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 As the first blog entry got exhausted. My second book |
| Evolution of Love Part 2 |
| He finished dead last at West Point with the worst conduct record in the academy's history. Three years later, at age 23, he was a general—and riding straight into enemy lines demanding surrender. Appomattox Court House, Virginia. April 9, 1865. The Civil War was ending. Inside a small house, Generals Grant and Lee were negotiating the terms of Confederate surrender—the moment that would finally end four years of America's bloodiest conflict. Outside, a young Union cavalry officer with flowing blond hair and a gaudy uniform was about to do something spectacularly reckless. His name was George Armstrong Custer. And subtlety was not his style. Unaware that surrender negotiations were already underway, Custer spurred his horse into a gallop and charged directly into Confederate lines. His long blond hair—which he refused to cut despite military regulations—streamed behind him like a banner. His uniform, custom-made and flashy, gleamed in the afternoon sun. He rode straight up to General James Longstreet, one of the most respected and battle-hardened commanders in the Confederate army. What happened next, Longstreet later described in his memoirs with what must have been considerable restraint: "He came in at a fast gallop, his flaxen locks flowing over his shoulders, and in a brusk, excited manner, he said, 'In the name of General Sheridan I demand the unconditional surrender of this army.'" Imagine being James Longstreet in that moment. You've spent four years commanding Confederate forces. You've fought at Gettysburg, at Chickamauga, in dozens of brutal battles. You've watched thousands of men die under your command. You're exhausted, defeated, waiting for formal surrender terms. And this 25-year-old cavalry officer with theatrical hair charges into your lines and demands your army's surrender.Longstreet could have had him arrested. He could have had him shot for entering enemy lines without authorization. Instead—perhaps through gritted teeth—he responded with dignity. He reminded Custer that he was within enemy lines without authority. That he was addressing a superior officer. That he, Longstreet, was not the commander of the Confederate army, but that even if he were, "I would receive no message from General Sheridan." At that, Longstreet wrote, Custer "became more moderate." This scene—this moment of spectacular overconfidence and subsequent humiliation—captured everything about George Armstrong Custer. His fearlessness. His hunger for glory. His complete inability to read a room. And the fact that, somehow, his recklessness kept working. To understand how Custer got to that moment, you need to know where he started. Born on December 5, 1839, in Ohio to a blacksmith father, Custer was the kind of kid who should never have made it to West Point. But he was charming, ambitious, and politically connected enough to secure an appointment to the class of 1862. His time at West Point was a disaster. He accumulated more demerits than any cadet in the academy's history up to that point—a distinction that still ranks among the worst conduct records West Point has ever seen. He was constantly in trouble for pranks, for breaking rules, for refusing to take anything seriously. He graduated last in his class. Dead last. Out of 34 cadets who made it to graduation, Custer ranked 34th. Under normal circumstances, that would have been the end of any military career before it started. But 1862 was not a normal circumstance. The Civil War was raging. The Union was desperate for officers. Young men were dying by the thousands, creating vacancies faster than West Point could fill them. Suddenly, even a last-place graduate with a terrible conduct record could get a commission. And Custer, for all his recklessness and indiscipline, had one quality the Union army desperately needed: he was absolutely fearless. Where other officers hesitated, Custer charged. Where others planned carefully, Custer attacked immediately. Where others worried about casualties, Custer worried about glory. This made him either brilliant or insane, depending on who you asked.His superiors couldn't decide if he was a tactical genius or a disaster waiting to happen. His men called him both "that glory hunter" and "the boy general." His reputation was that he'd either win spectacularly or get everyone killed trying. For three years of brutal war, he kept winning. He fought at Gettysburg, where his cavalry brigade held off Confederate forces at a crucial moment. He fought in the Shenandoah Valley, where his aggressive tactics helped clear Confederate forces. He fought in dozens of cavalry actions, always charging first, always visible in his custom uniform and flowing hair. He was promoted again and again for gallantry under fire. By age 23—twenty-three years old—he'd been made a brigadier general. By the war's end, he'd been breveted major general. The worst cadet in West Point history had become one of the youngest generals in American military history. And he'd done it by being exactly the person West Point had tried to discipline out of him—reckless, aggressive, glory-seeking, and absolutely convinced of his own invincibility. Which brings us back to Appomattox. The war was over. The surrender was being negotiated. Any reasonable officer would have waited for orders, stayed in position, let the formal proceedings unfold. Custer saw an opportunity for one more dramatic gesture. One more chance to be the hero of the moment. One more scene where he could charge in, hair flying, and demand surrender. That it went badly—that Longstreet had to remind him he was out of line—didn't matter to Custer. He'd gotten his moment. He'd been part of the grand finale. After the war, Custer continued his military career on the western frontier, fighting in the Indian Wars. His recklessness, which had made him a hero in the Civil War, continued unabated. For eleven years, it kept working. And then, on June 25, 1876, it didn't. At the Battle of Little Big Horn in Montana, Custer led his 7th Cavalry into what he thought would be another glorious victory against Lakota and Cheyenne forces. He divided his command, refused to wait for reinforcements, and charged into battle just as he'd always done. This time, he charged into an enemy force far larger and better prepared than his scouts had reported. This time, the recklessness that had made him famous got him killed.Custer and over 260 men under his command died that day. It was one of the worst military defeats in American history. And it's what Custer is remembered for today. Not the victories. Not becoming a general at 23. Not the dozens of successful cavalry actions during the Civil War. He's remembered for his greatest failure—the moment when the fearlessness and glory-seeking that had defined his entire career finally met something it couldn't overcome. There's something both tragic and inevitable about Custer's end. From his first day at West Point, he'd been the same person—brilliant in his way, but unable to see limits, unable to moderate, unable to learn that not every situation called for a full gallop charge with hair flying. Longstreet had seen it at Appomattox. "He became more moderate," Longstreet wrote—but only after being directly rebuked. The moderation never lasted. Within moments, Custer was back to being Custer. For eleven years after the Civil War, that worked. Until the day it didn't. George Armstrong Custer was born 186 years ago today, on December 5, 1839. He became a legend—first for succeeding despite being the worst cadet in West Point history, then for becoming one of the youngest generals in American military history, and finally for dying in spectacular fashion doing exactly what he'd always done. His story isn't quite a cautionary tale, because his recklessness worked so often for so long. It's not quite a tragedy, because he never changed or grew to make his downfall tragic. It's the story of someone whose greatest strength and greatest weakness were the same quality—and for most of his life, the strength won. Until the one day it didn't, and that's the day history remembers. The last cadet. The boy general. The man who rode into Confederate lines demanding surrender and had to be reminded he had no authority to make such demands. The man whose fearlessness made him famous and eventually got him killed. History remembers him for the latter. But for a while—for one shining, reckless, glorious moment in his twenties—George Armstrong Custer was exactly who he wanted to be. A general at 23, with flowing hair and a gaudy uniform, charging into glory. And for those few years, before Little Big Horn, it actually worked. |
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