Private Thomas F. O’Neal of the Seventh Cavalry Regiment was one of the few soldiers who survived the Battle of the Little Bighorn on June 25, 1876, and his firsthand account describes the chaos, fear, and desperate fighting that unfolded that day. O’Neal served in Major Marcus Reno’s battalion, which charged into the battle alongside the forces commanded by General George Custer. His narrative begins days before the clash, as the regiment marched along the Rosebud River and crossed the divide toward the Little Bighorn River, following a trail nearly a quarter of a mile wide that showed signs of a large Native American movement.
Scouts reported fresh signs of Native Americans ahead and on both sides of the column. As the regiment approached within about ten miles of the Little Bighorn, Captain Benteen was ordered to advance with three cavalry companies for reconnaissance, instructed to return if he found no sign of the enemy. He saw no Indians until he was back in view of the river. O’Neal’s unit crossed the stream with water reaching the horses’ bellies and formed a line of battle on the opposite bank.
When they came within about 500 yards of the Indians, the Native Americans opened fire. With roughly 130 to 140 men facing a much larger force, the officers ordered a defensive approach. Three out of every four troopers dismounted, while remaining soldiers held the horses. A defensive line was established, with the horses positioned six or seven yards behind the men.
O’Neal estimated that Custer and Reno were about a mile and a half apart when the engagement began. General Custer and five companies then disappeared behind a tall bluff, heading toward the lower end of the Indian village. It was the last time O’Neal saw Custer or his command alive. The village stretched over two miles, with teepees densely covering the river bottom and the camps nearly 700 to 800 yards wide in some areas.
Native American warriors began to gather in large numbers on the less fortified left flank, preparing for a flanking assault. Officers discussed the situation and resolved to withdraw to a more defensible position, as men and horses were suffering heavy casualties. Major Reno issued the command to mount. The troopers charged across the river, traversing about three-quarters of a mile of flat ground before reaching a crossing point.
Beyond it, a steep incline left the soldiers fully exposed to relentless gunfire. O’Neal described the moment his unit broke free from the underbrush and was met with a deafening battle cry from the Indians, who encircled the formation and fired upon the soldiers. O’Neal saw six or seven men tumble from their horses, struck by gunfire. One soldier nearby was hit in the torso and, as he fell, was struck again in the head.
Before he had covered 200 yards, O’Neal’s horse collapsed under him, killed by a bullet. He was left on foot among the Indians. Fearing the impact of a bullet, arrow, or spear at any moment, he decided to run back toward the thicket from which the unit had just emerged. Miraculously, the Native Americans focused their attention on the mounted soldiers, and many passed by without noticing him.
Some aimed their firearms at him as they sped past, but he escaped unharmed. In the thicket, he met Lieutenant DeRudio, whose horse had also been shot from beneath him. DeRudio told O’Neal that two others had also been left behind: Billy Jackson, a half-breed scout, and Fred Gerard, an interpreter. They lay hidden in a depression surrounded by dense underbrush, as Indians rode back and forth mere feet away.
Lieutenant DeRudio instructed the men not to fire unless discovered. O’Neal later wrote of the horror of watching women approach to gather the dead and injured, their cries heart-wrenching as they mourned their losses and desecrated the bodies of fallen troopers with knives. Witnessing the scene left him feeling faint and nauseated, but he resolved to fight fiercely if discovered. The men remained hidden for hours, expecting at any moment to be found.
As darkness fell, they decided to take a desperate chance and leave the thicket. They had gone without food for an entire day, and the heat had left them parched. O’Neal’s thirst was nearly unbearable after bleeding from the nose during the skirmish, the blood trickling down his throat. As the group emerged, they came upon the site where the command had engaged the Indians during its retreat.
Several men lay dead, stripped and mutilated. Following the trail of lifeless bodies, they spotted a group of mounted Indians about 100 yards away, but the group fled in the opposite direction. When they reached the river, they tested the current and found it nearly neck deep. Eventually, they crossed what they believed to be the main channel, only to realize they were on an island.
While navigating the island, they encountered a group of Indians near a thicket of blueberry bushes. Startled, a voice called out to them in guttural tones. Gerard and Jackson turned their ponies and galloped away, the last time O’Neal would see them until the following night. Lieutenant DeRudio fired two shots from his revolver, and O’Neal aimed his carbine and fired after the Indians.
DeRudio reported seeing six or seven Indians at the fork of the river where it split to form the island. Exhausted, O’Neal asked the lieutenant to allow the men to rest, removing his boots and wet clothing. Just as he finished wringing out his drenched garments, they heard the sound of horses’ hooves and voices. At dawn, a group of mounted soldiers passed approximately 200 to 300 yards away.
DeRudio believed the man in buckskin was Captain Tom Custer, as he had worn similar attire on the expedition. DeRudio stepped onto the riverbank and called out, “Hey, Tom Custer, Tom Custer. ”
The rider halted and glanced in their direction. In an instant, a war whoop erupted, followed by a volley of at least 50 shots directed at them.
The riders were entirely Sioux Indians wearing uniforms they had appropriated from the Seventh Cavalry. O’Neal described it as a miracle that they escaped unharmed, bullets whizzing through the brush around them. They quickly dove into bushes and made their way toward another thicket, keeping low. As they were about to navigate around it, they encountered another group of six or seven mounted Indians, so close they nearly collided.
The sudden appearance startled the Indians, whose ponies reared and became agitated. O’Neal and DeRudio opened fire, firing eight shots in the encounter. O’Neal was certain two riders fell and saw three ponies galloping away without their riders. The lieutenant then spotted a defensive position formed by fallen logs and cottonwood stumps, and the two men took cover, shaking hands and agreeing they could flee no further.
O’Neal removed his cartridge belt and found he had only 25 rounds for his carbine and 12 rounds for the pistol. Since DeRudio was a superior marksman with a pistol, O’Neal gave him the weapon and ammunition, keeping the carbine for himself. From their position, they heard intense gunfire from the hills about a mile away as the Indians launched another assault on Reno’s unit. Indian leaders could be heard rallying their warriors from the riverbank.
The two men remained concealed and did not return fire, anticipating a potential charge. O’Neal recalled that during target practice he could hit a target the size of his hat at 200 yards, and despite the desperation, he felt as steady as he ever had. At approximately 9:00 a. m.
on June 26, the men discussed the Indians’ hesitation to pursue them. DeRudio remarked that the Indians were uncertain of their exact location and realized their losses would outweigh any gains, telling O’Neal that the lesson they had imparted earlier might ultimately be their means of survival. His account ends with the men waiting in their refuge, uncertain of what would come next. O’Neal’s account is among the rare firsthand narratives from soldiers who survived the battle.
It preserves the terror and brutality of the fight, as well as the extraordinary string of escapes that kept him alive.