“Just cavalrymen?” Boston asked.
“Just cavalrymen,” Falcon replied.
“What about people who aren’t actually in the cavalry, but who ride with them?”
Tom laughed. “All right, little brother, if you are that set on getting into Fiddler’s Green, I reckon I can put in a good word for you. For the two of you,” he added, looking over at Autie Reed. “Though you,” he said, pointing to Autie Reed, “will have to stand over in the corner until you get a little older. It wouldn’t do to have you drinking with the likes of us, as young as you are.”
“But, if Fiddler’s Green is a place you go after you die, I’ll never get any older,” Autie Reed complained. “I’ll just have to stand in the corner forever.”
Everyone laughed at that, and this time, the laughter was genuine.
“Colonel MacCallister?” a voice called from the darkness outside the bubble of golden light put out by the campfire.
“Who’s out there?” Tom Custer called.
“It’s me, sir, Private Burkman.”
“Well, John, don’t stand out there in the dark, come join us.”
Custer’s orderly stepped far enough forward that he could be seen.
“What can we do for you?” Tom asked.
“General Custer sent me to find Colonel MacCallister.”
“You found him,” Tom said. He pointed to Falcon. “He’s the only man among us who isn’t drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” Boston said. “And neither is Autie Reed.”
“I said the only ‘man’ among us who isn’t drunk,” Tom said, and again, the others laughed.
“What do you need, Burkman?”
“The general’s compliments, sir, and he asks if you will join him in his tent?”
“I’ll be glad to,” Falcon said.
“Colonel MacCallister!” Tom called as Falcon started after Burkman. Falcon turned back toward him.
“We’ll be gettin’ up a card game in Fiddler’s Green. Will you be sittin’ in?”
“Not if I can help it,” Falcon called back, and again, all around the campfire laughed.
As Falcon followed Burkman through the encampment, they passed a group of soldiers who were singing. The singing was surprisingly good, with the voices blending in perfect harmony.
We are ambushed and surrounded
Sergeant Flynn.
But recall has not sounded
Sergeant Flynn.
Our blades run red and gory,
And we’ll die for the Glory,
Of the Seventh Cavalry and Garryowen.
Garryowen, Garryowen, Garryowen.
In the valley of Montana all alone,
There are better days to be
In the Seventh Cavalry,
And we’ll die for the glory of Garryowen
When Falcon reached Custer’s tent, Custer was writing a letter while drinking coffee and eating cookies. Pushing the letter aside, he picked up a tray and offered a cookie to Falcon.
“This is the last batch of cookies Mary made before I sent her back on The Josephine,” he said. Like the Far West, The Josephine was a riverboat that had been carrying supplies and mail to and from the expedition.
“Thanks,” Falcon said, accepting a cookie. He took a bite. “They are very good.”
“Libbie and I have had a lot of people cook for us over the years we have been married, but I do think Mary is the best yet.”
“It is a good cookie, General, but I get the idea you didn’t call me here just to enjoy the cookies.”
“Huhmp,” Custer chuckled. He pulled a cookie crumb from his mustache, held it on the end of his finger for a moment to examine it, then licked it off. “You are a pretty perceptive man.”
“You have something on your mind?”
“Are you going with us, or, are you going to stay here with the steamer?” Custer asked.
“I have come this far,” Falcon said. “It is my intention to go the rest of the way with you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t. I wish you would stay here with the boat.”
“May I ask why?”
“I just think it would be better that way,” Custer said.
“General, if you are concerned about my rank getting in the way, I will tender my resignation to General Terry tonight and accompany you as a civilian scout.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Custer replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s just that—well—if anything happens—I don’t want to be responsible for you.”
“General, I’m a grown man,” Falcon replied. “And I have been in more than a few tight spots in my life.”
“I know, I know,” Custer said. “I just want you to understand that you have a choice in this. You are not a member of the Seventh Cavalry. You are not even an active member of the army.”
“General, you are in charge of this expedition,” Falcon said. “If you order me to stay on the boat, I will do so. But I very much want to go.”
Custer paused for a moment, then reached over to his field desk and picked up a piece of paper and handed it to Falcon.
“Here are my written orders from General Terry,” he said. “Read them. If after you read them, you still want to go, I won’t stand in your way.”
Falcon took the paper from Custer and began to read:
Lieutenant Colonel Custer, 7th Cavalry Colonel:
The Brigadier General Commanding directs that, as soon as your regiment can be made ready for the march, you will proceed up the Rosebud in pursuit of the Indians whose trail was discovered by Major Reno a few days since. It is, of course, impossible to give you any definite instructions in regard to this movement, and were it not impossible to do so, the Department Commander places too much confidence in your zeal, energy, and ability to wish to impose upon you precise orders which might hamper your action when nearly in contact with the enemy. He will, however, indicate to you his own views of what your action should be, and he desires that you should conform to them unless you shall see sufficient reason for departing from them. He thinks that you should proceed up the Rosebud until you ascertain definitely the direction in which the trail above spoken of leads. Should it be found (as it appears almost certain that it will be found) to turn towards the Little Bighorn, he thinks that you should still proceed southward, perhaps as far as the headwaters of the Tongue, and then turn towards the Little Bighorn, feeling constantly, however, to your left, so as to preclude the possibility of the escape of the Indians to the south or southeast by passing around your left flank. The column of Colonel Gibbon is now in motion for the mouth of the Bighorn. As soon as it reaches that point, it will cross the Yellowstone and move up at least as far as the forks of the Big and Little Bighorns. Of course its future movement must be controlled by circumstances as they arise, but it is hoped that the Indians, if upon the Little Bighorn, may be so nearly enclosed by the two columns that their escape will be impossible.
