Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Beecher Island, Part Four: Impossible Odds
Let’s see now, where were we? Oh yeah, when we last talked, Lieutenant Forsyth and his fifty-one scouts had barricaded themselves on a small sand bar (Beecher Island) in the middle of the Republican River. They had survived the initial attack with only two casualties. Second in command, Lt. Beecher and civilian scout, George W. Culver had both been killed. Lt. Forsyth had been shot in the leg, and acting surgeon, Dr. JH Moores had been shot in the head, but for some reason or another, was still alive. They were now bracing themselves for an all out assault on their position from a band of approximately 300 Indian warriors led by the well known, Cheyenne Warrior, Roman Nose.
Because of the way the ravine Roman Nose had decided to attack from was situated, the men could hear the Indians coming before they ever saw them. Forsyth shouted out a few last minute orders. He told them this was it, there was no more time to prepare. He directed them to look out for one another, to hold their fire until the Indians reached the edge of the river, and to make every shot count. It probably wasn’t politically correct, but he also told them he’d personally kill any man who tried to desert his post.
The attack was classic, Roman Nose. There he was, fearless, and like always, front and center. But because of the narrow ravine he had chosen to attack from he and his men had become easy targets for Forsyth and his men.
As they emerged, the Indians were only two or three abreast and with the new Spencer Seven-Shooter, one after another fell. The attacks came wave after wave and the results were all pretty much the same. Every Indian who came within range was met with another, deadly accurate bullet.
Roman Nose called off the attack long enough to regroup. It was decided they’d break up into several smaller groups and try to surround the men on the sand bar. Maybe if they’d tried this tactic from the beginning, things would have turned out different. Who knows?
Roman Nose led his group from the top of a hill just west of Forsyth’s position. By now he was full of rage. He was driven by his hatred of the white man and had become frustrated by his inability to slaughter this small group of men. Maybe he had become careless by making himself such an easy target. But this would be Roman Nose’s last fight.
As he reached the river’s edge, Roman Nose was met with a fatal shot. He struggled to stay on his horse for a while. But finally, death overtook him and he fell where he was. His death had an immediate, demoralizing effect on the warriors and the attack was called off.
Because of a good, last minute plan, and superior fire power, Forsyth and his men had won the battle against what seemed like impossible odds.
But it wasn’t over. The battle had now become a siege. The Indians decided if they couldn’t beat the white men in this battle, they’d keep them pinned down on their sand bar and simply starve them to death. And so it began.
Once it became clear the battle was over Forsyth and his men slowly crawled out of their holes in the sand to take stock of themselves and each other. They had lost two more men in the battle. Civilian Scouts, William Nelson and Lewis Farley had both been killed. When they went to check on the surgeon, DH Moorse, they discovered he had also died of the gun shot wound to the head he had suffered earlier in the day. On top of all that, there were 18 more men wounded, some of them critically.
All the food and medical supplies the men had were loaded on the four pack-mules they brought with them. All four mules had been killed and were laying some hundred yards to the north of them. They might as well have been on the moon. There was no way the Indians were going to allow the men to retrieve any of their supplies. They tended to the wounded as best as they could and tried not to think about having no food.
As night fell, they buried their dead on the battlefield and Forsyth explained their situation to his men. He told them it looked like the Indians intended to starve them out and asked for volunteers to break through the Indian‘s lines and head some sixty miles away to Fort Wallace for help. Four men stepped forward.
Okay, I promise to wind this story down by next week. I’m still looking for someone who knows how this story will end though. How about it, how about joining me on the blog to talk about it at: www.rm235.blogspot.com Surely there’s a historian out there somewhere.
Because of the way the ravine Roman Nose had decided to attack from was situated, the men could hear the Indians coming before they ever saw them. Forsyth shouted out a few last minute orders. He told them this was it, there was no more time to prepare. He directed them to look out for one another, to hold their fire until the Indians reached the edge of the river, and to make every shot count. It probably wasn’t politically correct, but he also told them he’d personally kill any man who tried to desert his post.
The attack was classic, Roman Nose. There he was, fearless, and like always, front and center. But because of the narrow ravine he had chosen to attack from he and his men had become easy targets for Forsyth and his men.
