Almost like a prayer, Libbie whispered a few lines of poetry she once memorized while a school-girl in Monroe, waiting like school-girls always had for their one true beau to gallop into their life.
He who leaves is happier still,
Than she who’s left behind.
As the last words fell from her trembling lips, the first rays of sunlight broke through that muslin-thin overcast, making for a strange light as fractured sunbeams spread over the long columns winding west.
With tiny, dewy particles of moisture drenching the morning air, a sudden and eerie mirage spun itself before her eyes as Libbie watched that long, blue snake poke its way toward the yawning land like a hungry abyss that opened itself to greet the Seventh. Reflected in those particles of moisture like a huge mirror stretched across the blue-gray canopy was the image of the U.S. Seventh Cavalry … marching … marching equidistant between earth and sky.
A stifled gasp caught in her throat. She put a trembling hand to her lips.
Oh, if she had only realized it before … all those years gone, years bitterly wasted. Years she had no idea would end so soon.
“What is it, Libbie?” Maggie whispered.
“Nothing,” she declared bravely, swiping at her eyes. Swallowing against the knot in her chest, Libbie watched the mirage riding half-way between earth and sky, and knew as certainly as she knew she loved Autie that it was a premonition of some great catastrophe to befall those gallant men.
Our hearts so stout, have got us fame,
For soon ’tis known from whence we came;
Where’ere we go they dread the name
Of Garry Owen in glory!
CHAPTER 4
BY the time the Seventh had rendezvoused on the Yellowstone with Colonel John Gibbon’s forces drawn from both Fort Ellis and Fort Shaw in Montana Territory, Custer’s troops felt as if they had marched through hell itself to arrive at the mouth of Rosebud Creek.
Besides the surprising snowstorm that kept them sitting for two days back in May, the men had also suffered through drenching spring rains and stinging hail, and more recently had blistered beneath a relentless sun interrupted each afternoon by a brief interlude of thunderstorms before sunset. It could be that way this time of year on the northern plains. Good reason for a man to keep his “rubber blanket” handy—what others called their “gum blanket”—a rubber poncho to turn the rain. Slipped over the head and measuring some four feet by six feet, it had already proved itself on this campaign.
Certain fragments of the regiment had marched off on one or the other of two long, tough scouts that convinced the expedition commanders they were narrowing the noose around the hostiles. Now that General Alfred H. Terry’s Dakota column had joined up with Gibbon’s Montana column, everyone figured the Sioux were gathering to the south of them.
At three P.M. on 21 June, General Terry brought to order a conference of the high-echelon officers of his combined regiments aboard the Far West, the stern-wheeled river steamer anchored against the north bank of the Yellowstone River. Its pilothouse lined with thick iron boiler plate, the steamboat was fortified against a probable attack by hostiles along these western rivers. The boiler plate had been curved slightly to deflect enemy bullets, in addition to having a head-high opening in front so the wheelman would have a full view of the river ahead. The lower deck was protected by sacks of grain along with four-foot cordwood stacked on end all round the gunwales.
What had so far been a hot and sultry Wednesday appeared to offer some relief on the far horizon. Gray and purple thunderheads were building with a fury on the distant rim of the prairie as the officers crammed themselves into Captain Grant Marsh’s dining room for their war conference. Custer himself preferred standing by the door as many of Gibbon’s officers and most of Terry’s infantry commanders set fire to their cheroots, cigars, and pipes. Breathing deep of that freshening breeze slipping along the river, Terry himself eagerly awaited the afternoon’s cooling storm.
“The Commissioner of Indian Affairs claims we might see only some five hundred to eight hundred warriors, counting all of fighting age.” Terry plunged ahead with his introductory remarks as most every man settled back with a glass of trader Coleman’s whiskey.
“He’s wrong,” declared a new voice.
The room fell silent as the attention shifted toward Custer at the doorway.
“Care to tell us just how the commissioner’s figures could be so wrong, sir?”
