Herendeen had left the timber. That meant I was alone with one trooper, Gerard, and the half- or quarter-breed scout, Billy Jackson, who was lying somewhere underneath leaves and twigs, and smart enough not to say one damned word.
I was here, only a few hundred yards from the savage Indians, hiding, because I had been foolish enough to return to the woods to rescue the flag my color bearer had stupidly dropped. I was an Italian aristocrat, to die for that damned American flag?
The drums beat steadily. We could hear the wails, the songs, the eagle flutes.
“Do you think we could make it to …” My voice trailed off. To where? Custer? Who knew where he was? Reno? As fast as he had been riding, last I saw him, he could very well be in Dakota Territory by now.
“Lieutenant,” Gerard said, “Major Reno could be dead along with everyone who followed him.”
We had hidden deep in the woods, in the center, our horses gone, either dead or captured by the hostiles.
“Fred,” I said, “I’m going to crawl to the edge of the woods, see if I can see anything. Fires from the troops. Anything.”
“If they’re alive,” Gerard said, “they will likely have no fires. Not tonight.”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, and, Schofield in hand, began crawling through the timbers. I thought, fatalistically, Or I’ll be dead.
Ten minutes later, I wondered if I would even be able to find my way back to Fred, Billy, and O’Neill. I reached the edge, sucked in a deep breath, recalling all those boys of ours who probably lay on that field in front of me. I thanked God for the moonless night, that I could not see their bodies.
I could see nothing. No signal fire. Not over toward the river. Now, in the Indian camp, dozens, maybe hundreds of bonfires illuminated the Indian village. The sound of those awful drums, those guttural chants, they carved up one’s nerves.
Then a new sound came to me. Footfalls. Two voices whispering, but they were not speaking English.
I froze, sank into the ground, indeed tried to press my way through the earth, all the way to the core of this globe, all the way to Hades itself.
Briefly the two voices stopped. One laughed. My revolver trembled in my hands. Conversation resumed. The Indians talked, no more than three feet in front of me. I tried to hold my breath. They must hear my pounding heart, I thought.
I, Carlo Camilius “Charles” DeRudio, son of Count and Countess Aquila di Rudio, graduate of the Austrian Military Academy, former member of Garibaldi’s staff in Italy, who had come to America in 1858 in time to serve with the Seventy-Ninth New York and Second US Colored Infantry to preserve the Union … I was to die here, at the edge of a woods in Montana Territory.
I was to die, having just pissed in my pants.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Standing Bear
I was sixteen years old, and I was crazy.
That day, we were all crazy.
When darkness came, many of us remained crazy.
“Hey, Minneconjou boy,” a Sahiyela called out to me in the Lakota tongue, “are you hungry?”
I had not eaten since breakfast, but my stomach did not grumble for any food. The air smelled of blood. It sickened many of us.
“No,” I answered.
The Sahiyela laughed. Then our bravest warriors got together. We would not charge the wasicus at night, could not see them, but we had the entire hill surrounded.
“We will kill them tomorrow,” I heard a warrior say.
“It is true,” said another. “They have no water. They cannot have much food. We will wait. Kill them that way. Slowly.” He laughed.
“There is not much honor in that,” said a Lakota.
“But they will be dead,” said another.
“But what if they slip away, since Mila Hanska are all cowards, in the darkness?”
“They have nowhere to go. We will stay here. We will send our younger warriors, our boys, our women, back to our circles. They will eat, and bring food back for us.”
That was a good idea, all of the warriors agreed.
So one came to me. It was too dark for me to tell who it was, but he was Lakota, Oglala, and he said, “What is your name?”
“Standing Bear,” I answered. “I am Minneconjou.”
“Well, you go to your circle. You eat. Eat well. Tomorrow we will finish killing these wasicus. You bring back food. You can do this?”
“Yes,” I said.
So I left the rocks, went down the hill where we had left all of our ponies, to protect them from wasicu bullets. I mounted my bareback pony, and I returned to the Minneconjou circle, the third from the south, but no one was there. It was strange, but then, as I have already told you, we were all crazy. My own lodge was empty, but I went inside.
