“I had that in mind, sir.”
“I shall conduct myself accordingly.”
The maid set a sweating glass of iced tea before Richler, and he tasted the novelty with great pleasure.
“I suppose we might start with Custer, sir. Did he violate your orders?”
Terry peered at Richler so long he wondered whether he had affronted him, and whether the interview would cease before it began.
“I reported that he did,” Terry said, “After the fight, as I listened not only to Reno but the rest of the officers, I concluded that indeed he had. But of course that’s been contested. I gave the lieutenant colonel some discretionary power to act as he saw fit. Still, the plan was to catch the village between his forces and Colonel Gibbon’s infantry on the twenty-sixth of June. The Seventh Cavalry jumped the gun.”
“Custer’s partisans all say he did so because he had been discovered, sir. Surprise was crucial.”
“Some surprise,” Terry said. “I admire George Armstrong Custer and revere his memory, and have only the most tender regard for his widow …”
Richler sat, pencil poised, writing nothing. The general’s gaze focused on that pencil and smiled. “My feelings about Armstrong Custer are not window dressing, Mr. Richler. I have had all these years, before and after the Little Bighorn, a deep esteem for his gallantry, his courage, and his way of winning. But what I was saying was prelude to the rest of my observation, which is that he attacked recklessly, without reconnoitering properly, unaware of terrain or the true size of the village, and utterly uninformed about the mood or ferocity of its warriors.
“So, yes, you may express General Terry’s opinion that Lieutenant Colonel Custer fatally abandoned sound military doctrine, and the result was tragic and fatal.
“You may add that while I granted him discretion, it was to be exercised within the framework of my strategy, which was to catch the village between our forces. You may say, as I have many times, that he took my permissiveness as to discretion and reduced it to meaning he was under no restraint from me at all; that at bottom, the long march of Gibbon’s column toward the planned rendezvous on the twenty-sixth of June was apparently not even in his mind when he chose to attack.”
That was as firm a statement as General Terry had ever made, and Richler took pains to get it down exactly. Terry watched approvingly. Richler sensed there would be hell to pay if he put the wrong words in the major general’s mouth.
“Custer divided his forces, sir. In retrospect, given the disaster, it seems foolish. But if you were commanding at that juncture, would you have done the same?”
“A good question, Mr. Richler. It tells me that you understand the odd effect of hindsight; we see the bad result and so question the tactic. But a commander on the spot is considering only the future, and gauges everything on what he thinks will happen.
“I myself might have divided the command in that approach south of the village, but not into so many parts, and not in the same fashion.”With the bluffs and river forming obstacles to the east, I would have employed them to hem in the Indians, and instead sent half my forces straight up the valley, and the other half around to the left, where there are low hills, and where the tribal horse herd had gathered.
“Had half the Seventh attacked from the west side, driving a wedge between the warriors and their horses, scattering the horses, while the other half drove north, the warriors would not have had an easy time, and might well have been deprived of their mounts … which is a long way around to my point. I don’t think that Custer chose a very intelligent tactic, trying for surprise through those towering bluffs he had not reconnoitered, and he paid for it.”
That was as plain as Richler could hope for, and he again took pains to get it right in his notepad.
“General, there’s been a lot of talk, especially in the press, about orders, and whether Captain Benteen and Major Reno followed them. The implication is that, because neither man liked or respected Custer, they chose not to follow the orders, and to let Custer get himself into trouble. Do you put any credence in it? Did the captain and the major betray Custer and all of his command by disobeying him?”
Terry’s gaze fell so intensely on Richler that for a moment he thought the general would say nothing. Indeed, Richler grew conscious of the clack of a grandfather clock ticking away somewhere. He watched the sun catch motes of dust.
“Well, now,” said the general. “Let’s examine it together, and then you can draw your own conclusions and put them in your obituary.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
GENERAL TERRY SEEMED LOST IN REVERIE, AND TOOK SO MUCH TIME that Joseph Richler wondered whether he was dozing. But at last Terry focused again.
