Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  For the next ten minutes, I raced around making sure the ammunition packs were taken off the horses, for the horse holders were having trouble controlling them. About twenty men from our south flank finally came in, most from Company C, a few from Company I. I didn’t see anyone from Company L.

  Commotion on my right. Some Cheyenne had rushed forward waving blankets, scaring Company E’s horses. More than a dozen got away, running down the long slope toward the river. One of the gray horses had a helpless soldier bouncing on his back, riding straight into the hands of the enemy. If he had a pistol, he’d best use it on himself before letting the Indians catch him.

  I went to kneel by Tom. He was sitting against a dead horse, the Winchester in his hands and four boxes of ammunition lying next to him. Dr. Lord was working on the wound, which looked serious.

  “You’re not walking anytime soon, Tom,” Dr. Lord said.

  The doctor, already in poor health, looked very frightened. All around us, soldiers were preparing to fight it out. It didn’t seem that we had much choice.

  “Boston. Young Autie,” Tom said, pointing to our little brother and Maggie’s son. What had started for them as a summer lark suddenly wasn’t so diverting.

  “Smith. Smith, I need Company E,” I said.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Smith is dead,” Sergeant Hughes answered, pointing to the corpse fifteen feet away. An unlucky bullet had struck him through the head.

  I looked around and saw several of the men were wounded. Arrows began to fall around us. How had the Indians gotten so close?

  “Bouyer! Bouyer!” I shouted.

  The scout came running, his trail leathers dirty and tinged with blood. But it wasn’t his blood. One hand held a revolver, the other a hatchet.

  “Told ya, Gen’ral. I told ya, I told ya, I told ya,” he sputtered.

  “Yes, you told me. Now I need you to take Company E. Break out to the river,” I said. “Company F will cover your charge and then follow. Hurry, there isn’t much time.”

  As Bouyer ran off, I turned to Tom.

  “We’ll get you on a horse. Lead the charge. Take Boston and Autie with you. The regimental staff will cover you from here.”

  “There’s no riding out for me, brother,” Tom answered. “I’m going to die right here where I am now. But I’m not selling my life cheap. You should lead the charge.”

  Something hit me in the chest. Something hard. It wasn’t an arrow. I reached under my shirt and found a bloody hole. Probably a spent shell, but painful. As I could still breathe, I doubted the wound was fatal. It was my judgment that had proven fatal. I sat down next to Tom, keeping upright by leaning on my Remington Sporting rifle.

  I could hear the screams of the Indians now. War hoops. Heavy gunfire, some of it captured Springfields. A thousand warriors had surrounded the hill, firing and ducking. Firing and ducking. Elusive targets, and most of my men weren’t trained as sharpshooters. Steel-tipped arrows fell around us. I soon ran out of ammunition for my rifle and drew one of the Webley Bulldog pistols. What had happened to Vic? Was he dead? Run off? I would never know.

  “Trevilian Station was tough, too,” I said to Tom.

  “Jumping the Reb lines at Sailor’s Creek was no picnic,” Tom answered.

  He had won his second Medal of Honor at Sailor’s Creek, and was shot through the face doing it.

  “It’s not looking good, Tom,” I regretfully reported.

  “They’ve got us this time,” he agreed. “Get the boys out, if you can.”

  It hurt like Hades, but I slowly stood up next to my silk guidon, fired several shots, and turned to my subordinates. Lieutenant Reily was sitting near the top of the hill trying to reload his Colt. He’d been shot in the hand and was bleeding heavily.

  “Cooke, Hughes, Voss. Afraid I’ll need you to stay with me,” I sadly ordered. “Everyone else who can still move, prepare to charge the river. We’ll cover you as long as we can. And God help you.”

  Company E still held the forward position. Company F was near the hilltop. I looked for Georgie Yates but didn’t see him. Poor Annie. Poor Libbie.

  “Bouyer, get going,” I said with a grunt.

  To encourage them, Voss blew the Charge on his trumpet. Bouyer led about thirty men down the hill, some firing their rifles, most using their Colts. The Indians briefly scattered, giving them a chance.

  “Harry, your turn. Charge,” I ordered.

  Voss blew the trumpet one last time, weakly. He’d taken an arrow to his neck.

