The Last Days of George Armstrong Custer

by Thom Hatch

  The Custer battlefield was by now the scene of intense fighting, with dust and smoke and fear filling the air. But there was no panic. These men were trained soldiers, and many of them had fought with Custer in the Yellowstone or at Washita and a number were Civil War veterans. Their commander was known for his coolness under fire and his uncanny ability to succeed against any enemy. There was no reason to suspect that this encounter would be any different.

  The attitude of these cavalrymen toward their Sioux and Cheyenne counterparts initially had been one of an impersonal, dispassionate hate for a people that their government had chosen to fight. Soldiers were indoctrinated in that manner and expected to hate someone they may have to kill, which was supposed to make killing easier. They had been informally conditioned to dismiss any respect they might have had for their enemy as human beings and consider them simply savages who deserved to die. That was and will be the mind-set of American soldiers toward their enemy in every war, past and future.

  In this case, the powers that be did not have to work too hard to demonize the Sioux and Cheyenne in the eyes of the average cavalryman. Stories of atrocities by these tribes toward innocent whites—killing, raping, kidnapping, stealing livestock, and burning homes—were well documented. It was not difficult—perhaps it was human nature—for a soldier to hate a group of nameless, faceless people of an alien race who had terrorized and killed their fellow countrymen. As far as they were concerned, these Indians had been given their chance to live in peace as civilized human beings and had answered that entreaty with violence.

  All things considered, it was the soldiers’ job to protect the interests of America, which was why they wore the uniform. They were paid to kill, if necessary. But now, as bullets and arrows filled the air, they were not fighting out of a hate for their enemy.

  The soldiers of the Seventh Cavalry were fighting to preserve and protect the lives of their comrades as much as their own lives. It became a quest for group survival. Triumph over the enemy became secondary—only as a means to end the battle. The men on each side had shared one another’s intimate joys and sorrows and knew everyone’s life story almost as well as they knew their own. There had been an unspoken bonding as they had trained and played together in a unique atmosphere that only the military provides. They expected to be able to depend on their comrades, and that engendered a sense of security.

  Each one of them would do whatever was called for to protect his fellow cavalryman with his own life, if necessary. Nothing brought out a comradeship—even a kinship—in men like experiencing combat. In addition, they were fighting to return to see once more their mothers and fathers, or wives and girlfriends, or simply to experience that familiar, peaceful routine in their lives that they had foolishly called boredom and monotony. The thought of the broken hearts at home should they fail to return was too sad to even consider.

  This brotherhood under fire explains why men throughout history have performed uncommon individual acts of heroism on the battlefield worthy of high commendation. A man would impulsively smother a live grenade with his own body to save the lives of comrades while losing his own, or brazenly rush into an expanse of intense enemy fire to carry the wounded back to safety, or execute a suicidal charge into a gun emplacement to relieve the rate of fire that was devastating his company’s position. No one ever ordered these acts of valor and they were not planned—they came naturally in combat. A soldier does not consciously think about becoming a hero—he simply reacts to the situation.

  Anxiety increased as casualties mounted around the cavalrymen. This engagement above the Little Bighorn River had now become a life-or-death struggle, and the outcome was in question. Seeing close companions beside them die and the thought of themselves dying was a powerful motivator to make a man fight with a will and determination he never knew he had within him. The unnaturalness of looking death in the eye was a time of indescribable controlled terror, when a man depended on his instincts and military training. With ammunition running low and more and more Indians appearing around them, the peril of their predicament quickly became evident. They would be firing and reloading their rifles and pistols at will, praying that the seemingly endless stream of warriors who confronted them would end before their ammunition ran out.

  It was not only the stress of combat that plagued the cavalrymen but natural and man-made elements as well. The fiery sun had transformed the barren prairie into a sweltering wasteland of heat that dried mouths, cooked heads to the point of dizziness, and even in the dry air produced a drenching sweat that caused them to itch with the bites of a million insects. The acrid odor from plumes of gunpowder mixed with swirling dust to torture the nostrils and stab the eyes to blur vision, not to mention the constant firing of weapons around them that caused temporary deafness.

