The Dying Grass, page 48
I do my best, sir.
Good. Good. You see, lieutenant, when I graduated from West Point, they gave me my choice of any arm of service. The reason I settled on the Ordnance Department was that in those days, each powder station was allotted a house for the convenience of a married officer.
Yessir.
Are you married?
No, sir.
Those were fine days, lieutenant. Are you enjoying your fine days?
Well, I hope so, sir.
Good. Now, is there anything you need? I’m counting on you to teach Joseph what a Gatling can do, and I want him to learn that lesson so well that he’ll be convinced for all time. Am I clear?
Yessir.
Remember: With the current ordnance capabilities of this Army, I don’t expect this to drag on.
Yessir.
That’s all. On your way out, kindly visit Lieutenant Bomus. He has some inventories to go over with you. Good luck to-day. Now, Fletch, could you find Captain Sladen, please?
Doublequick!
And good morning to you, Wood. Hello, Captain Pollock. How’s Company “D”?
All prepared, general.
A splendid chance to strike the hostiles.
Sure is, sir!
By the bye, Wood, is it true that your father knows General Sherman?
O yes; I’d call them great friends—
You don’t say! And all this time you never told me.
Well, sir, of course it’s no credit on me—
That will be all. Captain Miller, I’m counting on you to keep a fatherly eye on Lieutenant Otis. He seems unseasoned.
I’ll do what I can, sir.
Thank you. Colonel Winters, how’s “E” troop?
Ready to march, general.
Then you’ll head the column. GOD bless you.
Thank you, sir—
Bugler, sound “The General.”
Yessir.
To horse—
All right, boys, let’s go put Mr. Joe in the ground—
6
Passing in review before their general, who seems considerably pleased, they move out in their bluecoats, ragshirts, Secession War blouses and once-white knee-long canvas frocks, left—left—left!—a hundred ten paces to the minute, these rectiform identities of men, down through the cool ridge-forest, toward their future, that fast dark river in what will be late afternoon, the Clearwater clean and deep in its cañon, some of them just tired, some indifferent, and a good few frantic to whip Mr. Joe and his reds, their hopes as infinitely reusable as quicksilver; because although Indian service may not be the easiest job in the world, breaking sod in order to plant oats bought on credit is best left to the victims of the men in alligator boots who troll the railroad platform at Omaha, so why not march on awhile with the fellows in this command?
7
Trimble’s flankers have already glimpsed two of Joseph’s horse-herders riding down from the bluff, and Perry rides ready, his heart pounding, listening for birdcalls which might in fact be the signals of Indians, watching for uprising silhouettes, favorably comparing these wooded cañons to Captain Jack’s country—already four years now!—five since the reds murdered Canby—recollecting how two dawns prior to the final assault on the Stronghold he had knelt at the edge of a certain prominence of bitter black angles, gripping two boulders as if to wrench them apart while he cautiously presented his face to peer down the slit between them at the Lava Beds, and some near-forgotten milksop of a private cowered in a hollow behind them when Theller, his waist ringed round with fifty pounds and more of ammo pouches, stood up tall, cheerfully smoking his pipe of kinnikinnick as if he were proof against any Modoc; the rock-knives cutting into his knees, Perry, who had always taken pride in his eyes, studied and studied, but couldn’t make out any living thing except for some shivering tufts of bleached grass, and then Theller whispered happily: Well, colonel, do you see what I see?
8
Riding along his column (tormented as always nowadays by the urge to urinate), he reins in Arrow and listens:
Must be excessively mortifying to him, I should say.
Without a doubt!
and wonders if they are referring to him, the march slowing for some reason (what’s Mason’s excuse?),
after which they cross the Jackson Bridge, hoping to see Indians,
Chapman pausing beside Umatilla Jim on a little rise, that pair laughing nearly soundlessly, Chapman crossing his ankles, wagging a forefinger, with his hat pulled low, while Jim, cocking his head, his left hand resting easy on the receiver of his shoulder-slung Remington, which points off nearly horizontal, stares off somewhere which no one except perhaps Chapman can see,
leather boots squeaking:
And Susie writes me that they’re calling it a very grave offense.
Well, he must have taken up with bad companions.
Private family matters, evidently. He rides on, joying in Arrow’s spirited sensitivity: the gentlest stroking of his neck, or a knee-squeeze, and this horse instantaneously understands!