Custer turned toward the speaker, Colonel John Gibbon. Above his bulbous nose the colonel’s dark eyes peered cold like chips of iron. Gibbon had been Custer’s artillery instructor during his studies at West Point.
“Those agents, sir, with all due respect,” Custer began, pushing himself back into the close, smoky room from the narrow doorway, “either don’t know how to count, or they’re nothing more than liars.”
He waited for the murmurs to quiet themselves before continuing. “I prefer to think they are simply lying through their teeth to their superiors.”
“Can you substantiate that, General?” Another officer rose to confront Custer. “And why in blazes would they lie to the army about those goddamned figures?” Major James S. Brisbin, commander of Gibbon’s Second Cavalry out of Fort Ellis, was known among his army friends as Grasshopper Jim because of his oft-quick and erratic marches. He stepped near Custer. “What reason would those agents have to give us bad intelligence?”
Custer measured him a moment. “For exactly the same reason those traders become rich men on their meager salaries—sutlering for the government on hardscrabble reservations.”
“Explain yourself, Custer,” Terry demanded.
“Of course.” He stepped into the room that extended the full width of the steamboat. “If those venal traders inform their bosses in the Indian Department how few Indians they really have left on their reservations, they won’t get their normal allotments. And when that happens, the traders won’t have all those government goods they can continue to sell privately for exorbitant profits at the expense of the Indians living on those godforsaken refuges some call reservations.”
“You’re claiming those agents have been lying to us, sir?” Brisbin turned to Gibbon as he asked his question. “For the sake of padding their own pockets?”
“Nothing more complicated than that.”
The silence grew as thick as the blue smoke in the room until a slight breeze slipped through the open windows and deck doors to stir Terry’s papers on the oak table before him.
Terry rose slowly and ground the chair away from him across the plank flooring. “Appears Custer has presented us with quite a salient dilemma here, gentlemen. A real doozy, in fact. For the moment let’s assume he’s correct—that there are more Indians flowing from the reservations than anyone really understands, in addition to those noncompliers who were already off the reservations to begin with when any counts were made.”
Stuffing the moist stub of a cigar in his mouth, Terry scooped up a handful of coffee-stained papers from the table before him. “Here is my telegram to Division HQ in Chicago last Christmas.
The Indians at Standing Rock are selling their hides for ammunition, Indians are closely connected to Sitting Bull’s band. I ordered a stop to such sales, and I suggested that the Interior Department be requested to give similar orders to the traders.”
“Yet those orders weren’t issued until the eighteenth of January,” Gibbon noted sourly.
“That’s correct, John,” Terry replied somberly. “Plenty of time for the hostiles to acquire all the Henry repeaters they’ve wanted for ‘hunting purposes.’ But allow me to continue the progression of Custer’s point. On sixteen February I again wrote Division HQ with my own intelligence, requesting that the three companies of the Seventh Cavalry serving in the Department of the Gulf rejoin their regiment in this department.”
Terry looked up from his sheaf of papers, allowing his eyes to touch most of the officers in the room. “I believe every one a
mong you will realize exactly why I was requesting to have every available man, horse, company, and gun made ready for this campaign. Simply because, gentlemen—we weren’t all that damned sure just what we’d be facing.”
He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. “For if the Indians who passed the winter in the Yellowstone and Powder rivers country should be found gathered in one camp, or in continuous camps, as they usually are so gathered, they could not be attacked without great risk of defeat.”
After the embittered mumbling had passed through the assembled officers, Terry emphasized, “Fellas, I want to repeat. Such a great force of Indians could not be attacked by a flimsy force of troops without great risk.”
As the last words fell from the general’s lips, Custer noticed his commander’s eyes were on him. “The Seventh has never let you or General Sheridan down before, sir,” Custer stated. “With our full compliment of troops, we aren’t about to fail you now.”
