“Yes, sir,” Armand agreed.
“Everybody ready?” I asked, going to the door.
“Ready, General,” Butler said, drawing a Colt with his good hand. Voss now carried the Sharps. Hughes cocked the Henry. I reloaded the Bulldogs, carrying one in each hand.
“Think any of our boys got out?” Voss asked.
“Not sure about Hannum and Espalier. Howell will have alerted Crockett by now,” I replied, though I wasn’t sure what Crockett would do. None of his officers were Seventh Cavalry, though Sergeant French could offer valuable advice.
“Henry, we need to get you on a roof or a tower,” I decided. “Signal Colonel Custer and Smith to attack.”
“I can get out the back door, sir. Go up in the church with the bells,” Voss said, a smart lad.
“Jimmy, you go with him,” I ordered. “Don’t let anyone get in your way. Bobby, you and I are going out the front. Are you with me?”
“I was the last time, sir,” Hughes said.
There had been a lull in the fighting. As I opened the heavy door, the halls were ghostly quiet. I took the lead, followed by Hughes. Voss and Butler soon disappeared out the rear door. I moved calmly and steadily, burning with anger. Hughes held his rifle at his waist, ready to work the lever to maximum advantage.
“What should we do, sir?” he asked.
“Kill ’em all,” I answered.
Hughes and I paused at a broken window to scout our opposition.
“Least a score in the courtyard, all on foot. Most got muskets,” Hughes said.
I saw one officer carrying a sword next to the guard tower. His sergeant looked confused. Near the corral, two lancers were mounted holding long spears. There was no precision to the enemy formations.
“I’ll go left, Bobby. You’ve got the right flank. Tear into them,” I whispered.
And then I stepped out the door, opening fire. Two soldados went down fast, and when the third was hit, the enemy realized I didn’t need to reload after each shot. I aimed the second Bulldog, firing twice more. At such a range, it was hard to miss. Hughes fired eight rapid rounds at the lancers in the corral.
In a matter of seconds, half of the soldados were on the ground, wounded or dead. Six lancers were stout enough to return our fire, but their aim was rushed. One was a tall sergeant whose bravery was rewarded with a bullet through the forehead. With no time to reload, the survivors starting running. The three that didn’t were gunned down where they stood.
We found Corporal Hannum next to the horses, shot several times. He had bled out quickly, his Colt still in the holster. Espalier was shot in the leg and shoulder, but was still holding Traveller’s reins. His pistol was empty, and having only one good arm, could not reload. He started to get up, but I waved him back down rather than let him get in the way. I took Hannum’s pistol, for the Bulldogs were expended.
Hughes stayed near the corral, watching for a counterattack. I searched the kitchen and barracks, looking for hidden foes. I found a group of women and children, and one unarmed lancer who instantly surrendered. It was all I could do not to shoot him outright.
The adobe tower had a lower room and upper observation platform. Leaving the women to care for Corporal Espalier, I summoned Hughes to the second floor. There was skirmishing along the docks, and then a cannon fired from El Castillo to the north, striking a warehouse where some of Crockett’s men were positioned. I could not see Crockett. Below us, half a dozen lancers were retreating on foot to the northeast, heading for the open road. I shot one in the leg, watched him roll over, and then get back on his feet. He limped away as fast as he could go. The rest were out of range, so I let them escape.
“Targets, Bobby?” I asked, for the ground between us and the docks was crowded with scurrying sheep herders and panicked flocks.
A bugle sounded from the church behind us, loud and clear in the afternoon air, the urgent notes ringing off the hills. If there was any doubt among my officers before, there would be none now. The call was answered from my left as I saw Company C charge down the long mountain slopes into the village.
There was no call from Smith, Company E merely rode up from the ocean and over the hill into the rough wooden redoubt overlooking the bay, swords waving and Colts blazing. There was one more cannon shot, fired in a direction that would do the garrison no good, and then they were overrun. From the tower, all I could see were banners, dust, and puffs of smoke, but the firing was not heavy.
“Let’s give Crockett a hand,” I said, climbing down the ladder and mounting Vic.
