Miracles and Massacres Read online

  Pine Ridge, South Dakota

  January 14, 1891

  “These are your findings?” General Miles asked.

  The investigating officers, Major J. Ford Kent and Captain Frank D. Baldwin, had concluded their investigation the day before. They’d found little fault in Forsyth’s conduct.

  Kent answered. “Yes. Testimony supplied no evidence or indication of fault by Colonel Forsyth.”

  “I saw the field of battle three days after the incident, but still frozen in time,” Miles said. “Anyone with two eyes could see fault. Did you examine Major Whitside’s map of the troop and gun placements?”

  “We did,” Kent said. “It was deemed flawed, but not negligent.”

  After his personal examination of Wounded Knee, Miles had ordered Whitside to go back and draw a detailed map of the Sioux and cavalry positions. He wanted an accurate drawing for the record because he believed the troop placement had been reckless.

  “And all the dead women and children. No fault?”

  “Testimony showed great forbearance by our troopers. Major Whitside testified that the Sioux fired fifty shots before his men returned fire. Every witness testified that some noncombatants were unfortunately shot by our men due to the warriors running amongst them, but that Sioux warriors killed the large majority of them by firing into or across their own women and children.”

  “Do you believe that?” Miles asked.

  “We have no evidence to the contrary.” Kent glanced at Baldwin for reassurance and got a nod. “The testimony was very consistent.”

  “I want you to reopen the inquiry. Find testimony that is consistent with the facts on the ground, not a story concocted after the fact.”

  “But General—”

  “That’s an order, Major. Dismissed.”

  Pine Ridge, South Dakota

  January 20, 1891

  Major Kent and Captain Baldwin sat nervously in front of the general’s desk.

  General Miles read the conclusion of the revised report aloud: “Colonel Forsyth’s command was not held at a safe distance, and the attack of the Indians resulted in a surprise to the troops.”

  He threw the report on the table, and looked at Major Kent. “That’s it? He positioned his troops too close and thus allowed himself to be surprised? That’s the most mild censure I’ve ever read.”

  “General, we have no evidence of malfeasance . . . and we have a surfeit of testimony to the opposite. We can rule no other way.”

  “Perhaps, but I can make my own recommendation.”

  “General, may I speak freely?” Kent asked.

  “You may.”

  “There is word going around that you are intent on railroading Colonel Forsyth because the Sitting Bull and Wounded Knee incidents will hurt your career.”

  “Does that make sense to you?” Miles asked.

  “Sir, I have never known you to be vindictive.”

  “I was speaking logically, Major. If the army wants to portray Wounded Knee as a stand-up victory over heavily armed savages, wouldn’t I be best served by going along with that story? Wouldn’t a military victory enhance my career?”

  Kent looked confused. “Then why so many inquiries, sir?”

  “Because I promised the Sioux survivors that I would investigate and punish any wrongdoers.”

  “Sir? You’re doing this because of a promise you made to Indians?”

  “No, I’m doing this because it is right.”

  Washington, D.C.

  February 7, 1891

  General John Schofield, commanding general of the United States Army, read the recommendation that accompanied the Board of Inquiry findings. General Miles had been harsh on Colonel Forsyth, and, by doing so, had by default been harsh on the United States Army.

  “Troops were not disposed,” Miles’s report read, “to deliver its fire upon the warriors without endangering the lives of some of their own comrades.” Later, Miles commented on the fact that many of the Indians had already been disarmed, writing: “A large number of the 106 Sioux warriors were without firearms when the outbreak occurred.”

  Throughout the document, General Miles had used words like “inexcusable,” “apathy,” “neglect,” “contempt,” and “incompetence.” He went on to make the worst accusation that can be leveled against a field-grade officer. “Colonel Forsyth was inexperienced in the responsibility of exercising command.”

  Schofield knew that this report would not only ruin Colonel Forsyth’s career, it would reflect badly on the army. And for what purpose? Miles’s recriminations were at odds with most newspaper accounts of the battle, not to mention the testimony of soldiers present that day. Even retired general William T. Sherman, who had been Schofield’s predecessor as commanding general of the army, had taken Forsyth’s side. “If Forsyth was relieved because some squaws were killed,” Sherman had written, “then somebody had made a mistake, for squaws have been killed in every Indian war.”

  Schofield picked up a pen and paused briefly before writing to his boss, the secretary of war.

  The interests of military service do not, in my judgment, demand further proceedings in this case, nor any longer continuance of Col. Forsyth’s suspension from the command of his regiment. The evidence in these papers shows that great care was taken to avoid unnecessary killing of Indian women and children.

  In my judgment, the conduct of the regiment was well worthy of the commendation bestowed upon it by me in my first telegram after the engagement.

  He concluded that the soldiers had displayed great forbearance and that units under Forsyth’s command had shown excellent discipline.

  General Schofield reread his report. He was pleased. This would finally set the record straight.

  Pine Ridge, South Dakota

  February 17, 1891

  Col. Forsyth Exonerated, His Action at Wounded Knee Justified, Decision of Secretary Proctor on the Investigation—The Colonel Restored to the Command of His Gallant Regiment

  The headline couldn’t have been clearer, and General Nelson Miles couldn’t have been more depressed.

