Indian Fights and Fighters: The Soldier and the Sioux

by Cyrus Townsend Brady

As soon as we crossed from the north bank of the river to the island, just before the attack, we tied our horses and pack mules to shrubs as best we could. During the day a mule with a partial pack on his back got loose and wandered around the vicinity of my pit. He had several arrows sticking in his body and seemed wounded otherwise, which caused him to rear and pitch to such an extent that Jim Lane, my neighbor, and I, decided to kill him. After shooting him he fell and lay between us, and served us the double purpose of food and barricade.

My horse was securely tethered to the underbrush on the island, and later that day I saw the poor beast rearing and plunging in a death struggle, having been shot and killed like the rest of our horses and mules. He also furnished me with several meals during the siege, even after he began to putrefy. There was little to choose between horse and mule meat under such circumstances—both were abominable.

When day broke that Tuesday, the seventeenth of September, 1868, we saw our pickets riding toward camp as fast as their horses could carry them, excitedly yelling: “Indians! Indians!” As I looked up the valley toward the west I beheld the grandest, wildest sight—such as few mortals are permitted to see and live to tell about. Many hundreds of Indians in full war paraphernalia, riding their splendid war ponies, rushed toward us en masse. Some were galloping in one direction, others cantering in another, their lances topped with many-colored streamers, the fantastic Indian costumes lending an awful charm to the whole. About this time those among us who had any had boiled some coffee and were preparing to cross over to the island.

I will frankly admit that I was awed and scared. I felt as if I wanted to run somewhere, but every avenue of escape was blocked. Look where I might I perceived nothing but danger, which increased my agitation; so I naturally turned to Colonel Forsyth as a protector, as a young chick espying the hawk in the air flutters toward the mother wing. Under such conditions of strain some things engrave themselves vividly upon your mind, while others are entirely forgotten. I remember that distinctly as in my trepidation I instinctively kept close to the colonel. I was reassured by his remarkable self-possession and coolness. While stirring every one to activity round us, he consulted with Lieutenant Beecher and the guide, Sharp Grover, giving directions here, advice there, until most of the command had crossed; then he crossed himself and posted the men, telling them where to take up their different positions. Meantime the Indians were coming closer. I was just behind the colonel when the first shot from the enemy came flying seemingly over our heads. I heard him say, smilingly, “Thank you,” but immediately afterward he ordered every one of us to lie flat upon the ground, while he, still directing, kept on his feet, walking around among us, leading his horse. The shots began coming thicker, and many of us yelled to him to lie down also. How long after this I do not know, but I heard the colonel cry out that he was shot, and I saw him clutch his leg and get down in a sitting position.

I was lying alongside of Lou McLaughlin; some tall weeds obscured my vision, so I asked Lou to crouch lower and I rolled over him to the other side and was there kept busy with my carbine, for the Indians were onto us. They were circling around while others were shooting. Very soon I heard Lou growl and mutter. I looked at him and saw that he was hit, a bullet coming from the direction where I was lying struck his gun-sight and glanced into his breast. He told me what had happened, but I could give him no attention, for there seemed lots of work to do before us. But later, after the repulse of the attack, I looked at Lou and was surprised to see him lying in a wallow. In his pain he had torn up the grass and dug his hands into the sand. In answer to my question whether he was hurt bad, he told me not bad, and advised me to dig into the sand and make a hole, as it would be a protection.

Courtesy of Chas. Scribner’s Sons
THE CRUCIAL MOMENT ON BEECHER’S ISLAND
Drawing by R. F. Zogbaum

I am not sure at this time, but I am now under the impression that I told Colonel Forsyth of this; and from that time on we began to dig with our hands or whatever we could use, and kick with our heels and toes in the sand, and some of us soon had holes dug deep enough to protect the chest, at least.

Time seemed out of our calculations. I heard some one call, “What time is it?” An answer came, “Three o’clock.” I had thought it was about ten A.M. We had nothing to eat or drink all day and, strange to say, I was not hungry, which may have been the reason why I thought it was still early. Word was passed that Lieutenant Beecher and Scouts Wilson and Culver were killed, Colonel Forsyth wounded again, also Doctor Mooers shot in the head and others hurt whose names I do not now remember.

We fought steadily all day. After dark the Indians withdrew; then nature began to assert itself. I got hungry; there was nothing to eat in the camp that I knew of, except some wild plums that I had gathered the day before, which were in my saddle-bags, still on the body of my horse. I got out of my hole, creeping on hands and knees toward where I knew the poor animal lay. As I felt my way in the darkness I touched something cold, and upon examination found that it was Wilson’s dead hand. He lay where he fell; it was a most horrible feeling. The shivers ran up and down my back, but I got to my horse at last, and tugging, I finally secured the bag and my plums. I also found in it a piece of bacon, the size of two fingers, which I reserved for a last emergency, and was still in possession of that rusty piece of fat when relief came.