  With Harrington in the lead, about fifteen men got up and followed Company E toward the big gully. From there they might fight their way through to the river, and the village beyond looked deserted.

  “Boston. Autie—get going. That’s an order,” I insisted.

  The young men were scared to death, but it did not take extra motivation to get them moving. There was nothing but doom waiting on the hill. With a final glance back, they rushed to keep up with Company F.

  Now I saw hundreds of Indians rising up. They were popping from the grass. Jumping from ravines. Appearing out of nowhere. Some had rifles, some bows and arrows. Many were wearing Seventh Cavalry hats and blouses. Company E battled to the deep gully, their guidon flying, and then disappeared. Company F didn’t make it that far, blocked by braves waving tomahawks and clubs. Boston and Young Autie caught up to the faltering skirmish line, firing their pistols. Then they faded from view in the swirling dust.

  I fired my Webley, sitting behind a dead horse near Tom. There had been forty or so of us remaining on the hill, but our rate of fire slackened. Cooke fell, fighting gallantly to the last, and then Voss. Riley now had two arrows in him and was still trying to reload his Colt. He should have stayed at the Naval Academy and become an admiral. No Sioux on the high seas.

  Tom leaned forward on his dead horse, shouting at the enemy and doing terrible damage with his Winchester. It would be a long time before these heathens forgot such courage.

  I should have been as brave, or angry, or frustrated, but I felt nothing. No emotions. No fear. A complete absence of feeling. Until the pain in my chest increased. Perhaps the wound had been more serious than I thought.

  I looked for Dr. Lord, but he lay farther up the hill, an arrow in his shoulder. He was trying to treat a private who was already dead.

  “Tom,” I whispered, starting to feel faint.

  I drew my other Webley and fired a round, but doubt I hit anything. My blue and red guidon, the one Libbie had sewn for me, was flapping in a light breeze, held by Hughes as he fought to the end. The sky was blue, streaked with smoke and dust.

  “Autie,” Tom said, sliding next to me.

  Suddenly I was on my back, lying against the dead horse, arms unable to move.

  “I’m sorry, Tommy. So sorry,” I whispered.

  “They’re coming up the hill. Nothing we can do will stop them,” Tom said. “I won’t let them have you. I love you, brother. I love you.”

  I felt the barrel of a Colt .45 placed against my temple.

  The world returned. The real world. Crockett and Slow were staring at me in the glittering firelight. Had they seen what I had seen? The night had turned cold. It was somewhere between midnight and dawn, the full moon drifting over the western horizon. Owls hooted in the woods.

  “You okay, George?” Crockett asked.

  “I guess so. You?” I said.

  “A bit shook. And I thought the Alamo was hellfire,” he said.

  “You were courageous. And stupid,” Slow said with disapproval.

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  Crockett offered me his jug. I took a swig, feeling the jolt. My brow was covered in sweat. My legs felt numb.

  “I still don’t see the point of these visions,” I complained. “Hallucinations prove nothing. Wounded men on morphine see all sorts of strange things, and Bloody Knife often spoke of visions. Nothing ever came of them.”

  “There was a sun dance on the Rosebud after the defeat of the General Crook,” S
low said in disagreement. “In this vision, soldiers were seen falling into the camp of the People. The vision was true. We won a great victory on the Greasy Grass.”

  “Then why are we here? What’s all this ’bout a different path?” Crockett asked.

  “The vision warned the People not to covet the goods of the white man,” Slow explained. “To keep the shirts and trinkets of the white man is to become the white man. The People did not listen.”

  “You can’t blame folks for wanting a better life,” I said. “Iron pots are better for cooking than stomach linings. Blankets are valuable in the winter when buffalo hides become scarce. Crops and cattle will feed villages when game is scarce.”

  “Cherokee learned that. All the Five Nations did. Din’t save ’em from losin’ thar lands,” Crockett said.

  “What happened to the Cherokee was a disgrace,” I said. “They proved themselves civilized. Can’t say that about the Sioux and Cheyenne. They murder homesteaders. Ambush stagecoaches. History proves those who stand in the way of civilization will be pushed aside.”

  “Not if they fight,” Slow said.

