The Opening of the Fight at Wounded Knee

Posted on December 14, 2013 by Sam Russell

There was an instant, and then we heard sounds of firing in the centre of the Indians. ‘Fire!’ I shouted, and we poured it into them.
–Lieutenant J. D. Mann–

The Opening of the Fight at Wounded Knee

Frederic Remington drew this sketch of the opening shots at Wounded Knee based on conversations he had with the officers and troopers of the 7th Cavalry several days after the battle. It appeared in the 24 January 1891 edition of Harper’s Weekly.

Like most correspondents, he was not present at Wounded Knee on 29 December, believing that Big Foot’s surrender and the disarming of his warriors would be without incident and less newsworthy than the much larger band of Brule Indians reportedly coming into the Pine Ridge Agency from the Stronghold in the Bad Lands. Remington also missed the opportunity to observe the burial party that traveled back to Wounded Knee on 3 January. He felt compelled to explain to the readers of Harper’s Weekly why he was not at either key event.

We discussed the vague report of the Wounded Knee fight in the upper camps of the cordon, and old hands said it could be no ordinary affair because of the large casualty. Two days after I rode into the Pine Ridge Agency, very hungry and nearly frozen to death, having ridden with Captain Baldwin, of the staff, and a Mr. Miller all night long. I had to look after a poor horse, and see that he was groomed and fed, which require considerable tact and “hustling” in a busy camp. Then came my breakfast. That struck me as a serious matter at the time. There were wagons and soldiers–the burial party going to the Wounded Knee to do its solemn duty. I wanted to go very much. I stopped to think; in short, I hesitated, and of course was “lost,” for after breakfast they had gone. Why did I not follow them? Well, my natural prudence had been considerably strengthened a few days previously by a half-hour’s interview with six painted Brulé Sioux who seemed to be in command of the situation. To briefly end the matter, the burial party was fired on, and my confidence in my own good judgment was vindicated to my own satisfaction.
I rode over to the camp of the Seventh United States Cavalry, and met all the officers, both wounded and well, and a great many of the men. They told me their stories in that inimitable way which is studied art with warriors. To appreciate brevity you must go to a soldier. He shrugs his shoulders, and points to the bridge of his nose, which has had a piece cut out by a bullet, and says, “Rather close, but don’t amount to much.” An inch more, and some youngster would have had his promotion.
I shall not here tell the story of the Seventh Cavalry fight with Big Foot’s band of Sioux on the Wounded Knee; that has been done in the daily papers; but I will recount some small-talk current in the Sibley tepees, or the “white man’s war tents,” as the Indians call them.
Lying on his back, with a bullet through the body, Lieutenant Mann grew stern when he got to the critical point in his story. “I saw three or four young bucks drop their blankets, and I saw that they were armed. ‘Be ready to fire, men; there is trouble.” There was an instant, and then we heard sounds of firing in the centre of the Indians. ‘Fire!’ I shouted, and we poured it into them.”
“Oh yes, Mann, but the trouble began when the old medicine-man threw the dust in the air. That is the old Indian signal of ‘defiance,’ and no sooner had he done that act than those bucks stripped and went into action.  Just before that some one told me that if we didn’t stop that old man’s talk he would make trouble. He said that the white men’s bullets would not go through the ghost shirts.”
Said another officer, “The way those Sioux worked those Winchesters was beautiful.” Which criticism, you can see, was professional.
Added another, “One man was hit early in the firing, but he continued to pump his Winchester; but growing weaker and weaker, and sinking down gradually, his shots went higher and higher, until his last went straight up in the air.”
“Those Indians were plumb crazy. Now, for instance, did you notice that before they fired they raised their arms to heaven? That was devotional.”
“Yes, captain, but they got over their devotional mood after the shooting was over,” remonstrated a cynic. “When I passed over the field after the fight one young warrior who was near to his death asked me to take him over to the medicine-man’s side, that he might die with his knife in the old conjurer’s heart. He had seen that the medicine was bad, and his faith in the ghost shirt had vanished. There was no doubt but that every buck there thought that no bullet could touch him.”
