Alternate Generals (35 page)

The Features Editor slammed the door behind him, as Clemens rolled his eyes at his new assignment.
Just my luck having to make a heroic legend out of the likes of President George Armstrong Custer. It would have been easier if he had just died with the rest of his men at the hands of Black Kettle's warriors.

Turning his attention to the envelope in front of him, the writer was not surprised to see that it contained a ticket to Washington for what he assumed was to be the Presidential funeral, as well as a hotel reservation slip.

Well, at least it gets me out of the office for a while.

Clemens was used to traveling on the fly. Stopping at the front office only long enough to wheedle some pocket money as an advance against expenses, and then at his furnished rooms for his traveling bags, he was soon southward bound on the train to the nation's capital.

The train to Washington afforded him time for a nap, a few more drinks and an opportunity to read the obituaries that were already appearing in the New York
Herald
, the New York
World
, and the other rags that passed for newspapers. As the porters brought him a new paper after each stop, per his instructions, Clemens began to piece together the information at hand about the quite unexpected assassination of the nation's highest ranking executive.

Custer had been killed by a half-breed Crow scout by the name of Goes Ahead who had served under him during the northern Plains campaign and had in fact, also survived the massacre at the Little Big Horn by arriving with Reno's men after most of the carnage had already occurred. The thought-to-be-crazed Indian had killed the President with a single arrow during a Sunday afternoon picnic reunion of the Custer gang and their wives. Some of the President's former comrades in arms had arranged for some wild west entertainment of which Goes Ahead was supposed to have been a part. The half-breed had unexpectedly opted to use the President as his target of choice, killing Custer with a single shot, before he himself was killed in a barrage of bullets from the President's entourage.

Most of the papers recalled the President's glory days as the youngest brevet brigadier general in the Union army, the victor against all odds at the Little Big Horn, and the Democratic candidate who defeated Ulysses S. Grant's bid for a third term. The facts of his life were mostly from old presidential press releases, and the summation of the assassination had obviously been sanitized by some White House source.

Clemens immediately noticed that none of the papers covered Custer's lackluster years at West Point where he had earned more demerits than any other cadet to date who still had managed to graduate. Equally absent were mention of his court-martials and suspensions from duty, and the rampant corruption in government that had escalated once he entered the White House. All of these appealing facts were absent.

Well, if it ain't in the papers,
Clemens mused,
I guess it's not true,
more than aware of the faults of the man he was now charged with making a legend.
If Grant had won that election or stepped down, things might have been different, but then again, maybe I wouldn't be going to this funeral or exiled from Missouri for that matter.

The last funeral that had earned as much ink had been Grant's, though the papers had been far from kind. The publishing powerhouses focused on the financial disaster that he had left his family in at the time of death by failing to complete his memoirs, the anarchy and corruption that had pervaded his administration, and the alcoholic exploits of his earlier military career. Clemens even remembered a mention of Custer's testifying against his brother at some trial in New York in the former President's obituaries.

I guess that's what happens when you outlive your popularity,
Clemens thought, pausing a moment to write down the memorable line that had just occurred to him in hopes of being able to use it later.,

Another drink, Sam read back his notes,
Maybe Custer was lucky after all, at least as far as newspapers and history are concerned.

Clemens was about to try his luck at another nap before the arrival of the next stop's reading material when the compartment door was opened by the porter who quickly ushered in a new traveler.

"I'm sorry, suh, Mr. Clemens, but the train is getting crowded," the porter apologized.

"That's all right, Armstrong," Clemens replied. "I understand."

"I hope you don't mind the company," the well-dressed dandy replied.

"Not at all," Sam answered with a sly grin as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a cigar, "provided that you aren't worried about stinking up your fancy duds with my cigar smoke."

The dandy thought to himself for a moment, weighing his lack of alternatives, and—much to Sam's chagrin—declared, "Not a problem," and took a seat across from the writer.

Resigned to the company, Sam lit the cigar and set his notes aside.

"Forgive me for being so rude," the dandy said sheepishly. "I should have introduced myself. My name is Autie Reed."

