Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  The enemy stirred, guards on top of the tall stone church sounding the alarm with a brass bell. There seemed to be about forty or fifty buildings, most low slung mud and adobe brick with thatched roofs. The best structures were situated around the plaza, some of them two stories tall. I did not see a presidio, but there was a fortified hacienda, likely the commandant’s headquarters. The streets had been barricaded with bundles of wood. Only three cannon were visible, all small bore. Two faced east and one south.

  Smith separated from the command first, having the longest ride. Moving at a right oblique, forty troopers crossed over the end of a long green ridge and down toward the river where it snaked around a shallow plateau. A mile farther on, Tom broke off to the left through a late summer wheat field. Crockett and I slowed during the last thousand yards, stopping short of the town.

  “Now, Mr. Crockett,” I said, for it was Crockett’s duty to lead his company.

  “Dismount,” Crockett calmly said to his trumpeter, who quickly blew the signal.

  “Skirmish line, horse holders to the rear,” Crockett ordered, his voice clear in the late morning air.

  The troops spread out at fifteen foot intervals, thirty men on the line, three sergeants giving direction, and ten men standing back holding the horses. Crockett and Autry remained mounted, riding up and down the line to maintain order. They had learned their lessons well.

  The first cannon shot burst from the east wall, falling twenty yards short. It looked like a 3-pounder, solid shot. Not likely to be very effective except for the poor soldier it accidently hit.

  “Good luck, David,” I said, saluting before riding off to the right.

  Butler and Hughes rode with me at point followed by Voss, Howell, Allen, Fuentes and Espalier. Bouyer stayed on our right flank, joined by Carson’s men and nineteen Shoshone Indians who hated the Californios. I told Carson that his men were not required to join in, not having been hired as soldiers, but they were staying close, looking for some action.

  “Good ground,” Butler approved, the Sharps lying across his lap.

  I had my Remington in the sheath, my Bulldogs in the black leather holsters. Hughes held his Henry. The rest of my men were armed with Springfields. Carson had gathered some Baker rifles cut down to carbine length. Most of the Indians had antique muskets, though a few carried bows and arrows.

  “Company E is almost in position, sir,” Hughes reported.

  I halted the men, searching the landscape with my binoculars. Smith had skirted the plateau in good order, swinging north of town. Crockett’s men were waiting for the advance, holding their fire. Tom had dismounted his force to the south and was slowly pressing the walled church. They were met by sporadic musket fire. I saw Tom counting their guns.

  “Follow me,” I said, leading the way down a draw into a swampy irrigation channel.

  The path allowed us to ride toward a pair of two-story buildings connected by a wicker enclosure, probably a chicken coop. I lost sight of the position while splashing along the ditch, but caught sight again as we emerged into a bean field. The enemy was too busy on their other flanks to see us. We were only a hundred yards away.

  Far to my left, Tom’s trumpeter sounded Commence Firing. Only six shots rang out. I assumed he had advanced his sharpshooters and was picking off the gun crews. A single shot came closer from my left. I looked toward Company A and saw Crockett out in front of his men with his Springfield. At a distance of four-hundred yards, Crockett could threaten his targets and still be out of the enemy’s range.

  A Mexican lookout toppled from the top of the church, and then one fell from the east wall. They could hardly have understood they were up against weapons far superior to their own. Suddenly their small cannon didn’t seem so formidable.

  “There go the noncombatants, General,” Butler said, pointing west.

  From the rear of the town, hundreds of old men, women and children were scattering into the fields, some along the road, other dashing into the yellow wheat.

  “Shall we round them up, sir?” Hughes asked.

  “Don’t be a smart ass,” I replied. “Voss, sound the Charge!”

  I drew my Bulldog and gave Vic a kick, galloping toward the wicker pen. On my right, I saw Smith charging the barriers blocking the main street. Behind me, Carson and his boys were rushing to catch up, caught by surprise. I could not see Crockett but heard his bugler sounding Forward. Up ahead, Mexican lancers in the plaza were mounting their horses. I could not tell if they forming up or getting ready to retreat. The streets looked clogged with women and children. Smoke from the muskets began to linger over the town like a gray haze.