“Well,” said an officer, whose pipe was working into a reflective mood, “there is one thing which I learned, and that is that you can bet that the private soldier in the United States army will fight. He’ll fight from the drop of the hat anywhere and in any place, and he’ll fight till you call time. I never in my life saw Springfield carbines worked so industriously as at that place. I noticed one young fellow, and his gun seemed to just blaze all the while. Poor chap! he’s mustered out for good.”
I saw the scout who had his nose cut off. He came in to get shaved. His face was covered with strips of court-plaster, and when informed that it would be better for him to forego the pleasure of a shave, he reluctantly consented. He had ridden all day and been in the second day’s fight with his nose held on by a few strips of plaster, and he did not see just why he could not be shaved; but after being talked to earnestly by a half-dozen friends he succumbed.
“What became of the man who did that?” I asked of him.
He tapped his Winchester and said, “Oh, I got him all right!”
I went into the hospital tents and saw the poor fellows lying on the cots, a little pale in the face, and with a drawn look about the mouth and eyes. That is the serious part of soldiering. No excitement, no crowd of cheering comrades, no shots and yells and din of battle. A few watchful doctors and Red Cross stewards with bottles and bandages, and the grim spectre of the universal enemy hovering over all, and ready to dart down on any man on the cots who lay quieter and whose face was more pale than his fellows.
I saw the Red Cross ambulances draw up in line, and watched the wounded being loaded into them. I saw poor Garlington. His blond mustache twitched under the process of moving, and he looked like a man whose mustache wouldn’t twitch unnecessarily. Lieutenant Hawthorne, who was desperately shot in the groin while working the little Hotchkiss cannon, turned his eyes as they moved Garlington from the next cot, and then waited patiently for his own turn.
I was talking with old Captain Capron, who commanded the battery at the fight–a grim old fellow, with a red-lined cape overcoat, and nerve enough for a hundred-ton gun. He said: “When Hawthorne was shot the gun was worked by Corporal Weimert, while Private Hertzog carried Hawthorne from the field and then returned to his gun. The Indians redoubled their fire on the men at the gun, but it seemed only to inspire the corporal to renewed efforts. Oh, my battery was well served,” continued the captain, as he put his hands behind his back and looked far away.
This professional interest in the military process of killing men sometimes rasps a citizen’s nerves. To the captain everything else was a side note of little consequence so long as his guns had been worked to his entire satisfaction. That was the point.
At the mention of the name of Captain Wallace, the Sibley became so quiet that you could hear the stove draw and the wind wail about the little canvas town. It was always “Poor Wallace!” and “He died like a soldier, with his empty six-shooter in his right hand, shot through the body, and with two jagged wounds in his head.”
I accosted a soldier who was leaning on a crutch while he carried a little bundle in his right hand. “You bet I’m glad to get out in the sunlight; that old hospital tent was getting mighty tiresome.”
“Where was I shot?” He pointed to his hip. “Only a flesh wound; this is my third wound. My time is out in a few days; but I’m going to re-enlist, and I hope I’ll get back here before this trouble is over. I want to get square with these Injuns.” You see, there was considerable human nature in this man’s composition.
The ambulance went off down the road, and the burial party came back. The dead were for the time forgotten, and the wounded were left to fight their own battles with stitches and fevers and suppuration. The living toiled in the trenches, or stood out their long term on the pickets, where the moon looked down on the frosty landscape, and the cold wind from the north searched for the crevices in their blankets.

Source: Frederic Remington, “The Sioux Outbreak in South Dakota,” Harper’s Weekly, Vol. XXXV, No. 1779, January 24, 1891, 58 – 65.
Posted in Newspaper Articles | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

An Account of the Battle by George R. Brown

Posted on December 12, 2013 by Sam Russell

It was the bravest thing I ever saw done. There wasn’t a chance for the Indians from the start. We had about six hundred men where they had only one hundred and fifty, and besides they were hindered with their squaws and papooses.

