Custer dropped the rag into the basin and turned to face the captain. His features were distorted into a mask of fury, reminding Benteen of an enraged mountain lion. His voice was high pitched, with a Midwest accent. He stammered as he spoke.
“This borderline belligerence will be addressed, Captain, but now is not the time or the place to settle old scores.” The commanding officer advanced on his subordinate, who looked down involuntarily at the general’s penis. It was shrunken in the chill night air and dripped a foul smelling mucous discharge of gonorrhea. It oozed and suspended a strand of the bacteria laden exudate fully to the bullet scar on the general’s left thigh before detaching itself and falling to the earth.
Chapter Two ~ The Assault on Major Reno
Outside, the evening had drawn into chilled night, and the stars flickered wickedly as the lantern sputtered within the tent, casting uncertain shadows within its walls. The canvas walls of the tent would billow from time to time with a gust of breeze. The breeze carried with it the howling of wolves and coyotes, from near and far. These sounds of the night seemed to fade once Custer resumed oratory as he completed his physical hygiene.
“The Gatling guns would have been cumbersome and dead weight, serving only to slow us down. I have seen their demonstrations and can avow that the realization of a few spins of the barrels would see them most fouled, the bores being so choked with spent powder residue as to render them useless. As to want of a further battalion of cavalry, that is completely unneeded–the 7th needs not the help of sister commands; we can handle this matter of the Sioux and Cheyenne forthwith. I appeal to you to take pride in your regiment; the best the Army has yet fielded.” stated Custer, in a matter of fact way, to his stunned audience. Done with his bath, the former general momentarily eschewed shirt and britches, but later he would sleep attired; in the event of an attack, so that he would not be hampered with nudity. Custer believed every word he said, not caring whether his subordinates thought so or not.
The yellow haired man paused, absent mindedly to pull back his curled locks, remembering in a flash of a moment that he had recently cut his hair short. He was for the day, a tall man, two inches short of standing six feet, lean and muscular. Cobalt blue eyes which often held an accusing gaze lurked menacingly in the handsome face. His overlong well-formed nose extended above a thick, drooping blond moustache. His blond hair–renowned for falling to his shoulders in lustrous curls, was shorn short for purposes of hygiene and practicality. His hairline receded savagely at the temples, thrusting the tongue of a pronounced widow’s peak through the center.
Captain Benteen regarded Lieutenant Colonel Custer with nauseating repugnance, but with a slap of his riding crop on the side of his boot and a nod of his head acquiesced to Custer’s authority. Uneasy and surprised by the unusual monologue and yet another close brush with disaster, he withheld his speculations from Reno as they walked from the candle lit tent into the darkness.
“That whole episode was off canter,” remarked Reno. “I’ve not seen him to speak in such manner afore. The whole parlance was odd, indeed. So out of character with the man; the excessive instructions, explanations, the pleading–for such an egotist–damned odd!”
Under hushed breath, Benteen warned Reno lower his voice, lest the two brothers in the tent overhear. Captain Frederick Benteen was a man of average build and thick, graying hair, atop a high forehead and a cherubic, smooth shaven face.
“Shhhh! Shut your mouth you damned milk-sop, or I’ll shut it for you, permanently!” Benteen hissed.
“You had best stop addressing me in such a manner, Captain!” retorted the surprised Reno, whereupon Benteen rammed the haft of his riding crop forcefully into the gut of Reno, causing him to double over, then struck him across the back of the head, knocking him down.
“Your damned West Point ring won’t get you any points out here, Major!” Benteen’s effort to maintain his whisper had failed, and Thomas Custer opened the flap of the tent, illuminating the scene of the captain assisting the major up.
“The Major just had a misstep is all, that’s all there is to it, Tom!” assured Captain Benteen confidently.
For a second Thomas Custer thought he caught a beam of humor in the leprechaun face of Benteen, then he turned back to speak with his elder sibling. As he let go of the tent flap, darkness engulfed the Montana Territory once more.
