Lieutenant Charles Albert Varnum, a brave and young cavalry officer, wrote a poignant letter to his parents on July 4, 1876, just days after the notorious Battle of Little Bighorn. In this letter, filled with raw emotion and unfiltered honesty, Varnum recounts the intense and ill-fated clash between the U.S. Army and the combined forces of the Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho tribes. As one of the few surviving officers of the 7th Cavalry Regiment, his letter offers a rare, intimate glimpse into the chaos and brutality of that day, highlighting the valor of his comrades, the strategic prowess of their Native American adversaries, and the personal turmoil of a young soldier facing the horrors of war.
Dear Father and Mother,
I write to you from our camp on the Yellowstone, on this Independence Day, July 4, 1876. I’ve got a chance to send a letter, so I’ll recount our adventures since my last correspondence.
On June 22, General Custer led the entire regiment, about 605 strong, along with my squad of 36 scouts, guides, and interpreters, up the Rosebud River after the Indians, whose trail was discovered by Major Reno. We covered about 12 miles the first day and around 32 miles on the second. Early on the third day, we encountered a heavy trail leading up the Rosebud.
Roughly 10 miles from camp, we discovered a circle enclosed by a brush fence for a sun dance, meant for making warriors. We found a stick with a fresh scalp attached and the trail of a few Indians, likely from that morning. We marched 20 miles, then I was sent back 6 miles to inspect a creek for any signs of Indians departing from the trail. Upon returning, we moved forward another 8 miles and camped at an Indian site about two days old. The signs indicated a vast force, and we were eager to surprise them.
Custer consulted the scouts, and the 6 Crow scouts with us, familiar with the land, indicated that the trail led towards the Little Horn, a fork of the Big Horn. They wanted to advance about 20 miles to a high bluff to view the valley of the Little Horn. Custer needed a reliable white man to accompany them to relay information back to him. I took the 6 Crows, 5 Rees, and an experienced frontiersman, marching all night for about 60 miles. I had been riding for 36 hours without rest or sleep.
General Custer planned to set out at 11 p.m. to reach us by morning. At 2:30 a.m., we reached the hill and hid in the scrub bushes until daylight. When the sun rose, we saw the smoke of an Indian village. By 5 a.m., I sent the Rees back with a message for Custer. The Crow scouts reported seeing about 2,000 or 3,000 ponies on the plain, 12 miles away, but I couldn’t see them myself. Custer’s camp was about 8 miles away, and he received my message by 8 a.m. He started moving again and joined us on the hill.
We saw two Sioux warriors approaching Custer’s column. Charlie Reynolds, the Crow interpreter, two Crow scouts, and I tried to intercept them to prevent Custer’s discovery but failed. When Custer arrived, we informed him of the situation. He decided to hasten the attack on the Indians, since our presence had been detected.
Around 2:30, we neared the camp, and Major Reno led three companies, A, G, and M, into battle. I watched their charge alongside Lieutenant Hare. Our scouts dispersed, so I reported to Captain Moyland to fight with Company A. We dismounted and fought on foot near the village but soon found ourselves surrounded and outnumbered. We retreated to the woods and then to a bluff. The Indians didn’t chase us aggressively, and we heard intense gunfire from the village’s far end.
On the bluff, we regrouped and discovered Lieutenants McIntosh and Derudio were missing, and Lieutenant Hodgson had been killed. Only five men and Lieutenant Wallace from Company G survived, and over a third of our command was lost. Just then, Colonel Benteen arrived with three companies, followed by the pack train with another company. This brought our numbers to about 300 men.
We heard intense gunfire about two miles away and knew Custer’s five companies were in a fierce battle beyond the village. Once we regrouped, we marched along the bluff to join Custer, but after a mile, we lost sight of him, and the firing grew distant. With wounded men and a cumbersome pack train, we chose a defensive position on the bluffs, preparing for an Indian attack.
Our location was well chosen, with horses sheltered in a hollow, vulnerable to attack from only one direction. The battle raged on, with desperate fighting until around 9 p.m., when the firing ceased until dawn. We fortified our position as best we could with limited tools, and the Indians unleashed a relentless barrage throughout the day. Men fell rapidly, but young soldiers quickly became seasoned veterans, fighting alongside the dead and wounded, surrounded by flies and maggots, with a ferocity that belied their years.
We had about 40 wounded men in a makeshift hospital, protected by mules and horses that had to be hit before the bullets could reach the men. The situation’s horror is indescribable. We had no water, and the men became frantic. Detachments were sent under heavy fire to fetch some, many getting killed or wounded. The horses suffered terribly, unable to drink or eat without water.
The firing stopped on the afternoon of the 26th, and we saw the village leaving. After dark, we moved our camp slightly to escape the stench of dead animals. By morning, the Indians were gone, and the reason soon became clear. General Terry, with five companies of the 7th Infantry and four of the 2nd Cavalry, was coming to our rescue. They had encountered the Crow scouts, who had escaped, and hurried to assist us. They reached us around 10 a.m., revealing the gruesome details.
General Custer, with his five companies, had been annihilated. About 300 men were killed, their bodies stripped and horribly mutilated. Sixteen officers fell: General Custer, Captain Keough, Captain Yates, Captain Custer, Lieutenant Cook, 1st Lieutenants Smith, McIntosh, Calhoun, and Porter, 2nd Lieutenants Hodgson, Harrington, Sturgis, and Riley of the 7th Cavalry, Lieutenant Crittenden of the 20th Infantry, and Doctors Lord and Dowulf. Colonel Benteen and I were slightly wounded, with two flesh wounds in each leg below the knee from charging on foot to drive the Indians from a hill where they were killing our men at an alarming rate.
Reflecting on these events now seems horrific. Mrs. Custer loses her husband and his two brothers, one a civilian with us, and Mrs. Calhoun loses her husband, three brothers, and a nephew, Mr. Reed, who was also traveling with us. Half the officers with us have been killed, and the regiment has suffered significant losses.
I will share more details in the future. I’ve been placed in command of the remaining members of Company I, making me a 1st Lieutenant and 11th on the list. We are encamped on our old battlefield of August 11, 1873, and a boat has been sent to Lincoln to establish communication with General Sheridan and receive orders.
Yesterday, we received mail from Fort Ellis, including a letter from Sheridan dated a month ago, warning General Terry not to divide his command, as he had intelligence that at least 5,000 warriors had assembled. I believe we faced 4,000 of them. General Crook, with 16 cavalry companies, was approaching from the south and had been reinforced by the entire 5th Cavalry, giving him 28 companies to engage the enemy we faced with 12.
This is a brief account of the situation. Don’t worry about me.
Your affectionate son,
Charles A. Varnum
