Garryowen!: Jack Cameron, the Seventh Cavalry and the Battle of the Little Bighorn

By Ian Colquhoun

Jack Cameron returns as a white scout for the US army during the Plains Indian Wars, and is soon emulating the feats of his heroic ancestors. Will Jack succeed in his quest for revenge?

This superb, well-researched novel also draws special attention to the Celtic element of the Seventh Cavalry, around one third of whom were Scottish, Welsh or Irish immigrants. Backed up by an in-depth glossary and more stunning artwork my Martin Symmers, GarryOwen is the ultimate frontier tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 28, 2008
• ISBN: 9781440100680

Ian Colquhoun

Ian Colquhoun is an author and actor originally from Livingston but who now resides in Edinburgh. This book is his fourth release to date, his first being his autobiography ‘ Burnt: Surviving against all odds- One man’s inspiring story of his survival after losing his legs’ which was released on Mirage publishing in 2007. Ian lost his legs following a vicious unprovoked assault and arson attack whilst he was living in the Irish republic in 2002, an attack that saw him receive no compensation whatsoever. Prior to losing his legs he worked as a lowly warehouse operative. He has appeared as himself on TV’s ‘Men in white’ in 2006 and on ‘Richard and Judy’ in August 2007, as well as starring in ‘Ocean of fear’, a film about the sinking of the USS Indianapolis during World War Two (2007). Ian has also appeared in SMG’s long running police drama ‘Taggart’. A keen historian, Ian’s particular areas of expertise are the Jacobite wars in Scotland and Ireland and the conflicts of the 19th and 20th centuries. He can be contacted through either of his websites, www.iancolquhoun.org.uk or www.myspace.com/ian0478

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Copyright © 2008 by Ian Colquhoun

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-0067-3 (pbk)

ISBN:978-1-4401-0068-0 (ebk)

iUniverse 10/22/08

Contents

PRELUDE:

One.

Two:

Three:

Four:

Five:

Six:

Seven:

Eight:

Nine:

Ten:

Eleven:

Twelve:

Thirteen:

Fourteen:

Fifteen:

Sixteen:

Seventeen:

Eighteen:

Nineteen:

Twenty:

Twenty One:

Twenty Two:

Twenty Three:

Twenty Four:

Twenty Five:

Twenty Six:

Author’s notes, views and historical corrections.

GLOSSARY:

ORDER OF BATTLE:

BIBLIOGRAPHY:

COMING SOON!

PRELUDE:

The Indian wars and this battle in particular, have captured my imagination since I first read ‘the ladybird guide to the Battle of the Little Big Horn’ as a seven-year-old boy. Though, naturally, my knowledge and understanding of the battle has improved greatly over the years, especially considering the fact that I live in Scotland and am disabled, meaning travelling to the States to look at primary sources has been problematic, I am NOT a serious academic scholar. Therefore, please don’t get too upset if you find anything in this book that annoys you, either regarding historical accuracy, (I’ve done my very best in that respect) or some of the language I use to describe people on both sides in the story. I have, for the most part, tried to use contemporary terminology and descriptions, and have done so purely for artistic purposes. The use of phrases like ‘ savages’ or ‘whites’ is by no means meant in a racist context. I’m sure you’ll agree that this story in particular wouldn’t be the same if it used modern phrases to describe the protagonists rather than traditional ones. I doubt that anything in the story or notes will offend anyone, but you never know. You’ll see by the end that I have great respect for both sides in these wars.

Above all, Thankyou for buying my book, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

All artwork is by Martin Symmers of Edinburgh.

GARRY OWEN!!!

The lyrics to the military version of this classic song are contained in the book’s glossary. These are the words to the original Irish version.

1. Let Bacchus’ sons be not dismayed

But join with me, each jovial blade

Come, drink and sing and lend your aid

To help me with the chorus:

Chorus:

Instead of spa, we’ll drink brown ale

And pay the reckoning on the nail;

No man for debt shall go to jail

From Garryowen in glory.

