The Long Way Home

by Lauraine Snelling

  He rode slowly, following the trace, checking over each crest of the hill on foot before proceeding. When he finally looked down into a valley deep in grass, with tepees spaced between the trees and the sparkling creek, the familiarity of it all stabbed him in the chest. How he’d missed this simple way of life. He’d been gone far too long.

  He hoped not too long.

  Wolf watched the camp for several hours, realizing most of the braves were gone. He was too far away to recognize faces, but the longer he watched the more certain he was that this was Red Cloud’s band. When a hunting party rode back into camp from the opposite direction, he continued to watch. Finally he mounted his horse and rode down into camp.

  CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE

  Oglala Camp

  Gray Wolf kept his horse to a slow walk as he entered the Oglala camp.

  Two dogs barked around his horse’s leg. One of the packhorses kicked back and snorted. Two braves, rifles across their chests, stepped in front of him. Wolf stopped his horse and nodded a greeting.

  ‘‘I am Gray Wolf, son of Laughing Girl. Red Cloud is my uncle.’’ He sat on his horse without moving, waiting for them to acknowledge his greeting. Speaking the language of his mother felt good and proper.

  At a grunt from one of the braves, the dogs slunk off.

  ‘‘You have been gone a long time.’’

  ‘‘Yes. Too long. Is it you, Dark Horse?’’

  The brave on the right nodded, a smile starting in his eyes. ‘‘I did not expect to see you again.’’ The two had been best friends from the time they tumbled in the grass together as babies.

  ‘‘I said I would return.’’ Wolf glanced around the camp. Children peeked from the entrances to tepees, and some of the women had joined the men standing at attention throughout the camp. Cooking fires with racks of meat drying looked just like those at the caves.

  ‘‘You were but a boy, and the white man’s ways are different from the Oglala.’’

  More than you would ever know. ‘‘Is Red Cloud here?’’

  ‘‘Yes. He is head chief now.’’ Dark Horse turned to a young brave behind him and ordered him to announce the visitor to the chief. He crossed to stand at Wolf ’s knee. ‘‘You are indeed welcome, my brother.’’ He looked at the Appaloosa. ‘‘One fine horse. You want to trade?’’

  Wolf shook his head. Leave it to Dark Horse. ‘‘No, but I brought gifts.’’ He swung to the ground and indicated the two packhorses.

  ‘‘Come, Red Cloud is waiting.’’

  Wolf knew that another youth, a bit older than he, had taken the name of Red Cloud when he earned the position as chief of the Oglala. There had been chiefs named Red Cloud before him, but he was winning a place in the Sioux nation as both a warrior chief and one with wisdom. Braves followed him into battle because he always won. His camp was strong because he was adept at stealing horses from other tribes. So far he counseled peace with the white man.

  So far. One of the reasons Wolf wanted to talk with him. One of the reasons the general at Fort Laramie wanted to talk with him.

  A woman came running from a tepee set across the camp from him and stopped at his side, staring up with a smile that lit her entire face. ‘‘Gray Wolf, is this really you?’’

  ‘‘Yes, Little Squirrel, my mother’s sister, I have come back.’’

  ‘‘To stay?’’

  Leave it to her to ask the questions right in the beginning.

  Wolf shook his head. ‘‘No, but I will come again. I have a wife.

  We live on the Chugwater.’’

  ‘‘A white man’s house?’’ She patted his arm. ‘‘You married a white woman?’’

  ‘‘Yes. You will like her. She can tan a deer hide almost as soft as you do.’’

  ‘‘You go now. Red Cloud is waiting.’’

  The celebration of his return lasted far into the night, with feasting, singing, and dancing. He dispensed the goods from his packs, making sure that his aunt received both a red-and-black striped wool blanket and lengths of red print calico. When the packs were empty, he joined Red Cloud in his tepee.

  ‘‘We need more guns.’’ Red Cloud sat cross-legged on a pile of skins on the other side of the fire.

  ‘‘I cannot help you there. The general refused to sell me guns and whiskey.’’

  ‘‘We all eat better because of the rifles. Hunting is easier.’’