Hughes opened the corral gate, but I was out before he found his horse, galloping down the hill and through the lower end of town. Old men and young children ran to get out of my way.
A small group of lancers, two with muskets, were kneeling behind a stone wall taking shots at the Customs House. I pulled Vic around and shot one in the back. Another jumped up and charged at me with his lance, seeking to skewer me from the saddle. He was a courageous man. I shot him in the face. The remaining lancers dropped their weapons and held up their hands.
“Carrera! Carrera!” I shouted.
They ran like jackrabbits.
Company A’s horses had been taken to the beach for protection, every fourth man holding their reins. Another dozen, commanded by Lieutenant Autry, were stationed behind a seawall in support of the Customs House. Crockett had stormed the house with the rest of his men and apparently captured it. I recognized privates Steiner and González on the roof.
The lancers fleeing the town turned north toward El Castillo just as the redoubt survivors were coming down to the main road. Company E’s guidon flew from a livery stable near the cannon. The first members of Company C were appearing behind me, having charged through the town. Some of Crockett’s men emerged from the Customs House, roughed up but in good spirits. I noticed a score of Mexican soldiers gathered on the road ahead still armed, and without much thought, galloped forward firing my borrowed Colt.
The lancers were not organized for resistance. Most were bewildered by gunfire coming from several directions, and they seemed to lack officers. A sergeant tried to rally them without success, and then their flag bearer went down, the banner fluttering into the dirt. I continued to shoot, and so did Crockett’s men, who were rushing to keep up with me. Several lancers went down. I would have kept shooting had a bugle not sounded the Cease Fire.
“Think that’s ’nough, George,” Crockett said, riding to my side on a borrowed mule. “No point in a massacre.”
It was not a massacre yet, but might be if we didn’t stop the indiscriminate killing. I holstered my weapon and dismounted, giving Vic’s reins to Sergeant French.
“I need a bugler,” I shouted, for the battlefield was chaos.
“Here, sir,” Jimmy Allen said, holding a trumpet.
“Sound Recall,” I ordered.
Jimmy blew the call. Crockett and I moved forward, waving to the men. It took several minutes to establish order, for mounted units were chasing the broken enemy into the hills.
“Gather our wounded in the Customs House. Dr. Lord can treat them. The doctor is alive, isn’t he?” I asked French.
“Kept him on the beach with the horses,” Howell confirmed.
Butler and Voss came down from the Presidio with two old men carrying Slow on a stretcher. The boy kept trying to sit up, but they wouldn’t let him.
“We’ll requisition these haciendas for the next few days,” I decided, not interested in what the owners might think. “Bring up the wagons, and let’s raise the Buffalo Flag above the plaza.”
The panic in town slowed when the last of the shooting stopped. I guessed half the population had fled into the trees, and other half stayed to protect their shops and livestock. There were stray chickens everywhere. I sent Autry to find the village elders, and requested a priest, for there were going to be a lot of funerals.
“Autie! What happened?” Tom asked, reining in next to me on Athena.
Company C w
as spread through the lower end of town holding a broad skirmish line. I sensed there were no causalities, for there had been no fighting in the streets. Tom seemed more confused than angry.
“It was a trap,” I confessed. “Santa Anna has been removed from power. Gutiérrez had orders to ambush us. Kellogg is dead. So are my orderlies.”
“Gutiérrez?” Tom asked.
“I shot the son of a bitch,” I answered.
“Where is Mark?”
“Still in the Presidio,” I said, pointing up the hill.
Tom rounded up a few men and dashed off. If Armand was still in the office, I hoped Tom wouldn’t shoot him. Smith rode up.
“Forty prisoners, sir. What should we do with them?” he asked, out of breath from the battle.
“Secure them in the church,” I said. “If any try to escape, shoot them.”
“General, we’ve been letting prisoners escape since the Alamo,” Smith said.
“They made this one personal, Fresh,” I replied.
