Redeemed Glory

By Robert Kammen

Certain Washington City politicians were conspiring to have Colonel George Armstrong Custer murdered before he can aspire to the Presidency.

Part of their plot was also to use the NewsMedia to dishonor and disgrace Custer. In those Pro-Civil War days, Freedom of Speech was he who had the fastest gun. Other crimes involving politicians were also going on in those days as is mentioned in the book. Back then and today, lying, slander, character assassination, libel, hatred, sedition, all of these sins are covered by Freedom of the Press. Fortunately, our weapons of Truth and the Sword of the Spirit, our Bible have a greater power and will gain the final victory. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Longhorn Publishing
• Release date: May 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227660350

Book preview

PROLOGUE

July 3, 1876

The gallows where they had hanged the Surratt woman and three men involved in the assassination of President Lincoln was still in the inner courtyard of Old Capitol prison, Henry Mansard saw with a ripple of unease, and his pace quickened. In the dying haze of this mid-summer day he gazed at the soaring walls of the main building, the lower half of the wall whitewashed and cloaked in shadows, the upper red-brick section still dusted with bright sunlight. The building had been hastily erected as a replacement for the Capitol, burned by the British in the War of 1812. Mansard still held the position that the British should come back and tear down this monstrosity. 

At the end of the courtyard where it hooked into the prison wall, he then turned and stared at the gallows. The catcalls and jeering hurrahs of that day came back, for he’d been an official spectator to the hangings. He remembered well the defiant glare in Mrs. Surratt's eyes, how the youngster Davy Herold had gone whimpering to his death and the other witnesses standing by him and the Union soldiers keeping watch up on the wide courtyard walls, opposite of which a battalion of more bluecoats were bearing witness to the revenge being exacted on their dead Commander-in-Chief. Mansard's story about this had dominated the front page of the Washington Gazette.

He was a rangy man, and at forty, going to waste from too many bouts with John Barleycorn, but still and always, a newspaperman. Little went on in Washington City that escaped his keen ear. To be summoned here in secret, somehow this added to Mansard's fears, some of which had been substantiated, that members of the Executive Branch were involved. "Murder goes beyond dirty politics. I suspect this even extends to the War Department. Perhaps, even, to...U.S. Grant?"

More intriguing to Henry Mansard was the cryptic note that had been delivered to his home. In response to it, he’d gone that very same evening to Anacostia Park, located along a river of the same name and kept a silent vigil from the seat of his buggy, since the park was deserted, and his only company was his unrestricted view of the Capitol building some distance away. Soon another carriage had arrived, the man handling the reins swathed nearly to his eyelids in a shielding scarf. 

Are you Mansard?

I am he, he replied with some apprehension, after which the man climbed down and tied the reins of his horse to a convenient tree branch and promptly slipped away. Through his confusion Mansard realized someone else must be inside the enclosed carriage, and he stepped closer, and in a nettled voice he added, Well, I came...

Forgive me if I do not open the side curtain, Henry.

Shouldn't he know that voice? The way the driver had disappeared; this had the smell of danger. The hand passing through a fold in the curtain held a square yellow card, this followed by, This will gain you admittance to the death cells at Old Capitol prison, most specifically, entry to the cell of prisoner 7214.

Shouldn't I know you?

Most everyone here does, Henry. Soft laughter came through the curtain. To fool you means I have successfully changed my voice. The story of the Century awaits you at Old Capitol, Henry.

There are other reporters hereabouts. Why am I so unfortunate as to be singled out for this honor?

You have earned your spurs with the august members of Congress, so to speak. In that you never reveal your sources. Go ahead, Henry, I detect the hint of curiosity burning in your thoughts...

Then this has to do with the Custer affair.

Yes, with the Custer conspiracy. Prisoner 7214 will fill in the nasty details. You are expected to appear there tomorrow evening, Henry. The following evening, I trust we can meet here again—-at which time I will give you the final chapter, so Henry your pass, if you please.

A pass which a short time ago Henry Mansard had shown to a guard, and now he turned quickly at the creaking of a door which had just been opened by a soldier who wore yellow sergeant stripes; always before he had gained admittance to the prison through the main doors. Entering, he followed, silently and quite nervously, the sergeant going ahead of him through a dark cell block and up a back staircase. They encountered no other guards, which meant to the reporter from the Washington Gazette that his benefactor was a man of lofty political standing. At last, on the third floor landing, the sergeant used his ring of keys to unlock a cell door. 

With some hesitancy Henry Mansard stared into the cell, which held a lone prisoner, and a table and chair and a bunk, and with paling daylight coming in feebly through the barred window. Once he entered the cell, it was prison procedure for the door to be locked, and he said to the sergeant, It will be dark soon.

