4
Bull Run
Armstrong Custer, languishing under arrest, heard rumors about an impending battle in Virginia. Confederates were reported to be within a day’s march of Washington. The opening—possibly the closing—battle of the war was sure to be fought any day now, and Custer’s classmates down there would get all the first promotions, while he awaited court-martial. His crime seemed trivial to him. He had been serving as Officer of the Guard at the summer encampment. On the evening of June 29, 1861, two newly arrived candidates got in a fight over their respective places before a water faucet. Instead of stopping the fisticuffs, Custer had stopped intervention, saying, “Let there be a fair fight.” He himself became so engrossed in the contest that he did not notice the circle of onlookers melting away; they had spied Lieutenant William B. Hazen, Officer of the Day, coming from the guard tent. Custer was placed under arrest and charges were preferred.
Lieutenant Stephen Vincent Benét presided at the trial as judge advocate general. Armstrong pleaded guilty. He said later that he never knew his sentence. He thought it was pigeonholed in Washington. Influential schoolmates, he said, interceded in his behalf, and the War Department, engulfed in battle preparations, telegraphed for him to report immediately in Washington. Custer embarked on the first down-river steamboat.
Perhaps it was unfortunate that Armstrong never knew the court-martial’s decision. He was only reprimanded, and his sentence stated: “The Court is thus lenient in the sentence owing to the peculiar situation of Cadet Custer represented in his defense, and in consideration of his general good conduct as testified to by Lieutenant Hazen, his immediate commander.”1
The records do not reveal “the peculiar situation of Cadet Custer,” but had he known that Hazen was his friend at this time, future relations between the two officers might have been different. Hazen as he grew older became opinionated and fond of controversy. An able man, he was a dangerous enemy. He and Marcus Reno, who had entered the Academy together, would be Custer’s marplots always.
Custer, at last on his way to Washington, stopped in New York only long enough to purchase his lieutenant’s outfit at Horstmanns’—a sword, a Colt’s side-hammer pocket pistol, and spurs, the three dearest possessions for a boy of that generation. For Lydia he had his picture taken—a hot, tired boy in a mussed uniform with wilted white collar. Holding his new pistol in his left hand, he tried to look the big camera lens sternly in the eye.
This last gesture of family devotion completed, Armstrong boarded a night train for Washington. The coaches were packed with soldiers and civilians, all talking, boasting, drinking, scheming. Men in uniform looked at one another with a new curiosity. Privates had not yet learned to show respect for officers, and officers appeared embarrassed in the presence of enlisted men. At every station a crowd of matrons and girls stood under flickering torches offering trays of refreshments. Custer noticed that some emotional young ladies in their hoops and bonnets kissed uniformed boys whom they had obviously never seen before.
Early the next morning the cars rolled in under the domed train-shed at the capital, and Armstrong, alone in Washington for the first time, went to the Ebbit House where his former roommate, Jim Parker, was staying. Jim had failed to graduate, but he had been breveted a second lieutenant and resigned. Armstrong considered Jim his best friend and wanted him to reconsider his act. The desk clerk, sleepy from a night’s vigil, offered to take Custer’s card up to Parker’s room and announce his arrival, but Armstrong strode up the stairs alone and knocked at Jim’s door.
Parker, still in bed, was very unhappy. He had been offered a commission in the Confederate Army and had accepted it. Custer tried to dissuade him, but Jim was obdurate and did not weaken when reminded of his oath.* That could always be explained away. But not to Custer’s satisfaction. For the rest of his life he would refer to it. He cared nothing about freeing the slaves or about the constitutional niceties of state sovereignty. Abstractions were foreign to his mind. He said later that the most meaningless subjects he studied at West Point were philosophy and ethics, but he had taken an oath and would live up to it.
After leaving Jim, Custer headed for the War Department to report to the adjutant general. On the street everyone was talking about the impending battle. Carriages filled with congressmen, gay ladies and lunch hampers jogged along the cobbled streets toward the Long Bridge which led to the settlement of Fairfax Court House in Virginia. There had been a skirmish out there two days ago, but nothing decisive. The real battle was to be fought tomorrow.
