by Judy Alter
Autie cooled his heels in Senate antechambers and White House waiting rooms. Grant, offended that Autie seemed to be testifying for those sniffing out political scandal, refused to see him, and Autie's pleas to Sheridan were received sympathetically but with no results. Little Phil's hands were tied, and Autie was in the capital until the Senate released him.
"Autie'll be here in time, you can count on that, old lady," Tom said, swaggering across the veranda. "He's not gonna miss this action. We're gonna show that old Sitting Bull he's got no choice about reservation life."
"Hush, Tom," Maggie said softly, reaching for my hand. "The Seventh will march... and Autie will be here if he possibly can. But have a thought for those of us left behind."
"La," I said, forcing a light tone into my voice, "he's a typical bachelor and doesn't know to think about the women."
Indignant, Tom whirled on me. "I think about you both all the time, and you know it!"
I was taken aback by the force of his reply. "Of course you do, Tom... we're just all tense."
"It's because Autie's not here," Tom muttered. "The men are really up in arms. How can they keep him in Washington when no one else can lead the Seventh? Wouldn't surprise me if the men mutinied."
Deep down I knew there was no way that Autie would miss the march. He would by hook or crook arrive in time—it was another of my premonitions, as strong as the one that saw me crossing the Missouri alone. I wanted to pray that the Senate or the President or someone might detain him in Washington past the mid-May marching date, but that struck me as an unworthy use of prayer. And if my prayer had been answered? What would Autie have done for another long summer?
On May 1 Autie was released to return to Lincoln. He tried once more to see the President as a courtesy before he left the city but was not granted an audience and left immediately for Monroe. A telegram awaiting him there ordered him back to Washington to see the President—Grant, who had refused him an audience! Telegrams flew between Autie, Phil Sheridan, and General Sherman until at last Autie was allowed to proceed to Lincoln but was ordered not to accompany the expedition. Grant was extracting his revenge for Autie's Democratic sympathies and his participation, even against his will, in the Senate investigation. Had I been in Washington, I think I might have stormed the White House to protest this unfair treatment.
The news that Grant would not let Autie accompany the expedition filtered back to the post, where men gathered in knots to mutter and grumble. Maggie and I sat on the veranda, our nerves drawn tight by the tension around us. The very evening air seemed to crackle with anger.
"They won't stand for this," Tom said, having made a tour of the post. "The men need Autie."
Trembling, I asked, "Will you go without Autie?"
"If I'm ordered, I suppose," he answered, "but the very heart will be gone out of the campaign."
"A doomed campaign?" I asked.
"Don't even say that, old lady," Tom said fiercely. "Autie will be here, and we'll be victorious."
I knew better.
* * *
I had two days with Autie between his arrival from Washington and his departure for the Little Bighorn.
He returned to Lincoln on May 14. A series of appeals from both Autie and General Terry had succeeded to the extent that Autie was to march with the Seventh, but he was to take his orders from General Alfred Terry, who was in charge of the three-pronged Yellowstone expedition.
Colonel John Gibbon had marched from Fort Ellis on March 30, headed for the Little Bighorn. General George Crook left Fort Fetterman on May 29. Autie was to leave Fort Lincoln on May 16 with 600 men. Among them would be Captain Frederick Benteen, with a battalion of 125 men, and Major Marcus Reno, with 112 men—both officers had been critical of Autie, though I had always thought they were jealous of his successes. They would also be the ones who failed to support him in battle when he needed them, but that is an old story, known to all who study history.
* * *
"A toast," Jimmi Calhoun shouted, raising a glass high. "A toast to General George Armstrong Custer, the best damned Indian fighter in the cavalry!"
"Hear! Hear!" came the chorus around the table. I looked at these familiar and loved faces—Jimmi and Maggie sitting close together and holding hands under the table, Tom, looking flushed and triumphant, Autie's youngest brother, Bos, filled with excitement at the prospect of his first campaign, and young Autie, the son of Autie's sister, who had come to Lincoln because his uncle had promised to let him join the campaign.
