I said, well, he was a soldier – so was I, for that matter, and she turned her cold appraising eye on me.
“Killing for a living. Yep. I suppose your conscience gets used to it.”
“Just as it does in business, I imagine.”
“Business? It depends what kind of deals you make. Yep.” And as bustle broke out below, with bugles sounding and Marsh bawling orders to warp the Far West to the south bank, she turned away in bored fashion and went down to her cabin.
That was June 21, and in the evening Terry issued marching orders to his commanders at one of the strangest staff conferences ever I saw. Since it was a vital moment in the Sioux campaign, and every survivor has recorded his recollections of it – not just who said what, but who understood what, or didn’t, or sneezed, or scratched his backside – I must do the same. For I was there, as who the devil wasn’t, except perhaps the ship’s cook and the cat; when Terry summoned the senior men, the journalist fellow stood his ground in the saloon, and Mrs Candy continued to leaf idly through a magazine in her seat at the forrard end, within easy earshot, so I found myself a lounging place against the bulkhead where I could overlook the map on the main table.
Terry, spruce and affable, sat in the centre, smiling round with his short-sighted blue eyes; beside him was Gibbon, fine-featured and trim-bearded – I found myself thinking how many eminent soldiers are strikingly handsome men, as who should know better than I? Custer sat at one end of the table, gloomy and watchful, his fingers drumming softly. Others present were Marsh and Campbell of the ship, Reno, young Bradley the scout officer, old Grasshopper Jim Brisbin of the 2nd Cavalry, Lonesome Charley Reynolds, Custer’s chief scout, with his arm in a sling, and a dozen or so others I’ve forgotten. A steward was serving coffee, and I recall Terry remarking how he’d tried to give up sugar, but couldn’t, and his spoon tinkling in the cup as we waited.
“Well, gentlemen,” says he, “tomorrow we take the field in earnest. Major Reno and Mr Bradley have carried out separate reconnaissances, and we have reason to believe that hostile bands have moved west to cross Rosebud creek in the direction of the Big Horn hills. The best estimate suggests that not more than eight hundred or a thousand braves are to be reckoned with; perhaps three thousand Indians all told. Now, we dispose above a thousand cavalry and six hundred infantry, in addition to General Crook’s force of thirteen hundred to the south, so—”
“Pardon, general.” It was young Bradley, a keen-looking hand. “Those three thousand hostiles – aren’t those agency figures calculated during the winter?”
Terry said, yes, but they could be relied on. Bradley feared they might be low, since many Indians might have left the agencies with the arrival of spring. “I’ve seen sign of about two-three thousand myself up there, you see sir,” says he apologetically, “and I doubt if they’re the only hostiles in the Powder River country.”
“Me likewise, gen’l.” This was Reynolds, Custer’s scout, an innocent-looking youth who was talked of as a latter-day Carson. “Agency figures don’t signify. There could be twice their reck’nin’ up yonder, easy.”
“Well, they are the only figures we have to go on,” says Terry. “Shall we say possibly five thousand? It won’t hurt to err on the safe side.”
“Five thousand braves,” insists Reynolds. “Ne’er mind women and young.”
“You don’t know that,” says Gibbon.
“I don’t not know it, Colonel,” says Reynolds doggedly, and there were chuckles. Custer spoke up sharply.
“Five thousand or ten, Charley, it makes no difference, since they will be in divers bands, and we are more than a match for them if they were all together.”
With that settled, Terry went on to say that he and Gibbon would march up the Big Horn to intercept the Indian force whose trail Reno had seen heading that way; with Crook advancing from the south, the hostiles would be caught front and rear. Meanwhile, Custer and his cavalry would have passed up the Rosebud to cut off the hostiles if they tried to slip out of the trap. Q.E.D. and any questions?
“Where’s Crook?” asks someone.
“So far as we know,” answers Terry, “somewhere in the region of the headwaters of Rosebud creek or Little Bighorn River. Which unfortunately,” he added, peering at the map, “are not clearly indicated here. About there, wouldn’t you say, Brisbin?” Grasshopper Jim nodded and made vague crosses on the map, and everyone took a squint. “His exact position is not of too much import,” continued Terry, “since he too has his scouts and will be closing on the same quarry as ourselves.”
