The story of the Battle of the Little Bighorn is often told through the lens of its most famous casualty, General George Armstrong Custer. But the full account of June 25, 1876, includes the harrowing experiences of the men who survived the day’s chaos.
Private Thomas F. O’Neal of the Seventh Cavalry was one of those men. Serving under Major Marcus Reno, O’Neal rode into the valley that day and lived to tell a detailed tale of survival, confusion, and desperation.
O’Neal’s account begins with the grueling march toward the battlefield. After days of riding, the command received orders for a night march. By the time they reached the divide between the Rosebud and Little Bighorn Rivers, scouts were reporting fresh signs of a large Indian encampment ahead.
The trail they followed was massive. O’Neal described it as nearly a quarter of a mile wide in some places, indicating that a large body of warriors had recently passed through the area.
As the column approached the river, General Custer ordered Major Reno to take his battalion across the stream and attack the camp. Custer’s parting words were simple: “I will support you.”
Reno’s men crossed the Little Bighorn and formed a line of battle. They advanced on the village, but it quickly became clear that they were facing a force far larger than anticipated. With only about 130 or 140 men, the battalion could not hope to charge through the superior numbers massing against them.
The officers decided to fight on foot. Three out of every four troopers dismounted, while the fourth held the horses. The men formed a skirmish line and began trading fire with the Indians, who circled within 500 yards or less.
From their position, O’Neal and his comrades could see the immense size of the village. It stretched over two miles along the river bottom, with tepees densely covering the ground.
Meanwhile, Custer and his five companies had vanished behind a lofty bluff, heading toward the lower end of the village. That was the last time anyone in Reno’s command saw them alive.
The fighting soon turned desperate. The Indians began massing on the left flank, and Reno ordered a retreat to a more defensible position. The command to mount was given, and the troopers prepared for a charge across the river.
O’Neal described the scene as a race for life. The Indians pressed in on both sides, firing at the troopers as they fled. Men were pulled from their horses. Riderless horses and ponies dashed about in every direction.
Before O’Neal had ridden 200 yards, his horse was struck by a bullet and collapsed beneath him. He was left dismounted, surrounded by the chaos, expecting to be hit at any moment.
He made a dash for the thicket they had just left. Miraculously, many of the Indians were focused on the mounted men and passed him by. He reached the brush and came face to face with Lieutenant Darudo, whose own horse had also been shot from under him.
The two were not alone. Billy Jackson, a half-breed scout, and Fred Gerard, an interpreter, had also been left behind. The small group lay hidden in a depression, surrounded by thick underbrush, as the battle raged around them.
They witnessed the aftermath of the fight from their hiding place. Squaws approached the battlefield to gather their dead and wounded, their lamentations filling the air. They also stripped the bodies of the fallen troopers, subjecting them to gruesome mutilations.
Hours passed. The men lay still, expecting to be discovered at any moment. O’Neal’s hopes of escape faded, but Lieutenant Darudo remained resolute. He told the men they must face death someday and meet it like brave men.
As darkness fell, the group decided to make a desperate bid for freedom. They knew the Indians rarely fought at night, and their only hope was to find the remnants of their command.
They moved cautiously through the battlefield, following a trail marked by the dead bodies of troopers and horses. When they reached the river, they found the water nearly neck-deep with a strong current. A crossing seemed impossible.
The men were parched after a day without food or water. O’Neal used his slouch hat to scoop water from the stream, and they all drank, declaring it the sweetest water they had ever tasted.
They spent the night wandering along the river, searching for a ford. At one point, they crossed what they thought was the main stream, only to discover they were on an island. The river divided around it, leaving them trapped between two channels.
As dawn broke, they heard the sound of horses and voices. A column of mounted men approached, and Lieutenant Darudo believed he spotted Captain Tom Custer in a buckskin suit. He stepped out and shouted a greeting.
It was a deadly mistake. The riders were Sioux warriors dressed in uniforms taken from Custer’s men. A volley of at least 50 shots was fired at them. How they escaped being hit, O’Neal said, was a miracle.
The Indians did not cross the river after them, but the danger was far from over. Moments later, the two men ran directly into another party of mounted Indians. This time, they had the advantage of surprise.
O’Neal and Darudo opened fire. The Indian ponies reared and plunged, and their riders struggled to stay mounted. In the confusion, the two soldiers poured eight shots into the group. O’Neal was sure at least two riders fell, and he saw three ponies gallop away riderless.
They found shelter in a pile of fallen logs near the riverbank. It was an ideal defensive position, protected by a natural breastwork of debris. They shook hands, certain they would die there fighting.
For the rest of the day, they lay low as the Indians launched repeated charges against Reno’s position on the bluffs. They could hear the fierce musketry and the cheers of the troopers as the attacks were repulsed.
By late afternoon, the shooting had ceased. The Indians began to move out of the valley, their families and belongings packed on travois. The two men watched as the great village passed by, the squaws singing and laughing as they rode toward the mountains.
As darkness fell again, O’Neal and Darudo decided to move. They heard a mule braying in the direction of Reno’s position. It was, O’Neal said, the sweetest music he had ever listened to.
They crawled forward cautiously, stopping every few yards to listen. At last, they heard voices. When they heard a sergeant’s command, O’Neal recognized the voice of Sergeant McVey of A Troop.
He called out, and the response came quickly: “Come on in.”
After nearly two days of hiding, fighting, and wandering, O’Neal and Darudo were back with their comrades. They had survived the Battle of the Little Bighorn, a fight that claimed the lives of Custer and his entire command.
O’Neal’s account offers a rare glimpse into the chaos and terror of that day, seen through the eyes of a soldier who was left behind, outnumbered, and forced to fight for his life against overwhelming odds.