The Long Way Home

by Richard Chizmar

  ****

  (Personal letter—Sergeant Jeremiah Finley, Seventh Cavalry—June 24, 1876)

  We lost another two men last night. Their rifles and packs and horses remain, but they have otherwise vanished. This brings the total to nineteen missing. Desertions are rare for the Seventh, this level of frequency unheard of. Who leaves all of their personal belongings and sets off on foot in the middle of this inhospitable terrain? It makes little sense. We have doubled the guard and still no one has seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. To the contrary, the nights have been unnaturally quiet and still. We long-marched almost eighty miles today and with good reason, I figure. We better hurry and catch up with Crazy Horse or there won’t be enough of us left to fight…

  ****

  (Personal letter—Captain Thomas Custer, Seventh Cavalry—June 24, 1876)

  …which is perhaps a stroke of profound good fortune, as we should be close enough to engage the enemy within a day, two at the most. Once again, George has managed to accomplish what many others before him could not. His unbridled energy this campaign is only matched by his fierce determination to defeat the legendary Crazy Horse on the field of battle. I asked him during this morning’s ride if he would be satisfied with Crazy Horse’s surrender. He appeared shocked and rather dismayed at such a proposition. His response? “Sitting Bull, yes. Crazy Horse…I want to destroy.”

  ****

  (Journal entry—Private William Moodie, Seventh Cavalry—June 24, 1876)

  They’re lying and for the life of me, I cannot figure out why. There is no way in hell I’m believing that Elmer deserted. And without his horse? His gun? His lucky squirrel tail? I don’t believe it. He would just as soon run out of here without any trousers and boots on than leave without his lucky squirrel tail and carbine. Private Elmer Babcock is a lot of things—a shitty poker player at the top of that list—but he ain’t no goddamn deserter. You couldn’t find a more loyal soldier anywhere.

  ****

  (Journal entry—Private James Brightfield, Seventh Cavalry—June 24, 1876)

  I know what I saw and I know what I heard. I was standing guard post on the northern perimeter of camp. It was after midnight when I heard one of the men crying out in the dark. A quick, muffled bark, and then silence. At first I thought maybe my ears were playing tricks on me—there shouldn’t have been anyone out there beyond the safety of the firelight—but then I heard the sucking sounds. A wet smacking, slurping noise like a starved animal feasting on its kill. It was then I knew it wasn’t an Indian. They may be savages, but they move like the wind. I mustered my courage, and with my rifle pointed in front of me, I went to investigate. I freely admit that I made as much noise as I could manage with the hopes that whatever was doing the feasting would soon be frightened away by my approach. Thirty or so yards outside of camp I found it: a wide circle of blood. Splashed on the grass. Soaked into the dirt. And a scrap of bloodstained cloth that looked like it came from an undershirt. I stood there scanning the shadows and had the strangest sensation that something was watching me. Looking over my shoulder the entire time, I hurried back to camp and reported what I had found to my Sergeant. He thanked me and promised to relay the information to the Captain. It was only later that I realized something odd: Sarge hadn’t looked the least bit surprised when I had told him my story. I find that rather unsettling. Sarge also made me swear not to repeat any of the details to the other men. Not that I would have anyway. Who would ever believe such a tale?

  ****

  (Journal entry—Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)

  The scouts have returned. Today is the day. I will not wait for Terry or Gibbon. I will not wait for more guns. We will surround and attack the village on my command. Reno will approach from the south, Benteen on my far flank. The scouts are uneasy, as are many of the officers, but I remain supremely confident. I believe the savages will see our dust coming, will hear the thunder of our horses, and they will flee. There is not an enemy walking this earth that can defeat the Seventh.

