Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

  Praise for ARMSTRONG

  “The world has a new hero—actually an old hero reimagined—George Armstrong Custer, in this delightfully funny alternative history that’s better, or at least happier, than the real thing.”

  —WINSTON GROOM, bestselling author of Forrest Gump and El Paso

  “Droll satire, this is the West as it might have been if the Sioux hadn’t saved us.”

  —STEPHEN COONTS, bestselling author of Flight of the Intruder and Liberty’s Last Stand

  “If Custer died for our sins, Armstrong resurrects him for our delight. Not just the funniest book ever written about an Indian massacre, but laugh-out-loud funny, period. The best historical comic adventure since George MacDonald Fraser’s Flashman.”

  —PHILLIP JENNINGS, author of Nam-A-Rama and Goodbye Mexico

  “Crocker has created a hilarious hero for the ages. Armstrong rides through the Old West setting right the wrongs, and setting wrong the rights, in a very funny cascade of satire, history, and even patriotism.”

  —ROB LONG, Emmy- and Golden Globes-nominated screenwriter and co-executive producer of Cheers

  For Sally, my own Libbie Custer

  Invictus Maneo

  CHAPTER ONE

  In Which I Reveal How I Was Born to Ride

  Dear Libbie,

  I realize it must be quite a shock to learn that I am not dead, but by these tokens you will know that it is true. First, the bearer of this packet will be a man over six feet tall, well-groomed, dark of hair, with a pleasing countenance and Southern manner and eyepatch embroidered with the rebel flag (it could be over either eye; he doesn’t actually need it but uses it as a signaling device: on the left eye it means Indians or desperadoes to the west; on the right eye, to the east; one if by land, two if by sea).

  He should answer to the name of Beauregard Gillette. When it comes to cards he is sharp as a razor. Don’t let your friends play with him. With women he is as smooth as a bar of soap but a moral man all the same. I trust him implicitly.

  Besides the manuscript you hold in your hands, he will give you a curl of my golden hair, a clipping from my moustache, and a tintype of me disguised as a Chinaman (though you, Libbie, will no doubt see through the disguise).

  I cannot come back to you myself, my dearest, though I long to do so, until I can show that the massacre at the Little Bighorn River was through no fault of my own. We were betrayed, as surely as the Spartans at Thermopylae. But I must be able to prove it. And I am in the process of doing so, though I don’t know how many weeks, or months, or even years it may take. I will restore the name of your husband to the ranks of military glory.

  How did I survive? I will write more about that later, but for now suffice it to say that I grieve for the loss of my men, my brothers Tom and Boston, young Autie and Lieutenant Calhoun, and even my gallant horse Vic. (I assume he perished, though Dandy was kept back and is likely safe. If you have my staghounds Bleuch and Tuck—I left them behind; the Army may have returned them to you—I’d appreciate it if you’d send them to me through Beauregard. As you know, it can be lonely out here in the vast expanses of the West.)

  One moment I was in the center of an ever-receding circle of my Seventh Cavalry, amidst the crack of gunfire, the stench of gun smoke, the shouting of the men, the crazed yelping of the Indians, the stinking sweat of our men and theirs, and then one massive Indian crashed into me like an enraged bear, and I rolled on the ground with him—he clubbing and missing with his stone-headed ax, me striking his snarling primeval face with my gloved left fist while my right hand, holding a revolver, was pinned to the ground in his vicious grip.

  Then a sudden darkness.

  When I awoke, I saw a striking pair of brown eyes, the classical features of a beautiful woman—only the bottom half of her face was that of a skull, a bone-white jaw and sugar-cube white teeth in a rictus grin. As my bleary eyes cleared, I realized the skull was the design on a neckerchief that she wore over her nose like a cowboy does on a dusty trail.

  She removed the neckerchief, revealing the fullness of her beauty, and said in a variant of the Sioux language that I could understand because, I later realized, it was Sioux-accented English, “Your hair is as radiant as the sun, your eyes as blue as the dawn of a happy day, a son of the morning star”—the usual thing. But then she added, “An Apollo, an Adonis in his prime.” I’d never reckoned a Sioux to know Greek mythology. So, I tried my luck.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but are you white?”

