Metal Storm: Weird Custer A Novel Read online

  METAL STORM

  Weird Custer

  A Novel

  By William H. Sumrall

  Metal Storm Weird Custer is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 William H. Sumrall

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Shanti Publishing

  1970 Hanalima St U-206

  Lihue, HI 96766

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  About the Author

  Chapter One ~ Into the Broad Expanse

  The broad expanse of the Montana Territory lay stretched in an emerald green sea of grass before them under the gleaming sun. As they disappeared into the broad distance, those who remained in the rear had the impression that the streams of mounted cavalry were being swallowed into an ocean of tall grass. The vista appeared to the mounted soldiers like an unbroken series of rolling, undulating grassy expanses. The grasses were a rich mix of rough fescue, junegrass and oatgrass. Sagebrush was abundant and emitted a sweet, cloying odor when trampled by the horses.

  Into the unexplored Montana Territory rode Lieutenant Colonel Custer at the head of the 7th Cavalry. He was a blond haired man of many strengths and weaknesses, a man whose aspirations knew no limits.

  They made 12 miles up the Rosebud River before dusk, riding hard. The former general halted the columns of horse soldiers. Seeing about him a great pastureland, Custer ordered his command, covered in dust and worn raw, to dismount and make camp. The lean, powerfully built officer stood up in the stirrups and looked all around him as he assessed the immediate vicinity. The ridiculously wide straw hat was pulled low over the brow, shielding his eyes from the angle of the setting sun. Custer studied several hills nearby where he could place lookouts. He sat back down on the saddle once more, holding the reins of Vic, his favorite horse, with one hand and holding the saddle horn with the other; he turned and spoke to his brother Thomas. He twisted at his waist to face his brother, turning his head sharply to his left as he did so not wishing to disturb the position of his one thousand pound gelding as it grazed the lush grass.

  “X marks the spot! We’ll call it a day here and set up bivouac! Tom, you and Calhoun place the companies along the water’s edge, but don’t spread out too much. Have the securities tripled.”

  The horizon was still illuminated in a spectacular wash of orange vexed with hot red, although the sun had set behind the distant Bighorn Mountains. Already Venus was glowing brightly above the horizon as Jupiter and Saturn appeared high overhead, preceding the stars by thirty minutes or so. The ever-present wolves, often invisible but always nearby, were beginning to howl, answered by the ubiquitous yelps of their smaller cousins, the coyotes. The Boy General had felt a premonition of gloom that he sought to dispel after he had summoned all of his officers.

  “Wop! Sound Officer’s Call!” yelled Custer.

  Giovani Martini placed the brass trumpet to his lips and blasted the melody from the instrument. The high pitched notes rang from the brass trumpet, and carried for miles in the waning penumbral moments. The wolves and coyotes responded in a cacophony of howls and yelps, and were answered by their shaggy brethren from miles away.

  The orange taper of the coal oil lantern flickered dubiously in the command tent of the former general, now demoted to lieutenant colonel, as his orders drew on into the night. The lantern threw a semicircle of ambient light on the five men who stood about a field table, on which lay an incomplete map of the land into which they were headed. Custer leaned over the map, pointing with the index finger of his right hand at the position of their current location. The other four figures leaned forward, following the imaginary line being drawn by their commanding officer as he traced a route toward the unexplored valley of the Little Bighorn River. They strained to see in the soft, orange glow of the coal oil lamp suspended from the single tent pole as it sputtered.

  “We are to go it alone into that unexplored wilderness?” expostulated a small, chubby man of middle years who stood directly across the field table from the lieutenant colonel. There was apprehension in his voice.

  “This is unprecedented,” continued the chubby man. “We may as well be chasing a Will o’ the Wisp.”

  “Who asked for your opinion?” was the response of the commanding officer, whose steely blue eyes bore into the doubtful officer.

  Custer’s eyes narrowed into slits to better focus his sight in the wavering lantern light as he looked back down upon the map which lay before them. He explained the order of march and described with some detail the lay of the land into which they were going. This information had been provided to him by his Indian scouts, which he used to embellish the rudimentary map they surrounded.

  “By Jove!” uttered the older, clean shaven man to Custer’s left. “We will be entering unexplored territory, and can name various mountains and ridges after the officers who stand about this table.”

  A sharp glance from the commanding officer muted any further utterance from the Army captain. The tall blond man stepped back from the table as he changed the subject from the map to what he expected of his key officers. He seemed to be nervous, unable to focus his train of thought as he continued with the order.

  “It is my desire to impress upon you the necessity of following my orders implicitly; there will be no trumpet calls, except in cases of most dire urgency. Extraordinary orders are to be cleared with me personally. Riding at the front of the column, I shall elect upon which site to set camp, and when to break the same…”

  The officers in the roomy tent were uneasy; uncertainties of plunging into the unknown gave rise to gnawing questions that had to be asked. Thomas Custer, the former general’s younger brother waited until the order was complete, and was the first to ask a question. Thomas glanced at his companions, whose eyes were focused on their host. Their common sense might have deterred them from plunging headlong into the unknown, but potential charges of desertion made them follow orders. He looked to his older brother as he postulated the question.

