By the time Fred Benteen, senior captain in the regiment, had squatted in the grass near the general’s bedroll, he could see Custer was nowhere near as jovial as he had been that morning nor the previous evening. Benteen unbuttoned his blue blouse and swatted at a troublesome mosquito, sensing a sudden and serious mood seeping along the Rosebud as the last stragglers trotted up.
Fred scratched at the reinforced crotch of his cavalry trousers, then pulled out his ever-present pipe and stoked the bowl to a cheery glow.
“Cooke, how do we stand?” Custer barked with a taste of iron to it.
“All present and accounted for, sir!”
“Very good.” Custer paced a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Since we’re all here now, let me begin. I’m sure we each have better things to do that spend endless sessions listening to orders of march. Most of you have accompanied me many times before. You’ll find little changed on this journey.”
Tearing off a small limb from the bullberry bush spread like an awning over his bedroll, Custer continued. “I want to be assured that this scout is successful. And, I believe, success is marked by finding the Sioux. Am I correct, gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir!” Calhoun answered, then nervously glanced around at some of the more silent of his fellow officers.
“To assure our success, I am reminding you all of some of the primary orders of march I must insist upon upholding—the most important of which is that each of you must see that your trumpeters bury their bugles in their saddlebags and don’t bring the bloody things out again until I order them brought out. There will be no more trumpet calls except in the gravest of emergencies. Good,” he answered himself, slapping the limb across his left palm.
“At five A.M. each day we will begin our march. Five—promptly! That means your troops should be rousted by three for breakfast and to ready their mounts. You company commanders are experienced men and know well enough what to do, plus knowing when to do what’s necessary for your men, so there are but two things I feel should be regulated from headquarters: when to move out and when to go into camp at the end of each day’s march.”
He paced a moment, tapping an index finger against his lips. “All other details, such as reveille, stables, watering, halting, grazing—everything will be left to the judgment and discretion of the troop commanders. I want you all to keep paramount in your minds you must remain in supporting distance of one another and don’t dare get ahead of the scouts I will have out at all times in advance of our columns. And please, gentlemen—don’t lag behind the main body of the march. I don’t want any stragglers butchered. Understood?”
When he heard mumbling agreement from most of the weary men, Custer plunged ahead. “From all the intelligence General Terry has gleaned, in addition to the scout of Major Reno here, who found much evidence of lodge fires on that reconnaissance, we just might meet something in the order a thousand Sioux warriors. Now, fellas—if what the reports say is true about the Indians jumping the reservations like gnats off a hot plate this summer to join up with Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse … well, it looks like we might run onto something closer to fifteen hundred warriors.”
“Fifteen hundred?” Wallace gulped.
“That’s right, Lieutenant.” Custer took a couple steps toward Wallace.
“But, sir. There’s only some six hundred of us!”
Custer said, “Six hundred of the finest, anvil-hardened troopers who ever sat their asses atop McClellan saddles west of the Missouri—and don’t you ever forget that!” He waved the limb over their heads, pointing downstream at the regiment going about its evening mess. “I’ll put those six hundred up against twice that fifteen hundred warriors any day, Lieutenant!”
“Hear! Hear!” Tom cried, but quieted when Custer flicked a disapproving glance in his direction.
“But to put your mind at ease—from the reports of Indian agents up to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, it looks as if we won’t find an opposing force of more than fifteen hundred. Now, General Terry offered me Brisbin’s cavalry and the Gatlings—”
“General?”
He turned. “Just a moment, Captain Keogh. You must all understand my reasoning. If those fifteen hundred warriors can defeat our Seventh Cavalry, by jiggers, they’re gonna defeat a larger force.” He looked at Keogh. “Captain, your question?”
“Personally speaking now, General.” Keogh pricked all ears with his thick, foggy brogue. “I’m happy you didn’t bring them others along. We all know each other here. We’re all friends, ain’t we now? And we all know just how the next man’s going to act in a scrap of it. I say we’re far better off not having Grasshopper Jim’s Second Cav along to muddle things up for us.”
“What Myles says is true, boys. With our regiment acting alone, there won’t be a problem with harmony. The addition of Brisbin’s unit would’ve caused jealousy and friction.”
“Tell ’em why you turned down the Gatlings, Autie,” Tom suggested with a grin as he shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Simply put, I figured the guns are pulled by condemned and inferior animals. Our march will be over terrain difficult enough as it is. The heavy, cumbersome guns and those busted-down animals would hold us back, perhaps at a most critical moment when I must maneuver as cavalry on the field of battle was meant to maneuver—turning in precision at the drop of a hat.”
Custer stepped back to the awning. “Now, our marches each day will be from twenty-five to thirty miles each. I remind each of you to husband your troop’s rations and be very watchful of the horses’ condition. As I said before, we just might be out longer than we’ve rationed ourselves for. If we strike the hostiles’ trail, gentlemen—I intend to follow it … right on into Nebraska or back to the Missouri River if need be. We’ll find those Sioux and their camp followers. Make no mistake of that. We’re not going in to our station until we have those warriors in our death grip!
“Boys,” Custer continued, “I’ll eat mule jerky and drink bad water if I have to, for as long as I have to. Simply because George Armstrong Custer is going to track those warriors right into hell if he has to!”
Benteen watched Custer bend the bullberry branch in half, finally snapping it with a resounding crack.
“I’ll be glad to entertain any suggestions, gentlemen,” he concluded quietly, “if those suggestions are presented in the proper manner by an officer of this command.”
Benteen took notice of some of those faces that had been staring off at the river, gazing up at the clearing sky, or down at their dirty boot-toes, suddenly snap up. Something strange in the commander’s comment snagged Benteen’s attention like a fishing hook snagging a cutthroat trout.
This just wasn’t the Custer he had come to know during their last decade together. Whereas the general was normally snappy and often sarcastic, now Custer’s mood appeared contemplative, brooding.
Damned near somber, Benteen mulled.
If you were of the inner circle, then bless you. If you stood on the outside looking in, as did Frederick W. Benteen—then pity you, soldier.
So those who knew Custer best now hung not only on his words at this moment, but his tone and the distant look of those haggard eyes. Tom, Calhoun, Keogh, Cooke, Moylan, and Godfrey. For the general to become something different here on the first day of their march—it was enough to make a sensible man grow edgy, watching over his shoulder for ghosts.
Benteen himself wondered as Custer droned on, thinking Custer must certainly feel trapped within the strictures of Terry’s rather general and ambiguous orders. He grows despondent, Benteen brooded, yearning to be free of Terry. Instead, the arrogant, crowing bastard may well hamstring himself on the sharp horns Terry’s designed for him.