Harry Turtledove - Alternate Generals

“And Benteen and Reno led their men to the ridge in the nick of time?”

Reed smiled, and said, “Not exactly. Tom and Boston led their commands in the place of Reno and Benteen.

Both of those men were delayed, and arrived later, once victory had been secured.”

“So your uncles basically took over the command of the other two companies?”

“And it worked,” Reed acknowledged, nodding like the spring-balanced head of a tin toy.

“Afterwards, the entire gang came together and gave thanks that we weren’t part of the initial blood bath.”

“I bet you were thankful that you weren’t with the rest of those poor souls on the ridge.”

“You can say that again! Boston and Tom had to lag behind so that they could go get Reno and Benteen’s men at the proper time, and Uncle Jim kept an eye out for me.”

“So, none of you were there during the actual massacre?”

“Hell no! We would have been killed. The General always said that you had to keep the enemy unbalanced.

They never expected that a leader would follow his men rather than lead them, so the dumb savages didn’t realize that the battle had not yet begun when the massacre had already started. I remember the look on their faces when they saw old Yellow Hair riding towards them, flanked by companies led by Tom and Boston, the hooves of their horses tearing up the recently bloodstained ground. They thought he was back from the dead for vengeance.”

“Why did they think that?”

“It was all part of the Generals plan,” Reed explained conspiratorially.

“Summerfield, one of the standard bearers, had grown his hair out like my uncle’s. Uncle Autie had him wear one of his fringed jackets as he led the company. Stupid Black Kettle assumed that he was old Yellow Hair.”

The more the author reflected on this new revelation that came off so glibly from the tongue of the deceased president’s nephew, the more astonished he became. Only his years as an exceptional poker player managed to keep his reaction hidden from his compartment mate.

“Landsakes,” Clemens said shaking his head as he reached for a copy of the New York Herald, “I wonder how this happened then.”

“What?” the nephew replied.

“This picture of your uncle facing down the Indians against overwhelming odds while his men died around him.”

“Oh,” the nephew replied, “that was Mr. O’Connor’s idea.”

“Mr. O’Connor?”

“Yes,” Reed replied.

“He was a friend of my uncles.

He even had the General pose for it right there on the battlefield. He thought that it would more accurately depict the spirit of his heroism.”

And the rest is history, Clemens thought, and then said aloud, “Shrewd.”

“No one shrewder.”

Not wanting to reveal his true feelings to Reed, the author decided to ask one last question before begging fatigue.

“Yep, no one shrewder,” Clemens acknowledged.

“Too bad that Injun got him on the White House lawn. Did you know him too?”

“Certainly,” the nephew replied with a touch of indignation audible in his voice.

“Goes Ahead was our scout. He had advised the General, as well as Benteen and Reno that there were too many warriors at the Little Big Horn. That stupid halfbreed always held it against Uncle Autie that he didn’t heed his warning. If he had, I assure you, history would have been quite different.”

And maybe two hundred more men would still be alive today. The author made a mental note.

At the next stop another passenger joined the author and the nephew in the compartment, and, as it was a member of the fairer sex. Reed quickly turned his attention towards her, regaling the young lady with tales of his own heroic exploits during the Plains campaign, thus giving Clemens the opportunity to nap for the rest of the trip southward.

Upon their arrival in the nation’s capital, Sam Clemens quickly bid his compartment companions farewell in search of a fresh bottle of bourbon. An eager-to-please bellhop at the hotel where Bennett had arranged a room for him, provided him with more than enough of the spirited liquid from Kentucky to sate his thirst and more, and in no time at all, Clemens had passed out, sleeping through the night and the next day, thus missing the entire funeral that had been the reason for his journey.

Realizing his situation, the author quickly dispatched the still-willing bellhop to round up all of the Washington papers so that he could piece together as many facts (if newspapers reported such things) as were available so that he could bluff his way through this bit of reportage.

Thus, have secured his “firsthand research,” he quickly set off for a local bar known to be frequented by military men in hopes of adding a little more color to his notes on the President’s final passing.

As was the usual case with military men, Clemens soon found himself an outsider in their crowds, and a catalyst of silence to each group he joined. Realizing that socializing with the men in blue was getting him nowhere, he quickly decided to dedicate himself to some serious drinking, and took a place at the bar next to a slovenly soldier whose shoulder bars bore the insignia of a cavalry major.

After asking for a bottle of Kentucky’s best, the author was about to start down his latest road to inebriation when he heard the bartender say to the soldier, “If you want another drink, Reno, you’re going to have to show me some coin first.”

As the semi-conscious major searched through his pockets for the means to prolong his state of panacea, Clemens’ not yet fully alcohol addled mind recognized the possible identity of his coin-desperate drinking companion. The author quickly told the bartender, “His drink’s on me.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” the soldier said, his eyes brightening from their formerly half-mast state at the possibility of more drinks to come.

“You are a gentleman and a scholar.”

“And a fool and a scoundrel,” Clemens added.

“Aren’t we all,” the soldier admitted, “including some of them who are no longer with us.”

“Are you Major Marcus Reno formerly of the Seventh Cavalry?” Clemens asked.

“And if I am?” the drunken soldier replied.

“I understand that you were at the Little Big Horn with Custer at his moment of glory.”

“I was drunk at the Little Big Horn at that bastard’s moment of carnage, and now that he is dead, I don’t care who knows it!”

“Shut up, Reno,” a voice said from across the room.

Clemens sidled over, and gestured for the soldier to lower his voice.

Reno muttered under his breath.

“What are they going to do, courtmartial me? I kept my part of the deal. I’ve been quiet.”

“Deal,” the author queried, refilling the soldier’s glass.

“Custer didn’t have me courtmartialed for drinking on duty, and I kept Benteen busy while the Custer gang usurped his and my commands,” said Reno, taking another drink.

“It wasn’t that hard to keep him in the dark, and once the body count from the massacre was tallied up, I had little choice but to toe Yellow Hair’s party line, and wallow in the blood of my fallen comrades.”

Clemens could not help but notice Reno’s voice was once again becoming distractingly loud.

“Yes, indeed,” he began to boom, “let’s drink to the bastard, I mean the General, I mean the President. First in line for the medals and honors, last in line to meet the enemy.”

“Shut up, you old drunk!” another voice from the crowd ordered.

“Go to Hell,” Reno retorted at the top of his lungs, “and give Custer my best!”

The exertion from his last outburst and effects of prolonged alcohol abuse brought on a coughing fir in the old soldier, and Reno was quickly spitting up blood.