As Crazy Horse well knows, this impending attack has been months in the making. The U.S. government has built a brand-new fort on Indian land, greatly angering the Sioux nation. This corner of the Dakota Territory is prime hunting ground and considered sacred by the Sioux and other tribes.
Fort Phil Kearny is being constructed alongside a new settlers’ route known as the Bozeman Trail, leading north to the Montana gold fields. This rectangle six hundred feet by eight hundred feet is the largest stockaded fort on the frontier, ringed by eleven-foot-long logs sunk three feet into the ground. Each log is twelve inches in diameter. The tops are sharpened to a point for the purposes of defense and to prevent water from pooling atop the surface. A low platform runs along the inside of the walls for soldiers to stand upon when firing outward at advancing intruders. They will stand five feet apart should this happen. A firing notch carved into the top of every fifth log ensures this precise separation.
Low-angle view of the incomplete Crazy Horse Memorial in Black Hills, South Dakota
Each morning, soldiers leave the safety of the fort and ride by wagon to the closest forest to gather firewood and chop lumber. The distance can be as much as seven miles. However, it is a grave strategic mistake on the part of the army to build the fort so far from a source of timber. Each day soldiers expose themselves to possible attack. Crazy Horse and the combined force of the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho nations have a plan to exploit this weakness. Only freshly cut “green” timber is used in the fort’s construction, thus ensuring the need to undertake this long and dangerous task every working day. Currently, the army is hurrying to create winter quarters for incoming troops and finishing the fort’s new hospital before heavy snowfall makes the timber detail impossible until the spring thaw.1
The Indian battle and massacre near Fort Phil Kearny, Dakota Territory, December 21, 1866
The woodcutters and their armed escort left the fort an hour ago. Crazy Horse can see the wagon train from his high vantage point atop Lodge Trail Ridge—a long line of interconnected hills offering an unobstructed view of Fort Phil Kearny and most of the valley below. The fort is to the south—his left. A wide frozen and cottonwood-lined creek known as Big Piney runs between the stockade and the base of Lodge Trail Ridge. As Crazy Horse knows from the prebattle planning sessions, the Indian assault on the woodcutters from his well-hidden fellow warriors will commence when the caravan is roughly three miles from the fort. Crazy Horse will not take part.
And so it begins. High-pitched war whoops and the irregular pop of gunfire shatter the morning silence. Crazy Horse is engaged by the battle, but only for a moment. Then he turns his gaze to focus his attention on Fort Phil Kearny.
Where there is no sign of activity.
So Crazy Horse waits.
A quick glance back at the battle shows the American wagons drawing into a tight defensive circle. Sioux warriors charge their mounts in close before launching their arrows. The sound of fighting captivates Crazy Horse—that endless commotion of gunfire and battle cries carrying miles on the wind and cold air. If he can hear the commotion high up on this ridge, then surely the soldiers inside Fort Phil Kearny can hear it as well. Will they respond by sending reinforcements, or will they let their brethren endure the attack alone?
The success of Crazy Horse’s mission depends upon the American response.
Crazy Horse continues to wait. Five minutes pass. Then ten.
Finally, an answer: the stout wooden gates of Fort Phil Kearny open wide.
Fifty armed foot soldiers march out to rescue the woodcutters, accompanied by a single officer on horseback. The gates immediately close behind them. Shortly afterward, the gates are pushed open once again. This time, a large contingent of cavalry gallops from the fort, led by a young officer riding a white horse. Crazy Horse smiles—he saw the same brash soldier in combat two weeks ago. The man is impulsive under fire.
Crazy Horse makes a quick count: in all, eighty-one Americans now hasten to the woodcutters’ defense. A regimental dog escapes from the fort at the last minute, eager to follow the American soldiers, wherever they might be going.
It seems the whites have taken the bait.
Even better, the soldiers do not hurry west, toward the battle. Instead, in an attempt to cut off an Indian retreat, the Americans travel northward.
Straight toward Crazy Horse and his nine brave companions.
Just as expected.