  The crushing futility sapped every bit of his energy. He was not angry, he was not bitter, and he certainly was not surprised—but he was weary. It had been an agonizing political battle, but now it was over and he had lost.

  After receiving Commanding General Schofield’s report, Secretary of War Redfield Proctor had penned what would become the official government position on the Battle of Wounded Knee.

  The disarmament was commenced and it was evident that the Indians were sullenly trying to evade the order. They were carried away by the harangue of the ghost dancer, and wheeling about, opened fire. Nothing illustrates the madness of their outbreak more forcibly than the fact that their first fire was so directed that every shot that did not hit a soldier must have gone through their own village. There is little doubt that the first killing, of women and children was by the first fire of the Indians themselves.

  The firing by the troops was entirely directed on the men until the Indians, after their break, mingled with their women and children, thus exposing them to the fire of the troops and as a consequence some were killed. Major Whitside emphatically declares that at least fifty shots were fired by the Indians before the troops returned the fire. Major Kent and Capt. Baldwin concur in finding that the evidence fails to establish that a single man of Col. Forsyth’s command was killed or wounded by his fellows.

  This fact and, indeed, the conduct of both officers and men through the whole affair, demonstrates an exceedingly satisfactory state of discipline in the Seventh Cavalry. Their behavior was characterized by skill, coolness, discretion, and forbearance, and reflects the highest possible credit upon the regiment.

  The concluding sentence crushed General Miles’ spirit:

  The interests of the military service do not demand any further proceedings in this case. By direction of the President, Col. Forsyth will resume the command of his regiment.

  St. Lou
is, Missouri

  June 1891

  “General, here are the citations for Wounded Knee.”

  The staff officer was newly assigned and unaware of General Miles’s disapproval of the army’s actions at Wounded Knee. At least the general preferred to assume that the staff officer was unaware; otherwise he would be annoyed at his cheerful delivery of more than a dozen Medal of Honor citations for bravery at Wounded Knee.

  Miles had thought his anger over Wounded Knee had ebbed, but when he’d heard about these citations working their way up to him, he’d lost his temper again. This was the greatest number of Congressional Medals of Honor ever awarded in any single engagement. He should have seen it coming: The army does not merely bury its blunders; it decorates them with so many ribbons that no one can question the veracity of the official report.

  There had already been a couple of Medals of Honor awarded, and this new round would bring the total to seventeen. He sighed. There will be more to come, he thought.

  “Is this an inconvenient time, sir? I can return with them later.”

  Miles held his hand out. “No. This won’t take but a moment.”

  He rifled through the citations quickly, making scant comments on just a few. He handed them back to the staff officer. “You may forward these to the War Department.”

  “Sir, if you’ll excuse me . . . you hardly added any comments. Would you like to keep them overnight? At this late juncture, there is no hurry.” The confused staff officer held up the citations. “These men fought bravely under your command.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Miles asked testily.

  “I read the reports before reviewing the citations.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you read. These men didn’t fight; they killed. They had disarmed the majority of the Sioux before the first shot was ever fired.”

  “Sir?” The officer looked thoroughly confused. “Congress wouldn’t approve Medals of Honor without endorsement. The president has commended the action. Why would everyone in the chain of command participate in a deception?”

  “Because governments do not make mistakes.”

  EPILOGUE

  Pine Ridge Reservation

  February 2013

  Calvin Spotted Elk had made rescinding the twenty Congressional Medals of Honor awarded for Wounded Knee part of his life’s work. So far, that work wasn’t going very well. He’d been rebuffed every step of the way.

  Elk’s ancestor, Chief Spotted Elk, had been killed in the massacre, and Calvin did not believe his spirit would rest as long as the slaughter at Wounded Knee continued to be referred to as a “battle.”

  In 1917, retired general Nelson A. Miles had written that “[a] massacre occurred, not only the warriors but the sick Chief Big Foot, and a large number of women and children who tried to escape by running and scattering over the prairie, were hunted down and killed.”

  Calvin Spotted Elk believed that Miles’s report was the truth, and he had futilely tried many times over the years to get attention for his cause. Now, with a newly reelected president in office, Elk had hope that something would finally be done to right this historical tragedy. He chose his words to President Obama carefully.

  Mr. President, what happened at Wounded Knee was not worthy of this nation’s highest award for exceptional valor. The actions of the soldiers have been justly criticized because this was a massacre, not a battle. This tragedy, for many, remains a blemish in American history.

  My relatives and I pray for this never to happen again and we pray you will hear our plea to put this to rest. The healing process takes time, but through prayer, acceptance, awareness and forgiveness, it is possible. For many of us, acknowledgment of what happened is at the root of our healing.

  Calvin Spotted Elk did not expect a reply, but he added one additional line in the hope of proving to whoever would read the letter that he had good standing in this matter.

  For many years, my grandfather, Chief Spotted Elk, has erroneously been known as Chief “Big Foot.”

  Elk, along with many others who have petitioned the government over the years to reconsider these medals and revise the official report on the Battle of Wounded Knee, is still waiting for a response.

