Dismounting, I wrapped Jake’s reins around a rock, and drew my field glasses from the leather case.
The village lay across the Little Bighorn. Reno and Moylan had been right. It was huge. Only now, it seemed practically deserted. From where I stood, the dust—which was practically all I saw—came on this side of the river, maybe three or four miles ahead of my position. That dust rose in enormous clouds, like smoke billowing from a giant forest—er, prairie—fire. Again, I wiped my eyes. Shots slowly died out on the hills below the white clouds of dust.
“If that’s Custer, we should join him,” I said, and lowered my field glasses to wipe the dirt off lenses once more, and the sweat from my brow.
“Whatever you say, Capt’n,” Sergeant Flanagan said. “Should I plant the guidon here? For a beacon? To let Custer know we’re here?”
“If it is Custer,” I said in a dry-mouthed whisper. “If he could see anything through all that …”
Sergeant Flanagan took that for an affirmative, ramming the staff of the guidon into the dirt. Up here, the wind blew hot, and the guidon fluttered in the breeze.
Suddenly a grim thought passed through my mind. Ugly. Unchristian. What if George Custer were killed? Would Libbie …? Could she … and me …? No, I thought to myself, no, Libbie would mourn Custer for a thousand eternities. Something else struck me. So would I.
“He is not dead.” This I said firmly, aloud.
“Sir?” Sergeant Flanagan said.
Peering through my glasses again, I did not reply to Flanagan, for I detected movement. Indians on horseback, riding this way, that way. Every now and then, one of the savages would dismount, but I’d lose him in the grass and scrub. I would see a puff of smoke, hear the faint echo moments later of a rifle’s report.
I scanned the hills west to east, east to west, trying to find soldiers.
Nothing. Nothing but damnable dust. And Indians.
“Where is he?” I said out loud.
I wiped my eyes, stinging from sweat, tried again, sweeping the country.
At that moment, something else came into view.
The sergeant’s guidon had alerted someone to our presence.
“Signal Mister Edgerly to halt his command,” I ordered Sergeant Flanagan.
I looked again. Something caught my eye.
“Guidons!” I said, and relief swept over me. Guidons of the Seventh. By that time, I could even detect horses, the riders wearing blue coats. Galloping toward us.
Lowering the glasses, I shouted, “That is Custer!”
My glee, my joy. Never had I felt so happy, relieved, inspired. A million years of dread left my shoulders. A vision of Libbie entered my mind. She was smiling, as happy as I felt at that moment.
I swung onto Jake, and started to touch him with my spurs.
Then Sergeant Flanagan, God bless him and all the Irish, spoke up.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sergeant
James Flanagan
Said I to the Capt’n, “Here, Capt’n, you’d better take a look through them glasses again. I think they’re Indians.”
Thirty-seven years old I was, a few months older than General Custer hisself, but my eyes could see as sharp as they had when I was in my teens, starin’ at the lovely lasses on their way to communion in Innis. And unlike the general, my hair wasn’t thinnin’. Fell in brown locks, it did, and I had no desire to lose it that afternoon.
Capt’n, he pulled back on the reins, put those field glasses back to his head. Didn’t take long before he uttered a foul oath, and dropped the glasses, which bounced heavily across his chest, caused that fine horse of his to take a couple nervous steps sideways.
“Sergeant Flanagan,” said he, “put that black gelding in a high lope, get down to Major … no, tell Benteen. Tell him several hundred Indian bucks are galloping this way. Being below the ridge, I don’t think he can see them. I’ll alert Lieutenant Edgerly.” He paused to take a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “God, Libbie. Dearest God in Heaven.”
Then, he sent that great horse of his down the ridge at a breakneck pace.
Me? Fast as them Indians was racin’ toward us, I skedaddled myself, findin’ a trail down the bluff that was nowhere near as tricky as the one the capt’n had picked for hisself. I hit the hollow, gouged the black with my spurs, and gave that geldin’ plenty of rein. When a thousand bucks is right behind you, you needs a full head of steam.
