The Last Days of George Armstrong Custer

by Thom Hatch

  The Sioux and Cheyenne, fresh from the severe beating of Reno and the annihilation of Custer, unleashed a furious barrage of arrows and rifle fire from the surrounding bluffs and ravines. The cavalrymen were pinned down in their vulnerable makeshift rifle pits.

  George B. Herendeen, the Civil War veteran who had worked as a cowboy and prospector before becoming a scout, had earlier been stranded in the timber during Reno’s mad dash for the river. Herendeen had hidden in a willow thicket until before dark and now found his way back to the command—with tales to tell about his harrowing experience.

  The Indians broke contact with the advent of darkness and returned to their village to prepare for a night of feasting, dancing, and recounting their individual exploits of killing and counting coup from the day’s victory. They would leave behind a sufficient number of snipers placed in strategic positions to keep the soldiers pinned down.

  Meanwhile, the exhausted and desperate cavalrymen took this opportunity to attempt to fortify their positions. The soil was maddeningly porous and there were few shovels with which to dig, so they resorted to fashioning breastworks with packs, saddles, hardtack boxes, and a picket line of dead horses and mules. The stench of the decaying animal carcasses was overpowering but could be endured when considering that they were vital protection between the cavalrymen and about two thousand warriors.

  Before long, the night became a nightmare for the troopers. Sitting Bull’s village erupted in clamorous celebration. The darkness reverberated with pounding war drums, the exultant war cries by dancing warriors, and the terrifying wails of the women who mourned their dead—all illuminated by the flames of a huge bonfire that could be observed for miles.

  The dancing began with a line of a dozen or so seated men serving as drummers who pounded out in unison a monotonous beat on primitive stretched-skin drums. Around these drummers stood a circle of Sioux warriors who had painted their faces and bodies with colorful streaks and symbols and had adorned themselves in their finest costumes and ornaments. Each warrior would step forward in turn and in a loud voice recount his bravery from earlier that day on the battlefield. While speaking, he would whirl and dance to the rhythm of the musicians’ drumming. These bodies cast intimidating shadows across the circle of spectators and beyond as more fuel was added and the bonfire leaped to send sparks and cinders rocketing high into the darkness above.

  At the conclusion of each recitation the women of the tribe would signify their approval by uttering shrill, earsplitting cries. When a warrior had completed his own bragfest he would remain inside the circle, stomping his feet and waving his arms in dance, occasionally releasing a bloodcurdling whoop or war cry while listening to his brethren relate their own triumphs.

  The chiefs and many of the war leaders, such as Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, and Gall, would not have participated in this ceremony—the bravery and accomplishments of these great warriors against their enemies was well known. The self-glorification was reserved for the less celebrated men who one day would rise to leadership roles based on their personal exploits.

  In the civilized world it would have been quite bizarre to hear people taking turns boasting about brazen deeds of violence—killing, taking scalps, mutilating bodies, and counting coups on other human beings. Onlookers would regard these treacherous crimes as worthy of a prison sentence or execution. In this native society, however, the confessors were revered rather than condemned for their actions. The tribe had not ruled the Plains by compromise or peaceful means—they had controlled their domain by dealing ruthlessly with any intruders.

  It can only be imagined the effect this morbidly spectacular war dance performed around an immense fire in the middle of the wilderness had in chilling the blood of even the bravest cavalryman. The terrain surrounding the hilltop defense site had been transformed into a flaming, smoking, boisterous hell on earth for them as they listened to the warriors and women screaming in a foreign tongue and as they caught glimpses of misshapen bouncing, reaching shadows of warriors gyrating around the fire. None of the troopers had ever experienced such a display of mixing raw malevolence with rejoicing, which was happening within sight of the dead bodies of their fellow soldiers lying on the valley floor and, unknown to the hilltop, those bodies lying along Battle Ridge.

