by Judy Alter
After that I pored over each of his letters, reading them two and three times, seeing in my mind's eye a picture of him dashing into battle, sword waving on high, hair blowing in the breeze.
Once back on duty, Armstrong was detailed to the staff of Brigadier General Alfred Pleasanton and almost immediately sent on a reconnaissance mission deep into enemy territory in Virginia. With a few well-chosen troops, he traveled by boat and then horseback behind the enemy lines, through land he described as marshy, weedy territory and totally unfamiliar to him. He wrote that when they stopped at night, they dared not have a camp fire, and there was little chance for either food or sleep. But he was triumphant and captured prisoners, horses, Confederate money, and supplies. They also captured two barrels of whiskey, but then he underlined the words, which we destroyed.
"Now, if he'll just give up profanity," I said, and Nettie laughed at me for wanting him to be a saint.
When fighting became heaviest in June, he had other hair-raising experiences, and I found my heart in my mouth as I read the letters. Once he and his horsemen made a fierce charge but advanced so far, they found themselves cut off by Rebels behind them. They fought their way out with sabers, though not all of them survived. Still, Armstrong was untouched, and his men kept talking about "Custer's Luck." Them in another battle he lost control of his horse—something that happened to him rarely, I would learn, and then only in the most dramatic of moments. The horse, a black called Harry, which he had captured on his excursion into enemy territory, bolted across the line, carrying him into the midst of the enemy. But he was wearing a large gray hat, captured from a Confederate, because it kept the sun off his face and prevented sunburn, to which he was very subject. At first the Rebels thought he was one of them. By the time they realized their error, Armstrong had brought the horse under control and bolted back across the battle line. "Custer's Luck," he wrote to Nettie.
Near the end of June he was promoted to the rank of brigadier general. He had jumped four grades to become, at twenty-three, the youngest general in the U.S. Army. His happiness echoed in the letter he sent Nettie: "Please be sure that Libbie hears of this honor." He, who had hoped desperately for a colonelcy to command the Michigan Seventh, was now in charge of the Second Brigade of the Third Division, which included not only the Seventh but three other regiments of the Michigan cavalry.
I heard of the promotion not only in his letters but in the headlines of The Monroe Commercial, which boasted of our hometown hero's great promotion. "Monroe Boy Becomes Youngest General in Army" it read, and then a long story detailed Armstrong's background—conveniently overlooking his Ohio childhood and managing to make him appear a lifelong resident of Monroe—and praised his military accomplishments. I longed to shout to the whole town that this man had asked me to be his wife, but I dared not say a word, except to Nettie.
Even Papa mentioned Custer's promotion and added that Monroe was justifiably proud to have such a young man representing it on the field of battle. But he said it in a distant tone, as though talking about someone he greatly respected but did not know personally—the kind of tone in which he often spoke of President Lincoln. The promotion did nothing to change his opinion of Armstrong as a possible son-in-law, and I despaired anew, running to Nettie for comfort.
Then, just after his promotion, came Gettysburg. Armstrong led his Michigan troops to the center of the battle time and again, finally against the famed "Jeb" Stuart, the Confederate general who had never been turned back. At Gettysburg, for the first time, Stuart was forced to retreat, and Armstrong was responsible, according to all reports. He inspired his troops by yelling, "Come on, Wolverines!" and they responded, to a man. Custer's Luck held again, for three horses were shot from under him, with the bullets undoubtedly meant for the man and not the beast.
While I gloried in his triumphs, I fell hard in love with George Armstrong Custer. It may be, as the old saying goes, that forbidden fruit is the sweetest and that I loved him because I was sternly instructed not to do so, or it could be—and probably was—that I was swept away by his theatrical glory on the battlefield. There was a wildness about him, a freedom and daring, that woke something in me that would have horrified Papa.
Whatever the cause, I quickly decided that I could not live without Armstrong. Aside from Nettie, I had to keep my peace. Publicly, when I heard his triumphs repeated throughout the town, I took no more than a passing interest, calmly saying, "My, yes, isn't he amazing!" or "Aren't we proud to be from the same city as General Custer!"
