Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  “’Twas a hell of a thing,” Keogh said, digging through his saddlebags for his flask. At least he didn’t drink while in combat like Reno had.

  “Unable to ford the river?” I asked.

  “Nah, didn’t need to. We skirted a bend an’ found a couple hundred Mexicans spread out along the river road. Pretty ornery, too. Looked like they’d been marchin’ all night,” Keogh said. “We took too much fire to make a crossing. Lost Captain Carey. Sergeant Pico. Couple others.”

  “Goliad must have fallen. No other excuse for Fannin not warning us,” I said.

  “Guess we’ll know soon enough,” Keogh replied. “What does Tommy think?”

  “He’s busy organizing the wagons. Half of the ammunition for the Springfields is gone,” I answered. “I’m going on. Take your company to the right. Follow Urrea for a few miles in case he decides to turn back. I’ll see you at Fort Defiance.”

  “Yes, sir,” Keogh said, offering a salute before riding out.

  “On to Goliad, sir?” Hughes asked.

  “Yes. We’ll take point with F Company. Tell Colonel Custer to catch up soon as he can,” I instructed, giving Traveller a nudge.

  ____________

  The muddy road rising from the river was heavily wooded, leading into a broad winter meadow. Beyond the meadow, on a low plain, was Presidio La Bahia. The old Spanish fort had been renamed Fort Defiance by Texas rebels after capturing it the previous October. Unlike the adobe buildings that were typical of west Texas, this compound was made of stone. With eight foot walls for defense and several bastions for cannon, the fort looked like a defensible position. A long single-story headquarters fronted the west side of the enclosure, and a tall church rose above the northwest corner. A white silk flag with a single blue star flew from the roof. Through my binoculars, I read the words Liberty or Death painted on the fabric. The wind had not been kind to their banner, much of it ragged along the edges.

  I heard pounding hooves behind me.

  “Reporting, Autie,” Tom said, riding to my side on his winded Athena.

  The brown Kentucky thoroughbred looked tired, as were all the horses, and in need of extra care. Even Traveller was drooping his head.

  “Bad?”

  “Twelve dead, twenty-eight wounded. Doctor Lord needs dry quarters for a hospital,” Tom said.

  “We’re almost there.”

  “That’s not a Mexican flag flying over the fort,” Tom observed. “Is it a trap?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Urrea must have bypassed them to ambush us. I’m surprised we haven’t seen Fannin yet,” I said, seeing no activity near the gate.

  The plateau upon which Fort Defiance rested had been cleared of trees for the most part, the land used for grazing and farming. And to establish a field of fire should the fort be threatened. Thick forest grew to the west and south. Below the fort, on a gently sloping hill, were three dozen thatched adobe houses, but the residents had apparently fled. All I saw were a few broken down wagons and a barking dog. The chicken coops were empty.

  “Voss, call up C Troop,” Tom suddenly ordered.

  Voss blew the Advance before I could object.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  “Being careful, Autie. Just being careful,” Tom said.

  Tom turned Athena around to ride back down the line, alerting the men for action.

  I reached the base of the hill, stopping two hundred yards from the northwest corner of the fort. Half a dozen men, presumably Fannin and his officers, were watching from the bastion. Butler and Hughes rode up, followed by the elusive Juan Seguin.

  “Captain Seguin, I was getting worried about you,” I chided.

  “We have scouted the trail, sir. General Urrea was camped five miles south of here, but never attacked La Bahia. They are retreating,” he reported.

  “Did you run into messengers from Fannin?” I asked.

  “No, sir. None,” Seguin replied.

  Crockett rushed up on his borrowed black stallion, his best friend right next him riding a brown Spanish mare. Micajah Autry was a thin middle-aged Quaker from North Carolina who had ridden to San Antonio along with several volunteers calling themselves the Tennessee Boys. Which was odd, for few of them were actually from Tennessee.

  “What’s wrong, George?” Crockett asked. He looked weary and was rubbing a sore shoulder. Was the bear hunter getting old?

  “We’re not getting a friendly reception,” I speculated, for the gate remained closed even after our banners were recognized.

  “I’ll see to it,” Crockett said, giving his mount a kick. Only Autry followed, the rest of my staff waiting at the foot of the hill.