Certainly not a coward, yet always relegated into the shadow of his brother, Captain Thomas Custer did not share in the same celebrity status. But neither was he an unknown in the profession of arms, nor was his potential lost on the political press. He had joined the Union Army at 16 years of age, having two times won the Medal of Honor-the first soldier to receive the medal twice. Like his brother, he had always exhibited a death wish; days before the War ended he’d been shot at point blank range in the face; the bullet had torn through the soft tissue of the mouth and exited at a point just below the right ear. Although quiet and withdrawn, resisting authority from other superior ranking officers, Thomas maintained a lapdog devotion to his brother that was often mistaken for servitude.
Thomas saw his brother pouring the filthy water of the wash basin onto the bare ground at the edge of the tent flap. He was troubled that all of the immediate members of the male family were present in this undertaking as he ran his hand through his dark, unwashed hair. The wavering shadows within the tent did little to assuage his concerns.
“What about Boston? I don’t feel good about this one, Audie. Boston shouldn’t be here; he’s not cut out for this. I can’t stop worrying about him.” said Thomas, whose shadow was exaggerated against the canvas wall as the lantern bathed his chiseled features in soft yellow light.
Familial ties were not limited to a single member of the family, either. The 7th was rife with nepotism; the youngest brother served as quartermaster; “go-fer” would be a better way to put it. Boston Custer’s health prevented him from passing the Army physical and getting in. So the youngest brother performed myriad errands and chores, including guide, forager, packer, and scout. Boston shared the good looks of both his older brothers, and had a fresh, youthful appearance even at 28 years of age. This was at a time when a man could have appeared to be 50 at such an age.
“He’ll be fine, Tom. Got him doing errands and important chores. The men obey him as they would an officer. I’ll make sure he’s in the rear with the gear before the shit hits the pan. I’ve got Harry in charge of herding the cattle, so he’ll be out of the fracas as well. Things are under control as well as they can be, nothing’s going to happen to this family. The Indian will always run when confronted by cavalry.” reassured George Armstrong Custer, or “Audie” as those closest to him often referred to him.
Harry Armstrong Reed was a nephew of the three Custer brothers; he was the baby of the bunch, being only eighteen years old. His primary function was to herd the cattle that fed the regiment.
There was the sound of someone bumping into things in the dark outside the tent. Curse words caused Thomas to turn his head toward the entrance as Jimmy Calhoun opened the flap and entered. The shadow cast by Thomas’ head was exaggerated on the tent wall as Calhoun entered the canvas structure. The sputtering of the lantern was lessened as the general turned the small brass knob lengthening the wick. The light increased noticeably. James “Jimmy” Calhoun was the brother in law married to the Custers’ sister, Margaret. He was the commanding officer of Company L.
“Sorry for being late, I’ve got men that are down in the saddle with bad backs.” said Calhoun, his surprise at seeing his brother in law naked was hidden in the gloomy light.
The truth was, Company L was ravaged with syphilis, and the hard ride had exacerbated the massive infection which had manifested itself in the urinary tracts leading through the bladder and into the kidneys.
“No mind. You’ll ride lead in the morning, give your men and horses a break from the dust. How many do you figure are going to fall out?” asked Custer, whose minor movements
were exaggerated on the wall of the tent, and seemed to shrink and grow with the ebb and gust of the prairie wind.
Custer was still naked, having finished his wash basin bath. He began putting his clothes back on. As he hiked up his trousers, his penis was jerked upward and a long strand of gonorrheal discharge flew from it, hitting the canvas wall of the tent. He would sleep in the clothing so that he could respond in a moment’s notice if Indians attacked during the night, although he knew that was unlikely, it had happened before.
“Some two dozen would have already, had I not put the fear of God into them. I’ve not seen so many men poxed all at the same time before. It seems to be confined to my company, I’ve warned them about those Cree whores.” answered Calhoun.
