Shameless plug, or ripping good yarn? Both. You'll see.
For the past three years, when not experiencing the great good fortune to invest my time and energy for this august publication researching, reporting, and writing about Last Cowboys and concussions and Pope Francis and combat veterans and Jerry Sandusky and PEDs and scores of other terrific and fascinating subjects, I have immersed myself in the story of the only American Indian to ever win a war--not a battle; an entire war!--against the United States.
It is a story about the great Sioux Warrior-Chief Red Cloud, whose life and times were set smack-dab in the middle of a rollicking narrative about Manifest Destiny and the demise of one nation and the rise of a continental world power. It is a story populated by outsized characters from William Tecumsah Sherman to Crazy Horse to Jim Bridger to Sitting Bull. It is a story I love.
Now, you all know that I'm not one to boast (ahem), so if you scroll down the page from the link above I will let Ken Burns and Charles Frazier and The Wall Street Journal and Smithsonian Magazine and USA Today and a host of others do that for me.
Bear with me; there is a point to this … besides the obvious.
In the meanwhile--the set-up.
Post-Civil War. Gold has been discovered across the Mountain West. Miners, settlers, and U.S. horse soldiers pour into lands promised to the Plains Indians by myriad treaties. No matter. America breaks the treaties. For the bazillionth time. But this time, Red Cloud has had enough. He unites the bands and tribes--not only the various Sioux bands, but the Cheyenne, and the Arapaho, and the Shoshoni--and decides to fight.
And he starts winning.
So General of the Army Ulysses S. Grant taps the highly-decorated and hard-charging Civil War veteran Captain William Judd Fetterman to find Red Cloud, kill him, and kill every male Indian over the age of 12.
Here is a small piece of what happened.
***
Capt. Fetterman's bluecoats topped the crest of Lodge Trail Ridge and for once no warrior bolted to give the ambush away. A cold, damp wind had risen, bracing the foot soldiers as they flowed down the north slope following Crazy Horse and the yipping decoys. They reached the butte where the High Backbone began, the rise overspread by a jumble of flat-topped rocks deposited by an ancient glacier. They continued about 800 yards across the land bridge, firing as they walked. A few taunting Indians fell and Lt. Grummond, riding in front of and to Fetterman's left, spotted what appeared to be a small village with a herd of Indian ponies milling in a dell perhaps a half-mile to the northwest. Without consulting Fetterman he ordered a charge and the cavalry spurred into a gallop, the civilians Wheatley and Fisher out ahead with five troopers riding point.
At a few minutes past noon Crazy Horse and his decoys skidded their horses across the ice of Peno Creek and out of rifle range, the infantry still marching double-quick after them. Suddenly the Indians halted, formed up into two single files, and streamed back toward the whites. Not far from the creek the two files crossed in a perfect X. It was the end of the beginning, the prearranged signal to the hidden war party.
Two thousand warriors rose as one. A trembling war cry echoed through the hills, a curdling primal scream borne by the wind that manifested a half-century of white indignities, lies, and betrayals. The Indians rolled toward the soldiers like a prairie fire. From the left, Cheyenne horsemen charged from clusters of dogwoods and cottonwoods. From the cutbank on the right, Lakotas and Arapahos on foot scrambled from the tall grass and shot out from behind ash and box elders. Arrows blackened the sky, killing and wounding both friend and foe. Fetterman's commands could barely be heard among the shrieks and shrill whistles.
Fetterman somehow managed to form up his surrounded troops and march them back across the High Backbone through the rain of arrows until they reached the flat-topped rock pile. From there they could go no further. The air palled with powder smoke as Fetterman ordered his men into two loose outward-facing skirmish lines 20 paces apart--a formation ideal in Civil War battles to determine an enemy's position and provide cover for the maneuvers of larger forces or reinforcements. But there were no reinforcements within striking distance, and the tactics meant little to the marauding Indians.
Far below Fetterman, Lt. Grummond realized too late what had happened. As he neared the pony herd he, too, was nearly enveloped by warriors, his stunned cavalrymen reining in their panicked, rearing mounts, awaiting orders that would never come. Grummond and a veteran sergeant were among the first to fall, dozens of Cheyenne arrows perforating their bodies. Without an officer, the cavalry retreated in terror, ignoring Fetterman's plight and making for the crest of Lodge Trail Ridge. They also abandoned the civilians Wheatley and Fisher and the little patrol of point riders, who were too far out in front and quickly cut off. This group dismounted and formed a small circle; the concentrated fire from their Henrys felled so many braves that within moments a great pile of dead Indians and ponies mixed in with their own slain animals to form a natural barricade. But there were too many hostiles. They kept coming until it was knives and tomahawks against bayonets and swinging ri fle butts. No one knows in what order the white men died.Back at the rock pile Fetterman was also fast losing soldiers. His skirmish lines had devolved into two loosely concentric rings rapidly collapsing in on themselves--a tightening noose with the captain in its center. Their position atop the rise bought them some time, but daring Indians burst through the defenses on horse and foot, first singly, then by twos and threes, and finally a second hail of arrows foreshadowed a wave of thrusting lances and swinging war clubs. Warriors in front were pushed ahead by a tidal surge from behind. The soldiers fired their old Springfields but the Indians were so close that there was no time to reload.
