Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  “Another ship arriving, General,” Captain Autry said, now serving as my aide-de-camp.

  Buried in legal documents, I found it necessary to surround myself with lawyers instead of cavalrymen, and accountants like Ben Travane, newly arrived from San Antonio. My temporary office in the old commandant’s quarters was cramped and draughty. On dry days, I preferred my tent near the gate.

  “Admiral Cochrane?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but the Invincible is due any time now,” Autry said, checking the calendar tacked on our freshly plastered wall. “Looks like a schooner. Maybe up from Mexico.”

  “Make sure they register properly,” I ordered.

  The Buffalo Flag had been registering every visitor to our new country, and making sure they understood the rules: taking gold from our land without a prospecting permit was grounds for hanging, no different than robbing a bank or stealing a horse.

  “I’ll see to it,” Autry said, departing with a salute.

  I climbed the stairs to the parapet overseeing the bay where a dozen ships lay at anchor, including my newly arrived cargo schooners Pennsylvania and Santiago, with the captured booty from Galveston. Thanks to Admiral Cochrane, San Francisco now had a foundry and an engraving press for minting coins.

  “Any word from Major Cooke?” I asked when Autry rejoined me.

  Bill Cooke and William Richardson had gone up the coast to Fort Ross, a failing Russian fur colony, to buy their tool shops. Come summer, we would dismantle the buildings and move them south. I was looking forward to glazed windows.

  “Sure the Russians will sell?” Autry said.

  “They sold to John Sutter. No reason they shouldn’t sell to me,” I replied. “At least I’ll pay them. That’s more than Sutter ever did.”

  “You speak of this John Sutter often. Was he such a legend?” Autry asked.

  “A legend? No, Micajah, not a legend. He came to California in 1839 and built his famous fort. He hired Indians to plow the land. Had workshops that cured hides, made furniture, and even repaired guns. The equipment he bought from Fort Ross produced pots, hinges and iron tools. But when gold was discovered in 1848, his land was overrun. The cattle stolen. His workers quit. Everything he built was destroyed.”

  “A lesson to be learned,” Autry realized.

  “A lesson I won’t forget,” I agreed.

  I’d had enough paperwork for one day, closing the books and looking for my winter coat. There is only so much a man can read about customs duties, petty theft complaints, latrine placement, equipment shortages and payrolls. The administrative work I’d done at Fort Lincoln had not prepared me for such a deluge. And I no longer had Libbie to help me.

  “You have the duty, Lieutenant Allen,” I said, leaving the Presidio for my quarters in town.

  Young Jimmy waved from the watch tower. Life at the edge of the peninsula was quiet enough that only a dozen guards were needed, mostly to keep watch on the occasional ships sailing into the bay.

  Vic waited for me in his hay-filled stall just inside the fort’s main gate. Sergeant Travane quickly caught up to me, a ledger in his hand as always.

  “Twenty more escaped slaves from Texas, sir,” Travane report. “Makes eighty-three this month. Lots of angry masters back there.”

  “The alcalde in Los Angeles says nineteen Texans have arrived, too, hoping for gold,” I said. “Tom is due back today with the latest news.”

  “He’s already back, sir. Got in a couple of hours ago,” Travane said.

  “The hell you say? Where is he?”

  “Usual place, General. Usual place.”

  “Thanks, Ben. Give the newcomers their assignments. We still need dock workers in Oakland, carpenters in Sacramento, and bridges on the Coloma Trail.”

  “Some wants to look for gold,” Travane said.

  “Then tell them the rules. Four weeks of gold hunting for every four months of service—white, black, Mexican or Chinese. No service, no gold,” I insisted, for our country needed laborers more than we needed immigrants stealing our precious minerals. And we offered fair wages, though it was still in green script.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I do that now,” Travane said, slipping into his sham slave accent.

  I tried not to frown. My middle-aged bookkeeper had gotten an education in New Orleans, sailed three of the seven seas, lived in Washington and managed Juan Almonte’s household. If he hadn’t been a Negro, I’d have made him an officer.

