With Crazy Horse’s example before them, Ilges believes that further defections of the Sioux will follow. He is of the opinion that that will leave Sitting Bull only two ways to keep the Sioux nation from unravelling: he needs a military victory, no matter how small, to put heart into his people, or he will have no choice but to lead an exodus into Canada.
With Crazy Horse now out of the picture, any likelihood of a Sioux triumph seems to be very slight. Ilges says it is reported that the surrendering Indians are in a dreadful state of privation due to Col. Miles’s dogged prosecution of a winter campaign. His policy may have led to no significant or decisive battlefield triumphs, but by keeping on the Indians like a dog on a biscuit, he has made it impossible for them to provide food for their women and children, and by keeping them constantly on the move for fear of attack, has driven them into a state of starvation and exhaustion. Of all American officers, Miles is the most feared and hated by the Sioux. They have named him Bear Coat because of his favoured winter dress and for his ferocity.
According to Ilges, Col. Miles is no better liked by his fellow officers than he is by the Sioux. He has a reputation as a glory hound and is considered too ambitious by half. Like Custer, he was one of the “boy generals” of the Civil War, but a smaller peacetime army reduced his rank to that of a lowly colonel. He wants the star back on his epaulettes and knows nothing will get it sooner than defeating Custer’s conqueror, Sitting Bull. But there is a fly in the ointment. If Bull escapes to Canada, that would put paid to this scheme.
Which brings me to an interesting rumour that Ilges related to me – gossip perhaps but if it is true, gossip of some import. He has heard from a number of officers passing through Benton that Miles has been actively lobbying his superiors for permission to pursue Sitting Bull across the border if he enters Canada, and attack him on our soil. It is held in some quarters that Miles has received a sympathetic hearing in the highest military echelons for this gross violation of international law. The Chicago papers that reach here by riverboat report that Gen. Sherman has already said publicly that he would regard any raid launched from Canadian territory by the Sioux to be an act of war perpetrated by Canada itself and justification enough for an incursion into our territory.
The dangers inherent in Miles’s and Sherman’s cavalier attitude to our national sovereignty are evident. It would be prudent for you to immediately inform Secretary of State Scott of Miles’s propensity for recklessness so that the minister can move this matter into proper governmental channelsnd provide you with instructions as to what you are to do if Miles sallies over the border. I advise you to request clear and unambiguous orders from Scott as to how you are to meet this eventuality; they are your only protection.
Increasingly, I find it distasteful to counsel you to remain detached in the face of the misery of the Sioux. So let me say that, despite urging you to keep secret your distribution of ammunition to the Sioux, I personally applaud what you did. The action may have been impolitic, but it was generous. And I confess to you that I would prefer to see the remainder of the Sioux reach Canada than be obliterated by Miles, even though it is scarcely in our interests that they do so. One man’s ambition to win a star hardly justifies the destruction of a people.
Having said that, I do not wish to be misunderstood. Sitting Bull is an enigma to the Americans; they cannot fathom his obstinacy. But if he arrives on your side of the line you will have to solve the puzzle. So far, he has given evidence of being as astute and formidable a leader as any American or Canadian politician. Like them, I have no doubt he will not hesitate to advance his interests by any means at his disposal. I urge you to deal with him as warily as you deal with Scott.
Yours truly,
Wesley Case
May 22, 1877
Fort Walsh
My dear Case,
You have got your wish. The long-expected visitor arrived before your last letter did.
First week of this month, I began to receive reports of a large body of Sioux approaching Canada from the Milk River country. So as to be on hand to greet them, left Fort Walsh with half-breeds Louis Léveillé and Gabe Solomon, three constables, and Sgt. McCutcheon. Rode hard until we reached the lower White Mud. Found evidence there of a recent Indian camp – a godawful big one – many tipi rings, fire pits, and dung dropped by a mighty horse herd. Discovered a burial scaffold nearby. Léveillé took a peek at the corpse and confirmed he was Sioux by beadwork on his clothing. Had died of bullet wounds, most likely the work of Bear Coat’s boys.