Capt. Brown broke from the surviving cavalry troops who were scrambling up Lodge Trail Ridge and somehow made it through the mass of bodies at the rock pile. He dismounted beside Capt. Fetterman, set loose Jimmy Carrington's pony, and stood back-to-back with his old commander, blasting away with his Colts. Brown fought off one charging Indian while another, a Lakota named American Horse, rushed his war pony into the rocks and brained Fetterman with his nail-studded club of solid bur oak. American Horse leapt from his saddle onto the body and slit its throat, nearly severing Fetterman's head. The dwindling infantry fought hand-to hand, some from their knees, swinging the shards of their shattered old rifles. When several broke from the rocks and made a run for the cavalry, howling Indians rode and sprinted after them.
Brown was still standing, surrounded by an orgy of butchery. Eyeballs were gouged from the sockets of wounded, screaming men, their noses and tongues to follow. The Indians severed chins, sliced off fingers at the joints, and forced open mouths to chop out teeth. Skulls were cleaved open and brain matter was scooped out and set on rocks next to severed arms, legs, and feet. Uniform pants were pulled down or cut away and penises were hacked off and shoved into mouths. Brown had one cartridge left in his revolver. He put the barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger.
Up on the slope of Lodge Trail Ridge the terrified cavalry led their mounts by the reins. The climbing was slow, hard, and frantic across the icy hollows of the boulder-strewn hillside, and some horses skittered and broke away. One horseman walked backward, a lonesome rear guard continuously pumping the lever of his seven-shot Spencer, re-loading, and firing again. The few infantrymen who had escaped the rock pile rushed past him up the incline. He covered them until an arrow tore through his heart.
When the first cavalrymen reached the summit, a narrow and slippery 40-foot shelf, they could see Fort Phil Kearny less than four miles away on the plateau beyond Big Piney Creek. They also saw Yellow Eagle's raiders, reinforced with at least 100 braves, charging up the south slope atop snorting war ponies. Their escape was blocked. The troopers released their horses and dug into a cluster of boulders. There was a lull in the savage howls, and for a moment they dared dream that reinforcements had overtaken the war party. The Indians had indeed broken off the attack, but only to collect the Army horses. A shower of arrows, hundreds, thousands, signaled their return.
Now spotters watching the fort flashed mirror signals to Red Cloud that more soldiers were crossing Big Piney Creek. This was at first greeted with anticipation, until the scouts signaled that they were riding in wagons. Red Cloud was certain this meant the guns that shoot twice. Even hauling heavy howitzers, the soldiers would crest the ridge in less than 30 minutes--was this enough time to kill every last white still caught in the ambush? Red Cloud signaled back from the tall hill and the warriors surrounding the cavalry crawled as close as they could to the boulders. At a second signal they stood and ran into the teeth of the bluecoats' last, killing volley, vanishing in clouds of gun smoke. The attackers incurred massive casualties as they jabbed their lances and swung their war clubs and tomahawks, scalping soldiers alive. Crazy Horse was said to have been among these fighters, killing many with his steel hatchet.
The little German bugler Adolph Metzger was one of the last to die. He found a crevice between two large rocks, burrowed in backwards, and fired his Spencer until its magazine was empty. Then he swung his bugle until it was a shapeless hunk of metal smeared with blood and war paint. For his bravery he was accorded the highest honor his enemies could bestow--he was the only soldier not scalped. His bleeding and battered body, wounded in a dozen places, was also covered by a buffalo-robe shroud as a sign of respect.
***
As you can imagine, that tiny taste of the Fetterman Fight is only a small slice of this narrative. Even at that, the battle was far from the end of the story. In fact, what happens next might even be more dramatic.
But in order to find out ... well, you're just going to have to read the damn thing, aren't you. (Or put it under the tree as a gift and then steal it back.) In either case, I expect book reports.
Until then, thank you for your continued patronage of this space … and have a Happy-Merry & a Merry-Happy.
Oh, and see you next year.
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