The white soldiers outnumber Crazy Horse and his small band by a margin of eight to one. The Americans carry better rifles, have slept the night in warm cabins rather than on frozen ground, and enjoy the full backing of the U.S. government as they sally forth with intent to kill.
Crazy Horse likes his odds.
* * *
The distance from Fort Phil Kearny to Crazy Horse’s position on top of the hill is a little more than two miles. At a quick march, it will take Captain William J. Fetterman and his men forty-five minutes. Historians will long debate whether or not Fetterman disobeyed orders by not traveling straight to the woodcutters’ rescue. But what’s done is done. Fetterman has now committed his troops to cutting off the Indian retreat rather than marching to the battlefield.
The thirty-three-year-old captain is mounted, keeping his horse to a slow walk as his infantry columns march northeast along Big Piney Creek. He shouts encouragement and orders, demanding his troops to march faster. The trail goes through the valley lined with cottonwoods. The captain has been described as a “fire-eater” and longs to extract a victory over the Indians. Captain Fetterman carries a six-shot revolver but prefers to ride with his M1860 light cavalry saber drawn.
The son of a West Point graduate, Fetterman’s own application to the U.S. Military Academy was rejected for reasons unknown fifteen years ago. He worked as a banker before the Civil War finally allowed him to fight for his country. Captain Fetterman served four years with distinction as a Union officer and chose to remain in the army once the war ended. Aggressive and intense, with a long, curving mustache and receding hairline, Fetterman arrived at Fort Phil Kearny six weeks ago. Shortly after the first of the year he is due to take sole leadership of the fort. When that happens, he plans to change the passive leadership approach of the current commanding officer, Colonel Henry B. Carrington. The two men know each other well from their years together during the Civil War, but Fetterman prefers to take the fight to the Indians rather than let them dictate terms, as is so often the case at Fort Phil Kearny.
The captain leads his men through a grove of cottonwoods along the banks of Big Piney. The creek is a frozen sheet of ice with snow covering the surface. Lodge Trail Ridge rises steeply to its right. At the top, just out of rifle range, two Indians wrapped in red blankets watch Fetterman’s advance. This is the third time in three weeks that the Eighteenth Infantry Regiment has left the safety of Fort Phil Kearny to relieve a besieged party of woodcutters. Two weeks ago, the captain took part in a bruising engagement between his soldiers and the Sioux, in which the Indians used decoy riders to lure the Americans into a trap. Two soldiers were killed. The corpse of one popular young cavalry officer, Lieutenant Horatio S. Bingham, was pierced by more than fifty arrows.
Afterward, Fetterman admitted that the Indians were better fighters than he once believed, saying, “This Indian war has become a hand-to-hand fight, requiring the utmost caution.”
The Sioux, Arapaho, and Cheyenne tribes have been relentless in their raids on Fort Phil Kearny. In addition to attacking the woodcutters, more than fifty attacks against the fort have taken place in the last five months, with two dozen Americans killed. Almost as devastating has been the theft of oxen, cattle, mules, and especially horses. The fort is home to four hundred men but is down to just fifty serviceable mounts, thus the need to march.
It is just as well. The soldiers under Fetterman’s command this morning are inexperienced and unruly. Each man wears a heavy greatcoat, dark-blue shirt, light-blue trousers, and ankle-high brogans known as Jeffer
son boots. Most can barely march in formation, let alone ride a horse into combat.
William Judd Fetterman
Single, and with no heirs, Fetterman is perfectly suited for life on the frontier. The same cannot be said of his troopers. Since the demobilization of the U.S. Army after the Civil War, the sort of man who volunteers for duty in Indian Country is likely to be running from the law or new to America. Indeed, twenty of the men marching forth with Fetterman are Irish-born immigrants. Soldiers are forbidden from leaving the fort by themselves, or even in small groups, to explore the local hills in their free time. Swearing is absolutely prohibited, they are not allowed to walk on the grass of Fort Phil Kearny’s parade ground, and every soldier is confined to their barracks at dusk. Life is lonely and harsh for these men, far from home, with no women or social life to distract them from the monotony and loneliness of a small military fort, within which they are essentially prisoners.
