THE "CHIEF" AND THE STAFF.
With the death of our scout, Jim White, that eventful afternoon on the
9th of September, 1876, the skulking Indians in the ravine seemed to
have fired their last shot. Several squaws were half dragged, half
pushed up the banks, and through them the hidden foe were at last
convinced that their lives would be spared if they would come out and
surrender. Pending the negotiations, General Crook himself, with two or
three staff officers, came upon the scene, and orders were given that
the prisoners should be brought to him.
The time was, in the martial history of our country, when
brigadier-generals were as plentiful as treasury-clerks--when our
streets were ablaze with brilliant buttons, double rows and grouped in
twos; when silver stars shone on many a shoulder, and every such
luminary was the centre of half a score of brilliant satellites, the
blue-and-gold aides-de-camp, adjutant-generals, etc., etc. But those
were the dashing days of the late civil war, when the traditions of 1812
and Mexico were still fresh in the military mind, and when we were half
disposed to consider it quite the thing for a general to bedeck himself
in all the splendor to be borrowed from plumes, epaulettes, and sashes,
and, followed by a curveting train of attendants, to gallop forth and
salute his opponent before opening the battle. They did it in 1812, and
"Old Fuss and Feathers," as many in the army called Winfield Scott,
would have pursued the same system in '47, but for the fact that bluff
Zachary Taylor--"Old Rough and Ready"--had taken the initiative, and
left all full-dress outfits east of the Rio Grande.
We do things in a still more practical style nowadays, and, when it
comes to fighting Indians, all that is ornamental in warfare has been
left to them. An Indian of the Sioux or Cheyenne tribe, when he goes
into battle, is as gorgeous a creature as vermilion pigment, plumed
war-bonnet, glittering necklace, armlets, bracelets, and painted shield
can make him. But here is a chance to see a full-fledged
brigadier-general of the United States Army and his brilliant staff in
action--date, September 9th, 1876; place, a muddy ravine in far-western
Dakota; campaign, the great Sioux war of that year. Now,
fellow-citizens, which is brigadier and which is private soldier in this
crowd? It has gathered in not unkindly curiosity around three squaws who
have just been brought into the presence of the "big white chief." You
are taxpayers--you contribute to the support of the brigadier and the
private alike. Presumably, therefore, having paid your money, you take
your pick. I see you will need assistance. Very well, then. This utterly
unpretending party--this undeniably shabby-looking man in a private
soldier's light-blue overcoat, standing ankle-deep in mud in a far-gone
pair of private soldier's boots, crowned with a most shocking bad hat,
is Brigadier-General George Crook, of the United States Army. He
commanded the Eighth Corps at Cedar Creek, and ever since the war closed
has been hustled about the great West, doing more hard service and
making less fuss about it than you suppose possible in the case of a
brigadier-general. He has spent the best days of his life, before and
since the war, in the exile of the frontier. He has fought all the
tribes on the western slope of the Rockies, and nearly all on the
eastern side. Pitt River Indians sent an arrow through him in 1857, and
since the day he took command against the Apaches in Arizona no white
man's scalp would bring the price his would, even in the most
impoverished tribe on the continent.
The rain is dripping from the ragged edge of his old white felt hat and
down over his untrimmed beard as he holds out his hand to greet, Indian
fashion, the first squaw whom the interpreter, Frank Gruard, is leading
forward. Poor, haggard, terrified old wretch, she recognizes the big
chief at once, and, springing forward, grasps his hand in both of hers,
while her eyes mutely implore protection. Never having seen in all her
life any reception but torture for prisoners, she cannot be made to
believe, for some minutes, that the white man does not war that way. The
other squaws come crowding after her, each eager to grasp the general's
hand, and then to insert therein the tiny fist of the pappoose hanging
in stolid wonderment on her back. One of the squaws, a young and really
handsome woman, is shot through the hand, but she holds it unconcernedly
before her, letting the blood drip to the ground while she listens to
the interpreter's explanation of the general's assurance of safety.