George R. Brown wrote the following account of the battle at Wounded Knee Creek, which was published in the El Paso Daily Herald on July 23, 1900, a decade after the battle, as the seventh in a series titled “Stories Of the Old Southwest. Told By the Men Who Made Paths Through the Impassible, Who Risked Their Lives That We Might Live, and Who Have Done and Dared Much–the Pioneers of the West.”

A review of the 7th Cavalry Regiment’s Muster Rolls for December 1890 reveals only one George Brown, a Private in Captain E S. Godfrey’s D Troop. Based on the author’s positioning next to Big Foot’s tent in his account, he would likely have been in B Troop, K Troop, or the Field and Staff. The only other name on the rolls that is similar is James R. Brown, a private in K Troop. There were two other Browns listed on the muster rolls: Sergeant James H. Brown of B Troop and Corporal Charles Brown of K Troop. Unfortunately, the author of this account does not provide enough specificity, such as names of comrades, to pinpoint to which unit he was assigned, or verify if he was even at the battle. There are several historical errors in the account, for example Whitside is referred to as a captain rather than a major and the author states that there were Gatling guns present on the field, which there were not.

Following is George R. Brown’s account in its entirety as originally published including the title and subtitles.

The Battle Of Wounded Knee

A Plain Narrative Of a Memoriable Fight, By a Trooper Of the Famous Seventh.–Hand To Hand. It was a Fight To Annilation.–The Wonderful Bravery Of the Sioux.

Written Especially for the Herald.

In his tepee on the creek,
Lay old Big Foot, dying, weak.
Big Foot, Indian chief, and brave,
Racked with pain, and near the grave–
Near the Happy Hunting Grounds.

Troops and Indians hand to hand,
Struggled on the prairie sand;
Shots and curses, moans and yells,
Noises of a thousand hells.
Through the tepee came the sounds.

Sprang old Big Foot from his bed.
Then fell over backward, dead;
Pierced through by twenty holes,
(Curses on as many souls)
Murdered, in a leaden hail.
Crouching at the chieftain’s feet,
Was his squaw Wa-la-go-lite,
O’er his body took her stand,
Loaded Winchester in hand;
Then with bullet through her breast,
Went to her eternal rest.
Rose the plaintive death chant wail.
–Tales of a Sioux Chief.

I look like I had money now, and to tell the truth I have. I ain’t blowing about it, and ain’t ashamed to admit that for ten years I was worse than dead broke. I didn’t have a cent nor a friend on earth. The years were between ’85 and ’95. I’ve made my little pile now and I can’t count my friends. I’ve found that to be the way of the world.

When I got desperate I did what lots of other boys have done, I enlisted in the army, and I served my time, and I’ve got an honorable discharge, and am proud of it. But I hated the service worse than anything when I found that I had to go in it or starve. What makes me proud of it? Well, I’ll tell you. I was in the 7th cavalry in 1890. Do you know now? Well, I’ll tell you the story.

I was in the battle of Wounded Knee Creek, in the winter of ’90, and I think that’s enough for any man to be proud of. It hasn’t been a long while ago now, and people don’t know much about it, but it was one of the hardest battles that was ever fought in any Indian war In this country. It was after the death of Sitting Bull, and the Indians were crazy with fear and almost demoralized.

When Sitting Bull was arrested, and shot when trying to escape, there were a good many redskins on the warpath, but his death frightened most of them, and there were only about twelve hundred of them who took to the Bad Lands and defied the troops. The rest of them went back to their reservation. The prospect was that there would be another long and bloody war with the Sioux, and the army was considerably worried.

