On the afternoon of June 25, 1876, along the Little Bighorn River in Montana, Lieutenant Charles DeRudio found himself alone and on foot, staring at roughly three hundred Sioux warriors about fifty yards away. His horse had been shot out from under him and had bolted into the enemy lines. A volley whistled past him, yet he remained untouched. The Italian nobleman whom his fellow officers mocked as “Count No Account” should have died in the next few moments.
Instead, he disappeared into a thicket and began an ordeal that would last thirty-six hours without food or water, through fire, massacre, and the constant threat of discovery. DeRudio was an unpopular officer in the Seventh U. S. Cavalry.
A professional soldier and Italian nobleman, he had been promoted to first lieutenant in December 1875, but his arrogant demeanor and boastful stories earned him the contempt of his colleagues. Captain Frederick Benteen had given him the nickname “Count No Account,” and even Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer regarded him with little favor. Whatever his standing among his peers, DeRudio was a capable officer, and on the morning of June 25, he was serving temporarily with Company A under Major Marcus Reno. Around ten in the morning, Custer’s scouts returned with urgent intelligence.
They had located an Indian village roughly fifteen miles ahead, positioned along the Little Bighorn River. The scouts believed the Indians were withdrawing as the cavalry approached. Custer advanced another two or three miles before halting to plan his attack. He ordered Captain Frederick Benteen, with Companies H, D, and K, to secure the left flank and clear all opposition.
Major Reno, with Companies M and G, held the center, while DeRudio’s Company A was attached to that command. Custer personally took Companies E, I, F, L, and C on the right flank, and Company B guarded the pack train. The center column was ordered to trot and maintain speed until reaching the river six or seven miles ahead. Upon arrival, the troopers forded the river and formed a battle line on the plains beyond.
Then they charged at a gallop, chasing the retreating Indians through a thick cloud of dust that made visibility nearly impossible. The dust was so dense that Reno was forced to halt the battalion. Dismounting, the men formed a skirmish line, anchoring the right flank along a dry, heavily wooded creek. The horses were led into the timber for shelter.
Almost immediately, Indians launched a fierce attack, and the cavalry returned fire. The skirmish lasted about thirty minutes. Then the troopers spotted several lodges across the creek in a park-like clearing. The entire line crossed the creek and found the lodges vacant, only to confront roughly two hundred howling warriors.
The enemy’s overwhelming fire made a retreat nearly impossible, and the small command of about one hundred men became encircled and took devastating losses. It was during this chaotic crossing that DeRudio noticed an abandoned guidon, the cavalry’s company flag, and turned back to retrieve it. As he moved through the woods, the guidon caught on branches and slipped from his hand. Dismounting to recover it, he led his horse to the south bank of the creek.
Just as he prepared to mount, a bullet struck his horse. The animal panicked and bolted into the Indian lines, leaving DeRudio stranded with the enemy closing in. He escaped into a nearby thicket, where he encountered interpreter Fred Gerard and Private Thomas F. O’Neill of Company G.
Gerard and O’Neill had horses, while DeRudio, like O’Neill, was on foot. DeRudio suggested stampeding the horses to reveal their position, but the others refused. Leaving them, he crawled through dense undergrowth into the deep, dry bed of the creek, hoping to remain concealed until nightfall and then slip back to his command. After ten tense minutes, he heard pistol shots nearby, followed by the eerie voices of Sioux women.
Raising his head cautiously, he saw them scalping a soldier who may still have been alive, while others danced a war dance around the victim. The women eventually departed, likely seeking more victims, and DeRudio was left to consider his situation. Then he detected a crackling sound. The Indians had set fire to the dry timber, and the flames were spreading rapidly.
He crawled out along the path he had used to enter the creek bed. As he neared the bank, he heard a voice calling, “Lieutenant, Lieutenant. ” He advanced a few yards and found the entire group he had left earlier, concealed in the creek bottom. Gerard explained that he had left the horses tied and followed DeRudio down.
