This order was to save Martini’s life; Martini would be the only survivor of Custer’s company. He had originally been assigned to Company H, but on the morning of the 25th had been reassigned temporarily to Custer’s company as the bugler and orderly.
“I tell them the Indian flees before you, General!” shouted Martini.
Now he spurred his horse, aware of the importance of his mission, and worried that he might not find Benteen. He worried also that he might encounter Indians on the trail back, lots of them.
Once more, the General took in the clearness of the Montana air, the sight of cottonwoods and junipers that lined the Little Bighorn River, and the Douglas firs that festooned the distant mountainsides, the tops of which were, in 1876, ensconced with snow. The river, he could see, cut ravines one hundred feet deep in some places. The stone walls of the ravines were deeply fractured in places. Often small bushes grew from the cracks, cracks that contained more than a plant clinging tenaciously to the sheer rock wall; often rattle snakes sought refuge in those deeply fissured vaults. The treacherous ravines were orange in color and heavily outcropped with large boulders which balanced precariously where the angle relented enough to allow their presence. These stood out clearly through the Italian binoculars. Again he experienced a quick surge of desire to execute the flanking move, catching the red men unawares as they swarmed the furiously firing element of Major Reno.
Custer saw Reno’s skirmisher’s line being overwhelmed and studied the determined attackers with unease as Reno’s thin line disintegrated and ran for the tree line. The ferocity of the Indian attack on Reno surprised the Boy General, and he reacted as he would have reacted in another time, in another place, namely Virginia.
The Yellow Hair had attacked Confederate positions using this same maneuver more times than he could remember, catching them unprepared throughout the dense forests and rolling hills of Virginia. He was positive the entire fighting force of the gargantuan encampment was attacking Reno and he would hit the village unchallenged.
“Come on! We have to move, there’s no time to waste!” shouted General Custer.
Custer waved his hat at Major Reno and disappeared as he led his pitifully inadequate force in a tactically correct classical flanking movement. The former general who would have been President of the United States had the advantage of total surprise on his side, and absolutely nothing else.
Reno’s soldiers coalesced in the tree line, prying out the swollen copper casings of their spent shells from the Springfield carbines. The extractors simply ripped through the soft, superheated copper casings.
Since the Civil War the Army saw breech loading weapons as the path into the 20th century. Firing a powerful buffalo dropping round and using fewer parts than a repeating rifle, it did well in controlled tests competing against other rifles. In 1872 the Army tested the Springfield against several domestic and foreign breech loading designs. A total of 99 rifles were inspected and tested, including Sharps, Peabody, Whitney, Spencer, Remington and Winchester.
The competition was held at the Springfield Armory, and to no one’s surprise, Springfield won. Earlier versions of the Springfield rifles and carbines had utilized conversions of muzzleloaders with a trap door breech loading system designed by Erskine S. Allen, Master Armorer of the Springfield Armory. The trapdoor concept had been incorporated on 25,000 Springfield Model 1863s and refinements continued to be tweaked in, until the penultimate achievement was realized in the Allen trapdoor system; the Springfield Model 1873 was the fifth variation of the design.
The 7th Cavalry was issued the carbine version, sporting a 22 inch barrel and firing a black powder .45-55 caliber round. The massive 405 grain bullet was propelled at 1,100 feet per second, and its copper cartridge case, containing 55 grains of black powder, would swell and become stuck in the carbine’s chamber. Since the carbine had no ramrod to remove the casing, soldiers always carried either a short bladed knife or other tool for shell extraction. It was the disaster that was unfolding at the Little Bighorn that later led to the Army’s adoption of brass cartridges.
Certain wounded that had not been left behind were detailed to the task of removing stuck shells. Every able bodied man was firing from behind the concealment of buffalo berry brush, wild rose bushes and scrubby wild plum trees, others took cover behind the more substantial cottonwood trees, but these were landmarks for the Cheyenne and Sioux marksmen. The first thing Reno did when he got to the tree line was reload his Colt. Seeing that most of the horses were at the ready, he had to think quickly.
The Major knew that the big Colts were truly a godsend in that these belonged to the initial shipment in Colt’s first contract with the Army. The fact that they happened to go to the 7th had to be Divine Providence, figured Reno, as he spun the weapon gunslinger style in his right hand, then stopped the motion in order to open the loading gate again and manually turn the cylinder, assuring himself that each cylinder bore had a .45 Long Colt in it.
