Custer and Crockett

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Custer and Crockett Page 17

by Gregory Urbach


  “Ain’t never heard folks call Yerba Buena a city before,” Graham said.

  “I will try to cooperate with Señor Alvarado and his patriots, but we may discover ourselves at cross purposes,” I said. “Should that happen, where will Isaac Graham stand?”

  “I’m an American, sir. Would like ta see California be free. If not, then part of the United States,” he answered.

  “Mr. Graham, your support is welcome. But I can’t promise you’ll like the changes I’m going to make,” I warned.

  “Fair enough,” he said, getting up to leave. “By the way, General, I heard you fellas come here lookin’ for gold. Got bad new fer ya, sir. There ain’t no gold in California. Not enough to bother with.”

  “Thank you for the advice,” I said, shaking his hand.

  Late in the evening, after Taps, I slipped off to a grassy ravine downriver from the camp. We had a first quarter moon for light and a sea of stars on a cloudless night. With me were Tom, Smith, Crockett, Kellogg, and Slow. Morning Star brought two bottles of a very fine wine found at Mission San Carlos del río Carmelo. John started a campfire for us, for there was a cool breeze coming from the ocean only a few miles away.

  “Gentlemen, tomorrow we occupy Monterey, the capital of California. The key to holding this territory. By tomorrow night, we will be the government, but until then we must be careful,” I explained.

  “Is this a prank, Autie? Since when are you careful?” Tom snickered.

  “Gutiérrez won’t put up much of a fight. History says Alvarado fired one cannon shot at him and the entire garrison surrendered,” Kellogg said.

  “That’s what we must avoid,” I said.

  “Okey, now ya got us confused,” Crockett said, drinking the wine but preferring whiskey.

  “When we confront Gutiérrez, he must still be governor of Alta California. It’s vital to my plans,” I said.

  “Could it be vital to our plans?” Tom asked.

  “Split hairs if you must, little brother, but I have business to conduct with the governor. There can be no surrender or resignations until that business is concluded,” I insisted.

  “Ya still ain’t makin’ no sense, George,” Crockett said, scratching his gray whiskers.

  “It is the piece of paper,” Slow said, gifted with a half cup of wine.

  “Wedding certificate for George and Isabella?” Smith asked, though he knew better.

  “No. It is more,” Slow said.

  “And what do you know of pieces of paper, youngster?” I asked.

  “The white man gives and takes with paper. So do the Mexicans. Paper is powerful in your world,” Slow explained.

  “The boy is right,” I said, reaching into my jacket for a rolled parchment. “When I was in Galveston with Santa Anna, we had many a long talk. He finally came to see my side of things.”

  I unrolled the parchment. It was a land grant, signed and sealed by the dictator himself. I let Smith see it first, for he had attended Hamilton College and was well acquainted with such documents.

  “What do you think, Fresh?” I asked.

  “My Spanish isn’t real good, but this looks like you own most of northern California,” Smith said.

  “From the American River to the Rockies,” I clarified. “But only after the current governor acknowledges Santa Anna’s signature.”

  “Are we going to own any of this land?” Kellogg asked.

  “John?” I summoned.

  John rushed up with my leather bag used for maps and reports. I took out a hefty sheaf of papers filled with scribbling.

  “As you know, Ben Travane spent many years aboard merchant ships,” I said.

  “Travane? Your Negro slave?” Kellogg asked.

  “Mr. Travane is not my slave. He was born a free man,” I objected, for if Kellogg had such an impression, others would, too. “Ben came to San Antonio with Santa Anna to manage his commissary. After the battle, Ben found the dictator’s strongbox and turned it over to me. He’s good with numbers, so he’s become my clerk.”

  “So what do sailors gots do with the land?” Crockett asked.

  “Some of the crews used articles of agreement to divvy up their profits. Particularly pirate crews, which we may fine somewhat fitting. We’ll need a few good lawyers on this, but everything I’ve gotten from Santa Anna, and whatever else we can take, will be subject to these articles.”

  “An’ ya thought of this way back in Galveston?” Crockett asked, looking at the fine lettering of the land grant.

  “Antonio actually suggested it,” I confessed.

