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

About 100 yards from the village is a little ravine, in which a band of seven warriors and fifteen women and children were safely lodged in cavernous rocks, and it was in trying to dislodge them that Mills lost his killed and most of his wounded. General Crook desired to save the women and children and, by means of Gruard’s interpreting, a parley ensued, and three warriors came out, one chief named American Horse being mortally wounded. Before this parley was effected, however, Frank White, a citizen, was shot through the heart, and privates Kennedy and McKenan of company F, 6th Cavalry, wounded. About twenty minutes past four o’clock this afternoon sudden picket firing sprung up, beginning on Colonel Mason’s front, resulting in the wounding of Sergeant Schruber, company K, and private Dorm, company F, Fifth cavalry. It proved to be the result of reinforcements received from Crazy Horse’s band and a running attack began all around the circle, but troops were quickly thrown out and the enemy driven off in every direction. The latter got about a dozen horses too poor to get in to camp back a mile on the line of march.

The village was thoroughly ransacked and the spoils divided around. Colonel Mills and his men got the ponies … Much ammunition and many guns were found in the lodges, and all evidence is to the effect that the Indians were prepared for the winter … It is regretted that other of the villages near by were not surprised and destroyed, but this affair demonstrated the good policy of a stern chase after Indians, even with foot soldiers, who come in here to the relief of the cavalry, as their part in the play gives them renewed vigor and esprit.

No, his name wasn’t there. Not printed among the others as she reread the list of the dead. Not even among the wounded. Reassured, her heart hammering as it hadn’t in so long, Sam continued down the page.

LATER—September 10th—There was a little picket firing throughout last night, and this morning after the command was on march a number of Indians came down on the rear of the column, but were met with a warm reception by Captain Sumner’s battalion of Fifth cavalry, who covered the enemy in the ravines, killed several and disabled others. Privates Foster, company F, privates Wadden, Company M, and Geo. Clantier, company D, were wounded. The command marched fifteen miles to-day toward the Hills, bringing all the sick and wounded on twelve litters. Medical director Clements amputated the right leg of lieutenant Van Letwitz last evening and private Kennedy died of his wounds. No other amputations or deaths are likely to occur. American Horse died last night. Most of the captives are brought along, a few squaws being left back by the General to advise the hostile bands to go into the agency and behave themselves and all will be well with them. Colonel Mills, Lieutenant Cubbard and Frank Gruard go through to the hills tomorrow with a view to secure future supplies.

Lying on her back, holding the paper right above her face, Sam licked her lips thoughtfully, her eyes searching for some word of him. Maybe she had been wrong all along thinking he had gone with the column. Maybe he had stayed behind with the wagons up north at that camp General Crook established before he fought the Sioux on Rosebud Creek. No, Sam decided. Seamus would have come back here with one of the supply trains if he wasn’t going to stay on to fight with the rest of Crook’s troops.

So again she read the casualties. Despite the fact that she could not find his name anywhere, Sam could not rid herself of that lump in her throat, that cold hole in her chest. She tried to convince herself that there was no way to know for sure—maybe the correspondent who wrote that story simply could not list every one of the civilians who were wounded. Scouts were civilians, after all.

And maybe that’s why Seamus’s name wasn’t printed. He could have been wounded! He could be on one of those twelve litters. Bleeding and in pain. But being a civilian—

“Samantha!”

At that first shriek of her name she rolled onto her side and struggled to sit up. She heard steps, loud footsteps clattering on the stairs.

“Samantha!” It was Elizabeth Burt’s voice. “Look out your window!”

Suddenly the woman stood framed in the narrow, open doorway, having flung open the door, the knob still clenched in her hand. She pointed to the solitary window. “Samantha Donegan—do as I say! Go look out that window!”

Dread gripped Sam as surely as had the morning sickness that plagued her the first three months of this pregnancy. She fought for air as Mrs. Burt helped drag her from the side of the narrow bed, across the carpet Samantha had sewn from discarded burlap bags, right to the window.

“There! Look! Can’t you see, dear?”