The rule is that no lamps be allowed in the death cells. But, under the circumstances... The sergeant went over and lifted down a wall lamp, which he brought back and handed to Mansard. As soon as Mansard entered the cell, the sergeant closed and locked the door and went away, with the feeling gripping Mansard that this would be a long evening. The last evening, he also knew, for prisoner 7214.

To the sound of receding footsteps Mansard said, I take it you are expecting me—- He set the lamp on the nicked table top, as his pondering eyes played over the face of the prisoner, a lean, dried out man with thin shoulders and arms and knobby wrists hanging below the ends of his tattered shirt sleeves. The eyes of prisoner 7214 were a probing yellow color, hard as abalone, the fact hawkish and clean-shaven. About the man, Mansard finally decided, there was an air of civility, as if he had once been someone of importance. 

Prisoner 7214 added credence to this when he spoke. You must pardon my rather shabby appearance. He gestured politely for Mansard to use the only chair. The table stood close enough to the bunk, so that when the prisoner sat down, he could rest his forearms on its top, which he now did with a pleasant smile. 

I cannot place your accent? queried Mansard, by way of an opening into what was to come.

This is of no importance. My family has been given enough money to sustain them for a long time. Then almost as a lazy afterthought he threw in, I shall be dancing with the Devil before sunrise, you know. A spark of anxiety danced in his eyes, went away just as quickly. Custer's luck...an expression, no doubt, you've heard before.

I have. Ah, by the way, I'm Henry Mansard. He saw no need to extend the hand of friendship.

I know. You may call me Hatchet.

Now it did strike Mansard that Prisoner 7214, aka Hatchet, had a very narrow and rather longish skull covered by short dark brown hair. And something else arose at that moment, that here was someone of extreme competence when it came to the sinister art of killing. Testifying to this were the three murders, one in New York City, the others right here in the Nation's capitol. Two of these murders had been posted as accidental deaths, but he knew differently, and the suicide of Undersecretary Allenby, again, murder.

I take it Hatchet you are a marksman of considerable skill. You had your chances with George Armstrong Custer. I cannot cite, Custer's luck, for your failures...

He shrugged with his hands as Mansard dipped a hand into an inner coat pocket and produced a matching pair of Havana corona cigars. I was brought into the game later...Henry. My confederate, Oakley, as you know via my rather brief trial, was in charge. He bit the end away from one of the cigars and then placed it between his even rows of teeth, after which he leaned toward the flaming sulphur match held by reporter Mansard.

Did killing Oakley bring you any particular feelings of joy?

Sorrowfully no as needless death plays havoc with my soul. You must know the conspirators ordered Oakley's death.

Very little came out in your trial, I'm afraid. So much confusion still reigns in Washington City. For some reason Mansard centered his thoughts upon Lieutenant Colonel Custer and the 7th Cavalry out west someplace in pursuit of the Sioux Indians. A premonition of unrest came, one so strong he had to blink this away in order to concentrate on what Hatchet had just said. What was that?

There were two main conspirators. But you know, Henry, it suddenly occurred to me I'd read an article you wrote just after the South had given up its noble fight. You wrote about the great victory parade...about how Custer, when his cavalry mount ran away with him, snatched the glory away from Lincoln and even General Grant...

I must confess that I wrote in anger, since I knew of Custer's fabled war record, that he was the best horseman in his Division. How the crowd cheered when the hatless Custer so helplessly found himself dashing ahead of the whole Union army past the reviewing stand. The man was prone to spectacular outbursts against ordered regularity; insurgent in his hunt for Glory. That runaway is at once his biography and his...epitaph. That last word seemed to slip by its own accord through Mansard's pondering lips. 

Yes, I agree that it was a deliberate act. He inhaled deeply of the cigar.

But enough about Custer's insubordination as you, I expect, were about to tell me the names of the main conspirators.

One of them we shall call Claw; it was he who set up this meeting. The other one, the amusing one in a way, is known in this affair as Piety. A scorning frown creased Hatchet's forehead. Others were involved in lesser roles. As for me, Henry, I expect you have pieced out by now where my sympathies lie. My hatred, of course, is and always will be reserved for Custer. A man of strange contradiction, in that he can weep quite openly while watching some mundane play, and the next day quite casually shoot someone in the back. Therefore, to understand how the conspiracy came about we shall begin our narrative with mutiny amongst George Custer's own troops.

CHAPTER 1

For some Union soldiers the end of the Civil War didn't mean they would be able to swap their uniforms for Levi's or serge suits. Along with many regulars, a few volunteer units, such as the 7th Indiana Regiment, were needed in the government's first step toward possible war with Maximilian and his sponsor Napoleon III. 

