Custer’s Last Charge
In a March 1866 letter to his wife, Custer best summarized the quality of his dynamic personality that now guaranteed that he was now going for broke in his boldest bid to reap still another victory to add to a long list of successes, while attempting to reverse the hands of fate that had turned so suddenly against him: “I’m not partial to speechmaking [because] I believe in acts, not words.”1
Lieutenant Colonel Custer was now determined to strike an overpowering blow with Yates’s and Keogh’s battalions, front to rear (west to east), by charging straight into the village. Hitting the village from the opposite side with a stealthy flank attack promised a great deal, because all of the warriors were now battling Reno well beyond the village’s southern boundaries and even farther away because of his withdrawal from the timbered bottoms to the bluffs overlooking the river. As demonstrated so often during the Civil War, Custer now possessed a surefire tactical formula that was guaranteed, or so it seemed, to bring decisive victory to the 7th Cavalry, despite all of the setbacks this frustrating afternoon.
However, Custer now had only 220 troopers, which was a mere fraction (about one-third) of the regiment. Custer’s Civil War charges were the stuff of legend. Unlike these Union troopers, the men of Custer’s five companies no longer carried sabers, weighing three pounds and seven ounces. They had been left behind because the swords were generally considered useless in fighting Indians. This premature conclusion was about to come back to haunt Custer’s men.
Even when Custer had been recently warned by the seemingly all-knowing scout Mitch Bouyer, of mixed French (a French Canadian blacksmith who had been killed in 1863 by Indians while trapping) and Sioux descent, that what lay before the 7th Cavalry was “the biggest village he had ever seen,” Custer was only more determined to succeed at any cost. However, to be fair to Custer, this confidence and sheer bravado were understandable in purely tactical terms, because he was relying on tactics that had always proved so successful in the past, especially in the Civil War. He had earlier informed scout Charles “Charley” Alexander Reynolds, who likewise gave his own warning about large numbers of Indians along the Little Bighorn, that “he could whip them.”2
Throughout the Civil War, “Custer’s rule” for achieving victory had always included ignoring all obstacles, conventional wisdom, and such dire warnings like the ones recently gained from his scouts, including Bloody Knife, Custer’s faithful “Ree” (Arikara). Custer had long relied on the shock value of a hard-hitting surprise attack to overwhelm his opponents, even if badly outnumbered, because that is exactly what his opponent least expected. If Custer found himself in trouble in the past, then he just fought his way out of the jam: a highly flexible and adaptive tactical formula that had worked even against the South’s finest cavalrymen, when he had been a younger man.3 Feeling that he could duplicate his Civil War feats that still resonated in his heart and mind, Custer now led, in his own words, “the proudest command in the world” down Medicine Tail Coulee and toward the ford that he knew he had to cross at any cost to reverse the hands of fate.4
Such unbridled aggressiveness had been precisely what everyone, especially in Washington, DC, and army headquarters, anticipated from Custer. After all, this aggressiveness was why Custer had been first chosen to serve as the heavy hammer, which Crook, Gibbon, or Terry could not manage, to deliver a devastating blow. If Custer was still very much of a captive of his romantic image of the hard-hitting “young American hero” as during the 1860s, he was trapped by his tactical rationale of always relying on the bold offensive strike, regardless of the odds or tactical situation: a formula that could backfire with disastrous consequences if Custer’s Luck suddenly disappeared like a phantom.
Not disobeying any orders now, Custer was chosen from the beginning to accomplish exactly what he now hoped to do: strike an overpowering blow to reverse the fortunes of war and win the day. After all, Custer’s bold plan of unleashing a flank attack across the ford was exactly why Terry had first designated the 7th Cavalry as his expedition’s principal strike force, allowing Custer an inordinate amount of tactical latitude and flexibility to achieve their mutual goal. What everyone at headquarters fully understood was that “always Custer would hit hard at the first opportunity [which] was the precise reason, more than simple friendship, which explained why Sheridan had interceded with the president on Custer’s behalf to negate ‘Grant’s Revenge’.” He had only trusted Terry and Crook to formulate a winning strategic plan, but expected Custer to secure victory. Therefore, Custer had been allowed to develop his own tactical plan depending on the situation as he found it when entirely on his own. This explained why he had descended down the coulee on a single-minded mission.5
As if drawn by fate and perhaps even the Great Spirit itself, these were the existing realities and unusual circumstances that now sent Custer and his five companies ever-farther down Medicine Tail Coulee and toward the ford. A thoughtful officer who wisely steered clear of the bitter regimental politics as much as possible, Lieutenant Godrey, Company K, 7th Cavalry, emphasized Custer’s well-conceived tactical formula for success: “had Reno made his charge as ordered, or made a bold front even, the Hostiles would have been so engaged in the bottom that Custer’s approach from the Northeast would have been such a surprise as to cause the stampede of the village and would have broken the morale of the warriors.”6
Clearly, Custer’s tactical plan was actually better than has been generally recognized by historians, offering the prospect of winning the day. If only Reno had accomplished what was expected of him by unleashing a hard-hitting attack, and if the divided elements of the 7th Cavalry had only acted together in harmony as a team as they’d done in the past, including at the Washita, then victory was obtainable. However, even Libbie astutely observed an inherent weakness—the shortage of officers and veterans after 1866 and 1871 enlistments had expired—of this non-elite (contrary to popular assumptions) regiment. In addition, the 7th Cavalry had not served as a single cohesive command for ten years. Libbie was unsettled by the fact that her husband’s beloved regiment was “a medley of incongruous elements.” This factor was already playing a leading role in sabotaging Custer’s best efforts of reaping a dramatic victory this afternoon.7
While advancing farther westward down the coulee, now green with the fresh spring growth of buffalo grass, and ever closer to the river, Custer now must have felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, because it was up to him to turn the tide. Command responsibility never weighed heavier on him than now. He had twice sent messengers to request reinforcements (men and ammunition) after correctly sensing that every man and bullet would be needed this afternoon, because he knew of Reno’s dismal fate. Unfortunately for Custer and his five companies, these desperate appeals for his reserves (Benteen) and extra rounds were destined to go unanswered. Quite simply, Benteen decided to disobey Custer’s orders to rush forward partly because he wished to see him fail. Now, not only Major Reno, who equally detested his commander, and had “cut and ran” to gain safety on the bluffs above the river, but also Captain Benteen was letting Custer down as never before. Benteen’s refusal to respond with alacrity to Custer’s orders, leaving him and his command not only more vulnerable, but also on its own to do or die. Brought by the reliable Bouyer, the news that Reno had fled the field against all orders and expectations must have shocked Custer to the bone, guaranteeing no assistance from him and his three routed companies.
Custer would have been even more incredulous to know that Benteen now lingered far too distant from the action and far from recall. Three precious hours had passed since he had been dispatched to the left—and after having proceeded about five miles, Benteen was still taking his time. Now, when Custer (and Reno, for that matter) needed Benteen’s command (his only reserves), the native Virginian was still too far away to provide assistance. As usual, regimental political, old hatreds, and egos rose to the fore. Disgruntled that he had been handed orders to deny him glory in reaping the widely anticipated victory, Benteen had turned not only sullen but also angry: a passive-aggressive attitude reflected in his “brooding pace” that guaranteed no support for Custer this afternoon. This deliberate foot-dragging eventually later included watering his command’s horses at a spring surrounded by a swampy area on the Middle Fork of Reno Creek (before, or east of, the Sans Arc village on Custer’s old trail) for perhaps as long as nearly half an hour, as if time and Custer’s urgent orders for assistance were of no importance. The last thing that Benteen intended to do was to provide timely assistance to the one man whom he felt was most responsible for having made his life miserable, including the loss of his children due to remote assignments that he believed were handed out by Custer in vindictive spite.
Indeed, Captain Benteen’s leisurely pace continued even after the arrival of Custer’s message for assistance from Trumpeter Martin and allegedly from Sergeant Daniel Alexander Kanipe. Benteen had continued riding too far west instead of immediately turning to assist both Reno and Custer. When Benteen finally turned in the right direction in a “right oblique” to regain the main trail (Custer’s old route) and then eventually picked up the pace when firing was heard from Reno’s command, it was already too late. Custer’s plan to utilize Benteen and the ammunition reserves with the pack train, now more than a mile in Benteen’s rear, was already impractical, because of the native Virginian’s stubborn intransigence. Benteen’s dereliction of duty and lack of responsibility to his commander guaranteed not only the lack of timely support, but also disaster. On his own, Benteen had decided not to go to Custer’s assistance, despite repeated urgent messages for timely reinforcements from his commander. Having made up his mind to leave Custer and five companies alone to their tragic fates, he failed to do “the right thing” to say the least, including after linking with Reno.8
If victory was to come for the 7th Cavalry, Custer would have to win it himself, and this meant going for broke. With the awful realization that Reno would provide no assistance and Benteen might well be too late, Custer no doubt feared that he might be entirely on his own, because that was indeed now the case. At this moment, he had nothing to rely upon but himself, moral courage, and barely 200 men to attack the Cheyenne village. In many ways, this was a symbolic (perhaps fitting) situation for his five companies, because Custer could now count on a good many of his friends, brothers, and relatives who were with him. These dedicated men, especially the dependable officer corps of Custer’s inner circle—the so-called “Custer gang”—were literally the best and brightest of the 7th Cavalry, and their loyalty and resolve was guaranteed. Custer realized that he could count on these men to the bitter end at the Little Bighorn, which was what was required this afternoon of many surprises and new challenges on a scale previously not experienced by Custer. Most of all, Custer gave no thought to accepting the shame of ordering a humiliating retreat, even after the stunning news of Reno’s undisciplined flight from the field.
Consequently, sticking to his original tactical plan that was now the only hope of reversing the day’s fortunes, Custer was even more determined to deliver a master stroke with his flank attack with all five companies. These were bold maneuvers that partly reflected the tactical lessons learned from Custer’s diligent study of Napoleon’s campaigns, which had been distinguished by their tactical brilliance. With everything at stake this afternoon, there would be no reserve force for Custer’s flank attack with five companies. It was clear that Reno’s three companies had been insufficient for their comparable task. Like at the Washita, the dense concentrations of cottonwoods along the river hid greater portions of this sprawling village along the Little Bighorn. Custer knew that so many tepees equated to a good many warriors that called for an overwhelming offensive effort with his entire command: an offensive thrust of both battalions that had to go for broke to reverse the day’s fortunes.