The big fight had begun that afternoon, and I was not ready for a fight. No one in our circle was ready to fight. I wore only my shirt, plus the red feather from a bird I had killed a few days earlier. No time had I even to saddle my gray mare. All during the fight, I had ridden her bareback. So now I took time to dress. I put on my best moccasins, my leggings. I painted my face. I grabbed a hatchet, since my six-shooting holy iron had no more bullets, and more arrows for my quiver. I saddled my pony. I rode to the sound of drums in the center of all of the villages.
I found my mother, and she gave the tremolo. She honored me, for I had taken many coup on that afternoon. My father came to me, pulled me close. I had not seen him since Mila Hanska attacked.
My mother wore a blue coat with the sleeves and brass buttons ripped off. My father wore a black wasicu soldier hat, and one of the soldier belts around his waist.
“Did you hear?” my father asked. “It was Pehin Hanska. He led the wasicus. We defeated Pehin Hanska on the ridge across the Greasy Grass.” He pointed north.
Pehin Hanska? We had killed Long Hair? We had killed the warrior chief the wasicus called Custer, who said his medicine was strong?
Ha! Wasicu power is not match for the power of the Lakota!
“Sahiyela women recognized him,” my father explained. “They say he is a relative of theirs. He married a Sahiyela woman many winters ago. Now he is dead. Ha!”
He turned, returning to the dances around the nearest fire. There must have been a hundred fires, and the drumming and the singing and the flutes rang out with joy. Now, I could hear the women around the nearest fire. They sang:
Long Hair has never returned,
So his woman is crying, crying.
Looking over here, she cries.
Long Hair, holy irons I had none.
You brought me many. I thank you!
You make me laugh.
Long Hair, horses I had none.
You brought me many. I thank you!
You make me laugh!
Long Hair, where he lies nobody knows.
Crying, they seek him.
He lies over here.
Let go your holy irons.
You are not men enough to do any harm.
Let go your holy irons!
My mother thrust a buffalo rib, dripping with grease, at me. I told her I was not hungry, but that I should take food to the warriors still surrounding the hill where the rest of the wasicus waited to be killed.
“You will stay here,” my mother said. “You will dance and sing and eat. Then you must sleep. Your sisters and I will bring those warriors food. You will sleep. You must be strong for when the sun rises and we kill the rest of the wasicus.” She threw both arms into the air, and let go with another tremolo. “My son has counted coup! He has taken scalps! He is a man!” And she ran to the cook fires to gather food for the Sahiyelas and Lakotas and other Indians waiting for food, waiting for morning.
Slowly I left the dancing, mounted the gray, and returned to the Minneconjou circle, leaving the celebrating, the singing, the danc
ing, the feasting, the sounds of the drums, of the flutes. The night grew darker, much cooler, as I came to my own lodge. I rubbed the gray’s neck, whispered in her ear, and entered the tepee. I lay on the buffalo robe, hands beneath my head, and closed my eyes.
I saw this scene from that afternoon:
I ride the gray, with other warriors my age, even younger. We come to another Lakota riding back toward our circle. “It is Long Elk,” I say, and give a cry, but the sound dies in my throat as Long Elk raises his head. Blood streams from his mouth, and his chest is all bloody, spilling down the neck of his painted horse. We stop beside him, but Long Elk tells us, “Do not be a woman. Be brave. Ride on. There are more Mila Hanska to kill.” He coughs, spits out more blood, and leans forward, trying to get his pony to take him back to the circle. Where he can die.
My eyes opened. It was cold, but I sweated. My eyes shut again.
I ride the gray, holding my revolver in my hand. Already, the holy iron has been shot empty. I spy a bluecoat running, and, leaning over my pony’s neck, I swing the holy iron. The barrel smashes against the wasicu’s head, and he stumbles forward, falling under the gray’s hoofs. I glance behind me to watch other Lakotas trample the wasicu. We do not stop to scalp him.
