Greasy Grass

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Indians were all around the woods. A handful even dared enter the timber and poke around.

  I held me breath, bit me bottom lip, felt the Colt revolver in me clammy hand.

  An Irishman from Ohio, sweating next to a professional soldier from Germany, next to an Irishman practically just off the boat from Dublin, next to some Southern boy of dubious ancestry, next to another Hun who knew only two English words: fart and charge. Luckily he did neither.

  Then, those Indians in the woods left, and I saw a bunch of the devils riding back toward the village.

  “George?” White’s voice was just a whisper, but I knew he was turning over the command to me.

  I rolled over on me back. These boys were scared. Some of them pale as cotton. They looked at me with panic in their eyes, and damned if I’d let them know that I was just as petrified.

  “Listen,” I told them, me voice quiet, likely quavering but maybe not enough so they could detect me fear. “I’m an old hand at this sort of thing. Been in scrapes worse than this, believe me.” Now, there was a bald-faced lie! “Do what I say, and you’ll be able to buy me a glass of Irish whiskey at the sutler’s store in a few weeks.”

  I counted twelve men. Plus me. Thirteen.

  Thirteen. Shit. What a piece of luck.

  “How many horses do we have?”

  About seven hands went up. More than I’d expected.

  “Let them go,” I said.

  “Are you kid—”

  “Let them go.” I had to cut off any protest. “Warriors will be looking for horses. They find those mounts, they find us, and we’re all dead. Let them go, but get those saddlebags. We’ll need the ammunition. And grab any saddlebags, any extra revolvers, any Springfields you find lying around.”

  “Do we make a break for it?” a kid almost cried.

  “Not yet. Right now, we keep on waiting. Hiding.”

  Damn, I could have used a drink right about then. Even an English beer.

  The firing had become more sporadic, more distant. The Hun next to Sergeant White handed me his canteen, and I drank good, cold water. I thanked the Hun, who grunted, wiped the lip, drank some himself. As he was putting away his canteen, we heard it. All of it.

  Firing. Heavy firing. Volley after volley, but not in the direction of where Reno had been riding. This came to the north. The firing grew more desperate, no longer volleys, but individual shots.

  More Indians rode around the woods, bound north, to the fighting.

  “What do ye make of that?” the Irishman from Dublin asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Custer?”

  I was wrong. The Hun knew three English words.

  Benteen? Had Reno mustered up enough resolve? Who knew? In a few minutes the roaring of guns had faded.

  “Boys, stay here.” Already I was crawling to the edge of the timber. Bodies lay across those flats. Bodies of horses and of men. White men. If any Indians had been killed or wounded, they’d been carried off. I looked over toward the village, but, by thunder, it looked vacant.

  I didn’t crawl back. Didn’t want to waste any time. I ran, stopped meself at a tree.

  “All right,” I said, panting. “Walk. Don’t run.” Even though I’d just been sprinting. “Take it cool, and we’ll get out.”

  Sergeant White, arm still bleeding and his face a ghastly white, spoke through gritted teeth, “I will shoot the first man who starts to run or disobeys orders.”

  Well, we must have been a sorry-looking lot, limping out of those woods.

  “Look straight ahead,” I said. “Don’t even glance at any of the bodies. Just keep going. Keep going.”

  Keep going we did, and then we reached the river. A couple of Indians rode over the bank, and I figured, St. Peter, here I am. I fired, missed, but those two braves galloped away.

  As the dust from their horses faded, I heard the Dublin boy say, “Criminy, Herendeen, we scared them off.”

  At that, we all had to laugh, and cackled like ducks we did as we crossed the Little Bighorn.

  When we had climbed the bank, Sergeant White called out, pointing up the ridge. Glory, there she waved—well, maybe not waved, maybe she just hung there, limp—but, to us, it was like a beacon, an angel, our mothers waving us home.

  ’Twas the guidon. We’d found Major Reno.

