“They aren’t going to be talked back onto the reservation,” Custer said.
“Then we will convince them by force,” Terry said.
Custer nodded. “I’m glad we see eye to eye on that, General. A decisive victory over the hostiles now will, in all probability, end the Indian wars out here once and for all. And I intend to have that decisive victory.”
“General Custer, may I remind you that my men have been in the field much longer than you have?” Gibbon said. “Brisbin’s cavalry has been here since February twenty-second, and the infantry has been here since early March. We have monitored and corralled the Indians for five months, waiting for this operation to begin. I do not understand what you mean by saying that ‘you’ intend to have that decisive victory.”
“Why, General Gibbon, of course when I say ‘I,’ I am talking about all of us,” Custer replied.
“General Gibbon, while I understand what you are saying, I do intend to give the initial attack to Custer,” said Terry.
“But, General, I—”
Terry interrupted Gibbon’s protest with a raised hand.
“Hear me out,” Terry said. “The Seventh Cavalry is numerically stronger. Also, whereas your command is mixed infantry and cavalry, Custer’s is all cavalry, which means if the Indians do attempt to escape, Custer will be able to run them down. Your column is half infantry and, no doubt as you move quickly, you will become separated, thus weakening your force.”
“I understand,” Gibbon said.
“You will not be left out,” Terry said. “My idea is to have Custer move quickly and strongly against the Indians, forcing them against you as a blocking force.
“Here is how I propose the operation to be.” Terry put his finger on the map to illustrate his strategy. “Custer, I want you and the Seventh to push up the Rosebud on the Indians’ trail. Gibbon, you will march up the Yellowstone and Bighorn, to a blocking position at the mouth of the Little Bighorn. If the Indians turn out to be on the Little Bighorn, Custer, you will attack from the south, and Gibbon, you will intercept any who try to get away to the north. Gibbon, how long will you need to get into position?”
“We should be there by the twenty-sixth,” Gibbon replied.
Terry looked at Custer. “I assume you will have no problem getting there by the twenty-sixth?”
“I will have no trouble,” Custer replied. “General, what if we get there and don’t find the Indians?”
“General Custer, once our columns are separated, then you will be essentially on your own,” Terry said. “I will give you written orders before you leave.”
“Very good, sir.”
“In order to give you every advantage, I want you to take four troops of Brisbin’s cavalry with you.”
Custer shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “No disrespect meant for Brisbin’s cavalry, but I feel that the introduction of troops outside the Seventh will just complicate matters. There will be the problem of command and control. I’m convinced that the Seventh will be able to handle any situation that might arise. Besides, you said yourself that the Seventh was already numerically stronger. Taking four troops of Brisbin’s cavalry would only serve to weaken Gibbon’s column.”
“All right, I’ll accede to your wishes on that,” Terry said. “Now, what about Gatling guns?”
Again, Custer shook his head. “The Gatling guns with caisson weigh over two thousand pounds. I think they would so greatly impede our progress as to take away the very advantage of rapid mobility you pointed out just a moment or two ago.”
“All right,” Terry said reluctantly. “It is just that we brought them this far, I hate not to see them used. But you know the situation better than I, so I’ll go along with you on that as well.”
“Do we have any idea of the strength of the Indians?” Gibbon asked.
“My estimate, from what both Reno and Gibbon have found, would be from eight hundred to a thousand,” Terry said.
Falcon cleared his throat, and Terry looked up at him. “You have something to add, Colonel MacCallister?”
“I think you are greatly underestimating the number of Indians you are going to face,” Falcon said.
“How do you know how many Indians are out there?” Brisbin asked.
“I was on a rather lengthy scout with Mr. Dorman,” Falcon said. “We encountered Indians in great numbers, and they all seemed to be moving toward one general gathering place.”
“Custer, given that, are you sure you don’t want to reconsider taking four troops from Brisbin’s cavalry?” Terry asked.
“No need, General,” Custer said, refusing the offer a second time. “As we have discussed here, our biggest problem will be in catching them before they discover us and scatter all across the plains.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure they have already discovered us,” Terry said.
“All the more reason we should move quickly,” Custer replied.
“All right, gentlemen, you can return to your commands and get ready. Custer, I’ll have written orders for you in the morning.”
“Very good, sir.”
Falcon left the stateroom when the others did, but Custer remained behind to have a few more words with Terry. Falcon stepped up to the rail and looked out over the bank at the soldiers who had come almost one thousand miles from Ft. Lincoln. Even the greenest and rawest recruits were now seasoned veterans of the march. How they would behave in battle was another question.
“Ah, Falcon, here you are,” Custer said, stepping out of the stateroom then. “Come, we must get ready.” Seeing Captain Marsh, Custer called to him.
“Captain Marsh, I’m disappointed that you didn’t bring my wife up with you. I would have enjoyed seeing her again.”
“She wanted to come, and to bring your houseguest with her,” Marsh replied. “But I thought it would be too dangerous. Though the Indians have never made a major attack against us, they have taken potshots at us from time to time.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” Custer said. He nodded his head. “I’m sure you were correct in not bringing her.”