Calhoun was praised and kidded for his Adonis good looks. He married well, and came from a strong business family. He had never been of an amorous disposition, despite his handsome face and masculine body. The fact that he had married at all was based purely on practicality and what he considered a once in a lifetime opportunity to rise to spectacular heights with Custer’s political future. The fact that his wife hated being touched and found the distinguishing part of male anatomy repulsive did not bother Jimmy. He had never had an erection at the sight of a woman and he felt that he had the perfect marriage. Perfect for himself and for Margaret. He thought about how fortunate he was that George had arranged the marriage between the two-two people with so much in common.
He was jolted back to the present when he heard Bloody Knife speak haltingly with Custer.
“More injun than Custer have bullet.”
Custer began furiously speaking to his favorite scout and probably best friend in sign language.
Bloody Knife answered with a flurry of hand motions, both of them were gesticulating so wildly that Calhoun knew that there was a test of wills here, so powerful that he was mesmerized by the spectacle. Sweat beaded Bloody Knife’s visage as he grimaced and contorted his face in tandem with the hand movements. Calhoun’s respect for his brother in law increased at the sight of this duel of wills. He thanked his lucky stars that he was a member of the Custer family, lock, stock and barrel.
Chapter Three ~ Custer Woos the Press
During the early fall of 1875, George Armstrong Custer and his beautiful wife Elizabeth, were touring New York City, as the General was on an extended leave. Having addressed both the Century Society and the New York Historical Society, he agreed to give a series of lectures and caught the attention of very important men of political note–including James Gordon Bennet. Bennet was the son of a Scottish immigrant who made good on his immigration and founded the New York Herald. Bennet Sr. passed on his legacy to Bennet Jr. who was to urge Custer to run in the Presidential election coming late in 1876, and seconded by his cohort of influential friends, Custer warmed to the idea. Custer was on the fence about which party he would seek election under. Grant had split the Republican Party and his Reconstruction policies were in shambles. The charismatic Custer had always had sympathies with the South, even though he had been an instrument in their defeat.
Bennet, having met with Custer and speaking in confidence with him was unnerved by the steely intensity of Custer’s probing blue eyes. Calculating, penetrating fire burned in those eyes as they narrowed. The celebrity soldier chuckled.
“There is nary a soul which could defeat me in the election of such an esteemed office.” laughed George Armstrong Custer, whose tone was half serious, half joking. The laugh reminded Bennet of the deep purr of a mountain lion.
Custer had a rapid way of talking in a high pitched voice which was combined with a ridiculous farcical expression when he tried to inspire humor.
That will have to change the newspaper tycoon thought to himself. Custer seemed to read the mogul’s mind and the stupid expression vanished, the tone of the voice sharpened and Custer neared uncomfortably close to the most powerful figure the press had ever known.
“Nary a soul, wouldn’t you say?” reiterated the General, “milk-sops, effeminate dandies that call themselves men. Impersonators who made their way in life based on their father’s connections.” barbed Custer directly at Bennet, who sidestepped the insult. A career newspaper man, Bennet knew how to take a hit and not take things too personally. His was a world of jabs and counter jabs.
Bennet, though no coward, took a backward step before the sheer magnetic force of will that flowed in an interrogating scrutiny from Custer’s eyes. The eyes made minor movements from left to right as they seemed to break through into the magnate’s mind. James Gordon Bennet could feel the raw, naked ambition behind the azul eyes. The eyes of a man made mad by ambition, he thought.
Bennet was wearing a dark colored waist coat with a contrasting collar. A gold watch chain dangled conspicuously from one of the pockets. He wore a wide ascot tie and black, highly polished square toed shoes.
“It’s not a done deal, you know. There’s Sherman, Sheridan, Crook and a plethora of others.” but Bennet knew Custer was his man and that he was going to pin his fortune on this rising star.
