“And they’s gonna bring trouble,” Crockett realized. “How ya gonna keep control with jus’ a few glory seekers and ghost riders?”
“That is a fine question, Congressman. Any ideas?”
“When land jumpers were a takin’ homesteads from farmers back home, and stealin’ land from the Cherokee, I thought we should hang ‘em.”
“We’re going to need plenty of rope,” I replied.
Late in the afternoon of Thursday, December 1st, three more companies of Seventh Cavalry rode into Monterey pulling eighteen wagons and a fine 8-pounder artillery piece discovered in Santa Barbara. I assembled them in the plaza, letting Hughes and French find quarters for the men.
“Carson?” I asked.
“Sharrow paid ’em off. Sent back to Santa Fe,” Bouyer reported.
“Just as well,” I said. “Having a guide into the Sierra Nevadas would be good, but we don’t need an Indian war.”
“Kit weren’t so bad,” Bouyer said. “We met a raidin’ party of Apache on the way back an’ he giv ’em a good talkin’ to. Weren’t no fightin’.”
I decided not to inquire further. Tom, Smith and Crockett rushed into my office. With the Seventh Cavalry reunited, we had two-hundred and fifty soldiers in addition to a hundred and forty scouts, teamsters and camp followers. A formidable force in such a sparsely populated country.
“Any news from Texas?” I asked.
Bouyer handed me a large pouch of dispatches. Letters from Keogh, Sharrow, Erasmo Seguin, and a dozen others. And newspapers, too, from Baltimore, Philadelphia, Charleston and New Orleans. I yearned for a New York newspaper, maybe the New York Herald, but wasn’t that lucky.
“Only thirty-two days old,” I said, checking the date on Keogh’s report. “Not bad for a first run. Wells Fargo did better, though.”
“Wells Fargo had stations every forty miles. We don’t,” Tom said.
“Not yet,” Smith replied.
There was a day of celebration, welcoming the new arrivals with a fiesta, speeches, and tours of Monterey. We cooked plenty of beef, enjoyed the local wines, and had music all day long. Stories were swapped about crossing the desert, visiting the missions, and the temperate weather. It was good to see the men enjoying such comradery, for we would need it in the months ahead.
“You are busy, chieftain,” Slow said, wandering into my office at the end of a hectic afternoon.
“I’ve been meeting with more Californios,” I said. “They are ambitious men, seeking land to become rich. This is a trade I am intimately familiar with.”
“I did not know you owned so much land,” Slow said.
“I’ve never owned any land. The largest home I’ve ever owned was an ambulance wagon converted for Libbie’s use. But I did live in the Gilded Age, as Mark Twain called it. A time of vast expansion. An era of robber barons. Railroads. Newspapers. Mining companies. Though my own investments performed poorly, I knew dozens who made fortunes. Now such men are coming to me, seeking favors.”
“This is a common problem for a chief,” Slow said, dismissing my concern. “Are they solved by bonfires and ale?”
“I need the men to form a special bond, like the Michigan brigade did during the Rebellion,” I explained, glancing over my shoulder to make sure we were not being overheard. “After our civil war, the Seventh Cavalry was spread all over the county. Suppressing the Ku Klux Klan. Protecting travelers on the western trails. Exploring unknown lands. Now we are going to be spread thin again, from Sacramento to San Francisco. Yuma to San Antonio. How will I keep everyone loyal?”
“Gold. The white man craves gold,” Slow answered.
“No. No, lad, I’m afraid you’re wrong. Crockett has shown me that,” I said. “Gold is a motivator, but we’ll need more than that to succeed. I just don’t know what that is.”
“Thomas knows. And Señor Seguin. And the Crockett,” Slow said, unconcerned. “You need only be Custer. Let the wiser chiefs weigh such problems.”
Like all casual observers, Slow saw a general as a man on a white horse, issuing commands and free of responsibility. Few realize most generals are glorified clerks. And I still had plenty of paperwork to do.
____________
On a foggy December day, the Seventh Cavalry rode out to complete our conquest of California. I left Smith behind with orders for Monterey to continue business as usual, only under the Buffalo Flag.
