By riding hard, C Company had caught up with us just short of the river. Had I not hustled, Tom would have gotten there first and claimed the credit.
“Heard you tied one on in Santa Fe,” I said.
“Hell, Autie, we conquered New Mexico. Isn’t that worth a night of celebration?” Tom said, a twinkle in his blue eyes.
Morning Star hugged his arm. Slow approved, for Tom had gained quite the reputation as a warrior. A better reputation than mine.
“And how big was the enemy garrison?” I inquired.
“Twenty-four, fully armed and ready to fight to the death,” he said.
“They sound fearsome. How many did you kill?” I said, already knowing the answer.
“Well, when they saw they were outnumbered three to one, they kinda decided not to fight,” Tom admitted. “They hadn’t been paid in six months, you see, and they were getting’ kinda irritated with the government in Mexico City.”
“So what happened?”
“Twenty-two of them work for us now,” Tom said.
In time, I would need a more permanent administration, but for now Santa Fe was one less problem to worry about. And absorbing the locals into my plans was beginning to look like a good idea, for my forces were stretched thin.
“How long until the stragglers are up?” I asked.
“Crockett should be here in two days,” Tom reported.
“We’ll start work on the fort in the morning. We need corrals for the horses, store rooms and a good place to position the artillery,” I said.
“Our guns? The horses?” Tom said.
“It’s mostly desert from Yuma to Los Angeles. Poor trails, no water. From here on, we only take the mules,” I said. “The horses and cannon will stay.”
“Autie, that’s crazy,” Tom protested.
“Ask Carson how crazy it is,” I replied.
Crockett’s men rode in two days later. David was wearing his coonskin cap, smiling and waving to all. Everyone was bursting with excitement. How I envied the Old Bear Killer’s ability to set a crowd on fire.
For the first time in several weeks, I held an officer’s call. Getting all three hundred of us across the desert at the same time, with only a hundred and fifty mules, did not seem practical. And Carson laughed when I suggested it.
“Ya ain’t leavin’ me ’hind again,” Crockett warned. “Always wanted to see Californee. Ain’t bein’ denied.”
“Me either,” Tom said. “You shouldn’t be hogging all the glory, Autie.”
“Didn’t you just conquer New Mexico?” I said.
“California is bigger. It has an ocean,” Tom replied.
No one wanted to be left behind, and I couldn’t blame them. Fort Yuma was greener than any of us expected, but it didn’t have the lure of a Sierra Nevada river or the brothels of San Francisco.
“I’m taking half the command,” I announced, seeing Carson shake his head out of the corner of my eye. “The Seventh has crossed barren plains in Kansas and the Dakotas. We’ll strip the units down to the bare essentials, carry our own water, and find what we need on the other side of the desert.”
“What about the rest of us?” Brister said, already guessing he wasn’t one of the lucky few.
“We’ll mark a wagon road, and once across, send back supplies and guides to bring you in,” I said.
“Think it can be done?” Blazeby asked.
“William, when I was in charge of the Black Hills expedition, I organized hundreds cavalry and infantry, thousands of horses and mules. I had Bloody Knife and Lean Bear leading my Indian scouts. Fresh Smith was my quartermaster. Tom commanded Company L. It went so well, I even had time to shoot a grizzly bear.”
“Ain’t no grizzlies in the desert, Gener’ral,” Carson complained.
“Maybe I’ll catch enough rattlesnakes to make a pair of boots?” I said.
____________
We traveled light on supply, except for ammunition and water. Each mule carried two canvas water bags lined with buffalo stomach. Three wagons, one for each company, held camp supplies. We brought twenty-five horses, but none were allowed to be ridden in the desert.
We were better armed than Kearny’s expedition had been in 1846. Every veteran of the Seventh, a third of the battalion, was armed with a Springfield and a Colt. The rest were armed with Baker rifles. Tom and Smith had their Winchesters, Butler his Sharps, and Kellogg his Spencer. And Erasmo Seguin had manufactured a hundred rounds for my Remington, the most accurate weapon in the regiment. Hell, this was 1836. It was the most accurate rifle in the world.