It was once thought that a posting to a frontier garrison would be romantic, and the army still encourages officers to bring their wives and children. But the truth is that the constant threat of sudden death from an Indian attack has brought discipline and morale at Fort Phil Kearny to an all-time low. It is common for each man to sleep in his clothes, lest a surprise raid come at night. The few remaining horses are saddled and ready to ride from dawn to dusk.
Lack of proper weaponry only adds to the disgruntlement. Rather than rifles that fire several rounds before the need to reload, as were common during the Civil War, the Dakota Territory soldiers are mostly armed with single-shot .58-caliber muzzle-loading rifles—a weapon that has changed little since George Washington waged war against the Indians of the East Coast.
Strangely, the only group within Fort Phil Kearny armed with the modern Spencer repeating rifle are members of the regimental band. History records no reason why that is the case.
Just before breaking through the ice to splash across Big Piney Creek, Fetterman is joined by twenty-seven members of the Second Cavalry under Lieutenant George W. Grummond.
At the end of the Civil War, Grummond chose not to return home to his wife and two children in Michigan, preferring to marry a young woman he met while serving in Tennessee. The two were already wed when a Detroit judge handed down a $2,000 judgment for neglect against Grummond. The lieutenant did not pay, instead accepting this posting at Fort Phil Kearny in an attempt to flee his past. Grummond has since shown a fondness for drunkenness and insubordination. He has even been court-martialed.
But a lack of young officers has forced fort commander Colonel Carrington to reluctantly allow the controversial Grummond not only to remain on duty but now to accompany Fetterman’s infantry column. The young lieutenant rides a white horse so that his men might see him more easily during battle. Like Fetterman, he is armed with a saber and pistol.
Each cavalry trooper was issued twenty-eight rounds of ammunition. Fetterman had the forethought to liberate the Spencer seven-shot repeating rifles from the regimental band, then distribute them out to his troopers. The riders all carry a saber, as well.
Lieutenant Grummond has orders to place himself under Fetterman’s command. But at the sight of the two Indians wrapped in red blankets atop the ridgeline, all thoughts of compliance disappear. Lieutenant Grummond orders his bugler to sound the charge. The cavalry begins climbing the steep hill to the summit.
Fetterman then orders his foot soldiers to march double time, realizing the need to remain as close as possible should the cavalry get in trouble. Rather than straight columns, the men spread out in skirmish formation, marching abreast in a ragged line. Each soldier is well aware that even when the Indians move into rifle range, they must be extremely deliberate when choosing to fire their weapons—ammunition supplies are so low that each foot soldier carries just forty bullets.
Captain Fetterman has gone on record as boasting that “with just eighty men” he can “ride through the Sioux nation.”
Right now, Fetterman commands exactly eighty men.
* * *
At the sight of the U.S. Cavalry galloping across Big Piney Creek, then up the Lodge Trail Ridge, Crazy Horse orders all nine of his fellow warriors to move forward, so they might easily be seen among the rocks, dead grass, and scattered pine trees of the slope. They are all mounted and aggressively ride their ponies slowly downward toward the approaching American cavalry.
The U.S. Army likes to believe the Indians fight without strategy, relying on impulse and nerve to launch attacks in random fashion. But as Crazy Horse can attest, battles are planned well in advance. Discipline is paramount to success. Warriors who fail to execute their roles are subjected to a public tribal beating. For today’s fight, the Sioux chiefs Red Cloud and High Backbone have orchestrated a meticulous scheme. The goal is to kill as many Americans as possible, then burn Fort Phil Kearny. But there can be no battle unless Crazy Horse and his nine companions convince the Americans that they are the main force, a small band of renegade warriors who will be easily defeated.
The soldiers open fire, shooting and riding at the same time as they charge up the steep hill toward Crazy Horse. Predictably, the bullets go high. The Indians fall back, taking care to remain just out of range.
Suddenly, the soldiers halt. Though Crazy Horse and his men remain in plain sight, the Americans appear to be having second thoughts. Crazy Horse can clearly see Captain Fetterman and the infantry continuing their march up to the summit of Lodge Trail Ridge, but the cavalry is no longer advancing. Lieutenant Grummond seems to have learned a hard lesson two weeks ago and refuses to ride any farther.
