CHAPTER TWELVE

What They Are There For A Sketch of General Guy V. Henry, a Typical American Soldier

I. Savage Warfare

The most thankless task that can be undertaken by a nation is warfare against savage or semi-civilized peoples. In it there is usually little glory; nor is there any reward, save the consciousness of disagreeable duty well performed. The risk to the soldier is greater than in ordinary war, since the savages usually torture the wounded and the captured. Success can only be achieved by an arduous, persistent, wearing down process, which affords little opportunity for scientific fighting, yet which demands military talents of the highest order.

Almost anybody can understand the strategy or the tactics of a pitched battle where the number engaged is large, the casualties heavy, and the results decisive; but very few non-professional critics appreciate a campaign of relentless pursuit by a small army of a smaller body of mobile hostiles, here and there capturing a little band, now and then killing or disabling a few, until in the final round-up the enemy, reduced to perhaps less than a score, surrenders. There is nothing spectacular about the performance, and everybody wonders why it took so long.

And as injustice and wrong have not been infrequent in the preliminary dealings between the government and the savages, the soldier, who has only to obey his orders, comes in for much unmerited censure from those who think darkly though they speak bitterly. Especially is he criticized if, when maddened by the suffering, the torture, of some comrade, the soldier sinks to the savage level in his treatment of his ruthless foeman. No one justifies such a lapse, of course, but few there be who even try to understand it. The incessant campaigning in the Philippines, with its resulting scandals, is an instance in point.

Long before the Spanish-American War and its Philippine corollary, however, our little army had shown itself capable of the hardest and most desperate campaigning against the Indians of the West—as difficult and dangerous a work as any army ever undertook. There was so much of it, and it abounded with so many thrilling incidents, that volumes could be written upon it without exhausting its tragedy, its romance. There were few soldiers who served beyond the Mississippi from 1865 to 1890 who did not participate in a score of engagements, whose lives were not in peril more than once in many a hard, but now forgotten, campaign.

COL. RANALD S. MACKENZIE GEN. GUY V. HENRY CAPT. ANSON MILLS W. F. CODY (BUFFALO BILL)

GROUP OF DISTINGUISHED INDIAN FIGHTERS

_All except General Henry from contemporary photographs_

One of the bravest of our Indian fighters was Guy V. Henry. Personally, he was a typical representative of the knightly American soldier. Officially, it was his fortune to perform conspicuous services in at least three expeditions subsequent to the Civil War. He was a West Pointer, and the son of another, born in the service at Fort Smith in the Indian Territory. Graduating in 1861, a mere boy, he participated in four years of the hardest fighting in the Civil War, from Bull Run to Cold Harbor. At the age of twenty-three, his merit won him the appointment of Colonel of the Fortieth Massachusetts Volunteers, “a regiment that was never whipped.” The tall, brawny Yankees fairly laughed at the beardless stripling who was appointed to command them. “They laugh best who laugh last,” and Henry had the last laugh. He mastered them, and to this day they love his memory.

He was thrice mentioned in despatches, and brevetted five times for conspicuous gallantry in action during the war, out of which he came with the rank of brigadier-general. For heroic and successful fighting at Old Cold Harbor, he received the highest distinction that can come to a soldier, the medal of honor. Having two horses shot from under him in the attack upon the Confederate lines, he seized a third from a trooper, mounted him under a withering fire, and led his soldiers forward in a final assault, which captured the enemy’s intrenchments; this third horse was shot under him just as he leaped the breastworks.

“Thin as a shoestring and as brave as a lion,” he was a past-master of military tactics and a severe disciplinarian. “I tell you he is a martinet,” cried one young officer angrily, smarting under a well-deserved reproof. “You are wrong,” replied a wiser officer, who knew Henry better; “he is trying to make your own record better than you could ever make it yourself.” Sudden as a thunderbolt and swift as a hawk when he struck the red Sioux, in his family and social relations he was a kindly, considerate, Christian gentleman. He could kill Indians—but never cruelly, mercilessly, only in open warfare—and teach a class in Sunday-school. I’ve seen him do the latter, and no man did it better; the boys of his class simply idolized him. And his men in the army did the same. Cool and tactful, a statesman, for all his fiery energy, he was perhaps the best of our colonial governors. When he died the people of Porto Rico mourned him as a friend, where the little children had loved him as a father.

