summer of ’66. During one of our trips to the hay field, we were
accompanied by a man who represented _Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Weekly_
as an artist. This man rode with me a part of the way. He intended to do
some sketching near there but I advised him to stay with our outfit.
However, he insisted on stopping by the way. On our return we found him
dead, a cross cut on his breast, which indicated that they thought him a
coward who would not fight. He wore long, black hair and his head had
been completely skinned. Probably it was the work of a band of young
Cheyenne bucks; they could cut the scalps into many pieces and thereby
make a big show in camp. Was very sorry for this man; he appeared to be
a perfect gentleman. His thought was, that if the Indians found him they
would not hurt him, as he intended to show them his drawings, and also
explain to them that he was not armed.
[Illustration: Plan of Magazine at Fort Phil Kearney (now Wyoming)]
Later on the Indians got so thick that we had to abandon this hay-making
business. The day that we broke camp we had a great deal of fighting
with the Indians. I remember a soldier named Pate Smith who borrowed a
revolver from me that day. This man was mounted. He rode too far ahead
of the outfit, the Indians cut him off. Later we heard from the Crows
that the Sioux caught him, skinned him alive. This man was an old
volunteer soldier, but what show has a man with the old-fashioned
Springfield musket? One shot and you are done.
I was at the Fort at the time of the Phil Kearney massacre and went down
with the reinforcements to that sad scene. Our men were all down when we
got there, and cut up in the most brutal manner, such as only a red
brute would do. We buried them a little east of the fort. They fought a
good fight, but were surprised and overpowered. As we approached the
scene of action the country was black with Indians to the west.
The officers were clearly to blame for this slaughter; they disobeyed
the colonel’s orders, which were to guard the wood train to the fort,
and not to engage the Indians unless attacked by them. At a point about
two miles west of the fort they left the wood train; crossed the Big
Piney Creek; got nearly to the Peno Creek, and were ambushed by about
three thousand Indians, and the entire command killed. This band of
Indians included all of the different tribes of the Sioux, also
Cheyennes, Blackfeet, Arapahoes, and some young renegade Crow bucks. I
knew this latter statement to be true, from the fact that one member of
Company C, Second Cavalry, had stolen a revolver from me some time
before and it was with him in this fight. It was taken from his body by
the Indians. Next spring a young Crow came to the fort. I saw the gun
under his blanket and took it away from him. If he was in camp on the
Big Horn with his people, he could not have got this gun on this field
of slaughter. I had been wounded about six weeks prior to this fight and
had not reported for duty, but on call for volunteers to reinforce the
Fetterman party, reported for duty and went with the command to the
scene of the massacre.
You are in error in stating that there was no communication with the
outside world during this winter. I made one trip with my ambulance to
Fort Laramie. We had an escort of ten cavalry soldiers. We made, I
think, three trips after this without an escort, using pack mules, the
party consisting of two packers and the mail-carrier, Van Volsey, a very
fine man and a brave one, too. Last trip up I saw Indian signs in the
dry forks of the Powder River, consisting of the remains of a camp fire,
not entirely burned out, and some Indian traps lying around it. I
refused to make another trip without an escort. On our arrival at the
fort we reported the facts, and demanded an escort for the next trip.
But owing to the fact that the stock was in such poor condition on
account of the scarcity of food, they could not furnish one mounted.
They persuaded me to take one more trip with Van Volsey, which I
foolishly consented to do. On the first day out I got snow blind and on
our arrival at Fort Reno requested him to get a substitute in my place.
He refused to do so and insisted that I accompany him to Fort Laramie,
but after being on the road a short time, my eyes played out entirely. I
had to return to the fort and there secured another man to take my
place. They made the trip down all right and returning were accompanied
by two or three soldiers, who were going to join their commands. They
had got nearly to the head of the dry fork of the Powder River when the
Indians killed the entire party. We found the bones of the men and mules
and some of the mail sacks. We buried the men’s remains there.
During the summer of ’67 life was one continual round of fighting. We
lost a great many men, but damaged the Sioux much more than during the
previous year. The soldiers had better guns, and were far better Indian
fighters. They had learned that it was safer to keep their faces to the
Indians, than, as during the previous year, their backs. When you run
from an Indian you are his meat.
On the day of the wagon-box fight, accompanied by my partner, I left the
fort before daylight. We went to the foot-hills to get some deer. A
short time after daylight we discovered a lot of Indian smoke signals on
the hills, and decided that we had better get back to the fort. In
making our way back we followed the Little Piney down for some distance,
and found that the country was full of Indians. We then struck out for
the wood train. The Indians had got between us and it. We then went to
the wagon-box corral, and got there none too soon.
Your description of the corral is correct as I remember it to be. Its
location is about right, except that it was not on an island. I never
heard of Little Piney Island, and I do not believe such an island
existed there at that time.[26] The wagon boxes were of the ordinary
government boxes. They were set off from the wagons, as the wagons were
in corral. The intervals between were packed with logs, bales of
blankets, clothing, sacks of corn, etc. As to the wagon boxes being
lined with iron, you are right. They were not. Up to that time, and
during my time on the plains, I never saw wagon boxes so lined. The
wagon box that I was detailed to fight in had no such protection, but we
had gunny sacks of corn placed on edge two deep on the inside of the
box, with a two inch auger hole at the point where the four sacks came
together. This made good protection for the body when lying down. As
stated in your article, the tops of the wagon boxes were literally torn
to pieces with the bullets fired at us by the Indians. Without this
protection the fight would not have lasted very long.
There was a surplus of ammunition and guns. I had two Spencer carbines,
and two revolvers (six-shot army Colt’s). During the first charge I
emptied the carbines and the revolvers less two shots (reserved for
myself in case of a show down). The balance of our men must have fired
as many shots as I did. The soldier that was in the box with me had a
needle gun and a Spencer; also one or two revolvers. And he kept them
busy while he lived. This man was an infantry soldier—do not remember
his company. He was shot through the head, dying in about two hours
after being shot.
Lieutenant Jenness had just cautioned me not to expose my person, and to
hold my fire until I was sure of getting an Indian at each shot. He had
moved a few feet from my box when he was shot through the head. I think
he died instantly. He was a grand, good man, and a fearless officer. I
told him to keep under cover. He stated he was compelled to expose
himself in order to look after his men.
I got a slight wound in my left hand; a bullet came in through my
porthole, which I thought was close shooting for a Sioux.
This fight lasted about four hours, and was very hot from the start. I
had been in several Indian fights prior to this time, but never saw the
Indians make such a determined effort to clean us up before. They should
have killed the entire party. They certainly had force enough to ride
over us, but our fire was so steady and severe that they could not stand
the punishment.
Our men stood the strain well, held their fire until the bullets would
count. In fact, shooting into such a mass of Indians as charged on us
the first time, it would be nearly impossible for many bullets to go
astray. In all my experience in fighting Indians prior to this time, I
never saw them stand punishment so well as they did at this time; they
certainly brought all their sand with them. In charging on our little
corral they rode up very close to the wagon boxes, and here is where
they failed. Had they pushed home on the first charge, the fight would
not have lasted ten minutes after they got over the corral.
Many dead and wounded Indians lay within a few feet of the wagon boxes.
The wounded Indians did not live long after the charge was over. They
would watch and try to get a bullet in on some of our men. We had to
kill them for self-protection. Anyway, it was evening up the Fetterman
deal. They never showed mercy to a wounded white man, and should not
expect any different treatment. I had a canteen of water when the fight
commenced, and used most of it to cool my guns.
You state that all of our loss occurred at time of the first charge.
This is an error, as the man in my box was shot after he had been
fighting nearly an hour. I think that his name was Boyle. Up to the time
that he was shot he certainly filled the bill and did his duty, dying
with his face to the foe as a soldier should.
I do not try to estimate the number of the Indians, but, as my partner
said, “The woods were full of them.” This was the largest gathering of
Indians that I ever saw, and the hardest fighting lot that I ever
encountered.
When the reinforcements came in sight we took on a new lease of life,
and when they dropped a shell over the Indians we knew that the fight
was won. Indians will not stand artillery fire. They call it the “wagon
gun.” The reinforcements came just in time. One hour more of such
fighting would have exhausted our men and ammunition.
As to the Indians carrying off all their dead and wounded, here you are
again mistaken, as many of our men carried away with them scalps, etc.,
taken from the bodies of the dead Indians near the corral.[27] The
Indians certainly hauled off all their dead and wounded that they could,
but did not expose themselves very much in order to get the dead ones
near the corral.
On arrival of reinforcements we immediately retreated to the fort.
Captain Powell was the right man to command under such trying
circumstances. No better or braver man ever held a lieutenant’s
commission than Jenness. As to the Indian loss, I think you have
overestimated it. We thought that we had killed and wounded some more
than four hundred. However, you may be right in your estimates. We had
the opportunity to clean up that number, and we certainly did our best
to do so.
After the massacre of ’66 (Dec.) we received reinforcements, as I now
remember, four companies of infantry and two companies, L and M, of the
2d Cav. This large additional force, stationed at a four-company fort,
and only provisioned for four companies, caused a great deal of
suffering during the winter, resulting in much sickness and many deaths
from scurvy. Nearly all of us were suffering from this disease. I have
never fully recovered from the effect of it.
Colonel Carrington was severely censured by the War Department and many
others for the Fort Phil Kearney massacre, and, I think, unjustly. Had
Col. Fetterman and Capt. Brown and the other officers in command obeyed
his orders, the massacre would not have occurred, not, at least, at this
time.
Fetterman and Brown were dare-devil fighters, always anxious for a
fight, and took this opportunity to get into one. Capt. Brown, on his
“calico” pony, was a familiar figure around this fort—the boys called
him “Baldy.” The Indians were very anxious to kill Brown; he was a thorn
in their sides. While we to some extent lay the blame of the massacre on
Brown and Fetterman, to be honest, we were nearly all partly to blame.
We were always harping at the colonel to send a large force out and
fight the Indians, but he always insisted on a conservative course. We
all thought up to that time that one hundred good men could walk through
the entire Sioux Nation. This massacre demonstrated that in a fight in
the open the Sioux should not have over five to one of us.