2. We are the boys who take delight

In smashing Limerick lamps at night,

And through the street like sportsters fight,

Tearing all before us

Instead of spa, we’ll drink brown ale

And pay the reckoning on the nail;

No man for debt shall go to jail

From Garryowen in glory.

3. We’ll break the windows, we’ll break down doors,

The watch knock down by threes and fours,

And let the doctors work their cures,

And tinker up our bruised

Instead of spa, we’ll drink brown ale

And pay the reckoning on the nail;

No man for debt shall go to jail

From Garryowen in glory.

4. We’ll beat the bailiffs out of fun,

We’ll make the mayor and sheriffs run

We are the boys no man dares dun

If he regards a whole skin.

Instead of spa, we’ll drink brown ale

And pay the reckoning on the nail;

No man for debt shall go to jail

From Garryowen in glory.

5. Our hearts so stout have got us fame

For soon ‘tis known from whence we came

Where’er we go they fear the name

Of Garryowen in glory.

Instead of spa, we’ll drink brown ale

And pay the reckoning on the nail;

No man for debt shall go to jail

From Garryowen in glory.

One.

The Hunter.

South Dakota territory 1872. Stay down wind. Every hunter and frontiersman knows that to trap or kill your prey, you have to remain down wind from it, so that it doesn’t pick up your scent.

And stay silent. Totally silent, else your prey will be off at full speed in a flash.

The frontiersman relaxed and thumbed a round of ammunition into his Webley hunting rifle. There was actually no wind today, which could be a mixed blessing, but one thing that was with him in great abundance was silence.

Eerie silence.

The frontiersman flipped up the site on his new rifle that had cost him the best part of two weeks wages. So far today he had only managed to trap two rabbits, and since leaving the homestead that morning to go hunting, that was all he had managed to catch. Hardly enough to feed his family for one day.

No, what this frontiersman needed was a brace of deer. His hunting trip had seen him leave the rolling grassland that surrounded his little farm and enter what he thought was a small wooded glade, ideal for finding decent game to hunt. It had been no small glade though, and he had found himself drawn deeper and deeper, miles and miles into the woods in search of his elusive quarry. Asides the two rabbits that hung from his saddle, the only wildlife he had come across had been two racoons. He wasn’t getting frustrated or impatient though, even though he should be heading back home soon. The quiet forest held no fear for the tall handsome experienced frontiersman, in fact he was glad of the peace and quiet.

Suddenly, he heard a twig snap and saw a bush up ahead rustle and shake. With no wind around, he knew there was someone in that bush not three hundred yards to his front. Silently tethering his new horse Dandy to a nearby tree, the frontiersman crept forward as silently as he could, taking meticulous care not to step on anything that might make a noise and thus signal his presence to who, or what, was in the bush. The adrenalin pumped through him as he knelt slowly, bringing the stock of the metal and chestnut wood rifle up to his shoulder and then pausing. Waiting. Whoever or whatever was in the bush still did not emerge, but the experienced frontiersman patiently remained in his firing position. He waited.

And waited.

When a head appeared at the left hand side of the thicket he took careful aim and let off one shot.

CRACK!

The sound of the single rifle shot echoed around the woods, seeming to reverberate off every tree. The shot would be heard for miles around. The bullet itself imbedded itself in the head of its intended target and the target slumped to the forest floor, seemingly, dead.

The frontiersman took the precaution of reloading his rifle before venturing over to the thicket, just in case his target was still alive. Slowly, he approached, pace by pace, until he reached the thicket.

His victim did indeed lie dead with a well-aimed gunshot wound to the head. The frontiersman was relieved. He had killed a huge doe.

A female deer.

There would be enough meat on the now deceased animal to feed him and his family for two days, along with the rabbits he had trapped earlier. Adult deer are heavy though. There was no way he could carry it home so he struggled to get the dead animal onto his back and then, with a Herculean effort, humphed it back to the spot where he had tethered his new horse. He carefully secured the deer to the horse’s back and decided enough was enough. No more hunting today.