  “Why, yes, of course. Are you delirious?”

  “But you speak Sioux, or at least a Sioux dialect.”

  “Yes, Boyanama Sioux.”

  My head, neck, and shoulders ached with a dull throbbing pain, and I stared at her, my mind still somewhat hazy, as though she were a ministering angel and felt for my Indian medicine pouch, the gift of a Ree scout that hung from a thong around my neck. There was no superstition attached to it—it held a small supply of salt and a foldable toothbrush for circumstances such as this. I extracted the toothbrush, snapped it open, licked its bristles wet, applied some salt, and busily scrubbed my teeth as she went on.

  “They kidnapped me—long ago, it seems, but it wasn’t. You’re safe now. Don’t worry. But . . . but what are you doing?”

  I spat out blood-tinged salt and said, “Just freshening my breath, ma’am. Never want to offend a lady.” She looked at me quizzically, so I decided to change the subject. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but where am I? Last thing I remember, I was grappling with an enormous enraged Indian covered in nightmarish tattoos. I suppose I must have killed him.” I flexed my gloved fists. They felt strong as ever.

  “You did—and then I rescued you.”

  “Well, much obliged, ma’am.”

  “He was my husband—my Indian husband. By their law, I claimed you as my slave.”

  Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Your slave, ma’am?”

  “Yes, and you should be glad; only I can kill you now—or a warrior on my behalf. They call me Scalp-Not-My-Woman, but you can call me Rachel. That was my name before . . . before I was taken by Bearstalker.”

  “Well, thank you very much. And about your husband . . .”

  “That, thank goodness, is over. You have freed me.”

  I reached to tip my hat, but it wasn’t there—lost on the battlefield, I reckoned. I also wondered how my right glove, tucked into my belt during the battle, had been restored to my right hand. I said, “Well, ma’am, happy to be of service.”

  “I do have a question, though.”

  “About your new slave, I suppose.”

  “Actually, yes: the Cheyenne women say you belong to them—that you are married to Monahsetah.”

  I nearly swore under my breath. Will I never be rid of this wretched rumor? It was an embarrassing and painful subject, of course, and I shook my head and sighed.

  It is true, Libbie, as I’ve told you, that Monahsetah had the grace and dignity of a chief’s daughter and that for an Indian she was exceedingly comely, with a well-shaped head, a luxuriant growth of the most beautiful silken tresses, rivaling in color the blackness of the raven and extending, when allowed to fall loosely over her shoulders, to below her waist. It is also true that she was a spirited woman who shot her first husband before she divorced him—and you know how I love a spirited woman.

  She was, as well, very useful to me as a translator negotiating peace with the Plains Indians. It is even true, however shameful it is to relate, that campaigning soldiers sometimes take on squaws as companions. But I was not one of them. And Cheyenne women, especially noble Cheyenne women, are noted among the Indians for their chastity. Granted, there is some reason, perhaps, to fault Monahsetah on those grounds—but not, I hasten to add, to indict me. It is
true that she bore two children of unknown provenance. But the first was conceived before I had even met her. The second was named Yellow Bird, and while gossips wagged their tongues about that name and pointed to supposed blond tints in the child’s hair, I was not the child’s father; and if that child was named after me—something I do not know for a fact—it is no doubt a tribute to Monahsetah’s admiration for my commanding presence, strength, courage, and dash—qualities that, as you know, Indians value highly, perhaps more so than people do back East. But I need hardly say, dearest Libbie, that my vows bind me to you alone, and despite Monahsetah’s charming manners, girlish figure, cascading inky black tresses, and natural affection for me, you know that your Autie would never be tempted.

  So, I quickly set my rescuer aright. “No, by any white man’s law, I have only one wife, and that is my darling Libbie. I can have no other.”

  “You might need me,” she said. “Your men are dead; the Sioux are celebrating.”

  I hadn’t heard them before—but I heard them now, a distant howling; dull drumbeats prodding them on.

  “They’ll force you to take an oath. It will make you a Boyanama Sioux. It will be protection of a sort, but it will come at a high price. You will be their prisoner, as I am.”