—the low horizon as wide-faced around our troops as cherubic Mason, whom Wilkinson, ever eavesdropping for his general’s greater good, now catches muttering with Perry about the evil days of ’64 when all the reds joined in attacking the Oregon Stage Road—a twelve-hundred-mile front—at which Wilkinson, who up till now has remained unimpressed by Joseph, momentarily half-believes (such is blocky Mason’s credibility) in a general Indian uprising coördinated between Joseph, Smohallie and perhaps even the Crows or Sitting Bull, although surely not both; and perhaps those degenerate Cayuses and Umatillas might play the jackals’ part; not unimpressed by these fancies, Wilkinson says to himself: Well, we may be up against it, all right!—but then, perceiving that Mason and Perry speak of ’64 merely in order to improve the time, he almost smiles, then rides off (refusing to let his fever annoy him), in order to verify the smooth movement of the column, and, if duty permits, to seek his friend Fletch, whom he will likewise now entertain with the specters of ’64,
Wood longing for this last decisive meeting with our enemies,
Wilkinson wishing our general’s blue overall suit were newer
(it would enhance his authority),
the small drums hissing like snakes, bugles singing as we march outward, because to be an American means never to halt,
Chapman now prancing back up to me
(is it worth reprimanding this civilian fool for his holiday?):
No sign thataway, general. Jim and me, we wanted to check out that cañon there, because Mr. Joe could use it to double back and strike Lewiston—
You’re showing initiative, Chapman, and I like that. And Jim’s a very interesting Indian—mighty interesting as men say in these parts—
Well, general, he ain’t half bad.
He escorted your family to the reservation, I hear.
That’s about the size of it, general. I paid her more ponies than she’s worth—
But why?
O, to keep the family safe from Mr. Joe. He’s like to do to her what he did to Mrs. Manuel—
Well, very prudent of you! But you must go back to your wife after this. GOD is not mocked.
No, sirree. No, He sure ain’t.
Now, Chapman, what on earth’s the use of that forty-pound saddle?
Well, general, it suits me, I guess.
In this country it encumbers your horse for no good reason.
General, you can whip me fair if you ever catch me straggling—
You’ve got a point. Straggling isn’t one of your vices. Wilkinson, what is it?
Sir, I caught a man drinking whiskey.
Who is it?
A volunteer from Lewiston. He’s so drunk I can’t make out which company he’s in.
Find his commander and bring him straight to me. An example must be made.
Halt!
This time we won’t allow Joseph to take the offensive.
Give ’em that old-time religion!
Gonna bring that steam drill out on the job,
Gonna whap that steel on down, o, LORD.
Gonna whap that steel on down.
Now, boys, when we see Joseph, let’s paunch that redskinned sonofabitch,
and the noon sun as white as a war-bonnet and
Who’s that?
Looks like Lieutenant Fletcher.
He’s sure lathered up about something.
Probably smelled booze on Doc’s breath—
Beg to report, general, sir.
Yes, lieutenant; what is it?
They’re in that deep ravine down near the mouth of the Cottonwood and—
How many?
Sir, I saw mostly horses. Didn’t stop to count the tipis—
Back in their old home ground, are they? Well done, Fletch! Now, catch your breath and water your horse.
Yessir.
O, I’m highly delighted!
Yessir.
How’s your fever?
Much better, thank you, sir.
All right, gentlemen. I expect us to be in position within a half-hour. We’ll break them up with sweeping fire. Captain Trimble.
Yessir.
Establish your troops forward and right, doublequick. Wilkinson, you’ll ride with them.
Yessir. Brooks, sound the move out.
Hurrah, hurrah! Down with the saucy curs!
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the LORD;
and the sudden rising of our horses’ ears:
Lieutenant Otis, is your artillery ready?
You can count on us, general.
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
Sir, they’ve—
loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword—
Them squaws are taking down their tipis real fast.
Well, they’re gonna get whipped this time.
Riding to the bluff (sweating freely and very refreshed therefrom), he spies the hostiles, who suddenly see him and begin to run about in a frenzy. The women are indeed rushing to ingather their animals. He raises his field-glasses—a tricky move for a one-armed rider drawing Indian fire—and through them seems to recognize Joseph’s horse, and Joseph, although, strange to say, his arch-enemy appears to be keeping back with the women and children. Well, for all I know he delegates his murders to be carried out by confederates and pawns.
It’s almost one-o’-clock, lieutenant. I expect you to start firing by one.
Yessir.
My word, what crowds and masses of Indians down there! Is that our treacherous Looking-Glass who rides the ocher-brown Appaloosa?
Sorry, general, I can’t make him out from here—
white flash of sunlight on a horse’s hindquarters and
Sir, I see the mirror on his forehead! It’s Looking-Glass and no mistake.
Where?
Down there at about eleven-o’-clock, where the—
I don’t see any mirror, Fletch. You’re overheated—
No, it’s . . . Must have only been the sun. Sorry, general.
What a lovely animal anyhow! Smallheaded like an Irish draught horse. Where’s Mr. Chapman?
Right here, general. This is sure gonna be good!
Now they’ve seen us. Look at ’em getting their horses in.
So what? This won’t last long.
Not unless they—
Now, Chapman, if the volunteers disobey orders this time I’ll have them all in irons.
Have your boys been telling tall tales on me again, sir?
It’s not for you to ask the questions. But if you possess the slightest influence over these citizens, you’d best keep them under control.
Anything for GOD, America and the Army!
