Little Bighorn With Mad King Ruprecht the Fish.
Created | Updated Dec 4, 2002
Montana, 1876.
The American Civil War had spawned a multitude of heroes; men who's names and deeds would be immortalised for eternity in the hearts and minds of humanity.
I had served throughout the entire terrible conflict; from my humble beginnings as a Confederate artillery commander at Fort Sumter in South Carolina, through several changes in uniform, rank, allegience and underwear to finally complete my tour of duty on the staff of General Ulysses S Grant, accepting the surrender of Lee's Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox.
It was here that I had first been introduced to George Armstrong Custer.
Aged twenty three he had risen to the coveted rank of Brigadier General after leading a series of daring and foolhardy cavalry actions that had captured the imagination of the American public. He had flair, he had style, he had elan.
He had got on my nerves.
The fellow was an unashamed megalomaniac with a condescending, boorish manner that caused my trigger finger to itch and I had decided there and then that I never again wished to meet this pompous and self serving oaf.
I had therefore been astonished when eleven years later I was summoned to the Whitehouse by Ulysses Grant, now President elect, and seconded to Custer's 7th Cavalry in view of what he termed our patent similarities.
Once the initial shock had subsided I considered that here was an unmissable opportunity to carve out a virgin empire along the frontier; against a foe who were nothing more than clueless savages armed to the teeth with brown grass and feathers on a stick. So, as I arrived in Montana and presented my credentials to General Terry I decided that, on balance, matters could certainly be much worse.
As it transpired this statement turned out to be incredibly prophetic.
We had approached the Little Bighorn river in the face of a colossal Sioux encampment; our Crow scouts reporting tipis so densely packed that an enormous blanket appeared to have been spread over the plains. Despite the evidence of the hostiles numerical superiority, Custer then saw fit to despatch Major Reno and his command along the left fork whilst we galloped along the right cut, across the dry creek and towards the plains beyond. Rounding the crest of the hills our two hundred strong force was met by the nefarious Crazy Horse and five thousand of his assorted Sioux braves. Even without the General's carefully calculated strategy it was fairly obvious that we were up a particularly well documented creek without suitable rowing equipment.
The order to dismount and adopt skirmish formation was grudgingly obeyed as the crazed Sioux swept across our flanks and left us all but surrounded, whilst thick pointed clouds of arrows darkened the sky before falling amongst the dismayed troops.
A heavy tomahawk whirled past my face and struck something soft to my left with a brief gurgle followed by an unidentified nose ricocheting wetly from my forehead. A gaily decorated spear came hurtling through the air towards a poor soul to my right on a trajectory that would forevermore impede his ability to effectively negotiate a corridor. The sharp crack of our Springfield carbines was lost amid a raging din of whooping Indians as they pressed home their advantage in an undisciplined rabble; unwashed, uncouth and as red as the ace of diamonds.
It was to be a one sided massacre and soon only Custer and I remained, standing back to back as the tribal forces positioned themselves for the finale. Our only hope now lay in the hands of whatever benificent gods were watching and I offered up a silent prayer that I might be spared the indignity of dying alongside this inveterate clown.
And then divine intervention struck me in the form of a fiendish ploy. Retrieving a stray arrow from the earth beside me I gave a theatrical cry, held it to my eye in a bunched fist and flung myself to the ground, immobile. I must admit to feeling something of a bounder leaving the General to face his fate alone, but then I reasoned that therein lay the entire point. I would be alive to feel.
And so, as George Armstrong Custer performed the timeless old half man half porcupine trick for bow and arrow I congratulated myself on my swift thinking and lay motionless on the prairie, ready to steal away under cover of night and back home in time for tea and buns.
It was then that I became aquainted with the traditional Sioux post combat ritual known as scalping.
The American Civil War had spawned a multitude of heroes; men who's names and deeds would be immortalised for eternity in the hearts and minds of humanity.
I had served throughout the entire terrible conflict; from my humble beginnings as a Confederate artillery commander at Fort Sumter in South Carolina, through several changes in uniform, rank, allegience and underwear to finally complete my tour of duty on the staff of General Ulysses S Grant, accepting the surrender of Lee's Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox.
It was here that I had first been introduced to George Armstrong Custer.
Aged twenty three he had risen to the coveted rank of Brigadier General after leading a series of daring and foolhardy cavalry actions that had captured the imagination of the American public. He had flair, he had style, he had elan.
He had got on my nerves.
The fellow was an unashamed megalomaniac with a condescending, boorish manner that caused my trigger finger to itch and I had decided there and then that I never again wished to meet this pompous and self serving oaf.
I had therefore been astonished when eleven years later I was summoned to the Whitehouse by Ulysses Grant, now President elect, and seconded to Custer's 7th Cavalry in view of what he termed our patent similarities.
Once the initial shock had subsided I considered that here was an unmissable opportunity to carve out a virgin empire along the frontier; against a foe who were nothing more than clueless savages armed to the teeth with brown grass and feathers on a stick. So, as I arrived in Montana and presented my credentials to General Terry I decided that, on balance, matters could certainly be much worse.
As it transpired this statement turned out to be incredibly prophetic.
We had approached the Little Bighorn river in the face of a colossal Sioux encampment; our Crow scouts reporting tipis so densely packed that an enormous blanket appeared to have been spread over the plains. Despite the evidence of the hostiles numerical superiority, Custer then saw fit to despatch Major Reno and his command along the left fork whilst we galloped along the right cut, across the dry creek and towards the plains beyond. Rounding the crest of the hills our two hundred strong force was met by the nefarious Crazy Horse and five thousand of his assorted Sioux braves. Even without the General's carefully calculated strategy it was fairly obvious that we were up a particularly well documented creek without suitable rowing equipment.
The order to dismount and adopt skirmish formation was grudgingly obeyed as the crazed Sioux swept across our flanks and left us all but surrounded, whilst thick pointed clouds of arrows darkened the sky before falling amongst the dismayed troops.
A heavy tomahawk whirled past my face and struck something soft to my left with a brief gurgle followed by an unidentified nose ricocheting wetly from my forehead. A gaily decorated spear came hurtling through the air towards a poor soul to my right on a trajectory that would forevermore impede his ability to effectively negotiate a corridor. The sharp crack of our Springfield carbines was lost amid a raging din of whooping Indians as they pressed home their advantage in an undisciplined rabble; unwashed, uncouth and as red as the ace of diamonds.
It was to be a one sided massacre and soon only Custer and I remained, standing back to back as the tribal forces positioned themselves for the finale. Our only hope now lay in the hands of whatever benificent gods were watching and I offered up a silent prayer that I might be spared the indignity of dying alongside this inveterate clown.
And then divine intervention struck me in the form of a fiendish ploy. Retrieving a stray arrow from the earth beside me I gave a theatrical cry, held it to my eye in a bunched fist and flung myself to the ground, immobile. I must admit to feeling something of a bounder leaving the General to face his fate alone, but then I reasoned that therein lay the entire point. I would be alive to feel.
And so, as George Armstrong Custer performed the timeless old half man half porcupine trick for bow and arrow I congratulated myself on my swift thinking and lay motionless on the prairie, ready to steal away under cover of night and back home in time for tea and buns.
It was then that I became aquainted with the traditional Sioux post combat ritual known as scalping.
