Wolf Mountain Moon: The Battle of the Butte, 1877 tp-12

by Terry C. Johnston

  “Well, the goddamned Indians are in control of the heights!” Butler roared, exasperated.

  Some of the men twittered behind him but shut up the instant Butler heeled around on them, fixing them all with his glare. He wheeled back on the orderly just as quickly.

  “Captain—General Miles wishes to attack those heights—”

  “Very well,” Butler interrupted. “Give the general my compliments and tell him it will be our honor to charge the slopes that lay in my front.”

  With a salute Hobart Bailey started to rein aside, but Butler leaned over and snagged the soldier’s bridle, stopping the horse with a jerk.

  “Mr. Bailey, please convey to the general my immediate and crucial need for ammunition. My men are nearly out, and if we are to face the muzzles of those enemy guns … I’ll need resupply.”

  “Ammunition, sir?”

  “Yes”—and Butler pointed an arm right at the heights—“if the general asks us to do the impossible, at least give us more bullets.”

  “Ammunition—yessir!”

  Butler freed the lieutenant’s reins and slapped the mount at the same time, sending the young officer off toward the knoll where Miles would likely be standing among his gun crews, surveying the battlefield as a whole. Meanwhile, with the way the snow was beginning to come down in heavy, dancing sheets, Seamus realized Miles wouldn’t have a bloody idea what was really going on this far to the south. If anything, Butler’s men were no more than tiny, fuzzy specks of flotsam indistinct against the snowy hillside the general expected them to assault.

  Calling his officers to the side of his mount, Butler told them in his thick brogue, “Gentlemen, you likely heard our orders.”

  “We’re expected to take the summits,” grumbled one of the sergeants.

  “Prepare the men,” Butler told them succinctly. “Get them up out of the snow and ready to move forward.”

  A soldier asked, “We aren’t going to wait for the ammunition, sir?”

  “We’ve been ordered to advance, Corporal,” Butler snapped. “Now, pass the order along and see that your men are instructed to be conservative with their shots. Any more questions?”

  When there were no further questions, the others turned away, moving quickly among the half a hundred, ordering the soldiers off their bellies and their rumps, to stand in the freezing wind, nervously awaiting the next command from the man who sat on horseback.

  “Advance!” Butler cried, yanking back on the reins so his horse jerked to a halt.

  Seamus found himself admiring this Edmond Butler—not just because they both were Irish born and therefore brother Patlanders. But Donegan couldn’t help but admire the officer this Butler was turning out to be under fire. In this era of a clear class distinction between officers and their enlisted, Edmond Butler appeared to be one of the few who did not rub his company’s nose in it.

  Glad was he to find himself among the men of C Company for the dirty little task that lay before them this stormy morning.

  He moved off with Butler’s soldiers, turning once to look behind him at the disappearing form of that young rider on his way to the artillery knoll. The swirling snow swallowed Lieutenant Bailey in one gust, and he was gone.

  Donegan prayed that Miles would send ammunition in time to save Butler’s men from disaster. That, or C Company might well have to dig down through the snow and find rocks to throw at Crazy Horse’s warriors arrayed shoulder to shoulder up there on the ridge. At least two hundred of them … waiting for Butler’s fifty-some.

  Four-to-one odds along with struggling through three feet of snow into the teeth of a high-plains blizzard. It just didn’t get any more army than this.

  Were they warm? he wondered. Was Samantha staying fed? And most of all—was she not worrying about him?

  He had tried his best with that last letter almost a full month ago … to tell her she had nothing to worry about even though he was not coming home when he had promised. Coaxing her to stay warm and fed, and to be without worry—that again was his prayer as he stumbled over the sagebrush in a ragged forager’s charge with the rest of Butler’s men.

  Now some of the soldiers on Casey’s left were rising, beginning to move out with Butler’s right flank, lunging through the snowdrifts like crippled cows in their bulky, wet winter clothing, some firing off a shot every five yards or so—and each time sternly reminded by their sergeants to conserve their ammunition.

