For nearly three decades, Theodore W. Golden, a veteran of the Seventh Cavalry, carried the memory of June 1876 in silence. Only in 1904, in a private letter, did he finally commit to paper his account of the final hours of General George Armstrong Custer and the disaster at the Little Bighorn—a battle that became one of the most analyzed and debated moments in American military history. In the spring of 1876, Golden’s battalion received orders to move from Shreveport, Louisiana, to Fort Lincoln in the Dakota Territory as part of a planned expedition against the Sioux.
General Custer, who had been testifying before a congressional committee in Washington, rejoined the unit only days before departure, having been detained under arrest in Chicago during his journey west. The command marched toward the Rosebud, where General Terry had already proceeded aboard the supply steamer Far West, intending to rendezvous with General Gibbon’s forces believed to be in the vicinity. After riding through the night, the column reached the Yellowstone and spotted Gibbon’s supply wagons and the steamer. Messengers delivered Major Reno’s report of a significant Indian trail, and a war council convened near the mouth of the Rosebud to examine the findings.
A final meeting took place aboard the steamer on the evening of June 21st, during which Custer received his instructions. When General Gibbon was asked when he might reach the mouth of the Little Bighorn, he replied that it would not be before noon on the 26th. During the conversation, it was noted that Custer had been offered the Second Cavalry battalion and artillery, both transported on the steamer, but he declined. He expressed confidence in his own regiment and concerns that artillery would slow the command near enemy forces.
Many in the ranks believed his decision was also strategic, allowing him to maintain independent command, a privilege he had enjoyed in earlier campaigns. On the afternoon of June 22nd, the regiment gathered before Generals Terry and Gibbon and departed along the route identified by Major Reno. From that point onward, the column adhered to the trail resolutely until Reno discovered the Indian village, deviating only to locate suitable campsites. Despite clear orders, Golden noted that no reconnaissance of the surrounding area was performed, and no messengers were sent to General Gibbon, even though scout George Herrendine was available.
The advance was swift and unyielding until the evening of the 24th, when the command unexpectedly left the trail, seemingly stopping for the night. This, however, was a ruse to mislead the Indians. The troops were instructed to remain mounted and prepared for a nighttime advance. From the moment the column departed the Rosebud, Golden observed a change in Custer’s demeanor.
His familiar, restless intensity returned, and he became entirely focused on finding and confronting the enemy. According to assessments from the scouts Bloody Knife and the Crow scouts, the trail led to a group estimated at roughly 1,000 to 1,200 Indians, later confirmed to have originated from the Missouri River settlement. The force was composed predominantly of combatants. Around 11:00 that night, orders were given to ready the horses and form ranks.
An advanced reconnaissance unit, including Crow and Ree scouts and officers such as Lieutenants Varnum and Hare, moved ahead to investigate the route across the divide and determine the enemy’s location. The command continued through difficult terrain, hoping to reach the shelter of the Little Bighorn foothills before dawn. The rough ground and challenges in tracking the trail hindered progress, leaving the column at dawn in a gully beneath steep cliffs, uncertain how close they were to the river. Throughout the night, reports suggested Custer had ridden ahead to join the scouts.
At first light, the scouts communicated that they had spotted the village in the Little Bighorn Valley. Custer reportedly regarded their report with skepticism. Meanwhile, indications surfaced that the column’s presence had been noticed. A detail sent to retrieve a misplaced ammunition crate encountered Indians inspecting it.
The news seemed to spur the general’s decision for prompt action, and the troops were arranged into distinct units. Mitch Boyer, the mixed-blood Crow interpreter, cautioned Custer that the valley held more warriors than the command could effectively confront. The general questioned the scout’s bravery, to which Boyer replied that although he would follow anywhere, entering that valley would guarantee death for them all. Just before moving forward, Golden received orders from Lieutenant MacIntosh to join Custer’s staff as an orderly.
The general instructed him to accompany Lieutenant Cook, the regiment’s adjutant, and carry out any tasks assigned. During a brief break, weary soldiers lay sprawled on the ground, many asleep, while their horses grazed on sagebrush. Custer then ordered the advance, specifying that whichever company in each battalion was ready first would take the right flank position. Within moments, everyone was mounted and in place.
Benteen’s battalion had been sent to the left to scour the area, flush out any enemies, and report significant discoveries. Reno’s unit would keep to the trail while Custer led five companies to the right, with McDougall following behind managing the pack train as conditions permitted. The column quickly moved in accordance with these orders. After thirty minutes of strenuous riding, the rough terrain forced Custer’s column to veer left until it met Major Reno’s group, advancing along the trail as swiftly as the steep incline allowed.
Upon reaching the ridgeline, the command overlooked a rolling plain that sloped down toward the river’s foothills several miles away. Reno’s advancing troops became visible in the distance, while Benteen’s detachment could be seen far to the left, scouting the cliffs as directed. Those close to the general noted his increasing agitation. He would often gallop ahead, slow to wait for the column, then charge forward once more.