  “Especially if they fight, not that they don’t have good cause,” I replied. “If I was an Indian, I would fight for my land. But there comes a time when fighting just makes things worse.”

  “I will never believe that,” Slow insisted.

  He reached into his pouch and grabbed another handful of the mystic herbs. I wanted to get away from the fire but reacted too late. There was a puff of smoke, and then a gradual descent into a different reality.

  Crockett and I stood as ghosts, observing a pathetic scene. A bleak village of several hundred Indians huddled along a frozen creek, the snow ankle deep. Tall pine trees dripped icy branches. There were a few horses, underweight and scratching at the ground for fodder. Had they belonged to the Seventh, they’d likely have been destroyed.

  A stocky chief emerged from his teepee, probably in his late forties but looking ancient. It could have been an older version of Slow, but I wasn’t sure. Waiting for him were three men, two wearing the uniforms of Canadian Mounties, the third in civilian dress. They appeared grim.

  “Sitting Bull, the Queen Mother can do no more,” the civilian said with a British accent.

  “My people are not starving,” Sitting Bull replied.

  The Indian agent looked around at the blank faces. Worn out. Dispirited. Homesick.

  “They soon will be,” the Brit said.

  Sitting Bull nodded his head. It was true.

  “Mr. Walsh, the bluecoats still seek revenge for Yellow Hair,” Sitting Bull protested.

  “The Americans have agreed to your return,” Walsh said. “When the snow melts, go to Fort Buford. You will not be harmed.”

  “This is not the path Tunkasila Wakantanka seeks for my people,” Sitting Bull stubbornly resisted.

  “The buffalo are gone. The deer are few. Elk are rarely seen,” Walsh said. “I do not think your Great Spirit wishes death for your people.”

  “To surrender is death for my people.”

  “The Queen Mother will not force you to leave her domain. This is a thing you must decide for yourself,” Walsh said.

  As the three white men left, a woman cradling a baby emerged from the teepee. She looked worried.

  “Can the Blackfeet not help?” she asked.

  “No, wife. They have done all they can,” Sitting Bull said.

  “You named our son for Crow Foot.”

  “The Blackfeet and the Lakota were once bitter enemies. Now Crow Foot is my friend. We have smoked the pipe. But the Blackfeet are poor, as are we.”

  “Will you surrender?” Sitting Bull’s wife asked.

  “I will go south when the snows melt,” Sitting Bull said.

  It wasn’t Canada anymore. I recognized the city. Pittsburgh. And I recognized the man in the elaborate buckskin outfit. It was Bill Cody. A stagecoach drove at a rapid pace around a crowded dirt arena, chased by fierce mounted Indians in war paint. Bonnets flew, lances were waved. Indian war cries filled the air. A brave guard on the stagecoach fired his shotgun as women screamed.

  And then there was a bugle call. A charge. U.S. Cavalry rushed from a gate to the rescue at a full gallop. After a brief, bloodless skirmish, the Indians rode off through the same gate the cavalry had appeared from. A thousand spectators rose in their seats, clapping and cheering.

  What the hell? I thought.

  Then Bill Cody rode into the arena on a magnificent white stallion, the silver saddle glistening. Next to him, on an impressive mount, was Sitting Bull dressed in white fringed leather, a feathered war bonnet draped down his back. I guessed him in his mid-50s. He posed like a cigar store Indian. A mockery of his former self.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you!” Cody shouted. “And thank you, Sitting Bull, and the braves of the noble Sioux Nation.”

  Most of the people cheered, but not all. Some grumbled in anger. Sitting Bull showed no reaction, remaining stone-faced until he and Cody rode from the arena.

  Outside the gate was a colorful collection of tents, almost like a circus. Horses were being watered by young boys. Many of the Indians, and some of the cavalry, were sitting together at a long table eating fried chicken. A black minstrel wandered around playing lively tunes on a banjo. A tiny woman dressed in red leather trimmed with black fringe was surrounded by eager admirers. She wore a large floppy hat and held a small gauge shotgun under one arm.

  “Don’t let them bother you,” Cody said to his companion. “That ruffian who threatened you yesterday got worse than he bargained for. It was good publicity.”