Again, I jerked awake. I sat up, and, even though my eyes were open, I remembered, and pictured, another scene from that day.
The bodies of our enemies litter the hillside. As we ride up the ridge, a Lakota points to an Indian in a blue coat lying on the ground. “Scalp that Palani!” the warrior yells, and I start to dismount the gray, but another man has already leaped from his war pony, knife in his hand, and has turned the dead man over. The scalping knife falls from his hand. He looks up, and tears begin to stream down his sweaty face. “It is not a Palani!” he cries out to us. “It is a Sahiyela. I knew this man!” Our oldest warrior spits. “He should not have worn a blue coat,” he says, and charges his mount into the dust, after more Mila Hanska.
My head shook, but still I could not forget the images of the day. I saw:
All of the wasicus are dead on the ridge. Or so we think. We leap off our ponies, and run to count coup. Men and women are stripping the dead. They slash the right thighs of many wasicus. A man beside me looks at a dead Long Knife. He points to the man’s face. “I have never even seen a wasicu with two beards on the sides of his face.” The dead man’s eyes stare up at me. They do not see me, but I cannot help but feel that he is looking into me. The warrior kneels down, and scalps one of the man’s beards. He lifts it to the air, and shouts, “Hokay hey!” Then he leaps onto his pony, and rides away.
Turning, I spot two fat Lakota women. They have stripped another wasicu, who lies naked on the grass. One bends to chop off his finger to get at a gold band. Before she can accomplish this, the wasicu jumps up. The two Lakota women scream. One falls on her hindquarters, thinking this wasicu’s spirit has come back. He is naked, bleeding from his shoulder and head. Nearby, a Sahiyela warrior laughs at the two women. Another tells them that this Long Knife was just playing dead. The Lakota woman on the ground jumps up. The wasicu screams something and fights one of the Lakota women. Other braves gather around, laughing. The second woman hurries to help her friend fight this wasicu. It is funny, two fat Lakota women fighting a naked wasicu. Then one of the women rams her knife into the naked wasicu’s belly. He groans. Blood pours from his mouth. The other woman takes her knife and slits the man’s throat. His eyes roll back into his head. His bowels loosen, and the two women back away from his purging. This causes the warriors to laugh even harder. The wasicu falls. This time, he is really dead.
I tried to stand, but my knees would not work. I fell back against the buffalo robe, and I remembered.
We are at the hill. Shooting at the last of Mila Hanska, where they have all retreated. The sun bakes down upon us. The air stinks of death. My eyes burn from all the shooting. On the hillside, we hear the sounds of shouting, of ponies screaming as our bullets and arrows tear into them. The wasicus fire back. Near me, I hear someone cry out, “Hey! Hey!”
I crawl past the bush separating me and another Lakota boy. He is even younger than I am, but never will he see another sunrise. A bullet has struck him above his right eye, and he is dead. His eyes are open, but these I close with trembling fingertips.
Right beside me, an Oglala boy stands. He looks down at me and the dead boy, and says, “See how brave I am. I am not afraid to die.” He stands up, yells, “Hokay hey!” Up the hill, he runs where the wasicus, hiding without honor, open fire. The young brave—I do not know this brave boy—staggers, but keeps running until a bullet smashes through his head, and he falls hard, face down, not far from the top of the ridge.
“We must rescue his body!” an old Sicangu shouts. Immediately he leads others up the hill. I try to crawl up, but a bullet kicks sand into my eyes. I am not as brave as these other warriors. I slide back down. “Do not let him lie there!” the Sicangu yells.
But we cannot get him. He has fallen where the wasicus will kill anyone who tries to retrieve this brave boy’s body. The old Sicangu, and the other warriors, slide back behind the rocks.
The sun sinks.
The craziness stops.
Outside of the tepee, I could hear the stamping of the gray mare’s hoofs. The noise of singing and drumming had not lessened. I placed my hands beneath my head again, and stared at nothing but the blackness of the inside of my lodge. There was no moon that night. There was nothing.
I did not sleep that night. I could not sleep. All night I remembered all that I had seen, all that I had done. It had not been a pretty day. It had been crazy.