The Department Commander desires that on your way up the Rosebud you should thoroughly examine the upper part of Tullcoch’s Creek, and that you should endeavor to send a scout through to Colonel Gibbon’s column, with information of the result of your examination. The lower part of this creek will be examined by a detachment from Colonel Gibbon’s command. The supply steamer will be pushed up the Bighorn as far as the forks if the river is found to be navigable for that distance, and the Department Commander, who will accompany the column of Colonel Gibbon, desires you to report to him there not later than the expiration of the time for which your troops are rationed, unless in the meantime you receive further orders.
Very respectfully
Your obedient servant,
E.W. Smith, Captain, 18th Infantry
Acting Assistant Adjutant General
Falcon finished reading the orders, then handed the paper back to Custer.
“You read that, Colonel MacCallister. Do you still want to go?”
“Yes,” Falcon replied.
Cus
ter nodded. “All right, you can go as a scout.”
“Thank you, General.”
Chapter Nineteen
June 22, 1876
Alongside the Far West
At noon, after a full morning of preparation, the Seventh Cavalry was ready to depart on its scout. Always the showman, Custer arranged for the Seventh Cavalry to pass in review.
The soldiers, even the newest and greenest of the lot, now looked like grizzled veterans with their beards and suntanned faces. They were wearing a variety of uniforms, light blue trousers with dark blue, or gray, or in some cases, small print flannel shirts. Like Custer, Captains Tom Custer, Calhoun, and Keogh, along with Lieutenant Cooke and Boston Custer, were wearing fringed buckskin jackets. The trousers of most officers and men were reinforced in the seat with canvas.
Reno and Benteen were wearing regulation army blouses, but even they, like most of the other men in the regiment, had eschewed the army-issue kepi cap, in favor of hats that would offer better protection from the sun. Many of the men were wearing straw hats they had bought from the sutler for from twenty-five to fifty cents each.
Custer was completely outfitted in buckskin. He was wearing two English self-cocking pistols, ivory grips facing forward, and with a ring in each for use with a lanyard. He was also wearing a hunting knife in a beaded, fringed scabbard, all three weapons attached to a canvas cartridge belt. His horse, Vic, was nearby, and in Vic’s saddle scabbard was a Remington sporting rifle, octagon barrel, calibrated for the 50–70 centerfire cartridge.
The Seventh was formed and ready, but the order to move out had not yet been given and Custer stood alongside Terry and Gibbon. The sky was gray and threatening. A rather strong northwest wind whipped the regimental flag, as well as the swallow-tailed red and blue banner with white crossed sabers that was Custer’s personal standard. The leaves on the balsam poplar trees fluttered in the breeze, causing the leaves to flash green and white, green and white, green and white. The flashing leaves could almost create the illusion that the forest itself was on the march. Because Custer would be taking the review, Reno was temporarily at the head of the column.
“Major Reno, pass in review!” Custer shouted his order.
Reno stood in his stirrups, then turned to look back at the formation.
“Forward!” he called.
“Forward!” The supplementary commands rippled down through the column as the troop commanders gave their own response.
“Ho!” Reno shouted, and the regiment started forward in columns of fours.
Custer had massed the trumpeters from every troop, and it was they, not the band, that played “Garyowen” as the Seventh passed by rank and file.
Falcon rode with Varnum, Dorman, the white scouts—Lonesome Charley Reynolds, George Herenden, and Fred Gerard—as well as the Indian scouts—Bloody Knife, Mitch Boyer, White Man Runs Him, Hairy Moccasin, and Curly. They rode at the rear of the mounted troopers, but ahead of the wagons. Shortly after they passed by, Custer mounted Vic, then galloped to the front of the column.
“Now, Custer, don’t be greedy!” Gibbon called as Custer rode by. “Wait for us!”
“No, I won’t,” Custer called back.
“Lieutenant Varnum, what do you think Custer meant by that answer?” Falcon asked. “Did he mean, no, he wouldn’t be greedy? Or, no, he wouldn’t wait?”
Varnum laughed. “General Custer is a man of precise words. I think he knows exactly what he said, and he knows exactly how confusing his response was. Look over there.”
Varnum indicated Gibbon and Terry. The two men were engaged in an animated discussion, and though he was too far away to hear what they were saying, there was no doubt in his mind but that they were discussing Custer’s ambiguous response.
The column moved up the Yellowstone for two miles to the mouth of the Rosebud. There, the Rosebud was from thirty to forty feet wide and about three feet deep, with a gravely bottom. The water was also slightly alkaline, and because of that some of the soldiers, who had intended to fill their canteens, decided not to.