I was well posted in regard to the Carrington Powder River Expedition of
1866 and the history of Fort Phil Kearney from the date of establishment
to Nov., 1867, and acquainted with all of the officers and many of the
soldiers and citizens. I probably would not have written this little
statement of actual history were it not for the fact that in your
article you stated that you got some of the record from the only living
member of the celebrated wagon-box fight. I am still in the flesh and
will pull down the scale at two hundred pounds. In all probability there
are others alive, as we all were young men at that time.
The history of the three forts established in 1865 and 1866, well
written, would make interesting history, as almost every day was full of
stirring events. Quite a number of the citizens in that country at this
time were discharged volunteer soldiers and some rebel soldiers also. As
a rule, they were hard nuts for the Indians to crack. It was noticeable
that they would not take chances fighting citizens that they would take
with the soldiers.
After leaving Fort Phil Kearney I went to Cheyenne and followed the
Union Pacific R. R. to the finish. Was at Promontory Point in Utah when
the Union Pacific and Central Pacific R. Rs. connected; this was one of
the mile-stones in the history of the West, and practically solved the
Indian problem. The Indians fought hard for this territory. It was the
best hunting ground that they had left. There were many half-breeds
among them, and they were daring and shifty fighters.
Respectfully yours,
R. J. SMYTH”
-----
Footnote 24:
The serial publication of these articles brought me many letters
filled with corrections, suggestions, and other material, written by
participants in the events described. Among them all none is more
graphic and more interesting than this from Mr. Smyth, formerly
Teamster with Carrington, which I count it a privilege to insert in
this book in his own words.—C. T. B.
Footnote 25:
I have observed similar visitations in other parts of the West years
ago.—C. T. B.
Footnote 26:
General Carrington’s map on page 27 shows the island. Mr. Smyth’s
recollection is in error here.—C. T. B.
Footnote 27:
Surgeon Horton writes me that the “soldiers brought back to the fort
the head of an Indian for a scientific study of Indian skulls!” He
afterwards sent it to Washington. He also states that there were a
number of dead bodies too near the corral for the Indians to get them
during the action. When he and other officers visited the place the
next day, after the withdrawal of the Indians, there were no dead
bodies to be found, not even the headless one.—C. T. B.
CHAPTER FIVE
Forsyth and the Rough Riders of ’68
I. The Original “Rough Riders.”
No one will question the sweeping assertion that the grittiest band of
American fighters that history tells us of was that which defended the
Alamo. They surpassed by one Leonidas and his Spartans; for the Greeks
had a messenger of defeat, the men of the Alamo had none. But close on
the heels of the gallant Travis and his dauntless comrades came “Sandy”
Forsyth’s original “Rough Riders,” who immortalized themselves by their
terrific fight on Beecher’s Island on the Arickaree Fork of the
Republican River, in Eastern Colorado, in the fall of 1868.
The contagion of the successful Indian attacks on Fort Phil Kearney had
spread all over the Central West. The Kansas Pacific was then building
to Denver, and its advance was furiously resisted by the Indians. As
early as 1866, at a council held at Fort Ellsworth, Roman Nose, head
chief of the Cheyennes, made a speech full of insolent defiance.
[Illustration]
CAPT. LOUIS H. CARPENTER LIEUT. FREDK. H. BEECHER[29]
MAJ. GEORGE A. FORSYTH SCOUT JACK STILLWELL
BEECHER’S ISLAND FIGHTERS
_All contemporary portraits except Stillwell’s_
“This is the first time,” said the gigantic warrior, who was six feet
three and magnificently proportioned,[28] “that I have ever shaken the
white man’s hand in friendship. If the railway is continued I shall be
his enemy forever.”
There was no stopping the railway. Its progress was as irresistible as
the movement of civilization itself. The Indians went on the war-path.
The Cheyennes were led by their two principal chiefs, Black Kettle being
the second. We shall see subsequently how Custer accounted for Black
Kettle. This story deals with the adventures of Roman Nose.
As fighters these Indians are entitled to every admiration. As marauders
they merit nothing but censure. The Indians of the early days of the
nation, when Pennsylvania and New York were border states, and across
the Alleghenies lay the frontier, were cruel enough, as the chronicle of
the times abundantly testify; but they were angels of light compared
with the Sioux and Cheyennes, the Kiowas, Arapahoes and Comanches, and
these in turn were almost admirable beside the Apache. The first-named
group were as cruel as they knew how to be, and they did not lack
knowledge, either. The Apaches were more ingenious and devilish in their
practices than the others. The Sioux and the Cheyennes were brutal with
the brutality of a wild bull or a grizzly bear. To that same kind of
brutality the Apaches added the malignity of a wildcat and the subtlety
of a snake. The men of the first group would stand out and fight in the
open to gain their ends, although they did not prefer to. They were
soldiers and warriors as well as torturers. The Apache was a lurking
skulker, but, when cornered, a magnificent fighter also.[30] General
Crook calls him “the tiger of the human species.” However, from the
point of detestableness there wasn’t much to choose between them.
Perhaps we ought not to blame the Indians for acting just as our
ancestors of, say the Stone Age, acted in all probability. And when you
put modern weapons and modern whisky in the hands of the Stone Age men
you need not be surprised at the consequences. The Indian question is a
terrible one any way you take it. It cannot be denied they have been
treated abominably by the United States, and that they have good cause
for resentment; but the situation has been so peculiar that strife has
been inevitable.
As patriots defending their country, they are not without certain
definite claims to our respect. Recognizing the right of the aborigines
to the soil, the government has yet arbitrarily abrogated that right at
pleasure. At times the Indians have been regarded as independent
nations, with which all differences were to be settled by treaty as
between equals; and again, as a body of subjects whose affairs could be
and would be administered willy-nilly by the United States. Such
vacillations are certain to result in trouble, especially as, needless
to say, the Indians invariably considered themselves as much independent
nations as England and France might consider themselves, in dealing with
the United States or with one another. And the Indians naturally claimed
and insisted that the territory where their fathers had roamed for
centuries belonged solely and wholly to them. They admitted no
suzerainty of any sort, either. And they held the petty force the
government put in the field in supreme contempt until they learned by
bitter experience the illimitable power of the United States.
To settle such a growing question in a word, offhand, as it were, is, of
course, impossible, nor does the settlement lie within the province of
these articles; but it may be said that if the United States had
definitely decided upon one policy or the other, and had then
concentrated all its strength upon the problem; if it had realized the
character of the people with whom it was dealing, and had made such
display of its force as would have rendered it apparent, to the keenest
as well as to the most stupid and besotted of the Indians, that
resistance was entirely futile, things might have been different. But it
is the solemn truth that never, in any of the Indian wars west of the
Missouri, has there been a force of soldiers in the field adequate to
deal with the question. The blood of thousands of soldiers and
settlers—men, women, and children—might have been spared had this fact
been realized and acted upon.
The Cheyennes swept through western Kansas like a devastating storm. In
one month they cut off, killed, or captured eighty-four different
settlers, including their wives and children. They swept the country
bare. Again and again the different gangs of builders were wiped out,
but the railroad went on. General Sheridan finally took the field in
person, as usual with an inadequate force at his disposal. One of his
aides-de-camp was a young cavalry officer named George Alexander
Forsyth, commonly known to his friends as “Sandy” Forsyth. He had
entered the volunteer army in 1861 as a private of dragoons in a Chicago
company. A mere boy, he had come out a brigadier-general. In the
permanent establishment he was a major in the Ninth Cavalry. Sheridan
knew him. He was one of the two officers who made that magnificent ride
with the great commander that saved the day at Winchester, and it was
due to his suggestion that Sheridan rode down the readjusted lines
before they made the return advance which decided the fate of the
battle. During all that mad gallop and hard fighting young Forsyth rode
with the General. To-day he is the only survivor of that ride.
Forsyth was a fighter all through, and he wanted to get into the field
in command of some of the troops operating directly on the Indians in
the campaign under consideration. No officer was willing to surrender
his command to Forsyth on the eve of active operations, and there was no
way, apparently, by which he could do anything until Sheridan acceded to
his importunities by authorizing him to raise a company of scouts for
the campaign. He was directed, if he could do so, to enlist fifty men,
who, as there was no provision for the employment of scouts or civilian
auxiliaries, were of necessity carried on the payrolls as
quartermasters’ employees for the magnificent sum of one dollar per day.
They were to provide their own horses, but were allowed thirty cents a
day for the use of them, and the horses were to be paid for by the
government if they were “expended” during the campaign. They were
equipped with saddle, bridle, haversack, canteen, blanket, knife, tin
cup, Spencer repeating rifle, good for seven shots without reloading,
six in the magazine, one in the barrel, and a heavy Colt’s army
revolver. There were no tents or other similar conveniences, and four
mules constituted the baggage train. The force was intended to be
strictly mobile, and it was. Each man carried on his person one hundred
and forty rounds of ammunition for his rifle and thirty rounds for his
revolver. The four mules carried the medical supplies and four thousand
rounds of extra ammunition. Each officer and man took seven days’
rations. What he could not carry on his person was loaded on the pack
mules; scanty rations they were, too.
As soon as it was known that the troop was to be organized, Forsyth was
overwhelmed with applications from men who wished to join it. He had the
pick of the frontier to select from. He chose thirty men at Fort Harker
and the remaining twenty from Fort Hayes. Undoubtedly they were the best
men in the West for the purpose. To assist him, Lieutenant Frederick H.
Beecher, of the Third Infantry, was detailed as second in command.
Beecher was a young officer with a record. He had displayed peculiar
heroism at the great battle of Gettysburg, where he had been so badly
wounded that he was lame for the balance of his life. He was a nephew of
the great Henry Ward Beecher and a worthy representative of the
distinguished family whose name he bore. The surgeon of the party was
Dr. John H. Mooers, a highly-trained physician, who had come to the West
in a spirit of restless adventure. He had settled at Hayes City and was
familiar with the frontier. The guide of the party was Sharp Grover, one
of the remarkable plainsmen of the time, regarded as the best scout in
the government service. The first-sergeant was W. H. H. McCall, formerly
brigadier-general, United States Volunteers. McCall, in command of a
Pennsylvania regiment, had been promoted for conspicuous gallantry on
the field, when John B. Gordon made his magnificent dash out of
Petersburg and attacked Fort Steadman.