"No fighting," he'd warned, "but plenty of excitement." When Emma asked if it was safe for her sixteen-year-old son to march on the campaign, Autie had expansively assured her that he himself would guarantee the boy's safety. "Besides," he added with a scoff, "half the Union army was younger than that during the war. You've got to let him grow up, Emma."
Now as Mary served our meal of beef with potatoes and turnips, great hunks of bread, and a pudding made with wild plums, Tom raised his glass for a second toast.
"To Autie," he said solemnly, "with our pledge to be beside him throughout the campaign."
"Hear, hear!" came the echo, as Jimmi, Bos, and young Autie took up the pledge.
I nearly had to leave the room and just barely managed to stave off tears by biting my lip so hard that it brought blood.
* * *
"Libbie? You are more solemn than usual. Surely you're not worried about this campaign?" Autie was at an emotional peak, so filled with anticipation that he could not bear my silence.
"I'm always worried about campaigns, Autie," I said softly.
"Custer's Luck, Libbie. Never forget that. Custer's Luck will bring us through."
I stared at him, aware that he really believed in his luck, believed that he, beyond other men, was favored by the gods, protected by them. There was nothing I could say or do. "Of course, Autie. I know."
In those two days Autie reminded me of the young Civil War general I'd married. We were together every minute, roaming the limits of the post on foot, Autie talking in bold expansive terms of the future while I collected wildflowers and savored each moment of the present. Once we spread a blanket on the crest of the slope behind the post, and Autie napped briefly while I fanned away a stray fly or two and watched him intently. Another time we rode beyond the sentinels on horseback.
"You're not alarmed to be off the post?" he asked solicitously.
"No, Autie. I'm with you. You know, Custer's Luck."
Autie beamed and spurred his horse ahead, shouting a challenge to me, which I readily answered. For just a moment there, riding hell-bent for nowhere across the Nebraska plains, we were free and safe and I was young and happy. But too soon Autie reined in, laughing. "You're still the best horsewoman I know, Libbie. Once we show old Sitting Bull, I'll send for you and we'll have a grand summer, riding across new lands we've never seen."
"It sounds wonderful, Autie." Did my voice sound wooden only to my own ears, or did Autie hear it?
For two evenings officers and their families gathered on our veranda. There was among the men an almost feverish excitement, not only because they were going after Sitting Bull but because they had, they thought, triumphed through Autie's return. They boasted and laughed and joked like schoolboys going off on a canoe trip up the Hudson.
By contrast the women were quiet, already summoning an inner strength to see them through the days ahead. We would waste no energy with laughter, saw nothing to laugh about, and yet were constrained to match the men's moods. The result was a false gaiety that too often verged on tears. Maggie Calhoun once fled the scene, but it was only minutes before Jimmi detached himself unobtrusively from the men and followed her. Autie was so much the center of attention that I doubted he would notice if I fled, and yet I saw him, from time to time, look directly at me, his blue eyes piercing through my soul.
"Libbie is tired," he announced the second night. At a signal the crowd departed, all for their own quarters... and their own farewells.
"Libbie, Libbie," he said softly, "you are more than I ever deserved or hoped for. I have always loved you, but never more than at this moment."
"And I you, Autie," I said, and meant it.
* * *
Maggie and I were to join the column for the first day's march, and on May 16 we rode through the fort at the head of the troops, Autie and Jimmi just in front of us. Behind us stretched the pack mules, the cavalry, artillery, and infantry, an endless line of wagons, the Indian scouts, and the men and women who cooked and cared for the troops. There were, so Autie boasted happily, about 1200 men and 1700 animals. It would, I thought, take all day to get the column out of the post.
