at Three Stars for making the offer he had. Then the soldier chief told the peace delegates that he could not change the army’s terms of surrender. The Ohmeseheso and Lakota would have to turn over their weapons and ponies. They would have to surrender themselves as prisoners of war.