Ironic that Libbie Custer outlived all but one of them!
Gentlemen they were, carrying to their graves their gloomy story of the outcome of Custer’s tragic affair in Indian Territory and how it led him to the banks of the Greasy Grass some seven years later. We amateur historians could not blame these men for their chivalrous silence. It was, after all, a time when soldiers gone off to war were permitted their dalliance with foreign women. A gentleman always kept quiet, for that Gilded Age was, after all, an era when the keeping of a mistress was widely accepted and generally practiced.
Custer had been sexually active as a young man in Monroe, Michigan, before marrying his Libbie.
Following the Civil War he was assigned leadership to clean out the nests of Confederates and hangers-on in Texas, 1865. It is generally believed Custer had a dalliance there with a daughter of the Old South.
Before coming to Fort Riley, Kansas, with Libbie the following year, Custer journeyed through St. Louis, where he shared another indiscretion with the wife of a fellow officer, one of Sheridan’s staff.
And following his court martial and one-year suspension from active duty, Custer returned to the plains in the fall of 1868—only to continue his practice of infidelity, this time with a young Cheyenne woman taken prisoner at the defeat of Black Kettle’s village.*
Finally, during those years Custer was stationed in the northern plains at Fort Abraham Lincoln, he not only appears to have continued his extramarital dalliances, but in fact flaunted them before his wife. Time and again he tells her of his indiscretions and improprieties during his visits to New York without Libbie.
To better understand our culture’s continuing fascination with the man we must remember that Custer was a young hero who had captured the nation’s attention and fancy during a most dramatic time in our collective history: the Civil War. After remarkable yet tumultous years of service on the plains, he became the nation’s darling, a hero cut down at a particular and tragic moment in what had been a brilliant, meteoric career. Cut down in the company of two brothers and a nephew, a brother-in-law and his closest of friends: the Custer inner circle.
The entire family gone in one hot breath of red fury on that yellow hillside.
Perhaps the primary reason this battle remains so vividly etched for all time in the American psyche is that no white survivor lived to tell the story. Yet as dramatic as that may be, history has recorded other military tragedies of far greater magnitude and consequence: the British charge of their light cavalry during the Crimean War, when over six hundred rode hell-bent to their destruction into the fiery maw of enemy cannon; and, the three-hundred Spartans who sacrificed themselves at Thermopylae. Down through our history, there were other, many lesser-known battles in which no man survived.
Most of us in this closing decade of our 20th Century look back on 1876 as a time when “the cavalry to the rescue!” was the stirring watchword of not only the frontier … but a call exciting the pulse of Easterners as well. Still, to put that era in perspective, we must not fail to realize what exciting exhibits thrilled visitors to the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia that same summer. Not only a device that prepared a “ready-roll,” or tailor-made, cigarette, but Alexander Graham Bell unveiled for the world his improved telephone. On and on, one could list the electronic and scientific marvels that astounded the world that summer. Yet with all that magic accompanying our nation’s headlong rush into its second century, the citizens of the Republic nonetheless turned their eyes to their past, if not focusing their attention on the startling contradictions of their present.
All the more ironic, wasn’t it, that the most popular, well-attended exhibit at the Centennial Exposition proved to be one sponsored by the Central Pacific Railroad—an authentic reconstruction of an 1876 buffalo-hunters’ camp in the Colorado Rockies. The average citizen, east coast or west, trained his eye on the frontier West for glory and romance back then … every bit as much as we do to this day.
While the white man celebrated the Republic’s one-hundredth birthday back East during that fateful summer, the Indian celebrated his most stunning victory for but two days—then disbanded, never to gather again in such strength or numbers. Never to share between them such accord and harmony, such medicine, as they had experienced that hot afternoon in Montana Territory when they ably defended their way of life. What had been the brief high-water mark recorded on every band’s winter count, was for the white man an ugly, gaping, bloody interruption to the self-absorbed celebration back East—a terrible, annoying reminder to the white man of what he had to do before he would truly call this land his.
He had to recommit himself to subduing, if not crushing once and for all, the native cultures of the plains.
The Army of the West reaffirmed its dedication to doing just that only weeks after discovering the bloated, stinking carcasses of some two hundred twenty-five white soldiers on that yellow hillside. With a renewed fervor and blood-vengeance so strong that it echoed shrilly behind the chants of “Remember Custer! Remember the Seventh!”—the Army of the West hammered away relentlessly at the now-divided and conquerable bands dispersing across the plains on the four winds.
Why such fury on the part of the Army? The destruction of Custer’s men at the Little Bighorn decided nothing. More men had been killed in other engagements. So, it was not simply that soldiers had been killed, even that there were no survivors. There were other instances of no white survivors on the Western frontier.
No, instead, what fascinated then and fascinates us still is that he was killed there on that hot afternoon. He alone conjures up specific, myth-loaded images in us all. Say his name aloud and our imaginations dance on cue—bobbing and weaving to the eerie scream of eagle wing-bone whistles and hand-held rawhide drums. Perhaps instead our imaginations march in formation to the rollicking but plaintive battle-cry of his favorite fighting song “Garry Owen.”
