The Removes

by Tatjana Soli

  The hills, so vast, so lovely, made him melancholy. Around him on the rock came his usual spectral companions, grown in number, the Indians fair equaling the Confederates now. If only Libbie was at his side. She could make sense of everything, give him confidence in his endeavor. Only she had the power to make the ghosts go away.

  Procrastination was fruitless. He would write the report that was expected of him, sending it post-haste by courier.

  As he noted, almost every corner of the earth yielded gold if enough effort was used in its extraction. It was simply a determination of whether the effort was worth the gain. Insisting on invading sacred land and igniting a war was a steep price.

  He would not much exaggerate the small find, but anything would be enough to ignite the next rush.

  The newspapers would make him famous again, waxing on about the riches to be found, even though the geologist on the trip said he said seen gold in only the smallest amounts; that man was reviled in the papers, declared unpatriotic.

  Unlike the previous Yellowstone expedition, here in the Black Hills Custer felt keenly the violation of expansion. He sympathized against the duplicity of the government. It stung when he later found that the Sioux named the route he took back to Fort Lincoln “Thieves’ Road.”

  TOM CUSTER

  MY BROTHER’S HORSE

  Horses were part of our life from the time we could walk, companions in work and play, but in the cavalry the relationship deepened to one of life and death. Picking the right horse took on the utmost urgency. During the War both Armstrong and myself had numerous horses shot out from under us, so it was from plain practical experience that we could spot a good horse a hundred yards off.

  In fall 1868 while in Kansas, we had been sent five hundred additional mounts for the upcoming winter campaign in Indian Territory, the number of horses telling us both that we were valued and that the upcoming expedition would be a potentially deadly one. Armstrong, as was his prerogative, had the horses first pass by his tent while he made note of them and pulled out the choicest for his personal use. Much as he chose brave soldiers for his company or, I’m sorry to say, fine women for his bed. When a bay Morgan paraded by, Armstrong’s eyes narrowed, noting the springing gait, the impression of caged energy despite the slightness of size. The animal stood only 15½ hands high, his face animated by a white nose and elongated star on his forehead that gave him a mischievous expression. After putting the horse through his paces, he was bought, and Dandy became part of the family.

  Captain Custer (left) with General Alfred Pleasonton on horseback in Falmouth, Virginia

  Vic, a thoroughbred, was the horse Armstrong used for speed in battle, but Dandy could outthink him by a prairie mile. Besides being indefatigable, he could navigate obstacles while his rider was otherwise occupied, either hunting or defending himself against Indians. I’ve never seen a horse who could leap sideways like a cat as he did, in and out of buffalo wallows that would break the leg of a less nimble mount. He could pick his way through a prairie dog village at full run, miraculously avoiding all holes.

  During that first winter I observed firsthand how Dandy supplemented his meager grain rations by foraging through the snow, pawing it away with a hoof to reach the desirable dried grasses below. Within a few days, the other horses had learned the maneuver, and it made a comical sight to see them plow up a field thus.

  One would think that Armstrong’s commandeering of the horse would have caused resentment, but Dandy shared his owner’s peculiarities, and he was not coveted. Both horse and owner were an equal bundle of vices and virtues that were impossible to separate. Dandy always insisted on leading any expedition, and lucky for him, the commander that sat on his back agreed. His gait was a short, rough one; even on a long journey, he would curvet instead of walk, exhausting his rider, whose back would pay the price for such bouncing energy.

  In the course of things while in Kansas after the Washita campaign, Armstrong happened across the farmer who sold Dandy to the army. Confirming his good bloodlines, the farmer expressed distress at having had to part with such a fine animal at a fraction of his true worth. Due to financial hardship, he had had no choice and would be grateful to have him back at double the price he’d sold him for. Armstrong smiled thoughtfully but turned a deaf ear. I believe he would have sooner returned Libbie to her father’s house.

  Eight years of devoted service later, we were ready for our summer campaign against the Sioux in Dakota and Montana Territories. Dandy had at last begun to slow down, and Armstrong requested an extra horse for the battle just in case. Dandy would be used only for the less rigorous parts; the rest of the time he was kept back with the led horses.

  THE THIRTEENTH REMOVE

  Uncle Josiah—Returning home—Neha’s escape and capture—Burial

  Her immediate family members perished, the only one able to come for Anne was her distant uncle Josiah. She had only the vaguest memory of him, he being the eldest child by a decade from the youngest, her father. He was a man driven to the Bible, embracing ordination after the travails of the farming life and sales at a general store proved failures. Josiah was searching for a position in government to preach on the reservations, this considered an easy employment. He spoke openly that bringing his niece back to the fold would give him credentials for the conversion of the heathen.

  When he bounded into the colonel’s parlor with his arms spread wide, Anne rushed to him, hoping for the long-sought embrace of family and release from her current unnatural confinement. Josiah stopped her short, an arm outstretched, and bade her fall on her knees alongside him while they gave thanks to the Almighty.

  “Thank you, O Lord, for rescuing this child from her degradation and delivering her back to the loving care of her family.”

  It was agreed that Neha would accompany them to be taken back to her kin, distant cousins who had never known her mother before her abduction, much less of Neha’s existence until the previous week.