Red Cloud was an old man, and he wanted peace. An officer had been murdered by some Indians of his band, and he was afraid there was going to be another war. He came back to the reservation in the dead of winter, when the snow was on the ground, to escape from his own tribe. They were inclined to go on the warpath with those of Sitting Bull’s warriors who had taken to the Bad Lands when the old chief died. Red Cloud was almost blind, and he had to be led the whole distance by his daughter.

Sitting Bull’s braves had started to join the other Indians on the warpath, but for some reason they came back, and one morning along in the middle of December Little Bat, an Indian scout, came in with the news that the Sioux band under Big Foot were only eight miles away on Porcupine creek, and that Big Foot wanted to speak with Captain Whiteside, who was in command of the Seventh cavalry. If he had gone to the Bad Lands the war would have lasted maybe for years.

We started for Porcupine creek, and the Sioux were drawn up in a line. There were more than a hundred and fifty, and they were heavily armed. It was on a Sunday morning, I think, and though it had been pretty cold up to that time, it was clear and warm. When we got near to the Indians Big Foot came out alone from his side, and Captain Whiteside went out to meet him. Big Foot offered to surrender. He had gotten tired, he said, of being hunted around, and he couldn’t fight with two hundred and fifty squaws and papooses.

As soon as Big Foot surrendered we closed in on the Indians and marched them to our old camping grounds on the Wounded Knee creek. We formed a cordon around them and sent for reinforcements. We could see that the Indians were suspicious and uneasy, but we didn’t think there was going to be any trouble with them, as they were worn out and hungry. They were a pitiable sight. Their blankets were dirty and full of holes, their leggings were worn out, and they had absolutely nothing to eat. I never did understand how they had held out so long as they did.

The next morning Colonel Forsyth came over and took command of the troops. Then the order came to disband Big Foot’s warriors. We had a Gatling and a Hotchkiss gun mounted to command the valley where we were camped, and the boys were dismounted. Big Foot was lying in his tent. The Indians said he had bad medicine and that he had the white man’s disease. I guess he meant consumption, though I know it was something the matter with his lungs.

The Indians were told to come out of their tents and we were formed into a hollow square with the Indians in the center. Colonel Forsyth ordered them to go back into their tents and get their guns. Twenty of them started, and when they came back there were two guns among them.

Captain Whiteside was a quick and impetuous man, and he didn’t like the way the Indians were doing. He ordered a squad to search the tepees and bring out every weapon, and all the ammunition that was found in them. The rest of the troop closed up closer on the Indians.

The search had hardly begun when the Indians raised their death chant. They all of them took it up and it was the most peculiar sound I had ever heard. It was almost ghastly and sounded uncanny and just like some body was really dead. You could almost draw a picture of it: The Indians kept this up while they squatted on the grass, and then all of a sudden, before any body knew what was happening it changed to the war song.

The Indians were on their feet before we knew anything was wrong, and the next minute they pulled their guns from under their blankets and opened fire at close quarters. Those that didn’t have guns rushed us with scalping knives and tomahawks and before we could realize it the fight was on.

It is going to be history some day. A thing like that seems grand and awful to me. I look back on it now and I don’t blame the Indians. They thought they were going to be deprived of their arms and then murdered, and white men would have thought the same thing under the same circumstances, and would have tried to survive as dearly as the Indians did.

After the first volley had been fired the troops recovered from their surprise, and after that there was the greatest possible order and discipline. We clubbed our guns and fought with six shooters. The Indians were completely hemmed in on all sides. It was the bravest thing I ever saw done in my life and it deserves to be remembered as long as bravery is honored.

The fact that they were Indians doesn’t make any difference to me. It was the bravest thing I ever saw done. There wasn’t a chance for the Indians from the start. We had about six hundred men where they had only one hundred and fifty, and besides they were hindered with their squaws and papooses. They intended to die fighting rather than be butchered, and any brave people in the same position would have done what they did. We didn’t understand each other. That’s all.

Those Sioux fought like fiends, and that little handful of them almost cut their way through and escaped. Some of them did.

