by Tatjana Soli
After Washita an equal number in the press had disparaged as had praised him. He was long overdue a touch of the heroic, this time as peacemaker. The release of the captives would achieve that. He had his own hostage, one that was both held and not held. As she gave in willingly each night, she conquered him. He did not want to kill these people, but he could not stop history taking care of that, regardless of how he willed it.
That night, he decided to pen an article for a magazine clamoring for his writing about the frontier. It would not be what they expected.
The Indian warrior bids adieu—often a final one—to the dear ones of his tribe, and with his comrades-in-arms sets out, no matter how inclement the season, to seek what? Food, of course. Then the one hundred uses of the buffalo, from shelter and clothing, to household utensils, tools, weapons, decorative finery. They go, importantly, to make war on other tribes with the goal of increasing their own power and wealth, whether through territory, horses and women, or other stolen goods. What else do they seek? Because there never comes a prolonged time of peace for the Indian any more than for the white race. As is common knowledge, it is the young bucks who urge this behavior. So what is it that they seek? They, like the young of all peoples, look to distinguish themselves for their bravery, for their horsemanship, for their ability as warriors, for counting coup on their enemy, for attaining glory and the possibility of becoming chieftain. It is almost the same, in fact it is precisely the same, as the life of our own soldier.
He looked at the page he had written for a long time. His thoughts recorded were always cathartic. This was a reverse on an earlier essay, but after rereading it, he crumpled the page into a ball and threw it into the fire. It was one thing to lose one’s head, another to put it in the noose. There was a long line of officers who had taken up the Indian side and found themselves fast out of a job.
* * *
FOR DAYS THE HOSTAGE SITUATION hung unmoving like a rain cloud overhead. When the four chiefs still being held were informed that they must disarm themselves while in custody, more enmity arose, and only with great difficulty was violence avoided.
One coolheaded chieftain calmly examined arrow after arrow, casting his eye along each shaft, separating the best out as if for a future confrontation. Custer admired the impossibility of admitting defeat. He recognized it in himself. Dying did not so much matter, the real disgrace was to be a coward.
At last on threat of force, arms were given over. As a concession, one chieftain was allowed to depart for the village as bearer of the army’s demands. Upon leaving, this man was returned his weapons, as well as given gifts of coffee and sugar to be distributed as a sign of goodwill. Custer did not expect to see hide nor hair of the chief again, nor was he disappointed.
At nightfall one evening, a group of warriors called out from the darkness to check on the welfare of the remaining chiefs. They did not trust assurances that they could enter camp on safe passage, so Monahsetah volunteered to go out past the perimeter and escort them in. At the last minute, though, she claimed to be frightened at the prospect of being shot by the guards on her return, identified as the enemy, which in point of fact she was. Custer wondered that she did not worry about being killed as a traitor by her own people but admitted he did not understand the culture enough. He would accompany her. Surely, he joked, the guards wouldn’t shoot their own leader?
Inside camp, the night beyond was forbidding, but looking backward into camp—the lit fires, the glowing tents, the soldiers and weapons—he was surprised how it appeared equally threatening.
They walked together out into the forest, the darkness now opening up as their eyes adjusted, the privacy allowing him to cup a breast, push her against a tree trunk, lift her shift. He carried a revolver and saber, at her insistence adding quiver and bow. His technique under her tutelage had much improved, but he did not understand the need to bring these out in the night. In the starlight her face was an unknown constellation, only the dark, smoky taste of her familiar. She managed the top buttons of his shirt, and later he found a half moon of bloody teeth marks above his right breast.
She whispered into his ear to pull an arrow from the quiver and string it in the bow. When he did he immediately saw it was not the kind they usually practiced with but a stiffer one, painted a dark color. She stood in the darkness, her face lupine in concentration, and then pointed toward the north, directing his aim at the low stars on the horizon just above the trees.
—What is this?
—Medicine.
