Climb the Wind: A Journey Into Another Past

by Pamela Sargent

  Crazy Horse would lead one band of men to Fort Fetterman, while a smaller group went southeast of the fort to cut down the white man’s talking wires. Touch-the-Clouds did not want the Wasichu to warn others of what was happening at Fort Fetterman during the attack, and draw other men into the fight.

  White Eagle had no war bonnet, but he had white eagle feathers with which to decorate himself and strong war medicine in his pouch and his medicine pipe bundle. He tied the white eagle feathers to his long hair; with the medicine in his pouch, which held stones and some yellow nuggets from the Black Hills, was a piece of papery bark with inked symbols. The bit of bark was from one of the rocket-arrows used during the battle at the Mountain Goat, and it would, he hoped, protect him from Wasichu bullets. White Eagle painted rocket-arrows on his face and arms with blue and yellow clay; he would ride into battle wearing only his breechcloth and leggings. He had wanted to wear the blue jacket he had taken from a dead soldier, but Touch-the-Clouds had ordered all the men to leave all their trophies of battle with their wives and families. He did not want any of the Blue Coats at Fort Fetterman to wonder how they had found them.

  Crazy Horse had prepared for battle as he always did, by painting his body with the white spots of hailstones and marking his face with a lightning bolt. This was to make himself look like the warrior he had seen in the vision sent to him when he was a boy, a warrior who rode on a horse that danced and changed colors in the vision that had given Crazy Horse his name. Crazy Horse tied a pebble behind one ear and wore a red-backed hawk in his hair, as the warrior in his vision had done. Some men, during the fight with Custer and his Blue Coats, claimed to have seen the hawk come to life on Crazy Horse’s head as he galloped in a circle in front of one group of soldiers, firing at them with his Winchester and daring the Wasichu to kill him.

  Crazy Horse’s medicine would protect him from harm, whatever he did, but he did not want the men to circle any Blue Coats this time, taunting them and daring them to shoot at their attackers. Crazy Horse had another way of fighting, a way that he had used before and had taught to Touch-the-Clouds. They would attack and retreat in waves. If the Blue Coat chiefs sent more men out after them, the warriors would strike and then scatter in retreat, drawing the Blue Coats after them in smaller groups before striking again at their enemy with more men from a different direction.

  Crazy Horse did not tell the men this himself. He had left that to Touch-the-Clouds, but all the men knew that Crazy Horse had come up with the plan for this battle. Indeed, White Eagle admitted to himself, he would have followed Crazy Horse into battle even if Touch-the-Clouds were not their war chief and the head of all the chiefs. Crazy Horse deserved his loyalty. Crazy Horse was a leader who could hold the men together and use them against the enemy. Crazy Horse was a man who had been touched by the spirits.

  Crazy Horse had always been a man who rarely spoke, who was always wandering off from his camp to have his visions, who would often stare at even an old comrade as if he had never seen him before, but all of that was only a sign of how strong his medicine was. Crazy Horse lived in the world behind this one, the true world. Touch-the-Clouds might glimpse what was in the world of spirits and visions, but Crazy Horse would disappear into that world. There were times when White Eagle would look at the tall, imposing form of Touch-the-Clouds standing with the small and slight Crazy Horse and wonder which of the two chiefs was the greater man, the chief who moved into the true world easily or the one who only glimpsed that world.

  He had been wondering about that when several of the chiefs had gathered for war talks, knowing that they would have to fight again before the onset of winter. White Eagle had been at the war council fire with his father Soaring Eagle, who had scowled when Sitting Bull told them about the vision that had convinced Touch-the-Clouds that they would have to fight. That vision had come to Graceful Swan, the second wife of Touch-the-Clouds, but Sitting Bull had been a part of her vision, and he had told them that if they did not fight, their victory in the Black Hills might be fleeting. A few of the men had been grumbling about women and visions and what the childless wife of Touch-the-Clouds could possibly know about war, but all of them had stopped their muttering when Sitting Bull called her vision a true one.