  ‘‘So is war.’’ Gray Wolf studied the flickering flames. Should he mention letting the white man pass through on their way to Oregon without attacking them?

  ‘‘Buffalo are becoming scarce. Not like in the days when we were young.’’

  ‘‘I know.’’ Gray Wolf also knew that battles between tribes had been going on for as long as the Indian roamed the land.

  ‘‘Rifles bring down the buffalo.’’

  ‘‘And the elk and deer. But I cannot help you there. I’m sorry.’’

  Red Cloud nodded, smoke circling his head from the pipe he smoked. He raised the bowl in a salute. ‘‘Good tobacco. Very good.’’ He nodded again and studied the fire. The silence in the tepee made the drums sound distant.

  Wolf waited, knowing the manners of his people.

  ‘‘You have a camp on the Chugwater?’’

  ‘‘No. Homesteading.’’ Wolf knew none of his people would think of declaring ownership of land. ‘‘White men have laws about land. To farm, raise horses, cattle, and food, I must seek to own the land.’’

  Red Cloud shook his head, indicating his opinion of such foolishness.

  ‘‘Do you have any horses to sell?’’ Wolf broke another long silence.

  ‘‘Some to trade for guns.’’

  Wolf smiled at his old friend. ‘‘You never give up, do you?’’

  Red Cloud shook his head, and his smile acknowledged the joke. ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘My wife brought Thoroughbred horses to our marriage. We will raise horses to sell.’’ He didn’t mention their plan to sell the horses to the military. ‘‘I need good mares.’’

  ‘‘When we raid again, I will find you some.’’

  The cessation of the drums announced the end of the entertainment. Not long after that, Wolf made his way to the tepee of his aunt, where he would spend the night. He fell asleep remembering times from his childhood. Perhaps bringing Jesselynn to meet his people would help her understand more about him.

  The next two days were spent recalling both ancient tales and those from their youth, as all the men had gathered to talk. They watched the boys trying to be men and the girls trying to attract the boys. The men agreed that things didn’t change much except for the inroads the white men made. Talk always came back to the white man.

  ‘‘You come again and bring your wife.’’ His aunt’s words sounded more like an order than a request.

  ‘‘I will. And her little brother.’’ Wolf nodded before mounting his horse, the packhorses now carrying a buffalo robe, a present from Red Cloud, a necklace of dyed quills for Jesselynn from another aunt, Swims Like a Beaver, and a small bow and arrows for Thaddeus.

  ‘‘You teach him to hunt,’’ Dark Horse said when he handed Wolf the bow. ‘‘Then he will never be hungry.’’

  ‘‘Unless the white man chases away all the game.’’

  Wolf heard the subdued growl of one of the younger braves. Wolf hoped Red Cloud could keep them calm as he’d said he would.

  ‘‘Thank you.’’ He grasped Dark Cloud’s hand, then waved to his aunt, now standing back with the women. Several of the young boys ran alongside as he rode out of camp, shouting their farewells as he trotted off.

  When he returned to his own encampment, he found the three young men roasting prairie chickens over the near smokeless fire.

  ‘‘One more day and we would have headed on home. Say de Indians got you.’’ Benjamin took the lines to the packhorses and prepared to hobble them to graze.

  ‘‘I’m here now. We head for horse country in the mornin’.’’

  CHA
PTER TWENTY - FOUR

  Washington Prison

  Only the gray ghost, as Louisa came to call him, appeared for the next three days. Never did he say a word as he delivered food and water and removed the chamber pot, bringing it back rinsed clean.

  But she gleaned plenty of information from him just the same. It all depended upon her skill in asking questions. To some, like ‘‘When will I be released?’’ he only shrugged. He knew no more than she.

  But of ‘‘Zachary, my brother, have you seen him?’’ the right eyebrow rose. She’d learned that meant yes. ‘‘Is he well?’’ Slight shrug.

  ‘‘Ah, is someone mistreating him?’’ She scoured her brain, frantically searching for a way to learn what she needed.

  Nothing. Either he didn’t know or couldn’t answer.