Capt’n Benteen had halted his command, and appeared to be palaverin’ with Major Reno, who had caught up. My geldin’ slid to a stop, wound up standin’ in the stirrups, I did, firin’ a jackass salute, and sayin’, between breaths, “Capt’n Weir’s … compliments … sir.” Which was one mighty shameless falsehood. A cold day in Hades it’d be when the capt’n complimented Reno or Benteen.
“Sir,” I said. “There’s a … hell of a lot … of Indians lightin’ a shuck … in this … direction.”
Said the major: “Good God!”
Benteen displayed more control. “How many, Sergeant?”
He wouldn’t believe me, but I said it anyway. “I’d say five hundred.” Likely it was more, but I didn’t want to scare the boys.
Now, I admire Capt’n Weir. He pulled the cork far too often—and that’s comin’ from an Irishman—but I never had no desire to serve under any other officer in the Seventh. Except … in a pinch … maybe Capt’n Benteen. That bantam rooster’s balls was made of brass. Maybe cast iron.
“Mister Godfrey,” Capt’n Benteen said calmly as Major Reno began moppin’ his brow with a rag. The lieutenant pulled his horse up even with the capt’n’s. “Godfrey,” said Benteen. “Take K Troop forward. Position your men on either side of the ridge.”
“For God’s sake,” Major Reno cried out, “we’ve got scores of wounded. You need to take …”
“Major.” Benteen cut him off like a schoolteacher snappin’ at an unruly student. “We’re not abandoning Captain Weir or Lieutenant Edgerly. You can ride back to Captain Moylan, have him withdraw the wounded he is escorting. We can make our stand … how about that ridge we passed? We can hold off the Indians, find a position that will be easier for us to defend.”
“Fred,” Major Reno said, his voice somewhat steadier. “We’ve already begun some rifle pits, some entrenchments, back where we were. It would offer more cover, and we’d be closer to the river. We’ll need water before this is over and done with.”
Capt’n Benteen wet his lips. “You’re right, Marcus,” he said, and that seemed to revive the major’s confidence. The capt’n turned back to Lieutenant Godfrey. “You have your orders, mister,” he said.
Thus, we began pullin’ back. Retreatin’? Hell, we was runnin’, followin’ a bunch of damned pack mules. That’s hard for a cavalryman to abide, but, well, there was a hell of a lot of Indians bearin’ down for our scalps.
Wasn’t the most disciplined withdrawal. I saluted the major, but he was already pushin’ his horse back toward the pack mules, the doc, and our wounded boys. Capt’n McDougall nudged his horse close to Capt’n Benteen, and I heard McDougall whisper, “Fred, I think you should assume command. Major Reno isn’t fit.”
I wasn’t eavesdroppin’, mind you, but, well, just kinda overheard that confab.
Capt’n Benteen smiled. Hell, he was in command. He knew it. Everybody in the regiment knew it.
Capt’n Benteen deployed his troop as a rear guard, too. Me? I rode along with Lieutenant Godfrey. Waitin’ on D Troop. Waitin’ on Capt’n Weir.
They showed up shortly after the firin’ commenced. I’d see a feather above us, and send a chunk of lead in that direction from my Springfield. Weir reined up first, sweatin’, revolver still in his right hand.
“Capt’n,” I said, “we’re fallin’ back?”
“To where?”
“Where we was.”
H
e cut loose with a litany of curses, then said, “All right.”
But—and this is what sickens me to this day, what breaks my heart—Lieutenant Edgerly galloped up, his face white, but not from fear of all ’em Indians around us.
“Captain,” he says, pausin’ just long enough to get his breath back. “Trooper Charley’s wounded about a hundred yards back, maybe one hundred and fifty. Took a hit through both hips. I told him to hide in the ravine, that I’d come back for him with a skirmish line.”
“Lieutenant,” the capt’n said, speakin’ formally of a sudden, “our orders are to fall back.”
“But, Capt’n …”
“We have our orders, Mister Edgerly.” The capt’n spurred his black, turned around, and rode up the ridge a spell, firin’ his revolver at Indian heads till the hammer fell on an empty cylinder. Now the capt’n wasn’t afraid. Yet I never could understand why we didn’t go back for poor old Charley. Vincent Charley. The troop’s farrier. Best man to shoe a horse in the entire regiment.