Followed the Indians’ trail the rest of the day. Next morning came under surveillance by Sioux lookouts on hilltops near Pinto Horse Butte. I ordered the men to proceed cucumber-cool, which produced general amazement when we entered their village. Had the boys dismount at the edge of the camp and bivouac. Wanted to leave the impression that riding unannounced into a large gathering of hostile Indians was an everyday occurrence for us – of no more consequence than our morning shave and shit. This created the impression I hoped for. The Sioux gathered in great numbers to gawk at us. Spotted Eagle, war chief of the Sans Arcs, passed the comment that he would never have believed that a handful of white men would dare to enter the encampment of Tatanka Yotanka in such a way. Hearing the name Sitting Bull, I took pains not to look any more surprised than as if I had been told John Smith was sitting in the lounge bar of the North American Hotel back in Prescott. Simply said if Tatanka Yotanka were availble I wouldn’t mind saying how d’you do.
Spotted Eagle returned, four individuals in tow. None of which looked as if he could be the Grand Panjandrum himself. One was as down-at-heels as the other. Then, instanter, a stocky fellow with a pronounced limp broke ranks, went directly for Sgt. McCutcheon, grabbed him by the hand, and commenced to give it a good shaking. The Sergeant looked as astonished as if a thousand of brick had fallen on his head. Bull had mistaken McCutcheon’s sergeant’s chevrons as indication he was the chief of the Old Woman’s pony soldiers.
Spotted Eagle stepped in, sorted things out, and presented me to Bull, a man of about forty-five, sturdily built, and with a powerful hooked nose that looks like it could chop chain, but so shabbily dressed he resembled a doss-house inhabitant. After the flood on the Missouri impoverished his people, Bull apparently emptied his pockets for them. Among these Indians, it is charity that distinguishes a true leader, while our politicians begin to sharpen their shears to fleece their flock even before they get elected.
Met the new arrivals for a confab. Assure Ilges that I spoke to Bull and his people as I did with the Sioux who had come over previously. In effect, told them they were playing a new game of canasta and laid down the rules. Nobody, including Bull, objected to keeping the peace with the Yankees. But there was plenty talk of Bear Coat, who they said was hot on their trail. They all expressed fear the Long Knives would fall on them even in the Old Woman’s country. To ease their worry, told them Miles’s pony soldiers could not enter the Old Woman’s land without her permission. Said that if Bear Coat tried to attack them, the Police would stand between him and the Sioux.
This promise to protect them from Miles was given before your letter of May 13 arrived warning me to do nothing concerning Miles without Scott’s blessing, but I hasten to say I would give these Indians the same promise again. They are now my wards and I won’t have strangers spanking them in my own parlour.
They are in a terrible state. Their lodges, patched together out of old hides, provide little shelter from the wind and rain. Children are saucer-eyed with hunger, old people are hungry, everybody is hungry. Now, it’s as plain as day that the penny-pinchers in Parliament will never vote an outlay of money to supply these Indians with rations. They will have to hunt to feed themselves. Without ammunition they are condemned to starve. This is iron logic. Therefore, I have given leave to trader Légaré to trade them bullets, shot, and powder. Glad to hear you approve of my former actions in this regard, but I think it is also good politics vis-à-vis the Sioux. Black Mo
on and Four Horns got ammunition so how can I deny Sitting Bull the same? That would destroy any confidence they have in me as a square dealer. I’m not running for Congress, I’m charged with keeping the peace here. If Sitting Bull is to be controlled, I must win his trust and his respect. That’s not going to happen if he sees me dancing to “Yankee Doodle Dandy” every time they strike up that tune to the south. He’s got to learn who is bandmaster in these parts. I believe I gave him proof of that the morning we departed his camp.
