Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  “We’re going to reorganize a little,” I announced.

  I stood up, standing near the fire, casting a long shadow, and waited until everyone was paying attention. Enjoying the suspense. General Sheridan had used similar methods, and it was standard practice in the theatres I loved so well. I sincerely hoped to see Shakespeare again, perhaps in New York at the Winter Garden. Though the Bard would never be performed so well as my good friend Lawrence Barrett had done. I had attended forty of his performances as Cassius at Booth’s Theatre on 6th Street, learning every word of Julius Caesar by heart.

  “We aren’t dividing the command again, are we?” Tom asked.

  “No, little brother, but we are changing the order of march,” I said, clasping my hands behind my back and pacing. “We don’t know if Houston or the Mexicans hold the town. We won’t know until we see what flag they’re flying. Colonel Smith, E Company will wear their winter jackets and fur hats. Baker rifles only. If the town is flying a Brazos flag, you’ll ride in first. Put the garrison at ease. You’ll be followed by C Company in cavalry blouses and take control.”

  I strolled over to Captain Sepulveda and Sergeant Sanchez. Colonel Almonte was sitting with them.

  “Mario, G Company will come last, but ready to move up. If the town is held by Santa Anna’s troops, your Zacatecan will be the first to enter, pretending to be Tampico lancers, followed by E Company and Tom’s men arriving last,” I said.

  “The men from Coahuila, too, General,” Sergeant Sanchez interrupted, for their province had also been decimated when the dictator sought to crush their revolt.

  “Yes, Francisco, the heroes of Coahuila, also,” I acknowledged. “Once we capture the town, I want G Company to occupy the docks where the ships can see you. I want them to think the Mexican army has occupied the port. We’ll run up one of our Mexican flags to throw them off.”

  “Why all the fuss, Autie?” Tom asked. “Why not run up the Buffalo Flag?”

  “Galveston is visited from ships from all over the world. Including American ships,” I explained. “If the Brazos army knows our small force has captured the port, they may try to retake it. And the American ships might help. But if they think the Mexican army is here, the American ships will be reluctant to interfere. If the Mexicans see their own flag flying over the town, they’ll assume it’s in good hands and continue chasing Houston. This is my answer to your riddle, Slow.”

  “My riddle?” the boy asked, his eyebrows bent.

  “On the chessboard, you asked what happens to the third army that is caught between the white and black pieces. My solution is to not let them know we’re here until we’ve accomplished our objective.”

  “So you will not fly your flag?” Isabella said, wondering if such a thing was proper.

  “Oh, we may fly it just before we leave,” I answered. “Just to show our opponents that the Seventh Cavalry is a force to be reckoned with.”

  “You are very clever, General,” Morning Star complimented. “Such a plan is worthy of Chief Lone Man himself.”

  We started out early, intending to reach Galveston by midday. Spirits were high, the mounts enjoyed firmer footing, and the men sang a few of the traditional songs. I rode at the head of the column with the two women and Kellogg, Slow just behind us with my sergeants.

  Bouyer and three Karankawa scouts were blazing our trail. I had never heard of this tribe, though they apparently migrated seasonally between the mainland and the barrier islands. No one in my command knew their language, but they spoke enough Spanish to communicate. I gathered the name Karakawa meant dog lovers.

  “You’ve been quiet, Mark,” I said, hoping to provoke him.

  “We’re approaching an unexpected challenge,” he said.

  I’d only known Kellogg for a few months. His editor at the Bismarck Tribune, Clement Lounsberry, was supposed to accompany my regiment to Montana, but had backed out at the last minute. Like Cooke, Kellogg was a Canadian. He had roamed the Midwest working for various newspapers and occasionally running for public office. Unsuccessfully.

  “I’ve been to Galveston before,” I said.

  “That’s not the challenge I mean, though you’ve got a bit of a surprise coming,” he said. “When this started, we knew the history. The Alamo fell to Santa Anna on March 6th. Coming up from Matamoros, General Urrea defeated Johnson at San Patricio, then won battles at Agua Dolce and Refugio. At the Battle of Coleto, Fannin’s entire army was taken prisoner and later executed. Houston fled east on the Runaway Scrape, only to turn and fight at San Jacinto on April 21st. Santa Anna was captured, ending the war.”

