The following excerpt is from chapter V: Woe!, in which the town of Redwood Ferry is attacked by the Dakota people at the beginning of the US-Dakota War of 1862. In a previous chapter, a strange cavalryman named Michael finds the old man in the woods and demands that he accompany him to witness the fulfilment of his prophetic word. While the overall tone of Watchfires is decidedly anti-war, I made an effort in this chapter to convey the very human and very justifiable reasons for the Dakota action against the American government, which is partly reflected in this excerpt. Many of the conversations between the Dakotas and the whites were borrowed from the actual historical record of the event.

…The attention of the main body of Dakotas was now directed at the Indian Agency building. The serious fighting men from Myron’s store were absent but nearly every other Dakota man, young and old, painted and breech-clouted and cut-hair farmer, had found cover in and around the common yard. From these positions they concentrated a tumultuous suppressing fire on the windows and doors of the Indian Agency. They fired and reloaded and fired their rifles as quickly as they could and the shutters on the windows and the jambs of the doors splintered and fell away. A narrow and unwieldy ladder had been constructed and several men held it under the west wall while young Dakotas with double-bit axes clambered up the three stories and onto the Agency’s steeply pitched roof. Michael and the old man sat their mounts beside an assembly of village chiefs who stood brazenly on the walk that led to the front door. The chiefs conferred calmly together, leaning in close to be heard over the din of the barrage.

One of the young axmen stepped carefully to the edge of the roof and called down to the chiefs on the walk. A fire had been built in the attic of the agency. The chiefs shouted all about them to cease fire and the fusillade relaxed into silence. A shutter from a window on the third floor fell with a clatter to the roof of the porch.

The oldest of the village chiefs was the only Dakota the old man had ever seen in the true eagle feather war bonnet so emblematic of his people. His sole armament was a small hide shield hung with a clutch of feathers and painted with the symbol of a bird in blue and yellow over delicate radiating lines. In his other hand he cradled a long-stemmed calumet with a tall bowl of red pipestone. His clothes were much worked with intricate bead designs and even in the heat of the day he wore his blanket around his shoulders. The chief spoke softly to a young man at his side, clearly his son by the set of his eyes and the strength of his jaw. When the chief finished speaking the young man shouted his father’s words at the door of the Indian Agency in accentless English.

“We have made a fire in the roof,” he called. “Let the agent come out so we may speak to him.”

“The agent is not here,” a voice shouted from behind the door.

The young man translated this to his father. “Where is he?”

“We do not know,” called the man from inside. “He was here last night but this morning he was not found among us.”

“Who has command?”

“The deputy agent. Mr. Lansing.”

“Send him out,” called the chief’s son.

“No,” shouted the man inside.

“Let us in, then, before you burn.”

“No,” came the reply.

The chiefs discussed this among themselves. “Let us speak with Lansing,” shouted the chief’s son.

There was no answer from the Agency. The Dakotas in the common yard held their aim on the windows and doors. A hot wind blew across the waste of the town and a waft of smoke uncurled from the hole in the ridge of the Agency roof. Finally another voice shouted from behind the heavy doors.

“Lansing here.”

“How many are you inside?” called the chief’s son.

“Enough,” shouted Lansing.

“Come out of there,” the chief commanded.

“No,” Lansing shouted. “Leave us be.”

“We will not,” said the chief.

“Why?” cried Lansing. “Why have you done this when you know the soldiers will come and kill you all?”

“You know why. Our land has been taken and we have been left to starve.”

“That you are not capable farmers and cannot raise enough food to feed yourselves is no fault of the people of this town,” Lansing said. “You yourselves signed the treaties and willingly surrendered your lands.”

The shadow of rage passed over the chief’s face. He shook the buffalo hide shield and spat his answer in Dakota to his son.

“Neither the people of this town nor the Indian Agent nor the government of the United States would ever let one of our white neighbors starve to death because of a drought or a failure of their crops,” shouted the chief’s son. “And yet Indians are told to eat grass. Where is our treaty money? Where is the food we were promised? Where is the agent who was to represent our cause and our interests? We have given you all that you asked. We have helped you build your towns. We have abandoned our traditions and the ways of our ancestors and tried to live as white men. Still the agent and the store owners deal dishonestly with us. Still we are looked on as though we are less than you. Still our women are despised by your women and disrespected by your men. Still we are starving. Still we are told to eat grass. We will not suffer this anymore!”