  “Antonio?” Smith said.

  “When Santa Anna and I went duck hunting, I bragged that I could conquer California before New Year’s Day. He said conquering and possessing are two different things.”

  “So Antonio López de Santa Anna is now a friend of yours?” Tom said.

  “A friend? I wouldn’t say that. But he is a partner.”

  ____________

  We were on the road just after dawn, keeping good order with Bouyer’s scouts in the lead. I rode with Slow and Kellogg, watchful but not worried. Our trail was often lined with observers; farmers, vaqueros, tradesmen and Indians. A well populated area. Reaching the end of the valley, we entered a pass and emerged overlooking a wooded peninsula. In the distance was the Pacific Ocean, and just to the north, a large bay protecting a sprawling port.

  The town of Monterey rose back from the waterfront on gentle hills. A wide road ran along the edge of the harbor, lined with taverns and warehouses. Two main avenues turned off at a left angle, with businesses, stables, and a few fancy haciendas. Above the town, I saw a long ridge topped with a thick forest.

  Closer to us, on a small plateau, was the presidio attached to an old walled church. The presidio did not offer a serious threat, having only a tower and corral for defense, but there was a more pressing concern a mile farther on. Using my binoculars, I spied a ramshackle fort on the hill beyond the town, with artillery guarding the entrance to the harbor.

  “They call it El Castillo,” Tom said, using his binoculars to study the fortifications.

  “More like a mud latrine,” I said. “But it’s got eight cannon, probably six-pounders. I also see a shack and a stable. The soldados are scrambling, about five dozen in all.”

  “El Castillo may threaten ships, but it’s not well placed to repel a ground attack,” Smith observed.

  “We need to take that redoubt,” I said. “Smith, E Company will maneuver west around the edge of the hill and come up on them from behind. Do not attack until you hear the bugle. Voss, stay close to me. Colonel Custer, occupy the wooded heights above the town. Be prepared to charge through the village.”

  “We can take those streets in five minutes,” Tom said.

  Below the Presidio, along the coast road, I counted forty adobe buildings, most single story with thatched roofs. A few were two stories with balconies and courtyards. Probably hotels, saloons, and perhaps a merchant’s guild. The sandy shore had two piers jutting out into the water next to a newly built customs house. A dozen ships lay at anchor, none of them warships. Two I suspected to be whalers, some were small barks, and one was a New England schooner. At least one cargo vessel was flying a Spanish flag.

  “Crockett, we are going down toward those white dunes, then make a left oblique to the main road,” I said. “Have the band play the usual songs. Weapons will remain holstered. My regimental staff will have the lead. When we reach the town, take Company A to the Customs House and await further orders.”

  “Jus’ the eight of you gonna take on Gutiérrez?” Crockett asked.

  “I’m not going to take on anyone, David. I’m going to file my land grant,” I said.

  We rode on for another hour at a slow gait. It would take Tom and Smith time to get in position. Meanwhile, we were being watched by Monterey’s garrison, though I sensed no panic. One way or another, they were not expecting a bloody encounter. I was just as complacent.

  The dirt r
oad divided. The docks were off to the right, the Presidio about a quarter mile up the grass-covered hill. The military headquarters had no walls to speak of, but the fifteen-foot adobe tower overlooked the northwest corner of the compound. The belfry of the old Spanish church behind the Presidio could also be used for observation. A corral made of split wood fencing was large enough for twenty horses, but the enclosure was empty.

  “To your station, Mr. Crockett,” I ordered, sending David to the Customs House near the longest pier. “And detain anyone you find there. Hughes, Butler, you’re with me.”

  I turned Traveller up the hill, parts of the road filled with gravel to prevent erosion. The sleepy town of Monterey lay several hundred yards to our right, strung out along a few narrow avenues. There was a quaintness to it, like the Mexican version of a New England fishing village. The sloping ground to my left was used for grazing, mostly sheep and a few goats.

  “General, I should go, too,” Kellogg said, hanging back with Morning Star and John. Slow did not wait, riding Vic up to my side.

  “Permission granted, Mr. Kellogg,” I said.

