by Darryl Brock
O’Neill let out a snort of laughter as I was rendered speechless and more or less stupefied. I felt as if Grand Central’s roof had lifted off and cosmic fingers had descended to pinch my head and jolt my heart.
“I’m going, for a certainty,” Cait concluded, and reached out to Linc with her other hand.
And there it was: we three in it together.
We doodled upriver to the ratcheting of a steam-driven engine. The Missouri lived up to its nickname of Big Muddy, its broad silt-laden channel winding sluggishly through the Dakota Territory. Only by sighting on bushes or trees could I see that we made any progress at all. Given the river’s frequent lazy meanders, it seemed that we could have matched the boat’s rate by simply walking in a straight line.
Most of the motley collection of passengers, all male, slept on the decks. We enjoyed separate rooms, a pricey luxury, but I figured we needed to conserve our energy while we could. Linc’s no-nonsense manner discouraged familiarity, and the two of us must have seemed formidable; crew and passengers were careful not to let their eyes wander too long in Cait’s direction.
While Linc sampled the incessant card games on deck, I spent long hours with Cait watching the shoreline inch past. We sat close together. It would have been romantic, especially in the warm evenings, had Tim not weighed on us so heavily. The good part was that our conversations, broken with long silences that came to seem natural, served to reacquaint us.
I learned that Andy’s brief visit had nourished her own badly depleted sense of family. And that she felt like an older sister to Kaija, who was entirely committed to the Elkhorn community and would take good care of Noola and Catriona.
“I believe she’s sweet on Linc,” Cait confided. “Do you think he feels the same?”
I shrugged. Linc might feel something, but showing it was a different matter.
“Several times he’s taken Kaija and Lily to visit the log house he’s building,” she said. “Perhaps he hopes they’ll share it.”
“Maybe so,” I said, doubting it. Given what had happened to Linc’s family, it was hard to imagine him taking up with Kaija. Few people were darker than he, few lighter than she. The country was a hundred years from even starting to be ready for something like that.
Besides talking of the colony, we reminisced about people and events in Cincinnati. But not about our own relationship. Cait seemed to accept our being together as natural once again, at least in these circumstances. And that worked for me. For now.
“Samuel?”
“Unh?” I’d dozed off in the stifling afternoon heat. The boat’s lethargic pace didn’t create much of a breeze.
“I haven’t thanked you for all you’ve done.”
“No need.”
“I believe there is.” She leaned and kissed my cheek, her body briefly against mine, a lovely pressure.
We arrived in Bismarck, a drab collection of weathered frame buildings, on our ninth day. I tried to arrange for us to disembark on the west bank, where Fort Abraham Lincoln stood three miles distant, but we were put off with the others at a Northern Pacific depot landing. There, a barge loaded with goods for the fort was about to cross the river, but we were refused a ride on it. Finally I hired a skiff to take us over.
Maddeningly, an army wagon that showed up to meet the barge also denied us. “Civilians need appointments,” a sweating teamster informed us as he hoisted crates and kegs. His voice held a touch of brogue. “Otherwise they can’t pass onto army property.”
“My son is in danger.” Cait’s eyes flashed with anger. “Aren’t you an Irishman?”
“Yes’m,” he acknowledged. “Private O’Connor.”
“Go tell your commanding officer that it’s none other than the grandnephew of General John O’Neill of the Fenian Army and the Irish Nebraska Colony In Exile who’s been kidnapped!”
“I admire General O’Neill,” he said solemnly, impressed by her oratorical burst. “Alone he took up arms to battle for the Green.” He indicated his cargo. “This is for the infantry barracks on that bluff above the fort, but I’ll stop and deliver your message.”
“Can’t we go with you?” I pressed.
“Strict orders,” came the answer. “The colonel’s overrun by newspapermen and others curious to see him.”
We watched him drive off.
Mosquitoes were unbelievably thick beneath the cottonwoods where we waited for three hours. I pulled an extra shirt over my head; it didn’t help much. Cait and Linc, not so afflicted, thanked me for diverting the stinging pests.
