Showing posts with label surrender. Show all posts
Showing posts with label surrender. Show all posts

Sunday, October 5, 2025

Chief Joseph Ended His Long March—I Will Fight No More Forever

 

                                    Thunder Rolling Down the Valley--Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce in1877. 

On October 5, 1877 Hinmuuttu-yalatlatThunder Rolling Down the Valleysurrendered the battered and exhausted survivors of his Willowa band to U.S. Army troops under the command of General Nelson A. Miles in the Bear Paw Mountains of the Montana Territory, less than 40 miles south of the Canadian border.  Known to his pursuers as Chief Joseph, the 37 year old had helped lead his band on an epic 1,600 mile fighting retreat across modern Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Wyoming, and Montana in hopes of finding refuge and safety in the land of “The Grandmother Queen.”

Young Joseph, as he would come to be called was born in 1840 in the lush Willowa Valley in what is now the north east corner of Oregon.  His father, Tuekakas, was a hereditary civil, or peace chief, of his people and had taken the name Joseph when baptized by Christian missionaries

The Niimíipu, as they called themselves, were a tribe of fishing and hunting people who were among the first northern tribes west of the Rocky Mountains, to adopt the horse and elements of the Plains horse culture.  They were encountered by the Lewis and Clark expedition in 1805.  The party entrusted the band with their horses when they had to proceed by canoe and were able to retrieve them as agreed on the way back from the Pacific. Confusing them with the Chinook people, who did practice nose piercing, William Clark called them Chopunnish which was rendered in French as Nez Percé, people of the pierced noses.  

 

The Wallowa Valley  in north eastern Oregon, the cherished home of Chief Joseph's Band. 

The thirty or so principle villages and bands of the Nez Percé were spread over wide areas with the Willowa Valley at its heart.  The tribe was peaceful and had generally good relations with Whites as they began to move into Oregon. 

As settling accelerated, Joseph the Elder and other chiefs agreed on a treaty in 1855 establishing a Nez  Percé reservation of 7.7 million acres in present-day Idaho, Washington, and Oregon and maintained most of the traditional tribal lands, including Wallowa Valley.  In 1863 the government demanded more concessions.  Lawyer, who the Whites identified as head chief of the Nez Percé and one other tribal leader signed a new treaty agreeing to move to a 780,000 acres reservation centered around the village of Lapwai in Idaho which did not include the Willowa Valley.  Joseph the Elder and the other chiefs refused to sign and the tribe split between treaty and anti-treaty bands.

Despite the refusal to sign the treaty, the government did not immediately move against the non-treaty bands, who continued to live in their relatively remote homelands for several years.  They did face provocations and incursions by whites, but Joseph the Elder and the other chiefs maintained a strict peace policy and did not allow retaliations for fear of encouraging an Army assault.

In 1871 the Elder Joseph died, leaving leadership of his band to his son, who he instructed, “Never give up the bones of your Father and Mother.”  Beginning in 1873 Joseph began long negotiations with the government in hopes of getting the Willowa Valley included in a new reservation.  In 1877 the government cut off negotiations and gave Joseph a hard deadline to begin relocating his people to the Lapwai reservation.  To avoid war, Joseph reluctantly agreed.  But he was only offered land on the Idaho reservation that was already occupied by other Nez Percé bands and by squatting Whites.  Although the Army offered to clear these people out to make way for his band, Joseph refused because it was not their tribal tradition to take what did not belong to them.

General Oliver Howard gave the band thirty days to move with their livestock or be considered renegades and attacked.  Joseph called a council where he advised acceding to the demands to avoid war.  Another prominent leader, Too-hul-hul-sote advocated war.  During a second council, the chiefs received word that impatient young warriors had acted on their own, killing four Whites and taking their horses.  Realizing that war was inevitable, but unwinnable, Joseph determined to lead his people to safety among their traditional friends the Crow or, failing that, to refuge from the Army in Canada.

 

 Chief Joseph later posed with General John Gibbon whose troops were defeated by the Nez Perce at the Big Hole Fight.

