Whittaker claimed to have information that “gross cowardice was displayed therein by Major Marcus Reno,” and because of that cowardice, “the orders of Lieutenant Colonel Custer, commanding officer, to said Reno, to execute a certain attack, were not made,” and that this failure and disobedience resulted in defeat of U.S. forces instead of victory. And “after Major Reno’s cowardly flight he was joined by Captain F. W. Benteen,” and the force was kept idle while Custer was fighting to the death against the whole force of the Indians, and that battle was within Reno’s knowledge, the firing being audible, and “the consequences of this second exhibition of cowardice and incompetency was the massacre of Lieutenant Colonel Custer and five companies of the Seventh United States Cavalry.”
Reno had heard it all before, but this time the gloves were off, and the attack was proceeding bare-knuckled.
There were other charges. One was that Reno’s battle report “is, in the main, false and libelous to the memory of the late Lieutenant Colonel Custer, in that it represents the defeat of the United States forces on that occasion as owing to the division by Custer of his forces, and to ignorance of the enemy’s force, all serious charges against the capacity of said Custer as an officer; whereas the defeat was really owing to the cowardice and disobedience of said Reno and to the willful neglect of said Reno and Captain Benteen to join battle with the Indians in support of their commanding officer …”
Whittaker went on to say that Congress enjoys the power to compel the testimony of everyone, and ought to act to get to the bottom of it.
Reno studied the lengthy letter, now percolating through the nation’s press, and knew this would never go away, not for as long as he drew breath, and that his troubles had only begun. But maybe there was opportunity in it.
In the selfsame story he discovered that the House Committee on Military Affairs had reported a resolution to the House directing an investigation of the Custer massacre, after members had read Whittaker’s letter.
Maybe something good would come of it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
RENO PACKED HIS VALISE, STUFFED HIS BREAST POCKET WITH HAVANAS, purchased railroad fare to Washington, and set forth. Upon arriving he headed immediately for the editorial offices of the Army and Navy Journal , not far from the War Department.
Within that bleak gray editorial sanctum, decorated with regimental flags, sepia photographs of officers, Latin mottos, and a huge American flag, he encountered an avuncular and fat clerk, and pulled an envelope from his suit coat.
“I’m Reno. Want this run,” he said. “It’s a letter.”
“Major Reno? The Major Reno. Ah, indeed.”
The clerk took the letter and read it respectfully, then smiled. “Very good; I’d do the same thing, in your boots. We’re printing Friday. I’ll have it set and put right in.”
“Thank you.”
“Frankly, major, we’re friends of yours here. You’ll see some of our own editorial comment on this affair in the next issue. Scoundrels, the whole lot.”
“I’m glad to have support here. Sometimes I wonder who’s left.”
“We are, major, we are indeed.”
The clerk extended a soft hand and Reno shook it.
His letter, actually addressed to the chairman of the House Military Committee, H. H. Banning, asked for an investigation.
“During the last two years I have been compelled to suffer the circulation of various malignant reports concerning this affair about myself, emanating, it is presumed, from the same irresponsible source. This being the first time that the author, perhaps emboldened by my silence, has ventured to give them definite shape. I respectfully demand that I may have this opportunity to vindicate my character and record which have thus been widely assailed.”
Reno checked in at Willard’s hotel and waited. But Congress adjourned without taking action. He was disappointed, but perhaps this was the way to proceed. From his commodious hotel room, where he could gaze across rooftops to the White House, he penned a letter to President Rutherford Hayes:
“The Congress adjourned without taking any action and I now respectfully appeal to the Executive for a ‘court of inquiry’ to investigate the affair, that the many rumors started by camp gossip may be set at rest and the truth be fully known.”
A court of inquiry was simply an elaborate and formal investigation, conducted for the purpose of adducing facts. For him, it would be something of a trial: he would either walk away with the sun shining on his good name, or he would find himself ruined. But he didn’t hesitate. He could not imagine the court would come to any conclusion other than to exonerate him. And when his name once again shone like newly polished brass, then would he find his lost life.