Custer found the adjutant general’s office crowded. He waited until two in the afternoon before he had an opportunity to hand his papers to an officer. The man glanced over them, then looked up and, in an abrupt, military manner, said: “You have been assigned to Company G, 2d Cavalry. Major Innes Palmer, with General McDowell out at Centerville. Perhaps you would like to be presented to General Scott, Mr. Custer?”
Young Armstrong stood dumfounded. He had glimpsed the grand figure of Winfield Scott when that dignitary visited the Academy for reviews, but the general had been as untouchable as the upper social set back in Monroe. Custer could not have been more taken aback if he had been asked to meet Napoleon or Washington. He stammered assent, and the officer led the slim, long-nosed boy into an adjacent room, where sat a mountainous man in blue uniform with haughty head perched on a magnificent gilt-embroidered collar. Two rows of brass buttons—or maybe gold—dotted his bulging barrel-stomach. A group of gentlemen from the Congress sat around him. All were studying a map of the Bull Run country—Fairfax Court House and Centerville—spread on the table.
General Scott looked up—a grim face with bags under the eyes and side whiskers, between fringed epaulets.
“General, this is Lieutenant Custer of the 2d Cavalry; he has just reported from West Point, and I did not know but that you might have some special orders to give him.”
General Scott, when sitting, could look down on a man. With cordial but unapproachable dignity he reached out his giant hand, which was big even for Custer’s blacksmith grasp.
“We have had the assistance of quite a number of you young men from the Academy, drilling volunteers, and so on,” the general said, watching Custer through rheumy eyes. “Now, what can I do for you? Would you prefer to be ordered to report to General Mansfield to aid in this work, or is your desire for something more active?”
Custer stammered that he preferred being assigned to the line with General McDowell.
“A very commendable resolution, young man,” Scott replied. Then he turned to the adjutant general and told him to prepare the papers. Looking again at Custer, the aged general continued, “Go and provide yourself with a horse, if possible” (Scott realized that most of the horses in Washington had been requisitioned), “and call here at seven o’clock this evening. I desire to send some dispatches to General McDowell at Centerville, and you can be the bearer of them. You are not afraid of a night ride, are you?”
“No, sir.” Custer smiled as he saluted and turned on his heels to depart. He could hardly believe his good luck. He was to carry messages from the Commander in Chief to the leading general in the field on the day of battle, and all this distinction because he had been court-martialed for neglect of duty, while his more dutiful classmates were rewarded with disciplined obscurity.†
There was only one flaw in Custer’s happiness. Suppose he could not get a horse and deliver these messages? He spent the afternoon visiting livery stables, and became more discouraged at each one. Not a horse was available. The opportunity of a lifetime might wither in the bud. How could he face General Scott with a report of failure?
In this frame of mind, his kepi pushed dejectedly frontward on his uncombed red hair, his uniform mussed, he strode down Pennsylvania Avenue. Watching the crowd from the corners of his eyes—a habit with him always—he spied a familiar figure. That man was one of the regular army dragoons from West Point whom Lieutenant Charles Griffin had organized into the flying battery that went to Washington for Lincoln’s inauguration.
“Hello,” Custer called. “What are you doing here?”
The fellow saluted, said Captain Griffin had sent him in from Centerville to fetch Old Wellington, a spare horse they had left in Washington. It was twenty-five miles out to the battery. Fighting might start in the morning, so he must leave at once. Custer persuaded him to wait until after seven o’clock.
That night Custer, on Wellington, rode with the dragoon across the Long Bridge. Jogging under the stars for five hours, they talked about West Point, life in Washington, and the forthcoming battle. When talked out, Armstrong hummed or whistled, gleefully anticipating the excitement to come. How like O’Malley and Mickey Free in the book he had read as a child!
Finally the riders saw fires ahead. They came to men bivouacked along the road. Many were singing instead of resting for tomorrow’s fight. At the village of Fairfax Court House, bonfires lighted the main street. Horses stood at hitching racks in front of buildings. Officers hurried in and out of open doors. Custer and the dragoon did not stop. Centerville was still seven miles away.
Along the highway beyond the town they found more soldiers. Regiments stood leaning on their muskets. Others sat by the roadside. Still others, almost out of sight in the dark, rested in the tall weeds and fence corners. Custer admired his guide’s ability to find the route.
“That’s headquarters, sir.” The dragoon pointed to a brilliant campfire and abruptly reined his horse away, leaving Custer to report alone.