As they emerged, the Indians were only two or three abreast and with the new Spencer Seven-Shooter, one after another fell. The attacks came wave after wave and the results were all pretty much the same. Every Indian who came within range was met with another, deadly accurate bullet.
Roman Nose called off the attack long enough to regroup. It was decided they’d break up into several smaller groups and try to surround the men on the sand bar. Maybe if they’d tried this tactic from the beginning, things would have turned out different. Who knows?
Roman Nose led his group from the top of a hill just west of Forsyth’s position. By now he was full of rage. He was driven by his hatred of the white man and had become frustrated by his inability to slaughter this small group of men. Maybe he had become careless by making himself such an easy target. But this would be Roman Nose’s last fight.
As he reached the river’s edge, Roman Nose was met with a fatal shot. He struggled to stay on his horse for a while. But finally, death overtook him and he fell where he was. His death had an immediate, demoralizing effect on the warriors and the attack was called off.
Because of a good, last minute plan, and superior fire power, Forsyth and his men had won the battle against what seemed like impossible odds.
But it wasn’t over. The battle had now become a siege. The Indians decided if they couldn’t beat the white men in this battle, they’d keep them pinned down on their sand bar and simply starve them to death. And so it began.
Once it became clear the battle was over Forsyth and his men slowly crawled out of their holes in the sand to take stock of themselves and each other. They had lost two more men in the battle. Civilian Scouts, William Nelson and Lewis Farley had both been killed. When they went to check on the surgeon, DH Moorse, they discovered he had also died of the gun shot wound to the head he had suffered earlier in the day. On top of all that, there were 18 more men wounded, some of them critically.
All the food and medical supplies the men had were loaded on the four pack-mules they brought with them. All four mules had been killed and were laying some hundred yards to the north of them. They might as well have been on the moon. There was no way the Indians were going to allow the men to retrieve any of their supplies. They tended to the wounded as best as they could and tried not to think about having no food.
As night fell, they buried their dead on the battlefield and Forsyth explained their situation to his men. He told them it looked like the Indians intended to starve them out and asked for volunteers to break through the Indian‘s lines and head some sixty miles away to Fort Wallace for help. Four men stepped forward.
Okay, I promise to wind this story down by next week. I’m still looking for someone who knows how this story will end though. How about it, how about joining me on the blog to talk about it at: www.rm235.blogspot.com Surely there’s a historian out there somewhere.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Beecher Island, Part Three: The Battle
Last week we left off with Lt. Forsyth checking on the men he had stationed as sentries on the hills overlooking their camp, to make sure they knew what he expected from them.
Satisfied, he rode back to camp to make his final preparations for tomorrow’s battle. He knew they were outnumbered by something like three to one and knew their only real chance in defeating the enemy was to launch an attack while they were still asleep. With that in mind he had decided to have his men up and ready to go by 4:00 the next morning.
What he didn’t know, was that he had fallen into a trap. The 150 or so Cheyenne warriors he and his men had been following were joined overnight by warriors of the Northern Cheyenne, Arapaho, and the Ogala Souix tribes, making a combined force of around 750.
It was still a couple hours before daylight on the morning of Sept. 17, 1868, the men were already busy breaking camp, saddling up their horses, and making final preparations for the battle that lie ahead, when out of nowhere came the first rifle shot from one of the sentries posted on the hills surrounding the camp.
Eight or nine warriors had managed to sneak past his position and into camp in an effort to stampede the their horses and leave Forsyth and his men abandoned, making them easy targets. Once it became clear that wasn’t going to work, the warriors disappeared back into the night just as fast as they had appeared.
It was all quiet for the next hour or so. Then just as the sun started to rise, shots rang out from the rest of the sentries. The men came riding into camp as fast as their horses could carry them and reported they were being surrounded on all sides by more hostile Indians than they’d ever seen at one time.
In no time at all it was apparent just how much trouble they were really in. The Indians had started to crest the hills overlooking their camp. They were lined up on both sides of the river as far as the eye could see.
Forsyth knew if he and his men were going to have any chance at all of surviving they had to find some kind of cover, and quick. He ordered them to retreat to a small sandbar (island) in the middle of the river about a hundred yards just south of their position. It was a pretty good size sandbar with one lone Cottonwood tree and a large growth of Willows growing around it. It wasn’t much, but he knew it was the only chance they had.
