One moment, above all, stands out in a voyage filled with moments. Nothing to do with creeping past sandbars and snags, or shooting rapids, or watching young men be buried, watching wounded men fawning over a wounded horse, watching my crew, shirts off, sweating, working without complaint.
Approaching the depot, I looked for a mooring spot while Captain Edward W. Smith, General Terry’s aide-de-camp, puffed on a cigar at my right.
“There will be much discussion of this massacre,” Captain Smith was saying, “but Custer brought it upon himself with his disobedience.”
I said nothing. I was a sailor, not a soldier, and certainly not a second-guesser. Custer had died. Young men had died with him. I would not question their integrity. Let them rest in peace. Let them be laid to rest with honors. They had given their lives for our country.
“He was arrogant, Custer, and …”
A muffled explosion on the bank stopped him. Some soldiers, their nerves taut, cried out in terror, thinking we were under attack. Then they watched the ball of fire explode in the evening air, lighting up the sky, showering the blackness with colorful sparks.
“What are they doing?” Captain Smith cried out. “Are they signaling you, Captain Marsh?”
Slowly I removed my cigar, setting it on the ashtray. Another explosion filled the sky.
My heart sank.
“They are celebrating, Captain Smith,” I finally answered. “Today is Independence Day. Today is our nation’s one hundredth birthday.”
1926
Chapter Forty-Nine
Libbie Custer
The fiftieth anniversary celebration has ended.
Celebration? Do we celebrate the deaths of two hundred and sixty-one brave soldiers?
Alas, the casualties did not end at the Little Bighorn in 1876. Last year, poor John Burkman, Autie’s striker and our Old Standby, shot himself to death in Billings, Montana. He wrote me often, and I to him, but I am told he had become a bitter loner, an angry old man who would curse anyone, even children and those of the fairer sex, in sight. Poor John. He never got over Autie’s death. It broke his heart, as well as mine.
Those two miserable, vindictive, lying human beings, Reno and Benteen, are dead, too. In my mind, and in the opinions of many others, they were the orchestrators of my husband’s death. Benteen did not obey orders, but tarried while Autie was overwhelmed by the savages. Reno proved himself to be a drunkard and a coward, though he escaped court-martial, and a Court of Inquiry absolved him of any blame—but only because far too many officers of the Seventh lied about his actions, to protect the honor, as always, of the US Army.
Well, no matter. Reno was drummed out of the service in 1880 for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. He proved to be not only a drunkard, but a peeping tom, the louse. He died in 1889 of cancer of the tongue. Needless to say, I did not attend his funeral.
Alcohol, likewise, led to the demise of Captain Benteen. He left the Seventh in 1882, to become a major in the Negro-filled Ninth Cavalry, and was convicted of being drunk and disorderly at some post in Utah. He should have been drummed out of the army, too, but President Cleveland merely reduced his sentence to a one-year suspension—the same as Autie was given, and Autie had not been drunk, merely romantic. Benteen resigned in 1888, and died ten years later.
I shall waste no more energy on those two individuals, although I will say this: There is talk of building a monument for Reno, and, if this goes further than just talk, I will fight it till my dying breath.
Back in my apartment, I stare nine floors down at the bustle of this city. Already, the stores and the city begin to prepare for the next celebration, our country’s Day of Independence. So I close my eyes, and remember back five decades.
There was a Fourth of July ball, of course. Always a ball, always a dance. I attended with a pleasant enough young man, brother of the post sutler, though now I disremember his name. He showed himself a gracious host, and a wonderful dancer, though my heart was not in dancing, not even on Independence Day. The next evening was sweltering. The wives gathered at my home, and we followed our usual routine of song and Bible verses and tears. Later, I wrote Autie. I cried. I went to bed, my heart heavy with dread, my constant routine since Autie led his troops into Montana Territory.
At 2:00 a.m., I awakened. Something was wrong. I heard voices below, then footfalls. For a moment, my heart sang out: Autie! My Autie has returned. Alas, as heavy footfalls came from the back door down the hallway, a man’s voice, and not my husband’s, said, “Please awaken, Missus Custer.”
