“We’ll surround the village, deploying the regiment along the river,” Custer explained. “My plan will make for a rapid encroachment of the village, securing it within minutes. Only in that way can we effectively seal off any chance for escape.”
“And lessen the odds of losing any of our own men?” the deep, familiar voice prodded him.
Custer measured Frederick W. Benteen, an experienced Civil War veteran. “Yes, Captain.”
Custer glanced over his men, most of whom had been with him for better than a year, not counting his temporary absence. He knew what he could expect from each of them. Still, it disappointed him that there were some in this group who had grown to despise him, losing no chance in letting Custer know it. Benteen stood at the center of the opposition. Though he could be a mean, sniveling complainer, Benteen remained every bit as good a leader of cavalry under fire as Custer. Now, as these two decorated veterans prepared to plunge into battle, perhaps each realized he had to count on the other.
“Saving lives is, after all, a main thrust of this campaign, isn’t it, gentlemen?” Custer waited, looking into the expectant faces encircling him. “Let us begin. Major Elliott?”
“Yes, General?” He stepped forward, saluting.
“You’ll take your command and ride wide left. To the east.”
“Splendid, sir!”
For some time, Custer had been aware of the contagious power in Elliott’s unbridled enthusiasm. “Should any of the Indians escape the trap we’ve laid for them, they’ll be running your way, Major. Right into your arms.”
“We’ll be ready for them, General. They won’t get past us.”
“Good. Now, Captain Myers—you’re to move your troops off to the right.” Custer traced a ragged line in the snow. “By backtracking west a short distance, the scouts tell me you’ll find a wide bend in the river where you can attack from southwest of the village. Station your two companies in the timber after crossing the river about a mile above my command here. You won’t have to ford the river at the moment of attack. Understood?”
“Perfectly, sir,”
“Captain Yates?” Custer gazed at the tall blond yankee from Monroe, Michigan, who for a short time during the Civil War, George W. Yates had served as an aide to Custer as part of General Pleasanton’s staff. A hometown boy, and a natural for the Custer inner circle. “General?”
“Your F Company will be assigned to Captain Thompson.”
Custer watched Yates’s steel-gray eyes flick to William Thompson. “Yessir,” Yates responded, nodding.
Custer turned to Captain Thompson. “Will, you’re to take your two companies with Yates’s men to the crest of the knoll directly south of the village. If possible, link up with Elliott’s command, sealing the escape route the hostiles might use.”
“Certainly.”
“Sweep around the village and establish yourselves to the south of the village to await the attack.”
“As you’ve ordered, General.”
“Good. Now, I suppose you’re all wondering what my four troops will be doing as you flank the village on the east, west, and south. Frankly, boys, I’ve saved the point of the lance for myself. I’ll lead my companies across the river. While the four company commanders secure the village in concert with your actions, I’ll oversee the attack from a knoll south of the village.”
“Sir?”
“Mr. Cooke?” Custer turned toward the tall, handsome lieutenant, just recently awarded his bars. Billy Cooke, his men called him. And with respect. This dashing, bearded Canadian had migrated south into the States at the beginning of the Civil War simply so he could become a soldier. Some called him a patriot. Others, a soldier of fortune. A few went so far as to call Billy Cooke a mercenary. Little did it matter to Custer what made the Canadian tick, for he had recognized the makings of a fine officer and a close friend in W. W. Cooke.
“Will my corps of riflemen ride across the river to engage the hostiles, sir?”
“No, Lieutenant.” Custer stepped over to Cooke. “You are the final, crushing blow I plan for these murderers who have plundered the southern plains for the last time. Your sharpshooters won’t cross the river at all.”
Custer waited for Cooke to nod. “I’ve sealed the village up from left and right, from north and south. The only way the warriors escape is to use the river itself. The banks are high enough to use the terrain for cover in an escape—but we don’t want one of these murderers to flee. So I’m sealing my trap with your forty sharpshooters— right there.” Custer pointed to his snowy map, showing Cooke to station his marksmen in the timber high along the north bank of the river. “Up there you will command a wide field of fire when the hostiles attempt to flee down the Washita.”
“We won’t let you down.”
Custer smiled, giving Cooke a hearty slap on the shoulder. “The scouts will remain with me.” He gazed down at the crude, muddy drawing in the snow near his feet and paused. “I suspect these warriors will be all the harder to bring down because we’re striking them in their homes, with their families. Be sure your men understand we’ll have a real scrap of it on our hands.”
He waited for them to nod.
“Good. From here on there must be no talking. Nothing above a whisper will be allowed. Warn the men against stamping their feet. An Indian sleeping on the ground might hear our troops. We’ll attack at first light— which gives you less than four hours to circle into position. Just prior to dawn, the men are to strip to battle readiness. I’ll signal the attack from here.”
He stepped from the center of the group, turning so he could face them all at once.
“Gentlemen, we’re about to spell an end to those bloody depredations committed on the southern frontier. Until now, an operation such as this hasn’t been possible—for there had been no Seventh Cavalry. That makes us, very simply, the spearhead of destiny, gentlemen! It is our Seventh that will always ride the vanguard of glory and honor. To that glory and honor, gentlemen!”
“Glory and honor!”
It stirred a fire within him hearing the chorus of their strong young voices echoing the courageous sentiment that would bring the Seventh Cavalry fame across the years ahead. Soon enough they could cross the river. Dawn would bring him what destiny had promised.
He repeated it in a lead-filled whisper that could raise the hairs on the back of a man’s neck. “To glory and honor.”
Two hours of freezing agony ground past for the men waiting huddled in the freezing mist of the Washita.
Officers repeatedly checked their watches as time dragged by. Eventually the moon slipped behind the western hills, throwing the countryside into complete and eerie darkness.
“Gotta be your mind playing tricks on you,” Milner, the man they called California Joe, muttered to himself. “Feels colder what with that goddamn moon sunk.” He carried his old Springfield across an arm as he prodded his mule in Custer’s direction. “Morning, General.”
Custer nodded. “Joe.”
“What I’ve been trying to get through my old topknot all night is whether we’ll run up against more Injuns than we bargained for.”
He watched Custer raise an eyebrow, concerned. Milner realized he’d handed the general a thorny problem.
“You don’t figure those Cheyenne down there will make a run for it, Joe?”
“Them Cheyenne skedaddle? How in the Good Lord’s Creation can Injuns run off when you’ll have ’em clean surrounded afore first light?”
“Precisely my plan. I don’t want a one to escape.” He chewed thoughtfully on the corner of his droopy mustache. “Supposing we are able to bottle them up—you figure we can hold our own against the warriors in that village?”
“That is some handsome dilemma, now, ain’t it?” Milner ground teeth on the stub of his unlit pipe. “One thing’s sure as sun. If them Injuns down there don’t hear a squeak out of your soldier boys till we open up our guns on ’em come crack o’ day, they’ll damned near be the most astonished redskins that’s been in these parts lately! If we do for certain get the bulge on ’em … why, we’ll sweep their platter clean!”
“I’m relieved to have your confidence in my plan, Joe.”
