The Last Days of George Armstrong Custer (27 page)

In his career, he had witnessed countless men die and he had sent countless men to their graves. It was perhaps only fitting that he would fall under such circumstances—as a warrior fighting against other worthy warriors. He had chosen the course of his life and had been the embodiment of a soldier—and he was prepared to die like a soldier.

In May 1864, while on the trail of Confederate general Jeb Stuart, Custer had written to Libbie from Virginia:

On the eve of every battle in which I have been engaged I have never omitted to pray inwardly, devoutly. Never have I failed to commend myself to God's keeping, asking Him to forgive my past sins, and to watch over me while in danger … and to receive me if I fell, while caring for those near and dear to me. After having done so all anxiety for myself, here or hereafter, is dispelled. I feel that my destiny is in the hands of the Almighty. This belief, more than any other fact or reason, makes me brave and fearless as I am.

Today, June 25, 1876, thirty-six-year-old George Armstrong Custer would embark on that most mysterious journey of all to the hereafter and into the hands of the Almighty. Custer's name would be added to that elite list of soldiers who had courageously made the ultimate sacrifice for their country.

The romantic view would be that Custer's last thoughts as he surveyed the tumultuous landscape from that smoke-filled grassy slope would have been of Libbie. He would have been nagged by shame and despair for his inability to prevail in this fight and return to her. His greatest regret would be that he would be leaving behind his beloved wife, his soul mate, to face the future alone so early in her life. What would become of her without him? The guilt he would have experienced in those final moments must have been unbearable.

Perhaps in his mind he saw her lovely face, gazed one final time into her luminous blue-gray eyes, and heard the words that she had written to him during the Civil War: “Don't expose yourself so much in battle. Just do your duty, and don't rush out so daringly. Oh, Autie, we must die together.” It was not to be.

The end of Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer and his battalion on the ridge came within an hour's time of their retreat up the hillside or according to Gall, “about as long as it takes a hungry man to eat dinner.” The troopers had run out of ammunition and additional warriors had entered the field—too many of them to count. And there was still no sign of Reno and Benteen riding to the rescue.

According to Gall, the fatal blow was administered by Crazy Horse and Two Moon, who led a large force of warriors down the valley above the village, crossed the river, and attacked those few left alive on Custer Hill. One can only imagine the fearsome sight of Crazy Horse as he waded through the small group of soldiers, his body painted with white hail spots and a streak of lightning adorning one cheek, swinging his club or coup stick to gain even more respect from his fellow warriors for his bravery.

After dispatching Custer's command post, Crazy Horse and his war party continued south. These warriors swept down the eastern slope, crushing the remnants of Keogh and Calhoun's troops against Gall's warriors who were attacking from the direction of the village. Before long, there were no more cavalrymen left to kill. Bodies in blue uniforms that were drenched in crimson dotted the hillsides and the ridge.

It should be mentioned that there have been theories based on random Indian testimony that Crazy Horse actually attacked from the south, starting at Calhoun Hill and working his way north along Battle Ridge. If this was true there would indeed have been a traditional “Custer's Last Stand,” as that position would have been the final spot of resistance to meet the enemy and fall.

Immediately following the battle, the warriors left the field to the women, old men, and children. These noncombatants waded into the gore to loot and mutilate the bodies.

Sitting Bull did not actively participate in this battle against the cavalry; that was the responsibility of the young warriors. His place as an older medicine man and counselor was to remain in the village to protect the women and children from harm. He did at one point ride onto the field to encourage his braves for a short time before returning to his duties across the river.

By late afternoon, however, Sitting Bull could take satisfaction in the fact that his vision of soldiers falling into camp had come true. His medicine was indeed powerful.

The Battle of the Greasy Grass, as the Sioux called the nearby river, had been a victory of unforeseen proportion. Still, their battle wasn't entirely complete. The warriors now rode four miles to the north where the remnants of Major Marcus Reno's command had taken refuge on that high bluff above the river.