(What none of us knew, of course, was that while Crook was indeed around the head of the Rosebud, he wasn’t feeling too happy about it, since four days earlier Crazy Horse had bushwhacked him and fought him to a standstill. But why should any of us suspect such a thing? These were the Indians who weren’t going to fight, you’ll remember.)
“Ideally our force and General Crook’s would converge on the hostiles simultaneously,” says Terry, “but in the absence of communications, that is too much to hope for.”
Custer lifted his head. “I’m to prevent any escape of hostiles to the east, sir.” His voice was casual. “If they’re around the Big Horn, it’s certain my cavalry will be there before Colonel Gibbon’s infantry …”
Terry nodded, lifting a finger. “Precisely. I was coming to that. If you find the Indian trail leading towards the Big Horn, you should pass it by and go south towards the Big Horn itself; thus you will be in position south of the hostiles while Colonel Gibbon approaches from the north, and it should be possible for you to act together. It may be that you will encounter Crook en route – so much the better. But in any event our endeavour must be to act in concert so far as can be. It may prove impossible, since our objective is not a fixed one – we can’t be certain where the hostiles will be found.”
One thing was clear: Terry wanted no action against the Sioux until Gibbon was in position. But equally clearly, he had to allow his commanders some discretion, since in such an uncertain operation no one could foresee what emergencies (or opportunities) might arise. Everyone in the cabin understood that – but there was one man there with a special interest in forcing Terry to say it aloud.
“If I encounter hostiles,” says Custer slowly, “before Colonel Gibbon has come up …” He left it there, leaning forward as though to examine the map, and it seemed to me he was avoiding Terry’s eye and waiting for him to complete the sentence. And Terry, will-he, nill-he, spoke the fatal words, so amiably, so reasonably. I think back to that moment – Custer apparently intent on the map, Gibbon half-turned towards Terry, who was sitting back in his chair, choosing his words – and compare it with another moment: Lucan’s face red with indignation under Causeway Heights, and Lew Nolan fairly bouncing in his saddle with impatience. “There, my lord, are the guns! There’s your enemy!” There had been fury and passion, here was calm and polite discussion – but they both led to the same end, bloody catastrophe.
“You must use your own judgement, of course,” says Terry, nodding. “It’s not possible to give definite instructions, but you know my intentions; conform to them unless you see sufficient reason to depart from them.”
In other words, please yourself. That’s what Terry was saying – what he was bound to say – and Custer could throw it in the teeth of any court-martial. Terry was having to trust to Custer’s common sense, and he knew as well as I did what a questionable commodity that might be. But he couldn’t put that into words; a Sam Grant or a Colin Campbell could have said, “See here, Custer, you know what I want – and I know what you want, and how you’ll interpret my orders to suit yourself, and claim afterwards I justified you. Very good, we understand each other – and if you play the fool, by God I’ll break you!” But Terry, the gentle, kindly Terry, couldn’t say that – and really, was there the need? It was just a simple operation against a few hostile bands, after all.
Custer said nothing more; he’d got what he wanted, and now he w
as studiously watching Brisbin pushing pins into the map to mark the Rosebud route and joining them with a blue pencil. Gibbon, with a glance at Custer, said something about there being no need for a precipitate attack – unless it was necessary, of course, and Terry interrupted.
“I hope there will be no need of any such thing as an attack. Our object is to bring these people under control to the agencies – to capture, not to conquer.” Custer was sketching idly with a pencil now, chin in hand, but he roused himself when Gibbon offered to lend him some troops of the 2nd Cavalry.
“Thank you, Colonel, but any force of hostiles that is too big for the 7th will be too big for the 7th and four troops,” which was as silly a remark as I’ve ever heard. No, he didn’t want the Gatlings, either, since they might impede his march. Terry didn’t press him; I guessed the last thing he wanted was Custer loose about the place with machine-guns.