  As Travane returned to his office, I rode along the waterfront toward town where La Sirena was located. The northern end of the peninsula was still unencumbered, having only a few fisheries along the beach. The mountains were steep, good for grazing but not for building. The road had gotten bad during the winter rains, but was drying up.

  Vic spied an apple tree and I stopped, giving his neck a good scratch. After months of deprivation, my old friend was once again eating grain instead of grass and getting plenty of rest. He shook his head in gratitude, but I was the one who owed thanks.

  I reached the edge of town after turning south at Clark’s Point. The former Yerba Buena was growing fast. The cove, where the shore turned inward from the choppy bay, was a natural harbor. The coastal avenue, that locals called the Embarcadero, was filling with taverns, hotels and warehouses. Fancy homes were appearing on the hillsides. A long oak pier had been built where ferry boats crossed the bay several times a day.

  Up from the harbor, just past Portsmouth Square, was a new tavern. A month before, La Sirena had been a Spanish bark run aground on the gravel beach without a crew, for they had all decided to seek their fortunes in California. Led by Tom, a hundred men had hauled the large boat three hundred yards up from the water with ropes and pulleys, then cut a hole in the hull and turned it into a saloon. Tom, Smith and Cooke were all owners, and I heard Crockett cut himself in for a share.

  The ramp up to the door had been improved since my last visit. I hoped Tom wasn’t stealing workers who had more important tasks. Several windows had also been cut in the hull, looking like pirate gun ports. A half-naked mermaid had been painted over the entrance. The hulk still smelled of barnacles.

  Tom’s private table was up a flight of steps where the captain’s cabin had once been, the interior walls now removed for more space. There was a large crowd, for it was the first time since we’d left Texas that all of the company commanders were gathered, except for Keogh and Harrington, who were still in San Antonio. I could tell the ale was flowing freely.

  “Colonel Custer, should I assume your mission to Los Angeles was a success? Is that why you haven’t bothered to report?” I inquired from the ground floor.

  The room grew quiet, but only for a moment. Tom came to the railing, looking down with flushed cheeks and a week-old beard. Light danced in his blue eyes from the whale oil lamps.

  “Los Angeles is on the verge of revolt, Autie. So is San Diego,” he replied for all to hear. “And once we celebrate Crockett’s arrival, the Seventh Cavalry is going to ride those bastards down!”

  The men shouted, pounding their tin cups on the pine tables. Fresh Smith and Dr. George Lord joined Tom, offering a toast. And I noticed Bill Cooke was back from Fort Ross. Apparently none of my officers felt a need to report.

  Most of La Sirena’s patrons were my troopers, the townspeople preferring the hotels along the waterfront. Which was good for me, I owned one of those hotels and was getting ready to add a new wing. I glanced at the Seventh Cavalry guidons hanging from the walls, the bent swords on display, and the Mexican flag we captured at Los Angeles holding a place of honor. All very appropriate.

  “Is this a general revolt, or just more complaining?” I asked, going up the stairs to take a seat at their sturdy oak pirate table.

  It was then that I saw Slow sitting in the corner, holding a small glass of wine. He was not much of a drinker, but liked to join in. And he was not the skinny little boy I had found on the Texas prairie a year before, growing fast and filling out.

  “
The Californios resent giving some of their land back to the missions,” Tom explained more seriously. “They don’t like that the Indians who were tending their farms are now working for us, and they think cattle prices are too low. At what point do complaints become revolt?”

  “Have they a leader?” I asked.

  “Alvarado and Castro, mostly,” Smith said. “Rumor says Mexico is sending a new governor to rally behind.”

  “No army?” I wondered.

  “Autie, what army Mexico has is still trying to hold Texas. Houston is giving them a bad time,” Tom said.

  Holding the northwest from Goliad to Yuma, I knew Keogh had largely stayed out of the Texas Revolution, letting our enemies wear themselves down. But if Mexico gave up the fight, Brazos Convention forces could turn on the Buffalo Flag in a matter of weeks. They had already declared the loss of their runaway slaves a provocation.

