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.”
The to the west we bore away,
To win a name in story,
And there where sits the sun of day,
There dawn’d our sun of glory.
Both blaz’d in noon on Alma’s height,
When in the post assign’d me
I shared the glory of that fight,
Sweet girl I left behind me.
“Twelve noon, gentlemen!” Custer roared, and saluted first General Terry then Colonel Gibbon. Unexpectedly he nudged Vic out of formation to stop beside James Brisbin.
“Major.” Custer presented his hand to Terry’s surprise. “Wish me luck?”
Damn it all, Terry thought to himself watching Custer. If this doesn’t beat all!