Found in a Cedar Tree

A flash of white, red, then black.

That was all I could see after the explosion.

My hearing was gone too. Yet I could still feel the commotion around me. I began to yell, hoping someone

would acknowledge that I was blind. Yet I was still being pushed and trampled over.

This was it, I was just going to become another number lost, and for what? These people were just

defending themselves. Had it not been for my father’s incessant pestering, I wouldn’t have joined the

calvary. Just as I was accepting my fate a hand had grabbed me pulling me from the pile of bodies.

Bodies of my fellow soldiers.

Death surrounded the battlefield and was one of the reasons for my not wanting to participate. After

finishing my studies at Princeton I had wavered from the southern values my father had raised me on. I

had learned against such ignorant judgments of others and had I had a choice I would have continued

and become a professor in philosophical ethics. Yet I still have no power against him.

No longer am I holding this man’s hand but have been laid across the back of a horse. This is when I

realized, no longer was I with the calvary. While laying on the Indian’s horse, I remembered a scene from

earlier in the battle. A Lakota warrior dying grabbed at his wound and left a bloody handprint on his

horse. He then sent the horse running. I wondered if my fate would have a similar meaning. Or if I would

be sent as a prisoner.

It was a while before the horse came to a stop. I could smell smoke and food. Then I felt many hands

grab at me taking me off the horse and carrying me to an unknown place.

I wish I could understand their language. I wish I could see, or hear.

I felt canvas The smell of smoke and some other unknown things came across me as I was laid down. I

could feel someone touching my face and ears. I was sat up and given a drink. It tasted awful yet I took it

because what was I to do. I was helpless without hearing or sight.

I closed my eyes drifting off into a dream. I saw the battlefield. Cannons and rifles were going of all

around me. I was running without thought thinking this could be my chance for escape. Then the

grapeshot went off. A group of calvary men grabbed me throwing me to the ground. But alas it was too

late. The blast near shredded their bodies leaving me only deaf and blind.

I once again could feel the hands touch me, this time they were gentile. Pealing of the tattered uniform.

They dressed me in something else. I couldn’t tell, yet from the feel, I believe it was leather. They dressed

the few wounds I had. Each sting the sorrowful reminder that I had survived. I was given food and drink

once more than laid back in what I believe was a tent of some sort.

After another horrific dream of war, I was awakened by the hands again. This time someone was pressing

something into my palms. I could feel letters being shaped. Who was this stranger and what were they

trying to say? I tried asking if they would do it again. I couldn’t tell if my attempt to talk worked until I

felt the hand again press letter after letter into my hand. It spelled out, “who are you”, I could feel my

face wet with tears. Someone cared to speak with me. I spoke once more giving my name. “ I am William

H Henry”.

There was a paused moment. I thought maybe my attempt at speaking did not work this time, yet once

again the letters began spelling words against my palms. This time they asked what had happened to me. I

recounted to them that I was planning to run away from the calvary, but that my plans were soiled by a

misfired grapeshot. I told them that a group of soldiers had sacrificed their lives to save me yet I was left

both deaf and blind from the blast.

This time the hands did not spell out any words. I was taken back to the tent and given another meal. This

is how most of my days went. Occasionally I would get to communicate with the mysterious person.

Most of the time I am presented with questions such as, are you in pain, are you comfortable, and the

occasional how do you feel inside. Often when the questions of my emotional health are asked I will

recount the dreams of battle and how they have tarnished my sleep.

I have asked the mysterious man his name and age and other things about him. His name was Luta and he

was the medicine man’s son. Luta was training under his father and that is why he had not gone to war.

He said that his friend had seen me trying to escape, and get shot down. My struggling alerted his friend

and he considered killing me for a bit yet felt guilty watching me scream like a child.

Hearing this humbled me. I didn’t know I was screaming. That means others heard as well. Calvary men

and Indian alike. Not only had I gone against my morals for this war but I had also shaved my dignity.

Yet one thing has me shocked. Why did no one come to get me? If I could be heard by the Indians why not

from the men on my side? Did they not care, or had my attempt at escape been that noticeable? The blast

was friendly fire. Perhaps that is what kept them from rescuing me. I may never know. In fact, I doubt

I’ll return.

I have been here almost a month. These people have shown me better hospitality than the southerners I

grew up with. Ironically southerners are famous for hospitality. They couldn’t hold a candle to them. I

still cannot hear or see yet they have cared for me as one of their own. I have decided that should I die, it

is amongst these people. The day feels soon. My dreams have even changed to a serine death.

I write in my journal that should it be found, have it returned to my family. Samuel F Henry my father will

probably have a handsome reward for the one who gave him this news.

I looked up from reading this notebook. I needed to know more. I looked around the cedar tree

where I found this notebook. I found a folded leather cloth. I carefully unfolded the leather to

discover a silver pocket watch. I could hardly imagine it was real. The silver was without tarnish

and shined as though bought this morning. I wrapped it back in the leather and went back to the

book. I flipped to the front and found a message scribbled on the first page.

“Look forward from the west, there you will find his cedar chest. It contains his uniform and precious

belongings. Please do not search for his remains. He would rather not be found. It was his final wish to

never return home. I will assure you, although his days were few they were spent with joy.”

-Luke “Luta” Henry

Standing Rock Reservation

April,15,1890

Please do not be angered at my use of his last name I had no choice in changing my own. He offered his

name to me as a gift of friendship.

Grabbing my compass I found west and walked forward searching for the chest. I nearly gave

up searching until a pile of large stone caught my eye. I walked around it finding an opening

where the old decaying chest was hiding.

I took pictures of the area with my camera and pulled out the chest. It wasn’t locked so I

carefully opened it. Inside lay a bloodstained uniform a calvary hat weathered boots and a

leather bag. Inside was a map some rope and a picture of what it would only be William and his

family.

Carefully I dug deeper and found another picture. It was of a man. His eyes glossed over white

and his face singed. Beside him was a native man. Aside from the condition of this man he

looked happy the native man holding keeping him from falling from the chair kept a stoic look.

The picture was dated March,3,1880, and had a message scribbled, “William Henry with

caretaker Luke. An ironic friendship.”

I returned to my dorm later that day describing to my roommate what I had found. Before now

she had never taken an interest in my outdoor excursions. Today she was dying to see

everything and even proposed that we should go out to see the chest tomorrow. I felt nervous

doing such a thing. Was it respectable?

I decided to email a professor of Native American studies to find out. It wasn’t any surprise that

he was curious about my find. The next day I took a group to the chest I had found. Showing

them the little black notebook and silver watch. The professor was able to recognize Luta as a

Lacota. He said Henry must have given him his name during the cultural purge. He also told me

that William was part of the calvary that fought at the Battle of Little Big Horn and that he was

lucky to have been saved.

It has been a few months since the find and I did some more research and found some relatives

of William and Luta. Each family was excited to see what I had found and was excited to meet

each other. To my surprise, the state of South Dakota was willing to sponsor this occasion and

even offered me a grant scholarship for the find.

It seemed like an out-of-place joyous occasion but I would have it no other way. I decided to

keep a black notebook and write about my find, and the reunion of the families with their lost

loved one’s belongings. I wrote about the emotions that flustered around. The happy

discussions seem to have been from a time without politics. Nobody cared about that. There

were no phones or arguments. I wrote about the humanity that I saw that day, and how it has

been a long time since I had seen anything like that in a while. It was wholesome.

I knew I was only a small piece in these family’s stories yet, I knew this day would be

remembered. All because one day I decided to go on a hike.