  “We defeated Santa Anna. And there will be no Goliad Massacre. Fannin’s army is retreating,” I said, thinking it a good thing.

  “That’s what I mean,” Kellogg replied. “History has been changed. Houston is not fleeing east, that we know of. Santa Anna is free to continue the war. We really don’t know what to expect anymore.”

  “Mark, I never knew what to expect the first time. And it doesn’t matter. We’ll deal with each new situation as it comes,” I said. “We’ll make our own history now.”

  Though hardly more than a narrow sandbar on the western end, Galveston Island grew wider as we rode northeast. I noticed a beach of crushed seashells that Libbie and I had enjoyed. It hadn’t changed since my last visit. But even at the broadest point, I doubt the island is more than three miles across. The terrain tended to undulate, sometimes thick with growth, at other times nearly barren. A few farmers, all of them Mexicans, stopped to watch as we passed, but none seemed alarmed. Nor particularly interested. Their concern was the land, not the soldiers riding over it.

  When an estuary appeared on our left, I knew we were getting close. A low dune rose up ahead from which we could view the east end of the island. Bouyer, Cooke and Slow were already there. I dismounted and walked the final few yards, taking out my binoculars to survey the town’s defenses.

  “Where’s Galveston?” I sputtered in surprise.

  “Thar, Gen’ral. Down by the water,” Bouyer said, pointing toward my left.

  “All I see is the harbor,” I replied.

  “Told you there’d be a surprise, General. Galveston hasn’t been built yet,” Kellogg said.

  It was true. The broad, flat plain was barren except for a few small farms. Several miles closer, on the north side of the island, was a long pier and two short docks. In 1865, this had been a bustling port, filled with merchants, sailors, German immigrants and freed slaves. The Galveston of 1836 was thirty or so wood frame buildings, a sagging warehouse, assorted adobe shacks, and a walled customs house built in the Spanish style.

  “Well, this is a hell of a thing,” I sputtered, for I had thought to charge a small city, not a shabby hamlet.

  “Custer will find no glory here,” Slow said.

  “Take ‘bout ten minutes to kill ’em all Gen’ral,” Bouyer suggested. In jest, I assume.

  “The ferry dock is empty,” I said. “I see a schooner tied to the pier, probably a New Orleans trader. Three ships in the harbor, none look heavily armed.”

  “There’s a flag flying from the customs house. A half-naked lady liberty on a white background,” Tom reported.

  “What’s the plan, General?” Cooke asked.

  “Go with Sepulveda down to the pier. Seize the schooner in the name of Mexico,” I said, studying the scene carefully through the binoculars.

  “Mexico?” Kellogg said.

  “Don’t worry, Mark, we’ll seize it back,” I answered. “Bouyer, tell Smith to swing to the right, across that mud flat that might be Galveston someday. He’ll approach the port from the south. C Company will ride straight into that plaza, guidons flying, Colts at the ready. I want the garrison to know we can kill them all if provoked.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bouyer said, riding back to the waiting troops.

  “Mark, hang back with Almonte and the women. Keep an eye on the pack animals. We’ll call you forward when it’s safe,” I said.
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br />   “I can shoot, and I’m not afraid,” Kellogg protested.

  “Follow orders,” I insisted,

  Sepulveda took G Company to the left, riding down to the beach for a direct assault on the docks. Tom came forward with C Company, the men anxious for a good fight.

  “Ready, Autie,” Tom reported, Butler and Hughes at his side.

  “We will advance at a steady gait, then at a gallop when the town realizes we are bearing down on them. Voss, be ready to sound the Charge,” I instructed, excited by the prospect of imminent action.

  “Just give the signal, sir. I’ll do the rest,” Voss said.

  “Okay. Company, advance!” I ordered.

  We crossed over the low ridge in column of fours and down a mossy slope. Beyond a partially plowed field were several buildings, a couple of wagons, and a corral. I expected to see riflemen appear on a roof or sortie out, but all remained quiet. A trap? Another ambush like Goliad? If so, they would pay in blood.