  The exhibition would have certainly conjured up in the soldiers’ minds those stories they had heard about the various tortures the Indians would perform on captive white men, especially soldiers. Their greatest fear was that the purpose of this Sioux ritual was a call to arms and rally to reenergize spirits. When it was over, an endless stream of warriors would come rushing up the hilltop en masse and ride over to the other side, leaving not even a blade of grass alive in their wake—and God help those who might be captured alive.

  It was thought at one point that columns of cavalry could be recognized in the distance, which caused the trumpeters to alert those soldiers to the presence of Reno’s hilltop position. It was soon determined, however, that this “cavalry” was likely Indians wearing army uniforms and riding cavalry mounts.

  There was one effort during the night to make contact with Custer or General Alfred H. Terry, who was accompanying Colonel John Gibbon’s Montana Column, by sending several Indian scouts outside the lines. These men were fired upon and hurried back to safety.

  Much speculation ensued that night regarding the whereabouts of Custer’s command. One faction, led by Captain Frederick Benteen, was of the opinion that Custer had abandoned them. Another group objected to that notion and stated that Custer would be there if it were humanly possible. That same division within the regiment that had pervaded from years earlier at Washita was once again played out. Apparently no one seriously considered that Custer and his command had been wiped out by the Indians.

  At the same time, back in the timber on the valley floor, First Lieutenant Charles DeRudio, scouts Fred Girard and Billy Jackson, and Private Thomas O’Neil had been trapped while the remainder of the command had scrambled for safety. After dark, the four men caught two stray horses and were riding cautiously upstream when they were challenged by an Indian. The two scouts galloped away while DeRudio and O’Neil dropped to the ground and concealed themselves on a small island. Apparently the Indian lost interest in them and wandered off.

  The forty-three-year-old Lieutenant DeRudio already had a colorful résumé and this escapade would only add to his legend as a swashbuckler—if he survived it.

  He had been born Carlo Camillo di Rudio on August 26, 1832, in Belluno, Venetia Province, Austria, into a family with royal roots, making him a minor nobleman. He graduated from the Royal Austrian Military Academy and subsequently held a commission in Emperor Franz Josef’s army. On December 9, 1855, DeRudio married Eliza Booth, reportedly an illiterate eighteen-year-old confectioner’s assistant, at Parish Church, Godalming, Surrey, England. At some point, DeRudio decided to become a revolutionary activist. He was involved in a January 14, 1858, plot planned by Felice Orsini to assassinate Napoléon III and Empress Eugénie at the Paris Opera. Orsini held Napoléon responsible for the failure of the Italian revolutions of 1848–49. Napoléon and the empress arrived outside the opera house that evening as the orchestra inside struck up the William Tell Overture. Three bombs exploded nearby, killing several guards and a horse. Napoléon narrowly escaped injury when a piece of metal struck his hat, and Eugénie suffered a cut eyelid.

  Orsini and his three accomplices were captured and convicted. One man received life imprisonment, and the others, including DeRudio, were sentenced to execution by guillotine. Orsini and another man met that fate. DeRudio received a last-minute reprieve when his wife appealed to Empress Eugénie. His sentence was commuted to life on the Devil’s Island penal colony in French Guiana. In the fall of 1858, however, DeRudio and about a dozen other men hollowed out a log to fashion a canoe and sailed to freedom in British Guiana and then traveled by more conventional means to England.

  In February 1864, DeRudio and his wife immigrated t
o the United States, where they had four children. He served in the Civil War from August 1864 and was mustered out at Key West, Florida, in January 1866.

  On August 31, 1867, DeRudio received an appointment as second lieutenant, Second Infantry, but it was held up while the government investigated his European criminal background. The appointment was restored on October 25, 1867, and he had been unassigned until joining the Seventh Cavalry in July 1869. He remained with the unit from that day forth.

  Ironically, the night before the battle Charles DeRudio and several other officers—Benteen, Keogh, and Porter—were swapping stories of thrilling escapades and escapes, and DeRudio’s tale of his escape from Devil’s Island certainly topped the list. Little did he know at that time that he would experience another impossible situation the following day.

