Then my eyes cleared, and I saw the boy, saw him gripping the shaft of my lance with both hands. I blinked. I could not believe what I had done. The boy’s hands let go of the lance, and fell into the grass. His eyes stared at me, locking on me in death.
Now, I hear other songs. I know not the language of these other Indians. We always speak through signs. Yet I do not need to understand the words to realize these are songs of mourning. Women wail. They grieve for their loved ones who died in this great victory of all Indian peoples.
Again, I stare at the Lakota boy. Soon, someone will mourn for him.
“Left Hand,” a voice calls to me, and I feel a hand grip my shoulder. Turning and looking up, I cannot see the face at first for all my tears, but I blink them away, I sniff, I wipe my eyes, and see that it is my friend, Waterman, who came with me, who speaks and understands the Lakota tongue.
“Come,” he says. “Others are going to kill those pony soldiers still on the hill to the south. Come. Let us go with them. This battle is not over.”
My heart turns bad again. I push myself up, and yell something. I pick up the lance, and run to my pony. Waterman has already mounted his. Many Indians are riding south.
The dust begins again.
I go that way, too. To fight. To kill our enemies.
To get away from the boy who is dead because of me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Major
Marcus Reno
6/26/1876
Continued …
Ross:
Still in this hole on the hill. Indians didn’t charge.
To pick up my story, we had to get out of those wood. That’s why I retreated.
Now, does that make me a coward? I was trying to save my command. Custer had abandoned us. Benteen wasn’t anywhere to be seen. There were thousands of Indians after us. Killing us. I had to find a tenable position. Had to save myself the men.
Someone yelled, “Every man for himself!”
But it wasn’t me, Ross. It wasn’t me.
I wasn’t drunk.
We rode hard. Fought our way through the red devils. Rode harder.
Varnum. I heard him yelling, “Hold on, men. Let’s get into shape. We have to fight it out. You can’t run away from injuns.”
I yelled back at him, the bloody martinet. “I am in command here, sir!”
And he yells back at me, “Well, Christ Almighty, Major, command!”
Command. That’s what I was doing. Commanding a retreat. Getting my men away. I spurred my horse harder. Didn’t even realize we had hit the Little Bighorn until water splashed my face. Damned horse almost went down. That would have meant the end of me. Behind me, came those savage cries, bullets and arrows striking flesh. Glimpsed a struggling soldier being carried downstream. A bullet blew out one of his eyes and he struggled no more.
“For God’s sake, don’t leave me here! I’m shot through both legs!” It was Hodgson’s voice. My adjutant. But I couldn’t do anything for him. Ride back and get killed?
We made it across the river. Water was cold. Seemed to revive me. Some of us. Climbed up that bank and I saw the hill. It was steep, high. There were some trees. Get there and we might stand a chance. I pointed. I think I yelled at the boys to follow me. My horse couldn’t make it. I had to dismount, slip, slide, crawl, beg, cry. I pulled that horse up behind me
Made it up the hill. Could breathe again. God, I was still breathing … still alive.
“If we’ve got to die,” someone yelled, “let’s die like men. I’m a fighting son of a bitch from Texas.” That was Luther Hare. He’d made it, too. “Don’t run off like a pack of whipped curs!”
I blinked. I could see clearly. I saw Moylan, dismounting, rallying his men. Saw Hare directing some of our boys to lay down a covering fire. I looked behind me. At the river. At the battlefield. I saw the bodies. The bodies of men … that … I’d led … into death.
Where was Custer? Where was Benteen?
“Dismount!” I yelled. “Dismount!” I reached up. Grab the reins to a horse. Fool almost jerked my arms out of their sockets. The horse stopped. The trooper dismounted.
“Form a skirmish line!” I yelled.
More men, some wounded, some not, came over the rise.
Behind me, Captain French’s voice, “You damned fool, where are your colors?”
Colors? What good was a guidon now? A flag? I turned and what I saw amazed me. The color guard, a dumb private, unbuttoned his shirt. He had torn the guidon from its staff, saved it. Now he handed it to the captain and French tied that rag onto a carbine. He rammed it in the ground.
