Читать книгу Still Standing: Surviving Custer's Last Battle - Part 1 - Judith Gotwald - Страница 8

Things were quiet at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point in the spring of 1861. This time of year was usually bustling with activity as a new class prepared for graduation and the acceptance of their first military commissions. But this was an unusual year. War was expected to break out any day and the oldest cadets had been fast-tracked to graduation and put on the train to Washington, D.C. without the usual pomp and ceremony. Only one cadet remained behind.

“I must hand it to you, Lieutenant Custer. It’s not every West Point graduate who manages to face court martial before accepting his first commission.” Sergeant Baxter said.

Baxter was one of the few soldiers remaining on West Point grounds. Only Custer stood between him and joining other young officers in Washington. He was resentful and did not try to hide it.

Baxter was in charge of carrying out Custer’s punishment. He had watched as the young soldier paced in full uniform and arms for four hours. Baxter thought about the exciting possibilities awaiting his fellow soldiers while he stood guard over Custer. Baxter had spent every second musing about whom was being punished, him or Custer!

But Custer was a likable enough fellow and the two could sneak in a good conversation while they munched on some lunch before Custer resumed his forced march.

“My current unfortunate circumstances are not something I’m proud of, Sergeant,” Custer replied. “But then, I cannot admit to being sorry. I thought I was doing a couple of good boys a favor, that’s all. They aren’t bad fellows. Sometimes a good fight can make a couple of spirited fellows the best of friends.”

“Four years at West Point and you didn’t get the message that soldiering is serious business.”

“Well, Baxter, ‘Serious’ and I have never quite gotten along,” Custer rambled. “Life is just too short to bother with serious details. I’m just for getting the job done. Those two cadets were well on their way to settling their own problems even if it was with a scuffle. Ten more minutes and they would have been patting each other on the back as friends. I could hardly take seriously something that wasn’t very serious.”

“All the same, you’re looking at real trouble. The Major has had it in for you since that practical joke you played a few months ago, arranging to have the entire class march out of the classroom when you asked the Spanish teacher to translate “Class is dismissed!”

“Oh that,” Custer said, trying not to break out laughing. “That was nothing. The Major was just putting up a front. I heard the officers were having a good laugh over it the next day.”

“All the same, it got you noticed and not in a good way either. You’ve been living on borrowed time, Second Lieutenant Custer. If you had been awarded all the demerits you actually deserve, you would not have survived your first year! I, for one, thought you had sunk your ship when you cooked one of the officer’s chickens,” Baxter added.

Custer thought back to the juicy feast he had cooked on the fire in the dormitory. He had captured one of the chickens kept in the yard of one of the officers.

“Thought I might be in trouble myself,” Custer added with a laugh. Must have been providence that the trail of chicken feathers led somewhere else!”

“Lucky for you! If even one chicken feather had been found in your fireplace, you’d have been out on your West Point ear. How did that happen, anyway? You have not been known for tidiness!”

Custer laughed in admission of his reputation and tried to change the subject.

“Nonsense,” Custer determined. “This will all blow over, you’ll see. There’s a war to fight and pretty soon even the brass will realize that failing to report two cadets engaged in fisticuffs won’t measure up to what Washington needs—and needs now. The Army needs me. My only regret is that this is keeping me from contributing to the cause.”

“Washington needs you? With your record?” Baxter said with a laugh and bringing the conversation back to Custer.

“My record isn’t so bad if you look close enough,” he continued. “I may have been last in my class, but my standing might have risen if half the class hadn’t left to join the South!”

“I certainly don’t want to short-change you,” Baxter said with a grin. “You would have been first in your class—Southern boys included—if you count demerits,” Baxter interjected snidely.

“Oh, enough. I got plenty good grades in the things that count. There isn’t a better horseman at West Point and every officer here knows that,” Custer defended.

The mention of the Southern boys saddened Custer. He had made best friends with the Southern cadets. In some ways, they had a lot in common. Most of them were good riders and those from the newer states were likely to be farmboys like Custer, fighting their way up the established social ladder topped by the appointees from rich families in the Eastern states.

“Well, you managed to get into West Point. It remains to be seen if you ever get out of West Point!”

They both laughed.

“How’s that girl of yours?” Baxter asked.

“Libbie?”

“Yes, the judge’s daughter.”

“Still a bit out of reach,” Custer sighed. “The judge still thinks I’m not good enough for her.”

“Sitting in the West Point Guard House, isn’t going to win you any points,” Baxter egged him.