  “The white man cannot hurt me,” Sitting Bull said. “I feel sad for your people. But for a few, they have no wealth. The children go hungry. Money has replaced the Great Spirit in their hearts.”

  “Nothing wrong with money. I’m paying you fifty dollars a week plus expenses, ain’t I?” Cody bragged. “And I don’t take any of your autograph money, do I? You get what? Five dollars a scribble?”

  “I do not charge the children,” Sitting Bull answered.

  “Sure would like to sign you for the ’86 season,” Cody urged. “We’ll do the whole Eastern seaboard. New York, Philadelphia, Boston.”

  “A red man belongs in his wigwam,” Sitting Bull said with a touch of satire. “I will go home and tell my people to reject the gifts of the white man.”

  “You’re going home a rich man. You got enough cash now to buy horses and cattle,” Cody said.

  “And a cabin,” Sitting Bull said. “I would like a cabin.”

  Sitting Bull walked away from Cody, but not in anger. They seemed to get along well enough. Then I saw Sitting Bull smile as he approached the young woman in red leather. I heard him call her Watanya Cicilla. Little Sure Shot.

  The scene abruptly changed. I was feeling tired. Crockett stood alongside me, equally weary. I glanced down to see if he held the jug of corn whisky, but his hands were empty.

  A few years had passed, or so I supposed. Sitting Bull was in a warm log cabin on a cold day, surrounded by half a dozen family members. A wood burning stove in the corner was frying wheat cakes. Modern cooking utensils hung on the kitchen wall. Nearly everyone was draped in store-bought wool blankets. A small maple cabinet held boxes of sugar, tins of coffee, and several bottles of medicinal cures. Which, in my experience, usually contained grain alcohol. Two of the young men wore the heavy canvas pants popular in the mining camps.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come out, old man. Come out,” a Sioux voice demanded.

  Sitting Bull wrapped a shawl over his drooping shoulders and went to the door, opening it slowly. There were forty armed Indians dressed as reservation policemen, their blue jackets and gray pants similar to cavalry uniforms. Their black boots were machine-cut leather. A few wore heavy woolen coats. The young policemen were nervous, looking to their leaders for guidance.

  “What do you want, Bullhead?” Sitting Bull asked.


  “The soldiers at Fort Yates want to see you. They want to know if you encourage the Ghost Dancers,” Bullhead said, forcing his way into the cabin.

  “I will come later,” Sitting Bull promised.

  “You will come now, before your followers gather,” Bullhead insisted.

  “You were once my follower,” Sitting Bull said.

  “That was long ago. Red Tomahawk is getting your horse. We must hurry,” Bullhead said.

  The tall Indian policeman held the door open, a hand on his holstered pistol. It was an Army Colt .45. His uniform bore lieutenant’s bars on the shoulders.

  Sitting Bull reluctantly went outside, followed by his wife and older son. The village was made of cabins with stone chimneys, teepees, and slat board shanties. A corral held several horses, and in a pasture beyond was a small herd of cattle. It had snowed recently, the ground slushy. One group of Indian policemen, a dozen or so, stood near Sitting Bull’s cabin, the others lingering back.

  Before long, Sioux were arriving from all over the Hunkpapa village, possibly two hundred men, women and children, most but not all bundled against the cold. The Indian policemen grew worried, outnumbered five to one. A burly private brought a horse from the corral that looked like the same one Bill Cody had ridden, though it probably wasn’t. The horse was fitted with a sturdy western saddle like those made in St. Louis.

  “Get on your horse,” Bullhead said.

  “I will not,” Sitting Bull answered.

  Several of the Indian police readied their rifles. Ironically, they carried Springfield carbines. The crowd grew angry. They had weapons, too. A few carried Winchesters.

  “Do not cause trouble, old man. You will go to the fort,” Bullhead demanded.

  “Maybe, but not now,” Sitting Bull said, turning back toward the cabin.

  “And you will not make him,” Sitting Bull’s son said, about fifteen years old and holding a pistol.

  “Make no trouble, Crow Foot,” Sitting Bull said to the hot-head. “These slaves of the white man have no power over me.”

  Sitting Bull’s wife stood in the cabin doorway looking fearful. Two of the Indian policemen moved in closer, prepared to seize the old medicine man if necessary.