Chief Joseph & the Flight of the Nez Perce (36 page)

Now and then a shot was fired into the cold and mist by one side or the other. But these were lackluster efforts, designed more to keep up the illusion of combat than to inflict any real damage on the enemy. The true adversary had become the cold and snow, and the only true hope of victory lay in the arrival of support for one side or the other.

Occasionally, words were shouted back and forth between the two camps. One Nez Perce warrior who could speak some English heard a soldier voice shout, “Charge them to hell!” from his post on the hilltop. The warrior quickly responded, “Go ahead and charge, you sons of bitches. You're not fighting the Sioux this time,” a pointed reference to the Sioux willingness to flee or surrender when cornered. But mostly, there was only the desultory and sporadic gunfire of men weary of war and unsure of how to bring a bloody, hateful battle to an end.

Gradually, the bleak, gray day gave way to a chill, wintry dark, and all that had been accomplished was that each side had dug in deeper. The Nez Perce women had spent the day fighting the sleet and cold, digging in the wet, loamy earth with their camas hooks and butcher knives and removing the dirt with frying pans in order to enlarge the shelter pits. Now, at nightfall, enough shelter pits were dug deep enough to offer protection to everyone, and furrows had been hollowed out between some of the pits so that people could move from one to another in case of shelling or attack.

The warriors also had deepened their fighting pits by gouging the earth and throwing out the dirt as best they could. The soldiers had fortified their firing positions by piling up rock barriers behind which to hide. Every effort was made more difficult by the stinging wind and wet snow, which numbed the hands and froze the feet. Some of the soldier wounded had already lost their feet to frostbite, with the camp surgeon performing his dreaded amputations with an icy saw, using only a shot of brandy for anesthesia. The warriors, who fought stripped to the waist, were almost torpid from the cold and hunger. Many had not eaten for over three days—since that fateful breakfast before the first attack. Even their rigorous childhood training of long fasts and swimming in cold rivers had not prepared them for circumstances like these.

In the shelter holes the children cried softly. The old people sat empty-eyed, saying nothing or singing their death songs, while the infants squalled from hunger and cold. There was almost no food to cook. People's minds drifted deliriously back to their days in the Wallowa and along the Clearwater and Salmon until it was hard to know which was real and which was a dream. All thought constantly of the women and children who had ridden off from the battlefield on that first day, and wondered if they were still alive or if they had perished in this cold, harsh land.

Soon time too began to lose all meaning. They became indifferent to day and night, wishing only for some release. All night they could smell the sweet lingering scent of wood smoke drifting down from the soldiers' camp, mocking them with memories of heat and warmth. In the daylight the rich smell of boiling coffee and frying meat tortured them with its distant promise of nourishment and an end to their cutting hunger.

The men met in constant council, trying to decide what course of action to take. Hopes for assistance from Sitting Bull were fading rapidly. Each line of distant figures that proved to be buffalo, each sound that proved to be nothing more than the howling of the wind, dashed their hopes further. It had been days since the first group of people had escaped and almost as long since the first scouts had been sent. Surely at least one of them would have gotten through. It was time to face the hard truth that the promise of help from Sitting Bull might have been as great an illusion as the promise of help from the Flathead and the Crow.

White Bird spoke again for escape. The soldiers' siege line was so porous that they could easily sneak through unnoticed, and the scouts had observed that the soldiers often fell asleep at their posts. The murder of one or two would open a gap wide enough to assure easy passage. With the rain and snow and mist, all sound was muffled and sight was reduced to a few feet. They could surely make their escape under the cover of darkness and be almost to the Old Woman Land before the soldiers noticed.

“But what of our women and children?” Joseph countered. “Do you see horses to carry the wounded? Moccasins to cover the feet of our elders? Do you think we can walk through the snow in the dark far enough to escape the pursuit of soldiers on horseback when they discover we are gone? And what of the Cheyenne? At least we are dug in here, safe from them and the bullets of the soldiers. I do not wish to leave our wounded. I do not wish to leave the bodies of our dead unburied here in this hollow. I do not want to see the blood of our children reddening the snow. If you choose to go, you are free to do so. I will remain here with those who cannot travel. I have never heard of a wounded Indian recovering in the hands of the white man.”

Many of the warriors also spoke for holding out. White soldiers were weak, they said, and this weather was cruel to the spirit. If the Nez Perce waited long enough, the soldiers might charge. Already, the braves had been taunting them, shouting across that soldiers were too cowardly to attack when warriors stood against them. They had also been firing their guns infrequently so the soldiers would believe they were low on bullets. Let those soldiers charge, they boasted, then we will show them our bullets. We are ready to destroy them. Then we can reclaim our horses and move on to the Old Woman Country.