  There the war council, except for more talk about how they would attack Fort Fetterman, might have ended, but then Crazy Horse made a sign with one hand. All the men suddenly fell silent, seeing that he wanted to speak.

  Crazy Horse said, “The spirits have spoken to me as well as to Sitting Bull. I saw myself being dragged into an iron cage of the Wasichu, with bars on its opening and cold metal sides. I ran from the cage and was struck down. Touch-the-Clouds was holding me as I died.” He looked around at the other men with his strange pale eyes. “And then I saw another vision, of myself as an old man with many horses. I sat in front of my tepee and looked out over a land filled with buffalo and with no sign of talking wires and no trails for the Wasichu Iron Horse.”

  “Which was the true vision?” one of the younger men asked.

  “I cannot say,’’ Crazy Horse replied. “In each of them, I felt that I was in the real world. In each of them, I felt that I was seeing truth, but they cannot both be true visions. And there is this—when I sat by my tepee as an old man, I saw Wasichu, and also Wasichu Sapa, hunting the buffalo with our people.”

  Sitting Bull looked at Crazy Horse with his dark narrowed eyes. White Eagle could not tell what the Hunkpapa chief was thinking.

  “Perhaps this means we will have peace with the Wasichu in time,” Soaring Eagle murmured.

  Sitting Bull glanced toward White Eagle and his father and said, “Perhaps this means that the Wasichu will take all of our lands and kill all the buffalo.”

  Crazy Horse lifted his war pipe. “I will know what the vision means,” he said, “when this battle is over.”

  Fort Fetterman stood along a sharp bend in the North Platte River that offered the fort protection on its northern and eastern sides. White Eagle, along with most of the men, believed that the fort should have been abandoned by the Blue Coats some time ago. The fort was not far from the route the Wasichu called the Bozeman Trail, along which wagon trains bound for California and expeditions of miners heading west had moved. The Wasichu had promised to close the trail, and had abandoned other forts along the route, but had remained in this one.

  That could mean only one thing. The Wasichu wanted to hold Fort Fetterman until the trail was again open and more whites moving along it had to be protected by the Blue Coats. That would violate their treaty with the Lakota and Cheyenne, but the Wasichu had already broken those promises by coming into the Black Hills.

  In a way, White Eagle thought, it was just as well that the Wasichu had come into Paha Sapa. He had known that the whites would break their promises sooner or later, so it was good that they had done it in a way that had given the Lakota an excuse to attack them and win a victory. Now they would be able to force the Wasichu to keep their promises.

  White Eagle had ridden ahead with three other scouts. Riding south, they sighted the walls of the fort at dusk. Other men would already be cutting the talking wires so that the Blue Coats could send no signals out to other places, and a war party was waiting along the Platte to the south, lest any soldiers try to flee the fort by boat. A craft heading downriver might escape the bullets of warriors, but it would not get past the rocket-arrows of Victorious Spirit and Glorious Spirit.

  More warriors arrived after dark. Along with White Eagle and the other scouts, they camped a few miles to the west of Fort Fetterman. The men painted themselves some more and went through rituals in preparation for battle, smoking pipes and singing sacred songs and talking of their dreams.

  In the morning, a small band led by Crazy Horse rode up to the fort’s entrance. White Eagle was among them. Several Blue Coats were standing near the top of the wall. White Eagle lifted a hand and shouted to them, “I want to talk to your chief.”

  “You speak Englis
h?” one of the troopers shouted back.

  It was a foolish question; had he not spoken to the man in Wasichu words? “I want to talk to your chief,” White Eagle repeated.

  “About what?”

  “If you surrender this fort now,” White Eagle said, “and ride away from it, we will not attack you. If you stay here, we will show no mercy—all of you will die.”

  White Eagle waited; his legs tightened around his horse. They would not surrender; he knew that. Crazy Horse knew it, and so did Touch-the-Clouds. They would have to prove that they meant what they said, and then the next band of Blue Coats they rode against would surrender and retreat without fighting.

  They waited. Someone from inside the fort shouted up at the men on the wall, and then suddenly the Blue Coats were aiming their rifles at Crazy Horse and his men.