“Major.” It was Dr. Porter’s voice. “The men were pretty well demoralized, weren’t they?”
I just saw those colors. Not waving. There was no wind. But I stared at that flag and I told the surgeon, “That was a charge, sir!” and walked away.
All those Indians had to do was charge up this hill. They could have finished us. But most of them galloped off to the north.
“Major!” It was Moylan. Awaiting orders.
“I thought it was my duty,” I told him. Had to explain to him. I wasn’t drunk. Wasn’t a coward. “To lead the men. Get here. Observe the ford. The hill. Rally the men. Reform.” My head bobbed.
“Sir,” Moylan said. “What are your orders?”
I was about to answer. Maybe I did. I can’t seem to recall. I realized I’d lost my hat. I fished a neckerchief from my tunic, wrapped that over my head. The sun was blistering. What to do? But the Indians were going north. Then I saw more dust. More Indians. From … No. God be praised. It was Benteen.
Quickly, I mounted, rode down the hill, galloped like a madman to Benteen. “For God’s sake, Benteen,” I told him, “halt your command and help me! I’ve lost half my men.”
Good Benteen … brought his men up the hill. I told him I had to find Hodgson. They were listening to gunfire to the north when I went down the hill. Hodgson might have been alive. Only wounded. He was a great favorite, a wonderful friend. And …
I found him. But he wasn’t alive. A bullet had struck him in the head. I removed his West Point ring. I found some keys. His watch was gone. I cried.
I didn’t abandon my men.
Had left Benteen in charge. He’s a good officer. I came back.
Found a flask, thank the Lord. Pack train arrived. Must have said something to upset Bible-thumper Mathey, damn him and his hypocrisy. He didn’t get Blood Knife’s … no … not writing about that ever again. Want to forget it, if I could. Purge it from my memories.
The brandy helps.
Dr. Porter has come with questions. Must close till later.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hairy Moccasin
Damn fool white men. Not listen to us Crow scouts. Not listen to Arikarees. Not listen even to white scouts. Go get themselves killed. Before riding to death, Son of the Morning Star Who Attacks at Dawn tell us Crow scouts, “Go!” Damn right, we go. Not paid to fight. Paid to find damn Lakota. Did that.
Find big damn village.
Big damn.
Me, White Man Runs Him, and Goes Ahead ride fast. Make way through coulées, ease way to river, come up ridge onto hill to find major. Big damn excitement on hill. Major act crazy. Then come other bluecoats.
’Bout that time, all us hear big damn gunfire to north.
I sign to major, that noise be where Son of the Morning Star Who Attacks at Dawn now fighting big damn village.
Major run talk to white-haired captain. Other bluecoats point north. Some start to mount horses.
To me, White Man Runs Him say, “Lakotas will wipe out Son of the Morning Star Who Attacks at Dawn soon. Then they will come here.”
Damn right. Won’t take long. Son of the Morning Star Who Attacks at Dawn make big damn mistake. Not attack at dawn. Attack when all Ind
ians awake, all Indians ready for soldiers.
“Let’s go,” Goes Ahead say.
Damn right.
We find our ponies. Done with fool white men. Too many Lakotas for us to fight. Too damn many for anyone to fight.
We ride away. Ride north. To our village on Yellowstone. Keep big damn distance between us and Lakotas.
Keep riding north.
Damn hard we ride.
Ride until we come to Crow scout named Little Face. He works for other bluecoats. We tell Little Face what happened on Greasy Grass. He cries. Says we should tell bluecoat chiefs.
White Man Runs Him tell bluecoat chiefs that Son of the Morning Star Who Attacks at Dawn be dust by now. Maybe all bluecoats. Just few alive when we ride off. Might all be dust now.
Say this through sign.
Bluecoat chiefs not believe us. Say can’t be.
Ask us again. Again, we say same thing.
Bluecoats talk. Then ride south again.
Still think Son of the Morning Star Who Attacks at Dawn not dead. Think we mistaken.