The ejector housing was the first style with barrel boss and a round ejector rod head. The hammer was of the cavalry pattern and had elongated cross hatching on the face of the spur to aid in thumb cocking. The one piece black walnut stock had an oil finish. Each round nosed, soft lead bullet weighed 255 grains and was propelled by 40 grains of black powder. Unlike the continually jamming Springfield Carbine, the Colt .45’s ejector rod reliably and efficiently removed the spent cartridge shells.
Blackened with soot, three to four thousand warriors low crawled forward on their bellies as well defined, deeply etched muscles rippled on their backs. Several thousand more maintained a suppressive fire. They were shooting Winchesters while mounted from horses. Others would kneel and then stand suddenly, firing, and then crouch back down.
“Officers up! Scouts up! Dammit get over here! Give me a sitrep!” Reno’s voice was hoarse as he croaked the command.
Major Reno was at the base of a large box elder tree which was pock marked with bullet holes, the tail ends of many bullets plainly visible beneath the bark as more bullets splatted into it.
“Gimme a sitrrrrrrep!” growled Major Reno, looking from his cadre to his horses.
Lieutenants Varnum and Hodgson, along with several scouts, including Bloody Knife were in attendance. Suddenly, without warning, dozens of massively built Indians wearing war shirts with pockets bulging with ammunition penetrated the position from behind, armed with Henrys and Winchesters, shooting madly, point shooting without taking aim.
It was at this point that the thousands of blackened aboriginals leaped up and attacked at a full run into the anemic carbine fire of the Springfields. Reno’s attention was drawn immediately to the threat at hand and without hesitation he began shooting his Colt Model 1873 revolver, scoring hits on six of the maddened brutes-they went down immediately, clutching their Winchesters and Henrys even as life ebbed from the piceous eyes. The scouts wrested the repeating rifles from the death grips of the monstrously strong hands.
Reno jerked Bloody Knife around, there was panic in his eyes, and spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth, reminding the superstitious Bloody Knife of a rabid man. Many such men he had seen, bitten by wild dogs, first with an aversion to water and later insanity would set in. Bloody Knife shook the thought from his mind as he fought down the fear that Reno inspired in him.
“Gimme a sitrep! What the hell! Where is Custer? He said he was bringing up the rear!” His voice betrayed the horror of the predicament as he began reloading the big service revolver. The entire wood copse had erupted into a maelstrom of thundering gunfire as the six shooting Colts played a symphony of havoc at point blank range on the infiltrating Sioux and Cheyenne.
Reno looked past Bloody Knife and saw a big Brule warrior aiming a Henry at him. Quickly, without thinking he sidestepped directly in front of Bloody Knife, placing Custer’s favorite scout between himself and the enraged Brule. Bloody Knife’s head exploded directly onto the face of Major Reno, who reacted reflexively, knocking down the bison like Indian with
a chest shot from his Colt. Sheer panic had set in and after grabbing Bloody Knife’s Colt, he reloaded. Losing his nerve, Reno blasted four more braves off their feet with his Colt while running at a crouch to the horses.
“Men! Mount up! We’re getting out of here!” Shouting excitedly, Reno swung onto his horse which leaped from the tree line before he had a chance to spur it.
The apparition of the cavalry major, whose face and hair was matted in blood and brain tissue, followed by any elements of his command that could mount a horse, surprised and unnerved the superstitious horde. The attacking mobs temporarily sought to dodge the horrific apparition followed by his minions. Other soldiers ran, holding to the saddles of the panicked horses as they tried to mount bunkie. This was a maneuver Custer had insisted his men practice; the rider would help the grounded cavalryman swing up and mount the horse. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.
Many of the soldiers did not hear the order and they were horrified as word was passed they had been abandoned. Retreating in small groups, stopping to fire their Colts at the hundreds of pursuing braves and then run for their lives again. They made for the Little Bighorn River, sometimes hiding in blackberry thickets as ground sniffing Hunkpapa scented their trail, nose to ground, on all fours. Ruled by passion, the main body of thousands of horse mounted braves focused their attentions on the hundred or so of Reno’s command. The faces of the warriors were masked in multicolored hues of war paints. War paints which could not hide the contorted, grimacing visages. Visages which conveyed the utmost antipathy toward the surviving elements of Reno's command who were fleeing to the highest hill on the opposite side of the river.