“Why are you here?” I called out, but no one answered. By the time my servant, Maria Adams, had pushed open the door to my bedroom, I was already up, pulling on my robe.
“Missus Libbie,” she said. “They’s a capt’n here. Wants to see you.”
“At this hour?” I followed dear Maria through the door, around the staircase, in time to watch Captain William S. McCaskey of the Twentieth Infantry open the door to the veranda, letting in Lieutenant Colonel C. L. Gurley of the Sixth Infantry, and J. V. D. Middleton, the post surgeon.
They turned left, and entered the parlor. Numbly I followed them. The lamps were turned up. I clutched my robe till my fingers whitened. Maggie Calhoun and Emma Reed promptly joined us.
“Ladies,” Captain McCaskey said. “I have a telegram from General Terry.” His fingers shook as he retrieved the piece of yellow paper from his coat pocket. He moved closer to a lamp, unfolded the telegram, and read.
“General Custer and five companies, totaling two hundred and sixty-one officers and men, were killed June 25 at the Little Bighorn River in a battle with Sioux and Cheyenne Indians.”
Maggie and Emma fell into each other’s arms, sobbing. Tears cascaded down my own cheeks, but I remained the general’s wife. Autie would demand that I be brave. “Captain,” I said, though my voice cracked from pain, “I would desire to accompany you as you inform the other …” the word seemed strange on my tongue, “widows.”
After Maria draped a wrap over my shoulders, I followed the officers into the parlor, and outside. The skies began lightening in the east, and already it felt warm, a beautiful dawn.
As I moved down the steps, Maggie ran out, hysterical, screaming from the veranda, “Is there no message for me?”
Captain McCaskey’s head shook somberly. “No, ma’am,” he said. “They all died fighting.”
Which, I thought as I walked along officer’s row, was how Autie would have wanted to die. Fighting. Alongside his brothers.
* * * * *
When my darling died, my world ended. Eventually, I would leave Fort Lincoln, moving back home to Monroe, Michigan, drawing my thirty dollars a month pension as a widow, later to New York City, spending winters in Florida. Others would write about my late husband, Walt Whitman’s stirring poem “A Death Song for Custer,” which ran in the New York Herald, and Mr. Whittaker’s The Complete Life of Gen. George A. Custer, written with my approval and help. There would be paintings and other books and monuments, stories told, songs sung, and soon I determined that my duty, my privilege, lay in working to commemorate my husband. That became my life’s purpose. It still is.
So I began to write. Writing about my life with Autie has carried me these past fifty years.
From my apartment window, I do not see the automobiles, velocipedes, and pedestrians going about their business in New York City. I see that hillside, the hillside in Montana that I have never seen in person, where Autie, Tom, and others made such a glorious last stand.
And I remember another casualty of that campaign. I remember poor Thomas Weir, who I loved so dearly, who might have once been capable of wooing me off my feet had not my soul been so chained to Autie’s memory. Thomas promised me that one day he would tell me all of what he had witnessed, but he never did. Drink, cursed drink, brought him to ruin.
Shortly aft
er the battle, he was assigned to a cavalry recruiting office in this city. I never saw him again, for he was dead six months after the Little Bighorn massacre. It took him only six months to drink himself to death.
Yet he did tell me one thing. He said that on the morning of the twenty-seventh, after the party had been relieved by General Terry’s forces, he and gallant Ed Godfrey—then lieutenant, now general—rode off in search of my Autie. On a hillside, Thomas and Ed reined to a stop, and Thomas pointed to another hill. The grass waved, for now the wind blew, and all along this hillside were what appeared to be limestone boulders.
“What are those?” Thomas asked.
Ed pulled his binoculars from the case, focused, and lowered it. That was his first view of what they now call Custer Hill.
“The dead,” Ed answered in a whisper.
“Oh,” Thomas said, his voice trembling, “how white they look. How white.”
1933
Epilogue
Black Elk
The agent tells me that the woman of Long Hair has finally died. Since General Godfrey died last year, he says, there must not be more than one or two survivors of the Battle of the Little Bighorn.
I walk away from this fool wasicu. One or two survivors remain? Does he not see that he is surrounded by survivors. I am one.