But all this changed on the cold, dreary morning of the fourth day after the first attack. Miles had sent word that there must be surrender by the middle of the morning or his men would resume firing in earnest. This gave the warriors hope. Perhaps the foolhardy soldier charge they sought would actually take place. But as the deadline came and passed, a terrifying noise, like a clap of thunder, filled the air, followed by a fusillade of artillery fire that crackled like raindrops all through the camp. This was followed by another great explosion. The sound was so powerful, so terrifying, that the women and children jumped screaming back into the shelter pits and the dogs were thrown into a frenzy of yelping and barking. The soldiers had brought some new and horrible weapon onto the battlefield, and they were aiming it right into the ravine where everyone was hiding.

The percussion from this great gun shook the ground and caused explosions in the air above their heads. No one knew what it was or what horrible damage it might do. All they knew was that the soldiers had moved around to the west and that they were now in possession of a terrifying weapon that could fire from a great distance directly into the people's camp.

Joseph was despondent. This was the result of his meeting with Miles. Only the man in the yellow raincoat, for whom he had been traded—the man who had been allowed to wander into camp under the flag of truce that Joseph had wanted—could have identified so accurately the location of the places where the people were dug in. Surely it was he who had carried this information to Miles.

Perhaps the whole meeting with Miles had been a ruse, and Miles had sent the strange soldier in the yellow coat into camp to gain knowledge, knowing that the warriors would trade him for their chief. Was he, Joseph, responsible for the suffering and terror that were now being visited upon his people? And what sort of person was this Colonel Miles, that he would order his men to fire into shelters that held only women and small children and old men and wounded?

The great cannon shells continued to explode above the camp. On occasion, the firing would stop and the people would begin to hope that perhaps there was no more ammunition for this horrible gun. Then, just when they were beginning to feel secure, another thunderous concussion would rip the sky above them, showering chunks of steel down upon their heads.

Terror was now coming at them from all directions. The earth shook, knocking dirt loose from the walls of their shelter pits. The sky was filled with cracking gunfire, and shells cut randomly through the air in their camp. The snow continued to fall, melting under the warmth of their bodies, then freezing again as it settled on the cold earth, turning their shelters into damp, slushy tombs of water and ice. People began to see visions of their ancestors calling to them. There was nothing to do but wait for death.

Night brought some relief but, again, no assistance. The snow let up somewhat, and the women were able to crawl down to the creek to collect water in their buffalo horn cups.

The disagreements between White Bird and Joseph had now intensified. Two chiefs who for months had been in charge of the camp were now in charge of the war. White Bird's distrust of the soldiers and white justice ran deep. He had seen his valley overrun by miners, his people killed, his women raped, his elders cheated, and his efforts at all honest dialogue used against him. Every meeting with every white official had resulted in greater injustice and ruin for his people. Any surrender would be no different. Had Joseph not seen the way he had been used by Miles? This was the way white people acted. They sought no honor, only advantage.

Joseph could not disagree. But he could not lead the women and elders and wounded and children to certain death, cruelly delivered. One more day, and if Sitting Bull's warriors did not appear, he would give up the fight and try to find a place in the hearts of the white men where he could meet them with honesty and compassion. His father, Tuekakas, had once believed in these men and their ways. He too would take that chance, though he knew well that all efforts up to this point had turned to dust in their hands. Until that time, he would continue the resistance.

Other camp members were doing their own soul-searching. Many had relatives who had taken flight when the soldiers attacked and now were somewhere on these snowy plains, either meeting a harsh death or an uncertain welcome from the tribes with whom they sought refuge. Some in the camp wanted to do whatever was necessary to have a chance to find their lost loved ones. For others, fighting to the death was a question of honor and a gesture of respect to those who had already died. Still others held strong to their faith in their old ways and the old powers and would not betray that faith for something so small as their own personal survival.

If it came time to choose, each person, each family, would be free to make its own decision. But until that time, they would stay as one people, hoping for assistance from Sitting Bull, hoping for strength from their
wayakin
powers, hoping for some foolhardy act on the part of the soldiers that would let them gain the advantage and resume their flight to freedom.

But as the day dawned, none of these arrived. Instead, the shelling resumed, with great thundering bursts from the new gun mixing in with the sharp reports of constant rifle fire. The clouds were still low and the air was still cutting and raw, but the sky had cleared somewhat. After days of snow and sleet, the people were able to gaze across the landscape to see the reality of their situation.

All around them lay a great sea of snow, stretching as far as the eye could see. The high mountains behind them were still shrouded in mist, and the thin lines of distant ranges to the east and the west were almost invisible against the gray, wintry sky. The tall buffalo grass sticking up through the snow rattled and hissed in the relentless high plains wind. In the clear air, rifle reports from the entrenched soldiers seemed sharper, and in the far distance the people could see the great gun on the open plain beyond where the horse herd had been grazing. It was lined up to fire directly into the open end of the ravine that held the shelter pits.

In the rifle pits on the ridges above, the warriors were offering sporadic fire in response to shots coming from the soldiers. There was nothing to target, since all men on both sides had dug in. Except for the horror of the cannon, neither side could do damage to the other.

In midmorning, another thundering concussion from the great cannon filled the sky. Suddenly the earth in the ravine split open in a shower of dirt and mud. People screamed and ran to the place of the explosion. It was the shelter pit where little Aspiteen, only twelve years old, and her grandmother, Inetah, had been resting with three other women and a little boy.

The women grabbed their frying pans and camas hooks and dug frantically. They could hear choking and muffled screams beneath the dirt and see the struggling movement of partially buried bodies. Throwing dirt aside with their hands, they were able to grasp the arms of the little boy and the three other women and pull them free, but they could not get to little Aspiteen or Inetah in time. By the time they scraped the dirt and mud from them, their eyes were empty and their bodies lifeless. The soldier guns were now killing old women and children.

With two more dead, even more heart went out of the people. They knew now that their earth shelters were no protection against the shells of the great soldier gun far across the creek on the distant hillside. At any moment, another shell could land, killing the newborns or ripping the arms and legs from their tired mothers and fathers.

All afternoon they scanned the horizon for signs of Sitting Bull and waited for the explosion that would end the lives of more of their people. But neither Sitting Bull nor the explosion came, only the occasional concussion in the sky above them and the empty keening of the high plains wind. Then, as the thin afternoon light began to wane, scouts shouted down that the one-armed general had been seen riding in with a few of his officers. His troops could not be far behind.

The Nez Perce peered out into the purpling twilight in one last desperate search for any sign of Sitting Bull and his warriors. But there was nothing to be seen. Miles had won the waiting game. Any remaining hope for the people had disappeared. They had only three choices: try to escape, surrender, or fight and die.

W
HEN WORD REACHED
Miles that Howard had been sighted approaching from the south, he was both relieved and upset. With Howard's reinforcements he could mount an attack and end this siege, or at least his men could be spelled and get some much-needed rest. And the odds were now tipped at least slightly more in their favor should Sitting Bull and his warriors appear.

But Howard's arrival also meant that command would now turn over to the senior officer. Miles, who had done all the work and had lost all the men, would be relegated to a subordinate status. The capture would belong to Howard, while Miles would be left to answer the question of why so little had been accomplished at such a great loss of life. He could see the generalship he so desired slipping from his grasp.

Accompanied by several aides and soldiers, he rode out onto the snowy plain to meet Howard. The general greeted his younger comrade with a hearty handshake. “Miles!” he said. “I'm glad to see you. I thought you might have met Gibbon's fate. Why didn't you let me know?”

Miles responded with a military formality that was quite out of keeping with the friendship the two men had established while serving together during the Civil War. “I have the Indians corralled down yonder,” he said, and offered little more.

They proceeded to a vantage point where Howard could assess the situation. He looked down into the snow-covered bowl with the narrow creek winding through it. Miles pointed to the broad plain to the west, where the cannon was barricaded far out of range of any Nez Perce rifle fire. He pointed to the hilltops that surrounded the bowl on three sides and showed where his men were situated. Then he gestured to a narrow gully in the center of the bowl. “There are your hostiles,” he said.

Howard stared in amazement. This is what was left of the eight hundred people and thousands of horses that he had begun pursuing three months ago. Whether by luck or by sheer force of circumstance, Miles had accomplished what he and Gibbon and Sturgis and so many others had not been able to do. He had reduced the Nez Perce to a pitiful remnant, no longer able to flee or fight. It was only a matter of formality to effect a capture, so long as Sitting Bull and his warriors did not arrive.

Night was descending rapidly, and the whole valley was quickly disappearing into wintry darkness. Miles led Howard to the warmth of his command tent, where the two men could fashion a conclusion to this long, bloody campaign.

Inside the tent, Miles continued his forced formality. Howard watched with bemused detachment. He knew the colonel well. He had observed him closely during the Civil War campaigns and had even arranged for Miles to receive his first regimental command. He knew his young associate's military ambitions and his hunger for a general's star.

After allowing Miles to continue in this awkward, forced manner for a while, he smiled at his young colleague. “I did not come to rob you of any credit,” he said. “I know you're after a star, and I will stand back and let you receive the surrender. I'm sure that will come tomorrow.” At this, all Miles's stiffness fell away, and the younger man's manner brightened.

General Howard's aides stood by in shocked silence. Their men had pursued these hostiles for three months, living on almost no rations, walking on blistered feet through wet, wintry plains and mountain passes, sloshing through creeks, sleeping under thin blankets, and suffering almost unheard-of privations while receiving little or no pay. Many of them had suffered wounds and injuries that would burden them for the rest of their lives. Now, their commanding officer was giving away the one prize that would have made all the hardship worthwhile.

Howard's aide, Lieutenant Wood, began to protest. Howard put his hand on Wood's shoulder and said, “Miles was my aide-de-camp in the Civil War. I trust him as I would trust you.”

Wood fell silent and looked away in disgust. The surrender would go to a well-fed, upstart army that had shown up a few days ago and done nothing more than surround a group of worn-out and dispirited Indians who had been chased into exhaustion by the very troops who were to be denied the capture. But the general had made his decision. While Wood looked on, Howard and Miles sat down to plot the strategy by which the surrender would be effected.

Howard had with him two treaty Nez Perce whom he employed as herders and horse handlers. These men, Captain John and Old George, each had daughters who had married into the families of the hostiles and were somewhere down there among them, if indeed they were alive at all. Captain John was also one of the scouts who had first reconnoitered for Howard as the nontreaties left the Weippe Prairie. These men wanted nothing more than to see the Nez Perce surrender so they could find their daughters and bring them to safety.

Howard had made sure that the two men were well aware of how many troops were coming up behind and were prepared to communicate this fact to the hostiles down below. He also had with him a volunteer named Ad Chapman, who had lived near the Nez Perce in White Bird Canyon and fired the first shot of the war, and who spoke Nez Perce with almost native fluency. Between the three of them, they could make both the situation and the surrender terms known to the Nez Perce.

Tomorrow morning, after he and his men had gotten some much-needed rest, Howard would send the two Nez Perce fathers forward under a flag of truce.

The night passed drearily for the Nez Perce. The imminent arrival of Howard's troops meant that death was now only hours away. Some sang their medicine songs, hoping for power; others, having given up hope, sang their death songs in preparation for the journey into the spirit world.

Far over the distant bluffs, sparks rising from the soldiers' fires mocked them with visions of warmth. Now and then a shot rang out, causing the children to whimper in their sleep. This had ceased to be a war; it was now a dream—Wottolen's dream—from which none could awake.

Toward dawn, the battlefield fell strangely quiet. The firing subsided, then stopped altogether. The Nez Perce peered from beneath their buffalo robe blankets. Bands of pink painted the eastern horizon. The white peaks of the distant Bear's Paw glowed beneath a blue, cloud-wisped sky. For the first time since they had made camp, the day held the promise of sun.

In the distance, in the direction of the soldier camp, far out of firing range of their rifles, they could see several men standing on a crest overlooking the battlefield. Some were soldiers, others appeared to be Indians dressed in white man's clothing. Soon two other soldiers approached the group. One looked to be Colonel Miles, the other they recognized as the one-armed Howard. After a short discussion, the two Indians raised a tall pole with a white flag and began walking slowly down the hill toward the Nez Perce camp.

The Nez Perce gathered on the edges of their shelter and rifle pits. They could hear the men talking as they approached; it sounded like they were speaking Nez Perce. As they got nearer, one of them shouted, “All my brothers, I am glad to see you alive this sun.” He kept calling out, saluting the Nez Perce in their own language. Soon the two men got close enough to be recognized as Jokais and Meopkowit, known as Captain John and Old George.

White Bull wanted to shoot them as they approached. They were worse than the white soldiers, he said. They were traitors to their own people. They had scouted for the white soldiers, and Jokais had even sold Indian land to white miners for money. They deserved to die.

But the others grabbed White Bull's gun and told him to be patient. “Let us hear what they have to say,” they said.

When the men got within a few yards of the camp, Captain John spoke up. “We have traveled a long ways trying to catch you folks,” he said. “We are glad to hear you want no more war, no more fighting. I am glad because all my sons are glad to be alive.”

Old George added, “We have come far from home. Now you see many soldiers lying down side by side. We see Indians too lying dead. We are all not mad. We think of you as brothers.”

One by one the people in the camp stood up and looked at the men. Both of them were weeping. A few of the warriors advanced and shook the men's hands, telling them that their daughters were still alive. “We are glad to shake hands with you,” Captain John said. “I am glad to catch up with you and to find my daughter alive too.”

But not all were swept up in the emotion of the moment. These men commanded no respect. Among their own people they were known by the names “Lazy” and “Know-Nothing.” Why should they now be trusted? They had fought with the soldiers against their own people. They spoke the white man's words. Many times a flag of truce had been raised; each time it had hidden a serpent's truth. Promises from the white soldiers, even when spoken from an Indian tongue—especially these Indian tongues—amounted to little.

Captain John continued to address the group. “Listen well to what I have to say. I have been with General Howard. I heard General Howard saying, ‘When I catch Joseph, I will bring him back to his own home.' General Miles is an honest-looking man. He said, ‘Tell Joseph we do not want to have any more war.'”

Despite their reservations, this was enough for some of the people. Tom Hill announced he was ready to quit fighting right then and there. But others were not so sure. Let us discuss this, they said. These men and their words count for nothing.

They sent the two men back to the soldiers while Joseph and White Bird and the head warriors met in hurried council. The discussion was full of strong words. Joseph said he needed to consider this offer, not for himself, but for the elders and wounded and women and children. Yellow Wolf confronted him. “If you go with General Howard, he will hang you. You know how he destroyed our homes and took all we owned.”

Others agreed. There were white men back in their own country who would convince Howard to hang them all. When had the white soldiers and white law ever listened to Indians? They reminded him of Looking Glass's words: “I am older than you. I have my experiences with a man of two faces and two tongues. If you surrender, you will be sorry, and in your sorrow you will feel rather to be dead.”

But Joseph was adamant. He had never agreed to surrender; he never would. Those who accused him of such things spoke falsely. He believed they should try to make an agreement to be paid for the lands that had been stolen from them and to accept terms that would return them to their homeland. If they could achieve this, he said, they should cease fighting. The soldier chiefs knew the people could escape if they so chose. They knew Sitting Bull was likely to arrive any day and that even with Howard's troops, the soldiers were no match for the warriors of the Nez Perce and Sitting Bull joined together. This would not be surrender; it would be an agreement to quit fighting and to settle their differences in peace.

As the silence from the Indian camp dragged on, Howard grew impatient. He shouted across, demanding to know why they were not coming.

“See?” the warriors said. “He does not show kindness. His face is not good.”

They reminded Joseph of Howard's impatience at the council of Lapwai, where he had insulted Toohoolhoolzote and thrown him in prison.

“It is to Miles that I will hand over my weapons,” Joseph responded, “not Howard.”

“A man who betrayed a flag of truce,” others reminded him.

The discussion was interrupted by movement on the hillside. Old George and Captain John were approaching again.

“General Miles wishes to speak to Chief Joseph,” they said.

Joseph was upset. “It is we who will decide what to do,” he said. He did not like being singled out. It made him look like a conciliator.

The men continued to council, allowing Captain John and Old George to remain among them. Soon Captain John spoke up again. “Those generals said to tell you, ‘We will have no more fighting.' They say that they have sent many messengers but that some of you have not seen the truth. They said to tell you that they will have no more war.”

These were the words Joseph was waiting to hear.

“See?” he said to the others. “It is as I told you when I returned from Colonel Miles's tent. I did not say, ‘Let's quit.' Colonel Miles said, ‘Let's quit.' Now General Howard says, ‘Let's quit.' I did not say, ‘Let's quit.'”

The warriors discussed this among themselves. If it was the soldiers who asked to quit, this was no surrender. There would be no punishment, just an end to the fighting. They could gather their wounded and return to their homes.

One man spoke for the group. “Yes, now we believe you,” he said. “We should tell Colonel Miles that we will quit.”

Joseph was relieved. This was the ending for which he had hoped. There would be no more killing, no more death. Now discussions could take place about how to get the people back to their own country. Perhaps he could yet honor the promise he had made to his father to never give up the land that held his parents' bones.

He called Old John and Captain George to him and instructed them to listen carefully, for they must relay correctly what he was about to say.

“Tell General Howard,” he said, “that I know his heart. What he told me before, I have in my heart. I am tired of fighting. Our chiefs are killed. Looking Glass is dead. Toohoolhoolzote is dead. The old men are all dead. It is the young men who say yes or no. He who led the young men is dead. It is cold and we have no blankets. The little children are freezing to death. My people, some of them, have run away to the hills and have no blankets, no food; no one knows where they are—perhaps freezing to death. I want to have time to look for my children and see how many of them I can find. Maybe I shall find them among the dead.”

Then he turned toward White Bird and Yellow Bull and Husis Kute and met their eyes with his.

“Hear me, my chiefs. I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.”