Chapter 17
Autie Custer was returning from the East a deeply embittered and disappointed man.
He had first left Washington on the twentieth of April—two weeks after the column had originally been scheduled to leave Fort Abraham Lincoln—but he was ordered back to answer charges of perjury and character assassination.
On May first, he started back to the Dakota Territory again, only to be stopped in Chicago and held on detention—per President Grant’s orders.
President Grant remained infuriated with him. Custer had dared to implicate his brother, and Grant, it seemed, was now determined to destroy Custer.
“He says that I am out to crucify him!” Custer complained to Sloan. They had happened to meet in St. Paul before General Terry arrived at his office.
Sitting in a leather chair by Terry’s desk, Sloan watched Custer with a certain amount of sympathy. Now it was time for battle, and Custer, whose greatest glory came from his brave if reckless cavalry charges, was being denied the opportunity to fight.
He turned unhappily toward Sloan.
“Crook definitely didn’t destroy Crazy Horse?” he asked anxiously.
“Not yet,” Sloan told him.
“You’re certain—of course, you’re certain. You know a Cheyenne village from a Sioux—hell, you are one—” He broke off, staring at Sloan. “My apologies, Major.”
“No apologies needed. I am Sioux.”
Custer smiled. He had a look of boyish good nature and charm about him at the moment.
The Cheyenne women had said that he was beautiful—even when he was making war against them.
At one point, years ago, he was supposed to have had a relationship with a Cheyenne woman, and she was said to have delivered a blond baby, who was accepted as Custer’s own child.
The little girl had lived only about a year, but Sloan knew that many of the Cheyenne women still considered Custer to be a cousin because of his “marriage” into the Cheyenne tribe.
He had, in fact, smoked a pipe with the Cheyenne—and promised that he would never make war on them again.
Things changed, Sloan thought dryly. Autie, however, would view this particular battle simply as war against “hostiles.” Sioux hostiles.
And if he were breaking the peace, he would feel justified in doing so.
Soldiers, it seemed, could easily find justification for killing, just as governments could easily find justification for making the wars in which the soldiers were obliged to kill.
He nodded at Sloan. “A fact is a fact, my friend. You are Sioux. And a rational man, who can see the great picture of what is happening out here. Grant! What am I to do about Grant? I am the one being crucified. I spoke the truth; I spoke for my fellow officers, I spoke for the enemy we try to befriend—and end up betraying in the process.”
Custer started pacing again, his hands locked behind his back, his head bowed. “My God, I tried! I waited and waited to see the president, and he refused, he absolutely refused to see me. He is out to destroy me!”
“He is the head of the armed forces,” Sloan reminded him.
“What do I do? My God, help me, if you can, I beg you!”
Sloan exhaled a long breath. “Talk to your immediate superior, General Terry; see if he can’t intercede on your behalf.
You know that both Sheridan and Sherman will be trying to get you reinstated.
Remember, too, that the press has always been incredibly supportive of you—newspapers love a dashing hero.
Sherman and Sheridan will speak for you with Grant, and the press will probably hound him on your behalf as well.
Get Terry to help you with a letter to the president—and then, write carefully.
Don’t demand that you be given back command of the campaign; ask for field command of the Seventh. And, Autie…”
“Yes?”
Sloan hesitated, wondering why he was trying to help a man hell-bent on war.
But the war was coming, one way or another. Sloan couldn’t stop it. “Try a little humility with both Terry and Grant. It might go a long way.”
“Humility doesn’t win battles.”
“That may be true. But, you’ll remember, Fetterman boasted that he could clean out the Indians with a force of eighty men. He was slaughtered himself—with exactly eighty men.”
Custer listened, lowered his head and nodded. “I’ll talk to Terry and beg him to intercede.” He was quiet for a minute; then he looked up. “Thank you,” he said, and there was humility in his voice. “Thank you for your support.”
“Don’t count on my support in all your actions!” Sloan warned him.
Custer shrugged. He paced to the door. “Where is Terry?” he murmured impatiently. He glanced at Sloan. “I will be patient; I will be calm. I will be humble; I’ll beg on bended knee—I swear it!”
As Custer spoke, General Terry entered the office at last. Both men saluted the general, and he returned the quick gesture.