The personnel of the troop was about equally divided between hunters and
trappers and veterans of the Civil War, nearly all of whom had held
commissions in either the Union or Confederate Army, for the command
included men from both sides of Mason and Dixon’s line. It was a
hard-bitten, unruly group of fighters. Forsyth was just the man for
them. While he did not attempt to enforce the discipline of the Regular
Army, he kept them regularly in hand. He took just five days to get his
men and start on the march. They left Fort Wallace, the temporary
terminus of the Kansas Pacific Railroad, in response to a telegram from
Sheridan that the Indians were in force in the vicinity, and scouted the
country for some six days, finally striking the Indian trail, which grew
larger and better defined as they pursued it. Although it was evident
that the Indians they were chasing greatly outnumbered them, they had
come out for a fight and wanted one, so they pressed on. They got one,
too.[31]
II. The Island of Death
On the evening of the fifteenth of September, hot on the trail, now like
a well-beaten road, they rode through a depression or a ravine, which
gave entrance into a valley some two miles wide and about the same
length. Through this valley ran a little river, the Arickaree. They
encamped on the south bank of the river about four o’clock in the
afternoon. The horses and men were weary with hard riding. Grazing was
good. They were within striking distance of the Indians now. Forsyth
believed there were too many of them to run away from such a small body
as his troop of scouts. He was right. The Indians had retreated as far
as they intended to.
[Illustration:
MAP OF FORSYTH’S DEFENSE OF BEECHER’S ISLAND, ARIKAREE RIVER, COLORADO
(_Drawn by the author from rough sketches and maps furnished by
General Forsyth_)
Explanation of Map: A. Forsyth’s camp before attack. B. Rifle-pits on
island. C. Low, unoccupied land on island with solitary cottonwood
at end. D. Indian charge led by Roman Nose and Medicine Man. EE. Low
banks fringed with trees. FF. Dry sandy bed of the river. HH. Indian
riflemen on the banks. KK. Indian women and children on bluffs, half
a mile from river. L. Ground sloping gently to river. M. Level
grassy plain to bluffs.
]
The river bed, which was bordered by wild plums, willows and alders, ran
through the middle of the valley. The bed of the river was about one
hundred and forty yards wide. In the middle of it was an island about
twenty yards wide and sixty yards long. The gravelly upper end of the
island, which rose about two feet above the water level, was covered
with a thick growth of stunted bushes, principally alders and willows;
at the lower end, which sloped to the water’s edge, there rose a
solitary cottonwood tree. There had been little rain for some time, and
this river bed for the greater part of its width was dry and hard.[32]
For a space of four or five yards on either side of the island there was
water, not over a foot deep, languidly washing the gravelled shores.
When the river bed was full the island probably was overflowed. Such
islands form from time to time, and are washed away as quickly as they
develop. The banks of the river bed on either side commanded the island.
The simple preparations for the camp of that body of men were soon made.
As night fell they rolled themselves in their blankets, with the
exception of the sentries, and went to sleep with the careless
indifference of veterans under such circumstances.
[Illustration:
BEECHER’S ISLAND FIELD
The battle took place just about where the cattle are standing in the
river. The shifting current has obliterated the Island.
]
Forsyth, however, as became a captain, was not so careless or so
reckless as his men. They were alone in the heart of the Indian country,
in close proximity to an overwhelming force, and liable to attack at any
moment. He knew that their movements had been observed by the Indians
during the past few days. Therefore the young commander was on the alert
throughout the night, visiting the outposts from time to time to see
that careful watch was kept.
Just as the first streaks of dawn began to “lace the severing clouds,”
he happened to be standing by the sentry farthest from the camp.
Silhouetted against the sky-line they saw the feathered head of an
Indian. For Forsyth to fire at him was the work of an instant. At the
same time a party which had crept nearer to the picket line unobserved
dashed boldly at the horses, and resorting to the usual devices with
bells, horns, hideous yells, and waving buffalo robes, attempted to
stampede the herd.
Men like those scouts under such circumstances slept with their boots
on. The first shot called them into instant action. They ran
instinctively to the picket line. A sharp fire, and the Indians were
driven off at once. Only the pack mules got away. No pursuit was
attempted, of course. Orders were given for the men to saddle their
horses and stand by them. In a few moments the command was drawn up in
line, each man standing by his horse’s head, bridle reins through his
left arm, his rifle grasped in his right hand—ready! Scarcely had the
company been thus assembled when Grover caught Forsyth’s arm and pointed
down the valley.
“My God!” he cried, “look at the Injuns!”
In front of them, on the right of them, in the rear of them, the hills
and valleys on both sides of the river seemed suddenly to be alive with
Indians. It was as quick a transformation from a scene of peaceful quiet
to a valley filled with an armed force as the whistle of Roderick Dhu
had effected in the Scottish glen.
The way to the left, by which they had entered the valley, was still
open. Forsyth could have made a running fight for it and dashed for the
gorge through which he had entered the valley. There were, apparently,
no Indians barring the way in that direction. But Forsyth realized
instantly that for him to retreat would mean the destruction of his
command, that the Indians had in all probability purposely left him that
way of escape, and if he tried it he would be ambushed in the defile and
slain. That was just what they wanted him to do, it was evident. That
was why he did not attempt it. He was cornered, but he was not beaten,
and he did not think he could be. Besides, he had come for that fight,
and that fight he was bound to have.
Whatever he was to do he must do quickly. There was no place to which he
could go save the island. That was not much of a place at best, but it
was the one strategic point presented by the situation. Pouring a heavy
fire into the Indians, Forsyth directed his men to take possession of
the island under cover of the smoke. In the movement everything had to
be abandoned, including the medical stores and rations, but the precious
ammunition—that must be secured at all hazards. Protected by a squad of
expert riflemen on the river bank, who presently joined them, the scouts
reached the island in safety, tied their horses to the bushes around the
edge of it, and in the intervals of fighting set to work digging
rifle-pits covering an ellipse twenty by forty yards, one pit for each
man, with which to defend the upper and higher part of the island They
had nothing to dig with except tin cups, tin plates, and their bowie
knives, but they dug like men. There was no lingering or hesitation
about it.
The chief of the Indian force, which was made up of Northern Cheyennes,
Oglala and Brulé Sioux, with a few Arapahoes and a number of Dog
Soldiers, was the famous Roman Nose, an enemy to be feared indeed. He
was filled with disgust and indignation at the failure of his men to
occupy the island, the strategic importance of which he at once
detected. It is believed that orders to seize the island had been given,
but for some reason they had not been obeyed; and to this oversight or
failure was due the ultimate safety of Forsyth’s men. It was not safe to
neglect the smallest point in fighting with a soldier like Forsyth.
With more military skill than they had ever displayed before, the
Indians deliberately made preparations for battle. The force at the
disposal of Roman Nose was something less than one thousand warriors.
They were accompanied by their squaws and children. The latter took
position on the bluffs on the east bank of the river, just out of range,
where they could see the whole affair. Like the ladies of the ancient
tournaments, they were eager to witness the fighting and welcome the
victors, who, for they never doubted the outcome, were certain to be
their own.
Roman Nose next lined the banks of the river on both sides with
dismounted riflemen, skilfully using such concealment as the ground
afforded. The banks were slightly higher than the island, and the
Indians had a plunging fire upon the little party. The riflemen on the
banks opened fire at once. A storm of bullets was poured upon the
devoted band on the island. The scouts, husbanding their ammunition,
slowly and deliberately replied, endeavoring, with signal success, to
make every shot tell. As one man said, they reckoned “every ca’tridge
was wuth at least one Injun.” The horses of the troop, having no
protection, received the brunt of the first fire. They fell rapidly, and
their carcasses rising in front of the rifle-pits afforded added
protection to the soldiers. There must have been a renegade white man
among the savages, for in a lull of the firing the men on the island
heard a voice announce in perfect English, “There goes the last of their
horses, anyway.” Besides this, from time to time, the notes of an
artillery bugle were heard from the shore. The casualties had not been
serious while the horses stood, but as soon as they were all down the
men began to suffer.[33]
During this time Forsyth had been walking about in the little circle of
defenders encouraging his men. He was met on all sides with insistent
demands that he lie down and take cover, and, the firing becoming
hotter, he at last complied. The rifle-pit which Surgeon Mooers had made
was a little wider than that of the other men, and as it was a good
place from which to direct the fighting, at the doctor’s suggestion some
of the scouts scooped it out to make it a little larger, and Forsyth lay
down by him.
The fire of the Indians had been increasing. Several scouts were killed,
more mortally wounded, and some slightly wounded. Doctor Mooers was hit
in the forehead and mortally wounded. He lingered for three days, saying
but one intelligent word during the whole period. Although he was blind
and speechless, his motions sometimes indicated that he knew where he
was. He would frequently reach out his foot and touch Forsyth. A bullet
struck Forsyth in the right thigh, and glancing upwards bedded itself in
the flesh, causing excruciating pain. He suffered exquisite anguish, but
his present sufferings were just beginning, for a second bullet struck
him in the leg, between the knee and ankle, and smashed the bone, and a
third glanced across his forehead, slightly fracturing his skull and
giving him a splitting headache, although he had no time to attend to it
then.
III. The Charge of the Five Hundred
During all this time Roman Nose and his horsemen had withdrawn around
the bend up the river, which screened them from the island. At this
juncture they appeared in full force, trotting up the bed of the river
in open order in eight ranks of about sixty front. Ahead of them, on a
magnificent chestnut horse, trotted Roman Nose. The warriors were
hideously painted, and all were naked except for moccasins and cartridge
belts. Eagle feathers were stuck in their long hair, and many of them
wore gorgeous feather war bonnets. They sat their horses without saddles
or stirrups, some of them having lariats twisted around the horses’
bellies like a surcingle. Roman Nose wore a magnificent war bonnet of
feathers streaming behind him in the wind and surmounted by two
buffalo-horns; around his waist he had tied an officer’s brilliant
scarlet silk sash, which had been presented to him at the Fort Ellsworth
conference. The sunlight illumined the bronze body of the savage
Hercules, exhibiting the magnificent proportions of the man. Those who
followed him were in every way worthy of their leader.
