Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866

by Terry C. Johnston

  Grummond chuckled. “Of course, Alex. Why not?”

  “Good god—your wife! Your child,” he stammered, licking his dry lips, catching his breath. “She’s standing at your door, in positive dread and horror at the thought of your going.”

  “Dear girl——”

  “She can’t believe you want to go … after knocking at death’s door but three weeks——”

  He clamped a hand on Wands’s shoulder. “Tell her not to worry, Alex.”

  “Please, George,” he pleaded. “For your family’s sake, be prudent … avoid rash movement. And above all, heed the order not to dash over the ridge. Powell obeyed and he wasn’t——”

  “Alex! I’m surprised at you! To think my wife worked you up into such a lather. Be assured, my friend—I have no intention of laying my life down for some half-dressed savage who worships rocks!”

  Grummond righted himself in the saddle, saluted Carrington, and moved out. The company sergeant shouted his orders, bringing the files behind Grummond.

  “Column half right … march! Left! Front into line!”

  The lieutenant turned in his saddle and waved. “Goodbye, Alex! Tell Frances there’s nothing to fear!”

  The hair along Carrington’s neck stood on end as he glanced across the parade, noticing Frances Grummond huddled beneath the eve of her doorway, thick shawl crumpled around her shoulders. His heart ached of a sudden.

  With his next breath Carrington dashed across the parade. Up the ladder, two steps at a time, he clambered to the banquette above the south gate in time to call out.

  “Lieutenant Grummond! Halt!”

  “Colonel? What the——”

  “For god’s sake, Lieutenant, for everyone’s … remember: under no circumstances are you to cross Lodge Trail Ridge——”

  “I heard you the first time, Colonel.”

  Grummond turned away, signaling to the sergeant he had drilled repeatedly over the past month.

  “Column of twos! Center guide—HO!”

  Henry watched until the last soldier trotted out the gate, then tore the pocket watch from his tunic. Eleven twenty-eight. Half an hour gone …

  * * *

  Jim Bridger had watched Carrington lumber across the graveled walks and frozen grass of the parade, scurrying up the ladder to the banquette. After Carrington glanced at his watch, he gazed north, toward the bony ridge once more.

  “Where the blazes is Fetterman going?” the colonel asked of no one at all.

  When Bridger turned from the stockade wall, it surprised Carrington. “How long you been standing here, Jim?”

  “Long enough to see a lot, Colonel.” Jim nodded toward Fetterman’s columns. “I figured he’d head down the wood road to relieve the wagons. ’Stead, it looks like Fetterman’s marching northwest, gonna cross the Big Piney at the foot of Lodge Trail.”

  “Why the devil’s Fetterman doing that?” Carrington leaped to the wall, tearing the looking glass from a sentry’s hands.

  “Maybeso, Fetterman lays to cut off the Injuns pouring into the valley from the north … come to attack your wood train. Maybeso—he figures to jump them Injuns from behind.”

  “But I gave no such order——”

  “Too late to yank back on his reins now.”

  “… Just relieve the train,” Carrington whimpered into the freshening breeze that swung out of the north.

  Bridger sensed that breeze too. Temperature dropping fast. He looked west, noticing the first low clouds had scudded behind Peno Head already, threatening to lock in the valley before long.

  “Yes! That might be it, Jim,” the colonel answered quietly. “By jove—he’s taking the same route I took on the sixth, when I sought to trap the Sioux myself. He’s going to run an ambush on them—take the hostiles in reverse, isn’t he?”

  “Let’s hope, Colonel. Hope that’s what he’s got in mind.”

  By the time Fetterman’s combined forces reached the icy crossing of the Big Piney, Grummond’s mounted infantry had caught up. Upon reaching the north bank, Fetterman wheeled left, marching along the creek up the southern foot of Lodge Trail Ridge.

  “He’s put skirmishers out, Jim,” Carrington announced as he brought the glass from his eye. “Driving a few warriors before him as he climbs the ridge.”

  “Bound on taking the Sioux from the rear, then,” Jim said, more hopeful than ever.

  “My lord!” Carrington gasped. “I completely forgot in my haste——”

  He wheeled to the edge of the platform, shouting for Wands. “Lieutenant!”

