Libbie

by Judy Alter

  We settled down for another winter at Fort Lincoln. Autie had surprised us all by renting a piano from St. Paul. When we returned to our house, it stood in the parlor.

  "Maggie, play 'Jacob's Ladder,' " Jimmi cried, and we all joined in the singing. Then it was "Oh, Susanna!" and "Sweet Betsy from Pike" and, on Sundays, "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" and "Fairest Lord Jesus," the only church service we had. At Christmas poor Maggie nearly wore her fingers to the bone, playing the traditional carols over and over, while we all sang, some of us off-key but all of us with enthusiasm. But beyond the piano the winter passed much as the previous one—long and dull for the officers, but filled for Autie and me with our delight in each other.

  "Libbie, come sit by my side! I want to write!"

  Chapter 18

  "If I were an Indian," Autie wrote in My Life on the Plains, "I often think I would greatly prefer to cast my lot among those of my people adhered to the free open plains rather than submit to the confined limits of the reservation, there to be the recipient of the blessed benefits of civilization, with its vices thrown in without stint or measure."

  Autie, who spent much of his career shepherding Indians onto the reservations!

  "I'm an expert, Libbie," he crowed, "an expert on Indian affairs. Here, it says so in The New York Times." He waved the newspaper before my nose.

  "Autie, I can't see these stitches," I said, brushing it away. "I know you're an expert. You know more about the Indian than anyone in the cavalry."

  "You're right," he said smugly, beginning to pace about the small study. "I know him for what he is... a savage, more cruel than any wild beast of the desert."

  "But the Ree scouts... ," I protested.

  "They are my friends, and so are others...."

  Monahsetah? I wanted to ask, but I kept my counsel.

  "But they are basically wild animals. It is our duty to civilize them."

  "Yes, Autie," I murmured. Privately, my terror of Indians was so great that I saw no hope for civilizing them.

  "It's almost time to march...." he said restlessly, still pacing. "The Seventh is ready. I suspect we'll go back to the Black Hills."

  Summer was nearly upon us again, and another campaign was inevitable. Autie could hardly wait, but I was filled with dread.

  * * *

  Disappointment lay in wait for Autie. Sheridan sent 400 soldiers from Fort Laramie, under the command of Colonel Richard I. Dodge, into the Black Hills. Autie and the Seventh were left behind.

  "There'll be an expedition to the Yellowstone," he told me confidently, after the announcement of Dodge's departure, "and I'd rather take the Seventh there."

  Again I waited, heart in my mouth. But Sheridan sent infantry troops north on a steamboat, and Autie missed another chance for a victory. He and the Seventh were stuck at Lincoln, and the summer stretched before them long and hot, filled with endless drills and exercises designed to do little more than avert the inevitable boredom.

  "Politics!" he stormed. "That's all it is, politics! Well, I can play their game as well as the next fellow."

  And so Autie embarked on his brief career in the arena of national politics. Relieved of the terror of a summer expedition, I greeted this new development joyously, though it wasn't long before Autie's political games made me as apprehensive as his military campaigns.

  Autie entered the political arena as a columnist, publishing his opinions under a nom de plume. Bits of gossip—President Grant wanted a third term, administration officials were upset by Democratic victories in Ohio and Indiana, Sherman and Sheridan might be angling for presidential nominations—began to appear in the World. Oh, they were anonymous, all right, but to my eye there was no hiding where they came from. The familiarity with the military was an obvious finger, pointing right at Autie.

  "Autie, I don't think it's wise for a lieutenant colonel to trifle with the commander in chief," I said boldly one day.

  "Libbie," he replied in his coldest tone, "you stick to your embroidery. I shall run my affairs."

  They're my affairs, too! I wanted to shout, but I bit my tongue... and worried all the more.

  "Libbie!" he called, rushing in one day with the mail in his hand. "The Herald has launched an expose of corruption at forts and trading posts on the upper Missouri. By God, it's about time! I'll feed them material. Ralph Meeker's the reporter behind it. You remember him?"