“Exactly, Custer,” Terry said. The smile within the general’s dark beard was not lost on a man in the room.
Terry could be quite charming and amiable among his peers—looking more like a professional scholar than a military strategist. Beneath the kind blue eyes and a gently lined face, bronzed by the outdoor life to a hue of old saddle leather, resided a heart brimming with sentiment.
“I merely want all your fellow officers gathered here to understand just what I had to go through to get the Seventh Cavalry put back together for this fight. On twenty-four March I telegraphed Sheridan, asking for the three troops of the Seventh he had stationed down in Louisiana, simply because the most trustworthy scout I had on the Missouri reported not less than two thousand lodges and that the Indians were loaded down with ammunition.”
“Two thousand lodges?” Gibbon bolted upright in his ladder-back chair, ripping the dead cigar from his lips.
“Reported as fact, John. He’s regarded as one of our best.”
“Why, that would make over three thousand warriors ready to fight,” Major Brisbin exclaimed in wonder.
Someone else whistled low and long to fill the silence as thick as the storm clouds gathering outside on the Yellowstone prairie.
“More,” Custer said. “If you count every weapon-carrying male between thirteen and sixty, you very well could have twice that number to take the field.”
“Gentlemen!” Terry held up his hand to quiet the clamor. “Custer could well be right in fearing what numbers we’ll confront. Gentlemen, I want to emphasize what I’ve said. The Indians are confident and intend on making a stand.”
“Are you trying to scare us, General?” Gibbon inquired with a wry smile.
“Not in the least, John.” Terry flashed a quick grin. “It’s just that—well, let me bring in a civilian scout to add some credence to these reports. George! Come on in now!”
From the far door strolled lanky, leathery George Herendeen. Terry had stationed him on the quarterdeck just outside the dining cabin, awaiting his cue from the general.
“This is George Herendeen, a scout of mine who’s worked for the army for many years. Not all that long after we pulled out of Lincoln, I called George into consultation regarding the Sioux we’d be meeting and just how many he expected we’d run up against. Would you tell them what you said to me on that occasion, George?”
“Sure, General,” the tall, weathered scout answered. “I told you what I felt was the truth. I said that a good many Indians have skipped the reservations, and that if all these various bands leaving the agencies unite with the hostiles of Sitting Bull, they’d probably have a force of some four thousand warriors.”
“Besides those sobering numbers, Mr. Herendeen,” Terry prompted, “what appears the disposition of the hostiles at this time?”
“What you have gathering up out there, General, is a convention of the hardest, hell, the very best fighting chiefs known on the plains. They are well armed and well supplied with ammunition and provisions.”
“Thank you, George,” the general nodded to Herendeen as a cue for him to make his exit.
“Excuse me, General. Mr. Herendeen?” Custer pushed off the wall and took a step forward so he could lean on the long, ornate table bolted to the floor in the center of the room. “You brought this scout all the way from Lincoln only to have him tell us this? What is Herendeen to do now?”
“He’ll ride along with Colonel Gibbon and myself as one prong of the attack.”
“I see,” Custer mused, his eyes darting to those maps laid out on the table before Terry. “Mr. Herendeen—”
“Please, General Custer. Call me George.”
“All right,” and he flashed that famous peg-toothed grin of his, “suppose you tell me, George—are you acquainted with Tullock’s Fork—here?”
“Yes, General, I am.”
“Do you know where the head of Tullock’s Fork lies?”
Herendeen nodded, beginning to catch Custer’s drift. “Yep, I do that.”
“What’s this all about, Custer?” Terry inquired suspiciously and not a little impatiently.
“Tullock’s Fork, sir—right here on the divide between the Rosebud and the Little Horn.” Custer stabbed a freckled finger on the map. “It flows north to the Yellowstone where we sit at this moment. If Mr. Herendeen here knows that fork and that divide, he’s the man I want along with me.”
“Pray … what the devil for, Custer?” Terry’s interest was rubbed sore by now.
