William Benet Sterling and his best friend Jacob (Jake) Brown grew up together on small farms on the Kansas prairie. The day they rode into the sleepy town of Manhattan the air was electric. The famed Seventh Cavalry and it’s dashing war hero commander, Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer were going to parade along Denison Street in front of Kansas State University.
The two teenagers join the 7th and gallop headlong into battle with Major Reno and A company as they mount a breath-taking charge against the Sioux and Cheyenne village along the river. They live the terror of being forced back into a small grove of cottonwood trees helplessly watching wounded friends being butchered and brutalized. As the fighting builds to an impossible pitch, it becomes clear that the only way out of this killing box is to charge into the enemy and race for better cover. Three companies of cavalry blast out of flimsy cover and into the open valley. Troopers endure a running gun battle through the valley, across the Little Bighorn River, and up a coulee to a flat, but defensible portion of the rolling bluffs. Only one of them will live to tell the story.
William Benet Sterling and his best friend Jacob (Jake) Brown grew up together on small farms on the Kansas prairie. The day they rode into the sleepy town of Manhattan the air was electric. The famed Seventh Cavalry and it’s dashing war hero commander, Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer were going to parade along Denison Street in front of Kansas State University.
The two teenagers join the 7th and gallop headlong into battle with Major Reno and A company as they mount a breath-taking charge against the Sioux and Cheyenne village along the river. They live the terror of being forced back into a small grove of cottonwood trees helplessly watching wounded friends being butchered and brutalized. As the fighting builds to an impossible pitch, it becomes clear that the only way out of this killing box is to charge into the enemy and race for better cover. Three companies of cavalry blast out of flimsy cover and into the open valley. Troopers endure a running gun battle through the valley, across the Little Bighorn River, and up a coulee to a flat, but defensible portion of the rolling bluffs. Only one of them will live to tell the story.
Captain Anson Mills rested easily on his mount. He breathed deeply and basked in the redolence of men on campaign: the slick, oily aroma of shined leather, the organic industrial smell of wool uniforms, and the earthy and oddly comforting attar of horses. These were the things that made life worth living. Men who had never experienced the thrill of life on the trail were simply converting oxygen to the cellular waste product of carbon dioxide until they died. Those men were pathetic.
He felt the heat of the Montana summer sun as it burnt his neck and sucked brackish saline from his pores. Sweat soaked his uniform where it lay against his skin. In areas that offered space to freely form—like the middle of his back and his head above the sweatband of his slouch cavalry hat—rivulets of water formed, rolled passively down his skin, and soaked into wool.
The distant snap and chatter of carbines being discharged in a heated fury would have concerned other men—men who had not been familiar with the possibility of imminent death at the hands of an agitated enemy. But this was not Mills’s first rodeo; he had been to town, and he had seen the elephant—more than once.
Initially, the constant pop of concentrated small arms fire, coming from the bluffs to the north, generated no concern. To Mills and his commander, General George R. Crook, that rifle fire was possibly generated by the attached band of 175 Crow, and 86 Shoshoni warriors hunting buffalo in advance of the army. But soon, the fire grew to a constant din of hate-filled noise. Mills knew all too well the sound of a fight when he heard it. He understood that the nearly constant popping of cartridges was drowning out the screams of the wounded, and the oaths of the men still left whole enough to fight each other to a violent and bloody end.
He had heard that cacophony of destruction many times before at places with names like Shiloh, Murfreesboro, Chickamauga, Atlanta, and Nashville. Mills knew what was coming, and he sat passively waiting for orders that would send his six units of Third Cavalry headlong into the fray. One would unleash his men to exact directed paroxysmal violence on whatever they were ordered toward.
“Lakota, Lakota!” Two of the Crow scouts who had been on a foraging party exploded over a bluff, riding hard toward the command. Apparently, they had found the evasive enemy.
The troopers had been in the saddle since shortly after reveille at 0300. The column had halted at 0800 to rest the troop in place. Crow and Shoshoni scouts, along with Frank Grouard, had ridden out, hunting food and forage for the rest of the command. Although the troopers were traveling through contested enemy territory, Crook made no attempt to place his men in a defensive position. They had simply stayed in formation while the accompanying Indians disappeared in search of supplies.
Thanks to the warning delivered by the two scouts, Crook had a little time to move his troops into some sort of line of battle. At 0830, the rest of the hotly engaged scout contingent could be seen being pushed back over the distant hills and into Crook’s static command.