As the Indian cavalry appeared around the bend to the music of that
bugle, the fire upon the island from the banks redoubled in intensity.
Forsyth instantly divined that Roman Nose was about to attempt to ride
him down. He also realized that, so soon as the horses were upon him,
the rifle fire from the bank would of necessity be stopped. His order to
his men was to cease firing, therefore; to load the magazines of their
rifles, charge their revolvers, and wait until he gave the order to
fire. The rifles of the dead and those of the party too severely wounded
to use them were distributed among those scouts yet unharmed. Some of
the wounded insisted upon fighting. Forsyth propped himself up in his
rifle-pit, his back and shoulders resting against the pile of earth, his
rifle and revolver in hand. He could see his own men, and also the
Indians coming up the river.
Presently, shouting their war songs, at a wild pealed whoop from their
chief, the Indian horsemen broke into a gallop, Roman Nose leading the
advance, shaking his heavy Spencer rifle—captured, possibly, from
Fetterman’s men—in the air as if it had been a reed. There was a last
burst of rifle fire from the banks, and the rattle of musketry was
displaced by the war songs of the Indians and the yells of the squaws
and children on the slopes of the hills. As the smoke drifted away on
that sunny September morning, they saw the Indians almost upon them. In
spite of his terrible wounds the heroic Forsyth was thoroughly in
command. Waiting until the tactical moment when the Indians were but
fifty yards away and coming at a terrific speed, he raised himself on
his hands to a sitting position and cried, “Now!”
[Illustration:
_Copyright, 1900, by Charles Schreyvogel_
ROMAN NOSE LEADING THE CHARGE AGAINST FORSYTH’S DEVOTED BAND
_Drawing by Charles Schreyvogel_
]
The men rose to their knees, brought their guns to their shoulders, and
poured a volley right into the face of the furious advance. An instant
later, with another cartridge in the barrel they delivered a second
volley. Horses and men went down in every direction; but, like the
magnificent warriors they were, the Indians closed up and came sweeping
down. The third volley was poured into them. Still they came. The war
songs had ceased by this time, but in undaunted spirit, still pealing
his war cry above the crashing of the bullets, at the head of his band,
with his magnificent determination unshaken, Roman Nose led such a ride
as no Indian ever attempted before or since. And still those quiet, cool
men continued to pump bullets into the horde. At the fourth volley the
medicine man on the left of the line and the second in command went
down. The Indians hesitated at this reverse, but swinging his rifle high
in the air in battle frenzy, the great war chief rallied them, and they
once more advanced. The fifth volley staggered them still more. Great
gaps were opened in their ranks. Horses and men fell dead, but the
impetus was so great, and the courage and example of their leader so
splendid, that the survivors came on unchecked. The sixth volley did the
work. Just as he was about to leap on the island, Roman Nose and his
horse were both shot to pieces. The force of the charge, however, was so
great that the line was not yet entirely broken. The horsemen were
within a few feet of the scouts, when the seventh volley was poured into
their very faces. As a gigantic wave meets a sharply jutting rock and is
parted, falling harmlessly on either side of it, so was that charge
divided, the Indians swinging themselves to the sides of their horses as
they swept down the length of the island.
The scouts sprang to their feet at this juncture, and almost at contact
range jammed their revolver shots at the disorganized masses. The
Indians fled precipitately to the banks on either side, and the yelling
of the war chants of the squaws and children changed into wails of
anguish and despair, as they marked the death of Roman Nose and the
horrible slaughter of his followers.
It was a most magnificent charge, and one which for splendid daring and
reckless heroism would have done credit to the best troops of any nation
in the world. And magnificently had it been met. Powell’s defense of the
corral on Piney Island was a remarkable achievement, but it was not to
be compared to the fighting of these scouts on the little open,
unprotected heap of sand and gravel in the Arickaree.
As soon as the Indian horsemen withdrew, baffled and furious, a rifle
fire opened once more from the banks. Lieutenant Beecher, who had
heroically performed his part in the defense, crawled over to Forsyth
and said:
“I have my death wound, General. I am shot in the side and dying.”
He said the words quietly and simply, as if his communication was
utterly commonplace, then stretched himself out by his wounded
commander, lying, like Steerforth, with his face upon his arm.
“No, Beecher, no,” said Forsyth, out of his own anguish; “it can not be
as bad as that.”
“Yes,” said the young officer, “good-night.”
There was nothing to be done for him. Forsyth heard him whisper a word
or two of his mother, and then delirium supervened. By evening he was
dead. In memory of the brave young officer, they called the place where
he had died Beecher’s Island.
At two o’clock in the afternoon a second charge of horse was assayed in
much the same way as the first had been delivered; but there was no
longer a great war chief in command, and this time the Indians broke at
one hundred yards from the island. At six o’clock at night they made a
final attempt. The whole party, horse and foot, in a solid mass rushed
from all sides upon the island. They came forward, yelling and firing,
but they were met with so severe a fire from the rifle-pits that,
although some of them actually reached the foot of the island, they
could not maintain their position, and were driven back with frightful
loss. The men on the island deliberately picked off Indian after Indian
as they came, so that the dry river bed ran with blood. The place was a
very hell to the Indians. They withdrew at last, baffled, crushed,
beaten.
With nightfall the men on the island could take account of the
situation. Two officers and four men were dead or dying, one officer and
eight men were so severely wounded that their condition was critical.
Eight men were less severely wounded, making twenty-three casualties out
of fifty-one officers and men.[34] There were no rations, but thank God
there was an abundance of water. They could get it easily by digging in
the sandy surface of the island. They could subsist, if necessary, on
strips of meat cut from the bodies of the horses. The most serious lack
was of medical attention. The doctor lying unconscious, the wounded were
forced to get along with the unskilled care of their comrades, and with
water, and rags torn from clothing for dressings. Little could be done
for them. The day had been frightfully hot, but, fortunately, a heavy
rain fell in the night, which somewhat refreshed them. The rifle-pits
were deepened and made continuous by piling saddles and equipments, and
by further digging in the interspaces.
One of the curious Indian superstitions, which has often served the
white man against whom he has fought to good purpose, is that when a man
is killed in the dark he must pass all eternity in darkness.
Consequently, he rarely ever attacks at night. Forsyth’s party felt
reasonably secure from any further attack, therefore, notwithstanding
which they kept watch.
IV. The Siege of the Island
As soon as darkness settled down volunteers were called for to carry the
news of their predicament to Fort Wallace, one hundred miles away. Every
man able to travel offered himself for the perilous journey. Forsyth
selected Trudeau and Stillwell. Trudeau was a veteran hunter, Stillwell
a youngster only nineteen years of age, although he already gave promise
of the fame as a scout which he afterwards acquired. To them he gave the
only map he possessed. They were to ask the commander of Fort Wallace to
come to his assistance. As soon as the two brave scouts had left, every
one realized that a long wait would be entailed upon the little band,
if, indeed, it was not overwhelmed meanwhile, before any relieving force
could reach the island. And there were grave doubts as to whether, in
any event, Trudeau and Stillwell could get through the Indians. It was
not a pleasant night they spent, therefore, although they were busy
strengthening the defenses, and nobody got any sleep.
Early the next morning the Indians again made their appearance. They had
hoped that Forsyth and his men would have endeavored to retreat during
the night, in which event they would have followed the trail and
speedily annihilated the whole command. But Forsyth was too good a
soldier to leave the position he had chosen. During the fighting of the
day before he had asked Grover his opinion as to whether the Indians
could deliver any more formidable attack than the one which had resulted
in the death of Roman Nose, and Grover, who had had large experience,
assured him that they had done the best they could, and indeed better
than he or any other scout had ever seen or heard of in any Indian
warfare. Forsyth was satisfied, therefore, that they could maintain the
position, at least until they starved.
The Indians were quickly apprised, by a volley which killed at least one
man, that the defenders of the island were still there. The place was
closely invested, and although the Indians made several attempts to
approach it under a white flag, they were forced back by the accurate
fire of the scouts, and compelled to keep their distance. It was very
hot. The sufferings of the wounded were something frightful. The Indians
were having troubles of their own, too. All night and all day the
defenders could hear the beating of the tom-toms or drums and the
mournful death songs and wails of the women over the bodies of the
slain, all but three of whom had been removed during the night.[35]
These three were lying so near the rifle-pits that the Indians did not
dare to approach near enough to get them. The three dead men had
actually gained the shore of the island before they had been killed.
The command on the island had plenty to eat, such as it was. There was
horse and mule meat in abundance. They ate it raw, when they got hungry
enough. Water was plentiful. All they had to do was to dig the
rifle-pits a little deeper, and it came forth in great quantities. It
was weary waiting, but there was nothing else to do. They dared not
relax their vigilance a moment. The next night, the second, Forsyth
despatched two more scouts, fearing the first two might not have got
through, thus seeking to “make assurance double sure.” This pair was not
so successful as the first. They came back about three o’clock in the
morning, having been unable to pass the Indians, for every outlet was
heavily guarded.
The third day the Indian women and children were observed withdrawing
from the vicinity. This cheered the men greatly, as it was a sign that
the Indians intended to abandon the siege. The warriors still remained,
however, and any incautious exposure was a signal for a volley. That
night two more men were despatched with an urgent appeal, and these two
succeeded in getting through. They bore this message:
“Sept. 19, 1868.
To COLONEL BANKHEAD, or Commanding Officer,
Fort Wallace:
I sent you two messengers on the night of the 17th inst., informing
you of my critical condition. I tried to send two more last night,
but they did not succeed in passing the Indian pickets, and
returned. If the others have not arrived, then hasten at once to my
assistance. I have eight badly wounded and ten slightly wounded men
to take in.... Lieutenant Beecher is dead, and Acting Assistant
Surgeon Mooers probably cannot live the night out. He was hit in the
head Thursday, and has spoken but one rational word since. I am
wounded in two places—in the right thigh, and my left leg is broken
below the knee....
