Bill O'Reilly's Legends and Lies

by David Fisher

  Finally Stuart withdrew; it was the first time in the war that his cavalry had been stopped. In his report, Custer wrote, “I challenge the annals of warfare to produce a more brilliant or successful charge of cavalry.” There were 254 Union casualties—219 of them were Custer’s men. Reporting Custer’s actions at Gettysburg, the New York Herald called him “the boy General with his flowing yellow curls.”

  The public—and the newspapers—took notice. As Custer continued to distinguish himself throughout the remainder of the war, the media reported each success in increasingly larger headlines. His unusual manner of dress, his brilliant tactical maneuvers, his bravery, and the resulting victories made him great copy. Marching with General Philip Sheridan, Custer’s Third Division contributed to the victory in the 1864 Valley Campaign. In the battle of Yellow Tavern he led a saber charge into Jeb Stuart’s cannon, “advancing boldly,” he reported, “and when within 200 yards of the battery, charged it with a yell which spread terror before them. Two pieces of cannon, two limbers … and a large number of prisoners were among the results of this charge.” Although he did not report it, supposedly his troops moved so quickly that they captured Jeb Stuart’s dinner.

  Two weeks later, after the Wolverines had routed the Rebels at Haws Shop, an officer serving under Custer wrote in awe, “For all this Brigade has accomplished all praise is due to Gen. Custer. So brave a man I never saw and as competent as brave. Under him a man is ashamed to be cowardly. Under him our men can achieve wonders.”

  Custer’s wedding in 1864 to Elizabeth Bacon, the daughter of a politically powerful judge, was a major social event attended by hundreds of prominent guests. Unlike most military wives, Libbie Custer became known for camping with her husband in the field whenever it was deemed safe, explaining years later, “It is infinitely worse to be left behind, a prey to all the horrors of imagining what may be happening to one we love.”

  Custer’s lovely wife, Libbie, seen here with her husband (seated) and his brother Tom Custer (a two-time Medal of Honor recipient who also perished at Little Bighorn), often traveled with her husband on the frontier.

  In the final battle of the Civil War, when Robert E. Lee began his retreat at Appomattox Station, Custer’s division cut off his last route of escape, then captured and secured supplies that Lee’s troops needed desperately. He received the first truce flag from a Confederate force. The newly appointed major general of temporary volunteers was in attendance at the Appomattox Court House when Lee offered his sword in surrender to Grant. In recognition of Custer’s valor, his commander, General Sheridan, purchased the table on which the surrender document was signed and presented it as a gift to Libbie Custer.

  George Custer emerged from the Civil War as a national hero, although at the conclusion of hostilities, his temporary promotion to general of the volunteers ended and he was returned to his permanent rank, once again becoming Captain Custer. Beginning with George Washington, America had rewarded victorious military leaders with political office. General U. S. Grant was already on his way to becoming president, and Custer certainly could have moved into business or politics and transformed his fame into a safe and financially secure life. Railroad and mining companies offered him jobs. He might have accepted the offer to become adjutant general of the army of Mexican president Benito Juárez, which would have put him right back in the middle of battle, this time fighting Emperor Maximilian. But the army refused to give him the year’s leave he requested, meaning he would have had to resign his commission if he wanted to fight for Mexican freedom. He considered running for Congress from Michigan but decided against it, telling Libbie that the political world had surprised him. “I dare not write all that goes on underhand,” he said.

  When President Andrew Johnson toured the country, trying to build support for his Reconstruction policies, he brought George and Libbie Custer with him, knowing that even those who opposed him would turn out to cheer the Custers. Captain Custer’s admittedly large ego was probably bursting from all the attention. He considered all the offers, but in the end, he was a soldier. He loved the challenges of leadership, he loved being with his men on a campaign, he loved the planning and the execution of strategy, but most of all he loved the taste of battle.

  There was only one war left to fight. The Plains Indians were on the warpath.