II. A March in a Blizzard

At the close of the Civil War he was transferred to the Third Cavalry, a regiment with which he was destined to win lasting renown. It must have been hard for men who had exercised high command, and who had proved their fitness for it, to come down from general officers to subalterns; but Henry accepted the situation cheerfully. He was as proud of his troop of cavalry as he had been of his regiment and brigade of volunteers. His new detail took him to Arizona, where for two years he commanded a battalion engaged in hard scouting among the Apaches. The winter of 1874 found him at Fort Robinson in the Black Hills. While there he was ordered to go into the Bad Lands to remove certain miners who were supposed to be there in defiance of treaty stipulations.

The day after Christmas, with his own troop and fifteen men of the Ninth Infantry under Lieutenant Carpenter, with wagons, rations, and forage for thirty days, the men set forth. The expedition involved a march of three hundred miles, over the worst marching country on the face of the globe, and in weather of unimaginable severity, the cold continually ranging from twenty to forty degrees below zero. The miners were not found, and on the return journey the command, which had suffered terrible hardships, was overtaken by a blizzard.

When, in an Eastern city, the thermometer gets down to the zero mark, and it blows hard, with a heavy snow for twenty-four hours, people who are not familiar with the real article call such insignificant weather manifestations a blizzard. Imagine a fierce gale sweeping down from the north, filled with icy needles which draw blood ere they freeze the naked skin, the thermometer forty degrees below zero, a rolling, treeless country without shelter of any sort from the blinding snow and the biting wind, and you have the situation in which that expedition found itself. The storm came up an hour after breaking camp on what was hoped to be the last day on the return journey. To return to the place of the camp was impossible. To keep moving was the only thing to be done. The cold was so intense that it was at first deemed safer to walk than ride. The troops dismounted and struggled on. Many of the men gave out and sank exhausted, but were lifted to their saddles and strapped there, Henry himself doing this with his own hands. Finally, the whole party got so weak that it was impossible for them to proceed. In desperation, they mounted the exhausted horses and urged them forward. Henry had no knowledge of direction, but trusted to the instincts of his horse. He led the way. Many of the men had to be beaten to keep them awake and alive—to sleep was death.

Finally, when hope and everything else was abandoned, they came to a solitary ranch under the curve of a hill, occupied by a white man and his Indian wife. They were saved; that is, they had escaped with their lives. The horses were put in shelter in the corral, the men crowded into the house, and the painful process of thawing out was begun. The ranch was fifteen miles from Fort Robinson, and when the blizzard abated the next day wagons and ambulances were sent out, and the helpless soldiers were carried back to the post.

Most of them were in a terrible condition, and few had escaped. They were broken from the hardships they had undergone, especially from the freezing, which those who have suffered from declare causes a prostration from which it is difficult to recover. When Henry entered his quarters his wife did not recognize him. His face was black and swollen. His men cut the bridle reins to free his hands, and then slit his gloves into strips, each strip bringing a piece of flesh as it was pulled off. All his fingers were frozen to the second joint; the flesh sloughed off, exposing the bones. One finger had to be amputated, and to the day of his death his left hand was so stiff that he was unable to close his fingers again. As he was a thin, spare man, with no superfluous flesh, he had suffered more than the rest. Yet he made no complaint, and it was only due to his indomitable persistence that the men were not frozen to death that awful day. Henry’s winter march is still remembered, by those in the old service, as one of the heroic achievements of the period.

