Michigan's Ke-che-te-go Warriors

It is spring in Roscommon and I have a new book. This one is another about an Indian who lived nearby (Grayling, MI) in the mid 19^th century. Writing this book was a natural outcome of my earlier work about a local Indian, since the two men were friends and the Grayling newspaper frequently reported on their comings and goings.

So, in case you are interested, here is a copy of the Prologue to Michigan’s Ke-che-te-go Warriors, available in its entirety at Amazon. com.

 

 

April 1865, near the close of the Civil War

 

Big Tom Ke-che-te-go marched forward with the men from his regiment. No one spoke as they marched toward the crater – the big hole in the ground that the Union Army made by exploding 8,000 pounds of explosives under the rebel lines in front of Petersburg, Virginia. None of the men or officers in Tom’s outfit, the 1^st Michigan Sharpshooters, knew why they were attacking. The first troops sent in some 30 minutes earlier had not been heard from, so now, the Sharpshooters were marching forward, just behind the 30^th United States Colored Troops.

The line of march was ominous for Tom and his men in Company K, the celebrated all-Indian company. As Sharpshooters, his unit normally fought as skirmishers or snipers in support of other Union regiments. Both skirmishing and sniping required the Sharpshooters to be dispersed along the battle lines, often creeping close to the enemy using whatever cover the men could find. This time is different, Tom thought, as his regiment marched toward the enemy in parade ground formation. We must be headed to the front lines as reinforcements for the regular troops, Tom decided.

As they approached the crater, Tom gaped at the devastation he saw. The early morning explosion had obliterated the rebel fort that formed a salient in the rebel lines. What used to be a fort was now a widely scattered mélange of broken logs, twisted lumber and chunks of foundation materials thrown about as if a tornado had found a target. It was strangely quiet; Tom heard only the occasional sound of canteens striking ammunition boxes and the sucking sound of boots being pulled from the muck as the men marched forward, making a long thin line of Union blue. As they reached the crater, they could see grey and black smoke rising above the large mound ahead of them.

The men climbed the rise and Colonel De Land sent them over the sides. The lip of the crater was too steep, the men slid down its sides toward the milling mass of troops that were below. As soon as Tom slid down the steep bank, he knew they were in trouble, even the closest Union troops were being hit by rebel fire. Tom saw dead and dying men scattered about like cordwood. Just as the men were assembling into ranks, a shell landed nearby creating a flash of light and a shower of mud. The kaboom of the exploding shell proved that it was close. As Tom gained his feet and his equilibrium, four of his fellow Sharpshooters pushed him aside, carrying a wounded man. It was the Colonel, injured by the bomb. The four men carrying De Land began struggling up the side of the crater; it was the last Tom saw of them.

Pizzzz. A bullet whistled by Tom’s ear. He looked up, hoping to see a flash of light and smoke from a rebel rifle that would become a target for him. It was no use - there was smoke everywhere. The Lieutenant signaled Tom and the Indian company to follow him. The men ran forward in a crouch along the bottom of a ravine, past a company of colored troops who were trying to form themselves into a battle line a dozen yards to their right.

As they ran past, a shell landed almost in the middle of the line the colored regiment was trying to form. Some of the Sharpshooters stopped to attend to the wounded men, but the Lieutenant waved them on. Tom saw other Union troops to his right trying to find cover from the artillery shells and the bullets that were raining on them. He kept moving forward. They were traveling at a diagonal across the bottom of the crater until they reached its opposite side on the left. Here, the troopers began clawing their way up the steep sides until a rebel rifleman appeared above and fired into their ranks. Tom hit the ground and rolled away from the rifleman’s downward trajectory. Just above him was a broken log sticking out of the ground. Tom crawled toward it, hoping for a small measure of protection. He peeked around the log to see not one, but three rifles over the lip of the crater each with a head just above. Tom got his rifle in position and fired a shot at the head closest to him then jerked himself and his rifle back behind the log.