“Damn it, Autie, C Company has earned the privilege,” Tom protested, for I had given Brister the lead position.
“Ya earned second place, Tommy. Was my boys that won the battle,” Crockett said.
With five companies riding north, everybody wanted the place of honor.
“Gentlemen, while your men were winning glory, Brister, Blazeby and Badillo were bringing up the rear. Finishing the road. Insuring our supplies,” I said. “Now it’s their turn to win some glory.”
“But Autie—” Tom started.
“Tommy, the Custer Clan cannot keep all the laurels for ourselves,” I said. “We’re not on the plains anymore. We’re not working for Phil Sheridan. We are the army now, and if we want loyalty, we need to give loyalty.”
“I hate it when you’re right,” Tom conceded.
“Don’t happen often,” Crockett chimed in.
“Very amusing. Now for this march, I have duties for each of you,” I said.
“Ain’t cleanin’ no stables,” Crockett joked.
“Not far wrong, David,” I said. “I need you to organize the teamsters, hire Indians, bribe Mexicans, and gather every wagon you can. Then buy up all the timber you can find.”
“Sacramento?” Tom asked.
“Sutter hasn’t built a fort there yet. We’ll need to do it ourselves,” I replied.
“Fort Custer?” Crockett asked.
“Has a nice sound to it,” I said.
“Fort Crockett sounds better,” Crockett said.
“I suppose. But the town should still be called Sacramento. Build it on the high ground for when the floods come,” I recommended.
When the army reached San Jose, Brister took the bay road up the peninsula to Yerba Linda, which would soon be rechristened San Francisco, while Blazeby went up the Pacific Ocean coastal route. Tom was sent to establish Oakland on the east bay. With Señor Luis Maria Peralta’s help, we would be building a dock for the new ferry. Badillo and I rode with Company K toward San Francisco’s presidio, where Juan Alvarado was said to be flying the Mexican flag.
“That’s a town?” Butler asked as we passed the settlement.
We stopped on a hill overlooking Yerba Linda, a mud-flat fishing village of two hundred people with docks for the occasional trading vessel. San Francisco Bay was popular with whalers for its safe anchorage. The Presidio was another three miles farther out, on the edge of the peninsula where cannon might dominate the bay’s mile wide entrance. The townspeople turned out to see Company B riding by. Brister waved his hat in triumph.
K Company had just passed Mission Dolores when a cannon shot rang out from the north. I had Voss blow the Forward and we trotted up a wooded trail and over a ridge until we could see Presidio de San Francisco half a mile distant. It had been a large fort at one time, with barracks, stables, a parade ground, and several bastions for cannon, but that seemed long ago. Now only a portion of the installation was being used, and the adobe walls were in desperate need of repair. I paused the command on the hill.
“Raise our colors. I want them to know we’re here,” I ordered.
A moment later, I saw Isaac Graham leave the fort, walking up the hill under a flag of truce. There were several other Americans with him, but no Californios.
“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Graham?” I asked, sitting on Traveller. Slow was next to me on Vic with Captain Badillo riding nearby.
“Juan don’t want ta surrender,” Graham said. “Says they is loyal to Mexico.”
“How many men?” Smith asked.
“’bout eighty,” Graham said. “Four
working cannon. Supplies for a month.”
“What of you, Graham? And your men?” I inquired.
“Reckon we’re with you, sir,” he wisely replied.
I was surprised by Alvarado’s resistance, and could not let it stand. Opposition at this late date could inspire Californios all along the Camino Real to rebel. I had two companies in close proximity and a third only minutes away.
“Corporal Sanchez, my compliments to Major Brister. I want Company B up here on the double, and he should bring the 8-pounder,” I said. “Sergeant Espalier, my compliments to Captain Blazeby. Company F is to flank the Presidio on the west side and prepare to advance. Captain Badillo, form Company K in skirmish formation along the base of this hill.”
The messengers rode off to deliver my orders. It was late on a gray day, a cold wind blowing in from the ocean, and I was not in a good mood. I paused, wondering what else should be done.
“What’s that hill over there?” I asked, pointing to my right.