Eight hundred men women and children began to move, pursued by 2,000 troops.  Joseph was not a war leader and was not responsible for the brilliant tactical retreat that stymied the Cavalry at every hand while trying to avoid pitch battles or even molesting white settlers when they were encountered.  War leaders used rear-guard actions, field fortifications, and a tactic of bands falling back, leapfrogging fresh warriors, and then setting up new defense lines.  They also employed advance scouts and guards to avoid being encircled or flanked.  General Howard was so impressed with the conduct of the retreat that he compared it to campaigns of classical antiquity.

After escaping east through the narrow Lolo Pass, the band turned to the south.  There was a sharp fight at Big Hole and another at Camas Meadows. Both times the band escaped capture

Tourists in Yellowstone Park were startled to encounter the retreating band as it crossed from west to east but were unmolested by the fleeing Indians. 

  

Pursuing General Oliver O. Howard compared the fighting retreat of Chief Joseph's band to the campaigns of classic antiquity. 

But no matter how skillfully conducted, each clash cost the lives of irreplaceable warriors and the long trek without fresh supplies or time to stop for hunting caused widespread hunger and hardship among the people

After the Crow, a tribe who firmly allied themselves with the Army and whose braves served as the most reliable of cavalry scouts, betrayed their old friends, the band turned north for a final dash for the border.

 

 Chief Joseph's surrender speech to Generals Nelson A. Miles.and Oliver O.Howard.

General Miles’s fresh troops caught them at the Bear Paw Mountains.  After a five day fight with most of his war chiefs and warriors dead, and his people too exhausted to make a final three or four day dash to the border, Joseph offered his surrender.

Joseph’s famous surrender speech was recorded by Lieutenant Charles Erskine Scott Wood, who would later achieve some recognition as a poet.  Modern scholars believe that Wood may have embellished Joseph’s words, although all witnesses reported being moved by his dignity and eloquence.  As Wood recorded it, Joseph said:

Tell General Howard I know his heart. What he told me before, I have it in my heart. I am tired of fighting. Our chiefs are killed; Looking Glass is dead, Too-hul-hul-sote is dead. The old men are all dead. It is the young men who say yes or no. He who led on the young men is dead. It is cold, and we have no blankets; the little children are freezing to death. My people, some of them, have run away to the hills, and have no blankets, no food. No one knows where they are—perhaps freezing to death. I want to have time to look for my children, and see how many of them I can find. Maybe I shall find them among the dead. Hear me, my chiefs! I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.

The story of the plight of the Nez Percé and of Chief Joseph stirred up considerable sympathy in the Eastern press.  But sympathy did them little good.  Despite promises of at least being reunited with their fellow Nez Percé on the Idaho reservation, Joseph and 400 survivors were taken to Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas in unheated cattle cars.  They were interred there for eight months and then sent to the totally alien environment of a reservation in Indian Territory (modern Oklahoma) where disease continued to take its toll.

In 1879 Joseph went to Washington to appeal to President Rutherford B. Hayes.  But it was not until 1885 that his band was finally allowed to return to the Northwest.  They were assigned to a reservation at the Colville Indian Reservation with 11 other tribes.  This was far from both the Willowa and the other Nez Percé in Idaho.  Joseph remained the chief of his people until he died in 1904.

 

 

Tuesday, April 9, 2024

When the Cannons Ceased to Roar—National Poetry Month 2024

Grant and Lee at Appomattox.  Grant was carelessly, but customarily, dressed in the blouse of a private soldier with his rank straps sewn to his shoulders, his boots scuffed and muddy.  Lee was resplendent in his best dress uniform with golden sash and gleaming boots.  They recalled they had met as comrades in another war.

159 years ago today, April 9, 1865, Robert E. Lee offered up his sword  in surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia to Ulysses S Grant, Commanding General of the United States Army.  Grant gallantly refused to accept it and in fact let all officers of the Confederate force retain their side arms and personal mounts.  In the popular imagination, this act was the end of the Civil War.

In fact, it just represented the collapse of the major army facing the Unions main forces, the Armies of the Potomac and the James.  Although the Confederate Government and President Jefferson Davis were on the lam, they hadn’t surrendered.  One by one the other armies capitulated, the last in far-away Texas where the last soldiers fruitlessly fell on May 15.

