The Dying Grass, page 109
and dark-stoned wavecrests curling out of the green and orange plain
as Peopeo Tholekt’s favorite yellow horse first begins to limp;
then down into a rougher country of scattered dolmens, mesas and trees:
a single glittering aspen,
faint, darkly glittering shine of water at Big Coulee Creek
and on the horizon, the new river as wide as a woman’s belt,
bearing muddy silver river bends, no more metallic than a carp’s belly, through cottonwoods and box elders:
the Musselshell.
8
Here we shall camp where the river-water is fluttering like butterflies:
bluish-green leaves of mountain death camas,
purple-specked red berries of false Solomon’s seal,
gaillardia’s small white flowers on their tall stems
(Looking-Glass, who has led a Crow war party to this place, warns that we must now watch out, since we soon shall be riding into the country of our old enemies the Shinbones and Walking Cuttthroats;
at which Old Yellow Wolf says to White Thunder: That one should not tell us who to watch out for!)
—and Peopeo Tholekt doctors his yellow horse with yarrow and WOODPECKER Medicine
as Good Woman begins softening her husband’s bed with good grass,
Welweyas, Cloudburst, Kate and Looking-Glass’s women all salving their horses’ bleeding sores
(even now we are rich, with hundreds in our herd),
Looking-Glass’s four women softening their last camas cakes in clean river-water,
Towhee wrapping blankets around her dear daughter Helping Another,
Springtime and Sound Of Running Feet seeking old roots to dig up.
Again some young men have painted themselves; they are drumming on their untanned elkskin, singing their war-songs; Loon makes himself brave
(we have heard this too many times);
Strong Eagle shoots a blue and yellow kingbird for war-Medicine,
Toohhoolhoolsote, sucking on a handsome pipe, skins a muskrat from the tail end
and Ollokot begins softly quarrelling with his remaining wife, while the dead wife’s child stares open-mouthed
as Sound Of Running Feet sweetly picks her tired father’s lice, asking him: When shall we ride home to Wallowa?
AS GOOD AS A CIRCUS
SEPTEMBER 16
1
Quite an interesting river, the Yellow Stone.
Sure is, general.
It’s changed color from yesterday.
Refraction, sir.
Apparently Mr. Parker drowned here in the spring, carrying despatches to Colonel Miles.
Yessir. Didn’t know you were acquainted with him—
A brave, unfortunate fellow. I hear he leaves two children.
Yessir.
Could you bring Doctor Alexander to me?
Right this moment, sir.
O, good afternoon, doctor. How are you getting on?
No complaints, general,
alkali sugaring the sawbones’ face. A fine soldier—must write him a commendation at the end:
Surgeon Charles T. Alexander has given complete satisfaction.
Or does he deserve better still? We’ll see. An opportunity for bravery under Joseph’s fusillades, or—
That’s the spirit! Now, what about our troops?
Well, general, the cavalry are in better shape than the infantry, of course. Lately there’s been more erysipelas of the ankles, due to all the marching. I’ve painted all the afflicted men with creosote and iodine, of which we still have plenty. Calomel’s getting low, so I’m saving it for wounds.
You’ve mentioned boot nails penetrating their feet.
Yes, general. Even the officers say as honest as a Leavenworth contractor.
Thank you, doctor. You surely have patients to attend to. Someone bring Redington here.
Right away, sir.
Well, my boy, how was the battle?
Pretty lively, general. We made holes in a few Indians, and I had to dance around their bullets.
A battlefield’s a ghastly place, Redington. I rode over the ground on the thirteenth, and Captain Bendire showed me where you charged. Dead horses, dead men—how can we not hate war?
Well, sir, that’s a real brain-twister, all right.
It’s a thrill to you, isn’t it? Well, GOD bless you! Fletch says you were pretty brave up there on the ridge. Now, where have our Nez Perces gotten to?
General, they’re still ahead with all their ponies, squaws and luggage. General Sturgis’s command are disadvantaged without fresh horses, but once Captain Cushing—
I didn’t request your opinions about General Sturgis.
Apologies, sir. Anyhow, Mr. Joe’s almost reached the Musselshell.
What about the Crows?
General, they’re better than a plague of locusts! You should see them cut horses out of Joseph’s herd! As long as they can steal, they’ll stay on his tail.
Good. You ride out now, and give Captain Fisher my compliments. Tell him he’s got some fine scouts. O, and take this despatch to Lieutenant Fletcher. That’s it. Guy, what do you think of the Yellow Stone?
O, father, it’s as good as a circus!
Where’s Lieutenant Wilkinson?
Here I am, sir.
What news from Cushing?
He’s only three miles off now, sir.
What about Lieutenant Otis?
He’s almost back from the battlefield, sir. Of course he can travel more quickly now—
That’s so. After losing one of our two howitzers in this river!
That’s right, general. I don’t suppose we’ll be commending him.
Possibly not, Wilkinson, although that’s not your affair. Are Trimble’s bunch finally ready?
No, sir.