“We each have our strengths,” I said sourly.
Finally a canvas-topped wagon arrived. We lifted our single trunk up and set off in clouds of insects and yellow alkali dust. The driver, another private, said that the area was notorious for skeeters stinging people through blankets, causing dogs to burrow, and driving cattle and horses mad.
Cheery little place.
Fort Lincoln stood on a plain between the Missouri and tablelands to the west. No stockade fence, simply buildings circling a parade ground. The private deposited us at a two-story house. “This is the C.O.’s residence.” He pointed to a shaded veranda. “Your trunk will be safe there.”
Despite the heat, troopers in suspenders and undershirts were knocking a baseball around. One stared at me as if in recognition. Dogs behind the house set up a cacophony of barking as we stepped onto the porch. A slim officer with curly golden hair came around the corner. His blue eyes flicked over us, then took in Cait more leisurely.
“Captain Custer,” he said. “May I help you?” His clipped delivery suggested that any help would be limited.
No way he’s Custer, I thought, studying him while Cait explained about Tim.
“You belong in General Ord’s jurisdiction,” he said. “Department of the Platte, a long way from here.”
“John O’Neill felt that General Custer would take particular interest in our plight,” Cait said sweetly. “We were instructed to convey that message.”
“General …” The blue eyes squinted. “Ah, I see. I am Captain Thomas Custer. You must be referring to my brother.”
“George Armstrong Custer,” I chipped in.
He gave me a withering look that said he knew his brother’s name. Then, to Cait: “He was breveted as a major general during the war, but his current rank is properly lieutenant colonel.”
I refrained from saying, “Whatever.”
“In any case, he’s not presently available.”
“He isn’t here?” Cait said anxiously.
“Well, he will be. That is, I suppose …”
“We’ll wait here,” she said. “Please inform him.”
A queen couldn’t have done it better.
Ignoring Linc altogether, Custer gave me a sharp stare, as if I were the cause of this snag, and asked my name.
I told him.
“Fowler!” boomed a voice behind me. “I knowed it! I seen you play!” It was the ballplayer who’d looked at me. He must have trailed along behind us. “Billy Davis,” he said, sticking out a hand, “formerly of Porkopolis. I come out to every Red Stockings match. Saw you lam that ball clean over the fence. You was a grand clouter!”
“You’re a ballist?” Custer said.
“Used to be.”
“In that case, Davis,” he told the trooper, “you’ll be the one to show them around the post.”
“But sir, we’re having our ball-tossing.”
“You play on Benteen’s nine, correct?”
“Generally I do that, sir, but these fellers asked for my help.”
“I’m sure Captain Benteen would want you to make time for our important ball-playing visitor,” Custer intoned, then glanced at me. “You’ll offer our men some pointers?”
“Sure,” I said. “Linc will too—he’s a hell of a ballplayer.”
Custer gave me another frosty stare and withdrew.
“No lost love between the Custers and Benteen,” Davis confided as he led us around t
he rectangle.
This man might be among those to die in less than a year at the Little Big Horn, I reflected. And wasn’t it Benteen who’d been accused of failing to come to Custer’s aid in time?
Davis pointed out the troopers’ barracks and beyond them the stables and corrals where, at Custer’s insistence, the horses were color-coded: black for one company, sorrel for another, gray for buglers, and so on; this system made for fast identification.
“You ever get word of the Ninth or Tenth Cavalry?” Linc spoke for the first time.
“Nigger troops?”
“Some call them otherwise,” Linc said evenly. “ ‘Buffalo Soldiers,’ most commonly. A lot of folks are ignorant of the fact that one out of every five troopers in the West is dark-skinned.”
“Do tell?” Davis looked as if he’d heard a joke in a minstrel show. “Ain’t that somethin’. No, we don’t get no word about them.”
“I’m rigging a pole and going down there,” Linc said pointedly, indicating a shaded spot by the river. “Fish make better company than some people.”