  ****

  (Personal letter—Captain Frederick Benteen, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)

  The fool! It’s already been decided: we attack today. No cannons, no Gatling guns, no reinforcements from General Terry. Custer, once again, the impatient fool. I dared to question the great one’s decision to split up the regiment into three, and his only response was typical Custer arrogance: “You have your orders.” The men are exhausted. Why not at least allow us another night’s rest and to engage at dawn instead of midday? I’m sure we will emerge victorious, of course, but at what cost? Custer is without conscience. He cares only of the newspaper headlines and his own perverse sense of immortality…

  ****

  (Personal letter—Trumpeter Thomas J. Bucknell, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)

  Dearest Court,

  The orders came down just minutes ago. We will attack the village in an hour’s time. I’ve heard rumors of almost a thousand Indians, perhaps more. Please know how much I love and cherish you if I am unable to make it home to your arms. Please know that I tried my very best.

  With all my love,

  Thomas

  P.S. Please give my momma a hug when next you see her.

  ****

  (Journal entry—Private John Papp, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)

  I overheard my sergeant talking about the camp this morning. Lodges as far as the eye could see. Too many ponies to count. We’re all going to die in this valley. Every last one of us.

  ****

  (Personal letter—Private Andrew J. Moore, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)

  I’ve never seen so many Indians. May God have mercy on our souls.

  ****

  (Battlefield note dictated by Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer to runner, Trumpeter John Martini—June 25, 1876)

  Benteen.

  Come on. Big village. Be quick. Bring packs.

  P.S. Bring packs.

  ****

  (Personal letter—Corporal Henry M. Cody, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)

  In the event that someone finds this upon my almost certain death…

  Bloody Knife is dead. Major Reno is incompetent. He ordered us to retreat and fight on foot in the timber and now we are trapped here and dying. I can hear the dull roar of gunfire in the distance, presumably Custer’s companies engaging. We are badly outnumbered and have but one chance at escape. To ride through their lines. Otherwise it will be a massacre. Reno is no longer giving orders. God help us.

  Regretfully,

  Corp. Henry M. Cody

  ****

  (Battlefield note given to runner—written by Major Reno, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)

  Need reinforcements. Ammunition. Outnumbered but holding timberline. Something wrong with these savages. Bullets do not stop them. Men are being eaten alive. Chaos. Hurry.

  ****

  (Personal letter—Captain Otto Hageman, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)

  We are fighting monsters. How do you kill your enemy if they are already dead? They are toying with us now. I saw Custer fall…

  ****

  (Battlefield note given to runner—written by 1st Sergeant James Butler, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)

  G. Custer is gone. Killed in the first moments of battle. Heavy casualties. Send men and guns. Surrounded.

  ****

  (Journal entry—Sergeant James T. Riley, Seventh Cavalry—July 1, 1876)

  Strict orders have been given by General Terry not to speak of this but I feel as though I must record my thoughts lest my head burst with the horrid reality of what I recently witnessed.

  On June 28, my men and I were tasked with burying the bodies of the massacred Seventh Cavalry. It was a dreadful duty, as most of the bodies were bloated and blackened by the sun, and mutilated
beyond recognition. Even poor Thomas Custer was not spared the indignity, as his head was crushed flat and he was only identifiable by the crude tattoo located on his left shoulder. As for the legendary George Custer, he was one of the very few that remained without disfigurement. Only his eardrums had been punctured. Perhaps most strangely, he died with a smile on his face, as if he knew his heroic death would cement his legacy once and for all.

  As is usual procedure, a casualty count was completed, and it appeared as though a large number of bodies were missing. Perhaps as many as three or four dozen with no explanation. When I questioned the other officers, I was greeted with backs turned, heads held close, and conspiratorial whispers. I am quite certain that one or more of these officers held the answer close to their lips but simply did not feel comfortable sharing that answer with me.

  But yet that wasn’t the worst of it. Amongst the gruesome mutilations we encountered on that grassy field overlooking the Little Bighorn were crudely amputated arms and legs, disembowelments, sliced off noses and ears and penises, and of course missing scalps to a man. One body inexplicably held one hundred and five arrows. Another was posed with the trooper’s severed arms laid out in place of his missing legs, which were never found. But none of these travesties troubled me as deeply as the many throats I came upon that appeared to have been ripped open…no, that’s not entirely accurate or truthful…they appeared to have been chewed open. And, still stranger, all of these particular corpses were as pale as a winter snowfall. Seemingly drained of every last drop of blood. What kind of savage could inflict such a wound?