This time, Reno didn’t have long to wait. General Sherman approved. The Secretary of War approved. And the Department of Dakota, in the person of General Terry, was ordered to convene the court and order Reno’s attendance. He had gotten what he wanted this time, in the space of a few days. He packed his black valise, boarded a train for Harrisburg, and awaited orders.
For some considerable while that summer and fall, Reno heard nothing. But a court of inquiry was no easy matter to put together. The witnesses, in particular, had to be gathered. In the case of the Department of Dakota, the summer’s campaign against roving hostile tribes had to be completed. Survivors of the Little Bighorn had scattered to various posts, and all must be notified to report at the trial. Reno felt jubilant: now he would clear his name, once and for all.
But there were difficulties ahead. For most of two years he had been without pay. He would be forced to stay in some strange city during the entire proceeding, at his own expense. He would be compelled to pay a first-rate attorney. He had subsisted on the rental income from the farm he had inherited from Mary Hannah, and from the rental on their Front Street home, but that would not begin to pay a lawyer.
He needed cash, and one way to get it would be reinstatement in the service. And that meant asking President Hayes, once again, to reinstate him. He began with a declaration of innocence, added that the punishment in the form of financial deprivation was much too severe, having already reached four thousand and six hundred dollars, and then he went on to point out that he had no income to sustain him during the forthcoming court of inquiry in a distant city, and would like to be restored to active duty. He posted the letter with hope, and thought surely this time the president would see the merit of his case.
But no answer ever drifted his way. The last response from War Secretary McCrary had indicated that the president’s decision was final, and so it proved to be.
He set out to find a lawyer in Harrisburg. The inquiry would not be a criminal trial, with a verdict of guilty or innocent, but it could lead to a court-martial if he were found to have violated the army’s battle standards. Here was the chance he had pined for; the chance to show the world what he was made of; the chance to trump all the newspaper speculation and misinformation with the careful deliberations of a court. That meant not just a lawyer, but a lawyer so fine that the best case would be made in his favor.
Harrisburg did not lack excellent lawyers, and the man Marcus Reno chose to defend him was widely regarded as top flight. Lyman Gilbert was still a young man, but had served as deputy attorney general for the state. What’s more, Gilbert was a friend of the Ross family and his son’s court-appointed financial guardian.
Reno visited Gilbert in his office, and shook hands with the slight, cheerful, blue-eyed man.
“I’m here, Lyman, to ask you to defend me in a forthcoming court of inquiry, I know not where. It will be in some distant city.”
Swiftly Reno described the nature of a military court of inquiry, and its purposes.
Gilbert nodded. “I’ll do it, Marcus, but I should caution you I’ve not had experience before such a tribunal.”
“It’s not a criminal trial. They’ll ask about the battle and my conduct in it. About that, sir, I am adamant. I gave a good account of my
self and have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Gilbert nodded.
“Lyman, I am presently suspended from the army, and have a year to go before reinstatement. You must know about it. The press has made much of it. A woman was involved. A most dubious woman, whose reputation was universally understood to be too fragile to withstand much scrutiny. I played the fool, though not as you might imagine, and she bit me, like the black widow spider, and no appeal on my part has altered events since then.”
Gilbert laughed softly. “We shall exclude all that. What’s before the tribunal is a matter of honor, and I believe your record bears scrutiny.”
“It does, sir! Here, look at these.” Reno undid his portfolio and extracted the commendations that had accumulated over twenty years of life in the service. “I ended up a brevet brigadier general of Pennsylvania volunteers, and a brevet lieutenant colonel in the regular army, and Lyman, one doesn’t arrive at that estate by acts of cowardice.”
Gilbert donned wire-rimmed spectacles and studied the material. “I shall want to examine this closely, but now, major, we must discuss things more immediate.”