“He’ll never hear of this. I’ll be out of here before you know it. When I get my commission, things will change plenty fast,” Custer said matter of factly. “George Armstrong Custer, the blacksmith and farmer’s son from little Monroe, Michigan, will soon be a decorated war hero. The judge will take notice. All of Monroe will take notice. The judge will be sorry he judged me so harshly and so will Mary Holland’s father for that matter,” he added with just a hint of bitterness.

+ + +

Armstrong, or Autie, as he was commonly called, had gotten over his crush on Mary Holland. He had not yet let go of the way it had ended. He knew that he had never overcome her father’s disapproval—not for anything he had done but to which societal class he had been born.

“Are you still pining for Mary after four years?” Baxter asked. The unfortunate sergeant had drawn guardhouse duty and was overseeing George Armstrong Custer’s punishment for failing to stop a minor brawl among the underclassmen at West Point.

The rest of Custer’s class had been rushed toward graduation and had already boarded trains bound for Washington, D.C., and assignments in Lincoln’s Army. Custer still had another four hours of marching before he could follow them. He intended to make the best of it.

“Nah, Baxter, Libbie’s all the woman I’ll ever need. I haven’t given Mary Holland—or any other woman, for that matter—a second’s thought since I cured Libbie’s headache.”

“Something tells me there’s a story behind that,” Baxter said.

“Right you are. You see, I had yet to meet Libbie, although I had seen plenty of her about town. Words cannot describe her beauty.” He paused for a moment as he envisioned her.

“You see, there was no one to give George Armstrong Custer, the farm boy, a proper introduction to Elizabeth Bacon, the judge’s daughter. So I watched from a distance, as often as I could, until an opportunity presented itself.”

“What opportunity might that be, I’m afraid to ask,” interjected Baxter.

One day, I saw Miss Libbie in an inn. I was there on business. My brother Tom and I were delivering fresh vegetables to the kitchen as we often did in the summertime. Libbie was sitting by herself at a table, looking somewhat miserable. I dared Tom to talk to her. My little brother Tom is an affable fellow. The girls never mind talking to Tom.

Tom approached her table and asked if there was anything he could bring to her. “You look right miserable,” he added.

Libbie was in no mood for pleasantries. “Please go away,”she told Tom. “My head aches so that I feel like it will burst.”

Custer told the story, feigning Libbie’s voice, much to Baxter’s amusement.

“I can’t just leave you here in such distress,” Tom told her. He reached into his pocket and found only a firecracker. Tom always had something like that in his pockets.

“Here’s a little something to lift your spirits,” Tom said and walked away.

Libbie accepted the firecracker gift and played with it in her hand for a minute. Then she stood it in a small jar of toothpicks sitting on the table and returned to her misery.

Now it was my turn. I was never much of a smoker, but I had a cigar in my pocket. I lit it and walked over to Libbie’s table. I tried talking to her but could get nowhere. Her head was in her hands and she barely looked up. I made sure my cigar touched the fuse on the firecracker, and then both Tom and I retreated on the double toward the kitchen.

Sure enough! The big bang came seconds later. Toothpicks flew across the inn. The proprietor ran out thinking a fight had broken out, but there was Libbie Bacon, just sitting there among the toothpicks. I heard her tell the innkeeper, “Well, at least it cured my headache.”

“That’s some story, Custer. It’s a wonder she ever spoke to you again,” Baxter said.

“Someday I’ll tell her who played that prank on her. Meanwhile I doubt she’s put two and two together.” Custer reasoned, his self-pity quickly returning.

“Her father has made it difficult for us. I’m just not good enough for his daughter. Judge Bacon fixed it so we would be apart and come the start of the war, he’ll be regretting his interference.”

Custer sopped up the last of his gravy with a bit of bread. One good thing about being in the guardhouse, the military rules of mealtime etiquette would go unnoticed. He unconsciously enjoyed resorting to his farmhouse ways.

“So, Second Lieutenant Custer, before I send you out to march the barracks for the next four hours or so, tell me more about this girl.”

“It will be my pleasure, Baxter. Libbie Bacon is one of a kind. Prettiest gal in Michigan. Ask anyone. It was absolute fate that brought us together.”

“Fate! Has fate told her father yet?”

“I don’t think so. I’m still writing letters to her and addressing them to her cousin. But wait ’til the war gets going. Things are going to change for George Armstrong Custer.”

“When, was the last time you saw her?”

“Last saw Libbie at holiday break…,” Custer trailed off.

Custer could talk about Libbie endlessly. He enjoyed talking, and Libbie was his favorite subject. It was not lost on him that while he rattled on, his punishment was delayed. Again, a double benefit. He got to talk about his Libbie while he avoided the consequences of his actions. “I may be the one sitting in the guardhouse,” Custer thought, “but I’ve got Baxter outflanked.”