In the mid-19th Century poetry was still the most popular literary form in America.  Everybody read it.  And it seems everyone literate enough to scratch out his or her name, tried their hand at it.  The events leading up to, during, and after the war were all documented in the popular press, both North and South as much by poetry as by battlefield dispatches.  Probably tens of thousands were published in newspapers and gazettes both small and large.   The vast majority, of course, were dreadful—mostly breast beating and cheering for each respective side or later maudlin in grieving for loss.  But some by poets famous, obscure, and anonymous painted a vivid picture of the bloody turning point of American history.

 

                                     Herman Melville in 1861.

Herman Melville was a struggling, nay failing, literary man in 1866 when he issued a collection of poems about the war, most of which had appeared in the press.  Like almost everything else he had written, Battle Pieces and Aspects of the War sold poorly and was snubbed by most critics.  Melville was forced to take a patronage job as a Port of New York Customs Inspector to support his family.  But the verses were far above average and taken together trace the course of the conflict.  He starts before Fort Sumter with the execution of John Brown, a hero to him as for many of his New England Unitarian and Abolitionist friends.

The Portent

 

Hanging from the beam,

      Slowly swaying (such the law),

Gaunt the shadow on your green,

      Shenandoah!

The cut is on the crown

      (Lo, John Brown),

And the stabs shall heal no more.

 

Hidden in the cap

      Is the anguish none can draw;

So your future veils its face,

      Shenandoah!

But the streaming beard is shown

      (Weird John Brown),

The meteor of the war.

 

——Herman Melville

                    As imagined by John Greenleaf Whittier--Barbara Frietche and her flag.

At war’s onset John Greenleaf Whittier had to make a terrible choice.  Known far and wide as the Quaker Poet he had to choose between his pacifist faith and his ardent abolitionism.  Abolitionism won out.  For the balance of the war he would worship with the Unitarians and lend his voice to the Union.  Early in the war he took reports of an act of heroism by an elderly lady in Maryland and created a poem that became a Union rallying cry and was required recitation material for generations of school children.  Like most tales, this one had a grain of fact wound up in legend.  In fact, 90-year-old Barbara Frietche, who had been a personal friend of Francis Scott Key, did have a flag hung from her Fredrick, Maryland home and it was peppered by shots from angry Rebels.  But the old lady was sick in bed that day and had told her maid to bring the flag in for safe keeping.  The maid, also tasked with hiding the silver and other family valuables, forgot.  Troops under Lee did pass within a block of her home and seeing the flag peppered it with fire.  Fritche never came to the window and even if she had could probably not be heard.  But it was a great yarn for getting Yankee blood to boil. 

 

Barbara Fritche

 

Up from the meadows rich with corn,

Clear in the cool September morn,

 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand

Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

 

Round about them orchards sweep,

Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep,

 

Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall

When Lee marched over the mountain wall,—

 

Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

 

Forty flags with their silver stars,

Forty flags with their crimson bars,

 

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun

Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

 

Up rose old Barbara Fritchie then,

Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

 

Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;

 

In her attic window the staff she set,

To show that one heart was loyal yet.

 

Up the street came the rebel tread,

Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

 

Under his slouched hat left and right

He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

 

“Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.

“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast.

 

It shivered the window, pane and sash;

It rent the banner with seam and gash.

 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff

Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

 

She leaned far out on the window-sill,

And shook it forth with a royal will.

 

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,

But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,

Over the face of the leader came;

 

The nobler nature within him stirred

To life at that woman’s deed and word:

 

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head

Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

 

All day long through Frederick street

Sounded the tread of marching feet:

 

All day long that free flag tost

Over the heads of the rebel host.

 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;

 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light

Shone over it with a warm good-night.

           

Barbara Fritchie’s work is o’er,

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

 

Honor to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.

 

Over Barbara Fritchie’s grave

Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

 

Peace and order and beauty draw

Round thy symbol of light and law;

 

And ever the stars above look down

On thy stars below in Frederick town.