III. A Ghastly Experience

The heroism and sufferings of the young soldier were nothing, however, to what he manifested and underwent two years later. Just before the Custer Massacre, General Crook, with some eleven hundred men, moved out from Fort Fetterman, Wyoming, on the expedition that culminated in the battle of the Rosebud. Colonel W. B. Royall had command of the cavalry of Crook’s little army. One morning in June the Sioux and the Cheyennes, under Crazy Horse, who as a fighter and general was probably second to few Indians that ever lived, attacked Crook’s men. The left wing, under Royall, was isolated in a ravine and practically surrounded by a foe who outnumbered them five to one. The rest of the army, heavily engaged, could give them no succor. The Indians made charge after charge upon the troops, who had all dismounted except the field officers. Henry had command of the left battalion of Royall’s force. Cool as an iceberg, he rode up and down the thin line, steadying and holding his men. At one time, by a daring charge, he rescued an imperiled company under a brother officer.

At last, in one of the furious attacks of the Sioux, he was shot in the face. A rifle bullet struck him under the left eye, passed through the upper part of his mouth under the nose, and came out below the right eye. The shock was terrific. His face was instantly covered with blood, his mouth filled with it. He remained in the saddle, however, and strove to urge the troops on. In the very act of spurring his horse forward to lead a charge, he lost consciousness, and fell to the ground.

At that instant the war-bonneted Indians, superbly mounted, delivered an overwhelming onslaught on the left flank of the line. The men, deprived of their leader, for a time gave back. The Indians actually galloped over the prostrate figure of the brave soldier. Fortunately, he was not struck by the hoofs of any of the horses. A determined stand by Chief Washakie, of the friendly Shoshones, our Indian allies in that battle, who with two or three of his braves fought desperately over Henry’s body, prevented him from being scalped and killed.

The officers of the Third speedily rallied their men, drove back the Indians, and reoccupied the ground where Henry lay. He was assisted to his horse and taken to the rear where the surgeons were. Such was the nature of his wound that he could not speak above a whisper; he could not see at all, he could scarcely hear, and he had great difficulty in breathing. As the doctor bent over him he heard the wounded man mumble out, “Fix me up so that I can go back!”

There was no going back for him that day. Through the long day he lay on the ground while the battle raged about him. There was little water and no shelter; there wasn’t a tent in the army. Although it was bitter cold during the nights in that country at that season, at midday it was fearfully hot. He was consumed with thirst. His orderly managed to give him a little shade by holding his horse so that the shadow of the animal’s body fell upon the wounded man. His wound was dressed temporarily as well as possible, and then he was practically left to die.

One of the colonel’s comrades came back to him during a lull in the fight. There he lay helpless on the bare ground, in the shadow of the restive horse, which the orderly had all he could do to manage. No one else could be spared from the battle line to attend to Henry’s wants, although, as a matter of fact, he expressed no wants. The flies had settled thickly upon his bandaged face. The officer bent over him with an expression of commiseration.

“It’s all right, Jack,” gurgled out from the bleeding lips; “it’s what we’re here for.”[111]

Royall’s forces were finally able to effect a junction with the main body by withdrawing fighting, and Henry was carried along any way in the hurried movement. The Indians at last withdrew from the field (the battle must be considered a drawn one), and then there was time to consider what was to be done with the wounded. The facilities for treatment were the slenderest. The column had been stripped of its baggage, in order to increase its mobility, to enable it to cope with the Indians. All they had they carried on their persons, and that included little but the barest necessities.

Nobody expected Henry to survive the night. He didn’t expect to live himself, as he lay there through the long hours, listening to the men digging graves for those who had fallen, and wondering whether or not he was to be one of the occupants thereof. The next day they sent him to the rear. He was transported in what is called a travois. Two saplings were cut from the river bank; two army mules, one at each end, were placed between the saplings, which were slung over the backs of the animals. An army blanket, or piece of canvas, was then lashed to the poles, and on them the sufferer was placed. There were a number of wounded—none of them, however, so seriously as Henry. It was some two hundred miles to Fort Fetterman, and they carried him all that distance that way.