Go find out why and report back to me immediately. Immediately, Wilkinson,
who when he reëxamines the definition of culpability must admit, no matter how much his forgiving heart may thereby be pained, that Trimble’s dereliction at Camas Meadows has met it; and so believes that not only the interest of the service, but also the general’s, demands that the latter be reminded of this fact as needed, in order to protect O. O. Howard (Wilkinson and Fletch’s dear old general and the finest Christian in the world), who bears so much on his shoulders, from being dragged down by yet another untrustworthy individual;
or, to recast the matter in more universal terms, Wilkinson, who dislikes no man and would get Trimble and Perry back on the square if he could, nonetheless cannot forbear from pointing out that Trimble has, and entirely though his own fault, rendered himself liable to punishment, while Perry for his part is an equally unworthy officer—although Wilkinson plans to intervene discreetly in Perry’s Court of Inquiry if possible, in order to save the general (not Perry) any grief and embarrassment from which it may be possible for one human being to rescue another (and so far as he can make out, Perry has very little to fear, no matter how discreditable his behavior at White Bird Cañon, since it cannot be in the Army’s interest to do anything but bury the whole affair).
Yessir. They’re horsed up now, sir.
Your horse is failing.
Yessir; he’s got a case of the trembles.
Would you like one of Joseph’s ponies?
Thanks, general, but as long as I can keep good old Pacer going on lead and calomel—
Let’s move out. As soon as we’re underway, send Trimble to me.
Yessir. Move out!
Yessir. Bugler, sound the move out.
Command across the river, hurrah!
the horsemen fording the river with their rifles pointed diagonally upward on their backs, water up to the animals’ tails, bandoliers pale in the rain, hats snugged down over bearded cheeks, a long crew rowing in a bullboat, and the ribbed canvas cylinders of wagontops floating across,
poor Mason so pallid and weary ever since Clark’s Mountain,
Ad Chapman
—a true Western man, I must admit, with plenty of “sand” in him—
swimming his horse gallantly back and forth, seeking and not finding Lieutenant Otis’s sunken howitzer
(the officer just mentioned acting—such is his embarrassment about the loss—ashamed of everything, even the scarlet artillery insignia he bears);
our hostile Indians ever farther ahead, although perhaps Sturgis will strike them another blow
(O, I do hope Cushing hurries up!)
or the Crows will harry them sufficiently for Miles to get in position
and I have gained fine instruction in not being frantic, at Edisto not least, O, and Chancellorsville, never mind Fair Oaks, and my best and hardest lessons of all being those times when I must worry and show nothing when Lizzie was brought to bed in our darkened room, patiently risking her life to give me another child
—sweet Lizzie, please don’t die before I do!—
our mules swimming trustfully after the bell mare,
and on the near bank, Captain Jocelyn huddles with Trimble while the general, who has lately forded this river more times than he can remember, massages his empty sleeve:
Hurrah, hurrah!
Wade in, fellows.
Now Wood,
whose dreams of Nanny are as handsome as the gleam of cartridges in Perry’s gunbelt,
and Wilkinson, Mason, Sladen and the general have crossed; Perry and Trimble impel their cavalry out of the water, employing curses so long as the general is out of earshot, then expressing sincere feelings for some buffalo venison with buffaloberry jelly on it;
a dozen enlisted men huddled together, entertaining one another with what appears to be some Irish or Bohemian tomfoolery:
Doc, this here Frederick wants to know how to buy a squaw.
For what?
What else?
I don’t see no squaws around here.
I don’t care from where. Maybe I’ll find my opportunity. Blackie says you know the Indian language.
Here’s what you do, says Doc,
bringing down his outspread fingertips ever so gently from just above the crown of his head down around his ears and cheeks:
combing imaginary hair
(thus sign language, the lingua franca of our American aborigines);
as Pollock, whose bunch all swam across safe and fast and easy, and have been awarded a breather, strolls along the bank looking for minerals, even if for only ten minutes
(What did the captain call you for?
Well, to compliment for the way I organized that picket.
Did he now!),
and Wood,
remembering how not an hour since he took pity to see the general sitting on a rock outside his Sibley tent, all alone in that instant when Wilkinson had been despatched away and Sladen, summoned, had not yet arrived, so that there the general was, clasping his left knee, moving his lips, sweating beneath his slouch hat,
now feels jealous anger at the general’s laying-of-hand on Wilkinson’s shoulder!