She ran her hand over his wrist, indicating pleasure at his increasing strength in holding the arrow steady. The arrow hissed through the air and was gone.
—I’ll retrieve it for you, she said.
He grabbed her wrist hard and yanked her back.
—No!
A light fog had appeared through the trees, and as he held her he heard the hooting of an owl. A traditional Indian signal.
—Is this a trap?
She shook her head, dismissive, and faced in the opposite direction.
—Shoot another there.
He blinked in the fog, seeing the shadow of a cliff in the distance and aiming above it. His wrist, fatigued, shook now as he pulled the heavy arrow back, and she was next to him, stroking his back, her breath warm and damp on his neck as she urged him to release the arrow. For a brief moment he was afraid of her, but he pushed the thought away. The arrow flew off in the darkness. The fog had thickened, damp against his face as her breath, and again her voice was in his ear that she would go to retrieve the second arrow.
—Do you take me for a fool?
He pulled her to him, covered her mouth with his own. He felt light-headed and had lost his sense of direction. His body was on fire, his insides burning and molten. He worried she’d poisoned him.
A howl rose up so close that he felt it came from his own throat. He jumped as two shaggy shapes lumbered off into the trees—wolves. The beasts sat on their haunches and watched them. He should shoot but couldn’t muster the energy to be frightened.
—It’s good, Monahsetah said.
Not good at all. He wanted to return to camp, forget the whole undertaking, but his legs felt so heavy.
—Another arrow, she whispered.
—I can’t.
—You must.
He directed it straight at the stars. He was shaking, chilled, drenched from the fog, and dead tired. His thinking came slowly. When the arrow left the bow, he felt the vibration through his whole body as if he had become the bow. The fog was so thick now, he couldn’t see Monahsetah clearly. As if she had dissolved into fog herself. Blinded, he closed his eyes, felt himself moving along the trajectory of the arrow, wind rushing past his ears. He prepared for the impact of arrowhead plunging into its predestined place, of which he had no knowledge. The night so black the stars were extinguished. Where had the wolves gone?
Her hands were on him, scratching, and he grabbed her and pushed her to the ground. He could not see. Breathing came with difficulty. He lay on top of her and felt the brush of the wolf’s pelt against his coat, the stink of breath fetid with rotten meat. With one movement, he raised up on his knees, holding the last arrow in his fist, and smashed it into the wolf’s head.
The fog disappeared. Stars shone and a crescent moon floated in the clear sky. Instead of a wolf, he’d smashed the arrow into the trunk of a tree and broken it in half, bloodying his hand in the process.
As if a fever spell had broken, Monahsetah pulled her clothing smooth and moved off to climb the bluffs and reassure the visitors. Custer returned to the protection of the picket post because even though he still had the scent of her in his nostrils, the slick of her on him, that did not mean revenge still might not be delivered. He would never be safe in her company. When the small group of warriors led by her came forward, he escorted them through the pickets to the guard post, where the chiefs were allowed a visit that lasted well into the night. He bargained that this demonstration of goodwill would help secure the
release of the white captives. It did not.
Days passed.
More visits and offerings of food and gifts were followed by more unkept promises. The village envoys expressed the desire that the three hostages be released before the question of the captive white girls was even considered, an inadvertent admission that they existed. He refused. At last, in exasperation, he threatened to move the camp closer to the village than the distance that now delayed their parley. The implied threat was clear.
As expected, no reply came so the regiment pulled up and moved along the Sweetwater. Again Indian envoys came. They sat by the campfire and ate their fill. Again they requested the chiefs’ release before discussing the issue of captives.
He was stuck.
Precedent was that the Indians receive ransom, which he was loath to do given the bad faith so far shown. It was a test of his will not only against the Cheyenne but also against his own men, who were crazed to avenge themselves. There was a growing likelihood of an accidental war being started. The Kansas Volunteers were specifically there to rescue those captives, and they longed for blood.
When he called for yet another parley, a mutinous grumble arose. Diplomacy was as trying as battle. He longed for the surety of a charge.
