Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  “It won’t be easy, Autie. There are no established trails to California in 1836,” Tom warned. “Mostly mountains, deserts and Apaches. No railroads. No stagecoach lines. Probably not even a wagon trace.”

  “If Butterfield can cut a road through the wilderness, so can we,” I said, hoping it was true.

  “Besides, we have the maps,” Cooke said.

  “Maps?” I inquired.

  “Of course. I always carry an atlas in my saddlebags. I’d be a poor adjutant if I didn’t,” Cooks answered.

  It made me wonder what treasures lay in my own saddlebags. Several magazines, including my Harper’s Monthly, had been delivered by the steamer Far West just before we rode up the Rosebud. I’d not even had a chance to read them.

  “After the Black Hills and Yellowstone expeditions, I think we’ve got enough trail blazing experience by now,” I said. “I’ll give Sergeant Major Sharrow instructions to organize supply wagons. Three or four hundred men should be enough.”

  “Enough?” Señor Seguin inquired.

  “Enough to conquer California. From what I read in Fremont’s journals, the province is lightly garrisoned,” I remembered.

  “Every schoolboy knows of John C. Fremont,” Cooke said. “The great expeditions of the 1840s. Kit Carson. Alex Godey. Magnus Coloradas. Even illiterates like Tom know their stories.”

  “I done my fair share a reading before joining the army, and more while I was there. Pa have tanned my hide otherwise,” Tom answered, for he had never formally graduated school while living in New Rumley.

  “Now we’ll be getting there ten years before Fremont,” Cooke said.

  “And history will write about us instead,” I suddenly realized. “I might even write the history myself. My articles in Galaxy have been well received.”

  The room fell quiet. Crockett and Señor Seguin were looking at us like we were addled. John stood near the door to the kitchen, staring. Ben was there, too, shaking his head. Even the women seemed a bit concerned. But not Slow.

  “There is great work to be done beyond the lands of our enemies,” Slow said.

  Which enemies he meant were anyone’s guess, for the Sioux were no more popular among the western tribes than they were among the whites.

  “We will go to these lands,” Morning Star said, getting up to find us more coffee.

  “This will be a hard trek. No place for women,” Tom objected.

  “Where the Custers ride, Slow and I will ride. We are part of your journey,” Morning Star said, and that proved the final word on the subject.

  ____________

  With much to do, everyone was busy, but I did not wish to neglect Isabella or her father. As I expected their quick return to San Antonio, there was little time. I made a point of having lunch with them under an oak tree near La Bahia’s village.

  “Only a week ago we were at Casa Blanca,” Señor Seguin wistfully said.

  I knew the prosperous ranch well. On the Goliad Road thirty miles below San Antonio, it was rich in farms, cattle, sheep and horses. It was where I had first met Señor Seguin and his beautiful daughter. The Seguin ranch reminded me of my boyhood in Ohio, before Pa sent me to Monroe to live with my sister. The Custer clan had been farmers as well as blacksmiths. We were also poor, a condition that did not sit well with Judge Bacon when I began to court Libbie

  “Will you soon be seeking another victory?” Isabella asked, having seen the men repairing their saddles. We were eating tortillas stuffed with roasted chicken and peppers, a dish I had never tasted in Michigan. The day was pleasantly cool.

  “Urrea has retreated to Refugio. That should give us some time,” I said.

  “José still has a thousand men. Supply and artillery,” Isabella said.

  “José?" I asked.

  “My late husband was a colonel in General Urrea’s cavalry,” she explained. “Alejandro and I often dined with José and his wife. You will find Urrea to be a capable officer. He is not rash like the dictator.”

  “We’re well arrayed. How fares your task, quartermaster?”

  Señor Erasmo Seguin was now fifty-four years old, descended from French immigrants, and born in San Antonio. When Mexico achieved independence from Spain, he was the sole representative from Texas to the constitutional convention that drafted the Constitution of 1824. Though slightly shorter than I, he was thicker with squared shoulders. He had bushy gray hair, a well-trimmed beard, and insightful gray eyes.

