Well my name is Mick Ryan, I’m lyin’ here still
In a lonely spot near where I was killed
By a red man defending his native land
At the place that they call Little Bighorn. . .
One hundred thirty five years ago today, a daredevil of a soldier, notable for both his bravery and his recklessness, took the biggest gamble of his military career and lost. George Armstrong Custer split his Seventh Cavalry into three columns and launched an attack against the biggest Native American tribal gathering ever seen: a giant village of some six to eight thousand Lakota, Northern Cheyenne and Arapaho, led by, among others, the legendary warriors Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, and Gall.
Within an hour, Custer and some two hundred twenty, or thereabout, men under his direct command were dead. Another forty or fifty would be killed in action at Reno Crossing, so called after the commander at that point on the field, Major Marcus Reno.
It was, without doubt, the greatest victory–and the costliest–any confederation of Native American tribes ever won.
And, naturally, it left a remarkable ghostly legacy behind it.
Legend has it that there were odd phenomena associated with the Battle of the Little Bighorn–to Native Americans, the Greasy Grass–even before the battle itself. Custer’s wife, Elizabeth Bacon Custer, recounted in her memoirs that, when the Seventh left Fort Abraham Lincoln in mid-May 1876, a mirage appeared to split the long column, so that nearly half the regiment seemed to ride off above the trail into the sky and disappear.
Ominous, indeed: nearly half the regiment would, within six weeks, die in battle.
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The Little Bighorn battlefield became a military cemetery and national monument within a very few years after the battle, and almost immediately gained a reputation as a haunted place. In 1894, a stone house was built for the park’s first superintendent, whom the local Crow tribesmen called “the Ghost Herder”; they believed that the superintendent allowed the dead of the Little Bighorn to walk the night hours, after the American flag was taken down, then sent them back to their graves with the raising of the flag at sunrise.
The Stone House is said to be haunted itself. People who have stayed in it say that their nights were disturbed by phantom footsteps, banging and knocking noises with no apparent origins, objects that seem to move from one place to another of their own volition, doorknobs that turn on their own to admit nobody, lights that turn themselves on and off, and at least once by a partial apparition that appeared at the foot of a ranger’s bed, then vanished through a solid wall.
The oddest incident involving the Stone House occurred in 1983. A Crow ranger, park interpreter and tribal historian named Mardell Plainfeather spotted lights burning on the second floor of the then-empty building. A bit spooked–she knew the building’s reputation for strange happenings–she called another ranger named Michael Massie to come check the building with her.
Massie sent Plainfeather home and went into the building alone, leaving his wife, Ruth, back at their apartment in a nearby complex. Massie found the building deserted, but the lights on the second floor on. He turned them off and was leaving the building when his wife came running up, screaming in panic. When she calmed down a bit, she told him that, back in their apartment, the television had gone haywire; the picture had gone to snow and a voice–definitely not one belonging to an actor on the show she was watching–had said distinctly . . .the second floor of the stone house. . . Knowing that her husband was at the Stone House, and afraid something might have happened to him, she had rushed out, and almost collapsed when she found him safe and well and on his way home.
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. . .And the band, they played that Garryowen
Brass was shinin’, flags a-flowin’
I swear if I had only known
I’d’ve wished that I’d died back in Vicksburg. . .
In that same year of 1983, a young student intern named Christine Hope encountered a full-body apparition of a soldier killed at Reno Crossing. Hope lived, that summer, in an apartment right at the edge of the battlefield cemetery. She woke, one hot night, to the sight of a young blond man with a handlebar mustache and dressed in an 1870s cavalry uniform, seated in the easy chair across the room.
She had never seen, she would report later, such a look of fear and sorrow on a man’s face. She watched, frozen in horror, as he sat there, unmoving, and then vanished.
Later that day, she and a friend made a trip to Reno Crossing, where troops under the command of Major Marcus Reno had narrowly avoided annihilation that long ago June day. At the crossing, she abruptly paused alongside a marker, on the riverbank, honoring 2nd Lieutenant Benjamin Hodgson. Hodgson had almost made it back across the river during Reno’s frantic retreat when he was shot through the leg by a bullet that killed his horse; Hodgson had grabbed another soldier’s stirrup and was pulled across the river. He was climbing up the riverbank to safety when a second shot killed him, and his body rolled to the spot now marked.
Hope later identified a photograph of Hodgson as that of the man she had seen in her apartment. She learned that she was not the first to see “Benny” Hodgson’s ghost, and that everyone who had ever reported a sighting of him had seen him the night before they made a pilgrimage to Reno Crossing.
