Red Devils - 7 Curly, the Indian Scout

Friday finally dawned, and it was hard to concentrate on our mornings’ work at school. But we had permission to leave school at lunchtime, and we hurried to the station on Water Street.

The train was not overly full and we had a compartment shared with only two other people, an elderly woman and a man who looked to be in business.

It as a fine day, and we stared out the window at the passing countryside, which we had never seen before - going by Fairfield, Southport, Westport, Norfolk, Stamford, Greenwich, and then into New York State at Port Chester, New Rochelle, Tremont, in the Bronx and finally over the King’s bridge and into Manhattan, stopping at 127^thStreet in Harlem before we finally arrived at Grand Central Station. And what a monster of a building it is - that famous train station.

Mr. Hudson had had the foresight to write “Kellogg girls” on a placard and held it up in front of himself. We were then confronted by a tall thin man of about fifty, looking very nervous, as if he had a million things to do and wished this particular job he had taken upon himself would be swiftly over.

“Hello,” I said. “We are Mattie and Cora Sue Kellogg. Are you Mr. Hudson?”

He took off his hat, and shook our hands gravely. “Yes, I am Fredrick Hudson from the New York Herald. Did you have a good trip?”

“Yes, thank you very much. And it is so kind of you to meet us and to have arranged this weekend for us. We are so much looking forward to it,” put in Cora Sue.

“Well, let me take your case. And we can push our way through the crowd here to that door. My driver has the carriage waiting outside. Luckily the weather has not been too unkind to us today, and hopefully it will stay fine and reasonable for your visit.”

“Yes, that would be very wonderful, but any weather would do. We cannot believe we are really in New York City,” I replied somewhat gauchely.

“Do you know anything at all about New York City?” he asked as we stepped into the carriage. His driver put our case in the back.

“We’ve never been here, but we have been reading up about it since we knew we were coming.”

“Well, your hotel, the Washington Hotel, is situated in a part of New York called ‘Greenwich Village.’ Have you heard of it?” We shook our heads to say no.

“It's really the place where artists gather, and you will find street artists offering to draw your pictures tomorrow. You will see the most wonderful stalls, and the restaurants and shops in the area are unique. As Greenwich Village was once a rural hamlet, entirely separate from New York, its street layout does not coincide with most of Manhattan's more formal grid plan. Many of the neighborhood's streets are narrow and some curved at odd angles. Additionally, unlike most of Manhattan above Houston Street, streets in the Village typically are named rather than numbered.

 “That’s fascinating,” I said. “I can’t wait to see it.”

It was no more than ten minutes of driving through the main streets of New York before we arrived at our hotel on Greenwich Street. The building was built in the Queen Anne style with red brick mixed with brownstone detailing. It has multi-paned windows on white wooden frames, with a large front porch. It was not at all overwhelming, for which we were grateful. Mr. Freeman carried our case up to the door, and through into the reception area. A very efficient woman was sitting at the desk, and when he told her that the Kellogg girls had arrived, she smiled and asked us to fill out a form. Then we were told our room was number 4, just down the corridor on the right. A young boy of about eight came out to take our suitcase, and Mr. Hudson tipped him a penny.

“Well, I shall leave you to sort yourselves out. These girls have a dinner reservation for here this evening,” he said to the woman at the desk.

“Yes, that is all in hand, Mr. Hudson,” she said. “Dinner will be served until 8, so I suggest you freshen up quickly, come back here and I will show you where the dining room is.”

“I will have a cab sent to pick you girls up at 9.45 tomorrow morning. I expect you can get breakfast here, is that correct?” he said to the woman.

“Yes, breakfast is served from 6.30-8.30.”

“Well, I wish you a pleasant evening and look forward to meeting you again tomorrow morning.” He again shook each of our hands, very formally, and was off, with no doubt great relief. He certainly was not relishing this job that Mr. Bennett has forced upon him.

We thanked the woman at the desk and made our way down the corridor to our room. It was huge - twice the size of our room at home, and it had a four poster bed with a canopy and all. And there was a water closet within the same room. This must be a very fancy hotel. We quickly washed our hands and faces, brushed down our dresses, hung up our outdoor cloaks and bonnets in the wardrobe, and went back to get directions to the dining room.

There were perhaps a dozen other dinners already seated and in the process of eating their meals. We were shown to a table set for two, and were given the menu to peruse, while the waiter filled our glasses with water. “Can I offer you young ladies something else in the way of refreshment while you make up your minds? I recommend the lemonade.”

When the waiter returned with our drinks,  we both ordered chicken, with mashed potatoes and green beans, as we knew what it was that we would be eating, unlike some of the other menu items. The food was delicious and we cleaned up our plates. When the waiter came with the bill, we told him our room number and that we were the guests of Mr. Fredrick Hudson.

We then returned to our room, passing by the library and ladies’ writing rooms near the dining room, fell exhausted into our very comfortable feather bed, and went straight to sleep.

The next morning we were up early, and had our breakfast by 8. We dressed in our new dresses, as we would not have a chance to change after our session at the newspaper, before our visit to the theatre, and then out to dinner with the Hudsons.

We were sitting in the front lounge, waiting, when our driver announced himself at the desk, and we followed him out and got in his hansom cab. The drive to the newspaper office on Herald Square, just south of the famous Times Square took about ten minutes. This was downtown New York and the streets were full of carriages, and people walking. I had never seen so many people at one time before. When we reached the building, the driver told us to go to the information desk and ask for Mr. Hudson.

