General Philip Sheridan’s momentous telegram bringing Custer back to duty with the Seventh Cavalry for that winter campaign down in the Indian Territories.
“Cookey, go to Terry’s headquarters across the river. Give him my compliments and my sincerest thanks for the issuance of his orders for the march. Tell him I expect to have my regiment ready sometime between late morning and early afternoon. And be certain to inquire if the general would care to review the troops.”
Cooke saluted sharply and left.
“Are both horses ready, Mr. Burkman?”
“Yes, General. Just the way you like them, brushed and glossy. Farrier came over at my request and trimmed ’em both this morning for you. Saddle’s soaped and polished.”
“My standard?”
“That too.” Burkman pointed to the bright crimson-and-blue swallowtail guidon in the corner shadows of the tent. “Ready for your bearer.”
“Good, Striker.” He clapped his hands together characteristically. “I do believe I’ll dash off a few more lines to Libbie before I get myself too absorbed in other details and find I can’t do what I promised her. See that our mess utensils are stored aboard a mule, in addition to enough paper and pencils for me to use over the next long haul of it.”
After Burkman had turned away to busy himself with his chores, Custer plopped on his cot with a sigh and took the pen in hand once again.
22 June—11 A.M.
I have but a few minutes to write, as we move at twelve, and I have my hands full of preparations for the scout. Do not be anxious about me. You would be surprised to know how closely I obey your instructions about keeping with the column. I hope to have a good report to send you by the next mail. A success will start us all towards Lincoln.
I send you an extract from General Terry’s order, knowing how keenly you appreciate words of commendation and confidence.
Come the historic conclusion of this action against the Sioux, I will have much to tell you, and we will have much to talk about. I want you to think about the whirlwind social life of Washington City, where you will bloom, and all that condition will offer someone of your upbringing and education, Dear Heart.
There is so much on my mind at this point, I will have to wait in sorting it through till next I write. Until then, know that I have loved you … and always will, Libbie. The door is at last flung open for us both!
Your devoted boy,
Autie
Mark Kellogg could not remember ever feeling quite this way. The throbbing pulse of excitement that beat through camp was more than contagious. Finding himself part of this great procession would be downright humbling if it weren’t so damned exciting. Everywhere he looked, Mark watched the frantic bustle of men and animals, guns and guidons—a camp vibrating with an electric energy here on the plains of the Yellowstone.
With twelve mules assigned for each of the twelve companies, including some additional animals assigned to General Custer’s headquarters’ command and Lieutenant Varnum’s scouts, a pool totaling one hundred sixty mules had been selected from the wagon-train stock that plodded this far from Fort Abraham Lincoln.
The ammunition that Custer had specified must be carried by each company was packed in
Once the rations were drawn and packed, most of the company captains went back to double-check the ammunition. Only then did the company sergeants inspect each soldier’s saddle gear: nose bag, an extra fore and hind shoe with nails, and some twelve pounds of oats tied in a grain bag to each saddle. A haversack was lashed behind each trooper’s McClellan saddle, itself swabbed with a fresh coat of oil and lampblack to prevent the rawhide from cracking in the dry, arid air of the northern plains. Beneath the McClellan sat the thick indigo blue wool saddle blanket sporting its gold border. As they had down through the ages, taciturn veterans watched over the great number of raw recruits like anxious mother hens, assuring that the green troopers packed an additional halter, picket rope, and pin in their haversacks.
By this time of the morning most of Custer’s soldiers had made their last trip across the Yellowstone to visit trader Coleman’s prairie store. With what little money they had kept back for themselves, some of the troopers purchased the large, floppy Hardee hats that would keep the blazing sun off their faces and necks much better than the standard-issue kepi, or forage cap. Many of the old files preferred instead the slouch style they purchased for $2.50, or even the popular manila straw hat they took off the sutler’s hands for a mere fifty cents. With the purchase of an additional bandanna or two, which a soldier could use to keep the dust from crusting his nose and mouth, his list of necessities just might be complete.
Now each young trooper would gaze longingly at what he had left in the way of spare change spread across a callused, dirty palm. Most decided to spend the bank on luxuries such as chewing tobacco, cigars, salves for cracked lips or wind-blistered cheeks, raisins, or some hard candy for a sweet tooth. Even a few of the shavetails bought themselves one of the checkered hickory shirts or a pair of lightweight overalls, both immensely more comfortable than standard army issue for a summer march across Montana Territory.
With what Kellogg had learned, it appeared on this trip there would be more than the usual share of shavetails riding up the Rosebud behind Custer, that being the popular army term for a new or green recruit, since the newly purchased army mules had their tails cropped straight away.
As the regiment finished its preparation to march into history, raw youngsters accounted for much of the Seventh’s manpower, though most of Custer’s officers had gained battlefield experience in the Civil War. While the fact that most of the rank and file had little battle experience was no real cause for concern in this frontier army, the fact that from thirty to sixty percent of some companies were shavetails with less than six months service under their belts could give any veteran fighting man pause when going against battle-hardened Sioux warriors.
Still, most of those raw privates had heard repeatedly of Custer’s reputation from the Seventh’s lifers. They had heard the ring of confidence in those older voices telling them Custer wasn’t a man to let them down in battle. It was as easy for a man like Mark Kellogg as it was for a green recruit to believe that all Custer had to do was flex his military muscle, making a quick charge or two, and any Sioux warriors fighting under the fearsome Crazy Horse would turn tail and scamper off over the sagebrush. Straight back to the reservation.
Confidence ran high in that morning’s camp at the mouth of the Rosebud, fueling expectation of a quick and stunning victory to add to the Seventh Cavalry’s laurels.
John Burkman laid out Custer’s clothing according to the general’s request.
Above his buckskin britches and those polished black boots that hugged his knees, Custer donned a gray flannel army blouse over which he pulled his new buckskin jacket. Complete with a large falling collar and sleeves rippling with dancing fringe, the jacket sported two large patch pockets decorated with short fringe and a double row of five brass buttons running down the front.
To top it all he would pull on his cream-colored, wide-brimmed felt hat. He had rolled the brim up slightly on the right side so that he could more easily sight his sporting rifle from horseback. Around his neck he tied that famous oxblood neckerchief. Custer wanted his troops to recognize him in the powder-smoked madness of battle, to know where he was, certain that their leader rode with them into the thick of it. That bright crimson tie, flowing like blood itself from his neck—telling one trooper and all that Custer himself did not cower behind the lines but galloped with them into the fray.
In addition to his field knife stuffed down in a beaded, fringed scabbard, Custer buckled on a pair of English self-cocking, white-handled Webley pistols, each with a ring in its butt for a lanyard. The general refused the English custom of wearing the lanyard round his neck to prevent the loss of a pistol during the heat of battle. This belt that carried both scabbard and holsters was a canvas-loop regulation-issue cartridge belt that he preferred to the more cumbersome leather version. Taking his favorite Remington sporting rifle with an octagonal barrel, chambered for