“What, do you understand, were Custer’s orders to Reno and Benteen?” Terry asked.
“I believe they were oral, sir, and all the reports and the testimony at the Reno court of inquiry, without exception, indicate that he told Reno to charge up the valley, and Reno would be supported by Custer. And he told Benteen to head on a left oblique and scout for outlying villages. Those were the initial orders, by all accounts.”
“Delivered by Adjutant Cooke?”
“According to all accounts, yes.”
“And what evidence is there that the orders were otherwise?”
“None that I know of, general. Those who accuse Reno and Benteen of disobedience think that Custer gave different orders.”
“On what ground?”
“That Custer would not have sent Benteen so far away, but would have ordered Benteen to attack from the left flank, in much the manner that Custer had attacked the Cheyennes at the Washita.”
“And how can they prove this?”
“They simply argue that Custer would have done it because that was how he did things in the past. At Washita.”
Some ancient fires were rekindled in the old general’s eyes, and he wagged a bony finger.
“Ah! I see. So their argument has no factual basis at all. They don’t know what Custer ordered in this case because the orders weren’t written. And they don’t know whether Cooke repeated the orders accurately. Adjutants don’t always convey a commander’s intent precisely, sad to say. They don’t always listen.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, general.”
“Few people think of that. Somehow, it’s always presumed that Cooke got it all straight. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe those unclear or incomplete orders were all Cooke’s failure. The point is, we don’t know.” The old man rubbed his pale forehead, lost in thought. “What they’re doing is a bit of necromancy, Mr. Richler. They have miraculously divined what Custer’s real orders were, and having plucked up the truth from out in the ether somewhere, beyond the grave, maybe after a seance with Custer’s ghost, they have no trouble demonstrating that Reno and Benteen were disobedient. I think General Rosser started it with that letter to the Minneapolis paper a few days after the battle. I remember it keenly, having been caught in the events. The very sentence startled me at the time.”
Terry closed his eyes, summoning up something that had caught in his memory. Then his placid gaze focused again on the correspondent.
“Yes, I have it now. Rosser, that old West Point friend and Confederate enemy of Custer, lost no time divining what those real orders were: ‘I think it quite certain that General Custer had agreed with Reno upon a place of junction in case of the repulse of either or both of the detachments …’ Well, sir, that still sits in my mind, that bit of necromancy, putting orders in Custer’s mouth when there is not the slightest evidence that Custer ever gave them. That shabby ploy has been at the heart of every effort to disgrace Benteen and Reno, and it deserves to be treated as the tomfoolery that it is.”
There was a fine, lawyerly scorn in the old man’s voice.
“It is a great sport, isn’t it? If you want to blame Reno and Benteen for the disaster, why, just assert that Custer’s orders were very different from what Reno and Benteen said they were. Do you want to cond
emn Reno? Then invent an order, put it in the dead man’s mouth, and tell the world that Reno disobeyed it, or lied, or covered up the truth. And not only Reno, but all the other officers who received the order at that time and remember it well.”
Richler encouraged the old man to continue: “If I recollect properly, Reno and Benteen weren’t the only two who heard those orders. Lieutenant Wallace heard them given to Reno. His testimony at the inquiry supported that of Reno.”
“He did, sir. I obtained a copy of all that and studied it closely. Lieutenant Wallace testified that he heard Cooke tell Reno to attack up the valley, and Custer would support him. That was the understanding of all the officers in Reno’s command. Custer would support Reno’s attack in some unspecified way. No one has ever disputed that.”
“No, no one has, general.”
“Well, Mr. Richler, if someone supposes that Custer really gave Reno some other order, then he makes a perjurer, a liar, out of Lieutenant Wallace too, does he not?”
“It would seem so.”
“So, Reno’s testimony is supported by a witness.”
“Yes, sir. And Wallace also testified that Cooke gave no indication of where or how Custer intended that Benteen and Reno should hook up.”
