mule.
“Boston! Autie! You ride back with Tom. Hear, now?” ordered Custer.
The two young men pulled their horses out, whipping them back to Captain Tom Custer’s C Company. Brother Boston, youngest of the Custer boys, all of twenty-five and a civilian forager on the army payroll for seventy-five dollars per month for these past five years, had taken a leave of absence since the third of March to accompany his two older brothers on this Sioux campaign. And young Autie—Harry Armstrong Reed—named after his famous uncle, an adventuresome, fresh-faced farm boy of eighteen years, loped after his Uncle Boston back to join Uncle Tom’s troops.
“Bugler!” Custer roared at Voss. “Sound the advance! Center guide, forward,
Custer nodded to General Terry before he spurred off to fetch Libbie. Sister Margaret would await the passing of husband James Calhoun’s L Company.
Behind General Terry arose that familiar creak of slat bed, freight-wagon wood, tire iron, and harness leather, the slaps and curses of wagon master and teamsters as they set the regiments in motion. Custer’s cavalry and Terry’s infantry, hooves and boots and wheels all cutting and chopping at the rain-soaked, sun-hardened dreariness of the parade. Having spent the last two days and nights on Cannon Ball Creek some three miles below the fort in preparation for this campaign, the men were itching to head west at last.
Out from the fringes of Officers’ Row stepped the genteel wives, each waving a handkerchief in farewell and dabbing at her eyes with that most private, painful sorrow of parting. Many more women and children surged out from along Soapsuds Row, where the wives of enlisted men and noncommissioned officers, some mopping at their own red eyes with apron corners, gathered to see their men off. Some of the children marched and skipped beside the procession itself, singing along with the troopers as it seemed the entire fort bellowed out that stirring theme for the gallant Seventh Cavalry. Some of the young boys even waved scraps of cloth tied to the ends of sticks held high overhead, while toddlers furiously beat on old tin pans like drums.
Everyone at Fort Abraham Lincoln knew the words to “Garry Owen,” a sprightly Irish drinking song adopted by Custer upon the formation of the Seventh Cavalry after the end of the Civil War:
We’ll break windows, break the doors,
The watch knock down by threes and fours;
Then let the doctors work their cures,
And tinker up our bruises.
As Custer and Libbie passed by the Indian camp just west of the fort, Lieutenant Charles Varnum signaled his thirty Arikara scouts to fall into formation. Weeping squaws and wailing copper-skinned children trotted along the column, grasping for one last touch of a loved one riding off to fight ancient tribal enemies—the feared Lakota Sioux.
Warriors all, these Ree scouts wore their finest feathers and smeared themselves with paint for this grandest of marches, every man among them singing his personal chant of war medicine more loudly than the man beside him. The air filled with a high-pitched screeching, wailing din that for a moment threatened to drown out the lusty bass voices of the troopers belting out their favorite song. Yet as blood stopping as was that scene played out beside the Indian lodges, no clamor could overshadow the bright, courageous verses of the Seventh’s fighting song.
We’ll beat the bailiffs, out of fun,
We’ll make the mayor and sheriffs run;
We are the boys no man dares dun,
If he regards his whole skin!
That pounding of Arikara drums along with the singsong wail of Indian scouts was almost too much for Libbie. Somewhere deep inside she sensed this campaign was not to be the easy, surgical strike into the Indian heartland everyone claimed it would be. Something told her all too many of these men who trotted behind her husband this bright May morning would not be coming back.
“By all the saints!” Custer exclaimed, suddenly rescuing Elizabeth from her melancholy reverie. “Take a look behind you, Libbie. Now, isn’t that as grand a sight as you’d ever hope to see?”
She turned for a moment to watch the long, snaking bullwhip procession in column-of-twos winding its way out of that cluster of gray buildings, leaving the squalid prairie post far behind.
“Yes, Autie!” she agreed, calling him by that nickname used only by family. “I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else but by your side.”
He peered into those dark, calf brown eyes framed by that shimmering chestnut hair tied up around her face, every strand neatly stuffed beneath a riding bonnet and veil. “You are a spoiled little girl, Elizabeth Bacon Custer.”
“Just what makes you call me spoiled, General Custer?”
“First, there was your father, the esteemed Judge Daniel Stanton Bacon of Monroe, Michigan—God rest his soul—to give you everything your heart desired. And now you have me to do the very same thing for you.”
“My darling, darling Bo,” she said, pouting her full, lightly rouged lips. “Daddy gave me but one thing I ever truly wanted.”
“And … what was that, Rosebud?”
“Why, George Armstrong Custer,” she slapped a glove at his buckskinned forearm. “The one and only thing I ever truly wanted I had to get myself! And that was
To her surprise Custer tore up the bottom of her veil and pressed his lips to hers—surprised, for she had never allowed him any more than a sterile peck on the cheek when in public. As he drew away, Custer found her eyes had grown as big as china saucers: full of wonder, a coy haughtiness, but not without a hint of genuine pleasure.
“I’ll miss you, Libbie … truly I will,” he whispered above the noisy clamor.
She turned away before her tears began to flow. “We have such a splendid life together, you and I, don’t we? I shall miss you while you’re away. These are always the darkest hours … your leaving.”
Suddenly she swirled back to look at him with a start, compelled by something to do so. The sun hung directly behind his head in its rising, its light refracting a reddish gold off the bristles of his hogged haircut. In that instant it appeared Custer had cloaked about him a strange light, an aura of some otherworldliness, not unlike the halos that encircled the heads of saints in those Bible storybooks back in Monroe, where she had attended seminary.
“My dear, dear Bo—I will miss you so very … very much.”
Instead of Spa we’ll drink brown ale,
And pay the reckoning on the nail,
No man for debt shall go to jail
From Garry Owen in glory!
More than a half mile in advance of the columns now, Custer reined up atop a hill and turned to watch the advance.
Like some old wooden bucket spilled on the dry, thirsty ground and pouring forth its contents, Fort Abraham Lincoln sat forlorn and abandoned, emptied of men and life and purpose. All three two-storied barracks and those six detached officers’ quarters. The granary, administrative offices, a dispensary for the regimental surgeons … the guardhouse, ordnance depot, and powder magazine along with the commissary and quartermaster storehouses. Soapsuds Row, where the laundresses plied their varied trades, in addition to the quartermaster stables. Six cavalry stables capable of holding more than six hundred mounts, and the sutler’s store with a small, squat barbershop