  "Autie, shhh!" I cautioned, raising a finger to my lips as though I were dealing with a child. "You never can tell who'll hear you. And, no, I don't remember any Ralph Meeker."

  "Bother! He visited once... oh, maybe at Hays. I don't know. But, Libbie, this may make my fortune! This may really do it, little girl!" He swung me off my feet and into a wild twirl around the parlor.

  I failed to see how an investigation of corruption could make Autie's fortune. We all knew that the sutlers paid a high price—a bribe?—for the exclusive right to sell goods at any given post. And that sutlers' privileges were given out as political plums. But Autie had stayed blessedly free of such enterprise... though I'm sure he would have been tempted, had the opportunity arisen.

  Twirling about there in the air, held in those strong arms that I adored, I wondered how many times I'd heard that before. This would make our fortune... or that... or a mining scheme... and then his articles... and now, I knew not what. Spying? Telling tales on the government he served? Autie was like a child, off in one direction, then another, with nary a thought behind or ahead but for the moment.

  Dumping me unceremoniously, he went to his study, where he filled pages and pages of paper with his bold, flowing handwriting. Late that night he said, "I must post this to Ralph Meeker."

  Several weeks later Tom lounged on the veranda reading the Herald. "Seen this, Autie?" he asked, waving a page of the paper. "Says here this reporter's uncovered fraud at the forts... seems someone sells sutlers the right to operate and makes them pay dearly. Now there's a business we should have thought of, big brother!"

  "Let me see," Autie said calmly, though I could tell that he was in a pitch of excitement at seeing his news reach the paper. He read the article slowly, thoroughly, and then said calmly to Tom, "Hardly the business for the Custer boys, Tom. Too risky... and dishonest besides."

  Late that night I caught him rereading the article, as intently as he had the first time. "I'll show them," he crowed. "They'll see who knows what about frontier posts... and then, bigod, they'll have to send me on the next expedition."

  "Autie," I said wearily, "it's late, and I'm tired. Let's worry about politics tomorrow."

  But Autie was a driven man, and that night he made love to me brutally, as though I were one of his political enemies. It occurred to me that a summer campaign might have been a blessing.

  * * *

  Meeker's articles continued from July through October, when Autie announced that he had applied for leave and we were traveling east.

  "I'll take you to New York, old lady," he said, "if you can find yourself the proper clothes."

  "Autie, I can't find the clothes until we're in New York... and then we can't afford to buy them!"

  He laughed heartily. "Only temporary, only temporary. I'll have to wear my old ulster... only car drivers wear them now, they're so out of fashion."

  I flung calico wrappers and wool riding suits together on the bed, pulled out a velvet-trimmed princess sheath now ten years out of date and a silk taffeta such as I was sure no one in the East wore anymore, but I didn't care. We were going to New York. My heart fairly sang with the refrain.

  That night Autie fell quickly asleep, but I, high on anticipation, was restless, even turning occasionally, which I always tried to avoid for fear of disturbing the little rest that Autie took.

  He reached a long arm across my chest, pinning me to the mattress. "Are you a whirling dervish?"

  "I'm sorry. I can't sleep. I... I'm so looking forward..."

  "To getting away from Fort Lincoln? I thought you liked your life here."r />
  "I do... but, oh, Autie, I can't explain. I'm just glad we're going east." I could not tell him of my fears and premonitions, of the certainty I had felt that I would one day cross the Missouri, headed east, leaving him behind, and of my now-bright hope that this trip east would change fate.

  Pushing his hand aside, I turned toward him, pulling his head onto my breast and hearing him moan in anticipation as he moved his mouth along my body. Then we were lost to all but each other. Later, lying next to him while he slept again and I still lay wide-eyed, I thought myself the most fortunate woman in the universe. And I resolved to banish my foolish fears.

  * * *

  After a brief stop in Monroe—we went to see Autie's parents, but visits with them were so emotional as to be draining, and we stayed only a day—we were on to New York. Autie found a boardinghouse across from the Hotel Brunswick, and we settled in for a winter of gaiety. Each day was filled with receptions, dinners, dancing, and theater, and I met fascinating people—among them, Lawrence Barrett, the actor whom Autie had become friends with on his previous trips to New York, trips where I'd been left behind at Lincoln.

