His senior officers, you see, were fellows of long service and good name who’d held higher ranks in the war than they did now, and it’s no fun for a good man who’s been a colonel, and knows how a colonel should behave, to take snuff from a demoted general. His top major, Reno, who seemed a dapper, quiet, clever sort of chap, concealed any animosity he may have felt, but the dominant spirit in the mess, a big burly bargee with prematurely white hair and a schoolboy’s eyes and grin, called Benteen, seemed ready to lock horns with Custer as soon as look at him. I saw it within a minute of meeting him: he pumped my hand jovially and wanted to talk cricket with me – which I thought deuced strange in an American, but it seemed he’d played as a boy and was a keen hand.64 Custer listened with a jaundiced air as we discussed those mysteries which are Greek to the uninitiated, and finally observed that it sounded a dull enough pastime, at which Benteen says: “Well, then, colonel, what game shall we talk about? Kiss-in-the-ring or blind man’s buff?” and Custer gave him a glare and took me off to meet Keogh, a jolly black Irishman who had family connections with the British Army – and that didn’t suit Custer either, evidently; I was his lion, I suppose, and to be welcomed as such. Again, there was Moylan, up from the ranks and with sergeant’s mess written all over him, which didn’t stop Custer from mentioning the fact in presenting me.
Then there was a large Custer faction at the fort: his brother Tom, whom I knew, and another brother, Boston, who was a civilian but had some commissary post or other, and Calhoun, Custer’s brother-in-law, who seemed a good sort – but in my experience, let too much family into a regiment and you let in trouble; it must make for a house divided. Don’t mistake me: I don’t blame the unhappy officers’ mess for what happened later, any more than I blame the Balaclava fiasco on the fact that Lucan and Cardigan detested each other. Both disasters would have happened if Custer’s 7th had been all loving and loyal, and Lucan and Cardigan sworn chums. I’m just reporting what I saw.
The fort itself was a dismal enough place, on flat land west of the river, with baldhead prairie stretching away forever and coyotes waking the dead at night. Bismarck, an ugly settlement where the Northern Pacific railroad stopped, was about four miles down on the east bank; I took a prowl through it, and thanked God I wasn’t staying there, for while it was bustling enough and like to spread and prosper, it was still rough and ready, with streets awash with mud and slush, touts and roughs and sharps abounding, and the grog-shops and whore-houses open day and night. I hired a trap and drove out of town, and while I’m no farmer, it looked to me as though the Upper Missouri Corporation might be on a good thing – rail and river convenient, good soil by the millions of empty acres, and nothing missing except thousands of contented kraut-eaters to be enslaved to the company store.
Not the kind of spot that would hold me for long, though, and it was only the thought of the delectable Mrs Candy that made life at Fort Lincoln tolerable in the two weeks I was there – gad, the discomforts I’ll endure for the sake of a fresh skirt. But I was looking forward to this one with unusual zest; your melting ones ain’t in it with the cool teasers when it comes to the bit. In the meantime, Libby Custer and the other wives were at pains to make me at home, Benteen scented my soldier’s interest and showed me about the post, and I formed my impression of this famous 7th Cavalry of which no doubt you’ve heard so much.
For the time and the place they weren’t bad – not to compare with Johnny Reb cavalry or Cardigan’s Lights or Scarlett’s Heavies or the Union horse in the Civil War, or Sikhs or Punjabis either, but then these were all soldiers at war, most of the time, and the 7th weren’t. I’ve heard tell since that they were the finest unit of horse in the American Army at the time, and it may be so; I’ve also heard that they were a drunken, brutal parcel of rascals and drunkards and misfits, and that’s a downright lie. They had their bad hats, but no more than any other regiment. They were hellish young, though; I watched Calhoun’s troop at exercise, smart enough and rode well, but so many fresh faces I never did see. I’ve been told since that a third of ’em had never faced an enemy. That’s nothing: I doubt if one man in ten of the Light Brigade had heard a shot in anger before we landed in Calamity Bay, and they proved themselves the best that ever rode to battle anywhere. The 7th Cavalry would have been as crack a regiment as you could wish, given a campaign to teach them their trade. They were good boys, and let nobody tell you different. And Jeb Stuart or Cromwell himself couldn’t have done a whit better than they did when the time came.