  Josiah was preoccupied with the details of what Anne would find on arrival.

  “Your parents’ homestead was left unattended and would have been claimed by strangers. A few of us took turns working the crops. Then my eldest son generously set up his household there. Of course the land rightfully belongs to you.”

  “I only ask that you allow me to work there for my keep.”

  His face relaxed into a broad smile.

  “I am happy to see that you’ve remained a Christian woman through your ordeal.”

  “My faith is strong, Uncle.”

  “Then your rescue indeed deserves the name miracle.”

  Readying for the trip home, it was noticeable that her uncle had not come provisioned. He blamed this on his elation and the haste with which he had left on hearing of her delivery. He borrowed horses and food from the army in order to accommodate the women, especially Neha in her condition. The army willingly did this rather than having to sacrifice a contingent of soldiers as escort.

  Once they left the fort, their days consisted of long, grueling miles of riding, unalloyed by either conversation or stops for rest. The only exception to this was when Josiah chose to talk about himself, which he characterized as “sermonizing.” Each morning and each evening he forced the two women to bend their knees and pray with him. The prayers were harsh and scalded like being dipped in lye and the hottest water. Anne rose from them feverish and troubled rather than at peace.

  The first night when they stopped for sleep, Anne was made to understand that they were to have nothing more than an army-issued woolen blanket for a bed. It was not a blanket meant for soldiers but one reserved for annuities to reservation Indians. This was obvious on inspection, as it was rotting apart and useless as cover.

  Josiah set out the donated provisions of beans and meal, laid out an iron pan, and sat back, expecting the women to prepare his meal, which they did. When he tasted his first spoonful, he spat it out.

  “What is this slop?”

  He dumped the
pan out in the dirt and proceeded to show Anne how to prepare food properly, seasoning it with lard and salt. After he fell asleep, Neha crawled to the pile of discarded beans on the ground and ate the whole of it.

  Anne lay awake when she came back.

  “I do not care for him,” Neha whispered.

  Anne looked out into the night. They had come to a more arid part of the prairie that resembled high desert, with scrub brush, sage, and cactus. Dryness stuck in her throat.

  “I don’t much like him, either.”

  “He tries to get near me. Out of your sight.”

  “You’re mistaken. He’s a man of God.”

  “He’s a man.”

  Anne paused.

  “Whenever he comes near you, say out loud your prayers.”

  The truth was he seemed nothing like family and nothing like a religious man either. Anne took on faith both claims. She didn’t like how he ordered them about. He was as bad as Snake Man, making them do all the labor of setting up camp each night, packing up each morning, while he supped a large share of each meal, not caring if he left enough for them. After several days’ riding, they were down to biscuits and hardtack, as he was a poor shot and had killed nothing fresh to supplement their dinner.

  After a week they came off the high plateau over which they had been traveling. Grass covered the ground again, and with the grass came plentiful game.

  “Uncle, would you lend me a shotgun?”

  “What for?” he asked.

  She guessed he worried about the bullets spent.

  “Please.”

  “Women have no need—”

  “I’m familiar with guns. I would like to try my hand for our dinner.”

  Within an hour, Anne had downed a buck, and the two women jumped off their horses to dress the animal. Josiah sat his mount and watched in quiet astonishment. When Neha, who had waned on their poor diet, lobbed a bloody piece of flesh into her mouth, he grew red in the face.

  “We do not eat like savages,” he yelled.

  “Uncle, it is the way she was raised.”

  But Josiah dismounted and pushed past Anne, grabbed Neha by the neck, forcing her to spit the meat out or risk choking.

  “That is a sin. It is filthy. An abomination.”

  She lay blue-faced on the ground before he let go. Anne went to her, but Neha pushed her away.

  “You had the gun. You could have killed him.”

  “Listen to me. If you do not bend, they will destroy you. You must not insist on the old ways.”

  “Escape. While there is only one to chase after us. Each day we move farther away from our tribe.”

  Her words were like balm to Anne’s heart. In all her imagining of returning home, she had never pictured it would be like this. Time had stopped for her years before when her family was still alive, and it was only to that family she longed to return. These people were strangers and would not love her children even if she managed to recover them. That was the real problem—she could not be without Solace and Thomas. The hardships of native life had been made endurable because of them.

  The women would not get far without horses and provisions. In her condition, Neha was not able to endure much privation at all. Anne decided the only step would be to convince Josiah of the logic of allowing them to leave. Surely he would see the folly of an undesired deliverance?

  She sought him out and began her speech but immediately sensed his dissatisfaction. He sucked on his front teeth as if something pained him and there was no quick prospect of relief.

  “So the time and effort I’ve spent on your rescue is not appreciated? Not to mention the ransom paid?”

  “It’s most appreciated, Uncle. But I’ve left my children behind, consigned to grow up in darkness without me. Perhaps I can return to you…”

  “You believe the Indians will let you come and go as you please?”

  Anne remained silent.

  “I am a pillar of the community. A leader of the church. Like Moses I risked going out into the wilderness to save you. You speak foolishness.”

