CHAPTER 34
CIRCLING THE KETTLE
Kill a fat puppy, no more than three months old, skin and gut it. Fill a buffalo-paunch cooker with water and when it is boiling, immerse the puppy until the meat is tender. Fill bowls with broth and meat. In the center of the lodge place four bowls for honored guests. One bowl contains the puppy’s head, the next his forefeet, then his hind feet, and finally his tail. The most honored guest is served the puppy’s head, the next the forefeet, and so forth . . .
After my child Red Leaf died, I put a lock of her hair in a soft buckskin bag with sweetgrass and mint. I tied this bag to our lodgepole until the ghost lodge could be constructed. Because we were of White Bull’s family, our lodge was in front of my brother’s and the ghost lodge stood in front of our lodge for the same reason.
Every morning Plenty Cuts and I daubed our faces red before coming out of our lodge.
During the Moon When the Grain Comes Up, Rattling Blanket Woman, Fox Head, Blue Whirlwind Woman, and I beaded moccasins and pouches and White Bull and Plenty Cuts went off to steal ponies. They stole fifty ponies from the Crows, but they stole horses from the Snakes and Rees too.
The Crows hated Plenty Cuts for the trick he had played on them and for stealing so many horses, and their young warriors vowed to hang his scalp from their scalp pole. In the beginning young Lakota warriors rode with Plenty Cuts and White Bull, but they took such grave chances to steal horses and didn’t care about scalps or counting coup, and soon even Sorrel Horse preferred to go with war parties that promised greater honors.
In the Moon of Ripening Plums, Plenty Cuts and White Bull rode to Fort Phil Kearny where Red Cloud and others had gathered to see if the Seizers would abandon their fort as they’d promised.
Red Cloud knew of the trick my husband played on the Crows and said it was a fine joke. He said it was honorable to own our child’s ghost, that with Plenty Cuts’s face painted red he was almost Lakota.
LODGE TRAIL RIDGE WAS DARK WITH INDIANS WHEN THE SEIZERS ran their flag up Fort Phil Kearny’s flagpole, fired a volley, and lowered it for the last time. Their bugler played taps.
Red Cloud waited with Plenty Cuts and White Bull, an honor that made some Lakota jealous.
“Faugh, that is sad music,” Red Cloud said. “I have spent too much time with the Washitu. Sometimes I think Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull are right. Make no treaties with the Washitu. Fight them until everyone is dead.”
Plenty Cuts said, “Sitting Bull can fight the Washitu for a time, but when they decide to kill Sitting Bull they will bring more Seizers than there is grass on the plains and kill him.”
“Washitu do not honor their treaties.”
“They’ll steal you blind. But if you quit fightin’ maybe they won’t kill every last one of your children.”
Red Cloud was a squat, hawk-nosed man with the deepest chest Plenty Cuts had ever seen. In his forties, his black eyes could spark at a joke or turn hard and unrevealing as anthracite coal. He’d come up from nothing—his father had been a drunk. Red Cloud had counted coup eighty times. Now he asked Plenty Cuts, “Why do you hate Washitu mules?”
Every morning Fort Kearny’s horses and mules had come out of the fort to graze and, at Plenty Cuts’s suggestion (seconded by White Bull), young braves had concealed themselves near enough to shoot an arrow and flee. Fatal to numerous Washitu mules, this practice didn’t endanger the boys. After Captain Fetterman’s example, no Seizer wanted to pursue a lone indian across Lodge Trail Ridge.
Plenty Cuts said, “Red Leaf’s ghost told me to kill the mules.”
The indian horde buzzed like bees ready to swarm.
In a column of fours, the cavalry rode out Fort Phil Kearny’s front gate followed by infantry, guns, wagons, and a cavalry rear guard. The Seizer band played the “Garryowen” and “Marching through Georgia.” The rear guard torched a log building and galloped after the column. Before the Seizers disappeared behind Pilot Hill, hundreds of hooting Lakota warriors raced down the ridge through the open gate into the hated fort.
Some galloped around the flagpole hollering, some dismounted onto the commandant’s porch and rushed inside. One whose brother and uncle had been killed by Seizers went from window to window, smashing every pane of glass.
Warriors rolled a whiskey barrel onto the post sutler’s porch, hatcheted it, and knelt to drink.