  "Mrs. Custer," Barrett said, bending low over my hand, "I've enjoyed many a visit with your husband and always heard his glowing pride in you, but never, until now, could I truly appreciate his good fortune."

  I blushed and smiled. I had been too long among men who gave freely of their love and support but were short on outright compliments, and I was unsure of my response. "It is my good fortune to be Autie's wife," I said.

  "Yes, I suppose that's true, too. He is a remarkable man." And then I blushed all the more to hear someone praise Autie as I thought he deserved. Barrett was then performing in Julius Caesar, which Autie watched night after night with intent interest. The play, he told me, had much to say to anyone who would presume to lead other men.

  This time, in New York, Autie was a celebrity as much for his book, My Life on the Plains, as for his hero's status. Sherman had said it was the best thing ever written about the plains, and a lyceum bureau asked him to prepare a series of lectures.

  "Libbie, $200 night! We'll move to a hotel, one with some style, and you shall have new clothes. Think what this will mean to our income!" Autie was exuberant and I thought this had more possibilities than most of his schemes.

  "When will you start?" I guess I anticipated a speech—and $200—the very next night.

  "Oh, not until spring," he replied casually. "I have to have time to prepare. I won't be one of these off-the-cuff speakers with nothing to say. I have too much to tell people about Indians and the plains... and..."

  His voice trailed off, but I mentally finished the sentence, "and about the follies of our government and our President." Perhaps it was better that Autie not make our fortune on the lecture circuit.

  In February our money ran out, and we returned to Fort Lincoln. Autie never mentioned the lyceum circuit again.

  * * *

  When we reached St. Paul, we learned that the trains would not run again until April, because the winter was unusually severe.

  "I'll see about that," Autie said self-confidently, and disappeared only to return within an hour and announce that a special train would be sent through for us. "The railroad is mindful of the protection I gave them when they were building the track," he said, thoroughly convinced that the effort of a special train was nothing less than his due.

  Not wanting to spend two months in St. Paul, I accepted this latest benefit of being married to Autie without a qualm.

  The train had three enormous engines with two snowplows, freight cars for baggage and coal, several cattle cars, passenger cars taking miners to the Black Hills—as long as the train was going anyway, I guess the railroad decided to turn it to a profit—and an eating house built on a flat car. Autie and I traveled in the paymaster's car, with a kitchen and private sitting room. We were well fed and comfortable, though the car was always cold in spite of a little stove.

  The train seemed to fly along the tracks, until we came to a drift. The train would stop violently, then jerk forward a bit, only to stop again so hard that sometimes dishes crashed to the table. The crew would shovel until the track was clear, and we would proceed. Finally one day we came to such a sudden and abrupt halt that our belongings fairly flew about the car.

  "Autie?" I asked tremulously.

  "I'll see what it is," he said, welcoming a chance to be part of whatever was going on. In seconds he was bundled and out of the car, while I sat for what seemed long hours waiting word. The train did not move an inch.

  "It's a wall of ice, Libbie, a solid wall," Autie exclaimed, slapping his hands together to warm them. His face was bright red, and crystals of ice glistened in his mustache, but his eyes shone with delight. If Autie couldn't fight Indians, he'd settle for a wall of ice.

  "Snowplows are stuck in it now, and it's too much for hand shoveling. This is the end of the line, Libbie."

  While Autie grinned at his doomsday pronouncement, my mind whirled with dread possibilities, most of which centered on a trainload of people frozen to death.

  As night fell, Autie began to pace restlessly from our car to the passenger cars and back. At last he said, "Those officers in the coach have no place to sleep, poor fellows."

  I had known Autie long enough. "You want to invite them to share our car," I said. There was no question in my voice.

  "Exactly. I shall give them your compliments and your invitation."