And at that, at fifty-eight minutes past noon, Lieutenant Otis’s howitzer, accompanied by the two Gatlings, begins to fire into the Indians down below—as loud as a steam organ in a floating circus!—so that the ripples, waves and rapids on the Clearwater, which an instant before rather resembled the general’s brother Charles’s careful slender right-tilted cursive in greenish-brown ink, now leap and heave, as will the Big Hole Valley’s watercourses in afternoons of late summer hailstones. And in those first easy, happy instants of the engagement, praise the LORD, it seems that all our enemies in that cañon are surely being drilled into brown and crimson pulp.
Sir, they’re running their horses up the south fork.
Keep shooting at their stock.
A shame about them horses
as the wild deer go running like greyhounds.
Even our general hankers after Mr. Joe’s Appaloosies! Before this started, Mr. Joe proposed to switch horses with the general, but he—
Getting awful dusty down there.
Injuns call it the Big Dust, when many rifles shoot into the same place.
I can’t hear you; the Gatlings are too d——d loud—
And hurrah for our howitzer!
Sight higher. That’s right. Now you’re drilling them,
shooting into the Big Dust, roaring light funneling out of the guns.
Actually, he offered to give him his Appaloosa free and clear. But the general was too Christian to take him up on it. And now he’s
Out of range now, sir.
Well, Mr. Chapman?
That cañon on your left is their only way out, general.
You’re certain?
Yessir.
Where does it go?
Behind us.
Then set up the guns on the next bluff as fast as you can, lieutenant. Colonel Winters, gather up your cavalry and escort him. Don’t let them out!
Yessir.
Looks to be about a mile—
General, Mr. Joe’s waiting for us over there!
Good. Let’s give him his battle. Forward, men.
Looks to be a sharp engagement, Captain Whipple.
I’d say, sir.
Well, so there they are again. Those tramplin’ Injun hosts—
and yes, this is the ground where we shall fight, the place we must make bloody.
Men, there’s going to be a fight. This time you’d better kill me some Indians.
O yessir, we’re all going to be GODd——d generals at the end.
Load with cartridges; load!
—their Indian service now becoming precisely as weighty as twenty of these, which is to say two rows of ten, the bullets ready to fly out, the primers shining up like silver pupils in golden-ringed birds’ eyes.
Sound the move out.
Move out!
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah—
Enemy’s already dismounted and in position, general. Even some primitive fortifications—
Well, he had less distance to cover than we did. Firing’s getting brisk now, isn’t it?
Yessir. We’re holding the line.
Of course you are, soldier.
They’re flanking our right—
Then halt them, jackass! Where’s that d——d Gatling?
Did you see Joseph?
No, sir, but Toohhoolhoolzote—
. . . already pinked two of our boys—
How many Indians?
About forty, sir:
grim braves who have doffed their salmon-hued deerskin shirts and leap about almost naked, shooting at us from stump to stump
(Whipple, who ought to know, informs me that he has glimpsed Toohhoolhoolzote clinging spiderlike to that underlip of rocks),
firing on the right and the left,
one of our German soldiers, nearly cleanshaven, grimacing shyly at me like a recruit at Chancellorsville—
Captain, they’re swarming up out of both ravines—
That’s all Joseph has? Fletch, bring your horse up alongside. Come on, men! There they are!
Watch yourself, general; that’s—
Pim!
All right. Fire at will. Winters, mind your left. Burton, fix your infantry on the right—quickly, now!
Hurrah!
Pim,
pim,
pim,
pim-pim-pim!
That was close.
Well, Fletch, we’ve stirred them up.
Yessir; they’re enveloping the bluff. But look there, general, down on the road! The reds—
Tell the general they’re killing our packers!
You’re shooting low, soldier.
Ride to Colonel Perry at once. He must save the pack train. Go now,
at which Fletch vaults into the saddle nearly as lightly as an Indian, galloping unscathed through a pattering of bullets, wondering whether he will live another five minutes:
Colonel Perry, General Howard desires that you mount your men and drive back those Indians.
Why not, lieutenant? Brooks, blow “To Horse.” Captain Whipple, ready Company “L.” Company “F,” let’s go give Mr. Joe one between the eyes. General Howard’s counting on us to bring in our boys safe.
Prepare to mount!
Mount!
Listen now: “L” on the left and “F” on the right. Fan out as we sweep around the train. Move, GODd——n you!
Advance!
Charge!
and the general, observing through his field-glass how Perry and Whipple, riding into action with lightning perfection, swoop down upon Joseph’s flankers, driving them off at the last instant
(two muleteers dead, apparently),
experiences less joy than mere relief that Perry has not funked it, praise GOD, praise GOD:
Perry riding ahead of his troop; no one can deny he’s brave
(if I meet that McConville again, I’ll demand a retraction),
and that he rides Diamond in masterful style,
but Joseph is also, I must admit, a daring, agile, intelligent and obstinate adversary; and should he capture the other pack train—
as through his field-glass he sees the mule driver widening his eyes at him from beneath a fifty-cent hat just before an Indian bullet penetrates the wagon.