Damn fool white men.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Captain
Thomas Weir
Give Colonel Benteen some credit. Once we got to the hilltop, he managed to get what was left of that son of a bitch Reno’s command into some order. Corinth, Iuka, clashin’ with Bedford Forrest’s boys … none of those fights could hold a candle to what I saw on that hill. The boys who had charged that village with Reno acted as if they’d run into Alexander the Great. Soldiers had broken down. Captain Moylan bawled like a baby. Reno was a gutless wonder. He didn’t have a clue how to act, what to do. Benteen took command. It wasn’t a mutiny. He just did what any officer would have, should have, done.
We fired at the hostiles on the ridge, drove them off, but they didn’t put up much of a fight. Something other than our reinforcements, I feared, sent those Indians loping north, away from the hill, away from the survivors on that hilltop. They were riding at a fast lope toward … Custer?
Then, Benteen said … well, as fine as a soldier as he could be, it was something I’d come to expect from him. A good soldier, but a lousy bastard.
“Custer has abandoned us,” the colonel said, loud enough for the men, even those dreadfully wounded, to hear. “Abandoned us to our fate, as he left Major Elliott at the Washita.”
Moylan stopped blubbering long enough to say, “Gentlemen, in my opinion General Custer has made the biggest mistake in his life by not taking the whole regiment in at once in the first attack. You wouldn’t believe the number of hostiles in that camp, and they weren’t scattering. Damnation, they were fighting. Fighting like …”
“Save that for your memoirs, Myles,” I told the ashen-faced fool, and walked away.
George Custer was a friend of mine. I’d served on his staff in Texas after the Rebellion. He’d endorsed my appointment as first lieutenant with the Seventh almost ten years ago. He was a soldier, the finest ever to serve in this man’s army. He was a fighter. He would not abandon anyone, and had not left Major Elliott to die on the Washita all those years ago. Benteen was just jealous. Moylan was just a blowhard. Reno was just a yellow-livered son of a bitch.
Angrily I didn’t stop until reaching the edge of the hill.
Then came the sounds of gunfire off to the north.
“Jesus Christ!” Lieutenant Varnum cried out. “Hear that, Wallace?”
More gunfire.
“And that?”
Before Lieutenant Wallace could answer, I hurried to another point, for a better view. I sighed. The dust was thick way off over the hills. I even made out little trails of dust heading in that direction. More Indians. Heading north to join …
“That must be General Custer fighting down in the bottom.” Turning, I found the private who had spoken those words, Springfield carbine shaking in his hands.
“I believe it is,” I told him, maybe even too softly for him to hear, and walked to find Lieutenant Edgerly.
“Win,” I said, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. My lieutenant, a solid, young officer, had been issuing orders to our sergeants, but now he stopped. Everyone listened as the gunfire became more rapid. I sighed. “Custer is engaged,” I said. “We should be down there.”
“Yes, sir,” Winfield Edgerly said. First Sergeant Michael Martin, kneeling by a dead horse, staring down at the dust, said, “I’m with you, Capt’n.”
I looked around. Benteen and Moylan were still in some animated discussion, likely blasting Custer. Troopers helped the pack train up the hill, putting the animals in a circle to surround what would have to serve as a field hospital. Finally I spotted Major Reno, and I started for him, but stopped, turning around to face Win Edgerly and Sergeant Martin.
“Win, would you be willing to ride down to Custer even if the rest of the command won’t?”
“Yes, sir.”
I hurried to Reno. I was even respectful to him.
“Major,” I said, “Custer must be around here somewhere, and we ought to go to him.”
Reno looked ridiculous with that bandanna wrapped around his head. He wiped sweat from his brow. His hands shook like a drunkard’s. “We are surrounded by Indians,” he said. “We ought to remain here.”
Some three hundred to three hundred and fifty soldiers huddled on that hilltop by that time, yet I doubt if there were two dozen Indians at the bottom of that hill. It seemed that every buck among them rode north to join the fight over there.
“Well,” I said, “if no one else goes to Custer, I will go.”