  White Eagle flattened himself against his horse. Crazy Horse called out, “It is a good day to fight and a good day to die,” and White Eagle took aim with his Winchester over his mount’s head.

  One of the Blue Coats toppled forward, caught by a Lakota bullet. Another staggered backward, clutching at his shoulder. By then, Crazy Horse was already galloping west along the river. Soon all of the warriors were riding after him. White Eagle could not tell if any of them had been wounded by a Blue Coat. Perhaps not; these Blue Coats, like the ones with Long Hair Custer, might be armed only with Springfields. The Lakota, thanks to Yellow Hair Rubalev, the gold he had been given, and the rifles and weaponmakers he had bought, had better firesticks than the soldiers.

  White Eagle rode after the other warriors, urging his horse into a gallop, then glanced back over his shoulder. The walls of the fort were hidden around the river bend, and then a band of Blue Coats rounded the turn. White Eagle urged his horse on, toward the hills up ahead, where the rest of the warriors were waiting.

  They dispatched the Blue Coats quickly, fighting the last of them with knives and clubs. As they had expected, another larger band of Blue Coats followed the first. The Lakota struck at them, fell back, separated into smaller bands to draw the enemy after them, then came together again to worry the flanks of the Blue Coats. The fighting was soon hand-to-hand; there were many chances to strike at the enemy and count coup. White Eagle, even in the midst of the fighting, knew that Crazy Horse and the men would sing of this battle for many days.

  That night, Crazy Horse left most of his men to their kill songs and their tales of battle and went back to the fort with White Eagle and a few of the younger men. There they kept watch, knowing there was a chance that the men inside might try to flee downriver, toward Fort Laramie, but no Blue Coats left the fort. In the morning, they rode near the walls, trying to lure more Blue Coats outside. The wooden wall did not open.

  “Their chief must be thinking hard now,” Crazy Horse said. “He knows that if he comes after us, he will only lose more men, so he will try to wait us out.” What they would have to do now was obvious, although there would be less glory for them. Crazy Horse sent two of the men downriver, with orders to return with the warriors waiting on the western side with the rocket-arrows.

  The weapons made by Glorious Spirit and Victorious Spirit brought down part of the wall around Fort Fetterman and made small craters in the ground. The men inside held out for two days before holding up a white banner on a pole. White Eagle sat on his mount next to Crazy Horse as the Blue Coats filed out to surrender. Their chief, the man with an eagle on each of his shoulders, had brought only twenty men with him.

  “Touch-the-Clouds said that we were to kill them all,” White Eagle said, “if they did not leave their fort in the beginning.” From what he had seen so far, the Lakota had lost ten men, possibly more, and others were injured. He was in no mood to show the Wasichu any mercy.

  Crazy Horse shrugged. “They are leaving their fort now. They aren’t going to fight us any more.” White Eagle knew by those words that Crazy Horse would let Touch-the-Clouds decide the fate of these men. “You speak their words, White Eagle,” he went on. “Ask them some questions. Ask them why there were not more of them here inside their fort.”

  “It was Soaring Eagle come to me,’’ Virgil Warrick said as he rode at Lemuel’s side, “with that Laforte. Told me that if the soldiers saw me and some other darkies outside the fort with the Lakota, some of them might desert and come over to us.”

  That had been Rubalev’s idea, and Denis Laforte’s. Lemuel had not known that they had discussed the matter with Virgil.

  “Said we might be mighty convincing,” Virgil went on, “if’n the men who used to be soldiers put on their uniforms, wore ‘em when we rode to the fort.”

  “What did you tell them?” Lemuel asked.

  “Said we might just get the soldiers inside the fort angry instead of scared. Said they might just fight even harder against deserters. Said a lot of darkies might start thinkin’ of changin’ sides again if they had to watch what was happenin’ to the troopers—I mean, some of ‘em fought with Blue Coats once.”

  Lemuel’s mouth twisted. “That’s exactly what I told Rubalev.”

  “Not that I’d run away now,” Virgil said. “Too late for that.”

  “Do you sometimes wish you hadn’t come to Indian territory?” Lemuel asked.

