On the Greasy Grass

On this day in 1876, several hundred American soldiers and civilians lost their lives at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. The commanding officer, George Armstrong Custer, died in the battle along with two brothers, a nephew, and a brother-in-law.

"Custer's Last Stand" was not the biggest American loss in the Indian Wars, nor did it result in the highest number of native casualties. It was not even a lasting victory for the natives: the coalition of Lakota, Cheyenne, and other tribes soon scattered. Within months, most were on reserves or living as refugees in Canada.

For some reason, the battle has seared itself in the popular imagination. People who know nothing else about the history of the American West have heard of Custer, the Little Bighorn, Sitting Bull, or Crazy Horse. I even once had an in-depth and entertaining discussion about the battle with a local Glaswegian while on a business trip to Scotland.

I have to admit that I have a strange fascination with the battle. When I was 9 or 10 I received a 12-inch tall General Custer action figure for Christmas. (My sister called it a doll, which was far more perceptive but far less masculine.) The battle also dominates my bookshelves, with close to two dozen books on the battle or the participants.

Still, I have no idea why it exerts such a hold on me. Perhaps it is the tragedy of so many men making a last stand in the wilderness of Montana that sings to me. Perhaps it is the tragedy that the Indian alliance did not capitalize on their victory. Perhaps it is just the fact that the battle seemed so inevitable.