Custer at the Alamo (5 page)

“Miss, my name is Tom. Tom Custer. We’re going to make camp downstream. Would your family care to join us?” Tom asked. His cheeks were flushed, and not from the recent battle. I’d not seen that dance in his eyes since his fiancée had suddenly died a year before.

“Thank you, Tom. We will come after building a funeral scaffold for Closed Hand,” Morning Star agreed.

“Autie?” Tom said.

“Sure, Tom. You and Kellogg give them a hand,” I offered, knowing Indian funeral rites were fairly simple compared to Christian burials. And better for it. Maudlin words and empty prayers at tearful gravesides were not to my liking. I’d had enough of that during the war.

Between Cooke, Bouyer and myself, we had no trouble bagging a few buffalo. Sergeant Butler and Corporal Voss came up with some of the men to butcher the meat, cut some poles for a travois, and drag carcasses down to the river. Harrington still hadn’t caught up with us so I decided to make camp in a tree-lined hollow protected from the freezing wind.

As always, the first order of business was to take care of the horses. The mounts were checked for injuries, brushed down, fed and watered. A cavalryman without a horse is infantry, and we weren’t going to get out of this perplexing situation on foot.

I led Vic down to the river myself, scratching him behind the ears and whispering my thanks for many years of loyal service. We’d left my other horse, Dandy, back with the pack train, along with my dogs, so I knew Vic was feeling lonely. A feeling I shared.

Once the horses were settled, campfires were made, the meat roasting on spits. Several jugs of spirits were found in the wagon. I did not indulge, but there was enough to give each man a splash. I kept Dr. Lord nearby while Tom and Cooke interviewed each member of the command, gathering all the information we could. Kellogg was busy making notes for his newspaper.

Harrington rode in just after sunset. There was no sign of Jimmy Calhoun, last seen down near the Little Big Horn River, or of my nephew, who had gone with him. Nor was there any trace of Major Reno or Captain Benteen. Wherever we were, we were on our own.

Our second night on the southern plains was better than our first. Lines were strung between the trees and draped with hides to make shelter for the enlisted men. The tent, teepees and the wagon provided snug quarters for my officers and our guests. There was plenty of driftwood lying along the river bank for our fires.

It seemed a good time to take stock. The battalion had been smartly attired when we’d left Fort Lincoln on May 17th, before toil and sweat had taken its toll. Most of my men wore dark blue campaign jackets, gray flannel shirts, and sky blue pants reinforced in the seat with canvas. A few wore checkered hickory shirts bought from post traders. Our hats varied from the standard black wool caps to store-bought slouches and even a few straw hats. Each man carried a canteen, coffee cup, field knife, a mending kit, and saddlebags with the basic necessities. Having a pack train is fine, but on a rapid march, it’s always better to be self-sufficient.

There was one issue that didn’t concern me. As we crossed the divide before going into battle, each soldier had been issued a hundred rounds of ammunition for their 1873 Springfield carbines and twenty-four rounds of .45 cartridges for their Colt revolvers, but most carried more, afraid the pack train wouldn’t keep up. That had worried me, too. At the last minute, I ordered each sergeant and corporal to carry an extra saddlebag. Because Tom and my officers owned repeating rifles, they carried their own supplies. With plenty of ammunition, I wasn’t afraid of an Indian attack. We had enough firepower to ride through anything the hostiles might throw at us.

I took a brief stroll through the small camps the men had set up, saying a few words of encouragement. Such a gesture from me was rare, so I’m not sure if my boys were reassured or made more nervous. Most were in their mid-twenties, many from foreign lands.

“Don’t worry, fellows. We’re in good company,” I said. “Bad weather, maybe, but worse at the Washita. Got enough to eat?”

“Still the Seventh, aren’t we, sir?” Private Torrey of E Company said, looking brighter with a buffalo steak on his tin plate.

“Got coffee and a fire. Don’t need no more,” Corporal French added, a fine young lad from Portsmouth.

I could tell that many of my young recruits thought it strange we were camping with Indians, but I’d shared many campfires with Rees, Arikara and Crows. My best scout was Bloody Knife, a half-blood Sioux. Bloody Knife and I had shared many trails over the last eight years. After the Montana campaign, I expected to take him with me to Philadelphia for the Centennial celebration. Maybe even to Washington, if I decided to run for office someday. I wondered how he fared. The last time I saw him, he was riding down the Little Big Horn Valley with Reno.

I returned to my teepee, finding furs laid out near a quiet fire. Though the Indians would be sharing the other teepee, Morning Star and Slow were visiting with Tom. They had been generous with their blankets, a way of saying thank you. Dr. Lord was sleeping in the back, so I kept my voice low.

“Warm in here,” I said, dropping my hide covering near the door and sitting cross-legged next to Tom.

“These teepees are amazing. I wish the quartermaster would order some for the regiment,” Tom said, handing me a thin metal plate filled with roasted buffalo slices. There was a silver fork in my saddlebags, but I ate with my hands so as not to embarrass our Indian hosts.

“It’s a blessing,” I agreed, sorry the pack mules had not followed us more closely.

