Assault on Atlantis a-5

by Robert Doherty

  He’d booked up with Custer and the Seventh at Camp Supply, an outpost on the Canadian River. He’d hired on in his usual position as hunter, something the outfit had desperately needed as it moved through the bare wintry terrain. His time with Bridger, who bad often scouted for the Army, held him in good stead with the few Army people who had some time on the frontier and remembered the old mountain man and knew anyone that bad ridden with him was an asset.

  As soon as he had seen Custer, Bouyer had known not only that he was the man in his vision. But that he was also part of Bouyer’s future. It worried Bouyer greatly that such an apparently ignorant person was wrapped up in his fate, even though the exact nature of that fate still eluded him. Worse, the timing was also uncertain. Could it be today? Bouyer sensed Crazy Horse was not far away, but not close by, either. He definitely was not in the village that was Custer’s target. Bouyer knew his ‘’brother’’ was an integral part of whatever would Ultimately happen.

  The crystal skull he’d been given by Earhart was in a bag tied off to his saddle, hidden by his bedroll. Despite knowing Crazy Horse wasn’t in the immediate area, Bouyer didn’t have a good feeling about what was going to happen.

  The village that slept on the other side of the bluff, along the banks of the Washita, was Cheyenne, led by Chief Black Kettle. Bouyer’s brief look at it in the dark during the reconnaissance made him tend to agree with the officer who had questioned Custer-there were many lodges in the village, indicating at least a hundred warriors, along with perhaps three times that number of women and children. Also, he’d listened on the way here, to both whites and Indians he met, and Black Kettle had just gone to Fort Kearny on a peace mission. Why Was Custer so anxious to attack his camp then?

  * * *

  Custer was issuing orders, dividing his command into four columns, directing his subordinate officers to maneuver in such a way as to surround the village and attack at dawn. Having no official position in this matter, Bouyer decided to shadow Custer. He didn’t think much of the Colonel’s tactical plan. It presumed there would be no coordinated resistance. Also, it ignored the fact that there were several other Indian camps farther upriver. Custer seemed more concerned with the Cheyenne running than fighting.

  Then Custer did something that struck Bouyer as coldhearted. He had all the dogs-a common thing for a cavalry unit was to have an assortment of strays follow along on the march-killed. They were muzzled with ropes and strangled. He knew Custer was afraid the dogs might bark and give away the advance, but he could have easily leashed them out of earshot. Custer even had his own two prized dogs killed, indicating how anxious he was for a victory.

  Bouyer had heard stories of the yellow-haired regimental commander. How he had his own men who deserted shot down, much like he was killing the dogs. How he’d been court-martialed for leaving his command to go to his wife two years ago at Fort Hays. How he’d shot his own horse in the head while hunting buffalo.

  However, Bouyer did have to give Custer credit for one thing-leading the blue-coat cavalry out in this weather. He knew the Cheyenne would not suspect the white soldiers of doing that. Balancing that advantage was that Bouyer had seen the trails for several different tribes in the area-not just Cheyenne, but Kiowas, Comanche’s, Apaches, and Arapaho. Winter was a time when tribes had to put aside animosities and share the best places for camps. In this desolate country, the riverbed was the only option.

  * * *

  Crazy Horse stood, throwing off the snow-covered blanket. He walked over to his pony and untethered it. Shaking the snow off the blanket, he threw it over the pony’s back and then slid on top. He headed east along the top of the bluff.

  As he rode he thought of his daughter, nursing the black feeling it brought. Dead because of the white man. Not by bullet or knife, but the bad air the whites brought with them. In just one generation, the Lakota had been halved in numbers due to the bad air. The same was true everywhere he traveled. The medicine men were powerless against the diseases the white men brought with them.

  Crazy Horse did not understand why the white men weren’t satisfied with the land they already had. Why did they always want more? And was there no end to their numbers?

  How could his mother have talked of glory and a greater good in the midst of the destruction of her people? A greater good for whom? It could only be for the whites if his people were destroyed.