Clemens cocked an eyebrow in recognition.
Custer's nephew who was with him at Little Big Horn; a fortuitous turn of events.

"Sam Clemens," the author offered.

Reed brightened. "The author!" he exclaimed. "My! I just loved
Tom Sawyer
!" Reed quickly softened his tone as if due to embarrassment, and added with a bit of melancholy. "Sorry for the outburst, but I guess you are used to that."

Clemens nodded, wishing that such positive outbursts were more common.

Reed continued. "It's sort of ironic, I guess. I was reading
Tom Sawyer
when I was with my uncle on the Plains, and now I get to meet you on the way to his funeral."

"Sorry for your loss," Clemens said with a perfect touch of false sincerity.

"And the county's," Reed added.

"Of course," Sam replied, hoping that the nephew hadn't noticed that he had rolled his eyes out of reflex after hearing such a stupid platitude.

Reed brightened for a moment and looked up.

"So are you going to write about the funeral?" the nephew said hopefully.

"Something like that."

"Well, I can help you," the nephew replied eagerly. "I know all about my uncle and his heroic exploits. There was never a greater man in the entire history of this great country."

"So I've read," Clemens said guardedly, gesturing towards the newspapers that were strewn about the compartment.

"I was with him at the Little Big Horn when we destroyed Black Kettle's Cheyennes."

"Really," Sam said, taking out his note pad in feigned surprise. "I thought we almost lost that one."

Reed backpedaled slightly. "Well, casualties were high and all, but uncle's plan worked and eventually we routed them." The nephew shrugged, and added, "But I guess you know all about that."

"Maybe," Sam replied slyly, and shrugged in kind. "After all, it was that battle and the notoriety that followed it that led to him being placed on the presidential ballot."

"That was never his intention," Reed said defensively. "He was first and foremost a soldier on a mission, and after that it was simply the will of the people."

. . . and the newspapers and the people who owned them,
Sam thought silently, and then said, "But, of course. Why don't you tell me about your recollections of that day?"

"Sure," Reed replied enthusiastically, then asked, "will you use it for whatever you plan on writing?"

"I reckon I might," the author replied, took a new drag from his cigar, and balanced his note pad for easy access.

"Well, it was June 25, 1876, and the whole Custer gang was there."

"The Custer gang?"

"That's what we called ourselves. Uncle Autie—that's what I called him before he became President—Uncle Tom, Uncle Boston, and Uncle Jim, that's Jim Calhoun not Custer. He's my other uncle."

"And yourself," Clemens added, "Autie Reed, the nephew of the great man."

"Right," Reed confirmed, getting on with the story. "The General . . ."

Clemens held up his hand to interrupt, and asked, "General Terry?"

"No," Reed explained, "I guess I should have said the Colonel since that was his current rank."

"Custer?"

"Right."

"His rank was colonel but you called him 'General'?"

Reed chuckled.

"I know it sounds funny, but we did," Reed continued to explain. "That was his rank in the Civil War."

"But not during the Plains campaign?"

"No."

"He was a colonel."

Reed smiled. "Lieutenant Colonel," he corrected.

Clemens smiled slyly, and said, "I'm glad we got that straight."

"You just have to take that sort of thing for granted in the Seventh Cavalry. Uncle Autie was special. He commanded respect, no matter what his detractors said."

"Like Sherman, Grant, and Hancock," Clemens offered, citing the names of the most vocal of Custer's enemies.

"Yes," Reed confirmed. "Uncle Autie showed them when he got his turn at the head chair."

Clemens decided to redirect the nephew back at his own firsthand account as the writer himself was more than aware of the mudslinging and accusations that had occurred between Custer and his rivals during the election. "You were saying about June 25?"

"Right," Reed agreed, and continued with his story.

"Well, the entire expedition against the Sioux was under the command of Brigadier General Alfred H. Terry who had placed Colonel Custer in charge of our command over Captain Benteen and Major Marcus Reno."

"They weren't part of the Custer gang?"

