Vox Meditantis

Little Bighorn Valley, Montana, United States – June 1876

I have worn this same uniform for two hundred and forty-seven consecutive days now, and tomorrow—25th June, 1876—will make it two hundred and forty-eight. The thought strikes me as I sit on my bedroll in the pre-dawn darkness, running my fingers along the familiar yellow piping of my dark blue sack coat. Two hundred and forty-seven mornings of pulling on these light blue trousers with their proud yellow stripe, of fastening the same black leather belt, of lacing these sturdy black boots that have carried me across more miles of Montana Territory than I care to count.

If someone had asked me, back in that recruiting office in Chicago, what single outfit I would choose to wear for the rest of my days, I never would have chosen this. The regulation uniform of the United States 7th Cavalry Regiment is many things—practical, distinctive, symbolic of duty and honour—but comfortable it most certainly is not. The dark blue wool is coarse against my skin, scratchy and unforgiving, particularly in the heat that builds as the day progresses across these endless plains. The fabric holds the dust, the sweat, the very essence of this harsh frontier life we lead.

Yet here I am, Private Elijah “Eli” McCrae of Company C, and this uniform has become more than mere clothing. It is my second skin, my identity, my fate.

The yellow piping along the coat’s edges catches what little starlight filters through our tent. Yellow for cavalry, they told us during training at Fort Riley. Yellow to distinguish us from the blue-clad infantry, the red-trimmed artillery. The colour of autumn leaves, of wheat fields back home in Illinois, of the sunrise that will soon break over the Little Bighorn River. I trace the trim with my fingertip, feeling where the threads have begun to fray from months of hard use.

My messmate, Private O’Malley, stirs on his bedroll beside me. “Can’t sleep again, McCrae?” His voice carries the soft lilt of County Cork, though he’s been in America longer than I have.

“Just thinking about the uniform,” I whisper back, not wanting to wake the others.

O’Malley chuckles quietly. “Still going on about that, are you? Mother of God, you’ve been wearing the same kit as the rest of us. What’s so special about yours?”

How can I explain it to him? How can I make him understand that somewhere between Fort Abraham Lincoln and this camp along the Little Bighorn, this collection of wool and leather and cotton has become something more than military issue? Every morning when I dress, it’s the same ritual: the white cotton shirt first, soft against my chest, then the scratchy blue wool coat that transforms me from Eli McCrae, farmhand’s son, into Private McCrae, United States Cavalry.

The trousers come next, those distinctive light blue wool trousers with their yellow stripe running down each leg like a river of gold. I’ve grown thin on army rations and frontier hardships, and the trousers hang looser now than they did when they were first issued to me at Fort Lincoln. But that yellow stripe still catches the eye, still marks me as cavalry from a hundred yards away. On horseback, that stripe creates an unbroken line from knee to ankle, a visual reminder of the long tradition I’ve joined.

The black leather comes last—belt, cartridge box, holster for my Colt revolver. The leather has softened with wear and weather, moulded itself to my body until it feels like part of me. I know every crease, every scratch, every spot where the dye has worn thin. My hands find the familiar weight of the cartridge box automatically, fingers checking the ammunition without conscious thought.

Then the boots—sturdy black leather, polished as best I can manage with the limited supplies available on campaign. They’ve carried me through mud and dust, across rivers and up hills, in retreat and advance. The leather has scuffed and scarred, but they’ve never failed me. In this uniform, I feel invincible, though I know that’s merely the illusion that wool and leather provide against the harsh realities of frontier warfare.

But it’s more than that, isn’t it? This uniform connects me to something larger than myself. Every man in the 7th Cavalry wears the same kit, follows the same regulations, maintains the same standards. We are a brotherhood bound by blue wool and yellow trim, by shared hardships and common purpose. When I look down at my coat, I see not just myself but every cavalryman who has worn these colours before me.

The eastern sky begins to lighten, painting the horizon in shades of rose and gold. Soon the bugle will sound reveille, and we’ll begin another day of this campaign against the hostiles. General Terry’s orders were clear: find the Indian camps, assess their strength, wait for reinforcement. But I’ve served under Lieutenant Colonel Custer long enough to know that waiting isn’t his forte. The man who led the 7th Cavalry to glory at the Washita, who carved his name into frontier legend with sabre and courage, doesn’t wait when glory beckons.

I stand and begin the familiar ritual of dressing. The white cotton shirt slides over my head, the fabric soft after countless washings in frontier streams. Then the blue wool coat, each button fastened with the precision drilled into us at Fort Riley. The weight of it settles on my shoulders like responsibility itself.