General Terry nodded. “I think the matter settles itself without further comment, Mr. Richler, except for those who’ll conclude Wallace was part of this alleged conspiracy to do in Custer and hide the truth. If anyone supposes that Custer gave orders other than what the records indicate, let him prove it. And not with speculation. Let him bring real evidence to the table. And if he can’t, he has no business making scurrilous charges of disobedience against two officers. May I refresh your tea?”
“I’m doing fine, thank you. I recently interviewed Colonel Benteen, sir. He explains his delay on several grounds. The first is that his horses were worn out, not only from the forced march of the whole command, night and day, but also from the ten-mile scout to the left that Custer sent him on.
“He said the horses were barely fit to take into battle, where they would be put to the test; and that the fast trot he chose upon receiving orders to hurry into the fight was the best way of conserving what little strength was left in the mounts, while still covering ground very quickly.
“He pointed out that horses that won’t move in the middle of a fight are a menace to the troops. He added, sir, that no one imagined that Custer was in mortal peril.”
Terry pondered it. “I have no objection to that, Mr. Richler. At the time, I’m sure Benteen thought he was hurrying to the greatest degree that he could, given the condition of his mounts. It’s only by hindsight that things become different, only by hindsight that his actions look malevolent, and one wonders whether Benteen could have done more.
“Hindsight is a tricky knowledge, sir. When you are commanding and facing an unknown future, things look very different. He might have gained a few minutes, maybe five minutes, galloping into the fight. But then what? A cavalry charge on worn-out mounts. Hand-to-hand combat against warriors on fresh, eager, and rested Indian ponies. No, Mr. Richler, no reasonable man can quarrel with Benteen’s decision to move at a fast trot.”
“Captain Weir thought otherwise, sir.”
Terry suddenly smiled broadly, but said nothing.
Richler continued. “Colonel Benteen told me he feels no guilt, has no regrets about how he comported himself in those hard moments, and felt a great sorrow and helplessness when he discovered the tragedy.”
“Major Reno expressed the same horror, Mr. Richler. We all wept.”
“You walked the battlefield, general.”
“I walked it, I rode over it, every yard of it, I studied the land, followed Custer’s route, examined hundreds and hundreds of tepee rings, walked among the naked and mutilated dead, picked up their empty copper cartridges, talked to many of the survivors, soaking up all that they could tell me. I read Major Reno’s report, and wrote two of my own.”
“You’ve been blamed, too.”
He smiled. “A losing commander is always blamed.”
“Has time altered any of your impressions?”
“You know, the battle stirs controversy to this day, and always will. The Army and Navy Journal is still publishing charges and rebuttals. There is a regular divide now, between the Custer partisans and Custer antagonists, the former blaming Major Reno and Captain Benteen, and sometimes myself, the latter blaming Custer’s own reckless conduct. But the simple and overwhelming fact is that the village was far too large for Custer’s force to handle alone.”
“Have you drawn up on one side or the other?”
“Custer was a gallant and courageous officer, Mr. Richler, who exceeded his authority in that instance. And in that moment of derring-do abandoned most of the things he learned over the years.”
Richler thought the interview was going well, and pressed on. “Could Reno and Benteen have done better, sir? I am getting at the question of Major Reno’s competence. Frederick Whittaker’s accusations against the major boiled down to two things, cowardice and incompetence. I’m wondering whether Major Reno, in your opinion, conducted himself in the field the way an officer should.”
“Every officer in the army, I suppose, asks himself how he could have done better. I imagine both men have asked themselves the same question. I have not heard mea culpas from either one. Then there is a sort of unspoken and unacknowledged rivalry among officers, Mr. Richler, in which many an officer spots the alleged mistakes of other officers, and thinks he could have done better, and should have been in command. It’s hindsight again, the miraculous vision we acquire looking into the past, not the future.