  Vic reached the wicker pen first and jumped over, landing among a flock a squawking chickens. Butler and Voss were quickly at my side. We charged into the plaza ready for battle, but there were only a handful of soldiers making a fight. One raised his musket at me but I shot first. Two more turned to shoot. Voss and Butler cut them down. Within minutes eight or nine soldados lay wounded. At least five were dead. The lancers disappeared down the west road at a gallop.

  “Voss, sound Rally,” I ordered.

  My command formed around me, pistols ready should there be treachery. Among the surrendering soldiers were at least a hundred Angeleno peasants, frightened but refusing to abandon their homes. I also noticed several merchants standing in front of their shops. One of them, a well-dressed man in his mid-fifties, came forward with his hands held out.

  “Sir, I am Jean-Louis Vignes, master of El Aliso,” the distinguished gentleman introduced. “In the absence of Colonel Gutiérrez, I am given authority for our pueblo. I urge mercy.”

  The Pacific Ocean is an endless prairie of water. It is told that the White Man came across such an ocean to steal the land of the People, but not from across this western sea. The brown men of Hawaii and yellow men of China come from the west, though not as conquerors. They are servants of the White Man, as the White Man would have the People be their servants. This will never be, but I finally understood the power of such great distances. After the battle of the adobe town, Custer and Thomas rode down to the beach, walking into the waves and splashing. I did not understand what made them crazy, but followed them into the surf, feeling the buffeting about my legs. The White Men say they will someday own all of the land between the great oceans. Will they drown all who live in-between?

  Chapter Five

  THE BATTLE OF MONTEREY

  Los Angeles had fallen in a battle lasting twenty minutes. We had a few wounded but none killed. The Mexican commander had escaped with the bulk of his force, leaving behind his artillery and wagons. It was a glorious victory, though a minor one. During the Rebellion, it would hardly have gotten mention on page two of the New York Tribune.

  “Autie, what the hell?” Tom shouted, riding into the plaza with his men.

  Closer to the action, Crockett’s men were approaching on foot. Smith had taken Company E partway down the west road to make sure the enemy was in full retreat, but according to orders, offered no pursuit.

  “Jealous I got here first?” I boasted.

  “The Mexicans were retreating. There was no reason to charge at all,” Tom scolded.

  I dismounted, handing Vic’s reins to Corporal Fuentes. Señor Vignes was still waiting, and I didn’t wish to be rude.

  “Have no fear, sir. The citizens of Los Angeles are safe under the protection of the Seventh Cavalry,” I said, shaking hands.

  The gentleman relaxed and waved to his people. They emerged from the surrounding buildings, quickly starting to clean up the streets and take down the barricades.

  Once Smith returned, I gathered the command before the fortified hacienda. Voss blew his bugle as the Mexican flag was lowered and the Buffalo Flag raised. Six men fired a salute, and that was it. No speeches. No brass band. My musical instruments were still in Yuma.

  That night, as the troopers celebrated good food, good wine and dancing señoritas, I met with the town fathers in the former commanda
nt’s office. They were surprisingly well informed. With me were Tom, Crockett and Kellogg, also well informed, for they had been speaking with the locals. Not all of whom thought highly of their leaders.

  “Your conquest of Texas failed, and now you come to Alta California?” Señor Vignes inquired.

  “And who are you? Mercenaries? Filibusters?” old Señor Rodriquez inquired, owner of the town’s largest mercantile.

  “The liberation of Texas is proceeding as planned,” I exaggerated. “The Buffalo Flag represents whites who oppose slavery, Mexican Federalists, Indian tribes, and patriots seeking a better life in a free land. The government in Mexico City cannot protect California. We will do better.”

  “So you have ridden two thousand miles to protect us poor ranchers?” Juan Bandini asked, a visiting emissary from San Diego. Near middle-age, he was lean and sharp-eyed, as most frontier settlers tend to be. “My Rancho Tecate is under pressure by bands of renegades, as are my neighbors. Will a handful of horsemen drive the plunderers back into the deserts?”