  ****

  (Personal letter discovered after his death—Private Christopher Criddle, Seventh Cavalry—November 19, 1907)

  To Whom It May Concern,

  I pray this letter is duly noted upon my passing and its contents are taken in the spirit in which they were written—as my absolute truth and atonement.

  Most here in Springdale know of me as only an honest storekeeper. No spouse, no family, a handful of unremarkable details regarding my past. Just a solitary man in his later years who loves his books, root beer floats, and the striking of a fair bargain.

  What they don’t know—and what would certainly come as a shock to each and every one of them—is that in a former life and faraway place I was once a Private in George Custer’s famed Seventh Cavalry. It was long ago and I was a very different man then. Young and angry and desperately in need of discipline and acceptance. In short order, the Seventh became my home, and I came to adore everything about that choice of life. Until the Little Bighorn, that is.

  Yes, I was with Custer at the Little Bighorn. I knelt no more than ten yards away from him when he was felled by a gunshot to his temple. Minutes later, his brother Thomas went down at my feet and followed George to whatever awaits us all after this world.

  But how could this be, you ask? There were no survivors at the battle of the Little Bighorn. The newspapers claim it was a massacre. It was and I did. Survive, that is. Thanks to simple dumb luck and the unexpected aid of one generous soul—whom I will never mention, not even here in my final testimony—I not only was able to survive the battle with only a minor wound to my shoulder, I was also able to disappear, my body and mind after that day incapable of returning to a life of soldiering.

  So, yes, I admit I am a deserter. A fugitive at large. Although I am quite certain that no one realizes this fact—not then, and not now. From what I have come to understand, many of my fellow troopers were missing from the field that day. Many others mutilated beyond recognition. Somewhere on that grassy knoll, I am certain there is a wooden cross with my name scrawled upon it.

  I, alone, know the details of that day. I saw the Indians stream by the hundreds out of those hidden gullies. I heard a shocked Custer bark his orders and the trumpets blow retreat. I was there when we realized we were cut off and surrounded, when we dismounted to make our final stand. Most of the men fell to arrows and spears and bullets at intermediate range, but as the battle raged, more and more resorted to taking their own lives. The air became filled with gun-smoke and screams. It was hard to hear if any further orders were being given, harder still to see clearly. That’s when the creatures came. They crawled on their bellies through the high grass like snakes, their bloody teeth bared, their black eyes unblinking. I watched as trooper after trooper were dragged to the ground with incredible strength…their throats ripped open by razor-sharp teeth…and drained of their blood. I tried to kill the savages but my bullets had no effect on them.

  For decades, I was never able to find the proper words to put a name to the monsters I witnessed in that God forsaken valley. And then, several years ago, I heard about an Irish writer by the name of Bram Stoker who had recently published a sensationalistic novel entitled Dracula. The book told the story of a night creature who drank the blood of his victims and cursed them to the eternal life of the undead. These creatures were given a name: vampire. I was able to acquire a copy of this book a short time ago from one of my contacts in Boston. Stoker’s tale was set across the ocean in Europe, a far cry from the dusty plains of the American West, and there were of course many other differences from what I experienced at the Little Bighorn. But there were also a multitude of striking similarities, enough so to convince me that Stoker’s book might not be merely a work of fantastic fiction after all.

  I’ve never spoken or written of that fateful day at the Little Bighorn until now, and I will never make mention of it again. If only it was as easy to erase it from my conscience. I dream of them, you see. With their dark, hungry eyes and protruding, razor-sharp teeth. Sometimes, I find myself sketching their hideous faces on the backs of bills of sale while standing at the counter in my store.