We passed through the Indian quarters, where the squaws and old men sang in that minor key that has always followed warriors off to battle, an eerie sound to my ears, especially accompanied by the monotonous tone of the drums that the scouts themselves beat as they marched. Then came Laundress Row, where wives and children of the enlisted men lined the road—women with tears streaming down their faces wailed out farewells and held forth tiny youngsters for one last glimpse. A group of children, unnoticed in the melee, had formed a column of their own. With handkerchiefs tied to sticks for flags and old tin pans for drums, they marched back and forth in imitation of their fathers. Then we moved on toward the garrison, where the officers' wives stood, sad-faced yet courageous, smiling bravely. When the band struck up "The Girl I Left Behind," it nearly undid all of us.
We had broken camp before the sun was up, and a mist enveloped everything. By the time we passed through the officers' quarters and out toward the plains, the sun began to break the mist. But the mist clinging to the earth created a frightening mirage that took up about half the line of cavalry, so that for some little distance they seemed to march equally between the earth and the sky. Two officers' wives, unable to restrain themselves, burst into loud wails on seeing this. At the head of the column, I was unaware of the eerie sight, but later when it was described to me, I shuddered.
Autie was at his best, riding back to chat with his men, then dashing to the front of the column again. "Do you see how they look, Libbie? Fine men, brave and brawny. This shall be a campaign to put all others to shame!"
Turning in his saddle to survey the men behind him, he said, "See, Libbie, how the sun catches the steel of their arms and turns it to flashes of light?" And at every turn in the road, he urged me to look back and admire the men of the Seventh. I did so, obediently, hiding the great lump in my throat and murmuring appropriate appreciations for the wonder of Autie's army.
We camped by a small stream that night, just a few miles beyond the post. Autie ordered the men paid, so that they could settle their debts with the sutler, and he ordered one round of whiskey for each man. Our tent was apart from the others, and we sat alone, watching the evening creep across the sky. Many times we had sat together under a tent flap, usually accompanied by Tom and other officers. Tonight they had left us alone.
"I'll send for you," Autie repeated. "Soon as it's safe, when we've reached the Yellowstone. It's magnificent country."
"I'll be waiting," I assured him.
We were not lovers that night. Autie held me in his arms, stroking my hair, as I sobbed gently against his breast. I had tried so hard, so long, and now, at the last hour, I could no longer hold back my fear and my grief.
"Libbie, why do you cry?"
"Oh, Autie, it's just my usual summer-campaign fears," I lied. "I'll be fine once you're gone."
"Trying to get rid of me?" he asked with a forced chuckle.
"No, never," I answered intently.
"Remember Custer's Luck," he said, and later that next day we parted on that note, repeating the words to each other.
I can see him yet to this day, his hand raised as he signaled his men into the march, his eyes directed toward me, his lips forming those damned words about luck.
* * *
The rest of May and most of June dragged at Fort Lincoln. I was not the only wife more fearful than usual, though we each played games to hide our fear from the others. We made quilts, sewed shirts for our men even while thinking it useless, played with the children, reminisced about our lives back home, and made bold plans for the future—and we cried ourselves to sleep alone each night.
Three letters came from Autie during that time, each strong with optimism. "We expect no more than 500 hostiles," he wrote in the first letter, "and we shall easily convince them of the error of their ways." The second lamented that it was "well into June, and we have seen no sign yet. The scouts say Sitting Bull will camp on the Little Bighorn." The third letter brought alarm, reporting that General Crook had met a large force of Sioux, undiscovered by his scouts, on the Rosebud River and had retreated in defeat. "We shall set things right with the Sioux," Autie wrote in his bold, flourishing hand. And then there were no more letters.
"Sing us a hymn, Maggie," I said one Sunday, trying desperately to lift the gloom that had settled over us. Some six or seven women were gathered in my parlor, each more grief-stricken than the next. Maggie, who played the piano better than I, would raise us out of our sadness, I thought.
