Assault on Atlantis

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

“Goddamnit, get your men into line!”

The NCOs were trying to sort out the confusion. Plunging into the Little Big Horn River, thirsty horses and men crowded the ford, vying with each other for water. The three companies resembled a mob, not a military unit. Bouyer’s growing unease seemed to match the growing dust cloud to the north. He felt hollow and loose inside thinking about the numbers it took to make such a cloud of dust. If there was this much confusion now, with no battle engaged, how would it be once they went downstream?

Bouyer looked over his shoulder one more time. First to e right, where there was no sign of Custer or his two battalions. Then to the left, the direction in which Benteen and his battalion had disappeared a few hours ago. Would Benteen believe him, or was he marching hard, out of supporting distance for the coming battle?

“Where’s my support?” Reno muttered next to him, his yes searching in the same directions Bouyer’s had.

Bouyer dug his heels into the flanks of his horse while the noncoms and officers sorted out the mess in the river. Reno followed him. They rode up the west bank of the Little Big Horn and looked to the north, downstream. The valley widened out, with low bluffs enclosing the left and the tree lined river on the right. Reno pulled up his canteen and took a deep swig.

“I’ll take some of that,” Bouyer said, ignoring the surprise on Reno’s face, The major handed over the canteen.

Bouyer lifted it to his lips and took a drink. He almost choked on the brackish water that poured down his throat. Reno laughed, an edge to it that Bouyer didn’t like. They both knew that Bouyer had expected a different liquid. The rumor was rampant in the camp that Reno was a drunk.

“’I’ll support you!’ By thunder, that’s what he said,” Reno snapped, controlling his horse with difficulty, the animal sensing the fear in the air. “’I’ll support you!’ Well, where is he?” Reno laughed wildly again, the sound contradicting the words.

Bouyer didn’t say anything. He knew the village was ahead. Any damn fool could see the dust from thousands of horses and the smoke from many fires. Bouyer had never seen so much smoke. He knew Bloody Knife was right. Custer wasn’t going to ride through this. This wasn’t going to be another Washita. Of course, he’d known for many years that this battle was going to turn out differently than Custer expected.

Besides not seeing either of the two other columns, the uncertainty of the space on his flanks bothered Bouyer, and he knew it bothered the major. Reno had been in quite a few fights in the Civil War, and the man had some tactical sense.

The Little Big Horn didn’t run. In a straight line north but meandered back and forth, east and west, opening and closing the valley in width-not good for a man with only a limited number of troops to advance up through.

A deployed battalion of cavalry was difficult to control, especially once the firing started. The only ways to issue orders were by yelling, which didn’t work well once the shooting began, or sending messengers, who had the possibility of getting shot before they got to their destination, leaving their message undelivered. Add in the fear of getting killed, factor it by the physical and mental state of the men and horses, and any tactical maneuver could be a recipe for disaster. Bouyer knew professional soldiers didn’t want to admit it, but pure damn luck played the biggest role of all in battle.

Here, in the valley, Bouyer knew Reno would have to watch his flanks. There weren’t enough men in the battalion to stretch from river to bluffs at the widest parts. Bouyer wondered where the major would post him and the scouts. The command would have to be anchored on the river. If Custer wasn’t behind him, as they both feared, then the general was to the right and Reno had to keep the way open either to support Custer, or as briefed, to be supported by him. And the right was where Bouyer wanted to be. He mew he needed to be close enough to reach Custer at the critical juncture.

Bouyer looked in that direction. On the east bank of the river the bluffs were much higher. It suddenly occurred to him that somewhere behind those bluffs Custer was riding with his five troops. Bouyer didn’t know why he suddenly thought that; from the orders, Custer should be coming this way into the valley behind them, but Bouyer knew it as sure as he knew anything this day, which in sum didn’t amount to too damn much. And just as surely, he knew that Reno knew it, too. He could tell by the way the major was just sitting there, his command mired in the crossing, no longer in a rush to move ahead up the valley floor toward the lodge fires and pony herds.

