The Sand Creek Massacre.

  "All we ask is that we have peace with the whites. We want to hold you by the hand. You are our father. We have been travelling through a cloud. The sky has been dark ever since the war began. These braves who are with me are willing to do what I say. We want to take good tidings home to our people, that they may sleep in peace. I want you to give all these chiefs of the soldiers here to understand that we are for peace, and that we have made peace, that we may not be mistaken by them for enemies. I have not come here with a little wolf bark, but have come to talk plain with you."

Motavato (Black Kettle) speaking to Gov. Evans, Col. Chivington, Maj. Wynkoop & others in Denver, autumn, 1864

Just before the massacre…

The story…

   The old man climbed with care out of the tipi, his long grey hair being gently caressed by the morning breeze, and with some effort he rose a little unsteadily to his feet. When upright he looked slowly around him. He pretended not to see the group of young boys standing a short distance away. They had been waiting patiently all morning for him to emerge. Now with eager eyes they were all watching him closely.
   “Come.” He called out to them. He made his way over to the smouldering fire. Bending down he placed a log upon the glowing embers
   Slowly they came. Uncertain and unsure, their conduct brought on more by awe, respect, and a reverence then a feeling of fright. The old man indicated for them to sit around the fire. When they were all seated and settled he allowed himself to smile.
   “Will you tell us your story again Grandfather?” Spoke one of the boys.
   “Have you not heard it enough times?” The old man asked. He sighed then slowly sat down alongside them upon the ground.
   “Once more please Grandfather.” Another pleaded.
   “It hurts both my head and heart to remember such things.” He confessed.
   “But how shall we remember if nobody is willing to tell us the stories Grandfather?”
   The old man thought long and hard about this question. Finally he looked across at the one who had spoken and said.
   “Remember this well, for the next time this story is told, it should be each of you who tell it… My time here is almost done. Hold my words close to your heart so that they may live on after I am no more.” And so he began the story, a story he had told many times, while the boys listened so that the story could live on after the old man had gone.   