The fire illuminated a group of tents. Custer rode toward them. As he entered the lighted area he saw a white-haired major. Custer told him proudly that he brought dispatches from General Scott to General McDowell. The officer held out his hand for the papers. He would deliver them to General McDowell.
Armstrong hesitated. The great moment he had counted on was being taken from him.
“I am Major Wadsworth of McDowell’s staff,” the officer said.2
Custer felt that he must give up the dispatches. He watched the major carry them to an open tent flap and hand them to a large man wearing a twin row of gilt buttons down his portly front. Custer believed that to be General McDowell—and he had missed his chance to meet him.
Major James Samuel Wadsworth came back from the general’s tent and chatted with the boy lieutenant—asked what time he had left Washington; said he must be tired and hungry. Would he like some breakfast? The army was marching out to battle and it might be a long time before he could eat again.
Armstrong, still hoping to make the most of his opportunity among the top command, felt sure that a soldier should never be either tired or hungry—an opinion he kept always. He thanked the major for his consideration, said he did not care about himself but would accept feed for his horse, thank you—a gallant attitude, appropriate for Mickey Free.
Major Wadsworth ignored his gallantry and again Custer lost hope of recognition from high command. He got the grain for his horse, and left the animal munching it while he strolled around headquarters in the dark. He met one of his Academy schoolmates on the staff. The youth offered him a second invitation to breakfast. Custer accepted this time, and sat on the ground in the firelight, washing down steak and corn bread with black coffee. Nine years and many battles later he remembered how he enjoyed that meal. Only three days ago he had been a schoolboy in disgrace up at West Point. Another world!
After breakfast Custer put the bridle back on his horse, asked the way to the 2d Cavalry, and rode off in the predawn blackness. Some fifty regiments choked the roads around Centerville, and it might be difficult to find Company G. However, in the multitude of men there were just seven troops of cavalry.3 Custer soon came to a column of horse standing in the road.
“Can you tell me where Company G, 2d Cavalry, is?” Custer asked. A voice in the dark replied, “At the head of the column.”
Custer rode forward, his eyes still unused to the blackness. At the column’s head he discerned five or six men sitting at ease on their horses. Custer could see no insignia of rank in the dark, and asked for the commanding officer.
“Here he is,” a man said, as he reined his horse toward him.
“I am Lieutenant Custer, and in accordance with orders from the War Department, I report for duty with my company, sir.” Armstrong knew the proper military language.
“Ah, glad to meet you, Mr. Custer. We have been expecting you, as we saw in the list of assignments of the graduating class from West Point that you had been marked down to us. I am Lieutenant Drummond. Allow me to introduce you to some of your brother officers.” The commander turned in his saddle. “Gentlemen,” he continued, nodding toward figures in the gloom, “permit me to introduce to you Lieutenant Custer, who has just reported for duty with his company.”4
Custer bowed his cinnamon-scented head to the figures in the darkness—among them Second Lieutenant Leicester Walker, an appointee from civil life who ranked him by a few days. All sat their horses waiting for orders to march.
Custer now learned about the battle plans. The Confederates were supposedly commanded by General Beauregard. His army was known to be deployed on the far side of Bull Run, a few miles ahead. The steep-banked creek was difficult for troops to cross in formation. A few bridges spanned it, and there were several fords. The enemy held these crossings for some twelve miles, but surely did not have sufficient men to form a solid line between them. McDowell’s plan was to trick the enemy by striking with one division under Israel B. (“Fighting Dick”) Richardson at Blackburn’s Ford down at the far end of the line. Then Brigadier General Daniel Tyler was to feint with another division farther up the Run at the stone bridge on the Alexandria-Warrenton Turnpike. Presumably, Beauregard would concentrate to repel these two thrusts along the creek; and while the enemy was doing so, McDowell’s remaining two divisions, under Generals David Hunter and Samuel P. Heintzelman, were to cross Bull Run above them, circle the enemy’s left and attack his weakened flank. The plan seemed easy enough to remember.
Custer knew that his troop was in Hunter’s division. This meant that Company G might spearhead the knockout blow. Good! Hunter was a regular; he had graduated from West Point in 1822 and fought in the Mexican War. Younger men said he was getting old, wore a wig and dyed his mustache. What of it? In battle he should be dependable.