They made a mad dash toward the island. It wasn’t as easy as it sounds either. The river back then was a lot wider and deeper than it is today. There were parts where the water came up to the men’s chests but they all made it.
Just as they made it to the island, the Indians started their attack. It was vicious. The air was filled with hot lead and arrows and it didn’t let up. Right off the bat, Forsyth was shot in the leg, and his second in command, Lieutenant Fredrick H. Beecher was killed. Most of the horses were killed and fell where they stood. Struggling to stay alert, Forsyth ordered his men to use the dead horses for cover and to start digging holes in the soft sand (think foxholes) with their tin plates, rifle butts, or their bare hands.
The plan worked, and after an hour the Indians became frustrated and called off the initial attack and retreated back over the hills they had come from to regroup. The men on the sandbar realized they were getting good cover and used this time to re-enforce their holes in the sand and to tend to the wounded as best they could. Lt. Forsyth used the time to dig the lead ball that been buried deep in his thigh out.
It was somewhere around noon that day when Forsyth and his men watched as the Indians gathered again. They knew they were making plans for another attack. They also noticed that in the middle of the gathering was a big, tall Indian who seemed to be doing most of the talking. They knew at once it was none other than Roman Nose himself.
They didn’t have to wait long for the plan to unfold. Roman Nose led a party of about three hundred warriors in a direct assault on their position from a small ravine to the west, as the rest of their war party tried to sneak in from both sides of the river using the tall grass for cover.
What Roman Nose and his warriors didn’t know, was that Forsyth and his men were all armed with a new type of rifle, the .56 Cal. Spencer Seven-Shooter. The Indians were well aware of the damage a single shot rifle was capable of but this was the first time they’d ever came up against a repeating rifle. To say the least, the results were devastating.
Stop by the blog this week to join in on the conversation at: www.rm235.blogspot.com I’d love to hear from anyone and everyone who thinks they know how this story ends.
Satisfied, he rode back to camp to make his final preparations for tomorrow’s battle. He knew they were outnumbered by something like three to one and knew their only real chance in defeating the enemy was to launch an attack while they were still asleep. With that in mind he had decided to have his men up and ready to go by 4:00 the next morning.
What he didn’t know, was that he had fallen into a trap. The 150 or so Cheyenne warriors he and his men had been following were joined overnight by warriors of the Northern Cheyenne, Arapaho, and the Ogala Souix tribes, making a combined force of around 750.
It was still a couple hours before daylight on the morning of Sept. 17, 1868, the men were already busy breaking camp, saddling up their horses, and making final preparations for the battle that lie ahead, when out of nowhere came the first rifle shot from one of the sentries posted on the hills surrounding the camp.
Eight or nine warriors had managed to sneak past his position and into camp in an effort to stampede the their horses and leave Forsyth and his men abandoned, making them easy targets. Once it became clear that wasn’t going to work, the warriors disappeared back into the night just as fast as they had appeared.
It was all quiet for the next hour or so. Then just as the sun started to rise, shots rang out from the rest of the sentries. The men came riding into camp as fast as their horses could carry them and reported they were being surrounded on all sides by more hostile Indians than they’d ever seen at one time.
In no time at all it was apparent just how much trouble they were really in. The Indians had started to crest the hills overlooking their camp. They were lined up on both sides of the river as far as the eye could see.
Forsyth knew if he and his men were going to have any chance at all of surviving they had to find some kind of cover, and quick. He ordered them to retreat to a small sandbar (island) in the middle of the river about a hundred yards just south of their position. It was a pretty good size sandbar with one lone Cottonwood tree and a large growth of Willows growing around it. It wasn’t much, but he knew it was the only chance they had.
They made a mad dash toward the island. It wasn’t as easy as it sounds either. The river back then was a lot wider and deeper than it is today. There were parts where the water came up to the men’s chests but they all made it.