  Voss rode with us, along with Sergeant Fuentes, Corporal Espalier and Corporal Hannum. Sergeant Howell, who I had stolen from C Company, would stay behind with Crockett. As my regimental saddler, George had more important duties than carrying a rifle.

  “Stay here at the foot of the hill with the scouts,” I told Howell. “Bring Crockett forward if there’s trouble. Alert the rest of the command if necessary.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howell said, returning to Crockett and keeping a trumpeter at his side.

  The rest of us rode halfway up the hill, then dismounted and led our horses the rest of the way. The corral gate was open for our mounts. Two guards in blue cotton uniforms and black sombreros guarded the headquarters door armed with Brown Bess muskets.

  The Presidio was larger than I’d thought, contained on two sides with a barracks, kitchen, repair shops, and a commandant’s office. A gate farther back led to the church gardens and presumably the stables. Three small iron cannon ringed the flag pole, the carriages in such poor condition that I doubted the guns could be fired.

  “Expected better,” Butler whispered, for San Antonio appeared cosmopolitan by comparison.

  “You should have seen Fort Lincoln when Libbie and I first arrived,” I said, for frontier life is often primitive.

  A middle-aged man approached wearing a black frock coat, a rain-stained slouch hat, and store-bought spectacles.

  “He venido a ver al gobernador,” I greeted the clerk.

  “Su excelencia lo espera,” the clerk said, a mild-mannered Spaniard with a humble posture. “Though, if you wish, I speak English, General Custer.”

  “Very well, señor,” I replied.

  While Espalier and Hannum took our horses to the corral, I entered the headquarters with Kellogg and Slow. It was a long rectangular building with a central corridor and windows for each room, much like the governor’s palace in Béjar. Fuentes, acting as my orderly, followed with my leather bag of documents. Hughes and Butler lingered just inside the front door, their strange weapons attracting attention from the guards.

  Waiting for us was a man of medium height with reddish hair tinting gray, somewhat round, and lighter skinned than many in this part of the country. He had a genial expression, though an odd cast in his right eye that had given him the nickname El Tuerto.

  “Governor Gutiérrez, I presume?” I said, reaching to shake hands.

  “I am Lt. Colonel Nicolás Gutiérrez, military commandant and acting governor of Alta California,” he said with a strong Spanish accent.

  The reception hall was hung with flags and banners. The floor was polished blue paving stones. Several statues of Catholic saints adorned the alcoves. I could see the church garden through glass windows in the rear door.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” I replied.

  “So the mystery riders arrive at last,” the One-Eyed said. “Have you business in Monterey?”

  “We do, sir. Important business,” I said.

  He waved me toward his office at the rear of the building. I took Kellogg and my orderly with me, leaving the sergeants and Voss in the hall. Slow arrived a minute later, looking wary. Gutiérrez’s office had an impressive maple wood desk, several elaborately carved chairs, and a Mexican flag hanging on the wall. His clerk stood nearby.

  “Señor Armand, offer our guests hospitality,” the governor said, walking to the back of the room.

  “May we offer tea?” the clerk asked.

  “We’re not Englishmen,” Kellogg said, hoping for something stronger.

  “Perhaps coffee?” Armand suggested.

  “Maybe later,” I said, reaching into my valise. “I have here a land grant to be certified, along with our travel papers. They are signed by El Presidente Antonio López de Santa Anna. And here is a letter of introduction.”

  Armand took the papers, glanced them over, and handed them to Gutiérrez with a nod. Gutiérrez acknowledged them with a frown.

  “This grant would make you a very rich land owner, General Custer, if you were not a pirate,” Gutiérrez said, the genial smile fading.

  “I am no pirate, Señor,” I protested.

  “A ship arrived last week from Mexico City with reinforcements for my garrison,” the frowning man said. “I had hoped to ambush Alvarado and his rebels, but the messenger gave me notice of strange Americans coming to overthrow our government, so I have been forced to wait.”

  “That is a genuine deed, Governor,” I said, taking a step back.

  “It would be, if Santa Anna were still president of Mexico, but he has been removed by Congress,” Gutiérrez explained. “And the new Congress has ordered me to eliminate this threat to our province.”