By early evening the town had quieted. My troops were billeted in the adobe houses along the coast road, those not on duty were either in the taverns or tending the wounded. The day had not gone well. What should have been a simple occupation had cost me six men. And fifty-five of the enemy. I took up quarters in the Presidio, confiscating the large feather bed that had once belonged to Governor Gutiérrez. Peons were hired to wash blood from the office.
John took command of the Presidio kitchens and made a fine meal for my staff, but I brooded.
“What’s wrong, Autie? Tired of victories?” Tom asked, his charge through town with sabers flashing being spoken of everywhere. Even though it had no effect on the battle’s outcome.
“Kellogg was a good man, George,” Crockett said. “Died fightin’ fer what he believed in. Kin’t ask fer more ’n that.”
“Monterey must stand for more than a shallow victory,” I said, reaching for my wine glass. “We need to send a message, like the Emancipation Proclamation after Antietam, or Lincoln’s speech at Gettysburg.”
“No offense, Autie, but you’re no Lincoln,” Smith said.
“Wouldn’t try, but I do have a proclamation,” I said. “Tom, did you leave a copy of the Kearny Code in Santa Fe?”
“Left a copy with the commandant,” Tom answered.
“Send messengers to Los Angeles and Yuma. Send messengers all the way to San Antonio. Tell them to issue the proclamation, and call it the Kellogg Code,” I said.
“Generous of you,” Tom said under a bent brow.
“Mark earned it.”
“Ya keep talkin’ of this ’ere code. Jus’ what is it?” Crockett asked.
“When the Army of the West invaded New Mexico in 1846, General Stephen Watts Kearny proclaimed the Kearny Code in Santa Fe,” I said.
“What is a code?” Slow asked.
The boy had a cloth bandage wrapped around his head and appeared a little weak, but his eyes were sharp as ever. Morning Star was feeding him soup near the fireplace.
“Among civilized nations, a code is established for the rule of law,” I explained.
“Now we need a code for the people of California. And New Mexico. For everyone living under the Buffalo Flag,” Tom urged.
“Does this code give all the land to the white man?” Slow inquired.
“No, this code will make everyone equal under the law,” I said, hiding my doubts, for good intentions often fail.
“You realize we’re going to spend the next twenty years fighting to enforce it, don’t you?” Tom said.
“More than that,” I guessed.
“Why would you do this?” Slow asked, for the code held little importance for him.
“Because a great man proved it’s our duty,” Smith said. “He proved it with courage and persistence.”
“And blood,” Tom added.
At noon the following day, the citizens of Monterey assembled in the town plaza, unsure what to expect. On Crockett’s suggestion, food and drink was served. I instructed the band to play “Yellow Rose of Texas”, “Bonnie Blue Flag”, and just for fun, “Marching Through Georgia”, smiling at my little joke. The townspeople played a few of their traditional Mexican songs. By the time I rose to speak, the sense of gloom had eased. My Spanish was still a little shaky, but getting better.
“On this day, the 5th of November, 1836, by my authority as Lt. General of the Buffalo Flag Nations, I do proclaim this, the Kellogg Code, for all our peoples,” I announced, trying to stay calm so my voice would not sound squeaky. “This code is a bill of rights, based on the rights of the United States. This code will apply to all people, white or Mexican, Indian or foreigner. Free and former slave. There will be no slavery in our blessed country. All will have the right of free speech, freedom of religion, freedom for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. All will be equal under the law.”
“Here, here!” Tom and Smith shouted, followed by dozens of my men.
The people in the plaza showed little reaction. It wasn’t that they didn’t understand, they seemed not to care. In time, maybe they would.
“In the spring, leaders from all over Alta California will gather to ratify a constitution,” I continued. “Until that day, all decrees of the provisional government must be obeyed.”
I rolled up the notes I’d been reading and climbed down from my soapbox, returning to the Presidio with Slow. Tom and Morning Star stayed to mingle with our new subjects. Crockett found a fiddle, playing clever tunes while wearing a coonskin cap. Autry found a keg. Only Butler and Hughes followed me up the hill.