He tried to calm his labored breathing and listen for any sounds indicating the presence of the riflemen above. Instead, he heard a series of shots from men all around him – apparently, other Sharpshooters had found a way to fire their rifles also. He waited another moment. Hearing nothing, Tom peeked again. Neither heads nor rifles were showing. Tom decided that being at the top of the crater could be no more hazardous than his current position, so he crept around the log and resumed clawing his way up. Other Company K men followed. Tom and the Lieutenant reached the top about the same time. The Lieutenant pointed to the left, indicating a long trench down and away from them that must have led to the fort before the explosion. Tom started in that direction as another bullet found its mark. The Lieutenant fell back clutching his upper arm. Tom headed toward the trench as another man helped the Lieutenant back over the lip of the crater the group had just left.

Tom reached the trench and jumped in, hoping to be protected from the whiz of bullets that he continued to hear as he made his way to the trench along with a dozen other Sharpshooters. As soon as he dropped into the trench, Tom stopped and reloaded his rifle and snapped the bayonet in place on the end of the muzzle. He looked at the other men behind him and saw that all had followed his lead in checking their weapons. With Tom in front, they started moving along the trench to the left, walking warily in expectation of finding a line of rebels facing the front. The walk was short. After creeping forward a few minutes, Tom saw a rebel soldier with his rifle resting on the forward edge of the trench. He fired his rifle instinctively and the body in front of him twitched. Tom stepped backward two paces and pushed his back hard against the rearmost earthen wall, hoping he was out of the line of fire.

He waited a moment, heard nothing, and then crept forward to the reb he had shot. The body had not moved. Tom walked up to him, grabbed his arm and twisted the body around to see his face. He was shocked to see a young man, barely old enough to shave. Blood had streaked across his face and an empty eye socket showed where one bullet entered with another in his neck. Tom’s bullet was in his chest. He had shot a dead man. He turned back to the troops behind him and signaled them forward, then continued his cautious pace forward. The trench soon opened up into a room with six rebel gunners lining a front wall. Some were headless; others had equally gruesome injuries, all fatal, victims of a Union bomb blast. Behind them were stacks of guns and ammunition in disarray from the blast.

The Sharpshooters behind Tom were just filling the room when a shell landed close by, in front of the trench. A rebel artilleryman must have seen them through the smoke and fire. The men returned to the narrow trench they had just left. They gathered there, waiting for someone to decide what to do. Tom took a quick look at the men; all he could see were Indians and he was their Sergeant. He looked over the back ledge of the trench where he believed the rebel lines were. A bullet whizzed by, the rebs must have a bead on them. Tom considered their position for a moment and looked at the men, waiting for someone to say something. There was silence.

“Let’s go back to the crater and join up with the rest of the regiment,” Tom said. The troops were willing to follow Tom’s lead. They retraced their steps until they came to the open area next to the crater. Two hundred yards off to their left, they could see a line of rebel infantry coming forward with puffs of smoke issuing from their rifles. Several of the troopers took shots at the advancing line, but it seemed to have no effect. Several men turned to Tom, awaiting his orders.

“Let’s spread out. Head for the crater. Two men at a time,” he said in the Ojibwa language. “Go!”

Tom waved his arm and two men from the company sprinted forward. He waited for another moment and then repeated his command, “Go!”

He decided to watch the fate of those he sent forward before sending others. The first two made it almost halfway when one of the men seemed to jump backward. He had been hit. His companion grabbed him and the pair continued forward with the wounded man dragging one leg. Tom watched as they disappeared over the lip of the crater. As soon as they topped the ridge, Tom signaled the next two who were in line awaiting his signal.

“You two, go that way first before turning toward the crater.” He pointed toward the Union lines to the right. “Go!” When he saw those men make it halfway, he sent four men forward in the same direction. There was just one other man and Tom left. Tom looked at him. He was an Indian from Saginaw, Amos Chamberlain. They started together and finished together, both running as hard as they could. When they reached the lip of the crater, Tom yelled for Amos to jump.