  Since the beginning of American westward expansion, the native tribes had been continuously pushed into smaller and smaller areas. Those tribes that had tried to fight back were eventually defeated, often at great cost. By the end of the Civil War, only a few tribes—the Sioux, Cheyennes, Arapahos, Kiowas, and Comanches—had the will and the resources to fight for their land and their traditions. The army was sent west to subdue those tribes and force them onto reservations.

  This 1865 Harper’s Weekly photograph shows General Philip Sheridan (second from left) with his generals—Wesley Merritt, George Crook, James William Forsyth, and George Armstrong Custer—around a table examining a document.

  When Congress created four cavalry units to fight the Indians on the western frontier, Custer used his political contacts to secure an appointment as lieutenant colonel of the Seventh Cavalry. Obtaining this command had not been easy; while in Washington, he had become involved in a complicated political situation. He had testified in a corruption hearing against the secretary of war, angering President Grant. Generals Sherman and Sheridan had interceded successfully on his behalf, but certainly there was additional pressure on him to bring back some victories. As General William T. Sherman wrote, Custer “came to duty immediately upon being appointed … and is ready and willing now to fight the Indians.”

  Custer probably discovered rather quickly that the tactics he had mastered against the Confederacy had little value on the Great Plains. The Civil War had been fought in proper military fashion by two great armies that stood face-to-face and battled until one side was decimated. In that type of warfare, Custer’s chosen strategy of attacking ferociously and hitting the enemy before they were prepared for the fight often proved decisive. But the Indians did not fight static battles. Frequently outnumbered and fighting a better-equipped enemy, they had mastered the art of guerrilla warfare. Rather than fighting as one army with a centralized command structure, they would travel and live in small groups. Rather than trying to take and hold territory, raiding parties would attack isolated targets—wagon trains or settlers, for example—then disappear. And rather than fighting a pitched battle when attacked, they would fade into the protective hills and forests.

  Custer found himself chasing an elusive enemy. By the time he would be notified of an attack, homesteads would already have been burned to the ground, victims slaughtered, and the Indians long gone. Through the summer of 1867, Custer’s Seventh Cavalry was reduced to providing limited security when possible, but mostly chasing ghosts. His biggest enemy turned out to be his own growing frustration and anger.

  Any doubts his troops might have begun harboring about his leadership ability were reinforced one day when he spotted a herd of antelope far in the distance. He released the pack of dogs he brought along to track Indians to pursue the herd—and then suddenly took off after them. He rode so fast and so hard that he almost lost sight of his column. He was about to turn back when he saw the first buffalo he had ever laid eyes on and raced toward them. He brought his horse alongside one and ran gloriously at full speed next to this huge animal—and when he finally moved to shoot it with his pistol, the buffalo jostled him, causing him to shoot his own horse in the head. He was thrown into the dirt, but except for some bruises, he was uninjured. Only then did he realize that he was lost and alone on the vast prairie. As he would describe this incident, “How far I had traveled, or in what direction from the column, I was at a loss to know … I had lost all reckoning.”

  Once again, Custer was very lucky: Several hours later his men found him—before the Indians did.

  The Indians were there; the Seventh Cavalry just couldn’t find them. Instead
they kept coming upon the ruins of their attacks. Although Custer had seen many men killed, wounded, and horribly disfigured during the war, this was the first time he had seen evidence of the Indians’ brutality. “I discovered the bodies of the three station-keepers, so mangled and burned as to be barely recognizable as human beings. The Indians have evidently tortured them …” It was determined they had been killed by Sioux and Cheyennes.

  Custer pushed his men hard, and they began to resent him for it. They also resented that Seventh Cavalry officers continued to eat well, while their rations included old bread and maggot-infested meat. In the heat of battle, Custer had been able to mold his troops, but in the summer heat of the plains, he was losing control. To maintain discipline he began tightening his rules. After gold was discovered in the region, thirty-five soldiers deserted and set out to seek their fortunes in the mines. In response, Custer issued a harsh and highly controversial order: Catch them and shoot them. He was reported to have said, loudly enough for all his men to hear, “Don’t bring one back alive.”