Plenty Cuts and White Bull raced for the burning log building: the post magazine. Plenty Cuts jumped down the stairs, kicked the thick door open, and began passing ammunition cases to White Bull. Fire roared in the sod roof. Wind streamered the smoke toward Pilot Hill.
Some indians donned abandoned Washitu clothing. One fierce warrior wore a bright green skirt below a mess boy’s red vest.
Another dragged a rocking chair onto the parade ground and rocked solemnly. One hacked at Fort Kearny’s flagpole.
As fire dripped through the roof planks, Plenty Cuts salvaged eleven cases of cartridges, eight forty-pound bars of lead—even a cask of gunpowder.
Younger warriors drank and yelled and rode ponies into the Washitu buildings and snatched fire from the burning magazine to ignite every-thing else.
Plenty Cuts warned that the magazine would explode, but two heedless young warriors were scorched and rolled when it erupted into the sky.
As White Bull and Plenty Cuts loaded packhorses with bullets and powder, Red Cloud sputtered with laughter. “The Washitu mules might have carried these goods away. Now I understand why you hated Washitu mules.”
After they burned Fort Phil Kearny, the warriors returned to our big village on the Tongue River. We were a thousand lodges, the most since the Hundred in the Hand.
Although many warriors brought gifts for their wives, Plenty Cuts brought cartridges, lead, and powder for Red Leaf in her ghost lodge.
That night Old Man Afraid of His Horses held a feast to honor Red Cloud. White Bull, Rain in the Face, Roman Nose of the Cheyenne, and Chief Gall of the Hunkpapa were invited. Red Cloud invited Plenty Cuts because of his Washitu knowledge.
Two puppies had been killed in Red Cloud’s honor.
After the men had smoked the pipe, Red Cloud recalled how he first learned the forts were being built and how he had then vowed to destroy them. When the Great White Father sent his peace commissioners, Red Cloud would not meet with them until the forts were abandoned and the Montana Road closed. Red Cloud recalled the honors won by the Lakota and Cheyenne at the Hundred in the Hand. He introduced Plenty Cuts, telling how he fooled the Crows and killed Chasing Crane. He asked Plenty Cuts if the Washitu would ever return to the Montana Road.
Plenty Cuts said the Washitu needed their Seizers to occupy their South country and protect the Union Pacific Railroad. Rich, powerful Washitu owned the Union Pacific and didn’t care about the Montana Road. That was why, Plenty Cuts said, they had abandoned the forts and closed the Montana Road. His saying angered warriors who had fought bravely and had had relatives killed in the fighting. Red Cloud reminded everyone that Plenty Cuts had smoked the pipe and must speak the truth even when that truth was not what they wanted to hear.
Red Cloud said the Lakota needed meat for the coming winter. After the fall hunt, he would go to Fort Laramie and make peace.
Plenty Cuts said the Washitu would feel insulted, they would say they had abandoned the forts as Red Cloud wished, why was Red Cloud delaying? Red Cloud did not like this speech either.
Red Cloud said this time the Washitu would wait for the Lakota, which made all the Big Bellies laugh. When the puppies were served, Red Cloud and White Bull were given heads, but Plenty Cuts was given a tail.
CHAPTER 35
LETTER FROM MRS. EBEN BARNWELL
TO MISS MOLLY SEMPLE
15 MADISON SQUARE EAST
NEW YORK CITY
AUGUST 22, 1868
Dear Cuz,
I take this occasion to write happy news. Seven months hence I am due to be delivered of an infant. Eben is already furnishing
our nursery! Every afternoon, between one and three, I must interview vendors of infant furniture and apparel, of which there is much too much! Eben has been true to his promise to leave domestic arrangements to me and I have indulged myself. Eben’s dark bachelor establishment has become as light and airy as Stratford House. Despite his protests, I had his precious Italian fountain disconnected and workmen have hauled it away. I cannot think why he ever wanted a Niagara in our foyer!
In only one small matter is Eben insistent. At dusk, after our gaslights are lit, Eben opens our parlor drapes so our home is open to the gaze of any curious passersby. Eben says, mysteriously, that “it might give some poor boy hope.”