Therefore, after now realizing the village’s massive size that spanned about three miles down the river, Custer knew that he needed to employ his entire command for a maximum offensive effort at the ford. Given the increasing urgent tactical situation, and under desperate circumstances, Custer was now “desirous of massing the two squadrons [battalions] together, in order to make strong the line of attack,” in the words of Private Theodore W. Goldin, a teenager, adopted son, and former brakeman of Company G, 7th Cavalry.
This meant that Yates’s and Keogh’s battalions were now employed by Custer in his last offensive effort: a maximum effort because the lieutenant colonel no longer had any realistic tactical choice, given the circumstances. After all, Custer realized that he must deliver an overpowering blow, instead of what too many historians have incorrectly viewed as nothing more than a weak feint at the ford that was launched to only assist Reno’s command, instead of attempting to achieve a decisive success—the most implausible of scenarios given Custer’s history, mind-set, abilities, and inclinations, especially when combined with the overall situation. Anything less than a full-fledged attack, including even a long-assumed piecemeal offensive, made no tactical sense under the circumstances. In keeping with the fighting style for which he was famous across America, Custer envisioned delivering a hard-hitting blow and not a mere feint. After all, a feint would have been defeatist; an admission of forfeiting the initiative and any possibility of achieving victory—the most un-Custer-like of tactical possibilities and outcomes under the circumstances.9 Indeed, because the day’s fortunes had turned so decidedly against him, Custer’s last offensive down Medicine Tail Coulee was an all-out offensive effort that embodied “the chief ingredients of heroism and a dauntless courage.”10
A concentrated assault of both of Custer’s battalions across the ford was also verified by Captain Benteen, and others, not long after the battle in a letter to his wife. In addition, civilian John C. Lockwood also verified as much, agreeing with accounts of others who later saw the tracks of the horses of five companies going all the way to the ford. According to Lockwood’s memoir (which is still controversial, but more reliable than previously thought by historians, who had mistakenly placed too much faith in Sergeant Daniel Alexander Kanipe account), he served—although not listed on the roster of Quartermaster employees but evidently used an alias like scores of other members in the 7th Cavalry—as a scout and packer under Chief Packer John C. Wagoner. Libbie later communicated with Lockwood, adding credibility. Even more, Lockwood enlisted in the 7th Cavalry on the last day of August 1876. He might have served in an unofficial capacity as a volunteer. This was very likely the case, since Lockwood was a longtime friend and companion (including trapping, exploring, mining, and hunting forays in the Black Hills) of guide Charles “Lonesome Charlie” Alexander Reynolds.
Reynolds served as Custer’s top civilian scout. Ironically, Reynolds was known to the Indians as the “Lucky Man,” (a badly misplaced nickname for the ill-fated native Kentuckian on the afternoon of June 25) but he was now haunted by a dark, but accurate, premonition that he would not survive the upcoming battle. Reynolds had twice appealed to Terry to be released from duty, but was refused. Clearly, fate had been unkind to “Lonesome Charlie.”11
While on the high ground with a pack animal that had carried Custer’s only extra ammunition (which was needed because the average trooper could use his 100 Springfield rounds in less than ten minutes in a hot fight), Lockwood verified the strength of Custer’s attack. Again and as mentioned, this view also has been confirmed by Major Benteen’s astute analysis gained not long after the battle. From high ground above the coulee, Lockwood saw “see [all] five companies moving together [and advancing south toward the ford] in line, all abreast with General Custer in the lead.”12 This analysis was in keeping with the fact, as verified by respected historian Larry Sklenar, that “all five companies” descended as one toward the ford during the advance.13 In addition, and in agreement with what Lieutenant Charles Camilus DeRudio, Company H, after the battle, Curley’s interviews also maintained that “Custer himself led all five companies down to the mouth of Medicine Tail Coulee.”14 Significantly, both white and red testimony coincided to verify as much in this regard.
Agreeing with Curley, Sklenar, and others with regard to Custer’s maximum offensive effort to charge across the ford with all five companies, the Lockwood account has been long incorrectly lumped into those of a large number of men, who later falsely claimed to have been “last survivors” or “lone survivors” at Little Bighorn. One such long-dismissed “lone survivor,” Sergeant Frank Frankel (George August Finckle), of Tom Custer’s Company C, 7th Cavalry, has been only recently discovered to be grounded in more truth than had been assumed by historians for generations.
Despite numerous errors (to be expected of an older man with a faltering memory in dictating his story many years later), Lockwood’s memoir has more merit than previously recognized. Of course, it only can be seen this way after weeding out what can be corroborated as valid from what has been clearly embellished: the same process in which the truth of Indian accounts can be deciphered by separating fact from fiction, and as recently achieved by author John Koster with regard to Sergeant Frank Frankel’s story.
After separating fact from fiction, the Lockwood account rings true on a number of key scores, especially with regard to the confrontation at Medicine Tail Coulee Ford, and how Custer employed all five companies in the attack (as confirmed by some modern historians) and held none in reserve. These were perfectly in keeping with the desperate situation, and when Custer’s only hope for success was in going for broke. Because of the importance of the struggle for the ford’s possession, this often-ignored memoir has been now utilized to a limited degree in this work. First and foremost, Lockwood was almost certainly not a messenger, as claimed, like other alleged survivors, including Sergeant Kanipe. Most likely as a packer, he had been assigned to a pack horse of extra ammunition left behind on the high ground (the troopers carried too few rounds for an extended battle), after a final distribution of rounds before the five companies moved into the dusty depths of Medicine Tail Coulee.
Even if he never served as a messenger for Custer as claimed, which was almost certain, Lockwood’s 7th Cavalry service almost immediately after the battle meant that he was in contact and close association with a large number of Reno’s and Benteen’s men, who saw the battlefield close up. This is a significant fact: Lockwood almost certainly learned of key details about the battle from them that were based upon personal experience and, most importantly, his own first-hand observations of events this afternoon.
Therefore, the Lockwood memoir should not be entirely ignored, because of its well-hidden revelations—despite its obvious errors, including having been written in a novelist style, which was typical of the day. As Lockwood’s name does not appear on any rosters, he almost certainly used an alias, like more than 80 men (including former Confederate soldiers who concealed their past and identities) who served in the 7th Cavalry at this time. This long-dismissed Lockwood memoir might well have provided an example of historians having thrown the baby out with the bath water, especially with regard to the maximum strength of Custer’s attack on Medicine Tail Coulee Ford, which has been verified by other accounts and makes the only tactical sense under the circumstances.
Lockwood enlisted in the 7th Cavalry at the end of August 1876: a situation quite unlike the many false storytellers, who had no comparable 7th Cavalry experience and, therefore, allowed their imaginations to soar. Unlike these false accounts of so many imposters, Lockwood’s memoir was well rooted in, and deeply connected to, the overall 7th Cavalry experience, including his correspondence with Mrs. Custer, to a degree not evident with the false storytellers. Significantly, Lockwood’s emphasis on Custer’s maximum offensive effort in attempting to force his way across the ford and into the Cheyenne village was verified by Reno and Benteen from what they saw in analyzing the battlefield immediately after the fight.
In part because of their importance, the Lockwood Papers are housed in the Huntington Library, San Marino, California. Other key aspects of Lockwood’s background have also provided greater validity to his memoir that has been entirely lacking in the accounts of so many false storytellers. He was from Bismark, near Fort Abraham Lincoln, like Kellogg. Lockwood also possessed a longer past personal association with Custer and the 7th Cavalry than either Kellogg or the myth-makers who claimed to have been with Custer: another foundation for his written communications to Libbie. In addition, Lockwood had long worked closely with the Kentucky-born “Charley” Reynolds before the battle as a scout and packer, including with the 7th Cavalry in previous active campaigning. Unlike the many imposters, Lockwood also possessed ample frontier experience, including as a hunter, trapper, packer, and explorer-miner in the Black Hills: a level of experience sought by Custer for the 1876 expedition so deep in the dark heart of Indian country.
Lockwood described how he was with Custer’s battalion, along with “four other packers” who had accompanied Custer’s five companies with a small number of horses (almost certainly not slow-moving, balky mules with the main pack train—now a mile behind Benteen’s battalion far to the rear—in order to keep up with their commander’s rapid movements). Such an extra ammunition supply might have been one of Custer’s wisest precautions as a veteran commander, just in case he became separated from the main pack train with the regiment’s ammunition supply, or if the pack train was lost, captured, or just too slow, which was now the case. During the last halt before moving down Medicine Tail Coulee, Lockwood described that he and his fellow packers had “unpacked the [extra] ammunition and distributed it to the troops,” before the attack on the ford.15
Hard-working civilian packers, like Lockwood, were the most forgotten participants of Custer’s final campaign. All in all, especially with regard to Custer’s attack on the ford, Lockwood’s memoir rings true on key points, but only after the fiction is carefully separated from fact: as mentioned, in much the same way that author Koster achieved this feat in his 2010 book, Custer Survivor: The End of the Myth, the Beginning of a Legend, about Sergeant Frank Finkel. However, the Lockwood memoir’s most glaring flaw was the story that “Charley” Reynolds was dispatched with a message at the same time as himself on a comparable mission. For all of these reasons, almost certainly Lockwood was simply a packer and not a messenger. In dictating his memoir in 1922, so long after the fact, Lockwood might have only desired to give recognition to his old friend, who lost his life in the river valley with Reno’s command on June 25, by emphasizing that Reynolds served as a messenger. Of course, this is only speculation. Lockwood attributed his vital role to Reynolds rather than North Carolina–born Sergeant Daniel Alexander Kanipe, of Company C, and Trumpeter John Martin, respectively. Allegedly, Kanipe (although his account is disputed today) took Custer’s first order (issued by Tom Custer) for assistance (first received by Benteen and then passed on) to Captain Thomas Mower McDougall, a battle-proven officer of Scotch–Irish descent. Born in Wisconsin and a Civil War veteran, McDougall now commanded Company B and the pack train—with the regiment’s ammunition reserves—that lingered so far rearward.16
Ample Indian oral testimony also revealed that Custer descended on the ford in a staggered attack of two assault waves with all five companies—first one battalion, and then his final battalion: a prudent offensive tactic with the last battalion acting as a second assault wave for crossing a river. However, this full-fledged attack with everything that Custer had (five companies) was entirely in keeping with his hard-hitting tactical style and the overall situation after Reno’s repulse. Consequently, with so much at stake, Custer utilized both battalions to deliver a maximum blow with his flank attack.