And Benteen? Bouyer shook his head. Benteen was exactly where he wanted to be. Out of it. Bouyer could hear Benteen’s voice in his head: Let Custer fall on his own sword, Bouyer shook his head to clear it of thoughts that didn’t do anything to help him right now. He had to trust that each dispersed piece would come together at the right time, although it appeared very unlikely at the moment. Bouyer nodded as Bloody Knife rode up to his side, joining him. He noted that Bloody Knife had the leather satchel containing the crystal un tied off to his pommel.

Bouyer stiffened as a band of twenty mounted warriors suddenly appeared out of a gully six hundred feet away, then wheeled and disappeared back into their own dust.

“There is no surprise,” Bloody Knife said in Arikara.

‘’There never was,” Bouyer replied sharply in the same tongue. He didn’t bother translating the comment to the major. Reno was ignoring them. Finally turning his attention back to his command.

G Troop was formed and up the bank now, with lieutenant McIntosh in control. The other two would be up shortly.

Bouyer stared to the north, his eyes slowly unfocusing. He felt a great weariness seep over him. As if pressed down by the bright sun. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest a little. Just a few moments. Under a tree on the bank of the gently flowing river. He knew what he was to do today was important, but he also felt it would probably end in his death, and he enjoyed life. He had lived far more than the vast majority of men. He’d traveled places only a handful of white men had ever seen. He’d enjoyed the feel of falling snow on his face as much as that of the warm sun at noon on a summer’s day. Why had he been chosen?

Bouyer’s head snapped up. The troops were up and formed. The dust to the north was greater than before, and he could hear faint war cries carrying through the heavy air. A rush spiked through the fatigue.

“Forward in fours!” Reno ordered. “Scouts to the left flank,” he added, looking at Bouyer.

The exposed left. All feeling drained out of his veins. Bloody Knife was watching him, the Indian’s face impassive.

“Keep my flank covered out there,” Reno said.

They had come across no sign on their march south and west. Benteen wiped sweat off his brow and looked up at the sun blazing overhead in the direction they were moving. He’d had two couriers come from Custer since they had left the main column. The first had ordered them on to the second ridge. The next courier had ordered them to go even farther and been divided again by Custer with Reno’s battalion heading for the valley of the Little Big Horn to attack the village.

Despite the orders, Benteen had pressed his battalion more and more to the north. He wanted to be as close to the rest of the regiment as possible. He’d looked inside the satchel Bouyer had given him and been startled by what he saw. He wasn’t a religious man and he also thought whatever gods the Indians worshipped were false, but this thing had some kind of power, of that be bad no doubt.

If only Custer hadn’t split off Reno. That bothered Benteen more than anything. Benteen could understand Custer wanting to get him out of the way. He’d always known that Custer would cut him out of any fight.

But sending Reno into the valley first and Custer following with a supporting force-that wasn’t like the general at all. The son of a bitch wanted to be at the head of the column when it ran through the Indian camp. That way that damn reporter could-Benteen’s mind froze, locking him in the saddle. He pulled off to the side and let the first several pairs of his column go by as his eyes turned to the northeast.

He knew the valley of the Little Big Horn. And now he knew exactly what Custer had planned. The damn fool wasn’t going to support Reno. He was using Reno as a blocking force to keep the Indians from escaping upriver. But you didn’t send blocking force in the attack against a superior force, and there was absolutely no doubt in Benteen’s mind that Reno’s one hundred and twenty-five men were vastly outnumbered.

Benteen closed his eyes and thought it through, putting · himself in Custer’s place with Custer’s mind. Custer was afraid the Sioux would run. Reno was to bottle them up from the south and engage the warriors. The village would be farther north downstream. Custer would want to flank the village either from the west or east, so he would either swing south around Reno and march to the west of the Little Big Horn or he would cut north before the river and stay on the east side. The west was too far. Custer could never push his tired horses to get there in time before Reno was decisively engaged. So it had to be from the east. On the other side of the river.

Benteen moved then, galloping up to the front of the column, shouting commands. They turned hard right and began marching to the north, violating his last orders from Custer.

Giovanni Martini had once served as a drummer boy for Garibaldi in Italy, so although he was new to the United States, he was no newcomer to armies. One thing he had learned early in his army career in Italy was to appear dumber than he was. Smart men got used like sponges until they were wrung dry. Dumb troopers got to take things much slower and weren’t often called on to do extra duty. Since coming to the United States several years ago, he had been unable to get a job so he had enlisted in the Anny. His name was changed to John Martin on the enlistment forms, and he was sent out west to serve.