The weather at night was bitterly cold. In the daytime it was burning hot. The travois was so short—they had to take what poles they could get, of course—that several times the head of the rear mule hit the wounded officer’s head, so that finally they turned him about, putting his head behind the heels of the foremost animal, where he was liable to be kicked to death at any moment.

On one occasion one of the mules stumbled and fell and pitched Henry out upon his head. The officers of the little escort stood aghast as they saw him fall out; but it is a matter of record, solemnly attested, that such was Henry’s iron self-control that he made no sound, although the agony was excruciating. In fact, on the whole journey he made no complaint of any sort. His only food was broth, which was made from birds shot by the soldiers as they came upon them, and he got this very infrequently.

Finally, the little cortège reached Fort Fetterman. The last mishap awaited them there. The river was crossed by a ferryboat, which was pulled from shore to shore by ropes and tackles. The river was very high and the current running swiftly, and as they prepared to take the wounded officer across, the ropes broke, and the whole thing went to pieces, leaving him within sight, but not within reach, of clean beds, comforts, and medical attention he hoped to secure. Some of the escort, rough soldiers though they were, broke into tears as they saw the predicament of their beloved officer. He himself, however, true to his colors, said nothing. Finally, they offered to take him across the raging torrent in a small skiff—the only boat available—if he were willing to take the risk. Of course, if the skiff were overturned, he would have been drowned. He took the risk, and with two men to paddle and an officer to hold him in his arms, the passage was made.

IV. An Army Wife

Three hundred miles away, at Fort D. A. Russell, his wife was waiting for him. Long before he reached Fort Fetterman, she heard through couriers the news of his wound, which was reported to her as fatal, although he had taken care to cause a reassuring message to be sent her with the first messenger. With the heroism of the army wife, although she was in delicate health at the time, she immediately made preparations to join him. The railroad at that time ran as far as Medicine Bow. Beyond that there was a hundred-mile ride to Fort Fetterman. All the troops were in the field; none could be spared from the nominal garrisons for an escort. Again and again Mrs. Henry made preparations to go forward, several times actually starting, and again and again she was forbidden to do so by the officers in command at the various posts. It was not safe to send a woman across the country with a few soldiers; the Indians were up and out in all directions. There was no safety anywhere outside the forts or larger towns; she had to stay at home and wait. Sometimes the devoted wife got word from her husband, sometimes she did not. The savages were constantly cutting the wires. Her suspense was agonizing.

Finally, the arrival of troops at Fort Fetterman enabled a stronger escort to be made up, and Henry was sent down to Fort D. A. Russell. The troops arrived at Medicine Bow on the third of July. The train did not leave until the next day. They were forced to go into camp. The cowboys and citizens celebrated the Fourth in the usual manner. That night the pain-racked man narrowly escaped being killed by the reckless shooting of the celebrators. Two bullets passed through the tent in which he lay, just above his head. The next morning found him on the train. His heart action had been so weakened by chloral and other medicines which they had given him, that at Sherman, the highest point on the journey, he came within an inch of dying.

His thoughts all along had been of his wife. When he got to the station he refused to get in an ambulance, in order to spare her the sight of his being brought home in that way. A carriage was procured, and supported in the arms of the physician and his comrades, he was driven back to the fort. With superhuman resolution, in order to convince his wife that he was not seriously hurt, he determined to walk from the carriage to the door. Mrs. Henry had received instructions from the doctor to control herself, and stood waiting quietly in the entrance.

“Well,” whispered the shattered man, as she took him tenderly by the hand, alluding to the fact that it was the Fourth of July, “this is a fine way to celebrate, isn’t it?”

