An Obituary for Major Reno

by Richard S. Wheeler

  Reno surveyed the bleak post, studied the open plains which did nothing to allay the Canadian winds, and knew it would be a slow, grim winter. No sooner did he arrive than Bell departed, on leave to attend to his dying father. There was not even a nearby town to solace the men: Breckenridge was little more than a Northern Pacific whistle stop with a telegraph line. There wasn’t a brick building on the place to stay the wind or turn the terrible cold.

  So he plunged into a sea of nothingness, little relieved by the society of his fellow officers. It was all he could do to keep the post in firewood, because the only source of fuel on the treeless plain was the streambank timber along the Red River. These men and officers were cast adrift, in snowy wastes, under a brooding sky, to ponder their lives and find entertainments. They were over two hundred miles from Fort Abraham Lincoln, two hundred miles from that heartbeat of the regiment.

  There was one solace. The young, vivacious, and utterly seductive Emily Bell was on hand to liven officers’ lives with her brightness. The other solace, if it could be called that, was that this place was far away, in miles and temperament, from that Montana battlefield that had stamped itself forever on the Seventh Cavalry. Maybe the officers could amuse themselves through a long bitter winter without those subterranean currents that Reno had discovered wherever he was among commissioned men.

  The other solace was a good stock of whiskey to numb the slow evenings and settle him for bed. If he nipped a little, what did it matter? Most of the officers got through the slow times with a little whiskey to ease the way.

  Emily intrigued him. Bell was away, en route to Altoona, Pennsylvania. She was plainly interested in him; hadn’t she asked for his photograph? He was alone. Not just alone, but solitary, although even this tiny outpost had an Officers’ Club Room where he might find companionship. Each bleak and gray day seemed an eternity, and nothing but Emily brought warmth to the post. It was hell not having a wife.

  He had meant to send a postcard to Ross from Chicago, but somehow never got to it. He knew he should be more attentive to his son, and intended that they would travel together whenever he could arrange a long leave. And yet, he was no regular correspondent, and the boy was growing to manhood barely knowing his own father, barely hearing from him even at Christmas.

  It was something to remedy, and Reno planned to do so. Spend time, get to know the boy, see to it that his inheritance from Mary Hannah’s estate was being spent wisely to educate Ross, get him ready for life.

  It took him no time to settle into his new quarters as the commanding officer. And then he had nothing to do.

  Emily.

  She and her captain lived in one side of a duplex, with the Van Hornes occupying the other side. A common enclosed porch connected the two officers’ quarters. Reno visited her at her quarters the day after he arrived, along with other officers and their wives, but stayed only briefly.

  The next day he offered to take her for a drive; she declined. He returned later in the day to find Lieutenant Slocum present, reading to her. Slocum swiftly closed the book and retreated into the cold, leaving Emily to entertain the post’s commanding officer, which she did for two hours that evening.

  Reno sensed, and enjoyed, her discomfort. They talked of little things, army life, food, weather. None of it mattered. All that mattered was that she was there alone, and he was sitting in her parlor, by the light of a single coal oil lamp. The evening wore on, and the lines of her face grew grave. He enjoyed the tension that filled the air, and the increasing difficulty she was having making conversation. She surely wanted to be released from this visit from the post’s senior officer, and he was deliberate about it.

  But at last he rose, and she did too.

  He took both her hands in his.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Bell,” he said, and slid his hands up her arms, tugging her toward him.

  “Colonel Reno, is that the Masonic grip?” she asked, brightly.

  “Yes, Emily, that’s it. I have a book that tells all about it.” He laughed. “Would you like to read it?”

  “Why, yes, I suppose.”

  “I’ll get it over to you, then. Good night.”

  He pulled his cape around him and plunged into the darkness, entertained by the evening. It was a start. He had barely arrived, yet he might make something out of a long cold winter.

  The major busied himself with his new command the next day, but he kept Emily in mind. There would be another gathering that evening: Lieutenant Robinson’s sister would be leaving the following day, and the officers would gather at the lieutenant’s quarters to bid her adieu. Reno had an escort in mind, and called on Emily Bell.