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Mardell Plainfeather, at one time, had her own sweat lodge along the banks of the river. She had, in 1982, allowed an old man of her Crow tribe to use it. After he was finished with his ritual purification, he stopped by and asked Plainfeather to go by before dark and make sure that the fire was out in the lodge.
Plainfeather went out on that moonlit night and poured water over the stones in the lodge and made sure the fire was out, then stepped back outside to a breathtaking sight: on the bluff above her, silhouetted against the moon, sat two warriors on horseback. She could see their shields and feather decorations on their hair and weapons, and was fairly certain they were either Sioux or Cheyenne. She also knew they couldn’t be living men, for no one was allowed on the battlefield at night, and–significantly–horses weren’t allowed there at all.
She left quickly. The next day, she went up on the bluff and found no traces to show horses or warriors had ever been there; nor were there any plants she might have mistaken for men on horseback. She said prayers and left offerings of tobacco and sage for all the dead of the Little Bighorn.
She never saw the warriors again.
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. . .He spoke with Gen’ral Custer and said Listen, Yellowhair,
The Sioux air a great nation, so treat ’em fair and square
Sit in on their war councils, don’t laugh away their pride
But Custer didn’t listen. . .at Little Bighorn Custer died. . .
Well, you might figure a big personality like Custer–whose recklessness and thirst for glory cost him and his troopers their lives–would remain in this world.
Several times it’s been reported that Custer’s ghost, in the buckskins, red scarf and white hat he wore on the day of the battle, his famous hair cut unusually short, has been seen walking on Last Stand Hill. Those who have seen him say he seems rather confused, and apparently is looking for the men (who included, by the way, two of his brothers, a nephew and a brother-in-law) he lost in battle.
Custer’s spirit has also been seen at Fort Riley in Kansas, where he and his wife Libby spent several years in the late 1860s.
Libby Custer, incidentally, was with a group of women back at Fort Abraham Lincoln, sewing and singing hymns, on that long ago June 25th. All of the women, that long hot summer, were unusually worried about their menfolk, especially after that odd mirage they’d seen in mid-May. Sometime around four PM, Libby reported later, she fainted. She would later learn that 4 PM was roughly the time her husband was killed.
Perhaps the oddest sighting of Custer, however, occurred a full fourteen years after his death, at a most unexpected place: at the site of the Wounded Knee massacre. It has been reported that, on December 29, 1890, both his ghost and that of Sitting Bull, who had been shot and killed two weeks earlier, were seen side by side, watching as one hundred fifty three Sioux were killed–by members of the reorganized Seventh Cavalry.
Those who saw Custer that day said he, like Sitting Bull, seemed to be grieving at the loss of life.
Hard to believe. . .
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The most striking accounts of ghosts of the Little Bighorn have come from people who have seemingly relived the battle. One such, a Vietnam veteran from New Orleans, was missing for several hours. His worried friends had just initiated a search for him when he reappeared, pale, shaking and covered in dust. He said that, as he walked along Last Stand Hill, he could see and hear and smell the battle taking place around him. . .and then, the whole ghastly tableau vanished.
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There are many haunted battlefields around the world (we have three in Tennessee alone, all dating to the Civil War era) but the Little Bighorn seems to be one of the most haunted. So much fear, so much dust, so much blood must leave an imprint, and so, it seems, they have.
And I’m haunted by that Garryowen,
Drums a-beating, bugles blowin’
I swear if I had only known. . .
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For more information about the ghosts of the Little Bighorn, check out these sources:
Haunted America (1994), by Michael Norman and Beth Scott.
Mysteries of the Unexplained (1982), Reader’s Digest Books
Ghosts of the Old West (1988), by Earl P. Murray
Haunted U.S. Battlefields (2008), by Mary Beth Crain
Painting, The Custer Fight by famed Western artist Charles M. Russell (1903)
Song lyrics: “Mick Ryan’s Lament”, written by Robert Emmet Dunlap. This story of a fictional Irish soldier who survives the Civil War only to die at the Little Bighorn is set to the tune “Garryowen”, the Irish quickstep that Custer himself chose as the Seventh Cav’s marching music–slowed down considerably of course. 😉 There are several decent renditions of the song on YouTube, but Her Majesty Queen DinoSnob suggests that you seek out the version recorded by her beloved Tim O’Brien on his CD Two Journeys (2001).
The anomalous quote about a conversation with “Yellowhair”–the name Native Americans bestowed on the blond balding Custer–comes from a Johnny Horton song called “Jim Bridger”, recorded sometime in the late 1950s.