Long Winter Gone

giving full command of the base camp over to George Armstrong Custer.

As the last few miles were crossed, he devoured the dispatches Sheridan left for his return: orders, disbursements, assignments—all quite boring and routine until he came across two items, the first from Washington City itself, dated months ago.

War Department, Washington City

2 December, 1868

LIEUTENANT—GENERAL SHERMAN

St. Louis, Mo.

I congratulate you, Sheridan, and Custer on the splendid success with which your campaign is begun. Ask Sheridan to send forward the names of officers and men deserving of special mention.

J. M. SCHOFIELD

Secretary of War

Bitter tears welled in his eyes.

Who the hell does this pompous ass think he is, Custer thought, singling men out for special mention over and above others who’ve suffered just as much as any? Damn his bloody hide! Damn every one of those puffed-up Washington poltroons who wave their magic wands over the army’s head, pulling strings, making the generals jump!

He swiped at his dribbling nose, staring into the bright sun.

To make heros of some … leaving the rest as common soldiers. There’s not a man riding out of the wilderness behind me who can’t be called a hero! Not a single man of these who can’t ride up the hill to the halls of Congress to receive his medal for valor in the face of the enemy, while those reeky bureaucrats tremble and quake in the face of any criticism.

He crumbled Schofield’s telegram, stuffing it inside his coat. Then he found a sealed envelope with his name written on it, in Sheridan’s familiar scrawl, dated the 2 of March.

… Though we did not make our trip to Federal City and the seats of power, my friend, rest assured all is not lost! We will—we must—continued to wrench your promotion from Grant’s desk, with Chandler’s support on the Hill.

We have only begun our work on the frontier. More than ever I need a regiment I can call upon to go where needed. To do what is asked. Once again, I need what you gave me in the Shenandoah. Once again, I need George Armstrong Custer at the head of his own regiment of firebrands!

Don’t be disappointed about the promotion. It does not lie a’moldering in a grave yet! Trust me. I will push your claims on the subject of promotion as soon as I get to Washington, and, if anything can be done, you may rely on me to look out for your interests.

Custer’s eyes smarted as he sensed the kinship he shared with Sheridan. Knowing Sheridan would not let him down. Knowing, one day, he would command his own regiment.

Washington City needs strong men … able men … men unafraid of taking a stand for what’s right and just, he told himself. Someone who’ll bring some sense and order to the frontier, instead of fanning the flames of war from afar. Someone who’ll do more than line the pockets of family and friends with trading contracts on the reservations … while the tribes starve, or wander off their lands in search of food for the empty bellies of their children.

A spring breeze nudged the dirty, unkempt beard he had worn all winter. He scratched it, thinking he’d shave, once warm weather arrived.

Custer realized there would long be a need for good soldiers, officers, thinking men. More than ever, this Republic needs a man of vision, he thought. A man of action. Someone who will bring about a change on the frontier.

Custer stuffed Sheridan’s letter inside his tunic and raised his face to the warming sun of a new season. A sun that would bring rebirth to the land.

My days aren’t numbered … far from it! My efforts here have only begun to bear fruit.

From the crest of that hill overlooking Camp Supply, Custer stared down into the valley of the Beaver and Wolf Creeks, both shimmering like a pair of silver ribbons beneath a dazzling sun—a sun that shone no less brightly on George Armstrong Custer.

BOOK III

MONASEETAH

CHAPTER 27

A STEADY spring rain fell on the Smoky Hill country of Kansas, drenching everything the soldiers hadn’t dragged into a tent last night when the dark underbelly of the prairie sky had opened up. Some eleven hours later, the storm persisted, forming creeks in the wagon ruts carved between the rows of company tents that dotted the boggy meadows like prairie wildflowers in bloom.

Custer had selected this summer home for his regiment where Big Creek dumped into the Smoky Hill River. Fort Hays stood some two miles to the west, on the same south bank of the Smoky Hill along the tracks of the Kansas-Pacific Railroad. For better than four months the small stockade of Fort Hays had bustled with the prisoners from Black Kettle’s Washita village, sent north under escort long before Custer led his winter-weary troops back home to Kansas Territory. Custer promptly reported to the new commander of Fort Hays, Colonel Nelson A. Miles.

Here at the Big Creek camp the Seventh Cavalry would stay the summer, until the weather turned autumn cold and sleety. Then Custer would lead his men back to the fort for the prairie winter. For now, he would put up with these soggy skies and wait for the dog days of summer to belly-crawl across the scorched undergut of the plains.

Over his head tapped a steady staccato of rain. It beat not only the roof of his sidewall erected beneath a wide-branched cottonwood, but also the oiled canvas awning stretched in front of his tent. If the weather would ever break, he had the regimental carpenters ready to hammer together a wood gallery surrounding the tent and the base of the tree itself—with railing—like the porch on the family home back in Monroe.

Monroe.

Oh, for spring in the north country! A little shower and things would cool off. Here the spring smothered a man. Nowhere near as muggy, however, as that summer of ’64 in the Shenandoah. Chasing Mosby’s raiders. Hanging some. Shooting the rest.