I am on a little island, and have still plenty of ammunition left.
We are living on mule and horse meat, and are entirely out of
rations. If it was not for so many wounded, I would come in, and
take the chances of whipping them if attacked. They are evidently
sick of their bargain.... I can hold out for six days longer if
absolutely necessary, but please lose no time.
P.S.—My surgeon having been mortally wounded, none of my wounded
have had their wounds dressed yet, so please bring out a surgeon
with you.”
The fourth day passed like the preceding, the squaws all gone, the
Indians still watchful. The wound in Forsyth’s leg had become
excruciatingly painful, and he begged some of the men to cut out the
bullet. But they discovered that it had lodged near the femoral artery,
and fearful lest they should cut the artery and the young commander
should bleed to death, they positively refused. In desperation, Forsyth
cut it out himself. He had his razor in his saddle bags and, while two
men pressed the flesh back, he performed the operation successfully, to
his immediate relief.
The fifth day the mule and horse meat became putrid and therefore unfit
to eat. An unlucky coyote wandered over to the island, however, and one
of the men was fortunate enough to shoot him. Small though he was, he
was a welcome addition to their larder, for he was fresh. There was but
little skirmishing on the fifth day, and the place appeared to be
deserted. Forsyth had half a dozen of his men raise him on a blanket
above the level of the rifle beds so that he might survey the scene
himself. Not all the Indians were gone, for a sudden fusillade burst out
from the bank. One of the men let go the corner of the blanket which he
held while the others were easing Forsyth down, and he fell upon his
wounded leg with so much force that the bone protruded through the
flesh. He records that he used some severe language to that scout.
On the sixth day Forsyth assembled his men about him, and told them that
those who were well enough to leave the island would better do so and
make for Fort Wallace; that it was more than possible that none of the
messengers had succeeded in getting through; that the men had stood by
him heroically, and that they would all starve to death where they were
unless relief should come; and that they were entitled to a chance for
their lives. He believed the Indians, who had at last disappeared, had
received such a severe lesson that they would not attack again, and that
if the men were circumspect they could get through to Fort Wallace in
safety. The wounded, including himself, must be left to take care of
themselves and take the chances of escape from the island.
The proposition was received in surprised silence for a few moments, and
then there was a simultaneous shout of refusal from every man: “Never!
We’ll stand by you.” McCall, the first sergeant and Forsyth’s right-hand
man since Beecher had been killed, shouted out emphatically: “We’ve
fought together, and, by Heaven, if need be, we’ll die together.”
They could not carry the wounded; they would not abandon them. Remember
these men were not regular soldiers. They were simply a company of
scouts, more or less loosely bound together, but, as McCall had pointed
out, they were tied to one another by something stronger than
discipline. Not a man left the island, although it would have been easy
for the unwounded to do so, and possibly they might have escaped in
safety.
For two more days they stood it out. There was no fighting during this
time, but the presence of an Indian vedette indicated that they were
under observation. They gathered some wild plums and made some jelly for
the wounded; but no game came their way, and there was little for them
to do but draw in their belts a little tighter and go hungry, or,
better, go hungrier. On the morning of the ninth day, one of the men on
watch suddenly sprang to his feet, shouting:
“There are moving men on the hills.” Everybody who could stand was up in
an instant, and Grover, the keen-eyed scout, shouted triumphantly:
“By the God above us, there’s an ambulance!” They were rescued at last.
* * * * *
NOTE.—The serial publication of this article called forth another
version of this affair, differing from it in some non-essential
features, which was written by Mr. Herbert Myrick, and published
serially. Mr. Myrick accounts for the “mysterious voice” which the
scouts heard saying in English, “There goes the last of their horses
anyway,” by disclosing the interesting fact that there were two renegade
white men among the Indians. One of them was called “Nibsi” or “Black
Jack,” a notorious desperado, who was afterwards hung for murder. The
other was Jack Clybor, once a trooper of the Seventh Cavalry. Having
been shot and left for dead in an engagement, the Indians captured him,
nursed him back to life, adopted him, and named him “Comanche.” He was a
singular compound of good and evil, and became as notorious for his good
deeds as for his bad acts. Mr. Myrick has been collecting a mass of
unknown and unpublished Western material for many years, which when
published will undoubtedly clear up many mysteries, throw light upon
many disputed questions, and prove of the deepest interest as well.
-----
Footnote 28:
General Fry, in his valuable book, “Army Sacrifices,” now
unfortunately out of print and scarce, thus graphically describes him:
“A veritable man of war, the shock of battle and scenes of carnage and
cruelty were as of the breath of his nostrils; about thirty years of
age, standing six feet three inches high, he towered giant-like above
his companions. A grand head with strongly marked features, lighted by
a pair of fierce black eyes; a large mouth with thin lips, through
which gleamed rows of strong, white teeth; a Roman nose with dilated
nostrils like those of a thoroughbred horse, first attracted
attention, while a broad chest, with symmetrical limbs on which the
muscles under the bronze of his skin stood out like twisted wire, were
some of the points of this splendid animal. Clad in buckskin leggings
and moccasins elaborately embroidered with beads and feathers, with a
single eagle feather in his scalp-lock, and with that rarest of robes,
a white buffalo, beautifully tanned and soft as cashmere, thrown over
his naked shoulders, he stood forth, the war chief of the Cheyennes.”
Footnote 29:
Killed on the Island
Footnote 30:
Charles F. Lummis refers to the Apaches as among the most ferocious
and most successful warriors in history.
Footnote 31:
The reason a large body of men had not been detailed for the pursuit
was that the greater the number the slower the movement would have
been, and the Indians could and would have kept out of the way with
ease. If the Indians were laying a trap for Forsyth, he was tempting
them to stop and fight.
Footnote 32:
In dry seasons I have often seen Western river beds half a mile wide
absolutely devoid of water. In the wet season these same beds would be
roaring torrents from bank to bank.
Footnote 33:
As the Indians surrounded the island and the fire came in from all
quarters, the men had to dig the earth for protection in rear as well
as in front, and the rifle-pits were, in fact, hollows scooped out of
the ground just long enough for a man to lie in.
Footnote 34:
Two of the scouts had been left behind, at Fort Wallace, because of
illness.
Footnote 35:
The reason why an Indian will sacrifice everything to remove the body
of one of his tribe or kin who has been killed, is to prevent the
taking of his scalp. The religious belief of the Indians is that a man
who is scalped cannot enter the happy hunting grounds, but is doomed
to wander in outer darkness forever. For that reason he always scalps
his enemy, so that when he himself reaches the happy hunting grounds
he will not be bothered by a lot of enemies whom he has met and
overcome during his lifetime. Naturally, it was a point of honor for
him to get the bodies of his friends away, so that they might not be
debarred from the Indian Heaven in the hereafter. Sometimes, however,
the Indian did not scalp the body of a particularly brave man, for
this reason: It is his belief that if he kills a man in battle and
does not scalp him, that man will be his slave or servant in the happy
hunting grounds, and although the victim still possesses capacities
for mischief, the Indian sometimes risks all in the future glory that
will come to him from holding in slavery a brave man, or a noted
warrior, as a spiritual witness to his prowess. It is stated that the
Indians never scalp the bodies of negroes and suicides. “Buffalo
soldier heap bad medicine,” is their universal testimony when asked
why they do not scalp negro troopers whom they have killed or
captured. Perhaps they cannot scalp a woolly, kinky-haired black
soldier, and that is the reason it is “bad medicine.” Suicide is “bad
medicine,” too, for some unexplained reason.
CHAPTER SIX
The Journey of the Scouts and the Rescue of Forsyth
I. The Adventures of the Scouts
Trudeau and Stillwell, the first pair of scouts despatched by Forsyth
with the story of his desperate situation on Beecher’s Island, left
their commander about midnight on the evening of the first day of the
attack. The Indians had withdrawn from the immediate vicinity of the
river and were resting quietly in the camps on either side, although
there were a number of warriors watching the island. The men bade a
hasty good-by to their comrades, received their captain’s final
instructions, and with beating hearts stole away on their desperate
errand.
They neglected no precaution that experience could dictate. They even
took off their boots, tied them together by the straps, slung them
around their necks, and walked backward down the bed of the river in
their stocking feet, so that, if the Indians by any chance stumbled upon
their trail the next morning, it would appear to have been made by
moccasined feet and perhaps escape attention, especially as the tracks
would point toward the island instead of away from it. Further to
disguise themselves, they wrapped themselves in blankets, which they
endeavored to wear as the Indians did.
They proceeded with the most fearsome caution. Such was the
circumspection with which they moved and the care necessary because of
the watchfulness of the foe, who might be heard from time to time moving
about on the banks, that by daylight they had progressed but two miles.
During most of the time after leaving the river bed they had crawled on
their hands and knees. Before sunrise they were forced to seek such
concealment as they could find in a washout, a dry ravine, within sight
and sound of the Indian camps. Providence certainly protected them, for
if any of the Indians had happened to wander in their direction there
was nothing to prevent their discovery; and if the savages had stumbled
upon their hiding-place it would have been all up with them. Death by
torture would have been inevitable if they were taken alive, and the
only way to prevent that would be suicide. They had determined upon
that. They had pledged each other to fight until the last cartridge, and
to save that for themselves. They had nothing to eat and nothing to
drink. The sun beat down upon them fiercely all the long day. After
their experience of the one before, it was a day calculated to break
down the strongest of men. They bore up under the strain, however, as
best they could, and when darkness came they started out once more.
[Illustration:
“SIMULTANEOUSLY WITH THEIR ARRIVAL A RATTLESNAKE MADE HIS APPEARANCE”
_Drawing by Will Crawford_
]
This night there was no necessity for so much caution and they made
better progress, although they saw and successfully avoided several
parties of Indians. When the day broke they were forced to conceal
themselves again. The country was covered with wandering war parties,
and it was not yet safe to travel by daylight. This day they hid
themselves under the high banks of a river. Again they were fortunate in
remaining unobserved, although several times bands of warriors passed
near them. They traveled all the third night, making great progress.