Just as they made it to the island, the Indians started their attack. It was vicious. The air was filled with hot lead and arrows and it didn’t let up. Right off the bat, Forsyth was shot in the leg, and his second in command, Lieutenant Fredrick H. Beecher was killed. Most of the horses were killed and fell where they stood. Struggling to stay alert, Forsyth ordered his men to use the dead horses for cover and to start digging holes in the soft sand (think foxholes) with their tin plates, rifle butts, or their bare hands.
The plan worked, and after an hour the Indians became frustrated and called off the initial attack and retreated back over the hills they had come from to regroup. The men on the sandbar realized they were getting good cover and used this time to re-enforce their holes in the sand and to tend to the wounded as best they could. Lt. Forsyth used the time to dig the lead ball that been buried deep in his thigh out.
It was somewhere around noon that day when Forsyth and his men watched as the Indians gathered again. They knew they were making plans for another attack. They also noticed that in the middle of the gathering was a big, tall Indian who seemed to be doing most of the talking. They knew at once it was none other than Roman Nose himself.
They didn’t have to wait long for the plan to unfold. Roman Nose led a party of about three hundred warriors in a direct assault on their position from a small ravine to the west, as the rest of their war party tried to sneak in from both sides of the river using the tall grass for cover.
What Roman Nose and his warriors didn’t know, was that Forsyth and his men were all armed with a new type of rifle, the .56 Cal. Spencer Seven-Shooter. The Indians were well aware of the damage a single shot rifle was capable of but this was the first time they’d ever came up against a repeating rifle. To say the least, the results were devastating.
Stop by the blog this week to join in on the conversation at: www.rm235.blogspot.com I’d love to hear from anyone and everyone who thinks they know how this story ends.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Beecher Island: Part Two
Let’s see now, where were we? Oh yeah, last week I started telling you the story about a battle site in northeastern Colorado called Beecher Island I visited a few weeks back.
I talked about Lieutenant Forsyth leading a group of fifty-one men in search of a band renegade Indians. Forsyth and his men had caught up the Indians they had been pursuing on the afternoon of September 17th, 1868 just west of Fort Wallace, which was located in the westernmost part of Kansas. In order to rest his men, Forsyth ordered them to make camp in a small valley along the Republican River early that evening, and Forsyth and his second in command, Lieutenant Fredrick H. Beecher had retreated to their tent to plan their next move and to await their date with destiny.
Alright, this week, I’m going to tell you the story about one of the main players they were going up against, Cheyenne Chief, Roman Nose.
First off, the white’s had his name wrong. He was given the Indian name by his people, Woqini, (Arched Nose or Hooked Nose.) It was the white’s who interpreted it as Roman Nose. Anyway, the name stuck. He was a giant of a man, he stood well over six feet tall, and was an imposing figure on the battlefield who literally struck fear into the hearts of his enemies with his straight, in your face style of battle. He conducted himself in battle to such a high degree that the Generals in the U.S. military considered him the Chief of the entire Cheyenne nation.
Contrary to popular belief, Roman Nose never was a Chief, a dog soldier, or the leader of any of the Cheyenne military societies. He was however, known to all as one of the greatest Cheyenne warriors to ever live and the greatest leader during any and all combat situations.
Roman Nose was driven by his hatred of the white man, and the U.S. Government in particular for breaking the treaties they had signed with his people in the mid-1860’s. Following the Sand Creek Massacre on November 29th, 1864 where some four hundred Indians, mostly older men, women, and children were brutally slaughtered by a group of renegade, U.S. soldiers led by Colonel John Chivington, Roman Nose began his retaliatory attacks against any white settlements he came across along the Platte valley of southwestern Nebraska, western Kansas, and eastern Colorado. Native American author and physician, Charles Eastman, once wrote of Roman Nose, “Perhaps no other warrior attacked more emigrants along the Oregon Trail between 1864 and 1868.”
Some spoke of him as being arrogant and flamboyant. Other’s described him as simply brutal in nature. In April, 1867 General Winfield Hancock sent word to the Cheyenne that he wanted to talk. They sent Roman Nose to Fort Larned to conduct the talks with the white General. Roman Nose arrived at this meeting wearing the uniform of a General in the U.S. military. He had a Spencer carbine rifle hanging from his saddle, four Navy revolvers stuck in his belt, a knife strapped to both of his legs, and a bow, already strung with arrows in his left hand. He started the talks with a simple demand, “talk.” The General knew right then, Roman Nose wouldn’t intimidated and it didn’t to him one way or the other, whether they talked or they fought.