  “How far do we march tomorrow? The horses are worn and the men exhausted. At some point we need to ease up the pace at which we’re going. At this rate the 7th will be spent before we make contact.”

  Custer sat down on his cot, removing his boots. He looked haggard and older than his 36 years. Although a physically fit and vigorous man at 36, he suffered from a number of ailments. He endured short-windedness from numerous respiratory complications, and suffered from shingles, and incapac
itating migraine headaches. An infection of gonorrhea had plagued him since his West Point days as a cadet.

  “Rest easy, men. I’ll answer all your questions. Tom, we will push as far and as fast as we can tomorrow. Crook is probably in contact with them now, or will be by tomorrow. I have it on good word that there are a large number of hostiles, and Crook is going to need our help or else risk high casualties. Does that answer your question?”

  Unbeknownst to Army Headquarters, General Crook’s offensive had been defeated in a six hour battle extending over a three mile front. Rather than pressing onward into Big Sky Country, Crook cited depleted ammunition and supplies as the primary reason to not pursue the Sioux and Cheyenne. Doubtful of surviving another attack, he withdrew to an area near Sheridan, Wyoming. Crook remained there impotently for seven weeks awaiting supplies, licking his wounds like a whipped dog.

  An up and coming Sioux warrior whose star was on the rise had orchestrated the defeat of Crook, which would inflict cataclysmic repercussions on Custer. The painted Crazy Horse, a charismatic and gifted leader flushed with triumph, was rushing with thousands of warriors to link up with the venerable Sitting Bull, who had predicted their victory. Crazy Horse wore no bonnet, nor did he wear paint on his forehead. He wore a yellow lightning bolt down the left side of his face. He would dampen white talc and paint hailstones on vulnerable parts of his body and in conjunction with proper medicine he believed himself bulletproof.

  Crazy Horse was a veteran of many battles with the US Army, being present at the battle of Platte Bridge, and Red Buttes, as well as the Fetterman Massacre, and at the Wagon Box fight. He was a shirt wearer, who had been stripped of this title in disgrace for sleeping with another man’s wife. Although he didn’t wear the shirt in battle, he had earned the right to wear it; it was a symbol of honor, important to have at ceremonial gatherings. The war shirt was unique to the owner, and decorated with beads, bones and small bells which made a stunning display of sight and sound at the war dances. Crazy Horse never forgave the cuckolded husband. Despite this stain upon his reputation, never before had the forces of the Sioux shown such discipline and cohesion as they had under the command of Crazy Horse.

  The amulets and feathered headdresses were meticulously blessed by Sitting Bull, making the wearer believe he was bullet proof. Sitting Bull was the Hunkpapa Lakota holy man who the chiefs looked to for wisdom, guidance, and sorcery. In 1875 Sitting Bull and the Cheyenne medicine man White Bull, along with their combined tribes came together for the Sun Dance. The magic was enhanced by the self-mutilation of Sitting Bull, in which he cut off one hundred pieces of flesh from his thickly muscled arms to offer as sacrifice to his deities, deities spoken of only in hushed whispers inside darkened tepees. Witkokaga the Befooler would be pulled out of vast distances over nameless gulfs. Gulfs that transcended time and space. Witkokaga the Befooler, the Shapeshifter, Wood Nymph, Demoness, High Priestess: Witkokaga was all of these things and many more, but for the goddess to answer the priest who summoned her, there would be a heavy price. A heavy price to pay for the Holy Man who summoned her.

  Sitting Bull’s combat experience lent itself to the dual role of a chief; he saw numerous actions in Red Cloud’s War. He had led almost continual attacks on wagon trains of immigrants, surveying parties and forts, such as Forts Berthold, Stevenson and Buford. But it was Sitting Bull’s magic that temporarily halted the progress of the railroad penetration into tribal lands. Through the use of horrific human sacrifices of captive immigrants he created The Panic of 1873. This financial crisis triggered an economic depression in North America and Europe that had repercussions for the next twenty years. Thousands of Native American fighting men were being blessed by Sitting Bull, White Bull and medicine men who possessed less powerful magic, such as Black Elk, who was a twelve year old prodigy and second cousin to Crazy Horse.

  It was only the braves who violated the myriad stipulations inherent to the magic that seemed to be blasted out of their saddles, to die horribly as they were drug behind their mounts with a foot hung in a stirrup. Stirrups of saddles atop horses that differed profoundly from those of the cavalry sent to engage their riders. The much smaller Indian ponies were of mixed origins, having pedigree in the Arabian breeds brought over to Spain during the Muslim invasion. Later, these horses were cross bred with Barb and Andalusian stock.

  “Ah, yes, General, I have no further questions, for now.” Thomas saw that several of the other men had resumed looking at the map.

  Reno was the next to speak. He was ill at ease with Custer’s unusual demeanor. Oval faced with a straight nose, underneath which resided a neatly trimmed moustache, Major Marcus Reno was a pudgy man, growing stout in middle age.