Crazy Horse must now seize the initiative.
Though still a young man, Crazy Horse has been killing opponents in combat for more than a decade. The warrior was given the name of Cha-Oh-Ha—“Among the Trees”—at birth, but his pale skin and locks led to the childhood nickname of Light Hair. Some even called him Curly. The name Crazy Horse was actually that of his father, a medicine man. But as the young warrior grew in stature, his father renamed himself Waglula—“Worm”—passing along his former title to his son as a display of honor. Though not a chief, Crazy Horse is a valued wartime commander. He is a complicated man, often aloof and quiet, while also deeply spiritual. Just yesterday, Crazy Horse was overcome with emotion when a shaman prophesied that today’s battle would result in the murder of one hundred U.S. soldiers.
Crazy Horse longs for that to happen.
Signaling his nine other warriors, Crazy Horse directs them to act confused. One warrior dismounts and tends to his horse’s forelock, as if the animal is lame. Another trudges up the hill dragging his mount by its buffalo-hide bridle, suggesting the horse is too exhausted to be ridden. Crazy Horse dismounts and scrapes snow and ice from his pony’s hooves, taking his time even when the white men advance within rifle range. He even makes a small fire and warms himself.
The ruse works. The American advance resumes. Crazy Horse takes care not to move too quickly, lest the whites once again sense a trap. Soon, he and his warriors reach the summit. They then turn and open fire, screaming taunts at the American soldiers.
Crazy Horse watches eighty-one blue-clad soldiers approach. The first part of the battle plan is coming together.
Just to be sure the Americans do not have second thoughts about advancing, Crazy Horse orders a warrior named Big Nose to commit an act of enormous bravery. Without hesitating, the young Cheyenne gallops his black pony directly at the Americans, braving withering gunfire. Incredibly, not a single round strikes Big Nose as he circles around the Americans and then races back up the ridge, where Crazy Horse awaits.
* * *
Captain Fetterman watches the lone Cheyenne warrior on the black warhorse gallop to catch up with his companions. He counts ten Indians in all, not more than three-quarters of a mile up on the ridge. There are no other warriors in sight, giving Fetterman a momentary sense of calm. If it had been a trap, he would have arrived to find many Indians waiting.
Fetter
man’s orders are not to descend the other slope of Lodge Trail Ridge as he gives pursuit. So far, he has followed those orders by remaining atop the summit. As long as he remains there, no harm, he believes, can come from chasing down ten Indians.
Finally, Captain Fetterman orders a charge. The cavalry gallops toward the small band. The infantry marches double time in the same direction. Many of the men grab onto the stirrup of a cavalry saddle and jog beside the horse and rider in the hopes of getting to the fight quicker. The trail descends the other side of the ridge, then flattens on a plateau near the forks of a stream known as Peno Creek, allowing cavalry and infantry to move with all haste toward their enemy. Technically, Fetterman is now disobeying orders, for he has descended the far side of the ridge. He continues to follow the ten Indians on horseback as their path takes them onto another narrow ridgeline, this one no more than fifty yards wide in some places, with steep slopes descending into a valley on both sides. This new path is actually a section of the Bozeman Trail. Wagon-track ruts form a winding dirt path atop its surface. Fetterman has a clear view of not just the finger of land in front of him but thirty miles more to the north. And other than the ten Indians on horseback, the captain sees not a single warrior.
Lodge Trail Ridge now rises behind Fetterman’s command like a high wall, blocking any chance of rescue or escape to the rear. A hard wind reddens his cheeks, portending the coming storm. The sky blackens as the clouds move closer. No one at Fort Phil Kearny can see him—or save him. Fetterman orders his men to move forward.
Soon, Captain Fetterman and most of his foot soldiers are more than a half mile behind the galloping cavalry. The entire force of the U.S. Army patrol is isolated on this narrow stretch of the Bozeman Trail, which drops off steeply on both sides. In the distance, to his great disbelief, the ten Indians turn their horses and charge directly at the American mounted force.
Killing Crazy Horse Page 12