“I’ll tell you what, General,” Marsh said. “When the expedition is over and I return to Bismarck, I’ll send word to Mrs. Custer and if she would care to, I’ll bring her back with me when we meet you at your resupply point on the way back.”
“Wonderful!” Custer said. “I’ll be counting on that, Captain. And I thank you for it.”
At dinner that evening, the civilian reporter accompanying the expedition, Mark Kellogg, sought out Falcon.
“It has been an exciting journey, hasn’t it?” Kellogg asked.
“It has been interesting,” Falcon replied, choosing that word over “exciting.”
“I wonder, sir, if I could prevail upon you to read the latest dispatch I am sending with the next mail,” Kellogg asked.
“Why me?” Falcon replied.
“Because, like me, you are not a member of the Seventh. Therefore I feel that your appraisal of the article will be free of any tint of partisanship.”
“All right,” Falcon agreed. “If you think my opinion is worth anything.”
“Oh, I do, sir. I do indeed,” the young reporter said. He handed a tablet to Falcon.
“I know that it is a bit overembellished, but I want the readers to get the feel of it, to know what it is like to be with the army on the march. Here, you may use my folding chair as a place to sit while you read.”
“Thanks,” Falcon said, sitting on the proffered chair and turning his attention to the pages Kellogg handed him.
At Mouth of Rosebud, on Yellowstone River,
June 21, 1876*
From June 12, the date of my last communication, until June 19, the only occurrences of General Terry’s command were the establishment of a supply depot at the mouth of the Powder River and making the steamer Far West a moving base of supplies, having on board thirty days’ rations and forage; the movement of the steamer to the mouth of the Tongue River with the headquar
ters command on board; and the march of General Custer from the mouth of the Powder River to the mouth of the Tongue River, an estimated distance of forty miles, moving up the valley of the Yellowstone River. During the trip no incident occurred except the display of sharp rifle shooting on the part of General Custer, who brought down an antelope at 400 yards and nearly shot off the heads of several sage hens. The country north of the Powder River, for a distance of twelve to fifteen miles, is very poor, low, and causing hard marching, with a soil producing no grasses, only sagebrush and cactus. En route, on the 15th, the column passed through an abandoned Indian camp, apparently less than a year old. It had been a large camp, being two miles or more in length, and must have contained 1,200 or 1,500 lodges. Game was very scarce, and no buffalo at all were seen.
The Yellowstone is looming high, and its current is so swift, eddying and whirling as to create a seething sound like that of a soft wind rustling in the tall grass. Its color resembles yellowish clay at this point. It is cool and pleasant to the taste, and is a larger body of water than that of the Missouri River above its mouth, but very much superior for purposes of steamboat navigation. The waters of the Tongue River are of a deepish red color, running swiftly, and not very palatable to the taste.
On the 19th of June, General Custer, with six companies of cavalry, crossed the Tongue River, about three miles from its mouth, by fording, and marching to a point about nine miles from where Major Reno with six companies of the Seventh Cavalry were encamped, having returned from the scout he was ordered upon; but, for some cause unknown to your correspondent, Major Reno was unfortunate enough not only to exceed but to disobey the instructions of General Terry. Major Reno made an error in that he crossed, going a due south course, from the forks of the Powder to the Rosebud River, where he found afresh hostile trail. General Terry had planned to have Major Reno return to the column, marching down the valley of the Tongue River; and after he had formed the junction, General Custer was to organize his regiment for a scout up the Tongue, thence across to the Rosebud, striking it near its head; thence down that valley towards General Terry, who in the meantime would move by steamer to the mouth of the Rosebud, join General Gibbon’s command, march up that valley until he met and joined General Custer. The plan was an excellent one, and but for the unfortunate movement of Major Reno, the main force of the Indians, numbering 1,500, would have been bagged. As it is, a new campaign is organized, and tomorrow, June 22, General Custer with twelve cavalry companies, will scout from its mouth up the valley of the Rosebud until he reaches the fresh trail discovered by Major Reno, and move on that trail with all rapidity possible in order to overhaul the Indians, who it has been ascertained are hunting buffalo and making daily and leisurely short marches. In the meantime, General Terry will move on the steamer to the mouth of the Bighorn River, scouting Pumpkin Creek en route, with General Gibbon’s cavalry as well as infantry, which are marching toward the Bighorn on the north side of the Yellowstone. This part of the command marched up the Bighorn Valley in order to intercept the Indians if they should attempt to escape from General Custer down that avenue. The hope is now strong and, I believe, well founded that this band of ugly customers, known as Sitting Bull’s band, will be “gobbled” and dealt with as they deserve.
Chapter Eighteen
June 21, 1876
Alongside the Far West
Custer issued an officers’ call to bring, not just the commanders, but every officer of the Seventh to his tent.