“They don’t have it.” countered Custer, “I started out as the son of a blacksmith, I earned my rank-nothing was ever given to me. I’ve risked my life a thousand times on the battlefield and have a thousand scars to show for it.”
“Word has it that Grant’s out to get you, General. Seems you embarrassed him rather recently.” Bennet was walking on thin ice, but knew he had to do it if he were to gain the man’s fear, if not respect.
“President Grant pulls a lot of strings, and I have to be selective in how I present certain facts.” added the mogul.
Custer was on guard, he knew an important challenge was being issued here. Suddenly an attractive hostess offered the two men libations. Bennet accepted one of the proffered drinks, and he needed it; he was running the greatest risk of his life right now.
“This is a fine drink, General. Sip it sparingly, and the port will slowly permeate upward through the gin and will gently awaken the genever.” James Bennet felt his stomach turn to ice as he felt the general’s eyes searching him out. Custer was a teetotaler-did not drink, did not smoke.
“Be at ease, James, my man!” Custer was smiling and came off less wooden now, having seen the realization on the face of the press icon of his error in words.
“Of course Sir, my apologies, I had heard that you did not partake but it had slipped my mind during the course of our conversation.” Bennett responded.
Bennet sipped and felt his blood warm. Possibly, he thought, an opiate had been added to the beverage. The opiated alcohol seemed to make the room float as the mogul found himself studying the man before him. The General or Colonel or whatever rank he was, thought Bennet, dominated the scene. Women and men alike sought to introduce themselves and heap praise upon him for his legendary exploits. The natural magnetism of his personality was obvious to everyone present. He cut a fine figure in his Union double breasted frock coat. The coat was eye catching; dark navy blue with cavalry collar bars and two sets of nine brass buttons that ran down both sides of the chest. Although wearing colonel epaulets on the shoulders, he wore the boldly colored golden sash of a general about his waist. His likewise golden hair cascaded to his shoulders in ringlets.
Not out of character, Bennet pressed the general with a personal question. “But you have not always abstained, is that not so?”
Custer did not seem to hear the question, although Bennet knew that he had.
“None of them ever led from the front, none of them ever took a bullet or played the odds like I do. Listen, Bennet…” Custer placed his arm over the shoulder of the newspaper magnate as they meandered through the throng of revelers.
“Do you know what I want to do most when I am President? Well, I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”
Bennet held his shock in abeyance at the General’s statement of bold intention, to bring the Army of the Potomac back up to full strength, and resurrect the armies of the Confederacy.r />
“Then,” Custer continued as Bennet listened in mute astonishment, “I will invade Mexico and finish the job that we abandoned half completed in 1848.”
The earlier question concerning the partaking of libations had indeed not been missed by the general. Indeed he had been a heavy drinker, and heavy drinking had led to heavy carousing. And much of that heavy carousing occurred as a West Point Cadet, when he was always at or near the bottom of his class. Just a hair’s breadth from dismissal. Heavy drinking and carousing that often led to the brothel where his favorite paramour waited for him.
She was a stunning raven haired beauty from one of the Eastern tribes. A Mohawk, whose charms the drunken cadet could not resist. And those charms would linger, and linger, in the form of a painful and disgusting venereal disease known as the “clap.” Most of the cadets suffered from it and often overcame it in time through the body’s ability to combat the invasive bacteria. They would laughingly slap or “clap” a new recipient of the disease on his back as a form of comradery and male bonding.
Bennet accepted another drink from a proffered tray of shot glasses.
“Well!” Bennet expostulated. “That’s the best way I can think of to reunite the United States! To get rid of this bitter divisiveness that lingers even ten years after the War.”
Custer warmed to the magnate’s frank collusion with his ambition.
“Then, after what I see as a two year campaign in Mexico, we can turn our eyes toward Canada, and unite the whole continent under the Stars and Stripes.” added Custer.
Metal Storm: Weird Custer A Novel Page 2