  “California—” I said.

  “Alta California,” Father Tomás insisted. I failed to value the distinction.

  “Alta California needs an honest government and an army to protect the citizens,” I explained. “This will be provided in time, but first the Seventh Cavalry must establish order. You gentlemen must help maintain this order.”

  “And if we don’t?” Bandini asked.

  “Then I will find men who will, and reward them accordingly,” I promised.

  “What of the missions? The Indians?” Father Tomás said.

  “Some of the land must be returned to the missions,” Crockett said. “They was doin’ a good job. Good to be helpin’ folks.”

  “The land belongs to us now,” Señor Vignes insisted.

  “It belongs to the people,” Tom said, frowning.

  “And you Buffalo Flags? Are you the people?” Vignes inquired.

  “We have the most guns,” Tom answered.

  “Gentlemen, please, there will be a fair distribution,” Kellogg intervened, for he now considered himself quite the expert on California land issues. In truth, he’d given the problem more thought than I had.

  “Mr. Kellogg is right,” I agreed. “Give us time. This country is about to change in ways you can’t imagine. Patience is called for.”

  Ironic, coming from me.

  Seven days later, the Seventh Cavalry was moving up the old Camino Real, a road built by the Spanish missionaries to connect their twenty some odd missions between San Diego and San Francisco. It was well-marked with many ranches and springs along the way, good forage for the horses, and remarkable weather. I wanted a secure base before the snows started.

  Carson and his boys were no longer with me, having been sent back to Yuma. I wanted the rest of the command brought up quickly. Orders were also issued to finish the Custer Road. When the time came for our return to Texas, I wanted nothing to slow us down. One day, I would build a railroad, telegraph lines, and trading posts, but for now watering holes and bridges would suffice.

  Our first stop was the Mission San Fernando Rey de España, established forty years before. Like San Luis Rey, the mission was still the center of spiritual life for Indians and farmers, but slowly falling into disrepair. Hearing of our advance, many people came out to see the Seventh Cavalry, so I encouraged the men to make a good impression. Unlike my travels through Virginia during the Rebellion, where spectators were sullen and often holding pitchforks, the settlers of Alta California greeted us with hope. They had felt protected when the land was ruled by the King of Spain, but ignored under the rule of Mexico.

  “Don’t like this none at all,” Crockett said as we dismounted in the mission courtyard.

  “How’s that, David?” I asked.

  “Seems this ’ere Figueroa fella was stealin’ land from the poor an’ givin’ it to the rich,” Crockett complained. “If I’d a wanted that, I could’a stayed in Tennessee.”

  “José Figueroa is dead. There isn’t much we can do about him now,” Kellogg said.

  “But what he done was wrong, and we kin do somethin’ ’bout that,” Crockett replied.

  “What do you have in mind?” I asked.

  “Let’s undo this ’ere secularation,” Crockett said.

  David had the word wrong, but I knew what he meant. Everywhere we went, the secularization of the missions seemed to be the most divisive issue. I looked to Tom, who was nodding agreement with Crockett. As the sons of farmers and blacksmiths, we were inclined to sympathize with the little folk. But I also knew the big ranchers would not yield their land grants willingly.

  Our pattern in the next few weeks became set. The Seventh Cavalry would ride into each new settlement with flags flying and our new band playing “Garry Owen”. At meetings with local leaders, Crockett would advocate for the missions while I urged caution, leaving both the Franciscans and the ranchers hopeful of a decision in their favor. And as a result, the army never lacked for supplies.

  ____________

  We reached the outskirts of Monterey in early November. Though the former governor, Pio Pico, had tried to make Los Angeles the capital of the territory, all of the administrative work remained in this northern port. It was here that Commodore John Sloat had raised the American flag on July 7th, 1846, claiming all of Alta California for the United States. But now history had been changed, no one would ever hear of John Sloat, and it would be George Armstrong Custer who raised the flag of liberty over this green land.

  “Country is in revolt,” a well-dressed merchant said, coming into my camp just before dark.