Martin had exaggerated his lack of understanding of the English language as a buffer to keep himself from being worked too hard. Unfortunately, a few days earlier, that tactic had backfired for Martin. The H Troop first sergeant had grown tired of trying to get the trumpeter to do as he was told, and when the tasking came down from the regimental adjutant for a trumpeter to serve with headquarters, the first sergeant had, as first sergeants are wont to do, sent what he considered his most expendable man: John Martin, who didn’t seem to understand English.

Martin, of course, understood much more than he let on. Riding next to Custer, he felt like he was in the center of the storm as the general issued orders and conferred with scouts. Major Reno’s column had disappeared as Custer’s five companies had climbed behind a hill on the north side of Ash Creek, west of the Little Big Horn. The four remaining Crow scouts were riding with Custer, keeping close to their commander.

The land here lay in long swells leading to bluffs cut with ravines. It was impossible to see very far in any direction except from the very top of one of those bluffs and even then tin didn’t like this wide-open country. He felt it was deceptive in its openness with death lurking in the form of savage red-men behind every hill.

He also was less than thrilled about the enemy they were · after. In Italy the fighting had gotten pretty bloody, but when a soldier put his hands up and surrendered, it was all over. They were gentlemen in war on the Continent. Here, there was no surrender. Martin had seen several scalped and mutilated bodies, the results of a trooper wandering too far from the camp or civilians caught out in no-man’s-land. Not a single one had looked like they’d had an easy death.

Martin’s band crept down to his side where his.45-caliber Model 1872 Colt single-action revolver rested in its holster. It was a reliable weapon although difficult to reload. There was great debate among the soldiers about what was the best way · to kill oneself with the gun. There was no debate that suicide was the desired course of action in the face of capture by the red man. All one had to do was see some of the bodies, as Martin had, and he was convinced a bullet through the brain was to be preferred. He had twenty-four cartridges for the pistol, counting the six already in the cylinder.

Across his lap, Martin held the Model 1873 Springfield Carbine, which was standard issue for the regiment. It was a single-shot, breach-loaded rifle. He had twenty-four rounds for it in canvas loops on the cartridge belt looped over his · shoulder and another seventy-six in a larger cartridge bag attached to his saddle. Martin was not happy with the Springfield. It shot accurately enough, but it was too slow. He’d seen the Henry repeater rifles that some scouts at Fort Lincoln had and he wondered why the Army hadn’t bought those. Another problem with the Springfield was that the cartridge cases sometimes split after being fired and would not eject · when the breech was opened to insert a new cartridge. This malfunction required the firer to dig out the split casing with a knife-not something one wanted to do in the beat of combat.

Martin’s bugle was slung over his back, and since issuing officer’s call back at Ash Creek he had not been ordered to use it again. He could look to the northwest and see the smoke from many campfires lazily drifting into the air and was glad he didn’t have to use the bugle.

Custer gestured for Martin to follow and the two of them, along with the scouts, left the column and rode up a nearby hill to the west As they crested the top, Martin pulled back hard on his reins and felt his heart start pounding.

The Indian village was down there, no doubting it now. As far as he could see to the north there were teepees and lodges on the other side of the river. Martin crossed himself and said I quick prayer to the Virgin Mother.

“We have got them this time!” Custer exclaimed, taking in the view.

Martin followed Custer’s gaze to the left. There was no sign of Reno yet, although there was quite a bit of dust in the southern part of the river bottom. There was an occasional echo of a shot being fired, but that could just as well be hunters.

Custer was standing in his stirrups, looking in all directions now. Martin took the opportunity to gaze around as well. It was difficult to tell how the land lay, as bluffs masked much of the river below them and to the north. There was one thing for certain, though: They could not get down into the Indian village from their present position. The Crow scouts did not seem very happy about the sight that lay before them.

More shots rang out and then for the first time they could see small figures in blue appear on the flat plain to the west of the river: Reno’s batta1ion was in the attack.