  “Ah, you’re still here, Emily. I should be most pleased to escort you to the Robinsons,” he said.

  “Well … I imagine that would be most gallant of you.”

  He offered her his arm, and they walked the few paces to the Robinsons, where they congregated with the other officers and their wives for a little while, making a pleasant visit of it, and then he offered his arm to Emily to take her back again. She felt light and supple on his arm. He took her into the enclosed porch, saw her to her door, paused a moment, said good night, and then left her there. The door closed, and he turned away.

  But the door opened, and he saw her release her skirt, which had been trapped in it, and totter momentarily.

  “Why, Emily, let me help,” he said, catching her.

  He clasped her waist and steadied her, but she twisted away and reached the Van Homes’ front door.

  “Don’t you do that again!” she said.

  Reno laughed. “No harm intended,” he said.

  “Don’t you ever do that again.”

  He nodded, bowed, and abandoned the enclosed porch, making his way through the December darkness. He felt cold. It was not yet Christmas, and he wondered whether there would be much of a Christmas at Fort Abercrombie in 1876.

  And so things stood. When Christmas approached, he invited her to be his escort at the enlisted men’s Christmas party, but she said only that she would consider it. He took it for acceptance, but found that she wasn’t present when he knocked at her door. She was being escorted that evening by Lieutenant Slocum, which irked the commanding officer.

  Then he discovered that he alone had been excluded from a Christmas gathering at Emily Bell’s house; all the other officers and their wives, plus the post trader, attended. It was de rigueur to include the post’s commander, so the snub was deliberate. He repaired to the Officers’ Club Room and drank his way through Christmas, his thoughts dark and mean.

  A few days later the Episcopal minister from Fargo arrived to hold services at the post. The Reverend Richard Wainwright always stayed with the Bells during these excursions, and had a standing invitation to do so. But this time, the twenty-ninth of December, Reno interceded.

  “Reverend, the captain’s away, and you would not want to stay there,” he said.

  “But major, that’s not a matter to be concerned about.”

  “You’re welcome to stay at my house, sir.”

  “Why, I’ll see if Mrs. Bell’s expecting me.”

  Reno heard no more of it for the moment, and Wainwright seemed to be ensconced at the Bells’ quarters. The situation produced some ribald comment in the Officers’ Club Room, and Reno didn’t like it. This had gone far enough.

  He summoned the minister.

  “I hear you’ve chosen to stay with Mrs. Bell. It is causing some unfortunate remarks here.”

  “If you’re worried about her reputation, don’t be.”

  “Her reputation won’t stand much scrutiny, reverend. For the sake of your own reputation, and the good of the church, I would advise you to billet yourself elsewhere. She’s a notorious character, and various staff officers … well, she’s not welcome here.”

  Wainwright looked angry. “I’ll think about it,” he said, and turned on his heel.

  Reno soon received a note: “After advising, I have decided not to chan
ge, as I cannot remove without offering a slight to Captain Bell in the person of his wife.”

  So, he had lost. For the moment. He paced hotly, and decided on a new tack. He summoned Lieutenant Robinson, his adjutant, and instructed him to tell Mrs. Bell she could not play the organ at the New Year’s Day service; he would stop the service if she did.

  Robinson frowned, looked like he was about to speak, saluted, and retreated from sight.

  There was no music. And the Van Homes persuaded the reverend to move to their quarters.

  After the service, Wainwright found Reno and passed along the news.

  “I’m staying with Lieutenant and Mrs. Van Horne, major.”

  “I’m glad you are. If you hadn’t moved, I would’ve asked you to leave the post.”

  The clergyman rocked back, as if slapped. Then he nodded and was soon out the door.