After the quietest of greetings—think of that woman, what her feelings must have been!—he was taken into the house and laid on the sofa. The doctor had said that he might have one look at his wife. The bandages were lifted carefully from his face, so that he might have that single glance; then they were replaced, and the wife, unable to bear it longer, fled from the room. The chaplain’s wife was waiting for her outside the door, and when she got into the shelter of that good woman’s arms she gave way and broke down completely.

“You know,” said the chaplain’s wife, alluding to many conversations which they had had, “that you asked of God only that He should bring him back to you, and God has heard that prayer.”

Everybody expected that Henry would die, but die he did not; perhaps it would be better to say die he would not. And he had no physique to back his efforts, only an indomitable will. He never completely recovered from that experience. He lost the sight of one eye permanently, and to the day of his death was liable to a hemorrhage at any moment, in which there was grave danger of his bleeding to death.

He took a year’s leave of absence, and then came back to duty. In 1877, when his troop was ordered to the front in another campaign under Crook against the redoubtable Sioux, he insisted upon accompanying them. He had been out an hour or so when he fell fainting from the saddle. Did they bring him back? Oh, no! He bade them lay him under a tree, leave two or three men with him to look after him, and go ahead. He would rejoin them that night, when it became cooler and he could travel with more ease! What he said he would do he did. A trooper rode back to the post on his own account and told of his condition. An order was sent him by the post commander to return. Henry quietly said he would obey the first order and go on. He remained with the troop for six weeks, until finally he was picked up bodily and carried home, vainly protesting, the doctor refusing to answer either for his eyesight or for his life if he stayed in the field any longer.

V. The Buffalos and Their Famous Ride

Thirteen years after that Henry was commanding the Ninth Cavalry, with headquarters at Fort McKinney. The Ninth Cavalry was a regiment of negroes. From the overcoats which they wore in Wyoming in the winter they were called the “Buffalos,” and sometimes they were facetiously referred to as “Henry’s Brunettes.” Whatever they were called, they were a regiment of which to be proud.

In 1890 occurred the last outbreak of the Sioux under the inspiration of the Ghost Dancers, which culminated in the battle of Wounded Knee. Troops from all over the United States were hurried to the Pine Ridge Agency as the trouble began. On the 24th of December Henry and the “Brunettes” were ordered out to the former’s old stamping ground in the Black Hills on a scouting expedition. It was bitter cold that Christmas Eve, but, thank God! there was no blizzard. Fifty miles on the back of a trotting horse was the dose before them. They rested at four A.M. on the morning of Christmas Day. Some of the garments the men wore were frozen stiff. They had broken through the ice of the White River in crossing it. How the men felt inside the frozen clothing may be imagined. Eight miles farther they made their camp. They did not have much of a Christmas celebration, for as soon as possible after establishing their base at Harney Springs they went on the scout. They hunted assiduously for several days, but found no Indians. These had gone south to join their brethren concentrated about the agency. One day they rode forty-two miles in a vain search. They got back to camp about seven o’clock. At nine a courier from the agency fifty miles away informed them of the battle of Wounded Knee, and that five thousand Oglala Sioux were mustering to attack the agency.

“Boots and Saddles!” instantly rang out, and the tired troopers mounted their jaded horses again. This time the camp was broken for keeps, and tents were struck, wagons packed to abandon it. It was a bitter cold night. There was a fierce gale sweeping through the valley, blowing a light snow in the faces of the men wrapped to the eyes in their buffalo coats and fur caps. They pushed steadily on in spite of it, for it was Henry’s intention to reach the agency in the dark in order to avoid attack by the Indians.

It was thought advisable, therefore, to leave the wagon train under an escort of one company and press forward with the rest. The men arrived at the agency at daybreak, completing a ride of over ninety miles in less than twenty hours. Fires were kindled, horses picketed, and the exhausted men literally threw themselves on the ground for rest. They had been there but a short time when one of the men from the escort came galloping madly in with the news that the wagon-train was heavily attacked, and that succor must be sent at once. Without waiting for orders, without even stopping to saddle the horses, Henry and his men galloped back over the road two miles away, where the escort was gallantly covering the train. A short, sharp skirmish, in which one man was killed and several wounded, drove back the Indians, and the regiment brought in the train.

