On the evening of June 24, 1876, Private William Oliver Taylor of Company A, Seventh Cavalry, lay resting in a camp of rare beauty. A clear creek wound between the river and a steep bluff, and wild rose bushes bloomed across a flat grassy plateau. It was a site Custer had chosen, as he often did, for its striking natural scenery. Taylor watched as Custer sat alone near headquarters, a sorrowful expression on his face.
Young officers gathered and sang “Annie Laurie,” then a doxology, as though an unconscious premonition hung over them. They quickly shook it off with a jaunty tune. Few in that peaceful bivouac could have imagined that within weeks, the very ground they rested on would be the scene of further fighting. The regiment had marched hard that day, halting repeatedly so scouts could survey the valley ahead.
The men had fed their horses, set up shelter tents, and taken what rest they could on coffee and hardtack. But shortly after ten, they were awakened and ordered to prepare for a night march. They rode at least ten miles along the Rosebud, paused around two in the morning for scouts to report, and brewed coffee at dawn. The water was poor, but it did not matter.
Just before eight, Custer rode without a saddle and, Taylor believed, without a hat, moving among the troops. The Indians had been located. From a vantage point on the divide, scouts had seen smoke rising from a village some twelve to fifteen miles away, with pony herds grazing in the valley below. The order would be executed without delay.
The regiment crossed the divide between the Rosebud and the Little Bighorn and halted around ten-thirty in a ravine, where they were told to remain hidden and silent. Custer had intended to wait until the next morning to attack, but word came that their presence had been detected. Just before noon, they crossed the divide again, and the regiment was divided into battalions. Major Reno took the advanced battalion, numbering just under 150 men: Troop M, Troop A, and Troop G, along with Indian scouts, translators, white scouts, and two medical officers.
Custer commanded the battalion to the right, with Troops C, E, F, J, and L. Captain Benteen’s battalion of roughly 125 men from Troops D, H, and K moved to the left front. The pack train followed behind with B Troop under Captain McDougall. Reno’s battalion advanced down the Indian trail through a dry valley.
They passed a burial tent holding the body of a warrior, burned by their own Indian scouts, who had died days earlier in a clash with Crook’s column. Reports placed some Indians nearby, but Taylor saw none. They reached the Little Bighorn, a stream fifty to seventy feet wide and two to four feet deep, clear and icy cold. Reno ordered the pace quickened, and horses and riders plunged into the water.
Taylor removed his hat, used it as a scoop, and drank the last water he would have for over twenty-four hours. After crossing, they exited through a thicket and onto grassland, moving through a narrow valley for about ten minutes. To their right, the river wound through heavy woods beneath steep bluffs. To their left, low hills rose, and glimpses of pony herds and mounted men appeared.
Some rode in circles, others advanced and retreated, gathering their ponies. The command to trot came, then the order to charge, as gunfire sounded and small puffs of smoke appeared. Reno shouted for silence when the men cheered, and the charge was ordered again. Taylor was the fourth man in the countoff, tasked with leading three horses into battle.
He tried to swap places with the third man, Cornelius Crowley, who had shown signs of mental instability, but his attempt failed. The stable guard kept a close watch on Crowley afterward. As they rode toward the village, encircled by dense underbrush and tall cottonwoods, many faces appeared resolute, some pale. The angel of death seemed near.
No one flinched. For most, this was their first experience of close combat. The halt came, followed immediately by the order to prepare to engage on foot. The men dismounted, handed their reins to the fourth man, and advanced to the skirmish line.
Taylor remained in the saddle. It was a staggering gamble: 150 cavalrymen had charged toward a village defended by at least 2,500 Sioux warriors, only to dismount and fight on foot, leaving a quarter of their number to hold the horses. Lieutenant Hare took the lead horses into the woods for cover, but soon dashed about shouting for his missing horse. Taylor shouted back and tossed him the reins.
In the chaos, Taylor dismounted and remounted twice. A large group of Native Americans came galloping through the woods, armed with muskets and whips, wearing little more than feathers and breechcloths. One warrior stood out, a robust figure in an elaborate battle bonnet whose long feathers cascaded down his back. Taylor wanted to shoot, but his aim was poor among the dense trees, and the warrior seemed eager to leave.