Mr. Hudson took about five minutes before he came to rescue us. He asked us if we had had a comfortable night, and then quickly showed us into an office which he said would be ours to use for the morning.

On the table he had clippings from news stories relating to the Battle of the Little Big Horn, including the articles written by our Pa. But he indicated that we might be more interested in another file, in which were contained the interviews that various reporters had produced with many of the Indians who had been at the battle on June 25^th, 1876.

“I hope I don’t need to remind you girls that this information is very important to me. I am letting you read it, and copy from it, because I was instructed by Mr. Bennett to do so. We have done some articles on the Indians, but have not yet produced the major article that we intend to use with this material - so in effect we are offering you a scoop. However, you must quote the material exactly, and you must put our newspaper down as your source. Are you clear about that?”

“Yes, Mr. Hudson. You are willing to let us read and copy the material as long as we copy it exactly and accurately and list your paper as the source of our information.”

“I presume that you have no intentions of having the end product of this research published?”

“Well our teacher said that the person with the best essay might get their work printed in our local Bridgeport newspaper.”

“Well, I am saying this on my own authority, and this was not directed to me by Mr. Bennett, but I think when you finish your report, I would like to see it - even before you give it to your teacher. And if I think it has merit, and is, as I said, in compliance regarding your use of our resources, I will agree to publish it, under your by-line in our newspaper. That will allow that we get the credit for having it first, should you win the competition and have it published by the other newspaper. Does that suit you?” 

I couldn’t believe my ears. My work, if I did a good job, was going to be published in the New York Herald, and under my name. “Oh, how wonderful. Of course, I agree to those terms. Thank you so much, Mr. Hudson.”

“Well, you had better get to work. It is just after 10 now, and I will instruct my secretary to bring you a cup of coffee at 11.15. Then my wife will be here somewhere around 1.30 to pick you up for a quick lunch before for your theatre visit. I know she is greatly looking forward to the play. The reviews have been very promising. Did you know that this is the first time that a Gilbert and Sullivan play has actually been seen first in America, rather than England?”

“Oh, we are too very much looking forward to it. And we will work faithfully for as long as you allow us now, and thank you again.”

What we wanted were the Indian interviews.

The first one I took out was from Curley (pictured above) , who I knew was one of the scouts that traveled with General Custer and Pa on that last journey. Cora Sue took the next one in the file which was for White Cow Bull. There were perhaps 20 in all, so we had our work cut out to get notes made on all of them before 1.30.

Curley's Story of the Battle

A Crow scout's account of the Battle of the Little Bighorn from the Helena Daily Herald, Saturday July 15^th, 1876.

Not a single survivor of Custer's command was found, and when the command returned to the Yellowstone they found there a 19 year old Crow scout named "Curley," who rode out with Custer on that fatal day. He alone escaped, and his account of the battle we give below.  

Custer, with his five companies, after separating from Reno and his seven companies, moved to the right around the base of a high hill overlooking the valley of the Little Horn through a ravine just wide enough to admit his column of fours. There were no signs of the presence of Indians in the hills on that side (the right bank) of the Little Horn, and the column moved steadily on until it rounded the hill and came in sight of the village lying in the valley below them.

Custer appeared very much elated, and ordered the bugles to sound a charge, and moved on at the head of his column, waving his hat to encourage his men. When they neared the river, the Indians, concealed in the undergrowth on the opposite side of the river, opened fire on the troops, which checked the advance.  Here a portion of the command were dismounted and thrown forward to the river, and returned the fire of the Indians. During this time the warriors were seen riding out of the village by hundreds while the women and children were seen hastening out of the village in large numbers in the opposite direction.

During the fight at this point Curley saw two of Custer's men killed who fell into the stream. After fighting a few moments here, Custer seemed to be convinced that it was impracticable to cross. He, therefore, ordered the head of the column to the right, and bore diagonally into the hills, down stream, his men on foot, leading their horses. In the meantime

the Indians had crossed the river (below) in immense numbers, and began to appear on his right flank and in his rear; and he had proceeded but a few hundred yards in the new direction the column had taken, when it became necessary to renew the fight with the Indians who had crossed the stream.

Curley is not well informed, as he was himself concealed in a deep ravine, from which but a small part of the field was visible.

The fight appears to have begun, from Curley's description of the situation of the sun, about 2:30 or 3 o'clock p. m., and continued without intermission until nearly sunset. The Indians had completely surrounded the command, leaving their horses in ravines well to the rear, themselves pressing forward to attack on foot.  Curley says the firing was more rapid than anything he had ever conceived of, being a continuous roll, like (as he expressed it), thunder.

The troops expended all the ammunition in their belts, and then sought their horses for the reserve ammunition carried in their saddle pockets.

Curley says that Custer remained alive through the greater part of the engagement, animating his men to determined resistance; but about an hour before the close of the fight received a mortal wound.

Curley says the field was thickly strewn with the dead bodies of the Sioux who fell in the attack - their number over 300.   He accomplished his escape by drawing his blanket about him in the manner of the Sioux, and passing through an interval which had been made in their line as they scattered over the field in their final charge. He says they must have seen him, but was probably mistaken by the Sioux for one of their own.