“Perfect!” Custer smacked a gloved fist into the palm of his other hand.

Martin frowned. There were so many brown-skinned figures moving in the village that it looked like a swarm of bees that had had a stick poked into it.

Custer took his hat off and waved, although Martin didn’t anyone down there in the valley could see them up here. Then the general pulled his horse’s reins and they headed back for the column.

Custer rode up to his brother, Tom, and barked orders, telling him to send a messenger to the pack train. “Have McDougall bring the pack train straight in this direction, across the high ground. If any straps break and packs get loose don’t bother to fix them. Cut them off. Speed is of the essence. Tell him there is a big Indian camp.”

Custer’s brother nodded and rode off to get one of his men to send the message. Custer waved his hand and the column moved off at a gallop to the north, hidden from the action below by the high bluffs lining the river.

Martin reached down to his saddle and made sure the strange satchel he’d been given by the half-breed scout was still tied off securely. He’d promised the man, in exchange for a ten dollar gold piece, to carry whatever was in there and not look inside for the day. A strange request, but Martin thought all the red-men were quite strange and this Bouyer fellow was half red.

Martin spurred his horse and followed after Custer as the general rode north.

Corporal Henry Scollen was in the second rank of riders in · M Troop, which led the way for Reno’s battalion. He was very unhappy. A Troop was behind his troop. And G Troop brought up the trail. Scollen’s distress came from his mount. His own horse had come up lame just prior to the departure from Fort Lincoln, and the new mount the quartermaster had pressed upon him had been an unending source of trouble. It was with great difficulty that he kept it in line as the column rode onto the broad open plain to the east of the Little Big Horn River.

Scollen had never been fired at, so it was with great surprise that he realized the snapping sound in the air was bullets flying by. There were Indians all about in the distance, darting in and out of the rolling terrain to his front. He could see the tops of lodges a long way ahead. He ran his bands nervously across the leather satchel he’d tied tight to his saddle. Whatever was inside was hard and a little bigger than a mess tin. It was also warm, which was strange. A ten dollar gold piece. That was what Bouyer had given him to carry this for the day. Why? Scollen had no idea, nor had he asked any questions, eagerly taking the gold.

“McIhargy!” Reno· cried out, and Scollen watched a trooper ride up to the major. Scollen was close enough to hear what Reno was saying. ‘’Go find General Custer. Tell him I have everything before me and the enemy is strong. Go, man, go!”

“Where is he, sir?” McIhargy asked.

Reno pointed east. “In those hills.”

McIhargy spurred his horse and galloped off to the east. Reno then began yelling orders, putting A and M Troops online with G Troop in support. The wide river valley extended mead for a couple miles, then there was a line of trees coming out from the river across their front. The village was on the other side of that.

The battalion broke into a gallop, and the tired horses did their best, gobbling up terrain with long strides. Scollen’s arms ached from keeping his horse in its proper place in the advance. He could see warriors now, much closer. They appeared to be naked, their bodies painted. Some brandished guns, which they fired at the advancing soldiers. Others had spears and bows. But they all were giving ground to the blue onslaught. Perhaps they would all run, Scollen thought. Perhaps the fight would be over quickly.

Reno was spending as much time looking over his shoulder to the southeast as he was making his advance to the north. Scollen could understand the major’s concern. Scollen had heard the orders Cooke had given the major. Where was Custer? If he was indeed in the hills on the other side of the Little Big Horn, he was too far away to be in immediate support as promised.

The valley widened, and Reno could no longer keep a company in reserve. G Troop was also brought on-line. The scouts were off to the left. More and more Indians were ahead, several times the number of troops that were charging. The edge of the village was not far now.

A piece of lower ground straddled the ground in front of the advancing line of troops, and Reno brought the command to a halt with his hand raised in the air. “Form a line of skirmishers!” he screamed.

Scollen pulled back on his reins, but the horse bucked and the leather slipped out of his hands. The horse bolted forward, smelling the gunpowder and dust in the air.

“Scollen, get back here!” the M Company first sergeant bellowed.

Desperately Scollen grasped for the leather rein, but even when he got it in his hand, the horse was too far gone. Full speed it galloped across the open ground between Reno’s halted force and the Indian village.