  “My children—”

  “Are a sin. A blasphemy. A most unnatural union. For your sake we will speak of them no more.”

  “I cannot do that.”

  “You will. I risk much bringing you back into the family. With your contagion. Your sin. I will not have you sully the minds of the womenfolk.”

  Shaken, Anne did not know what else to do. She reconciled herself to continuing on, with the hope that her other relatives would not be as hard-hearted and difficult to persuade as he. Neha was not as equanimous. She had grown frantic. She feared an even greater imprisonment than a rival tribe would threaten. She resolved to run away alone, even if death be the likely outcome.

  Anne could not argue her out of her decision but would not stand in her way. Straight after supper, she pleaded exhaustion and rolled up in her blanket and feigned sleep to conceal Neha’s activity. Hours later she was wakened from real sleep by Josiah’s curses when he discovered the girl missing. He loaded his gun and jumped on his horse.

  “You stay here. If there is any bloodshed, know it will be on your head.”

  For over an hour Anne shivered by the campfire, paralyzed by indecision. She could run off, but felt responsible for Neha, especially since their tormentor was her kin. For years she had given herself purpose by imagining this very rescue, the joy of being reunited with her friends and family. Without her accounting it, time had eroded that possibility. When the long-withheld rescue finally became reality, her family consisted of her children, Neha, Running Bear’s family, the buffalo skinners, and sundry other tribe members. Affection built by proximity, the habits of daily life, the sharing of both triumphs and vicissitudes, and not only restricted to blood ties.

  When Josiah finally rode in, he trailed a rope with the end looped around Neha’s neck. Her arms were bound behind her so that when she stumbled during the night march back to camp she was unable to break her fall but landed on her belly. One of her eyes was swollen shut, her lip split open, and blood trailed from an ear.

  “She bleeds!” Anne accused him.

  “I beat the devil from her. I believe the work is well done.”

  Josiah sat his horse, staring into the fire. He sucked his teeth in deep contemplation as Anne untied Neha, and she collapsed on the ground. Josiah seemed to have reached some satisfactory conclusion and nodded his head as he dismounted.

  That night Neha’s labor began. Before dawn the child had already passed from the world. Despite Anne’s best efforts, the infant never drew a single, mewling breath. Neha wrapped the girl child in a blanket but took no further interest in her.

  “It is a mercy,” Anne whispered.

  The next morning Josiah announced a change of plans. They would make an early start to arrive at Neha’s homestead that day instead of stopping at his home, which lay closer. When Anne saw he intended merely to pack their provisions and leave, she protested.

  “We must give the baby a Christian burial.”

  “Get on those horses and follow. There is nothing—nothing—here worth burying.”

  Neha studied the ground. She seemed to sleep while awake, and Anne feared for her. She had seen this state in the tribe’s captives when they removed themselves mentally from whatever tortures lay in wait for their physical being. They became like husk dolls with nothing inside.

  Anne put her arms around her and whispered in her ear.

  “You are Mary now. Do you hear? Mary. Say it.”

  Neha nodded but remained silent.

  Anne squeezed her shoulders till she winced.

  “Do not let him triumph. Protect your spirit. Hide under the skin of their false name. Keep Neha safe and warm until you become strong enough to escape.”

  Neha looked up at her, doubting.

  “Me?”

  “Mary. Not until you are returned to the tribe do you again become Neha.”

  LIBBIE

  The summer of 1874, the w
omen waited.

  Each time Autie left on campaign felt like a small death. Libbie called it her black hour, when she lay in bed unable to talk, eat, drink, or even think clearly. Eventually by sheer strength of will she would rouse herself and go about the routine of her day in a kind of fugue state.

  Due to the high threat of attack in the Black Hills, she was not allowed to accompany him. She and the other wives held vigil at Fort Lincoln as if they were on an island stranded on the vast sea. Their sea, though, was a parched one. The sun beat down but gave no life. It was the year of the great drought on the northern plains, and the landscape dried from brown to gray. There was never enough water at the best of times, and now they had to make do with even less.

  Libbie learned to sponge bathe in a teacup’s worth, and not drink more than half a cup a day. Each morning they woke to a crackling heat and stayed inside, the shutters drawn in semidarkness until evening.

  A great plague of grasshoppers descended, which seemed entirely unfair given their other numerous trials, and she wondered how the pests managed to survive the drought. Survive, though, they did. Thrive, even.

  The sky would be without a wisp of vapor, a hard mineral bowl set down on the land, and then without warning a scrim would descend between sun and earth. Thinking it was a cloud, one looked up to see a brown mass of flying insects. They fell to the earth, destroying everything in their path.

  The women screamed and ran inside. Soldiers stabled the horses, who otherwise went mad as insects covered and bit them, crawled in to invade eyes, ears, and mouth. The only thing in which they were lucky was that the land was too barren to tempt the insects for a long stay, and after their devastation they flew off in one day. Their damage, on the other hand, lasted.

  Libbie’s vegetable garden was only a memory, as were the gardens of the other families. The newly planted cottonwoods were stripped not only of leaves but also bark, the denuded remains resembled toothpicks. She found holes in her clothing. Whole pages had been eaten out of books.