THE BATTLE WITH THE INDIANS
Corbin had gone with the detachment circling to the left, and
"California Joe" was with the other in the valley, but Hamlin remained
with the chief. About them was profound silence, the men standing
beside their horses. There was nothing to do but wait, every nerve at
high tension. The wintry air grew colder, but the troopers were not
allowed to make the slightest noise, not even to swing their arms or
stamp their feet. After the last detachment swept silently out into
the night, there still remained four hours until daylight. No one knew
what had occurred; the various troops had melted away into the dark and
disappeared. No word, no sound had come back. They could only wait in
faith on their comrades. The men were dismounted, each one holding his
own horse in instant readiness for action. Not a few, wearied with the
day's work, while still clinging to their bridles, wrapped the capes of
their overcoats over their heads and threw themselves down in the snow,
and fell asleep.
At the first sight of dawn Hamlin was sent down the line to arouse
them. Overcoats were taken off, and strapped to the saddles, carbines
loaded and slung, pistols examined and loosened in their holsters,
saddles recinched, and curb chains carefully looked after. This was
the work of but a few moments, the half-frozen soldiers moving with an
eagerness that sent the hot blood coursing fiercely through numbed
limbs. To the whispered command to mount, running from lip to lip
along the line, the men sprang joyously into their saddles, their
quickened ears and eager eyes ready for the signal.
Slowly, at a walk, Custer led them forward toward the crest of the
hill, where the Osage guide watched through the spectral light of dawn
the doomed village beneath. To the uplift of a hand the column halted,
and Custer and his bugler went forward. A step behind crouched the
Sergeant, grasping the reins of three horses, while a little to the
right, beyond the sweep of the coming charge, waited the regimental
band.
Peering over the crest, the leader saw through the dim haze, scarcely
five hundred yards distant, dotting the north bank of the Washita for
more than a quarter of a mile, the Indian village. There was about it
scarcely a sign of human life. From the top of two or three of the
tepees light wreaths of smoke floated languidly out on the wintry air,
and beyond the pony herd was restlessly moving. Even as he gazed, half
convinced that the Indians had been warned, the village deserted, the
sharp report of a rifle rang out in the distance.
Hamlin saw the General spring upright, his lips uttering the sharp
command, "_Sound the charge!_" Even while the piercing blare of the
bugle cut the frosty air, there was a jingle of steel as the troopers
behind spurred forward. Almost at the instant the three dismounted men
were in saddle. Custer waved his hand at the band, shouted "Play!" and
to the rollicking air of "Garry Owen," the eager column of horsemen
broke into a mad gallop, and with ringing cheers and mighty rush, swept
over the ridge straight down into the startled village. To Hamlin, at
Custer's side, reins in his teeth, a revolver in either hand, what
followed was scarcely a memory. It remained afterward as a blurred,
indistinct picture of action, changing so rapidly as to leave no
definite outlines. He heard the answering call of three bugles; the
deafening thud of horses' hoofs; the converging cheers of excited
troopers; the mingling ring of revolver shots; a sharp order cleaving
the turmoil; the wild neigh of a stricken horse; the guttural yells of
Indians leaping from their tepees into the open. Then he was in the
heart of the village, firing with both hands; before him, about him,
half-naked savages fighting desperately, striking at him with knives,
firing from the shelter of tepees, springing at him with naked hands in
a fierce effort to drag him from the saddle. It was all confusion,
chaos, a babble of noise, his eyes blinded by glint of steel and glare
of fire. The impetus of their rush carried them irresistibly forward;
over and through tents they rode, across the bodies of living and dead;
men reeled and fell from saddle; riderless horses swept on unguided;
revolvers emptied were flung aside, and hands closed hard on sabre
hilts. Foot by foot, yard by yard, they drove the wedge of their
charge, until they swept through the fringe of tepees, out into the
stampeded pony herd.
The bugle rang again, and they turned, facing back, and charged once
more, no longer in close formation, but every trooper fighting as he
could. Complete as the surprise had been, the men of the Seventh
realized now the odds against them, the desperate nature of the fight.
Out from the sheltering tepees poured a flood of warriors; rifles in
hand they fought savagely. The screams of women and children, the
howling and baying of Indian dogs, the crack of rifles, the wild war
cries, all mingled into an indescribable din. Black Kettle was almost
the first to fall, but other chiefs rallied their warriors, and fought
like fiends, yielding ground only by inches, until they found shelter
amid the trees, and under the river bank.
In the cessation of hand to hand fighting the detachments came
together, reforming their ranks, and reloading their arms. Squads of
troopers fired the tepees, and gathering their prisoners under guard,
hastened back to the ranks again at the call of the bugle. By now
Custer comprehended his desperate position, and the full strength of
his Indian foes. Fresh hordes were before him, already threatening
attack. Hamlin, bleeding from two flesh wounds, rode in from the left
flank where he had been borne by the impetus of the last charge, with
full knowledge of the truth. Their attack had been centred on Black
Kettle's village, but below, a mile or two apart, were other villages,
representing all the hostile tribes of the southern plains. Already
these were hurrying up to join those rallying warriors under shelter of
the river bank. Even from where Custer stood at the outskirts of the
devastated village he could distinguish the warbonnets of Cheyennes,
Arapahoes, Kiowas and Comanches mingled together in display of savagery.
