The Crossed Sabres (30 page)

The charge broke the back of the Indians’ defense, and they faded away, like vanishing shadows, but not before shooting two of the troopers. Even Grayson knew that there was no use to pursue. The country was rough and the Sioux knew it well; to follow them would be to invite another trap.

As the last few shots rang out, troopers dismounted, going to the fallen men, walking loose-jointedly along the uneven earth. Sergeant Moody came to stand before Grayson, his old soldier’s eyes bitter as he asked, “What’s the order, Lieutenant?”

Grayson was filled with acrid disappointment. He looked around at the men, feeling the judgment in their eyes. “We’ll return to the fort.”

“Tyson’s dead, sir, and so are Given and Pearson.”

“We’ll take them back for burial.”

He rode over to where the dead men lay, realizing that he had fallen into the Sioux’s trap—like any raw beginner. He also knew what Custer, and his own fellow officers, would say. But the great rush of bitterness flooding him stemmed from the fact that Winslow had been right. That would be known, too. With a murderous look in his eyes he watched as Winslow lifted one of the fallen men. Memories of the past returned then.
I hate him worse than I’ve ever hated the Sioux!

He sat there, enraged by the failure. It was an unreasoning anger, and he knew that nothing could erase it!

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Blizzard

Libby Custer was exhausted. It was two in the morning, and the general and his wife had just returned to their hotel rooms. The Custers had been to see
Julius Caesar,
in which one of their closest friends, Lawrence Barrett, had played the leading role. Afterward they had been invited to a mansion facing Central Park where, surrounded by money and power and considerable beauty, Custer had dominated the conversation with the guests both by his exuberance and because of his reputation.

They had been in the East for several weeks, leaving the regiment at Fort Abraham Lincoln; but Custer’s driving energy was just as strong in the city as it had been at the fort. Even now as Libby sat slumped into a chair, so tired she couldn’t bring herself to get ready for bed, her husband was pacing the room like a caged animal, speaking of the things they would do the next day.

“Autie,” she broke in, “what is this trouble about the post traderships?”

Custer sat down beside her. They had a closer bond than most married couples. He was an incurable romantic, writing her love letters when out on a campaign, some of them running up to twenty pages. And Elizabeth Custer had one goal in life: to do what she could to advance her husband’s career. Her ambition was less obvious than his, but no less powerful. In the peacetime army, there were few promotions, and both of them were determined that the top was the only
goal worth striving for. She had learned the politics of the army, and was more tactful than Custer, so it had disturbed her to hear him speak so bluntly at the dinner. Not all of the men there, she understood, were friendly to the general, but he had paid no heed to that. When someone had mentioned the scandal over post traderships, Custer’s eyes had flashed and swept the room with an impetuous gesture. “The system is corrupt to the core!” he had exploded. “The prices charged by the post trader on the frontier are three times what they should be. And what is their excuse? They have to pay such enormous fees—which is a way of saying ‘bribes’—that they must recoup themselves!”

“How can such things go on, General?” someone had asked.

“Because there are gentlemen in Washington who sell these post traderships to the highest bidder! There is a corrupt ring in Washington so protected by high-placed officials that they can’t be touched. In fact, one brother of the very highest public official of our land is deep into such dirty dealings!”

Thinking of that scene, Libby attempted to tone down her husband’s volatile way of attack. “Autie, was it wise to speak of President Grant’s brother so bluntly?”

Custer’s face flushed, and he said impulsively, “I shall be in Washington soon, and I shall speak the truth about the matter.” Then he looked at her quickly. “Libby, I’m caught in a trap. There’s no way to go up! My enemies are in high places, and dull officers are promoted above me. There’s no way to turn!”

“Why, Autie, you’re a famous man! We’re welcomed into the homes of some of the most powerful people in the country. I’m very proud of you. What more can you want?”

Custer didn’t answer, but they both knew that nothing but being at the very top of his profession would satisfy him. This was not unusual, for ambition is a common enough element in military men. In George Armstrong Custer, however, ambition had grown into what the Greeks called
hubris,
the sort
of “vaulting ambition” Shakespeare dramatized in characters such as Macbeth and Henry the Fourth, men whose driving egos brought them to destruction.

Custer was a child of adventure. His fame had come from action, raw action, blind charges that ignored all odds. Routine was death to him, and now at the age of thirty-six he was less well known than he had been at twenty-five. And in the slow, ponderous turning of the machinery of the regular army his status was falling behind, so that in ten more years he would be just another middle-aged Civil War officer—his greatness forgotten.

Custer jumped up, grabbed a pen and began writing rapidly. “I shall offer my services as witness to Clymer. This corruption in high places must stop!” Congressman Clymer had begun an investigation of the Indian Bureau and the War Department, with Belknap, the secretary of war, as his target.

“Autie,” Libby said, putting her hands on his shoulder, “are you sure that’s wise?”

“Wise or not, I shall do it!” he said as he continued writing, using his words like a cavalry sabre, slashing at his enemies. He saw himself being forced out of action by his enemies in Washington, and he had to have action. It was his only gift, and without thought of defense or skill or retreat—the method which had made him a young general at the age of twenty-five—he drove at his foes with his pen.

****

With Custer gone, the routine of the Seventh slowed. Early winter rains fell, and the Missouri rose five feet, transforming the current into a mud-greasy surface filled with driftwood. Sections of the bluffs collapsed, sending small tidal waves onward. Inside the fort, life went on. Two soldiers deserted, but were captured the next day and tried the following week. If Custer had been on the post, they would have been shot, but they escaped with a year’s prison sentence.