  Tom returned with C Troop, now armed with our new Baker rifles. Except for Tom and Cooke, who held 1873 .44-40 Winchester rifles. My officers didn’t seem surprised by the situation.

  Half a mile away, on the far side of the meadow, I saw my scouts return with E Company. Bouyer and Smith dismounted, watching for my reaction. I raised a hand to keep them still.

  Perhaps I was tired, but gradually it dawned on me that Fannin’s men had not sortied out to support our attack, though they had pleaded with us to come to their aid but a week before. Had there had been a change of heart?

  Crockett reached the bastion, looking up at the officers on the wall and making gestures. We were too far back to hear the conservation, though I detected some frustration on Crockett’s part. I saw no other activity in the fort. The pasture was surprisingly quiet, as if waiting for some drama.

  A few minutes later, Crockett came back, walking his horse by the reins. I went to meet him partway, leaving Traveller with Voss.

  “Fannin’s a right nervous. Says he’ll meet with da two of us, and Mister Seguin,” Crockett reported. “Wants the rest of the battalion to camp in the village outside the walls.”

  “What kind of bull is this? We just fought a battle for that son of a bitch,” Butler said, cocking his Sharps.

  “Colonel Crockett, my compliments to Colonel Fannin. Tell him we’ll be along shortly,” I said, giving Crockett an encouraging glance.

  “General!” Butler protested.

  “Quiet down, Jimmy. I’m still the senior officer here.”

  Butler settled down, but his opinion was widely shared, making the men angry.

  Crockett left his horse with my hired Negro, John Armstrong, and trudged back up the hill where a six-pounder was poking over the wall.

  “Autie, we can’t . . .” Tom started to say.

  “I have a plan,” I interrupted.

  “That’s more like it,” Cooke said.

  “Okay, this is what I want,” I whispered. “The moment Captain Seguin and I enter the gate, bring the entire command forward on the double. No noise, no bugles. Just come on quick. Major Baugh, they have a blind spot near the low wall behind the church. Send your men over if you can. Butler, Hughes, you’ll follow me though the gate. What do you say, Juan? Willing to enter the lion’s den?”

  “My honor, General,” Seguin agreed, checking his matched pair of silver flintlock pistols. My sidearms were ready, both Webleys reloaded. A fine Spanish saber hung at my side.

  Cooke had C Troop’s guidon waved to the soldiers across the meadow. Smith gave a subtle nod and pulled E Company back into the woods for instructions. Crockett finished his talk with the men on the wall and moved to his right where a heavy oak door provided entrance between the corner bastion and the headquarters.

  “How well do you know Fannin?” I asked Seguin.

  “We served together at the siege of Béjar,” Seguin said. “Governor Robinson tried to appoint him commander of our forces over Houston during the feud with Smith. There has been much confusion ever since. I think Fannin is a brave man, but he has not been able to control his soldiers.”

  “Let’s go, Captain,” I said to Seguin, leaving our horses behind.

  Crockett and Autry waited at the portal as the heavy door swung inward. Seguin and I quickly caught up. Voss and my two
sergeants followed twenty paces behind. Inside was Colonel James Fannin, medium height with thinning sandy hair and vivid blue eyes. His blue woolen uniform was smartly pressed, a jaunty red sash tied around his waist. I guessed him in his early thirties, about Tom’s age. Four of his officers stood by, well-dressed but not in a military fashion. They looked more like unsuccessful lawyers than soldiers.

  Beyond the small group, on the parade ground of the large compound, were dozens of worn tents, supply wagons, livestock, and perhaps three hundred loitering militia. I guessed the area at three acres, and noticed wooden ramparts built inside the walls serving as firing platforms. Such ramparts certainly would have benefited the Alamo when we needed them.

  “Mr. Custer, I assume?” Fannin said in a Georgia accent, extending his hand.

  I drew my saber, putting the point to his throat. Seguin produced both pistols, pointing at Fanning’s lieutenants. Before they could finish gasping with astonishment, Hughes, Butler and Voss charged through the gate, Colts drawn.

  “Sir!” Fannin shouted in indignation.