“Fall back!” Lieutenant Edgerly’s voice cracked.
So we left Vincent Charley back in that ravine. Never did I see him again.
Oh, when it was all over and done, some of the boys found him. Found him where he’d been left. And buried him. A son of a bitchin’ red devil had shoved a stick down his throat.
* * * * *
Well, like I said, it wasn’t the finest execution of military order. Started out all right, I reckon, but ’fore long, we was runnin’ for our dear lives.
How far had we come from the hill where Reno had dug in? A mile? Two? Felt like fifty. Horses bolted. Troopers cried, screamed. All around us we heard and saw Indians. Felt bullets buzzin’ past our faces. Once we reached the bottom of the bluff, up that hill we skedaddled, dismountin’, pullin’ our horses behind us. Some of the boys turned their horses loose. Some, I’m shamed to say, overtook the boys haulin’ the wounded up the hill. Didn’t stop. Damned cowards, runnin’ like the doc was passin’ out free whiskey.
When I reached the top, that fine black geldin’ of mine fell. Barely managed to clear the saddle, I hit the dirt, rolled over, came up tastin’ blood. Saw my noble beast raise his head briefly, then drop. Blood already pooled underneath that black horse. How long he’d bled ’fore his heart burst … well, if this army would listen to an Irish sergeant, they’d be givin’ plenty of medals to horses and not horse soldiers.
“Throw yourself on the ground!” Major Reno’s sand had returned. He marched around, barkin’ orders. “Return fire. Damn it, return fire.”
“We have no cover!” some fool yelled.
“Lie on your belly. Get behind grease weed. Behind a clump of grass. A dead horse. A dead soldier. Return fire. Damn it, return fire. Do you bastards want to die today?”
I crawled back to my dead mount, picked up my Springfield, blew out the sand. Had to pry out the copper casin’ with my knife. Then shoved in another round, aimed, fired.
Ain’t sure I can exactly describe all the hell, all the commotion, all the panic.
“Unload the packs!” Sounded like Major Reno’s voice, but I couldn’t be sure. “Make breastworks out of packs. Out of the dead mules.”
“Wallace!” That was Benteen’s voice. “Form your company, Wallace. Right over there. If those damned Indians overrun us … form your company!”
“What company, Benteen? I’ve got three men. Three men, damn it!”
“Get your three men and your ass over there, Wallace. I’ll support you. H Troop! H Troop! Sergeant McCurry, follow me! Assist G Troop.”
More voices.
“That weed won’t stop a bullet, Corporal!”
“Maybe not, Lieutenant, but it’s all I gots, sir!”
“Thunderation. Two horses just deserted.”
“Listen to me. If your mounts are still alive, tie them to a picket line.”
“And just where the hell do we secure the picket ropes, Lieutenant?”
“To the legs of the horses and mules already dead!”
I turned. Bullets and arrows zipped through the air. You could make out the arrows, and, strange as it seems, it felt as if you could even see the bullets. Horses screamed. The sickenin’ sound of bullets and arrows strikin’ flesh echoed all around me.
Below us, a couple Winchesters opened up.
“Hell, where’d damned Indians get repeatin’ rifles, Sergeant?” a trooper asked.
Michael Martin bitterly replied, “Where the hell do you think?”
Which saddened me. A lot of our officers carried their personal weapons, not the gov’ment-issued Springfields.
Lookin’ at my belt, I realized I’d fired my last cartridge for the Springfield. Merciful Jesus, though, a soldier caught a slug right beside me, and fell dead just a rod from my feet. I crawled, removed the dead lad’s ammunition belt—didn’t recognize him, thank you, Mary!—and returned to my position. By that time, I had company. Another private had joined me.
“You don’t mind, do you, Sergeant?” he said.
“Beats dyin’ alone,” said me back to him.
I leaned against the dead black, already swellin’ from the heat, saw a trooper dive behind a box of hard bread. He’d just landed when a bullet went through the box, bread and all, and blew out his brains. I saw this. Saw this bloody, horrible scene, and … I laughed. So did a couple others. ’Cause we was rememberin’ what one of the boys had said back at the supply depot on the Powder River. Nearby, a corporal stopped snickerin’ long enough to say, “They told us that bread was hard enough to stop a bullet. Well, A. J. just proved ’em wrong.”