  “No, suh. I ain’t sorry about that.” But the black man sounded as though he had some regrets.

  The Platte was low, the smell of autumn in the air. From behind the hill along the next bend in the river, a plume of pale smoke rose toward the sky. Lemuel and Virgil rounded the bend and spotted a small encampment of Lakota wickiups and shelters downriver.

  White Eagle was among a group of men sitting around a fire, wearing a blue coat he had probably taken from a dead soldier. Lemuel dismounted as White Eagle slowly got to his feet.

  “I greet you,” White Eagle said in Lakota.

  Lemuel nodded at him. “Maybe you can tell me why Touch-the-Clouds wants me here,’’ he replied in English.

  “To talk to the Blue Coats who surrendered to us,” the Lakota replied. “To find out why there were not so many men inside their fort.”

  “Not many?”

  “Few,” White Eagle muttered, “not as many as we thought to be inside. I counted.”

  “You can talk to them almost as well as I can,” Lemuel said.

  “I talked.” White Eagle frowned. “Their chief said that men were taken from him. He said after that the women left here and the children left with them to go to other forts. He said more men will be taken away and will go to other places. Touch-the-Clouds wants to know what this means.”

  “Where were these soldiers ordered to go?” Lemuel asked.

  “Some back East, some to other places. I ask him to tell more, and he grows silent.”

  “Did you torture him?” Lemuel asked.

  “No,” White Eagle said. “Touch-the-Clouds did not want that.”

  Lemuel sighed, relieved. “I’ll talk to him,” he said, and motioned to Virgil to follow.

  White Eagle led them toward two tents made of white cloth, army tents. The flaps of one of the tents were tied open. Inside, Lemuel could just make out the shadowy shapes of three men.

  “Colonel Green,” White Eagle called out. One of the men stood up and came to the opening. “Here is a man who will talk to you.”

  The officer stooped to come out of the tent. He was a tall man, as tall as White Eagle, almost as tall as Touch-the-Clouds. His uniform was covered with dust, his blue jacket torn at the shoulder seams. His brown beard was flecked with gray, his face set in a scowl.

  “Told you before,’’ the officer said, “that I have nothing to say.” His eyes narrowed as he gazed at Lemuel and Virgil. “So they want me to talk to you. Don’t know why I should want to talk to a couple of deserters.” He cleared his throat and spat, just missing the toe of Lemuel’s right boot.

  “I’m not a deserter,” Lemuel said, “and neither is the Negro. I fought during the War Between the States, and was mustered out after that. I lived
in St. Louis for a time—that’s where I met this man. When I left St. Louis, he came with me.”

  “To Indian territory,” Colonel Green said. “Why?”

  “I was to ask you the questions,” Lemuel said.

  The other man stared at him for a long time. At last Lemuel turned to White Eagle. “Leave us alone,” he said in Lakota. “Get the others away from this tent. He may answer my questions then.”

  White Eagle motioned to the warriors sitting near the tent, then led them away. Virgil looked at Lemuel quizzically, his brow furrowed. “Go,” Lemuel murmured. The black man wandered off toward the river.

  “Can’t see,” Green said, “that there’s anything I can tell you that’d do you any good—or do me any good, for that matter.”

  “I can help you,” Lemuel said. “I’m not a deserter. I’m with these Indians because I was asked to find out more about what they might be doing.” He took a breath, knowing what he would have to say. “Jeremiah Clarke—Colonel Jeremiah Clarke—asked me to learn what I could and report back to him. I fought with him during the war.”

  Green plucked at his beard. Lemuel could not tell whether the man believed him or not. “Come on inside,” Green said.

  Lemuel entered the tent. Green followed him, leaving the flap up to let in the light. The two men inside sat on blankets; he saw from the bars on the shoulders of their jackets that they were both lieutenants.

  Green gestured at a blanket. “Have a seat,” he said.

  “I’ll sit by the opening,” Lemuel said, “where I can be seen.”

  “There’s three of us and one of you. I think we could get our hands on that six-shooter of yours before those Indians could get here to help you. Might even pick one or two of them off.”