  I drew the fine Spanish cavalry saber found on the body of a Mexican major and almost gave Voss the order. But we were yet to see an enemy.

  Forty strong, the command pushed forward from a trot to a gallop. I was out in front for a few moments, but Traveller was no speedster, and others quickly moved ahead. One of them was Slow, urging Vic on as he waved a feathered hatchet, his black eyes filled with the thrill of battle. Vic was no less excited, my old war horse striving to hold the lead, froth splattering from his bit as his hooves churned up the damp soil. But none could match Tom on Athena, the thoroughbred outdistancing us all.

  We skirted the first few houses, entered a wide dirt road, and passed half a dozen mercantile shops on our way to the town square. I saw a crowd of people up ahead, perhaps fifty or sixty, mostly well dressed. There were banners hanging from second floor balconies. I heard a band playing, but it suddenly stopped as the Seventh Cavalry bore down on them.

  “What the bloody hell?” a surprised man shouted.

  The crowd formed into a circle, a number of woman and children in the center. A squad of militia dressed much like the New Orleans Greys started to raise their Kentucky long rifles, then thought better of it. A bugle sounded to my right where Smith and E Company were entering the town from the other direction, forty more troopers against the score of frontiersmen in the plaza. They were wise to lower their guns.

  “I am General George Custer, commander of the Seventh Cavalry. I claim this town in the name of the Buffalo Flag,” I announced. “Surrender your weapons. No one will be harmed.”

  “Sir, this is most irregular,” a distinguished man in a brown frock coat declared. He wore a tall beaver hat and high black boots. A man of some wealth.

  “Butler, make a sweep of the outer buildings,” I ordered. “Hughes, see how Cooke and Sepulveda are doing. Tom, secure these prisoners.”

  I dismounted and approached the man in the frock coat. I saw now they were engaged in some sort of presentation ceremony. Two brand new bronze cannon were decorated with ribbons.

  “My name is Dr. Charles Rice, new to Texas,” the man said, accompanied by two young girls in frilly gingham dresses. “These are my daughters, Elizabeth and Eleanor. You are white men. Why have you launched this unprovoked attack?”

  “Have you brought slaves to Texas?” I asked.

  “I own no slaves, sir. But even if I did, there is nothing illegal about it,” Rice answered.

  I inspected the cannon mounted on new gun carriages. Fine six-pounders.

  “The people of Ohio have donated these field pieces in the name of Texas liberty,” Rice said.

  “Now they belong to the Seventh Cavalry,” I announced.

  At the end of the street was the customs house, both a fort and an administration center. The two-story stone building was surrounded by an eight foot tall adobe wall enclosing a courtyard. An old pirate cannon was posted on a bastion overlooking the bay. Hughes pushed the heavy oak gate open and waved that all was clear. Butler soon had two men standing guard outside the weather-beaten warehouse. I walked to a point where there was a good view of the harbor. The ferryboat had returned from the mainland, bumping into a short dock. It was a large flat boat, capable of carrying horses and cargo.

  “What are ya gonna do with us?” the militia captain asked with an Alabama drawl. I guessed him to be a Red Rover. His men looked nervous. Perhaps rumors had spread of the executions at Refugio after Urrea captured some of Ward’s men.

  “Colonel Custer, escort these gentlemen to the ferry. Minus their weapons,” I instructed. “Townspeople, any who wish to leave may do so now. Those who stay will be under martial law. Violators will be summarily shot.”

  The militia members gathered their haversacks and hurried down to the ferry, followed by a dozen civilians. Those who remained were mostly farmers and merchants. It would take an hour to evacuate the refugees. I put Sergeant French in charge.

  “Fresh,” I summoned. “Take down that rebel flag. Run up the Mexican flag we captured in Béjar.”

  “Right away, sir,” Smith said, seeing to it himself.

  “You follow many flags,” Slow said, now holding my personal silk guidon usually carried by Hughes.

  “It’s best if our enemies stay confused,” I explained.

  “Is it not you who is confused?” he asked, giving me the stare.

  “What does that mean?”

  “The slave keepers have declared their land free of the Mexicans, but you have made no such declaration. Yet you claim to govern this land in the name of the Buffalo. What flag truly rules this land?”