She played "Nearer My God to Thee," followed by "Just As I Am Without One Plea," and a string of other familiar hymns. We sang and we prayed, but with little hope.
By the first of July the Indians on the post were whispering among themselves. "They talk of a great battle," Maiy reported to me.
Maggie and I sat in my parlor for three days, every now and then going to the window to stare out, as though by looking, we could change things. The Indian police, lounging in front of the sutler's, did not look as chastened as I thought they should if the battle had gone to the soldiers, but neither did they look victorious. Looking for signs, I decided, was a futile and exhausting exercise.
"Libbie? What will you do...?"
"If they don't come back?" I asked. "Don't even think that, Maggie," I said, denying that the thought had been in my own mind for months. "They will come back!"
"Libbie," she said steadily, "you know that's not true."
"I have to believe in Custer's Luck," I told her fiercely.
"Sometimes I think Calhoun's luck would have been better if he'd not linked up with Autie," she said softly. "But I guess we can't untangle that web of what should have been and what is."
"Jimmi was glad to serve with Autie... and fortunate, too," I said sharply. "He is your brother," I reminded her.
"And a great war hero," she said wearily. "I know, I know."
* * *
The whistle of the Far West sounded late on the evening of July 5, as she approached the landing at Bismarck. The women gathered at my house to wring their hands and wait.
"Surely they could send a messenger," said one.
"What could they be doing all this time at Bismarck?" asked another.
"Hush, sisters," Maggie said. "We shall hear soon enough." And she led us in prayer, though the voices that responded to hers were weak and faint.
I served tea and biscuits, which went untouched, and even thought of borrowing a bit of spirits from one of the wives who, I knew, kept such.
No one even tried to sew, all warnings about the devil and idle hands seeming too far behind us now, and few attempted conversation. We sat, in silence, watching the tallcase clock tick toward midnight and chime away the quarter hours.
"I must take the children home," Annie Yates said distractedly, even though her children slept peacefully enough on my bed. "It is near midnight, and we must all try to sleep."
Murmurs of agreement went around the room, and one by one the women left me, always with a hug and a sob, until Maggie and I were alone.
"Libbie? Shall I stay?"
"Oh, yes, Ma
ggie. Let us be together."
And so, at three in the morning, we were still dressed, lying wide-eyed and tense, when the knock came at the door.'
"Mrs. Custer? I'm Captain William McCaskey of the Twentieth Infantry. This is Post Surgeon Dr. Middleton and Lieutenant Gurley. I'm afraid... we have some bad news for you."
Behind me I heard Maggie gasp, but to my surprise my own tone remained fairly steady as I said, "I've been expecting you. Please come in."
Lieutenant Gurley put an arm around Maggie, who seemed about to faint, and I gestured toward a chair for the others. The news was, of course, worse than we could ever have expected. I had imagined, even prepared myself, for Autie's death... but to lose everyone!
"Mr. Calhoun?" Maggie whispered, and collapsed in tears when McCaskey said, "There were no survivors. They were all killed."
"Tom Custer?" I asked, unable to believe his words.
A grim shake of the head.
"And Bos? And young Autie Reed? He was just a boy."
"They were all killed, Mrs. Custer," McCaskey repeated gently.
"Poor Father Custer," I moaned. "All his boys, in one blow." Then I turned to hug Maggie, for she had lost not only her husband but all her brothers.
"Mrs. Custer? Will you come with me? I have other wives to call upon."
"Of course," I said, numbly reaching for a wrap. Autie would expect no less of me, and I would go to each of these new widows, console them, hug them, and pray for them to be brave. But inside, one thought raced through my mind: I want to die soon to join Autie!
Lieutenant Gurley stayed behind with Maggie, who was too distraught to be left alone. But as we walked down the veranda steps, she came to the door and cried pitifully, "Did Jimmi send me a message?"
McCaskey turned toward her, his lace solemn, his voice gentle. "They left no messages, ma'am."
Epilogue