The Dying Grass, page 34
I see. Wilkinson, what did Doctor Alexander tell you?
Fit for duty, sir.
All right. O, good morning, Captain Pollock. How are you getting along?
Very well indeed, sir.
Discover any gold nuggets?
Now, general, if you mean to tease me—
I’m sure you’ve been helping Lieutenant Wood find his feet again.
O yes—
That’s fine. Now, Captain Whipple, we’ll take the cavalry to Grangeville. Who knows? The citizens there might even be grateful.
With citizens one never knows, sir.
A man of experience! In the meantime, gentlemen, I urge you to profit by the Sabbath. Fletch, where’s Lieutenant Bomus?
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And now I see Boyle, Wilkinson, Fletch, Wood,
who thanks to his mother’s praying frenzies has aways despised Sundays,
Pollock, Trimble, Ad Chapman and ever so many others, including our good Nez Perces and the agreeable Umatilla Jim, opening their mouths wide to sing the praises appropriate to Divine service, led by their Christian Soldier. It is the anniversary of Little Big Horn. They pray for Lieutenant-Colonel Custer.
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Then James Reuben and the other scouts are singing:
Au namotihu SAVIOURNA, kapisin’o,
Hinak naktatasha, hina-woino.
Jim, that tune rings familiar, but they’ve transposed the key. What are they singing?
O, they sing that at Lapwai all the time, general. That’s “Yield Not to Temptation.”
Capital! I must say, Mr. Monteith and his father have done well.
Yessir.
And what might be tempting our Indians nowadays? That’s the question of the hour.
Can’t rightly say, general,
his medallion glittering like something almost valuable,
and Wood, whose copper bracelet (a precautionary measure against disease) is already unpleasantly hot around his wrist, although it’s not yet eight-o’-clock a.m., draws picket duty with a squad of Germans from Company “D,”
who have just finished polishing their bayonets for inspection,
and so goes the day:
Well, I should say with that d——d Blurick is where our troubles started. Doc used to be just so bright and friendly! And then, because Blurick wouldn’t take his advice, Doc got sore. If Blurick had just shut up and done what Doc told him to do—
Then she says to me: I don’t want no more children. We can’t hardly afford to keep our four alive as it is. So I tells her, I says, then if you won’t give me my marital rights, I’m off to the Army and to hell with you!
No, Pollock, that was actually before Perry got wounded in the dawn attack. The Modocs came out of the mist—
Naturally Sundays have got to be sacred for good old Howard. Well, guess what? Chief Joseph don’t never stop on Sundays,
as the general calls Captain John and Old George to the doorway of his Sibley tent, smiling on them, treating them as would a father,
while some of those who had the wherewithal to buy cocaine at Lapwai now swallow just a drop or two of that medicine, which recruits them marvelously,
the nearest mule driver dozing in his spring seat, with flies settling on his shoulders,
and Captain Pollock, perspiring like a miner, curses those members of Company “D” who failed inspection, after which he assigns moderate punishments
(Companies “F” and “H” receiving comparable edifications),
after which a few Nimrods go out hoping to kill some dinner for their messmates
while Umatilla Jim glides around our camp with something like a horse’s permanent tiptoe stance
and one or two professors explore the Indian question:
Well, if it ain’t Jimmy Reuben. With that shiny gun of yours and your Lapwai education, you might believe you’re as good as a white man.
What do you want, Tsépmin?
Just respect. McConville’s bunch are watching you. Blood will out, Jimmy.
Tsépmin, you want to make trouble, make trouble. I can’t prevent you.
D——d right.
Chapman, are you harassing this Indian?
Why don’t you ask him, lieutenant?
Thank you, Lieutenant Wilkinson. This man and I were just talking.
All right then.
That’s right, Jimmy. Don’t you never go against me, or I’ll get you.
Tsépmin, I have to ride out now.
You watch and see what I’ll do,
but all he does is curry his grey horse and then drop down out of sight to drink Blackfoot whiskey, enjoying to think through this campaign, and in particular how best to put before the general his comrade Major Shearer,
who until his death-day will secrete within his breast-pocket a Confederate hundred-dollar bill which depicts the South striking down the North, and who now sits at Idaho hoping to convince himself that he is not in trouble over White Bird Cañon: The climax of misfortune . . . ! How can I bear up beneath the load of it all? If Chapman sees me through on this, I sure won’t forget it!
and some write letters
(Pollock, for instance, advising his dear Sara: I do hope Johnny and Ella keep the flower beds clear of weeds)
or essay the Stick Game with our Bannock scouts,
these dark men in their stovepipe hats and smoke-colored shirts or old Army uniforms, who frown patiently downward when we look at them, the sun-lines thick and white across their dark foreheads and down the bridges of their wide dark noses and under their dark cheeks as they roll their kinninnick cigarettes,
as Captain Randall’s bunch jawbones with Larry Ott, the slayer of Shore Crossing’s father
(the jury let him off, saying: he should not be prosecuted for killing a dog),
while others touch up the lovely deep bluing on every screw and fitting of their trapdoor Springfields, as if that could improve their luck, then sound out the East Oregonian:
Two boys killed a cougar in Lane County the other day. Says so right here,
as Wood, having seen his Germans through their picket duty without having to write any of them up, takes a quarter-hour for a certain private pursuit:
Her rain of chestnut tresses enamors my repose
Lieutenant Wood, are you one of them Sunday school bunch?