Fanny Fifeld, however, voiced more than a passing interest. Whenever the Monroe newspaper reported another triumph by the local hero, she made it known loud and long that she was corresponding with Captain Custer and eagerly awaiting his return. Not only that, she told it abroad that Armstrong carried her picture as well as mine, and that he had shown her my ambrotype.
"How could she have known about the ambrotype if he hadn't shown it to her?" I demanded from Nettie.
"Perhaps a lucky invention on her part," said the ever-peaceful Nettie, who immediately wrote to Armstrong about this latest uproar. "This will certainly take his mind off the battle," she said philosophically after she mailed the letter.
His reply was immediate and emphatic. He had never shown the picture to Fanny, nor had he ever mentioned it to her. "You know her quickness at guessing," he wrote. "Perhaps she learned about the ambrotype from the studio where it was taken and supposed that Libbie had given it to me. Be sure to tell Libbie how distressed I am that she is upset about this."
"Upset?" I railed. "Why is he even corresponding with her if he wants to marry me as desperately as he says?" Six months earlier I had been mildly interested in his flirtation with Fanny. Now I was in a rage about it. Love made all the difference.
During the rest of the summer, I lost track of the war in my concern over the flirtation war at home in Monroe. When I chanced to pass Fanny on the street—only twice in the whole summer—I deliberately looked the other way, and Papa, fortunately, never made mention of the gossip, though I knew he must have heard it. I often had the sense that he was watching me, with worry on his face and in his heart.
In September the tempo of fighting resumed, and Armstrong triumphed again, this time capturing Jeb Stuart's headquarters and even the general's dinner. But a bullet grazed his leg, forcing him out of action and home to Monroe to recover.
I was about to have to choose between Armstrong and Papa, a choice that terrified me.
Chapter 3
The Monroe Commercial headline proclaimed, "Wounded Hero Given Huge Welcome" and claimed that "nearly one hundred citizens turned out to welcome home General George Armstrong Custer, who has suffered a minor wound in one leg. He will recuperate in Monroe for several weeks." And then the story, once again, recounted his military triumphs.
Papa read the paper at breakfast and said enigmatically, "I see Custer's come home." He peered at me over the top of his paper but said nothing more than, "I do not want you to see him, daughter."
I was sure my face burned as I toyed with my breakfast, for I knew that I would disobey my father. I had, it seemed to me, no choice, for I had to see him, to tell him how much I loved him, even if I could never see him again. All these years later, it sounds most melodramatic, but then I was wrapped up in the bittersweet agony of my thwarted love affair. However, I did face the practical problem of seeing him.
Nettie and I discussed it at length.
"He would never come calling at the house," I wailed. "What shall I do?"
"Go where he'll go," said the ever-practical Nettie. "You know he'll come to Humphrey House to sit with the men and tell them tales about the war. And your father will think nothing of your being at the hotel with me."
"But what if my father is there, too?" The world seemed to conspire against my passion.
"We'll see," Nettie said calmly. I thought it fine for her to be calm, since she was not the one whose affections were at stake.
For t
hree days after he returned home, Custer did not appear at Humphrey House, though I joined Nettie there each afternoon. When Mama quizzed me at spending so many days in a row at Nettie's, I explained that we were working on a quilt with her mother. And then I lived in fear that Mama would meet Mrs. Humphrey on the street and comment on the nonexistent quilt.
Finally, when I'd begun to think that Armstrong obviously didn't care a fig if he saw me or not, he appeared at the hotel in the afternoon, walking with a cane. We were in the Humphrey family quarters when he arrived, but Nettie contrived frequent errands into the public part of the hotel and came back breathless in midafternoon to report, "He's here. And your father is not."
My hands flew to my hair. "Do I look all right? What shall I do? May I dust my face with some of your powder?" I fluttered around the room, nearly tripping over a chair in my haste to get to a mirror.