  “Sir, McDougal is only now arriving with the pack train. He is constantly far behind us, and I think this endangers us all, in the event we make contact with a large war party. Perhaps I could suggest someone else for the job.”

  Custer stood barefoot, and walked to a pewter basin and began washing his hands, then taking a wash cloth, began wiping the trail dust from his face and eyes.

  “McDougal has a hard task. He’s doing as good as, and probably better than, anyone else would. He pushes his men and animals hard, and doesn’t take any shit. What I’ll do is have him leave ahead of us in the morning. Detach two of your squads to give him additional security. When we pass him, your squads will reattach with your element. When we make camp tomorrow, you will go further ahead with Bloody Knife and get an eye for what’s out there. Terry has a high degree of confidence in your ability to assess the lay of the land. Then I mean to send Varnum far in advance and won’t have discourse with him as soon as I’d like. What else? Ask away.”

  “Sir, I have not another question, and your orders merit admiration,” ejaculated Reno, in a sycophantic tone.

  The import of Major Reno’s response was not missed by the Boy General. And after a pause, Custer responded with pent up hostility which he had hidden from Reno, but which he now set free. He turned on Reno, his light complexioned skin turning red with restrained fury. This could be seen in the unsteady lantern light as the wick grew shorter. The uncertain light served to highlight the shadows and exaggerate the surly expressions of the general’s face as he spoke.

  “General Terry expressly insisted that you conduct this reconnaissance. That’s the only reason you have the mission, instead of me. You had better give me an accurate assessment of what lies ahead,” continued Custer.

  There was tense silence in the tent for a moment, then it was broken by the liquid sound of water being wrung from the bath cloth as the droplets rained back into the basin.

  “Or I will have your ass! Do you understand me, Major Reno?”

  Reno’s heart palpitated and the palms of his hands itched as he stood to attention and responded, “Yes, sir!”

  Custer removed his shirt and began cleaning his arms with the washcloth, then his armpits. He immersed the cloth into the already brown water and wrung the sweat and grime from the rag, then began cleaning his lean, muscular chest with it.

  “What about you, Captain? You look like you have something special on your mind.”

  Captain Benteen studied the man before him with contempt.

  “Nope, Lt. Colonel,” he said with emphasis, omitting the respectful title of General, which he knew Custer craved.

  “I understand very well,” continued Benteen, taking advantage of Custer’s hurt ego. Benteen exploited the barb, sinking it in and twisting it like a knife. The captain, seeking to open the wound even more, pressed his attack. “We wouldn’t want Ol’ Varnum to get too far ahead, now would we? I’d hate to see him face overwhelming odds and no one be around to help.”

  The brown bath cloth was immersed into the water again, and re-emerged once more. The droplets of water falling back into the bowl were all that could be heard in the deafening silence that followed. Custer wrung the filthy water from it and washed the sweat from his private parts as he spoke to Benteen.
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  “Yes, you do have a valid concern, don’t you, Captain?”

  Benteen was a talented and experienced officer who had more going against him than not having attended West Point. Years before, he had crossed Custer, embarrassing him in a newspaper column and then calling his bluff openly in front of his officers. As Custer prepared to strike him with a whip, Benteen placed his hand on his service revolver. The result was that Custer backed off, hinting that the topic would be addressed later. And it would be, over and over again. Benteen could never leave the command of Custer, and Custer never allowed Benteen to be promoted. The ongoing personal animosity between the two was known to the whole command, which for the most part disliked both of the individuals.

  Once this campaign is seen to completion, I will soon be president, Custer thought to himself and I will ruin this man. I will see him drummed out of the Army on some trumped up charge.

  The snide address as “Captain” had stung Benteen. The feud between the two officers went back to an incident that had occurred nearly nine years before. The 7th had attacked Cheyenne Chief Black Kettle’s Southern winter camp on the Washita River in the Oklahoma Territory. Black Kettle’s camp was the westernmost of a formidable string of villages consisting of Cheyenne, Arapaho, Kiowa, Comanche, and even Apache bands, running nearly twenty miles up the Washita River.

  What had initially started as a punitive expedition to preempt further raiding parties against settlers, turned into a fight for survival against overwhelming odds. Benteen’s close personal friend, Major Joel Elliot, along with twenty men, had been abandoned and left behind by an unnerved Custer. Elliot’s detachment had been butchered and many in the 7th never forgave Custer. Benteen, in particular, bitterly hated Custer for this action.

  “Yellow Hair! They call him! Thought Frederick Benteen to himself. Yellow as piss! That is what that dog is! He felt the blood rushing to his ears as he fought down the urge to talk back, to insult. The repetitive splashing of the soiled rag into the bowl of filthy water distracted Benteen, as he became aware for the first time of how filthy he himself was. Damned West Pointers! How I hate them! How I hate them all! His mental rage restrained behind his lips in the form of a scowl as the water splashed in the basin. ”Pilate washed his hands, too.” Muttered Benteen, suddenly alarmed that he had spoken aloud, and preparing himself for the response he knew would come.