A Poetic Reminder of the Fort Kearney Massacre

The Bozeman Trail

By Lillian L. Van Burgh

We have lauded with sone for many a year,
    The wonderful ride of Paul Revere;
We know that it was a great, good deed,
    All credit we give to Paul and his steed.
But listen awhile to me, and hear
    A tale that will make that ride of Revere,
Seem only a canter, even you will say,
    Over the boulevard on a bright summer day.
In eighteen hundred and sixty-six,
    December twenty-one,
At Fort Phil Kearney garrison,
    A deed was done.
A cruel deed so black
    It would palsy tongue to tell,
How by Red Cloud's band of Sioux,
    Eight-one brave soldiers fell.
Crazed with joy to see
    Their scalpless victims in their gore,
They danced with fiendish glee,
    And craved for more.
Soon they would get them all
    Behind that little log stockade.
A raging blizzard for a time
    Their hellish victory stayed.
Children and women fair,
    Behind that wall of snow;
Fort Laramie their only help,
    But who would dare to go?
With but one hundred nineteen men,
    What chance had they to choose,
Against the savage cunningness
    Of these three thousand Sioux.
Two hundred, thirty-six white miles,
    Of trackless, frozen trail;
And well they knew
    The courier's tortured fate, if he should fall.
Man looked at man,
    With whitening cheeks and bated breath;
Who dared to take that trail,
    To almost certain death?
John Phillips stepped to the colonel's side,
    Saluting said, "I'll make the race.
"I'll go Colonel Carrington, if I may have
    The swiftest horse that's on the place.
The colonel quickly bowed his head,
    In mute and firm assent;
And to the stables he went
    For his own loved thoroughbred.
It was no shame to manhood,
    That for one instant hot tears unshed
Dimmed his stern eyes, as on the glossy neck,
    He bowed his head.
For in his heart he knew,
    As his trembling hand caressed the flowing mane,
That he would never mount
    That splendid steed again.
For himself in the saldle bags, Phillips stored
    A few hard biscuits away;
Though he go hungry, it matter not
    His horse must have feed each day.
The colonel's hand unbound and held aside
    The gate for man and steed;
And as they slipped out into a hell of perils,
    Deep, male lips bade them "God speed."
From every heart within the fort, for them
    A silent wordless prayer was sent,
While in that raging, frozen night for help
    That horse and rider when.
In breathless fear even while they prayed,
    Those men and women wait
To hear the fiendish howling yells,
    That would tell their brave man's fate.
John Portugee Phillips had been long
    Upon the border trail;
And knew full well what would befall,
    if he should fail,
With Red Cloud on his tail.
    He did not take the beaten track, for well that plainsmen knew,
That every path was guarded by the crafty red.
    Through canyons deep, across rocky hills,
Over frozen rivers wide;
    No one will ever know the horrors of
That perilous long ride.
    'Twas like a thousand blistering screeching demons wild
Had been let go;
    The devil's night of frolic, when his imps he sent,
To drag mercury down to twenty-five below.
    Those days and nights seemed like
A race between one man and hell,
    Under the lash of fiendish redskins hideous yell.
And all through the cold and raging night,
    Until the break of early dawn,
Then in some thicket or canyon deep,
    They would hide 'til day was gone.
    Though under cover all day, he must not rest,
And sleep he dared not take;
    For sleep meant death for him and those
He sought to save, so he must keep awake.
    How Phillips kept himself and horse alive
Through the bleak days of bitter cold,
    No one will ever know, for the sufferings of
That long ride remain untold.
    But not for one moment
Did that hero's dauntless courage dim;
    Chatting softly as he smoothed his faithful horse's coat,
And rubbed the tired limbs.
    "There ain't no blooming redskin going to get
Our scalp this trip, they'll see;
    For God is helping us, old boy,
So we are going to make it, you and me."
    Fort Laramie's gay Christmas dance was in full swing;
Old Bedlam House was all a glow;
    And Bedlam also reigned outside,
        where the blizzard danced.
With mercury forty down below
    As midnight drew near and joy and mirth ran high.
The door was quickly opened wide,
    And Phillips, a staggering, snowy, ice-clad form,
Stood trembling, swaying just inside.
    "I come from Fort Phil Kearney,
Papers in my coat," he said.
    And sank unconscious to the ground.
Quick hands removed the icy wraps,
    And the colonel's urgent message found,
While tender hands restored the frozen man,
    And tried to ease the racking pain.
Outside strong men wept above that noble horse,
    Who never raised his head again.
The call to arms was quickly given,
    And all hastened to obey,
For Red Cloud's black, cruel deed,
    Awakened slumbering hate that day.
These soldiers knew it was no pleasure hike,
    Through drifts of blinding snow;
As they with swift and willing hands,
    At once prepared to go.
The Christmas revelry was ceased,
    Where joy and mirth had danced;
Now horror stilled the laugh and song.
    And cheeks with fear were blanched.
But those women gave their needed help,
    While silently they prayed,
For those helpless ones so far away,
    Behind the log stockade.
Four companies of infantry,
    And two of cavalry, at early dawn,
Began that long, cold, dangerous trip,
    For the blizzard still raged on.
The road invisible and rough,
    And oft they waded snow knee deep;
And many of those soldiers brave,
    Had frost bitten hands and feet.
Even as they plowed through great drifts,
    To their waist, they prayed that pitying fate,
Might hold and palsy Red Cloud's arm,
    Before it was too late.
They talked of Phillips and his horse,
    On that long and awful ride,
And with regret and pity,
    That the noble horse had died.
"And that man back yonder came alone,
    Through this hellish cold and snow,
But how he ever made it, boys, I guess
    Just him and God will ever know."
And while those soldiers brave, day after day,
    Across the hills, through snowdrift went,
Old Red Cloud calmly waited for the storm to cease,
    As gloating o'er his prize, the time he spent,
So sure that old chief of his prey,
    And that no help for them was near,
He kept his hand in quarters warm,
    And waited for the storm to clear.
At Fort Phil Kearney,
    When they saw the soldiers coming,
Shouts of joyous welcome rent the air,
    And though footsore, weary and half frozen,
Every man was glad that he was there.
    So reinforcements had come at last,
To those anxious ones,
    Behind the log stockade.
John Phillips and the colonel's horse had won,
    Although the one with his life had paid;
'Twas men like these who blazed the trail,
    And swept it from such perils free.
Who made our glorious wondrous west,
    Forever safe for you and me.
And in all the history of our land,
    There is no truer, worthier tale,
Than that of Phillips' long, dark frozen ride,
    Along the Bozeman Trail.

(The End.)