“I’m reinforcing your company to the strength of fifty-two men, Captain.”
“You have something in mind for me to do?”
“I want your ? Company to proceed on down this freight road to Carroll City.”
“Yes, sir,” Bennett said with enthusiasm. “What’s our assignment?”
“Some of the agency hang-abouts at Fort Peck told our half-breed interpreter that a trader was supplying ammunition to Sitting Bull’s hostiles there.”
“And you want me to take that trader into custody?”
“No,” and Miles shook his head. “Just see that you seize every last cartridge the son of a bitch has.”
“How much might this trader have?”
With a shrug and a scratch at his cheek Miles said, “I have no idea, Captain. But I’ll assign you a half dozen of our wagons to carry the ammunition.”
“Where shall I rejoin you, General?”
“You will find us in the Black Buttes area—where I plan for all of us to rendezvous with Captain Snyder’s battalion.”
*The Black Hills, often incorrectly transcribed as Paha Sapa, which means “a black hill.”
*
*Present-day Timber Creek.
Chapter 4
25-26 November 1876
That Saturday afternoon of the twenty-fifth, after Bennett’s B Company departed for Carroll City to confiscate that trader’s ammunition, the rest of Miles’s column reached the banks of the Missouri River itself, directly opposite the mouth of Squaw Creek a little below the Musselshell River. Here the command established its bivouac across a rich, fertile bottomland where grass grew thick not only for their livestock, but for an abundance of buffalo, elk, antelope, and deer.
One problem with the varying weather, besides the trail becoming soggy for the foot soldiers, was that the Missouri River itself was no longer a solid sheet of ice. Instead the rolling surface of the wide river was pocked with huge, bobbing chunks of ice the size of immense boulders, crashing and crushing against one another with a constant, noisy, grating rumble.
Assessing the situation upon reaching the north bank that Saturday, Miles called for his most trusted subaltern.
“Mr. Baldwin, I’m putting you in charge of constructing a raft suitable for moving the troops across.”
“I’ll move the men and you’ll caulk and float the wagons, General?” Frank inquired.
“That’s right. But we need a raft big enough to move a good number of the troops across at a time.”
“What dimensions do you recommend?”
Miles gazed up at the cottonwoods that lined the banks. “As big as you think your work details are capable of, Lieutenant.”
All through that cold night the soldiers labored within a ring of bonfires that gave them light and provided some measure of warmth as they sweated: chopping, hewing, hammering, and lashing—voices joking and buoyant as the men worked or slept in relays. By the following morning, the twenty-sixth, Baldwin was ready. Not only had his crews constructed a rope-and-log raft eighty feet long by twelve feet wide, but they had cut down several long cottonwood saplings they would use to pole their way across the river. In addition, another group of soldiers had removed one of the wagon boxes from its running gear, nailing waterproofed canvas over the box itself to make the craft more riverworthy in floating numbers of the men across the Missouri.
But that morning as the sun emerged into a gray sky, the Missouri appeared to be running all the faster, all the more crowded with the noisy, jarring rumble of ice floes. Nonetheless, at that point Miles would not be deterred. He was not about to be kept from reaching the south bank, where he could continue his pursuit.
“Simply put,” the colonel told Baldwin, “the Fifth must push on in its hunt for Sitting Bull, no matter the obstacles thrown in our way.”
With a great shout and hearty exclamations from those hundreds watching on shore, more than ten soldiers threw their shoulders against the huge raft, shoving it across the thick ice frozen against the north bank to launch the craft into the slushy Missouri. Accompanying Baldwin on that maiden voyage was Miles himself, Lieutenant James W. Pope, and a dozen foot soldiers, nearly every one of them equipped with a twenty-foot-long sapling. In a matter of moments those poles proved themselves totally worthless against the increasing depth and speed of the current that hurled huge chunks of ice against the upstream side of the raft, where the icy river began to lap over the men’s feet, then washed around their ankles, and eventually swirled crazily around their calves the farther they went.
Just shy of the halfway point the raft lurched with a sudden jar that nearly toppled most of the men. Scrambling to hold on to the ropes, the men cried out in fear and surprise, cursing their luck. As the craft slowly came around with the persistent force of the current, the huge cottonwood timbers groaned threateningly.
“Pole men!” Baldwin ordered, fighting to keep his footing as the raft wobbled, one end free and bobbing in the current, the other snagged on a submerged tree. “Hold ’er! Hold ’er!”
The ropes strained and creaked. Cottonwood timbers grated and shuddered against one another. The river flung ice into their frail craft.
“We’re stuck fast, General!” Pope cried.
Miles demanded, “You saying we’ve gone aground?”
“I think we’re caught on a sawyer,” Baldwin decided. “A snag. Something huge, just below the surface that’s keeping us from going on.”
“And from going back too,” Miles said, assessing their precarious situation.
“All right, men,” Baldwin cheered. “Let’s put our backs into it! Heave!” he grunted along with the others shoving against their poles, pushing with the power of their legs against the mighty river’s current. “Heave! Heave!”
As suddenly as they had been jarred by the snag, a rifle shot cracked the cold air. In that heartbeat every man onshore turned to look this way and that. A second rifle shot rang out from the pickets Miles had thrown around their bivouac. In a moment it began to strike home that they might well be under attack.
Miles stood clumsily, steadying himself against the bobbing of the icy current. Flinging his voice to the north bank, he demanded, “What’s the meaning of that firing?”
A voice onshore cried, “Indians coming!”
Beside the Missouri his soldiers milled, called out to one another, turned this way and that as the officers began to shout their commands.
“Damn it all!” Miles grumbled as he sank to his knees on the rocking raft.
Baldwin couldn’t agree more. Here they were, caught at midriver, helpless and without weapons while the main body of the column was damn well caught with its pants down watching this river crossing.
“Fall in!” Miles shouted through the gloves he cupped round his mouth. His red face showed his frustration and growing anger. “Fall in, dammit!”
Captain Ewers shouted, “Assembly, General?”
“Damn right,” the colonel replied, cupping his hands to hurl his voice at the north shore once again. “Bugler —sound assembly. Look lively! Look lively, now!”
Confined as they were to their position on the river below the steep banks, Baldwin could see nothing beyond those soldiers right on the bank, men darting here and there to begin forming up company by company, their lieutenants and sergeants barking orders before the first outfits started scrambling up the shelf onto the prairie itself, where another shot rang out just then.
