The Dying Grass, page 53
having dreamed of an Injun’s gaze fixed on him and sucking something out of him, now follows Doc,
his cheekbones sooted up and protruding and his pupils huge, staring up after him like a small boy
as Wood,
who has mastered what it pleases him to call the trick of the thing (not considering how much his handsome youthfulness might assist his so-called methods),
charges happily at Captain Pollock’s side:
Dear LORD, thank You for preserving me last night and for helping me to show bravery before the general, and if I die now, may it be instantaneous.
Pim! Pim!
Surround the ponies!
. . . and now Perry, whose eyes are nearly as far-seeing as field-glasses, can already spy the crowds of squaws boiling around their conelike tipis, hoping to collect their stinking Indian trash and scuttle off—LORD, help me hit them hard!
Fletch, ride to Lieutenant Otis and tell him to bring the howitzers forward, escorted by Trimble’s company. This Gatling’s to go ahead.
Sure thing, general!
I want you to pour lead into the Indians.
Yessir:
Pim-pim-pim-pim-pim-pim-pim-pim-pim-pim-pim!
and Joseph’s Indians screeching up the cañon.
Wilkinson, what’s the delay?
Sir, the infantry can’t ford the river to get at Joseph—
Ride down there at once and galvanize the cavalry.
Yessir.
General, if I may say so, your cavalry is perfectly—
Major Keeler,
as in the field-glass, Ad Chapman, rapidly diminishing, turtles down his head, raises his long pistol nearly vertical, and fires
(the Indians writhing about on their galloping horses, swinging themselves down out of sight to take aim from behind their Appaloosas’ necks),
you’re my guest. I’m delighted to offer you this vantage of our battle. But you’re not one of my staff officers, and I haven’t solicited your commentaries or appreciations.
Forgive me, general—
Say no more. Now where’s Wilkinson?
Sir, he’s a quarter of the way down—
I’m getting disappointed in Perry.
General, the cavalry’s crossing the river—
Now he’d better pursue Joseph up the bluff. What on earth is he doing? Well, Fletch, is Otis on the move yet?
He sure is, general, and doublequick—
Where’s Wilkinson?
Halfway to the river, sir—
Fletch, gallop over the river to Perry. He’s assaulting the village instead of chasing Joseph. If the wicked bucks get away—
Yessir—
When you overtake Wilkinson, send him straight to me. Go now.
Yessir.
You see that? Perry got licked at White Bird Cañon, and he dithered at Norton’s when Mr. Joe was killing them volunteers; now he’s yellow. Even the general said—
Major, shall we ride down and visit Joseph?
By all means, general. Quite a fine racing-horse you’ve got there—
Thanks.
Two tipis already in flames—
And all them squaws screaming—
Tickle ’em with lead!
General’s riding down like thunder—
Onward, Christian Soldiers!
—cantering down a fissure which resembles a sergeant’s chevron,
the river jerking in and out of sight on the steep cañon trail and the first Gatling chittering like a grasshopper
(most of the Indians already gone, unfortunately,
but here’s a dead warrior at last, flat on his back in the rifle-pit by that lone pine; is he the only “good” Indian we’ve made during this battle?),
then our howitzers beginning to cough and scream:
spherical case opening like seedpods to let their bullets out,
and our Springfields kicking up dust two and four hundred yards downhill,
Joseph’s ponies stampeding up the side-cañons
(nothing on earth’s as pretty as a white-and-ocher paint horse! I pray I can bring one home to Grace before she marries),
and swinging up the breechblock to eject the dead casing, Perry fires at a gallop, just missing one of the Three Red Blankets.
They’re scattering to the north.
Then Perry had better keep at them.
Halt a moment, major. My field-glass shows new Indians.
Yessir, approaching their tipis from the—
We must have surprised them. Hello, Wilkinson. What word from Colonel Perry?
General, the Nez Perce village is almost secured—
I’m turning you round again. Do you see those warriors riding up the river?
Just an instant, sir . . . Yessir, a strong contingent, and not yet visible from below.
Warn Colonel Perry without delay. He’s to ferry the infantry across on his horses. We don’t need another White Bird Cañon.
That’s a fact, sir—
Doubletime, Wilkinson!
Right away, general—
All right, major,
discovering in his field-glass the last contingent of enemy squaws:
huge-eyed, braided women with round faces, some darker than others, whipping their heads halfway round their necks to stare up at us as they gallop away up into that far side-cañon
—out of range of our Gatlings, unfortunately.
Shall we finish our ride?
Yessir. Getting dark—
Well, well. Perhaps Perry did right. The village is in our hands
and with it the corpse of a squaw whom he could have sworn was actually Comanche or some Mexican breed.
Looky there. We must all be safe now. Here come the souvenir hunters from Lewiston.
O, no, o, no,
Trumpeter Brooks blowing the “Watering” call.
Snagged me this beaded saddlebag full of camas! Who’s hungry? Blackie, you hungry?