  She motioned to two, giant, aboriginal red men I hadn’t noticed earlier. They were standing far enough behind her that I had to raise my neck, painfully, to see them. They were ugly and brutish, ritually scarred, tattooed, and painted. They had rifles at the ready, and their dark eyes gleamed with hatred. I’d have returned their spite if I’d had the energy, but I felt sick and filthy, winded and battered. I had scraped the blood from my teeth, but it still caked my nostrils and stuck in my throat, and I could feel it dried like thin red clay around my ears.

  She nodded at the Indian guards, and they slung their rifles and lifted me, roughly, to my feet. Normally I would have shrugged them off, but I couldn’t—each one had a hand clasped beneath my armpits, like the top of a crutch. Rachel led the way, and, supported by the red men, I staggered after her. Ahead of me, across a gentle rising meadow, maybe only forty yards away, I saw dozens of tepees, smoke rising from fires, and small dark figures—children, I reckoned—darting under the illumination of the slowly rising sun. There was a wikiup set off from the tepees and nearer to us. An animal hide flapped at its entrance. The Indians gripped me hard and shoved me through.

  The interior of the wattled wikiup was dark and smelt of horse dung and wood smoke. Through the dusk I saw the leering smile of a crazy-eyed, grey-haired, old Indian, his hair mostly tied in two long braids, but with wisps tangled on his skull like a nest of spider webs. Before him was something like an inkstand, made out of a bear claw with a knitting needle stuck in it.

  Most Indians wear warpaint, but these Indians, like Bearstalker, whom I had slain, and the belligerent guards who stood behind me, had tattoos running over their faces and arms and everywhere. Except for the tasteful, dutiful rendition of his initials, the flag of the Republic, and Lady Liberty on the arm of my impetuous brother Tom, I had rarely seen a tattoo before, even on sailors, and you can imagine my dismay when Scalp-Not-My-Woman (who was unmarked herself) told me that this was part of my induction: I was to be tattooed as a Boyanama Sioux.

  At least I was given a choice of my defacement. The crazy old man handed me a stick, dripping with blood, apparently, and asked me to draw my preferred design—my Indian coat of arms, as it were—on the back of an elk hide, which served as a sketchpad. For a moment I was at a loss; then, inspired, I reached to find my muse, and it was gone. In a frenzy I patted the shreds of my uniform trying to find it.

  “Looking for this?” Scalp-Not-My-Woman held out my locket compass—the one with your portrait. It swung gently from its chain. “I should have left it behind, when we pulled you from the battlefield, but every woman has a heart.”

  I took it gratefully, stared wistfully at your image, and on that hide I drew the only escutcheon for me. I handed the marked-up hide to the old man, along with the locket so that he could see what I was driving at. He nodded, examined the compass carefully, and then shook it, trying to make the needle shift. He tapped your portrait. I nodded in turn. He eructed a dry laugh, and a hideous, bestial grin played across his features.

  He pointed to my face. I shook my head and tapped my arm. He said something to Scalp-Not-My-Woman. They exchanged guttural remarks, which seemed slightly heated, and then he chuckled again like a dog choking on its dinner, and she helped me, gingerly, out of my shirt. I was as sore as if I had gone twenty rounds with Gypsy Jem Mace; my ribs ached with every movement of my arms. The Indian motioned for me to place my hands together. I did and he bound them tightly with rawhide strips, his sneering grin growing as he did so. He examined my left arm—as an artist, I suppose, might examine his canvas.

  “Golden Hair?” said Scalp-Not-My-Woman.

  “Yes, I do have golden hair. What of it?”

  But it was merely a ruse to get my mouth open. She drove a large stick horizontally between my parted teeth and against my protesting tongue. The stick was too big for my teeth to crunch or my tongue to dislodge. Then the crazy old man went to work, plunging that needle into my skin like a lunatic woodpecker doing its worst to a pine, and applying his dyes or whatever they were. I tried to scream in protest—not just at the mutilation of my arm but also because it was being done entirely at odds with the image I had given him. It took hours of low-grade torment before he had turned my entire left arm into what I assume was some Indian depiction of flames shooting down from my shoulder to my wrist.

