Still Standing: Surviving Custer's Last Battle - Part 1. Judith Gotwald

daughter.”

      “Still a bit out of reach,” Custer sighed. “The judge still thinks I’m not good enough for her.”

      “Sitting in the West Point Guard House, isn’t going to win you any points,” Baxter egged him.

      “He’ll never hear of this. I’ll be out of here before you know it. When I get my commission, things will change plenty fast,” Custer said matter of factly. “George Armstrong Custer, the blacksmith and farmer’s son from little Monroe, Michigan, will soon be a decorated war hero. The judge will take notice. All of Monroe will take notice. The judge will be sorry he judged me so harshly and so will Mary Holland’s father for that matter,” he added with just a hint of bitterness.

      + + +

      Armstrong, or Autie, as he was commonly called, had gotten over his crush on Mary Holland. He had not yet let go of the way it had ended. He knew that he had never overcome her father’s disapproval—not for anything he had done but to which societal class he had been born.

      “Are you still pining for Mary after four years?” Baxter asked. The unfortunate sergeant had drawn guardhouse duty and was overseeing George Armstrong Custer’s punishment for failing to stop a minor brawl among the underclassmen at West Point.

      The rest of Custer’s class had been rushed toward graduation and had already boarded trains bound for Washington, D.C., and assignments in Lincoln’s Army. Custer still had another four hours of marching before he could follow them. He intended to make the best of it.

      “Nah, Baxter, Libbie’s all the woman I’ll ever need. I haven’t given Mary Holland—or any other woman, for that matter—a second’s thought since I cured Libbie’s headache.”

      “Something tells me there’s a story behind that,” Baxter said.

      “Right you are. You see, I had yet to meet Libbie, although I had seen plenty of her about town. Words cannot describe her beauty.” He paused for a moment as he envisioned her.

      “You see, there was no one to give George Armstrong Custer, the farm boy, a proper introduction to Elizabeth Bacon, the judge’s daughter. So I watched from a distance, as often as I could, until an opportunity presented itself.”

      “What opportunity might that be, I’m afraid to ask,” interjected Baxter.

      One day, I saw Miss Libbie in an inn. I was there on business. My brother Tom and I were delivering fresh vegetables to the kitchen as we often did in the summertime. Libbie was sitting by herself at a table, looking somewhat miserable. I dared Tom to talk to her. My little brother Tom is an affable fellow. The girls never mind talking to Tom.

      Tom approached her table and asked if there was anything he could bring to her. “You look right miserable,” he added.

      Libbie was in no mood for pleasantries. “Please go away,”she told Tom. “My head aches so that I feel like it will burst.”

      Custer told the story, feigning Libbie’s voice, much to Baxter’s amusement.

      “I can’t just leave you here in such distress,” Tom told her. He reached into his pocket and found only a firecracker. Tom always had something like that in his pockets.

      “Here’s a little something to lift your spirits,” Tom said and walked away.

      Libbie accepted the firecracker gift and played with it in her hand for a minute. Then she stood it in a small jar of toothpicks sitting on the table and returned to her misery.

      Now it was my turn. I was never much of a smoker, but I had a cigar in my pocket. I lit it and walked over to Libbie’s table. I tried talking to her but could get nowhere. Her head was in her hands and she barely looked up. I made sure my cigar touched the fuse on the firecracker, and then both Tom and I retreated on the double toward the kitchen.

      Sure enough! The big bang came seconds later. Toothpicks flew across the inn. The proprietor ran out thinking a fight had broken out, but there was Libbie Bacon, just sitting there among the toothpicks. I heard her tell the innkeeper, “Well, at least it cured my headache.”

      “That’s some story, Custer. It’s a wonder she ever spoke to you again,” Baxter said.

      “Someday I’ll tell her who played that prank on her. Meanwhile I doubt she’s put two and two together.” Custer reasoned, his self-pity quickly returning.

      “Her father has made it difficult for us. I’m just not good enough for his daughter. Judge Bacon fixed it so we would be apart and come the start of the war, he’ll be regretting his interference.”

      Custer sopped up the last of his gravy with a bit of bread. One good thing about being in the guardhouse, the military rules of mealtime etiquette would go unnoticed. He unconsciously enjoyed resorting to his farmhouse ways.

      “So, Second Lieutenant Custer, before I send you out to march the barracks for the next four hours or so, tell me more about this girl.”

      “It will be my pleasure, Baxter. Libbie Bacon is one of a kind. Prettiest gal in Michigan. Ask anyone. It was absolute fate that brought us together.”

      “Fate! Has fate told her father yet?”

      “I don’t think so. I’m still writing letters to her and addressing them to her cousin. But wait ’til the war gets going. Things are going to change for George Armstrong Custer.”

      “When, was the last time you saw her?”

      “Last saw Libbie at holiday break…,” Custer trailed off.

      Custer could talk about Libbie endlessly. He enjoyed talking, and Libbie was his favorite subject. It was not lost on him that while he rattled on, his punishment was delayed. Again, a double benefit. He got to talk about his Libbie while he avoided the consequences of his actions. “I may be the one sitting in the guardhouse,” Custer thought, “but I’ve got Baxter outflanked.”