They nearly landed on top of several Company K Indians who had made it to the crater ahead of them. These men were lying just below the edge of the crater and firing at the line of rebel soldiers who had been pursuing them. The Indians were calmly rising above the edge, firing their rifles and then falling back to reload. They were having the effect of slowing the advance, but there were too many oncoming soldiers and Tom knew that in a few more moments the rebels would be on top of them. He called out for the men to go down the sides of the crater and search for cover. It was an act of desperation because the crater below them seemed a hell-hole of crying, falling men taking rebel fire.The Indians began running, sliding and falling downward. Before they reached bottom, the whine of bullets indicated live fire everywhere around them. Tom saw a man in front of him fall down as he clutched at his back. There was a slight rise in the ground that Tom fell behind. It offered the barest hope of shelter from the rain of bullets that dug holes in the earth all around. Tom lay panting behind it, unable to see any Indians around him or rebel soldiers above him.

He believed he was taking his last breaths. When the advancing rebel soldiers reached him, he expected to be killed or captured. Maybe they would take his scalp – certainly his rifle. Whites craved Indian rifles with their ornately carved stocks that Indians worked on in camp, hour after hour. He should have told the Lieutenant where he wanted to be buried. Perhaps he would be lucky and his bones would be carried back to Saginaw to lie with his father’s bones as all his ancestors would want. Once again, he wondered why he was fighting this White man’s war as he waited for the sound of the coming rebels.

 

 

 

RV' ing

I

Old-timers with RV

I own a travel trailer. I have owned several over the years, beginning with a pull-behind I purchased when my children were young. After my retirement, I gravitated to a 5^th wheel version of an RV and continued camping. I have learned a lot about trailers over the years. The most important thing I have learned is that they eat money for both regular maintenance and unexpected repairs as they age.
 

The worst thing you can do if you own a trailer is to hook it to a vehicle and pull it on the road. Trailers don’t seem to like the bouncing, twisting and jarring ride that is inevitable on all the roads I travel. They rebel at this treatment, mostly by fracture of some esoteric part that causes the dealer to remark something like, “I’ve never seen one of these break before,” as he hands you the bill.
 

The second worst thing you can do to a trailer is to leave it outdoors. Trailers don’t want to be outdoors. Despite all the advertising that shows an RV parked on the shores of a secluded lake with a forest surrounding it and a mountain in the background, RV’s prefer being parked in a heated barn, with low ambient light surrounded by other RV’s, all of them near a camping dealership. The truth is that sunlight causes vinyl seals to crack and colors to fade, rain causes joints to leak, and cold, well, that’s another matter.
 

As I prepared to de-winterize my 5^th wheel this spring I decided to look inside before tackling the job. The door wouldn’t open. After giving a mighty push, I learned that the vinyl floor covering (aka as linoleum for you old-timers) in front of the door had cracked open in the shape of a long, thin volcano . As I stuck my head in further, I discovered that the volcano extended across the entire entryway, under the cupboard, out the other side and then approximately in the middle of the entire length of the vinyl flooring. A helluva crack, in the vernacular.
 

“This won’t do,” I said, just as the Missus came up behind me. “I’ll need to find my roll of duct tape.”
 

After a lengthy discussion, it became apparent that the duct tape-fix wasn’t suitable for my better half and that I had better get myself to the travel trailer place for repairs. Since I am on a first-name basis with the service shop at the trailer place, I called Mike and described my problem.
 

“Oh yes, we’re seeing a lot ot that. You are caller number six so far. It was too cold this winter, wasn’t it? ha, ha, ha.”
 

“So, Mike, old pal, how much are we talking about for repair?”
 

It turns out that old Mike wasn’t such a pal, after all. He said the repair would cost in the neighborhood of two or three thousand dollars depending upon whether I wanted to replace the bathroom vinyl that had been miraculously unaffected by the cracking agent. Another trailer repairman said he would ‘work it in’ over the next three weeks or so while he worked on (presumably) more important and more profitable jobs. ‘This won’t do,’ I said to myself as I began the process of looking for another old friend in the flooring business. After several phone calls, I learned that trailer repairmen have extraordinary chutzpah in demanding extraordinary bills for routine repair work. My trailer is now being repaired at a flooring store after a one day wait at a cost of less than $400.00.
 

I should point out In defense of the RV industry, that this type behavior is not unique to them and those in other recreation-based businesses have equal amounts of chutzpah. Did you know, for example, that the worst thing you can do to a boat is to put it in water? And don’t even talk about airplanes. Ha, ha, ha.