However daring the pen, it cannot but falter when attempting to picture
the events of those hours of victorious defeat. Out from the scene of
carnage there crept forth no white survivor to recount the heroic deeds
of the Seventh Cavalry. No voice can ever repeat the story in its
fulness, no eye penetrate into the heart of its mystery. Only in
motionless lines of dead, officers and men lying as they fell while
facing the foe; in emptied carbines strewing the prairie; in scattered,
mutilated bodies; in that unbroken ring of dauntless souls whose
lifeless forms lay clustered about the figure of their stricken chief
on that slight eminence marking the final struggle--only in such tokens
can we trace the broken outlines of the historic picture. The actors
in the great tragedy have passed beyond either the praise or the blame
of earth. With moistened eyes and swelling hearts, we vainly strive to
imagine the whole scene. This, at least, we know: no bolder, nobler
deed of arms was ever done.
It was shortly after two o'clock in the afternoon when that compact
column of cavalrymen moved silently forward down the concealing
coulée toward the more open ground beyond. Custer's plan was
surprise, the sudden smiting of that village in the valley from the
rear by the quick charge of his horsemen. From man to man the
whispered purpose travelled down the ranks, the eager troopers greeting
the welcome message with kindling eyes. It was the old way of the
Seventh, and they knew it well. The very horses seemed to feel the
electric shock. Worn with hard marches, bronzed by long weeks of
exposure on alkali plains, they advanced now with the precision of men
on parade, under the observant eyes of the officers. Not a canteen
tinkled, not a sabre rattled within its scabbard, as at a swift,
noiseless walk those tried warriors of the Seventh pressed forward to
strike once more their old-time foes.
Above them a few stray, fleecy clouds flecked the blue of the arching
sky, serving only to reveal its depth of color. On every side extended
the rough irregularity of a region neither mountain nor plain, a land
of ridges and bluffs, depressions and ravines. Over all rested the
golden sunlight of late June; and in all the broad expanse there was no
sign of human presence.
With Custer riding at the head of the column, and only a little to the
rear of the advance scouts, his adjutant Cook, together with a
volunteer aide, beside him, the five depleted troops filed resolutely
forward, dreaming not of possible defeat. Suddenly distant shots were
heard far off to their left and rear, and deepening into a rumble,
evidencing a warm engagement. The interested troopers lifted their
heads, listening intently, while eager whispers ran from man to man
along the closed files.