Little Bighorn, page 1
Other books by John Hough, Jr.
The Conduct of the Game, 1986.
The Last Summer, 2002.
Seen the Glory: A Novel of the Battle of Gettysburg, 2009.
Copyright © 2014 by John Hough, Jr.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-62872-409-7
eISBN: 978-1-62914-323-1
Printed in the United States of America
For Roger Lane
Prologue: Armstrong
THE CUSTER LUCK, HE SAID, COINING IT IN HIS LETTERS TO LIBBIE in the last year of the Rebellion. It had fallen on him at the outset like a blessing; God had touched his shoulder, had whispered in his ear. A promise.
He’d reported to the Adjutant’s Office three days before Bull Run, coming straight from West Point, and inside of twenty-four hours had been chosen by General Scott himself to carry dispatches to General McDowell down at Centreville.
“You’re not afraid of a night ride, are you?” said General Scott.
“I’m not afraid of anything, sir.”
“Then I guess you’ll do,” said the fat old general.
He crossed Long Bridge at candle lighting under a rising moon. He found the Fairfax Road as ordered and cantered on into the warm, sweet Virginia night, happier than he’d ever been. The road was hoof-dug and rutted and milky-gray in the moonlight. Dark woods pressed in on either side. The horse was named Wellington; Custer had ridden him in cavalry exercises at the Point. He was jet-black with white socks and a forehead blaze. He had high withers and a deep chest, a good strong mount, and Custer cantered him along in a kind of ecstasy, as if the scented air and moonlight were intoxicants, drunk rather than breathed. Owls and night birds called in the blackness of the woods. Wellington’s hooves thudded rhythmically.
Here and there, in small clearings, stood cabins of notched chinked logs with stone chimneys, and a few ramshackle plank outbuildings. The cabins were dark but inhabited, he knew, by the lingering smell of woodsmoke. He passed an abandoned plantation, its windows broken and a couple of outbuildings burned to the ground, and he wondered where the residents had gone, and where the Negroes had. He’d been told to keep an eye out for partisans, to get off the road if he heard horses approaching, but he knew that none would, as he would know, in the coming years, that he would not die in battle.
Here it was, the Custer Luck, and it held true and inviolate all the way to Appomattox: Brandy Station, Aldie, Gettysburg, Falling Waters, Yellow Tavern, Trevilian Station, Winchester. He was the Boy General, always at the front of the charge, always in the thick of moiling horses, slashing sabers, men shooting each other point-blank. He went straight at batteries firing canister, scattering the artillerists, shooting them down as they ran. The ecstasy of that first night ride would sweep him up, carry him into fights at the front of his men, who loved him for it. His hair rippled to his shoulders, and he wore a jacket of black velvet, gold-embroidered, a blue sailor’s shirt, a scarlet cravat. He wore gilt spurs. Horses were killed under him, but no ball or shell fragment so much as grazed him. He never questioned this, never wondered why not. Because he knew.
General McClellan loved him. General Pleasonton did. General Sheridan. At Appomattox it was George Armstrong Custer who rode out to receive the flag of truce that ended the war. General Sheridan gave him the writing table—sent it to Libbie, with a courtly note of thanks—on which Lee and Grant had signed the surrender. He had, in the final days, captured four trains carrying food and ordnance, and when Confederate artillery tried to drive him away from the depot, he’d charged the guns and taken them too.
Then came the Grand Review. The day was perfect, a brilliant blue sky, not too hot, spectators clotted along both sides of Pennsylvania Avenue, patriotic bunting adorning the brick row houses and big hotels, which only a few days ago had been hung with black crepe for Lincoln. A two-day parade, upward of two hundred thousand fighting men, from the Capitol to the President’s House. Custer wore his velvet jacket, the red cravat, a black hat with a gold cord and silver star. His hair, he well knew, was golden in the sunshine. Curls cascading down. On the first day there were seven miles of cavalry, it was said, and Merritt and Custer led them, moving at a stately walk, raising slow roils of dust. The spectators were in holiday spirits and well turned out, the men in frock coats, the women and girls in dresses in bright summer colors. Women fluttered handkerchiefs; girls threw nosegays and single roses. He could feel the women and girls watching him, the adhesion of their gazes. He could hear the men call out to him.
“Go it, General!”
“Looking splendid, General!”
“Here’s to you, General. The Union forever!”
Then, where the Avenue bent at Fifteenth Street just short of the President’s House, a girl darted into the roadway before anyone could stop her. She had golden hair like Custer’s and wore an indigo dress, and she came running at him with ardor in her eyes, holding her skirt to keep it from dragging and in the other hand raising a nosegay of red roses. Custer checked his horse. The girl thrust the bouquet up at him, smiling, and as Custer leaned to take it, his mount—his name, providentially, was Don Juan—reared, nearly throwing him, and bolted.