Chapter Thirteen ~ Doorman Pleads for Help
The ground shook with the vibrations of hundreds of war drums; the rumbling bombination was growing in crescendo. Through foggy banks of smoke appeared the silhouettes of women and children, some of whom fell to the revolver fire of the wounded soldiers who lay forgotten on the sweltering, smoke choked field. But when one silhouetted specter fell, a dozen more followed eerily from behind, to take its place. The thirty wounded soldiers left out in the open were roughly situated along the initial skirmishers line that Reno had established, and then abandoned when his position was being overwhelmed.
The teams were led by children armed with bow and arrows, and to the mix of thousands of children were hundreds of squaws, dressed in soft, loose fitting deerskins and armed with muzzle loading flintlocks or percussion cap rifles and muskets. The children would search for a soldier hiding in the grass, as a baby deer would hide, remaining perfectly still and hoping that silence will mislead its hunters. But with so many children milling about in the drifting smoke, there was no chance of being overlooked by the Indian youth, eager and excited as a white child on an Easter Egg Hunt.
Shrieks of glee and excitement would betray a wounded cavalryman, who more often than not responded with wildly pointed revolver fire at the figures darting and ducking in and out of the smoke from the grass fire. Dozens of children would launch arrows into the approximate area of grass from which the soldier’s revolver fire issued. If some of the arrows found their mark, an Indian woman, most likely a Sioux, would be at the ready with a muzzle loader to shoot the wounded quarry if he bolted from cover. The Sioux women outnumbered the Cheyenne women by perhaps eight to one, as the mammoth Indian village was mainly a conglomeration of Sioux tribes; Brule, Hunkpapa, Minneconjou, Sans Arc, and Sihasapa.
The tribes had come together at the Little Bighorn on account of Sitting Bull's ability to prophecy. The tribes, they came in hundreds of clans connected along kinship lines. They came out of the mountains, the hills, grim faced stoic men who didn't smile. They came from the flat lands and prairies, thousands upon thousands. They came to hear the prophecies of a Holy Man who had risen from amongst the Lakota Sioux. A Holy Man whose name was spoken in awe, Sitting Bull.
Slashing and ripping at his arms in demonic fury, Sitting Bull called upon Wakan Tanka - the Great Spirit. As the Sun Dance drew on into an expanse of days, Wakan Tanka came to the Holy Man in a vision, and showed him the things to come.
"Low Dog!" Gall!! Crazy Horse!" Thundered the venerable Holy Man as he exploded from the human skinned tepee, "I have been spoken to! Bring to me your chieftains! Bring to me your fighting men and young boys who would be warriors! Bring them here!”
Although Sitting Bull had not eaten, drank or slept in seven days, he appeared as a man possessed. Hundreds, then thousands of warriors, followed by youths and women converged on the Lakota Holy Man.
"Wakan Tanka has spoken to me this day! The Great Spirit has given me sight!" roared Sitting Bull, his voice seemed to catch on the thin, hot breeze and be magnified. His high toned nasal inflections amplified and resonated as he emphasized the key point of his encounter. "I saw soldiers falling from the sky! Thousands of them, as though grasshoppers! We crushed them beneath our heel!"
Once a wounded soldier had been feathered with arrows, and brought down for good with a trade musket, he was disarmed and stripped of his boots and clothing. Then he would be dismembered-alive if possible.
Not everyone abandoned on the field were soldiers. Isaiah Dorman’s life wasn’t flashing before his eyes just yet. He had been overtaken on his wounded horse by a mix of Sioux and Cheyenne. He had twisted his torso and pointed his rifle while still on his mount; he unseated one of his antagonists with a rifle shot before his horse went down on top of him. His pursuers rode on past as others came up from behind.
Soldiers rode by him too, as he fired his Winchester carefully, aiming from the knee. Each shot brought down a painted, muscular figure. Dorman would stop firing and try to wave down a cavalryman so he could swing onto the horse and ride bunkie. Not concerned with saving the life of a Negro, the soldiers pushed his hands away when he’d grab for their saddle.
