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.
Very respectfully, your obedient servant,
Ed. W. Smith, Captain
Eighteenth Infantry, A.A.A.G.
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.
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 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.