After that battle, he had walked that meadow where he and his hundred twelve troopers had charged, walked its trampled grasses, found that only three hundred yards farther a shallow trench ran across the flat, deep enough to conceal many hundreds of warriors. And it was plain from its condition that they had indeed gathered there, waited for him, and would have emptied every saddle when his command galloped in.
But he had made the most difficult of command decisions, the one that required the most courage of all, in response to every instinct he had acquired over the long years of battle during the War of the Rebellion. He called a halt. Dismounted his men so they could use their carbines effectively, started forward again, and wheeled toward the woods when he could no longer move ahead.
That was a retreat, and retreats win no admiration for gallantry, and he who saves commands from certain doom are less the hero than the sort who takes every man with him to death. Had he taken his command to its death, he would have been another dead hero.
So they damned him with faint praise, and he saw no victory in it, but he knew that he would act the part of victor when the press converged, as it would, over the next days. He would be at the Palmer House for a day or two more, putting things in order, and they would clamor for a comment, and he would light up a Havana and tell them that he was delighted, and the conclusions were just, and the army had officially wiped the slate clean.
He ate alone that night. The witnesses, fellow officers from his command, had scattered, heading for the train stations, reporting back to duty. He wore mufti again because the trial was over and he could wear the honored blues only during that trial. So no one knew him, the slightly paunchy, bag-eyed, slick-haired moustached man in a rumpled brown suit who had been the focus of a month-long probe. Not even the waiters in the hotel restaurant, who had hailed the man in smart blues and white gloves, knew the man.
He found a dozen written messages awaiting him at the hotel desk: Marshal from the Sun, Josephson from the New York Herald, Cobb from the Chicago Times. The Army and Navy Journal. He was in no hurry to speak to any reporter. And when it came time, he would guard his language.
Yes, he was pleased and grateful. Yes, he considered the findings an official justification of the report he had written after the battle. Yes, he planned to return to the service and serve with honor. Yes, he mourned the brave Custer, whose courage no one ever doubted. Yes, he was honored by the findings, and felt they justified all that he had achieved. Yes, yes, yes …
And smile. He was good at smiling. He was good at slapping backs. He was good at the friendly arm on the shoulder.
They would all go back to their battle-scarred desks in grimy newsrooms and scribble about Reno’s happiness, and his bright future.
He scanned each of the papers, looking for Whittaker, but didn’t find his adversary. Not now. But the novelist would not be silent for long. Rumors were afoot. It was being said that the surviving officers of the Seventh Cavalry were saying one thing in court, quite another among themselves. That their testimony was skewed, bordered on perjury, because the high command didn’t want to dig too deeply into defeat, or besmirch far more than one disgraced major. They were saying that the officer corps had gathered together, agreed on what would be said and not said, that the young recorder, Lee, had been chosen for his inexperience …
It was true that Lee hadn’t dug very deeply into the battle. In fact, Reno wished the man had asked harder questions, questions that would have laid to rest the rumors he was hearing from the press. Yes, he would hear from Whittaker. The press had already heard from Libbie Custer, who was scornful of the whole proceedings.
The word “whitewash” was floating in the air. Reno wondered whose whitewash: his or George Custer’s? The less the court had dug into details, the less scrutiny was thrown upon the lieutenant colonel and his private ambitions and recklessness. There was a whitewash, all right, and the whitewash was to preserve the memory of a gallant and dead officer and mollify his widow.
Reno tucked all that deep within himself, checked out, headed south for a few days with family, and prepared for the future. He was nearly broke. He might have to sell the Front Street house, sell some city lots, pay Gilbert, find means to stay in the Lochiel Hotel for a couple more months.
These things were Mary Hannah’s parting gifts, and now they would fall away from him. She had bailed him out from the grave. He felt a strange and poignant sorrow. It had not been a true victory at all, and the wolves still circled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE MAJOR RODE THE HUFFING TRAINS BACK TO HARRISBURG WEARING a chip on each shoulder. The court of inquiry, triggered by Frederick Whittaker’s accusations, had devastated him financially, and had done little for his reputation even though the outcome was favorable.
But he was a fighting man, and he intended to show some fight to Whittaker. After he resumed life at the Lochiel Hotel, where he would remain a few more weeks before his two-year suspension ended, he made haste to contact Lyman Gilbert.
“Ah, Marcus, the soldier has returned,” Gilbert said, affably, waving him into an office lined with law tomes.
“I have more business for you, Lyman.”
The attorney arched an eyebrow.
“I want to sue Whittaker for libel; and his publisher, Galaxy Books. He called me a coward; the court said it could find no reason for animadversion against me. I want to sue and wring him out.”
Gilbert settled back in his swivel chair, stared into the brightly lit window, and smiled.
“I suppose you could do that,” he said. “And I certainly understand your feelings. And there does seem to be a case. He’s accused you of cowardice and gross incompetence; the army’s inquiry has cleared you. But have you thought this through entirely?”
“I have. I want to wring every cent out of him. I’ve just put myself in debt to defend against his accusations.”
“Libel suits cost money. Not just my time. Witnesses, preparation, all of it.”
“I’ll win it back.”