We were in such close quarters that it was a hand to hand fight from the start. Indians and soldiers lay on the ground locked in each other’s arms, Indian knife against revolver butt, and that’s the way they were found after the fight.

There wasn’t any mercy shown on either side. As soon as the Indians made the first rush the troops met it with a cheer, and above the noise of the fight you could hear some cavalry man yelling as loud as he could: “Remember Custer.” It was taken up and we cheered while we fought. The men lost all control of themselves. I can only speak for myself, but I know that the only thing I wanted was to kill as many redskins as I could. It was the excitement of the battle.

I’ve heard it said that the cavalry didn’t make any distinction between the braves and their squaws. It isn’t so. It’s a lie. I don’t believe a single man knowingly shot a woman. There were lots of them found dead after the fight, but it was because they had gotten right into the thick of it. Those squaws fought like fiends. They can use a rifle and so can the Indian boys ten and twelve years old. Several times during the fight I heard some body shout out, “Don’t shoot, It’s a woman.” That’s a lie, that women and children were shot, though I know it has been charged.

When the fight commenced I was standing near the tepee where Big Foot the chief was lying. I had seen him, and I knew he was sick. The fight started right by his tent. When the noise reached him Big Foot staggered to his feet, wavering and unsteady. He had barely gotten up when he pitched over backwards with more than twenty bullet holes through his body.

His squaw was with him, and when he dropped she sprang to her feet with a loaded Winchester in her hands. She looked like a mountain lion that’s been wounded, standing at bay over old Big Foot’s body. The next instant she leaped convulsively into the air, and dropped dead at the old chief’s feet, riddled with bullets, and covered with blood.

The rest is history, or will be someday. The Sioux couldn’t stand the terrible odds very long, and some of them broke and ran. Then the field guns were trained on them, and they were hunted down like wild animals. It had turned into a war of extermination.

That’s why I’m proud of my discharge from the Seventh cavalry. Mark my word. Wounded Knee will yet become one of the historic names in American history. I’ve served my time in the army, and I can talk. Most of the trouble with the Indians was provoked by white men. They haven’t given the Indian a chance.

After I obtained my discharge I took what money I had saved and started out again. I’ve made all kinds of money, though as I say, I’m not boasting of it, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I have been down on my luck. I started out prospecting again, and I struck it rich. What are you going to have, gentlemen?

George R. Brown.[1]

A follow up note on the possible authors:

The logical assumption is that the author of this article must have been the only soldier in the 7th Cavalry at the Battle of Wounded Knee with the name the author provides. George Brown enlisted at New York City on Christmas Eve 1886. He indicated on his enlistment record that he was twenty-one years and seven months of age, born in Bohemia, Austria, and previously employed as a teamster. Brown stood five feet seven and a half inches tall, had blue eyes, light hair, and a fair complexion. He was assigned to D Troop for all five years of his enlistment, and the December 1890 muster roll indicates that he was present with his troop at the battle. However, Captain Godfrey and his troop were mounted and positioned as an outer cordon south of the ravine at least half a kilometer from the council circle. If present with his troop at the battle, as the muster roll indicates, not only would Private George Brown not be located next to Big Foot’s tent, he likely wouldn’t be able to see it or any activity near it with much detail from the troop’s location south of the ravine. Brown was discharged at the end of his five-year enlistment on December 23, 1891 at Fort Riley, Kansas, with the rank of Private and a characterization of service of Excellent. A review of the invalid pension application that Brown submitted in 1927 revealed that his real name was Joseph Jandacek.[2]

This 1949 application for a flat granite grave marker for Joseph Jandacek indicates that he was the Private George Brown of D Troop, 7th Cavalry, and was present at the Battle of Wounded Knee.[3]

This 1949 application for a flat granite grave marker for Joseph Jandacek indicates that he was the Private George Brown of D Troop, 7th Cavalry, and was present at the Battle of Wounded Knee.[3]