  Ahead of them on the slopes the warriors darted from side to side in that thick atmosphere of pasty snow falling down, flying sideways, in a fury all around at once. Every now and then a bullet struck near Donegan, ricocheting against a rock buried under the crusty snow with a sharp crack. Or a dull thud of a sound when they smacked into the frozen earth. A high-pitched whine when they just sailed on past his ear.

  Damn this face mask, he cursed, tugging on it to be sure he could see through the eyeholes he himself had cut two days before they had marched south away from the Yellowstone.

  Of a sudden those sounds coming from the high ridge changed. Blinking his frosted eyelashes, Seamus squinted, trying to focus on the distance ahead of them. The warriors had seen them coming—that much was for certain. Appeared the enemy was massing just about everything they had right in front of Butler’s outfit now. Warriors streamed along the top of the ridge, the noise growing as the Sioux and Cheyenne yelled and yelped. Their numbers swelled again and again. Multiplied—disappeared in the snowstorm. Then reappeared larger than ever.

  Cavalry were always taught not to let the number of enemy concern them—after all, cavalry had the benefit of horse and saber.

  But this wasn’t the War of Rebellion no more, Seamus brooded. And Butler’s outfit wasn’t mounted on no god-blessed horses. And, besides—the frontier cavalry didn’t use its bleeming sabers anymore, anyhow.

  So he counted and counted those forms on the ridge, and he walked and walked, slipped and fell, and rose to walk again, estimating that there were more than 450 warriors waiting for the soldiers on the top of the ridge. And more were coming.

  Maybe as many as a third of the warriors on that entire battlefield were now clustered in front of Butler’s outnumbered C Company.

  But on and on the sixty-some of them marched, men grunting and grumbling as they slipped and slid on the icy snow. Picking themselves back up and cursing as they lunged back into line. Remaining undaunted in the face of the daunting task: scale the heights, even into the very jaws of the enemy guns.

  Just as it had been when he had watched Captain Guy V. Henry among his men during that deadly retreat at the Rosebud,* Seamus was proud to watch this Edmond Butler urge his weary, stumbling horse through a wide gap that opened in the lines to make a big, conspicuous target of himself out in front of them all—the animal lunging forward until Butler reined up and turned about, there before the oncoming ranks of his men, his pistol clutched in his woolen mitten, his other hand tugging the blanket scrap over his face to the side once more so the men could hear his voice, so his men could see his own resolve.

  “C’mon, you doughboys!” he cried, his arm waving high in the air. “We can do it! C Company can do it!”

  Up and down that scattered line now other voices called out, sergeants and corporals and even privates rallying their fellows with cheers, hoots, and hollers. Working themselves up for the impossible.

  “I ain’t got no more bullets, Cap’n!” a frantic soldier bawled somewhere to Donegan’s right.

  “Give the bloke a shell or two!” a sergeant ordered.

  Another man shouted, “I need some shells too!”

  “Share what you got with your bunkies, goddammit!” an old soldier snapped at them as he pushed aside the wool mask that hung from the front of his muskrat cap.

  Butler loped the horse in front of a trio of soldiers now as they were exchanging cartridges. He shouted down to them, “Make them last till the general sends more—”

  As if it happened in a slow, watery blur—the captain�
�s horse began to spin round even before Donegan heard the smack of lead against solid flesh. A wet and sodden sound. The animal grunted as it came about, its hind legs going out from under it as surely as if it had been hamstrung by a pack of wolves. The sound of the horse’s wheeze accompanied its fall to the ground as Butler flew off into the deep snow, landing in a heap.

  A half-dozen men were there in a matter of moments, some going to their company commander, pulling him out of the snow, others kneeling protectively between him and the heights to block any more enemy bullets, while two went to the horse that struggled to rise.

  Butler came up to his knees there in the snowdrift, shoving the soldiers aside, then jerked to a stop, fixed and motionless as he stared at the animal’s fight to get its legs under it.

  “Is … is there a chance?” the captain asked in a weak voice.

  One of the soldiers kneeling at the animal’s side took his mitten away from the horse’s chest, holding it up, slick and glittering with blood. Huge ash-curl snowflakes instantly clung to the moist, dark blotch. “No, sir, Cap’n. Not a chance, this one.”

