There followed a long moment of silence in the room before Gibbon spoke. “If you do go, it will be a death blow. But not to the Indians, Custer. You’ll be lucky if you get out of there with the shirt on your back and what you have left for a scalp still clinging to your head!”
Custer turned to Terry, winking. As if to say Gibbon was proving his own jealousy.
“You know well enough my plan doesn’t allow Custer a solitary hand in this action, John.” General Terry laid his papers on the table and gazed steadily at Gibbon. “He’ll be moving in concert with us.”
Gibbon scoffed. “Hardly, General. This man has never moved in concert with anything but his own ambitions. He may appear ready to work with us in this maneuver … but he’s most able and indeed ready to seek a way out of the confines of what you’ve planned for him, sir.”
“John”—and this time Terry’s voice was quieter than normal—“I don’t believe I’m hearing you say this. Could it be true that you do indeed find my plan somewhat distasteful?”
Gibbon glared at Terry a moment as if found out, then his eyes softened as he stared out the window at the water of the Yellowstone whipping past. “Alfred, with all due respect, my four troops of Second Cavalry from Fort Ellis have been in the field since the twenty-second of February. I put my six companies of infantry from Fort Shaw on the trail of these bloody savages back in March. Since that time both my cavalry and foot soldiers haven’t returned to their station—”
“What’s the point of this, General?” Custer appealed to Terry.
“Point, Custer?” Gibbon snapped. “The point is there isn’t a man among those soldiers who hasn’t come to regard these Sioux as his very own. Why, we’ve been waiting some five long months to corral and contain these red buggers! By all that’s holy—by all that’s just—I again appeal to you, General. Allow my troops the honor of crushing them!”
“John,” General Terry whispered, the quiet appeal filling the dining room against the backdrop of rhythmic wavelets lapping along the hull. “I’ve already decided, and that decision will stand. The strongest unit I can field will make our attack. The unit that is the most ready for battle will spearhead this operation. The Seventh Cavalry.”
“We are at full strength, Colonel,” Custer jumped quickly to conciliate. “Many of your men and animals are simply worn out. It’s been a long spring for them. Surely, sir—we can bury this hatchet and find a way to restore amicable relations between our regiments once more. I want no glory for myself alone. Instead, I seek only to play what role General Terry designs for me in this campaign. Believe me, I don’t seek to take anything from you or your men. I want only to perform my duty as a soldier.”
“And what duty is that, Custer?” Gibbon inquired.
“To do as ordered, sir.”
“Only what General Terry sends you to do?”
“Exactly, yes, sir.”
“And if General Terry sends you to scout the location of the hostiles? If he orders you to find them first, then wait until you can perform in concert with my forces? What then, Custer?”
He gulped slightly, adjusting his shoulders nervously. “I am a soldier first, sir.” Custer’s back snapped rigid. “I live as a soldier. I will most certainly die not having forsaken that profession, Colonel.”
“I believe, gentlemen,” Terry yanked every man’s attention back to himself, “that we’ve answered that question concerning Custer. Suppose we proceed.”
“General Terry?” Brisbin bristled, barely containing his disappointment.
Terry looked at the commander of the Second Cavalry under Gibbon. “Yes?”
“Will you take up the matter of Custer’s use of Lieutenant Low’s Gatling guns now?”
“Yes, we will.” Terry nodded, his quick blue eyes a little nervous. “I suppose we should dispense with that consideration as the next order of business.”
“Gentlemen,” Gibbon interrupted, “I suggested to General Terry that if Custer were indeed going to take the lead in this operation, he should at least take along the Gatlings for the safety of his command.”
“I could not agree more, and let the record show my concurrence, sir.” Brisbin smiled. “When you consider that they can fire over two hundred fifty rounds per minute at some nine hundred yards—I can’t imagine any commander trailing such a massive congregation of hostiles without those guns at his disposal.”
“The Gatlings are old,” Custer replied firmly. There arose a quiet gasp from those officers sweating in the room. “Since seventy-two the army has preferred the Hotchkiss gun. But whatever the case, as for me—the Gatlings will slow me down. I’m leaving them behind.”