Meanwhile, back at their campsite along the Republican River, Lieutenant Forsyth was well aware of the stories surrounding, Roman Nose. He was also aware of the fact that, Roman Nose was among the War Party they were planning to engage in the morning.
About an hour after they had eaten, Forsyth gathered his men to inform them the forward scouts had just returned and reported seeing as many as 150 Indian warriors camped in a ravine about a half a mile west of their position. He explained to them they were probably going to be outnumbered by at least three to one. With that in mind his plan was to catch them off guard while they were still sleeping. He told his men they’d have to have their horses saddled and to be ready to head out by 4:00 the next morning. He told them to make sure their guns were in good working order and to get as much rest as they could.
He rode up to visit with the sentries he had posted along the hills surrounding the camp to make sure they knew what their job was. He instructed each man to fire a single shot if he saw any movement at all. He stressed that he only wanted the shot to come from the direction of the movement. In case of a surprise attack, he wanted to be able to tell where it was coming from. He reminded them that the lives of every single member of their party depended on them doing the job they had volunteered for, and one by one, he asked each one of them if they were still up to it. He told them, if they wanted to back out, now was the time.
Maybe you’ve visited Beecher Island, stop on by the blog this week and tell us your story at: www.rm235.blogspot.com
I talked about Lieutenant Forsyth leading a group of fifty-one men in search of a band renegade Indians. Forsyth and his men had caught up the Indians they had been pursuing on the afternoon of September 17th, 1868 just west of Fort Wallace, which was located in the westernmost part of Kansas. In order to rest his men, Forsyth ordered them to make camp in a small valley along the Republican River early that evening, and Forsyth and his second in command, Lieutenant Fredrick H. Beecher had retreated to their tent to plan their next move and to await their date with destiny.
Alright, this week, I’m going to tell you the story about one of the main players they were going up against, Cheyenne Chief, Roman Nose.
First off, the white’s had his name wrong. He was given the Indian name by his people, Woqini, (Arched Nose or Hooked Nose.) It was the white’s who interpreted it as Roman Nose. Anyway, the name stuck. He was a giant of a man, he stood well over six feet tall, and was an imposing figure on the battlefield who literally struck fear into the hearts of his enemies with his straight, in your face style of battle. He conducted himself in battle to such a high degree that the Generals in the U.S. military considered him the Chief of the entire Cheyenne nation.
Contrary to popular belief, Roman Nose never was a Chief, a dog soldier, or the leader of any of the Cheyenne military societies. He was however, known to all as one of the greatest Cheyenne warriors to ever live and the greatest leader during any and all combat situations.
Roman Nose was driven by his hatred of the white man, and the U.S. Government in particular for breaking the treaties they had signed with his people in the mid-1860’s. Following the Sand Creek Massacre on November 29th, 1864 where some four hundred Indians, mostly older men, women, and children were brutally slaughtered by a group of renegade, U.S. soldiers led by Colonel John Chivington, Roman Nose began his retaliatory attacks against any white settlements he came across along the Platte valley of southwestern Nebraska, western Kansas, and eastern Colorado. Native American author and physician, Charles Eastman, once wrote of Roman Nose, “Perhaps no other warrior attacked more emigrants along the Oregon Trail between 1864 and 1868.”
Some spoke of him as being arrogant and flamboyant. Other’s described him as simply brutal in nature. In April, 1867 General Winfield Hancock sent word to the Cheyenne that he wanted to talk. They sent Roman Nose to Fort Larned to conduct the talks with the white General. Roman Nose arrived at this meeting wearing the uniform of a General in the U.S. military. He had a Spencer carbine rifle hanging from his saddle, four Navy revolvers stuck in his belt, a knife strapped to both of his legs, and a bow, already strung with arrows in his left hand. He started the talks with a simple demand, “talk.” The General knew right then, Roman Nose wouldn’t intimidated and it didn’t to him one way or the other, whether they talked or they fought.
Meanwhile, back at their campsite along the Republican River, Lieutenant Forsyth was well aware of the stories surrounding, Roman Nose. He was also aware of the fact that, Roman Nose was among the War Party they were planning to engage in the morning.
