CHANKPE OPI WAKPALA.

I did not know then how much was ended. When I look back now from this high hill of my old age, I can still see the butchered women and children lying heaped and scattered all along the crooked gulch as plain as when I first saw them with eyes still young. And I can see that something else died there in the bloody mud, and was buried in the blizzard. A people’s dream died there. It was a beautiful dream…the nation’s hoop is broken and scattered. There is no center any longer, and the sacred tree is dead.

BLACK ELK.

CHANKPE OPI WAKPALA.
(WOUNDED KNEE.)

   I was but a child when in that dreadful winter of 1890 I witnessed the death of the last of our great chiefs. I was also there to bare witness as the Long Knives murdered every member of my own family as well. I can still picture it all in my mind’s eye as if it had happened only yesterday. In the days leading up to the slaughter I remember having a strong sense of being afraid of an icy death. For the cold seemed to penetrate through even the thickest of buffalo robes. Snow lay thickly all around us and the air was heavy with the haunting clouds of whiteness that shrouded our every breath. Even when we huddled around the glowing embers of our campfires at night the cold still seemed to find a way into our bones. Being hungry, tired and afraid were also feelings that I can still recall from that time. But the overpowering memory that I can still recall is of feeling so utterly cold.
   We encountered the Bluecoats shortly before we reached Porcupine Creek. They informed Big Foot, our chief, that he would have to take his people and camp by the creek that the People called ‘Chankpe Opi Wakpala.’ The whites knew this place as Wounded Knee Creek. It was to this very spot that another great and famous Oglala Lakota warrior, whom the whites called Crazy Horse, is said to have wanted his heart to be buried. We were heading that way and so Big Foot agreed. Chankpe Opi Wakpala is a beautiful place and in my old age as I look out upon it now I can see why a great warrior would want to be buried there. Now it is a sacred place, forever special to my heart, because of the blood that was shed there, in those times, long ago.
   The four columns of Bluecoats that we first encountered as we journeyed towards Pine Ridge were of the same regiment that had once been commanded by that rascal ‘The Prince of Thieves’ or ‘Yellow Hair’ as some called him. You however might know him by his white name George Armstrong Custer. The once mighty commander of the Seventh U.S. Cavalry who, along with his regiment, met his death at the Little Bighorn River fourteen years before.

Our journey through the freezing temperatures and the falling snow began shortly after we received word about the death of Chief Sitting Bull. We could not believe that this great Hunkpapa warrior was no more. I remember women crying as those of his band, who had seen him murdered, recounted the story of how two Indian policemen, Bull Head and Red Tomahawk, had shot and killed their chief who was himself unarmed. This was a great loss to the Lakota people and nation. Sitting Bull had been a reluctant believer in the new religion of the Ghost Dance. But some of us thought that he would be the one who would welcome back our ancestors when they returned to us once more. Some said that maybe Sitting Bull had died so that he might go up into the Hoop of the People so that he could lead them back and make war with the White Man. As if to confirm this they then told us how Sitting Bull’s pony, given to him by Buffalo Bill, rose up on its hind legs and danced during the shooting of the chief. We knew then in our hearts that the pony was indeed taking part in the Ghost Dance.
It was then that our own chief decided to take his small band towards the Pine Ridge Reservation. He was taking us there so we might seek the shelter and the protection from Chief Red Cloud and his larger and more powerful band. They had many young men and their medicine, or so we believed, was powerful enough to protect us from the wrath of the Bluecoats and those whites that wished to see us all dead.
The few young men who had remained with our band of Minneconjou now wore their Ghost shirts, not as a protection from the cold, but in case we encountered the Bluecoats and they wanted to fight us. Because of the Ghost Dance religion of that time our people believed nothing could harm them whilst they wore these sacred shirts. We also believed that the white man would soon disappear entirely when the big floods came, thereby allowing our dead ancestors to return from the Place of Souls. That is what we thought at that time in that cold winter of so long ago.

Our chief had been ill long before our arduous journey out into the wintry conditions. This sickness grew worse as the weather condition steadily deteriorated. His frail body burned with a fever as blood poured from both his mouth and nose. But, although his body was racked with pain he would not give up on his important quest of trying to ensure his little band was safe from the clutches of the whites.
   But our progress was slow because of the large numbers of women and children who could not cope well with the freezing conditions and the deep snow that lay under foot. I remember walking through the snowdrifts that sometimes rose as high as my chin. My mother would frantically pull me up into her arms and hold me close to her breast for fear that she might lose me. She carried me until she was exhausted and could not go on. I pleaded with her to let me down, so that I might walk with the others, but her fears for me were too great and so my pleadings went unanswered.
   It was near Porcupine Creek that our scouts first sighted the Bluecoats. Big Foot immediately ordered a white flag to be shown to the soldiers so that they would know that we did not want to fight. The soldier chief informed us that he had orders to take us to a cavalry camp at Wounded Knee Creek. This we did not mind as we were heading in that direction anyway. The chief Bluecoat then showed some kindness towards our chief for he ordered a wagon brought up and placed Big Foot into it so that we could continue our journey to Wounded Knee Creek which we reached as dusk was following.
   As we made camp for the night there followed a little confusion about whether or not the soldier chief was going to take our weapons away from us. Even though I was young I could sense that my father was not ready, nor willing, to hand over his weapons to a heartless enemy who had in the past slaughtered women and children for the fun of it. Because of the resistance shown by the men of the band, and because night was falling fast, the soldiers allowed us to make camp. They did not want to pursue the matter further for fear of starting a fight while the light was failing fast.