Standing by the general are two of his aides. West of the Missouri you
would not need introduction to him or them, for no men are better known;
but it is the rarest thing imaginable to see any one of the three
anywhere else. In point of style and attire, they are no better off than
their chief. Bourke, the senior aide and adjutant-general of the
expedition, is picturesquely gotten up in an old shooting-coat, an
indescribable pair of trousers, and a straw hat minus ribbon or binding,
a brim ragged as the edge of a saw, and a crown without a thatch. It was
midsummer, you recollect, when we started on this raid, and, while the
seasons have changed, our garments, perforce, remain the same, what
there is left of them.
Schuyler, the junior, is a trifle more "swell" in point of dress. His
hat has not quite so many holes; his hunting-shirt of brown canvas has
stood the wear and tear of the campaign somewhat better, and the lower
man is garbed in a material unsightly but indestructible. All three are
old campaigners in every part of the West. The third aide-de-camp we saw
in the previous article, down in the ravine itself, heading the attack
on the Indians. Clark is unquestionably the show-figure of the staff,
for his suit of Indian-tanned buckskin seems to defy the elements, and
he looks as handsome and jaunty as the day we met him on the
Yellowstone.
Meantime more Indians are being dragged out of their improvised
rifle-pits--warriors, squaws, and children. One of the latter is a
bright-eyed little miss of some four or five summers. She is absolutely
pretty, and looks so wet and cold and hungry that Bourke's big heart is
touched, and, lifting her from the ground, he starts off with her
towards where the Fifth Cavalry are bivouacked, and I go with them. The
little maiden suspects treachery--torture or death, no doubt--for with
all her savage strength she kicks, struggles, claws, and scratches at
the kindly, bearded face, scorns all the soothing protestations of her
captor, and finally, as we arrive at Bourke's camp-fire, actually tears
off that veteran straw hat, and Bourke, being a bachelor, hands his
prize over to me with the remark that, as a family man, I may have
better luck. Apparently I do not, but in a moment the adjutant-general
is busying himself at his haversack. He produces an almost forgotten
luxury--a solid hard-tack; spreads upon it a thick layer of wild-currant
jam, and hands it to the little termagant who is deafening me with
screams. "Take it, it's washtay, Wauwataycha;" and, sudden as sunburst
from April cloud, little Wauwataycha's white teeth gleamed in smiles an
instant, and then are buried in the sweet morsel. Her troubles are
forgotten, she wriggles out of my arms, squats contentedly in the mud
by the fire, finishes a square foot of hard-tack in less time than we
could masticate an inch, and smilingly looks up for more.
Poor little heathen! It wasn't the treatment she expected, and,
doubtless, more than ever, she thinks "white man heap fool," but she is
none the less happy. She will fill her own little stomach first, and
then go and tell the glad tidings to her sisters, cousins, and aunts,
and that white chief will have consequential damages to settle for
scores of relatives of the original claimant of his hospitality. Indian
logic in such matters is nothing if not peculiar. Lo argues, "You give
my pappoose something to eat--you my pappoose friend; now you give me,
or you my enemy."
Nothing but big luck will save Bourke's scanty supply of provender this
muddy, rainy afternoon.
We have captured a dozen or more rabid Indians who but half an hour ago
were strewing the hillside with our dead. Here's one grinning,
hand-shaking vagabond with one of Custer's corporals uniforms on his
back--doubtless that corporal's scalp is somewhere in the warrior's
possession, but he has the deep sagacity not to boast of it; and no man
in his sound senses wants to search the average Indian. They are our
prisoners. Were we theirs, by this time we would be nakedly ornamenting
a solid stake and broiling to a juicy death to the accompaniment of
their exultant howls. But fate ordains otherwise; we are good North
American citizens and must conciliate--so we pass them around with
smiling, pacific grasp of handcheery "How coolahs," and seat them by
the fire and bid them puff of our scanty store of tobacco, and eat of
our common stock of pony. But we leave a fair-sized guard with orders to
perforate the first redskin that tries to budge, while the rest of us
grab our carbines and hurry to our posts. Scattering shots are heard all
along and around our line--the trumpets of the cavalry ring out "To
arms!" the Fifth Cavalry follows with "Forward." It means business,
gentlemen, for here come Crazy Horse, Roman Nose, and scores, nay
hundreds, of these Dick Turpins of the Plains, bent on recapturing their
comrades. We must drop pen to meet them.