  There were alternative punishments—military regulations also permitted him to whip or tattoo them—but he chose the harshest sentence. Three of those deserters were dealt with according to his orders; two of them died of their wounds. By the middle of the summer, his men were on the verge of mutiny. Frustrated, tired, and lonely, Custer made a rash and inexplicable decision: He took seventy-six men with him and rode to eastern Kansas to be with his wife. He deserted his command, and that mistake was compounded when, during the three-day ride, two of his men were picked off by a band of about twenty-five Indians—and still he kept going. Soon after reuniting with Libbie, he was arrested for being absent without leave and for ordering deserters shot without a trial. His court-martial lasted a month, and only a few officers—including his brother Tom—testified on his behalf. The court found him guilty as charged and suspended him from duty without pay for a year. His fall from the heights had been brutally quick; his once-promising career was shattered.

  George Custer had been prepared to deal with pretty much anything—except failure. He had always been able to skirt the rules and get away with it, but not this time. He spent that year trying to rehabilitate his reputation, writing magazine articles detailing his Civil War exploits and justifying the actions for which he had been suspended.

  Meanwhile, the Indians grew bolder. During the summer of 1868, for example, they killed 110 settlers, raped thirteen women, and stole more than a thousand head of cattle. General Sheridan was made commander of the Department of Missouri, a huge area encompassing parts of six future states and the Indian Territory. At his request, Custer’s suspension was ended several months early and he was given orders to “march my command in search of the winter hiding places of the hostile Indians, and wherever found to administer such punishment for past deprecations as my force was able to.” He was ordered to “destroy their villages and ponies, to kill or hang all warriors, and bring back the women and children.”

  Custer was extremely pleased to be recalled, and he had every intention of fulfilling those orders. He knew his career depended on it. On November 26, 1868, Colonel Custer’s scouts located a large Cheyenne village near the Washita River in what is now Oklahoma. The Indians had camped there for the winter. Fearful that his presence would be discovered, Custer decided not to wait for his scouts to gather intelligence. Instead, he planned his attack. Had he waited, he would have learned that the people in this village had nothing to do with attacks on settlers: This was a peaceful camp located on reservation land, where they had settled after the government guaranteed their safety to the chief Black Kettle. A white flag actually was flying from a large teepee, further evidence that this tribe had given up the fight.

  Custer also would have discovered this was simply the westernmost village of a huge Indian camp stretching more than ten miles along the river. In addition to the estimated 250 people in this village, more than six thousand native people from many tribes had made camp there for the winter.

  But even that knowledge might not have discouraged his attack. His determination was so strong that when an aide wondered aloud if there might be more Indians in the camp than was believed, Custer replied firmly, “All I’m afraid of is we won’t find enough. There aren’t enough Indians in the world to defeat the Seventh Cavalry.”

  Custer’s reputation as an Indian fighter was established in his 1868 attack on a large Cheyenne village on the Washita River, where he first employed the tactics that would doom his troops on the Little Bighorn.

  He divided his 720 men into four elements and, at dawn, attacked from four positions. The signal to attack was the unit band striking up the song “Garry Owens.” The unprepared Cheyennes were unable to mount any kind of defense and instead dispersed into the surrounding hills and foliage. The chief, Black Kettle, and his wife were killed in the first moments of the fighting. While Custer later reported killing 103 Cheyennes, that figure is generally accepted to be greatly exaggerated, with the actual number being closer to fifty. But that number included many noncombatants—women and even children. The Seventh Cavalry also took fifty-three hostages, who were put on horses and dispersed among the troops. But in the midst of the battle, several warriors reached their horses and escaped. Major Joel Elliott, Custer’s second in command, took seventeen men and raced downstream in pursuit.

