Seize the Sky

tears hot and stinging new to his eyes.

He often found himself moved to tears when he thought about his men—the gallant Seventh and what they had done to bring him this far down the road to his historic destiny. Here he was, in fact a simple man, who knew to his core that his moment had come. Greatness was at hand.

“To St. Louis, General!”

Mark Kellogg bolted to Custer’s side, raising the general’s right arm aloft. Soldiers pressed in about them both. Better than a hundred by now, more trotting up, curious at the noisy excitement.

The short bespectacled newsman had wandered through camp, looking for Custer, eventually finding him in council with the Arikara scouts. It took but a few moments for a man like Kellogg to read the portents in Custer’s private oaths to his Indian trackers.

Mark felt as swept up in the frenzy as any, leaping to the general’s side on heady impulse, one of the few in that camp along the Rosebud this evening who truly understood the importance of Custer’s promise. At this moment Kellogg watched that winning smile creep across the freckled face before him, the blue eyes lighting up with a distant glow.

“Y-yes … Mr. Kellogg!” Custer shouted over the din of whistling, stomping soldiers.

“You’re announcing your candidacy, I take it?” Mark hollered above the bedlam.

“Candidacy? I hadn’t … no, the Indian Commissioner … No—but yes, suppose I could as well as Grant himself, Mark! Suppose I am announcing …” He gazed over the swelling, raucous assembly of shouting soldiers and scalp-dancing Rees.

Kellogg allowed Custer’s arm to drop, gripping his right hand in both of his, pumping exuberantly. “Congratulations, General—I mean, Mr. President! Let me be the first to congratulate you!”

“I haven’t had my name placed in nomination, much less been elected—”

“A formality, General! Wait till Bennett himself gets word of you defeating the Sioux! He’ll have St. Louis stampeding for you so fast, your head will spin.” Kellogg wore a smile that lit up the dark eyes beneath his thick spectacles. “You’re a natural for it—crowds will love you. I can see it, a grand sweep you’ll make across the States. After all, General—this country’s always given her highest office to the men who win her wars, don’t you know!”

“I suppose she does at that,” he stammered.

“Of course, she does,” he replied with a genial slap to Custer’s shoulder. “First we had Washington, who freed us from that bloody tyrant George the Third! Then Andy Jackson, who shoved the British back into the sea again. And ol’ Zach Taylor helped consolidate America’s destiny in the southwest, wrenching American soil from the hands of Mexican despots. And finally Ulysses S. Grant himself, the man who saved our great Union for Mr. Lincoln —God rest his soul. With the help of fine officers such as yourself and Phil Sheridan … you understand. Those soldiers have been rewarded by our grand republic with a term at her helm.”

Kellogg suddenly winced as Custer gripped the reporter on the arm, his powerful hand like an iron vise. Mark watched a strange look cloud Custer’s face.

“Mark,” he gasped, “I had never before considered the presidency. What had been my dream, my furthest hope—the commissioner of Indian affairs—perhaps secretary of war.”

“Dammit, General!” Mark shouted. “Don’t you see? You want power? Power?” He laughed hysterically. “You have all the damn power any one man could ever want as president!”

A roar followed Kellogg’s declaration. Custer slapped Kellogg on the shoulder, then pushed through the crowd to return to headquarters bivouac.

“There’s really no better year than this, General!” Kellogg hollered after him, his notepad waved high. “No better time for a political party’s nominating convention to be ignited by such raw emotion of the moment—once you defeat this Sitting Bull and his cronies.”

“I’ve never been more ready!” Custer shouted back. “Let’s pray Sitting Bull is as well!”

Custer strode off into the deepening twilight.

You have so little time now to find the Sioux, to secure your victory—no matter how small. Then you must get word back to Bennett in St. Louis by telegraph … yes! In time to sweep across the floor of the Democratic convention. Who, he thought, would turn down the nomination of a national hero? The youngest general of our recent victory over the rebellious southern states? Why, there’s no doubt I could be swept into office following a grand campaign at the nation’s centennial celebration in Philadelphia!

But first, he ruminated, he had to get word of his victory to the waiting ears of James Gordon Bennett, Jr., owner of the New York Herald and his political adviser and confidante. Surely he could dispatch someone dependable like Charley Reynolds to reach a telegraph key up in Bozeman. The same quiet, dependable scout who had carried news from the Black Hills for Custer back in seventy-four.…

But—what if Charley doesn’t make it?

It was not a question of defeating the Sioux. No, in Custer’s mind it never would be. Instead, it became merely a question of getting word of his victory to the waiting world … and on time.

Herendeen and Bouyer! Yes! They could do it. Both take different routes south to the great Platte River Road where they could find telegraph offices … anywhere from Fort Laramie to Fort Fetterman. Just pray the wires are up and the operators are at their keys.

Most of all, Custer knew he would assure that his beloved army did not shrivel into a ghost of its former self. With an end of problems in the post-war south along with a temporary calming of the Indian situation out west, there had arisen in Congress a strident hue and cry to cut back the Senatorial appropriations for the nation’s army. Many a good man would be thrown out of the only work he had ever known.

If elected, Custer would change that antimilitary mood sweeping Capitol Hill … by the force of his personality if nothing else. To assure that his beloved army did not become a eunuch. With what he would do to keep his country’s army strong in the future, with all that he had done to lay those victories of the past at his nation’s feet … he was every bit a natural leader. Certainly after all his successes, this nation could trust the helm to President George Armstrong Custer.

And beside him on every train platform, at his arm on every dais and speaker’s rostrum of the campaign, would stand Elizabeth Bacon Custer. He had married her, pledging his life to her. Libbie knew he had pledged his life to the army as well.

Pledged your life to Libbie, yes … but what of your heart, Armstrong?

Never once had he entertained any thoughts of leaving her.

Once. Once only. But Libbie simply needed him far too much for him to abandon her. It was for that reason that he had never brought himself to tell her the reason they could not have any children rested with her, and her alone.

Custer knew he would never shrink from any charge, any enemy fire—no matter what that enemy threw at him. Yet he could still not bring himself to explain to Libbie that she was the one who could not have children.

He suddenly realized—his boots grinding to a halt.

You’re a father already. How long now?

The child would have been born sometime in the fall of sixty-nine. That would make Monaseetah’s son some six and a half this summer.

Her son?

As he smiled with the thought of it, Custer was certain for some unexplained reason that he had been blessed with a son.

And just as quickly his paternal joy plummeted from its dizzying heights when he realized odds were he would never see the child … his child. Never know this son. It was as if a cold stone had been rolled into his heart.

Dare he think of the boy’s mother? Her beauty. Dare he remember the fragrance of her flesh warm and musky as she pressed herself into him, full of fire? The mother of my child.

Could Monaseetah find it in her warm, childlike soul to absolve him of his guilt for sending her away … more so for abandoning her and the child?

Perhaps this matter of the woman and their child would be something he would have to see to before he took that sacred oath of office.