We laughed again. Just a moment. Then commenced fightin’.
Slowly the sun started sinkin’, but not fast enough. Beside me, some trooper prayed. Another wrote a note. I cussed ’em both. “God’s got no time to listen to you now, and your wife’ll never get that note if some damned redskin kills you. Fight. Damn it, fight. Fight, you sorry sons of bitches. I don’t want to die today!”
The air stank of gunpowder, of death, of shit—human and livestock. My eyes burned from all the powder, and then I saw Benteen, his white hair plastered to his head, walkin’ calmly while the rest of us yellow bastards hugged tightly to whatever cover we was fortunate enough to have.
“Quit wastin’ lead!” the capt’n cried out. He stopped, saw the wet-nosed trooper beside me. “You load for Sergeant Flanagan,” the capt’n said. “He turned to a couple troopers next to us. “You two, dig.”
“Dig what?” one of the damned fools asked.
“Dig your damned grave. Dig a rifle pit, you idiot.” To the next soldier: “You load, too.” The capt’n looked at me. “Best shots, Sergeant. Make them count. Don’t waste lead.”
“Yes, sir,” said I, and I rolled over, aimed below, waitin’.
Benteen, he inspired us. Made us think we had a chance, that, by the grace of the Virgin Mary and her Son, maybe we would live.
Steadied my aim I did, focusin’ on the Indians below. Every now and then, I’d hear the uproar of gunfire to my right or left, maybe even behind me, but I just kept starin’ down below. When I had a clear shot, I’d take it. Don’t know if I hit nothin’, but the Indians soon lost much of their bravery, though one fool buck stood up, and charged. Just charged up that hill. I fired. So did a few others around me. Saw that Indian’s breastplate shatter, saw a mist of pink explode from the back of his head, saw him crumple, and fall not twenty yards from the top of our hill.
What a brave damned fool. Wish all them Indians had that much foolishness. A couple bucks tried to fetch the dead warrior’s body, but we drove ’em back in a hurry.
After a while, the gunfire slowly diminished. None too soon, the sun finally dropped behind the hills, and darkness descended upon our hill. Still, I waited, till I couldn’t see a damned thing in front of me. The breeze picked up. Off in the distanc
e, beyond the river and in the village, came the sound of drums, of whistles, of singin’. On the hilltop, just a thankful silence.
Didn’t last long.
But there was no more gunfire.
Major Reno started yellin’, “Dig, boys! Dig rifle pits! Dig!”
“With what, Major?” came a query from some trooper.
“Your mess kits. Your knives. Your spurs. Your damned fingers!”
Capt’n Weir was yellin’, too. “No tobacco! No one strikes a match! And no one leaves his post! We’re waitin’ here.” His voice dropped, but I could hear him ’cause he was walkin’ right past me. “We wait here till Custer relieves us.”
I rolled over, eased down the hammer on my Springfield. I said to the trooper beside me, “Thanks for your help, lad. We best get to diggin’.” I drew my butcher knife.
He didn’t answer.
When I reached over to touch him, my hand came away bloody, sticky, and my heart sank. How long he’d been dead, I had nary a clue.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Lieutenant
Charles DeRudio
Fred Gerard came up to me that night, and I almost blew his fool head off.
“Lieutenant,” our interpreter whispered, not seeing the shaking Schofield revolver in my hand. “I don’t see Herendeen or any of those other boys.” Hell, he couldn’t see a thing. It was pitch black, no moon, and we were in the woods. Had been hiding there since Reno, the son of a bitching coward, had abandoned us. I’m too harsh on Major Reno. Having seen the size of that village General Custer had sent us up against, I understood then that had Reno not been such a craven coward, we would all be dead now.
“They were there …”
“Must have lit a shuck,” Gerard said. “They’re probably out yonder.” He gestured to the open country. “Dead.”
“What’s goin’ on, Lieutenant?” whispered Trooper Thomas O’Neill.
“Be quiet,” I said. Night had brought a chill, yet I kept sweating profusely.
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