In a rarity of the battle of Little Bighorn historiography, white (Reno, Benteen, Goldin, Lockwood, and others) and red testimonies (including Crow scout Curley) coincided with regard to the day’s final offensive effort, revealing that Custer in fact made his maximum offensive effort at the ford, where he went for broke because no other realistic tactical options were left open.17 Curley, the youngest Crow scout, saw Custer’s advance down the coulee and on the ford. Indeed, Curley “described the advance of several companies” in the attack on the ford.18 However, Curley failed to see the second wave of attackers, Keogh’s battalion, because he had departed the column with Custer’s permission and was out of sight by this time.
Custer had actually accomplished what he had planned to do from the beginning: unleash an all-out offensive thrust with all five companies in a flank attack that seemingly could not be resisted, because almost every Cheyenne warrior was still far to the south confronting Reno. In purely tactical terms, he had managed to accomplish what was virtually impossible for the 7th Cavalry to achieve in either springtime or summer: catching an Indian village totally by surprise in broad daylight.
All in all, this was already an unprecedented feat in the annals of Great Plains warfare for the United States Army: a compliment to Custer’s well-honed tactical sense and skills. Clearly, Custer defied the odds in having made this rather remarkable tactical achievement under the most disadvantageous circumstances, demonstrating flexibility by developing tactics on the fly. Custer and his five companies, including members of his inner circle, were seemingly about to reverse the day’s fortunes and accomplish the most incredible victory in the 7th Cavalry’s history.19
Of course, the key catalyst that guaranteed that Custer launched his assault with all five companies had been when Custer first learned of Reno’s failure upriver, leaving him with no other tactical option if he desired success. As mentioned, this news came as a shock—the rout of a large percentage of his regiment (three companies) in retreat for the first time in the regiment’s history. Therefore, it was now up to Custer to personally deliver the blow to reverse the day’s fortunes and save the remainder of his regiment (along with its reputation and honor), before it was too late. Consequently, the overall tactical situation called for hurling his two battalions of all five companies across the ford as soon as possible as the only way to salvage a victory, after fortune had so unexpectedly turned against Reno, and Custer to a lesser degree.20
Custer was presented with a great opportunity because the Cheyenne warriors had ridden several miles south. Therefore, Custer’s flank attack was launched to not only relieve the pressure on Reno, but also to rescue him. Custer’s immediate target was still empty of Cheyenne warriors and left almost entirely undefended. Lodges stood vacant and silent. Relying on his best instincts, Custer continued to lead his assault of five companies down Medicine Tail Coulee to deliver his flank attack. He had long believed firmly that his 7th Cavalry could vanquish any number of Indians, and he was now backing up his words with action. However, many enlisted men were inexperienced (about one-fifth were recent recruits and young men from eastern cities), with little training and marksmanship practice.21 Custer quite correctly believed in the high quality of his veteran officer corps, which was more reliable and experienced than the enlisted ranks. With pride, Custer wrote in a 1873 letter how “if ever a lot of hardy, athletic young fellows were assembled in one group it is found in the officers of the 7th Cav.”22
With all five companies advancing down the dry coulee with colorful battle flags flying, Custer’s attack looked as if it could not possibly fail, as so often in the past. After all, he was about to strike a village without warriors from what he could see with limited visibility because of the towering cottonwoods that lined the river bottoms: a correct assessment. As so often in the past, Custer now placed great reliance on his good friend and top lieutenant, Captain George Wilhelmus Mancius Yates. He was from Monroe, Michigan, like the Custer brothers who were closely bonded to him. Custer knew his man and fellow former Civil War officer well. With his usual skill, Yates now commanded the battalion that consisted of Companies C, E, and F.
Because its commander was so capable, Yates’s battalion had been chosen by Custer to spearhead the attack of all five companies across the ford. Yates was the long-time commander of Company F, which he had transformed into an excellent unit. With Yates leading the battalion, this company was now commanded by Second Lieutenant William Van Reily. He had been too young to serve in the Civil War, having been born in Washington, DC, in December 1853.
Other than his brother Tom—who was basically Custer’s alter ego throughout this arduous expedition—Custer trusted no one more in the 7th Cavalry than the native New Yorker. Captain Yates was the most literal example of a brother-in-arms with regard to his relationship with his regimental commander. Yates was blessed with dashing good looks, possessing “fine golden hair and long moustache.” He was a polished and a somewhat rakish gentleman, and an occasionally reckless ladies’ man. His romantic skills with other women in the true cavalier tradition had played a role in wrecking his first marriage with Lucretia Beaumont Irwin.
More importantly for this high-stakes offensive effort, Yates was the ideal officer to lead the way behind Custer and his headquarters staff, which advanced in the forefront as usual. As Custer fully appreciated, Yates’s qualities were all-important for such a challenging situation that was in essence now the increasingly desperate lieutenant colonel’s last gamble, where strength of character, experience, and leadership ability counted more than anything else. Captain Yates had led his men in the charge at the Washita on that snowy November day. Then, as always, he had proved cool and collected in emergency combat situations: qualities greatly admired by Custer because they were his own. Custer understood that Yates was exactly the kind of aggressive and talented officer who should lead the attack with his battalion.
Able to inspire troopers to follow him to hell and back if necessary, Custer knew that Yates could be depended upon in a crisis situation, when sound tactical judgment was required to reverse the day’s fortunes. Clearly, as the leader of the disciplined “Band Box Troop” (Company F, whose members rode light bays that flaunted their elite status) and a hero at Gettysburg like Custer, Yates was clearly one of the regiment’s finest officers. He was a Custer favorite because the two men were kindred spirits.
These two dynamic officers, who were totally committed to duty and a warrior ethos, shared a typical cavalier’s bravado and aggressive manner on and off the battlefield. They also were natural showmen with the ladies, playing their parts as romantic cavaliers to the hilt. With plenty of experience in the art of love, Yates knew the right ways to capture the hearts of the ladies, including picking prairie flowers in a romantic natural setting far from prying eyes: a calculated strategy that had helped to win the hand of wife Annie, who was close to Libbie and who had fallen for the dashing cavalry officer’s abundant charms.
Despite his conquests on and off the battlefield, Yates was more modest than his regimental commander, whom he so highly admired. Despite being part of the Custer clique, Yates still maintained good relations, both professional and off-duty, with the anti-Custer officer corps faction led with such prideful contrarianism by Captain Benteen. Custer had chosen correctly, because Captain Yates was just the kind of hard-hitting officer to lead the advance down Medicine Tail Coulee with his battalion across the river and straight into the village.23 To Custer, Yates was more than a model officer, but also a close friend. Thanks to his easy-going ways, Yates was also respected by the enlisted men, who so often detested officers. Sergeant John Ryan recalled how Yates stood out in the officer corps because he was “a good-natured officer and fond of a joke himself….”24 Ironically, Yates was now only leading the advance at this crucial moment because, as he penned in a March 18, 1866, letter to his wife, Custer boasted, “I procured Yates’ appointment to the regular army” by applying his influence in high places, particularly the Secretary of War.25
In the battalion’s lead just behind the headquarters staff, thirty-seven troopers of Company E steadily advanced down the coulee. Known as the crack Gray Horse Company, this “show company” of the 7th Cavalry surged closer to the ford at the head of Yates’ battalion in leading the way. About to add his bugle calls to those trumpeters of the headquarters staff, Company E’s George A. Moonie, a twenty-one-year-old Irishman from Boston and who had enlisted in March 1875, had his bugle ready to blow upon Custer’s orders. Tom Custer’s Company C, whose troopers rode sorrels (light reddish color), followed Company E, and then Company F, which included troopers like France-born Private Joseph Monroe, who never saw his Gallic homeland or home in Cincinnati, Ohio, again.
First Lieutenant Algernon Emory Smith, who was part of Custer’s inner circle, commanded Company E’s men on their gray horses. He had born in Newport, New York, in 1838. Smith was a Civil War veteran who possessed a fine education from Hamilton College in Clinton, New York. Now a married man who had taken the hand of the charming Nettie, Smith had ridden through the Cheyenne village along the Washita with his revolver blazing. Lieutenant Smith now expected to win another such victory along the Little Bighorn. A feisty fighter, Smith led the way in Company E’s front, despite unable to lift his left arm because of an old Civil War wound. He should have garnered a permanent disability discharge because of the injury, or remained behind at Fort Abraham Lincoln, but this was not Smith’s style. He was dedicated to his men and the regiment. All in all, it took considerable courage for the native New Yorker to continue to ride ever deeper down Medicine Tail Coulee and straight toward the Cheyenne village with such a physical limitation: a situation that should have been an unnerving prospect for him, considering that close-quarter combat was sure to erupt among the maze of lodges filling the river bottoms, after crossing the Little Bighorn.
Smith was assisted in now leading Company E’s troopers during their greatest challenge to date by his second-in-command, Second Lieutenant James “Jack” Sturgis. While a member of a New York infantry regiment, Smith had served with distinction during the Civil War. He won a brevet rank of major for heroics during the attacks on Fort Wagner, which protected the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina, in July 1863, and Fort Fisher, North Carolina, in mid-January 1865. From Newport, New York, which was divided by the waters of West Canada Creek, Smith had led his troops with inspired leadership. At Fort Fisher on the Atlantic coast, he received the wound that almost cost him his life, leaving him unable to raise his left arm on sweltering June 25.