I have to give Custer the credit for that. In the ten days at the fort he drove them hard, and his officers likewise. If there was a loose shoe or a galled back or a trooper who didn’t know his flank man, it wasn’t the colonel’s fault. He fussed over that regiment like a boy with a new bride; he couldn’t do enough for it, or let it alone. At the same time he was deep in discussion with Terry, who was now on hand; there was great heave and ho everywhere, with inspections and issue of rations and farriers and armourers going demented and messengers flying and the telegraph office open night and day; how the dickens Custer had energy enough for his evening’s jollity I can’t fathom.
For he was like a schoolboy on holiday as the time to march drew near, even behaving affably to Benteen and Moylan, holding parties at his house, getting up impromptu theatricals one night, I remember, in which I had to play Judge Puffenstuff in a comic breach of promise suit, holding all the prettiest young wives in contempt for giggling and sentencing Tom Custer to transportation for flirting. There were charades and games every evening, and much singing round the piano – I can see it so plain still; little Reed, who was Custer’s nephew, turning the sheets for Libby, and Terry with his eyes shut, rendering “My Old Kentucky Home” and “My love is like a red, red rose” in his fine tenor, and Custer bright-eyed as he leaned on a chair, smiling fondly at Libby, and her quick loving glance at him from the music, and Keogh quite overcome with sentiment and drink, muttering “Oh, Jayzus, Ginneral, it’s a darlin’ gift of song, a darlin’ gift”, and the young folk holding hands while the firelight flickered on the wooden walls and the buffalo head over the mantel. And then Calhoun taps his foot, and Libby laughed at Custer and struck a rousing chord, and they all brisked up, and Custer himself led them off in his cracked baritone until the rafters rang and feet stamped and the glasses swung in rhythm as they roared out in chorus:
We’ll beat the bailiffs out of fun,
We’ll make the mayor and sheriffs run,
We are the boys no man dare dun,
If he regards a whole skin!
In place of spa we’ll drink down ale,
And pay no reckoning on the nail,
No man for debt shall go to jail,
While he can Garryowen hail!65
They didn’t notice I wasn’t singing; I was remembering the remnants of the Light Brigade in that grisly hospital shed by Yalta, croaking out those self-same words in their pathetic pride at having done what no horse-soldiers had ever done before. I thought of the pale fierce faces and the horrid wounds, and the unspeakable hell we’d come through, and the ghastly cost – and I wondered if it was a lucky song to sing, that’s all.
Custer couldn’t get enough of it; I remember he was whistling it the last night before Terry’s force marched out, when I popped into his study to say good-night. He was packing his valise – with a volume of Napier’s Peninsular War, among other things, I remember – and says to me in high fettle:
“I can’t prevail on you to ride along with us, then? I’m taking Boss and Autie Reed, you know, and the newspaper fellow – they’re all civilians. Your Bismarck bagmen can wait till we get back, surely?” I’d told him about the Upper Missouri affair, in strict confidence – and without mentioning the sex of the corporation president. Libby and he wouldn’t have liked it, and word might have reached Elspeth’s ears.
“Stop teasing a fellow, George,” says I, very bluff. “You know I’d be there like a shot if ’tweren’t for the better half. Anyw
ay, you don’t want a real cavalryman along; I’d just show you up.”
“Oho! Sauce!” cries he merrily. “I was only asking you ’cos I thought you’d be useful for remounts.”
“Much more of that, and I’ll offer my services to Crazy Horse,” says I. “Get a bit of own back for Yorktown, or wherever it was.” Hearty stuff, you see, and delighted him no end.
“I’ll look for you in the first war-party!” cries he, and then became all solemn. “Seriously, though – I can’t thank you enough, old boy. I don’t know what turned Grant, but … well, I couldn’t have had a better man to speak up for me, I know that.” He clasped my hand with manly fervour. “I only wish I could repay you.”