“Slow you down?” Gibbon, an old artillery officer and proponent of the Gatlings, could not believe what he heard. “You’re on a scout, Custer—intending to find the Indians and prevent them from scattering. That’s all, Custer. But for the sake of your men, I implore you to take those guns. For some reason I’m not all that sure you and your Seventh won’t stumble into more than you can handle keeping those hostiles contained until my troops can come up. With all those estimates we’ve heard out of the reports here this afternoon, why—those Gatlings might just save your notable scalp.”
“I appreciate the concern for my scalp, Colonel. I consider it a high compliment, to be sure. But with respect, those guns are heavy, and I want to be able to move as fast and as light as I can. Those Gatlings would very likely kill me before they’d ever save a single trooper’s neck.”
Terry coughed. “You choose to leave the Gatlings behind?”
Custer studied Terry before answering the general’s question, as if reconsidering one last time. He had thought it over and knew what unknown factors he was heading into, measuring those odds as best he could. He was, after all, a horse soldier. Pure and simple. Being that and that only had served him well in the Civil War and across the plains, from south to north. Custer was a horse soldier. Cavalry. Nothing more than horses and men … and guts.
“Yes, sir. I’ve chosen to leave the Gatlings behind.”
“Very well, gentlemen. This matter of the Gatlings has been decided.”
“General Terry?” Gibbon said, his eyes still locked on Custer.
“Yes, John.”
“Since Custer refuses to take along the guns for an added measure of safety, has he considered my offer of Brisbin’s cavalry to ride along as a means of giving him more strength, yet with that mobility of the cavalry he so ardently espouses?”
Terry directed his attention to Custer. “What say you to the offer of Brisbin’s Second Cavalry?”
“At my disposal?”
Terry shifted his gaze to Gibbon with that question unspoken between them. In turn Gibbon looked at Brisbin.
Grasshopper Jim found himself nodding reluctantly. “Yes,” he sighed. “Major Brisbin and his cavalry completely at your disposal, Colonel Custer.”
“I can only thank you for your generous offer, Major. And yours, too, Colonel Gibbon.” Custer smiled again. “However, as you say, we are to keep the hostiles from scattering on us once more. Seems that’s all they’ve been doing to Major Brisbin all spring.”
Custer let the weight of that affront hang in the air. Brisbin opened his mouth, but Gibbon raised his hand, shutting him up, allowing Custer to continue. Brisbin figured Gibbon wanted Custer to hang himself with his ample tongue.
“No, General Terry,” Custer continued. “I don’t think we’ll run into a thing the Seventh isn’t capable of handling all by itself.”
Brisbin seethed in silent fury at the breach of military etiquette.
“Shall we take up this matter of the scouts to ride along with Custer on the reconnaissance?”
Gibbon nodded in resignation. It was his only response to Terry’s question.
Terry continued, clearing his throat. “Very well. Colonel Gibbon has selected six of his finest Crow scouts to accompany the Seventh. To the Crow the colonel is known as No Hip. His most trusted Crow scouts wil
l be ferried across the Yellowstone this evening and presented to your regiment, Custer. They’re to act as a medium of communication between our two commands while in the field. I want to stress this fact—you already have some forty Arikara scouts. Gibbon has but thirty now that these six Crow boys are loaned to you. The Crows are more for our benefit than yours on this exploration of yours up the Rosebud. These six are really for service to Gibbon.”
“How can they be of service to Gibbon if they’re riding with me?”
“Because you’ll use them to communicate with Gibbon’s command. When you locate the Indian encampment, find out where the hostiles are going, their strength, then dispatch one or more of the Crows back to Gibbon with word. Only in that way can we execute this pincer movement that will keep the hostiles from escaping our noose. In fact, Gibbon here is even assigning Mitch Bouyer to you. He’s got a Crow wife. Been living with the Crow for some time. But he’s half Sioux. A good man. Trained under none other than Jim Bridger himself. Gibbon evidently feels you should have the best, Custer.”