At dawn the waiting cavalrymen heard firing down where “Fighting Dick” was to open the engagement. Custer saw the officers look at one another and smile.
“A fine Sunday morning, gentlemen,” one of them said, nodding toward the milk-pale eastern sky.
The dawn light promised a clear, hot day. Six miles away the bombardment thundered persistently. Custer wondered how soon the vast army around Centerville would move. Daylight brought color to the trees, the fields, a distant farmhouse he had not seen earlier. With sunrise, a fresh breeze cooled the men’s faces. They turned in their saddles to watch a marching column of Federal soldiers and realized that the army had started on its way. Custer noticed that these volunteer soldiers did not step along like West Pointers. They also lacked regulation uniforms: some dressed in flaming scarlet, others in green, black, or brown; only a few wore blue.
No order had come yet for the 2d Cavalry to move. Custer noticed Lieutenant Walker’s hands tremble as he fixed a bridle buckle. The fellow was nervous, although obviously trying to be brave. Custer was nervous, too. He knew nothing about war—and, like Lieutenant Walker, did not intend to confess it. The two boys chatted together, each hiding his own fear.
Their conversation stopped when the column was ordered to march. The horses started at a walk along the Warrenton pike, crossed a bridge over Cub Run, went up a hill between fenced fields. This road led straight to the stone bridge over Bull Run, where Tyler was to attack the enemy. But before the column came to the bridge it wheeled to the right, through an open gate, and followed a private road towards a woods, thus beginning the encircling movement to cross Bull Run above the enemy and surprise him with a flank attack—surely as much fun as evading the guard to visit Benny Havens’s.
Custer watched the column enter the woods and disappear like a snake going under a mat. Soon his own company rode into the trees, and for the next two miles he saw only the dark green July foliage overhead and last year’s brown leaves on the brushy ground. The horses’ hoofs were peculiarly silent and he could hear the clank of artillery caissons rumbling along behind.
At 9:30, Company G came out of the woods a mile from Sudley Springs. The sun shone hot in the fields now.
For half an hour the troop halted, watering horses, watching infantry splash across Bull Run and wind up the hill beyond. The 2d Rhode Island led the way. A section of artillery followed. Among the officers, Custer recognized Captain Griffin’s drooping mustache and sunken cheeks. That cadaverous-looking man now commanded eleven guns,5 more than twice the number he had taken from West Point that dark morning last January. Promotions came quickly in wartime.
Among other artillery officers who rode past, Armstrong thought he saw the thin, active figure of Lieutenant John Gibbon, the former teacher of artillery tactics at West Point. His sharp, bronzed profile with its pointed goatee was hard to forget. Gibbon had become chief of McDowell’s artillery and must be a major, perhaps even a lieutenant colonel, by this time.
Heavy firing shook the earth before the end of the column disappeared over the hill. An aide galloped back down the road. Custer heard him tell Lieutenant Drummond that Company G must guard the artillery unlimbering along the ridge. Drummond waved his arm. Sergeants barked sharp orders. The troop swung into column, forded Bull Run and trotted along behind the aide, horses’ necks arching eagerly as they started up the slope.
On top, Custer saw galloping teams placing caissons and guns. This was like drill at West Point. Above them, little cottony clouds appeared suddenly in the blue sky. They looked harmless, but the shrapnel in them stripped trees of their leaves. Custer noticed, too, that solid shot hissed viciously as it passed overhead—very different from the dull boom of practice firing at the Academy.
When the guns were all in position along the open ridge, the cavalry retired out of range in a hollow. Here it deployed in column of companies, ready to sweep back over the ridge in case the enemy charged for the guns. Custer reined his horse in the proper position before his platoon. Beside him, in front of the next platoon, he saw tyro Lieutenant Walker. The two boy lieutenants were too far apart to talk without being overheard, but Custer realized that veteran officers behind the companies were watching: no one must see his nervousness.
As the troopers waited, an order was given to advance in formation toward the foot of the hill. Evidently the enemy was forming on the other side to rush the guns. The platoons started at a walk. Novice Lieutenant Walker called across, “Custer, what weapon are you going to use in the charge?”
Custer had enjoyed telling this fellow about West Point, never admitting that he himself knew little more than the civilian about a real charge; but West Point had taught Custer to answer promptly and with authority.