In his tent sat the three chiefs joined by a delegation from the village. In the oratory habit of these meetings, Custer reviewed aloud the steps that had already occurred, from their first meeting to the tribe’s repeated attempts to escape, to the delay of the captives’ return. A pause. He frowned. He had reached the end of his patience. If the girls were not returned by sunset of the following day, the chiefs would be killed. In addition the tribe would need to turn themselves in to the reservation. If they refused, the regiment would move on the village, which had no chance of fleeing given the burden of winter-weakened ponies and the numbers of women and children.
The delegation sullenly left.
Custer sat alone. Neither Monahsetah nor Golden Buffalo came to visit that night, a judgment. Tom avoided him also. For the first time he could remember, he felt weary. He missed Libbie’s consolations. He was trying his best at playing diplomat but it brought no accolades, only suspicion and discontent from all sides. No matter the effort, it always eventually came down to the necessity of brute force.
The next day passed slowly. The chiefs did not appear as confident as Custer would have hoped. One tried to negotiate his own release on the pretext of urging the village to move faster to save his fellow hostages. Custer dismissed the subterfuge. The troops scoured the hills in the direction of the village for an approaching party, but none came. Noon passed, then mid-afternoon, then late afternoon.
He did not want the chiefs’ deaths on his head, but he couldn’t back down on his threat without losing credibility.
An hour before dusk, a small party of warriors on horses could be seen approaching. Two riders sat on one of the ponies. A mile away, they dismounted and walked. Through field glasses, he saw they were the captive girls. One was short and stocky, the other tall and thin. They were clothed in Indian leggings and moccasins, the dresses over them fashioned out of flour sacks, the name of the mill stamped on each, indicating provisions supplied by the reservation. They had been ornamented with rings and necklaces to appear less abused, but later stories confirmed that both had suffered ravages beyond enduring.
The soldiers, especially the volunteers, surrounded them, protecting what was already destroyed. Men who had stoically witnessed the most outrageous atrocities now swatted tears from their eyes, made shy before the women. They clasped the girls’ hands yet would not hug them. It was discovered that both women were several months pregnant. Even the brother of one, who had spent the last two years tracking his sister, held himself aloof.
—Are we free? the sister asked.
In her early twenties, she had been married only a month when abducted.
—Yes, you are.
She proceeded to ask her brother about her husband and parents. He gave her satisfactory answer.
The shorter, younger one remained silent. She had seen with her own eyes that none of her kin survived.
Custer chastised himself for his discomfort around the victims. Once action was no longer called for, he felt superfluous in the face of their ruin. That night at retreat he had the band serenade them with “Home, Sweet Home.”
Over the ensuing days, he observed that the girls lived at a remove among their own people, ostracized into a permanent martyrdom. Did they sense the unconscious collective wish that they would have perished already and been ejected straight to sainthood?
The young women had been traded repeatedly from one tribe to another, finally arriving by chance in the same village and able to take comfort and strength from each other. Both had suffered repeated molestation, malnourishment, and forced labor. The captives had been planning an escape even though they did not know what part of the country they were in, nor in which direction rescue from settlements or military posts might be found. Their plan was to start walking into the desert plains until either safety or annihilation won.
* * *
AS THEY MARCHED to Camp Supply over the following week, almost perishing again from lack of food, many of the volunteers told Custer they were at first disappointed at his choosing diplomacy over attacking the village. They worried that he had lost his nerve to fight Indians, but now with the successful results they sheepishly commended him.
—Sir, no disrespect intended, but some were calling you a coward. A traitor to the regiment.
He swore by their faces they meant the exact opposite. They justified their doubts by explaining that such negotiations were simply not in keeping with his aggressive reputation, and it had taken them aback. To his ears their words sounded mostly like rebuke.
When the 7th Cavalry arrived at Fort Hays, the three chiefs were put in the stockade to join the women and children of the Washita campaign to await the return of the Cheyenne to their designated reservation.