  ‘‘Has he been moved to a cell of his own yet?’’ His gaze roved around her walls. ‘‘I take it that means yes.’’ The eyebrow rose.

  He ducked his head and backed out the door. The interview was over.

  Louisa paced the floor again as dusk grayed the window and darkness, along with the rats, crept into the room. No matter how carefully she ate her bread, crumbs would still fall to the floor for her nighttime visitors to squeak over. She’d learned to wrap her skirt up around her head and tuck her petticoats around her legs. Bare flesh was an open invitation to both rats and mosquitoes.

  Forcing herself to wake with the daylight grew harder. At least in sleep she worried about neither those in Richmond nor Zachary in prison. Day after day passed much the same. Rising, eating, pacing, praying, singing, only to repeat it over and over. She tried to keep track of the passing of days by scratching a line on the wall, as many others had done before her. When August passed into September she began to despair. Oh, God, where are you? I know you will deliver us, but when?

  ‘‘Miss, they be ready for you.’’ Gray Ghost could talk. Louisa snapped her mouth closed.

  ‘‘They who?’’

  ‘‘The military court.’’

  ‘‘And I am to go before them looking like this?’’ She gestured to her filthy clothes.

  He shrugged. ‘‘I wouldn’t make ’em mad, if’n I was you.’’ The longest sentence he’d spoken yet made good sense.

  But after two weeks of solitary confinement, rather than breaking Louisa, their summons sent her into a fury.

  ‘‘There must be some kind of a law against such behavior.’’

  ‘‘They is the law.’’

  Louisa’s starch left her in a whoosh. With shaking hands, she tried to give some semblance of order to her hair and brush out her skirt.

  ‘‘Please, miss. Don’t want the sojers to come.’’

  She nodded. ‘‘I will never leave you nor forsake you.’’ She repeated the verse in cadence to her steps following the slightly stooped man.

  Silence greeted her as she walked between the cells on both sides.

  ‘‘God bless,’’ a voice called, others echoed. Someone started clapping in time to her steps. Others picked it up, a cadence of respect and good wishes.

  ‘‘Why are they doing that?’’ she asked as they passed through another slamming door.

  ‘‘You a hero to the men, once they learned who you were. You and your brother.’’

  Louisa took a deeper breath and straightened her shoulders. Father, give me strength.

  Three men in blue, with an abundance of gold bars and braid, sat behind a long table. Major James Dorsey sat apart from them, off to the side. While he stood when she entered the room, the others didn’t.

  ‘‘State your name, please.’’ The officer in the middle, the one with the most gold, wore the mask of power.

  Louisa wanted to melt into a puddle and trickle out the door, but instead she ordered iron into her backbone, straightened her shoulders, and answered with all the assurance she could muster.

  ‘‘Miss Louisa Marie Highwood.’’

  ‘‘Your home is where?’’

  ‘‘Richmond at the time.’’

  ‘‘And before that?’’

  ‘‘Twin Oaks near Midway, Kentucky.’’ Her lips quivered, but her speech held steady.

  ‘‘The charge before us is treason. How do you answer to that?’’

  At the horrifying word, her stomach lurched and bile rose in her throat. She swallowed hard to settle it back, then coughed into her handkerchief at the burning. She swallowed again, but the coughing refused to be pacified.

  ‘‘I . . . ah . . .’’ Another coughing spell.

  The interrogator waved at a soldier near the door. ‘‘Get her some water.’’

  After a drink, she wiped her mouth. ‘‘Thank you.’’ She cleared her throat again, sending pleas heavenward all the while.

  ‘‘General, if trying to alleviate the suffering of wounded men is treason, then I believe you would have to convict me. I’d rather have you convict me of treason than have our Lord convict me of not caring for his sons.’’

  ‘‘Answer only the question.’’

  ‘‘I did.’’ A slight narrowing of his eyes let her know she’d hit home.

  ‘‘Miss Highwood.’’ He leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped on the table in front of him. ‘‘Do you realize I can have you shot to death?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I do.’’ No way was she going to call him sir, no matter what her mother had drilled into her all those years earlier.