“Well, now, if you should see Little Big Man, kick his backside for me.”
“I’ll do better than that!” cries he as I went out. “I’ll fetch you his scalp!”66
I felt duty bound to crawl out and see them off in the morning, raw and misty as it was; there’s no sight more inspiring or heartwarming than troops marching out to battle when you ain’t going with them. Custer was prancing about at the head of the 7th as they marched past by column of platoons, with the garrison kids stumping alongside playing soldiers; the troopers dismounted for farewells at the married lines, and then the embracing and boo-hooing was broken by the roar of commands, Libby and her sister, who were riding out the first few miles, took post beside Custer, Terry and his staff assumed expressions of resolution, the word was “Mount!” and “Forward-o!”, and as Reno and Benteen led off in double column we had another burst of Garryowen and Yellow Ribbon.
They looked well as they trotted by, the harness jingling, each blue rider with his brace of pistols and carbine – no sabres, I noticed – the guidons fluttering and everyone waving to them; the band crashed into The Girl I Left Behind Me, which was the signal for more female caterwauling, drowned by the prompt action of the distinguished-looking British civilian with the fine whiskers, standing erect by the main gate, who raised his hat and called for three rousing cheers and a tiger for these gallant fellows. Everyone hurrahed, and out they rode to the empty plain, the Ree scouts in their blankets and feathers trotting alongside, and then three companies of infantry, the platoon of Gatling guns, the wagons and mules churning up the dust, the piping of the music fading into the distance, the rising sun glinting here and there on the far column lining across the prairie, and in Fort Lincoln the silent crowd who had watched ’em go dispersed in little knots about the barracks, with only a murmur and shuffle in the stillness of the morning.
The next ten days were hellish. I was staying in the Custer house, and Libby and Margaret went about like two of the Three Fates, pale and listless with thoughts about their absent men; once I surprised Libby in Custer’s study, her head on his desk beside his portrait, sobbing her heart out, but I managed to retreat unobserved. Much of this and I’d have taken to drink, and still no word from that elegant slut Candy – had it been some elaborate hoax, I wondered, and took to going down to the Bismarck wharf each day for news of the boats. You may say, come now, Flash, what’s all this bother about one skirt – you’ve known a few in your time, we believe, and must have learned by now that they’re all the same in the dark, surely? True enough, says I, as a rule – but every so often a real prime one comes by, like Lola or Cassy or Cleonie or the Empress Tzu’hsi or Lily Langtry, and nothing else will do. It’s a pure passion, you know, just like the moon-struck youth who can’t eat or sleep for dreaming about his sweetheart; the only real difference is that while his bliss is to bask calf-like in her fond regard, I want to roger her red in the face. D’you see? Anyway, call me susceptible if you will, but after three weeks of Fort Lincoln I hungered for the president of the Upper Missouri Development Corporation as the zealot yearns for paradise.
She came at last on the 27th, on the heels of a telegraph: “Arriving Far West steamer. Kindly meet. Candy.” I was on hand as the stern-wheeler edged into the wharf with her whistle screaming, and there on the top deck was the tall figure, one elegant gloved hand on the rail, her face shaded by a broad feathered hat. The lines came ashore, the wheel churned to a stop, and I shouldered through the press as the plank came down and mounted the ladder to where she stood with a steel-eyed grey-moustached bird in a pilot cap. She was in bronze today, with tippet and feather and eye-patch according; she greeted me with her slight impersonal smile and the same cold Yankee rasp.
“Good morning. Captain Marsh – Sir Harry Flashman. The captain has been good enough to reserve you a forward cabin, away from the wheel. I hope that’s convenient. Yep. Have you brought your bags? No? Perhaps, captain, they can be brought abroad.” Her cool eye turned back to me. “We have a great deal to discuss before we sail, so the less time we lose the better. I’ve set out my papers in the forward part of the main saloon, captain; I’d be obliged if you’d give orders that we’re not to be disturbed. Oh-kay. This way, Sir Harry, please.”