  “Let’s go, boys!” Me voice cracked as we scrambled up that hill.

  They that had fought so well

  Came thro’ the jaws of Death

  Back from the mouth of Hell,

  All that was left of them,

  Left of six hundred.

  Ah, it’s grand to be Irish. It’s great to be alive.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Moving

  Robe Woman

  My heart was bad.

  When I saw the dust of Mila Hanska—the Long Knives—across the Greasy Grass, I had been digging tinspila. So I turned, leaving the wild turnips I had harvested, and ran back to the Hunkpapa circle. Before I reached there, I heard the bullets of the wasicus and their bad Indian friends. I saw the dust kicked up in front of me by one of their bullets. Still I ran. I ran to my mother’s lodge, and there I found my mother wailing, cutting off her braids, slashing her arms with her knife.

  She turned to me, tears rolling down her eyes, and told me that Deeds was dead.

  I told her that this could not be, and looked around for his body, but saw only screaming women and children, and angry braves.

  Deeds was riding with my father, my mother told me. This I knew. They rode out that morning.

  They ran into Mila Hanska, and the Crow scouts.

  I hate the Crows. All Lakotas hate the Crows.

  My father and my brother ran from the Crows. Hard they rode their horses, to warn us about the Long Knives, about the Crows, the other wolves for the bluecoats. But when my father and brother reached the woods on the far side of the Greasy Grass, the Crows caught my brother. They killed him.

  Deeds, my brother, was dead.

  He had lived only ten summers.

  I placed my palms against my eyes. I dried my tears. I walked into my lodge, and I braided my hair, and painted my face red. It was a good day to die, and I would look my best. I grabbed the wasicu holy iron my father had given me. I made sure all six holes were loaded, the nipples covered with the caps that make the holy iron work. My heart cried out for revenge.

  Outside, I walked, and saw my father Crawler. He held my black horse. He saw me. He nodded.

  I am a woman. But I did not know fear.

  My father often said that it is good for a woman to ride into battle for it fills the hearts of the Lakota men with courage.

  That day, I would ride with the warriors.

  Sitting Bull’s horse had been shot. Now he was screaming, “Attack them!”

  There were many Mila Hanska, although they did not carry their long knives with them, but there were more Lakotas. I rode toward our enemies, the wasicus and the bad Indians who had killed my brother. I rode with revenge in my heart. I rode with many braves.

  Rain-In-The-Face pulled his horse even with my black. He shouted, “Hokay hey!” Then, smiling, he said, “Moving Robe Woman, you are as pretty as a bird.”

  I did not feel pretty. I felt nothing. Only hatred.

  The soldiers had not charged into our village. For some reason, they stopped, and fled into the woods. Then, suddenly, out of the woods they came.

  We stopped. We did not understand. Then we knew that they were running. Cowards. Worse than our enemy the Crows. So we chased after them.

  Many we killed.

  One man, a wasicun sapa, a black white man, was shot off his horse. His horse died. This black white man shouted and waved at a rider who thundered past him, saying good bye. He killed one of our horses, spilling a Hunkpapa. He shot another on
e of our braves. Then Rain-In-The-Face put a bullet in his chest as he galloped by.

  There was something about this wasicun sapa that made me curious. I stopped my black horse, and swung down. Other Lakotas had gathered around him. Women came charging to him, surrounding him. Pushing my way through my people, I found this black white man leaning against his dead horse. His knees were bloody from where bullets had struck him, and killed his horse. His chest was bloody and bubbling from the bullet Rain-In-The-Face had sent into him.

  Soon, this man would be dead.

  I knew this man. The wasicus called him Isaiah Dorman. We knew him as Teat, for his skin was a black as a buffalo cow’s nipple. At Standing Rock, he had married a Hunkpapa woman called Visible.

  “My friends,” he said. Death rattled in his voice. He spoke not the wasicu tongue, but Lakota. “You have already killed me … Don’t … count coup … on me.” Blood trickled down his chin.