One of the few veterans eagerly looking forward to the rattle of musketry and shellfire was Major-General George Custer holding court on the upper deck of the steamer Indiana. Custer had been ordered by General Sherman to proceed to Alexandria, Louisiana and take command of a regiment made up of volunteers from Iowa, Illinois, and Indiana, an order that also included his staff officers from the 3rd Michigan Regiment.

They were proceeding northwesterly along the sluggish Red River and it was insufferably hot. The low, flat and timbered countryside stretching away from the river was overflowed with water up from which a flock of Canadian geese took wing as their steamboat passed, and with moss hanging mournfully from dying cypress trees. 

The heat didn’t bother the bearded and long-faced man occupying one of the deck chairs, against which he had propped his cane. John B. Hood, a former C.S.A. general, had lost a leg in combat, and the fact he was also heading for Alexandria, as were Custer and his wife, was merely coincidence. He had just told Elizabeth Custer that he had tried all manner of artificial limbs—-English, German, French, Confederate, and Yankee—-and that the Yankee was the best. 

She, in turn, had brushed aside the momentary fear when her husband and his late foe had greeted each other as friends. About Hood was a halo of sadness, or was it just because he resembled one of those old Biblical patriarchs. He wore a light grey suit and straw hat. In a soft southern drawl, he responded to a question from Custer. Yes, I struck in pretty strong along Peachtree Creek; only to be repulsed with heavy losses. Finally, I had to withdraw to Atlanta. He lowered his head for a moment, thought for a moment, lifted his eyes to Custer standing by his wife's chair, hatless, and with a sudden hot breeze stirring his light-colored hair. If I recall, General, you commanded one of Sheridan's Brigades.

Proudly he said, Michigan boys; I grew up with some of them. This noonday sun, it has no mercy. Pardon us, General Hood, if we leave you for now. 

Old John Hood returned the curt nod with a fluttering of his liver-spotted hand. He made no effort to rise, since in his considered opinion this part of central Louisiana was sweltering under temperatures hovering over the hundred degree mark. His eyes followed Custer heading into the deeper and cooler parts of the Indiana, the resentful pain he felt at encountering the Yankee general pricking at his brow. There is certainly one who has an unmerciless soul.

It wasn't in him now to throw Front Royal into George Custer's face. Since this was supposed to be a time of healing, forgiveness, and other damnable nonsense which meant little to defeated Reb soldiers such as himself, and Colonel John Singleton Mosby. In the eyes of the bluebellies Mosby's band of partisan rangers with their tactics of raiding, ambushing or attacking, and then dissolving like a spent raincloud, were never considered regular soldiers of the line. One of the Army of the Potomac units falling prey to their tactics had been Custer's Michigan Brigade.

The tables had been turned, or so Custer had thought, when he'd captured six of Mosby's rangers after they had attacked a supply train. All of them had been duly enlisted privates in the Confederate army. Instead of herding them to a prisoner-of-war camp, General Custer had ordered four of them shot on the spot. But this wasn't enough for Custer, since he was determined that the village of Front Royal would witness the hanging of the other two. Strange that I should still remember their names...Carter, I believe...and a William Overby, hanged on a tree midway between the north end of the town and the Shenandoah River...while damn it, Custer had his men play the dead march.

Hood sighed at this, for in his remembrance also was of how Mosby had retaliated by hanging six bluecoats his rangers had captured, Correction, five, as one managed to escape. I wonder, sometimes, if I would have done the same. Must have mercy—-or we shall all perish.

Down in the main dining room Elizabeth Custer gazed with admiring eyes at her husband seated to her left. She wore a high-buttoned black dress with a white collar and her hair piled under a black hat. Despite fierce resistance from her widowed father, Judge Bacon, she had married the only man she could ever love. Through her complete devotion, Elizabeth overlooked George's rash nature and his thirst for recognition. Laying a possessive hand on his sleeve, she murmured demurely, I pray you won't be forced out of the army as some have.

His teeth blazed whitely in a confident smile. At age 36, he was a slender five feet seven inches tall. There was Custer's tawny mustache and deeply-set clear blue eyes and the gold-tinted hair. His family called him Autie, while another name had been affectionately bestowed upon General Custer by the men in the ranks under him, that of Old Curly. 

Staring fondly back at the woman he loved, wistful thoughts came of how he'd miss his old command. He intended to whip his new brigade into shape as fast as possible, as war in Mexico loomed delightedly on the horizon. Once I get things squared away, I'll have some of my old officers transferred in.

I hope that means your brother Tom. You two have always been inseparable.

I did get Tom a commission; though it helped that he won two Medals of Honor. This heat...the only thing I dislike about all of this...but luck brought me this command, dear...and I can live with that. He turned his head and looked at the steamer's captain chatting at another table. A lover of animals, especially the mounts he rode and dogs, he had unabashedly brought along two wolfhounds and a basset. He called out, How are my dogs faring Captain Greathouse.