  “Sir?” He came running, puffing frost.

  “I assigned no surgeon to Fetterman’s detail. Find Hines! Grab two hospital stewards and dispatch them on the double to the wood train. If the medical team isn’t needed there, have them swing around and join up with Fetterman.”

  Wands tore off, headed for the unfinished hospital.

  “They should be able to catch Fetterman,” Carrington murmured under his breath. “He’s not reached the top of the ridge yet.”

  “Not yet anyways,” Bridger replied.

  The clatter of iron-shoes on gravel and frozen ground lured them both to the edge of the sentry-walk.

  “God’s speed, Surgeon!” Carrington cried out, saluting.

  Hines glanced up, continuing without a word, followed by his two grim-faced stewards. Their hoof-beats faded down the wood road.

  “Colonel! The picket—Pilot Hill!” a sentry hollered.

  Carrington whirled, bringing up the looking glass, though any man could plainly see the waving flag atop the southern knob. Round and round the picket’s head the flag fluttered on the cold wind, then carried back and forth along the brow of the hill.

  “They’ve broken off the attack on the wood train!” a sentry shouted.

  The colonel slowly took the glass from his eye, staring at Bridger. “Doesn’t make a bit of sense … why the hostiles would break off the attack without being driven off——”

  “Look at the Lodge Trail, Colonel.” Bridger pointed.

  “Fetterman’s halted on the ridge.” He sighed. “Good.” He held the pocket watch up. “Eleven forty-five … and he’s halted—just as I ordered.”

  “Can you glass them Injuns down on the Piney?” Jim asked, pointing at the movement he had spotted.

  Carrington studied the trees at the edge of the creek. Loping into the cottonwoods rode two dozen mounted warriors, aiming for the Montana Road crossing. He glanced at the series of small, white flags he had ordered placed at intervals across the valley.

  “Soldier, find the gunnery sergeant,” Carrington directed. “Have him drop some canister among those warriors at the crossing.”

  “Colonel,” Bridger called from the stockade wall. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” he screeched, whirling.

  “Fetterman.” Bridger pointed, wagging his head.

  As Carrington watched, wide-mouthed, the last of Fetterman’s combined forces disappeared. Eighty-one men: three officers, seventy-six enlisted, and two civilians. Gone from the bare, windswept brow of Lodge Trail Ridge like woodsmoke on a stiff breeze.

  “They can’t … they’re not going over——”

  “You saw it with your own eyes.”

  He gazed at Bridger, fear creasing his brow. “May God have mercy——”

  The howitzer belched its first canister. Two dozen warriors burst from the trees like a wounded covey of quail. A second canister uprooted thirty more. The fort watched as every last one sped his pony into the gray, frozen badlands north of Lodge Trail Ridge.

  “At least those warriors won’t circle in on Fetterman’s rear now,” Carrington whispered. “I think we can relax, Jim.” He flashed Bridger a grim smile.

  The colonel turned and clambered down the ladder, crossing the graveled street in front of officers’ row, disappearing into the rear of his office.

  Chapter 33

  “What in blazes are you doing back?” Carrington bolted out of his chair
, scurrying around his desk as Assistant Surgeon C. M. Hines burst through the office door.

  Breathless, Hines stomped halfway across the room then stopped. “By the time we reached the wood train, Colonel, the Sioux had broken off——”

  “I know that!” he snapped. “If not needed there, I ordered you to join Fetterman’s column. What’re you——”

  “We tried, goddammit!”

  “What the devil you mean, ‘you tried’?”

  “I requested two additional privates as escorts for my stewards, then hurried west down the wood road. I fully expected to find Fetterman coming ’round the north side of the Sullivants——”

  “No!” he barked. “He led his columns up the ridge.” Carrington watched the surgeon’s face blanch. As pale as the foolscap the colonel had been using to write General Cooke in Omaha. “What is it, Hines? Tell me!”

  Hines gulped, his eyes flitting, never landing, like an anxious butterfly. “That … explains what I saw——”

  “Saw what?”

  “When I reached the western end of the Hills, Lodge Trail Ridge came full into sight.”

  “Go on, dammit!” He was close to grabbing Hines, wringing it out of him in one gush.