  “Youngster, when we know who wins this war, you can ask me that question again.”

  ____________

  On the whole, the Port of Galveston was disappointing. The streets were dried mud with no sidewalks. Most of the buildings were single story, though a few around the plaza were taller, all built on pylons to rise above the sagging soil. It was said the village had been founded by the pirate Jean Lafitte, but I didn’t think the structures that old.

  Few of the dwellings offered the comforts of civilization, the floors being plank board with a few rushes. The furniture was crude, probably castoffs from unsuccessful plantations. The saloons were tolerable, though they weren’t called saloons, hiding their identities under various nom de plumes. I liked the Customs House for its offices and barracks, but chose the King’s Arms for my headquarters, a two-story hotel near the waterfront. Ships had been arriving from the States with donations for the revolution, providing medical supplies, guns and ammunition. Had we arrived only a few days later, the bounty would have been on its way up the Brazos River to Houston’s new camp at San Felipe.

  In the late afternoon, my officers and I sat on a wide balcony looking at the harbor. With us were Kellogg and Slow, though the youngster spent most of his attention on the motley fleet of anchored ships. A full-bodied Mexican waitress named Maria served fish, rice and red wine. On my suggestion, Isabella and Morning Star were dining with the harbor’s womenfolk, learning everything they could of recent events.

  “So what do we do now?” Tom asked. “We can’t go west to fight Urrea with Houston behind us. If we strike toward San Felipe, there will be no one to check Urrea.”

  “The sooner we get out of here, the better,” Cooke said.

  “I’ve never learned how to retreat,” I said, somewhat falsely.

  “Not saying we should run, only find a better position,” Cooke said. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re trapped on an island with our backs to the sea.”

  “It sounds like running to me,” I replied.

  “No one will follow our flag if we get our asses kicked,” Tom said.

  “That won’t happen,” I insisted.

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen at the Little Big Horn, either,” Tom said.

  “Damn you, Tommy. One mistake! One mistake in a fifteen-year career,” I protested.

  “And it was a pip,” Cooke said.

  Tom laughed. I turned to look at Smith
, who wisely remained quiet, before walking to the balcony railing. It had a fresh coat of whitewash. Galveston Bay was calm, the wind having died down. I counted several ships floating at anchor in the blue harbor.

  “Remember McClellan?” I said.

  “You knew him better than we did,” Cooke said, for he had not joined the 24th New York Cavalry until 1863, long after Lincoln removed McClellan from command.

  Tom had not known McClellan, either. Having served honorably in the 21st Ohio Volunteers, Tom didn’t become my aide-de-camp with the 6th Michigan until late 1864, the year McClellan was running for president.

  “I was appointed to Little Mac’s staff during the Peninsula Campaign. Promoted to captain from a green second lieutenant. He built the best trained, best equipped army in the history of the world.”

  “And then he wouldn’t let it fight,” Tom said, echoing President Lincoln’s complaints. Complaints I had heatedly disagreed with, until my service under Sheridan had shown how a vigorous commander wins wars.

  “McClellan may have been reluctant to commit his army, but he still deserves credit for its creation,” I said. “The Army of the Potomac held together after Burnside failed at Fredericksburg. Survived Hooker’s bungling at Chancellorsville. Held Cemetery Ridge for Meade. When Grant came east, he inherited a fighting force second to none.”

  “President Grant had an army of a hundred thousand men. We barely have six hundred,” Cooke said.

  “Grant wasn’t president in ’64,” I corrected.

  “So what are you saying, George? Should we still plan on attacking Santa Anna before taking on the Southerners?” Smith asked.

  “No, Fresh, I’m not saying that at all. Slow showed me it won’t work. But we can’t look like we’re running. We’ve got to make our mark. Present an obstacle that requires respect,” I answered.

  “And how do we do that?” Kellogg asked.

  “Hell, Mark, think I’d be pacing this deck if I knew the all the answers?” I said.

  “We captured Galveston easily enough, but we can’t hold it,” Cooke remarked. “And getting out could be tough if an enemy force arrives to block our retreat.”