Monahsetah visited her friends but preferred to stay in the comparative luxury and freedom of the 7th’s camp. What did she think when she saw her “sisters” imprisoned in the stockade? Did she acknowledge she was simply in another type of jail? She was gifted a quantity of provisions—four boxes of biscuits, two pounds of coffee, one pound of sugar, a piece of salt pork, a bolt of calico, as well as a pair of bob earrings—for her part in the expedition.
The last night out, Custer sent her to Tom’s tent as reward for his brother’s superior actions during the campaign and for abstaining from alcohol since his last reprimand. It stung the slightest bit when she packed up her few belongings and left without a backward look. He felt the part of sobbing debutante, but it was an opportune time for the separation. It pleased him to note that his brother’s loyalty to Libbie did not prevent him from enjoying the girl’s charms. When he later heard that Monahsetah had birthed a half-breed, he did not much concern himself with the possible paternity.
A peaceful outcome had been achieved.
All went well until a few weeks later when he learned of a new misfortune. Troops had determined to move the chiefs from tents to rooms in the guardhouse, not thinking it of enough import to inform him of the change. Without interpreter, the soldiers used rude sign language, coupled with the threat of rifles, to get their intention across. The chiefs, suspecting betrayal, refused to move and instead attacked with knives hidden in their blankets. Two died of wounds, the third was injured but survived.
In the spring, with the surrender of the last Cheyenne to the reservation, all that were still alive in the stockade, including Monahsetah and the one remaining chief, were at last given their liberty, if it could be called such.
TOM CUSTER
MY BROTHER’S WIFE
People teased that I was in love with Libbie but that was nonsense. My beloved fiancée, Lulie, was the ideal of womanhood to me, and if the fates had allowed I believe ours would have been as exemplary a union as Armstrong and Libbie’s
.
George Armstrong Custer, Tom Custer, and Libbie Bacon Custer
As it was, they were the envy of all social circles they passed through, whether it be the high society in New York or the most primitive outpost in the Territories. The type of love that turned a blind eye to a companion’s faults. They found enjoyment in even the dullest moment if it was in each other’s company. Although Armstrong found plenty of excuses to be separate, he lived each act through Libbie’s eye, even bragging to her of his female admirers. She told me how it drove a knife in her heart, but she never let on to him. Jealousy was beneath them. Her love was the not so secret source of his confidence. He, lucky man, knew he could rely on her loyalty no matter the ups and downs of the soldier’s profession, or his philanderer’s successes.
* * *
LULIE WAS THE OPPOSITE OF LIBBIE. She reminded me of a summer morning, how the sun heated the flowers to intoxication. Skin pale, eyes the color of the clearest lake, hair like corn silk, it was as if she were an angel unfit for the rough existence on this earth. When I first met her she wore a white dress, and I don’t believe I ever saw her in any other color, but given her housebound, cloistered state, it well suited her otherworldliness. There was never a question that she could leave that house, much less Jersey City, much less the States, to live a frontier life such as Libbie had. She was much too rare.
Even as I held Lulie’s hand I knew that she could never withstand the rigors of motherhood. The idea of a man lying atop her was unthinkable. She seemed so frail and delicate her bones might break under the weight of passion, but still I proposed and still she consented. It was our fairy tale. She knew that I could just as little give up the roaming, adventurous life of the army to become her house companion, but our fanciful engagement fulfilled something in her girlish heart. The dream of a perfect union. Knowing it would be unrealized, it was never in danger of failing.
Comparison with Libbie was as inevitable as it was unfair. Libbie had as much beauty and refinement, but she also had fire in her heart. She was a Custer in her blood. The love between my brother and her was something to either admire, envy, or scorn, depending on your mood. I’ll say no more than if Libbie had been mine, I would never have caused her such pain. When the consumption finally ended Lulie’s too-short life, I mourned, and my beloved sister-in-law was there to dry my tears.