"We will walk calmly into the lobby together," she said, "and you will be surprised to see him."
And that's just how it happened. We sauntered through the lobby, deliberately looking away from the group of leather chairs where the men gathered. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Armstrong reach for his cane and raise himself out of his chair. He came toward us, trying to cover his slight limp, and the next thing I knew, Nettie had vanished.
He stood before me, staring but saying nothing.
Flustered, I stammered, "You've been hurt."
"The wound in my leg is nothing," he said. "It will heal. But there are other wounds...."
"I... I read your letters and found them fascinating."
"I know, and I thank you for the answers you sent through Nettie."
We were standing, eyes locked now, in the midst of a very public place, and I became aware that the old men had stopped talking to watch us. I glanced toward them, and Armstrong's eyes followed mine.
"We're being observed," he said. "Might we go someplace private?"
Papa, I thought, forgive me! "The garden," I said. "There's a bench, and it's a pleasant afternoon."
Nettie's father had spent a good deal of time and money on the gardens around the restored hotel, and we sat on a wooden bench tucked privately into a grove of pine trees. We were hidden and yet could enjoy the fragrance of the woods, the view of the lawns in front of us, where a stretch of green was broken with carefully arranged flower beds, now blooming with the mums of fall.
We sat silently for a long time, staring at each other. Uncertainly, once or twice I started to lower my eyes, but my gaze was held by the intensity of his look. When at last he spoke, I thought he was almost laughing at me, for he said, "And have you reached a decision? Do you love me?"
"Yes," I stammered. "I find you fascinating." Strange later to think that I confused fascination with love.
"Hallelujah!" he shouted. "The prettiest girl in all of Monroe loves me."
I reached for his arm, to quiet him. "Shhh! Someone will hear you!"
"I want the whole world to hear me," he cried, jumping up from the bench and doing a kind of limping dance of jubilation in front of me.
"You mustn't," I said. "Papa."
"Ah, Papa." His voice grew serious. "I will ask him for your hand."
"He will never consent." It occurred to me that General Custer was used to winning in battle, and he approached this much like a battle, expecting victory, never defeat. The thought gave me a thrill of apprehension.
"Well," he said philosophically, "I have won half the battle, apparently. You love me...." He paused, waiting for me to confirm it, and I nodded. "Now I'll attack the second half. I will speak to your father immediately."
"You can't!" I cried, "if you do, he'll know I broke my word and have been communicating with you."
"Communicating? Is that what we're doing?" He reached out a tender hand and brushed my hair off my forehead. "I like it."
"I do, too," I breathed, lost in the moment.
"If I cannot speak to your father, and we cannot communicate, what is next?" he asked very seriously in slow, measured words. "Do you mean for us to meet on the street or at parties, and neither speak nor look at each other?"
"No... yes... it must be so," I sobbed. It all seemed very dramatic to me, and I suddenly saw myself at the center of a novel, the love-struck maiden kept forever from her lover by a wicked father. Of course, Papa was anything but wicked—but at that moment, he was my adversary, the person who stood between me and happiness.
Reaching for my hands, Armstrong pulled me to my feet and then, once I was standing, kissed me, a hard kiss, his mouth pressing against mine, his hands holding my shoulders tightly. At first I pulled away, but then as though another being were taking over my body, I responded to that kiss, my mouth meeting his, my hands at the back of his neck, lost in those blond curls.
I pulled away, embarrassed, and turned my back on him. No young woman of proper upbringing would respond to a kiss as I had. "Sir... ," I mumbled.
"Don't you dare try to cancel out that kiss with words," he said.
I looked at the ground, unable to look at him, my lace flaming. To my mind, I had behaved in a way more fitting to Fanny Fifeld.
"Remember that I told you once, a long time ago, you were strong?" he asked. "I believe it as much now as then. I knew you would not let that boarding school defeat you. And I know that together we will win again—your father will not defeat us. I will ask him for your hand."
"You mustn't!" I cried again.