  And that's just what he did. Protesting would have done me no good, so I silenced my misgivings and crawled, at Autie's suggestion, to the far corner of the large bed he made by putting two folding beds together. Then, with the lights out and my head burrowed in the pillows, our guests filed in, blankets in hand. They slept on bedrolls on the floor, two small berths on the side of the car, and several—I knew not how many—in the very bed with Autie and me. Their snoring kept me awake hours on end, and as the days and nights wore on, my patience grew thinner and thinner. Autie considered it all a lark and never thought of any other reaction on my part.

  The snow started with small flakes and soon fell steadily and thickly, and the wind whistled around the car, sometimes in gusts that rocked it ominously. Outside the windows nothing was to be seen but an endless white landscape. I noticed, without commenting on it, that Autie began to hoard the wood, letting the fire die down a little more each night. And there was no mistaking that our meals were less plentiful. Convinced that we would die in that spot, I tried to console myself that at least Indians would not get Autie.

  Finally even Autie could not hide his concern. "I shall see if anyone aboard this train understands telegraphy," he announced, after discovering a tiny battery and a pocket relay in a cupboard in our car. He set forth among the other cars and soon returned with a man who knew enough to cut the main wires and fasten the pocket relay to the cut ends. In no time we were in contact both with the Fargo station and our friends at Lincoln.

  "What about the old lady?" Tom asked. "Is she with you? I'll come get you both."

  "No," I ordered, usurping Autie's authority. "It's too dangerous, Tom."

  Of course, he came after us anyway, arriving with a whoop and a yell, his arms full of wraps and mufflers sent for us from the post. The drifts were too deep for him to drive the sleigh near the train, so Autie carried me to it and dumped me unceremoniously in the straw, along with the three hounds we had with us. We left amid cheers from those staying behind; they knew we would send help immediately.

  We plunged into one deep white abyss after another, pushing through the drifts toward Lincoln. Snow fell continuously, and I feared at any moment it would turn to the driving, blinding whirl of a Dakota blizzard, forcing even the horses to stop in their tracks. When at long last we saw Lincoln and the lights of our own home, I could not speak for relief. A fire blazed in the fireplace, and friends greeted us with warmed cider. I was never so glad to be home.

  The train, its passengers rescued, rem
ained in that very spot until spring melted the wall of ice.

  * * *

  Within days Autie was summoned back to Washington in a political complexity too tangled for me to understand at the time. Representative Clymer, chair of the House committee on expenditures of the War Department, summoned Autie to testify about the illegal sale of post traderships. Vocal as he had been, at least in print, about the dishonesty of this practice, Autie had only suspicions, not facts. Clymer was wasting his time and Autie's. With difficulty I refrained from reminding him that his anonymity had been pretty thin.

  But the whole thing ran deeper than corruption on the posts. Clymer's real purpose was to embarrass President Grant and reveal the vast frauds of the Republican party, thereby increasing the chances of a Democratic candidate for president. And Autie, of course, was a known supporter of the Democratic party, a political leaning inherited from his father—who was outspoken on the subject—and strengthened by our experiences in the South after the war.

  Autie had made no secret of his criticism of Reconstruction policies.

  Autie testified—hearsay testimony—hut was detained in Washington for possible further testimony. While he was twiddling his thumbs in Washington—and looking for a new scheme—Sitting Bull left the reservation and refused orders to return. A summer expedition against the Sioux was inevitable, and the Seventh began preparing, even without Autie. Once again I saw and heard the signs of cavalry troops preparing for an expedition. The pace of life at Lincoln quickened as the men got their horses and equipment ready. Autie was missing it all, one of the times he liked best.

  With each passing day Autie seemed less likely to return to Fort Lincoln in time to march with the Seventh. In his letters he tried to be cheerful, but his desperation was evident: "I worry constantly about my men," he wrote early in April. "I should be drilling them for the summer campaign. It will be a major one." Later that month he seemed sure that he would be returning almost any day. "I cannot see that they will have need of me beyond tomorrow." But tomorrows came and went, and by the first of May, he wrote, "I fear delay will make me miss the summer march. You could come east if that happened, which would be pleasant, but I cannot bear another summer away from my men. I must lead the march."