  “Saw more Sioux than I’ve ever seen in my life. Hundreds of ’em, swarming like bees … like ants. Infesting the north end of the valley. Massing along the north end of the ridge. Feathers … blankets … lances——”

  “Fetterman!” he yelled at Hines. “What about Fetterman?”

  Hines shook his head, staring at the plank floor. “Not a sign of him, Colonel.”

  “Did you ride any closer?”

  His eyes flashed into Carrington’s. “You’ve got to be crazy! There were more Indians … milling and yelling, between us and the ridge—why, I turned my men around and rode here full gallop.”

  Carrington turned away. Stomping to the glazed window. By now the sky had thickened like blood soup, gray and ready to drop its load of icy snow. A stiff wind kicked along the parade.

  “Perhaps things aren’t really as distressing as they appear, Mr. Hines.” Lord, do I want to believe it. “I think Fetterman’s returning by the Montana Road,” and he turned, snapping fingers, “coming back by one of those trails just north of the Big Piney.”

  “Along the foot of Lodge Trail, Colonel?”

  “Right! That’s got to be it.” He flashed a smile and curled behind his desk once more. “I appreciate you making an attempt to join up with Fetterman. I don’t have any further need of your services at this time, Surgeon—you’re dismissed.”

  “Good morning, Colonel.”

  He glanced at his watch, nodding at Hines. “Yes. Almost the dinner hour. A few minutes before twelve.” Carrington watched Hines close the door, a swish of chill air rustling the coffee-stained papers across his desk.

  Moments later as a bugler blew dinner call, Wands flung the office door open.

  “Colonel! Sentries report hearing rifle-fire!”

  He bolted out of chair. “You hear it?”

  “Nosir! Came as fast as I could.”

  Without another word, Carrington dashed from his office and leaped up the ladder to the lookout roost atop headquarters. Breathlessly he listened, counting six scattering shots echoing from the vicinity of the Peno, followed by a series of distinct volleys. Try as he might, the colonel couldn’t make out a thing with the looking glass.

  “Lieutenant.” He wheeled on Wands. “Tell Ten Eyck he’ll lead a relief——”

  Wands gasped. “You don’t think, sir——”

  Carrington shook his head angrily. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Get Ten Eyck moving now.”

  “Sir, all respect,” he stuttered, then swallowed hard, “the captain’s in a bad way this morning.”

  “Hung over?”

  Wands nodded. “Besides, Colonel, Ten Eyck’s a buffoon. Everyone knows——”

  “Mister! I’ll not have you talking about the captain…” As he said it, Carrington knew his adjutant was right. He gazed down at the soldiers milling about the stockade. Knowing he could send so few, having to hold in reserve a force to defend the fort. “I can’t send a lot, you understand. If this is a ruse to draw our forces out … then assault the fort … why——”

  He whirled as the lieutenant reached the ground below. “Wands! Bring Ten Eyck to the guardhouse.”

  “The guardhouse?”

  “Just do it! And hurry … like you’ve never hurried before!”

  Carrington dropped down the ladder, stomping toward the guardhouse which sat next to headquarters. “Sergeant!” he shouted to the first man with stripes to cross the parade reporting for service. “Ride down to the miners’ camp … take my horse if you must. Bring them here to the fort. They’ll know of the alarm. Sweep by the quartermaster yard. Bring all the teamsters here too. Now hurry for God’s sake, man!”

  He gazed up at the lookout along the north wall. “Sentry! Down here on the double! I want you to grab a horse——”

  “Sir, the captain took all fit to ride this morn——”

  “Take one that’ll get you to the Pinery and back!” Carrington growled. “Bring the wood parties home—without delay!”

  He whirled, noticing the nervous private pacing before the guardhouse, his rifle at an angle across his chest. The boy’s face curdled with fear.

  “Private, front and center!” He waited while the young soldier trotted up, his eyes anxious, concerned in leaving his post. “How many prisoners under guard?”

  “Seven, sir.”

  “Release them.”

  “Release——”

  “To me!” he barked. “Tell them I’m waiting outside, to report to me. They’ll be on watch—sentry duty.”

  “Y-Yessir.” He turned to go.