“That’s a long way around your question, but it explains the odd scrutiny that was focused on Major Reno. I think, by and large, the major was quite competent, especially in the valley fight. He had the field experience to see he was being flanked and engulfed by much larger forces, and that his entire battalion would be surrounded and doomed unless he found safe ground. That is competence of the highest order, sir, and the hardest of decisions to make in the field. It is precisely the sort of decision that George Armstrong Custer failed to make.”
Richler thought the old general was tiring, but there still was much ground to cover, and he hoped Terry would be up to it.
“What about the hilltop fight? There are sharply contradictory reports about his conduct there. For instance, when Reno turned things over to Benteen and headed downslope, beyond his lines, to recover what he could from the body of Lieutenant Hodgson.”
An odd lift of the eyebrow and faint ironic smile lit the old man’s face. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Richler. If Custer had been commanding up there instead of Reno, and if our dashing lieutenant colonel had chosen to slip down that slope to Lieutenant Hodgson’s body, the act would have been regarded as the utmost gallantry, the sort of bravado that adds to a man’s legend.
“You would not hear one whisper of doubt about the act, had Custer done it. No, sir. It would have inspired awe, sir; young officers would be talking about it to this very hour, the golden moment that gallant Custer braved the hostiles to get Hodgson’s West Point class ring.”
He laughed suddenly, and Richler laughed too. The irony of condemning Reno’s gallantry while lauding Custer’s gallantry had not been lost on the old general.
“What did you think of the man, sir?”
“Ah, now you get to the delicate part, where I must make careful distinctions. Are you up to making fine distinctions in print, Mr. Richler?”
“Try me,” the correspondent said.
“I believe I will,” Major General Terry replied.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
JOE RICHLER WAITED PATIENTLY. THE OLD MAN WAS CHOOSY ABOUT what he said, which perhaps is one reason he had risen to one of the highest ranks of the United States Army.
“I am going to rephrase your question, Mr. Richler. I am going to tell you what good I found in the man. You know, that old adage, don’t sp
eak ill of the dead, is something I’ve always kept in mind. I’ve had occasions to speak ill of the dead in this long life, and I’ve resisted them. The dead can’t defend themselves. But more than that, their long fight is over, their race has been run, and it’s simple charity to discover the best in them. We can never know what demons a man wrestled with; and if we knew we might admire him—or her—all the more.”
Richler nodded. Bland praise didn’t make good newspaper copy and might conceal the truth about Marcus Reno. And yet he understood the old man’s sensitivity and even admired it. But he knew he would not get much more out of General Terry.
“Was he a good soldier, sir?”
“He fought admirably during the War of the Rebellion.”
“And after that?”
“At times he was excellent.”
That was leaving much unsaid, and Richler sensed he should not push, not just then. Maybe Terry would give him an opening.
“I think Reno had a difficult and contrary nature, general, and governing himself was sometimes quite beyond him. One moment he could be passive, but in another moment, such as when he dressed down the skulkers in the hilltop fight and slapped one, he could be abrasive. And one or another of these natures was always cropping up when least expected.”
“Two natures, eh? I had not considered it,” Terry said. “I thought, in fact, that Reno had acquired bitter adversaries in the Seventh Cavalry, and the fellow should have been transferred to another regiment. I think his conduct would have improved in other circumstances. He might even have rounded out his career with years of quiet and admirable service. It’s my regret that I didn’t pursue that course at the first sign of trouble. The army doesn’t suffer problem officers gladly.”
“This whole business of rapping on Colonel Sturgis’ window to catch the eye of the colonel’s daughter is a strange thing,” Richler said.
“Abominable conduct. In one sense, Reno’s conduct was not scandalous. He wasn’t acting as some sort of Peeping Tom. He approached the window and rapped on it and waved, boldly announcing his presence. But in another sense, he surely violated that household, and violated Ella Sturgis. Colonel Sturgis had denied Reno a welcome at that house, wisely I must say, and had expressly forbidden Major Reno from courting his daughter.
An Obituary for Major Reno Page 27