The desert was just as dreary as promised. Fuentes and a few of the Mexican teamsters kept an eye on the horses, all carrying lightweight packs and given more water than the mules. Or the men. We stopped in the middle of the day for a siesta, and continued well after dark, when the ground finally began to cool.
Carson proved a good scout, knowing what I wanted and having an instinct for how to get there. Besides, we were just traveling in the wake of the Mormon Battalion, whose travails were well known. Though now we had stolen their glory. I made notes in a journal each night, expecting to one day publish my adventures.
My distrust of Kit Carson was not shared. He was popular in camp, singing songs with Crockett, playing cards with Tom and Fresh, holding hands with Singing Grass, and telling the occasional tall tale about his journey with Ewing Young to California seven years before. I did my best to set aside my prejudice, letting him share my fire and food. When Carson slipped off in the night to scout the area for hostiles, he would often take Slow with him.
It was a hundred and ten miles from Yuma to Vallecito Springs, four days of hard marching. Several times I considered abandoning the wagons, but my commanders were loath to give up their transport, so I relented.
The trail went west, then turned northwest to several shallow but welcome rivers. The water was brown and murky, and our food low, but spirits were high as we made the final distance to the famous springs.
In my own time, Vallecito had been an important stop for the Butterfield Stage and the overland mail routes. What had once been loosely called the Jackass Trail. No facilities existed in 1836, though there was evidence that roaming Indians occasionally used it. The waters of the oasis were slightly sulphurous but drinkable, within easy walk of our camp. We marked a dozen springs were the water squeezed out of the ground, flowed down to a little stream, and then disappeared into swampy soil. It took hours, but we refilled every water bag in the battalion.
“San Diego or Los Angeles?” Tom asked. “Or shall we divide the command and capture both?”
“Getting ambitious, little brother?” I said.
“Not thinking of renaming the towns after myself, though Tom Custerville does have a nice sound,” the scamp said.
“Anything named Custer is named after me,” I insisted.
“I like Tom Custerville,” Butler said, poking his elbow at Hughes.
“So do I,” Hughes agreed.
My sergeants were having more fun than they were entitled to.
“Okay, the first town we find with brothels can be Tom Custerville,” I relented.
“And if we find a town filled with iron butts, we’ll name it for you,” Tom said.
Butler and Hughes laughed so loud I was forced to dismiss them from my campfire. Louts.
We lingered in Vallecito for three days, resting the animals, repairing the wagons, and erecting an adobe way station for future visitors. The sign of the buffalo was carved above the door. Carson did some scouting and returned on the third day with a small herd of cattle.
“Buy them or steal them?” I asked.
“Ranch in the next valley is owned by one of the missions. Mission San Luis Rey, I think they calls it,” Carson said. “Not too good a ranch. Two old vaqueros sold the stock fer a dollar each, if they gits to keep the hides.”
“What did you pay them with?” I inquired.
“Your promise, Gener’ral,” Carson replied.
“Now how in hell did ya know that?” Carson said.
I smiled knowing the Mormon Battalion had widened two passes. We had already chiseled our way through Box Canyon, so only the final range remained. But I didn’t bother to explain myself.
The desert was behind us now, a heavy oak forest ahead. We crossed a final summit into Valle de San José and followed a creek called Cañada Buena Vista, intending for the famous Warner Ranch. Though in this time, there was no Warner Ranch, just an old adobe manned by the elderly vaqueros. I gave them twenty dollars in silver pesos stolen from Santa Anna, paying my debt and buying more cattle. I had an army to feed.
“San Diego is still an option, Autie,” Tom said, once again riding Athena.
“Could have gone San Diego from Vallecito if I’d wanted to,” I answered. “Los Angeles is the better option. Like Texas in 1836, California is in turmoil. I want to take advantage of that.”
“What sort of turmoil?” Crockett asked.