  Reno watched him hurry off, satisfied at last. Emily would soon know what it was to tamper with Marcus Reno’s affections. Fort Abercrombie would be better off if she were a thousand miles away, and with any luck, he’d force her out. He pulled a cigar from out of his humidor, lit it, and exhaled a vast blue cloud of smoke. He would just as soon get rid of both: the coffee-cooler officer who wasn’t around when blood was being shed, and his troublemaking wife. He drew hard, blew hard, and stared at the icy plains beyond his frosted window.

  Bell returned on January fifth, and soon heard the whole story, as Reno hoped he would. There was plenty of gossip, and Reno didn’t need to hear it to know that it was buzzing through the small post. There are no secrets in a command of two companies, with five officers, and that’s how Reno wanted it. Whenever he walked into the Officers’ Club Room, he met walls of silence. He didn’t much care. These were not men who had been beside him at the Little Bighorn. Let them stew.

  But it didn’t shake out like that. The veteran captain and old-line soldier approached him angrily, along with Van Horne and the Reverend Mr. Wainwright, and accused him of defaming Bell’s wife and embarrassing the command.

  “I deny it!” Reno exclaimed. “Don’t believe him! I deny everything this holy Christian man, this meddler, accuses me of. I’ve never said anything derogatory about Mrs. Bell to anyone.”

  “You’ve quoted others, and apparently with relish,” Bell said, his gaze steady. “Mr. Wainwright says you quoted Benteen, Wallace, and who knows who else?”

  “That’s your problem, not mine,” Reno snapped.

  “Honor will be defended,” Bell said. “Hear me well. I most assuredly will defend the honor of my wife and myself, and you, sir, will answer.”

  Reno blew cigar smoke. “Go right ahead. I welcome it,” he said.

  Captain Bell was not mollified, and soon left for St. Paul to see General Terry about bringing charges against Reno. The major thought it would come to nothing; everyone knew about Emily Bell, and it would all be shoved under the carpet.

  But he soon found himself summoned to St. Paul, where General Terry attempted to reconcile them all, but to no avail.

  “Major, I’m disappointed that all this has boiled up at your post,” he said. “I would like you to consider the gentlemanly thing, an apology.”

  “Maybe it’s the other way around,” Reno said.

  Terry subsided into quietness, but his gaze fell heavily on Reno, who stood stiffly before his commander, not budging an inch.

  The affair was blooming like nightshade, not disappearing. Reno left for Fort Lincoln, to consult with Benteen and Wallace, who had also made or heard comments about Emily Bell, but that came to nothing, and Bell decided to press charges, and told Reno he would.

  Reno wrote Bell a stiff note, hotly denying that he had impugned Emily’s character. He knew what all this was about. The coffee coolers and Custer partisans were going to take over the Seventh Cavalry.

  On February 20, 1877, the headquarters of the Department of Dakota issued General Order 20, convening a court-martial against Major Marcus Reno, to be held March 20, on two charges of “conduct unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman.”

  And Reno was placed under house arrest at Fort Abercrombie and relieved of command.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  AN ILL WIND WAS BLOWING, AND NOT JUST OUT OF THE NORTH. RENO paced the post to which he was confined and found no friends anywhere. On February twenty-eighth he had been relieved of command, and now lived cold and alone. When he approached other officers, they turned away. When he entered the Officers’ Club Room, conversation ceased, and if he stayed on, the others drifted off. When he encountered Captain Bell, the man wheeled away. When he met the officers’ wives, they hurried past, looking elsewhere.

  A few enlisted men smiled; some loyal old first sergeants saluted him smartly. But he was alone, never so alone in all his life, never so isolated from his own regiment. He could not even go to St. Paul to prepare his case with the attorneys he had hired, Cushman K. Davis and Stanford Newell. They would cost him plenty, but he had some reserves, and there was always the money accumulated in Pennsylvania from Mary Hannah’s estate; money divided between himself and his son.

  All that was bad, and it irked him. But something worse was afflicting him. A copy of the December twenty-third Army and Navy Journal had wended its way to Fort Abercrombie, and in it was a scathing review of a new biography by a certain Captain Frederick Whittaker, entitled A Complete Life of General George A. Custer, in which, apparently, the author had gone to great lengths to pin the death of Custer and his command on Reno and Benteen.