  The only good Crazy Horse could see was to kill as many of them as possible.

  * * *

  Bouyer watched as the columns separated to surround the village. Bouyer followed Custer’s column, moving on foot, leading their horses along the river bluff, keeping their, horses between them and the village, hands over their muzzles to keep them quiet.

  A first sergeant next to Bouyer leaned close. “Stay by the general. You’ll see how he did in the Rebs during the war.”

  Bouyer knew the first sergeant was a Custer man. The “general” reference for Custer indicated that Custer had been a brevet major general during the Civil War. By the time of the surrender at Appomattox, Custer had been leading the Third Cavalry Division at only twenty-five years of age. But Bouyer had listened to others in the past couple days enough to know things that the first sergeant didn’t or chose not to believe. That Custer’s division had had the highest casualty numbers of all Union divisions during the war. That despite a dozen horses shot out from underneath him, Custer had never been scratched. That Custer had risen so fast in rank and had so much success that perhaps he had lost touch with soldiers he commanded and with whose blood he had won his glory.

  Then the peace had come and the great demobilization. Custer, although still a major general in brevet-a basically honorary title-was reduced in rank to captain in the regular Army. He managed to crawl back up from that, and when the Army was reorganized in 1866, he was appointed lieutenant colonel of the Seventh Cavalry. There was a colonel who by letter commanded the Seventh; Bouyer had actually met Colonel Sturgis when he had visited St. Louis with Bridger the previous winter.

  General Sherman, who commanded the Western Department, had lashed Sturgis to a desk in Mounted Recruiting Command in St. Louis and turned the Seventh over to Custer. Bouyer knew that Sturgis, at fifty-four, would not have been able to push the regiment like Custer had the last several days in this harsh weather. The bottom line was that everyone felt Custer was the great Indian fighter, at least by reputation. Half the regiment thought Custer walked on water, the first sergeant one of them. The other half despised him, which wasn’t good for morale.

  They reached the top of the bluff overlooking the village. The men deployed, many still wrapped in rough wool blankets, trying to stay warm in the bone-chilling air. No alarm had been given. Bouyer was surprised there were no guards about, even just to watch the pony herd from thievery.

  Custer climbed onto his horse, the other cavalrymen doing the same. Bouyer was surprised when Custer turned to his hand and deployed them, instruments ready, along the top of the bluff. Custer nudged his horse forward and began to descend toward the village, the line of troops to his left and right following suit.

  * * *

  Crazy Horse was as still as the stunted tree he stood next to. Black Kettle’s village lay to the east and below. He could see the line of blue coats descending the bluff across from his location. No guards-Black Kettle deserved what was coming. Crazy Horse glanced to the east. Dawn was close, as he could make out a red glow on the horizon.

  * * *

  Bouyer followed the wave of troopers down the bluff, sweeping toward the village. As the troopers increased speed to a gallop, the band broke into music, playing “Garry Owen,” the Seventh Cavalry’s song. A shot rang out as a brave burst out of his lodge, firing wildly. A ragged volley came from the charging troopers in response, several bullets striking the warrior and knocking him back against the lodge.

  Bouyer pulled back on his horse’s reins, halting at the edge of the village. The scene was surreal as cavalrymen charged t
hrough the village, firing at point-blank range at anything that moved while the sound of the band playing floated overhead.

  To his right one of Custer’s officers was hit, a bullet ripping through his heart and out his back. The man stayed in his stirrups for several more strides of the horse before toppling off, landing in the snow with a puff of white powder. It was pandemonium in the village as soldiers raced to and fro, firing at anything that moved, including dogs. There was no coordinated defense, just warriors using whatever weapon was handy to fight back. There was no distinction between those who fought and those who tried to run, between men and women or even children.

  A bullet whizzed by Bouyer’s face, and he realized he also was being shown no distinction by the warriors. He swung off his horse, drawing his rifle. Two years ago he’d reluctantly traded in his muzzle-loading Hawkins for a Henry repeating rifle, giving up bullet caliber for speed of firing.

