Two in the Field (47 page)

This man might be among those to die in less than a year at the Little Big Horn, I reflected. And wasn’t it Benteen who’d been accused of failing to come to Custer’s aid in time?

Davis pointed out the troopers’ barracks and beyond them the stables and corrals where, at Custer’s insistence, the horses were color-coded: black for one company, sorrel for another, gray for buglers, and so on; this system made for fast identification.

“You ever get word of the Ninth or Tenth Cavalry?” Linc spoke for the first time.

“Nigger troops?”

“Some call them otherwise,” Linc said evenly. “ ‘Buffalo Soldiers,’ most commonly. A lot of folks are ignorant of the fact that one out of every five troopers in the West is dark-skinned.”

“Do tell?” Davis looked as if he’d heard a joke in a minstrel show. “Ain’t that somethin’. No, we don’t get no word about
them.”

“I’m rigging a pole and going down there,” Linc said pointedly, indicating a shaded spot by the river. “Fish make better company than some people.”

I was about to get on Davis’s case, but Cait gave me a look. Okay. First things first. We followed him past a tent occupied on appointed days by a barber from Bismarck. Beside it stood a shack that served as a photographer’s studio. Chalked on a slate
board was
$1 tintype, $3 cabinet photo
. Not cheap. Davis told us that troopers made only $16 a month.

We viewed the adjutant’s office, the sutler’s store, the infirmary, and a huge ramshackle theater where Davis pointed proudly to a faded poster:
The Seventh Cavalry dramatic association presents:
THAT RASCAL PAT.

“Colonel Custer had it built for entertainments,” Davis explained. Inside, we viewed scenery painted on canvas, tallow candles in tin casings that served as footlights, and benches enough to hold all 800 men on the post. “One night a month, us enlistees throw a ball,” he said proudly. “The regimental band plays and the officers and wives come. You should’ve seen the clog-dancing last time.”

We nodded politely. High times with the Seventh Cavalry.

“That’s about it.” Davis looked disappointed to find that the ballplayers on the parade ground had called it quits. We thanked him for his tour and headed back to the two-story house, where I detected movement behind the lace in one of the window. Moments later the door opened and a woman stepped out.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fowler,” she said in vibrant tones. “Tom says that you mistook him for my Autie!” A trilling laugh. “Sorry you’ve been kept waiting.” She was strikingly attractive, pale cheeks beneath gray eyes, oval face framed by thick chestnut hair, head held high. “I’m Elizabeth Custer.” She held the door open. “You must make yourselves at home.”

So this was Libbie Custer. Photographs hadn’t done justice to her flashing eyes, lilting voice, blooming complexion—and especially not her vitality. She didn’t show it directly but I sensed her sizing up Cait. Whatever she concluded caused her to rev up the charm even more. No doubt Libbie was used to being the belle in every gathering. Now, even though gussied up with elaborate combs in her hair, pearl earrings and a lace-collared dress
that accented her shapely neck, and though Cait wore a simple traveling dress, she faced big-league competition.

“It’s such a treat to have visitors!” she gushed. “You must call me Libbie.”

“Thank you, but we’re here because of my son,” Cait began.

“I understand,” Libbie said quickly, taking Cait’s arm. “I’ll ensure that Autie gives you a sympathetic audience. But at the moment he’s deep in his writing, and I can permit
nothing
to disturb him or he’ll be terribly out of sorts.”

She ushered us inside.

“You must attend our soiree tonight,” Libbie went on. “It will be quite gay, with lively guests.”

Cait looked like she was hearing an unfamiliar language. “No, you see, we really must—”

“Oh, my dear,” Libbie interrupted, “these little functions make our lives bearable. Autie will be ever so much better disposed to hear your plea. It’s impossible to leave before tomorrow anyway, so you
must
spend this night with us. Come, I’ll show you your room.”

Cait and I exchanged a glance.

“We have a … companion.” I was unwilling to pass Linc off as our servant.

Libbie flashed a knowing smile; Tom Custer must have mentioned Linc. “We’ll put him in one of the vacant scouts’ cabins,” she said merrily. Davis had pointed out a row of log huts for Indian scouts and their families, with kettles bubbling in doorways and dogs and children lolling in the dirt. No doubt Linc would be happier there, but I didn’t feel good about it.

“I’ve nothing to wear,” Cait said.