 

—John Greenleaf Whittier

 

                            A Union picket on night guard by N.C. Wyeth.

A surprising amount of Civil War poetry was soldier written.  No army in the history of the world before then was as literate as the boys in blue.  If the Confederates lagged in that department, they still had plenty of young men ready to take pencil stub to scrap of paper and send it home or to the home town paper.  Some of these poems are among the most poignant of the war.  This one captures the long periods between great battles when boredom and chance encounters were the order of the day.  And like other such poems, this one was eventually set to music and published to be sung around parlor pianos.

 

The Picket Guard

 

All quiet along the Potomac “they say,”
“Except now and then a stray Picket”
Is shot as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
‘Tis nothing—a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost, only one of the men,
Moaning out all alone the death rattle.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
O'er the light of the watch fire are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed,
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack, his face dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep—
For their mother—may Heaven defend her.

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night when the love yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips, when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree,
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light.
Toward the shade of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looks like a rifle—“Ha! Mary, good bye,”
And the life blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
The Picket’s off duty forever.

 

—Anonymous song lyric

Probably soldier written..

 Johnsons New Catalogue of Songs

 

Civil War dead photographed by Alexander Gardner.

As the war dragged on the senseless horror of it overwhelmed the early romantic nonsense.  George Henry Boker was a very successful Philadelphia businessman who dabbled with some success as a poet and playwright.  The war converted the one-time Democrat into a staunch Republican and Unionist who lent his pen to the Federal cause.  As ardent as he was, by war’s end he was worn down by ceaseless tragedy.

Untitled Poem

 

Blood, blood! The lines of every printed sheet
     Through their dark arteries reek with running gore;
     At hearth, at board, before the household door,
     'T is the sole subject with which neighbors meet.
Girls at the feast, and children in the street,
     Prattle of horrors; flash their little store
     Of simple jests against the cannon's roar,
     As if mere slaughter kept existence sweet.
O, heaven, I quail at the familiar way
     This fool, the world, disports his jingling cap;
     Murdering or dying with one grin agap!
Our very Love comes draggled from the fray,
     Smiling at victory, scowling at mishap,
     With gory Death companioned and at play.

—George Henry Boker

from Poems of the War (1864)

 

Of course, the end of the war was a bitter pill for those who fought so long on the losing side.  Many simply could not believe it.  For years the out manned, out gunned, and out produced Confederates had whipped the Union or fought them to a standstill.  But that standstill sealed their doom.  In the end the inevitable tidal wave engulfed them.  This soldier poem captures that moment.  Sadly, in a few years, such sentiments, and the memories of all those early glories became enshrined in the holy Lost Cause and fueled the backlash that resulted in the Jim Crow laws, the disenfranchisement of Freedmen, and almost virtual return to slavery for many Southern Blacks.

 

Appomattox poem

 

 I stand here on this dusty road,
My rifle by my side.
They say we must surrender
And yet I’m filled with pride.
In knowing deep within my heart,
I gave my Southland all,
Like every man who took up arms
And answered Freedoms’ call.
I’ve worn the gray most proudly
And loved our banners dear.
To give them up and walk away,
The thought brings me to tears.
The worst for our brave men.
At least we’ll all be going home,
To be with Kith and Kin.

Throughout the years that follow,
This tragic fateful day,
We’ll be proud of our fair flag
And how we wore the gray.

—Anonymous

Probably Confederate soldier written

 


Since Herman Melville started all of this off, we will let him have the last word on behalf of the victorious Yanks.

The Surrender At Appomattox

 

(April, 1865.)

As billows upon billows roll,
On victory victory breaks;
Ere yet seven days from Richmond’s fall
And crowning triumph wakes
The loud joy-gun, whose thunders run
By sea-shore, streams, and lakes.
The hope and great event agree
In the sword that Grant received from Lee.

The warring eagles fold the wing,
But not in Caesar’s sway;
Not Rome o’ercome by Roman arms we sing,
As on Pharsalia's day,
But Treason thrown, though a giant grown,
And Freedom’s larger play.
All human tribes glad token see
In the close of the wars of Grant and Lee.

 

—Herman Melville