“I appreciate that,” Custer answered.
“Very well,” Terry replied with a sigh, staring down at those charts and maps spread across the oak table. “If only we knew what has become of General Crook and his forces.” He tapped a finger down the Rosebud. “Somewhere … down to the south of us … is our third prong. And only God knows where.”
As the rest of the officers leaned in round the table, studying the maps, the commander of the Department of Dakota stood tall and cadaverously thin over his papers, deep in thought. “What I propose to do now is to go over this report by Major Reno’s scout and look over these charts on the Rosebud and Wolf Mountains. We even have some surveyor’s maps given us by the Northern Pacific Railroad.”
“Do any of them show us where General Crook is at this moment?”
“No, Custer. We have no idea where Crook is,” Terry said. “But more important to this campaign—and to you—is figuring out just where the Indians under Sitting Bull might be gathering.”
CHAPTER 5
NOT long after Terry’s officers hunkered round the table over those maps and charts, the sky opened up as if someone had slit its underbelly and everything tumbled out.
For the first few minutes it rained, assaulting the Far West and all the troops on shore with drops the size of tobacco wads. When the wind suddenly shifted out of the north, the rain just as quickly turned to hail—huge, ugly, sharp-edged weapons from the heavens.
By the time the storm rumbled past and sundown was at hand, the ground lay white and the air chilled John Gibbon to his marrow.
“Isn’t that just like the high plains, gentlemen?” Custer asked, as he, Terry, and Gibbon crunched across a thick layer of hail icing the ground as far as a man could see. “One day you broil your brain, … and if you’re still alive the next, you catch your death of cold.”
Both Gibbon and Terry chuckled with the young lieutenant colonel as they drew near Custer’s tent at the center of his Officers’ Row on the south side of the Yellowstone.
“I wish I had more to offer you in the way of refreshment,” Custer apologized. “Just never got a handle on this matter of alcohol.”
“No matter.” Terry freed some of the top buttons of his tunic. “I think I’ve had quite enough for the day as it is.”
Gibbon glanced at Terry. “We came along for only a moment, Custer. To speak with you in private.”
Custer appeared perplexed as he settled on his prairie bed, a tick stuffed with grass. “Why is that?”
“Armstrong,” Terry began. He removed his hat and shook the water from the crown. “I need to reemphasize some concerns of mine now that we three are alone. I have only the two of you with me … the two who will form the pincers of this campaign.”
“Sir?”
“You’ve made it perfectly clear to everyone that you don’t want the Gatlings nor Major Brisbin’s cavalry along. I could beg you to reconsider, Armstrong. Hell, I could order you to reconsider … if I thought it’d do any good.” Terry sounded as morose as his dark beard. “But I’m afraid ordering you to take them wouldn’t be an answer either.”
“No, sir. It wouldn’t in the slightest.” His eyes held steadily on Terry’s.
“I think I share the general’s opinions of your talents here, Custer,” Gibbon offered with rare candor. “Even though I don’t approve of your methods at times.” He slipped his hat from his head, running a hand over his thinning hair. “I haven’t spent all these years in this man’s army not to recognize a young officer who’s going places. But we all want you to understand that you have much more at stake here. Not merely your reputation—”
“A reputation that’s been tarnished from time to time,” Custer interrupted. “Is that what you mean to say?”
“Only for doing what you felt was right.” Terry put a hand up so Gibbon wouldn’t reply. “I know. Let’s just say you got caught in some political traps through no fault of your own, and we’ll leave it at that.”
At that moment a black woman appeared at Custer’s tent flaps. Terry’s eyes flicked at Gibbon, watching consternation boil across the colonel’s face.
“John, this is Maria,” Terry introduced Custer’s servant.
Custer waited for her to curtsy to Gibbon before he explained, “She’s been with me since 1873 when my former maid ran off with a teamster after my unit transferred to Fort Rice. Maria’s been on both the Yellowstone and Black Hills campaigns with me.”
