All that remained were the men who would see things through to the bitter end.
At seven that morning bugles blew above Crook’s camp at the mouth of the Powder River, calling out the clear, clarion notes of “Boots and Saddles.” Minutes later “The General” was sounded. There were no tents to come down—only blankets to be rolled up as the last boxes of rations and ammunition were lashed onto the sawbucks cinched to the hardy backs of Tom Moore’s trail-hardened mules. Forage-poor horses whinnied and the mules hawed in protest, not at all ready to plunge back into that wilderness scorched by the enemy. Perhaps those weary, ribgaunt beasts foresaw the ruin yet to come.
“You going with us?”
Donegan turned to find Frank Grouard looking down at him from horseback. The half-breed handed Seamus the reins to the Irishman’s horse.
“Thanks, Frank.”
“Glad you’re staying on, Donegan. Hope I got everything of yours packed.”
Looking over his bedroll and lariat, quickly glancing in the two small saddlebags, Seamus looked up and said, “Ain’t much for a man to look after, is it?”
“If you don’t have it, I figure you can’t loose it,” Grouard said, reining his horse around. “C’mon. Crook wants to cover ground today.”
Swinging into the saddle, Donegan said, “I don’t blame him—what with having us lollygag around here for five days.”
Into the hills the first of Chambers’s infantry followed the headquarters flag recently fashioned for Crook by Captain George M. Randall and Lieutenant Walter S. Schuyler. Although primitively constructed under the crudest of field conditions, it was nonetheless impressive as the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition got about its stern chase of the hostiles: in the general shape of a large guidon, equally divided between a white band on top—a towel contributed by Major Thaddeus Stanton—and a red band below—a gift of Schuyler’s own red underwear—with a large blue star affixed in the center—cut from Randall’s old, faded army blouse. With a drawknife, pack-chief Moore had one of his litter poles carved down to the diameter of a flagpole, and ferrules were made from a pair of copper Springfield .45/70 cases.
That flag was to lead them east, on the trail of the warriors who had slaughtered Custer’s men.
After fleeing Terry for eleven miles up the Powder River, Crook finally dispatched a courier with a note to explain that he had left, intent on pursuing the hostiles who likewise were making their escape. It wasn’t long after that courier had left with the general’s belated farewell that scout Muggins Taylor rode into that muddy midday bivouac with a letter from Terry.
I came up on the boat to see you, but found you had gone. The boat brought up your additional rations, but of course will not land them. I can send your supplies, forage, and subsistence to the mouth of the Powder River, if you wish it; but if you could send your pack train to the landing, it would be better, for the boat is very busy.
A few hours later a second courier from Terry caught up with the escaping leader of the Wyoming column, marching farther up the Powder.
Your note crossed one from me to you. I sent Lt. Schofield out to find you, supposing you were within four or five miles, and intended to go out and meet you if you were near. My note has explained fully all that I wished to say.
I still intend to leave at six in the morning. I hope your march will not be so long as to prevent my overtaking you.
In no way did George Crook want Alfred Terry to overtake him.
After suffering terribly through another night of incessant drizzle, Crook had his command up at dawn, huddling close around smoky fires to chew on bacon and hard bread, drinking steamy coffee to drive away the damp chill that pierced a man to his core. Through mud and the sort of sticky gumbo that balled up on the horses’ hooves, the column crossed and recrossed the Powder throughout a tiring thirteen-mile march and made camp at the mouth of Locate Creek beneath sullen clouds that evening. It wasn’t long before the wind came up and the rain boiled out of the heavens with a vengeance.
All day Donegan had been brooding on the expedition’s plight, unable to shake off his misgivings and his confusion that for some unexplained reason Crook had relented and allowed his expedition to lie in at the Powder River depot for five days, awaiting supplies. Then suddenly, before they had taken on their full fifteen days’ compliment of rations and forage, the general ordered his men to strike camp and depart without giving Terry any word that he was departing.
There could be one and only one reason for this precipitous and unwise act: Crook wanted to shed himself of Terry more than anything. Even more, perhaps, than assuring that his expedition had its full allowance of supplies.
In the days and weeks yet to come the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition would pay for that thoughtless act. And pay dearly.
Donegan and Grouard drove a picket pin into the flaky soil, tying the other end at an angle to a nearby tree. Over this they hung their two blankets, then drove hastily carved stakes through the edges of the wool blankets that continued to whip and flap beneath the rise and fall of the hellish wind. It wasn’t long before those blankets could turn no more water, and the mist began to spray down upon the two scouts.
Despite the crash of thunder accompanying the bright flares of ground lightning, the Irishman had just made himself warm enough in a corner of their crude shelter when the hail began to batter against the taut, soggy blankets, rattling with a racket that reminded Seamus of the grapeshot falling among the leafy branches surrounding those farm fields at Gettysburg.
It wasn’t until long past midnight that the last rumble of thunder passed over them, its echo swallowed off to the east. One by one Crook’s men crawled from beneath their blankets and ponchos, out from under the brush where they cowered, and with trembling fingers tried to light the damp kindling. By dawn’s cold light there were hundreds of pitiful, smoky fires where Crook’s stalwart gathered.
Later that cold morning, Seamus shuffled over to Lieutenant John W. Bubb’s commissary to request some tobacco, even purchase some if he had to part with what little he had left in the way of money.
“This is all?” Donegan asked as Bubb laid the small block of pressed tobacco in the Irishman’s palm. Seamus stuffed his other into the pocket of his britches. “I’ll buy some—pay good money, Lieutenant—just lemme have more.”
“Can’t,” Bubb replied. “Every man’s rationed to that, or less.”
“Rationed, on tobacco?”
“Back at the Yellowstone all I could get my hands on was eleven pounds.”
“You mean this is it for me?”
Bubb nodded. “Likely will be—until we see either one of the Yellowstone River depots again … or Fort Fetterman.”
He watched the lieutenant turn away, going about his other business.
“God bless us,” Seamus muttered sourly as he trudged off into the cold and rain. “And I pray thee—watch over us all.”
*The Plainsmen Series, Vol. 4, Black Sun.
Chapter 31
25-26 August 1876
Courier Headed Off
OMAHA, August 10—The courier sent to Red Cloud agency from Fort Laramie, Monday last, returned there last night, and says that when near Running creek he was met by six Indians, who shot at him and wounded his horse. He hid among the sand hills and escaped.
What General Sheridan Says