Seize the Sky

bristles, compliments of barber-trader James Sipes aboard the Far West.

“We’ll be fighting warriors who have battled us before on the Yellowstone, I’m sure. Led by Gall and American Horse and none other than Crazy Horse himself. So it’s reported. I led my cavalry into many battles during the recent rebellion in the south, engaging my horse against the cream of the Confederate horse. But I want each and every one of you to understand that we have never come up against warrior-leaders like this Crazy Horse. He’s the kind who likes to hurt you before he kills you, as I understand.”

“Let the bastard taste Seventh Cavalry steel!” Tom blurted angrily.

“If anything, he’ll have to taste our lead,” Custer replied. “The sabers were left behind at Powder River.”

“Let it be my lead, pray God!” Tom said.

Custer turned back to Benteen. “Captain, I repeat—we will be fighting warriors.” He eyed the rest of his officer corps. “Unlike those you killed at the Washita.”

“Seems you have me at a disadvantage now, General,” Benteen replied. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“For those who don’t know or may have forgotten about you shooting a young boy during battle—”

“Young boy!” Benteen shrieked.

“A mere youth, Captain!”

“He was over twenty. A full-fledged warrior, by god!”

“Don’t lie before these good men. Your fellow officers!”

“By damned, General—with God as my witness … that man was a warrior. I daresay a better warrior than many of the soldiers we’ll be leading south along the Rosebud in the morning.”

“The difference being, Captain—that those young men I’ll be leading down the Rosebud will know the difference between warriors and … boys.”

Benteen shrugged shaking his head as he shuffled back in line, muttering loud enough for most to hear, “A young warrior will kill you just as quick as a gray-headed one … any day.”

“Any questions?” Custer inquired.

“General?”

“Yes, Myles?” Custer smiled at Captain Myles Moylan. He had always liked the dark Irishman. Moylan was genuine, early on coming to enjoy Custer’s respect during his time as adjutant during their Fort Hays duty. Following his years as adjutant, Custer had rewarded Moylan’s loyalty with a captaincy at the head of A Company.

“I was wondering, sir, that with two thousand rounds of carbine ammo and extra forage you’re suggesting— all that on the backs of just twelve mules—won’t that break ’em down before too long?”

Custer studied the flames before he answered. “I trust in each and every one of you men to do what you feel right for your commands. If you think you should carry extra forage, then by all means do so. Carry what you damn well please.”

With that singular word Tom realized his brother still smoldered with Benteen’s insult. Custer rarely if ever swore. And this use of profanity did not go unwasted on these men who knew him best.

“The idea was only a suggestion of mine, Myles. You need not hold to it. But, best that each of you tattoo this on your minds. You’ll be held accountable for your companies—both men and animals. Understand once more that we will be following the hostiles’ trail … no matter how far it takes us. No matter how long it takes us. Understand, gentlemen—we may never see the Far West again. We cannot rely on it or its supplies from this point on. If my guess is right, we may not see the other units for some time either. Once we march over those ridges to the south, following the Rosebud in the morning … we’ll be entirely on our own.”

Custer turned toward Calhoun, testy as a sage cock, when he heard his brother-in-law mutter something under his breath to Keogh. “What was that, Jim?”

“I just said it was better that way, General,” Calhoun replied self-consciously. “Better that we don’t have the rest of those other units bogging us down.”

“Bloody right, General!” Keogh growled. “We’re a fighting unit. Not like these other shoneens what never seen a fight or scrap before … much less a battle with the bloody savages!”

“You can count on Company A, sir!” Moylan joined in.

“In that case,” Custer said quietly as he stepped near Moylan, “you all might suggest to your men to bring along a little extra salt.”

“Salt, sir?” Lieutenant Edward S. Godfrey asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant. We may have to live on horse meat before this campaign is out. Most certainly mule meat unless some troopers are put afoot … or there are some saddles emptied.”

“Saddles emptied?” Lieutenant George D. Wallace croaked.

“Casualties.”

“Salt certainly makes horse meat taste better to my discriminating palate!” young Tom joked to raise everyone’s sudden gloom. “Had it before down to the Indian Territories chasing old Medicine Arrow himself. Not bad, if the horse isn’t a friend … and you’re hungry enough!”

Custer himself had turned on his heel and taken a couple steps toward his tent when he suddenly turned back again. “I’m sorry, but I forgot to mention something to you men before we break up. General Terry has given his permission to tap the whiskey kegs aboard the steamboat this evening.”

He had to wait while wild cheering erupted from the group. “If any of you have the inclination, you might avail yourselves of the army’s generosity. I’m aware many of you, like Tom here, make a habit of taking along an extra dram or two in your canteens—just for what Tom calls that ‘extra-tired time.’”

“From the sounds of it,” Tom stepped beside his brother to face the rest, “looks like my brother here is set on pushing us extra-hard and making us extra-tired!”

The officers laughed along with the younger Custer, wiping the backs of their hands across dry lips or rubbing their bellies to show what they thought of his idea of getting enough whiskey to wet down a month-long thirst. A long, dry trip out from Fort Abraham Lincoln.

“When I have General Terry’s written orders in hand come morning, I’ll have Cooke come round. Otherwise, have your sergeants pay heed to the bugle calls. We’ll strike camp as soon as the regiment is prepared to move out. That’ll be all. Good night, gentlemen.”

CHAPTER 6

AS Custer slipped back through the open flaps of his Sibley tent where striker John Burkman had three oil lamps glowing, their chimneys lightly smoking, Burkman rose anxiously. The three tufts of oily smudge were carried off on a strong, cool breeze as the general washed in, anxious. John watched the officers move off in pairs and small groups, crunching across what patches remained of the icy hail.

Custer sank on a canvas stool, studying the sounds of the camp whirling about him for the moment. The heer-haws of the mules. The whinnies and snorts of the horses. Among the tents there arose the sudden peal of some man’s high laughter followed by the loud blast of another soldier’s guttural guffaw. Above it all, here and there, Custer listened to the sweet sound of soft-sung melodies raised from one side of camp, while from the other direction came the faint strains of a banjo or some fiddle, perhaps even a squeezebox keening out a song popular to that particular breed of man who served his nation on the western plains.

“Doesn’t much sound like a camp of men marching out on campaign against the Sioux, does it, Mr. Burkman?”

John’s eyes darted to Custer, finding the general staring out the tent flaps into the night, apparently hypnotized by those night fires stretching endlessly west across the Yellowstone prairie.

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“Of course,” Custer replied softly. He rose, turned to Burkman. “You’ve never been on campaign before, have you?”

“No, sir. This is my first time against … the enemy, sir.”

“Enemy,” Custer repeated, stepping to the tent flaps, mesmerized still by the twinkling of so many camp fires, together like so many stars dusted across the indigo velvet of the summer prairie. “The enemy, John. Tomorrow we’ll tramp down the trail of those Sioux that Reno let slip by.”