   ‘I was very young, much younger than you are now, when I played upon the dry riverbed at Sand Creek. Then I did not know what I know now. I was happy. Our Chiefs Black Kettle and White Antelope, along with Little Raven and Left Hand of our brother Arapaho, had been to Washington and had seen the white Chief Abraham Lincoln. As a sign of friendship the white chief had given Black Kettle a flag, and White Antelope a peace medal. We were told that as long as the flag flew in our village the soldiers would know we were friends and that they would never attack us. Some said there was medicine in these things. I saw both the medal, and the flag many times when I was young, but I did not think they had any medicine at all. That is all I remember of those things. Some said they would protect us, but they did not, where are they now? Gone like those murdered at Sand Creek.
   It was early morning when they came. Led by that coward and lowly dog Chivington. He was not brave enough to meet our warriors on the battlefield; instead he chose to launch a surprise attack against a village of women, children and old men.
   When they attacked they ignored the American flag of Lincoln, and the white flag of peace, that Black Kettle always flew outside his tipi to show that we were at peace. They came looking for blood to spill, and spill it they did. They did not care whether it was the blood of young or old, man, woman or child.
   The men who murdered and butchered that day were the cowards of the Third Colorado Regiment. Seven hundred men who were the most cowardly low dogs that ever wore the blue. I know who they are, and what they did, because I saw them with my own eyes. I am witness to the terrible things they did that day. And yet these same dogs called us savages. But it was not us who killed senselessly as they did. We did not butcher the way they did. Neither did we wear their women’s private parts as trophies, as the men did that day.
   Nothing have I seen or done has ever matched anything those cowardly dogs did that day. They proved that day that the white man would do, or kill, anything to get what he wants. Some said they must have been drunk on the white man’s firewater to act the way they did. I say they needed no firewater to kill, they were drunk on the idea of murder and they thirsted for nothing but our blood.
    When the killing started, and we knew the white soldiers were attacking the village, my mother carried me in her arms from our tipi. I was half dressed and the weather was very cold. I could hear the rifles exploding around us. When we were a good distance from the village she placed me down, hiding me inside a hollow in the ground. Then she said to me.
   ‘I have to go back and get your grandmother little one, stay here and wait for us.’
   Those were the last words she spoke to me. From my hiding place I watched her run back into the village and then she was lost from my sight. Someone later told me she and my grandmother had died holding each other pleading for life. But the whites did not have ears that day. I wish she had kissed me goodbye. I did not see her or my grandmother again.
   From where she had placed me I could see the actions of the soldiers and hear their rejoicing and laughter as they slaughtered all before them. I watched as they chased down the women and cut them open with their long knives. One of my childhood friends Little Elk, the same age as I, was caught trying to escape the killing. They smashed him about his head with their rifle butts. They did this until his brain spilled out upon the ground. I did not believe such cruelty existed, but I saw it with my own eyes.
   They snatched crying babies from their mother’s arms shot them and split them open with their long knives. Their mothers were forced to watch the death of their children before the soldiers then tortured and murdered them. Although they were dead the soldiers still had not finished. They then set about mutilating the bodies of those laying about, men, women, and children alike.
   The few men who were in the village put up brave resistance, otherwise nobody would have survived that day. I saw our warriors selflessly give their lives in order to protect their families. I saw one brave, Screaming Eagle; kill three blue coats before they managed to kill him. Oh how my heart soared as I saw him kill those three cowardly dogs. Throughout my time, since that day till this, I have kept in my possession an eagle feather in memory of one so brave.
   For a long time I hated all whites. Because of what they did, killing then mutilating the bodies of the dead. I know they cut one unborn babe from out of the mother’s belly. What kind of lowly dog does this? For a long time after I wanted to kill them all. Do to them what they did to my grandmother and mother, and my friend Little Elk, and all those who were murdered and mutilated that day. I wanted them to know the hatred in me. I wanted them to live in fear of my name and my deeds. When the name ‘Raging Bull’ was spoken I wanted them to fear my presence. But then as time moved on and the warrior I once was became but a distant memory, I began to realise just how hard it was for one with bones so old to still ride out to do battle with the white man.
   So I chose another way to fight the white men and those of their race who spread their lies about me. I fight them with the truth. I ventured to tell all who would listen, and more importantly those who would not, all about what happened that day. I describe to them the massacre of which I bore witness, on that day, now so long ago, at the place called Sand Creek. And I will keep on telling them until the breath in my body is no more.
   All that I ask of each of you now is this… when I travel the path into the Sacred Hoop, after my bones have turned to dust, when people begin to forget Sand Creek, I ask that each of you continue on with the truth. Do not let those who were murdered that day be forgotten.’

   The old man slowly rose to his feet. The boys sat silently. They did not see the tears in his eyes or the pain in his heart, for that was his way. But they would remember his words long after he was no more.   

  Copyright © William Purcell July 2004 

After the massacre…

FOOTNOTE.

   Black Kettle and his people that survived Sand Creek made their way to Smokey Hill, a march of fifty miles through the snow, to join up with their warriors. Many were wounded, they had no food and their only clothes were the few they already wore. They were taken in and cared for, the orphan children accepted by families.
   Black Kettle still spoke for peace but his voice was drowned below those who spoke for war against the people who had done this. Although he still had his followers, his position of influence among the Cheyenne was much reduced.
   Much happened in the years that followed. The Comanche and Kiowa, long time enemies of the Lakota and Sististas embraced them as friends and were likewise embraced. All four tribes kept away from the whites wherever possible, or raided farms and homesteads in revenge for Sand Creek. Through all this Black Kettle still spoke for walking the path of peace with the Whites.
   Such was the way four years later Black Kettle spoke peace to a soldier chief by the name of Custer. He re-asserted his peaceful ways and said he would always consider the white man to be his friend. After all, he still had the flag from the Great Father to prove he was a friend. Perhaps his words to Custer were not convincing enough or perhaps Custer chose not to listen. As Black Kettle left the meeting he told Custer that should he want to speak to him during the winter he would find him camped on the Washita River.

As we know, and history will remember, Custer did find him at the Washita...