It was ten o’clock now, and as the negro troops came into the agency, word was brought that the Drexel Mission, seven miles up the valley, was being attacked, and help must be sent immediately. There were two regiments of cavalry available, the Seventh and the Ninth. For some unexplained reason, the Ninth was ordered out. In behalf of his men, Henry made protest. They must have a little rest, and so the Seventh was despatched, and was soon hotly engaged. Two hours later a messenger reported that the Seventh, in the valley where the mission was situated, was heavily attacked by the Indians, who had secured commanding positions on the surrounding ridges. Unless they could be relieved, they would probably be overwhelmed. Again the trumpet call rang out, and the tired black troopers once more climbed into their saddles and struck spurs into their more tired horses, galloping away to the rescue of their hard-pushed white comrades. The ridges were carried in most gallant style, and after some sharp fighting the Indians were driven back. The Seventh was extricated and the day was saved.

In thirty-four hours of elapsed time, the Ninth Cavalry had ridden one hundred and eight miles—the actual time in the saddle being twenty-two hours. They had fought two engagements and had rested only two hours. Marvelous to relate, there wasn’t a sore-backed horse in the whole regiment. One horse died under the pressure, but aside from that and their fatigue, horses and men were in excellent condition.

That was probably the most famous ride ever performed by troops in the United States. For it Henry was recommended for a further brevet, as major-general—the sixth he had received.

The Spanish-American War was too short to afford Henry an opportunity to distinguish himself in the field, but in Porto Rico he showed that his talents were not merely of the military order. In the brief period his health permitted him to remain there, he accomplished wonders, and did it all in such a way as to gain the respect—nay, the affection—of the people over whom, with single-hearted devotion and signal capacity, he ruled. He stayed there until he broke down. I, sick with typhoid fever on a transport at Ponce, saw him just before he collapsed. We were old friends, and he came off to the ship to visit me. I was not too ill then to realize that his own time was coming. He would not ask to be relieved.

“Here I was sent”, he said; “here I will stay until my duty is done.”

He was the knightliest soldier I ever met, and I have met many. He was one of the humblest Christians I ever knew, and I have known not a few. It was his experience at Porto Rico which finally brought about his death; for it is literally true that he died, as a soldier should, in his harness. In those trying times at Ponce, when life and health were at a low ebb, he wrote, in the sacred confidence of his last letter to his faithful wife, words which it was not his custom to speak, but which those of us who knew him felt expressed his constant thought:

“I am here alone. One by one my staff officers have fallen ill and gone home. Home!—let us not speak of it. Jesus is here with me, and makes even this desolation home until a brighter one is possible.”

So, his memory enshrined in the hearts that loved him, his heroic deeds the inspiration of his fellow-soldiers, passed to his brighter home Guy V. Henry, a Captain of the Strong.

Footnote 111:

John F. Finerty, who was present as the correspondent of the Chicago _Times_, and who relates the incident, says that Henry, immediately after this remark, advised Finerty to join the army. Encouraging circumstances to back up such a recommendation!

APPENDICES

APPENDIX A. Being a Further Discussion of General Custer’s Course in the Little Big Horn Campaign.[112]

I.

Whether General Custer did, or did not, obey General Terry’s orders; whether these orders were, or were not, well considered, and such as could be carried out; whether, if General Custer did disobey General Terry’s orders he was warranted in so doing by the circumstances in which he found himself, are questions of the deepest interest to the student of military matters and the historian thereof. I presume the problem they present will never be authoritatively settled, and that men will continue to differ upon these questions until the end of time.