Meanwhile, Captain Yates’s “Band Box Troop,” Company F, continued to follow close behind Smith’s Company E down the coulee, while riding horses (light bays) that were darker than Company E’s gray horses. Custer no doubt hoped that the dust kicked up by so many horses, filling the coulee in a fine–grained cloud, might mask the diminutive number (barely 200) of the attackers. He hoped to make the Cheyenne believe that a far larger number of troopers now advanced down the coulee, and to sow the seeds of panic in the village.26
A Sioux warrior named Horned Horse described the shocking sight when suddenly “the head of Custer’s column showed itself coming down a dry watercourse [Medicine Tail Coulee], which formed a narrow ravine, toward the river’s edge.”27 Just after 4:00 p.m., the sharp notes slated down the coulee, echoing loudly down the coulee and over the Little Bighorn’s placid waters. Custer had ordered the buglers to sound the charge, despite still being a good distance away from the ford. The blaring bugles mystified young Curley, who knew nothing about the white man’s psychological warfare. As in the past, Custer now employed the sounding of the charge (although not actually charging) as a time-proven psychological weapon (like his regimental band playing “Garry Owen”—his favorite song—in the Washita attack as a psychological weapon that he had successfully utilized since the Civil War years) to spread fear in the Cheyenne village. A terrified Sioux woman married to Spotted Horn Bull described her fear: “From across the river I could hear the music of the bugle and could see the column of soldiers … march down to[ward] the river to where the attack was to be made.”28 Crow scout Curley never forgot how Custer “ordered the bugles to sound a charge, and moved on at the head of his column….”29 The Indians of the village remembered how “the blare of Custer’s trumpets told the Sioux [and Cheyenne] of his approach.”30
Since Medicine Tail Coulee had significantly widened during the dusty descent, it now offered an even more ideal avenue leading all the way to the river, and Custer knew that he could easily ford the river at this shallow crossing point. From tracks, Custer knew that this was an old buffalo crossing point, ensuring that the river banks were relatively low and posed no serious obstacles to charging horses. Best of all, at “that season of the year,” in one Indian’s words, “the water being very low” for an easy crossing at this point.31
Ironically, Custer’s choice of advancing down the coulee’s extensive length and then fording the river at the well-worn buffalo crossing paid other unexpected dividends. At first, the rising dust from the white mens’ horses had initially caused some Indians, as during Custer’s earlier approach toward the Little Bighorn Valley, to believe that another buffalo herd was approaching the river to cross in search of fresh grass and water to quench their thirst in this scorching weather.32
Custer’s choice of Yates and his battalion (Keogh’s battalion still advanced, second in line behind Yates) to lead the way down the coulee was a good one. Yates’s companies (like Keogh’s battalion) contained less-inexperienced men than several companies—G, H, and K—serving with Reno and Benteen, in one of the vexing paradoxes of Custer’s last attack. As could be expected, Custer naturally wanted to share the glory with his good friend and top lieutenant (Yates), and of course brother Tom. Ironically, nearly a decade and a half before, these two close friends had first met when Custer was a lieutenant and Yates a sergeant. During the Civil War’s early stages, they had faced not only a common opponent but also a stiff challenge in confronting the obstacle of a river before them: the sluggish Chickahominy, in the Virginia tidewater located more than 1,600 miles away from the Little Bighorn. In the Peninsula Campaign of 1862 during General George B. McClellan and his Army of the Potomac’s ambitious, but doomed, bid to capture the Confederate capital of Richmond, Custer and Yates rose splendidly to the challenge on May 24. Shouting “give them hell,” Custer had encouraged the bluecoat infantrymen (including Yates) across the brownish-hued river (unlike the pristine Little Bighorn) under a hot Rebel fire to reap another success on the Virginia Peninsula.33
The tactical requirement of charging across the Little Bighorn now must have seemed as easy as when the 7th Cavalry had ridden roughshod through the Washita River Valley to strike Black Kettle’s Cheyenne village to win Custer’s only success on the Great Plains. Revealing the pervasive, almost complacent, attitude of Custer and so many troopers (ironically a factor that helped lead to Reno’s reversal), this five company offensive effort launched so confidently down Medicine Tail Coulee was now seemingly little more than an exciting game. To many 7th Cavalrymen, the waging of war against the Great Plains Indians was seen as a sporting event, especially because no serious resistance was now expected at the northern end of the nearly deserted village. The ever-elusive Indians seemingly could be now trapped in the level river bottoms at the village’s northern end, because they seemed to be entirely at the mercy of Custer’s steadily approaching five companies, which had never known defeat.
Precisely because relinquishing the initiative was not considered even a remote possibility and certainly not a tactical option at this point, Custer had seemingly won the game of bagging his opponent, whose mobile style of warfare had so long frustrated the 7th Cavalry. The Sioux had long demonstrated an unsurpassed skill in slipping away before the troopers could strike a knock out blow. Large villages, especially this one of such an unparalleled size, never remained intact for long, because of the pressing need of the Indians to move on in search of new grass for horses and more plentiful game for substinence. Nearly a decade of Great Plains experience, in the antithesis of the inflexible ways that the 7th Cavalry waged war, showed Custer that the Indians always fought as individuals without orders, discipline, or organization: the height of tactical flexibility according to the existing situation, unlike white soldiers, who had been trained to follow orders to the letter.
As Custer fully realized, to additionally bolster his confidence, his opponent’s asymmetrical style of fighting minimized the chances for a stiff defense at the village’s northern end, especially when hit by a surprise attack by all five companies. Even if a relatively few warriors somehow managed to rally and offered resistance at the village at the last minute, then Custer still felt confident that his opponent would quickly disperse and offer no significant resistance, especially when suddenly under attack from five companies, because the warriors who had faced Reno several miles away had not returned by this time: a factor that no doubt also partly caused him to dismiss the warnings from scouts of the immense size of the village that spanned several miles upriver.
Not only were almost all warriors now facing Reno far away, but also Custer and his two battalions were now headed straight toward the smallest tribal encampment, the Cheyenne. Custer correctly realized that he had “caught them napping” (ironically, this was literally the case, as some fighting men of the warrior societies had slept late after their big social dance that continued until dawn) at the village’s northern end, which continued to be now vulnerable by the absence of warriors.
Consequently, Custer perhaps could now almost envision the inevitable dashing portraits of the celebrated victor of the Little Bighorn in newspapers across the land, if he secured a dramatic victory as anticipated. After all, Custer’s heroic image of leading a bold cavalry attack had been emblazoned on the front cover of New York’s Harper’s Weekly, on May 19, 1864, to electrify the Northern people. Now, Custer was seemingly about to accomplish the same news-grabbing feat that would be broadcast widely across the United States. Indeed, he now seemed on the very threshold of once again being thrust into the national spotlight by a successful charge across the ford and straight into the Cheyenne village with all five companies.
Indeed, it now seemed as if the man and the moment had met. In the heady celebrations of a vibrant American people’s progress during this glorious Centennial year, especially in the United States’ first capital of Philadelphia, the confident American nation was waiting to celebrate a dramatic Custer victory to forever end the Indian Wars, which would be a gift just in time for the Fourth of July celebration. Not surprisingly in this pervasive national mood of exuberance, the American people also had complete faith in Custer and his crack 7th Cavalry to push aside so-called savages, who dared to challenge America’s national destiny. After all, these Indians were commonly viewed as nothing more than irritating, gnat-like obstacles to national greatness. The confident people across America now fully expected Custer to win another smashing victory, as if he was still the famed boy general waging his hard-hitting style of war that had helped to pave the way to Appomattox.
Not unlike his regiment (which was widely considered to be more elite than was actually the case), and despite his well-honed tactical skills, Custer was still in truth a media creation, especially the New York newspapers, thanks to his so-called victory at the Washita. Even now, in the steady descent of his two battalions down Medicine Tail Coulee, he was still very much trapped inside his heroic image of the dashing cavalier that he could never escape—even in slightly balding middle age. In consequence, Custer now felt the pressure of having become the media darling that America had created at such a young age. Therefore, the native Ohioan now had to live up to the lofty image that an entire generation (from private citizens to top military leadership) had long expected from their golden boy of Civil War fame.
Now with a receding hairline, a light-complexioned face “somewhat worn” from so many military campaigns, and with hair newly cut short for this summer campaign, the thirty-six-year-old Custer had embarked upon his greatest challenge while past his prime. Worst of all, his military expertise was in the art of conventional warfare rather than Indian warfare, but he was now blending the two when they could not have been more different. Seemingly, Custer was now steadily pulled farther down the coulee not only by fate, but also by the media hype and his wide readership, especially in Galaxy Magazine (his last article had been recently completed while encamped on the Tongue River), as a popular writer across America. He was about to engage in the battle to determine the fate of not only the Sioux people but also the 7th Cavalry, which now hung in the balance. A mix of the past legacies, high expectations, soaring ambitions, and destiny itself now pointed the way down Medicine Tail Coulee for Custer.