  Crockett seemed equally shocked, but it couldn’t be helped. Soon the pounding of shod hooves announced the arrival of C Troop, the men jumping from their horses and pouring through the gate. Gradually, the volunteers in the plaza noticed Fannin’s predicament, but none knew what to do. And many seemed not to care. Tom and Cooke appeared on the bastion to my left, climbing over the wall next to the six-pounder and aiming their Winchesters.

  “Call your sergeants together,” I ordered.

  Fannin stood frozen, unable to utter a sound. His subordinates seemed confused, looking to Crockett for direction.

  “Reckon you boys should do as General Custer says,” Crockett urged.

  Fannin’s adjutant proved to be a burly New Hampshirite named Joe Chadwick, who went to deliver the summons. Chadwick seemed a straightforward fellow, neither ruffled nor unduly alarmed. I knew him to be a topographical engineer, and like Fannin, a drop-out from West Point.

  “Crockett, I must protest,” Fannin said, finally gathering himself.

  “Ya kinda brought this on yourself, Jimmie,” Crockett said.

  As my men continued to filter into the fort, Chadwick brought a dozen sergeants forward. Or presumed sergeants, for none wore anything resembling uniforms except a few of the New Orleans Greys.

  “Colonel Fannin, you requested our help, and now keep us from these walls. I will have an immediate explanation,” I demanded, though I needed none. The answer was obvious. I lowered the sword, but kept it ready.

  “We have orders from President Burnett to ignore your authority, sir. The provisional government has reformed under the declaration of March 2nd,” he said. “General Houston has reached Gonzales at the head of a thousand men. He will be here in a few days.”

  “Sam don’t got no thousand men,” Crockett said. “Our man Kellogg saw him just last week. There’s barely two hundred volunteers, and most a them don’t got no horses.”

  “Houston ordered us to fall back to Victoria,” Chadwick said with the bearing of a gentleman. His accent was educated.

  “Then you had best get moving,” Tom said, coming down the ramp with his rifle pointed at Fannin’s gut. It was a bit melodramatic, but effective.

  “We can’t leave for several more days. We’re still waiting for oxen to move the cannon,” Fannin explained, nervously fingering the hilt of his silver-plated sword.

  “We also have men in the field,” Chadwick added. “Colonel Ward and Captain King are evacuating colonists from Refugio.”

  “Dr. Grant was killed at Agua Dulce. Most of his men are missing. We can’t retreat until we know they’ve retired in good order,” Fannin said, seeking to defend his actions.

  Their excuses did not impress me. I walked out into the compound for a better view of the fort, seeing five small artillery pieces. Most were 4-pounders, easy to use and effective at short range. Several ammunition carts stood nearby loaded with powder and shot. When a wagon gate opened on the south side, Smith rode in with E Company, forming a line before a row of workshops. Sergeant French climbed up on the wall to make his presence known, holding the troop’s guidon.

  “Colonel Fannin, we will have a talk in your office,” I said, putting the sword away. “Mr. Chadwick, lead your militia outside the fort.”

  “Fort Defiance is our station, sir!” Fannin objected.

  “Colonel Custer, help these gentlemen with their kit,” I instructed. “Weapons and knapsacks only. We’ll need the wagons for our wounded.”

  “Yes, General,” Tom said with a salute. “Hughes, French, lend a hand.”

  Fannin looked fit to kill, but surrounded as he was, could hardly do more than frown. Chadwick took the situation for what it was, ordering the sergeants to round up their men. Some were New Orleans Greys, friends of those who had served with me at the Alamo. Others were recently arrived militia from the states calling themselves the Georgia Battalion, Alabama Red Rovers, and Mobile Grays. But few showed any unit discipline, coming and going as they pleased.

  The headquarters was better arrayed than I expected, with maplewood furniture, a conference table, and colorful knitted curtains. The plaster walls were painted yellow. Woven carpets protected from the cold stone floor. Inside the doorway, I found racks for spare arms. Of which there were few. I understood that until the previous fall, the fort had been held by the Mexican army and largely stripped of supplies by the conquering Texans before laying siege to Béjar.