Proceeding along the Rosebud, and riding in the choking dust kicked up by so many horses, the column made camp that evening. Once they were encamped, Custer called for a meeting of all his officers.
“How many of your men have filled their canteens?” Custer asked.
“General, have you tasted that water?” Lieutenant Hodgson asked. “It tastes like shit.”
“Why, Benny,” Lieutenant Weir said, “how do you know what shit tastes like?”
The others laughed.
“Come on, Tom, you know what I’m talking about,” Hodgson replied. “The water is alkaline.”
“Colonel MacCallister, did you fill your canteen?” Custer asked.
“Yes,” Falcon replied.
“Why? I mean, you heard Lieutenant Hodgson. The water is brackish.”
“Now, General, that isn’t exactly what Benny said,” Tom Custer said, and again, there was laughter. “He said it tastes like—”
“Yes, I know what he said it tastes like,” Custer replied, cutting his brother off. “But I am making a point here. Colonel MacCallister, why did you fill your canteen, knowing that the water was brackish?”
“I always take advantage of water when I find it,” Falcon answered. “You never know when you are going to need it, and even brackish water is better than dying of thirst.”
Custer smiled broadly, and clapped his hands quietly. “Good, sir, good for you.” He turned to look at the other officers. “Listen to Colonel MacCallister, gentlemen,” Custer said pointedly. “There could well come a time during this scout where you would give a month’s pay for one canteen of brackish water.
“Tom, how is the pack train doing?” Custer asked.
“Why are you asking me?” Tom Custer asked.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Tom Weir responded.
“I mean Captain Tom McDougal,” Custer said.
“It’s clear to me that we have just too damn many Toms around here,” Keogh said, and again, the officers laughed.
“The mules are carrying just about the maximum they can carry, General,” Captain McDougal said. “It’s all we can do to keep up.”
“Do the best you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As of now,” Custer said, continuing his briefing, “we are to do all that we can to prevent the Indians from discovering us. From now on, all orders will be given by hand signals, verbally, or with couriers. No more trumpet calls. Tomorrow morning, have the stable guards awake the troops at three a.m. We will move out at five a.m. sharp. Captain McDougal, will you be able to handle that?”
“Yes, sir,” McDougal replied.
Custer took a deep breath and looked at all the officers for a moment before he spoke again.
“Now, gentlemen, I’m going to discuss something that no commanding officer should ever have to discuss with his officers, but I think it needs to be discussed.”
The expression on Custer’s face was grim and the smiles left the faces of the other officers as they paid attention to him.
“I think that every one of you know that I’m willing to accept recommendations from the most junior second lieutenant in the regiment, provided that recommendation comes to me in the proper form.
“But it has come to my attention that, during the march out from Ft. Lincoln, my official actions have been talked about, and criticized, by officers of this regiment in contact with officers of General Terry’s staff.
“I don’t like that, gentlemen. I don’t like that one bit.” Custer held up his finger. “And I’m telling you now that all such criticisms must stop at once. If you have something to say to me, be man enough to say it to my face. Because know this. Anyone I find guilty of such behavior will be dealt with to the fullest extent that army regulations will allow.”
“General,” Benteen said. “Will you not be kind enough to inform us of the names of those officers who are guilty of this? I mean, it seems to me as
if you are lashing at the shoulders of all to get to a few.”
“Colonel Benteen,” Custer replied, using Benteen’s brevet rank. “I am not here to be chastised by you. And even though the relationship you and I have isn’t of the warmest personal nature, I can tell you, for your own gratification, I will state that none of my remarks have been directed toward you.”
“Thank you, sir, for clearing that up.”
“Gentlemen, return to your commands. We came only twelve miles today. I intend, by an early start and hard marching, to make up for that tomorrow.”
As the officers left, Custer called out to Falcon. “Colonel MacCallister, will you remain for a moment, sir?”
Falcon nodded, then stood by as the regimental officers disappeared into the dark.
“Falcon,” Custer said. “While I refused the offer of Gatling guns, I do not relish the prospect of a Gatling gun being used against us. At first, I wasn’t worried, but the fact that Gibbon lost a box of fifty-caliber Gatling gun ammunition has reawakened my concern. I would like for you to take one of the Indian scouts with you and range out some distance from the column to see if you can locate that gun.”
“All right,” Custer replied.
“You can take White Swan, Curly, Bloody Knife, or anyone you choose. Or, if you wish, you can even take one of the white scouts.”
“I would like to take Dorman,” Falcon said.
Custer chuckled. “So, you choose to take the black white scout.”
“Yes. As you know, we scouted together before and we worked well together. I trust him in dangerous situations.”
“I understand your reasoning,” Custer said. “If you want Dorman, then by all means, take him.”
“Then, with your permission, General, I’ll get Dorman and we’ll leave now,” Falcon said. He started away from Custer’s tent, but Custer called out to him.
“Falcon?”
“Yes, General?”
“This is the twenty-second. If at all possible, I would like for you to rejoin the column by dark on the twenty-fourth.”
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