  “We are moving the munitions works to Béjar,” Seguin explained. “It is too dangerous for my craftsmen in Victoria. We have made a press for the brass shell casings and new molds for the bullets.”

  “Can you produce fifty thousand rounds for the Springfields by May?” I asked.

  “Fifty thousand? George, refined powder is scarce. Perhaps ten thousand. Maybe not even that,” Seguin said.

  “I am sorry, Erasmo. Sometimes I forget where we are,” I said.

  “And when?” he smiled, for he was the first person we had told of our amazing journey.

  “Yes, you wouldn’t think forty years would make such a great difference,” I said.

  “My son, forty years ago Tejas was part of Spain,” Seguin replied. “This land was ruled by the Comanche. There were not more than a few hundred Mexican families between Copano and the Red River. I know what forty years can mean.”

  “The next forty will be important, too,” I said. “And not just for Tejanos.”

  “Sí, I understand. I am sorry now that I helped my good amigo Stephen Austin bring slaves into his colonies,” Seguin said, for he had been instrumental in Austin’s venture to bring American families to east Texas.

  “That can’t be helped, but we can still make slavery unprofitable,” I said.

  “And how would that be?” Isabella asked.

  “By hanging their owners,” I replied.

  After a pleasant lunch, Isabella returned to the fort while Señor Seguin and I walked down to the river for cigars. I normally did not smoke, nor drink for that matter, but had modified my strict rules since riding into the past.

  Señor Seguin and I sat down for an hour reviewing our plans. He had been postmaster of Texas since 1807, so there was little he didn’t know about the towns and roads we would encounter. Once we had driven our enemies back across the Rio Grande and the Sabine, we would need to build a new country. Farms, factories, lumber yards and railroads. I had strong ideas on what needed to be done, and Seguin had the connections. And, of course, profit would be involved.

  Later that evening, after a fine meal and several songs before the fireplace, everyone started drifting off to bed. As they had before, Tom and Morning Star spent a little time on the porch, not far from where Isabella and I were sitting. They were making plans, but I did not overhear them.

  Crockett did not appear in our quarters that night, possibly bunking with those New Orleans Greys who had not deserted, but I did not sleep alone. After the halls grew quiet, Isabella slipped into my room, crawling into bed.

  There was no dishonor. She was a widow, entitled to make her own decisions. And she knew my interest in her was not casual. Beautiful, wealthy, intelligent, and high-spirited, Isabella was just the sort of woman I wanted when it came time to remarry. And her family ties to the West Texas Tejano community would give me status similar to what the late Jim Bowie had enjoyed. Nevertheless, we were discreet.

  “Have I mentioned I’m going with you?” Isabella whispered.

  “Izzy, that’s not a good idea,” I objected.

  “Your Libbie went everywhere with you. During your war. On the plains. Even a journey here to Texas. She must have endured many hardships.”

  “So many hardships that she could have written a book about them,” I said.

  “I am not afraid of hardships. If Morning Star can ride with the Seventh Cavalry, so can I,” she insisted.

  After a week of rest and refitting, our army divided. Juan Seguin agreed to remain in Goliad as commandant. It was a vital po
int of contact with the port towns to the south and colonies to the east. With his troop of Tejanos ranging the area, the local population would not feel like an occupied people as they had under Fannin. Such considerations would become increasingly important, reminding me of my days after the Rebellion. Texas and Kentucky rarely appreciated the presence of Union soldiers.

  The bulk of our force that had so jauntily marched from San Antonio now headed back with much to do. Cos had failed to hold Béjar against the Texan rebels the previous December, and Travis had failed to hold the town against Santa Anna in February. It was Keogh’s job to make sure such failures were not repeated. I was going to miss Crockett.

  “I can ride with you,” Crockett had said.

  “No, David. You need to organize a government. Write a declaration that will offer an alternative to Burnet and his band of land grabbers,” I encouraged.

  “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout organizing no gover’met. I was a congressman, not a lawyer.”

  “Plenty of lawyers running around,” I said. “Your friend Autry. Green Jameson. Erasmo Seguin has some experience. But none of them are the famous Davy Crockett. David, there are thousands of colonists in Texas who have no stake in slavery. They just need an honest man to rally around. They need you. And so do I.”