  The two others who had been stranded, scout William “Billy” Jackson, who was half-Blackfoot, and interpreter Fred Girard, found a convenient hiding place in a willow thicket and dug in to await rescue.

  Incidentally, even though the battle was just hours old, word of Custer’s defeat had already spread across Indian Country, but the only whites to hear about the disaster would not believe it. The reason for their skepticism could be attributed to the source of the information, a controversial frontier character named Frank Grouard, who happened to be an army scout.

  Grouard had been born on the Polynesian island of Tubuai to a Mormon missionary and a native girl and soon moved to Utah Territory and later to California. At age fifteen Grouard was said to have killed a classmate and ran away to Montana Territory. He worked as a teamster and later a mail carrier before either stealing some mail horses and fleeing or being captured by Sioux Indians in 1869 or 1870.

  Around 1870, Grouard was captured by the Sioux and adopted into the family of Hunkpapa medicine man Sitting Bull. Grouard at that time was given the name Standing Bear and became a trusted counselor to Sitting Bull. In 1873, Grouard participated in the Sioux attacks against George Armstrong Custer’s Seventh Cavalry during the Yellowstone Expedition. Shortly afterward, he had a falling-out with Sitting Bull and joined Crazy Horse’s band. Grouard became known as the Grabber and continued to fight against whites.

  Perhaps due to in-law problems, he defected from the Sioux in 1875 and appeared at Camp Robinson. Grouard was known as a crack shot and skilled plainsman. General George Crook was impressed with Grouard’s credentials and hired him as an army scout.

  In March 1876, Grouard had led the advance party to the Sioux camp on the Powder River, which was attacked by Colonel Joseph Reynolds with disappointing results. Grouard then located Crazy Horse’s village on Rosebud Creek, which led to the June 17 battle in which Crook claimed victory but had actually fought to a stalemate.

  At the time of the Little Bighorn battle, Grouard was said to have read smoke signals and informed some officers about Custer’s defeat, but he was not believed. He dressed like an Indian and rode off to investigate—likely passing near Reno’s beleaguered troops on the hilltop without noticing them—and confirmed the story. Consequently, Crook’s scouts were aware of Custer’s fate before the general had been officially informed. He had likely heard rumors but dismissed them due to the source.

  One fact remained—the remnants of the Seventh Cavalry remained pinned down on that hilltop. The conduct of Major Marcus Reno at this defensive position during that night has been the subject of controversy. A number of officers later recalled that Reno had hidden himself in a protected position and issued no orders from darkness until dawn. Other witnesses claimed that Reno gave the appearance of being under the influence of alcohol. The major later admitted that he had brought along a flask filled with whisky, but he was in no way inebriated or incapacitated that night.

  Another matter of contention arose when Reno suggested to Benteen that they mount the command and make a forced march back to the base camp on the Powder River. The wounded who could travel would accompany them; the wounded who could not would be left behind. Benteen, to his credit, rejected the idea. Rumors of this insidious plan, however, spread to the wounded and caused predictable anxiety among them. One can only imagine the horror of men lying wounded and helpless with the war cries of a vicious enemy nearby and then being confronted with the thought that abandonment was being contemplated at the highest level. Tradition and common decency dictated that soldiers did not leave behind their wounded if it was humanly possible to save them.

  It should be noted that Captain Benteen displayed great courage throughout the ordeal as he constantly exposed himself to enemy fire. Evidently, Reno was willing to relinquish de facto command of the unit to Benteen while the major made himself scarce.

  The agonizingly long night finally melted into a predawn haze. The light revealed that thongs of warriors had crept alarmingly close to the lines during the night. This situation would require immediate action to prevent the position from being overrun. Benteen led a detail of troopers who leaped from behind their barricades to impudently counterattack and successfully pushed back the surprised hostiles.