His decision was instant, that of the impetuous cavalry leader, knowing
well the inherent strength and weakness of his branch of the service.
He could not hope to hold his position before such a mass of the enemy,
with the little force at his disposal. His only chance of escape, to
come off victor, was to strike them so swiftly and with such force as
to paralyze pursuit. Already the reinforcing warriors were sweeping
forward to attack, two thousand strong, led fiercely by Little Raven,
an Arapahoe; Santanta, a Kiowa, and Little Rock, a Cheyenne.
Dismounting his men he prepared for a desperate resistance, although
the troopers' ammunition was running low. Suddenly, crashing through
the very Indian lines, came a four-mule wagon. The quartermaster was
on the box, driving recklessly. Only Hamlin and a dozen other men were
still in saddle. Without orders they dashed forward, spurring maddened
horses into the ranks of the Indians, hurling them left and right,
firing into infuriated red faces, and slashing about with dripping
sabres. Into the lane thus formed sprang the tortured mules, sweeping
on with their precious load of ammunition. Behind closed in the squad
of rescuers, struggling for their lives amid a horde of savages. Then,
with one wild shout, the dismounted troopers leaped to the rescue,
hurling back the disorganized Indian mass, and dragging their comrades
from the rout. It was hand to hand, clubbed carbine against knife and
spear, a fierce, breathless struggle. Behind eager hands ripped open
the ammunition cases; cartridges were jammed into empty guns, and a
second line of fighting men leaped forward, their front tipped with
fire.
Dragged from his horse at the first fierce shock, his revolver empty,
his broken sabre a jagged piece of steel, Hamlin hacked his way through
the first line of warriors, and found refuge behind a dead horse.
Here, with two others, he made a stand, gripping a carbine. It was all
the work of a moment. About him were skurrying figures, infuriated
faces, threatening weapons, yells of agony, cries of rage. The three
fought like fiends, standing back to back, and striking blindly at
leaping bodies and clutching hands. Out of the mist, the mad confusion
of breathless combat, one face alone seemed to confront the Sergeant.
At first it was a delirium; then it became a reality. He saw the
shagginess of a buffalo coat, the gleam of a white face. All else
vanished in a fierce desire to kill. He leaped forward, crazed with
sudden hate, hurled aside the naked bodies in the path, and sent his
whirling carbine stock crashing at Dupont. Even as it struck he fell,
clutched by gripping hands, and over all rang out the cheer of the
charging troopers. Hamlin staggered to his knees, spent and
breathless, and smiled grimly down at the dead white man in that ring
of red.
It was over, yet that little body of troopers dared not remain. About
them still, although demoralized and defeated, circled an overwhelming
mass of savages capable of crushing them to death, when they again
rallied and consolidated. Custer did the only thing possible. Turning
loose the pony herd, gathering his captives close, he swung his compact
command into marching column. Before the scattered tribes could rally
for a second attack, with flankers out, and skirmishers in advance, the
cavalrymen rode straight down the valley toward the retreating
hostiles. It was a bold and desperate move, the commander's object
being to impress upon the Indian chiefs the thought of his utter
fearlessness, and to create the impression that the Seventh would never
dare such a thing if they did not have a larger force behind. With
flags unfurled, and the band playing, the troopers swept on. The very
mad audacity of the movement struck terror into the hearts of the
warriors, and they broke and fled. As darkness fell the survivors of
the Seventh rode alone, amid the silent desolation of the plains.
Halting a moment for rest under shelter of the river bank, Custer
hastily wrote his report and sent for Hamlin. The latter approached
and stood motionless in the red glare of the single camp-fire. The
impetuous commander glanced up inquiringly.
"Sergeant, I must send a messenger to Camp Supply. Are you fit to go?"
"As much so as any one, General Custer," was the quiet response. "I
have no wounds of consequence."
"Very well. Take the freshest horse in the command, and an Osage
guide. You know the country, but he will be of assistance. I have
written a very brief report; you are to tell Sheridan personally the
entire story. We shall rest here two hours, and then proceed slowly
along the trail. I anticipate no further serious fighting. You will
depart at once."
"Very well, sir," the Sergeant saluted, and turned away, halting an
instant to ask, "You have reported the losses, I presume?"
"Yes, the dead and wounded. There are some missing, who may yet come
in. Major Elliott and fourteen others are still unaccounted for." He
paused. "By the way, Sergeant, while you are with Sheridan, explain to
him who you are--he may have news for you. Good-night, and good luck."
He stood up and held out his hand. In surprise, his eyes suddenly
filling with tears, Hamlin felt the grip of his fingers. Then he
turned, unable to articulate a sentence, and strode away into the night.