They have mighty big teeth, General, but faring. We shall arrive tomorrow; none too soon for me 'cause of their infernal barking.

Custer's laughing eyes went back to his wife and the waiter placing before them glasses of iced lemonade. All was well with his world. Now instead of spending most evenings writing long letters to his Love, she was here after a long separation. And war was in the offing. 

**************

Gradually the landscape changed to that of gentle elevations and cultivated fields and plantation residences many of which were either burned ruins or falling into disarray and finally they were approaching their destination. During the war Alexandria had been torched and around the remaining buildings there were old chimneys not yet fallen and ruined walls. Even so, first impressions were deceiving, for here was the finest and more fertile land in Louisiana and there were many wealthy and aristocratic plantation scattered about.

As for his wife upon viewing the city for the first time, he reassured her that close by is the military academy where General W.T. Sherman was president. I know we’ll find our quarters more than adequate. 

There at Alexandria, George Custer soon discovered, his reputation so ardently earned in battle meant little to these volunteers, for the war was over and they wanted to be discharged and go home. The water was almost unfit for drinking, the residents hostile, a place swarming with tarantulas and centipedes. He soon found rations were in short supply and the soldiers were forced to eat hog jowls and flour and moldy hardtack.

Every day General George A. Custer hoped the order would come sending his new regiment on the march to Texas. And every day the drilling went on in hundred degree temperatures. Before his arrival, whole squads of volunteers would desert. He soon put an end to this by issuing no weekend passes and confined every enlisted man to the post.

At 26, he had the usual egotism and self-importance of a young man. A West Pointer, there was no distinction between regular soldiers and volunteers and he regarded private soldiers simply as machines, created for the special purpose of obeying his imperial will. Everything about him indicated fop and dandy. Hair fell in ringlets on his shoulders and everything in the regulations that was gaudy tended only to excite vanity, he caused to be scrupulously observed. He compelled soldiers to perform menial tasks for his wife and himself, which was in express violation of the law.

************

He stood gazing out a window tin cup in hand taking in several platoons going through close order drill under a sweltering sun. The summer uniforms worn by the soldiers were plastered to their thinning frames. Further away, some of his mounted cavalrymen rounded a barracks wall and passed by in orderly formation. He swung about as the Provost Marshall came into his office and saluted and announced, Sir, we caught two more deserters, a sergeant and private from C Company.

Stung to the quick, he shot out, They’ll be court-martialed and sentenced to die before a firing squad!

In the days ahead Custer disregarded the appeals of all field officers of his command that they die before a firing squad, as he was determined to carry the sentence into effect. He must have discipline at any cost.

The fateful day arrived with the Regiment formed on three sides of a hollow square, faced inwards. Two coffins were placed near the center of the square and fifteen feet apart. General George Custer and his staff were positioned in the center of the square and facing the open side. The Provost Marshall guard that was to do the shooting formed about thirty feet in front of the coffins.

A cart containing the condemned men who had their hands pinioned behind them came into the square. Both of the soldiers had on a white bonnet that was to be drawn over their eyes when the execution took place. The cart passed slowly around the square in front of each regiment, to the tune of the death march. Until they witnessed it, none of the soldiers would know the feelings of horror a military execution imposes, each step, each roll of the muffled drum, cruelly told the condemned they were surely approaching their moment of death.

Finally, the condemned were taken out of the cart and each seated on a coffin, facing the Provost guard and their legs were lashed to the coffins and the bonnets drawn over their eyes. The law required that one gun fired by the Provost guard shall be loaded with a blank cartridge and the men are informed of this, each man hoping he carried that gun.

The Provost Marshall, a burly, cold-hearted man, cautioned the guard to take accurate aim so that the condemned may be saved unnecessary suffering by not being killed at the first volley. His motive was selfish, for it would be his duty should the condemned not be killed, to step up and complete the work with his revolver. 

As for George Custer, he had concluded to commute the punishment of one of the condemned to imprisonment for three years at the Dry Tortugas, had kept this a secret from all except the Provost Marshall.

Moments before the execution was to be carried out, the Provost Marshall stepped up to the one whose sentence was commuted to lead him away. He clasped his hand roughly on the condemned man’s shoulder and thinking he had been shot he fainted and died a few days afterwards from the fright he’d received. As he lay unconscious on his coffin, the Provost Marshall gave the command: Ready!

The click of the guns as they were cocked was heard by the entire command the guns leveled now at the lone soldiers hunkered over on his coffin. Silence now, a pause to enable the guard to get accurate aim.

The command: Fire! rang out.

The simultaneous report of the rifles pierced every