  Bouyer rested the barrel of the rifle over his saddle but didn’t shoot. The camp was bedlam, with no hope for the braves to mount an effective defense as they were tom between fighting and saving their families. Bouyer saw Black kettle mount a horse, grab one of his wives, placing her in front of him on the horse, and gallop toward the river. Several soldiers also saw the chief. Bullets peppered the old man’s back, passing through him and killing his wife also. Both boodles toppled into the water.

  A young Cheyenne girl ran out of a lodge that had been set on fire. A mounted soldier rode by and slashed at her with his saber, opening a bloody wound along the top of her skull. But the girl kept running. The soldier wheeled his mount and came back for a second try. Bouyer fixed the soldier in his sights and his finger caressed the trigger.

  He didn’t fire.

  The saber hit the girl’s left shoulder and sliced through her clavicle into her chest so deeply it was ripped out of the soldier’s hands as she fell to the ground mortally wounded. He halted his horse and dismounted. Putting a boot to the dead girl’s chest, he pulled the saber out, wiped the blood off on her clothes and reheated it. Then he drew a skinning knife and Proceeded to scalp the girl.

  Scenes like this were playing out all over the camp. Bouyer pulled back his rifle, leaving it dangling at his side as he stood, as if in the eye of an insane hurricane, surrounded y death and barbarism. He saw two soldiers firing at a running boy, taking turns until finally one dropped the child, a round blowing off the top of his head. Lodges were being set ablaze, and the smoke added to the confusion. Still the band played on.

  There was little resistance left, the survivors running or trying to hide in gullies or behind bushes. The top of the sun was showing on the horizon. Spelling doom for those who were hiding as soldiers tracked them down and executed them.

  Bouyer tied off his horse to a sapling and slowly walked through the camp. He saw women and children being killed, some being used as sport by mounted soldiers with sabers. And where was Custer? Bouyer wondered. He spotted the regimental commander by the pony herd with a few of his officers. Bouyer walked over, eager to be away from the slaughter.

  “I Want a count,” Custer was ordering. “Of everything. Ponies. Bodies. Weapons. Robes. Food. A written report. Then burn it all. Every single thing.” Custer had turned and was surveying the village. He pointed at a fine white lodge, not yet on fire, which Black Kettle had run out of. “I want that taken down and packed. · Mrs. Custer would appreciate it.”

  He turned back to the large pony herd, about four hundred head, Bouyer estimated. “Officers and scouts may choose whatever they want. Kill the rest.”

  One of the officers protested. “Sir, that’s a lot of horses to be-”

  Custer spun on the man. “Damn it, do as I say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general mounted his horse and rode off. leaving the officers debating how they should go about the gruesome task. Bouyer watched as they detailed soldiers to try to slit the ponies’ throats, but that proved difficult because as soon as a white man approached the tethered animals, they’d go wild, bucking and lashing out with their hooves.

  Finally they settled on shooting them. Bouyer turned away as the slaughter began. The sound of wounded animals added to the insanity. As he made his way back through the village, he halted and slowly turned to the west. A warrior was standing a half-mile away on the bluff.

  In his excitement and subsequent disgust at what he was witnessing, Bouyer had not listened to his inner voice.

  * * *

  Crazy Horse saw Bouyer amidst the death below him. He had yet to see his “brother” take part in the battle, but it did not matter-he was with the blue coats. Crazy Horse saw two soldiers run down a squaw, throwing her to the ground near the western edge of the village. He mounted his horse and rode, keeping to the cover of the brush.

  He heard them before he saw them-one of the soldiers was grunting with pleasure. Crazy Horse came around a thick bush and fired, the round catching the standing soldier in the face and knocking him backward. The one on top of the woman looked up, pleasure mixed with shock on his face. Crazy Horse dismounted in one smooth movement, drawing his hatchet. As the soldier fumbled with his pants, Crazy Horse threw the hatchet, the edge burying itself in the man’s chest.