Morning found them on an open plain with no place to hide in but a
buffalo wallow—a dry alkali mud-hole which had been much frequented in
the wet season by buffalo—which afforded scanty cover at best.
During this day a large party of scouting Indians halted within one
hundred feet of the wallow. Simultaneously with their arrival a
wandering rattlesnake made his appearance in front of the two scouts,
who were hugging the earth and expecting every minute to be discovered.
The rattlesnake in his way was as deadly as the Indians. The scouts
could have killed him easily had it not been for the proximity of the
Cheyennes. To make the slightest movement would call attention to their
hiding-place. Indeed, the sinister rattle of the venomous snake before
he struck would probably attract the notice of the alert Indians.
Between the savage reptile and the savage men the scouts were in a
frightful predicament, which young Stillwell, a lad of amazing
resourcefulness, instantly and effectually solved. He was chewing
tobacco at the time, and as the snake drew near him and made ready to
strike, he completely routed him by spitting tobacco juice in his mouth
and eyes and all over his head. The rattlesnake fled; he could not stand
such a dose. The Indians presently moved on, having noticed nothing, and
so ended perhaps the most terrible half hour the two men had ever
experienced.
They started early on the evening of the fourth night, and this time
made remarkable progress. Toward morning, however, Trudeau all but broke
down. The brunt of the whole adventure thereupon fell on Stillwell. He
encouraged his older companion, helped him along as best he could, and
finally, late at night, they reached Fort Wallace and told their tale.
Instantly all was excitement in the post. Captain and Brevet
Lieutenant-Colonel Louis H. Carpenter, with seventy men of Troop H, of
the Tenth Cavalry (a negro regiment), with Lieutenants Banzhaf and
Orleman, Doctor Fitzgerald and seventeen scouts, with thirteen wagons
and an ambulance, had been sent out from the post the day before with
orders to make a camp on the Denver road, about sixty miles from the
fort. From there he was to scout in every direction, keep off the
Indians, and protect trains.
At eleven o’clock at night a courier was despatched to Carpenter with
the following order:
“Headquarters, Fort Wallace, Kansas,
September 22, 1868, 11:00 P.M.
Brevet Lieut.-Colonel L. H. CARPENTER, 10th U. S. Cavalry. On Scout.
Colonel:
The Commanding Officer directs you to proceed at once to a point on
the “Dry Fork of the Republican,” about seventy-five or eighty miles
north, northwest from this point, thirty or forty miles west by a
little south from the forks of the Republic, with all possible
despatch.
Two scouts from Colonel Forsyth’s command arrived here this evening
and bring word that he (Forsyth) was attacked on the morning of
Thursday last by an overwhelming force of Indians (700), who killed
all the animals, broke Colonel Forsyth’s left leg with a rifle ball,
severely wounding him in the groin, wounded Doctor Mooers in the
head, and wounded Lieutenant Beecher in several places. His back is
supposed to be broken. Two men of the command were killed and
eighteen or twenty wounded.
The men bringing the word crawled on hands and knees two miles, and
then traveled only by night on account of the Indians, whom they saw
daily.
Forsyth’s men were intrenched in the dry bed of the creek with a
well in the trench, but had only horse-flesh to eat and only sixty
rounds of ammunition.
General Sheridan orders that the greatest despatch be used and every
means employed to succor Forsyth at once. Colonel Bradley with six
companies is now supposed by General Sheridan to be at the forks of
the Republic.
Colonel Bankhead will leave here in one hour with one hundred men
and two mountain howitzers.
Bring all your scouts with you.
Order Doctor Fitzgerald at once to this post, to replace Doctor
Turner, who accompanies Colonel Bankhead for the purpose of dressing
the wounded of Forsyth’s party.
I am, Colonel, very respectfully your obedient servant,
HUGH JOHNSON,
Acting Post Adjutant.
1st Lieutenant 5th Infantry.”
One hour afterward Bankhead himself, with one hundred men and two
howitzers and the surgeon, started for the relief of Forsyth. With
Bankhead went the undaunted Stillwell as guide. Trudeau had suffered so
much during the perilous journey that he was unable to accompany the
relief party, and he soon afterward died from the hardships and
excitement of the horrible days he had passed through.
II. The Rescue of Forsyth
Carpenter had bivouacked on the evening of the 22d of September at
Cheyenne Wells, about thirty-five miles from Fort Wallace. He had broken
camp early in the morning and had marched some ten miles, when, from a
high point on a divide he had reached, which permitted a full view of
the Rocky Mountains from Pike’s to Long’s Peaks, he observed a horseman
galloping frantically toward them. He was the courier despatched by
Colonel Bankhead. Carpenter was a splendid soldier. He had received no
less than four brevets for gallantry during the Civil War. He had been
on Sheridan’s staff with Forsyth, and the two were bosom friends. No
task could have been more congenial to him than this attempt at rescue.
He communicated the situation of their white comrades to his black
troopers, and their officers crowded close about him. The orders were
received with exultant cheers. The regiment had been raised since the
war, and had not yet had a chance to prove its mettle. There were no
veterans among them, and Carpenter and the other officers had been
obliged to build the regiment from the ground up. Now was an opportunity
to show what they could do. Carpenter had been trained to obey orders to
the letter. In this instance he determined to disobey the command
regarding Doctor Fitzgerald. It appeared to him that Bankhead had little
hope that he (Carpenter) would find Forsyth, for he had sent him no
guide; but Carpenter perceived that if he did find Forsyth—and he
intended to find him—the conditions would be such that the services of a
physician would be vitally necessary. He therefore retained the doctor.
He also retained the wagon train, having no other way of carrying
necessary supplies. For one reason, if he had detached a guard for the
train, it would have weakened his force so greatly as to have made it
inadequate to the enterprise. The mules were strong and fresh, and he
decided to keep the wagons with him. The pace was to be a fast one, and
he instructed the wagon masters that, if any of the mule teams gave out,
they should be shot and, if necessary, the wagon should be abandoned.
[Illustration:
Map of Marches to Relieve Colonel Forsyth and to Escort General Carr,
Drawn by General Carpenter
]
There was no one in his command, he found, who had ever been in that
territory. Indeed, it is probable that, save Forsyth’s men, no white men
had ever penetrated that section of the country before. The map that
Carpenter had was very defective. He studied over the matter a few
moments, and then led his command toward the place where he supposed
Forsyth to be. They advanced at a fast trot, with intervals of walking,
and when they camped at night near some water holes they had covered
nearly forty-five miles. The mules, under the indefatigable and profane
stimulus of their drivers, had kept up with the rest. As soon as it was
dawn the next day they started once more, and, after a twenty-mile ride,
arrived at the dry bed of a river.
Whether this was the fork of the Republican, on which Forsyth was
besieged, no one could tell. It happens that the Republican has three
forks—a north fork, the Arickaree, and the south or dry fork. Carpenter
was afraid to leave the fork he had found without satisfying himself
that Forsyth was not there, so he concluded to scout up the river for
some fifteen or eighteen miles. Finding nothing, he then turned
northward again until he came to a stream flowing through a wide,
grass-covered valley surrounded by high hills. As they entered the
valley they came across a very large, fresh Indian trail. The scouts
estimated that at least two thousand ponies had passed along the trail
within a few hours. Various other signs showed a large village had moved
down the trail.
They had traveled over forty miles this second day, and were
apprehensive that the Indians, being so close to them, might attack
them. It was nearly evening. A spot well adapted for defense was chosen
near the water, the wagons were corralled, and preparations made for a
stout resistance in case of an attack. While the men were making camp,
Carpenter with a small escort rode to the top of one of the high hills
bordering the valley. He could see for miles, but discovered no Indians
nor any other living object in any direction. In front of them, however,
on the top of another hill, were a number of scaffolds, each one bearing
a human body. The Cheyenne method of burial was instantly recognized. A
nearer look developed that the scaffolds had been recently erected. Five
of them were examined, and in each case the body contained was that of a
Cheyenne warrior, who had been killed by a gunshot wound. This was proof
positive that they were some of the Indians who had been fighting
against Forsyth.
While this was going on, one of the troopers noticed something white in
a ravine on the opposite side of the valley. They galloped over to it,
and found it to be an elaborate and beautiful tepee or wigwam, made out
of freshly tanned white buffalo skins. The colonel dismounted, opened
the tepee, and entered. There, upon a brush heap, lay a human figure
wrapped in buffalo robes. When the robes were taken away the body of a
splendid specimen of Indian manhood was disclosed. “He lay like a
warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him.” His stern
and royal look, the iron majesty of his features, even though composed
in death, revealed at once a native chieftain. In his breast was a
great, gaping wound, which had pierced his heart. He lay in his
war-gear, with his weapons and other personal property close at hand.
After the examination they recovered him and left him undisturbed. Then
they went back to the camp. The corral was watchfully guarded during the
night, but no one appeared to molest them. It was decided to follow the
Indian trail at daylight, as it would probably lead to the site of
Forsyth’s fight. Early the next morning, while they were packing up,
they saw some horsemen coming over the hills to the south of them. They
were white men, led by a scout named Donovan. Two more men had been
despatched by Forsyth from the island on the third night of the siege,
and being unobserved by the Indians, they had made their way to Fort
Wallace. When they arrived there they found that Colonel Bankhead had
already gone; whereupon Donovan had assembled five bold spirits and had
immediately started out on the return journey. Fortunately for
Carpenter, Donovan had struck the latter’s trail, and had followed it to
the camp.
Carpenter thereupon took thirty of his best mounted troopers and the
ambulance loaded with hardtack, coffee, and bacon, and set out on a
gallop in the direction in which they supposed the island lay. Banzhaf
was left in command of the rest, with orders to come on as fast as he
could.
Carpenter went forward at a rapid gallop, and after traveling eighteen
miles, while it was yet early in the morning, came to a spur of land
from which he had a view of the surrounding country for miles. As he
checked his horse on the brink, he saw to the right of him a valley
through which meandered a narrow silver stream.
In the center of the valley there was an island. From it rose a solitary
cottonwood. Men could be seen moving about the place. Donovan recognized
it instantly. The horses of the detachment were put to a run, and the
whole party galloped down the valley toward the island. The scouts
swarmed across the river with cries of joy, and welcomed the soldiers.