  The Little Bighorn River below with its tree-lined shady banks must have looked like paradise from up on that hillside. But the pathway to the river was blocked by hundreds, if not thousands, of well-armed enemy warriors intent on killing. It was entirely possible, however, that a few soldiers were tempted to break ranks and make a dash for that narrow ribbon of a waterway. They would have been quickly cut down.

  By now, word had spread through the ranks that ammunition and reinforcements had been summoned. Help was surely on the way. No doubt these brave men fighting for their lives along Battle Ridge would often glance with anticipation toward the south for any sign of cavalrymen and a pack train approaching at double time.

  Just as Custer wondered about the disposition of Reno and Benteen, the common trooper along Battle Ridge understood that his fate was now in the hands of his missing brothers in blue. It was evident the troopers could not prevail alone, but they had a chance to survive if more men would arrive with the firepower and ammunition to relieve the pressure of the mounting number of warriors.

  The Indians had effectively surrounded Custer’s beleaguered battalion that had hastily formed along Battle Ridge and on Custer Hill, but even with a huge advantage in numbers they did not immediately charge the soldiers. Most warriors remained at a safe distance—hidden in the tall buffalo grass, sagebrush, or bushes, using the rugged terrain for cover—and fired an endless stream of arcing arrows and rifle fire at their pinned-down adversaries. Some warriors would sneak up close to wave blankets and pick off horse holders in an attempt to run off the cavalry mounts that carried precious ammunition in their saddlebags. Small herds of captured horses would then be stampeded through the various positions in an attempt to roust the men from their cover.

  The frantic, outnumbered cavalrymen shot their few remaining horses for breastworks, trying to conceal themselves while returning fire—like little dogs barking as loud as possible to keep the big dogs away—until ammunition ran out.

  Eventually, as the defenses along Battle Ridge became more vulnerable and no more bullets remained, incidences of hand-to-hand combat became commonplace. The Sioux and Cheyenne came forward in overwhelming numbers with hatchets, clubs, and coup sticks—with others shooting their rifles and firing arrows point-blank at the unarmed and exposed soldiers.

  By then, the cavalrymen were reduced to fighting by swinging their empty rifles and slashing with their knives and whatever else they could use as a weapon. One by one, agonizing cries of pain and horror filled the air and soldiers fell dead and severely wounded as each pocket of resistance became weakened by the loss of manpower and the overpowering number of enemy rushed in for the kill. The ground became littered with bloody bodies of soldiers who would never fight again.

  The ammunition and reinforcements that could have saved them never arrived. And there were too many attackers to fend off. According to testimony by various warriors, the bravery of the troopers was admirable as they fought for their lives—a trait earning them great respect in the eyes of the Sioux and Cheyenne.

  The timetable of events during this battle is difficult to piece together accurately due to the tactics employed by the warriors on the battlefield. The
Indians, unlike the United States Army, did not fight as a unit under specific orders.

  Certain respected warriors, such as Crazy Horse and Gall, may rally a group of men to follow them, but when the battle was under way each individual warrior was free to do whatever he pleased. He could close with the enemy or hide behind a shrub and launch arrows or fire bullets. No chief would think of telling any warrior specifically how to fight. Therefore, individuals generally had no idea about time frames or an overall perspective of a battle. Occasionally testimony may appear contradictory when in truth it was merely a view of one particular warrior who had no knowledge of the movements of his brethren on the field.

  George Armstrong Custer was no stranger to being surrounded by his enemy. He had punched his way through the Confederate ring of fire more than once during the Civil War when surrounded. At some point, however, Custer, who had fought and survived so many murderous battles throughout his young adult life, must have become aware that the end was near for himself and all of the men around him.