“Goat Hill,” Graham said. “But the Spaniards call it Alta Loma.”
“We’re calling it Telegraph Hill,” Hughes said, having studied the maps.
“It has an observation tower. Sergeant Hughes, I want you to place a red flag atop that tower where the Presidio can see it,” I decided, remembering Santa Anna’s gesture at the Alamo.
While waiting for Brister and Blazeby to get in position, Crockett arrived with A Company, their mounts winded from a gallop up the steep trail.
“What are you thinking, George?” Crockett asked, reining in next to me.
“I was looking forward to warm quarters, a thick steak, and a conversation with Alvarado about the future of this country,” I replied. “Now I’m going to kill the son of a bitch.”
“Let me have a talk with him,” Crockett requested.
“I’ll go, too, sir. My Spanish is pretty good,” Allen offered.
I remembered my unfortunate meeting with Gutiérrez, and Mark Kellogg lying dead on the stone floor.
“There will be no negotiations,” I decided.
A civilian rode up from town on a mule, well-dressed in a fine blue frock coat and beaver top hat. Two Mexican servants rode with him. He tipped his hat and dismounted.
“Sir, my name is William Richardson,” he said with an English accent. “I own that fine house down near the anchorage. I beg you to avoid violence. Francisco de Haro, the alcalde, is coming with ten men. We will secure the Presidio for you.”
Letting the locals deal with the problem was tempting. Major Brister arrived with the 8-pounder mounted on a new carriage, the limber pulled by four study horses. The gun chief quickly had the cannon loaded with solid shot.
“Ready, sir,” Sergeant Ogden announced.
“Mr. Ogden, please fire a round over the fort into the bay,” I instructed.
The 8-pounder, nicknamed Ginny, roared with defiance, smoke engulfing the hill as the shot flew downrange into the bay. It was well done, making me glad I’d spent time in Monterey to train the gun crew. Four of them were new recruits from Monterey’s garrison, who at Tom’s urging, I had reluctantly forgiven. They were reliable young men, excited to be part of a real army.
“Excuse me, Mr. Richardson. You were saying?” I inquired, taking the pioneer with me to the edge of the hill.
Morning Star came up with the supply train. Somehow, John had managed to make hot coffee.
“Alvarado and Castro are well-meaning. They had plans to overthrow the government’s tyranny and represent the people,” Richardson explained. “You’ve taken them a bit off-guard, but they’ll come around.”
“I’ll give them an hour,” I said, taking out my new silver watch. “After that, there will be no quarter.”
“Sir, this is Yerba Buena, not Béjar,” Richardson bravely protested.
It seemed he had read of Santa Anna’s red flag in Texas, and not with approval. A moment later, the alcalde raced up from town on a fast stallion followed by half a score of militia outfitted in blue wool uniforms. The middle-aged man spoke so rapidly to Richardson that I could barely make out the details, and then he rode down to the Presidio past Company K’s skirmishers.
By now my officers had drawn up the entire command, a hundred and twenty troopers, twenty armed scouts, and nearly fifty friendly Indians. Alvarado must have been impressed, for a few minutes later, he walked out of the gate with de Haro at his side. Just before sunset, we ran up the Buffalo Flag in front of the Yerba Buena Customs House overlooking the harbor. I had captured San Francisco with one shot.
____________
Two days later, I appointed Algernon Smith acting governor of California, in cooperation with Mariano Vallejo of Sonoma, one of the largest land owners in the north. The next day, I crossed the bay to Oakland with my regimental staff, bringing the best horses with us. Laborers were busy building store houses.
Having some engineering experience, Blazeby was assigned Fort Peralta as his regular post. The same skills he’d employed as adjutant of the Alamo would now be used in laying out roads and rounding up supplies for the winter. Like all of the New Orleans Greys, the Englishman’s efforts were energetic. I considered him for a promotion, and in the meantime, appointed him alcalde of the new town.
With Crockett and Brister in the lead, we rode north to the Sacramento River and then northeast, crossing a vast green flood plain filled with deer, elk and wild horses. It would be hard to explain to Easterners how rich the land was. How abundant. Even a spare description would brand us as liars.