“You mean, the battle?”
“No, not yet. We’ll go over that in such detail that I’ll have everything you did, everything you thought, everything you observed in your fellow officers, and everything you said to your superiors, such as General Terry, following. I’ll break your battle down into hours and minutes and account for it all. But that’s for the future. No, sir, what I want now is how you fetched yourself to this mess. It was that novelist, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what I read?”
“Whittaker, yes.”
“That’s the name. God spare the world from novelists. I followed the account in the press with some interest, of course. This battle attracts attention even now, two years later. Whittaker, the finger-pointer. Start with him, and tell me how it led to walking through my door, there, and expending your dwindling resources on a man who charges a considerable fee.”
Gilbert’s face wrinkled into humor. But everything he was saying was to a purpose, and his object now was to see whether he would be paid.
“Sir, you know more about me than I know of you, but I’ll refresh you. I was widowed in eighteen and seventy-four, inherited a modest estate here. My son Robert Ross received half the estate, which is held in trust for him, and that makes selling such properties somewhat complex but still possible so long as you, his court-appointed financial guardian, are satisfied. But as for your services, sir, I will sell my inheritance if necessary.”
“That’s an expression of your commitment, major. Some might value honor as something less than so much real property.”
“Mr. Gilbert, if I valued honor less, I would not have asked for this court of inquiry to clear my name. The army went right along with my request, probably because there’s such a controversy about the whole affair, or maybe to thwart a congressional investigation by preempting it. I could just as well slide through, wait out my suspension, and return to the command without spending a dime.”
“I like a man who will spend his last, if necessary. It tells me much about him, and assures me of some degree of success.”
“I will spend my last, Mr. Gilbert. And if the estate does not suffice to pay you, I’ll devote my major’s salary to it until it is paid off to the last cent.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MARCUS RENO CHECKED INTO THE STATELY PALMER HOUSE IN CHICAGO, where the Reno court of inquiry was convening.
There, in the marbled rooms of a grand hotel, would unfold an inquiry into his conduct in the battle, and in particular, his cowardice. How does a man defend himself against such an accusation? How does he prove to veteran officer-judges that he conducted himself gallantly in the heat of battle? And even if he were cleared by this court of examiners, would he still be the victim of mean gossip and scorn?
It seemed a trap from which he could hardly escape, no matter what the verdict. And yet, a clean record was the place to start. Let them scrutinize everything, let nothing be overlooked, let these men put themselves in his shoes during that fight, and he felt fairly sure they would conclude that he did what he had to do, and acted incisively.
So, this thirteenth day of January, 1879, the Palmer House housed a number of senior army officers and their aides, as well as a body of witnesses mostly but not entirely military, and a clamorous press, busy rehashing every facet of the disastrous battle and buttonholing officers of every description for quotable material.
This would be not just a dress occasion, but a spit-and-polish occasion, where the forms of military usage meant everything. Reno himself was smartly attired in a fresh blue uniform, complete with immaculate white gloves. He looked grand.
The conference room filled swiftly; witnesses, reporters, scrambling for seats. Reno watched the tribunal that would decide upon his honor assemble: its president was Colonel John King, Ninth Infantry, the senior officer present. Another was Colonel Wesley Merritt, Fifth Cavalry, a bold soldier if ever there was one. And the third was Lieutenant Colonel W. B. Royall, Third Cavalry. The recorder—this was not a trial, and did not utilize a prosecutor—was First Lieutenant Jesse M. Lee, young and inexperienced, and an odd choice indeed if a serious case were to be made against Reno.
All this was costing him more than he could afford. He had borrowed eight hundred dollars from his son’s trust fund, pledging his life insurance policy as collateral. Since Lyman Gilbert was his son’s financial guardian as well as Reno’s counsel, he approved, and the major had for the moment some expense money.