  One eyebrow twitched and settled back into a straight line with the other.

  ‘‘But that will only serve to send me home to my Father.’’

  Where had that come from? She kept herself from licking her dry lips and reached again for the cup of water that had been left for her. She observed her shaking fingers as if they belonged to someone else.

  He leaned back, his eyes drilling into hers. ‘‘Did you know your brother was carrying a letter that confirms our suspicions that he spied for the Confederate army?’’

  Her head shook before she could stop it. ‘‘N-no.’’ Stand straight, don’t you buckle now. Why, Zachary, you promised me we were only coming for medicines. But even while asking it, she knew the answer. He would do anything to assist the Confederacy, anything to feel he was still of use, still a man.

  The general nodded to the man at the door. ‘‘Take her away.’’

  At the look on her face, he added. ‘‘You’ll be informed of our decision.’’

  ‘‘Sir, what about my brother?’’

  ‘‘You are dismissed.’’

  She shot a glance at the major, who returned it without as much as a blink.

  Louisa squeezed her hands shut until she could feel the pain of her fingernails digging into her palms. Lord, hold me up until I get to my cell. But as she walked between rows of wellwishers, it was all she could do to keep from stumbling. She nodded, tried to smile.

  ‘‘Hang in there, missy. They won’t never shoot a lady.’’

  ‘‘Hang in there, missy. They won’t never Oh, God, make him right. ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘I be prayin’.’’ With that Gray Ghost shut the door behind him, and she heard the lock turn.

  She just made it to the chamber pot before the bile erupted, burning her throat, searing her heart. She rinsed her mouth from the water bucket and collapsed on the cot. Lord, I cannot take any more. I cannot.

  Though her eyes burned as though she’d been in smoke, she could not cry. She could not lie still either and paced the cell until darkness wrapped her like a shroud. Sinking onto the cot, she performed her nightly ritual, including, with no thought or will on her part, her evening prayers. Unto thee, O Lord, do I lift up my heart, my gratitude for all thy mercies. . . . A trickle of a song, so faint she had to strain to hear it, seeped into her despair. I thank thee for sending thy dear son to die for me. . . . The song swelled like a tiny creek after rain. I thank thee that . . . Tears broke from their dam, washed her cheeks, and cleansed her soul. She hummed the tune, the words building to be sung. ‘‘O God, our help in ages past.’�
�� A whisper, but a song. ‘‘Our hope for years to come.’’ She sat up, wiped the tears, swallowed, and continued. ‘‘Our shelter from the stormy blast, and our eternal home.’’ She sang it again, pacing to the window and shouting it out the bars. An echo, no, someone else was singing. She started again. ‘‘O God, our help . . .’’ The music swelled as voice after voice from around the quadrangle picked it up. ‘‘Before the hills in order stood, or earth received her frame, from everlasting thou art God, to endless years the same.’’ When she reached the final line of the last verse, her throat clogged. ‘‘Be thou our guide while life shall last, and our eternal home.’’

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ she called when the song died away, hoping the men couldn’t hear the quiver in her voice.

  ‘‘And you,’’ echoed around the brick walls.

  The next morning a key turned in the lock after Gray Ghost had already brought her breakfast. She watched as the door swung inward to reveal the major standing there.

  ‘‘C-come in.’’ As if he needed an invitation.

  ‘‘The decision has been made. You are free to go.’’

  ‘‘Free?’’ She stared at him, unable to believe it. Reality fell like a log on her shoulders. ‘‘What about Zachary, my brother?’’

  ‘‘He will be shot at dawn.’’

  CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

  September 1863

  ‘‘Would they take me and let him go?’’

  The major shook his head. ‘‘You weren’t the courier.’’

  ‘‘But what if he didn’t know what he carried?’’ Her mind raced, banging from reason to reason like a wild thing in a cage.

  ‘‘He knew.’’

  Somehow she believed the major wished things could be different. She stared at him, willing him to look at her face instead of her hands. Hands that knit together, snarled like bad yarn. When he finally looked up, she saw anguish puddling his eyes.