Mills’ troopers sat easy in their saddles, still in columns of two. However, they were now alert and ready to move out. Major Chambers and his five companies of mule-mounted infantry dismounted to form a skirmish line, as did Captain Noyes and his three companies of Second Cavalry.
This was one of the hardest things for Mills to get used to in his early days as a freshly minted second lieutenant in the army. When action began, the normal human reaction would be to do something—hell, anything; but that went against all tenets of strict army discipline. If the action was instant or immediate, soldiers would dive for cover and return fire. But in a planned engagement, a soldier’s duty was to wait in place until the orders were given to advance. Things could be going to hell just a few hundred yards away; but until orders were given to move, advance or retreat, the soldier’s job was to wait.
Mills heard a rider approaching swiftly from his right flank. Even if he wasn’t expecting a runner coming with orders, Mills would have recognized the incessant clanging of equipment, the slapping of the ring carbine against a McClellan saddle, and the jingle of the cavalry saber. Mills laughed inwardly, “It’s a damn good thing the cavalry relies on lightning-fast tactics,” he thought, “because we sure as hell aren’t ever going to sneak up on anybody.”
The private reined his mount to a hasty stop facing Mills, and snapped up a smart salute.
“Compliments from General Crook, sir,” the young man said, holding his salute with one hand while he steadied his fired-up pony with the other. The private was clearly on fire as well. Both he and his mount were out of breath, and both were hungry for action.
Mills returned the salute without taking his eyes off the field in front of him. “Relax, Private,” Mills said finally eyeing up the runner. “There’s plenty of glory to go around today.”
“Orders from General Crook, sir,” the runner said, trying desperately to compose his bravado.
“Well?” Mills said.
“Sir?” the runner said wheeling his horse around, then checking it back into position facing the captain.
“Well . . . isn’t it a lovely morning to be alive?” Mills said sarcastically.
“Sir?”
“What are the orders, Private?” Mills said impatiently.
“Oh . . . yes sir . . . the general advises you to form your troop in line, and attack the enemy positions there.” The runner pointed to a large group of Lakota that was effectively pinning down the dismounted infantry.
“Thank you, Private,” Mills said saluting the runner. “Dismissed.” The runner returned the salute and wheeled his mount around. Then, with a yell, he spurred the horse just a little too energetically, causing it to jump straight into the air, throwing the surprised runner out of the saddle and onto the horse’s rump.
Mills continued to watch the enemy to his front as they poured fire into the troopers. He raised his right hand above his head and made a circling motion, calling his company commanders to rally for an officer’s call. Once all the officers under his command were present, Mills laid out the plan.
“Gentlemen,” Mills said, “we are to attack the enemy position directly to the front of this skirmish line.” He indicated the dismounted cavalry and infantry directly ahead of them. “The enemy commands the heights to the right flank,” he continued, “so haste is the best option. At the call, form the troop into a skirmish line and we’ll begin an orderly charge to that position.” He indicated the small rise downfield currently held by the Lakota. “Orderly advance followed by a call to charge. Weapons are pistols.” He eyed his men carefully. “Once on that rise, we halt and regroup. Any questions?” Mills noticed broad grins all around. If the cavalry was the romantic arm of the service, the cavalry charge was its crown jewel. Mills grinned back. “Ready your troops,” he said.
Mills turned to face the enemy, extended his right arm in front of him palm down, and made a sweeping gesture with his arm from left to right. At the same time, Private Elmer Snow brought his gleaming bugle up smartly and began to blow, loud and clear, the call ordering the company to move forward at a trot. Snow’s mount was “a hard case” (cavalry jargon for slightly unruly), and as the private began to sound the call, the mount reared up on its hind legs. Snow stayed with him and continued to sound the call. He would have loved nothing more than to shoot that horse in the back of the head—then and there. He’d been wrestling with this mount ever since the march from the fort began. It was starting to get a little old, and now he was going to be forced to trust this implacable animal with his life. But the sight of the company bugler making the call to arms on a standing horse was one of the most thrilling and emotionally charged things the rest of the troop had ever seen.
“Control that mount,” Mills ordered.
“Yes sir,” Snow said, “I sure am trying, sir.”
