Custer

To this day, George Armstrong Custer is criticized for being “ambitious.” Even those without an historical thought in their head will jabber something like this upon the mere mention of the name “Custer”:

Custer? Oh, yeah . . . he wanted to be president . . . that’s what wuz wrong with him. He wanted to be president.

Spoken with smug sanctimony, that supposedly ends all debate on the who, why and wherefore of George Custer and explains why he suffered defeat on the Little Bighorn – his ambition blinded him. What is never mentioned in such a statement – because it is probably never thought of – is that almost every military man above the rank of private has some sort of ambition. If the soldier happens to be at least a colonel he most certainly has aspirations for higher things. If Custer “wanted to be president,” well who in similar circumstances didn’t? Grant did. Garfield did. McKinley did. Teddy Roosevelt did. Eisenhower did. And so on. These men and others were seemingly not blinded in the least by their ambition.

I am not a drooling Custer fan. And would I have enjoyed serving under Custer? No, not a bit. Both during the Civil War and after, “long hair” had a well-deserved reputation for being a “hard-ass,” or one who was so relentless in the saddle that their cans were calloused. Custer’s drive and tenacity were the death of many a poor man and beast, both friend and foe.

Cody

So far-flung was the fame of William F. Cody, that by the 1870’s scores of starstruck young men came west; in every way possible they tried to imitate their hero. One of these pilgrims was a chap named Charley White.

By all accounts, Charley was a likable enough guy, “a good-natured liar,” said one soldier, a fellow of average intelligence and not without redeeming qualities. When it came to his hero, however, Charley was a hopeless toady. Unlike most admirers who were happy to merely meet Buffalo Bill, shake his hand, then leave, White never left. As Sancho Panza faithfully followed Don Quixote, so too did Charley White trail Buffalo Bill wherever he went.

Many times did Cody try to dodge the pest, but to no avail. At camp each night, when others were content simply to flop down in the dust after a hard day’s ride, White would rush to boil his idol’s coffee, hurry to cook his food, dash to clean his gun, run to shake out his roll, and streak to curry his horse. This he happily did before he tended to his own affairs. As if the slavish spectacle were not already bad enough, Charley made sure he dressed like Cody, walked like Cody, talked like Cody, and grew his hair long like Cody.

During one of Buffalo Bill’s periodic absences from the plains, Gen. Phil Sheridan set up a tent and started taking applications for scouts to serve in an upcoming Indian campaign. One of the first men to saunter into the general’s tent was Charley White.

“Who the hell are you?” asked the hard-nosed commander.

“When Cody is not here,” replied White, “I am Buffalo Bill.”

“The devil you are!” cried Sheridan. “Buffalo S–t, more likely.”

Crestfallen, Charley hung his head and slunk from the tent. The nickname stuck. Desperately did poor Charley try to escape this horrible incubus with feats of derring-do, but nothing worked. From that day forth until 1876 when he was killed at the Battle of Slim Buttes, he was known as Charley “Buffalo S–t” White, or, as the reporters phrased it more delicately for their readers, “Buffalo Chips.” Hopefully, when they scratched out poor Charley’s headboard up in South Dakota, someone just penciled in “Here Lies Charley White”. . . and let it go at that.

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