“Is he rich?”
“I don’t know.”
“My impression of novelists is that they’re rather, shall we say, judgment proof.”
“I’ll still have a victory in my pocket.”
Lyman Gilbert’s gentle gaze settled on Reno again. “A civil suit is quite a different matter and might produce a different outcome, Marcus.”
“What do you mean?”
“A strong defense could be mounted against your suit by delving into areas not really explored by the army’s inquiry.”
“Such as?”
Gilbert hesitated. “An army court weighs the evidence offered by officers as being more reliable than that of civilians. All those packers and scouts and guides who had hard things to say about you would be back in civil court, and their testimony would not be, shall we say, less credible than anyone else’s.”
“I’ll meet it with officers’ testimony.”
“That might change, too. They’ll be asked many questions that they weren’t asked by Lieutenant Lee during the inquiry. He wasn’t exactly a bulldog, was he?”
“No, and that’s because the command didn’t want him to probe too much,” Reno said.
“Because it was sensitive about officers’ reputations?”
“Not my reputation. Custer’s. It didn’t really want to dig too deeply into Custer’s past, including his court-martial conviction. The man’s dead. He was a national hero. Lyman, just think what would have happened if Lee had started questioning Benteen about Custer. Benteen on the stand, talking freely about Washita, about Custer’s abuse of soldiers, about the man’s recklessness, about the way he collected favorites in the Seventh Cavalry, about a dozen other matters.
“But Lee didn’t open that door, and for damned good reason. Sure, Lee didn’t probe very deeply, but that wasn’t to protect me. It was to protect Custer. And maybe Terry, too. Some of the blaming was washing in Terry’s direction.”
Gilber
t nodded. “Perhaps you make my case for me, Marcus. There would be no closed doors in a civil libel trial. A civil court wouldn’t be under the slightest constraint. There would be subjects introduced that might embarrass you. Including your own suspension. And imbibing. And no guarantee that the officers who survived, and enlisted men who survived, would testify in the same way. Why don’t you think on it? If you’re certain of the results, come back, and we’ll discuss costs.”
Reno left the offices of his attorney feeling unfulfilled. He wanted to punch a fist at Whittaker, and now he was not at all sure he could. He itched for a scrap; itched to haul that skinny novelist right through the legal mill and spill every dime from his pockets. He itched to tell his own story in a public venue, a court of law. In his mind’s eye, he saw Gilbert honing in, boring deep, until Whittaker recanted or made a fool of himself.
But it would not happen. Reno felt he had scores to settle, and no one to settle against.
The weeks went slowly. No orders came from the War Department. His suspension began May 1, 1877, and ended May 1, 1879, but they had not posted him. He decided, in April, to catch a train to Washington and visit the War Department.
He felt irritable: the damned cloud seemed still to hover over him. He reported to the War Department, where a clerk told him to report his whereabouts to the adjutant general, and he would be issued orders.
He returned to Harrisburg and wrote General Townsend on April 29 that he was at the Lochiel Hotel, awaiting orders.
A telegram swiftly arrived from the War Department, informing him that he should have reported for duty with his regiment on May 1.
That wasn’t very clear: he had no inkling of where to report. Fort Abercrombie, his last post, had been shut down in 1878 and stood empty.
He had begun this process with his April 9th trip to Washington, and now the boneheaded War Department was holding him responsible for not reporting. So he wrote again, explaining his conduct. But still no answer came.
He tried again, this time by wire: “Was informed by you I should report by letter. Did so. Where is my station? Will start at once.”
In two days he received orders to report to Fort Meade, Dakota Territory. His bags were packed and he was ready to go. A new post, a new start.
Fort Meade, named after the Civil War general George Gordon Meade, was not quite complete. The army had been building it through the harsh winter, and it was well along. It stood close to Bear Butte, the sacred mountain of the Sioux and other tribes, north of the Black Hills, and was a frank expression of power in the heart of the country the Sioux had always called their own. It was there to protect the miners in the Black Hills.
Once again Reno headed west, transferring from one line to another, from crack eastern trains, rich with comforts, to rude western ones where coach passengers sat on wooden benches and suffered from excesses of heat, cold, smoke, draft, and noise. But he was wearing the blue again, his record newborn and clean, his bearing entirely army and his mood mostly cheerful, except when he remembered he was heading into a regiment that harbored some vipers.
He drifted to the smoking lounge, bit off the end of a stogy, and fired up. He sure as hell would deal with that any way he had to. He was forty-four, had years of service left, had a chance to advance, was out on the front lines again, and maybe life would be good at last. He plucked the flask from his bosom and swallowed enough whiskey to keep him in an affable state of mind. He had a long trip before him, but there were always pretty girls aboard to fire up his imagination.
When he arrived at Fort Meade he found raw buildings perched on a broad plain fourteen miles from booming Deadwood. Looming over the place was the blue bulk of Bear Butte, mysterious and strange, a sacred place for many tribes. He arrived on May 21, and the next day took command from Major Lazelle, who was overseeing construction. Shortly afterward, the Seventh Cavalry was transferred there from Fort Abraham Lincoln, and Reno welcomed the regimental staff, the band, and four companies.