  When I realize what I am doing, I inevitably crumble these drawings and toss them into the trash bin or watch them burn in the flames of my fireplace at home. But it doesn’t matter. The faces always come back to me in my nightmares. I cannot ever forget them. So many mornings I wake up drenched in sweat and terror, my hands clutching my throat, protecting the soft flesh and holding in my screams. Then, I wash myself, and dress, and head to the store, where I greet the townsfolk with a tired smile and a nod of my head and perhaps a few pleasantries. And each time the bell above the door rings, signaling the arrival of a new customer, I glance nervously from whatever task I am performing and pray that I don’t see those strange, dark eyes or razor-sharp teeth, that whatever those creatures were, they haven’t decided to journey East in their quest for fresh blood.

  So, there you have it. My truth. I alone survived the Battle of the Little Bighorn. And on those long and lonely nights when their faces visit my dreams, I wish to God I hadn’t.

  Sincerely,

  C. Criddle

  ****

  (Personal letter discovered after his passing—Ronald Bakewell—February 9, 2018)

  …and so I leave the final decision in your worthy hands, Byron. History is yours for the changing. Or not. No one should judge your either decision. Just remember our old motto from University days: nothing holds more power than the truth.

  Yours in admiration and friendship,

  Ronald Bakewell

  The Long

  Way Home

  I was watering the tomato plants on my balcony and trying to decide whether I should take a shower or go for a run when the phone rang. No one called me these days—except for misguided solicitors a few times a week—so I let the answering machine pick up. It beeped and I heard my mother’s voice, sounding much older than the last time I’d heard it: “You need to come home, Charlie. Your father died.”

  And that was it.

  ****

  I sat on the armrest of my rented sofa and played the message. When it was finished, I played it again and listened with my eyes closed. My mother sounded like a stranger. I pictured her standing in the kitchen of the small house I’d grown up in, staring out th
e window above the sink at the ancient weeping willow tree that bordered our side yard, absently twirling her hair in her fingers, the phone pressed tight against her ear.

  The house would be bustling with the news of my father’s passing. My brother, Sam, would be there, of course. Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Bobby. The cousins. The Cavanaughs from next door and probably half of the rest of Hanson Road would be coming and going to pay their respects.

  Dad was a good man and well liked in our hometown of Salisbury. He was always lending someone a hand. Helping them fix their car or lawn mower or boat, cleaning their gutters, taking down some trees, or repairing a fence. He believed in helping others and being a vital member of the neighborhood. Growing up, he always used to tell me, “We have to try to be part of something bigger than ourselves, Charlie. Whether it’s our church or vocation or community, life isn’t about taking, it’s about giving. We all have a deeper purpose to serve.”

  It was a lesson I had yet to learn.

  ****

  Nine months earlier, on the rainy afternoon I was released from Hagerstown Prison, my mother was waiting for me outside in the parking lot. We stood there for a long time, just looking at each other, hugging and laughing and crying, neither of us saying much of anything. It was the first time we’d seen each other in six years.

  She had accepted my monthly collect calls without fail, but my father wouldn’t allow her to visit by herself, and he refused to come anywhere near the place. His pride, my mother claimed, but I knew it was something else: shame.

  I was supposed to be the golden child. Handsome and popular, with a scholarship to play baseball at the University of Richmond, the future had once looked sky-high for me. Pro scouts had even started to sniff around our games and the local newspaper had crowned me as a “hometown hero” in a front-page article announcing my college decision.

  On the other hand, my older brother (by almost two years) was cut from the same swath of cloth that had produced my father. Serious-minded and on the quiet side, Sam kept a much lower profile. Smart and extraordinarily patient, he was a natural tinkerer just like Dad. He excelled in school and, while I had a different girl on my arm every weekend, Sam started dating Jenny Lomax in the tenth grade and never stopped. Despite spending much of his teenage years standing in my shadow, he rarely demonstrated jealousy at the attention his younger brother received. On the contrary, Sam was one of my best friends and biggest fans. Our mother used to call us “thick as thieves.”