O, no, o, o, o, no—
Hey, you, what’s your trouble?
O, no, o, no—
Where’s Doctor Alexander?
Well, that awning down there must be the field hospital. What else could it be?
Then for CHRIST’s sake help me carry this devil down there—
Can’t you see he’s already about to choke? So long to him.
O, no, o, no—
Pretty fine looking trout stream,
its mane of light-stripes perfectly in order, another Indian puppy dead and bleeding on the bank,
our tired troopers already raising up the company street, delighted to fill their canteens from this river that deserves its name,
coyotes howling on the bluff, perhaps digging up Joseph’s dead,
and the smell of pines,
rosehips and yarrow,
the smell of water strengthening as coolness comes,
the river bottom very brown.
What are you shooting their dogs for?
28
Well, Mason?
General, Joseph is running from the Clearwater country; the volunteers report him to have between five hundred and a thousand Indians of both sexes with him.
That’s not what James Reuben says.
After all, general, Mr. Reuben isn’t a white man.
How does that bear on the question?
Excuse me, general; I forgot—
You forgot my peculiarities, didn’t you? That will be all. Wilkinson, make the rounds and find out who saw Joseph. Captain Pollock, you’re officer of the day, I believe.
Yessir.
Are your pickets out?
Of course, general.
Good man! I don’t suppose Joseph will annoy us to-night.
Well, sir, you never do know about a red.
To-morrow your bunch will bury our dead and then carry the wounded to Grangeville. Inform Doctor Alexander.
All right, general. Should we bury any who die on the way?
No. Hurry along, in case the hostiles should strike you. Expect a despatch from me on your arrival. Now where’s Chapman?
Right here, general.
The Indians are defeated.
Well, now, general—
Are you tired?
No, sir.
I didn’t think you would be. Rest an hour, then set out after Joseph with your volunteers. We don’t want him assaulting Kamiah.
Yessir. The scouts tell me—
Shut up. Fletch, did you have time to make any sketches of the battle?
I’m sorry, sir—
Never mind.
Bring Perry and Miller here.
Right away, general.
Colonel Perry, Captain Miller, I want to thank you for your brave accomplishments to-day. This morning as I watched you lead the charge to retake the spring, I said to myself: I can never hope for two finer officers.
General, we—
Great is the Truth, and must prevail. Yes, Miller, what is it?
Sir, Lieutenant Otis’s barrage was invaluable to us—
Very commendable to praise a brother officer. Thanks again, gentlemen; you may return to your business. Wilkinson, what do you have for me?
General, the men are pillaging Joseph’s camp.
Let them. That’s just what we did on the March to the Sea. Whatever we don’t want, we’ll burn,
our boys ranging over the battlefield, in high glee to taste Mr. Joe’s camas bread, not that it relishes all that well (Doc warns that eating too much will bring on a spell of the shits),
Perry on Diamond, gliding moodily across the trampled grass, frowning but keeping silent as three privates from Company “F” bend to the earth, listening and tapping it in hopes of hunting out secret pits, behind him a great orange tree of flame blossoming with smoke (the destruction of unwanted buffalo hides, dip nets, saddles, beadworked root bags):
the camas bread smelling delicious at first, nearly like a housewife’s molasses cake rising in the Dutch oven;
then it begins to burn
as even Mason and Sladen stride curiously about, as if they too hoped to win souvenirs
(Chapman and Umatilla Jim merrily gleaning beads together from a pile of squaw trash: they really do manage without rest!),
the last Indians now out of sight in the far hills:
I don’t care what General Howard calls it. I call it a drawn battle.
Watch your mouth, Jocelyn,
Blackie looking open-mouthed at everything, then turning to stare at that beetling cliff which rises as high and vertical as Sherman’s pale forehead between the two cañons through which we came charging down,
and for all he is worth he now studies that gradually slanting cañon, screened by tall pines, creeping almost parallel to the rock (the Indians went thataway)
and listens to the rattling of the cottonwood leaves and the river water—
only for an instant, until Colonel Perry sets him and three others to digging the company sink;
as Wilkinson, not in the least interested in heathen plunder, silently oversees the burnings, his hands in his pockets:
Unfortunately I must blame Perry once again for letting Joseph get away, although this Lieutenant Otis as I can see is the one who’s most heartily displeased the general; the point is that we’ve failed to close the campaign;
and Wood, who to Wilkinson really does appear kindhearted, is helping a wounded private down from the hospital wagon so that the man can ease himself.
Any hint of Mrs. Manuel?
No, sir,
although the enemy has left behind many brass and copper bracelets, some of them finer than Wood’s
and even silver plate (where on earth did they get that?);
as the general rides through the Indian camp, surprised to find the destruction so unimpressive—unlike, for instance, Columbia, where there was more to destroy, and the town mostly burned
(the palmetto tree by the State House still standing after two fires: strange to say, our troops, who were not exactly patient-hearted by then, respected its pride as an emblem of South Carolina
and I was younger and stronger, expecting to retire from the Army and become a minister or mathematics teacher; Lizzie claims she would have been happier)—
Mr. Joe’s whipped for sure!