  After that bold act, lone warriors or a small group of warriors would from time to time charge on foot or horseback, only to be repulsed by volleys of rifle fire from the perimeter. It became clear to the men on the hilltop that it would have been possible for the Indians to mount one concerted attack and overwhelm the blue-clad defenders. Chief Gall later explained that the medicine men did not consider the medicine right for such an attack or they would have done so.

  In any event, the troopers remained surrounded by as many as two thousand warriors who sustained a withering fire from nearby ridges, some of which were of a higher elevation than the defensive position. One particular Indian sharpshooter on a hilltop about five hundred yards to the north picked off a number of troopers with his accurate fire until either losing interest or being silenced by a bullet.

  Also at daybreak, First Lieutenant Charles DeRudio, secreted with Private Thomas O’Neil on that small island, thought he observed soldiers approaching. DeRudio called out to one, thinking it was Tom Custer. But it was apparently an Indian riding Tom’s horse, and the warriors fired at the two cavalrymen. DeRudio and O’Neil fired back and then scampered away into the brush, breathing a sigh of relief when the Indians broke contact. DeRudio and O’Neil would remain hidden, hoping for a rescue that would not come.

  By that morning of June 26, the cavalrymen on the bluff had been without water for quite some time and were in desperate need—especially the wounded. The men had carried full canteens when the siege had begun, but much of that water had been depleted and most of them were now severely suffering under the hot sun on the barren hill. “Our throats were parched,” wrote Private Edward H. Pickard of Company F, “the smoke stung our nostrils, it seemed as if our tongues had swollen so we couldn’t close our mouths, and the heat of the sun seemed fairly to cook the blood in our veins.”

  Perhaps this condition was one reason that the Indians chose not to mount an attack on the hilltop. Not only would a frontal assault cost many Indian lives, but it also was apparent that sooner or later the troops would need water to survive. And in order to procure any water the cavalrymen would have to traverse a six-hundred-yard ravine that led to the river from the hilltop—and that ravine was presently occupied by armed warriors.

  Captain Benteen realized that they could not remain in their defensive position much longer without water—and riding off into the mass of hostiles in an escape attempt was not an option. The cavalrymen must have water right now to survive.

  Acting on his own without consulting Major Marcus Reno, Benteen decided that they must first try to drive the Indians from their positions in the ravine. He led a charge of troops toward the astonished Indians, killing several of them and chasing away the others. He had not lost a man until returning to the line, where one cavalryman was shot and killed.

  This action, however, may have cleared the ravine itself, but anyone attempting to reach the river at the bottom would be
required to cross areas of open space, with Indian sharpshooters firing point-blank from the opposite bank.

  Benteen declined to order any of the troops to make the perilous journey down the steep ravine and, rather, asked for volunteers—and there were plenty of them. These brave volunteers collected every possible container that could hold water and were ready to depart on what could be called a suicide mission. Benteen deployed four of the best shots available—George H. Geiger, Henry Meckling, Otto Voit, and Charles Windolph—in a skirmisher line and ordered them to lay down a serious base of fire into the bushes across the river.

  With fear and trepidation, the volunteers cautiously descended the treacherous ravine, stumbling on loose dirt and struggling to maintain their balance by grabbing bushes, all the while trying to keep a low profile to avoid the bullets and arrows directed at them. Each man was aware as he slid down that hillside what would happen if he would be wounded and fell into the hands of the hostiles. The sharpshooters furiously fired their Springfield carbines, shooting and reloading as quickly as possible, mindful that their sustained fusillade was the only chance their fellow soldiers had of staying alive.

  This initial attempt at gathering water could be called successful—although one man was killed and six or seven wounded. Enough water was hauled back to the hilltop to temporarily quench the thirst of wounded and alive alike.

  The intense fire from the Indians had decreased by about noon. Some soldiers thought it was a trick to lure them out of their positions to where they could be more easily picked off. Regardless, troops were dispatched to fill canteens and other receptacles with river water and made the trip without incident.