The Dying Grass, page 110
Perry, who never stops riding back and forth along the line of Company “F,” beginning to face the fact that Diamond is favoring his right back leg
(did Jim do something to him or not?)
and determining once and for all that the coaxings of our praying general are of the same species as the murdered Canby’s strangely womanish face, or the hateful Indian smiles of Mr. Joe and his peace shammers,
and still hoping to show up that d——d Chapman with his Injun wives
(if Wilkinson sees that Diamond’s gait is off, he might tell the general, and if he orders me to to put this horse down—
Red O’Donnell might have something to cure Diamond. I’m going to ask him right now),
Captain Fisher already anticipating showing off his latest Nez Perce souvenir once we pull into camp to-night: a fine pair of leggings decorated with quill-wrapped horsehair (never mind the bloodstains),
Pollock disappointed to hear from Jocelyn that Wood has criticized Mr. Joe’s removal,
but Company “D” all in trim,
while the aforesaid critic, Wood, having lately perceived the way that in each Alaskan springtime the floe ice melts from beneath, invisibly declining from a column of approximately uniform thickness to a mushroom stem, so that where a man walked yesterday in safety, to-day he falls through, has begun to suspect that when a woman falls out of love with her sweetheart, or a soldier loses his general’s favor, the mechanism of the matter might be the same: Nanny tolerates me, apparently forever, then without warning returns to Mr. Tracy Gould (if in fact she has done so; how the hell do I know?); the general treats me as his pet, then from one march to the next withdraws his fondness. Of course the spring thaw, my established absence from Nanny, and my unwilling opposition to certain aspects of this campaign, are all known phenomena, and their certain or projected results may be predicted, although one prefers to think that the ice will not give way just when someone strides onto it, that Nanny’s fidelity will save us both, that certain other elements in the general’s relation to me (for instance his appreciation of my quickness, and his notorious kindness) will preserve my standing, at least until we return from the field—as indeed may turn out so. But this sick tension around my heart and a certain barely perceptible dizziness (which may be nothing more than dehydration) warn me that some ruinous change may soon overpower me. I am selfish enough to desire the general’s friendship even while indulging my disloyalty to him and my brother officers. I do not wish to give up anything! What poor creatures we all are, so greedy and deluded . . . Must I butter up the general? The cunning way would be to disparage Nez Perces in earshot of Wilkinson. No, I won’t do it,
the land beginning to groove and mound again into badlands, softly at first, grassed and rounded:
Might be good barley land.
What do you want that for? Can’t feed a wife on that.
O for the taste of cherries or even chokecherries in my cracked and stinking mouth—
then soft grassy flats, on the westward ridgetop, a dark and heavy dotted line: buffalo grazing in a row,
small pools of dour brown water with jade-hued reeds
(Fisher, Redington and the scouts already operating along the Musselshell River
as our Crows gallop ahead to prey on Chief Joseph’s stragglers),
and then ahead a few purple bluff-stripes on the horizon, on the far side of a dark groove, which fails to be a creek; now even the horses are thirsty:
Ask them Crows how far to water.
Yessir, soon as I can catch ’em!
O, indeed, they’re all bloodlusted now. A pleasure to see them harassing Mr. Joe, even if it’s but nips in his rear—
and then breasting the low hills, the late grasshoppers striking up against the horses’ legs as we hunt Indians through this country of prickly pear, white pebbles and golden grass,
badlands now in truth,
which brings to mind how that comical old Chief Homili, who wormed his way off the reservation whenever he could, always used to repeat in his wheedling, insinuating stupidity: Bad lands, you say. I like best! Stones and sands and Indian tillicums always kind . . .
—the Crows screaming and singing because they’ve shot down another old Nez Perce grandfather:
O, LORD help this brutal, sinful world!—
(must ask James Reuben if our Nez Perces also use the word tillicums)—
Praise the LORD, Homili lacks the daring to link up with Smohallie while we’re away pursuing Joseph . . . !—
we meet the soft-furred white seedheads of thistles ready to disperse themselves.
Soldier, if you delay this column in any way you’ll be punished to-night.
Yessir,
thistles blowing.
Now I lack any recourse but Miles, if I’m to prevent Joseph’s junction with Sitting Bull in the British Possessions. Dear GOD, help me to capture Joseph even if I must forgo the credit. And, if it please You, preserve my dear son Guy from death or injury on this campaign. Amen,
dead thistleflowers like grey spidery skeletons.
THAT OFFICER WILL GET PROMOTED
SEPTEMBER 14–17
1
I hear that Colonel Miles is well established at Tongue River.
Yessir.
Men,
do your stares signify that even you in your patched once-blue uniforms
consider me worn out? Few of you can even keep up with this march, and yet you blame me for your failure to catch Joseph. Well, that’s of no account to me, and
here are two copies of my despatch to him. Your bunch will ride overland, and the rest of you had better run the Yellow Stone. How soon can you set out?
In a quarter-hour, sir.
Good luck. GOD bless you.
Thanks, general. We’ll do our best.
I know you will. Yes, Wood, what is it?