(I wonder how Fletch is getting along with that pathetic Sturgis? When’s he coming back to us? He might be my best friend now. And what sign has Fisher found? The Seventh’s horses are a d——d sight less jaded than ours. Will they finish Joseph before the Musselshell, or will we be in on the death? I’m grateful the general took me with him to sketch the battlefield. If the Crows and Bannocks haven’t completely pillaged the dead, maybe I can finally get a souvenir. I’d like to own something of Joseph’s. It’s almost noble the way he keeps struggling on. Why is this crossing taking so long? No wonder the general’s irritated. Poor old Pollock’s looking blue over there; he must miss his family. I wish I could go chat with him, but it wouldn’t look good to wander away)
as Cushing’s detachment finally rides up with the beef (doublequick, thanks to Mason’s exertions),
and here comes Chapman on his prancing charger, shaking water everywhere, happier than ever, and doubtless yearning (supposes Wood) to become as horse-rich as a Nez Perce
while our general sits waiting, studying the map to see where Chief Joseph might be and on which diagonal Miles ought to strike
(soon we’ll be picking over that gruesome battlefield again:
well, well, a decent effort poor Sturgis made; I hope they don’t sack him),
as, raging at the complaining, cowardly incapacity of our selfsame Sturgis, whom he considers in the light of some milquetoast hallooing murder at the moon (Christ, he’s as rusty as Granddad’s horse-pistol!), Perry (whose speculations merely pretend to be frozen, like a line of dark bison on a yellow ridgetop) now dopes out that Umatilla Jim hasn’t been in camp for awhile:
Has he deserted? Never even cured Diamond! I’d sure love to hang that sonofabitch,
while Fletch, having missed Redington, comes cantering up on a pretty Indian pony, courtesy of Joseph, exhausted but enjoying the morning well enough to wave his hat, perhaps ironically, to Chapman, who in return rides in tight circles round him,
and Captain Pollock, even when he puts on his seldom-used spectacles, has unearthed no trace of silver, gold or copper; and the general has not yet perceived Fletch,
who, as you might well imagine, arrives laden with topographic sketches, anecdotes (particularly about our played out horses), jokes, and of course Sturgis’s entreaties and complaints,
Wilkinson humming “Nearer My GOD to Thee” as the general composes new memoranda, his disappointments as boulder-white as the naked corpses of Custer’s command in the corn-yellow grass.
EVEN IF I MUST FORGO THE CREDIT
SEPTEMBER 17
1
At dawn he returns startled to himself, believing himself home in Portland, as if Lizzie has awakened from her latest Indian nightmare, sobbing: O, how I hate them!— Rising with a sad smile, he meets the morning star, which the Crows call Sees the Ground.
We’re punishing the enemy considerably.
But Joseph has no communications to interrupt, nor . . . O, good morning, general.
Good morning, Fletch. Good morning, Wood. What were you saying about Joseph? I relish debates of that sort,
and the morning gun
and the rapid sweet bugle-tones of “Reveille,”
roll call
(sweet air on his windburned face),
Perry towering over Company “F” to hear muster:
last night’s war-dreams gibbering at him as silently as the shadows between the withes of a covered wagon.
Good morning, Chapman.
Morning, general:
I sure despise that holy fool. If he wasn’t a one-armed old melancholic, I’d pound him flatter than Injun pemmican.
Thank you, Wood. Nothing on earth like steaming coffee!
That’s so, general. Mr. Chapman, here’s a mug for you.
Well, well, well. Mighty white of you, lieutenant.
You’re welcome.
Now looky here, general, the way I see this campaign—
Shut up, Chapman. Trimble, thanks for your Morning Report; it appears to be in good order. Sladen, could you please fetch Major Mason here? Now where’s Wilkinson?— No, Fletch, in fact I disagree with your argument. President Grant sincerely wanted peace with the Indians. That’s why he put those Quakers in charge. O, hello, Mason. Have you any pearls of wisdom on improving to-day’s rate of march?
Yessir. The artillery . . .
Sound “The General,”
the bugle prattling away
(but not the way that Brooks used to blow
—nor poor old Jonesey:
long have they pass’d),
Wakesh nun pakilauitin
JEHOVAN’M yiyauki,
the wheels squeaking on the forge wagon,
Guy still carrying with him always that nickel portrait medal of General Grant from before he was President:
I wonder when it will tarnish? I should have thought it would on that miserably rainy march to Weippe. Maybe it will last all my life. If I’m killed by the Indians, will they take it? Would Father notice? Stinking old reds!
as Chapman’s grey racing-horse prances hysterically up and down the line, underscoring these troops’ no longer glittering evolutions:
Left,
left,
left!
on this hard-pressed march, chasing after Joseph, leaving behind camp after camp of reeking sinks,
with braid-rows on their coatsleeves to memorialize years lost in the Army.
Now, you should have seen the way Robert E. Lee’s horse used to carry him. Traveller, he was called. Best-mannered horse that ever lived.
O, shut up.
Well, now that we can move entire wagon trains by railroad, I’d sure like to know why General Sheridan can’t just—
Quit it, jackass. Have you forgotten the labor strikes?
—and I see that Jocelyn and Mason have already cut canvas yokes to guard their shoulders from the strengthening night winds; shall I advise Guy to do likewise? No, he’d best learn for himself,
and a rounded brown ridge like an elk’s shoulder, and on the horizon a grassy nipple
and then down over the horizon’s greenish-silver sagebrush swales, sunshine warming our necks,
Trimble (half-confident that the general will rescind his punishment at campaign’s end) high up on his gelding, with his chin wedged against his neck, glaring fondly down at Company “H” as they limp on through the sand at a hundred and ten paces per minute,
Mason,
who so far as Wilkinson is concerned appears to have gained a dangerous ascendancy over the general (didn’t the Modoc campaign drag on disgracefully enough?),
wondering about the boys back at Fort Vancouver,
the general already needing to urinate, all the more so since Arrow keeps stumbling to-day,
Blackie dreaming of grazing fat cows and putting up winter vegetables for Fidelia,