Gilbert himself could not be present that first day, but everyone else had assembled. All but three of the officers who had survived the battle were present. Tom Weir had drunk himself to death and had been buried only a few days before. And Captain French was himself being disciplined and thus was unable to testify. Lieutenant Gibson was not present either.
But there they were, sitting in a row, waiting to testify: Benteen, Godfrey, Mathey, McDougall, Moylan, DeRudio, Edgerly, Hare, Varnum, and Wallace. Porter, the surgeon, was present also, along with some of the civilian packers and scouts, and a few enlisted men.
And there was Reno’s bête noire, gaunt, wolfish Frederick Whittaker, scribbling notes to young and earnest Lieutenant Lee, making himself an eminence grise in the courtroom. Reno studied the man, noting his averted gaze, his downturned mouth, his sour presence. This was the hanging judge whose accusations had started it all, and who was now present to shepherd—if a civilian could—this affair to the conclusion he had in mind, ousting Marcus Reno from the service.
Because Lyman Gilbert could not be present, that first day passed without event. But the next day the court admitted into evidence the letter written by Whittaker to Wyoming’s congressional delegate W. W. Corlett.
So Marcus Reno was now branded a coward and an incompetent in a military tribunal; suddenly this was no longer merely a newspaper affair.
Lieutenant Wallace was the first survivor to testify for Recorder Lee. He noted that Reno had received the fewest troops and was ordered to charge the village with these and Custer would support him. He recollected that both men and horses were exhausted after a long forced march. Wallace described the skirmish line, the retreat to the woods where the horses and fresh ammunition were, the disorderly flight to the hilltop.
Wallace was straight and true.
Was Major Reno’s decision to abandon the timber a sound one? Gilbert wished to know.
If they had stayed in the timber, “Major Reno and every man with him would have been killed,” Wallace replied.
And what about Reno’s coolness under fire, and judgment?
“All that you could expect from anyone.”
The next day, Wallace’s testimony continued. Gilbert asked whether there was any point when Reno displayed a lack of courage.
“None that I can recall or find fault with.”
Gilbert asked whether there was any point at which Reno showed a lack of
military skill.
“No, I do not recall any.”
That was a start. But Whittaker, off to the rear, was furiously scribbling notes, and Reno knew his ordeal had barely begun.
Frederic Girard was next. There was no love lost between the civilian interpreter and Reno, because Reno had fired him once for helping himself to government property. The lean old border man, weathered to the color of a chestnut, hadn’t much to say, other than he believed that the major’s command could have held out in the woods indefinitely. Considering the source, Reno didn’t think the testimony was damaging.
Next was Lieutenant Varnum, who was chief of scouts during the fight, and who claimed he had seen Custer’s Gray Horse Company up on the bluffs, which was a remarkable feat of vision, given the distances. But again, Varnum saw no cowardice in Reno’s conduct.
“Certainly there was no sign of cowardice or anything of that sort in his conduct and nothing specially the other way.”
Varnum added that Reno didn’t have enough men to hold the timber.
Dr. Porter took the stand, and said he saw nothing heroic nor anything cowardly in Reno’s conduct, but he seemed somewhat flustered.
“The bullets were coming pretty fast, and I think he did not know whether to stay there or leave.”
Captain Moylan followed, and Gilbert elicited from him the belief that the command had exhausted two-thirds of its ammunition in the valley fight; he himself had sent several men during the valley fight to retrieve ammunition from saddlebags.
Lieutenant Lee asked Moylan about Reno’s courage, and Moylan replied that Reno rode at the head of the column and his orders “were given as coolly as a man under such circumstances can give them, and I saw nothing that indicated cowardice about him.” And in the timber, “there was a certain amount of excitement, I suppose, visible on his face, as well as that of anybody else, but any traces of cowardice I failed to discover.” As for leaving the timber, Moylan concurred. “In my judgment, the command, without assistance, would have been annihilated in the timber.”
An Obituary for Major Reno Page 19