A more remote possibility is that the author of the article was one of the other three enlisted soldiers present at the battle with the last name of Brown. James R. Brown initially enlisted in the army on July 19, 1888 at Jefferson Barracks, Missouri. He was listed as a twenty-four-year-old laborer born at Chicago, Illinois, with brown eyes, dark brown hair, a ruddy complexion and stood five feet eight inches tall. He was assigned to 7th Cavalry’s K Troop and was discharged on October 18, 1891 at Fort Riley, Kansas, per General Order #80, Adjutant General’s Office 1890, a Private, characterization: Very Good. Based on annotations on the K Troop Muster Roll, James R. Brown was present at the battle. A review of pension applications reveals that James R. Brown was an alias for William Beck. William Beck subsequently enlisted under his real name first in G Company, 21st Infantry, then C Company, 6th Infantry and later H Company, 6th Infantry. In all he served from 1888 to 1899. If George R. Brown was in fact William Beck, alias James R. Brown, then his claim in this article that he only served because he was destitute and starving, and later struck it rich as a prospector, would appear to be false.[4]

William Beck's pension application indicates that he served under the alias James R. Brown with K Troop 7th Cavalry.[5]

William Beck’s pension application indicates that he served under the alias James R. Brown with K Troop 7th Cavalry.[5]

Charles Brown originally enlisted in June 1882 at Chicago, Illinois, as a twenty-two-year-old laborer. He enlisted for a second five-year period on June 13, 1887 at a camp on Milk River, Montana Territory, by Captain Wallace. He was born at Green Bay Wisconsin, and indicated at the time of his second enlistment that he was a twenty-seven-year-old soldier with hazel eyes, light brown hair, a light complexion, and stood five feet seven inches tall. He was initially assigned to L Troop and later transferred to K Troop, 7th Cavalry Regiment. Charles Brown was a thirty-year-old corporal in his troop in December 1890, and, according to the muster roll, was present at the battle. K Troop sustained the greatest casualty rate during the battle as it was the object of the Indians’ opening volley. Brown completed his five-year enlistment on June 12, 1892 at Fort Riley, Kansas, as a sergeant with a characterization of service of Excellent.[6]

Charles Brown's pension application shows that he served in G, L and K Troops during his decade with the 7th Cavalry.[8]

Charles Brown’s pension application shows that he served in G, L and K Troops during his decade with the 7th Cavalry.[7]

The fourth and final soldier with the same last name as the author of this article was James H. Brown who enlisted on April 21, 1886 at Cincinnati, Ohio. He was a twenty-two-year-old farmer from Brown County, Ohio, with grey eyes, brown hair, a fair complexion, and stood five feet seven and a quarter inches in height. He was assigned to B Troop, 7th Cavalry Regiment and served his entire five year enlistment with that troop, being discharged on May 20, 1891 at Fort Riley, Kansas, with the rank of sergeant and a characterization of service of Excellent. He was serving as a twenty-six-year-old sergeant with his troop at the battle, and based on B Troop’s position around the council circle, he too was likely in the heat of the fight at the opening volley.[8]

Because there is no way to verify that Geroge R. Brown, the author of his article, was actually at the Battle of Wounded Knee, this first person account must be treated as a dubious source at best. The failure to mention any names other than Colonel Forsyth and Major Whitside, the mention of the presence of Gatling guns, the cheer to “Remember Custer,” all indicate that this story is more fiction than fact and that the author likely was not a member of the 7th Cavalry and was not at the Battle of Wounded Knee.