The ground directly in front of the formation was uneven and rocky. Mills held up his right arm and gave the command to move out. The company began to move forward as one joined beast. Company flags and guidons waved lazily in the breeze beneath a clear blue sky. Well-tanned troopers with grim faces peered from under slouched hats as they watched the enemy ahead, trying to pick out their individual targets for the ensuing charge. Muscles were tense, instinct shrieked to either race toward the enemy and fight, or turn and run. But excellent training forced them to keep a loose rein on their mounts as they stayed in position, pistols out but held pointed up in a safety position.
The unremitting sound of small arms fire snapped in the morning air. Ahead, on the rocky heights, the Lakota, dressed and painted for battle, poured fire down toward the troopers. Warriors—some in horned buffalo headdresses, others wearing feathers in their hair, stern rugged faces painted for battle, all naked except for loincloth and moccasins—screamed and taunted the advancing troopers.
Once clear of the treacherous rocks and boulders, Mills gave the command, “Front in line, and pick up the gait!” At the same time, he pumped his right fist in the air for anyone who may not have heard the voice command. Instantly, the troopers stepped up to a controlled lope. They moved forward as one giant, baleful mass of death. Troopers were posting in perfect time, giving the illusion of a blue wheat field gently bobbing in the breeze, moving up and down as though they were connected by an invisible wire. The horses snorted and shook their heads in agitated anticipation of being released to rush headlong into the enemy. These were all seasoned cavalry mounts and they knew what was about to happen.
Only sixty yards from the enemy, the air was electric. Every fiber of every man screamed to race into the fray. Every trooper ached to give their mounts their heads and dash forward. Mills raised his right arm. Bullets and arrows whistled through the troop, some finding their marks in men, some in horses. Troopers shortened their reins and leaned forward in the stirrups; the horses tensed and strained against abhorrent control.
“Company!” Mills yelled, “CHARGE!” He dropped his arm at the same time. The bugler was already sounding the call to charge. Troopers shoved their left hands all the way forward and dug spurs into tough horse flesh. All through the company, rough, dust-choked voices screamed in violent demand, “YAHHH, YAHHH!” There was nothing but slack in those reins now, equine necks stretched out, muscles tight, and veins bulging. The wave of blue-clad death barreled headlong across the rolling terrain, dipping and rising together, surging in a magnificent display of unleashed power. Horses with nostrils flared and eyes wide, strained against bits as they tore the earth apart with feverish hooves. Troopers gritted teeth against the wind and unbridled fury. Men, all leaning far forward over horses’ necks, were demanding every ounce of speed that could be given. Eyes, squinted against the dust and wind, were searching out the enemy that would be crushed beneath the unrelenting madness of pounding hooves. Hat brims plastered back against crowns gave light to a maniacal portrait of savage intent. Dust raged around the thundering mass of flesh that was racing forward at once, unstoppable and unforgiving.
Ever closer now, Troopers leveled their Colt Single Action Army revolvers and picked out individual targets. There was no need for a command to fire. The Colts started barking oaths of vengeance one after another. Tongues of fire licked out of dead black barrels, as lead slammed through the air, seeking the enemy. Troopers screamed terrifying war cries, urging on enraged horses, and fired into the mass of men at their front. Lakota, who had not already mounted, jumped to their horses, wheeled, and ran for the safety of rocks behind them.
The sea of confusion, adrenaline, and screams of anger and pain, proved to be too much for Private Snow’s hypersensitive mount. Snow could feel the horse strain into the reins, taking no heed of the bit that was digging into its mouth. Snow realized this horse was dangerously close to bolting uncontrollably, straight ahead, and directly into the enemy. He slammed both cavalry boots as deeply into the stirrups as the tapaderos would allow, leaned back in the McLellan saddle, and hauled back on the reins with everything he had. The horse was too far gone and was oblivious to the commands of the rider.
It was time for the last-ditch effort that any rider hated; Snow hauled up on the left rein as hard as he could and released his grip on the right one. If nothing else, maybe he could pull the speeding horse over. The calamity of the ensuing crash couldn’t possibly be as bad as what waited for him just a few yards ahead in the teeming mass of angry Lakota. The horse raged on at full speed, directly into the face of a well-armed fixed enemy. Aimed shots zipped past Snow’s head, some so close he could feel the heat of kinetic friction pulsing off the slug as it went by. He released the side pressure and let the horse charge ahead unchecked. If he couldn’t stop the insanity now, the only other thing to do was punch straight through the Indian lines and out the back side. He bent forward at the waist and pushed both arms forward. The reins lay slack on either side of his horse’s neck. His knees dug desperately into flexed and driving muscle just behind the mount’s taught shoulders as they drove hooves hard into the earth at a dizzying speed.