For the Indians, this was a good day to kill every soldier who had ridden earlier into the Valley of the Little Bighorn.

 

Thirteen

The Siege of the Hilltop

Captain Frederick Benteen eventually could no longer ignore the unmistakable sound of firing. The battalion moved out at a gallop and topped a ridge to view the valley below where Reno's men were in the process of crossing the river and scrambling up the bluffs on the other side. Benteen estimated that at least fifteen hundred warriors were in the river bottom and farther upstream. He turned his troops and rode for the bluffs on the eastern side of the Little Bighorn River to rendezvous with Reno.

The Benteen battalion was within two hundred yards of Reno's position when the major galloped out to meet them. “For God's sake, Benteen,” Reno implored, “halt your command and help me! I've lost half my men!”

Benteen produced Custer's order to “Come on,” which according to the military chain of command and protocol was now Reno's to obey. Reno, however, ignored that order and requested that Benteen join his command on the hilltop. When Benteen asked about Custer's whereabouts, he was informed that Custer had started downstream with five companies and had not been heard from since earlier in the day.

The distinct clamor of a battle in progress could be heard from that direction. Several officers suggested to Reno that they should ride to Custer's support—that in the absence of direct orders they should march to the sound of firing. Although there had been direct orders, those delivered to Benteen, Reno replied that they could not leave due to the low supply of ammunition, which was not true—plenty of ammo was available on the pack train.

Captain Thomas Weir, commander of Company D, lost patience with Reno's timidity and requested that Reno at least permit a detail to scout downstream. Permission was denied, and a heated exchange ensued.

Weir then blatantly disobeyed orders and rode off to the north on his own initiative. Weir's second-in-command, Second Lieutenant Winfield S. Edgerly, was under the impression that Weir had obtained permission to move and began following him with Company D. Weir rode forward about a mile or so to a promontory now known as Weir Point. His vision was obscured by dust and smoke, but he nonetheless could recognize what he believed to be Indians riding around in the distance shooting at objects in an area that later would become known as Custer Hill. Weir then observed another group of warriors advancing toward Edgerly and his company, who were moving along a ravine, and ordered them back to high ground.

By then, Major Reno apparently had a change of heart and dispatched a courier to inform Weir that the rest of the command would soon follow. He directed the captain to attempt to open communications with Custer.

It was too late. The firing downstream had for the most part ceased, and a huge force of Indians was presently riding rapidly toward Weir Point.

Weir's company had been followed by most of the remainder of Reno's disorganized command. Those troops had halted at Weir Point when they became aware of the large force of onrushing hostiles. An impromptu retreat ensued as the troops hastened back to the more defensible position where they had first arrived on the bluffs and began to dig in for cover.

It was nearing 7:00
P.M.
on that hot summer day when the defensive perimeter consisting of seven companies, including Captain McDougall's pack train, had firmly established itself on the hilltop. This defensive position above the Little Bighorn River was formed by two parallel ridges running east and west with a depression between that resembled a horseshoe. The troops ringed the crests of the ridges, and the horses, mules, and a field hospital for the wounded were placed in the low-lying portion.

The Sioux and Cheyenne, fresh from the severe beating of Reno and the annihilation of Custer, unleashed a furious barrage of arrows and rifle fire from the surrounding bluffs and ravines. The cavalrymen were pinned down in their vulnerable makeshift rifle pits.

George B. Herendeen, the Civil War veteran who had worked as a cowboy and prospector before becoming a scout, had earlier been stranded in the timber during Reno's mad dash for the river. Herendeen had hidden in a willow thicket until before dark and now found his way back to the command—with tales to tell about his harrowing experience.

The Indians broke contact with the advent of darkness and returned to their village to prepare for a night of feasting, dancing, and recounting their individual exploits of killing and counting coup from the day's victory. They would leave behind a sufficient number of snipers placed in strategic positions to keep the soldiers pinned down.