Mr. Randall, what can I do for you?
I’m Captain Randall. Captain of these volunteers.
So I’ve heard.
What are you writing? It entertains me to see a grown man write in a notebook.
Something to my girl.
A letter?
Something like that.
That’s good. If you’re going to that much trouble you’d better marry her.
Thanks for the advice, Mr. Randall. And now I’ll return to my business—
until Perry, to whom these swales are so familiar that he might as well be a passenger on the New York to Philadelphia train, passing all those barns painted in honor of Doctor Drake’s Plantation Bitters, finally rides in from Grangeville.
Wood, is it true that your father once got you an interview with President Grant?
Well, general, that’s so, although I never asked to have one. I was at Baltimore City College—
And what did the President do?
He said pleasant things about my father. That’s about it. Lit one cigar with the end of another. Never said he would nominate me for West Point, nor did I have any idea about it—
while Captain Jocelyn keeps yearning for the move out.
A HAPPY RECOLLECTION OF THE “EAST WOODS”
JUNE 25
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The next day he rises with his customary earliness, zealous to reëstablish his command at Johnson’s ranch, or what remains of it. Right at the morning gun the men are already swarming upright to groom their horses. Wilkinson insists on feeling recovered, so he despatches him at the head of a mounted detachment to capture two deserters. For every man, pilot bread and coffee straight from the saddlebag. He writes a greeting to General Sherman; the morning sizzles; now they’ve finished fitting up the wagons. Since Perry reports that the hostile Nez Perces remain in the vicinity of White Bird Cañon, we’ll approach that neighborhood with extreme deliberation. Really, Perry’s failure has put me in a highly awkward position! Common sense: the state of mind the result of careful observation. So Professor Mahan used to say at West Point. Now I understand, but the rest of them don’t. For most men, careless observation suffices. LORD knows I won’t let that Joseph out-general me again.
All right now, prepare to mount,
and as the bugler sounds that call, the cavalrymen are already standing at their horses’ heads, grasping the swan-necked pommels of their saddles, and
Mount!
as they mount all together and
Move out.
Move out!
—Bugler Brooks blowing the advance; but there is no band to play “The Girl I Left Behind Me”:
Trimble to Slate Creek (his advance guard fanning out a trifle too exactly, but they’ll loosen up, I reckon):
Left,
left,
left!
Miller rightward to Johnson’s (merely four miles from there to White Bird Cañon),
Doctor Alexander riding rearward to treat another rattlesnake case with ammonia and whiskey,
Whipple and I to Grangeville,
well, we made a pretty brisk start,
our good Indians all painted up,
Chapman galloping idiotically up and down the line (must admit that’s a fabulous stallion he’s got
—and they give me old Elmer the gelding; how symbolic! Well, if he can’t keep up I’ll take another horse. So far he seems capable enough, wide in the chest, no sores . . .),
Whipple leading the sunburned column with the regulation twenty-eight-inch step, a hundred ten paces to the minute, Left—left—left:
drums and bugles, bugles and drums,
good Christians of Wilkinson’s stripe, and unrequited votaries of corn whiskey whose names are presently concealed,
marching four abreast through the golden grass, top hats darkly shining, fists clenched and swinging
up over the swales to where our soldiers raggedly await:
Good morning, men. Are you ready to fight again?
We sure are, general. You reached us sooner than we thought possible—
Well, then, why such hangdog faces? Where are my brisk and hearty troopers? Would Lieutenant Theller wish to see you like this? Now that’s better. We’re back in business, with more cavalry, infantry and artillery than Joseph can stomach. In short, reënforcements! Is that clear?
Yessir.
Now show Captain Whipple’s men good courtesy, and help them refresh themselves after their march. I’m riding to Mount Idaho to reassure the citizens. That won’t take long. We’ll move out this afternoon. That’s all. Jim, did you have a pleasant ride?
Not bad, general.
Did you see any of your relatives?
They left pretty quick. A lot of lodgepoles still in Rocky Cañon—
How far is that?
Maybe four miles. Not a real good place.
How many Indians were camping there?
I’d say six hundred.
All right. Sir, you must be Mr. Croaesdale.
That’s my name, yes.
How do you do? I am General Howard of the United States Army.
Tickled to meet you! I’ve improvised some field-works—
Very creditable. Did you ever study military science? Now guide me straightaway to Mount Idaho.
Yessir.