Because of those images, so many who hear the word Custer or the name of the place where he was killed will never be able to sort myth from reality. Over the years, this much-discussed battle has taken on truly Olympic proportions. The historic Custer who was a genuine hero coming out of the Civil War gave way to the frontier Custer who struggled hard in that Washita winter of 1868—1869 to redeem himself and his standing before both his superiors and the American public.
But on that hot Montana hillside reeking with death, Custer’s fate was sealed. Not that he would die by the hands of Cheyenne and Sioux—or even by the hand of his own brother—but that the frontier Custer was fated to become for all time the mythic Custer.
The man and the myth were to be caught up forever in a swirl of debate between those for whom Custer was a much-maligned, unsung demigod, and those for whom he was a strutting, arrogant, egotistical martinet.
In this novel I wanted only to have, in some way, the real Custer emerge—the man who was a little of all those things they say he is. More than anything, I wanted to make him seem a little more human than either plaster saint or devil incarnate—to show him as a man with the same hopes and fears, dreams and regrets, chat we all know. Custer was, ultimately, a man who walked on stage at the most opportune moment, remaining for every curtain call.
Custer had feet of clay.
Like you, and like me.
In closing I want most to express my indebtedness to the primary sources used in writing my story of the Custer fight. After years of research done for this trilogy, from the reading of hundreds of books, articles and monographs written about the man and this battle, I have naturally come to some of my own conclusions. Do not curse the following for what they have contributed to this scenario of that bloody summer Sunday afternoon.
Both Dr. Thomas B. Marquis (in his Keep the Last Bullet for Yourself) and David Humphreys Miller (who wrote Custer’s Fall: The Indian Side of the Story) invested lifetimes interviewing the Indian participants of the battle. While some continue to ignore those accounts, I am indebted not only to Marquis an
d Miller, but to those warriors who chose to tell their stories in the truthful, objective manner described by no less a scholar of the plains Indian than Stanley Vestal (Walter S. Campbell) himself.
If a reader were to ask me to suggest one book that would discuss both the climate of the times and the battle itself—making sense of the startling complexities, I would have to suggest three: telling them to devour Custer’s Luck by Edgar I. Stewart; John S. Gray’s Centennial Campaign—The Sioux War of 1876; and, Cavalier in Buckskin—George Armstrong Custer and the Western Military Frontier by Robert M. Utley.
Yet Stewart published his work in 1955, and much of the search for the truth of that bloody afternoon has since continued. John Gray picked up the torch with his most thoughtful and dispassionate search, resulting in a book that was first published in the battle’s centennial year, 1976. The banner has since been hoisted by my esteemed friend and Western scholar, Robert M. Utley, who (besides writing very readable history) has, like Stewart and Gray, devoted his life to the quest of historic truth of that battle, using the finest of research methods, based on empirical data, to arrive at his own cogent thesis on the movement of Custer’s troops and a scenario of the Custer fight.
To all five of these scholars, I offer my undying gratitude.
You must remember that the events herein portrayed are by and large drawn from the actual documents of the time and from eye-witness testimony, dealing with a short timespan from the moment the Seventh U.S. Cavalry marched out of Fort Abraham Lincoln in Dakota Territory until the setting of the sun on that bloody hillside in Montana Territory, 25 June, 1876. Certain conversations and descriptions have been supplied by the author where the silent tongues of the dead—red man and white alike—could not speak for themselves here one hundred fourteen years later.
Why is it that no other battle so captured the public imagination of its time? Why has no other single military event remained in our national memory as the Custer fight? It has, like no other event of its kind, come to symbolize, for good or bad perhaps, the essential character of the American Frontier West: the determination and grit of its characters, and the tragedy that always stood ready to challenge any man gutsy enough to pit himself against both the land and the redman who vowed to defend his last, best hunting ground.
This is essentially, in my estimation, a story of those ordinary men, both white and red, who dared pit themselves against a fate that drove so many to hurl their bodies against enemy iron, steel and lead that hot summer day. And thereby became heroic.
I believe that the essential facts herein presented are faithful not only to the gallant memories of the courageous officers and enlisted men of the Seventh Cavalry, but faithful as well to the memories of those valiant red horsemen who rode against Custer’s pony soldiers in the name of freedom and their ancient way of life on this dusty, sage-covered ridge where I sit at this moment, on another afternoon of 25 June, these one hundred fourteen years later.
Back along the hilltop at the monument it is noisy today—what with the celebration of an anniversary, with the comings and goings of those who pull off the interstate highway to drive by in slow parade, for but a few minutes to stop and peer across this forlorn piece of ground, perhaps to read a stone here and there. But few will ever allow themselves the time and the quiet to listen to the ghosts.
Where I sit late this afternoon, it is quiet. Here on Calhoun’s Hill. Where so many historians across this last century of controversy agree that the only real resistance was put up against the Sioux after Custer’s two hundred fought their ragged way up this slope from the river below.
