McPherson

Previously:

The Traveler has been reminiscing about his time in the cavalry.

Chapter 14

The only time I ever saw the captain go beyond what was necessary was at McPherson, Kansas. We rode up to a pile of cold ashes while scouting for Indians. A boy of about eight was hiding under some hay.

The boy told us what had happened. The ashes were all that was left of the family home. About a week before, it was just like every other day, except a small party of Indians came to the homestead. At first, they were friendly enough.

The Indians entered the house and sat and talked. They wanted to know if the Pilgrims knew how many white men would be coming west.

“I don't know,” the boy's father said. “I assume plenty. There's lots of room here. Enough for both the white man and the Indians.”

“That's true,” the Indian said. “But white men always take more than they can eat.”

The other Indians nodded.

The Indian continued, “Some say the white men will number as the buffalo. What do you think?”

“I don't think there are that many white men in the world.”

“I have seen too many already, and yet they keep coming. The white man is so stingy that he carries a linen rag in his pocket into which he blows his nose for fear he might blow away something of value.”

Suddenly, the mood changed. One of the Indians took offense to the way one of the girls looked at him. The Indian stood and pointed at her. Her father said no, and touched the Indian on the arm. That was all it took to turn the visit from amiable to hostile. To the Indians, touching a man in anger was tantamount to an act of aggression. As the situation grew tense, the boy ran and hid, but he saw what the Indians did.

There were four sisters, ranging in age from sixteen to ten. The Indians lined them up in front of their parents and stripped them. The girls cried out as the savages tore their dresses off.

The Indians threw them to the ground and raped them repeatedly. Their parents were forced to watch. When the Indians were through, they bound the parents and their daughters together and set them on fire.

As the boy told his story, he wept and threw his hands over his ears. Their screams were still in his head, and always would be. That day, when we returned to the camp, Captain Springs assembled the men.

“Today, I heard about an atrocity, unlike anything I have ever seen.”

As the captain relayed to the men what had happened, tears filled his eyes. His rage was uncontrolled, and the men were crying out for vengeance.

“It's up to us to make the savages pay,” the captain shouted. “Tonight, we will attack at sundown. Damn their traditions. They can wander in darkness for eternity. The scouts have located them. Remember, no prisoners.”

“No prisoners,” the men shouted.

We rode hard to the Indian camp. The Indians were assembled in a valley. We took our positions at the top of a hill. Captain Springs raised his saber in the air and shouted, “If ever there was a time to use your rebel yell, this is it. Sing out boys.”

We charged headlong toward the camp, making a racket that would have awakened the demons of hell. Some of the Indians took flight at the sight of us coming. Our bullets ripped into their flesh, and many Indians dropped at the first volley. Our repeaters allowed for rapid firing, and soon the ground was littered with bodies, some dead, some soon to be dead.

We charged back and forth through the camp until no one was moving, even then we continued firing. Nothing could satisfy our hunger for blood, on this night.

The Indians refused to fight at night, but it wouldn't have mattered. They were doomed from the first bullet. I've never seen men in such a frenzy.

Even the Apache and Comanche warriors couldn't match our ferocity that night. Soldiers were screaming as they had never screamed before. No one was spared. Men, women, and children were all slaughtered alike. It made no difference.

As I rode through the camp I saw a lone Indian who was willing to fight. He pulled back his bow and took aim at me. I fired my rifle and saw his head disappear in a cloud of blood and bone fragments. He was the only Indian that joined in the battle.

The slaughter took less than an hour. When the last bullet was fired every Indian was dead. The smell of gunpowder and the coppery odor of blood filled the air. A quietness came upon us like none I had ever experienced before. Even the crickets stopped their singing, out of respect for the dead.

When I had time to look, I found myself covered in Indian blood. The blood even flowed into my boots. I looked around and all the soldiers were the same. We wore the stains of victory.

I hate to admit it, but I took part in the massacre. I killed my share of all. I killed with a fierceness I never knew was in me. All of my frustrations and anger found a release in blood. Afterward, I felt clean, but the feeling soon passed. It was replaced by self-loathing. I prayed that I would never be put in that position again.

I think all of the men who took part felt the same. After the raid, the camp grew quiet. There was no more dancing or singing after McPherson. The normal jovial mood disappeared. Part of the men died with the Indians. If we had it to do over again, I don't think we would. I hope not anyway.

Captain Springs spent most of his time in his tent now. He would come out at night and watch the stars. It was like he was looking for the Indians he had sent there.

He wasn't sad that the Indians were dead. He just hated the fact that he was the one who killed them. It was almost more than he could bear. He would stare into the black sky and hope that eventually, they would find The Great Spirit.

I hated to see him this way. I knew he would carry the burden of McPherson to his grave. No man should be made to suffer so. You can say he brought it on himself, but most men would have done the same.

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One evening, I delivered a message from one of the scouts. As I entered the captain's tent, I found him crying. When I asked what was troubling him, he looked up at me with tears in his eyes and handed me a letter.

His wife had grown tired of being married to a man she never saw. She had met a farmer, had taken the children, and had gone to live with him. She was through with soldiers. She said they could go off and play their soldier games, but she would never love one again.

He was heartbroken. He looked at me as if I might have an answer. I didn't. I started to say that eventually, half the men that serve in the west get the same letter, but there would be no help in it. All I could say was, “Will that be all?”

As I walked toward my bedroll, I heard the shot. I mounted my horse that night and rode away from the cavalry, and the life I had once loved.

This was the west for Captain Jeremiah Springs, commanding officer of the Twelfth Cavalry.

To be continued . . .