The matter has been discussed, pro and con, at great length on many occasions. A number of books and magazine articles have been written upon different phases of the situation. I have come to the conclusion indicated in my own article, as I said, against my wish. In view of his heroic death in the high places of the field, I would fain hold General Custer, for whom I have long cherished an admiration which I still retain, entirely innocent. I have only come to this conclusion after a rigid investigation including the careful weighing of such evidence as I could secure upon every point in question.

This evidence consists, first, of a great variety of printed matter; second, of personal conversations with soldiers and military critics, which, as any record of it would necessarily be hearsay and secondhand, I have not set down hereafter save in one instance; third, of letters which have been written me by officers who, from their participation in the campaign, or from unusual opportunities to acquire knowledge concerning it which they have enjoyed, have become possessed of information which they were willing to give to me.

The object of this appendix is to set down, so that it may be here preserved in permanent and available form for future reference, such evidence in these letters as may be pertinent and useful; also to refer the student, who desires to go deeper into the subject, to some of the more valuable printed accounts which are easily accessible.

I am glad that some of the communications I have received, notably those from Colonel Godfrey, make a stout defense of General Custer. Perhaps upon consideration of Colonel Godfrey’s points and arguments, which are not only strong and well taken, but also admirably put, the critic may be inclined to differ from my conclusion. For the sake of General Custer’s fame, I sincerely hope so. I should be glad to be proved to be mistaken.

Without specifically noting the various descriptions of the campaign and battle, which are interesting, but irrelevant to my purpose,[113] Custer’s conduct has been critically considered at some length—by persons whose standing requires that their opinions should be respectfully received—in several publications which I note in such order as best serves the purpose of this discussion without regard to the order in which they appeared.

Colonel Edward S. Godfrey,[114] U. S. A., now commanding the Ninth Cavalry, who, as a lieutenant, commanded K Troop, in Benteen’s battalion, which joined that of Reno in the battle of the 26th of June, 1876, wrote a most interesting account of the battle, containing some valuable reflections upon some disputed points, which was published in the _Century Magazine_, Vol. XLIII., No. 3, January, 1892. To this article, in the same number, were appended certain comments by Major-General James B. Fry, U. S. A., since deceased.

This article and these comments came to the notice of Major-General Robert P. Hughes, U. S. A. (retired), then Colonel and Inspector-General. General Hughes was General Terry’s aide-de-camp during the Little Big Horn Campaign. He wrote an exhaustive criticism on Fry’s comments to Godfrey’s article, which was in effect a discussion of the main proposition that Custer disobeyed his orders and thereby precipitated the disaster, for which he was therefore responsible. This campaign was also considered in an article by Dr. E. Benjamin Andrews, president of the University of Nebraska, who was then president of Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island, which appeared in _Scribner’s Magazine_ for June, 1895. A fuller reference to Dr. Andrews’ position will be made later.

General Hughes’ article was offered to the _Century_, but was not accepted, and was finally published in the _Journal of the Military Service Institution_, Vol. XVIII., No. 79, January, 1896.

Among the many books in which the matter has been discussed, three only call for attention.

In “THE STORY OF THE SOLDIER,” by Brigadier-General George A. Forsyth, U. S. A. (retired), the following comment appears:

“Under the peculiar condition of affairs, bearing in mind the only information he could possibly have had concerning Sitting Bull’s forces, was Custer justified, in a military sense and within the scope of his orders, in making the attack?

“In the opinion of the writer he was within his orders, and fully justified from a military standpoint in so doing.”

General Forsyth gives no reason for his decision, but it is to be presumed that he did not arrive at that decision hastily and carelessly, and as he is a very able and distinguished officer and military critic, due weight should be accorded his views.

In “THE UNITED STATES IN OUR OWN TIME,” by Dr. E. Benjamin Andrews, published by Chas. Scribner’s Sons, edition of 1903, pages 190–1–2–3, there is a concise discussion of the question, based on the article in _Scribner’s Magazine_, referred to above, with some additional reflections on General Hughes’ paper.

In “PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF GENERAL NELSON A. MILES, U. S. A.,”