“The saber,” Custer replied, drawing his blade.
Lieutenant Walker drew his. The line moved forward slowly, dressing on the guidons. Custer changed his mind about the saber. Perhaps a revolver would be a better weapon. He sheathed his sword and unbuttoned the holster he had purchased in New York. From the corner of his eyes he saw Lieutenant Walker do the same. Full of pranks always, Custer put back his pistol and redrew his saber. He repeated this several times as the horses walked up the hill, and Lieutenant Walker invariably copied him. Custer said later that he was really not sure which weapon to use but he had so much fun watching the green lieutenant imitate him that he forgot his own fright.
At the crest of the ridge the cavalry halted. Federal artillerymen were plying their guns, but no Confederates had charged. Company G withdrew to the sheltered hollow and waited again while shells crashed along the ridge, close to them but out of sight. Battle routine for cavalry seemed to be inactivity, standing by hour after hour. Occasionally the guns moved forward and the cavalry advanced a safe distance in the rear, to be posted in a new sheltered position.
Custer recognized the Warrenton pike as they crossed its hard surface. Evidently the battle was progressing satisfactorily. They had made a U-turn at least seven miles long, and were pushing against the enemy’s flank as planned. Custer heard, by word of mouth passed down the line, that General Hunter had been wounded and carried from the field. A soldier at the front seldom saw such things. General Heintzelman, another veteran, now commanded both divisions, and victory still seemed assured—a victory with Custer firing no shot, seeing no enemy, just waiting, endlessly waiting.
Custer would learn that waiting was a big element in every battle, a major element in army life; but he was always an impatient waiter. Even now, in his first battle, he displayed a characteristic which would infuriate his critics later. He spied a classmate and cantered away, deserting his troop to talk with him. The two young men rode to a ridge where the battlefield lay before them. The stone bridge, where the Warrenton pike crossed Bull Run, was now behind them and safe in Union hands. Fresh troops streamed into the fields ahead, long lines flowing down the roads, standing in neat oblongs and squares in meadows and on hillsides. The young lieutenants watched eagerly. This was evidently the final concentration for the grand advance which would curl back the enemy flank.
As Armstrong watched, another column of soldiers emerged from a block of woodland. “Look,” Custer’s companion said, “more reinforcements.”
The column halted, changed front in a strange maneuver.
“What’s going on there?” Custer had hardly finished the sentence before he saw the glint of hundreds of gun barrels pointed with military precision. A strange flag unfurled above them, and white smoke puffed from the line.
“We’re flanked! We’re flanked!” The unmistakable cry came back to the watching lieutenants. The Union lines sagged, wavered for a moment; then the neat geometric squares of soldiers dissolved into a mob of fleeing, frightened creatures, some racing toward Bull Run, some back to the Warrenton pike. Cannon stood abandoned on hilltops. Artillery horses, carrying two and even three riders, galloped to the rear. The deserted battlefield was littered with muskets, flags, band instruments, cast-off clothing. At the stone bridge fugitives struggled frantically to get across. Where Bull Run cut the meadows, knots of frantic men could be seen splashing through the creek.
Custer galloped back to the place where he had left his troop. The G Company regulars still sat their horses stoically, waiting for orders. Another troop stood nearby. These and a section of artillery seemed to be the only units of the two divisions that remained in formation. Could it really be so bad? In the confusion General Heintzelman rode up, his round face blurred by a close-cropped beard. His slanting eyes and sallow, sun-burned skin gave him an odd Mongolian appearance. He was wounded, but sat his horse with Oriental calm.
“Lieutenant,” Custer heard him tell Drummond, “march your men back along the pike to Centerville.” The general then turned and galloped away toward some batteries.
The cavalry formed in column of fours and trotted along the pike, scattering frightened footmen who clogged the way. Behind them Heintzelman followed with the artillery he had saved. On hillsides, many broken companies of men could still be seen. Custer thought the general might be planning to get ahead of the retreat, stop it, reorganize, and renew the battle. He was not sure, and a soldier’s duty was to keep his mouth shut, except to bite a cartridge.