“You’re a bit taller than I.” Libbie stopped to reflect. “I think I have just the dress for you.” She placed her slippered foot beside Cait’s. “You have such small feet. No matter, I’ll find shoes, too.”

She led us up the stairs to a small bedroom where a breeze off the river stirred the leaden air. Below, the dogs barked like maniacs. “Autie’s staghounds,” she said. “I’ll soothe the leader, and the rest will quiet. I’ll send lemon water up.” With a brilliant smile she went out.

“I believe she’s famous for her beauty throughout the country,” Cait commented.

“You’ve got her beat,” I said. “Like a rug.”

She gave me a skeptical smile and told me I was noble to say so. She pointed to a narrow bed beneath the window, where mosquito netting billowed slightly. “That’s my size,” she said. “Will you take the four-poster?” Her voice held a subtle plea.

I nodded and said, “Cait, I won’t push.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, and kissed me, her lips a feathery touch against mine. It took all my willpower not to crush her against me. No doubt sensing my inward struggle, Cait stepped away before I could weaken.

A Lakota servant girl dressed in white linen delivered a pitcher of water and a cream-colored silk brocade dress with matching shoes. In perfect English she reported that Mrs. Custer would “receive” us in a few hours. I stretched out on my bed and next thing I knew, the sun was slanting in at a lower angle. Cait sat before the dresser, wielding a hairbrush through her tangled curls. I watched until her eyes caught mine in the mirror. She blushed and looked away.

Victorian intimacy.

At five-thirty the Lakota girl led us downstairs. Libbie greeted us with rouge-pink cheeks and a trailing scent of magnolia. She asked if we’d taken our rest. Cait, knock-dead gorgeous in the silk outfit, assured her that we had.

“Autie should be finishing up now,” she said.

Chatting vivaciously and turning often to touch Cait’s arm,
but never mine, she led us through the house, telling us that although it was regarded as the premiere C.O.’s facility in the entire West, it lacked “modern improvements,” which I gathered meant indoor plumbing and gas lighting. A former house on the site had burned to the ground.

“I lost my entire wardrobe,” she said with a brave little smile, “but Autie saved his uniforms.”

Somehow it figured.

Above the library door were two painted inscriptions: LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA, VOI CH’ENTRATE and CAVE CANEM. “All hope abandon, ye who enter here,” Libbie translated, and “Beware the dog.” She giggled charmingly. “You can see how Autie hates to be disturbed.”

We followed her into a room crammed with animal heads and antlers and pelts and stuffed creatures of all sorts. Weapons filled one corner and the walls held photographs of Civil War generals, including Custer himself, in brave poses.

Things were so busy that it took me a few seconds to focus my attention on the figure at the desk in the center. He was bent over a writing tablet, the crown of his head showing a short-cropped golden fringe instead of the long mane I’d expected. Classic male pattern baldness, already well advanced. Custer must have known we were there but he remained in his contemplative pose.

“Reporters expect a swaggering Indian fighter,” Libbie whispered, “and instead they find a literary man.”

I saw that most of the books piled on his desk dealt with Napoleon. Which, again, figured. Finally his head lifted and I found myself staring at a face reproduced millions of times. I tried to think of a latter-day equivalent to Custer. No military types came to mind. In the America I had left, only rock and movie stars carried his sort of glamour.

He was about my age, thirty-five, and shared Tom’s boyish look, but in his case a hardening and leavening had occurred. The deep-set eyes were bright blue like his brother’s but a trifle steelier. He was bone-lean and a lot of things about him, definitely including the aquiline nose and fixed blue-eyed gaze, struck me as hawklike.

“Autie, darling,” Libbie cooed “We have visitors.”

The blue eyes jerked out of the distance to fix upon her, then upon us. With quick, almost jerky movements he blotted his inked words and stood, a grin abruptly charging his face with a sort of reckless gaiety. “Thank you, Sunbeam,” he said in a hearty tone.

I stifled a natural gag reflex.

He strode toward us, a red scarf about his neck, the fringes on his buckskin outfit dancing with each step. I noticed that the heels of his boots were built up to make him taller. He was slightly bandy-legged, and moved with the same bursting energy that seemed to characterize everything he did.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fowler,” Libbie said.

Cait started to correct her, then let it go.

“Charmed.” Custer bent forward and brushed her hand with his bushy mustache. His face was reddened by the sun; his flared eyebrows were bleached white. A hat line paled his forehead. It seemed to me that he lingered an instant too long over Cait’s hand.