Arrow’s shoe is back on, sir, and the blacksmith says—
On that subject, tell Colonel Perry to see to his horse. Incipient hoof disease, I suspect.
Yessir.
Frankly, he should have caught it before I did. I’m surprised.
Yessir.
Now, Captain Fisher, what news from that Redington?
He hasn’t reported in since yesterday, general.
That’s not like him. Kindly alert me the instant he rides in.
Yessir.
A shame if he should be killed. Such a lively young man!
Yessir.
Has anyone tracked down Umatilla Jim?
Afraid not, general.
A sad case. He’ll have to be punished, I’m afraid. Wilkinson, take dictation now.
Ready, sir.
This is to General Sherman, usual salutation. Had Cushing been at Clark’s Fork with the force I had directed him to have, the escape of the enemy across the Yellow Stone would absolutely have been prevented. I was much annoyed that Colonel Gibbon saw fit to override my orders, so that Cushing received no assistance at Fort Ellis. All the same, we are doing all that can be done to harry Joseph to the finish. Write out a fair copy for me. Wood, where’s Doctor Alexander’s report?
I’ll go remind him, sir.
O, I’ve just learned that your sketch of Dead Mule Trail will be published in Harper’s Magazine. Congratulations.
Thanks, general. That sure was a muddy uphill climb, coming away from our Salmon River Crossing . . .
Some while ago that was. July second.
Yessir.
By the way, you’ve not met Colonel Miles.
Haven’t had the honor, sir.
Well, as I must have told you, he’s my dear old friend, and a very fine soldier, too. You know what Sumner used to say about him right at the beginning of the Civil War? Miles was a lieutenant then, and Sumner remarked to me: That officer will get promoted, or get killed.
Yessir.
He spurs himself; he’s his own best horse
and all my dead before the stone wall of Confederate sharpshooters, and Colonel Miles in a stretcher, holding his neck-wound shut with two fingers as he stops to give me some advice as to placing my troops, and
Yessir.
You know, he’s a whiz at remembering names and ranks, even of men he’s never met. I don’t know how he does it, GOD bless him! (I used to be better than I am now.) On the eve of the Battle of Fair Oaks, he inquired as to how I supposed that General Huger would proceed against us, so I naturally asked whether he had known the general, and he replied something like: Wasn’t he in your corps, sir?—as indeed he was, before he went Seccesh. And Miles knew this. Impressive, don’t you think?
I should say so, sir.
A man of varied accomplishments. How like Miles to study up on General Huger!
Yessir.
He was in the hospital tent, holding my arm in position for the surgeon to amputate. Steadfast. Not that I remember clearly, of course—
Of course not, sir.
And he will surely turn over many a mossy stone to discover ways of getting at Joseph. A most energetic officer!
I hope I get to meet him, sir.
O, you will, you surely will,
remembering when Miles, who was to him as Wood now is, met him at the edge of a swamp by Fair Oaks Station, to guide him to the lines; it was a Saturday night, the last night he ever possessed a right arm, and an uncanny feeling infected him like typhus when Miles, immediately after saluting, said to him: General, sir, you had better dismount and lead your horses, for the dead and wounded are here
in the darkness most populous with groaning obscenities and entreaties.
Any torpedoes in this section, corporal?
and a lantern trembling far away.
Miles, is that our picket line?
Another quarter-mile yet, general.
Shoot that horse.
This one’s gone.
O, sir!
and musket-rattle, round shot tearing brilliant wounds in the sky where
The LORD is my
Soldier, can you walk?
is my
I shall not want
my shepherd:
D——n these mosquitoes on my face!
O!
as more bursts of round shot scuttle across the heavens like luminous corpse-vermin, at which the wounded thousands recommence to groan as if in adoration
O, sir!
No, that’s not the countersign!
Union or death,
and the bluish-white faces
O, sir!
Where’s your regiment?
Longstreet must have taken the wrong road, so when we attack—
O, sir!
I said where’s your regiment?
They, they—
No, that one’s dead.
Miles, is that their railroad line?
Another half mile yet, general. Now, after that lone tree it may get dangerous. Our boys should have challenged us right here. They might be done for . . .
I said where’s your regiment?
He maketh me to lie down in
rotting guts
I shall not want. And deliver me from
O, sir!
And around this oak grove, general. There may be a torpedo on the lefthand side.
All right.
Do you feel all right?
O, sir!
all right, and deliver me from
night,
illuminated by helpful Miles, who possesses the face of a surgeon or perhaps a jurist: high, delicate forehead and twin-horned moustache.
I feel fine now.
Good. You’re going home.
Soldier, where’s your regiment?
Kind sir, come to me—
the creakings of the stretchers
O, sir! Kind sir!
Just a moment, Miles. Let me see what can be done for that poor fellow. He keeps calling to us—
General, we’re in danger of being captured.
Please, sir—
Then we’ll keep a lookout, won’t we?
Please, sir—
Just as you like, general.
What regiment do you belong to?
The Fifth Mississippi.
Lantern across the Secessionist’s face
and the fizzing whisper of gunpowder somewhere beyond the dark trees
and
What do you want?