From here I can look to the north and make out the bustle and swarm of visitors around that huge stone monolith marking Last Stand Hill. From where I sit among the sage, I can gaze across the east slope of the ridge, see the white of the markers glaring beneath the high-plains sun, each stone tablet plotting the fall of one who stood and fought beside that irascible Irishman Keogh. In the end, as I always do, I turn and look southwest, across several folds of this rumpled blanket of a landscape, and I imagine I can see across that distance the mouth of Medicine Tail Coulee, where it opens at the Minniconjou Ford on the Greasy Grass itself.
Where Custer began singing his death song that hot afternoon.
Up here, where I sit alone, it is so quiet at this moment that I can hear the breeze nudge the grass into whispers, a breeze that taunts this hallowed ground, pushing gently through the gray-bellied sage with a mournful keening of memories too-long unspoken. Here, on this quiet, lonely hill, I stay while the sun sets, listening to the ghosts that will forever haunt this place.
Ultimately, it is the ghosts who have told their story here across the pages of my book.
This story is their whispers heard among the grass and sage that blankets this hallowed, bloody ground where they fought and fell.
Their whispers.
TERRY C. JOHNSTON
Custer Battlefield
Montana Territory, U.S.A.
25 June, 1990
*a story told in Son of the Plains, Volume 1: Long Winter Gone
Terry C. Johnston captures the spirit and
drama of a unique era in American history
in his magnificent novel,
DANCE ON THE WIND, which marks
the return of a great fictional character
by a storyteller at the height of his power.
DANCE ON THE WIND
Now, the award-winning author of Dream Catcher and Carry the Wind presents a novel that marks the return of one of the most beloved characters in frontier fiction—mountain man Titus Bass, made famous in the bestselling, critically acclaimed trilogy Carry the Windy BorderLords, and One-Eyed Dream In the first book of an exciting new saga, Johnston takes us back to the early years of this extraordinary individual as a young Titus Bass blazes a trail of danger and adventure across the American Frontier. From the banks of the upper Ohio to the vast, unexplored expanse of the lower Mississippi, Bass comes of age on a journey across a volatile, violent country of riverboatmen and river bandits, knife fights and Indian raids, strong liquor and stronger women. Like America itself, Titus looks west and sees the future … and he’s willing to risk everything to seize it.
Turn the page for an exciting preview of Terry C. Johnston’s DANCE ON THE WIND, available now in paperback wherever Bantam Books are sold.
ONE
Slick as quicksilver the boy stepped aside when the mule flung her rump in his direction.
Only problem was, he had forgotten about the root that arched out of the ground in a great bow nearly half as tall as he stood without his Sunday-meeting and schoolroom boots on. The end of it cruelly snagged his ankle, sure as one of his possum snares.
Spitting out the rich, black loam as fine as flour in this bottomland, Titus Bass pulled his face out of the fresh, warm earth he had been chewing up with a spade, blinking his gritty eyes. And glared over his shoulder at the mule.
Damn, if it didn’t look as if she was smiling at him again. That muzzle of hers pulled back over those big front teeth the way she did at times just like this. Almost as if she was laughing at him when here he had just been thinking he was the one so damned smart.
“Why, you …,” the boy began as he dragged himself up to his knees, then to his bare feet in that moist earth chewed by the mule’s hooves and his work with iron pike and spade.
On impulse he lunged for the fallen spade, swung it behind his shoulder in both hands.
“Put it down, Titus.”
Trembling, the boy froze. Always had at the sound of that man’s voice.
“Said: put it down.”
The youth turned his head slightly, finding his father emerging from the trees at the far edge of the new meadow they were clearing. Titus weighed things, then bitterly flung the spade at that patch of ground between him and his father. The man stopped, stared down at it a moment, then bent to pick it up.
“You’d go and hit that mule with this,” Thaddeu
s Bass said as he strode up, stopped, and jammed the spades bit down into the turned soil, “I’d have call to larrup you good, son.” He leaned back with both strong, muscular hands wrapped around the space handle like knots on oiled ropes. “Thought I’d teached you better’n that.”
“Better’n what?” the boy replied testily, but was sorry it came out with that much vinegar to it.
Thaddeus sighed. “Better’n to go be mean to your animals.”
Titus stood there, caught without a thing to say, watching his father purse his lips and walk right on past to the old mule. Thaddeus Bass patted the big, powerful rump, stroked a hand down the spine, raising a small stir of lather near the harness, then scratched along the mare’s neck as he cooed to the animal. She stood patiently in harness, hooked by leather and wood of singletree, the quiet murmur of her jangling chains—the whole of it lashed round a tree stump young Titus Bass had been wrenching out of a piece of ground that seemed too reluctant to leave go its purchase on the stubborn stump.
Titus flushed with indignation. “She was about to kick me, Pap.”
Without looking back at his son, Bass said, “How you know that?”
“She was hitchin’ her rump around to kick me,” Titus retorted. “Know she was.”
“How hard you working her?”
Dusting himself off, he replied in exasperation, “How hard I’m working her? You was the one sent me out here with her to finish the last of these goddamned stumps.”
Seize the Sky sotp-2 Page 37