Taylor pushed deeper into the underbrush. His right stirrup became entangled, and the strap nearly tore off, leaving it useless. He maintained his balance carefully. Breaking through the trees moments later, he saw the situation had collapsed.
The soldiers were on the defensive, firing their handguns at a line of shouting Indians. More Sioux warriors emerged from the dust, eager to press the attack. Taylor’s aim was compromised by the broken stirrup, but he fired anyway. He kept one revolver held in reserve, with six rounds, thinking he might end his own life rather than risk capture.
The terrain was treacherous, full of prairie dog holes that could trip his horse. He reached an old riverbed, his horse leaping the steep bank, and in the motion, his revolver slipped from his grip. Dismounting to search for it was impossible. The Indians were closing in, and he hurried toward the river.
The scene there was chaos. The water was stained with blood, and men and horses thrashed in turmoil. Lieutenant Hodgson was among them, screaming in pain. Taylor turned his horse to the right and crossed the river, scaling the steep far bank.
His exhausted horse, a mount named Steamboat known for a strange whistling sound, refused to go further. Bullets whizzed past. Taylor dismounted, let the horse catch its breath, then tried to urge it on. It stood stubbornly still.
He prodded it with his carbine, then, in anger, kicked the animal and left it behind, climbing the bluff on foot with his carbine slung. The slope was a funnel shape, narrow at the top with steep gorges on either side. No other route would have allowed such a quick climb. Taylor believed Providence had guided them there.
A third of the way up, he met a soldier known as Tinkerbell, a former tinsmith’s apprentice. They walked together briefly until the man collapsed face down with a simple groan. A bullet had struck him between the left ear and eye, and he was dead by the time Taylor reached him. Taylor veered right into a ravine, then left, climbing in a zigzag.
Near the summit, Frank Neely, a former comrade from M Troop, rode past and offered his horse. Taylor accepted with gratitude. The new mount, Old Dutch, was not much better, but it was a horse. Reaching the top, Taylor joined Reno’s main command.
The Indians had ceased firing as they reached the summit, a relief the men did not fully understand. Reno himself seemed shaken, his cap lost, a red handkerchief tied around his head, pacing anxiously. Officers gathered; exhausted men collapsed on the ground. Captain Benteen soon arrived with Troops H, D, and K, sent to the left two hours earlier.
They had received both verbal and written orders to join Custer, and Reno’s own account placed the reunion at 2:30 p. m. Boston Custer had returned to the command before the fighting; his body would later be found alongside his two brothers. With Benteen’s arrival, the men remained on the bluff for over two hours without challenge.
First sergeants conducted roll calls, accounting for the dead, the injured, and the missing. Firing could be heard in the distance, from the general area where Custer was believed to be fighting. The question was repeated: why were they not advancing? The wounded were not serious enough to hold the command back.
The officers likely knew Custer was engaged nearby, and the sudden retreat of the Indian force that had driven Reno from the camp could only mean another attack was coming from another direction. Around 4:30 in the afternoon, a group of twelve soldiers was seen climbing the bluffs. They had hidden in the woods when the command retreated, emerging once the Indians seemed to have moved on. The group had begun with fourteen members, but two chose not to risk the escape and were later found and killed.
Scout George Herendeen, along with six men from G Troop, three from M Troop, and two from A Troop, made it through, turning back only five Indians without sustaining injuries. One soldier found Taylor’s horse grazing where he had left it across the river and returned it to him, believing Taylor dead. Remarkably, though the horse stood near Indian territory for nearly three hours, none of Taylor’s personal belongings were touched. A second group remained hidden in the woods, unbeknownst to the first.
Lieutenant DeRudio, Private Tom O’Neal, interpreter Frank Gerard, and scout William Jackson reached the American lines late on the evening of the 26th, after roughly thirty-four hours of concealment and several close brushes with death. Taylor had survived the valley fight, but the battle was far from decided. To the north, Custer’s battalion had been annihilated.
The Seventh Cavalry had suffered one of the most devastating defeats in American military history, and for the men on the bluff, the night was only beginning.