Otherwise he grants my every whim. At my request, Eben sold his pew at Mr. Beecher’s church in favor of one at the Fifteenth Street Presbyterian. (I doubt his old pew was much worn.) To humor his “dear little wife” Eben attends worship—often enough so Dr. MacDougal no longer greets him after services as if Eben were a complete stranger!
As it happens, Mr. Jay Gould also worships at the Fifteenth Street Presbyterian. Mr. Gould appears to be a devoted family man. Can pirates be devoted Christian family men?
“Please read that again,” Samuel Gatewood asked.
Molly Semple did so.
“Does she say anything about Mahone?”
“Samuel, if you let me finish reading, you shall know everything.”
Eben delights at the prospect of a child and promises to spoil our child mercilessly! Although he is a good provider, he never can recall where he set down his best hat nor where he laid his gloves! I sometimes think I am the mother Eben never had.
We do not go out much in society. Although George Nutley is Eben’s partner in several ventures, I rarely see Mr. Nutley and have never met his family. Eben protects his “dear little wife” from the vulgarity of commerce!
Eben is all business. When I told my husband that Thaddeus Stevens had died, that Virginia’s scourge now resided in regions best not contemplated, Eben said only that Union Pacific stock must rise on the news.
“Thaddeus Stevens, dead,” Samuel Gatewood mused hoarsely.
On the anniversary of his wife’s death, Samuel Gatewood had gone through Stratford House emptying brandy bottles and hadn’t had a drink since. “Neither Grant nor Sherman nor Sheridan nor all the Federal generals taken together have done as much to ruin our beloved Commonwealth as that arrogant miscegenist. I pray we never see his like again!”
Molly checked an urge to touch Samuel’s white hair. “Dear Samuel, that is unworthy of you. Mr. Stevens was nothing to us. He never was anything to us. He was an angry hunchback who dwelled in Washington City and made laws. Can’t we forgive him?”
Samuel’s lips tightened. “Three days ago, dear Molly, I asked you to join me in matrimony. While ours would be a marriage of convenience, we are affectionate toward one another. You replied you were not certain our affection could survive matrimony.
“Since my invitation, you have examined my flaws. While I have many flaws of character and temperament, I cannot think, dear Molly, that you are much surprised by them. We have known each other too long. Mr. Stevens cannot be harmed by my condemnation, nor, as you have imagined, can I.
“You and I, dear Molly, are too old friends to pretend we can do much to reform one another. Correct morality is no substitute for marital contentment.”
Samuel held Molly’s gaze for a moment before she returned to Pauline’s letter.
Tuesday evening, Mr. Hayward invited us to dine. Amos Hayward is a fussy sort of man who has invested his modest savings with Eben, explaining earnestly (and often), “I don’t know anyone I trust as I trust you, Mr. Barnwell.”
We dined at the Hotel Brunswick, which is across the street from Del’s and made a pleasant change. Though Mr. Hayward ate abstemiously, he pressed extravagant dishes on us.
Mr. Hayward is chief clerk to Mr. Boutwell, the Secretary of the Treasury. Some years ago, Eben helped Hayward obtain his position, and though Hayward’s subsequent promotions were through his own merits, Hayward hasn’t forgotten Eben’s kindness.
Cuz, too much deference and gratitude is just as wearisome as too little!
Eben asked me to enclose this banker’s draft for Grandfather. On his most recent visit, he saw that Stratford needed repairs and trusts this money will get them made. In November he’d like to bring a few businessmen down to Stratford for a hunt. With Grandfather’s kind permission, of course!
Eben says that General Mahone’s railroad hangs in the balance and Mahone is devoting every resource to ensure that it does not come to smash . . .
“Please read that again,” Samuel Gatewood asked.
“Samuel, please! Let me finish!”
There are some promising developments. Eben says if Mahone wins over the Virginia Legislature, he may yet carry the day. Apparently Virginia’s military governor, General Stoneman, is in Mahone’s camp.
Do write me all your news, Cuz. Tell me about Jack and Franky (I will never get used to “Mrs. Mitchell”). Write about our neighbors and friends. Is brother Thomas still working with Mr. Stuart? Is he seeing very much of Miss Stuart? Tell me everything about dear, dear Stratford.
Your loving cousin,
Pauline
Molly folded Pauline’s letter and slid it back into its envelope. “So, Samuel.” She handed him Eben’s draft.