About an hour after they had eaten, Forsyth gathered his men to inform them the forward scouts had just returned and reported seeing as many as 150 Indian warriors camped in a ravine about a half a mile west of their position. He explained to them they were probably going to be outnumbered by at least three to one. With that in mind his plan was to catch them off guard while they were still sleeping. He told his men they’d have to have their horses saddled and to be ready to head out by 4:00 the next morning. He told them to make sure their guns were in good working order and to get as much rest as they could.
He rode up to visit with the sentries he had posted along the hills surrounding the camp to make sure they knew what their job was. He instructed each man to fire a single shot if he saw any movement at all. He stressed that he only wanted the shot to come from the direction of the movement. In case of a surprise attack, he wanted to be able to tell where it was coming from. He reminded them that the lives of every single member of their party depended on them doing the job they had volunteered for, and one by one, he asked each one of them if they were still up to it. He told them, if they wanted to back out, now was the time.
Maybe you’ve visited Beecher Island, stop on by the blog this week and tell us your story at: www.rm235.blogspot.com
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Beecher Island: Part One
I know, let’s talk politics today. Ah, just kidding. Actually, I’ve got a really cool story to tell about a road-trip I took a couple weeks ago.
Those of you who read this column on a regular basis know I’m somewhat interested in history, especially the mid-1800’s. It was a time of great change in our country. But it was also a time of great danger.
This is a story about a place I visited in the far, north-eastern corner of Colorado called “Beecher Island,” and in order to do the story any kind of justice at all, I’m probably going to have to spread it out over the next two or three weeks. Maybe four. Besides, I’m sure by now, some of you have grown tired of me going on and on about Obama and his liberal friends anyway. How about it, you ready to take a step back in time?
Beecher Island is the site of one of the fiercest battles between the Plains Indians and elements of the 7th Cavalry during the time America was expanding westward. And just for the record, I’m not telling this story to take sides between the whites and the Indians either. I’m just telling the story.
It was the summer of 1868. General, Phillip Sheridan was becoming frustrated by his 7th Cavalry’s inability to stop the ongoing, brutal attacks against white settlers by the Indian tribes of the western plains. He decided the best way to combat this problem was to form smaller, well-equipped (I’ll get to the well-equipped part in another column) detachments of civilian volunteers to pursue and punish these tribes whenever and wherever they found them. He reasoned it would be easier for a smaller detachment on horses to move around than it would be for an entire Cavalry unit. In August of 1868, he appointed Lieutenant, George Forsyth to head up just such a detachment.
Lieutenant, Forsyth was stationed at Fort Hays at the time. He put the word out and before long he had signed up fifty-one men willing to join him in this fight. Many of the men who volunteered had been victims of earlier Indian attacks themselves. Some had lost loved one’s or good friends and were looking for revenge. In just a short time they were ready and headed west along the trade routes looking for signs of any marauding Indians they could find.
Forsyth and his men reached Fort Wallace late in the afternoon of September, 14th. The Governor of Colorado had sent word to the commander of the fort that there had been another brutal attack in eastern Colorado. Seventy-nine men, women, and children had been slaughtered over the course of the last few days and they were looking for any kind of help they could get.
The group of volunteers from Fort Hays were on their way early the next morning. It wasn’t long before Forsyth’s scouts picked up what seemed to be fresh tracks of a huge band of Indians. They followed the tracks late into the evening.
They got an early start the next morning, Sept.16th, and by that afternoon they had caught a glimpse or two of the Indians they had been pursuing. Because of the distance and the rugged landscape of the prairie, Forsyth and his men couldn’t tell exactly how many Indians they preparing to go up against. But he did know, he and his men were woefully outnumbered. He also knew the Indians were well aware of the fact they were being followed, so the element of surprise he had hoped for was gone.
He needed time to plan his next move. And he knew his men needed to rest, so he ordered them to make camp where they were. He gave them extra provisions that evening. He figured they were camped in a good spot. They were in a small valley just a few hundred yards north of the Republican River. There were hills to the north and south of their position. He posted extra men on top of these hills to guard against a surprise attack.
