THE MARCH TO THE BIG HORN.
Chasing the Cheyennes from the War Bonnet and Indian Creek to the
reservation, our seven companies had struck cross country, and until we
neared the high bluffs and ridges to the north of the agency, it was not
difficult for the wagons to follow us; but it was generally predicted
that Lieutenant Hall would never be able to get his train over the
ravines and "breaks" which he would encounter on the 18th, and the
command was congratulating itself on the prospect of a day's rest at Red
Cloud, when at noon, to our utter astonishment, the wagons hove in
sight. We had fasted since our four-o'clock breakfast on the previous
morning--were hungrily eying the Indian supplies in their plethoric
storehouses, and were just about negotiating with the infantry men of
Camp Robinson for the loan of rations and the wherewithal to cook the
same, when Hall rode in, _nonchalant_ as usual, and parked his train of
supplies amid shouts of welcome. General Merritt was unfeignedly glad to
see his quartermaster; he had received his orders to hasten in to Fort
Laramie and proceed to the reinforcement of General Crook, and every
moment was precious. We were allowed just two hours to prepare and
partake of an ample dinner, pack our traps and store them in the wagons
again, when "Boots and saddles" was echoed back from the white crags of
Dancer's Hill and Crow Butte, and at 2.30 we were winding up the
beautiful valley of the White River. Lieutenant Hall was left with his
train to give his teams and teamsters a needed rest, and ordered to
follow us at early evening.
All the morning the reservation Indians had come in flocks to have a
look at the soldiers who had outwitted them on the previous day.
Arrapahoe and Ogalalla, Minneconjou and Uncapapa, represented by dozens
of old chiefs and groups of curious and laughing squaws, hung about us
for hours--occasionally asking questions and invariably professing a
readiness to accept any trifle we might feel disposed to part with. To
beg is the one thing of which an Indian is never ashamed. In Arizona I
have known a lot of Apaches to hang around camp for an entire day, and
when they had coaxed us out of our last plug of tobacco, our only
remaining match, and our old clothes, instead of going home satisfied
they would turn to with reviving energy and beg for the things of all
others for which they had not the faintest use--soap and writing-paper.
In addition to all the "squaw men" and "blanket Indians" at the
reservation, there came to see us that day quite a number of Cheyennes,
our antagonists of the day before. Shrouded in their dark-blue blankets
and washed clean of their lurid war-paint, they were by no means
imposing. One and all they wanted to see Buffalo Bill, and wherever he
moved they followed him with awe-filled eyes. He wore the same dress in
which he had burst upon them in yesterday's fight, a Mexican costume of
black velvet, slashed with scarlet and trimmed with silver buttons and
lace--one of his theatrical garbs, in which he had done much execution
before the footlights in the States, and which now became of intensified
value. Bill had carefully preserved the beautiful war bonnet, shield and
decorations, as well as the arms of the young chieftain Yellow Hand,
whom he had slain in single combat, and that winter ('76 and '77) was
probably the most profitable of his theatrical career. The incidents of
the fight of the 17th and the death of Yellow Hand were dramatized for
him, and presented one of the most telling of the plays in which he
starred all over the East that season. He realized above all expenses
some $13,000 on that one alone, and I fancy that some of your readers
may have seen it. For a time it was his custom to display the trophies
of that fight in some prominent show-window during the day, and take
them away only in time for the performance at night. As an advertisement
it drew largely in the West, but when Bill reached the refinements of
the Middle States and the culture of New England he encountered a storm
of abuse from the press and the clergy which, while it induced him to
withdraw "the blood-stained trophies of his murderous and cowardly
deeds" from the show-windows, so stimulated public curiosity as to
materially augment his receipts.
It is in New England, the land of the Pequots and the Iroquois, that
the most violent partisans of the peace policy are to be found to-day.
There is method in their cultured mania, for the farther removed the
citizen finds himself from the Indian the better he likes him. Year
after year, with the westward march of civilization, the Indian has
found himself, in the poetic and allegorical language ascribed to him by
Cooper and others who never heard him use it, "thrust farther towards
the fiery bosom of the setting sun." Each state in turn has elbowed him
on towards the Mississippi, and by the time the struggling aborigine was
at the safe distance of two or three states away, was virtuously ready
to preach fierce denunciation of the people who simply did as it had
done. It is comical to-day to hear Mr. Conger, of Michigan, assailing
Mr. Belford, of Colorado, because the latter considers it time for the
Utes to move or become amenable to the laws of the land; and when we
look back and remember how the whole movement was inaugurated by the
Pilgrim Fathers, is it not edifying to read the Bostonian tirades
against the settlers--the pilgrims and pioneers of the Far West?