He was past the reviewing stand—Johnson, Grant, Seward, all of them—by the time he stopped Don Juan. He’d lost his hat. Don Juan now was dancing sideways, nodding frantically, still aquiver with the fright the girl had given him. Custer held him, then reined him around and spurred him back to his place at the front of the column, checked him again, hard, and wheeled about to resume the parade, neat as you please. Applause, hurrahs, rose on either side of the Avenue, and afterward people said it was the rip-staver of the entire Review, both days, and some that he’d done it on purpose, but he had not. He had wanted to have the roses and speak to the girl.
“George Armstrong Custer,” he’d have said, leaning to take the flowers, “at your service.”
But Don Juan had reared and run, and in that exhilarating minute or two when he’d checked the horse and calmed him and brought him back, the girl had vanished forever. He had never even known her name.
PART ONE
The Girl I Left Behind Me
One
THE DOORMAN AT THE WILLARD ADMITTED HIM WORDLESSLY, AND Allen thanked him and crossed the columned rotunda with his valise and topcoat, his footsteps ringing hollowly on the tessellated floor. Two men on a leather sofa stopped talking and watched him pass. One of them leaned forward and tapped cigar ash into a cuspidor. The concierge straightened, brightened, and set his hands on the desktop.
“You’ll be young Winslow,” he said.
Allen nodded and put down his valise, his topcoat. The two men on the sofa resumed talking.
“Miss Deschenes is in the dining room,” the concierge said. “You’re to go right on in.” He glanced at the two men on the sofa and leaned closer and lowered his voice. “She’s in there with General Custer.”
Allen looked at him. “Say again?”
“Think I’m joking you,” the concierge said.
“No,” Allen said. He looked off over the rotunda. Potted plants, the imperious leather furniture. It didn’t surprise him. Nothing would. Buffalo Bill Cody. The King of England. “What’s General Custer doing in Washington?”
“Testifying in front of Congress. I’m surprised you ain’t heard. There’s been a big stir about it. The general’s been spilling some beans. There’s crooks getting rich off the Indians and army both. Post traders and Indian agents and such. Cheating them. Paying big bribes in Washington for the chance. People’ll go to jail before this is over. Friends of the president, I’m talking about.”
“Good for General Custer,” Allen said.
“Maybe not. The president’s right huffed about it.”
The concierge rotated the leather-bound register, dipped a pen, and passed it to Allen. Allen bent and wrote his name, wrote Phillips Academy, Andover, Mass., and returned the pen. The concierge turned, hunted around on the wall till he found the room key in its cubbyhole.
“Come to see the play at the National, did you?” he said.
“If I’m here long enough.”
“Miss Deschenes said two nights.”
“Then I guess I’ll see it.”
“Your own mother in it, I guess you better. Room number four-thirty-seven, but you best go on in to supper. The bellboy’ll take your valise up.”
“I was hoping to bathe,” Allen said.
“Miss Deschenes and the general have been at table over an hour,” the concierge said. “You best go on in.”
“Is there a washroom about?”
“Down the corridor, just past the barbershop. I wouldn’t be long, I was you.”
He was dressed in his uniform, Union-blue jacket with gold braid on the shoulders and gold tassels on gold cords dangling on his chest, light-blue trousers with the yellow cavalry stripe. His hair was neither long nor golden, as Allen had always heard, but reddish-blond and cut short and carelessly, as if he’d done it himself with a pair of dull scissors. The hairline had moved well back. He wore a bushy, untended-looking mustache. A slender unremarkable man but for the bladelike nose and deep-set agate-blue eyes. He had risen, smiling, as Allen approached the table, the smile implicit under the tuft of his mustache.
“I’m sorry,” Allen said. “The train was late out of Boston and then . . .”
“We know,” his mother said. “We sent a man around to the station.” She pushed her chair back and rose. “Hello, darling.”
Allen stepped into the tentacles of her embrace, her blossom-smell of powder and perfume. There was a sour-sweet tang of wine on her breath. Her shoulders were bare, and she wore a pale green dress of taffeta or satin, with white satin gloves to her elbows. The dress matched her eyes. She brushed Allen’s cheek with hers and kissed the air.
“And now,” she said, stepping back, “may I present the great Indian fighter . . .”
“Lieutenant Colonel Custer,” Custer said.
“General Custer,” Allen’s mother said.
“My brevet rank during the Rebellion,” Custer said. “I’m only a poor colonel now.”
His hand was as small as a woman’s and his grip easy, not insistent, something you could decline or accept, as you chose.
“Call him General, Allen,” his mother said. “He loves it.”
“It’s a pleasure, sir,” Allen said.
“Let’s do sit down,” said Mary Deschenes.
The dining room was oak-paneled, with maroon curtains and red and gold carpeting that deadened sound. Gas chandeliers and wall lamps gave down a muted, churchy light. There were four or five other parties still at table, and Allen knew by their silence that they were watching Custer and the beautiful bare-shouldered woman, whom they may have recognized but would have looked at, anyway. Now they’d be wondering who Allen was.
“Have some wine, darling.” She reached for the bottle.
“No, Mother.”
“Oh Christ,” she said.
“Quite right, Allen,” Custer said.
She turned to him, still gripping the bottle, and their gazes met and they smiled. Allen wondered how long this had been going on.