He glanced at it indifferently. “I now owe Barnwell more than Stratford would realize. ‘Lay not up your treasures here on earth, but in heaven.’
“I thought I was the master of my fate,” Samuel continued. “I thought my obstacle was my own character: my pride and my temper. If I could overcome myself, I would satisfy my duty, my dependents would be contented and, I supposed, grateful. Vanity, Molly. Vanity.” He studied the back of his hands. “I shall keep Stratford so long as I can. I shall engage an attorney to sue General Mahone for his arrears. His custom has bled us dry. Pauline’s husband may invite as many yankee guests to Stratford as he wishes. We will show Mr. Barnwell’s friends the hospitality which Stratford once offered freely.”
When they stepped out onto the porch, they were greeted by hundreds of fireflies, each briefly brighter than a star.
“Dear Samuel,” Molly Semple said softly, “I will marry you. It is late in life for both of us, but we will be stronger together than apart. If we do not love one another yet, I trust love will come.”
CHAPTER 36
A SQUAW MAN
THE LAKOTA CAME TO FORT LARAMIE TO MAKE PEACE WITH THE Washitu. The morning frost was eaten by the pale sun and the air was bright. The dead leaves on the alders were curled and black.
Plenty Cuts rode at Red Cloud’s right hand. Plenty Cuts wore Washitu trousers and a vest with blue quills. In his broad-brimmed stockman’s hat was a single notched eagle feather reddened at the tip, for he had killed an enemy and been wounded. His face was painted red for the ghost-owning. His Medal of Honor hung from a leather thong around his neck.
At Red Cloud’s other hand was Old Man Afraid of His Horses, who’d been Red Cloud’s rival before the Seizers abandoned their forts. Old Man Afraid of His Horses wore a chief’s headdress and a vest quilled with white quills and brass bracelets on his arms. The Brulé, Hunkpapa, Sans Arc, and Blackfoot chiefs who rode behind wore their finest clothing to honor the occasion.
Red Cloud wore a dirty blanket and no eagle feather.
Fort Laramie’s new commandant, Major Dye, was waiting on the parade ground; his infantry, mounted infantry, and cavalry formed a phalanx behind him.
Blanket indians and Washitu civilians crowded the boardwalks. As soon as the chiefs dismounted, Lakota warriors wheeled their horses and dashed, whooping, back across the river. They had brought many prime robes to the fort and were anxious to start trading.
The chiefs sat in the same tent that had been erected when General Sherman and the peace commissioners had come to make peace but Red Cloud had not come.
Major Dye introduced hims
elf and his officers and each chief stood to shake hands except Red Cloud, who stayed seated, extending his fingertips to Dye.
“And he is?” Major Dye inquired.
Red Cloud said, “Plenty Cuts listens for me. So you do not say tomorrow what you do not say today.”
“You’re his interpreter?”
Ratcliff smiled. “The chief speaks the lingo pretty good. He just don’t want to miss anything.”
Major Dye pointed at Ratcliff’s medal. “Where did you obtain that?”
“New Market Heights. I’m a hincty nigger.”
Major Dye and his officers took wooden chairs and the post chaplain prepared to take notes.
Red Cloud asked, “Where are your chiefs? The peace commissioners? How can we make peace without Washitu chiefs.”
“They came in August and you did not come. You did not come after we abandoned the forts on the Montana Road. Now I am empowered to make this treaty,” the major replied.
“We need powder and bullets for hunting,” Red Cloud said.
So it went. The major would assert his authority to negotiate for the Great White Father, and Red Cloud would inquire where the Washitu chiefs were and demand powder. Dye’s restless officers smoked pipes and cigars until the tent was thick with smoke.
THAT EVENING IN the Lakota encampment across the river, some who had traded robes for whiskey careened through the village like mad dogs.
Outside Red Cloud’s lodge, Plenty Cuts politely sang out his name. Inside he was offered blackhorn soup, which he tasted though he’d eaten twenty minutes before. After serving him, Red Cloud’s wife, Pretty Owl, retired to the back of the lodge, where her daughters were mending moccasins.
The two men sat before the fire.
“What can we do at this place?” Red Cloud asked.
“You’ve been telling Major Dye you came for powder and bullets.”