Our march to Laramie was without noteworthy incident. We reached the
North Platte on Friday afternoon, July 21, spent Saturday in busy
preparation, and early Sunday morning, six o'clock, the trumpets were
sounding "the General," the universal army signal to strike your tent
and march away. The white canvas was folded into the wagons, and in a
few moments more the column of horse was moving off on the
long-anticipated march to join General Crook. Captain Egan and
Lieutenant Allison of the Second Cavalry rode out from Laramie to wish
us godspeed. By eight the sun was scorching our backs and great clouds
of dust were rising under our horses' feet, and Laramie was left behind.
Many and many a weary march, many a week of privation and suffering,
many a stirring scene were we to encounter before once again the
hospitable old frontier fort would open its gates to receive us. At
half-past two we camped along the Platte at Bull Bend, and had a
refreshing bath in its rapid waters; at four a violent storm of wind and
rain bore down upon us, and beat upon our canvas during the night, but
morning broke all the better for marching. A cold drizzle is far
preferable to thick dust. We sped along briskly to the "La Bonte," and
from there hastened on to Fetterman, where the main command arrived at
noon on the 25th, the wagons and rear guard, of which I was in charge,
coming in two hours later, fording the Platte at once, and moving into
camp some distance up stream.
[Illustration: FORT FETTERMAN.]
Fetterman was crowded with wagon trains, new horses, recruits, and
officers, all waiting to go forward to General Crook, north of the Big
Horn, and with the eight companies of the Fifth Cavalry as a nucleus,
General Merritt organized the array of "unattached" into a disciplined
force, brought chaos into prompt subjection, and at eight a.m. on the
26th started the whole mass on its northward march. Among those to meet
us here were our old Arizona comrades, Lieutenants Rodgers and Eaton,
who had hurried from detached service to catch us, and there were some
comical features in the reunion. They had escaped from Eastern cities
but the week previous, had made the journey by rail to Cheyenne and
Medicine Bow, and by stage or ambulance to Fetterman, were fresh and
trim and neat as though stepping out for parade. We had been marching
and scouting for six weeks through scorching dust and alkali, and with
untrimmed beards and begrimed attire were unrecognizable. Rodgers
positively refused to believe in the identity of a comrade whom he had
met at a german at Fort Hays, but forgot his scruples when he received
through that same officer the notification that he was promoted to the
command of Company "A," its captain having suddenly concluded to resign
a short time before.
Here, too, the future medical director of the expedition, Dr. Clements,
made his appearance, and joined for the campaign, and two officers of
the Fourth Infantry, whose companies were not included in General
Crook's field force, obtained authority to serve with the Fifth Cavalry.
And among those who cast their lot with us as volunteers, there came a
gallant sailor, a lieutenant of our navy, who, having leave of absence
from his department after long sea service, came out to spend a portion
thereof in hunting on the Plains, just as his cousin, Lieutenant
Rodgers, was hastening to join his regiment; and Jack Tar became a
cavalry man, to serve for three months or the war, and it wasn't a week
before Mr. Hunter had won the regard of every officer and man in the
Fifth, and the brevet of "Commodore," by which title he was universally
hailed throughout the long and dreary campaign that followed.
Two more companies of ours, "E" and "F," had been ordered to join us
also, but we were in a hurry, and they followed by forced marches. On
the night of the 28th we were encamped in pitchy darkness in a narrow
valley at the head-waters of the North Fork of the Mina Pusa. I was
aroused from sleep by the voice of Lieutenant Pardee, who was serving as
an aide-de-camp to General Merritt, and, rolling out of my blankets,
found the general and himself at our tent. They asked if we had heard
the distant sound of cavalry trumpets. The general thought he had, and
we all went out beyond the post of the sentinels upon the open prairie
to listen. It was time for Captains Price and Payne to reach us with
their companies, and the general thought that in the thick darkness they
had lost the trail and were signalling in hopes of a reply, and so we
pricked up our ears. The silence was as dense as the darkness; no sound
came from the slumbering camp; no light from the smouldering fire;
suddenly there floated through the night air, soft and clear, the faint
notes of the cavalry trumpet sounding "Officer's Call;" another minute
and it was answered by our chief trumpeter, and, guided by the calls, in
half an hour our comrades had joined us, and ten companies of the Fifth
Cavalry were camped together for the first time in years.