“You will not be allowed to return to your old ways,” Lansing called from behind the Agency door. “The government will never permit it. They will make you honor the treaty even if they do not. They will send soldiers to arrest you and all of you will hang.”

“Then we will hang,” shouted the chief with great conviction, and his son made a capable effort to imitate his tone. “At least we will have a good time first, and die like Indians!”

A cheer rose from the men who were dug in around the agency. The men on the roof cheered and raised their axes over their heads. Someone near the bunkhouses started a high, faltering war song and it was taken up by the crowd. The chant was arrhythmic and terrifying and to the old man it sounded like the very end of the world.

“Woe to him that builds a town with blood, and establishes a city by iniquity,” the cavalryman said. “Behold, is it not of the Lord of hosts that the people shall labor in the very fire, and the people shall weary themselves for very vanity? For the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.”

“I do not understand how-” started the old man, but the cavalryman interrupted him.

“Watch now,” he said, “and listen. You may spend the rest of your life in search of all meaning, if you wish, but now you must witness what you were chosen to see.”

The chief raised his arms and called out. The war song quieted in the common yard. A mass of Dakota men with rifles and clubs and hatchets came running from their positions and fell in around the council of chiefs.

Michael and the old man sat their mounts in the midst of their number. For a moment no one was yelling or shooting and the old man could hear his own breathing, his own heartbeat, the ringing of his ears. Then the chief addressed the agency in resounding Dakota.

Michael said to the old man, “He says, ‘If there are any Dakotas inside, even farmers and cut-hairs, or mixed-bloods who speak our language, open the doors to us and you will be spared. If you do not, the fire will continue to burn and all who remain inside or run from the doors or leap from the windows will be killed.’”

The eyes of the Dakota company, of the chiefs, of Michael and the old man, were fixed on the front doors. There was a long breath of silence from the Agency; then shouts of protest and a shot. Lansing’s voice behind the door shouted something unintelligible and there was a second shot and a third. The great doors of the Indian Agency swung open and a young Dakota man with his black hair cut short stumbled onto the porch.

The Dakotas all around trained their rifles on him. In one hand he held a flintlock pistol. A flower of bright red blossomed on his chest under his other hand as the white cotton of his shirt drank the outpouring of his wound. He tossed the pistol to the ground beneath the steps and fell to his knees on the porch. From the door behind him ran several families of Dakotas and mixed-bloods, men and their wives and their children. They all stepped over the body of Lansing who lay dead on the threshold. The Dakotas let them go and kept their sight irons on the doorway.

Even under the shade of the porch roof the white stone walls reflected the brightness of the noonday sun. The interior of the Agency was dark and indistinguishable. A sudden shot from inside struck a Dakota man at the head of the company and he fell to the ground. Two more shots in quick succession both struck another man and he dropped his rifle and fell back into the arms of the chief’s son. Without a word of direction, the Dakotas all fired in unison into the open doorway of the Agency. They did not reload after the volley but gave a whoop and charged up the steps, around the dying man on the porch and over the body of Lansing, to disappear into the building on fire.

The old man heard shouts and gunshots from inside. White men jumped from the windows of all stories. They were shot as they hit the ground by the Dakotas who had held to their positions in the yard. One man climbed from the second story onto the roof of the porch. One of the lesser chiefs swung his rifle with him as he leapt to the ground, as a bird hunter swings with a dove in flight, and shot him out of the air.

Other fires were started on all three floors and smoke billowed from the broken windows. As the blaze intensified the Dakotas filed out of the Agency in groups of twos and threes, squinting in the sunlight and shielding their eyes. Some carried armfuls of loot, lamps and chairs, sacks of whole grain and flour, casks of powder and bags of lead bars. A few had been wounded and emerged limping or leaning on their brother warriors. Flames snarled across the long roof and the young axmen scrambled down the ladder on the west wall. Black smoke filled the common green and the old man’s lungs. He hacked and coughed into his fist. The chiefs at their side spoke among themselves. Michael translated for the old man.

“They say that when the fire consumes all there is to consume they will call on some of the farmers to pull down the remaining stone walls with their teams of oxen. They will do the same to Myron’s store.”…

Next Chapter: Full Summary of Watchfires Against The Lord