During the long cold night my father, and others, talked about the possibility of sneaking away into the night. But they quickly decided against this as there were far too many women and children that would have to be left behind at the mercy of the Bluecoats. Knowing how these soldiers still felt about their once glorified leader our warrior knew that it would be far too dangerous to leave their families alone, and therefore unprotected, with such a heartless rabble of men.
   That night I slept within the confines of an army tent. It was much smaller than the tipi I was used to. It was thin and coloured white. I lay awake listening to the wind howling outside. The tent did not offer much protection and I have not slept in one since that time. At some stage I must have fallen into a light sleep because when I next opened my eyes the sky was bright and I could hear movements outside. Word reached us that the soldiers were offering out hardtack for breakfast. It was as we lined up to receive our rations that some noticed that more Bluecoats had arrived in the night and that they now surrounded us on all sides. A few of our warriors grew very worried by these events.
   It was then, as we stood around eating, that the big chief of the Bluecoats rode up and announced that we were to hand over all our weapons. The younger men of our band, including my father, did not like this idea. They wanted to keep their weapons until we had arrived safely into the camp of Red Cloud. But it soon become obvious that the soldiers were not going to allow us to proceed until they had disarmed us. Big Foot was carried out so that he could speak to his people. He implored his young men not to put up any force or resistance against the Bluecoats, but wait until the new Messiah came to lead them, then they would once again dance the victory dance of old.
   ‘If these white men want our weapons then they shall have them.’ He told the warriors gathered around him. ‘We will get new guns when they are rubbed out of this world.’

These words seemed to calm most, but not all, for one or two of the younger men were now willing and ready to begin the act of rubbing out of the white man. As the soldiers moved in and began the task of taking our weapons, which included going into our lodges, they threw all our possessions out into the snow as they searched for guns that may have been hidden inside, but they found nothing. Because of these and other acts of total disregard for our few possessions a soft murmuring could be heard from a small section of men who did not want to give up their weapons or be treated in this way.
   My mother sensed that something was about to happen long before anything took place. I remember that she placed herself between the Bluecoats and myself, as if to shield me. But I was young and impetuous and wanted to see what was taking place and tried to move away from her but she held me in a tight grip close to her body.
   When the fighting erupted a short distance from us, without any kind of warning, one of the first to die was Big Foot, our chief, who was far too ill to fight anyway. Later I learned that he too was murdered, along with Sitting Bull and all the others because they were strongly opposed to the white man taking the land, upon which our forefathers had walked, away from us.
   The still cold air was suddenly filled with the sound of thunder as the soldiers carbines spewed out their lethal missiles of death and destruction. In a short space of time the air hung heavy with the smell of gun smoke. Around me I saw women and children fall down into the snow which immediately turned red as their blood seeped into it. As my mother began running she pulled me along after her. We made a dash towards some trees but there were soldiers already there and they began shooting all those who approached. Then the small cannons opened fire.
   My mother let out a long scream before she fell down into the snow. I begged her to get up, all the while trying to pull her to her feet, but she did not move. In my terror I began to cry. I crawled into her arms and lay there hoping that the soldiers would not spot me. The shooting continued for a long time and it was then that I knew that the soldiers intended to kill us all.