"If I cannot go to your father, we will meet on the street and pass each other by," he said firmly, and I saw no hint of the laughter I'd come to look for in his eyes. "We'll be missed inside," he said, businesslike.
I didn't care who missed us, but obediently, I took his arm and let him lead me back to the lobby. The old men still sat in their chairs, and this time they deliberately did not look at us. Armstrong bowed formally to me, and I made my way back to Nettie's quarters.
She asked me a thousand questions, but I could not answer them. I just sat on her bed and stared at the flowered wallpaper, trying to think what I would do about Papa.
* * *
For days I dared not mention the subject, and Papa appeared blind to my distress. Mama asked if I was feeling well—"You're a trifle pale, daughter."—but I assured her it was nothing. Papa read the paper at breakfast, his law books at night, and seemed oblivious. I saw nothing of Armstrong, nor did I hear from him, and I began to think I'd dreamed that scene in the garden of Humphrey House.
Then one day I chanced to pass him on the street, quite innocently. Walking with his sister, Ann Reed, he tipped his hat in the barest of polite gestures, then returned immediately to the lively conversation the two of them were having.
Crushed, I hurried home to sob into my pillow.
Then Nettie came to me. "Armstrong's been seeing Fanny again," she reported bluntly. "He took her for a picnic yesterday."
"A picnic? How do you know that?" I asked incredulously.
"I just know," she said, refusing to say any more.
Things went on that way for a week. I saw him twice more on the street, and each time he was civil but certainly not cordial. Nettie reported that he and Fanny had been seen again, once at a card party that I'd not felt well enough to attend—was Mama right? was something wrong with me that I felt so tired?—and once when a group of people gathered spontaneously at Humphrey House.
Then he escorted Fanny to church on Sunday. I arrived with Mama and Papa, as was my custom, and seated myself between them in the family pew, bowing my head in devotion. But something drew my eyes, and I chanced to look up. There, in front of me and far off to the opposite side of the church, were Armstrong's long blond curls. And beyond him I saw the equally blond head of Fanny. I barely smothered a small gasp by covering my mouth with my hand, and Papa gave: me a sharp look. Then his eye followed mine, and he, too, saw Armstrong. Glancing for just a moment, Papa frowned and bowed his head again in prayer.
But before I bowed my head again, I saw Armstrong turn
ever so slightly and look directly at me for a long minute, with neither laughter nor love in his look.
Armstrong had the gall to greet Papa after church, while Mama and I were detained complimenting Mr. Smythers on his fine sermon. Vaguely, I heard him say, "Mr. Bacon, a pleasure, sir. I've missed you at Humphrey House this week."
"I've been busy," Papa said curtly.
"Well, I do look forward to a visit before I'm returned to duty," Armstrong said. Then, "I believe you know Miss Fifeld?"
"Yes, of course," Papa grunted, and then turned away almost rudely to collect Mama and me. We walked home from church in absolute silence, and I pleaded a headache to keep me from Sunday dinner.
As I went up the stairs, I heard Mama whispering frantically to Papa, but only a word here or there made sense. "... can't continue... she's so unhappy..." Papa's responses were too low for me to hear anything.
I did not, as I'd expected, sob into my pillow. Instead, as I lay on my bed, reliving the church scene, anger swept over me in a wave. How dare he humiliate me? How dare he profess his love for me and then frolic with a cheap girl like Fanny?
"I'd hardly call attending church a frolic," he said smoothly, when I asked that question, my tone full of indignation.
We met by prearrangement, the result of much planning, at the secluded bench in the Humphrey House garden. Nettie, at first worried about my pallor and then frightened by my anger, had arranged our meeting.
"You say you love me," I said, "and then you begin to escort a girl who you know lied about my picture.... She did lie, didn't she? You didn't show her the picture." I pulled my shawl closer around me, less against the fall chill in the air than as a defensive gesture.
He shrugged, his face half-turned away from me. "No, I didn't show her the picture. But I am not going to become a monk because your father forbids us to meet. When you decide that I can present my case to your father..."He let the sentence hang in the air between us.