From that night "Officer's Call" grew to be the conventional signal by
which we of the Fifth were wont to herald our coming through the
darkness or distance to comrades who might be awaiting us. Last
September, when the Utes made their attack on Major Thornburgh's
command, your readers will doubtless remember that after that gallant
soldier's death the command of the besieged battalion devolved upon
Captain Payne, of the Fifth Cavalry. He and his company, who were the
first to employ the signal, have best reason to remember its subsequent
value, and I cannot do better than to repeat in his own words, my
classmate's description of the arrival of General Merritt and the
regiment after their famous dash of two hundred miles to the rescue. Of
his little battalion of three companies, fifty were lying wounded in the
hurriedly constructed rifle-pits, he and his surgeon were of the number,
and for six days the Indians had poured in a pitiless fire whenever hand
or head became visible. Hoping for the speedy coming of his colonel,
Payne tells us: "While lying in the trenches on the night of the 4th of
October, this incident came to mind. Believing it _just_ possible for
General Merritt to reach us next morning, and knowing that, if possible,
come he would, I directed one of my trumpeters to be on the alert for
the expected signal. And so it was; just as the first gray of the dawn
appeared, our listening ears caught the sound of "Officer's Call"
breaking the silence of the morning, and filling the valley with the
sweetest music we had ever heard. Joyously the reply rang out from our
corral, and the men rushing from the rifle-pits made the welkin ring
with their glad cheers."
First at the head-waters of the Mina Pusa, in July, '76; last in the
valley of the Milk River. Next? Far out in the canyons of Colorado,
utterly isolated from the world, snowed in, living we don't know how,
four companies of the Fifth Cavalry are waiting at the ruins of the
White River Agency the result of all this negotiation in Washington.
Merritt with the other companies, six in number, is wintering at Fort
Russell, on the line of the Union Pacific. More than probable is it that
the earliest spring will find him a second time making that
two-hundred-mile march to the Milk River, and once again the Rockies
will echo the stirring strains of "Officer's Call."
Saturday, the 29th of July, '76, broke like a morning in mid-Sahara. We
marched in glaring sun, through miles of dust, sage-brush, and alkali,
and followed it up on Sunday, the 30th, with just such another; no
shade, no grass, no water fit to swallow. We bivouacked along the Powder
River, a curdling stream the color of dirty chalk, and we gazed with
wistful, burning eyes at the grand peaks of the Big Horn, mantled with
glistening snow, only fifty miles away. Monday was another day of heat,
glare, and dust, with that tantalizing glory of ice and snow twenty
miles nearer. That night the wind started in from the west, and blew
down from those very peaks, fanning our fevered cheeks like blessed
wavelets from heaven, as indeed they were. We were gasping for air on
the banks of Crazy Woman's Fork, and would have suffocated but for that
glad relief.
Early next morning Merritt led us on again, marching through a rolling
country that became more and more varied and interesting with every
mile; we were edging in closer to the foot-hills of the mountains.
Several small herds of buffalo were sighted, and some few officers and
men were allowed to go with Cody in chase. At one p.m. we halted on
Clear Fork, a beautiful running stream deserving of its name, fresh from
the snow peaks on our left; had lunch and rested until five, when once
more we saddled up and pushed ahead; came suddenly upon Lake De Smet,
wild and picturesque, lying like a mirror in a deep basin of treeless
banks, and in a beautiful open glade, rich with abundant green grass and
watered by a clear, cold rivulet, we camped in the glorious starlight,
thanking Heaven we were out of the desert, and at last along the storied
range of the Big Horn.
Wednesday, August 2d, dawned bracing, clear, and beautiful. The glorious
sunshine beamed on lofty crags and pine-covered heights close at our
left hand, peered into dark ravine and rocky gorge, sparkled on the
swift-flowing stream, and on innumerable dew-drops over the glade. Men
and horses awoke to new life. A few miles ahead lay a lofty ridge, and
from that, said our guides, the valleys of the Tongue and its branches,
and the grand sweep of country towards the Rosebud on the north, and the
Big Horn River to the northwest, would be spread before us like a map.