“Hot food has the men feeling better. We should make good progress now,” Tom happily said.

“Progress to where?” I asked.

“To wherever you take us, Autie. Hell, we’ve been in worse spots than this,” Tom answered. He was trying to keep my spirits up, which was very annoying.

“I guess we’ll muddle through,” I said.

“We do not see many white men this far west,” Morning Star said, sharing a bowl of rabbit stew.

“You must live in a remote village, miss,” I replied, finding the young lady charming. “From what my Indian friends tell me, the plains are swarming with too many white men.”

“You have many friends among the People?” Morning Star asked.

“Not among the Sioux. I have been blood brother to the Arikara,” I replied.

“There are times I think Autie wants to be an Indian,” Tom said with a laugh, almost lighting a cigar before seeing my frown.

“That’s not quite true,” I disagreed. “I’m proud of the white race, but pride is not an excuse for breaking treaties or cheating the Indians on the reservations. Whenever I reflect on what the Grant Administration is doing, it makes me angry.”

“I have not heard of these troubles,” Morning Star said, confused.

“Then your village must be
very
remote,” I said.

“White men have strange ways. They do not respect the land. They do not revere the spirits,” Slow said, his words thoughtfully measured. It was his way of calling us a bunch of barbarians. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized the boy even knew English.

“I’ve known white men who can’t be trusted. Known Indians who couldn’t be trusted either,” I said. “But I think more people value the truth than not. I still remember the oath I took as a plebe back at West Point almost twenty years ago—‘A cadet will not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those who do’. I may have earned more demerits than any other cadet in West Point history, but that is one oath I’ve never broken.”

Slow took a sip of water from a hide bag without further comment. I had the impression he didn’t believe me.

* * *

I did not understand Wakan Tanka’s vision. My mind was suddenly younger, more hopeful, but troubled by a strange journey. My older sister and cousins, long since dead, now lived once more. We were far to the south of our hunting grounds searching for a white buffalo, or a white wolf, but instead we found a white man. A bitter enemy of the People. In what manner could this be a good thing?

Chapter Two

The next morning, I decided it was time to reorganize the command. A company of U.S. cavalry generally holds sixty men and several officers, but we were under strength even before reaching the Little Big Horn. Now we had even fewer. Just after dawn, Corporal Voss trumpeted officer’s call.

“Gentlemen, we need to make some adjustments,” I announced, standing under a gray leafless tree outside my teepee. Each of my officers held a cup of coffee while Walking-In-Grass served fried trout for breakfast. The young Indian boy sat on a blanket, watching from a distance.

“Finally making me the general, Autie?” Tom asked with a sassy grin. I ignored him.

“We are reducing our five companies to four,” I said. “It goes without saying that Cooke and Dr. Lord will remain with my headquarters staff. Company L is disbanded. Myles, as senior captain, you’ll retain command of I Company. Harrington will be your executive officer. Draw five more men to bring your troop up to forty. You are the left wing of this regiment.”

“Yes, General, thank you, sir,” Keogh replied, pleased to be singled out first. But Keogh deserved it. Thirty-six years old, he was closest to me in age. Always reliable, he had fought in Italy before joining the Union army, rode with General Buford at Gettysburg, and held his own against Jeb Stuart in Virginia. By the end of the war, he held the brevet rank of lieutenant colonel. He was a stout, thick-necked, tough as nails Irishman. A quality we badly needed.

“Fresh, you’ll keep command of E Company. I can only spare twenty men for your unit. You’ll hold the rear of the column and come forward when needed,” I said next, knowing Lieutenant ‘Fresh’ Smith would be disappointed. “I don’t have an executive officer for you, so select a man for temporary appointment. Sergeant Hohmeyer will do if you approve.”

“Sure, Autie. Whatever’s best for the command,” Smith agreed.

A clean-cut thirty-three-year-old New Yorker, Algernon Smith had served honorably in the volunteer infantry during the war, brevetted to the rank of major. He had fought beside me at the Washita, served on the Yellowstone campaign, and again on the Black Hills survey. He was a founding member of the ‘Custer Clan,’ as Benteen derisively referred to those officers who had served me loyally over the years.

“F Company will be our right wing, thirty-six strong. Reily will be second- in-command,” I continued, looking at Tom and Yates.

“And F Company’s commander will be?” Yates asked.

A fair question. By rights, F Company belonged to Yates, but there was a complication. My brother had command of C Company for several years, first as a lieutenant and then as its captain, but only fifteen members of his troop had survived. Giving Yates the larger command would leave Tom with nothing but a platoon. I could see the anxiety in his expression.

“Georgie, F Company is yours. I know you won’t let me down,” I said.

“I never have, Autie,” Yates said, giving Tom a consoling pat on the knee.

Tom tried to smile, being a good sport. It wasn’t as if I’d given the assignment to one of the junior officers.

“Tom, you’ll continue serving as my aide-de-camp. I need you close by to keep me out of trouble,” I soon added. “And if something happens to me, I want you to take command of the entire regiment. Under these extraordinary circumstances, I’m giving you a field promotion to major.”