  7

  Easy Eddie & the Hard Road to Redemption

  Executive Management Level

  Sportsman’s Park

  Cicero, Illinois

  November 8, 1939

  Easy Eddie O’Hare sat down at his fine mahogany desk and placed his glass of eighteen-year-old scotch on the blotter. Then he opened the bottom-left drawer and took out his pistol.

  Oiling and cleaning this little .32 had become a thoughtful evening ritual over the last several years, though he’d never felt the need to carry it. But tonight would be different. Tonight, for the drive home from Cicero, he would load his gun and have it holstered beneath his overcoat. At least he’d be armed when they came for him, for all the good that would do.

  Even the Chicago mob has laws. Not many, of course, but the few there are have only one penalty. And the mob has got more style in enforcement than the police and the courtrooms. They’ll still hold trial and pass sentence, all right, but once a person’s condemned they aren’t killed right away, not unless it’s absolutely necessary. They let the poor sucker walk around free and think about how his days are numbered.

  They’d let Easy Eddie think about it for six long years.

  He still had a few friends in the outfit; that’s how he knew for sure that his number was up. You shouldn’t buy any green bananas, old pal. The straight-faced warning in that bit of gallows humor was the only help he could expect. No one was going to be caught dead coming to his aid, not with Capone due back in town any time from his extended holiday on Alcatraz Island.

  As he finished tending to his pistol, Eddie sat back and looked around the luxurious office that he’d furnished with ill-gotten gains. Not everything here was of great value, though, at least not in the monetary sense. Some items were only mementos, worth little to anyone but him.

  There were the old photos of his kids that were just beginning to yellow in their frames. He hadn’t seen the girls in years, and his boy had long since become a navy man—a pilot, to be exact.

  One of the paperweights on his desk was a dented gas cap from Charles Lindbergh’s mail plane, a souvenir pocketed at Lambert Field after a ride-along with that soon-to-be-great man. A pair of blood-flecked boxing gloves that hung on the coatrack recalled a very short match he’d once fought in his misspent youth, an open-call tryout for a pro sparring partner. One quick right cross from his opponent had put Eddie facedown on the canvas and convinced him he was no Jack Johnson. There must be an easier way to make a million, he’d thought.

  And so there was.

  He checked his pocket watch, studied the door for a while, and decided that he wasn’t quite ready to walk through it for the last time. Maybe just one more drink, and for old times’ sake, just another short stroll down memory lane.

  His tired eyes soon found another keepsake, this one displayed on its own side table. It was an artificial rabbit on a rusty metal stand, the odd invention of his first big legal client—and arguably the object that put Easy Eddie on the road to riches and, eventually, to ruin.

  But that wasn’t really where the story started. For that, he’d have to go back a bit further.

  Soulard district, St. Louis, Missouri

  Twenty years earlier: December 31, 1919

  The baby was crying and, before long, Eddie’s young son had joined in the wailing.

  He couldn’t really blame hungry kids for making a racket, but that night it was just a little too much to swallow. With him and his wife not on speaking terms, Christmas had once again been a dismal, joyless affair. And now New Year’s Eve was threatening to turn out the same way.

  At one minute to midnight, with no steady job, no prospects, and not a plug nickel to his name, Eddie had made himself a promise, an oath that couldn’t h
ave been more solemn if he’d signed it in blood. He would make himself a wealthy man.

  The bleak decade he’d just suffered through had finally and mercifully ended. There would be no more hopeless days, no more dead-end laboring just to scrape together another humble meal for the family table. No more drifting, no more despair, no more drafty walk-up apartments that reeked of cold cuts and day-old produce from the grocery store below. Right then and there, with the 1920s set to come roaring in, Eddie swore to change his life and his fortunes.

  The next few years were a blur. Between working any job he could scrounge, day and night classes to complete his education at St. Louis University, and later studying law until the wee hours, there’d been far too little time left for his wife and children. But all of this was for them; at least that’s the way it had begun.

  During his lowest times, Eddie’s father-in-law would encourage him with the same words over and over: Stay with it, son. The day you pass that bar exam, a lot of doors will open. He was right about that, of course, but if he’d really wanted to help, his wife’s old man would have added one more nugget of valuable counsel:

  Be awfully careful what you wish for.

  Sportsman’s Park

  Cicero, Illinois

  October 3, 1924

  The fresh paint had barely finished drying in his first law office when Eddie met Owen Smith, the inventor of a more reliable, new-and-improved lure to entice racing dogs to speed around the greyhound tracks. The two of them were a good match: Mr. Smith needed help to patent his furry little robot, and Eddie needed the fee.

  Now, a year into the relationship, Eddie had become Owen Smith’s chief business advocate—and business was getting better every day. The two men traveled extensively, selling operator’s rights to use the rabbit at dog tracks from St. Louis all the way to Hialeah in southern Florida.

  This was their first trip to the Chicago area and, so far, it seemed to be a fruitful visit.

  Eddie and Owen Smith had been seated in the track manager’s garish corner office, waiting as the man looked over the contract and considered their deal, when the door opened behind them.