Seize the Sky

“That’s right, Lieutenant.” Custer took a couple steps toward Wallace.

“But, sir. There’s only some six hundred of us!”

Custer said, “Six hundred of the finest, anvil-hardened troopers who ever sat their asses atop McClellan saddles west of the Missouri—and don’t you ever forget that!” He waved the limb over their heads, pointing downstream at the regiment going about its evening mess. “I’ll put those six hundred up against twice that fifteen hundred warriors any day, Lieutenant!”

“Hear! Hear!” Tom cried, but quieted when Custer flicked a disapproving glance in his direction.

“But to put your mind at ease—from the reports of Indian agents up to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, it looks as if we won’t find an opposing force of more than fifteen hundred. Now, General Terry offered me Brisbin’s cavalry and the Gatlings—”

“General?”

He turned. “Just a moment, Captain Keogh. You must all understand my reasoning. If those fifteen hundred warriors can defeat our Seventh Cavalry, by jiggers, they’re gonna defeat a larger force.” He looked at Keogh. “Captain, your question?”

“Personally speaking now, General.” Keogh pricked all ears with his thick, foggy brogue. “I’m happy you didn’t bring them others along. We all know each other here. We’re all friends, ain’t we now? And we all know just how the next man’s going to act in a scrap of it. I say we’re far better off not having Grasshopper Jim’s Second Cav along to muddle things up for us.”

“What Myles says is true, boys. With our regiment acting alone, there won’t be a problem with harmony. The addition of Brisbin’s unit would’ve caused jealousy and friction.”

“Tell ’em why you turned down the Gatlings, Autie,” Tom suggested with a grin as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Simply put, I figured the guns are pulled by condemned and inferior animals. Our march will be over terrain difficult enough as it is. The heavy, cumbersome guns and those busted-down animals would hold us back, perhaps at a most critical moment when I must maneuver as cavalry on the field of battle was meant to maneuver—turning in precision at the drop of a hat.”

Custer stepped back to the awning. “Now, our marches each day will be from twenty-five to thirty miles each. I remind each of you to husband your troop’s rations and be very watchful of the horses’ condition. As I said before, we just might be out longer than we’ve rationed ourselves for. If we strike the hostiles’ trail, gentlemen—I intend to follow it … right on into Nebraska or back to the Missouri River if need be. We’ll find those Sioux and their camp followers. Make no mistake of that. We’re not going in to our station until we have those warriors in our death grip!

“Boys,” Custer continued, “I’ll eat mule jerky and drink bad water if I have to, for as long as I have to. Simply because George Armstrong Custer is going to track those warriors right into hell if he has to!”

Benteen watched Custer bend the bullberry branch in half, finally snapping it with a resounding crack.

“I’ll be glad to entertain any suggestions, gentlemen,” he concluded quietly, “if those suggestions are presented in the proper manner by an officer of this command.”

Benteen took notice of some of those faces that had been staring off at the river, gazing up at the clearing sky, or down at their dirty boot-toes, suddenly snap up. Something strange in the commander’s comment snagged Benteen’s attention like a fishing hook snagging a cutthroat trout.

This just wasn’t the Custer he had come to know during their last decade together. Whereas the general was normally snappy and often sarcastic, now Custer’s mood appeared contemplative, brooding.

Damned near somber, Benteen mulled.

If you were of the inner circle, then bless you. If you stood on the outside looking in, as did Frederick W. Benteen—then pity you, soldier.

So those who knew Custer best now hung not only on his words at this moment, but his tone and the distant look of those haggard eyes. Tom, Calhoun, Keogh, Cooke, Moylan, and Godfrey. For the general to become something different here on the first day of their march—it was enough to make a sensible man grow edgy, watching over his shoulder for ghosts.

Benteen himself wondered as Custer droned on, thinking Custer must certainly feel trapped within the strictures of Terry’s rather general and ambiguous orders. He grows despondent, Benteen brooded, yearning to be free of Terry. Instead, the arrogant, crowing bastard may well hamstring himself on the sharp horns Terry’s designed for him.

Then, while others studied Custer, Benteen’s gaze was drawn to brother Tom.

Benteen figured no others would read that hollow despair round his blue eyes. If he knew any man as well as he knew Custer, Fred Benteen thought he understood Tom Custer.

Yet only Tom would truly understand that ever since the Washita, Autie had grown increasingly afraid. Not of death. Never that. No man could ever seriously entertain the idea of George Armstrong Custer wetting his pants over the thought of death.

No, instead it seemed Custer was afraid of risking his last great victory earned along the Washita in Indian Territory eight long winters behind them. Only Tom realized that his brother now stood the chance of winning for himself a seat among Washington’s powerful—and this close to the precipice, Custer might also stand to suffer a complete defeat of all his hopes and dreams.

Yes. Benteen understood it now, watching the way Tom gazed at his older brother. Tom looks at him like Peter himself looked at Christ. The young one knows how crucial it is for big brother to have everything successful and glorious. From here on out there can be no taint of defeat or withdrawal for the Seventh. Custer will be satisfied with nothing short of victory. This close to the edge of greatness, a man often teeters when looking back to see just how far he’s come in so short a time.

“I want it understood,” Custer continued, “that I’ll allow no grumbling in the slightest and shall demand exact compliance with orders from every officer. Not only my orders, but every officer’s as well.”

The general wiped his empty palm over his bristling mustache, watching his men with intensity. “It has come to my attention recently that some of my actions have been criticized to Department HQ by a few of you officers.”

Here he goes, Benteen thought, fidgeting.

“Criticism going right to Terry’s office. Now, I’ll always take recommendation from even a junior-grade second lieutenant in my command, but I want that recommendation to come to me in the proper manner.”

Bending to rip open the flap of his canvas haversack, Custer yanked forth a smudged, field-weary copy of Army Regulations from which he read the pertinent section regarding the offense in criticism of actions of commanding officers.

“I put you each on notice.” He ground his words out as he slammed the book shut. “Should there be a repeat of this offense among any one of you in the future, I shall take the necessary steps to punish the guilty party.”

To Benteen, Custer’s challenge polluted the air like the acrid stench of burnt gunpowder as the general let his words sink all the way to the core of every man. Benteen couldn’t llet it pass. Although he had never been one to provoke Custer needlessly, neither was he a bootlicker who would let this challenge pass.

“General.” Benteen took a step forward. “If I may be so bold. Appears you’re lashing the shoulders of all—just to get at some. Now, as your entire officer corps is present, wouldn’t it do to specify the officers whom you accuse?”

Benteen knew well enough the answer to his own query. He stood toe to toe with Custer, as the same man who years ago mocked the general in his scandalous letter exposing Custer’s questionable actions immediately after the Battle of Washita when Major Joel Elliott and his men were abandoned to their fates and the butchery of the Kiowas.

“Captain—” Custer glared at the bulky Missourian with flinty eyes, though the salutation came out barely whispered above the hush. “I want my words to be a steel bit—and that bit shoved in the mouth that should wear it.”

Benteen ground a boot-heel into the soft grass. “Then, General, would you be kind enough to tell me—before my fellow officers—if I’m the one who’s been grumbling and complaining to HQ about you?”

“Captain, I’ll not be catechized by you, or any man on regulations, nor the management of my own command. However, for your information—here before these fine men—I will state that none of my remarks were directed toward you. I know of no grumbling on this or on any other campaign, by you.”