Company G crossed the stone bridge. Following the pike over the hills beyond, Custer recognized the gateway where they had turned off in the morning. The cavalry clattered by. From the crest of the next ridge, Custer sighted the Cub Run bridge. A crowd of men stood uncertainly in front of it. An overturned ambulance, wheels in the air, and a crushed carriage blocked their passage. Company G rode closer. Custer heard explosions in the débris. He saw spokes and splintered boards hurtle into the air. A Confederate cannon was placing well-aimed shells along the causeway. No one could cross that bridge, now! How did the enemy slip in here so quickly?
The column halted. Heintzelman ordered the cannon to be left on the road. Let the gunners save themselves! Armstrong Custer never referred to his next act in either letter or memoir. The war might develop certain flaws in the character of this boy soldier; enemies would call him a boaster; but in this instance all he said, later, was that he galloped up Cub Run with the cavalry until they found a place where the steep bank had caved in. Slipping down this decline to the creek, the horsemen forded and circled back to the pike. Two miles beyond, at Centerville, they halted. Here, hour after hour passed waiting again for orders. Heintzelman had disappeared somewhere in town among the press of disorganized men and wagons. He was evidently hunting for McDowell. The records are silent concerning the actions of Lieutenants Drummond and Walker but presumably they acted satisfactorily.
Darkness came early for July. The sky had clouded during the afternoon and was very black in the northeast now. Finally an order came. Company G must return to the Potomac. Too many regiments had already fled toward Washington to re-form here and make a stand. Custer mounted his tired horse and swung into the road at the head of G troop for the twenty-five-mile ride. In the inky blackness rain began to pelt his face, rivulets ran down his neck. A soldier’s cap gave little protection. Bridle reins became slimy in the riders’ hands. The tired horses stumbled. Men nodded in their saddles. By daylight, the company was still far from the familiar Potomac. As the horsemen approached Washington the roads became packed once more with disorganized soldiers plodding north. The cavalry halted repeatedly and stood, wet and weary, waiting for the road to clear.
By midmorning Company G reached Arlington Heights and turned into its old encampment. Custer, overcome after thirty hours’ duty with little to eat, slid from his horse, lay down under a tree in the rain and fell asleep.6
He awoke stiff, sore, and wet; but with remarkable vitality he reported for duty. The Battle of Bull Run, he learned, had provided active service to twenty-two of his schoolmates—including little Kilpatrick, who, despite his recent wound, had commanded a regiment of New York volunteers. That little scrapper a captain commanding a regiment! All Custer could show for his three-day grueling service was a very slight acquaintance with two high-ranking officers, Scott and Heintzelman, a failure to meet McDowell, and a bit of heroics at the Cub Run bridge which he did not mention and apparently no one else had noticed. Armstrong certainly had failed to take even a first step toward the general’s stars dreamed about by all West Point boys.
In days of discouragement Custer always appeared optimistic—self-defense perhaps! But he did have some things to be grateful for. Hadn’t he graduated from West Point and got the education he coveted? For that favor he was indebted to Representative Bingham. Custer decided to call on the Congressman and thank him in person.
Bingham recorded the interview as follows:
I had never seen him, and was so engrossed with political cares in Washington that I almost forgot him. . . .
I heard of him first after the First Battle of Bull Run. In the report of that miserable fiasco he was mentioned for bravery. A leader was needed to re-form the troops, and take them over a bridge. Like Napoleon at Lodi young Custer sprang to the front—and was a hero.
I heard of his exploit with pride, and hunted several times for my boy, but unsuccessfully. Then one day a young soldier came to my room without the formality of sending in a card.
Beautiful as Absalom with his yellow curls, he was out of breath, or had lost it in embarrassment. And he spoke with hesitation: “Mr. Bingham, I’ve been in my first battle. I tried hard to do my best. I felt I ought to report to you, for it’s through you I got to West Point. I’m . . .”
I took his hand. “I know, you’re my boy Custer!”7
* Custer, in his account, does not say that Jim had been dismissed from the Academy but the records show that he had more than the permissible number of demerits. Perhaps there is something in this incident that has not yet been unearthed.
† F. S. Dellenbaugh, George Armstrong Custer, p. 14; F. Whittaker, Complete Life of . . . Custer . . . , pp. 51–52. Slight changes have been made to reconcile these two accounts. G. W. Cullum, Biographical Register, usually a good authority, shows Custer to be drilling recruits in Washington in June and July, 1861. In view of his court-martial, this seems impossible.