Instead, Mark Kellogg spent the evening rattling off dispatches to be sent back east in the morning in addition to letters to his daughters. The remainder of his time he spent in getting rations and supplies squared away and stuffed securely in his canvas saddlebags, along with an adequate supply of lined paper and pencils he would require up the Rosebud with Custer.
At forty Kellogg was nonetheless youthful in appearance, with but a few small crows’-feet worrying his eyes in addition to the steel-rimmed glasses, and some flecks of gray in his hair that betrayed his age.
Mark brooded needlessly past midnight, concerned that he would have enough bacon and sugar and coffee for the fifteen days, as well as enough paper. More important than food was paper. Kellogg wanted to write the war story to end all war stories. And by riding with an Indian fighter of Custer’s caliber and reputation, Kellogg was certain he would see action worth description. Never before had he written anything worthy of much notice, since most of his prose plodded along in a pedestrian manner.
This time, however, Mark Kellogg was certain the drama of the coming chase and the thrill of battle with Custer’s cornered quarry would inspire him to lofty prose.
This small, unassuming widower would ride an army mule south along the Rosebud behind Custer, certain this was to be his moment in the spotlight. No longer would he merely report the actions of others. At long last Mark Kellogg, reporter and campaign correspondent for no less than the New York
That old mule picketed outside his tent just might carry him farther than the Rosebud and any Sioux camp Custer would assure they would run across.
Well past midnight John Burkman left Custer at his field desk, perched on his cot, finished with his letter to Libbie, and now working on his journal. Always the journal.
The striker headed next door to his small A-tent, with a stop to relieve his bladder swollen from all the coffee he had shared with his commander.
As he watered the ground, Burkman gazed at the lights glittering on board the
Burkman stuffed himself back in his britches and wiped his hand off on army wool before he nudged the buttons back through their holes. Here in the chill wee hours, all he heard was the sound of Custer’s two horses munching dried grass at their picket pins.
That, and the steady beat of the Crow and Ree drums. Burkman was sure it was the distant beat of those drums that helped him fall asleep that last night at the Yellowstone.
The distant beat of Indian drums.
CHAPTER 7
HEADQUARTERS DEPARTMENT OF DAKOTA
(IN THE FIELD)
Colonel:
The brigadier general commanding directs that as soon as your regiment can be made ready for the march, you proceed up the Rosebud in pursuit of the Indians whose trail was discovered by Major Reno, a few days since. It is, of course, impossible to give you any definite instructions in regard to this movement; and were it not impossible to do so, the department commander places too much confidence in your zeal, energy, and ability to wish to impose upon you precise orders, which might hamper your action when nearly in contact with the enemy. He will, however, indicate to you his own views of what your action should be, and he desires that you should conform to them unless you shall see sufficient reason for departing from them. He thinks that you should proceed up the Rosebud until you ascertain definitely the direction in which the trail above spoken of leads. Should it be found (as it appears to be almost certain that it will be found) to turn toward the Little Horn, he thinks that you should still proceed southward, perhaps as far as the headwaters of the Tongue, and then turn toward the Little Horn, feeling constantly, however, to your left, so as to preclude the possibility of the escape of the Indians to the south or southeast by passing around your left flank.
The column of Colonel Gibbon is now in motion for the mouth of the Big Horn. As soon as it reaches that point, it will cross the Yellowstone and move up at least as far as the forks of the Little and Big Horns. Of course its future movements must be controlled by circumstances as they arise; but it is hoped that the Indians, if upon the Little Horn, may be so nearly enclosed by the two columns that their escape will be impossible. The department commander desires that on your way up the Rosebud, you should thoroughly examine the upper part of Tullock’s Creek; and that you should endeavor to send a scout through to Colonel Gibbon’s column with information of the result of your examination. The lower part of this creek will be examined by a detachment from Colonel Gibbon’s command.
The supply steamer will be pushed up the Big Horn as far as the forks, if the river is found to be navigable for that distance; and the department commander (who will accompany the column of Colonel Gibbon) desires you to report to him there not later than the expiration of the time for which your troops are rationed, unless in the meantime you receive further orders.
Very respectfully, your obedient servant,
Ed. W. Smith, Captain
Lieutenant Colonel G. A. Custer,
“As soon as my regiment can be made ready to march!” Custer exclaimed, rattling the paper whereon Captain Smith had written General Terry’s orders for the Seventh to scout up the Rosebud for the hostile Sioux. “By jove, we’ll be ready before Gibbon’s swallowed his lunch!”
Burkman was relieved to see Custer so jovial. Several hours ago the striker and the adjutant crept into the regiment commander’s tent as those first purple gray streaks of dawn lit up the Yellowstone Valley, hoping to awaken the general, finding Custer sitting upright on his cot, his field desk still perched atop his lap and the pen clutched fiercely in his freckled hand—fast asleep. Burkman had attempted to remove both pen and Custer’s letter to Libbie in hopes of nudging the general down on his bed for some decent rest, but Custer awoke instead, greeting them both.
“Balderdash, John!” he roared, standing and stretching. “I feel marvelous, more than rested—I’m invigorated!”
By midmorning adjutant W. W. Cooke had returned, the folded orders in a waving hand, a smile cutting his face wolfishly. Tuck loped through the tent flaps at that moment, tongue lolling, ears flopping, placing her massive head on her master’s lap for a morning rub.
“Good day, Cooke!” Custer bellowed as he scratched the hound.
“A great one it is, General!”
“Is that what I think it is?” Custer asked impatiently.
“It is indeed, sir—Terry’s orders. We’re on our way now!”
Custer tore open the orders, his eyes dancing across the words every bit as fast as they had sailed across