“I don’t exactly remember, and for once, even Kellogg seems stumped,” I said. “He just knows there was some sort of revolt that must have failed.”
“The Bear Flag Revolt?” Tom asked.
“Maybe. Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” I answered.
The road to Los Angeles was well trod, but we continued to post markers along the way so there would be no misunderstandings. Most of us who grew up reading about the gold rush knew all about San Francisco, Sacramento, the American River, and Sutter’s Fort. Few knew very much about the southern part of the state that was largely insignificant.
September was warm and dry. The dirt road looked twenty or thirty years old, wide enough for wagons and cattle herds. There were many small farms, the farmers keeping a discreet distance. A few of the women came out offering jugs of water or fresh bread. Younger women came out waving their handkerchiefs and offering flowers. I sensed some distrust of such a large armed force, but no animosity.
After several days, we came in sight of the San Gabriel Mission, a sprawling complex of corrals, workshops, fruit trees and wineries. An Indian village nearby was partially deserted, and the mission itself was falling into disrepair. Several of the padres came out to meet us. They looked thin, their brown robes frayed.
“Greetings, General Custer of the Seventh Cavalry. I am Father Tomás of the Franciscan Order,” the tallest of the group said. He was bald and eagle-nosed, with large hands good for planting.
“Good day to you, friar,” I replied. “Does the garrison in Los Angeles know of our approach?”
“They do, but we know naught of their intentions,” Father Tomás said.
With me was Tom, Crockett, Smith, and Kellogg. Carson and Bouyer were scouting our flanks, should someone be planning an ambush.
“Pueblo de Los Angeles lays through a pass only a few hours away,” I said to Tom. “We can be there by dusk.”
“Better to fight them in the morning. The mounts will be rested,” Tom suggested.
“Give them Mex’cans time ta worry, too,” Crockett said. “They kan’t have all that many soldiers.”
“We should scout the ground,” Smith added.
I wanted to attack immediately, for I had few concerns about victory. Nothing I’d read of El Pueblo de los Ángeles warned me of formidable defenses.
“Gentlemen, I will abide by your advice,” I decided, much to their surprise. “Let’s make the most of this wonderful mission, but post a strong guard.”
After three weeks of low rations, tarps for tents, and sagebrush for bedding, the men were glad to have a roof again, for the mission had many rooms. We also gathered tents for the trail and loaded the wagons with fresh supplies, for the friars were generous. Though I had John set up my campaign tent on a grassy knoll with a good view of the valley, I accepted the invitation of Friar Tomás to supper. He was filled with information, and complaints.
“When the criminals in Mexico City secularized the missions, they gave away our land,” the priest said, presiding over the mission’s dining hall.
There were eight tables seating forty of my men, five friars, and a dozen Indians. Our plates were filled with grilled beef and peas, the squaws from the village doing the serving. Wine flowed freely. For a poor land, this was quite a feast, so I knew they wanted something from me. I whispered to Slow, who sat next to me, that he might understand the ways of civilization.
“We could no longer feed our supplicants, who are now made servants of the rancheros,” Father Tomás continued. “Many of our tools were stolen. Our stock was sold for pesos, for we lacked feed. Once our missions ran the length of California, sheltering Indians and travelers, tanning leather, growing crops, raising cattle. Now every mission suffers under cruel abuse.”
“Who’s running the territory? Mariano Chino?” Tom asked.
Santa Anna had spoken of Chino while we were in Galveston, but had little good to say of him.
“No, Colonel Nicolás Gutiérrez was governor last year, but replaced by Chino in April. Chino could not rule,” Father Tomás said. “He is a tyrant and a fool. Now Chino has returned to Mexico City seeking troops and Gutiérrez rules once more. Gutiérrez is also a tyrant and a fool, but a good soldier.”
“He has support in the south, especially San Diego, but is weak in the north,” another padre said. “There are rumors of revolt.”
I looked at Kellogg, wondering what he knew of a revolution in 1836, but he seemed unsure. The history of California we knew began in 1846, at the beginning of the Mexican War.