Snow was on the enemy and amazed that he didn’t have a scratch to show for his trials. His thought was punctuated by an instantaneous burning punch in his left arm—an infinitesimal pause—then, the same searing jolt to his right arm. His useless arms were now hanging pendulous on either side, flopping lifelessly up and down with the rhythm of the charging horse. Blood was streaming from under his shirt and dripping down his fingers. Snow knew that he could stay mounted without the use of his hands; so as long as the horse continued its frenzied path, he could escape his tormentors. Even as that last crystalline thought raced across his hazy consciousness, he could feel the mass-versus-motion equation pushing him gently forward in the saddle. Now that his horse was in the ostensible safety of a herd, it was quickly beginning to slow down. Snow couldn’t believe it. He was riding around in a controlled canter—in the middle of more hostile Indians than he had ever seen in his life—like he was on a parade ground. The Indians were also dazed by the incredulity of the events playing out in their center. But the indecision was fleeting. Snow started turning the now-amenable cavalry horse with his legs, forcing it into a sweeping turn to the right. The Indians were slowly coming out of their stupor as well. Some were taking careful aim at Snow, while others were chasing him. A few of them, not wanting to hit their own warriors with stray bullets, began throwing rocks at him.
Snow was turned around now and pointed back toward friendly lines. He could barely see his fellow troopers for the sea of angry painted faces he would have to plow through one more time. He spurred the animal as hard as he could, but the horse just kept up the lazy lope. Indians grabbed for the trooper but were unable to find purchase. Snow broke through their lines while lying across the horse’s neck, keeping it straight with his knees. No matter how hard he kicked, it refused to pick up the gait to a gallop. Bullets were shrieking past him again, just as close as before, and just as hot. He had given up hope of ever making it back to safety. The singular thought that played over and over through his mind was “what a stupid way to die.” He was certain the bullet meant to end his young life was, at that very moment, speeding his way, spinning through the air, building up a shock wave behind it, thinly whistling until it slammed into his back. He only hoped it would be quick and painless.
And then, he was among the other troopers. The horse slowed to a walk and then to a complete stop. It was almost as if that had been its plan all along. Snow slid out of the saddle as if he had been instantly relieved of all bone structure. There was a muffled thud and grunt when he hit the ground. He lay there in the thick buffalo grass staring up at the pristine blue sky. Directly above him, a vulture started a silky, smooth turn as it felt for another thermal on which to extend his easy glide.
“Not today,” Snow mumbled to himself, “not today, you ugly ole bastard.”
The fight was still going on hot and heavy. Once in the rocks at the foot of the bluff, Mills ordered his troop to dismount and fight on foot. The large rocks that the troop came to first, made perfect cover for the horses. Every fourth man took the reins of three other mounts and led the horses off to the relative safety of the large boulders. This tactic would cut Mills’s effective fighting force by a quarter, but in the cavalry, you had only two options: have fewer men able to take well-aimed shots from behind cover; or, each trooper would fight while holding a horse. Trying to shoot while holding a horse is testy on a good day; holding a horse that had just completed a cavalry charge—while all of the horrible sounds of battle are still screaming into the animal’s ears—makes it nearly impossible to aim a weapon. Additionally, even the best mounts tend to get a little jumpy when they’re wounded. Leaving three men, out of every four, to fight unimpeded wins almost every time.
By the time the troopers had dismounted and taken up fighting positions in the lower, smaller rocks at the top of the bluff, the Indians had regrouped and begun to attack the troopers. American Indians were some of the best cavalry anywhere in the world, and the men charging Mills’s troopers left little or nothing as a target. The smaller ponies of the Lakota were faster and hardier than the cavalry mounts of the U.S. Army. Wild-eyed Lakota warriors were rushing Mills’s lines at full speed as they hung off the sides of wildly running ponies. This would be a daring feat under ideal conditions, let alone while under the deadly counterfire of troops behind excellent cover. The riders not only used their mounts for cover, but they also returned fire with rifle and bows from underneath the horses’ necks.
Mills looked over his defensive position and noticed that something was missing.
“Sergeant,” he called to his aide, “where the hell is Captain Andrews?”