  “I’ll do my best, George,” he said, shaking my hand. “Where ya runnin’ off to?”

  “Heading for the coast. We’ll be back in a few weeks.”

  “Well, don’t go gettin’ ambushed like Johnson and Ward,” Crockett warned.

  “Good advice,” I agreed, knowing from personal experience.

  ____________

  “San Antonio is an important post, but I’d rather be riding east,” Keogh objected when I gave him his orders.

  The burly Irishman was sitting on his sorrel, Comanche, as we rode along the wooded river road. I wanted a private talk before sending my highest ranking subordinate on an independent assignment. I gave Traveller a scratch behind the ears.

  “Myles, I need someone I can depend on in Béjar. Who better than you?” I said.

  “Guess that’s true enough,” Keogh agreed. “But before I go, I’d like to know what you really think of all this.”

  “All of what?” I asked.

  “How we got here. Years before we’re even born,” Keogh said.

  “Don’t know that it matters, does it? Can’t do anything about it.”

  “Come on, George, don’t say you haven’t thought on it,” Keogh persisted. “We’re forty years in the past. We fought side by side with Davy Crockett. You met Jim Bowie. Seems to me we should be a little curious.”

  “I’ve heard a few theories,” I said, fixing my white campaign hat as I squinted at a dismal winter sun. “Morning Star says we came here by magic. Fresh says it must have been one of Edison’s new inventions. And Queen’s Own says that a French fantasy writer has got us caught up in one of his fantastical novels.”

  “Algernon didn’t say Edison sent us, only that it could have been an experiment gone wrong,” Keogh protested, though I couldn’t tell if he was serious. “And Cooke didn’t blame Jules Verne, only one of his machines.”

  As a former member of the Vatican guard in Rome, the Company of St. Patrick, Keogh knew his way around Europe. He was no fan of the French.

  “And what would the Pope say about magic?” I asked. “As the Vicar of Christ, only he could send the Seventh Cavalry back to Texas right in the middle of their revolution. Isn’t that right? Any reason why the Pope would want to do that?”

  “Pope don’t move people back in time. No sir. Especially not two sassy bone-head brothers leadin’ an army of misfits,” Keogh said.

  “So what is the answer?” I pressed.

  “Maybe we should ask Slow,” Keogh replied.

  “I have asked Slow. More than once. He says the Great Spirit will not speak of it. But he did say the Alamo was only the beginning.”

  “What about . . .?” Keogh started.

  “Myles, no more hocus pocus. It only makes the men nervous. We’ve got an army and a cause worth fighting for. That’s enough for any soldier.”

  As Keogh went to organize the ride back to San Antonio, Mitch Bouyer finally caught up to me outside the main gate. I had been avoiding his complaints all afternoon, but he finally had me cornered.

  “We don’t got ’nough Injuns,” the crusty half-breed said, riding up on a spirited paint mustang.

  The horse was white with black spots and gray legs. Probably raised by Comanche, though I didn’t ask Bouyer where he got it. The horses we’d brought with us from Montana were played out, ready for several weeks of rest that we didn’t have time to give them.

  “Mr. Bouyer, you are chief of scouts. I expect you to find your own Indians,” I responded.

  “Gen’ral, we had two fine Injuns, and you kilt ’em both,” Bouyer said.

  I remembered seeing Gray Wolf fall at my side during the Battle of Cibolo Creek. While negotiating a truce with Mexican Lancers, the brave Indian lad had joined me in the meadow and died when the shooting started. We never did find out who fired first.

  “Spotted Eagle is not dead,” I complained, for the other young cousin was doing quite well. “Since we evacuated the Alamo, he’s been tended under my own roof.”

  “Can’t scout for me, neither, can he? Not shot through the side by a musket ball. Ah need a baker’s dozen a good scouts an’ ain’t got a one,” Bouyer said.

  “Mitch, you’ve got Juan Seguin and his Tejanos. They live here. They know the land better than anybody,” I answered, trying not to sound impatient.