  I sat in Fannin’s high-backed chair, making him stand before me. Knowing what I did of another time, one that had not yet happened, it was hard for me to forget that Fannin had gotten his entire command massacred after surrendering at Coleto Creek. Urrea had offered honorable terms, or so it seemed, but he was overruled by Santa Anna. On a bright Palm Sunday morning in 1836, four hundred of Fannin’s men had been marched out of the fort and shot.

  I did not associate Fannin’s failure with my own at the Little Big Horn, for in my fevered dreams of a grass covered Montana ridge, there was no surrender. Only the massacre.

  “Colonel Fannin, you know the Béjar Declaration does not acknowledge the Brazos convention, nor does it tolerate the ratification of a slave constitution. You subscribed to this in your letter requesting the Seventh Cavalry’s assistance,” I sternly rebuked.

  “The situation changed. Houston and—”

  “Houston isn’t here, and Urrea was,” Cooke interrupted. “We saved your damned butt. Is this how you show gratitude?”

  “We could have held. Fort Defiance is well manned. We have cannon,” Fannin replied.

  “Enough to hold off a thousand veteran Mexican troops? I think not,” I disagreed.

  “We were about to fall back on Victoria. Plenty of supplies there,” he answered.

  “I do not wish to delay you. You may withdraw with your volunteers. You will travel with what you can carry,” I decided.

  “But our cannon? Our wagons?” he angrily said.

  “Those belong to the Seventh Cavalry. And sir, if I ever find you under arms against my command again, I promise to put you up against the nearest tree and shoot you. Do I make myself clear?” I said, giving him my coldest stare.

  “You may have the upper hand now, Mister Custer, but it won’t last,” Fannin vowed. “Thousands of volunteers are flowing in from the United States. Thousands upon thousands. From Alabama and Louisiana. Georgia and South Carolina. It won’t matter how many browns, blacks and renegade whites you got. Or traitors like Crockett. It won’t matter how good your guns are. Texas will become a son of the South whether you like it or not.”

  I suspected he had good cause for his opinion, but that was tomorrow’s battle. There was enough on my plate already.

  “Bill, get this son of a bitch out of my sight,” I said.

  Cooke hustled the frustrated man from the headquarters and all the way to the gate without letting him gather his personal effects. I heartily approved.

  “Not s
o good makin’ friends today,” Crockett said, having watched silently from the corner.

  “Fannin makes his living selling slaves. I should have realized he’d be reluctant to give up his profession,” I replied.

  “Seems mighty confident, in a frightened rabbit sort a way,” Crockett remarked.

  “I notice he didn’t seem too pleased with you,” I remarked.

  “Ain’t worried ’bout it,” Crockett said. “Only man e’er stayed mad at me was Andy Jackson, an’ only then ’cuz I met him halfway.”

  “Many of the invaders he spoke of are coming from Tennessee, David. If you’re having second thoughts, now’s the time to say so.”

  “Ain’t got no second thoughts, George. Wouldn’t be here if I did. A man’s got to know what’s right, then go ahead,” he said.

  “Amen to that.”

  We walked out into the busy courtyard. The wagon gate was still open and most of the former garrison was slowly departing, their gear carried in bedrolls slung over their shoulders. Tom was smiling.

  “Eighty-eight horses, ten oxen, score of cattle, a few sheep, and a thousand chickens,” he reported. “Not much in the way of arms, but a nice stash of powder. Dr. Lord has taken over their hospital.”

  “There is flour, too. The women of the fort have been busy making bread,” Seguin said, a warm wheat loaf in his hand. He offered to share but I declined.

  “What’s going on over there?” I said, pointing to a conspiratorial group of militia.

  “That’s Baugh talking to the New Orleans Greys. There’s about thirty of them. He thinks they should sign up with us, but being Southerners, I wouldn’t count on it,” Tom said.

  “Will Baugh stay if the Greys don’t?” I asked.

  “Hope so. John’s a good man,” Tom replied.

  “What about Brister? He’s a Grey, too.”

  “Nat’s more interested in gold than slaves. I think he’ll stand fast,” Tom guessed.

  “Keep an eye on them. If they leave, make sure they don’t take any of our guns with them,” I said, walking up the stone steps to the bastion overlooking the river road.