  Suddenly four lancers emerged from a side room armed with muskets. Gutiérrez drew a pistol from his desk.

  “Does this mean you will not ratify my land grant?” I brazenly asked, for my mind needed time to discover options.

  “You will not live long enough to enjoy it,” Gutiérrez said.

  A shot rang out in the reception area, followed by two more, and then a rapid series of shots that could only be Sergeant Hughes’ Henry. I kicked the desk backward, throwing Gutiérrez off his balance, and drew a Bulldog. Fuentes drew his Colt. Kellogg fumbled for the small caliber Smith & Wesson in his coat pocket. Slow pulled out Jim Bowie’s famous knife. The lancers opened fire.

  The loud reports were followed by clouds of billowing smoke that quickly blackened the room. I fired at the lancer nearest me, shooting him through the jaw. The soldier next to him was shot in the throat, probably by Fuentes. Gutiérrez had fallen against the wall, but rose to aim at my chest. Kellogg pushed me out of the way and was hit. The lancer on the end, unable to reload, stepped forward using his musket as a club. Slow slashed at his thigh, cutting deeply, but was struck over the head and fell senseless to the floor.

  I shot the lancer who clubbed Slow, then the last one, turning to point at Gutiérrez, the only enemy still on his feet. I wasn’t sure if my Bulldog had any bullets left, so I drew the other one. The governor was astounded. Apparently no one had told him of the ghost rider’s magic weapons. Señor Armand was cowering in the corner.

  There was a noise behind me. I wheeled around, ready to fire, but recognized my own men. Butler was shot through the right hand, now cradling his Sharps. Hughes and Voss were out of breath but unharmed.

  “Thirty Mexicans in the courtyard, sir,” Hughes said, guarding the door.

  I looked around. Fuentes was dead, shot through the heart. Kellogg lay against a toppled bench, bleeding from the neck. It looked serious.

  “Bandage that hand, Jimmy,” I said, taking a gold-knit handkerchief from the sideboard and throwing it to him.

  I knelt next to Slow, who was coming around. There was a large bruise on his forehead. His breathing was good. I put him on a couch and went to Kellogg.

  “Thanks, Mark,” I said, seekin
g to stop the flow of blood.

  The ball had entered above the shoulder and exited near the spine. I tried to straighten him up, but he was in too much pain.

  “Sure wanted to start that newspaper,” Kellogg whispered. “The San Francisco Examiner. Best journal west of New York.”

  “You still will. Dr. Lord can patch this up,” I encouraged, pulling a pillow for him off the bench.

  “Got us trapped, don’t they?” he said.

  “I’ve gotten out of worse.”

  “Were you hit?” Kellogg asked.

  “Not a scratch.”

  “Custer’s Luck,” the reporter said.

  And then he wasn’t breathing anymore. I closed his eyes, wiping a tear from my own. He’d been an ass, but I admired him.

  I stood up and went back to the desk. Gutiérrez and Armand were standing together, several pistols pointed at them. I found my land grant and slapped it down on the desk.

  “Register my grant. Now. And date it,” I demanded, my voice low and cold.

  Gutiérrez hesitated, but Armand didn’t, taking out a large book, making the appropriate notations, and holding out a quill pen for the governor’s signature.

  “I am only doing my duty,” Gutiérrez said.

  “Then do your duty and sign the damn book,” I said.

  Gutiérrez took the quill, and with the greatest reluctance, authorized my document.

  “I will file a protest in Mexico City,” Gutiérrez said.

  “Not likely,” I replied.

  I raised the second Bulldog and shot Gutiérrez in the chest, then shot him two more times as he spun around, smearing the plaster wall with blood as he sank to the floor.

  “I am just a civil servant, General Custer,” Armand cried, holding his hands before his face.

  “Put the seal on my grant,” I said, watching as he applied a stamp at the bottom of the document and fixed the date. Then he looked up, waiting to be shot.

  “A civil servant? That’s all?” I asked.

  “Sí, sí Señor,” he said.

  “Then you work for me now. Bolt the door after we leave and take care of the boy. If anything happens to him, I’ll feed you to the hogs. Understand?”

 

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