Trumpet on the Land: The Aftermath of Custer's Massacre, 1876

Chapter 25

4-5 August 1876

“So I take it that you’ve made a life for yourself in the army over the past seven years since we saw you last,” declared Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Carr.

Seamus snorted. “Not by my own hand, I haven’t, General!”

Cody pounded Donegan on the shoulder, saying, “Seems more times than not he finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, General.”

“No matter that it was the wrong place and damn sure the wrong morning,” William B. Royall added, “I couldn’t have been happier to have any one man with me at the Rosebud than I was to have this irreverent, shaggy-haired Irishman!”

They were having a time of it that evening after supper around their fire, these old comrades in arms. Royall had long served in the Fifth before coming to a field command in the Third, so tonight he and Seamus made welcome their old friends from that cold, empty-handed campaign of the winter of sixty-eight, those battle-tested veterans of the Cheyenne summer of eighteen and sixty-nine. In addition, many of these reunited officers of both the Third and the Fifth had served under Crook during the Apache campaign in Arizona.

Here and there in that circle of laughter, warmth, and camaraderie sat the newsmen hungry for any kernel of a story, along with John Bourke and those officers new to the West eager to hear a retelling of the war stories by Cody and the officers. Eager to hear Buffalo Bill’s own gut-grabbing rendition of his hilarious robbery of a beer wagon, aided and abetted by fellow scouts Wild Bill Hickok and Seamus Donegan in the panhandle country of west Texas that terrible winter campaign when they had served as beaters to drive the hostile Cheyenne toward Custer’s Seventh Cavalry, which ended up catching Black Kettle’s village on the Washita.

What a joyful, heart-brimming reunion this was, Seamus thought as he gazed round at those faces illuminated with the flicker of the fire’s merry light while the stars came out over that Big Horn country. This was one of the few rewards a fighting man could claim after years of service to his country, after one campaign and battle and fight after another—to gather with old friends and swap stories and yarns, tell windies and lies and poke fun at one another here in these last few hours before they once more picked up the yoke and stepped back into harness, getting on with the deadly business of this frontier army and what every last one of them prayed would be the final war with the Sioux.

Before supper that evening Merritt and Carr had joined Crook in the tent the general had turned into a war room. No one else had been allowed into their discussions, not even aides and adjutants. Just the three old warhorses, intent on deciding just what to do and where to go now. Surely they talked about Terry’s two columns sitting things out up there at the Rosebud Landing on the Yellowstone.

Upon finding Carr still leading the Fifth, Seamus once again allowed himself to feel eager instead of anxious. If anyone knew how to chase and fight these wandering nomadic warrior bands, it was the “war eagle,” Eugene A. Carr. Time and again the old soldier had proved that he understood how to take the starch right out of such guerrilla forces. So at that meeting, Donegan felt assured, Carr must certainly have convinced his superiors that the only way to catch up to, much less capture and defeat, the fleeing Sioux and Cheyenne, was to break the cavalry off into smaller, highly mobile battalions, ration those strike forces for many days, and send them off to take up the trail of the slower-moving villages. Surely Carr had argued that in keeping together these two thousand men of the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition, even if Crook abandoned his wagons and relied on his mule train, they could never hope to find anything more in their hunt than track soup.

So the very next morning Seamus was just as shocked as most of the line officers to hear Crook explain their plans.

“With General Merritt’s wise counsel, I have decided to organize the expedition as a united column,” the bearded general told that great assembly of subalterns gathered beneath the rattling leaves of the cottonwoods beside upper Goose Creek.^* “From Chief Washakie’s scouts, as well as from Grouard’s forays and Reshaw’s trip into the mountains, all the best intelligence I have tells me the enemy village is but two days’ march north of here—still massed in strength.”

Donegan leaned to the side and whispered to Cody, “Shit. The Lakota have skedaddled, heading north by east. They’ve burned the grass on their backtrail.”

As Crook droned on, Bill wagged his head, telling the Irishman, “The way we turned those Cheyenne back at Warbonnet, and the way things looked here when we come in—why, I was feeling damned good about this campaign. But this morning I’m not so sure about things anymore.”

“Something in the pit of my belly tells me this army ain’t ready to catch the Sioux, not just yet, it ain’t,” Donegan replied. “Crook and Terry and all the rest may talk a good game, but it seems to me they’re not ready to do what it takes to beat the Sioux at their own game, Bill.”

“If they want to find the Indians,” Cody said under his breath, “let them send a battalion, which I’m willing to guide myself. I’ll wager any man we’ll have our fill of fighting before we strike the Little Missouri. Crook ain’t going to find any hostiles by hauling this big army about the countryside. No, Irishman, unless they break these units up,” Cody advised, “all Crook will succeed in doing is wearing out his men and breaking down his horses.”

That fourth day of August, Seamus had no way of knowing just how the events of the next five weeks were to prove Bill Cody right.

Crook went on to explain that he was organizing the cavalry as a brigade, under Merritt’s command. Under that umbrella Carr would maintain command of the two battalions of the Fifth itself, with Royall at the head of the three battalions of the Third, as well as the one battalion of the Second.