“Armstrong doesn’t approve of drinking,” she said and lifted the bottle and refilled her own glass. Her hand was steady. The jade-green eyes were wine-lit but clear. “He won’t even pour it for me,” she said. She smiled at Allen, raised her glass, and toasted him wordlessly. Her shoulders were finely sculpted and very white. Her black hair was gathered above her neck in a chignon.
“Mother,” he said, “what’s this about?”
But the waiter had come. He handed Allen a menu bound in calfskin. Talk had resumed at the other tables, muffled and confidential-sounding.
“Try the oysters, Allen,” Custer said.
“Allen doesn’t like oysters,” his mother said. “Tell Allen why you don’t drink, Armstrong.”
Custer eyed her mildly. He turned, winked at Allen. “The spring lamb, then,” he said.
The waiter stood gravely by, and Allen wondered what he made of this and if he was accustomed to witnessing such illicit and blatant goings-on. He read the menu. He wondered if Custer was married and thought he must be.
“Chicken gumbo,” he said. “Spring lamb.”
The waiter scribbled it on his pad.
“Mashed potatoes. Lima beans. Maybe some stewed tomatoes.”
“Did you not eat on the train?” his mother said.
“I bought a sandwich,” Allen said.
“Try the sweetbreads,” Custer said.
“Why not save time and order the whole menu?” his mother said.
“Bring him some sweetbreads,” Custer said.
The waiter wrote it, then took Allen’s menu and disappeared.
“You didn’t tell Allen why you don’t drink,” Mary said.
“Maybe Allen doesn’t care to hear it,” Custer said.
“It’s his high opinion of himself, Allen. He thinks drinking is beneath him.”
“I think it’s unnecessary,” Custer said.
“Mother.”
“What.”
“Why am I here?”
She looked at him, her gaze canny, speculative. She’d been Mary Hennessy, then Mary Winslow. She’d come back from England, where she’d studied under Emma Brougham, with her third name. Allen’s father had been alive then. Winslow, she said, sounds like a skinny virgin off the Mayflower. His father had smiled and made no objection, but Allen had never forgiven her. Winslow was her name. It was his. Theirs.
“Well,” she said, “I’ve some good news for you. Marvelous news. Armstrong?”
“I hear you can ride a horse,” Custer said.
“Well enough, I guess,” he said.
“Darling, you ride excellently, and you know it.”
“A farm horse,” Allen said. “Just larking around.”
“He has an affinity for horses, Armstrong, and he’s strong and fit, as you can see. He disappears on the horse for hours. His uncle gets quite vexed. He talks to the creature.”
“What are you two trying to put over on me?” Allen said.
“Don’t you take that tone,” his mother said.
“Be quiet, Mary.” Custer set his elbows on the table, laced his fingers, and laid his chin on the top hand. “I have a proposition for you,” he said.
“An offer,” his mother said. “Do get to it, Armstrong.”
And Custer told him of the summer campaign against the Sioux and Cheyenne in the Dakota and Montana Territories. Of the hostiles led by Sitting Bull and the three columns converging on them, General Crook’s and General Gibbon’s and his own Seventh Cavalry out of Fort Abraham Lincoln. He hoped to leave within the month, he said.
The waiter arrived with Allen’s soup and Custer stopped talking. Allen shook out his napkin and tucked it under his collar and dug into the thick gumbo. Custer said it would be his last campaign. That he would come East then and write about it. Give lectures, maybe. He said that it would be a man’s last chance to see the territories before the railroad went through and civilized them. He said it was beautiful country, vast and empty and unpredictable in its terrain and weather, a land of exhilarating extremes. The days are hot but bearable, he said. The nights are gloriously cool.
“Tell him about the beautiful Indian girls,” said Mary Deschenes.
“They can be quite handsome,” Custer said.
“Armstrong’s a bigamist, Allen. He married an Indian.”
Custer smiled. “One of those wild stories that go around. She was my interpreter. A Cheyenne. A captive at the Washita.”
“She was your interpreter, all right. Why don’t we get to your offer?”
“I think Allen knows what it is.”
“Go with you,” Allen said. “Fight Indians.”
“Not fight them,” his mother said. “Just watch. Think of yourself as the audience.”
“You’ll go as my secretary,” Custer said.
Allen tilted his bowl, spooned up the last of the soup.
“My nephew’s coming,” Custer said. “Autie Reed. He’s eighteen, as I understand you are. And my youngest brother, who’s twenty-seven but more like eighteen. You’ll fit right in with them.”
“You’ll be paid, darling.”
“A hundred dollars a month,” Custer said.
Allen looked at him. “To do what?”
“Nothing,” Custer said. “My brother’s going as a guide. My nephew’s going as a herder. Boston couldn’t guide you to your hotel room. Autie couldn’t herd a litter of puppies.”
“Is that ethical?” Allen said.
“Allen, do stop being sanctimonious,” his mother said.
The waiter was back, one-handing a silver tray above his shoulder. He dragged a trolley up with his other hand and deftly swept the laden tray down onto it. He took away Allen’s soup bowl and began setting out the dishes of meat and vegetables. His mother poured herself some wine.