The group worried about the approaching fire, but the wind died and a light rain began to fall, halting the flames and renewing their hope of hiding until dark. It was now three in the afternoon, and they faced six long hours. Throughout the afternoon and evening, they heard and sometimes glimpsed Indians nearby, their voices unnervingly close. Finally, night arrived under heavy cloud cover, giving them the concealment they needed.
They emerged from hiding and moved toward the ford, two miles south across open ground. Gerard and the scout rode; DeRudio and O’Neill each grasped a horse’s tail, letting the animals guide them through the darkness. Gerard said that if he were forced to flee without them, he would inform Major Reno of their location to ensure rescue. Battle sounds echoed from the hills above, sustained musketry, the cheers of comrades, and the shouts of Native Americans.
The group’s spirits rose when they recognized the cheers of their own men, but fell when they saw their woodland refuge had been set ablaze. They crawled nearly to the edge of the woods, only to find that the Indians had ignited fires on both sides. They maneuvered until they found a dense cluster of mulberry trees and crept underneath. The grass was very green from the recent drizzle, and no wind blew.
As the fire approached their hideout, it spread slowly, and DeRudio smothered the flames with his gauntlet gloves. The fire around them burned down, leaving them in a small, safe zone. Surrounded by fire, they were shielded from view while still able to see everything around them. They watched Native Americans moving about.
One guard stood seventy or eighty yards away, watching the flames. At four in the afternoon, he fired four shots into the air, which DeRudio took as a signal. Then a Native American shouted loudly, repeating the sound four times. After these signals, more than two hundred Native Americans departed and crossed the river.
An hour later, the same signals were repeated, and many more rode away on horseback. Soon the remainder left as well. Hope returned. The constant gunfire slackened, with only occasional distant shots.
By six in the evening, the surroundings seemed peaceful. No Native Americans were nearby. The group assumed the regiment had quit the field. They merely awaited nightfall to cross the river and make their way toward the Yellowstone River, where they planned to build a raft and float to Powder River, the location of their supply camp.
They endured thirty-six hours without water or food. At eight in the evening, they waited, crossed the river twice, and climbed the bluffs, moving slowly and cautiously. After covering two miles, DeRudio ascended a high hill to scout for his command. He spotted a fire roughly two miles away, toward the area where they believed their command had fought.
Uncertain whether it was a Native American campfire or their own, they resolved to approach cautiously and investigate. They climbed hills and halted to listen, progressing over a mile. Reaching another hilltop, they paused and listened again. They discerned voices, too faint to identify.
Moving closer, they heard a mule bray, followed by the familiar challenge of a sentry: “Halt! Who goes there? ” The challenge was not directed at them; they were distant and hidden in the darkness, but it gave them confidence to proceed cautiously. About two hundred yards from the fire, DeRudio yelled, “Picket, don’t fire.
It’s Lieutenant DeRudio and Private O’Neill,” and ran toward the sentries. His announcement drew a loud cheer from the picket and from Lieutenant Varnum, a brave and efficient officer who rushed to meet him, elated. Varnum had presumed DeRudio dead. DeRudio asked about the regiment, hoping his own company had suffered no losses, but that hope faded quickly.
Varnum said he knew nothing of Custer’s five companies, and that their own command had already lost Lieutenants MacIntosh and Hodgson. DeRudio reached camp around two in the morning, exhausted from two sleepless nights. He spoke with Varnum about the battle and shared his narrow escapes. Morning came quickly.
DeRudio met with officers to report that the Native Americans had departed. At eight in the morning, they observed cavalry approaching, first scouts, then a large column. They recognized General Brisbane’s command arriving to relieve them. Later, a long infantry line appeared on the plain, and General Gibbon arrived.
When Generals Gibbon and Terry entered the camp, hardened men wept like children. DeRudio never forgot Private O’Neill’s steadfastness and courage. O’Neill had obeyed his orders and stood by him like a brother through their shared peril. DeRudio later wrote that the brave soldier would forever have his gratitude and that of his comrades.
Against every expectation, the most despised officer in Custer’s command had crawled through massacre and fire and walked out alive, one of the very few survivors of the Seventh Cavalry’s catastrophic engagement at the Little Bighorn.