  The woman scrambled to get away and Crazy Horse ignored her as he retrieved his hatchet. She was soiled by the white men and of no use any more. He pulled the hatchet out of the man’s chest just as a nearby soldier spotted him and raised a cry of alarm. Crazy Horse ran to his horse and bounded on top of it.

  * * *

  Bouyer had had Crazy Horse in his sights almost the entire time he rode down the bluff. He’d lost him as he entered the trees along the bottom; but he spotted the warrior as he came around the tree and fired at the soldier. As Crazy Horse jumped off his horse, Bouyer started to pull the trigger, but he forced himself to stop. This was not the time. Bouyer had seen what the soldiers were doing.

  As the alarm was raised. A detail of about twenty men on the western end, led by a major, charged after Crazy Horse. The soldiers disappeared around a bend, hot in pursuit. Bouyer felt Crazy Horse’s essence moving away, and he felt a brief moment of pity for the soldiers chasing him.

  The pity was gone as Bouyer turned and walked through the camp. Every Cheyenne body Bouyer passed had been scalped. Many were mutilated. A,s he came around the edge of a lodge, Bouyer, who didn’t think he could be any more disgusted, was shocked to see u. soldier laying on top of the body of a squaw, violating her even though she was dead and scalped. Bouyer rushed up and kicked the man. The soldier scrambled to get his pants up, cursing at Bouyer.

  “She don’t care none,” the man protested.

  Bouyer drew his hatchet and laid the fine edge against the soldier’s neck. The man’s eyes went wide. “You won’t either m a second, if you don’t get the hell away from here.”

  The soldier scuffled away, yelling “Indian lover” over his shoulder. Bouyer looked down at the violated body. She was in her teens, blood covering her face, indicating she’d still been alive when she was scalped. He grabbed a nearby blanket and covered her, knowing the gesture was futile.

  Bodies were being stacked like cordwood along the edge of the river as officers tried to get a count. Bouyer saw few warriors among the dead, mostly women and children. He glanced at the sun. It had not taken long. Perhaps thirty minutes. Having spent years on the frontier, Bouyer was used to death and violence, but he’d never experienced anything quite like what he had just seen. The band was playing a waltz now, of all things.

  Bouyer reached his horse. He tentatively reached out and touched the bag holding the crystal skull, but there was no heat being projected by it. He pulled himself up into the saddle. Custer was organizing the regiment to withdraw to the east.

  As Bouyer rode up, one of the officers was protesting the quick retreat. “Sir, Major Elliot and a patrol is still out chasing down some warriors.”

  “Elliot can catch up with us on the march,” Custer said.

&nb
sp; Another officer, the one named Benteen, held his ground. “Sir, Elliot is upriver. There are other villages up there, and he might be in trouble.”

  Custer stared hard at Benteen. “Captain, I command this regiment, and as long as I do, you will do as I say. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Custer put the spurs to his horse and rode off, the rest of the regiment falling into line behind him.

  Bouyer followed. Pausing as he reached the crest of the bluff. He looked back at the village. Bodies were stacked like logs, and acrid smoke blew across the black and red stained snow.

  Crazy Horse was upriver, leading the soldiers on. Of that, Bouyer had no doubt.

  He also had no doubt that this was just the prelude. He would meet his brother again, and Custer would be a part of it. And the battle would be very different than what had happened today. Bouyer turned and headed after the cavalry.

  * * *

  Crazy Horse waved at the first warriors coming down river, indicating for them to turn and head back the way they had come. They hesitated, then followed his orders, which surprised him as he was not of their tribe. It was a curious situation as Crazy Horse negotiated the turns of the Washita. He could hear the soldiers behind, and in front of him was a growing cluster of warriors, most looking over their shoulders, wondering why he was directing them away from where they had heard the gunfire.

  Two miles from Black Kettle’s village Crazy Horse signaled to the warriors in front of him, spreading his hands to both sides and then pointing up. Like water into sand, the warriors dispersed and disappeared into the brush on either bluff. Crazy Horse passed through the kill zone and halted his horse. He turned, facing downstream.