O! O, kind sir, I’m cold—
General, shall we continue on?
O, sir, I’m cold—
You have a good warm blanket over you
—as pale as Lizzie’s forehead
Cold! O, sir! O! O, I’m so cold—
Once at West Point after he had taught his final mathematics classes of the morning he was taking a walk with Lizzie when the nanny came running: O, general, o, missus, your poor little lamb . . . and when they had rushed back they found that Gracie had choked on one of her brother’s marbles and lay apparently dead; the corner of her mouth was clotted with blood and
You have a blanket on you, soldier.
Yes, sir, I, yes, sir, some kind gentleman from Massachusetts gave, gave me his blanket, but, sir, I’m cold—
He tickled the marble out of the child’s throat, at which she opened her bright eyes and
and
and the enemy boy’s blue and gasping face
. . . Cold, sir!
and Miles standing silent, holding their horses
and since there was nothing to do for him, they left him to die beneath his Union blanket.
2
By GOD, Wood, you’re looking fit! What can I do for you?
Captain Pollock, sir, the general wants your Morning Report.
Sure. Here it is. I’ve even signed it.
Thank you, sir. How’s the company getting along?
We all miss you, my boy. But now you’re too high and mighty for us—
Never, captain! And I miss you all as well. You’ve been good to me—
Now you’re gone, it’s no joke having to write these d——d reports. You know what? It’s this fucking red tape that keeps us from getting Mr. Joe. That’s what I say. Do you agree or not?
Well, sir, since when was the Army anything but lumbering?
Lumbering, eh? I like that! Now, Wood, come into my tent for a moment. Have a smoke. What’s your view of this campaign?
I’d say Joseph’s leading us a good chase—
Whose fault is that, by GOD?
Sir, I’ve heard it said that there’s a theory of war which will forestall the imputation of blame to those who do not deserve it, because we’ve sure marched awfully hard—
I can d——d well guess who told you that theory. And you know what? He’s the first professor I have had to follow and I hope he may be the last, GODd——n him! He spreads out his pickets and flankers all over the line of march, which delays operations, and every time we got close enough to launch an assault, he holds us back. Captain Jocelyn’s of the same mind. You know what I think? To get right down to it, Wood, Howard’s yellow.
Captain Pollock, I’ve got to be getting back to headquarters. I’m happy to see you again, sir; you’ll always be my friend . . .
3
Here’s my report, lieutenant, and please apologize to the general for me.
I’ll tell him, doctor.
Was he much displeased?
I don’t believe so. I told him you had some difficult cases.
Thank you! Lieutenant Wood, you’re a brick!
Happy to help.
I must say, I’m beginning to admire Joseph’s pluck. After all his battles and losses, to keep going like this, he almost deserves to escape into the British Possessions.
And what do the men say?
Mostly they’re not as favorably disposed to the reds as you are.
As I am?
Come, lieutenant, everyone knows—
After all, doctor, no matter where our sympathies lie, the Government must carry its point. Excuse me now; I’ll bring your report to the general.
4
General, you sent for me?
Happy returns, Captain Pollock.
Sir, that’s mighty kind—
Your fifty-eighth, is it?
Yessir. Thanks for noticing.
You’re very brave and cheerful, captain. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your energy. And I know very well you’d like to dash ahead with Company “D” and finish Joseph. I appreciate your zeal. That’s all.
5
Barefoot like a Seminole woman, Blackie straggles head down, not so far behind as to be punished by Captain Trimble. (Doc will rescue him if possible.) His feet now swaddled in bloody burlap, he marches on and on, so that our Government will be able someday to bring Mr. Joe to justice. At Lapwai he used to be a file closer at a parade. Now he can scarcely keep in the ranks. General, shall we continue on? Cold, sir! My heart is good; my heart is good. I am telling you three times: My heart is good. My tongue is straight,
as Chapman and the general joyously plumb the inexhaustible subject of Kentucky blood-horses, after which Chapman canters to the vanguard wondering who is looking after his ranch (burned by Mr. Joe), how much trouble his Umatilla ex-wife has made, and whether his friend Major Shearer is running Mount Idaho yet
(Wilkinson, I like to think of you as a sartorial man.
Thank you, general.
You see, Grace wants me to consider going to Newberg’s for custom shirts for the boys; she says it would be cheaper than making them ourselves, although I doubt it)—
while the general rides rearward past the mule wagons to inquire:
O, are you getting back trouble, Mason? I’ve heard that it commonly afflicts plump men like you. It’s never troubled me, although I thought it might after I lost my arm, because compensation with the other arm must twist the spine slightly over time. Now, my brother has never put on weight, so that can hardly be the only factor. He rode a horse all through the Secession War, as you may remember; I’m extremely proud of Charley boy. Well, after the Government closed down the Freedmen’s Bureau, he joined the American Missionary Association, as I probably should have done instead of staying in the Army. And right about then his back began to trouble him. Charley boy would have sworn by Electric Oil, if he were a swearing man; it did wonders for his back! Now they don’t seem to vend it anymore. Have you tried it?