  As the battle raged, Custer must have been stunned when he looked up at the top of the rise and saw as many as a thousand warriors “armed and caparisoned in full war costume” looking down upon his force. “[T]his seemed inexplicable,” he wrote later. “Who could these new parties be, and from whence came they?” It was only after the battle that he learned the true size of the camp. However, his desperate strategy had been successful—it would have been impossible for those warriors to attack without risking the lives of the hostages. Custer feigned an advance, and rather than engaging him, the Indians dispersed.

  Fully aware that he was outnumbered, Custer waited for nightfall and then ordered his troops to burn the village to the ground, destroy the herd of horses, and withdraw—without waiting for Major Elliott and his men to return or sending out scouts to find him. Many of his men considered leaving troops behind on the battlefield an unpardonable sin, among them Elliott’s close friend, H Company captain Frederick Benteen. Custer claimed that he had ordered the withdrawal to prevent additional casualties and that he was confident that Elliott would return on his own.

  Elliott and all his men seemed to have disappeared. Two weeks after the battle, Custer returned to the river with a large force, and, as he described, “We suddenly came upon the stark, stiff, naked and horribly mutilated bodies of our dead comrades…. Undoubtedly numbered more than one hundred to one, Elliott dismounted his men, tied their horses together and prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible…. The bodies of Elliott and his band … were found lying within a circle not exceeding twenty yards.” Major Elliott’s force had been wiped out, apparently in a single charge.

  Although it would have been impossible for Custer to know it, as he bent over the bodies of his men, he was looking at his own future.

  Despite this loss, the media celebrated the battle of Washita as the first major victory of this frustrating campaign, helping to at least partially restore Custer’s tarnished reputation. He became known as a great Indian fighter. And his innovative strategy of taking hostages to prevent Indian counterattacks was replicated successfully by other commanders. At the battle of North Fork three years later, the 284 men of Colonel Ranald Mackenzie’s Fourth Cavalry defeated 500 Comanche warriors by taking 130 women and children to shield their withdrawal and used those hostages to force the tribe to return to the reservation and release its white prisoners.

  But there were rumblings of dissent. As the public learned the details of the attack on a peaceful tribe, some insisted that it was a massacre of innocents rather than a great victory. Then The New York Times published an anonymous letter accusing C
uster of abandoning Elliott’s men in the field. The irate Custer responded by meeting with his officers and demanding to know who had written it, threatening to horsewhip that person. However, when Captain Benteen stepped forward and admitted it was his work, Custer backed off, although clearly from that point forward there was bitterness between the two officers.

  To protect himself from further criticism, Custer surrounded himself with family members, close friends, and proven supporters, including his brother Tom—a two-time Medal of Honor winner—his brother Boston, and his brother-in-law James Calhoun.

  Soldiers are prone to dehumanize the enemy during wartime, but Custer’s feelings about the Indians were ambivalent. On one hand, he wrote that hunting buffalo was as exciting as hunting Indians. On the other, he showed great sympathy for the tribes in his book, even suggesting that if he had been treated as unfairly as the government had dealt with the Indians, he might have rebelled, too. Earlier in his life he had learned sign language to teach deaf children and had also studied Spanish at West Point, which made him one of the few officers able to communicate with the Plains Indians in the sign-language Spanish that the tribes used. And finally, there are accounts that he had a long-term relationship with an Indian woman named Spring Grass, who had been taken as a hostage at the Washita River. She was “an exceedingly comely squaw,” he wrote, “possessing a bright cheery face [and] a countenance beaming with intelligence.” According to Captain Benteen, Custer shared his tent with her both in camp and during his campaigns, when she served as a translator. Spring Grass eventually bore two children, although rumors hinted strongly that their father was Tom Custer, because George Custer suffered from gonorrhea contracted during his time at West Point.