The faithful mules dragged the ambulance close behind. There was food
for everybody. Carpenter was struck with the wolfish look on the faces
of the hungry men as they crowded around the ambulance. Later one of
them brought him a piece of mule or horse meat which was to have been
served for dinner that day, if the rescuers had not appeared. Carpenter
could not endure even the odor of it.
Galloping across the river bed, the first to enter the rifle-pits on the
island was Carpenter. There, on the ground before him, lay Forsyth. And
what do you suppose he was doing? He was reading a novel! Some one had
found, in an empty saddle-bag, an old copy of _Oliver Twist_. Forsyth
was afraid to trust himself. He was fearful that he would break down. He
did not dare look at Carpenter or express his feelings. Therefore he
made a pretense of being absorbed in his book.
The black cavalry had arrived in the very nick of time. Forsyth was in a
burning fever. Blood-poisoning had set in, and his wounds were in a
frightful condition. Another day and it would have been too late.
Everything was gone from him but his indomitable resolution. Many others
were in like circumstances. It was well that Carpenter had brought his
surgeon with him, for his services were sadly needed. The men were taken
off the island, moved half a mile away from the terrible stench arising
from the dead animals; the wagon train came up, camps were made, the
dead were buried on the island they had immortalized with their valor,
and everything possible done for the comfort of the living by their
negro comrades.
The doctor wanted to amputate Forsyth’s leg, but he protested, so that
the amputation was not performed, and the leg was finally saved to its
owner. One of the scouts, named Farley, however, was so desperately
wounded that amputation had to be resorted to. The doctor performed the
operation, assisted by Carpenter. A military commander in the field has
to do a great many things.
The next day Bankhead made his appearance with his detachment. He had
marched to the forks of the river and followed the Arickaree fork to the
place. He was accompanied by two troops of the Second Cavalry, picked up
on the way. He did not find fault with Carpenter for his disobedience in
retaining Doctor Fitzgerald. On the contrary, such was his delight at
the rescue that he fairly hugged his gallant subordinate.
As soon as it was possible, the survivors were taken back to Fort
Wallace. Forsyth and the more severely wounded were carried in the
ambulance. It took four days to reach the fort. Their progress was one
long torture, in spite of every care that could be bestowed upon them.
There was no road, and while the drivers chose the best spots on the
prairie, there was, nevertheless, an awful amount of jolting and
bumping.
Forsyth was brevetted a brigadier-general in the Regular Army for his
conduct in this action. This was some compensation for two years of
subsequent suffering until his wounds finally healed.
III. The End of Roman Nose
On the way back the men stopped at the white tepee in the lonely valley.
Grover and McCall rode over to the spot with the officers and examined
the body of the chieftain. They instantly identified him as Roman Nose.
With a touch of sentiment unusual in frontiersmen they respected his
grave, and for the sake of his valor allowed him to sleep on
undisturbed. His arms and equipments, however, were considered
legitimate spoils of war, and were taken from him. It was a sad end,
indeed, to all his splendid courage and glorious defiance of his white
foemen.
The loss of the Indians in the several attacks was never definitely
ascertained. They admitted to seventy-five killed outright and over two
hundred seriously wounded, but it is certain that their total losses
were much greater. The fighting was of the closest and fiercest
description, and the Indians were under the fire of one of the most
expert bodies of marksmen on the plains at half pistol-shot distance in
the unique and celebrated battle. The whole action is almost
unparalleled in the history of our Indian wars, both for the thrilling
and gallant cavalry charge of the Indians and the desperate valor of
Forsyth and his scouts.
IV. A Few Words About Forsyth’s Men
The heroism and pluck of the men in the fight had been quite up to the
mark set by their captain. A man named Farley had fought through the
action with a severe bullet wound in the shoulder, which he never
mentioned until nightfall; his father was mortally wounded, but he lay
on his side and fought through the whole of the long first day until he
died. Another man named Harrington was struck in the forehead by an
arrow. He pulled out the shaft, but the head remained imbedded in the
bone. An Indian bullet struck him a glancing blow in the forehead and
neatly extricated the arrow—rough surgery, to be sure, but it served.
Harrington tied a rag around his head, and kept his place during the
whole three days of fighting.
When they first reached the island one of the men cried out, “Don’t
let’s stay here and be shot down like dogs! Will any man try for the
opposite bank with me?” Forsyth, revolver in hand, stopped that effort
by threatening to shoot any man who attempted to leave the island. In
all the party there was but one coward. In looks and demeanor he was the
most promising of the company—a splendid specimen of manhood apparently.
To everybody’s surprise, after one shot he hugged the earth in his
rifle-pit and positively refused to do anything, in spite of orders,
pleadings, jeers, and curses. He left the troop immediately on its
arrival at Fort Wallace.
_Per contra_, one of the bravest, where all but one were heroes, was a
little, eighteen-year old Jewish boy, who had begged to be enlisted and
allowed to go along. He had been the butt of the command, yet he proved
himself a very paladin of courage and efficiency when the fighting
began.[36]
One of the last acts of the recent Congress was the setting apart of one
hundred and twenty acres of land in Yuma County, Colorado, as a national
park. This reservation forever preserves Forsyth’s battlefield and the
vicinity from settlement. On the edge of the river bank, on what was
once Beecher’s Island, which the shifting river has now joined to the
bank, is a wooden monument to Beecher and the other scouts who were
buried somewhere in those shifting sands.[37]
The few survivors of the battle have formed themselves into an
association which holds an annual reunion on the battlefield. Soon there
will be none of them left. Would it not be a graceful act for some one
who honors courage, manliness, and devotion to duty to erect a more
enduring monument to the memory of Beecher and his comrades than the
perishable wooden shaft which now inadequately serves to call attention
to their sacrifice and their valor?
* * * * *
NOTE.—The following interesting communication slightly modifies one of
the statements in the above article. It certainly shows prompt decision
upon the part of Lieutenant Johnson, who was left in command of the post
after Bankhead’s departure.
Great Barrington, Mass., August 5th, 1904.
Dr. Brady says “Donovan had assembled five _bold spirits_, and had
immediately started out on the return journey.” As a matter of fact,
Donovan did no such thing. The departure of General Bankhead’s
relief column stripped the garrison of Fort Wallace to seven
enlisted men, took away the last horse, and placed me in command.
Forsyth’s second note, brought by Donovan, fell into my hands. It
was telegraphed in full to General Sheridan, who ordered me to spare
no expense of men, money, and horses to hasten relief to Forsyth. By
the promise of $100 each, four citizens of the neighboring town of
Pond Creek were induced to seek the Carpenter command. Donovan I
persuaded to guide them, promising him $100 in addition to his pay
as a scout. This party started at daylight, on government mules,
rode all day, all night, and found Carpenter’s command on the south
fork of the Republican River, about ten miles southeast of the scene
of the fight. Guided by these men, Carpenter pushed out, and Forsyth
and his men were relieved some hours in advance of the arrival of
the other relief commands.
The country from Fort Wallace to Arickaree Fork I passed over the
following December, in an unsuccessful endeavor to secure the bodies
of those killed in the fight. We surprised a village of Indians at
the scene of the fight, fought them off, and found the body of one
of the scouts, but Lieutenant Beecher’s and Dr. Mooers’ graves were
empty. Yours very truly,
HUGH M. JOHNSON,
Late Lieutenant 5th U. S. Infantry.
-----
Footnote 36:
In General Fry’s entertaining story of “Army Sacrifices,” the
following little poem about him appears:
“When the foe charged on the breastworks
With the madness of despair,
And the bravest souls were tested,
The little Jew was there.
“When the weary dozed on duty,
Or the wounded needed care,
When another shot was called for,
The little Jew was there.
With the festering dead around them,
Shedding poison in the air,
When the crippled chieftain ordered,
The little Jew was there.”
Footnote 37:
“To-day cattle stand knee-deep in the Arickaree. The water no longer
ripples around the island, as the shifting sands have filled the
channel to the south. But if one digs under the cottonwoods he can
find bullets, cartridges, and knives. And near at hand is the simple
white shaft that tells where Beecher and Roman Nose, typifying all
that is brave in white man and red, forgot all enmity in the last
sleep that knows no dreams of racial hatred.” I cut this from a
newspaper the other day. How well written, frequently, are the
modestly unsigned articles in the daily press!
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Scout’s Story of the Defense of Beecher’s Island
By great good fortune I am permitted to insert here a private letter to
me from Mr. Sigmund Schlesinger, the Jewish boy referred to in Chapter
Six, which, as it contains an original account of the defense of
Beecher’s Island from the standpoint of one of the participants, is an
unique document in our Western historical records:—C.T.B.
* * * * *
For several days we had been following an Indian trail so broad that it
looked like a wagon-road. Those in our command experienced in Indian
warfare told us that we must be on the track of an Indian village on the
move, with a large herd of horses. Evidently they knew that we were
behind them, and seemed to be in a hurry to get away, for we found camp
utensils, tent-poles, etc., which had been dropped and no time taken to
pick them up. Among other things we saw fresh antelope meat, quarters,
etc., and although our rations were nearly, if not all, gone, except
some coffee and very little “sow-belly,” we did not dare eat the
Indians’ remnants.
The night of Sept. 16th, before the attack next morning, Scout Culver,
who was killed next day, pointed out to a few of us some torch-lights
upon the hills that were being swung like signals. I knew that something
“would be doing” soon, but, like a novice, I was as if on an anxious
seat, under a strain of anticipation, expecting something strange and
dangerous. The next thing that I now recall was that I was awakened just
before daylight by a single cry, “Indians!” so loud and menacing that
when I jumped up from the ground I was bewildered and felt as if I
wanted to ward off a blow, coming from I knew not where, for it was
still quite dark. That cry I will never forget. Soon I perceived a
commotion among our horses and mules. The Indians, about a dozen, tried
to stampede them. I could see in the dawning light the outlines of a
white horse in the distance, and from the noise I realized that they
were driving some of our stock before them. Later, in the daylight we
could recognize some of our ponies on a neighboring hill in the
possession of the Indians.