  There would be no last-minute bugle calls signaling the distant sound of thundering cavalry horses approaching. It was too late for that anyway—the enemy was closing in too quickly. Instead, the sounds in his ears were of a growing number of war whoops that ventured closer and closer combined with cries of the wounded and dying and the whinnies of terrified horses.

  For unknown reasons, Reno and Benteen would not be coming to save them. And where was “Custer’s Luck” to save him? Apparently he had used up his nine lives.

  The picture that could be painted of Custer in those final moments was one of a soldier who would fight until the last drop of his blood was spilled. There was a likelihood that he had watched his two brothers fall, and his nephew, and others who were dear to him—and he himself was on the threshold of the worst that could happen in battle.

  In his career, he had witnessed countless men die and he had sent countless men to their graves. It was perhaps only fitting that he would fall under such circumstances—as a warrior fighting against other worthy warriors. He had chosen the course of his life and had been the embodiment of a soldier—and he was prepared to die like a soldier.

  In May 1864, while on the trail of Confederate general Jeb Stuart, Custer had written to Libbie from Virginia:

  On the eve of every battle in which I have been engaged I have never omitted to pray inwardly, devoutly. Never have I failed to commend myself to God’s keeping, asking Him to forgive my past sins, and to watch over me while in danger … and to receive me if I fell, while caring for those near and dear to me. After having done so all anxiety for myself, here or hereafter, is dispelled. I feel that my destiny is in the hands of the Almighty. This belief, more than any other fact or reason, makes me brave and fearless as I am.

  Today, June 25, 1876, thirty-six-year-old George Armstrong Custer would embark on that most mysterious journey of all to the hereafter and into the hands of the Almighty. Custer’s name would be added to that elite list of soldiers who had courageously made the ultimate sacrifice for their country.

  The romantic view would be that Custer’s last thoughts as he surveyed the tumultuous landscape from that smoke-filled grassy slope would have been of Libbie. He would have been nagged by shame and despair for his inability to prevail in this fight and return to her. His greatest regret would be that he would be leaving behind his beloved wife, his soul mate, to face the future alone so early in her life. What would become of her without him? The guilt he would have experienced in those final moments must have been unbearable.

  Perhaps in his mind he saw her lovely face, gazed one final time into her luminous blue-gray eyes, and heard the words that she had written to him during the Civil War: “Don’t expose yourself so much in battle. Just do your duty, and don’t rush out so daringly. Oh, Autie, we must die together.” It was not to be.

  The end of Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer and his battalion on the ridge came within an hour’s time of their retreat up the hillside or according to Gall, “about as long as it takes a hungry man to eat dinner.” The troopers had run out of ammunition and additional warriors had entered the field—too many of them to count. And there was still no sign of Reno and Benteen riding to the rescue.

  According to Gall, the fatal blow was administered by Crazy Horse and Two Moon, who led a large force of warriors down the valley above the village, crossed the river, and attacked those few left alive on Custer Hill. One can only imagine the fearsome sight of Crazy Horse as he waded through the small group of soldiers, his body painted with white hail spots and a streak of lightning adorning one cheek, swinging his club or coup stick to gain even more respect from his fellow warriors for his bravery.

  After dispatching Custer’s command post, Crazy Horse and his war party continued south. These warriors swept down the eastern slope, crushing the remnants of Keogh and Calhoun’s troops against Gall’s warriors who were attacking from the direction of the village. Before long, there were no more cavalrymen left to kill. Bodies in blue uniforms that were drenched in crimson dotted the hillsides and the ridge.

  It should be mentioned that there have been theories based on random Indian testimony that Crazy Horse actually attacked from the south, starting at Calhoun Hill and working his way north along Battle Ridge. If this was true there would indeed have been a traditional “Custer’s Last Stand,” as that position would have been the final spot of resistance to meet the enemy and fall.

  Immediately following the battle, the warriors left the field to the women, old men, and children. These noncombatants waded into the gore to loot and mutilate the bodies.

