Robert Conroy: 1882: Custer in Chains

The spent bullet slammed into Custer’s shoulder, spinning him and dropping him face down on the ground where he tasted dirt and blood through split lips. He staggered to his knees. Blood streamed from a cut in his scalp, which, he thought ruefully, might not be his for very much longer. At least the red-skinned savages would have a difficult time lifting it. He’d cut his hair short in anticipation of the fight, although not his death. His long golden locks, now graying slightly, had been thrown away and were blowing around the Dakotas. The Indians would never get them.

Custer snapped an order and Sergeant Haney helped him to his feet. If he had to die, Custer thought, he would do so standing up. “What the devil are they waiting for, Haney?” The blood from the cut was dripping into his eyes and he couldn’t see very clearly. Being blind, however, was the least of his problems.

“Fucked if I know, general dearest,” the short, stocky sergeant who’d been with him since the Civil War muttered. Custer usually yelled at him when Haney referred to him as general dearest, but it didn’t seem to matter this sunny day of June 25, 1876. And the hell with him if it did, Haney thought. He’d been wounded several times this day and the next could finish him. Custer, the stupid bastard who commanded the Seventh Cavalry had just gone and gotten all of them killed. Why the hell hadn’t Custer waited for General Terry and the rest of the army to come up before attacking? Because he wanted the glory of victory and he was afraid that the Indians would flee before he could be reinforced.

Custer’s vision cleared a little. The Sioux were riding their ponies in swirling clusters, whooping and shooting wildly at the small number of men still alive on the grassy knob. He looked around and counted only a dozen of his men still standing with him. A number of others lay prone on the ground along with an almost equal number of Indians. He had taken five companies of his 7th Cavalry to attack the main Sioux camp while other units hit them from the other side of the river. He’d figured that two hundred and ten soldiers were more than enough for this part of the attack. The savages wouldn’t stand up to an assault on their homes. In previous battles, they’d broken up in attempts to save their families and had fled. Custer had laughed when planning the assault. Only fools would take their women and children along on a war. His own wife, Libbie, along with a number of others, was safely ensconced on a steamer in the Missouri.

Only he hadn’t counted on there being so damned many of the Indians. There must be at least a thousand warriors, not the few hundred he expected to find on this side of the Little Big Horn. He’d also anticipated that Reno, with the rest of the regiment, would support him by attacking from the other side of the river. Caught in a vise, the Indians would break. But where the hell was Reno? And where was Benteen. Reno was just across the river, so why didn’t he come and help. Benteen was farther away, but he too should be arriving soon. Benteen was junior to Reno, so maybe he was coming with Reno. But where the hell were they? If they didn’t arrive in the next few minutes it would all be over.

Custer swore and called Reno a son of a bitch. Reno hated Custer but he always obeyed orders. Custer rarely swore, even to himself, but this day was an exception. Of course, he laughed ruefully, being surrounded by a thousand angry Indians will do that to a man.

Custer checked his pistol. He had two bullets left. Should he save one for himself? Yes. If taken prisoner, they’d cut him into little pieces and then roast what remained of his still living carcass over a small, slow fire. Or maybe they’d parade him naked all throughout the Great Plains and defer cutting him into those little living pieces for agonizing, humiliating weeks. No, he’d rather be dead this day.

“Haney, if I fail, kill me.”

Haney snorted and checked his Springfield. It was loaded and wasn’t jammed.

Bullets fired from a long distance rained down on the knob, kicking up dust and only occasionally hitting someone. Only the fact that many of the Indians were unused to rifles and, therefore, poor shots, had kept them alive for this long. Haney had one of Mr. Colt’s big revolvers stuck in his waistband and a bullet was intended for himself and Custer could go to hell. After all, hadn’t the arrogant son of a bitch gotten them into this mess? Let him solve his own damned problems.

“Look, general, they’re gathering a lot of them together. They’re going to ride right over us and there isn’t a damn thing we can do.”

“We can die well,” Custer announced. Haney looked away and almost fell over. He’d taken three arrows and one bullet already. Fortunately the arrows had barely penetrated flesh and the bullet had gone through the meat of this thigh without hitting an artery, but fatigue and loss of blood were weakening him. He didn’t want to pass out and be scalped alive. Or worse, be taken by the savages for their sadistic entertainment.

Nor did Sergeant Haney particularly wish to die well. If given a choice, he’d choose to live poorly rather than die well. It was all well and good for an Irish Catholic to believe in the after-life, but did it have to begin today? Besides he hadn’t been to Confession in several months of Sundays.

“They’re coming,” a trooper said a bit redundantly. The Indians were moving slowly towards them. Haney estimated maybe two hundred horsemen in the bunch, including some leaders. It would be more than enough to trample them into the dirt beside the Little Big Horn River.

The Indians were howling and picking up speed. They were only a few hundred yards away. Haney shook his rifle at them. “Come on, you fuckers! Mike Haney ain’t gonna die all that easily. Some of you are going to die as well.”

Custer laughed, his voice a cackle. He was about to say something when a harsh screeching sound erupted. Suddenly, the Sioux horde seemed to shudder as if it’d been punched. Warriors and horses tumbled and fell. Screams of fear and dismay, mingled with pain, came from Indian throats. Horses screamed in agony and there was chaos.

More bodies fell and formed ghastly piles. Some Indians tried to get up and were trampled by their panic-stricken horses.

“Bloody fucking hell, general dearest, would you mind telling me just what is happening?”

Custer turned to his left and began to cackle even more loudly. At first he couldn’t see because of the gunsmoke, but then it cleared. “Gatlings. Somebody disobeyed my orders and brought the Gatling battery along. It must be Lieutenant Low.”

Despite his wounds, Haney’s eyesight was much better than Custer’s. “No sir, it ain’t Low. It looks like that young pup, Lieutenant Ryder.”

The two hand cranked machine guns were several hundred yards away and each was firing at three hundred and fifty rounds a minute, spraying the close-packed Indians like watering a lawn with a hose and dropping the Sioux warriors into piles of bodies.

It was enough. The Sioux began to pull back, slowly at first and then at a gallop as the Gatlings’ bullets followed them.

Custer sagged to his knees. “We’re going to live.”

“Indeed we are. At least for a while, general dearest.”

Custer swung his good arm and hit Haney on the thigh. “Then quit calling me ‘general dearest’ you bow-legged shanty Irish bastard.”

* * *

Second Lieutenant William Ryder, Seventh U.S. Cavalry, walked among the dead and was appalled. So many of them were men he’d known and now they were mere lumps of meat. A number had already been scalped or mutilated by the Indians before the rain of death from his guns had chased them away. The Indians liked to disembowel their victims as well as slicing the muscles of their arms and legs. He’d heard that it was supposed to hamper them in the afterlife. Whatever the reason, the wounds were hideous. General Terry had arrived with the rest of the column and men were just beginning to gather up the dead. They had bloated in the sun and already stank to high heaven.