  The old codger had stamina—I’ll give him that. Without a break he moved to my right arm. To ensure my cooperation, he tapped the locket with your picture and pointed at my upper arm. He had me flex it so that the muscle grew large, and on it now imprinted is your sacred name: Libbie; your portrait too, as if a mad Indian Michelangelo had engraved it there, which I suppose he had, in a way; and Feb 9, our wedding date. Circling it like an aura is my new motto, the only motto for a cavalryman: Born to Ride.

  When we meet again, my dearest, it will be another way for you to know it is truly I, George Armstrong Custer. For when we meet again, I may be in disguise.

  One thing I hope you will not mistake me for is a red man, despite my being inducted into the ranks of the Boyanama Sioux.

  That ceremony was an astonishing thing. The two dull-eyed warriors who were my guards frogmarched me into a scene of primitive frenzy—drums throbbing, braves dancing, their guttural voices joining the ululating of the squaws. To me it sounded as if they were chanting a dirge from their primeval past, when the earth was inhabited only by people like themselves . . . or like me, now that I was to become one of them.

  I was still stripped to the waist—which inevitably caused a little flutter among the squaws—with the stick jammed in my mouth and my hands bound. I was hatless under the hot sun, and my tattooed arms dripped blood. A warrior stepped forward with a knife in his hand. The blade was dirty and stained but sharp enough, and he severed the rawhide tethers from my hands. It was freedom, but only for a moment, as other warriors grabbed me and shoved me against a six-foot-high stake. My arms were pulled behind me, and new rawhide bands bound me to it, while warriors gathered round, thrusting spears and lances and stone-headed clubs. The drums pounded harder, and the warriors came closer. They slapped their chests and snarled. Brave girl that she was, Scalp-Not-My-Woman strode up to me and pulled the stick from my mouth. Involuntarily I coughed up a wad of blood. It rested for a vile moment on my tongue, and I spat it on the ground.

  “Awahuh!” the Indians shouted as one. The drums silenced. The warriors drew back a step. Their dark, menacing faces grew darker. They sensed an insult. A spear was flung directly between my feet. A tall man—built big and strong, but old now, his back slightly bent, his gait stiff—emerged from the mass. Around his neck, like a chain-mail collar that seemed to weigh him down, was a necklace of what appeared to be linked coins. Ev
en with that accoutrement, he was an ugly brute—grey-black hair hanging lank; a pugilist’s nose; a pessimist’s frown; exhausted-looking eyes; his face dotted and dashed with either warpaint or tattoos—and arrogant. No doubt he had been a mighty warrior once, but I reckoned a feral challenger could take him now, if he dared.

  He pointed to Scalp-Not-My-Woman and barked at her in a Sioux dialect I couldn’t understand. She came between us, our translator.

  His voice was not just guttural, like the others’, but gravelly.

  “Chief Linewalker asks why you do not fear him. His men slaughtered your pony soldiers. He could slaughter you now. But you look, he says, like the cougar—golden hair and ready to fight.”

  “You can tell him,” I said, looking the old man straight in the eye, “that I fear no man—least of all those who fear their own bodies, their own faces, and have to desecrate them with the designs of a crazy old man with a knitting needle.”

  “I can’t tell him that—he won’t understand.”

  “I think he will.”

  “Awahuh!” It was exhalation from the crowd.

  The chief eyed me steadily, then his gravelly voice vomited up a thought for Scalp-Not-My-Woman to translate.

  “He says, ‘Why did you allow it then on your own arm, the arm that wields the gun and the saber?”

  “Because I do not fear his silly medicine; I have turned it to my own uses. This”—I flexed my right arm and nodded towards it, trying to highlight your portrait and name—“is the great white queen I serve. This”—I nodded again, trying to indicate my motto—“will tell every white man that I am, proudly, a pony soldier, no matter what you do to the rest of my body.”

  “He asks about your great white queen. You are Golden Hair, a pony soldier. You are not a warrior of the red jacket. He means a Canadian.”

  “Yes, I know what he means. You can tell him that the red jackets and I are blood brothers, brothers of the sword.”