“For a moment let’s suppose I’ll have some need for a man who knows the lay of the land between the Rosebud and the Little Horn and where the hostiles might best be bottled up so they won’t run on us.”
Terry didn’t reply at first. Instead, his eyes shifted from Custer to Herendeen, then dropped to his maps as he studied Tullock’s Fork and the Wolf Mountains. At last he peered back at the tall, graying scout.
“George? How would you feel about riding along with the Seventh?”
Herendeen scratched at his heavy beard flecked with some winter iron, pondering the proposal as if it were something tangible and weighty. “All right. It’ll be an honor to ride with you, General.”
“I’ll have you know, Mr. Herendeen—I’m going to work you for your keep!”
Most of the officers in the room chuckled along with Custer and the tall scout.
“He means that, Herendeen,” Major Brisbin added, “that Ol’ Iron Butt Custer can ride the pants off any man in this army!”
“Why all this interest in Tullock’s Fork, though?” Gibbon interrupted. “To me it appears these Indians of yours are somewhere up the Rosebud.” He pulled the stub of a dead cigar from his clenched teeth. “We’ve flushed them from the Powder and the Tongue. They’ve got to be far up the Rosebud now—”
“Or …” Custer paused, then said: “on the Little Horn itself.”
Major James Brisbin watched General Terry wave his hand, shouting for silence against the hubbub in the Far West’s dining room, where their afternoon meeting had reached a critical point.
Terry turned to Custer. “Why all this suspicion of the Little Horn?”
“I believe the scout you ordered Major Reno to take—coupled with my own march west to join up with Colonel Gibbon’s forces here at the mouth of the Rosebud—pushed them on over to the Little Horn.”
“Why the hell would the Sioux move over there if they’re reported to be ready and willing to stand and fight?” Gibbon asked, twisting in his chair to look over his shoulder at Custer.
“Simply because Indians choose where they’ll stand and fight, as rare as it is. If the place is not right, if their medicine isn’t strong enough, or if the odds don’t favor them in the slightest—the warriors will run to fight another day.”
“Custer here’s the most experienced Indian fighter we have,” Terry offered by way of explanation.
Brisbin sensed the others in the room give their begrudging agreement.
“They’ll find their place,” Custer continued. “They’ll mak
e their stand. They’ll fight, by God. And gentlemen—I might add it will be a fight worthy of any man’s career.”
“Not just yours, General Custer?” Brisbin growled.
“No, Major.” Custer spat it out like slander. “Any officer with the brains—and the balls—to ride down into them when we find that camp.”
“Perhaps—” Brisbin slapped a glove along his leg. “Just perhaps you’re suggesting a man who’s been brought up on charges twice already for not following the orders of a superior officer—”
“Major!” Custer roared.
The small, tight room grew tighter as every man’s eyes were suddenly directed toward Custer. No longer a rosy-cheeked “Boy General,” the wrinkles of time and sun and wind cut across his brow, crow-footing his eyes and chiseling his cheeks into the thick mustache. A single muscle twitched along his red-stubbled jaw.
“Not once has either of those actions shown that I lost a man on account of what some would claim was my refusal to obey orders.”
“Nonetheless, General,” Brisbin said as he raised a hand for silence in the murmuring room, “without fail you put your men in jeopardy.”
“J-jeopardy?” Custer stammered. “We are soldiers, Major Brisbin!”
“Gentlemen!” Terry stepped between the two as the argument heated far too quickly.
“General?” Custer wheeled on Terry. “It appears the major here suffers from Colonel Gibbon’s green flu.”
Brisbin was certain of it now. He’d struck a raw nerve with Custer. “Green flu?”
“Explain this flu. Custer,” Gibbon himself echoed, glaring at the young cavalry commander.
“Yes, sir. Looks as if Major Brisbin—like you, sir—has grown jealous of General Terry’s decision to have the Seventh deliver the death blow to these Sioux.”
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