“To horse,” bade the adjutant, of Ned.
Ned sounded “To Horse.” Out from the stables jostled the troopers, leading their horses to form the company lines.
The general stooped hastily and kissed Mrs. Custer. Down the steps he clanked, his slouch hat at a cavalier angle, his officer’s cloak, yellow lined, floating and beneath it showing his crimson tie. He took the reins from the negro boy and vaulted upon Phil Sheridan.
Adjutant Moylan mounted, and Ned swung aboard his special horse Buckie, at a trot to follow across the parade-ground.
The companies were formed and waiting, each man at the head of his horse. The infantry drums and bugles also had been sounding; all the tents had been struck, and the lines of blue and white were standing at a carry, in a “right dress.”
“Prepare to mount!” shouted General Custer, drawing sabre.
“Prepare to mount!” repeated the company commanders.
Every trooper turned, put left boot into stirrup, and hand upon mane and saddle, waited.
“Mount!”
With one motion the blue blouses upheaved, and were in the saddle. A few horses plunged, but they were held in line. The wagon teamsters were in their seats, their lines taut, their whips poised. On the steps or porches of all the officers’ quarters women were waving and trying to smile (and some were succeeding and some were not); outside the post could be heard the commands of the infantry and artillery officers.