“Colonel Royall cut him off just as we started to move, sir,” the sergeant said. “I saw Captain Andrews take his troop off with the colonel. I thought you knew, sir.”
“Damnit, Royall,” Mills said under his breath.
The dismounted troopers were giving back better than they were getting, but it was clear the enemy had no intention of running away. A large part of the plan going into this mission centered on how to catch the Indians when they ran. At this rate, the battle could go on all day, and Mills wasn’t the type to just sit and wait to see how things turned out.
“Sergeant,” Mills said to the company first sergeant, “rally the troops for another charge.”
“Private,” he said to the soldier who had retrieved Snow’s bugle, “recall!”
Mills quickly gathered his troop commanders and laid out a plan to charge the next bluff and then hold that position.
On hearing the bugle call, a third of the men ceased firing and ran to their mounts. This was followed by the next third, and finally, by the remaining troops. Once remounted and formed, Mills gave the orders to move. This time, there was no walking through rocky terrain, and there was no wondering how anyone in the command would react. The men all had their spirits up and were ready to take the fight directly to the enemy.
“Forward at a trot,” Mills commanded.
The Indians on the high ground saw what the cavalry was doing and formed a defensive line of their own. This was a new element in Indian warfare. The troopers on the field were unfazed.
“CHARGE!” Mills ordered.
Order, once again, was transformed into a boiling ocean of fury and directed force. Each man and horse flung themselves forward like a well-armed boulder rolling down a steep grade. Bellicose energy built to a lethal apogee, then held; violent, headlong, pent-up anticipation ready to explode into the face of the enemy. There was neither hesitation nor slowing for the occasional wounded horse or rider. The mass simply closed ranks and sped relentlessly forward. The air filled with the thunder of pounding hooves, screaming men, and the clear trumpet notes urging the group forward. The earth shook and was transformed into a roiling mass of dirt and bits of grass flung into the air.
Once the troopers had reached the objective, they again dismounted to fight on foot and took cover in the rocks on top of the rise. A private came riding hard behind Mills and pulled his horse to an abrupt stop, dismounting well before the animal was fully stopped, and snapped a smart salute to Mills.
“Compliments of General Crook, sir,” the private said, holding the salute until it had been returned by the officer. Mills hated the decorum of the military. Why the hell couldn’t a runner simply tell him what the message was without all this hoopla?
Mills returned the salute. “Speak, Private,” he said.
“Sir,” the private began, “the general wants you to cease advancing and hold this position. The rest of the troop is advancing on your rear and will take up positions defending your flanks.”
“Anything else?” Mills asked.
“No sir.”
“Very well, Private. Dismissed.”
It wasn’t long before Mills saw troops advancing into the cover of rocks with his troopers. Major Chambers had just finished placing his two companies of Fourth Infantry and three companies of Ninth Infantry in cover to return fire on the sporadic attacks from the Sioux. They were soon joined by Captain Noyes. Noyes mirrored those maneuvers on the left flank with his three troops of dismounted cavalry.
“Gentlemen,” Mills said, “our orders are to hold here for now. General Crook should be arriving shortly.”
“Yes sir,” both officers said.
General Crook rode up with his aides and quickly dismounted. Salutes were exchanged all around.
“Captain,” Crook said, addressing Mills, “outstanding job handling those savages. Textbook charge tactics by God—textbook, sir! Well done.”
“Thank you, General,” Mills replied, as a bullet ricocheted off a nearby rock. No one flinched.
“Gentlemen,” the general went on, “it is my belief the only reason these Indians would be putting up this kind of fight is because they are protecting their women and children in a village to their rear.”
The three officers exchanged sidelong glances. This seemed to be far too fluid an action to have a definite defensive purpose.
“Runner!” General Crook bellowed.
“Yes sir,” a mounted trooper near the group snapped a salute.
“Get to Captain Van Vliet and have him fall back to this position. Also, find out where the hell Colonel Royall ran off to, and tell him to get his ass back here.”
“Yes sir,” the trooper said as he wheeled his horse and left in a cloud of dirt and grass.
“Captain Mills,” Crook continued, “you and Captain Noyes take your commands back east to the Rosebud then follow it to the northwest and find that damned village. If we attack it from the rear, we can draw some of the heat off our front and crush these people here and now. Take Grouard with you.”