There was more talk, but that in essence was the famous Far West conference, and no one was in much doubt what it amounted to. I heard young Bradley’s aside as the senior men departed: “Well, guess who’s going to get there first and win the laurels. Who, the 7th Cavalry? No, you don’t say!”68
My own view, confirmed when I loafed out on deck and heard Custer down at his tent, firing off orders to his troop commanders and sounding deuced peevish about it: “… I tell you, Moylan, I know better than you what a pack mule can carry, and I’ll have fifteen days’ rations and 50 reserve rounds per carbine. Yes, in addition to the hundred rounds for each man, and 25 for the pistols, mind … Well, Captain Benteen, you are responsible for your own company; the extra forage is only a suggestion. But remember that we may have to follow the trail for two weeks, no matter how far it takes us, so you’d better take extra salt. We may have to live on horse meat before we’re through!”
I saw him stamp into his tent as the others dismissed, and mooched down for a look-see. He was alone, chewing at a pen, but at sight of me he grinned.
“Well, are you coming along after all?” His eyes were exultant now. “This is going to be a 7th Cavalry battle, my boy! Gatlings, indeed! I have more respect for Crazy Horse than that, I hope!”
I declined again, and he teased me, but in a nervous, restless way that showed his mind was anywhere but here. I knew he’d held himself in at the conference, but now that the rein was off there was an almost furtive quality about his excitement. It wasn’t quite canny, and presently I wished him luck, and left him calling high-pitched for Keogh and Yates almost before I was out of the tent. Back on board there was a great poker school under way in the saloon, which lasted until daybreak, so I made the most of the fellows’ company while they were still there (and picked up a copper or two), neglecting Mrs Candy with the thought that there would be ample time for her in the quiet days ahead.
Custer was off at first light, the long blue and brown squadrons moving slowly out of bivouac in the misty dawn. The Rosebud is little more than a brook where it joins the Yellowstone, running between green banks with a hedgerow down one side – again I could have imagined it was an English meadow as the troops wheeled up the little stream. Custer, fussing over the pack-train, paused to shake Terry’s hand and receive a clap on the back from Gibbon, who told him to mind and leave some redskins for the rest of the column. “Don’t be too greedy, George!” cries he, and Custer snapped a reply at him and rode off. I heard Terry say something about eagerness, and Gibbon shrugged and said: “At that, we’d look regular fools if they were to escape after all this. Three columns to round up a few stray Sioux and Cheyenne!”
That was their preoccupation, you see – not Custer, but the possibility that the expedition might wear itself out chasing hostiles who wouldn’t fight or surrender, but simply melt away into the desolation of the Big Horn.
Far West was to move down to the Big Horn mouth now, to ferry Gibbon’s infantry across, and it would be the following night that we moored in a wooded reach, under the loom of a huge bluff that reared up along the southern shore.69 It was a perfect balmy evening, the boat was quiet now with only Terry’s staff men aboard, and I was smoking a cheroot at the maindeck rail, considering what drill I’d go through with Mrs Candy that night, when here she came from the saloon, very stately in her crimson, with a white silk scarf over her head and shoulders. We talked idly about the possibility that Marsh would be taking Far West back east for fresh supplies shortly, and I found myself regretting that soon our business-honeymoon would be over.
I’m like that, you see; I get fond of women, and while I’d been happy just to stallion away by night and be spared any cloying intimacy during the day, still it’s pleasant when a tough piece like this one begins to show interest in your more spiritual qualities. For in the past day or so it had seemed to me that Mrs Candy had been thawing a little; she’d been readier to talk about matters other than business – the weather, for example, and she’d even asked me a question or two about England. Now, at the rail, she admired the rising moon with modified rapture (“That’s beautiful. Yep”), drew my attention to what she called the trees and all, and took me quite aback by laying a hand on my arm. I thought she was indicating that it was time for another protracted thrash in my cabin, but she sighed and said:
“It’s such a lovely night, I guess I’d like a stroll. Oh-kay?”