As his horse carried the weight of the deer, he himself walked alongside his mount, leading it along the barely visible track that was etched into the woods. Killing animals was a necessity to this man. He had himself, his beautiful wife and his three young children to feed. Yet he admired the noble beast. He wondered if it itself had a family of its own, but that thought did not linger in his mind for long.

It was the frontier after all..

Survival of the fittest.

The frontiersman was glad he had left his repeating rifle behind, opting instead for the reduced rate of fire but better accuracy of his new Webley sports hunting rifle.

The frontiersman allowed his mind to wander as he slowly made his way homeward through the woods. Was this how his ancestors had lived in the old days? Asides the better firearm he carried, he reckoned that the hunting his ancestors would have had to do when they first arrived in America would had differed little from his own methods. His distant ancestors had come from Scotland and he wondered how different the woods and game were back in Scotland, a far off land that his ancestors had left after a bloody rebellion in 1746.

It was as if time itself stood still out in the wilderness of the woods. A far cry indeed from the pandemonium and carnage that this frontiersman had seen on other parts of the continent. Here there were no bugle calls, no cavalry charges, no Confederate soldiers trying to blow his head off, and no bloodthirsty Indians trying to take his scalp. It was about as close to paradise as a man could find. A simple life, but a wholly agreeable and fulfilling one.

POP! POP!

The ears of his horse pricked up and the big frontiersman stopped dead in his tracks as he heard an unmistakable noise.

Distant gunfire.

He listened intently. After the echo of the shots had died down, he slowly started to lead Dandy forward again, though this time he veered off to the left a little, going up a steep track that avoided a ravine, but that also took him away from his most direct route home.

Two shots.

He had only heard two shots.

Who on earth would be hunting around here?

The nearest Indian encampment was some twenty miles away, and not even the hardiest of trappers and woodsmen ventured this far into the wilderness. There had been no war with the Indians in the area for a couple of years.

Surely it was just Indians hunting game like he was?

Nothing to worry about.

The local Sioux knew the frontiersman and his family lived in the area, but he had no quarrel with them and them none with him. However, his gut instinct convinced him to continue back to his homestead with all speed, just to be on the safe side.

The frontiersman carried on leading Dandy but his pace quickened.

He stopped only once, to check his Colt revolver was fully loaded. He soon reached the reverse slopes of a ridge that he knew would give him a better view of the surrounding area once he crested it. What he saw on the small plain atop the ridge made his blood run cold and filled him with a deep sense of foreboding and apprehension.

The grass on the plain had been flattened.

It was a trail.

A big one.

But who had left it?

The grass on the small plain wasn’t very thick at all, and as it had been raining for a few days before, it didn’t take the experienced frontiersman long to find a few tracks.

He noted the unmistakable imprint of U.S cavalry horse shoes, and it looked as if they had been riding eight abreast. This in itself gave little indication to the frontiersman of how big the group of soldiers had been, but the presence of wagon tracks made him think there had been at least four companies in this column.

What was the army doing here? Their nearest outpost was at Fort Randall, nearly forty miles away.

His blood ran even colder when he took a closer look at the tracks. The horse shoe imprints pointed both to the east and to the west, indicating that the soldiers had been sent westward on a mission or patrol of some sort and had returned eastward along exactly the same route. There was nothing untoward about that in itself, it was South Dakota after all and patrols were necessary, even though the intermittent wars with the local Sioux Indians, who also inhabited the area, were at a temporary cease fire.

Four companies was an unusually large patrol though.

Something very fishy was going on.

If the frontiersman’s blood was chilled by this point, then his next discovery gripped him both with icy fear and a sudden realisation of what was going on. There were also a multitude of footprints. None of the footprints seemed to be heading west, so that ruled out the presence of there being any accompanying infantry with the cavalry column.

All of the footprints pointed to the east and looked to have been made by bare feet or Indian moccasins rather than by heavy infantry boots. The frontiersman stood high on a huge boulder to get a better overall picture of what had passed by. All of the tracks looked no more than two days old. From his higher vantage point he also noted that the footprints were all grouped together, while the east bound cavalry tracks seemed to flank them, almost as if they had been herding them. Instantly, he figured out roughly what was