Endnotes:
[1] George R. Brown, El Paso Daily Herald., July 23, 1900, Last Edition 4:30 p.m., Page 4 and 5, http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn86064199/1900-07-23/ed-1/seq-7/ accessed 11 Dec 13.
[2] Ancestry.com, U.S. Army, Register of Enlistments, 1798-1914 [database on-line], Provo, UT, USA: Ancestry.com Operations Inc, 2007, Original data: Register of Enlistments in the U.S. Army, 1798-1914, (National Archives Microfilm Publication M233, 81 rolls), Records of the Adjutant General’s Office, 1780’s-1917, Record Group 94, National Archives, Washington, D.C.
[3] National Archives and Records Administration, Washington, D.C.; Applications for Headstones for U.S. military veterans, 1925-1941, National Archives Microfilm Publication: A1, 2110-C, Record Group Title: Records of the Office of the Quartermaster General, Record Group Number: 92.
[4] Ancestry.com. U.S. Army, Register of Enlistments, 1798-1914, 1885-1890, A-D, image 97, line 407.
[5] National Archives and Records Administration, U.S., Civil War Pension Index: General Index to Pension Files, 1861-1934 [database on-line], Provo, UT, USA: Ancestry.com Operations Inc, 2000, Original data: General Index to Pension Files, 1861-1934, Washington, D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration. T288, 546 rolls,
[6] Ancestry.com. U.S. Army, Register of Enlistments, 1798-1914, 1885-1890, A-D, image 79, line 347.
[7] Fold3.com, National Archives Catalog Title: Organization Index to Pension Files of Veterans Who Served Between 1861 and 1900, compiled 1949 – 1949, documenting the period 1861 – 1942, Publication Number: T289, Record Group: 15, Roll Number: 703, http://www.fold3.com/image/29556248/ accessed 13 Dec 2013.
[8] Ancestry.com. U.S. Army, Register of Enlistments, 1798-1914, 1885-1890, A-D, image 58, line 241.
Posted in Enlisted, Reminiscences | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Private Ralph L. Cook, B Troop, 7th Cavalry – Killed in Action

Posted on December 11, 2013 by Sam Russell

One of the four Privates in Captain Varnum’s B Troop that was killed at Wounded Knee was Ralph Cook, a twenty-three-year-old teamster from Chicago.  Cook had been with B Troop for over two years.  As with most of the casualties in B and K Troops, Cook was likely killed during the initial volley or subsequent clash as the Miniconjou men broke through the lines of the two cavalry troops surrounding the Indian circle.  According to the “Death Roll” published in the Omaha Bee on New Years Day, 1891, Cook was shot through the heart.[1] Captain Varnum merely listed him as killed in action on the troop’s muster roll and on Cook’s final statement and provided no detail of the soldier’s death.

Final statement of Private Ralph Cook as reported by Captain Varnum on 31 December 1890 at the Pine Ridge Agency.[2]

Final statement of Private Ralph Cook as reported by Captain Varnum on 31 December 1890 at the Pine Ridge Agency.[2]

Ralph L. Cook was born in May 1867, the second son of John and Kate Cook.  John Cook was originally from Maine and married in the early 1860s Kate J. Plumstead, the teenage-daughter of John and Sarah (Reed) Plumstead from New York.  Their eldest son, James, was born in 1866, Ralph a year later, and Charles Mortimer was born in 1869, all three in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  John and Kate relocated their family to New Jersey in the early 1870s where they had three additional children: Edna born in 1872, Mildred in 1874, and Francis in 1877.  John’s pursuit of employment next took the family to Buffalo, New York, where he worked in a ship yard.  While there Kate delivered another son, Frederick, born in 1879.  Finally, John and Kate settled in Chicago, Illinois in the early 1880s where Kate had two more girls: Mable born in 1882 and Orie in 1885.[3]

As a young man, Ralph Cook worked in Chicago as a teamster, which in the 1880s was a worker that hauled cargo in a wagon pulled by an eight or ten-horse team.  At the age of twenty-one he enlisted in the Army for five years in August 1888 and was assigned to Captain Thomas M. McDougall’s B Troop, 7th Cavalry, although that officer was on sick leave for over a year and Lieutenant Gresham was commanding the troop.  According to his enlistment record, Cook stood five feet six inches tall, had brown eyes, black hair, and a dark complexion.[4]