Excuse me, general, but my name’s Mr. Ayers, and I’ve got important information for you. It’s being said that there’s a dozen strange Indians hanging around Celilo, and they held a powwow with the Injuns across the river. Some of the Yakimas are fixing to join Joseph.
It’s being said by whom?
Well, general, I read it in the paper.
We’ll look into it. That will be all. Yes?
General Howard, sir, are you aware—
And you are?
Major Shearer, sir.
O yes, of the former Confederate States.
Yessir. I’m in charge of these volunteers—
If you and they were regulars I’d drum you all out of the service.
General, I—
Yes,
no doubt a cool officer under proper command
(for Shearer’s heavy-eyebrowed, skeptical-looking face awards him easy gravitas,
although his expression brings back to mind the year before last when Lizzie and Grace were killing four chickens to bring to the church supper, and when I came home from Vancouver Barracks, Harry, who must have been just six, was sitting on a fencepost, watching with extreme delight, no matter that his mother had warned him that he would get whipped if he got any blood on his clothes—truly it was comical to see the play of caution and avidity on the little boy’s face! That’s how this poor citizen is, longing to be in charge and fearing he’s in trouble);
and he means well with his old needle gun.
Major, I’ll speak to Captain Whipple about you and then we’ll see. For the time being, you’re still in command.
Thank you, general. I’ll—
Mr. Croaesdale, you must be very fond of the country out here. What fine views you people possess:
weeping willows,
the pallor of young apples on the tree
and hayfields slanting down to Grangeville,
not to mention Mrs. Croaesdale:
darkhaired and gracefully large, like our new First Lady.
Well, it suits us. By the way, I want you to know, general, that I shall be filing a depredation claim against the Indians. They looted a cabin of mine out at Cottonwood and—
Mr. Croaesdale, please allow me to catch the Indians first.
One item may be of concern to your troops. Joseph is now in possession of all my explosive bullets.
How many cases?
O, half a dozen at least, and in my depredation claim—
Thank you for informing me. That’s unfortunate, but we faced worse in the Secession War. Now please excuse me; I must interview two more of Joseph’s victims,
and dusk,
our sentry chanting All’s well throughout the night.
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Well, Perry, this march calls up bad memories for you, doesn’t it?
You could say that, sir. I’m ready to fight—
I never doubted it. You and Whipple will lead us down to the head of the cañon.
Yessir.
What’s your opinion of Mr. Reuben’s Indians?
General, Captain John has been working with the Army for twenty-two years, off and on. Colonel Wright didn’t hang him, so he must have been pretty good.
Very funny. And the other one? He has an Indian look, but at least his hair’s short . . .
That’s Old George, sir. I don’t know him so well. They say he’s real good-natured.
We’ll find out. How are your horses, by the way?
Excellent, thank you, sir. The scouts have already rounded up another half-dozen of Mr. Joe’s ponies—
Well, see to it that they really do belong to Joseph and not to some good Indian.
You can count on us, general.
Well, he expired not making any sound, some instants after he was shot, so I didn’t know at first; I said something to him, and when he didn’t answer I saw his eye blown out and then them reds—
That’s enough.
Give the DEVIL his due. Mr. Joe ain’t no meaner than a road agent.
O fuck you.
Now, Perry, you’ll show me the transverse ravine where your men escaped.
Yessir.
Mr. Chapman,
whatever you and your volunteers might have done to bring about Perry’s defeat, how can I not give you the benefit of the doubt, when we’re all tainted by old Adam and his sin, and when our adversaries had, after all, just committed murder after breaking their promises to me? In your blithe self-promotion you would prefer me to credit your absurd excuses as if they were printed on the leaves of this tiny Bible, but since you are the same as I (and Joseph), you bear watching, unfortunately.
I want you to guide Captain Paige’s volunteers through those hills over there. Don’t stray from the ridgeline.
Sure thing, general.
Quite a fine horse you have.
Thanks, general. See, I raise ’em myself, and, the main trick to it—
You and Mr. Shearer are friends, I understand.
Yessir, and the way to manage him is to call him major; he likes that.
Chapman, I’ll manage him as I choose.
Yessir. He’s real good. Already caught one of them hostile reds and bashed his head in. They respect him. He’ll make sure everything’s slick.
Enough. How well would you say you know Joseph?
Better than any other white man, for sure. Real good. I’d say I know him cold.
And White Bird, you must have seen him often. Could you define his habits?
Hides his cards, general. Even the other bucks wonder what he’s thinking. Anyhow they’re all villains.
No doubt. Did they pillage your ranch?
Haven’t been down there since I got my thoroughbreds away. Pretty likely.
Yes.— O, what a vast, charming expanse!
Yessir. And I got all my thoroughbreds safe away, so Mr. Joe can’t—
I believe those mountains yonder, don’t they lie between the Salmon and the Snake?
Right you are, general.
Then that must be Toohhoolhoolzote’s country
and where the slanting walls of golden grass finally meet the green grass there will soon be horses:
