Home of the Brave (25 page)

“You beat him before or
after he drew his pistol?”

“After. But I had to because
he had another pistol and a dirk, according to some
people.”

“Wait,” Key said. “Another
pistol?”

“He had two and I was afraid
he’d pull the second so I clubbed him.”

“How did you prevent him
from shooting you with the first pistol?”

“I didn’t. His pistol
misfired. He punched it right into my belly and pulled the trigger.
That’s when I whacked him.”

Key looked at his pocket
watch. “I think I have enough to argue self defense. Of course
President Jackson’s enemies don’t really care about truth or
justice, so I can’t make any promises.”

“We have an ace in the
hole,” Yank said. “James Polk is the chairman of the House Ways and
Means Committee. He’s willing to trade some favors for Sam’s
benefit.”

“He’s powerful, but he can’t
influence the decision,” Key said.

“No, but he can influence
the sentence if things go against you in court.”

Key stood up. “Put on a
clean shirt if you have one, Governor Houston and don’t take
another drink. The marshals will be here shortly.”

April 20, 1832

Washington, District of
Columbia

“I hate to ask, Yank, but
can you lend me some money?” Sam Houston asked.

“Yes,” Yank replied, without
hesitation. “How much do you need?”

“A couple of
hundred.”

“You’re going to need more
than that, Sam. Stansbury’s suing you for a thousand dollars. Even
though you walked away from the criminal charges with only a slap
on the wrist, the guilty verdict almost guarantees that you’ll lose
the civil case.”

“I don’t want the money for
that. To hell with Stansbury and his civil lawsuit; I’m going to
Texas.”

Yank thought a moment. “I’ll
give you a thousand dollars on the condition that you don’t leave
the country until after the civil trial.”

“Why?”

“If you don’t appear in
civil court as ordered, a new criminal charge will be brought
against you.”

“So what? They can’t arrest
me in Texas.”

“Thomas - my son Thomas,
tells me that Texas will be a State in the not too distant
future.”

Houston sighed. “What if I
appear in court and then leave after the trial without
paying?”

“That would be another civil
matter. You might someday have to pay it and you might not, but you
wouldn’t be arrested.”

“Then that’s what I’ll
do.”

“I’ll have the money for you
this afternoon,” Yank said. “But I want your word that you’ll
appear.”

“If I don’t I’m sure you’ll
come after me,” Houston chuckled.

“I won’t be here. Jackson’s
sending me to Illinois on a fact-finding mission. I’m leaving in
the morning.”

“You have my sacred oath
that I’ll be in court.”

Yank stood up and offered
Houston his hand. “Marina and I have been talking about going to
Texas too. When this mission’s complete, I hope to see you
there.”

“You’ll see me somewhere
when I pay you back.”

“You can pay me back by
getting your life straight, Sam. I don’t need the
money.”

“You’re a true friend,
Yank.”

“And Sam. Try staying sober.
It’s when you’re drunk that you get into trouble.”

“You’re not that good of a
friend.”

May 16, 1832

Old Man’s Creek,
Illinois

A young captain of the
Illinois Militia, who was overseeing grave digging, turned toward
the sound of Yank’s approaching horse and walked to meet him. “Can
I help you, sir?”

Yank fumbled in his
saddlebag. “I’m an emissary of President Jackson on a fact-finding
mission and somewhere in this saddlebag I have a letter to prove
it.”

“That’s alright, sir. I
don’t need to see any proof. Nobody’d come down here amongst this
stink and corruption unless he had to or he couldn’t
smell.”

Yank dismounted but held
onto the saddle horn to stretch his back before trying to walk.
“Old Man’s Creek is an appropriate destination for me.”

“How did the President learn
about this battle so soon, sir?”

“He doesn’t know, Captain. I
just wanted to come and take a look at the ground for myself before
sending him a report. The stories I’ve been hearing are too much in
conflict with one another.”

“I take it that you’re a
military man, sir?”

“Why would you think
so?”

“You said you wanted to look
at the ground. A civilian would have said battlefield.”

“Would they? Huh. I never
thought about it. And what would you say, Captain? A militiaman
with one foot in each camp.”

“I’d say battle ground to
cover all the angles.”

Yank laughed. “You may have
a future as a politician, Captain.”

“I’ve been thinking the same
thing, sir. I’m sure I don’t have much future as a military leader,
as recent experience has taught me.”

Yank offered his hand. “I’m
John Van Buskirk.”

“Abraham Lincoln. It’s an
honor to meet you, General.”

Yank looked around. “What
happened here, Captain Lincoln?”

“I probably know less than
you do, sir. My company wasn’t involved in the battle. All I know
is what the survivors say.”

“Tell me what you’ve heard
about it and any background that might be useful, if you don’t
mind.”

“I don’t mind a bit if it
gives me an excuse to stand a few yards away from those corpses,
sir. Where do you want me to start?”

“Were you part of the
militia that burned Black Hawk’s village on May ninth?”

“Yes, sir. The battalion
marched down from our rendezvous point on the Rock River near Dixon
to Prophet’s Village. But Black Hawk wasn’t there.”

Yank chuckled. “Prophet’s
Village?”

“Yes, sir. That’s what they
call it.”

“‘
Sorry. I was laughing at
the irony of the village name and how history repeats itself.
Please continue.”

“Well, when we got there,
the warriors were all gone and we only found a handful of Sauk and
Fox women and children. We herded them on out of the village,
smashed up their pots and pans then burned the place. Seemed cruel
to me but, what do I know?”

“From what I’ve learned it
would have been effective had things played out a little
differently. After hearing about his village being destroyed, Black
Hawk was headed back to Iowa Territory and was waiting here for the
women and children to catch up when he tangled with
Stillman.”

“That makes sense,” Lincoln
agreed. “I’m not sure if Major Stillman intended to fight here, or
if he was just followin’ Black Hawk to make sure he left Illinois.
But whatever the reason, they got into a Hellish fight more or less
by accident.”

“By accident,” Yank
repeated. “That I hadn’t heard.”

Lincoln looked over the
terrain. “The men I talked to said that Black Hawk sent four of his
people to talk. They came up from yonder.” He pointed. “But the
sentry over there was just a boy and when he saw the Indians comin’
he got scared and shot one. After hearin’ the shot and seein’ the
other three Indians runnin’ away, several other men fired and –
well – they killed ‘em all. That night, Black Hawk attacked the
camp.”

“How many Indians did Black
Hawk have with him?”

“I heard some tall-tales
about thousands,” Lincoln said. “But from the tracks I’d say it was
closer to forty mounted warriors.”

“Forty? Stillman had two
hundred and seventy-five men.”

“You can look for yourself.
It hasn’t rained since then.”

“I don’t doubt you, Captain,
but the rumor of over two thousand blood-thirsty Indians is
panicking settlers here and in the adjoining territory.”

“None of the survivors want
to admit that they were whipped so badly by a handful of braves,
sir. They didn’t intend to spread panic.”

“Intentional or not, that’s
the way wars start, Captain Lincoln.”

“If you’ll forgive me sir,
the rumors are like as not encouraged by the State to boost
enlistments.”

“Such a practice would be
foolish,” Yank said, walking back to his horse. “But being foolish
is one of the things politicians seem to do so well.” He lifted his
left foot to the stirrup with his left hand and then with a grunt,
mounted. “If you decide against a military career in favor of one
in politics, Captain, please try to remember the stench of the dead
every time you make a decision.”

“I will, sir. Where are you
headed?”

“To follow Black Hawk’s
British Band. Good day to you, Captain Lincoln.”

Lincoln came to attention
and saluted.

May 28, 1832

Springfield,
Illinois

Governor John Reynolds was
sitting behind his desk in the Official Residence on the Illinois
State Fairgrounds. Across from him, Brevet Brigadier General Henry
Atkinson, Commander of the Illinois Militia was studying the floor
as retired Lieutenant General Yank Van Buskirk was
speaking.

“Governor,” Yank said. “I
followed Black Hawk from the Rock River and he was never anywhere
near those other incidents.”

Reynolds
shrugged.

“The attack at Buffalo Grove
was a band of Kickapoo,” Yank continued. “The Davis massacre was in
retaliation for the William Davis Settlement’s damming of Indian
Creek over the protests of the Potawatomi village downstream. It
was led by a hot-headed, young Potawatomi warrior named Keewasee.
The engagement at Kellogg’s Grove was perpetrated by Ho-Chunk
warriors. The Ho-Chunk, the Potawatomi and the British have all
left Black Hawk to fend for himself. Contrary to the reports issued
by your office, none of these attackers were affiliated with Black
Hawk’s British Band.”

“It hardly matters,
General,” Reynolds replied. “The thirty-day enlistments all expired
yesterday or today.”

General Atkinson cleared his
throat noisily. “General Winfield Scott and a thousand regulars,
plus three hundred mounted volunteers are headed toward us from
Buffalo. It appears that you and I will not be needed any longer,
General Van Buskirk.”

“That suits me just fine,”
Yank agreed, getting to his feet.

“You seem to be in a hurry
to leave us,” Reynolds chuckled.

“I’ve been fighting Indians
all my life, Governor,” Yank replied, “as has every generation of
my American family before me. To us, the various tribes and nations
have always been a temporary enemy like the British, the French or
the Spanish. But my government now seems to view Indians
differently and instead of seeking treaties of friendship, the
United States is looking for ways to eliminate the entire race. I
find it distasteful.”

Reynolds face turned red. “I
don’t set Federal policy, General.”

“But you do send false
reports to the Federal Government, Governor. That fuels the public
fear and drives Federal policy.”

“I don’t have to take that
shit from you,” Reynolds said angrily.

“I choose swords,” Yank said
with a slow smile.

“That isn’t what I
meant.”

“Then I bid you goodbye,”
Yank said, and he strode quickly out of the building and started
across the compound toward the stables.

“General Van Buskirk.” A
militia corporal raced after Yank waving a message over his
head.

Yank stopped.

“I was waiting for you to
finish your meeting with the governor, but you left so fast that I
couldn’t catch you.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” Yank
accepted the message continued to the stables and asked the stable
master to have his horse saddled before opening the
message.

“Not bad news I hope.”
General Atkinson walked into the barn.

“Terrible news, Henry,” Yank
replied. “I’m to negotiate a treaty with a Sioux chief named
Wabasha in the Minnesota Territory.”

“Why is that so
terrible?”

“I’ve never met Wabasha, I
don’t speak a word of Sioux, and I don’t know where I might find an
interpreter.”

“There’s a white woman
living with the tribe up there. Her name was Clarissa Evans. I
don’t know her tribal name, but she’s fair-haired so you should be
able to pick her out.”

“Good. Thank you,
Henry.”

“Be careful of
her.”

“Careful? In what
way?”

“She was captured by another
Sioux band about fifteen years ago just after she married Nathaniel
Evans. About five years ago, the army rescued her after a little
tussle and they brought her back. Nathaniel had remarried by then
and he said some harsh things to her.”

“Such as she should have
died rather than submitting to a dirty Indian?”