"Oh, no. Uncle Autie didn't like them much and the feeling was mutual. The General didn't tolerate incompetence, and they held it against him. That's why it was up to my uncles to take the reins of leadership. Everybody else just had to follow orders."

"The General's orders?"

"Exactly," Reed said emphatically. "Now, on that fateful day our scouts had indicated that there was a large group of hostiles along the Little Big Horn River. The other commanders were easily intimidated by this information and would have opposed my uncle's plan to proceed with his attack no matter what his plan was, so he decided not to tell them."

"Benteen and Reno?"

"Right," Reed confirmed. "Uncle knew that any discussion would lead to opposition, so therefore he proceeded with his plan in a manner that would provide them with no opportunity to get in his way."

Clemens gave a quick smile and a nod as if in agreement to the soundness of Custer's decision.

"We all rode together to that fateful ridge, holding back the Cheyenne and Sioux who believed that by sheer attrition and greater numbers they would take the day, not realizing that the secondary commands under Benteen and Reno would come around in support. Though we lost close to two hundred men on that bloody ridge, we held on, dispersing their greater numbers with the arrival of the fresh horses and men and succeeded in driving them off until we emerged victorious."

"The casualties were high?"

"Very."

"And Benteen and Reno led their men to the ridge in the nick of time?"

Reed smiled, and said, "Not exactly. Tom and Boston led their commands in the place of Reno and Benteen. Both of those men were delayed, and arrived later, once victory had been secured."

"So your uncles basically took over the command of the other two companies?"

"And it worked," Reed acknowledged, nodding like the spring-balanced head of a tin toy. "Afterwards, the entire gang came together and gave thanks that we weren't part of the initial bloodbath."

"I bet you were thankful that you weren't with the rest of those poor souls on the ridge."

"You can say that again! Boston and Tom had to lag behind so that they could go get Reno and Benteen's men at the proper time, and Uncle Jim kept an eye out for me."

"So, none of you were there during the actual massacre?"

"Hell no! We would have been killed. The General always said that you had to keep the enemy unbalanced. They never expected that a leader would follow his men rather than lead them, so the dumb savages didn't realize that the battle had not yet begun when the massacre had already started. I remember the look on their faces when they saw old Yellow Hair riding towards them, flanked by companies led by Tom and Boston, the hooves of their horses tearing up the recently bloodstained ground. They thought he was back from the dead for vengeance."

"Why did they think that?"

"It was all part of the General's plan," Reed explained conspiratorially. "Summerfield, one of the standard bearers, had grown his hair out like my uncle's. Uncle Autie had him wear one of his fringed jackets as he led the company. Stupid Black Kettle assumed that he was old Yellow Hair."

The more the author reflected on this new revelation that came off so glibly from the tongue of the deceased president's nephew, the more astonished he became. Only his years as an exceptional poker player managed to keep his reaction hidden from his compartment mate.

"Landsakes," Clemens said shaking his head as he reached for a copy of the New York
Herald
, "I wonder how this happened then."

"What?" the nephew replied.

"This picture of your uncle facing down the Indians against overwhelming odds while his men died around him."

"Oh," the nephew replied. "that was Mr. O'Connor's idea."

"Mr. O'Connor?"

"Yes," Reed replied. "He was a friend of my uncle's. He even had the General pose for it right there on the battlefield. He thought that it would more accurately depict the spirit of his heroism."

And the rest is history
, Clemens thought, and then said aloud, "Shrewd."

"No one shrewder."

Not wanting to reveal his true feelings to Reed, the author decided to ask one last question before begging fatigue.

"Yep, no one shrewder," Clemens acknowledged. "Too bad that Injun got him on the White House lawn. Did you know him too?"

"Certainly," the nephew replied with a touch of indignation audible in his voice. "Goes Ahead was our scout. He had advised the General, as well as Benteen and Reno that there were too many warriors at the Little Big Horn. That stupid half-breed always held it against Uncle Autie that he didn't heed his warning. If he had, I assure you, history would have been quite different."