It was dark.
A harsh January winter was working at the soldiers’ toes and fingers, turning them blue and numb with frostbite as the men waited for their orders. The moon was barely a sliver in the black sky, providing as much light as it did warmth.
They had traveled for days through the largely unsettled west from their settlement at Fort Douglas to the Shoshone village they were set to attack. A small group had set out first and the rest had followed a few days after, led by calculated Col. Connor himself. They were split in this fashion in an attempt to prevent the elusive Shoshone from learning of the attack early and scattering themselves, foiling the entire expedition. But the first regiment had stumbled upon three natives as they got close to town earlier that evening, and many soldiers were unsure of what they’d find of the Shoshone village.
The soldiers waited to attack. Word had spread that the advance was to begin at 1:00, but the night advanced past that hour and the soldiers continued to shiver, huddled for warmth around small fires that were hard to maintain on the wintry earth. They placed their now-frozen canteens of whiskey near the flames in an attempt to liquify the contents, hoping for a sip to numb themselves inside as well as out.
At 3:00, the soldiers began to form ranks, an effort which required some time in the deep and tightly packed snow as the men continued to shiver and shake in the arctic cold. Many were rapidly losing strength from fatigue. But the men were eager to fight, ready to claim the land the natives had been nurturing for so many years, seeking retaliation for American lives lost at the hands of these indigenous people during an ongoing and bloody turf war that the natives never asked for.
Col. Connor paced up and down the lines, finalizing his strategy for attack upon the unwitting natives. At last, they were ready to set off. As the very first signs of early morning began to set in, the first troops set out for the quietly sleeping Shoshone village.
We trudge through the heavy snow and battle the harsh winter winds for three hours as we inch towards the Indian camp. We are freezing, tired, and morale is low until we finally reach the ridge upon which we begin to prepare for battle.
Back at Douglas, I was itching for a fight, but now the reality begins to seep into brain, turning my stomach. There is a reason we’re here. There is a reason we were sent to fight these people out in the cold wilderness.
The Shoshone are brutal killers, seeking revenge for their land, their food, and their “sacred” places. Attempts to introduce them to civilized life in our society have failed and we have no other choice but to teach them a lesson. The fear that we will be the students and they the teachers grows as the sun creeps over the horizon.
The other men seem to be having the same thoughts as they scan the Shoshone camp. We sit on the hilltop shivering and many men have frostbite on their fingers and toes. I feel as though half my strength has left me. If we wait much longer, they will easily overtake us.
Below, little Indian people make preparations for the upcoming battle. Despite our attempts to hide our approach, the Shoshone must have been tipped off by the three savage men we saw in town today. We found their packs of grain strewn about the ground as we made our way to the village. They hadn’t, however, had time to retreat and scatter like rats as they did upon McGarry’s approach last year. This time, they are trapped but well prepared.
By the dull sliver of sun over the mountain I can just make out the canteen at my side. In a moment of miserable desperation I snatch it up with numb hands, hoping for a drop of comfort while I wait. But even that small mercy is gone, frozen solid and beyond my reach. Cursing, I throw the canteen down with disgust.
But the snow is softer than I thought.
To my horror, a puff of white slides down the slope in a fine mist, a warning light to all the waiting Shoshone down below. I flatten myself to the ground, nearly sick with shame. My fellow infantry have the grace not to shame me further with their glances, but their hands tighten around their guns as they raise them to their shoulders. I see the Major tense, eyes fixed on the forms below.
The artillery, I think suddenly, desperately. Where is the artillery?
One of the figures is standing very still at the base of the rim, having stilled at the sight of the dislodged snow. I cannot see its face, cannot even distinguish its gender. But the moment when it raises its hand to pick us out against the horizon burns itself into my sight like a brand.
Loud as a gunshot, Major barks out the order to fire. I jump in fright, and my gun fires almost of its own accord. And suddenly the whole valley is thundering with the sound–whether from our own guns or the enemy’s, I cannot say. We fire round after round into the milling shapes, as if with bullets we could blow away all memory of the silence, that long terrible wait.
I stagger back suddenly, and there’s a fire in my shoulder. I writhe in the snow, clawing at it as if to pull it out. But it lodges there, festering and burning. I scream, but the thunder devours the sound as if I had never spoken.
A distant voice rises over the gunfire, and suddenly there are hands on my shoulders, dragging me away. I twist and fight until the strength goes out of me. And my haggard fellow drag me to safety, following the Major back over the rise.
Through the bright, morning sun I barely make out the shadows of tree branches, the sky going in and out of focus. I am wrapped in layers of blankets, stained with a sickening shade of dark maroon oozing from the decaying wound in my left shoulder. My body flinches with each bump in the jagged mountainside as my mind searches for answers. My voice cracks as I barely let out a whisper, shuddering as I watch my breath reach the wounded soldier next to me.
We are being transported back to Salt Lake City I am told. The citizens of Franklin were kind enough to open their doors and give us what they could.
I turn to the left, attempting to somewhat reposition myself. My stomach lurches when I scan the valley below me, we are riding past the warzone. My head throbs as memories rush back to my mind, each gunshot inflicting a sharp pain in my right temple. What was once a field blanketed with untouched snow was now the resting ground for those who fell.
Cries of pain echo in my ears as I relive the horror. The stench of deformed bodies reaches my nostrils, I could taste the nausea this horrific scene had induced. There were no patches of dry land, every rock was covered in piles of the deceased. Was this how it was supposed to end? Suddenly, that fear slowly crept into my mind.
The entire Shoshone people were killed at the hands of our militia. It was a ghost village. A massacre.
My heart pounded as the sleigh beneath me continued to shriek along the sharp edge where we once searched for signs of movement. As if sensing my apprehension, the commander in front of us turned around, congratulating all the wounded on our brave sacrifice to our nation. My worries melted away, we were to be welcomed back as heroes.