We descended to the steerage and the main plank to the bank, where the crew had set up a temporary forge, now deserted, and presently we were pacing slowly under the trees, and I was describing nights in India and China, while she murmured an occasional “Mm-h?” or “Don’t say?” leaning easily on my arm; it was quite delightful. The air was warm, the groves were dim in shadow, with moonlight in the glades, and the river lapped gently at the reeds. We walked a furlong or so, and paused under the spreading branches; I looked at her face framed in the white scarf, the dark line of the patch across her eye, and for the first time felt a tremor of pity for that disfigurement. She was such a magnificent creature, it was a damned shame, and I took her in my arms and kissed her fondly out of sheer affection – well, for a moment, anyway, before my better nature prevailed and I began to grapple her bottom. She fended me off gently, and slipped the scarf from her head, swinging it in her hand as we walked on.
“You’re a strange man,” says she, which is a sure sign that they want something. “You’ve been so many places, seen so many things. Yep. Lots of women in your life, I guess.”
Modestly I admitted that I had seldom been solitary for long, and said that I supposed neither had she.
“Sure. I’ve known a lot of men. Too many.” She shrugged. “Guess I’ll go on knowing a lot more. Too many more. Yep.” I said she didn’t sound overjoyed at the prospect.
“Why should I? Men are trash, pretty much. Yep. All they want is to use women in bed.” She paced slowly, glancing up at the purple sky. “And money. Women and money, and they spend them both as selfishly as they know how. Oh-kay.”
“Well, thank-ee, ma’am. Women have purer motives, I suppose?”
“Some women – sometimes. Some women are soft, and fool themselves that one of these days they’ll meet a man who doesn’t just want to spend them. They’re wrong.” She stopped, and to my astonishment I saw there was a tear coursing down from her left eye. Suddenly I remembered the sound of sobbing from her cabin the first night, and caught her hand.
“Heaven’s above! Whatever’s the matter?”
“It’s nothing.” She pulled her hand free and turned sharply to face me. “You’re not any different, are you?”
“What’s wrong? Good Lord, look here, if I’ve misunderstood—”
“Oh, no,” says she, composing herself. “You’ve understood, all right. You understood from the minute I walked by at the Brev’urt. Yep. You understood: ‘Gee, that’s worth mounting. Yes, sir, that’s prime – I could use that.’”
“Of course I did,” I agreed, slightly bewildered. “So did you, didn’t you?”
She ignored the question. “That’s the way you alway
s look at women, isn’t it? The face – is it beautiful? If it’s disfigured – does that matter? The rest – the waist and hips and breasts and legs – they’re what matter, isn’t that so? Oh-kay. And will she? And if she does, what will it cost me? Can I get it for free? What’s it worth?”
The contempt in her tone nettled and amazed me – and I thought she’d been melting. “Well, since I’ve just had dinner, I’d rather you didn’t tell me how a lecherous female assesses her lovers, but my experience leads me to believe it’s in exactly the same way! In your own case, your interest in me hasn’t been precisely sentimental—”
“How would you know?”
This was too much. “Oh, come now! You haven’t been a charming little ray of sunshine, exactly, have you? Provided I kept you happy in the night watches – which from your conduct I believe I did … What the devil,” I demanded, “is all this about? Am I at fault because I haven’t serenaded under your porthole, or given proofs of undying devotion? Don’t tell me that you … well, that wasn’t part of our bargain, surely?”
She was looking askance, and dammit, there were the tears again; she was absolutely weeping – and from under her patch, too. Interesting, that. But God help me if I understand women. “Mind you.” I lied, consoling-like; “I won’t say I haven’t …” But she lifted a hand.
“No. Don’t give me that. Oh-kay.” She took a deep breath. “You’re certainly right. Yep. I’m being a fool.”
I’d not have believed it – not of her. The most unlikely females have gone moony over me, but I’d never have credited that this one had any thought beyond pork and beans. God knew, she hadn’t let on – until now, anyway, if that’s what she was doing …
“Most of all I’m a fool for wasting time,” she said quietly. “I never thought I would – not with you. But just for a moment there I felt a grief … that I had thought long dead. A grief for someone else, someone I loved dearly, long ago. Oh, yes, I’ve been in love. But it ended … on just such a night as this, warm and soft and beautiful …”
Flashman Papers Omnibus Page 209