Just as we were saying our goodbyes, three South Assiniboines rode into the Sioux village driving five horses before them. One was White Dog from the Missouri country near Fort Buford, the war chief who Sitting Bull tried to make an alliance with before the Battle of Little Bighorn. White Dog must have been flattered by the Sioux grandee importuning him for his support, maybe thought Bull would do anything to win his friendship, which is why he didn’t hesitate to flaunt stolen property under my very eyes. Was counting on Bull protecting him.
Right off, Léveillé recognized that the horses White Dog and his cronies had in their possession belonged to Father de Corby. He also overheard the Assiniboines boasting to the Sioux warriors that they had helped themselves to these fine buffalo runners on their way north. When Léveillé informed me of this, I sent Solomon, McCutcheon, and two constables to straightaway arrest the braggart. Immediately, he kicked up a fuss, appealed to the Sioux to help him. Were they going to let red coats take their friend? The Sioux appeared to be giving consideration to White Dog’s pleas, so I laid hold of a set of leg irons and headed for him, trusty old Léveillé at my side. Shook those shackles in the horse thief’s face and told him he’d better tell me where he’d got those horses from or I’d snap the ankle bracelets on him and haul his arse to the guardhouse in Fort Walsh. By now the Sioux seemed more interested in seeing how the game would play out than taking the Assiniboine’s part. Sensing a change in the wind, White Dog lost his nerve and started to make excuses; he had found the horses loose on the prairie; he didn’t know they belonged to a Black Robe. Bastard was clearly lying but when he volunteered to hand over the horses, I thought that was sufficient to make my point with the Sioux that I wasn’t a man that topples over in a breeze.
But as I turned to go, White Dog passed a remark under his breath. I asked Léveillé what he had said and was told that the war chief had muttered he would “meet me again.” I went hot, stuck my face in his, tore through him stem to stern. Informed him if he didn’t withdraw his goddamn threat, I’d clap him in irons and give him a taste of convict’s gruel. The worm turned then, claimed he hadn’t uttered a menace, hadn’t been heard right. Having made him eat his words, I decided to let the matter drop, since not one of the Sioux made a peep of protest. Confiscated the priest’s horses and rode off at a leisurely pace to show we had no anxieties about retribution.
You might pass on to Ilges how I handled White Dog and emphasize that Sitting Bull has seen what he can expect from me if he kicks up a ruckus. Tell him I have my new wards well in hand. But enough said. I have not written so much since the days my old schoolmaster gave me lines to write because I laughed off his canings.
Yours truly,
Maj. James Morrow Walsh
P.S. Will keep in mind your warnings about Bull, but so far he doesn’t strike me as bearing any resemblance to any hustings-huckster I ever laid eyes on.
Walsh’s dispatch gave Case plenty to mull over. The Major had a habit of relying on snap judgments, and Sitting Bull had clearly made a favourable impression on him. The question was whether Walsh had arrived at a correct reading of the man. For Case, Sitting Bull was a fascinating puzzle, one that he and Ilges had often attempted to piece together from the scanty evidence available to them: the sketchy history of the chief’s past relations with the whites, newspaper articles, the attitude to him expressed by members of other tribes, the observations made by the Sioux who had lately begun to turn themselves into reservation agents. The journalists universally castigated Sitting Bull for his arrogance and reviled him as the mastermind behind the American defeat at Little Bighorn, a war chief deranged by blood lust, the man responsible for the slaughter of Custer’s brave boys. The Sioux lately come into American custody presented a different picture, maintaining that on the day of the Little Bighorn, Sitting Bull had not joined the battle, but had remained in the camp to help protect the women and children. For them, what made Sitting Bull a great and revered man were the blessings the One Above had bestowed on him, great and powerful visions. He was foremost a holy man.
Ilges was inclined to attribute the extraordinary influence Sitting Bull exerted on his people to the gullibility of Indians all too willing to swallow medicine man hocus-pocus and mumbo-jumbo. Case didn’t think this explained everything. In his days as a policeman he had visited enough Indian camps to see that the kind of consensus Sitting Bull appeared to have forged among his people was seldom achieved. In his experience, chiefs had little power or authority to order anyone to do anything. If they were respected, judged to be wise and upright men, then they were followed and deferred to. That Sitting Bull’s people had been willing to endure so many hardships, to continue to resist the Americans for so long, and had now swallowed the ignominy of exile surely testified to a man endowed with a powerful personality.