That’s another thing I like about Wood. He eschews card games.
Yessir.
Lieutenant Otis made inadequate use of his artillery! I cannot recommend that officer for anything.
Grab yourself an Injun blanket before we set fire.
Thanks, Doc. Got me this fine beaded robe—
You’ll never carry it even ten miles. Sell it to them Lewiston grubbers.
Doc, why do you keeping taking a chance on me?
Because you’re one in a million. You’re gonna make me proud.
You’re real good and kind . . .
Not many would say so, Blackie. Now you hush up and get to work. Dig them sinks the way they like it. Blackie, you’re makin’ good now. Just keep on.
General, we’ve captured nearly thirty of Joseph’s horses.
Shoot the worn out animals and turn the rest over to Lieutenant Bomus. He knows who has a use for them.
Yessir. What about the scouts?
Lieutenant Fletcher, that’s at your discretion, but no one is to slow down this march, including especially Mr. Chapman. All horses not in service by to-morrow are to be shot. The rest had better be branded and inventoried. That’s all.
Yessir.
Well, Lieutenant Bomus?
Eighty-three tipis, general.
Burn them all.
Yessir. My word, all the primitive trash they’ve left . . . !
Well, Bomus, they must not have expected to lose.
No, sir,
as Trimble,
who agrees with Lieutenant Parnell that if that stinking yellowbellied ditherer Perry had stuck to business, Mr. Joe would have eaten lead to-night
(one thing I’ll say for Perry: He’s as hard as hell.
You’d be, too, with that hysterical bitch he married. You should have heard her when he got his Modoc wound!),
pulls his old slouch hat low, puts his hands on his hips and watches Company “H” with a gaze like unto fondness,
the flames now roaring out of that heap of Indian trash, rising up like walls of flowers;
and just as the Clearwater sometimes reflects red rock in its brownness, so this fire occasionally gives rise, among our veterans, at least, to fine and dramatic detached pictures of burning Atlanta;
while Lieutenant Bomus’s bunch get about lassooing the best Indian ponies by their front legs, throwing them down, one man holding their heads, the second raising their forefeet high and tight together in the lassoo’s bite, and a third branding them US.
29
Exciting operations, Wood.
That’s for sure, general.
The troops showed great éclat.
Yessir.
Because he remembers the long train of horse-drawn wagons, sometimes thirty or even more in a caravan, bringing the wounded to Mount Pleasant Hospital, he cannot be overwhelmed by the groans, screams and prayers of those fifty-odd soldiers who now await transportation to Lewiston.
During the Rebellion, when we made do with an old ginger pop wagon for our ambulance . . .
Yessir,
but the general closes his eyes, recalling from Gettysburg an exhausted young private taking his first step on the crutches his messmates had carved for him.
WE RODE AWAY EXACTLY WHEN WE WISHED
JULY 12
1
And now it is exactly like this:
Our meat is spoiled, and Red Owl has lost his country,
but we defeated Cut Arm
—since we killed many of his slaves and fought him for awhile, then tired of him and rode away exactly when we wished,
grieving for the beaded shirts, gold dust, flour, camas and other fine things now seized by the Bostons
and for Red Thunder, Going Across, Grizzly Bear Blanket, and Whittling—all shot dead by Cut Arm
as Red Owl’s women wail for their home;
and we are riding away
(Cut Arm has burned eighty lodges);
with our blankets tight about us we are riding away:
Chief Red Owl and Chief Three Feathers,
Swan Necklace, he who started this war
(now he is helping his dear sister Where Ducks Are Around; her horse cannot stop being afraid)
and Burning Coals
(that cunning old man has saved nearly all his horses),
wise old White Bird beside Kate, his clever wife, who rescued his Medicine treasures
(her WYAKIN is SPRING ICE);
then the half-breed Bunched Lightning, who did not fight much but amused our hearts by yelling GODd——n you! at the Bostons,
Sun Tied, that quiet young man who always helps his sister and his pregnant wife,
Roaring Eagle, who nearly captured Cut Arm’s pack train;
(Shore Crossing murmuring to his wife: I am ashamed because Swan Necklace urged me into doing bad things,
dreading that Swan Necklace may overhear);
Hahtalekin, Húsishúsis Kute, Star Doctor and all the other Palouses:
Wounded Breast, who just now has won his fine good name:
desiring to make himself brave, he rode up into range of the Bluecoats, received the wound of his desiring:
pim:
turned his horse around, and as he was cantering away, a bullet entered his back
—pim!—
and departed his chest,
so that he lay down in the river, sang his WYAKIN song, purged himself and returned to the fight;
Red Heart with his family;
while beside his dear wife Helping Another, his mother-in-law Towhee and his strong sister Wetwhowees,
who will soon show her Power in the fight at Ground Squirrel Place,