“What of this revolt? Gonna git the In’dins back their land?” Crockett asked, taking a sympathetic look at our hostess.
The elderly squaw was one of a score still living at the mission, dressed in dyed cotton and looking a bit heavy. Her smile was charming.
“Can’t say that,” Father Tomás said. “It’s mostly the Californios. They say this territory is neglected. The Diputación has demanded statehood, but they are ignored.”
“Californios?” Smith asked.
“Native born citizens of Spanish descent,” Father Tomás explained. “They have benefited greatly from the secularization, gathering millions of acres.”
“Maybe there’s something the Seventh Cavalry can do?” I said.
“Helping the people would be a blessing,” Father Tomás said, believing his flattery had been successful.
The evening was not all business. We sang songs, played cards, a few troopers got drunk, and the noise attracted a few señoritas, who danced with the boys. The padres played musical instruments and were very good.
The next morning, Voss sounded Boots & Saddles. We were off to conquer Los Angeles.
Never a real city, the pueblo was said to house eight hundred residents. But the village I attacked on the Little Big Horn was said to be eight hundred also, and Governor Gutiérrez was known to be raising an army, so Bouyer and Carson joined me on an advance scout. We found a nice little hill overlooking the entire floodplain.
The distance from the San Gabriel Mission to the town was about eleven miles, all excellent roads. I was amazed by the large tracts of sycamores, walnut trees, and oaks. Extensive irrigation ditches fed hundreds of small farms and ranches. Plots of grapes were growing on the rolling hills, particularly near the meandering river. I had thought to find a semi-desert, but this country looked more like Ohio.
“Typical Spanish fort,” Carson said, having been here on previous visits.
“Hardly a fort, Mr. Carson,” I said. “It’s much like San Antonio. A central plaza, church with a few walls, a barracks and a stable. There’s activity on the open ground just south of the town. Mostly cavalry. Maybe some artillery.”
“Orders, Gen’ral?” Bouyer asked, having seen all he needed to.
“We will attack,” I said.
I rode down the steep hill anxious to proceed. The command was
drawn up behind the ridge, flags unfurled and the mounts pawing the soft earth. The new horses we had acquired in the San Gabriel Valley were broken for riding but would likely spook in a battle. I had the sergeants keeping a close eye on them. Not sure how Traveller would react in a fight, I took Vic back from Slow.
“Colonel Custer, Company C will sweep south of town. Keep the enemy occupied. They may have some artillery. Flank them if you can. Colonel Crockett, Company A will proceed down the main road. Dismount within rifle range and engage their infantry. Colonel Smith, you are the hammer. Swing Company E to the north and threaten the enemy rear. We’ll give the garrison a chance to expend their ammunition, then advance along our entire front. Questions, gentlemen?”
“What if they surrender, sir?” Lieutenant Autry asked.
“We don’t want more blood than necessary, Micajah. But what blood is spilled should be theirs,” I answered, my voice growing a bit high-pitched, as it sometimes did in moments of excitement.
“They might retreat?” Tom said.
“There’s a road to the west that turns north along the ocean. If they withdraw without their supply train, let them go,” I decided. “I want the town, their food, their wagons, and their ammunition. We don’t need prisoners.”
“Ya mean shoot the prisoners?” Crockett asked with a frown.
“No, Colonel, I did not say shoot the prisoners,” I responded. “Please do not read more into my orders than intended. That happened at the Washita, bringing criticism to the regiment. There will be none of that today.”
“Where will you be, Autie?” Tom asked.
“The regimental staff will take the scouts to Company A’s right flank,” I said. “There’s a blind spot on their northeast corner I wish to probe. More questions? Very good. Keep your trumpeters close at hand.”
Once around the edge of the hill, our army formed up on the wide wagon road. Smith was in the lead, followed by Tom. Crockett and I brought up the rear. Our wagons came last with spare ammunition and medical supplies. Dr. Lord and Sergeant Major Williamson commanded this reserve. Our mules had been left at the mission where they were needed for the trek back to Yuma.
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