I was about to get on Davis’s case, but Cait gave me a look. Okay. First things first. We followed him past a tent occupied on appointed days by a barber from Bismarck. Beside it stood a shack that served as a photographer’s studio. Chalked on a slate board was $1 tintype, $3 cabinet photo. Not cheap. Davis told us that troopers made only $16 a month.
We viewed the adjutant’s office, the sutler’s store, the infirmary, and a huge ramshackle theater where Davis pointed proudly to a faded poster: The Seventh Cavalry dramatic association presents: THAT RASCAL PAT.
“Colonel Custer had it built for entertainments,” Davis explained. Inside, we viewed scenery painted on canvas, tallow candles in tin casings that served as footlights, and benches enough to hold all 800 men on the post. “One night a month, us enlistees throw a ball,” he said proudly. “The regimental band plays and the officers and wives come. You should’ve seen the clog-dancing last time.”
We nodded politely. High times with the Seventh Cavalry.
“That’s about it.” Davis looked disappointed to find that the ballplayers on the parade ground had called it quits. We thanked him for his tour and headed back to the two-story house, where I detected movement behind the lace in one of the window. Moments later the door opened and a woman stepped out.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fowler,” she said in vibrant tones. “Tom says that you mistook him for my Autie!” A trilling laugh. “Sorry you’ve been kept waiting.” She was strikingly attractive, pale cheeks beneath gray eyes, oval face framed by thick chestnut hair, head held high. “I’m Elizabeth Custer.” She held the door open. “You must make yourselves at home.”
So this was Libbie Custer. Photographs hadn’t done justice to her flashing eyes, lilting voice, blooming complexion—and especially not her vitality. She didn’t show it directly but I sensed her sizing up Cait. Whatever she concluded caused her to rev up the charm even more. No doubt Libbie was used to being the belle in every gathering. Now, even though gussied up with elaborate combs in her hair, pearl earrings and a lace-collared dress that accented her shapely neck, and though Cait wore a simple traveling dress, she faced big-league competition.
“It’s such a treat to have visitors!” she gushed. “You must call me Libbie.”
“Thank you, but we’re here because of my son,” Cait began.
“I understand,” Libbie said quickly, taking Cait’s arm. “I’ll ensure that Autie gives you a sympathetic audience. But at the moment he’s deep in his writing, and I can permit nothing to disturb him or he’ll be terribly out of sorts.”
She ushered us inside.
“You must attend our soiree tonight,” Libbie went on. “It will be quite gay, with lively guests.”
Cait looked like she was hearing an unfamiliar language. “No, you see, we really must—”
“Oh, my dear,” Libbie interrupted, “these little functions make our lives bearable. Autie will be ever so much better disposed to hear your plea. It’s impossible to leave before tomorrow anyway, so you must spend this night with us. Come, I’ll show you your room.”
Cait and I exchanged a glance.
“We have a … companion.” I was unwilling to pass Linc off as our servant.
Libbie flashed a knowing smile; Tom Custer must have mentioned Linc. “We’ll put him in one of the vacant scouts’ cabins,” she said merrily. Davis had pointed out a row of log huts for Indian scouts and their families, with kettles bubbling in doorways and dogs and children lolling in the dirt. No doubt Linc would be happier there, but I didn’t feel good about it.
“I’ve nothing to wear,” Cait said.
“You’re a bit taller than I.” Libbie stopped to reflect. “I think I have just the dress for you.” She placed her slippered foot beside Cait’s. “You have such small feet. No matter, I’ll find shoes, too.”
She led us up the stairs to a small bedroom where a breeze off the river stirred the leaden air. Below, the dogs barked like maniacs. “Autie’s staghounds,” she said. “I’ll soothe the leader, and the rest will quiet. I’ll send lemon water up.” With a brilliant smile she went out.
“I believe she’s famous for her beauty throughout the country,” Cait commented.
“You’ve got her beat,” I said. “Like a rug.”
She gave me a skeptical smile and told me I was noble to say so. She pointed to a narrow bed beneath the window, where mosquito netting billowed slightly. “That’s my size,” she said. “Will you take the four-poster?” Her voice held a subtle plea.