Following his death at Wounded Knee, Private Cook, like most of his comrades killed that day, was initially buried in the Episcopal cemetery at the Pine Ridge Agency two days after the battle.  His body was moved in October 1906 and reburied in the Fort Riley Post Cemetery.[5]

Private Ralph L. Cook is buried in the Fort Riley Post Cemetery.[6]

As with most enlisted soldiers, Private Cook was not married.  His mother, who at the time of his death was a widow, filed for a pension in February 1891.  She was still living on her son’s pension in Chicago in 1900 with her three adult children, James, Edna, and Mildred, and raising her two teenage-daughters, Mable and Orie.  Mrs. Kate Cook later moved to Bremerton, Washington, where she lived with her son, Charles, and his wife, Mary.  Kate Plumstead Cook died on 23 October 1920 at the age of 74 at Bremerton.[7]

Endnotes:
[1] Omaha daily Bee., January 01, 1891, Part One, Image 1,http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn99021999/1891-01-01/ed-1/seq-1/ accessed 4 Nov 2013.[2] Adjutant General’s Office, Final Statements, 1862-1899 at Fold3, http://www.fold3.com/image/1/271303407/ accessed  7 Dec 2013.
[3] Ancestry.com, United States Federal Census [database on-line], Provo, UT, USA: Ancestry.com Operations, Inc., 2009, Year: 1870, Census Place: Philadelphia Ward 26 Dist 84 (2nd Enum), Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Roll: M593_1441, Page: 57B, Image: 118, Family History Library Film: 552940; Year: 1880, Census Place: Buffalo, Erie, New York, Roll: 831; Family History Film: 1254831, Page: 27A, Enumeration District: 159, Image: 0056; Year: 1900, Census Place: Chicago Ward 26, Cook, Illinois, Roll: 277, Page: 4A, Enumeration District: 0805, FHL microfilm: 1240277.
[4] Ancestry.com, U.S. Army, Register of Enlistments, 1798-1914 [database on-line], Provo, UT, USA: Ancestry.com Operations Inc, 2007, Original data: Register of Enlistments in the U.S. Army, 1798-1914, (National Archives Microfilm Publication M233, 81 rolls), Records of the Adjutant General’s Office, 1780’s-1917, Record Group 94, National Archives, Washington, D.C.
[5] Ancestry.com, U.S. Military Burial Registers, 1768-1921 [database on-line], Provo, UT, USA: Ancestry.com Operations Inc, 2007, Original data: Burial Registers for Military Posts, Camps, and Stations, 1768-1921, Microfilm Publication M2014, 1 roll, ARC ID: 4478153, Records of the Office of the Quartermaster General, Record Group 92, National Archives in Washington, D.C.; National Archives and Records Administration, U.S., Civil War Pension Index: General Index to Pension Files, 1861-1934 [database on-line], Provo, UT, USA: Ancestry.com Operations Inc, 2000, Original data: General Index to Pension Files, 1861-1934. Washington, D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration, T288, 546 rolls; Archive Number: 44778151, Series: A1 627, Record Group Title: Records of the Office of the Quartermaster General, 1774-1985, Record Group Number: 92.
[6] Samuel L. Russell, photo., taken 25 Aug 2018.
[7] Ancestry.com, United States Federal Census, Year: 1900, Census Place: Chicago Ward 26, Cook, Illinois, Roll: 277, Page: 4A, Enumeration District: 0805, FHL microfilm: 1240277; Year: 1920, Census Place: Bremerton Ward 5, Kitsap, Washington; Roll: T625_1931, Page: 4B, Enumeration District: 53, Image: 843; Ancestry.com, Washington, Deaths, 1883-1960 [database on-line], Provo, UT, USA: Ancestry.com Operations Inc, 2008, Original data: Various county death registers, Microfilm, Washington State Archives, Olympia, Washington.
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