At one pivotal moment, the command observed a large dust cloud moving through the river valley, although its origin was uncertain. Custer, accompanied solely by his bugler, rode toward the waterway and halted atop a prominent outcrop. There, Golden saw him waving his hat in what seemed to be a salute to figures in the distance. Upon returning to the vanguard, led by Captain Keogh and I Troop, Custer’s excitement was palpable.
He proclaimed to Keogh that the hostiles were in retreat and that, if pressed hard enough, he was willing to sacrifice half their horses to pursue them. Keogh, maintaining his composure, surveyed the resolute faces behind him and replied, “General, we will give everything these men and mounts can provide. ”
Almost immediately, the trumpet sounded the charge—the first such call since leaving the Rosebud. The command surged northward along the river, making several unsuccessful attempts to descend into the valley.
After perhaps the third failed attempt, Custer urgently conferred with Captain Cook, who swiftly wrote a message on his notepad. When Cook called for a courier, Golden was closest and received the folded note. “Take this to Major Reno,” Cook instructed. “Stay with his unit until we join forces, then report back immediately.
”
Before Golden could reply, the last of the column galloped past and vanished into the network of gullies. For a fleeting moment, he watched them disappear, then realized his solitary position in enemy territory. Golden rode swiftly toward Reno’s position, guided by the dust cloud. He faced little resistance, encountering only a few distant shots that hastened his pace.
After six miles at speed, he reached Reno just as his men were dismounting to establish skirmish lines. Golden handed over the dispatch, the contents of which were unknown to him. Reno briefly scanned it before placing it securely in his pocket. At that critical moment, the scouts broke into a panic, fleeing all the way to the Powder River and the safety of the supply train.
The tactical situation rapidly deteriorated as warriors began encircling the position. The command was compelled to turn around and fought desperately to fend off the attackers while retreating toward a wooded area, losing several mounts to gunfire and others to sheer panic. They reached the relative safety of the timber, where better cover enabled them to reorganize and continue their defense. Shortly thereafter, Captain Moylan prepared his company for movement.
On the firing line, Lieutenant Wallace called out to Captain French, who commanded the central unit, inquiring about their instructions. French replied that he had not received any orders, but he would seek to clarify the situation. Soon after, he shouted that he believed they were to prepare for a mounted assault. Although this had not been formally communicated, he advised the men to saddle up and participate in the forthcoming action.
As they approached their horses, roughly fifteen troopers had lost their mounts, some to enemy fire and others to frightened animals bolting. Lieutenant MacIntosh, finding himself without a horse, took a mount from Private McCormack, who grimly remarked that their fate was sealed regardless and that dying on foot suited him just as well as in the saddle. When they emerged from the tree cover, they were astonished to find that instead of launching an attack against the hostile forces, Reno was leading a tactical withdrawal toward the bluffs across the river. The warriors focused their fire on the flanks as the command retreated, although their poor aim resulted in surprisingly light casualties during what Golden described as more of a rout than a retreat.
Golden noted a contradiction with later narratives suggesting that Reno discharged his revolver recklessly before abandoning it. He asserted that this never took place, stating that the firearm in question remained with General Benteen or his family until at least recent years. During the tumultuous retreat, Golden positioned himself on the left flank of the column near the woods when his horse unexpectedly fell, throwing him into a patch of sagebrush. He emerged with only minor injuries.
As he regained his balance, Lieutenant Wallace rode by, urging him to head toward the trees and informing him that his horse had been shot. Golden dashed for cover, reaching the timber after only a moment’s hesitation. From this hidden vantage point, he observed troopers navigating their horses through the perilous river crossing. Lieutenant Hodgson’s horse plunged into the water as its rider, appearing injured, struggled to stay mounted.
Disengaging from the stirrups, Hodgson grasped another soldier’s saddle strap to aid his crossing. Upon reaching the opposite bank, his injuries became apparent, yet he continued onward with extraordinary resolve. The assisting trooper attempted to pull him up but was unable to control his own mount. Suddenly, Hodgson appeared to be struck again, his grip loosening as he fell to the ground.
Struggling to his feet, he reached out to another comrade who had halted to assist him. With a sense of grim acceptance, Hodgson turned to face his pursuers, drew his sidearm, and fired defiantly. Almost at the same moment, several shots rang out from across the river, and Golden watched in despair as Hodgson staggered and fell, his fate sealed. As the last of the troops disappeared into a distant gully, Golden found himself alone.
By a stroke of luck, the warriors remained unaware of his presence, absorbed in the task of looting and mutilating fallen comrades along the river’s edge. At that moment, the unmistakable crackle of continuous gunfire reached his ears from downstream, indicating that Custer’s forces had engaged the enemy. The fleeting glimpses Golden had caught of the vast village filled him with dread. Suddenly, most of the warriors abandoned their grisly task and hurried toward the distant sounds of battle.