  Sitting Bull did not actively participate in this battle against the cavalry; that was the responsibility of the young warriors. His place as an older medicine man and counselor was to remain in the village to protect the women and children from harm. He did at one point ride onto the field to encourage his braves for a short time before returning to his duties across the river.

  By late afternoon, however, Sitting Bull could take satisfaction in the fact that his vision of soldiers falling into camp had come true. His medicine was indeed powerful.

  The Battle of the Greasy Grass, as the Sioux called the nearby river, had been a victory of unforeseen proportion. Still, their battle wasn’t entirely complete. The warriors now rode four miles to the north where the remnants of Major Marcus Reno’s command had taken refuge on that high bluff above the river.

  For the Indians, this was a good day to kill every soldier who had ridden earlier into the Valley of the Little Bighorn.

  Thirteen

  The Siege of the Hilltop

  Captain Frederick Benteen eventually could no longer ignore the unmistakable sound of firing. The battalion moved out at a gallop and topped a ridge to view the valley below where Reno’s men were in the process of crossing the river and scrambling up the bluffs on the other side. Benteen estimated that at least fifteen hundred warriors were in the river bottom and farther upstream. He turned his troops and rode for the bluffs on the eastern side of the Little Bighorn River to rendezvous with Reno.

  The Benteen battalion was within two hundred yards of Reno’s position when the major galloped out to meet them. “For God’s sake, Benteen,” Reno implored, “halt your command and help me! I’ve lost half my men!”

  Benteen produced Custer’s order to “Come on,” which according to the military chain of command and protocol was now Reno’s to obey. Reno, however, ignored that order and requested that Benteen join his command on the hilltop. When Benteen asked about Custer’s whereabouts, he was informed that Custer had started downstream with five companies and had not been heard from since earlier in the day.

  The distinct clamor of a battle in progress could be heard from that direction. Several officers suggested to Reno that they should ride to Custer’s support—that in the absence of direct orders they should march to the sound of firing. Although there had been direct orders, those delivered to Benteen, Reno r
eplied that they could not leave due to the low supply of ammunition, which was not true—plenty of ammo was available on the pack train.

  Captain Thomas Weir, commander of Company D, lost patience with Reno’s timidity and requested that Reno at least permit a detail to scout downstream. Permission was denied, and a heated exchange ensued.

  Weir then blatantly disobeyed orders and rode off to the north on his own initiative. Weir’s second-in-command, Second Lieutenant Winfield S. Edgerly, was under the impression that Weir had obtained permission to move and began following him with Company D. Weir rode forward about a mile or so to a promontory now known as Weir Point. His vision was obscured by dust and smoke, but he nonetheless could recognize what he believed to be Indians riding around in the distance shooting at objects in an area that later would become known as Custer Hill. Weir then observed another group of warriors advancing toward Edgerly and his company, who were moving along a ravine, and ordered them back to high ground.

  By then, Major Reno apparently had a change of heart and dispatched a courier to inform Weir that the rest of the command would soon follow. He directed the captain to attempt to open communications with Custer.

  It was too late. The firing downstream had for the most part ceased, and a huge force of Indians was presently riding rapidly toward Weir Point.

  Weir’s company had been followed by most of the remainder of Reno’s disorganized command. Those troops had halted at Weir Point when they became aware of the large force of onrushing hostiles. An impromptu retreat ensued as the troops hastened back to the more defensible position where they had first arrived on the bluffs and began to dig in for cover.

  It was nearing 7:00 P.M. on that hot summer day when the defensive perimeter consisting of seven companies, including Captain McDougall’s pack train, had firmly established itself on the hilltop. This defensive position above the Little Bighorn River was formed by two parallel ridges running east and west with a depression between that resembled a horseshoe. The troops ringed the crests of the ridges, and the horses, mules, and a field hospital for the wounded were placed in the low-lying portion.