  Every time he breathed, bubbles appeared on his chest, and the hole made an ugly sucking sound.

  A boy started to touch Teat with his lance, but Sitting Bull had ridden up and he said, “Do not kill that man. He is a friend of mine.” Then Sitting Bull climbed off the horse he rode. He brought a gourd to the dying Teat. He let him drink. Teat thanked him. Then Sitting Bull mounted his horse, and rode after the cowardly Mila Hanska fleeing toward the Greasy Grass.

  When Sitting Bull had gone, I stepped over to Teat. I cocked my holy iron.

  “Don’t kill me,” Teat said, his voice a fading whisper. “I will … be dead … in a short … while … anyway.”

  “If you did not want to be killed,” I told him, “why did you not stay home where you belong and not come to attack us?”

  He could not answer. I pulled the trigger, but the fool wasicu weapon only clicked. Teat jumped slightly at the sound, and his eyes showed fear. He started to say something, but, before he could get the words out, I had thumbed back the hammer and squeezed the trigger. This time, the holy iron worked, and my bullet blew out Teat’s brains.

  This excited the other Lakota women who had gathered around the black white man. One found the metal pin the Long Knives use to tie their horses to. She drove this through Teat’s balls. Another slashed his body with a knife. One cut off his manhood and stuck it inside his mouth.

  None of this did I witness—others would tell me of it that evening—for as soon as I had killed Teat, I mounted my black horse, and pursued our enemy.

  More wasicus I would kill on this day, but no matter how many I killed, it would not make my heart any less bad.

  That evening, I would mourn my brother. I would cut off my own braids, and slice flesh from my forearms.

  Again, I would cry for Deeds.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lieutenant Edward Gustave Mathey

  Mon Dieu! Never have I seen such a collapse of discipline. Soldiers, even officers, crying. Captain McDougall and B Troop, our escort, raced up the hill, and I made sure all the mules, everyone in my pack train, made it up there, too.

  We were supposed to be delivering our packs full of ammunition to General Custer. Instead, Major Reno had intercepted us, directed us up to this hilltop, saying he had lost half his command.

  I did not believe it, till I reached the hilltop. There, I got my first look at the disaster. Men lay on buffalo grass, some merely sat there, faces blank, staring into oblivion. Captain Weir raced by, ordering a skirmish line formed.

  “Where’s Custer?” someone yelled.

  “Likely he has abandoned us,” I heard Colonel Benteen say.

  “Colonel!” I called out. “What am I to do with the pack mules?”

  “Ask Major Reno,” Benteen said. “He is the ranking officer here.”

  Mules brayed. Horses kicked up dust. Many animals simply fell over, dead, their bodies bleeding from bullet holes, arrows.

  Quickly I looked around. “Sergeant!” I had to think quickly, but, honestly, that is not my strongest trait. Until, that is, I saw Dr. Porter. Many wounded soldiers lay in this shallow depression on the center of the hill. My mouth hung open. My heart ached.

  Mon Dieu! I wanted to grab my Bible, run to the sides of those bloodied, battered boys. I wanted to pray for them, pray with them. Behind my back, I know the soldiers, especially the sergeants, call me Bible Thumper, but that is fine with me. I love the Seventh Cavalry, but I love God and Jesus Christ more.

  God’s wisdom flashed before me. It was His doing, not mine.

  “Sergeant, picket the mules in a circle, around Doctor Porter and the wounded men.” I whirled. “You men … I want you to picket your animals, all of your animals, in a circle. We must protect the wounded with our mules and horses. Move it, boys. Move it!”

  Gunfire sounded, but not near this hill. Off to the north.

  I whipped off my hat. Captain Weir was storming away from a man wearing a bandanna instead of a hat. It took several moments before I recognized that person as Major Reno.

  “Move!” I snapped at the men. “Damn your lazy asses, I say, move!” That shocked them. Later, when I realized what I had said, it shocked me, as well.