  Reno fumed. This thing would never go away. But at least the review did him honor. It lashed out at Whittaker: “With reckless pen he thrusts right and left, careless of reputations, regardless of facts, darkening the lives of other men in the vain hope that one name may shine more brightly on the pages of history.”

  And then the reviewer got down to the heart of it:

  “ … This rash writer furiously arraigns, tries, convicts, and sentences the president, Major Reno, and Captain Benteen for indirectly causing the death of General Custer. Since the book appeared in print Gen. Sherman and Lieutenant General Sheridan—to whose regard for the gallant Custer his biographer bears frequent testimony—have, in their report to the War Department, after months of careful consideration of all the facts and much of the evidence, not made public, unequivocally commend Reno as a brave and discreet man, who has performed his whole duty and plainly ascribed the disastrous termination of Custer’s fight to the unfortunate division of the command.”

  Reno read it gratefully, and yet with a certain morbid knowledge that this was only the beginning. He would not see Whittaker’s book for some while, unless perchance a copy drifted into this obscure frontier post. But at least he could brace himself. He knew there would be a storm and it would land full upon him, and that Custer’s partisans, no doubt including his widow, would make good use of the biography. But all he could do was wait. Maybe things would come out well enough.

  Somehow, he knew they wouldn’t.

  He was ordered at last to St. Paul to answer to the charges laid against him. This court-martial would be no small thing, given his notoriety. Not nine months had elapsed since the battle that clouded his name and career, and here he was, before a board of superior officers, colonels, lieutenant colonels, and one major, all Civil War veterans, most of them West Point.

  His career in the United States Army hinged on the result. Everyone knew it. The room at Fort Snelling had become a solemn place, a sea of blue uniforms and whiskered faces and humorless stares.

  The charges were read: there were seven articles, all spelled out in stiff legal fashion, each ending with the phrase, “This to the scandal and disgrace of the military service at Fort Abercrombie, Dakota,” on such and such a date.

  Reno listened angrily, stiff at attention before the court.

  “Take insulting liberties with the wife of said Captain Bell by taking both her hands in his own …”

  “Take improper and insulting liberties with
her by placing his arm around her waist …”

  Upon not receiving an invitation, said to the post trader, “This means war! Mrs. Bell has thrown down the gauntlet and I will take it up!” and said further, “I will make it hot for her; I will drive her out of the regiment,” thereby dishonorably using his power as commanding officer to revenge himself.

  Used an obscene and licentious expression in the clubroom, namely, “That Mr. Wainwright would have his goose as well as another man, and he could have it with Mrs. Bell.”

  That he has told Wainwright, “Mrs. Bell’s reputation is like a spoiled egg—you can’t hurt it.” And this was done for the dishonorable purpose of ruining Mrs. Bell’s reputation.

  That Reno had told Lieutenant Robinson, “Mrs. Bell ought to know better than to make a fight with me; her character is too vulnerable.”

  That Reno maliciously attempted to dishonor Mrs. Bell by prohibiting her from playing the organ at services.

  Marcus Reno pleaded not guilty, firmly and with conviction. He had dressed himself perfectly, boots glowing, uniform fresh, everything as spit and polish as he could manage. This was his life on the line.

  He sat down, wondering who were his friends and who weren’t. Benteen was there. Most of the staff at Fort Abercrombie were there. The Reverend Wainwright. Mrs. Bell, Captain Bell, the post trader, John Hazelhurst. The faces were not friendly. He stared at the row of judges: Colonel William Hazen, Sixth Infantry, was its president and sat at the center of that row. Colonel Sykes, Lieutenant Colonel Buell, Lieutenant Colonel Lugenbeel, Lieutenant Colonel Hunt, Lieutenant Colonel Huston, Lieutenant Colonel Carlin, Major Crofton, Major Bartlett. The prosecutor was Major Thomas Barr, judge advocate of the Department of Dakota.