Under a bright, moon lit sky that night, the men ate till they were full for a change. Afterwards, they broke up into small groups. Some of them talked nervously about the battle that was sure to come in the morning. Some of them used the time to clean their guns and check their ammunition supplies. Who knows, some of them probably even said a prayer or two.
Lieutenant, Forsyth and his second in command, Lieutenant, Frederick H. Beecher retreated to their tent to make their plans. And I’d be willing to bet that they too might have said a silent prayer themselves. For tomorrow they’d more than likely meet their destiny.
Okay, maybe I’ve got some of the details wrong here. Maybe not. But if you’d like to join in on the conversation, stop by the blog this week at: www.rm235.blogspot.com
Those of you who read this column on a regular basis know I’m somewhat interested in history, especially the mid-1800’s. It was a time of great change in our country. But it was also a time of great danger.
This is a story about a place I visited in the far, north-eastern corner of Colorado called “Beecher Island,” and in order to do the story any kind of justice at all, I’m probably going to have to spread it out over the next two or three weeks. Maybe four. Besides, I’m sure by now, some of you have grown tired of me going on and on about Obama and his liberal friends anyway. How about it, you ready to take a step back in time?
Beecher Island is the site of one of the fiercest battles between the Plains Indians and elements of the 7th Cavalry during the time America was expanding westward. And just for the record, I’m not telling this story to take sides between the whites and the Indians either. I’m just telling the story.
It was the summer of 1868. General, Phillip Sheridan was becoming frustrated by his 7th Cavalry’s inability to stop the ongoing, brutal attacks against white settlers by the Indian tribes of the western plains. He decided the best way to combat this problem was to form smaller, well-equipped (I’ll get to the well-equipped part in another column) detachments of civilian volunteers to pursue and punish these tribes whenever and wherever they found them. He reasoned it would be easier for a smaller detachment on horses to move around than it would be for an entire Cavalry unit. In August of 1868, he appointed Lieutenant, George Forsyth to head up just such a detachment.
Lieutenant, Forsyth was stationed at Fort Hays at the time. He put the word out and before long he had signed up fifty-one men willing to join him in this fight. Many of the men who volunteered had been victims of earlier Indian attacks themselves. Some had lost loved one’s or good friends and were looking for revenge. In just a short time they were ready and headed west along the trade routes looking for signs of any marauding Indians they could find.
Forsyth and his men reached Fort Wallace late in the afternoon of September, 14th. The Governor of Colorado had sent word to the commander of the fort that there had been another brutal attack in eastern Colorado. Seventy-nine men, women, and children had been slaughtered over the course of the last few days and they were looking for any kind of help they could get.
The group of volunteers from Fort Hays were on their way early the next morning. It wasn’t long before Forsyth’s scouts picked up what seemed to be fresh tracks of a huge band of Indians. They followed the tracks late into the evening.
They got an early start the next morning, Sept.16th, and by that afternoon they had caught a glimpse or two of the Indians they had been pursuing. Because of the distance and the rugged landscape of the prairie, Forsyth and his men couldn’t tell exactly how many Indians they preparing to go up against. But he did know, he and his men were woefully outnumbered. He also knew the Indians were well aware of the fact they were being followed, so the element of surprise he had hoped for was gone.
He needed time to plan his next move. And he knew his men needed to rest, so he ordered them to make camp where they were. He gave them extra provisions that evening. He figured they were camped in a good spot. They were in a small valley just a few hundred yards north of the Republican River. There were hills to the north and south of their position. He posted extra men on top of these hills to guard against a surprise attack.
Under a bright, moon lit sky that night, the men ate till they were full for a change. Afterwards, they broke up into small groups. Some of them talked nervously about the battle that was sure to come in the morning. Some of them used the time to clean their guns and check their ammunition supplies. Who knows, some of them probably even said a prayer or two.
Lieutenant, Forsyth and his second in command, Lieutenant, Frederick H. Beecher retreated to their tent to make their plans. And I’d be willing to bet that they too might have said a silent prayer themselves. For tomorrow they’d more than likely meet their destiny.
Okay, maybe I’ve got some of the details wrong here. Maybe not. But if you’d like to join in on the conversation, stop by the blog this week at: www.rm235.blogspot.com
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