Meanwhile, the exhausted and desperate cavalrymen took this opportunity to attempt to fortify their positions. The soil was maddeningly porous and there were few shovels with which to dig, so they resorted to fashioning breastworks with packs, saddles, hardtack boxes, and a picket line of dead horses and mules. The stench of the decaying animal carcasses was overpowering but could be endured when considering that they were vital protection between the cavalrymen and about two thousand warriors.

Before long, the night became a nightmare for the troopers. Sitting Bull's village erupted in clamorous celebration. The darkness reverberated with pounding war drums, the exultant war cries by dancing warriors, and the terrifying wails of the women who mourned their dead—all illuminated by the flames of a huge bonfire that could be observed for miles.

The dancing began with a line of a dozen or so seated men serving as drummers who pounded out in unison a monotonous beat on primitive stretched-skin drums. Around these drummers stood a circle of Sioux warriors who had painted their faces and bodies with colorful streaks and symbols and had adorned themselves in their finest costumes and ornaments. Each warrior would step forward in turn and in a loud voice recount his bravery from earlier that day on the battlefield. While speaking, he would whirl and dance to the rhythm of the musicians' drumming. These bodies cast intimidating shadows across the circle of spectators and beyond as more fuel was added and the bonfire leaped to send sparks and cinders rocketing high into the darkness above.

At the conclusion of each recitation the women of the tribe would signify their approval by uttering shrill, earsplitting cries. When a warrior had completed his own bragfest he would remain inside the circle, stomping his feet and waving his arms in dance, occasionally releasing a bloodcurdling whoop or war cry while listening to his brethren relate their own triumphs.

The chiefs and many of the war leaders, such as Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, and Gall, would not have participated in this ceremony—the bravery and accomplishments of these great warriors against their enemies was well known. The self-glorification was reserved for the less celebrated men who one day would rise to leadership roles based on their personal exploits.

In the civilized world it would have been quite bizarre to hear people taking turns boasting about brazen deeds of violence—killing, taking scalps, mutilating bodies, and counting coups on other human beings. Onlookers would regard these treacherous crimes as worthy of a prison sentence or execution. In this native society, however, the confessors were revered rather than condemned for their actions. The tribe had not ruled the Plains by compromise or peaceful means—they had controlled their domain by dealing ruthlessly with any intruders.

It can only be imagined the effect this morbidly spectacular war dance performed around an immense fire in the middle of the wilderness had in chilling the blood of even the bravest cavalryman. The terrain surrounding the hilltop defense site had been transformed into a flaming, smoking, boisterous hell on earth for them as they listened to the warriors and women screaming in a foreign tongue and as they caught glimpses of misshapen bouncing, reaching shadows of warriors gyrating around the fire. None of the troopers had ever experienced such a display of mixing raw malevolence with rejoicing, which was happening within sight of the dead bodies of their fellow soldiers lying on the valley floor and, unknown to the hilltop, those bodies lying along Battle Ridge.

The exhibition would have certainly conjured up in the soldiers' minds those stories they had heard about the various tortures the Indians would perform on captive white men, especially soldiers. Their greatest fear was that the purpose of this Sioux ritual was a call to arms and rally to reenergize spirits. When it was over, an endless stream of warriors would come rushing up the hilltop en masse and ride over to the other side, leaving not even a blade of grass alive in their wake—and God help those who might be captured alive.

It was thought at one point that columns of cavalry could be recognized in the distance, which caused the trumpeters to alert those soldiers to the presence of Reno's hilltop position. It was soon determined, however, that this “cavalry” was likely Indians wearing army uniforms and riding cavalry mounts.

There was one effort during the night to make contact with Custer or General Alfred H. Terry, who was accompanying Colonel John Gibbon's Montana Column, by sending several Indian scouts outside the lines. These men were fired upon and hurried back to safety.