  He was an American in his mid-thirties named Isaac Graham, a former mountain man who claimed to know Kit Carson. He wore a brown broadcloth jacket and carried a Pennsylvania rifle. His fluffy red beard grew down over a blue cravat.

  Graham rode in on a fine Spanish stallion with two grizzly fur trappers, three ambitious shop keepers, and a burly gunsmith, all new immigrants to California. Graham himself was a brewer.

  “The roads we’ve traveled have been peaceful,” I remarked.

  “South is better at complainin’ than fightin’,” Graham said. “Up here, folks get more riled up.”

  “The Seventh Cavalry will reach Monterey by noon tomorrow. Are you offering assistance?” I asked.

  “Depends on what ya want,” Graham answered. “Most of us are lookin’ for independence, like the Texans. The Californios ain’t so sure, but we all agree that Gutiérrez has got ta go. He’s only governor in name. Chico went to Mexico City for more troops. Might be back any day.”

  “That’s not very likely,” I said. “Tom, make our guests comfortable. Mr. Graham and I will have a talk.”

  Our camp was next to a wide creek under tall oaks, the horses grazing on a lush hillside. Cooking fires were roasting fresh meats. Several kegs had been opened, but Crockett was watching to make sure there was no drunkenness. There were enough tents for everyone, and we had even attracted a small but loyal train of camp followers, some Indian and some Mexican. The peons chopped wood and groomed horses while the women prepared food and washed our clothes. And a few provided other services, which I turned a blind eye to.

  I led Graham to my campaign tent near the wagon park. A small pot belly stove kept my headquarters warm. A buffalo hide was used for a rug. John had even arranged for a curtained latrine, making my accommodations quite luxurious. Tom had wanted Morning Star to stay with him, but that I wouldn’t allow, keeping her and Slow with me. Singing Grass was my guest, too, for Carson had decided to leave her with the Seventh. Graham found the arrangement curious.

  “How many men can you count on?” I asked, offering Graham a seat at my table.

  “Twenty-five. All good men,” he said, finding a folding chair.

  “I have more teamsters than that.”

  Morning Star was kind enough to serve us lamb and beans while John poured a cup of brown ale. Slow sat in silence, merely observing, while S
inging Grass sat at Graham’s feet. As a girl of fourteen, she had met him at the Pierre’s Hole Rendezvous, along with Jim Bridger and Joe Meek. There had even been a battle, of sorts, though Singing Grass was reluctant to speak of it.

  “This can be a great nation, but not with the Mexicans runnin’ it,” Graham said. “They don’t like immigrants, and those they accept gots to convert. Me, well, I don’t care ’bout that, but some folks got a delicate conscience. The good folks we need to come here, they won’t swap their religion for land.”

  I tried to show no reaction to his observation, though I knew it to be true. In recent months, I’d been giving much thought to Isabella and the Seguin family. If I wanted to take a place in their community, as Jim Bowie had, I would need to become a Catholic. If Pa was still my pa, and not a man several years younger than myself in far off Ohio, he’d whip me good for such a thought. The Custers were Methodists and everybody in New Rumley knew it.

  “Gots other problems, too,” Graham continued. “We get taxed but got no garrisons for protection. Land is given and then taken away. Can’t run a store or a shop without officials wantin’ bribes. The Franciscans once ran the whole territory, and they could git greedy, too. But now a handful of rich Spaniards are takin’ it all.”

  “What of Señor Juan Alvarado? Does he have an army nearby?” I asked.

  “Can’t call if much of an army, but Gutiérrez don’t got much, neither,” Graham said. “Juan was goin’ ta take Monterey two weeks ago, but held off when he heard cavalry was marching up the Camino Real. At first he thought you was Chico.”

  “Who does he intend to fight?”

  “Gutiérrez, I assume.”

  “Tell Señor Alvarado to withdraw his rebels and meet me in San Francisco,” I decided.

  “You mean Presidio de San Francisco?” Graham asked. “Juan’s boys are holding the old Spanish fort. May not be willing to give it up.”

  “Yerba Buena,” I corrected, remembering that the bayside port wouldn’t be called San Francisco for another eleven years. “Juan won’t resent me taking the city, will he?”