  “You have a civilian under guard?”

  “Yes,” he answered, a question brightening his eyes. “Don’t know his name——”

  “Donegan. Seamus Donegan,” Carrington sighed. Funny that as everything was in the process of falling apart, at least some things became a little clearer with that moment. “Release him too. Tell Mr. Donegan he’s to report to me.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  The private scrambled back to the heavy pine-and-iron door of the guardhouse, where long icicles hung like canine teeth from the eaves of the sloping, snow-covered roof. From a distance Carrington heard more file-firing. Henry glanced at his watch. Twelve-twelve. Volley after volley of heavy fire crackled on the cold dry air. They’re holding their own. Holding——

  Carrington shivered, realizing for the first time that he had forgotten to put on his coat. Chilled, as the cold finally bit through his adrenaline.

  Minutes later, as the colonel emerged from the guardhouse with Donegan and Ten Eyck, back into the pewter light of midday once more, Henry watched a gray-headed civilian ride up, pulling a second and larger animal behind him.

  “Cap’n Marr!” Seamus Donegan hollered with a raw throat. “You brought the gray.”

  “I did, you stupid Irishman!” He smiled, handing over the reins. “Good to see you, Seamus.” He tossed a Henry rifle to Donegan.

  “Mighty good to see your face, Cap’n. You’ll ride along?”

  Marr slipped his own repeater from the boot beneath his right leg. “Wouldn’t want you to have all the fun.”

  “Begora, but you’re a jealous scut!” and he laughed in that lusty, deep-throated way of his.

  “Stay with Ten Eyck,” Carrington pleaded. “Like I asked, help him, Seamus Donegan. See that you bring Fetterman back.”

  “And Cap’n Brown too?” Seamus glared down at Carrington. “I’ve a score to settle with that’un, Colonel.”

  Carrington stepped back from the big gray. “I understand.” He swallowed. “We’ll make it right by you.” He watched Ten Eyck saddle up after ordering his foot-soldiers to the gate at the double. He returned Ten Eyck’s salute. “Captain. A second civilian will join your relief party.” He watched some con
sternation cross Tenedor’s face. “To help. As I remember, Captain Sam Marr’s a cavalry veteran. For God’s sake, Tenedor, you can use every man, every rifle——”

  “Very good, Colonel,” Ten Eyck replied, his droopy eyelid twitching nervously as he glanced at Marr. “You’ll ride with me.”

  “We’re waiting on you,” Marr said, pointing to the gate with his rifle.

  Together the three loped through the main gates, catching the small group of foot soldiers as they disappeared over the brow of the hill. Carrington ordered all gates closed, secured, and double pickets placed along the banquettes.

  Dear God, he prayed as he hurried back to his office, the stove and his coat, I pray I’ve done all that I can. I suppose that’s all any of us can do for now—pray. It’s in Your hands now.

  * * *

  Volley after volley echoed from Peno Creek. Spaced further and further apart. Until she heard a few random, scattered shots. Then nothing.

  Silence.

  An aching nothingness from the northwest. Beyond the ridge nothing but the agonizing echo of silence.

  Margaret felt her blood chill as Henry trudged down the steps, one slow step at a time. Never had she seen that look of gray, hopeless dread pinch his face.

  By the time he reached the ground his hands shook, his watch held before him like a bird with a broken wing. “Forty minutes,” he stammered at her. “Can it be … over already?”

  The way he looked at her reminded Margaret of something wounded.

  “Colonel?”

  Both Henry and Margaret turned. Brevet Captain Arnold saluted. “Yes?” Carrington asked weakly.

  “You asked for a report, Colonel … the number of men left in garrison?”

  “Yes.”

  “One hundred nineteen, sir.”

  “Including guard?”

  “Including you, Colonel.”

  She watched Henry turn away. “Dismissed, Captain.”

  For moments Margaret didn’t speak. Dared not touch him. A grief too private that even she could not share. When he sighed and turned back to face her, she whispered, “Henry … Frances Grummond—she knows. Don’t ask me how, but she knows.”

  “You must see to her, Margaret. Their baby … her baby.” His eyes begged. “If truly George is in God’s hands … then Frances now rests in yours.”