Over that ridge, somewhere, lies Crook with his force, expectant of our
coming; over that ridge, beyond him, are or were ten thousand renegades
and hostile Indians, Sioux, and San Arcs, Cheyennes of the North (it was
the Southern Cheyennes we whipped back on the War Bonnet),
Minneconjous, Uncapapas (Sitting Bull's Own), Yanktonnais, and Brules,
all banded together in one grand attempt to exterminate the white
intruders.
How I envied the advance that day the first glimpse over that divide!
But each company took its turn at head of column; and now that we were
fairly in among the fastnesses, where attack might be expected at any
moment, two companies were daily detailed to escort and guard the wagon
train, and Companies "A" and "K" were the unfortunates to-day. It was
mean duty. The road was not bad, but it wound up and down, over crests
and through deep ravines. We had to dismount and lend a helping hand
half the time. At seven we passed the palisaded ruins of old Fort Phil
Kearney, abandoned by "Peace Commission" order in '68; and just beyond
we halted and silently surveyed the ridge on which Captains Fetterman
and Brown, Lieutenant Grummond, and three companies of soldiers were
slowly slaughtered by Red Cloud and his surrounding thousands in
December, '66. We fancied the poor women and children in the fort,
listening and looking on in dumb, helpless horror; and then we thought
of Custer and his comrades lying yet unburied only a few miles farther
across that uplifted barrier in our front, and then we hurried on,
eagerly praying that it might be our fortune to avenge some of those
sacrificed lives; toiled up the long, long ascent, reached the lofty
crest, and halted again in sheer amaze. The whole landscape to the north
was black with smoke. East, as far as the Cheetish (Wolf) Mountains;
west, as far as the Little Horn, from every valley great masses of
surging, billowy clouds rolled up to swell the pall that overspread the
northern sky and hung low upon the dividing ridges towards the
Yellowstone. Here and there forked flames shot up through the heated
veil, and even at our distance we could almost hear their roar and
crackle. "Lo" had set the country afire to baffle his pursuers, and,
knowing of the coming of Crook's reinforcements, was now, in all
probability, scattering over the continent.
At eleven we passed an abandoned outpost of earthworks--thrown up,
probably, by a detached company guarding the road. At two we overtook
Merritt and the eight companies resting along a cool, limpid stream that
gave promise of trout; and here we camped for the night, and listened
eagerly to the news brought us by courier from General Crook. Scouts
were out hunting for the Indians, who had withdrawn their masses from
his immediate front, and he was only waiting our coming to launch out in
pursuit. We sleep that night restless and impatient of the
delay--morning comes all too slowly--but at four o'clock we are astir
and on the move to meet our brigadier, but couriers report him coming
down towards us along the main valley of the Tongue. We unsaddle and
wait till three in the afternoon, when again "the General" sounds, and
we march northwardly over the ridges towards the thick smoke. "Crook is
camping on Goose Creek," is the explanation, and we are to join him
there. At half-past five we catch glimpses of distant patrols and herds
of cavalry horses and quartermasters' mules on the sloping side-hills.
Presently horsemen come cantering out to meet us. Gray-haired, handsome,
soldierly as ever, the first to hail us is our old Arizona major, now
Lieutenant-Colonel Royall, of the Third Cavalry--with him a group of his
own and the Second Cavalry officers. But we are still moved onward. We
descend a long spur of foot-hill; plunge through a rapid mountain
torrent into dense timber on the other side, still guided by our
welcoming comrades; ride with dripping flanks through willow and
cottonwood into brilliant light beyond. There white tent and
wagon-covers gleam in every direction; rough, bearded men are shouting
greeting; and just ahead, on the trail, in worn shooting-jacket, slouch
felt hat, and soldier's boots, with ragged beard braided and tied with
tape, with twinkling eyes and half-shy, embarrassed manner, stands our
old Arizona friend and chieftain, the hardworking soldier we have come
all these many miles to join, looking as natural as when we last saw him
in the spurs of the Sierras. There is no mistaking the gladness of his
welcome. His face lights up with new light. He has a cordial word with
General Carr, who commands the leading battalion; then turns to me, and
with a grasp of the hand that fairly makes me wince, gives greeting for
which I'd make that march twice over.