But Case had a distrust of powerful personalities, which in his experience had a tendency to swell into alarming megalomania. What most stirred the rage of American editorialists against the chief was his serene refusal to concede that whites had any rightful claim to Sioux territory. Sitting Bull had presented them with a fact they could not refute, and it choked them with fury. But it appeared to Case that the chief, in his turn, was incapable of admitting another fact: that the struggle he had embarked on could not be won. The Little Bighorn was a pyrrhic victory that the Americans would revenge. As admirable as the chief’s stubbornness was, however intelligent and clever he might be, God was always on the side of the big battalions. For the time being, Sitting Bull had escaped those battalions by crossing over into Canada. How long it would be before he resumed the fight against the white man it was impossible to say. If he yielded to that temptation, he would certainly heap more suffering and misfortune on the Sioux. And he would collide with Walsh; the consequences of that could be nothing but dire.
June arrives and Ada has still not changed her mind about matrimony, even though she speaks frequently and fondly of family life, of her beloved mother, father, and brother. The happy domestic scenes she paints move Case to dream of emulating her parents, of building just such a life, of having children and raising them on just such a pattern as she dibes, in a home as harmonious and simple as his had been fraught with upset and complication.
Whenever Case begins to stalk the question of why she will not have him, Ada divines where he is heading and cuts him short. Not in a fashion that could be called abrupt or unkindly, but often with a wistful pleading smile as she says, “We must know each other’s minds. We must see each other clearly.”
Ada is happy; he knows she is happy. But she won’t admit her happiness, or trust he has something to do with it. One night he thinks, What she wants me to do is explain my wasted years, to admit them, to assure her I will never abandon her as I abandoned so many things before.
So he does, confessing the aimless dilettantism, describing how he now realizes that his exile in the Police was both self-punishment and a flight from responsibility, details every sin except one. And excluding it from his confession is no better than a lie. Falsehood is easy, truth is difficult, according to Miss Eliot. In this instance, one is as hard as the other. He cannot bring himself to speak of Pudge, but keeping silent about him makes him feel again the pressure of his old friend’s thumb, how it had squeezed him, left him feeling small, contemptible, humiliated.
Sitting in Ada’s parlour, waiting for her to come home, Case will catch a whiff of the leather-bound books in her library and suddenly he is back in old Sutherland’s stu
dy for a meeting of the university’s Literary Society. One of six or seven young men sitting at Professor Sutherland’s feet to listen to him expatiate on Truth and Beauty, to eat his cakes and to drink his tea, to hear him emotionally declaim Great Verse in a voice corroded by time. And when Sutherland was done, the young men would timidly read each other their poems, and while they did, Pudge would sigh, roll his eyes, and whisper asides to Case and only Case, his way of indicating they were the only two who were aware that they were in a stable of donkeys presided over by a senile, braying ass.
That is, until the afternoon that Sutherland called upon Case to read one of his own poems. In a trembling voice, a teacup and saucer balanced precariously on a shaking knee, he had read a sonnet. When he had finished, he glanced over at Pudge, seeking some sign of approbation, but Pudge was ostentatiously feigning sleep in one of Sutherland’s tatty armchairs. Of course, later his friend had apologized with elaborate insincerity. “Orpheus himself, celebrated for his power to move inanimate things with the power of his sweet songs, could not have roused me from the coma that Perkins’ ditty had induced. No reflection on you, Wesley. But give me your sonnet so I can savour it at leisure.”
Even though he knew what was coming, it had been impossible to prevent Pudge prying the poem from his hands. It was returned by mail, punctuation and two misspellings corrected. At the bottom, Pudge had written, “Your rhymes tinkle like the dinner bell. And what a feast! So much meat! So well roasted!”
A Good Man Page 29