As when he had so aggressively led the “Wolverines” of his crack Michigan Cavalry Brigade, one of the North’s finest cavalry commands, to one victory after another, he was now relying on the “relentless power” of a typical Custer attack. In his adrenaline rush of engaging, in still another battle in which he felt that he was sure to win, and like brother Tom, who was also a gambler by nature (on the battlefield, in the bedroom, or at the poker table), Custer remained blissfully unmindful of his command’s long list of liabilities. Most of the enlisted men lacked the necessary experience and firing skills to defeat Indians, especially a good many city boys. Recent immigrants, like Ireland-born Private John D. Barry of Company I, who hailed from major northeastern urban centers, now pushed down the coulee with far more misplaced confidence than combat prowess. Barry had enlisted in Boston in late September 1875. While leading the advance, Custer also seemingly overlooked the obvious that he now wore a wide “white sombrero,” with the right side turned up in a jaunty manner: a dashing style that enhanced his visibility not only to his men but also to experienced warriors, including sharp-eyed hunters who could shot down a bounding black-tail deer or antelope at long-range with ease, unlike a good many troopers in blue.34
Custer always led the way, and the descent upon the Medicine Tail Coulee Ford was no different. He had taken the usual risks in leading the Washita attack, when he “would allow no one to get ahead of him,” wrote an amazed scout.35 Custer, therefore, had been fortunate not to have been killed at the Washita, like Captain Louis McLane Hamilton, the promising grandson of Alexander Hamilton, who had been hit in attempting to keep up (an impossibility) with Custer.36
Indeed, to his relatively few opponents in the valley below, Custer’s low-crowned and broad-brimmed white hat, not to mention his large trademark red scarf around his neck, which was worn as when he had led his Michigan boys to glory, served as a white beacon at the column’s head: an ideal target to sharp-eyed Indian marksmen. Even Custer’s thoroughbred sorrel mare “Vic” (just remounted by Custer after the older brown horse “Dandy” had been left behind after his observation of the village from the Crow’s Nest) was also distinctive in its markings and overall appearance, standing out from the other 7th Cavalry mounts. Custer should have realized that the relatively few fighting men in the valley below were veteran warriors who possessed a skill unmatched by the whites, including greedy buffalo hunters who killed with such a merciless impunity for profit.37
Custer and his men were about to discover other harsh realities. In the words of one lucky 7th Cavalry survivor of the Little Bighorn, the Sioux were “better armed, better prepared, and as well, if not better, led” on June 25.38 As usual, when conditioned to so many past successes, Custer remained confident during his descent down Medicine Tail Coulee. A survivor of many close calls that seemed to defy the too-often vindictive Gods of War (especially to overly successful leaders who casually tempted fate from hubris), Custer had no fear of death as demonstrated on almost too many past fields of strife to count. Annie Yates, the foremost battalion commander’s pretty, blue-eyed wife with a dual romantic and intellectual bent, had recently told Custer of a haunting nightmare. Hailing from a leading Philadelphia family, she had dreamed of Custer getting shot in the head by an Indian warrior. When Annie told Custer of her vivid nightmare, he was amused. His fatalistic response revealed his sense of optimism, daredevil qualities, and lively personality. Stoically, he merely said: “I cannot die before my time, and [then] if by a bullet in the head—Why not?”39 Custer, who often teased Annie like a sister, should have listened to Yates’s insightful wife. He failed to heed the ominous warning, believing that his own destiny and star were more powerful than this dark portent. An open-minded thinker who confounded many eager suitors before her marriage to Yates, this rather remarkable and smart army wife often relied on fortune tellers and believed in the words of prophesy, when combined with her own intuition.40
Even now, Custer still remembered the words of the psychic who he had visited in the bustle of New York City. This psychic had confirmed what he already knew to be true from the Civil War years: “I was always fortunate since the hour of my birth and always would be. My guardian angel has clung to my side since the day I left the cradle,” as Custer emphasized with his trademark confidence.41
Now, this fabled good fortune seemed once again to be smiling on Custer by sending him and his troopers farther down the coulee and ever closer to the undefended Ford and village located on the flank an enemy encampment. Clouds of dust rose higher to reveal the movement of five companies to additional Cheyenne and Sioux. All the while, the sun beat down hot, and the fine grains of dust choked Custer’s men on this blistering afternoon. They were about to meet the enemy on his own terms, and on his own territory, too far from Fort Abraham Lincoln. Weary troopers were drenched in sweat, which mixed with a fine layer of dust to cake uniforms that now looked almost more yellow than blue. After having ridden for so long today, the throats of the troopers were parched from the intense heat, creeping fear, and anxious nervousness about striking a blow on a large village.
As usual in going headlong into action, Custer was accompanied by his faithful personal headquarters staff, which consisted of some of the regiment’s most qualified men. This was additional evidence that Custer now advanced with all five companies in the attempt to charge into the Cheyenne village with his entire command. Unlike at the beginning of the attack on the Washita village, Custer had no bandmaster to order “Give us ‘Garry Owen,’” (his lucky talisman) or “Yankee Doodle,” as when attacking Rebels in the previous war. Custer now must have thought about the Washita, which had garnered headlines that appeared in the New York Herald: “DECISIVE BATTLE WITH THE INDIANS.” All the while, trumpeters Vose (Chief Trumpeter), McElroy, and Dose, along with the bugles of Companies E and F, immediately behind them, continued to blow their notes to unnerve the opponent.
One of the great myths of the battle was that Custer remained safely behind the advance of Yates’s battalion and that Keogh’s battalion, after having taken a stationary on the high ground and far from the ford, almost as disinterested as if forcing a crossing was tactically insignificant. This popular misconception has fueled the additional myth that this advance (Custer’s most important one this afternoon) down Medicine Tail Coulee Ford was nothing more than an insignificant feint: the absolute most un-Custer-like of his actions and entirely uncharacteristic of all realistic possibilities under the circumstances, when decisive offensive action was most of all needed to reverse the day’s fortunes. After all, Custer remained to this moment one of the most aggressive cavalry commanders in the history of the American military.
Capable Headquarters Staff
In this crisis situation, Custer was wisely relying on a highly capable staff, forging a tight bond that was evident in the descent down the coulee. Even before he won his brigadier general’s stars in the Civil War, he had relied upon capable staff officers. And now, he depended upon his staff more than ever before, because there was literally no tomorrow for the 7th Cavalry. Trusting in his abilities and those of his men, Custer continued to confidently lead the advance beside brother Tom, who essentially acted as his chief of staff, toward the shallow ford with his trusty headquarters staff at the head of his five advancing companies. These talented professional military men were some of the regiment’s most useful soldiers, and Custer appreciated that fact to the fullest. Representing the regiment’s command and control center, the staff was now protected by a trusty honor guard of crack troopers. This honor guard most likely consisted of a dependable lieutenant and hand-picked troopers of Yates’s Company F, because Yates’ battalion advanced just behind the headquarters staff. This honor guard excluded a recent “showman” from a New York City circus, an inexperienced Private William A. Lossee, who had enlisted in late September 1875 and was in his mid-twenties. All the officers’ watches were synchronized to display the same time as the regimental commander for better coordination and unity of action on a fast-paced battleground once fighting erupted. Some of the 7th Cavalry’s top officers were now part of Custer’s staff, representing an elite cadre.
Like growing up in Ohio, the three Custer brothers were all together with the headquarters staff, their destinies now joined together as one. They now advanced in the forefront of the advance down the dusty coulee. Custer’s staff naturally included brother Tom, who the lieutenant colonel trusted like no other officer, and most likely Boston “Bos” Custer, who was the butt of so many jokes by his older brothers. Born on Halloween 1848, sickly “Bos” had come west to improve his health! Six years younger than his more famous but less decorated brother, who once taunted an unlucky opponent during a game of chance and skill how “relationships don’t count in poker,” Tom served as Custer’s aide-de-camp, advisor, and confidant while riding by his brother’s side. Whenever an order needed to be completed without delay, Custer counted on Tom to accomplish the task efficiently: an invaluable right-hand man. In advancing down the coulee by his brother’s side, Tom was now stylishly dressed in a buckskin shirt and wore a broad-brimmed white hat.
Tom continued faithful staff service to his brother from the Civil War years. He was shorter, a bachelor more popular with the ladies (white or red), coarser in behavior and with a wilder streak, a better shot, and smaller in build compared to his older, more lanky brother, whose natural rambunctiousness had been nipped in the bud by a happy marriage. Tom had served capably on Custer’s staff during 1864–1865, gaining invaluable experience. The captain’s hair was “not so golden” as the lieutenant colonel’s, as if reminding everyone that Tom had been the black sheep of the family and lived under his brother’s giant large shadow that he could never step out from, despite his own impressive military record. Nevertheless, these sibling dynamics had fueled a healthy rivalry, pushing each man to excel. Like his brother, Captain Thomas Ward Custer had been born in New Rumley, Ohio, near the Pennsylvania border. Tom possessed more of the Irish traits of his Scotch–Irish mother, Maria Ward Kilpatrick, than George, who was more like his father’s German side. As during the later years of the Civil War, Tom remained close to his older brother’s side in active campaigning, especially during offensive operations. Throughout the 1876 Campaign, he continued to offer sage advice and council to his older brother, because of his well-known good judgment. The left cheek of Tom’s handsome face still carried the scars of a Confederate bullet. He was known to the Cheyenne as “Buffalo Calf,” while his older brother was known as “Strong Arm,” which accidently coincided with his middle name.
Besides hunting together (when one tried to outdo each other), the two brothers had often engaged in scouting and reconnaissance far ahead of the main column, revealing the close bond that made them inseparable. Quite simply, the Custer brothers were a team whose well-honed abilities matched their high-octane energy level. They had charged together side by side into the heart of the Cheyenne village along the Washita. For such reasons, Tom had made his will out in summer 1873, and his mother was about to inherit his worldly possessions.
Since the campaign’s beginning, the more decorated Custer brother (two Medals of Honor) had been assigned from his Company C, whose troopers now advanced down the coulee behind Company E. A devoted reader like Libbie, who was extremely fond of him, Tom was a fan of the popular works of Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens). Captain Custer’s old company was now commanded by Second Lieutenant Henry Moore Harrington, in his late twenties. By any measure, he was a fine officer and steady as a rock. Now leading Company C because Tom served on the brother’s staff, Lieutenant Harrington, about to receive his baptismal fire, was especially nervous, believing that he was fated to be shortly captured and tortured to death.
The importance of the noncommissioned officers, especially sergeants, who filled the leadership gap, was to make Harrington’s job easier and his inexperience less of a liability. Like other companies, Company C included quite a few Irish troopers, who still loved the Emerald Isle. Sergeant Jeremiah Finley had migrated from County Tipperary, Ireland, to the United States in 1860. He had been long one of the steady influences of Company C, including this sultry afternoon deep in the Montana Territory. The Custer brothers had complete trust in the dark-haired Harrington, despite the fact that he had yet to see combat as a company commander. Wearing a stylish buckskin coat, or perhaps even one of the popular firemen’s shirts, like other officers, Harrington was part of Custer’s charmed inner circle.
A physician’s son from a wealthy family of Ontario, Adjutant William “Willie” Winer Cooke was a tall and trim Canadian with outsized and luxuriant mutton-chop dark whiskers known as Dundreary sideburns. He likewise rode down Medicine Tail Coulee near Custer as the regimental adjutant, who had been at the heart of Custer’s inner circle since the regiment’s formation. Second only to Tom, Custer depended upon Lieutenant Cooke, age thirty and the well-educated son of two wealthy Upper Canada families, to obey and relay orders of importance. With a superb build and standing more than six feet tall, the popular Cooke was a dependable and highly competent staff officer: another excellent right-hand man for Custer. One of the 7th Cavalry’s best marksman and finest horsemen from having served in a New York Cavalry regiment in the eastern theater (like Custer) during the Civil War, he was known as the “Queen’s Own,” having been born a British citizen in Canada. Adjutant Cooke was also called “Cookie” by his friends, including of course the Custer brothers. Distinguished by lengthy, dark whiskers that hung down to his upper chest that gave him a distinctive look, Cooke was a seasoned veteran whose judgment was widely respected. In the past, Custer had presented him with the grim task of ending his wife’s life with his legendary marksmanship, if she was ever about to be captured by Indians. He was appointed regimental adjutant in December 1866, when the 7th Cavalry was first organized. During the brother’s war, Cooke had won promotion for valor while serving in the 1864 campaign, when Grant’s Army of the Potomac was focused on capturing Petersburg, Virginia, just south of Richmond. The Custer brothers and the well-spoken (near-perfect English) adjutant were close. However, despite his social skills and charm, this magnificent Canadian was less capable with regard to some manipulative American women, whose well-honed wiles made him more vulnerable than on a battlefield, where he excelled.
