Chapter 6 #2
“General Michael Trelawny is in fine health, young man, but he’s not getting any younger! You need to marry, Sloan. Settle down. Give him grandchildren.”
Sloan winced inwardly but kept a smile on his face. “Myra, you’ll be quite pleased then. I’ve married.”
Her jaw fell and she stared at him, amazed.
“What’s this?” boomed a gruff voice.
Sloan turned to see that his grandfather had come into the foyer.
He was a tall, thin man with a military bearing.
His eyes were a flashing hazel, his thick hair, silver.
His face was clean-shaven, with classical contours and angles that made him an arrestingly handsome man, even at the age of seventy-three.
Sloan was strangely aware then, facing his grandfather, that he had inherited his grandfather’s physique and facial features, even if his coloring was all his father’s.
All Sioux.
He smiled, for though General Michael Trelawny could be a fierce-looking man, he was a good, fair one as well—who loved his grandson, regardless of the circumstances of his birth.
Sloan strode across the foyer, embracing his grandfather, glad to feel the fierce strength behind the embrace he received in return.
Then Michael drew away, looking him up and down, much as Myra had done.
“You look fine, son. You look fine. Now what’s this about marriage? ”
A slow, wry smile curved Sloan’s lips. He thought it a pity now that his sense of guilt had caused him to let Sabrina return with Hawk and Skylar, at her leisure.
“It’s true, General. I’ve married.”
“Myra! Champagne. It’s a miracle!” Michael Trelawny said dryly. “Come, son, tell me about it.”
“Make it Grandfather’s best Tennessee bourbon, Myra,” Sloan advised.
“Make it bourbon,” Michael agreed.
He set an arm around Sloan’s shoulder and led him into his library, an expansive room to the left of the foyer, rich with mahogany bookshelves and fine leather furniture, along with an excellent display of maps on the far wall.
He seated Sloan in one of the thickly upholstered chairs in front of the fire, perching on his desk himself and staring at his grandson with amusement and pleasure.
“A wife! I will be damned. You warned me time and again you had no intent of marrying. Who is the young woman?”
Sloan smiled. “Hawk’s sister-in-law, Grandfather. Her name is Sabrina.”
“A White woman?” Michael was careful to keep the relief from his voice.
“She is a White woman, Grandfather, yes.”
Michael sighed, looking down at his hands.
“I’m not judging, Sloan. Whomever you might have chosen to marry, I’d have found it in my old heart to be glad for you.
And I’d have loved your children—as I came to love you.
But Sloan, even in your absence, the picture here has grown blacker.
Have you heard any news regarding the situation in your homeland? ”
Sloan shook his head, frowning. “I came right here, as quickly as transportation would allow.”
“Well, then—” Michael began, but broke off. “Where is this wife you’ve acquired?”
“I—I have to report back to duty, sir. Sabrina had suffered…a minor illness. She’ll be coming back quite soon with Hawk and her sister.”
“Ah,” Michael said, staring at him. “I understand.”
Sloan hoped that he didn’t. If there was anyone in the world he didn’t want to hurt, it was Michael Trelawny.
“So…”
Michael threw up his hands. “Where is Myra with that bourbon?”
As if on cue, Myra appeared, silver tray in hand, with glasses and a decanter on top of it.
“The thickest steaks in the country are on the menu for dinner, Sloan. Cook is so delighted, and wait until Georgia hears that you are here; she will swoon!”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Myra. Aunt Georgia is actually a touchy old bird.”
“Sloan!” Myra said.
“If given half the opportunity, Georgia could have out-led half the commanders in the Civil War—including the intelligent and talented men we lost to the South!” the general said. “Now leave that bourbon and go elsewhere to prattle on, Myra. We’ve business here.”
“Yessir, General!” Myra said, winking at Sloan and departing the room with a swish of her skirts.
Sloan, staring down at the bourbon she’d poured for him, had to smile.
“Now, mind you, I don’t think that Grant is such a bad man,” Michael Trelawny said.
“I never faulted him for lack of courage, and that’s a fine fact.