  “K-kill … it.” Butler struggled to get the words out. “Kill it now!”

  As the captain lunged to his feet, surged forward out of the snow, the half-dozen soldiers stepped aside to allow Butler through. He stood motionless as the lone infantryman stepped back, brought up his Springfield, then stalled.

  Now Butler’s voice was calm, suddenly devoid of emotion. “Shoot my horse, soldier.”

  Bringing the hammer back, the soldier started to shake as he brought the muzzle down behind the horse’s ear and pulled the trigger all in one motion. Donegan turned away at that instant, pushing on into the snow. He’d seen more than his share of good, strong animals die on the ground with bullets in their brains.

  Behind him he heard Butler call out to his men.

  “Company C—get moving!”

  Everywhere now the voices took up the call again.

  Donegan heard the huffing behind him. He turned to find Captain Butler trudging forward on the double through the deep snow, leading his soldiers on foot, straining to stay out in front, having made a fine target of himself—good officer that he was.

  “Bring up the left flank!” Butler’s voice cried out.

  A moment later the captain ordered, “Don’t string out on the right!”

  As they moved forward, that one man’s voice rang above all the rest. “C’mon, men! C’mon and look ’em in the eye. This goddamned day is ours to win or lose!”

  Right when they reached the sharp side of the slope, the men began to cheer; a few fired back at the hundreds of warriors on the top of the ridge above them, now no more than a hundred yards away. Many of these soldiers could do little more than cheer and march, stumble and follow along, as Butler led them against the enemy. Most had no ammunition left.

  Seamus suddenly wondered if this was the place. If this hillside would be where it would all come to an end, fighting among men who were flat out of bullets, these men who were long on courage.

  He wondered if a good Catholic should say a prayer at the very moment he stared death in the eye, wondered if he should say something silently to Samantha and the boy that God Himself might whisper to her heart the next time Sam prayed.

  On all sides of him now the men were yelling, working up their courage as they flung themselves against the sheer face of the ridge, the Sioux and Cheyenne close enough that he could make out feathers and paint, the birds tied in the hair, the amulets hung around the necks—even in this Montana blizzard.

  Seamus was among brave men once more. He was a warrior, making war on other warriors. Though they might not have many bullets left, Butler’s C Company was not without its courage that cold winter day.

  Marching into the face of enemy guns until they could get close enough to throw rocks, close enough to turn their Springfields around and use them for clubs.

  Suddenly Butler called again, “Fix bayonets!”

  Seamus had none, so he stuffed a hand inside his buffalo coat, down into the side pocket of his mackinaw. That pocket was empty. He did have the skinning knife. If it came down to that—

  Up and down the line the soldiers yanked their bayonets from the black-leather slings, jamming them over the muzzles of their Long Toms. Down, twist, and lock.

  He quickly pulled the mitten from his left hand and stuck it into his other mackinaw pocket—searching. He sighed his prayer; then his fingertips touched them. All he had left was … a handful. Less than a full load for the tube nestled beneath the Winchester’s barrel.

  A voice steady and sure cried out, “Bayonets fixed, Major!”

  “Come on, you doughboys!” Butler shouted against the screeching of the enemy, waving his pistol. “Show ’em the stuff you men are made of!”

  “Permission to take Captain Butler his ammunition, General!” Frank Baldwin said enthusiastically as soon as Lieutenant Hobart Bailey came galloping up the plateau to report to Miles.

  “How in the hell do you expect to—”

  But Baldwin interrupted. “I’ll take a case of it myself, sir.”

  “Those men need more than one case!” the colonel retorted. He started to turn aside, searching for Baird. “I’ll order some men from the supply train to pack up some cases on the backs of our mules—”

  “We don’t have time, General.”

  Miles jerked around. That was the second time in as many seconds that the lieutenant had interrupted him. “We don’t have time, Mr. Baldwin?”

  “Begging pardon, General—I meant to say that Butler’s men don’t have time,” Baldwin tried to explain. “You can order up the mules with more cases to come behind me. But—please allow me to go to their aid immediately.”