Around me I could hear the screams of many mothers as they tried in vain to protect their children from the murderous roar of the small cannons that the Bluecoats were now firing into our camp. The noise of the exploding shells was terrifying to my ears. As I lay on the ground I could feel the earth shaking beneath me. I looked out and I saw a small child, much smaller than I, running across the snow. I watched in terror as a shell exploded close by him. The force lifting him high into the air in a cloud of red blood, before he dropped back down with a thud upon the ground. I could see that one of his arms and a leg had been torn from his crumpled body. I could not look at him any longer for I knew that the child was no more.
As the fighting continued I looked around and saw many bodies laying there in the snow without moving. A few half-naked warriors were trying to protect a small band of women and children as they tried to escape from the killing zone. But the soldier’s carbines easily cut them down. Amongst this group of braves I saw my own father. He gallantly fought on even after many bullets had ripped into his body. Great rivers of blood flowed down his front as he stood to protect those behind him. Around him I could see one or two soldiers dead upon the ground. I saw others who were wounded being carried away. After the warriors had all been killed, my father included, the soldiers continued to fire at the women and children until all had perished before them.
I was stunned by the sheer savagery of what I witnessed that day. I saw things that made me feel sick to my stomach, and still does to this day. I saw women crawling along the icy ground, after having been wounded, and who were then hunted down by those bastards in Blue and tortured purely for the enjoyment that these so called men could gain from hearing them scream out in pain and agony. Children running around crying for their dead mothers and fathers were clubbed across the head with rifle butts until their brains spilled out onto the snow and they fell down dead. Wounded braves were also tortured at the point of a bayonet and I saw several pinned to the ground by as many as five or six bayonets, until they too were dead.

Slowly the noise from the guns died down until there was very little shooting. Occasionally I still heard the sound of laughter as the soldiers moved amongst the fallen and perhaps finding one or two still alive stopped to gather more enjoyment from our suffering and death. I climbed out of my hiding place and stood looking at the carnage around me. I heard the pitiful cries of women and children who were searching the large number of corpses for their loved ones. As I walked blindly towards the body of my dead father I did not see the soldier who raised up his rifle and struck me a powerful blow across the side of the face with the wooden butt.
   My head felt as if a shell had exploded upon it and the force of the blow sent me flying through the air. I then remember laying, face down, in the snow, and in a daze I reached up and touched the side of my head. When I looked at my hand it was covered in blood, and so was the snow. As I turned over on to my back the world started spinning so I closed my eyes. The next thing I remember was that someone was lifting me up and carrying me in their arms. I was placed into the back of a wagon along with several others who were suffering from wounds of various kinds.
   A woman who had lost her own children took pity upon me and pulled me to her bosom. We lay there upon the hard floor of the wagon each taking some comfort from the other. And as the wagon left the scene of such a despicable act of cowardice I felt her breast rise and fall with each sob that racked her body. I confess I could not help the tears that began streaming from my own eyes.
   After a journey that seemed to last a lifetime we were then left throughout most of that bitterly cold night in the backs of the wagons where we lay without any food, water or blankets. As I tried to sleep the pain inside my head made me cry out several times. I heard the woman beside me mumble something which I could not understand. I moved closer to her and asked her to repeat what she had said. She opened her eyes and looked at me, I waited for her to speak, and in the darkness of that night I saw the life in her eyes die. Spread out upon the boards of the wagon and frozen by the conditions was the blood that was her life force, very drop of which was now laid out before me.

As I sat there, once more alone in the world, I began wondering what I should do next now that everyone that I belonged to in this world was dead. It was a terrible thought for one so young to know that he was now an orphan. Then a pair of arms reached into the back of the wagon and once more lifted me into the air. To be honest I no longer cared what was going to happen to me. I had already seen enough of death and it did not worry me anymore. I looked up into the face of the person carrying me and I was shocked to find the face of a young Bluecoat, tears in his eyes, looking down at me. He carried me into a place that had candles burning brightly all around. Then he softly placed me upon a wooden floor that had been covered in hay and wrapped a blanket around me. I lay silently as he gently washed the blood from my face. Even when he unknowingly caused me pain I did not cry out. For I did not want him to see me cry.
When he had finished this task he moved away to help others. I slowly sat up and looked around this strange place to which I had been brought. In the light of the candles my eyes spied a figure that almost stopped my heart from beating. For there hanging upon the cross of the black robes was a figure of a man broken and bleeding. This figure, for some reason, touched my heart. For like me he was bloodied and beaten, hurt and in pain. I lay back down upon my blanket and hoped that the man would not suffer long before the wings of death carried him up into the Hoop of the People.
For the Indian the massacre at Wounded Knee Creek marked the end of our nomadic way of life. The white man had by then successfully stolen, or cheated away, most of our lands from us. Their use of such energy and violence in wanting to rid these sacred lands of our very being was a failed attempt in pure genocide. For their mission was to wipe us out as though we had never existed at all.

Their eyes had become blinded to the fact that we were Human Beings. Entitled as such, under the very Constitution that they themselves fought and died for, to live out our lives within the freedoms granted by a true Democracy that the Founding Fathers of their America had wrestled from the oppressive yoke of the English Red Coats. Or had they so easily forgotten what it was like to be an oppressed race?
And yet who was it who had helped those early settlers to overcome the hardships of those first years? Who was it that had offered them the hand of friendship? History will show how much we were wronged. In my old age I have still not heard one word of apology for the ruthless acts that were committed against my People. Perhaps the United States of America still does not recognise the fact that we are the true natives of this land.

THE END.