ARMSTRONG, as our British cousins say, does what it says on the tin. It is a highflown historical fantasy, with George Armstrong Custer surviving the field of blood and death in windblown Montana to live and fight another day. Rescued by a white slave among the Sioux, and adopted by a minor Sioux faction as a blood brother, Custer is free to ride the dusty western plains as a knight-errant, seeking all the while to clear his name against the treachery of Benteen and Reno.
Now! It is quite possible that this does not stir your heart. It is possible, in this year of grace two thousand and eighteen, that the behavior of cavalrymen and cavaliers in the glorious nineteenth century does not comport with whatever tender sensibilities you may have. Custer, although having many of the mannerisms (not the manners, of course not) of the "parfit gentil knight," engages in conduct that would have a modern-day cavalry officer brought up on charges in the never-blinking Social Media Court of Public Opinion. He uses the word "squaw," and I am not sure if Goodreads will even let me write that. He treats women in a condescending fashion while ogling them tremendously. Custer is... oh, Good Lord, how to say this... extremely racist towards the Chinese-American and Native American characters in the book.
It is, to put it mildly, difficult to write period-specific first-person historical fiction to suit the modern ear; I wouldn't think to try, myself. One way to handle this (I am thinking about the character of Cromwell in WOLF HALL, by Hilary Mantel) is to make your character as modern as you can, the better to relate to modern readers. H.W. Crocker III doesn't think to drag Custer into the 21st century, or to censor or bowdlerize him, and that is certainly the right decision. Crocker's sure-footed impersonation of Custer--the casual self-aggrandizing behavior, the limitless vanity, the absolute confidence in his star--is the best and most fun thing about this book. (The second best and most fun thing about this book is that it doesn't, at least until the end, turn into one more dreary rehash of Little Big Horn.)
ARMSTRONG is a delight to read for Custer's voice alone, but I can't quite give it my full recommendation for three reasons.
First, you have in Custer an unreliable narrator. This is not bad in and of itself, but it is not the deliberate lies that Custer tells but the direction in which his lies trend. ARMSTRONG is set forth as an epistolary novel (which is another of those things that I hope Goodreads let me type), in which Custer is writing to his wife, the fair Libbie. So what you have here is the typical Custer tendency to make himself look as good as possible--which you would expect from the character--but he is also trying to convince his wife of his chastity, and not doing a very good job of that. So ARMSTRONG is filled with passage after package in which Custer writes about the beauty and grace of whatever woman he is talking to at the moment, and then he has to stop himself and explain that, of course, none of them compare to you sweetheart. I don't think, mind you, that Custer actually beds all of the women he talks about--the timeframe wouldn't permit it--but it's a nervous verbal tic in a book that seems to be constructed from nervous verbal tics.
(Contrast the FLASHMAN books, which are a virtual, if not virtuous, godfather to ARMSTRONG--in those books, Flashman boasts of his amours, and tells the reader that he is believable because he is writing about his own lechery and cowardice. Not that this is any more or less a subterfuge, but it's more consistent.)
Second, all of the supporting characters are one-notes; the Southern cardsharp, the noble (and multilingual) Crow scout, the mercenary gunfighters, the frightened townspeople, the hard-headed mistress of the saloon. The whole thing is stuffed with tropes imported from 50's westerns; you expect Chuck Connors to show up halfway through and start shooting people. You can argue (and I think that Crocker would argue) that this is because this is how Custer sees them--as minor characters in the grand tableau of the Son of the Morning Star. Still, I've read one too many "Yankee General, suh" rejoinders from the Confederate character to concede the point.
Third, and most disappointingly, the stakes in the book are both a-historical and small. A-historical is fine; I am perfectly OK with this being a fictional tale of knight-errantry by Custer. But what happens, historically, is not that interesting. The closest parallel for ARMSTRONG is not to the Flashman tales (which usually involve the main character in noted historical debacles, including Little Bighorn) but to the more outlandish entries in Lee Child's Jack Reacher series, where Reacher walks into a random Western town and finds a huge conspiracy. ARMSTRONG is more like that kind of book, which is too bad.
Having said all that, if you can put up with those mild caveats, you will be treated to one of the most ridiculous chapters in the long history of comedy, involving Custer, Chinese acrobats, and a whole bunch of chickens. ARMSTRONG is worth the money for that scene alone, and if you buy the book and skip to that point I bet Crocker won't mind that much.