I nodded and said, “Cait, I won’t push.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, and kissed me, her lips a feathery touch against mine. It took all my willpower not to crush her against me. No doubt sensing my inward struggle, Cait stepped away before I could weaken.
A Lakota servant girl dressed in white linen delivered a pitcher of water and a cream-colored silk brocade dress with matching shoes. In perfect English she reported that Mrs. Custer would “receive” us in a few hours. I stretched out on my bed and next thing I knew, the sun was slanting in at a lower angle. Cait sat before the dresser, wielding a hairbrush through her tangled curls. I watched until her eyes caught mine in the mirror. She blushed and looked away.
Victorian intimacy.
At five-thirty the Lakota girl led us downstairs. Libbie greeted us with rouge-pink cheeks and a trailing scent of magnolia. She asked if we’d taken our rest. Cait, knock-dead gorgeous in the silk outfit, assured her that we had.
“Autie should be finishing up now,” she said.
Chatting vivaciously and turning often to touch Cait’s arm, but never mine, she led us through the house, telling us that although it was regarded as the premiere C.O.’s facility in the entire West, it lacked “modern improvements,” which I gathered meant indoor plumbing and gas lighting. A former house on the site had burned to the ground.
“I lost my entire wardrobe,” she said with a brave little smile, “but Autie saved his uniforms.”
Somehow it figured.
Above the library door were two painted inscriptions: LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA, VOI CH’ENTRATE and CAVE CANEM. “All hope abandon, ye who enter here,” Libbie translated, and “Beware the dog.” She giggled charmingly. “You can see how Autie hates to be disturbed.”
We followed her into a room crammed with animal heads and antlers and pelts and stuffed creatures of all sorts. Weapons filled one corner and the walls held photographs of Civil War generals, including Custer himself, in brave poses.
Things were so busy that it took me a few seconds to focus my attention on the figure at the desk in the center. He was bent over a writing tablet, the crown of his head showing a short-cropped golden fringe instead of the long mane I’d expected. Classic male pattern baldness, already well advanced. Custer must have known we were there but he remained in his contemplative pose.
“Reporters expect a swaggering Indian fighter,” Libbie whispered, “and in
stead they find a literary man.”
I saw that most of the books piled on his desk dealt with Napoleon. Which, again, figured. Finally his head lifted and I found myself staring at a face reproduced millions of times. I tried to think of a latter-day equivalent to Custer. No military types came to mind. In the America I had left, only rock and movie stars carried his sort of glamour.
He was about my age, thirty-five, and shared Tom’s boyish look, but in his case a hardening and leavening had occurred. The deep-set eyes were bright blue like his brother’s but a trifle steelier. He was bone-lean and a lot of things about him, definitely including the aquiline nose and fixed blue-eyed gaze, struck me as hawklike.
“Autie, darling,” Libbie cooed “We have visitors.”
The blue eyes jerked out of the distance to fix upon her, then upon us. With quick, almost jerky movements he blotted his inked words and stood, a grin abruptly charging his face with a sort of reckless gaiety. “Thank you, Sunbeam,” he said in a hearty tone.
I stifled a natural gag reflex.
He strode toward us, a red scarf about his neck, the fringes on his buckskin outfit dancing with each step. I noticed that the heels of his boots were built up to make him taller. He was slightly bandy-legged, and moved with the same bursting energy that seemed to characterize everything he did.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fowler,” Libbie said.
Cait started to correct her, then let it go.
“Charmed.” Custer bent forward and brushed her hand with his bushy mustache. His face was reddened by the sun; his flared eyebrows were bleached white. A hat line paled his forehead. It seemed to me that he lingered an instant too long over Cait’s hand.
Libbie giggled and for the first time touched my arm. “Tom tells me you’re a champion ball-tosser.”
Custer’s blue-eyed stare fastened on me. I noticed tiny crow’s feet edging his eyes as he tried to pulverize my hand. He was strong, I’ll give him that, but his hand was small and he couldn’t get enough leverage.