Frank Grouard was born in the Society Islands to a missionary father and Polynesian mother. Once the mission work had been seen to fruition, the family moved to Utah. At the age of fifteen, Frank’s wanderlust got the better of him, and he ran away from home to become an express rider. It was in that capacity, in the winter of 1869 near the confluence of the Milk and Missouri Rivers, that he was captured by a Crow hunting party. They left him in the wilderness with nothing but the clothes on his back, assuming he would eventually succumb to the elements. However, he was recaptured by a band of Lakota and taken to the Hunkpapa chief, Sitting Bull. Possibly, due to the exotic looks of a native Samoan, Grouard was eventually adopted by Sitting Bull as his brother.
Apparently, Grouard had simply been biding his time with the Indians—for seven years. Grouard escaped at the end of a series of long and eventful adventures and eventually attached himself to the U.S. Cavalry as the chief of scouts. He became so valuable to the army and its operations against the Native American tribes that General Crook said he would rather lose a third of his command than lose Frank Grouard.
Grouard, Mills, and a mass of four hundred troopers headed off to the east toward the Rosebud River. Furious gunfire could still be heard coming from the southwest, in the general direction where Crook’s command had set up headquarters. None of them knew it at the time, but Colonel Royall and his men were in the fight of their lives.
At the head of the group rode Mills, Noyes, and Grouard.
“What do you think we’re going to find there, Frank?” Mills asked Grouard.
“Nothin’,” Grouard said thoughtfully, then he paused and added, “or everythin’.”
“I think we have an orator in our midst, Henry,” Mills said to Noyes, smiling.
Grouard threw his leg over the pommel of his saddle to address Mills more comfortably as they rode.
“Captain,” he said, “I got a peck o’ history with those folks back there. They’s all whooped up and fightin’. Now, I know that the general is 'cipherin’ that them Injuns is protectin’ family, but I never seen these people fight like this.” He spit tobacco juice into the dirt. “No sir, this is sumthin’ else. I think there’s nothin’ up this river but a whole peck o’ trouble, and we just booted a hornets’ nest into the air.” He poked a finger at Mills for emphasis, “Now, we’re tryin’ to catch it.” He moved his leg back over the horse and slid his foot into the stirrup. “Course,” he continued, “that’s just me talkin’.”
“Well,” Noyes began, “it’s just me as well, boys. Those Indians are fighting like well-trained wildcats. No sir, this is something altogether different we jumped into.”
The column of sweat-stained troopers and weary cavalry mounts continued to search along the winding banks of the Rosebud River for the Indian village that didn’t exist. To the right of the column, the placid river rambled by, blissfully unaware of the pain men were savagely inflicting on one another just a few hundred yards away. Birds sang in the rushes on the banks, and a gentle breeze wafted through the grass, carrying its sweet earthy smell into the nostrils of the weary cavalry troops. To the left, the sound of small arms fire continued to follow a rhythm as though it was being conducted by the Hand of God. The hectic, discordant noise of battle repeatedly rose to a furious crescendo, and then tapered off, only to rise again. The distorted rhythm of battle was making the troopers edgy.
Weary eyes, bloodshot from a constant irritation of dust and the ever-present flow of sweat, strained to focus from beneath the brims of slouch hats. Haggard, unshaven faces, with skin the shade of oiled leather, were taut with grim determination. Every inch of landscape was incessantly scrutinized for signs of the elusive enemy.
Suddenly, they heard the rhythmic beat of a rider driving his horse hard and fast from the rear of the column. As he drew closer, Mills recognized him as one of Crook’s personal runners. The private reined his horse up sharply next to Mills and saluted.
“Compliments of General Crook, sir.” The young man said, holding his salute until it was returned.
“What is it, son?” Mills asked patiently.
“Colonel Royall is hotly engaged, sir, and attempting to withdraw under heavy fire, sir.” The young private said, trying to catch his breath. “General Crook wants you to turn west and attack the enemy from the rear to protect Colonel Royall’s retreat.”
Mills saluted the private, “Very good, son,” he said.
“Anything for the general, sir?” the runner asked.
“I reckon not, Private. He’ll see us engage before you ever get back there.”
The young man sat for a while holding his salute even after Mills had dropped his.
“Yes?” Mills said.
“Sir . . . well . . .”
“Spit it out, man!” Mills demanded.