“No!” Terror rang in Reno’s bark. “You cannot go. For if you try to do it, you will get killed and your troop with you.”
“The major’s right,” said Benteen, who had walked up with Moylan. “We can entrench here. Wait for Terry or Crook. Custer has left us no choice.”
I looked past Reno. Benteen walked away, ordering sergeants to station their men, but even the colonel, despite his hatred of George Custer, kept glancing at that dust where somebody was fighting. The gunfire wasn’t as fierce as it had been.
Well, I’d expected Reno to tell me no. Now I had to make a decision, one that could get me cashiered from the Army that I loved, maybe even land me a stretch at the Leavenworth penitentiary. Returning to my troop, I checked my watch.
It was just about five o’clock.
“Let’s go,” I told Win Edgerly.
They didn’t ask if I had orders. I didn’t tell them I didn’t. Let Benteen and Reno court-martial me. I wasn’t about to ride back to Fort Lincoln and face Libbie, who I adored almost as much as her husband, and tell her I’d just sat with the rest of those cowardly, conniving sons of bitches up on a hilltop while Custer fought the Sioux by himself.
Gladly I would have gone alone.
The snorting of horses, the clopping of hoofs, the jingling of leather, and the cocking of weapons. Those noises caused me to turn to look behind as I rode Jake down the hill. Tears of joy, of pride, blinded me for just a moment.
My men, the black horse troop, following me.
Riding to the unknown.
God bless D Troop. I loved those boys, every damned one of them.
Turning back, I brought my bandanna to my eyes, wiped away the tears, then drew my service revolver, and, upon reaching the bottom of the hill, kicked Jake into a lope.
Almost immediately, I tugged on the reins, letting Edgerly and the rest of D Troop catch up. This was still Indian country, and our battle far from over.
About a half mile later, I glanced behind me and saw another surprise. Benteen was coming, followed, I guess, by every other troop on the hill. Even Reno had found enough nerve to leave his hole in the ground, or, more than likely, he didn’t want to be left alone.
We moved to the right, halting at a path of trampled grass. It never struck me un
til much later that we likely had struck the trail General Custer had taken.
“Win,” I said, “stay in this valley. I’m riding up there.”
I pointed up the ridge, toward a sugarloaf, where the grass had been trampled recently by a lot of horses. Column of fours, by the looks of the trail.
“Do you think that’s wise, Captain?” Win asked, but I was already leaning forward in the saddle, letting Jake lunge up to the top of the ridge. Once I’d reached that point, I halted, cursing at the sound of hoofs behind me.
Jerking the reins, I turned to yell, “I said …”
“I heard you, Capt’n.” James Flanagan, another fine sergeant under my command, reined up, spitting tobacco juice onto the grass. Flanagan had fought his way from County Clare to America, had served in the Rebellion, and then in the Second Cavalry after the war. Since the winter of 1871, he had been in the Seventh. You couldn’t find a better noncommissioned officer in this man’s army.
I was proud to have him beside me. A short while later, I was extremely glad of his company.
I signaled Win Edgerly to keep the command moving, using the ridge as a shield. Well behind him came Benteen, and, beyond him, Reno. They would stay low, too.
Sergeant Flanagan and I followed the trail, littered with occasional horse droppings, a few campaign hats, letters, equipment, canteens, even a Springfield rifle. Yes, Custer had brought his command, at least part of his command, this very way.
Soon Indians began firing. The bucks never shot at Sergeant Flanagan or myself—well, we were out of range, and shooting at uphill targets can challenge even the best rifle shots. I didn’t have to order Edgerly. Immediately he dismounted his best marksmen, and our boys exchanged some long-range shots with the savages. Eventually Edgerly’s boys ran off those bucks with well-placed fusillades. Besides, Benteen had arrived with his troops, and Reno wasn’t far behind. We had those Indians outnumbered … but what about Custer, if that were him, fighting in that swirl of dust?
Roughly a mile from the hill where we’d found Reno, I reached a couple of peaks. From this high point, I had a clear view.
Greasy Grass Page 13