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

Following the lieutenant, those men who had volunteered to flush the hostiles crouched forward more in a flurry of bravery and energy than in any good sense. Another barrage of shots from the ravine tore through the soldiers’ ranks. Private Edward Kennedy of C Troop, Fifth Cavalry, bellowed like a gutted hog as he went down, hit in both legs, most of one calf blown away and spurting blood in gouts. Nearby Private John M. Stevenson of Company I, Second Cavalry, dropped his carbine and wrapped both hands around his left ankle, blood oozing between his fingers as he pitched to the stream bottom, groaning in pain.

Along the side of the ridge at the top of the ravine some of the spectators pitched some burning brands into the brushy depths, but the torches had no effect on the hostiles, landing instead on damp ground where they were soon to snuff themselves out with no dry tinder to catch and hold the flames.

When more of the curious and angry onlookers edged forward, Crook ordered them back while Lieutenant Clark re-formed his men and prepared for a second rush of the ravine. From a protected lip near the mouth of the coulee, Clark had his volunteers fire three point-blank volleys into the brush. Each round of shots was followed by a renewed wail from the women and even more pitiful screams from the children.

“Call your men back, Lieutenant!” Crook finally ordered, his face showing the strain of frustration.

Clark’s volunteers gladly withdrew from their suicidal mission.

As the soldiers backed away from harm’s way, the general hollered at Grouard. “Frank—how many women and children do you suppose are in there?”

“No way I can say, General.”

At that moment close to a hundred soldiers swarmed off the slopes and into the creek bottom, rushing the mouth of the ravine, seething with their own anger. Lieutenant Clark was forced to stand, exposing himself to a bullet in the back from the hostiles in the coulee as he railed at the enraged soldiers, attempting to physically restrain some of those at the head of the mob.

On the nearby hillside Crook cried out like a scalded cat, ordering every last one of his officers to regain control of their men.

Lieutenant John Bourke and Captain Samuel Munson of the Ninth Infantry joined in, putting their bodies between the soldiers and the enemy. For fevered minutes it became a free-for-all there on the edge of the coulee, as much a wrestling match as a shouting and cursing fest. For all their stouthearted courage Bourke and Munson were overwhelmed and knocked off their feet, sent sailing into the depths of the ravine, where they landed among some women and children splattered with plenty of mud and blood, all of them screaming like banshees rising right out of the maw of hell at the sudden appearance of the soldiers in their midst.

Surprised and caught off guard, the warriors didn’t have time to turn from where they had been intently watching the mouth of the ravine in time to see the two white men before the pair of officers scrambled up the soft, giving side of the ravine, shrieking for help and hands to pull them to safety.

“Bejaysus, Johnny!” Donegan grumbled as he hauled back, yanking Bourke up the muddy, sodden side of the ravine.

The lieutenant landed squarely on Seamus as the screams of the women and children died behind them.

“Thanks, Irishman,” Bourke huffed breathlessly, his face smeared with mud as he crawled off Donegan. “I owe you for that.”

“Aye, Johnny—you do owe me,” Seamus said, grinning. “Once we ride back to Fetterman, I’ll expect your gratitude in a whiskey glass.”

^*The Plainsmen Series, Vol. 5, Devil’s Backbone.

^* United States Indian Department

Chapter 41

9 September 1876

The lieutenant called Bourke was more than muddy from his spill into the ravine; from what Baptiste Pourier could see, the soldier was shaking like a wet dog when the Irishman pulled him out of danger. As far as Bat knew, the wide-eyed, frightened young officer had never been that close to the enemy before—ever. Not even when the Sioux nearly surrounded and captured him on horseback during Crook’s battle on the Rosebud.

As he crouched there beside Frank Grouard waiting to see just what the soldiers and their officers would do next, Pourier heard Crook suspend the assault on the ravine. Then Crook called for Bat and Grouard. The half-breeds crawled back from the mouth of the ravine, turned, and headed over to see what the general had on his mind.

“Talk to them,” Crook said, a little desperation creeping into his voice. “See if you can get them to understand I don’t want to have to kill every last one of them.”

“It ain’t gonna do no good,” Grouard grumbled. “Them are Sioux in there.”

“Frank’s probably right,” Pourier agreed. Everything he knew of the Lakota told him they wouldn’t give up. “They sooner die than come out.”

“I asked you to give it a try,” Crook repeated, this time glaring at the two scouts. “Do I make myself understood?”