And he welcomed one last newcomer, Captain Keogh’s Comanche, the sole survivor of the Little Bighorn, which by Reno’s own order would be used only for ceremonial purposes. He looked the grand old cavalry horse over, brimming with vast affection, and ran a hand down its neck. It was all good. He was back with his regiment. Major Marcus Reno was home, a veteran soldier among soldiers, in command for the moment, putting a new post in order, and renewing old friendships.
By God, he was back in the army! Almost with the passing of hours, the bad times receded, the good times lay ahead. His salary was flowing to him again. His regiment had congregated, looking sharp and clean and lean.
Many of the officers were new to him, but he had old friends here too, Benteen and Varnum among them. There was a handsome new Officers’ Club Room, complete with a billiard table and bar, where a man could light up a Havana and buy a rye or bourbon and fraternize with the staff officers once again. Good times! And there was always wild and rambunctious Deadwood to relieve the monotony of a Western post. He sent his regimental band there on July fourth to help the folks celebrate Independence Day, and the miners cheered.
His command did not last long. In July, the Seventh Cavalry’s commander, Colonel Samuel Sturgis, transferred himself and his family from Fort Abraham Lincoln to the bright new post and assumed command. Sturgis had been a fair-minded superior through the time of trouble, and Reno felt comfortable with him.
Sturgis had, also, been fully aware of Custer’s failings and had had a few run-ins with the late lieutenant colonel. All of which led Reno to believe that things were good now, and would stay good.
The regiment’s lieutenant colonel and two senior majors were all on detached duty, leaving Reno the regiment’s second in command for the time being, the very position held by George A. Custer. And if there was fighting to do, Reno would likely do it because Sturgis rarely took to the field. All in all, it seemed to be a most promising new start on life.
What’s more, Sturgis had brought with him not only his wife, but his utterly enchanting, slender, dark, gray-eyed twenty-one-year-old daughter Ella. Reno took one look at her and his world was transformed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
GOOD TIMES. FORT MEADE TURNED OUT TO BE THE BEST OF BILLETS. Reno drifted through the summer, finding plenty of time to visit rowdy Deadwood, playing billiards in the Officers’ Club Room, and keeping an eye on Ella Sturgis, whose dark beauty captivated him.
He liked a little sip several times each day, and was never without his flask, which he took care to fill with the finest bourbon whiskey imported by Deadwood saloons from the States. A residual pain lingered in him, the remembrance of bad times and indignities that needed numbing with a swift sure sip. Sometimes he overdid, but he had the good sense to retreat to his quarters. He was walking the lip of the abyss, and did not intend to fall again.
Something bristling about his manner steered the conversation of fellow officers away from the topic of the Little Bighorn. His insignia of rank these days was a chip sewn to each shoulder. The post’s lieutenants and captains knew better than to bring up that sore and still-bleeding topic around the major who had taken so much blame but had been, after a fashion, exonerated. What they said among themselves Reno didn’t know and affected not to care; he was affable with them all just so long as nothing about the fight burned his ears.
As second in command, he found himself routinely invited to all the post’s social functions. He took to calling on the family of Colonel Sturgis, often spending some considerable while with Mrs. Sturgis and Ella, a lady still grieving for a rejected fiance, Second Lieutenant Charles Carrow, who had killed himself over the broken romance. Nor had the family forgotten the son they lost in the Little Bighorn fight. Whether Sturgis blamed Custer or Reno or no one at all, Reno could not ascertain, but the commander was cool toward Reno, and growing more so, and making it plain.
But it was Ella he was protecting.
“Major,” he said one day. “My daughter is fragile, gr
ieving, and but twenty-one, and I’m afraid, rather unsuitable for you, a man of forty-four. I think, under the circumstances, you ought not to call except in my presence. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“If you say so, colonel,” Reno said, suddenly disheartened. Ella’s soft and melodic voice, her sweet melancholy, her wide and sensuous eyes and lush lips had drawn Reno to her as he had not been drawn to anyone since Mary Hannah. Indeed, there was much in Ella Sturgis that seemed a fair copy of his long-dead wife. So Sturgis’s dictum hit him deeply, and from that moment life in Fort Meade was not so sweet.
He retreated to his room after that admonition, downed two shots neat, letting the fire burn its way into his belly, and then downed a third after the heat had radiated through him.
He knew he had become a love-crazed swain. She conjured up visions of sweetness and lust in him, visions of warmth that had ceased when Mary Hannah died. Every time he saw her, walking the parade under a parasol, or in the post trader’s store fondling an apple or fingering gingham, or on the arm of her father taking the air, something stirred within, and the moment was painful.
Maybe the colonel was right: Ella was too young. He was forty-four, feeling abraded, worn down by army life, adversity, sheer bad luck, and maybe his dissolute ways now and then, though he could not fault himself very much for that. This was the army, not a Sunday school.
On August 3rd the post trader’s store burned while the trader was off in Rapid City. The whole command rushed to put out the fire, man buckets, salvage what could be salvaged, but much was lost. The trader’s wife stood by distraught, wringing her hands, and Reno wished to console her.
An Obituary for Major Reno Page 21