“General, I’ll give my report quickly,” Sloan said, “as there are other pressing matters here. I can assure you that the camp attacked by Reynolds and his men was not a Sioux camp, but a Cheyenne camp. Where the hostiles are, however, I do not know, for I didn’t encounter the Crazy Horse camp as I rode.
I did see numerous travois trails, and I assume that a number of Indians are still riding for their reservations.
I think we’re all aware that the timetable given the Indians was scarcely feasible. ”
Terry arched a brow at him. “Perhaps the deadline was stringent; it came down from the Secretary of War. But you tell me honestly, Major, if you think that Sitting Bull would have complied with any time limit given him. He received notice of the government order, and his reply was that he’d come in at some time, but not then.
Since then, the hostiles have been supplying themselves with agency goods—while encouraging Indians who accept government subsidy to run to him and join with his warriors. ”
“General, as Sitting Bull sees it, he has done nothing but send out invitations to his people to come to him for annual celebrations, for the Sun Dance.”
“Sitting Bull is preparing for war, and we both know it, Sloan,” Terry reminded him irritably.
“But the war is going to him, isn’t it?” Sloan suggested softly.
Behind him, Custer suddenly exploded. “Yes! The war is going to the Indians, and my men are about to ride into battle, and by God, sir! Somehow, I must be with them.”
Terry’s look of misery was back on his face.
He was a man in his mid-fifties, a good soldier—if not an exciting one.
He cared about his men, and he was sorry for Custer’s torment, but like most men around Custer, he was impatient with the fact that Custer didn’t seem to be able to play politics at all.
“Major Reno has requested field command of the Seventh; as you know, I am to lead the campaign.”
“Reno!” Custer exclaimed with horror.
Reno and Custer despised one another. Reno was one of the men who had not forgotten Custer’s lack of concern regarding Major Elliott and his command after the Battle of the Washita. He was definitely not part of the “Custer Camp.”
“My God, Reno cannot command my troops!” Custer breathed.
“Excuse me, General Terry, this is a private matter between the two of you, and I would like to return to Fort Abraham Lincoln as soon as possible. May I be dismissed?” Sloan inquired.
“Yes, Major, you’re dismissed. Be advised, however, that you may be ordered to ride out again at any time.”
Sloan inclined his head in agreement and left the office. As he did so, Terry took a seat. And Custer went to the general—literally—on his knees. Sloan heard Terry sighing and promising that he would do everything in his power to help the man.
Sloan, very anxious to return, wasted no time. He was grateful that the weather had improved, so that his train was unimpeded. It was amazing country, he thought. At times, a man could travel ninety miles in a day. When the weather was bad, the same ninety miles could take him a week.
All in all, reporting to General Terry had taken him three days.
At Fort Abraham Lincoln, he hurried to his own quarters. He was surprised to find that Sabrina was stretched out on the bed, sound asleep on the quilt that covered it, despite the fact that it was the middle of the day.
He decided not to waken her.
Quietly, he left her sleeping.
Troops were drilling on the field. Sloan watched them work, and when they were dismissed, he found himself coerced into a baseball game.
Since the Civil War, the game had been becoming ever more popular among military men.
This afternoon, different companies were making up the different teams. Sloan, not attached to any company, declined to choose a side, suggesting that he toss a coin.
He wound up on Tom Custer’s team, playing against the men who served under Captain Benteen, senior captain among the Seventh Cavalry.
By the third inning, both sides had attracted an audience of off-duty men and the fort ladies and children.
His fourth turn at bat, Sloan was able to land a ball so far into the outfield that he could walk the bases home.
The crowd was in an uproar. Boys ran to him, congratulating him as he came in.
He teased the kids in return, sitting back on a bench until the game ended.
Tom, a good player, was smugly pleased to claim victory.
There was a fair amount of laughter and merriment on the field.
Sloan turned as he felt a tap on his shoulder. Marlene, twirling a parasol prettily despite the fact that the sun had just set, smiled at him. “That was quite a hit, Major. My congratulations on your prowess.”
“Thanks.”
“May I see you a moment? I’ve just come back from Gold Town, and I believe I might have something of importance to tell you.”
He arched a brow.
“You’re seeing me. And you can certainly speak.”
She shook her head. “Please, come with me to my brother’s house; it will only take a moment.”
He hesitated. “Marlene—”