Fifty recruits arrived to replenish the Seventh’s thin ranks.
In addition to rumors of a War Department scandal, the news filtered west of a plan being formed by Grant and Sherman to crush the Sioux. General Terry, the department commander at St. Paul, sent urgent orders for the Seventh to overhaul its equipment and to whip its recruits into shape as rapidly as possible. This meant that on the bitter cold mornings recruits went through their monotonous revolutions on the parade ground, marched outside the fort for rifle-range practice, and daily scouted westward. Freighters broke the first light snowfall with supplies for the quartermaster and commissary depots on the reservation.
The Far West,
a riverboat with Captain Grant Marsh commanding, came downriver and stopped briefly to report he had been fired on four times in four days along the upper stretches of the Missouri. On December 6 the telegraphy flashed news from the East that couriers would be sent out to instruct the recalcitrant Sioux to come into the reservations by January 31 or be treated as hostiles.

The absence of the commanding officer meant that Winslow and the scouts spent little time roaming the hills. As Mitch Bouyer put it to Winslow, “Them Sioux are holed up fer the winter, Tom, ’cept for huntin’ parties. Don’t see no sense wearing our backsides out in them hills.”

Herendeen added, “They’ll be out soon enough, come spring, like ants swarming outta an anthill.”

Winslow agreed and was glad for the relief. He put in some time on the post, but the scouts needed no advice from him as to keeping their horses and equipment in good shape, so he was able to spend more time with Laurie than at any time in the past. They enjoyed being together, all the more because Tom knew that it was the peace before the storm that would break loose in the spring.

Eileen, of course, was with them a great deal those days, and somehow Larry Dutton was drawn into their circle, coming often for dinner at Eileen’s. Occasionally the four would go to town for entertainment. It was on one of these trips one
early Tuesday afternoon that they stopped outside a building to read a crude poster advertising a troop of traveling entertainers.

Laurie’s lips moved as she read the huge block letters, then asked, “Daddy, what’s an Ethiopian Eccentricity?”

“Nothing you should see, I’m sure.” Winslow grinned over her head, winking at Eileen and Dutton. “Besides, it says ‘Adults Only.’ ”

“Oh, Daddy!” Laurie pouted. “I’ll bet it’s nothing at all!”

Dutton patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Laurie. There’s a minstrel show coming in two weeks. I’ll get us some tickets right up front for it.”

His promise satisfied Laurie, and they moved down the street toward the restaurant. While they were eating, Eileen asked, “Do you know your part for the program, Laurie?”

“If she doesn’t, I do,” Winslow said emphatically. “I’ve listened to her say that poem so much, I’ve memorized it myself!” They were in town for a school function, with Dutton’s prize scholars performing.

After the meal, as they were walking to the school, Winslow looked at the sky and commented, “Some bad weather coming at us. We’d better hole up like squirrels after the program.”

The room was filled, parents talking loudly while waiting for the program to begin. Winslow looked around at the families gathered, most of them country people, awkward and gentle, from the outlying area. Their faces and hands looked leather-like as a result of rain, worry, and work. Most of them had few possessions; their struggles were occupied with keeping the roof dry and the stove warm. They were slow to speak and humble in their beliefs and a thousand miles away from the main stream of American life.

Dutton announced from the platform, “I guess we’ll get under way. Will all the students please come forward.”

Somebody played the piano while a group of first graders made a ring on the stage, singing as they turned a circle; others danced or recited. But it wasn’t the first graders Winslow
noticed. Across the aisle, a farmer’s wife, the mother of one of the children performing that day, sat bent forward, her hands clutched on her lap, her eyes closed, her lips moving—every thought, every feeling seeming to flow on her face, softening and making it wistfully pretty. Later he would always remember that face, how she had savored that moment of pleasure out of a hard existence.

Winslow’s thoughts were interrupted as Laurie came forward to the edge of the stage. He was surprised to discover he was nervous for her. In fact, he couldn’t remember the first line of her poem. He didn’t have to worry—Laurie did well and was applauded enthusiastically.

When the program was over, Laurie rushed up to Tom. “Did I do all right, Daddy?”

“You did fine, sweetheart. I was the one who was nervous. I couldn’t even remember how the poem went.” He brushed his hand against her rosy cheek. It startled him to see how much she looked like Marlene. With a sudden force he realized she would soon pass into that mysterious realm of young womanhood—and he would not be able to go with her. A twinge of sadness rose in his heart.

Eileen sensed it. “She’s growing up very fast, Tom,” she said quietly.

He looked at her quickly, but before he could speak, Nick Owens approached him, a worried look on his face. “Tom, it’s getting bad out there. Could be a blizzard moving in.”

“Got the feel of it, Nick,” Winslow nodded. “What’s up?”

“Well, I’m worried about Faith,” Owens said, rubbing his chin nervously. “She’s out there all alone, and she don’t know blizzards.”

“Why, she’s been in storms, I’m sure,” Eileen assured.

“A blizzard is not a storm. It’s the world turned upside down. It’ll drive the breath from your lungs and the heat from your body—and kill you almost as quick as a bullet!” Owens corrected her. “She could get caught just going to the barn and wander off and die. And I feel responsible. I was
out there two days ago, and she didn’t have much wood. I was going to send Earl out to take care of that, but I forgot.”