A Good Man (32 page)

It would be wise to alert the Secretary of State that something is afoot. O’Neill may be planning to launch anotampaign in Red River country, hoping to spark the Métis into rebellion against the Crown. I remind you that Dunne informed you that O’Neill made such an attempt only a few years ago, and I am convinced that his failure to take Fort Garry then will not discourage him. The General has persisted in his war-like attitude towards Canada for a decade. You have evidence of his aggressive intentions in his own words. You need only to copy them down and forward same to Scott.

Yours truly,

Wesley Case

January 12, 1877

Fort Walsh

My dear Case,

Big news for you, my boy. The Sioux have come. Around Yuletide, a patrol led by Frechette went missing. I took out a search party to find him. When I located him he was low on food, and without a stick of wood to burn. He had been caught in a blizzard as he hurried back to Fort Walsh to report he had discovered Sioux at Wood Mountain. These Sioux had sworn to him that they had had nothing to do with the Little Bighorn, but Frechette saw plenty of evidence to the contrary – mules and horses with U.S. Army brands, and warriors armed with standard U.S. Cavalry issue, Sharps carbines. All spoils of war plundered from the dead.

Thought it necessary to go see the elephant for myself, so I split my rations with Frechette and his men, then set off for Wood Mountain with the eleven troopers I had under my command, leaving Frechette’s party to limp back to Fort Walsh. Before introducing myself to the new arrivals, I stopped at Jean-Louis Légaré’s trading post to get lie of the land. Bugger told me Sioux had paid him a visit in November. Gave him a good tongue-lashing for not sending me word immediate then subjected him to cross-examination. Légaré told me how one morning he had looked out his window and spotted twelve Indians sitting on their horses outside his store. Didn’t pay them any mind. Half an hour later one of them walked in, sat down on the floor. A little later this individual coaxed the rest of his comrades in, one by one. The visitors left the door standing open despite the coldness of the day. Légaré said this proved to him they were “wild” Indians who show distaste for the white man’s habit of closing himself up tight in stuffy rooms. If there’s any white man in this country besides me who can read Indians, it’s Légaré. For two hours his visitors sat silent as the tomb, watching him go about his business, stocking shelves, doing his accounts. Indian ways being Indian ways, Légaré said he just let them be; the watched pot never boils.

Then one of them jumped to his feet, grabbed Légaré’s hand, started pumping it up and down, and announces he’s the Sioux chief Little Knife. Says he and his people have crossed the Medicine Line because the Long Knives will not let them sleep soundly on the other side. Says they have heard the Old Woman is very good to her children so they have come to her country. That information imparted, they all trooped out. A few days later they came back to trade for flour, sugar, and coffee. Légaré said once again they demonstrated they hadn’t had much to do with whites. Not understanding the workings of his scale, they kept yelling at it to be “solid and strong” for them, pleading with it to give them more goods for their buffalo robes.

This was clearly an advance party sent out in November to sniff out what kind of welcome they could expect in the Old Woman’s country. Conclusions must have been favourable because more followed in December, a heap of them. When we reached their village, I had my troopers do a census, counted 109 lodges, 500 men, 1,000 women, 1,400 children, 3,500 horses, and 30 U.S. government mules. Give Ilges those figures with my compliments, and tell him the Yankees can breathe a little easier, a lot of their trouble has just shifted ground.

The new arrivals are camped at Wood Mountain with White Eagle’s Santee Sioux who came over here fourteen years ago to escape becoming gallows’ fruit at the hands of Lincoln’s hangmen after the Minnesota Massacre. I calculate White Eagle is doing his best to see his kissing cousins don’t cause trouble this side of the line because he doesn’t want to jeopardize his haven with us. At any rate, he was more than happy to arrange a parley between the Sioux chiefs and headmen and yours truly. He introduced me to them as White Forehead, chief of all the Shagalasha, the Old Woman’s pony soldiers. I wonder how Col. Macleod would take it to learn I have been promoted over his own lofty head on Sioux say-so. The leading lights in attendance at this first meeting were Little Knife, Iron Dog, Long Dog, The Man That Crawls, White Guts, The Drag, Inkapaduta, and Black Moon. The latter seems to carry the most weight in their councils.

Let Ilges know that straight off, I read them the riot act, laid down the law, told them if they wished to remain in the Old Woman’s country they must obey Queen Victoria’s laws. I said she frowns on horse stealing, which in her eyes is a very serious offence. I warned them that they must not make war on any other of the Old Woman’s Indians, or kill any man or woman whatsoever, because she punishes all evildoers the same, white or red, that all her children are the same to her, she plays no favourites.

Next I said that they better not entertain any idea they could rest up in the Old Woman’s land during the cold, hard months and then sneak back over the Medicine Line to fight the Long Knives when the trees budded. Of all the bad things that the Old Woman disapproves of, this would make her the angriest, because she wants to be at peace with the Americans. I demanded they all swear to never do this. And they all did. So tell the Prussian that Black Moon and all the chiefs have given me their word that they will never ride out against the Americans from the Old Woman’s territory, and that I am here to see they bloody well don’t. And he can take that to the bank.