“Gentlemen, I am allocating twelve pack mules to each troop. Prepare yourselves for a long, hard march. Take fifteen days rations of hard bread,* coffee, and sugar, and twelve days rations of bacon. Choose your strongest animals to carry reserve ammunition—I want a minimum of twenty-four thousand additional rounds carried with the regiment. In addition, each man will be issued one hundred rounds of carbine and twenty-four rounds of pistol ammunition.”
“What about sabers?” Reno asked.
“No sabers. We’ll leave them here with the steamer.”
“The cavalry without sabers?” Reno said. “That doesn’t seem right.”
“The sabers will just take up more weight and space. Also, when a cavalry troop is on the march, the loudest thing you can hear are the rattling sabers. Besides, they are more ornamental than practical. Leave them here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hope you all understand that it isn’t just probable that we are going to engage the enemy. It is an absolute certainty that we will.”
There was no response.
“You do know what that means, don’t you?”
“I think so,” Lieutenant Weir replied.
“Look around,” Custer said. “Look at the man who is standing next to you. There is a very good chance that one or both of you may not make it back alive. So when you return to your encampment, I want you to write your wills, have your men make certain that they either make out their own wills, or leave verbal instructions as to the disposition of their personal effects.”
“Yes, sir,” Reno said.
Custer held up his finger. “Mind you don’t overly frighten them, just make certain that these necessary details are taken care of.”
Falcon studied the faces of all the officers as they listened to Custer. Earlier, the expressions had been of confidence, even a bit of arrogance. Now, even the most confident and arrogant among them was wearing a somewhat anxious expression.
“That’s all, gentlemen. You are dismissed.”
Just as the officers broke up and started to leave, Custer called out to them.
“Gentlemen, we are going to follow this trail until we find the Indians, no matter how long it takes. That means we may not see the steamer again, so my advice to you is to take along several extra rations of salt. It could be we are going to wind up living on horse meat before this scout is through.”
Returning to the individual troop encampments, the officers informed the men that they would be moving out the next day.
General Terry gave permission for any soldier who wanted it to draw one cup of whiskey from the kegs. Most, but not all, of the troopers availed themselves of that offer; then, many gathered for all-night card games. Many others took the opportunity to write one last letter home, and several, Falcon noticed, seemed to have a sense of foreboding.
Tom Custer invited Falcon to join him, Boston, Calhoun, Autie Reed, Keogh, Cooke, and Weir. They were all gathered around a campfire, drinking, joking, and laughing, though Falcon had the idea that a lot of the laughter was forced.
“Jimmi, my boy,” Tom Custer said. “Do you think there will be any women in Fiddler’s Green?”
“Now, why would I want to be worrying about women in Fiddler’s Green?” Calhoun answered. “I’m married to your sister, remember?”
“Ah, yes,” Tom said. He held up his finger. “But once you get to Fiddler’s Green, that won’t matter. Do you think Maggie will never get married again?”
“First thing I’m going to do when I get to Fiddler’s Green is look up Major Elliot and ask him just what the hell he was thinking by running off by himself like that back there at Washita,” Cooke said.
“I thought Major Elliot was dead,” Boston said.
“He is.”
“Then what do you mean you are going to look him up when you get to Fiddler’s Green?”
The other officers looked at Boston and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Boston asked.
“Yeah,” Autie Reed asked. “What is so funny about that question?”
“You boys will find out in a few days,” Keogh said.
“No, they won’t,” Tom said, taking a drink of whiskey from his tin cup. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “If they have any sense, they’ll be back with the trains.”
“I don’t intend to stay with the wagons once the fighting starts,” Boston said.
“Me neither,” Autie Reed added. “Uncle Autie has said that when we go into battle, I will have th
e honor of holding the flag.”
“You are staying with the trains,” Tom said resolutely. “It’s bad enough that Autie is going to get himself and me killed. There’s no sense in killing you, too.”
The little group of men, who had been singing and laughing earlier, now grew quiet.
“Tom, that’s a little morbid, isn’t it?” Cooke asked.
“You’re right, Cooke,” Tom said. He smiled broadly, then reached over and slapped his friend on the back. “A few days from now, we’ll both be laughing about this—either back in garrison or at Fiddler’s Green. No sense in getting all morbid over it now.”
“Where is Fiddler’s Green?” Autie Reed asked.
“It is more of a what than a where,” Keogh answered.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Here’s a poem for you, lad,” Keogh said. Standing up, he stuck his left hand inside his tunic, held his right arm out in front of him, then stepped forward with his right foot and in a deep and booming voice, delivered his poem:
And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers’ Green.
The others applauded.
“That still doesn’t tell me what Fiddler’s Green is,” Autie Reed complained.
“Perhaps Colonel MacCallister can explain,” Tom Custer suggested, though it was obvious from the tone of his voice that he didn’t actually believe Falcon could explain it.
“Fiddler’s Green is a place where the fiddler never stops playing, and the glass never runs dry. It’s a place where all cavalrymen go after they die, there to await the final resurrection,” Falcon said.
“Just cavalrymen?” Boston asked.
“Just cavalrymen,” Falcon replied.
“What about people who aren’t actually in the cavalry, but who ride with them?”
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