Blowing his bugle as part of Custer’s own unique brand of psychological warfare to unnerve opponents in the valley below and mounted on a gray horse like all of the regiment’s trumpeters, blue-eyed and fair-haired Chief Trumpeter Henry Voss also now served as a member of Custer’s staff. Born in Germany, he had been appointed to this position from a lowly private’s rank on May 8, 1876. Voss was every inch of a fighter, thanks partly to a hot temper. He had even assaulted one of the regiment’s saddlers (a sergeant no less).
Also with Custer’s staff in the advance down Medicine Tail Coulee was Trumpeter Henry C. Dose. He had been born in Holstein, Germany, in 1848, when liberal revolution was in the air. At only age twenty-five, he had enlisted in Company G on February 1, 1875. Dose was the father to two children, Charles and Hattie, who were being raised by his regimental laundress-wife, Elizabeth Fettis. A Company G member, Dose had been assigned to the staff as Custer’s trumpeter orderly.
Trumpeter Thomas Francis McElroy, born in 1844 in Neigh, Ireland, and who migrated to America in 1863, also now blew his bugle as ordered by Custer to create panic in the Cheyenne village. A Civil War veteran with blue eyes and a light complexion who still spoke with an Emerald Isle brogue, the Irishman was in the forefront in the advancing ranks that moved relentlessly onward down the broad coulee. Meanwhile, Color Sergeant Robert H. Hughes, born in Ireland in 1840, was also in the forefront close to Custer during the advance, when the afternoon heat and humidity were stifling. Hughes sweated under the blazing summer sun like everyone else now pushing down Medicine Tail Coulee, which now seemed as hot as an oven. Especially confident because he knew that Custer was still proud of never losing a battle flag, going all the way back to the Civil War, the brave Irishman now “carried Custer’s battle flag” of his headquarters with a firm grip. This colorful banner was half red (on top) and half blue (on bottom), with the design of the two white crossed sabers of the traditional cavalry insignia.
Leading the way down the coulee before the headquarters staff and bouncing up and down not far from Custer’s side, this swallow-tailed guidon was another most distinctive banner above the mounted column. This unique flag had served as Custer’s personal standard from the Civil War years. As a general officer (brevet rank earned during the Civil War), Lieutenant Colonel Custer possessed the official right by regulations to fly his own personal flag, distinguished by two white stars of a major general’s rank, at the column’s head. Taller than the average troops that served him well as the flag-bearer, especially when mounted, Color Sergeant Hughes was a Dubliner with brown hair and blue eyes. He had enlisted in the 7th Cavalry during fall 1873. Hughes was a father of three and husband to wife Annie, who prayed in vain for his safe return. Some troopers had seen an ill omen when this “headquarters’ flag” had been blown down twice within minutes at the site of an empty Sun Dance lodge on the Rosebud, just after Custer’s command separated from Terry on June 22.
Reliable and efficient, Sergeant Major William H. Sharrow was one of four noncommissioned officers who now served on Custer’s staff. Toughened early in life, he had been born at sea, having this only unique distinction in the 7th Cavalry. Born in 1843, Sharrow had grown up in York, northeast England, and still spoke with traces of his English accent. Sharrow had been detailed from Company F to serve as the regimental color bearer: a position of honor and respect.
Of German descent and noted for a Teutonic meticulousness, Sergeant John Vickory (his actual name was John H. Groesbeck who had been born in Toronto, Canada, in July 1847) was not carrying the regimental colors. This prized flag had been stored away back with the pack train that was now bringing up the rear behind Benteen’s three companies (D, H, and K). Ironically, for the most famous battle fought in the 7th Cavalry’s history, the regimental colors, with the design of a large American eagle in flight position in the flag’s center, were not unfurled.
With a dark complication, brown hair, and blue eyes, this battle–hardened sergeant rode tall in the saddle at five feet, ten inches, while moving down the coulee. Like Custer’s other most trustworthy men in the advance’s forefront, Sergeant Vickory was also a Civil War veteran. Vickory’s family had moved from Upper Canada to New York during the antebellum period. During fall 1862, Vickory had first served in a New York artillery regiment. He deserted his regiment, and then changed his name to John Vickory. This identity change allowed him to re-enlist in a Massachusetts cavalry regiment in May 1864 to collect the lucrative enlistment bounty. Instead of the silk regimental colors, Vickory now carried the cherished yellow battle flag that Custer had fought under, while commanding his cavalry division during the Civil War.
Faithful orderlies were also part of Custer’s headquarters staff, including two other Custer boys who were both civilians: the naïve and religious-minded Boston “Bos” Custer, also born in New Rumley, like his two brothers, and nephew Harry “Autie” Armstrong Reed, who had been born in Monroe, Michigan. “Bos” had forsaken his duties to the rear to join the column just in time for its descent down Medicine Tail Coulee. The stepdaughter of Custer’s father, Emmanuel, Lydia Ann Kirkpatrick, had married David Reed. Only age eighteen and officially assigned to quartermaster duties, “Autie” should have stayed safely on the Far West as Custer desired, because of his youth and inexperience. However, Reed, Custer’s oldest sister’s son, had forced his soft-hearted uncle, who admired his spunk, to relent. Like “Autie,” Custer thought very highly of his youngest brother “Bos.” In fact, Custer had instructed the Far West’s captain, Grant Marsh, to keep the youngest Custer aboard, but the young man would have none of it. Custer had written glowingly to his wife, “I am proud of the way he is beginning life” by connecting himself to the regiment in a civilian capacity in 1871. As mentioned, an honor guard of crack troopers continued to ride down the coulee near the Custer brothers, a true fighting clan, to protect the regimental commander and his staff.42
Assistant Surgeon George Edwin Lord, the aspiring adopted son of a Congregational minister, was another respected member of Custer’s headquarters staff. Born in Boston in mid-February 1846, he had graduated from Bowdoin College (BA in 1866), Brunswick, Maine. He then graduated from the Chicago Medical School (today’s Northwestern University) in March 1871. Not long after graduation, he had promptly enlisted as assistant surgeon in the 7th Cavalry in late April 1871, casting his fate with Custer as now in advancing ever closer to the Cheyenne village.
However, for facing his greatest challenge, Lord was now in physically poor shape. In fact, he should have been left behind at Fort Abraham Lincoln as Custer, who always pushed his men hard in active campaigning, fully realized. On June 23, Dr. Lord had suffered from a serious “indisposition” (the so-called “trail colic”) that had plagued him in the past. Custer, consequently, had kindly presented the assistant surgeon with the sensible option to remain behind. However, knowing that casualties were inevitable and with duty calling, Lord was determined to go not only with the command but also in the advance with Custer’s personal headquarters staff in the attack on the Cheyenne village: still another display of moral courage in the 7th Cavalry’s ranks on a day when it was abundant.43
Also near the column’s head as part of the headquarters staff was the most unorthodox member of Custer’s staff: newspaperman Mark Kellogg. Hailing from a leading La Crosse, Wisconsin, pioneer family, he was now writing for the Bismarck Tribune. Kellogg was an experienced newsman with literary talent and soaring ambitions. He seemed almost cursed by a long-lasting streak of bad luck, because plans never seemed to go quite right for him, despite his best efforts. The ever-optimistic Kellogg now hoped to break his hard luck once and for all at the Little Bighorn. Also a correspondent for America’s premier newspaper, the New York Herald, he now hoped to get the “biggest scoop of the century.” Hitting a home run with an unprecedented journalistic scoop, he now envisioned being the first to broadcast the exciting story of Custer’s latest victory: a proper analogy because Kellogg was also a passionate baseball player at Fort Abraham Lincoln like other 7th Cavalry members.
The forty-three-year-old Kellogg, a father of two daughters and married since May 1861 to wife Mattie (or Martha), sensed that he was about to write the biggest story of his life. Kellogg had repeatedly missed his big breaks in life, business ventures, jobs, and politics: a fateful situation that explained why the hard-luck newspaperman now rode down the coulee and toward a grim fate: “I go with Custer and will be at the death.” So many unexpected twists and turns in Kellogg’s life had forced him to scratch for everything to make a living, while hoping that his hard luck would turn at the Little Bighorn. If Kellogg expected some of Custer’s Luck to rub off on him, then he was badly mistaken.
With an eye for promotion, Custer had been the first to make the necessary arrangements to secure this Bismarck Tribune reporter to tell the story about his latest military success in the last great battle of the Indian Wars as he closed a chapter in America’s saga. While riding down the coulee, Kellogg might have wondered about the strange destiny had brought him in a tragic sojourn of no return. What better story was there than the saga of America’s former “boy hero” leading a successful charge to reap another victory as during the Civil War?44
Ironically, after moving to Bismarck, the territorial capital in the Dakota Territory, Kellogg had joked in a boasting letter that seemed to tempt fate, if not the ever-capricious Gods of War: “I have cruised in all directions excepting west; and as my acquaintance with the Sioux who occupy the country in that direction [because] I have no particular wish to seek game in the happy hunting grounds”45
Near the campaign’s opening, a confident Kellogg also emphasized in writing how the greatest challenge to the 7th Cavalry now came from “Sitting Bull’s band of mountain Unkapapas [sic], numbering about 1,500 warriors, well-armed, who are a mischievous, devilish set [and now] [t]he red devils will hunt their holes,” before the powerful expeditionary force.46 However, from his earlier scout to the Tongue River, Reno had estimated 800 warriors (the figure that Boston Custer quoted to his mother in his June 21 letter), but that number was revised upward to 1,500 warriors just to be on the safe side. As Custer and his troops were about to discover to their shock, the 1,500 figure was far too low.47 These overall numbers of warriors had changed quickly, and faster than anyone realized, especially in part because of the steady flow from the reservations. Indian agents, who secured funds and resources based on high numbers under their control, failed to report the volume of this flow to military authorities out of self-interest. Nearly 1,000 warriors had been concentrated around Sitting Bull and other revered leaders by early June, but thousands of Indians had poured in an exodus from the reservations to swell warrior numbers in the thousands since that time. In this sense, the giant encampment along the Little Bighorn had reached unprecedented proportions in stealthy fashion. A host of intelligence failures, far more than Custer’s tactical decisions, paved the way to disaster.48
Kellogg became more realistic as the campaign lengthened and became more demanding on men and horses. In mid-June, after Custer’s men had recently found a lone grave of an unlucky Company L, 7th Cavalry, sergeant who had been killed in summer 1873, a sober Kellogg suddenly became more reflective and philosophical, understanding how his life was in the hands of God and fate:
This brave fellow died here surrounded only by his brave comrades, hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles [if from Europe] from mother or sister, or the home of his childhood. Life is beset with hidden footfalls. When we least expect it death approaches… Shall we leave beneath the sod of the almost limitless prairies the forms of any of those now with us, who are so full of life and hope?49
Clearly, in reflecting upon fate, Kellogg was also prophetic about his own fast-approaching demise along the Little Bighorn.