It was at the Greasy Grass Fight that I took my first scalp. I remember it. My knife was dull, and the wasicu was still alive. He cried out in pain, so I cocked my holy iron and shot him in the head, then finished taking the scalp. Later, I showed his scalp to my mother, and she gave the tremolo, honoring me. She was proud.
On that day, all Lakotas and Sahiyelas were proud.
Our pride did not last long.
Crazy Horse would surrender to Mila Hanska as, eventually, all Lakotas did. Just more than a year after the Greasy Grass Fight, a wasicu stabbed him in the back with his long knife. Yes, a Long Knife killed Crazy Horse, but, and this saddens me, Lakotas had a part in his death, too. Red Cloud, who had guided the People of the Buffalo Nation to many great victories, had been jealous of Crazy Horse’s power. Red Cloud wanted to be the leader. Many Lakotas grew jealous of Crazy Horse, and that is why Crazy Horse was killed.
Sitting Bull was killed, too, by his own people. The Metal Shirts, those Indian policemen who worked for the wasicus, shot him dead.
And Custer’s Long Knives, the Seventh Cavalry, they got their revenge for the Greasy Grass Fight just after Sitting Bull was killed. On a bitterly cold day, Mila Hanska massacred many of our people, including Big Foot, who had surrendered.
All these years later, still we grieve for that awful day at Wounded Knee.
We grieve for something else, too. The loss of our country. I remember something Red Cloud said. He said, “The white man promised us many things, more than I can recall, but he only kept one promise. He promised to take our land, and he took it.”
I think back to that great fight on the Greasy Grass. When the wasicus came to attack our circles, we were many, and we were united. On that day, I was twelve years old, but nearing manhood. Now, all these years later, I am an old man, and I see twelve-year-old boys on our reservation. They are not as I was when I was that age. They wait around. They do not make the bows and arrows the old ways. They do not work hard. They have no buffalo to eat, and not many horses to ride.
We live as prisoners. We are not free. Many of our young men live only to drink mini wakan. They spend all their money on this. They become crazy. They have no honor for our people, and no respect for themselves.
So I am glad, I think, that Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull did not live to see what many of our people have become.
I wonder what would have happened if we had followed Sitting Bull’s vision on that day. He warned us not to take the items from the wasicus we had killed, but no one listened. It was hard to listen. It was hard to leave coffee and tobacco and holy irons and horses and clothes of Mila Hanska.
Perhaps we brought this upon ourselves. After the Greasy Grass Fight, we no longer were strong. The wasicus came, and they were angry at us, for we had killed Long Hair. They came like the wind. As Sitting Bull said, they would always trouble us.
Many of our young men do not even want to hear the stories of that much remembered fight. They would rather go to see the moving picture shows in the wasicu towns, to drink colas or, if they can get it, mini wakan. They think of me as an old man, and they are right. I am old.
I am a sad, old man.
Because many summers ago, I took part in the Greasy Grass Fight. I became a man that day. It was the greatest Lakota victory. Yet, also, it proved to be our downfall.
Yes, we defeated Long Hair. We sang victory songs that evening for we did not know the truth, and the truth was this: Our world ended, too, at the Greasy Grass.
the end
Glossary
Agnus Dei: (Latin) Lamb of God. In the case of Myles Keogh, it was the Medaglia di Pro Petri Sede, a cross hanging from a golden chain, awarded him by Pope Pius IX for his Papal Army service.
Count coup: Touching an enemy in battle, usually with hand, bow, or coup stick. To most Plains Indians tribes, this act won a warrior much prestige.
Dacia!: (Lakota) “There they are!”
Greasy Grass: The Lakota name for the Little Bighorn River.
Hi-es-tzie: (Northern Cheyenne) “Long Hair,” the Cheyenne name for George Custer. The Lakotas also called him Long Hair, Pehin Hanska. Ironically Custer had cut his hair short for the 1876 campaign.
Hiyupo!: (Lakota) “Follow me!” The first command a Lakota war leader would give in battle.
Hokay hey: (Lakota) A man’s exclamation, loosely meaning, “Let’s go,” or, “Let’s do it,” and often followed in battle with, “Today is a good day to die!”