  The colonel began to shake his head, saying, “Perhaps it would be far too dangerous—”

  “You’ve always depended upon me to do my duty, no matter how dangerous, General. In all those years you’ve known me.”

  For a long moment Miles considered the man standing before him. Then he pursed his lips in resignation and said, “Permission granted, Lieutenant.”

  Frank wasn’t about to wait on Miles to change his mind.

  With a salute to the colonel Baldwin turned immediately and snatched the reins away from Bailey. “I’ll leave your horse down at the wagon yard, Lieutenant!”

  In one motion the lieutenant was stuffing an arctic boot into the stirrup, rising to the saddle, and wheeling away at a lope. As he came down on the McClellan, and stuffed the right boot in the hooded stirrup, Baldwin gave the animal a kick. It had worked hard all morning, racing back and forth across the open ground through the deep snow. Not only were the men on short rations, these animals were too.

  He would leave the horse among the others, grabbing one already saddled if it was handy. At the same time he would get one of the supply sergeants to pull him a box of cartridges from the tailgate of a wagon, hoist it up to him, and then he would be on his way.

  Swinging out of the saddle at the wagon corral, Baldwin was already yelling for Carter’s soldiers into double time. “Get me the strongest horse you’ve got saddled, pronto!”

  A handful of them stopped and turned on their heels immediately. The high-pitched wailing and keening of the women and children nearby raked a fingernail of dread down his spine. He watched a sergeant racing up.

  Frank asked, “How long they been singing like this?”

  “That?” the sergeant replied with his salute. “Ever since the fight started, sir.”

  As he landed in the snow and looped the reins to Bailey’s horse around a wagon wheel, the lieutenant returned the sergeant’s salute. “Grab me the first case of rifle ammo you can pull from the wagons, Sergeant.”

  “Yessir,” he replied with enthusiasm, starting to turn.

  “Sergeant,” Baldwin said, reaching out to grab the man’s arm, “I need more than that one case.”

  “Lieutenant?”

  “As soon as you hel
p me get that first case loaded up, I want you and your boys to pack up a couple of mules with two cases each and hurry them double time to the foot of the ridge.”

  Quickly glancing at the distant ridge where the action was clearly the hottest, the sergeant echoed, “The ridge, sir?”

  “Follow me with the four cases just as quick as you can get them loaded up and yourself on a mule to ride.”

  “Yessir,” the soldier answered this time without hesitation.

  “Now, get me that case I’ll be carrying.”

  In a matter of moments two soldiers reappeared with what appeared to be a strong piebald, saddled and ready to ride. Frank walked around the animal one time, flipped up the stirrup fender, and tugged on the cinch. He lifted a front hoof, then a rear hoof, and by that time the sergeant was leading another pair of soldiers back to the scene. They had between them a heavy wooden crate of Springfield ammunition, .45/70 caliber.

  “All right, soldiers,” Frank said as he took up the horse’s reins and stuffed the bulky arctic boot into the stirrup, rising eagerly to the saddle, “pass that box up here to me.”

  The sergeant flinched, glancing at the two men who carried the crate. “Pass … pass it up to you, Lieutenant?”

  Baldwin gestured impatiently for them to hand it over. “Here, c’mon. I’ve got to ride, and now.”

  “Sir, couldn’t you wait and I’ll get a pack animal for you to lead—”

  “Give me the goddamned box of ammo, Sergeant!”

  “Yes, sir!” the man replied, stepping aside and waving the pair forward.

  The two soldiers clumsily manhandled the heavy weight of it up to the lieutenant, helping the officer center it on the front of the hornless McClellan saddle. Frank brought his legs up, feet still stuffed in the stirrups, so that his thighs could help balance the crate as much as a man could with one arm.

  He only nodded, unable to salute the soldiers. “You’ve done well, men. Now, get those four cases coming behind, me just as fast as you can! Lives depend upon it! Hep, hep-a!”

  He got the reluctant horse started away, sideways at first, then cantering out of the wagon corral, rolling into an uneasy lope onto the open bottom-ground, heading due south along the gently rising slope toward the far left of the battlefield.