Kellogg’s growing apprehension was an exception to the rule. The men who Custer now had around him on his headquarters staff and part of his inner circle were optimistic about winning a success, because their leader had won so many past battles. They now reflected their commander’s optimism. In a close-knit group of mostly experienced officers advancing at the column’s head, these trusty staff members of Custer’s headquarters continued to lead the way down the coulee that they were convinced was not a natural avenue of no return.50 All in all, the regiment’s headquarters staff was an impressive collection of talented men. One Company C private concluded, “It would be difficult to find a finer set of officers in the service of any country.”51
All the while, Yates’s battalion of well-equipped troopers followed close behind the headquarters staff, with Company E leading the way down Medicine Tail Coulee. Then came the troopers of Company C (Tom Custer’s old company), which was followed by Company F. In advancing ever closer to the seemingly all-but-abandoned Cheyenne village and the obscure ford that had suddenly become strategic in this remote corner of the Montana Territory, tension among the troopers steadily increased. Despite Reno’s repulse, victory now seemed inevitable for Custer’s contingent pouring with increased momentum down the coulee, because it gradually widened and was no longer less ravine-like. Perhaps some troopers already envisioned the ceremony at Fort Abraham Lincoln when the glorious name of “Little Bighorn” would be placed on the beautiful regimental banner, just as “Gettysburg” had once decorated the regimental flags of Custer’s Michigan troopers.
Serving as Yates’s orderly after having been assigned from Company F, Private Edward Henry Pickard was also in the forefront of the relentless advance under the searing sun. Born in Boston and having dreamed of becoming a soldier since he was a small boy in Boston (instead of going to sea, like so many young New Englanders consumed with wanderlust), the twenty-two-year-old Pickard was also optimistic about future success. He had been told by “old timers” of the Washita fight “that about all there was to it was to surprise an Indian village, charge through it, shooting the Indians as they ran, and then divide the tanned buffalo robes and beaded moccasins [spoils of war], before burning the lodges and destroying supplies….”52
Clearly, a great surprise and a host of the ugliest of realities now awaited the more than 200 troopers of Custer’s two battalions: a fact entirely unimaginable to them at this time. Nevertheless, the dust-covered cavalrymen continued to advance closer to the ford with confidence and with unity of purpose, while their colorful flags flew under the Montana sun that never seemed so hot. Although “few of his troopers or officers could claim any Indian-fighting experience, Custer still expected them to acquit themselves proudly when the time came,” which was now coming very soon along the Little Bighorn.53
Most of all, when about to enter still another battle, Custer was delighted to have so many family members by his side, especially brother Tom. Custer had been proven prophetic in his November 1864 estimation in a letter that “Tom, with a little more experience will make a valuable and most efficient aide.”54 No 7th Cavalry officer was more faithful or trustworthy than Tom, who was indeed his brother’s keeper on June 25—continuing a guardian role from their Civil War days. Back in March 1866, a triumphant Custer had been ecstatic when his younger brother had gained an officer’s commission in the postwar army, concluding in his letter to Libbie: “So the ‘Custer’s luck’ has again prevailed.”55 However, that fabled luck was about to change forever at an old buffalo ford called Medicine Tail Coulee, and when least expected.
The Initial Response
Confirming what Custer and Trumpeter Martin had seen from the higher ground, when the comatose village was first targeted with high expectations for success, White Shield revealed the complete vulnerability of the Cheyenne camp and the extent of Custer’s golden tactical opportunity, after he had quickly returned to the northernmost village from fishing in the river. In his own words: “When I reached camp, all the men were gone,” to fight Reno far to the south.56 Fully prepared to sacrifice what she loved most in life for the preservation of her people, White Shield’s proactive mother now assisted the young warrior beyond just words of advice. She played a timely forgotten support role that other women fulfilled in assisting young Great Plains fighters, which has been often overlooked by white historians, who had underemphasized the importance of family dynamics in fueling the warriors’ fighting spirit during the supreme crisis situation on the afternoon of June 25: “my mother was leading my war horse around, down in front of the lodge, waiting for me. I bridled my horse and said to my mother, ‘Where is my war shirt?’ She said that a man [Mad Wolf] had just been here who took it to wear in the fight.”57
White Shield was a battle-hardened veteran (the son of Spotted Wolf) who had helped to defeat Crook’s bluecoats with the large number of his Indian allies at the Rosebud on June 17. Initially unknown to White Shield was the fact that Two Moons and his Cheyenne had ridden south to fight Reno at least a half an hour, and perhaps as long as forty minutes, beforehand. An Oglala warrior who spoke fluent Cheyenne and was visiting the Cheyenne village, White Cow Bull, age twenty-eight, had remained beside his good Cheyenne friends Roan Bear and Bobtail Horse to guard the sacred Buffalo Head at the Medicine Lodge: a sacred responsibility. They had deeply felt the extent of the northern village’s vulnerability down to their bones even before the sighting of Custer’s column. Here, at the sacred “buffalo hat lodge” at which Roan Bear served as the primary guardian, they had shared their thoughts about the crackling gunfire and the progress of the distant battle raging to the south and its implications.
All of a sudden, upon hearing the blasting of Custer’s bugles that he had ordered blown for maximum psychological effect in the hope of causing the greatest possible consternation and fear in the village, Bobtail Horse was shocked by an unnerving sight upon peering east. With the bluecoats advancing across the higher ground to the east opposite Medicine Tail Coulee Ford, he first saw this new threat that had so suddenly emerged like the arrival of a summer thunderstorm: large numbers of confident pony soldiers advancing with flags flying. Jumping to his feet in shock and instinctively knowing what now had to be done, Bobtail Horse shouted, “They are coming this way! Across the ford! We must stop them!”58
In such a true crisis situation, these three experienced warriors knew most of all that the best defense was to take the offensive as they had been taught since children, which was the best way to defend their village and people. Not even the solemn responsibilities of guarding the sacred Buffalo Head and its revered medicine lodge were sufficient to deter an immediate effort to defend the ford. Quite simply, the warrior responsibility of defending the village and the people even superseded the mission of protecting the sacred Buffalo Head. Such a flexible response partly explained the survival of the Cheyenne as a people for centuries, despite so many enemies who had long wanted to exterminate the Cheyenne people like a surrounded band of buffalo.
Shaken, but not unnerved, by the sight of so many bluecoats advancing down the coulee and heading straight toward the ford in overwhelming numbers, these few warriors now at the Cheyenne village busily prepared for their greatest challenge to date. These bluecoat intruders had to be met head-on at the ford, before another Washita disaster became a harsh reality along the Little Bighorn. Therefore, undeterred by the shocking sight of Custer’s seemingly unstoppable advance, they grabbed their weapons. They then attempted to find their horses for the dash east to somehow defend Medicine Tail Coulee Ford before it was too late, despite being so few in number, and against all odds for success.59
White Shield responded to the new threat with alacrity, like White Cow Bull who was about to mount his favorite horse, an iron-gray gelding. From the low ground of the Cheyenne village nestled in the timbered river bottoms, and not far from the sacred Buffalo Medicine Lodge, White Shield continued to be astounded by what he saw on the high ground opposite the ford. Looking east to the open terrain above the wide mouth of Medicine Tail Coulee, the stunned Cheyenne warriors obtained a better view of their opponent during their steady approach. As he explained: “While I was dressing myself and telling my mother which way to go, I looked up and saw soldiers” on their big horses coming down the Medicine Tail Coulee in overwhelming numbers.60 Even Sergeant John Ryan, who possessed the Celtic–Gaelic love for horse racing long after his parents had migrated from County Tipperary, Ireland, lamented how the 7th Cavalry possessed “heavy cavalry horses” that had long made chasing Indians, who rode smaller and faster horses, a futile exercise.61
Moving relentlessly toward this village were seven distinct groups of attackers (both battalions but acting as one in tactically and in overall offensive terms), heading toward the ford with determined resolve and colorful banners waving in the sunshine.62 A stunned White Shield marveled at the sight of the bluecoats’ disciplined order (so un–Indian like), and the advance of many troopers on the backs of such large horses of multiple colors. Appearing more vivid, these colors now shined and glistened off the sweating horses of Custer’s troopers in the intense summer heat. He watched the fast-approaching pony “soldiers in seven groups (companies)” moving relentlessly toward the ford in a confidant manner: “One company could be seen a long way off [since their] horses were pretty white,” in the words of White Shield, who had sighted the grayish horses of Company E, Yates’ Battalion.63
From White Shield’s stated observations and other evidence, Custer had divided both Yates’s and Keogh’s battalions into thirds (the headquarters contingent was the seventh group) for six separate groups of troopers to allow for Custer to make a staggered attack in depth in seven successive waves. Custer’s unconventional deployment in successive waves made good tactical sense because of the descent down the coulee early on was along a narrow front, before the coulee gradually widened into a broad expanse of open terrain. The advancing ranks of the troopers were now fully extended as the coulee widened to a great length of open ground in the flats at the coulee’s mouth.