Holy iron: Lakota’s term for a gun.
Hotóhkeso: (Northern Cheyenne) Lakota.
Human Being: Northern Cheyenne.
Lakota: The Northern Plains tribe often referred to as the Sioux. The Lakotas were divided into seven subgroups, or seven Council Fires: Oglala; the largest subband; Sicangu; more commonly known by the French word, Brulé; Hunkpapa; Minneconjou; Itazipacola; meaning “Without Bows” and known primarily as Sans Arc; Oohenunpa, meaning “Two Boilings” or “Two Kettles;” Sihasapa, or “Blackfeet” or “Black Soles.”
Mahpiya To: (Lakota) Arapaho.
Mila Hanska: (Lakota) Long Knives, their term—because of the sabers often carried—for army soldiers.
Mini wakan: (Lakota) “the water that makes men crazy”—i.e., whiskey.
Niátha: (Arapaho) white man.
Niiteheib-ín!: (Arapaho) Help him!
Notaxé-ve’hó’e: (Northern Cheyenne) warrior white men—i.e., soldiers.
Ónone: (Northern Cheyenne) Arikaree.
Paha Sapa: (Lakota) The Black Hills.
Palani: (Lakota) Arikaree.
Peji Sla Wakpa: (Lakota) “Greasy Grass,” the Lakota name for the Little Bighorn River.
Pehin Hanska: (Lakota) “Long Hair,” the Lakota name for George Custer.
Pte: (Lakota) buffalo cow.
Ree: Shortened name for Arikaree Indians, many of whom served as scouts for the army during the 1876 campaign.
Sahiyela: (Lakota) Northern Cheyenne.
Takahokuty: (Lakota) The Place Where They Killed the Deer, Killdeer Mountain, an 1864 battle between army forces and Indians in present-day North Dakota.
Tatanka: (Lakota) buffalo bull.
Tosa’a ne-ho-ohtse?: (Northern Cheyenne) Where are you going?
Tenéi’éíhinoo: (Arapaho) I am strong.
Tinspila: (Lakota) wild turnips.
Veho: (Northern Cheyenne) white man.
Wakan Tanka: (Lakota) The Great Mystery, the Great Spirit, the Sacred, the Divine.
Wasicu: (Lakota) white man.
; Wasicun sapa: (Lakota) black man.
Wicasa wakan: (Lakota) holy, or medicine man.
Wipazuke Waste Wi: (Lakota) Moon When Berries Are Good, mid-June to mid-July.
Wiwanyang Wacipi: (Lakota) The Sun Dance.
Author’s Note
If you want to be totally confused, read as many books about the Battle of the Little Bighorn as I did researching this novel.
Custer was an idiot. He was a hero. He did everything right (just everything went wrong). He did everything wrong (and nothing went right). There were fifteen hundred warriors waiting. There were twelve thousand.
Custer was killed early in the battle; Custer died late in the battle. Indeed, Custer was the last man standing. He was shot in the head by an Indian after the battle, or by an Indian during the battle. His brother Tom, or another soldier, shot him to keep him from being captured alive. He shot himself. He was killed by Gall … by Wooden Leg … Rain-In-The-Face … Yellow Nose … White Cow Bull … Brave Bear … Old Bear … Little Horse … Charging Hawk … Spotted Calf … Lazy White Bull … a couple of Cheyenne “Suicide Boys” … Moving Robe Woman.
I decided to leave that final gunshot wound to Custer’s head to the reader’s imagination.
This is a work of fiction, however, though much of the dialogue is as was reported in the 1870s or in the years afterward, and much has been recreated as accurately as possible, with some exceptions for literary license. Besides, no one will ever know what really happened on that hill.
My first introduction to George Custer came as a kid, when my father read aloud to me Custer’s Last Stand by Quentin Reynolds.
Forty-odd years later, I still recall sitting on Daddy’s lap at our South Carolina home, and vividly hearing that first death scene of George Armstrong Custer. I’ve never even forgotten the line: “Two bullets hit Autie at the same time.” Custer reaches out to brother Tom, and they die together.
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