It took several days to reach the confluence of the Sacramento and American rivers. Tom had ridden ahead to stake out Crockett’s Fort on the east bank, a hundred Indian workers making abode bricks from mud and straw, while vaqueros were constructing cattle pens. Our teamsters had acquired dozens of wagons bringing extra tools and timber.
“Good of you to make it, Autie,” Tom said, emerging from my campaign tent with his sleeves rolled up. He was sweating despite the cold weather, never one for shirking physical labor when there was work to do.
Morning Star rode up on her gray mare and jumped from the saddle, rushing into Tom’s arms. I saw that Slow was not entirely pleased, but resigned to the situation. At least Slow respected Tom, which could not be said for most white men he met.
“Gone east yet?” I asked.
“Waiting for you,” Tom said.
He pointed to a dozen canvas covered wagons filled with supplies, including picks and shovels. Eighty of the best mules were being groomed for service. I hadn’t realized Tom’s organizational skills had gotten so good.
There was already a rough dirt road heading east, and as a reward, I let Company C take the lead. As we moved out at dawn the next morning, we found small ranches and Indian villages along our route. The people were friendly, offering water for the mounts and looking for trade. Little could they imagine how everything was about to change.
About fifty miles out, as we moved though foothills into pine-filled mountains, we came across a Nisenan village nestled among tall trees. Good logging country. A creek was feeding their small farms, and they had a few of civilization’s benefits, including iron pots and two muskets. I knew we must be close to the south fork of the American River, but could not be sure how close. Our trail had taken us up along a series of brush covered ridges. Slow stood with me as I spoke to the Nisenan chief.
“Coloma. Coloma,” I asked.
“Cullumah?” the old chief said.
Slow made a gesture, possibly asking about our destination, though I couldn’t be sure. The chief offered a toothless smile and waved us on. We walked down a hill, strolled along a deer trail, and emerged into a grassy pasture surrounded by tall trees. A vigorous river lay before me, the sound of rushing water music to my ears. Tom, Crockett, and Brister were only a few paces behind. Hughes, Butler and Voss were carrying shovels. A hundred other men were following with more tools.
The gold was not just lying in the river like sparkling trout. During the
Black Hills Expedition of 1874, every man in the command had spent time panning for the precious mineral, including Tom and I. We knew to dig down below the gravel, for gold is heavier than sand and shale.
Were we near the spot where James Marshall had found nuggets while deepening the tailrace of Sutter’s Mill? Maybe. The area looked right from the numerous descriptions I’d read, but it didn’t really matter. We had been patient in our quest long enough, and like madmen, we charged into the river, splashing along the shallows.
I discovered Slow beside me, knee deep in the cold rushing water, a tin plate in his hands filled with sandy river bottom. How he learned gold panning was a mystery, though he’d likely picked it up from Tom. I worked that much harder, competing for the privilege of discovery. We were both disappointed.
“Eureka!” someone shouted, standing only a few feet away. It was Voss, his German accent strong, his eyes lit with joy. Everyone crowded around to see the gold flakes in his pan. It was December 30th, 1836.
“Ya did it, George,” Crockett said, shaking my hand.
“We did it, David,” I replied.
The white’s man thirst for gold was so great that many would die for the soft metal, but for others, the gold became a tool. I found this most curious, for in the Black Hills, the gold seekers were only interested in discovery. It had rarely occurred to me what the prospectors did with their small bags of dust. Many said that Custer was not so smart as other white men, and in some ways, this was true. But Custer understood gold, and in the months that followed our trip to the mountain river, no lesson was more valuable.
Mission San Gabriel, sketch by Henry-Miller
Chapter Six
CROCKETT’S FORT
By May of 1837, the Seventh Cavalry was making good progress. El Presidio de San Francisco now had a new barracks under construction next to the parade ground while I was building an office on the north wall. The town had grown from a sleepy village of two hundred to nearly a thousand, and mountains to the south that had once boasted thick forests were being cleared for lumber, replaced by grapes from the mission. A 4-pounder fired a signal shot from the Presidio’s east bastion.
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