Partly because he had been initially more exposed on the open, high ground above the coulee’s mouth, Custer’s tactical plan also diffused the front’s length to minimize losses that would have inevitably come with a more concentrated, or traditional, assault formation of a massed column, if and when fired upon just in case of an ambush in the timbered river bottoms that just lay ahead: a distinct tactical possibility that no doubt flashed through Custer’s mind because of the seemingly complete serenity of the Cheyenne village. As verified by a good many Indian participants, what was most significant about Custer’s last advance was the fact that all five companies of Yates’s and Keogh’s battalions advanced as one and descended toward the ford with the intent of charging into the Cheyenne village to redeem the day’s fortunes.64
To the Mouth of Medicine Tail Coulee
The level of absolute shock experienced by the Cheyenne upon first observing the avalanche of bluecoat pony soldiers descending Medicine Tail Coulee revealed the success of Custer’s bold plan of catching his opponent by surprise. Conversely, and as could be expected in approaching a large Indian village, Custer’s men, even veterans, felt greater tension upon advancing ever near to their target. At this point, some troopers, especially the rookies, might have well lost their once lofty confidence.
Perhaps some of Custer’s men now thought about how much had changed (especially after Reno’s repulse) since they first heard the bravado of the ever-confident Tom Custer, when this ambitious expedition rode out of Fort Abraham Lincoln. At that time, he had shouted how a “single company of that [column] can lick the whole Sioux nation.” Now, the troopers, including so many inexperienced men in their first battle, now eyed the sight before them in the wooded river valley below with more nervousness, because even more of the Cheyenne village gradually came into view and a larger number of lodges were revealed. Clearly, this village was much larger than anyone had expected. Anxiety increased and sweat continued to pour down the dust-covered troopers amid the heightened tension that continued to increase along with the day’s intense heat. “Bos” Custer and Harry Armstrong Reed—the two novices of the Custer clan who had deserted their assigned duties and positions to the rear to join Custer, so as not to miss the fun and glory—no doubt now had some second thoughts about what they had thought would be nothing more than a “colorful adventure.”65
From higher ground to the rear a good distance from Custer’s column, after having been left behind as a packer when the last ammunition had been distributed (instead of being a messenger to Benton and Reno, as alleged), civilian scout John “Jack” C. Lockwood knew that Custer was nearing his target because of rising dust and blaring bugles. In his words, “I [now] could see the five companies moving together in line, all abreast with General Custer in the lead.”66
As Custer realized at this point, this tactic of using all of his troops in a flank attack was the only possibility for fully exploiting the tactical situation, especially because no better tactical option remained to reverse the day’s fortunes and win a decisive success. In this regard, Custer’s experience and tactical instincts were right on target, and he sought to exploit the golden opportunity that lay before him.67 After his recent humiliation by President Grant and his corrupt administration of self-serving cronies, Custer continued to prove that he “would not hesitate to take the greatest risks to redeem himself,” in Trooper Taylor’s words.68
Company C, part of Yates’s battalion, and Tom Custer’s company of troopers on sorrels (like Company K, now with Benteen’s battalion) that he had long groomed with personal, if not loving, care, was one of the finest companies that now surged down the coulee. With an average age of twenty-seven, which was two years older than the regimental average, these were generally inexperienced men (including one private with only six month’s service) because the average service experience was only two years. Company C’s troopers (along with Companies E and F of Yates’s battalion) continued to advance toward the ford and the village just beyond it with increasing trepidation. Interestingly, this company contained the highest percentage of immigrants, primarily from Ireland and Germany, with thirty men from foreign lands.69
Riding not far from Englishman Private Jeremiah Shea, born in London, with gray eyes and brown hair, and having enlisted in September 1875, a Russian trooper of Company C continued to advance toward the ford. It was the Russian who now seemed most out of place at the Little Bighorn, instead of serving in a Cossack regiment in his native homeland. A proud Slav from Mother Russia with penetrating blue eyes, Private Ygnatz Stungewitz, a former clerk in his late twenties from New York City’s crime-ridden streets and ethnic ghettos, had enlisted on September 1873.70 Company C also possessed members with ample experience, including Private Ludwick St. John from Columbia, Missouri. He had been caught in the horror of Missouri’s guerrilla war (like Captain Benteen, who served with distinction in a Missouri Union cavalry regiment), after having enlisted in 1861 at age thirteen. St. John was now a tough, seasoned trooper, who had been disciplined for having spoken with disrespect to an officer.71
Meanwhile, Cheyenne warriors continued to notice that the horses of Lieutenant Smith’s Company E in front were whitish in color (gray) and lighter in color than any other of Custer’s five companies. And they could also see that Company C’s troopers, who wore gray slouch hats and advanced behind Smith’s men, were mounted on sorrel-colored mounts of a reddish or copper-red tone: a sight that these lifelong horse-lovers of the Northern Great Plains must have marveled with a sense of admiration.72
To Company C’s rear, meanwhile, Company F (Yates’s old company, and whose members wore black slouch hats) continued to be led ever closer to the ford by Second Lieutenant William Van Wyck Reily. Wth a dashing look, the handsome, dark-haired officer with a square jaw had taken command of the company after Yates recently took charge of the battalion. A bizarre fate now had young Van Wyck, age twenty-two, leading his Company F troopers ever closer to the ford of destiny. The young man’s father was a distinguished graduate of the United States Naval Academy on the Chesapeake in Annapolis, Maryland. However, the father’s fate was as tragic as his son’s along the Little Bighorn. His father, William, Sr., had been lost at sea when his vessel, USS Porpoise (which was formerly of the West Indies Squadron), sank in the China Sea in September 1854, before William, Jr., was a year old. Ironically, like other 7th Cavalry members under the broiling sun, Lieutenant Reily now might have worn a straw hat, quite possibly naval surplus for service in the tropics, recently purchased from the Far West sutler.
However, for a while earlier in life, William’s future had never seemed brighter. He had attended school not only in Dresden, Germany, but also at the Jesuit’s Georgetown University near where he had been born. Clearly, Reily had gained a high-quality education that was superior to the vast majority of Americans. At only age sixteen, William had been then appointed to the Naval Academy in September 1870. He proved deficient in his studies, especially in math and science. This personal setback perhaps developed because of the usual distractions for the young man with his home, friends, and family, perhaps even a love interest, nearby. For such reasons, Reily had finally resigned from one of America’s most prestigious military academies on October 17, 1873.
Then, swept by wanderlust that might have stemmed from a failed relationship with a pretty woman, William had charted another course for himself in life which was far more risky than attending classes. He had then journeyed to the disease-infested jungles of Nicaragua on a surveying expedition. Upon his return and still looking for adventure after his experiences in Central America, he had joined the 10th Cavalry, a Buffalo Soldier regiment, in Washington, DC, on mid-October 1875. His most fateful step had been in transferring to the 7th Cavalry in late January 1876. Clearly, a strange fate had ordained the destiny of this former Naval Academy student, who was now 900 miles from the nearest ocean (Pacific) while riding down Medicine Tail Coulee and toward the ford that Custer now needed to possess to win the day.73 Like others in Custer’s column, Lieutenant Reily should have been left behind at Fort Abraham Lincoln because of illness, but his eagerness to join the expedition got the better of him. He had eagerly galloped away from the fort on the Missouri with his company in the lengthy column on May 17: a fatal miscalculation that he was bound to lose along the Little Bighorn.74
With his five companies deployed to his satisfaction across the open ground of the wide flats at the mouth of Medicine Tail Coulee, Custer was ready to make an overpowering strike. Ordering his last charge at full gallop when well within full sight of the ford (now made strategic by a host of developments beyond his control) and the Cheyenne village that lay straight ahead, Custer shouted, “Charge! They are sleeping in their tepees.” As earlier in descending the coulee to unnerve villagers, Chief Trumpeter Voss and trumpeters Dose and McElroy unleashed the notes of the charge with renewed vigor. Then, with the old buffalo ford and the river’s blue waters in sight, and with the treeless butte later known as Bouyer’s Bluff dominating the skyline up ahead to the left, or south, the troopers broke into “on the run” with cheers. At the head of the blue formations charging across the open flats, colorful flags flew in the bright summer sunshine, especially the swallow-tailed banners that flapped more in a slight breeze than traditional, rectangular flags.75
It now must have seemed to Custer that he was fighting Confederates of old back in Virginia on a warm Old Dominion day, when he had known his opponent far better than this more mysterious and elusive foe, who he only thought he knew intimately. Custer was going confidently into his most risky battle, and unleashing his last charge with all five companies, but without a large percentage of highly qualified 7th Cavalry officers. A good many of the most experienced officers were now absent (a full twenty percent of the regimental officer corps) and far away from the Little Bighorn. However, Custer had no choice but to ignore such unsettling realities that he could not change. As he had glowingly promised Libbie in the last letter that he ever wrote to her: “A success will start us all toward [Fort Abraham] Lincoln” and home.76
With the ancient buffalo ford lying before him and no opposition to be seen anywhere, Custer saw visions of an outstanding success that would send him and his victors on their way home. As he had recently told his scout White Man Runs Him (formerly White Buffalo That Turns Around), born in 1858 and who had enlisted on April 10, 1876: “I am going to teach them a lesson today. I am going to whip them.”77
Custer possessed plenty of good reason to be optimistic, despite Reno’s setback. After all, he was facing Great Plains warriors who were much less formidable, or so he believed, than Lee’s Rebels, when Custer and his cavalry division that compiled an impressed string of military accomplishments seldom achieved in the annals of American military history. Even wife Libbie marveled how, in only a six-month period, Custer and his hard-hitting cavalry division “had taken 111 of the enemy’s guns, sixty-five battle flags, and upward to 10,000 prisoners of war, while they had never lost a flag” in battle.78
Seemingly, while leading his troopers at a fast pace over the wide, open ground, Custer could not possibly fail to charge across Medicine Tail Coulee Ford and straight through the Cheyenne village to reverse the day’s sagging fortunes. He might have even recalled a lesson from ancient history, when Alexander the Great all but ensured his conquest of the Persian Empire by leading a bold cavalry charge across the ford on the Granicus River to win his first great victory. To Custer (and much like Alexander the Great on another hot afternoon, but in 334 BC), destiny had seemingly called him all the way to the Little Bighorn for just such an opportunity now presented to him. Therefore, as so often in the past, he was leading the flank and surprise attack in typically bold fashion, going for broke. Embracing the dictum that fortune favors the bold, he was not remaining on the high ground above the ford, as commonly assumed by modern historians, forsaking the advantage and all the initiative. Historians of the traditional school, including James Donovan in his popular book A Terrible Glory, have continued to maintain that no serious offensive effort was launched by Custer in attempting to cross the ford, almost as if nothing significant could be gained from striking the village’s northern end in a flank attack: the most implausible of possibilities for a commander like Custer and one of the great myths about the battle of the Little Bighorn.79