“Hey!” he shouted, “Gimme a hand here!” pleaded Dorman as he ran alongside a big sorrel mare mounted by a weasel faced, hatless soldier.
Dorman’s lips were pulled back, exposing his white teeth. His mouth was open as he panted for breath, running alongside the big sorrel.
“Gimme a hand here! Lemme ride bunkie!” hollered the interpreter as he sprinted to keep up with the horse.
Custer had formally requested Dorman in writing as an interpreter back in May, because of his fluency in Sioux, Cheyenne and Arikawa (Cree). Dorman had not started out with the Custer column but had linked up with them at the Rosebud with a message. He had not been there long before he had spoken with Bloody Knife and thought of a reason to depart back to the fort, knowing the odds that were against the expedition.
“Hey! I said gimme a hand here!” shouted Dorman as he dropped back to the rear of the horse and grabbed it by the tail.
The soldier spurred the horse, causing it to lurch forward and free of Dorman’s grasp. The sudden acceleration of the animal caused Dorman to fall forward face first into the scorched ground. Other fleeing soldiers road past him. He was drenched in sweat; his ears were ringing from gunfire. His nostrils flared as he breathed through his nose and mouth.
"Hold the fuck up! Don't go off and fucking leave me!"
When Custer caught on to Dorman’s intentions, he had insisted he stay. Dorman had married into the Lakota tribe and was a personal friend of Sitting Bull, but none of this was on his mind when he took a round in the chest. The bullet smashed squarely into his sternum deflecting to the left, and bruising a lung. It was at this point that Isaiah thought for a moment of the Louisiana plantation he had been born into slavery on, and how fate had brought him here. Those thoughts were gone along with his rifle that was stripped from his hand and his revolver that was torn from his holster as braves robbed him of his possessions. Dorman struggled to regain the wind that had been knocked from him but could not.
He propped himself on one elbow and saw the Indian women coming, ten or eleven of them. The women circled him, striking him with stone hammers as he tried to shield himself. Rendered helpl
ess with broken arms flailing obscenely about, the women stripped him and began slashing his thighs with skinning knives. His coffee cup was taken from his saddle bag, filled with his own blood, and hurled into his face.
Chapter Fourteen ~ Gerard and Jackson Run for Their Lives!
Fred Gerard and Billy Jackson hid in a blackberry bramble filled depression, having partially covered themselves with leaves and fallen branches. The hound like teams of Hunkpapa continued to sniff the ground, stopping to rise up on both knees and scent the smoke filled air, which mingled with the rank, decaying litter of the ground. The sweet smell of the burning grass combined with the harsher odors of burning trees as the fire encroached into the thick tree line and established itself.
Confused by the compounding of scents, the man hounds continued on, uncertainly. Behind them followed a column of lithe, muscular warriors, looking from side to side, each carried a Winchester or Henry in one hand, their other hand moving the branches of trees and undergrowth aside as they prowled the riverside hunting for fugitives.
Suddenly, one of the men stopped, and looked directly at the bramble in which Gerard and Jackson lay hidden. He was a morbidly painted, tattooed, and heavily muscled man of average height. He was shirtless, and wore a bandolier of bullets for the Winchester he gripped in his right hand. Around his bull neck depended a necklace of bear teeth. Gerard could make out the swell of the warrior’s biceps under the armlets of beaten copper. A cavalryman's belt sustained a pair of buckskin breeches on the lean loins of the warrior. Into the belt was thrust a large hunting knife. Although clearly Brule, he had Caucasian facial features. The head was shaven but for a large scalp lock in the center. He continued to stare for a moment, and then moved on. Gerard cursed himself for averting his vision too late; it was widely held that a person could sense being stared at.
Fredrick Frances Gerard was Custer’s civilian interpreter for the Arikawa (Cree) scouts. Having married the sister of Whistling Bear, he spoke the language fluently, and was capable in dialects of Sioux, Cheyenne, and to a lesser extent, Arapaho. He surveyed with uneasy scrutiny the menacing gloom of the darkening haunts, in which the trees sometimes assumed the figures of men. A hazy gray mist of fog mixed with smoke made vague the misshapen, malformed silhouettes of the trees. The riperine forest was transforming itself into a menagerie of unimaginable horrors with the setting of the sun.
Metal Storm: Weird Custer A Novel Page 7