The trousers follow, that distinctive light blue wool with its yellow cavalry stripe. I’ve often wondered who first decided that cavalry should wear light blue trousers while the coat remained dark blue. Some quartermaster back in Washington, no doubt, a man who never sat a horse or faced hostile fire. But the combination works, marking us as distinctly cavalry, as different from foot soldiers as a hawk from a sparrow.

My black leather gear comes next—belt, cartridge box, holster. Each piece has its proper place, its regulation position. The cartridge box sits just so on my hip, the holster hangs at the precise angle specified in the manual. Seven years of army life have made these movements automatic, muscle memory replacing conscious thought.

Finally, the boots. Black leather, sturdy and reliable, broken in through hundreds of miles of marching and riding. They’re scuffed now, showing the wear of frontier service, but they’re still serviceable. Still capable of carrying me wherever duty demands.

The bugle sounds reveille, its clear notes cutting through the morning air like a blade. Around me, the camp comes alive with the sounds of men stirring, equipment being checked, horses being tended. But for a moment, I remain still, fully dressed in my regulation uniform, feeling the weight of wool and leather, the familiar constraints and comforts of military clothing.

This uniform has become my armour, my identity, my connection to something greater than myself. In it, I am not just Eli McCrae from Illinois, but Private McCrae of the 7th Cavalry, heir to a tradition of courage and honour that stretches back to the founding of the Republic. The blue wool and yellow trim mark me as a professional soldier, a man dedicated to the defence of civilisation against the chaos of the frontier.

But there’s something else, something I haven’t admitted to O’Malley or any of the other lads. This uniform has become my talisman, my lucky charm. I’ve worn it through every patrol, every skirmish, every moment of danger since leaving Fort Lincoln. It’s kept me safe when bullets flew, protected me when sabres clashed, brought me through perils that claimed other men.

The thought is superstitious nonsense, of course. Wool and leather possess no magical properties, no power to turn aside bullets or blunt hostile blades. But a man needs something to believe in out here on the frontier, something to hold onto when death rides so close you can smell its breath on the wind.

Today feels different, though. There’s a tension in the air, a sense of impending action that sets my nerves on edge. Our Crow scouts have reported massive Indian camps along the Little Bighorn River—more lodges than they’ve ever seen gathered in one place. Hundreds of warriors, perhaps thousands, all united in defiance of government authority.

Lieutenant Colonel Custer has divided our regiment into three battalions. Major Reno will attack the village from the south, Captain Benteen will approach from the west, whilst Custer himself leads Companies C, E, F, I, and L—my company among them—to strike from the north. A coordinated assault designed to crush Indian resistance once and for all.

I check my equipment one final time, running through the familiar ritual. Carbine clean and loaded, revolver ready, sabre sharp and secure. Forty rounds of ammunition in my cartridge box, enough for any reasonable engagement. My uniform properly fastened, yellow piping bright against the dark blue wool.

The yellow stripe on my trousers catches the morning light as I walk to the horse lines. Two hundred and forty-seven days I’ve worn this uniform, through dust storms and river crossings, through the monotony of garrison duty and the excitement of patrol. It’s become part of me, this collection of wool and leather and cotton, as familiar as my own skin.

O’Malley falls in beside me, his own uniform identical to mine save for the different company letter on his hat. “You look nervous, McCrae. Not like you at all.”

“Just thinking,” I reply, adjusting my cartridge box. “About the uniform, about what it means.”

He looks at me strangely. “It means we’re soldiers, Eli. Nothing more, nothing less.”

But he’s wrong, isn’t he? This uniform means everything—duty and honour, tradition and pride, the very essence of what we’ve sworn to defend. In it, I am transformed from a simple farmhand’s son into something noble, something worthy of respect and remembrance.

The sun climbs higher, painting the landscape in shades of gold and amber. Somewhere ahead lies the Indian village, the greatest gathering of hostile tribes in frontier history. Somewhere ahead lies battle, glory, perhaps death itself.

But I am ready. I wear the blue and gold of the United States Cavalry, the uniform that has been my constant companion for two hundred and forty-seven days. In it, I have found my identity, my purpose, my place in the grand tapestry of American history.

Whatever comes next, whatever fate awaits us along the Little Bighorn River, I will meet it dressed as a soldier of the Republic. The yellow piping will gleam in the sunlight, the blue wool will stand firm against the storm, and the black leather will hold fast when all else fails.

If I were forced to choose one outfit to wear for the rest of my days, it would be this one—the uniform of the 7th Cavalry, worn with pride and honour until the very end.

The bugle sounds assembly, its notes sharp and urgent in the morning air. I mount my horse, feeling the familiar weight of the uniform, the comfortable constraints of military dress. Today is 25th June, 1876, and I am Private Elijah McCrae, United States 7th Cavalry.

Today, this uniform will carry me into history.

The End

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.