These steamboat skippers take sass from no one, and I was intrigued that Marsh smiled politely and retired. Mrs Candy swept into the long main saloon, which was empty, and led the way to the forrard end, behind a partition curtain, where a large map and notebooks lay ready spread on the table. She shrugged aside her tippet with her back to me, removed her hat, and peeled off her gloves in a careful way that deserved musical accompaniment. I eyed the trim waist and swan-like neck and licked my lips.
“I hope your stay hasn’t been dull,” says she indifferently, without glancing round. “You’ll have seen the town and country around, I guess. Yep. As you’ll see on the map here, the sections we’re chiefly interested in …”
I stepped close behind her, took a breast in either hand and squeezed ardently.
“… lie mostly on the south bank of the river between here and Fort Buford, in Dacotah Territory. We don’t control it yet, but discussions with the government are going ahead …”
I fondled greedily and they quivered like jellies, but her voice didn’t.
“… and after we’ve settled our differences with the Northern Pacific, we should have acquired the choicest areas north of their railroad, which will be pushed clear across to the Yellowstone in the next year or two. Oh-kay. In the meantime …”
I was nuzzling her neck now and rolling ’em to and fro.
“… the steamer will take us upriver; it’s under charter to the Army at present, carrying stores for this expedition of theirs, but I’ve arranged with Coulson’s directors for us to travel aboard as there’s plenty of cabin space …”
Keeping one hand at work, I slipped the other to her waist and turned her around.
“… and in a few days you’ll be able to see all you need of the country and decide what to write to Prince Bismarck. Oh-kay.”
The dark eye was cool as a fish’s back, and the full mouth steady. She might have been addressing her shareholders – which in a sense she was.
“Damn the country, damn Bismarck, and damn you,” says I, taking hold of both of ’em again.
“Why damn me, Sir Harry? The way you carry on –” she glanced down at my clutching hands “– I thought you liked me.” She turned her head, took a cigarette from the table, and put it between her lips. “Go right ahead if you want to,” she added, as she struck a match and brought it up between my hands to light the cigarette, rock steady. “I don’t mind; you do it very well, but then I guess you’ve had a lot of practice. Yep.” She blew smoke carefully to one side. “So have I.”
“But you’re much too cool to show it, eh?” says I, stroking artfully.
“Whatever for? I’m doing fine right here … a little more on the left, would you? Yeh-ep.” She inhaled rather sharply on her infernal fag. “Oh-kay. I think that’s enough for now, though, don’t you? These windows have no curtains, in case you didn’t notice.” Before I knew it she had slipped her bosom aside and stepped neatly round the table. “I hope you were paying some attention to what I was showing you on the map—”
“Come here, y
ou exquisite president,” says I, fairly hoarse, but she moved a chair deftly between us, holding me at bay.
“No. Let’s get it straight … Colonel. I guess we can stop being formal and drop that silly ‘sir’? Yep. What I said about B for business – that’s a fact. I’ve broken my rule twice now with you – first time to sweeten you, just now because if I hadn’t you’d have got powerful, and I’d have had to bust your toe—”
“Gammon! You enjoyed every minute of it!”
“I’m the corporation president. Oh-kay. But I don’t break my rule again – and neither do you. Business hours, we do business, because I’ve got a heap of money tied up in this thing, and that comes first, and anybody forgets it – the depot’s right down the road. Yep. Out of business hours, we do … what we please. Oh-kay.”
She moved the chair back to the table and stood straight, not haughty or insolent but matter-of-fact and composed. I clapped politely and grinned at her.
“And what pleases madam the president?”
She drew impatiently on her cigarette. “This is wasting time. Oh-kay. I like business and I like money, but I didn’t come all this way to show you the Dacotah Territory; I coulda sent a hired hand to do that. When this Bismarck project came up, and someone mentioned your name, I didn’t know you from Adam, but you sounded like what we needed. Business, oh-kay? Then when I saw you at the Brev-urt,” she tapped ash from her cigarette and considered me, “I thought exactly what you thought when you saw me. Yep.” She turned away to seat herself at the table and began to look through her papers.
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