Seamus looked over to watch the expression on Carr’s face, then whispered to Cody, “There, you see how the old eagle can’t hide his disappointment at that?”

“Sure,” Bill replied. “What do you expect? It wasn’t that long ago that Carr was Royall’s superior. And now Crook’s gone and put Royall over four battalions to Carr’s two.”

Detachments from the three infantry regiments were consolidated into a battalion under the command of Major Alexander Chambers. Medical director for the campaign was to be Dr. Bennett A. Chambers, newly arrived with the Fifth Cavalry. Crook extended Major John V. Furey’s assignment as expedition quartermaster.

“And now for a small change in regard to my scouts,” Crook said, instantly snagging Donegan’s attention. “General Carr’s battalion of the Fifth will maintain the trackers and guides it brought up—with one exception. I am reas signing William F. Cody to headquarters, designating him as chief of scouts for the BH and Y.”

Seamus watched Cody nod to Crook, but over Bill’s shoulder the Irishman saw the uncomfortable disappointment on Eugene Carr’s face turn to an unmasked glower.

“The rest of Frank Grouard’s scouts will remain in their present assignments with the Second and Third, along with the rest of the irregulars, all under the nominal command of Major Stanton. Serving him will be Chief Washakie and Captain Cosgrove in direct command of our Indian auxiliaries, with Captain Randall acting as my liaison with our allies.”

Crook took two more steps forward, so that he stood at the center of that ring of officers. “Gentlemen, it is my intent to capture the Sioux between us and the forces of the Montana and Dakota columns now on the Yellowstone, some one hundred twenty-five miles north of where we are standing. We’ll march north, as I understand Terry is marching south, and together we can crack Sitting Bull’s confederation like a walnut in the jaws of a nutcracker.”

Turning slightly, Crook motioned for his adjutant to step forward. “I’ll have Lieutenant Schuyler read the orders of the march.”

Walter Schuyler, on detached service to Crook from the Fifth Cavalry, held out his sheaf of pages and began to speak. “The command will march at seven A.M., five August, eighteen and seventy-six, ‘prepared for action.’ Each man, officer, and enlisted, packer and civilian volunteer included, is to take along what is on his back and no more. He is allowed one overcoat and one blanket, along with an India-rubber poncho or one half of his shelter tent. No tents will be allowed but one, that provided for the surgeons in their care for what wounded the columns might suffer. Travois poles have been cut and will be brought along for use as litters in transporting our casualties. Four extra horses, not to be packed, will be led by each company. Currycombs and brushes will be left with the wagons.”

Schuyler stopped for a brief moment, his eyes flicking to the general, who only nodded slightly before the young lieutenant continued. “The command will be rationed from this point for fifteen days: half rations of bacon, sugar, coffee, and salt. Full days’ rations of hard bread. There will be no rations of vinegar, soap, pepper, etcetera. Four days’ rations will be carried on each mount, the remaining supplies to be distributed among the packmules. Only pint cups are to be carried by each man. Each mess is to provide one frying pan, one carving knife and fork, one large coffeepot, one large tin platter, one large and two small tin ladles, one sheet-iron mess pan, and all the necessary bags for transporting the sugar, coffee, bacon, and hard bread.”

The lieutenant raised his eyes and cleared his throat. During that pause Crook overheard the murmuring. Holding a hand in the air, the general quieted the grumbling assembly and Schuyler resumed his reading.

“Two hundred fifty rounds of ammunition is to be assigned to every man. One hundred of that will be carried on his person, and the rest distributed among the pack-mules. Lieutenant John W. Bubb will act as chief of commissariat, to work in conjunction with Mr. Moore, who is in command of our train of three hundred ninety-nine mules, which the packers will break down into five divisions, each led by a bell mare. Cavalry commanders are to see that each man in their units is equipped with lariat, sideline, and picket pin.”

With a hacking cough the lieutenant cleared his throat and continued. “In conclusion, each company is to turn over all surplus to Quartermaster Furey, who will be in charge of our train of one hundred sixty wagons and who is under orders once again to fort up his train in this vicinity, to here await our return.”

Schuyler shuffled to the last page and read on. “Reveille will sound at four A.M. At five o’clock the trumpeters will sound ‘The General,’ to strike tents. Special instructions for action: all officers and noncommissioned officers to take constant pains to prevent wastage of ammunition. Signed, George C. Crook, Brigadier General, Commanding, Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition, Camp Cloud Peak, Forks of Goose Creek, Wyoming Territory.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Crook said as he again stepped forward and Schuyler backed away into the large ring of officers. “Are there any questions?”

Captain Julius Mason raised his hand.

Crook pointed, saying, “Major Mason?”

“What do we plan to do for rations after the fourteen days is up, General?”

Crook slapped a twig against the side of his leg, then replied, “By that time we should reach the other commands on the Yellowstone. They’re supplied by steamer traffic. We’ll eat off General Terry’s Dakota column.”

There was some stifled laughter before Crook asked, “Is there any other concern?”