Spotting scout George Herrendine nearby, Golden signaled to him. Upon reuniting, Herrendine informed him that the fifteen stranded troopers had regrouped roughly two hundred yards deeper in the timber. Their efforts to reach the river had been hindered by precise enemy fire. Before retreating, the Indians had set the riverside brush ablaze, either to conceal their movements or flush out hidden survivors.
Ironically, the smoke became their salvation, offering cover for a desperate attempt to cross the river. After a perilous wade through the current, they encountered a Crow scout who led them to the remnants of the command. They arrived to discover that Benteen’s battalion had reinforced Reno’s survivors. No news had been received from Custer’s column.
As they shared their experiences, a movement caught their eye: a white cloth fluttering near their previous hiding spot. Lieutenant Hare bravely exposed himself to signal from the bluffs, establishing contact with the stranded party, who then risked the crossing to rejoin them. These were the dismounted men left behind during the chaotic retreat. Golden’s last memory of Lieutenant MacIntosh during the retreat was of him riding McCormack’s horse several lengths ahead, his loose lariat dragging perilously, trailing picket pins clashing against rocks and brush as multiple troopers shouted warnings he seemed oblivious to.
When his mount suddenly collapsed, Golden was unable to ascertain whether MacIntosh had been struck. As he passed by the still body, he could only observe that the lieutenant seemed either unconscious or deceased. The following morning, after the enemy forces had retreated, MacIntosh’s body was found precisely where he had fallen. While surveying the valley from the bluffs, Golden overheard a tense conversation.
Captain Weir asserted passionately, “If you choose not to advance, I will proceed alone, and when we emerge from this, there will be consequences. ” He stormed away, and moments later Golden saw the troop preparing to move forward toward the distant gunfire without formal orders. The entire command followed this action, with the exception of Benteen’s and Godfrey’s disciplined units, which maintained their proper formation. The advance continued until they encountered Weir’s retreating troop, which had been forced back by overwhelming numbers.
A defensive line was quickly established, covering the withdrawal through their ranks before regrouping behind them. With the support of this rear guard, the command executed a systematic fighting retreat. During this withdrawal, Colonel Benteen, who had effectively assumed command, spoke to Lieutenant Wallace. “Wallace, we cannot continue to retreat.
Anchor your right flank here and prepare to hold. ” Wallace replied with a grim smile: “I have no troops left, only two men. ” Benteen let out a humorless laugh. “Then form up with those two.
I will brief you once I comprehend our situation. ”
This small group became the core of the defensive position. Gradually, others joined as they took cover behind sagebrush, improvising breastworks and returning fire. The defense was sustained until nightfall, which provided temporary relief.
Under the cover of darkness, the perimeter was consolidated, creating a makeshift corral and field hospital while digging whatever trenches could be managed. At first light, the fighting resumed with unrelenting intensity until around 3 p. m. , when the warriors abruptly began dismantling their lodges and moving upriver, frustratingly beyond effective range.
On two occasions that afternoon, volunteers undertook water runs and came under fire both times. During the second attempt, Trooper Madden of K Company sustained a severe leg injury that required amputation. He was transported to the surgeons, who conducted the operation that night. The following day, Generals Terry and Gibbon’s columns arrived, providing reinforcements and confirming Custer’s fate.
On June 28th, after evacuating the injured across the river, the command returned to retrieve the dead. With few exceptions, particularly General Custer himself, most bodies exhibited signs of post-mortem desecration. In Golden’s extensive discussions with military officers and frontier veterans after the engagement, three critical failures were universally recognized as having led to the disaster. The first and most significant mistake was the division of the command into four isolated detachments nearly fifteen miles from the expected battlefield, carried out without reliable intelligence regarding the enemy’s position or strength.
This fragmentation left each column perilously unsupported. Secondly, Custer’s arrival at the conflict zone nearly a full day ahead of schedule proved disastrous for the coordinated strategy. Lastly, the substantial loss of both cavalry mounts and reserve ammunition severely diminished combat effectiveness during the pivotal engagement. Golden refrained from elaborating further on those strategic errors, noting that more qualified analysts had thoroughly examined them elsewhere.
His personal observations of Custer indicated an officer whose courage bordered on recklessness, one who consistently embraced danger without adequate consideration of opposing forces. Golden asserted that Custer’s choices, which were in direct opposition to clear directives, may have originated from the deep humiliation he suffered after being publicly reprimanded by the president. It was possible, Golden suggested, that Custer sought to redeem himself through a remarkable battlefield success similar to his renowned victory at the Washita, a feat that would restore his damaged reputation as the nation’s foremost Indian fighter and military leader. Regardless of his reasons, Golden concluded, history must acknowledge that Custer displayed courage in his final moments, dying honorably alongside the veteran troopers who had accompanied him to triumph in numerous past campaigns.
The letter was respectfully submitted by Theodore W. Golden, offering a rare firsthand account of the Little Bighorn engagement in the wider 1876 Sioux campaign.