Bubb said, “Colonel Mills, as your second in command, I suggest we send word back to General Crook immediately, before we pitch into anything.”
“Request denied, Lieutenant,” Mills snapped, clearly tiring of the debate. “I’m sure you will all remember certain Academy courses in military strategy—even in philosophy—that teach just how often success, even victory, rests upon a man making his own luck, taking what advantages there are and striking quickly.”
“Besides,” Von Leuttwitz said, “we all know the Indians won’t stand and fight. They’ll scatter before a vigorous cavalry charge.”
Then Mills added, “I want you all to remember that we might do what some of you suggest and make a wide detour of that village—only to find that tomorrow some hunting party discovers our tracks and sets out in pursuit of our tired horses. No, I say—this is our chance to seize the advantage.”
After a spirited argument of it, Mills finally called an end to the discussion and told his officers he had decided they would retire a safe distance, and there the command would wait out Grouard’s scout of the village.
“And if it will make you all feel better, I’ll go with Grouard myself to determine the makeup of the village,” Mills explained, quieting the murmured clamor. “How many lodges and wickiups, how many warriors might be in there.” He looked at the half-breed. “We’ll find out what we’re facing.”
He then ordered Crawford and Donegan to lead the soldiers to the rear and hide themselves in a brushy ravine 150 feet deep with a narrow stream running through the bottom.
At twilight Donegan settled into the soggy mud beside Mills. “Colonel, you figure we ought to send a rider back to alert Crook that you’ve run onto a village?”
Mills turned as if smarting at the question. “I’ll know that answer as soon as I return from making a reconnaissance with Grouard, Mr. Donegan.”
“Didn’t mean to rile you, Colonel. But the both of us can remember what we pitched into over on the Powder River last winter, remember how we expected reinforcements to show up from the rear—”
“My memory isn’t faulty, Mr. Donegan,” Mills snapped, getting to his feet. “This, I assure you, is nothing like that. Our situation is that Crook remains far behind, and unavailable for support.”
“But if we give him a chance to know what we’re pitching into, maybe we could hold off till he could get here.”
“I’ll trust you to keep your nervous worries to yourself, Mr. Donegan—and leave the military planning to me. Your anxiety has already infected Lieutenant Bubb. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I figure it’s dark enough to reconnoiter the enemy’s stronghold.”
Seamus watched the captain move off through the soldiers, who dozed or talked in small groups, smoking their pipes and boiling their coffee over small fires ignited at the bottom of pits. A crumb of hard bread and a scrap of bacon broiled on a stick would have to do while some of the packers boiled down a soup of pork grease and a few handfuls of flour.
Seamus decided he would save what little he had left— certain there would be wounded. At times like this—with the waiting and the unknown and the dread—if a man only thought of someone else, he could feel the presence of something bigger than himself.
Refusing to listen to the growl of his aching stomach, he tried to sleep but only dozed, part of him painfully aware of every new sound in the misty night. Sometime later he made out Grouard’s voice. Donegan went over to hear the half-breed’s report on the layout of the village.
“You went in by yourself and just walked back out with them two ponies?” Seamus asked after Mills had turned aside to organize his lieutenants for the attack. Grouard held the leads to a pair of Indian horses—one a beautiful pinto, the other a sleek black stallion.
“I told the colonel the village might be too big for us. Then he said he didn’t take me for a coward.”
Donegan asked, “Too big—how many lodges?”
Looking away, Grouard answered, “Maybe forty, forty-five lodges.”
Seamus studied the half-breed. “We can take ’em, can’t we, Frank?”
“I went in there, didn’t I?”
“That should prove to Mills you aren’t a coward.”
“Told him the both of us couldn’t go no closer together. He smells like a white man. And the dogs was likely to start barking.”
“But you didn’t answer me straight, Frank: we gonna be able to take that village?”
When the scout did not reply as he continued to stroke the muzzle of the black pony, Seamus said, “How’d you get your spoils of battle?”
Grouard shrugged. “I lived with the Lakota before. I can look Injun.”
“Good for you, Frank. Besides, the warrior those ponies belonged to won’t be needing them pretty soon anyway, right?”
“Injuns don’t need good horses like these—right.”
“But you’re a damn fool to take that chance of getting caught, and getting these sojurs killed with you.”
Grouard glared at Donegan. “Didn’t ever know you to get so worried about a little danger before, Irishman.”
“Maybe you’re right—just say I’m getting nervous in my old age,” Seamus replied. “This a bunch you know?”
Now he wagged his head. “Didn’t see a thing I recognized. Maybeso they’re Sans Arc. Maybe Miniconjou or Burnt Thigh—the Brule. Nobody I know in there.”
Donegan said, “You be sure to come get me when Mills is ready to go in.”
Grouard nodded and moved off with his two new Sioux ponies.
Trudging back to his clump of buffalo-berry brush he shared with Crawford, Donegan glanced at the clouds suspended low overhead. They seemed to hang just beyond the reach of his fingertips. Even in their grayness the clouds reflected the orange dance of the crimson-titted fires buried in their tiny pits. For a moment he stopped and peered off to the southwest, in the direction of that long ridge of buttes, wondering if the hostiles were paying attention to the night sky, hoping they would not notice the far-off glow reflected from so many soldier fires.
Then he tugged his hat brim down and set off again through the rain, hoping the foul weather would keep the Indians in their lodges. Praying.
When he reached the brush, Seamus pulled his collar up around his neck and sank back to the ground, leaning against the wet saddle and closing his eyes, tried for some sleep. Instead of peace he dreamed fitfully on Samantha. Finding her calling him out there in the fog, her voice edged with worry. He could not find her, no matter how hard he tried—going this way, then that, as he plunged madly through the soupy fog and driving rain.
She kept calling to him, never coming any closer. He suddenly shuddered in the cold, awakening himself.
In the darkness he crossed himself, thinking on these starving, worn-out men and animals. Their horses were covered with oozing sores, and what the men had left of their uniforms was now little more than wet rags that clung to their skeletal frames as they shivered in the cold. Some wiped their gun barrels to kill time, or polished their meager supply of cartridges to make the sleepless hours pass.
Sometime before midnight some of Moore’s mules tried to stampede but were kept from escaping by the horse guard. A while later at a clap of nearby thunder some of the cavalry mounts did make a break for freedom, but the troopers rounded them up and brought the horses back, once more driving the picket pins into the soggy ground that simply had no hope of holding those iron stakes secure.
They were a good bunch, Seamus decided. When these men should have been filled with nothing greater than fear at their own survival, nothing greater than despair—most had rallied at the prospect of getting in their blows, their spirits raised at this chance to even the score for the frustrating stalemate on the Rosebud, for Custer’s disaster on the Little Bighorn.