Scollen dropped the rein and grabbed for his carbine, but in his tenor, he dropped the rifle as the horse jumped a gopher hole and the satchel slammed into his hands. A painted figure flashed by to his right, then one to his left. He felt something tear by his shoulder, a spear, just missing him.

“Oh, Jesus!” Scollen screamed as he was surrounded on all sides by hostiles. He reached for his pistol as a daring brave jumped up and tried to grab the reins. The horse rode over the brave, leaving him screaming in pain.

Scollen’s hand closed on the butt of his Colt as an arrow thudded into his horse’s chest. Another, then another. A large brave came running forward. A long spear in his hand. Scollen raised the pistol and fired. The brave was still coming. Scollen fired again, but he must have missed, as the brave kept charging.

The horse collapsed to its front knees as the brave slammed the spear into its chest. Scollen fell, rolled on the ground and got to his knees. His hands were empty. In a panic he felt the ground to his side for his pistol as his eyes were mesmerized by half a dozen braves coming toward him, weapons at the ready.

“Please!” Scollen yelled, putting both his hands up in entreaty.

Something slammed him in the back, feeling like the kick f a horse, and Scollen’s eyes widened in amazement as the tip of a spear came out of his chest, soaked in red blood. He looked up and was as startled to see a woman, a female warrior, standing in front of him, staring at him intently.

He was surprised he felt no pain. The surprise vanished as another Indian slammed a hatchet into his left side and skin, muscle, and bone gave way. Scollen screamed, his hands still held up in entreaty. He was still screaming as a brave began scalping him. It was only when another slammed a club down on his head that the screaming stopped and blessed darkness came.

The Sioux who killed Scollen were impressed with his bravery, charging their line all by himself. It was a feat worthy of a warrior. But that didn’t stop one of them from using his hatchet to slit open his stomach, cut off his bead and stick his head into the opening in his stomach.

Standing back from the mutilation was Buffalo Calf Road Woman, the hero of the battle of the Battle of the Rosebud, known among her people by her feat, the Battle Where the Girl Saves Her Brother.

She walked over to the dead man’s horse, noting the satchel tied off to the dead animal’s saddle. She took it off, ignoring the warriors who were tearing the man’s body apart. She immediately felt the warmth in her hands. She peeked inside and gasped. Powerful medicine.

Buffalo Calf Road Woman took the crystal skull, hidden inside the satchel, and moved forward into the battle.

Gall was walking back from visiting relatives in the middle of the great encampment when he heard the first shots. He paused, hoping it was simply hunters returning. But as the shots continued, he realized that today there would be a battle.

From the sound, the fighting was in the valley to the south, which caused him some concern. As his people were camped the farthest in that direction. He wondered why there had not been an alarm of soldiers approaching, but he supposed it was due to everyone relaxing after dawn had passed and no blue coats had shown up. No one could believe that the soldiers would attack this camp in the light of day when the full force of the mighty Sioux nation and the other tribes here could be seen by any foe approaching.

So much for beliefs, Gall thought as he tried to make his way through the sudden bedlam in the camp. Women were screaming, trying to track down children. Dogs were barking and warriors were grabbing weapons and running to the sound of the gunfire.

As he got closer to his lodge, Gall’s concern grew. Bullets Hew by, mostly high, but it told him the enemy was not far away. One of his wives ran past, shepherding some young ones. She did not meet his eye or halt at his yelled questions, and Gall felt a heavy weight press down on his chest.

The bodies lay outside of his lodge. His eldest wife, his youngest daughter who just this morning had filled him with such joy, and one of his sons. Dead, struck down by the bullets of the blue coats. Gall dropped to his knees and picked up the body of his daughter. He peered into her lifeless eyes, closed the lids, then slowly put her back down.

He could hear more firing now. The sound of horses in agony. Men yelling, in their tongue. Some of them white men. Warriors ran or galloped past, heading to the south. Gall stood and pulled open the entrance to his lodge. His hatchet, steel blade gleaming, lay just inside. He picked it up, feeling the heft of the handle. He also picked up the satchel with the skull and it looped over his shoulder. Then he turned and moved to the south.