“Well, sir…the thing is, I been chargin’ up and down these here bluffs all day like a wild man just deliverin’ messages. I saw your first charge, sir. It was a hell of a thing. Well . . . permission to join the troop here, sir. I’d sure as heck hate to miss this show.”
“Fall in, Private,” Mills said.
“Captain,” Mills continued, turning to Noyes, “move the column to that bluff and form them into line for a charge.”
“Yes sir!” Noyes said with unbridled enthusiasm.
The fighting, in and around Royall’s position on the other side of Kollmar Creek, was becoming desperate. Fire was coming from three sides and the troop was in danger of being cut off from Crook’s main body of command. When Captain Guy Henry was shot through the face, the troops began to panic. Royall knew an incident like this could instantly demoralize his troops and turn the tide of the battle decidedly against him.
Just then, two groups of Crow and Shoshoni scouts rode onto the ridge to Royall’s left and began to attack the advancing Sioux. The scouts were followed closely by infantry Companies G and H. The infantry took defensive position on the high ground above the Kollmar ravine and rained deadly long-range rifle fire into the charging Sioux.
As the two companies of infantry, along with the scouts, poured fire into the enemy, Mills’s cavalry descended from the bluffs to the north engaging the rear element. Proving to be too much firepower for them to deal with, the Sioux broke off the attack, turned, and retreated back to the northwest.
The troops were fired up, charging off after the retreating Indians. In front of them, racing headlong in retreat was the personification of every discomfort, every lost friend, and every minute they spent away from loved ones while on the trail. Horses surged ahead with pure adrenaline ripping through their muscles, with nostrils flared open to ram oxygen into the blood, and eyes opened wide and alert in frenzied splendor. Dusty men in faded blue, rugged jaws set against stinging sand whipping into their determined faces, were bent forward eager to ride down and exterminate a fleeing enemy. Wild rags, tied around necks leathered from the sun, snapped against a wind generated by raw determination. This would end here!
Mills wanted to run with his men in wild, unchecked rage, to charge into the routed enemy at his front and do what he had trained his entire life to do. But he knew the chase was ill-advised. Just as he knew the job at hand was to provide cover for the battered troops withdrawing through the far end of the Kollmar ravine and joining the rest of Crook’s command.
“Bugler!” Mills yelled as he reined in his mount, “Sound recall.”
The private instantly snapped the bugle to his lips and blew the command for troops to cease the charge and return to the command. Noyes rode up next to Mills, removed the wild rag from his neck, and wiped the grime from his face.
“This has been some kind of a day, Anson,” he said to his friend.
“Indeed, it has, Henry,” Mills said as he watched the last remnant of Lakota disappear from view. “It certainly has. If Terry and Gibbon have the same kind of luck, we’ll be home in no time. Yes sir. No time at all.”
David Larson’s One Crowded Hour is a coming-of-age novel unlike any other. It tells about Will and Jake, two young Kansas teens who are swept up into joining the U.S. Cavalry and assigned to the fabled 7th Cavalry of Colonel George Armstrong Custer.
I do not believe in plot spoilers, but I will say that Larson wisely places Will and Jake under the command of Major Marcus Reno. Larson did wisely, in my opinion. Had the two young Kansans been with Custer, there would have been no suspense at all. But placing them with the embattled group led my Reno (which was augmented by Captains Frederick Benteen’s contingent) allows some flexibility on the part of the author and for the reader to follow what happens to not only Will and Jake, but everyone else.
One Crowded Hour is really long enough for two books by virtue of its length, but not in the content. Indeed, the story line of the two young men is sidetracked at time by what appears to be an inordinate amount of background or side-material. As a result, the reader does not get to know them well and may not care about them that much.
Many pages are devoted to the Army’s planning of the campaign and also to Custer and his family. The title itself is a little confusing, because the combat lasted more than a day. It could be that the title refers to the time of Custer’s part in the engagement.
Larson is very historically accurate about the campaign, and details the background and origins of the cavalry troopers. There are some slight errors early on in the background section (about the Louisiana Purchase.).Many of them were foreign-born, and it is good to bring that to the reader’s attention. Such facts tend to be glossed over or to be dismissed as unimportant, which neither fair nor responsible.
The dialog is well-constructed and drives the action, which moves quickly. A little more detail might have been added to the setting, especially of the battlefield itself.
All in all this is a good read or historical fiction that actually is firmly-rooted in what happened on those days in late June 1876.