As soon as we crossed from the north bank of the river to the island,
just before the attack, we tied our horses and pack mules to shrubs as
best we could. During the day a mule with a partial pack on his back got
loose and wandered around the vicinity of my pit. He had several arrows
sticking in his body and seemed wounded otherwise, which caused him to
rear and pitch to such an extent that Jim Lane, my neighbor, and I,
decided to kill him. After shooting him he fell and lay between us, and
served us the double purpose of food and barricade.
My horse was securely tethered to the underbrush on the island, and
later that day I saw the poor beast rearing and plunging in a death
struggle, having been shot and killed like the rest of our horses and
mules. He also furnished me with several meals during the siege, even
after he began to putrefy. There was little to choose between horse and
mule meat under such circumstances—both were abominable.
When day broke that Tuesday, the seventeenth of September, 1868, we saw
our pickets riding toward camp as fast as their horses could carry them,
excitedly yelling: “Indians! Indians!” As I looked up the valley toward
the west I beheld the grandest, wildest sight—such as few mortals are
permitted to see and live to tell about. Many hundreds of Indians in
full war paraphernalia, riding their splendid war ponies, rushed toward
us _en masse_. Some were galloping in one direction, others cantering in
another, their lances topped with many-colored streamers, the fantastic
Indian costumes lending an awful charm to the whole. About this time
those among us who had any had boiled some coffee and were preparing to
cross over to the island.
I will frankly admit that I was awed and scared. I felt as if I wanted
to run somewhere, but every avenue of escape was blocked. Look where I
might I perceived nothing but danger, which increased my agitation; so I
naturally turned to Colonel Forsyth as a protector, as a young chick
espying the hawk in the air flutters toward the mother wing. Under such
conditions of strain some things engrave themselves vividly upon your
mind, while others are entirely forgotten. I remember that distinctly as
in my trepidation I instinctively kept close to the colonel. I was
reassured by his remarkable self-possession and coolness. While stirring
every one to activity round us, he consulted with Lieutenant Beecher and
the guide, Sharp Grover, giving directions here, advice there, until
most of the command had crossed; then he crossed himself and posted the
men, telling them where to take up their different positions. Meantime
the Indians were coming closer. I was just behind the colonel when the
first shot from the enemy came flying seemingly over our heads. I heard
him say, smilingly, “Thank you,” but immediately afterward he ordered
every one of us to lie flat upon the ground, while he, still directing,
kept on his feet, walking around among us, leading his horse. The shots
began coming thicker, and many of us yelled to him to lie down also. How
long after this I do not know, but I heard the colonel cry out that he
was shot, and I saw him clutch his leg and get down in a sitting
position.
I was lying alongside of Lou McLaughlin; some tall weeds obscured my
vision, so I asked Lou to crouch lower and I rolled over him to the
other side and was there kept busy with my carbine, for the Indians were
onto us. They were circling around while others were shooting. Very soon
I heard Lou growl and mutter. I looked at him and saw that he was hit, a
bullet coming from the direction where I was lying struck his gun-sight
and glanced into his breast. He told me what had happened, but I could
give him no attention, for there seemed lots of work to do before us.
But later, after the repulse of the attack, I looked at Lou and was
surprised to see him lying in a wallow. In his pain he had torn up the
grass and dug his hands into the sand. In answer to my question whether
he was hurt bad, he told me not bad, and advised me to dig into the sand
and make a hole, as it would be a protection.
[Illustration:
_Courtesy of Chas. Scribner’s Sons_
THE CRUCIAL MOMENT ON BEECHER’S ISLAND
_Drawing by R. F. Zogbaum_
]
I am not sure at this time, but I am now under the impression that I
told Colonel Forsyth of this; and from that time on we began to dig with
our hands or whatever we could use, and kick with our heels and toes in
the sand, and some of us soon had holes dug deep enough to protect the
chest, at least.
Time seemed out of our calculations. I heard some one call, “What time
is it?” An answer came, “Three o’clock.” I had thought it was about ten
A.M. We had nothing to eat or drink all day and, strange to say, I was
not hungry, which may have been the reason why I thought it was still
early. Word was passed that Lieutenant Beecher and Scouts Wilson and
Culver were killed, Colonel Forsyth wounded again, also Doctor Mooers
shot in the head and others hurt whose names I do not now remember.
We fought steadily all day. After dark the Indians withdrew; then nature
began to assert itself. I got hungry; there was nothing to eat in the
camp that I knew of, except some wild plums that I had gathered the day
before, which were in my saddle-bags, still on the body of my horse. I
got out of my hole, creeping on hands and knees toward where I knew the
poor animal lay. As I felt my way in the darkness I touched something
cold, and upon examination found that it was Wilson’s dead hand. He lay
where he fell; it was a most horrible feeling. The shivers ran up and
down my back, but I got to my horse at last, and tugging, I finally
secured the bag and my plums. I also found in it a piece of bacon, the
size of two fingers, which I reserved for a last emergency, and was
still in possession of that rusty piece of fat when relief came.
On my way back to my hole I passed one where Doctor Mooers lay wounded,
moaning piteously. I put a plum in his mouth, and I saw it between his
teeth next morning. He died on the night of the 19th. All our wounded
were very cheerful, and to look at Colonel Forsyth and talk to him as he
lay there helpless, no outsider would have suspected that he was
crippled. We used to gather round him in his pit and hold conversation,
not like men in a desperate situation, but like neighbors talking over a
common cause.
Colonel Forsyth was the right man in command of such a heterogeneous
company. Like the least among us, he attended to his own horse when in
camp, and many times have I seen him gather buffalo chips to supply the
mess fuel. While he was our commander in practice he was our friend, and
as such we respected him, followed and obeyed him.
On about the fifth day, as the Indians began leaving us, we began to
walk about and look around. About fifteen or twenty feet from my pit I
noticed a few of our men calling to the rest of us. I ran to the place,
and there, against the edge of the island, I saw three dead Indians.
Their friends evidently could not reach them to carry them off, which
explained to us the persistent fighting in this direction. When I got
there the Indians were being stripped of their equipments, scalps, etc.
One of them was shot in the head and his hair was clotted with blood. I
took hold of one of his braids and applied my knife to the skin above
the ear to secure the scalp, but my hand coming in contact with the
blood, I dropped the hair in disgust.
Old Jim Lane saw my hesitation, and taking up the braid, said to me: “My
boy, does it make you sick?” Then inserting the point of the knife under
the skin, he cut around, took up the other braid, and jerked the scalp
from the head. I had been about three years in that country and four
years in America, and life on the plains under such hardships as I had
undergone hardens the sensibility, yet I was not quite ripe for such a
cutting affray, even with a dead Indian.
After this we were not molested, but devoted our time to looking around
for something to eat besides the rotten horse and mule meat, which we
boiled several times in water and powder, not to get it soft, but to
boil out the stench as much as possible. We found some cactus fruit, and
killed a coyote, of which the brains and a rib were my portion. Aside
from this we had nothing but horse and mule during the siege, which soon
told on our bowels; but in spite of all this, I do not remember a
despondent man in our crowd.
One morning, being the ninth since we were attacked, I was lying outside
of my pit, having done some guard duty during the night; I was half
dozing and dreaming of home and a good meal. I felt so homesick and so
hungry when I heard some one call attention to something moving on the
hill.
I was all attention at once. Soon I heard again “I think that’s Doctor
Fitzgerald’s greyhound.” Whoever it might be, we would welcome. We would
even have been pleased to have the Indians attack us again, in hopes of
killing one of their horses for fresh meat; but it was soon evident that
help was coming, and when I fully realized this fact, enfeebled as I
was, I jumped up and joined in a lunatics’ dance that was in progress
all around us. Those on the hill must have seen us, for there was a rush
of horsemen down the hill toward us, followed by one or two ambulance
wagons.
They were as eager to reach us as we were to greet them, and as I ran
uphill I noticed a soldier on a white horse coming full tilt. The
momentum carried him past me, but in passing I grabbed his saddle-bag
and was taken off my feet, but it would have taken more than one horse
to drag me from my hold. I suspected some eatables in there, and as soon
as he could stop, without dismounting he assisted me to open that bag.
With both hands I dived in, and with each hand I clutched some hardtack,
but only one hand could reach my mouth; my other was in the grip of one
of our men, who ravenously snatched the “tacks.” We ate, cried, laughed,
and ate, all in a breath.
As soon as possible we put our dead in the ground. Those that died at
one end of the island were cared for by those in that vicinity, and
others in their vicinity, so that one part of the island was not aware
of the location of the corpses of the other part; at least I did not
know where the bodies lay of those killed on the eastern end of the
island. So one time, as I walked around among the pits, I noticed
something red and round sticking out of the sand, like a half-buried red
berry. I kicked it, but by so doing it was not dislodged; I kicked
again, but to no result. I then looked closer and discovered that it was
the nose of a dead man. I called others to my assistance, and we fixed
matters so that no desecration was possible again.
Our mortally wounded were made as comfortable as possible before they
died. I assisted at such ministrations given to Lieutenant Beecher. We
removed his boots, coat, etc., and, of course, these things were not
replaced on the body after he was dead, but lay around unnoticed. My
shoes were quite badly worn, especially after being used for digging in
the sand, so when relief came and we were preparing to leave the island,
I put on his shoes, which were just about my size, and wore them even
after I got back to New York City, leaving my old shoes in their stead
on the island.
At one of our “sittings” around Colonel Forsyth in his pit, the incident
of killing the coyote was discussed, and plans were suggested for the
killing of more of them. Along with others, I also suggested a scheme,
but it was ridiculed, and I soon retired to my pit, which was near
enough to the colonel’s, so that I could hear what was said there. One
of the men remaining was saying uncomplimentary things about me, when
the colonel silenced him, telling him that I was but a boy unused to
such things and that, under the circumstances, I was doing better than
some of the older men. Colonel Forsyth is unconscious of the fact that I
am very grateful to him for his kindness to that strange “boy” among
those strangers, and that I still hope some day that I may have the
opportunity to show my appreciation.