As to Sitting Bull and what he plans, Black Moon doesn’t know or isn’t saying. When I questioned him on this subject he said no man knows what Sitting Bull will do. His mind is a dreamer’s mind. It is like deep water, water so deep that nobody can see all the way down to its bottom where the stones of his thoughts lie. But Black Moon is certain that Sitting Bull’s hatred of the Americans is so strong that he will never surrender to them, hand over his rifle and horse to them as they demand, and go to a reservation to be kept like a cow in a corralo deep the>

These Indians are in dire straits. Plenty of hungry children who are all eyes and swollen bellies. Black Moon told me the Sioux had used up all their bullets fighting the Long Knives, and they had none left to hunt buffalo. His warriors were reduced to lassoing the beasts and closing in to stab them to death with knives. He begged me for ammunition, claiming that without it, his people could not last the winter. So I ordered trader Légaré to issue 25 rounds to every Sioux warrior on their solemn assurance it would never be used for warlike purposes. I am sure this will go a long way in making these Sioux amenable to my influence.

This brings me to O’Neill. With five hundred veterans of the Little Bighorn to keep on the straight and narrow, I have decided not to distract Secretary Scott with the spectre of some Irish bogeyman. In my opinion, the government’s focus must be on assisting and strengthening my efforts to control the Sioux. I want their minds on this situation and not cluttered up with notions of Fenians skulking under the bed.

Wishing you happiness and prosperity in the coming year. Mine looks to be shaping up to be a most interesting one.

Yours truly,

Maj. James Morrow Walsh

January 18, 1877

Fort Benton

My dear Walsh,

I have passed on to Maj. Ilges all the information you furnished regarding the Sioux, which he was very pleased to receive and which he immediately forwarded to Army headquarters in the West. However, I did withhold one detail from him. I thought it best not to divulge that you had issued 25 rounds to each Sioux warrior. Your charitable impulse would not be well received in these parts. Many would interpret this action as tantamount to supplying war materiel to a bitter foe. Can I assume you will not make any mention of this distribution of ammunition in your report to Ottawa? I think Scott would share my opinion that it was a rash and impolitic step open to misinterpretation by the Americans.

As to Gen. O’Neill, I understand your point that you do not wish to deflect the government’s attention from the Sioux problem. Nevertheless, I urge you to reconsider. The Fenians pose no threat at present, but the government should be alerted to their aims in this part of the world so that if O’Neill chooses to kick dust in our faces at some future date Ottawa will not be taken by surprise.

Yours truly,

Wesley Case

He had wished to write more frankly to Walsh but did not know how to do it in a fashion that would not offend him. The Major’s problem was he admired Indians too much for his own good, at least those Indians who admired him in return. What Walsh had said was sensible enough – only if the Sioux felt they could trust him would they listen to him. But there was a danger there too. Knowing Walsh’s nature, the closer the Major got to these Indians, the greater the likelihood he would begin to sympathize with their plight and disregard his superiors’ instructions. Handing out ammunition to hunters was a generous act, but it was also unwise. When the Sioux praised Walsh for his generosity, this would only prompt him to make more gestures of a similar sort. The Major’s prickliness and vanity could not be discounted either. If his own superiors did not applaud him, he would take applause where he could get it – even if that meant the handclapping came from the Sioux.

It was too early to say, but Case could not shake the feeling that the Major’s foot was poised on a slippery slope. Walsh might have begged him for guidance, but when the Major was swept up in events, was in the heat of the moment, how likely would he be to tolerate a hand put to his collar to check him from sliding to the bottom of the incline?

Over Randolph’s strenuous objections, Ada summoned Dr. Strathway shortly after the New Year’s party to look at her husband’s injured foot. After a thorough examination of the patient, the grave-faced doctor gave his diagnosis: Randolph was suffering from diabetes mellitus. The wound was trifling and would be of no consequence to an otherwise healthy man but, given her husband’s ailment, it must be closely watched for signs of sepsis. If gangrene set in – the doctor tucked his jaw, pleating his chins – he could not assure her of a happy outcome.

By the third week of January, a hideous bluish-green stain was creeping up Randolph’s calf. Celeste might have been able to persuade her father to submit to the amputation Dr. Strathway recommended, but she and Lieutenant Blanchard had already departed for Philadelphia. Ada certainly could not convince him of its necessity. Randolph’s usual belief that if bad things were ignored they would simply go away, or right themselves of their own accord, made him resist all her arguments and entreaties. He said no quack was going to lop off any part of him. Meanwhile necrosis made its slow, remorseless advance up his leg as he lay in bed railing against the wife and doctor who were colluding to make him a cripple.