Libbie giggled and for the first time touched my arm. “Tom tells me you’re a champion ball-tosser.”

Custer’s blue-eyed stare fastened on me. I noticed tiny crow’s feet edging his eyes as he tried to pulverize my hand. He was strong, I’ll give him that, but his hand was small and he couldn’t get enough leverage.

“Actually, I’m more of a journalist.”

“Libbie,” he groaned. “You didn’t bring—”

“Now, Autie, I’m sure Mr. Fowler isn’t here for that. They need help, which I believe Tom mentioned.” She turned to us. “Sensation-seekers and reporters want to take
all
our time.” She beamed adoringly. “Once, Autie was so hounded by the press that I found him hiding out in the chicken coop!”

Custer looked less than ecstatic at her sharing that particular recollection.

“What a caution,” I muttered.

Cait pinched my arm.

Libbie urged him to show off his trophies. For twenty minutes we pretended to be rapt while Custer worked his way around the room describing how he’d shot this creature and stuffed that one. He’d taken up taxidermy and treated us to many technical details of the process. We made close inspections of buffalo and grizzly and antelope heads. We studied the black-tailed deer he’d nailed from six hundred yards. We noted details of a sand-hill crane (“extremely difficult to bring down”), a mountain eagle, a tiny yellow fox, and a great white owl whose glass eyes followed us from above his desk. I could feel Cait struggling to keep quiet, revolted by this killing for souvenirs.

“Autie loves all creatures,” Libbie said, as if sensing her reaction. “Out on a march he will lead his men around nesting meadowlarks.”

Why? I wondered. Not worth stuffing?

Cait had had enough. “The reason for our coming—”

“Later, my dear,” Custer said imperiously. “I apprehend your urgency, and will address it after dinner and the affairs of the evening.”

You asshole, I thought. Cait’s face flushed, which only made her look lovelier. Custer had stolen frequent glances at her throughout his taxidermy tour. Now he offered an arm to escort
her. Laughing, Libbie cut in and steered him outside. I looked at Cait, who rolled her eyes wearily.

We weren’t the only dinner guests. Brother Tom was there with gold braid dripping from his blue cavalry tunic. Also Captain George Yates, a quiet man with a pleasant wife. And Lieutenant James Calhoun and his wife Margaret, who turned out to be the Custers’ sister—and the owner of Cait’s dress.

As if there weren’t enough Custers, we were introduced to another. Boston Custer was young and sallow of cheek—consumptive, Libbie told us later—and the only man besides me in civvies. He was employed as something called a forage master, for which young Boston drew seventy-five dollars a month, a handsome bit of nepotism.

Libbie explained that they formed the core of Autie’s “royal court” at Fort Lincoln, her tone nominating it as the grandest assemblage since Camelot. There was much jovial soldier talk and oodles of nicknames: Calhoun was “Jimmy;” Yates was “Georgie;” Boston was “Bos;” Custer was not only “Autie” but “Jack,” from “G.A.C.” stencilled on his trunks.

Light wines were served, and toasts to the 7th Cavalry followed. Custer and Libbie, teetotalers, hoisted their juice glasses with the others. Mrs. Yates played sentimental songs on an upright piano rented by the Custers in St. Paul, and everybody sang. The young officers flirted obliquely with Libbie, who pretended to be shocked and told them they were naughty.

We dined on roasted plovers and wild onions and venison, with a delicious gravy over potatoes. Okra and squash came from gardens worked by soldiers. Given the fort’s barren surroundings, it was an impressive table.

Talk swung to last year’s Black Hills trek, which the men unanimously agreed had been glorious. Custer ranked it among the best experiences of his life.

“It wasn’t so very pleasant for us waiting here,” Libbie said with a pout, drawing nods from the other wives. “Not after the Sioux chiefs came here and warned you against going into their country.”

“We feasted them in proper fashion,” Custer said. “Then went with a larger force.”

The men laughed.

“We heard that four thousand savage hostiles had beset you.” Libbie shut her eyes and shuddered. “Small wonder I swooned in your arms when you rode in!”

“You were very brave, Sunbeam.”

I stared at my plate.

“Someday,” Custer promised, “I’ll show you the Hills in all their splendor.”

Unable to hold back, I said, “Aren’t the Indians guaranteed that area?”