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.”