When the sun rose, my father called my name. I stepped out of the lodge, and my father said, “The remainder of the wasicus shall die today.”
Thus, the craziness returned.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Major
Marcus Reno
6/26/1876
Continued …
There is no moon. As if the world ended. Maybe it has.
Captain Weir has joined me in my rifle pit. I share my brandy with him, but we do not talk.
Earlier today, Weir asked to move his company on a scout. Off the hill? No way in hell. I told him as much. I found McDougall. No, he found me. Asking me something. I disremember what. I told him I’d lost Hodgson. Hodgson was his lieutenant. Told him to put his men along a skirmish line.
The pack mules arrived. We had ammunition. At last. I think I mentioned Mathey before, the Bible-thumper, but it’s too dark. Still can’t read what I wrote.
Weir rode off, disobeyed … no, I told Captain Weir we had to move. Benteen agreed. Benteen’s a good man. Hated Custer. Where the hell is Custer? I told him we must ride out. Scout. Ordered the command into column of twos. We made it to a point north, but couldn’t see Custer, or anyone else. Benteen Weir I planted a guidon. A beacon for Custer. At the top of the point. And then, God, more damned Indians. Riding from the north.
“Major,” Benteen said. “We can halt here. Make a stand. Turn back the hostiles.”
“No.” No, you see, the first hill. That’s where we should be. It was better. Water was closer. And Hodgson was there. So we retreated back. I told Benteen where to place the troops. Ordered the men to dig rifle pits. then I walked around. I found the pack mules. Found a bottle of brandy. Found my own rifle pit. I rested.
Others might take credit for what happened. Benteen or Weir, they will say they took it upon themselves to ride off the hill. I did it. I was not drunk. I am in charge. Till Custer comes for us. If he ever does …
Night fell, and no longer did the Indians fire upon us. I convened with the officers. Not Hodgson. Poor Hodgson. He’s dead. God.
“We’re facing a great force of Indians,” I told my officers. “I am not certain how long we can hold out this.” I cleared my throat. “If it gets down to this, I hate it, but, well, perha
ps we should abandon the wounded. Make a break for Custer. For Terry and Gibbon.”
“No!” Benteen spat. The martinet bastard. He STILL doesn’t know how many damned Indians are in that village. “By God, sir, we will never do that!”
Of course not. I told Benteen that we’d never abandon our wounded. I’d never do such a cowardly thing. Custer could find us here. We’d hold out. We had to hold out.
The night is cold. Hope you can read this. Hope you will find it if I am killed.
Trumpeter Martin blows reveille. It is 2:00 a.m. Dawn will soon break and Indians have returned. We remain surrounded. I have done my best. Will do my best. I am not a coward.
Likely we all die today.
Be a good boy. Remember you lovely mother, God rest her soul. Please remember me in your prayers.
Your father,
M. A. Reno
Major, Seventh Cavalry, US Army
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dr. Henry R. Porter
I could not save Corporal George Lell’s life. When Privates Charles Windolph and Jacob Adams carried him in early on the morning of June 26, I knew that. There is little anyone can do for a man who has been gutshot. Clean the wound with a solution of carbolic acid. Stop the bleeding, if possible. Maybe, if the patient screams in utter agony, as Private Andrew Moore had been doing when two soldiers brought him in the previous afternoon, slip him some laudanum—not so much for the dying trooper’s sake, but to lessen the stress on everyone around him.
Corporal Lell refused laudanum, and he was not screaming. “Save it, Doc,” he said grimly, “for someone who ain’t a dead man.”
When Private Adams handed me the corporal’s Springfield carbine and his ammunition belt, I hesitated. Just before the charge into the Indian encampment, Major Reno had offered me his carbine, which, being a doctor, I had declined. By the morning of the twenty-sixth, I felt differently. Adams was saying, “Colonel Benteen says you’ll likely have need of it this morn, sir,” but I was already grabbing the carbine and belt of cartridges before hurrying to attend the other wounded.
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