We were not alone for very long. Ranchers from all over the area were coming in, asking if their lands were being given back to the missions. Missionaries wanted to know the same thing. Merchants wished to know if the Buffalo Flag was friendly to their commerce. A Mexican lieutenant entered begging mercy for Monterey’s former garrison, still under guard in the church. The whole time, Slow sat in the corner, watching but rarely commenting.
“What do you think, lad?” I finally asked, curious about his silence.
“They have many questions. You give them few answers,” Slow observed.
“I have no answers. If I make harsh demands, they’ll resist me as a dictator,” I said. “If I’m too meek, they’ll ignore my commands. Tom or Crockett may have a better idea how to answer them.”
“You are the leader,” Slow said.
“Among the Lakota, a chief may be a leader. But what if the people don’t want to follow him?”
“Then he is no longer chief.”
“Can he shoot the warriors who won’t follow him?”
“That would not be wise,” Slow said.
“Wisdom has never been my strong suit, boy. I’m decisive. A risk taker. A good judge of character. But wisdom? That’s for smarter men than me.”
Just before dusk, after a long day of interviews, Autry came up the hill with another unhappy petitioner. The November day was cooling off fast as a brisk wind blew in from the sea. The office windows were closed and the hearth lighted.
“General, this ’ere is Captain Francis Gaston of the Don Quijote. That big boat out in the harbor,” Autry said. “He wants ta’ sail out. With all ’is cargo.”
It took me a moment to realize what Autry was suggesting.
“Piracy, Micajah?” I inquired.
“Ain’t piracy, sir. Not if we give ’em letters of credit,” the lawyer said.
This was indeed a promising idea, for the ships in the harbor probably carried all kinds of valuable supplies. And despite the friends we had made, the Seventh Cavalry was still two thousand miles away from our base of operations.
“Tell Tom and Fresh to seize the ships,” I ordered.
“Kinda late for that,” Autry said. “Tom recruited those captured Mexicans in the church. That lieutenant? Lucius Fernandez? He agreed to man the guns in Fort Castillo. They aren’t letting any of our sailor friends leave Monterey without permission.”
�
�Tom released the prisoners?” I asked.
“Said if you was gonna sit on yer butt all day, he may as well git somethin’ done,” Autry reported.
“Very well, lieutenant. Carry on,” I said, offering a salute.
“Sir, I must protest,” Captain Gaston said, a portly man with a French accent.
“Yes, I’m sure you do,” I answered.
____________
The funerals weren’t until the next day, a Sunday. Because Mark Kellogg and our other lost comrades were to be buried in the cemetery of the San Carlos Mission with full military honors, we needed time to organize the ceremony and mend our uniforms. We had a Catholic priest from the mission and an Anglican minister from the English schooner Wisp. I paid a mason for engraved headstones.
Toward the end of the day, a light rain began falling, but it wasn’t the frosty November so familiar in Ohio. Father Joaquin warned me not to expect much in the way of snow.
By Monday night it began to rain in earnest, keeping the troops indoors except those needed for guard duty. I was particularly pleased that I had conquered Monterey before the wet weather arrived and used the time wisely, writing notices to every town along the coast. Unlike Virginia, the roads did not turn to intractable mud.
“Good writin’, George, but none gots my name on them,” Crockett said, visiting my office often.
“You’re president of Texas, David, not Alta California,” I said, the subject coming up for the first time.
“And who be president out this ’way?” he asked.
“I haven’t decided yet. Possibly Alvarado, if he cooperates,” I answered. “He’s just a kid, though, and possibly loyal to Mexico.”
“Tommy would be good,” Crockett suggested.
“Tom’s also a kid, and I need him with me.”
“How ’bout Slow?”
“How about Autry?”
“I need Micajah. I gets lonely for Tennessee,” Crockett said. “Besides, ain’t gonna be no democracy ’ere anytime soon. Reckon army rule fer least a couple a years.”
“The first California gold rush saw thousands of migrants rush in. Fifty-thousand in the first year alone. Couple hundred thousand, all told,” I said. “I don’t expect that many in 1836. Communications are poor, shipping is primitive, and Indians block most of the western trails. But there will still be a lot.”
Custer and Crockett Page 18