He was a cunning general; I’m afraid he’s not so good a president.
He is giving key military positions to old friends, regardless of whether they’re corrupt or inept.
There’s all kind of cries about graft going on, and often the worst of it is in the War Department. ”
Michael rose, walking to one of the maps on the wall. Sloan narrowed his eyes, studying the map his grandfather was pointing at. It was a map that showed the three army administrative regions presently in operation.
Michael slammed a palm against the map. “Grant is president; Sherman becomes the head of the United States Army—under Secretary of War William W. Belknap. Sherman despises Belknap, and not without good reason. All right; bear with me—you’re giving me that look that obviously means you know these things, but follow me and I’ll get to my point.
“Three sections, three generals right under Sherman. You’ve got ‘Little Phil’ Sheridan in the Division of the Missouri—encompassing Sioux lands.
You fought with both men, and you know them.
Hard fighters, determined men—they follow their orders.
And yes, I grant you, Sherman has often said that any Indian killed this year won’t have to be killed next year—not because he has a personal hatred for the Indians, but because he knows.
He knows that gold has been found in the Black Hills, and he knows that the Whites are just going to keep going west, and that eventually they’ll completely outnumber the Plains Indians…
he knows that there has to be a solution to the conflict between the Indians and the Whites. ”
“I am in the military, Grandfather.”
But Michael only nodded. “Living here in the East after I fought so long in the West, I’m still amazed at times how little the people here understand.
They think that all Indians are the same.
They have no knowledge of the tribal wars that have gone on for more than a century.
If a Pawnee kills a settler, they think you might as well kill a Sioux for revenge.
If a Sioux attacks a wagon train, you should round up and slaughter the Nez Percé.
They don’t begin to understand what’s going on, so they pressure the politicians to order the military to kill the Indians.
And, ironically, there are many men in the army who know and respect the Indians and have friends among them.
But I tell you, son, so far the military remains damned legitimate in this upheaval—despite the fact that Belknap is a master of corruption!
“But the truth of the matter is that much of the trouble has come from the fact that Grant put the Department of Indian Affairs under the jurisdiction of all sorts of moral dictators—religious zealots and fools who don’t begin to understand that in their concept of ‘civilizing’ the Indian, they’re asking the Indian not to be an Indian!
They’re asking him to grow food crops on land where weeds won’t grow.
It’s a sorry state, and the latest news is that the government has issued an ultimatum that all Indians must report to their agencies by January thirty-first. Any Indians who haven’t reported in and are straying from their contractual lands are to be considered hostile.
Sherman is hoping for a quick war; to be honest, I think the generals are praying that the Sioux hotheads don’t report to their agencies, because they want an excuse to go in and fight, and get it over with. ”
His grandfather’s prize bourbon seemed to burn in Sloan’s stomach. Michael Trelawny had it pegged right for damned certain; the only way the Whites would abide the Indians was if the Indians became White.
How could you ask a man like Crazy Horse—a fierce warrior who nonetheless was just, fair, conscientious, and spiritual—to cease to ride the plains, to hunt, to fight for his freedom and his rights?
How could you ask such a man to become an agency Indian?
The government had supposedly bought land for the allotments that were then given to the Indians.
But that’s where the corruption was at its zenith: government contractors took enormous kickbacks.
If the Indians received grain, it was rat-infested.
If they received meat, it was of the poorest quality.
The whiskey that came their way was sheer rotgut.
And even if conditions at the agencies had been far better, most Whites still couldn’t grasp the fact that each warrior was an individual. The White army was organized; Plains warriors fought for individual pride and honor. They were not obliged to follow the dictates of one chief.
Red Cloud had been a great warrior, Sloan reminded himself, but he had seen that the future lay in dealing with the Whites, and he led on a peace platform.
Still, many braves were leaving the reservations just when the army was preparing to exterminate all hostiles—because Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse were leaders who still saw that there was open land, far from the Whites, and there could be no peace between peoples who led such different ways of life.
To the Indians, the land belonged to all men.
To the Whites, the land was something to be claimed and owned.