Waiting while the men jostled uneasily, looked around the ring at one another, some shuffling their feet anxiously, the general finally concluded, “All right, gentlemen. We are all more than eager to get under way. Use the rest of the day in making your preparations for the march. We’ll be under way at first light.”

Galé-force winds roared off the Big Horns through the expedition’s last night under canvas, leveling most of the tents. Weary men were jolted awake in the maelstrom, clambering to their feet, rubbing their eyes as they stood shivering beneath the force of the wind, struck silent by an awe-inspiring sight. In the foothills west of camp an eerie crimson glow lit the starry postmidnight sky. Stretching for more than a five-mile front along the hills, the leaping flames of fires started by a war party licked like gold tongues against the dark horizon.

“Sonsabitches!” Charlie White spat sourly, pulling his thin army blanket around his shoulders, the gale whipping at the brim of his hat.

“This wind’s gonna do a lot of their work for ’em tonight,” Seamus added, his eyes already smarting with the smoke easily carried aloft miles from the fires.

Here where the scouts had pitched their camp on the northern edge of the army’s bivouac, Donegan listened to the growing rush of wild things scurrying, leaping, lunging out of the darkness, racing through the camp and on to the safety of the prairie beyond. Every little creature seeking safety.

Few men got back to sleep before dawn’s bugle call. A miserable portent of things yet to come.

More Troops Coming

CHICAGO, July 25—Gen. McKenzie, with six companies of United States troops, has been ordered from the Indian territory to Red Cloud agency and vicinity, via Cheyenne and Laramie, to take the place of Gen. Merritt, who goes with the Fifth cavalry to join Crook.

Nearly 2,300 men marched away from Camp Cloud Peak that sunny Saturday morning: 1,500 cavalry, 450 infantry, in addition to Tom Moore’s packers and that Falstaffian assortment of white and Indian scouts.

Once again Crook was cutting himself loose from his supply line. They were leaving Major Furey’s train behind, where more than two hundred discharged soldiers waiting for escort south to Fetterman, along with teamsters and other unattached civilians, all well armed, would chain the wagon wheels together into a corral, putting the creek at their backs, then dig rifle pits inside their bulwarks and sit out the wait, keeping a watchful eye over more than a thousand horses and mules remaining under their care. With so many capable men left in Furey’s command, Crook did not need to deplete his strike force by leaving an escort behind when he marched the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition away toward the Tongue River.

“Lead into line!” came the command, echoed again and again as the dismounted troopers walked their horses into company formation for inspection.

Then the Fifth’s commander ordered, “Bugler—sound the mount!”

As the stirring notes floated over Goose Creek there at the peep of day, 20 officers and 515 soldiers swung into their saddles with a rattle and squeak of arms and bridle.

“Column of fours!” was the next call. “By the right— fooor-rad! March!”

Setting out in the rear of all the rest with Carr’s headquarters group, King, as regimental adjutant, raised himself in the stirrups to look ahead at the three columns already wending their way along Goose Creek. Troop by troop of the cavalry fell into line in the wake of those fourteen companies of seasoned infantry that had departed three hours earlier, just past four o’clock. Lieutenant Colonel Carr commanded ten troops of the Fifth, with Captain Henry E. Noyes leading five companies of the Second, and Major Andrew W. Evans riding at the head of ten troops of the Third. The ranks of both the Second and the Third contained some new men, seventy-six in all, troopers Merritt had picked up at either Laramie or Fetterman, bound for Crook’s camp to replace soldiers ending their terms of duty.

On the right flank rode the thirty-five Ute and two Bannock, with Captain George M. “Black Jack” Randall in the lead. Serving as the advance guard were Washakie’s two hundred. The handful of Crow that Gibbon had dispatched from the Yellowstone weeks before rode as a rear guard, covering the exposed flank of the Fifth Cavalry. All the allies wore white strips torn from Quartermaster Furey’s empty flour sacks. Having learned firsthand from the deadly confusion the Indian allies had caused his nervous troops at the Battle of the Rosebud, Crook ordered his brown-skinned auxiliaries to wear the long white flags tied above their scalp locks or in their warbonnets—somewhere easily visible by anxious soldiers in the heat and terror of battle.

Looking over the scorched countryside they entered that August morning as the column followed Prairie Dog Creek down to its junction with the Tongue, King worried over Crook’s decision not to increase the size of his pack-train, using extra animals to haul forage for the horses. As far as the eye could see to the north and east, the blackened, sooty land lay devastated by prairie fire. Truth was, in order to pack even those fifteen days of rations, the command was required to strip itself down to the lightest of marching order.

If they made good time, and the fates were with them, Charles tried to cheer himself as the sun grew hot and the sooty cinders rose in dark clouds under every scuffling foot and plodding hoof—then Crook’s men would be eating from Terry’s stores at the Rosebud depot. But that hope meant Crook was clearly relying on the other columns having enough in their larder to share with the Wyoming expedition.

No two ways about it, the young lieutenant decided, the general was gambling against the house on this one: entrusting the lives of twenty-three hundred men and nearly three thousand animals to no more than their prayers for good weather, good grass, and just plain good luck.

*Site of present-day Sheridan, Wyoming.