“Ginnel,” Mary began, bowing her head politely. “Sorry. I didn’t know you had com’ny, sir. I’ll come back later on.”
“No, that’s quite all right, Mary. You go right ahead and work on what you were doing.”
“I won’t be in the way?”
“Not at all,” Custer replied. She slipped past him into the tent. “Maria is quite the cook. Should you both choose to stay the evening, we’ll fix up some special dumplings for supper to go along with her sage hens. Including some delicious prairie onions she’s dug up hereabouts.”
“Thank you—no, Custer,” Terry answered for them both. “We’ll be heading back to the Far West. A lot planned yet for this evening. Still, Mary’s sage hen with dumplings does sound inviting. I’ll trust you to invite me to dinner when we get back home? Mary?”
She turned, surprised that General Terry had addressed her so directly. “Why, of course, Ginnel. Anytime you say. Anytime you and the Missus wanna have the hens. I’d be much pleased to cook for you.”
“Maria here is even taking some live sage hens back to the fort with her when she leaves in the morning.”
“Oh?” Terry glanced at the black woman. “You’re leaving in the morning?”
“Yessuh.”
“I’m sending her east with Chawako and his Rees, who are heading back to your Powder River depot, where she can board a supply steamer, taking our mail and dispatches with her to Lincoln. Since the Seventh pulls out in the morning, there’s going to be a lot of mail: letters to family back east … sweethearts and wives. I wouldn’t doubt but there’ll be a lot of greenbacks headed east on that ride too.”
“Dollars that sutler Coleman didn’t get his hands on yet? Now, that’s hard to imagine!” Terry guffawed with Gibbon and Custer. “That trader can smell a man with a coin in his pocket at fifty paces!”
“And pick that man’s pocket at ten paces!” Gibbon stated.
“You certainly know the man, don’t you?” Terry laughed all the harder. “Mary, I will take you up on that offer. When we return to the fort, Custer—you and Libbie must have us over for dinner.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Custer.” Terry cleared his throat, then said, “In all confidence—between the three of us—the plan for this campaign awards you and the Seventh the brunt of the action and hence the lion’s share of the—”
“Glory, sir?”
“Why, yes. Nothing short of the glory.”
“We won’t let you down, General.
” Custer pursed his lips beneath the straw mustache.
“That goes a long way to relieving my anxieties, Custer. In that event I’ll issue your written orders in the morning.” Terry got to his feet as he slipped his campaign hat over his dark hair. “If you have any further questions at that time, we can go over them before you embark on your scout. For now, however, my mind is quite fogged enough as it is. We were at that meeting from near three o’clock until close to sundown! Life at the War Department in Washington City must be quite a bore compared to field action—eh, gentlemen?
“I plan to rest through the shank of the evening and see you off in the morning. Then I’ll get Gibbon’s outfit squared away and dispatched down the Bighorn to meet with you.”
“An effective plan, General,” Custer answered, his azure eyes smiling.
“Custer?” Terry stared at the ground a moment, as if tongue-tied. “One more thing—I’m not all that sure … sure just what to say for the last.”
That caught Custer completely off-guard. “Say … say whatever you want to say, General.”
Terry gazed at Gibbon a moment. Gibbon nodded.
The general sighed before he spoke. “Remember this, Custer: use your own judgment and do what you think best if you strike the trail. If you find my concept for this campaign impractical under the circumstances you encounter, you can change it … accepting full responsibility for varying from my plan, you understand.”
Custer nodded, a hard smile still crow-footing his eyes with tiny wrinkles.
“And, Custer—whatever you do—by God, hold onto your wounded. Just hold onto your wounded.”
“Yes, General.” Custer squinted quickly, his pale blue eyes gazing past Terry to the deepening indigo of the evening sky outside and the first faint splash of the stars spread across the darkening canopy reaching far across the southern horizon. Up the Rosebud. “The wounded … they will be protected. I promise you both that.”
Gibbon set his hat over his thinning hair and swiped the back of a hand beneath his huge nose as he turned to step out the tent flaps.
Terry halted at the doorway.
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