  With speed, I stumbled across the terrain toward Reno. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Captain Weir riding his black horse down the ridge. Was he crazy? Was he deserting? Some of his troopers seemed to be following. Were we moving out, off to join up with General Custer?

  God have mercy. Tell me what I should do!

  You could add me to the list of dazed soldiers. I had not a clue what our orders were.

  “Major!” I shouted a few rods away from Reno. “I am …”

  Major Marcus A. Reno, the officer in charge of this ragtag army of beaten, weary, bloodied, confused soldiers, turned to me. He grinned, and saluted, but not formally. He held a flask toward his forehead.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” he said, smiling drunkenly. “Look here, I got half a bottle yet.”

  For the second time in two minutes, I cursed, only, this time, I cursed my commanding officer to his face.

  Chapter Twenty

  Trumpeter

  Giovanni Martini

  Affidavit of Private John Martin

  January 13, 1879

  For Court of Inquiry

  Chicago, Illinois

  Translated from Italian by H. C. Hollister

  My name is Giovanni Martini, but here in America, I am called John Martin. On the twenty-fifth of June in the year 1876, I was a trumpeter in the Seventh Cavalry assigned to General George Custer’s immediate command.

  I came to America from Sola Conzalina. I beat the drums for the army in Italy, so I played the trumpet for the cavalry in America. I love music. I am a musician. I am not really a soldier, at least, I am not what you would call a fighter.

  On the afternoon of the twenthy-fifth, after General Custer had ordered Major Reno to charge the Indian village, the troops commanded by the general proceeded through the rugged country, searching for a good river crossing. We had topped a ridge and could see and hear the battle our fellow soldiers were fighting across the river. At this point, the captain with the long whiskers [First Lieutenant (Brevet Captain) W. W. Cooke] waved me out of my column, and I trotted my horse … I am not good at riding horses, either … to join General Custer and the officers.

  The general seemed excited. Very excited.

  “Orderly,” General Custer said. He said more, but I could not understand. He spoke very rapidly, and my understanding of English is very limited. The general always spoke fast when he was excited. I understood the words “fast,” and “Benteen,” so I understood that General Custer was telling me to ride fast and bring Colonel Benteen.

  There were too many Indians. Too many, even for the general.

  After locating the village and seeing the size of it, the general had previously sent a messenger, Sergeant K … I forget his name. [Sergeant Daniel A
. Kanipe, who had been ordered by Custer to bring the pack train forward.] The sergeant had not returned, and now the general decided he not only needed the pack train for bullets, but he needed more men.

  There were many, many Indians. We had expected a lot, but not this many.

  I started to ride away, but the captain [Cooke] yelled at me in Italian. He said, “Cessare!” So I stopped my horse. The captain said he would write down my orders, and I knew that was because my English is not very good. From his pocket, the captain brought out a pencil and notebook and began to write very quickly.

  As the captain wrote, I looked down below and across the river. Major Reno and his soldiers had stopped. They no longer were mounted on their horses. They were no longer charging, but fighting the Indians on foot. Many Indians. Many, many Indians.

  The captain ripped the paper from his notebook, and handed it to me.

  Speaking in Italian, he told me, “Ride as fast as you can to Colonel Benteen. Take the same trail we came down. If you have time, and there is no danger, come back. But otherwise, stay with your company.”

  I put the note in my pocket, and spurred my horse. I rode very fast, but glanced back. I saw General Custer riding with all his men. The gray horses were in front. The horses were moving very fast, faster than I usually could ride.

  Up and down I rode. Soon, some Indians saw me. They shot at me, so I rode faster. I prayed that I would not fall off my horse, and after a while the Indians no longer shot at me. I do not know where they went, maybe to fight Major Reno, maybe to follow General Custer. I was just happy they no longer shot at me.

  A few minutes later, I saw another rider. At first I feared it was an Indian, but I soon saw it was the brother of the general, the one who’s name is like that big city in the East [civilian forage master Boston Custer].