  Though I was impatient. In my twelve years as a senior officer, I had never needed to do so much explaining. And cajoling. And occasional threatening. But this was no longer 1876, we were no longer the United States Army, and the Texas revolution we had stumbled into was growing ever more complicated.

  “Tejanos ain’t good Injuns, sir. Just ain’t,” Bouyer insisted. For no good reason.

  “You want some Karankawa Indians, don’t you?” I said, finally catching on.

  “Jus a few, sir. Jus a few. Gots ’em picked out,” the rascal confessed.

  “Hire them on, but don’t offer more than our teamsters are getting. I’m not funding a charity.”

  Bouyer rode off, happy as a lark. I didn’t tell him we weren’t actually funding anything. The stash of gold Ben Travane had found in Santa Anna’s hacienda was just enough to buy food and ammunition for a few months. After criticizing government my entire life for its spendthrift ways, it was strange to discover that I was now the government.

  Keogh and Crockett were not the only ones returning to San Antonio. Though technically a prisoner-of-war riding with my army, General Manuel Fernández Castrillón had proven himself a gentleman. Deserted by Santa Anna with a starving army in the fields north of the Alamo, he had surrendered his infantry on honorable terms. Now I needed him returned to Béjar, pending a formal exchange.

  “I do not like keeping you prisoner, but I do not see how it can be helped,” I said, speaking with him on the broad plain outside La Bahia’s main gate.

  “We must be practical about such things,” Castrillón replied.

  Born in Cuba, Castrillón was a proud man in his mid-fifties, tall, lean, and always immaculately dressed in a blue and red uniform trimmed with gold lace.

  “Some describe me with terms that are unflattering, but I’m a soldier, and a soldier makes difficult decisions. A good commander isn’t necessarily loved.”

  “A general’s life looks better than it is lived, Señor Custer,” Castrillón agreed.

  “Perhaps you can call me George?”

  “All right, youngster. You may call me General Castrillón.”

  “I understand you are Santa Anna’s best friend.”

  “To the extent Antonio has such friends.”

  “I would like you to write him,” I said. “No military information, in keeping with your honor. See if there’s a way to arrange
a truce.”

  “You defeated our rear guard at the Rio Grande. And our cavalry at Cibolo Creek. And the president himself in Béjar. I should think you are not afraid of battle.”

  “Not afraid, sir. Not afraid at all. But I’d rather not turn Texas over to the Brazos Convention with their recruits flooding into the eastern colonies. They will take over the country if we continue this war.”

  “It is a great problem. I will write my friend, but he is unpredictable,” Castrillón warned.

  “So am I.”

  I returned to the fort, leaving Traveller with Corporal Fuentes, my orderly for the day. Crockett had been gone much of the afternoon and there was work to do. I finally asked Tom if he knew the bear hunter’s whereabouts.

  “He’s in the church,” Tom said, as if everyone knew.

  Presidio La Bahia did not boast much of a church, the cathedral was cramped and dark. Nothing like the Methodist churches I knew so well in Monroe. I remembered my old comrade Georgie Yates, whose wedding had been such a joy. He was dead now, killed in a pointless skirmish during our march to Cibolo Creek. My Libbie and Annie Yates had been best friends.

  Slow and Crockett were near the altar looking at the candles while an old priest in gold vestments mumbled a Latin verse. Crockett noticed me and we went outside into a grassy courtyard.

  “Is Slow having another vision? Did he find us some buffalo?” I asked.

  “The birds ain’t talkin’,” Crockett said.

  “Seems we’ve got as much supply as we’re going to get. I think it’s time I leave for Galveston.”

  “Reckon that be true,” he agreed, scratching a day-old beard.

  One thing history was right about, Davy Crockett did not disappoint. The former congressman, army scout, and frontier legend stood six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and was trim as the trails he’d spent a lifetime traveling.

  “Why Texas, David?” I asked. “After failing to get reelected, you could have done other things. Maybe written another book?”

  “When I objected to Andy Jackson’s Indian polices, and how his land agent friends was stealin’ folks’ homesteads, ole Andy up and wrecked my career. I told the voters they could go to hell, and I would go to Texas. So ’ere I am.”