Seize the Sky: Son of the Plains-Volume 2 (12 page)

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.

Lieutenant Colonel G. A. Custer,
Seventh Cavalry

“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 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.

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
aparejos
or leather packsaddles, not the conventional sawbucks most often used by mule teams. In addition, the rations for fifteen days had been assigned each soldier. His daily ration would consist of eight ounces of hardtack, a hard cracker some four inches square and dry as these summer plains of Montana Territory. In addition, there was three-quarters of a pound in salt pork and a pint of army coffee to wash it all down—rations that included that extra salt in the event they had to sacrifice some worn-out mules to the evening mess fires on a long and costly chase.

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 .50–70 center-fire cartridges, comfortably slid in a leather scabbard of its own, Custer pulled on his gauntleted gloves, fringe spilling halfway to the elbow.

The final gracing touch came when he buckled on a pair of shiny gold spurs over his gleaming ebony boots. These were spurs originally belonging to General Santa Anna, president of Mexico, then claimed as spoils of war by an American officer at the end of the war with Mexico in 1848. That same American officer made the unfortunate decision of siding with the Confederacy in 1861. G. A. Custer himself claimed those gold spurs as the spoils of war at Appomattox Wood in 1865 as the forces of the Confederacy admitted defeat.

By noon Thursday, 22 June, a harsh northwest wind scoured the prairie at the mouth of the Rosebud, tugging at General Alfred H. Terry’s hat. He reined up, bringing his staff to a halt beside Colonel Gibbon’s officers.

That same stiff wind tousled the fringe worn by Custer’s buckskinned officers in emulation of their beloved commander: Tom and Boston both, in addition to family favorites James Calhoun, Myles Keogh, and Billy Cooke.

The tormented guidons snapped like parching corn in the raw wind as Custer pranced up atop the blaze-faced, white-stockinged sorrel named Vic, shoving his hands into his yellow buckskin gloves. Mark Kellogg rode on his heels.

“Mr. Kellogg!” Colonel John Gibbon hollered in that characteristically gruff bullfrog voice that years ago had struck mortal fear in the heart of plebe G. A. Custer at the United States Military Academy. Gibbon indicated a place
at his right hand. “Please do me the honor of standing beside me during the review.”

Kellogg glanced at Custer anxiously. With his sapphire eyes twinkling, he nodded with a wide smile that seemed to assure Kellogg that both of Custer’s superiors were aware the reporter was destined to ride up the Rosebud with the Seventh. Custer himself came to rest at Terry’s left hand, watching with a heart-swelling pride as twelve companies, more than six hundred troopers, rode past—backs ramrod straight, lips clenched in determination, and eyes held dead ahead for the hunt at hand. Following the troopers marched a motley procession of some forty scouts: Arikara and Crow with half-breed Mitch Bouyer included, while the regimental band, which would be staying behind at the Rosebud to await the Seventh’s triumphant return, stood on a nearby knoll blowing out the merry strains of “Garry Owen” before they dived into the sentimental favorite of the older veterans, “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”