  A cheer went up, and I didn’t have to ask who it was. Davy Crockett burst through the door in a fringed buckskin jacket and coonskin cap, a violin ticked under his arm. He shook hands, grinned like a mountain lion, and yelled to our barkeep for a jug. It was good to see David again. He had spent the last two months in Sacramento supervising the gold country.

  After making the rounds and back-slapping, Crockett worked his way up the stairs to Tom’s clubhouse.

  “Bill! Good ta see ya, boy,” Crockett said, heartily shaking hands. “Any ’citement on that voyage? Heard roundin’ that cape is a bitch.”

  “A once in a lifetime experience, David,” Cooke said, his Canadian accent stronger after several months on a British ship. “And I mean once. George, how long will it take to build that railroad?”

  “Ask David,” I said.

  “Are we rich yet?” Cooke asked.

  “Depends how ya define rich,” Crockett said. “But we’s gots lots a gold comin’ outa those hills. Hell more than I ’xpected. About fifty thousand worth of ore waitin’ right now ta follow me down river.”

  “Under guard, I hope,” Tom said, for he was doing double duty as district marshal.

  “Nat Brister’s in Coloma. His rangers ride regular outa Crockett’s Fort,” Crockett replied.

  “You mean Sacramento,” I corrected.

  “Same place, but Crockett’s Fort sounds better,” Crockett said.

  “Who’s guarding the Indians?” Cooke asked.

  “The Nisenan ain’t bothered no prospectors yet,” Crockett reported. “And we’re trying to keep poachers off their hunting grounds. Besides, me and Chief Maidu is best friends, ’specially since I giv ’em blankets and old muskets. Some of the other tribes, they may gettin’ a bit irritated with us, but they ain’t willin’ ta cause no trouble ’lessin they git provoked.”

  “A few whites got greedy. They stole food instead of earning it,” Smith mentioned. “Their trial is next week.”

  “Bill brought in the goods we stole from Galveston,” Tom said. “Several tons of…”

  “We didn’t steal anything,” I protested. “We gave script on every purchase.”

  “Autie, most of the shops were deserted. All we did was tack up notes on their doors,” Tom said. He completely failed to understand the legal technicalities.

  “It may take a few years, but we’ll make good on those notes,” I said.

  “There is no need,” Slow said, moving forward to take a seat next to Crockett.

  “Why is that, Slow?” Cooke asked.

  “The Galveston is a stronghold of your enemies. A warrior takes from his enemies. He does not pay them,” Slow said.

  “Lad, we can’t do that,” I said. “In civilization, we must—”

  “Hold on thar, George, I think the boy is on ta somethin’,” Crockett interrupted. “What do ya say, boys? Ain’t Slow right on this?”

  “I think he is,” Smith agreed.

  “No rewarding enemies. Isn’t that where you always say Caesar went wrong? Pardoned his enemies just so they could knife him in the back?” Cooke asked, exploiting my love for the Bard.

  “None of those notes have my signature on them,” Tom said with a shrug. “But I suppose Autie can reimburse them out of his share, if he wants to.”

  “Smart ass,” I murmured. “Now that Slow is minister of finance, what else should we do?”

  Everyone looked at Slow, which was not an unusual experience for him.

  “If many people are to live as one tribe, they must be cousins, as the Sioux and Cheyenne are cousins,” Slow said. “Cousins should have patience.”

  “Got some truth there,” Tom agreed.

  “Any word on what Washington thinks of us takin’ California?” Crockett asked, for the San Francisco Examiner was still in the planning stages. “Ya know, March 4th was the last day of Andy Jackson being president. That skunk Van Buren is president now.”

  “Van Buren is no friend to slavery, and he doesn’t support Texas becoming a state, either,” I said, for it was common talk among my father and uncles when I was a child. “He was a Free-Soiler in 1848.”

  “We should write him a letter,” Cooke decided, for it was the diplomatic thing to do.

  “And say what?” Tom asked. “We’re glad you supported President Lincoln during the Civil War?”

  “I wish Mark was here. He’d know what to say,” Smith said.

  “To Mark Kellogg, and other lost friends,” Tom said, raising his cup.

  Even I drank to that one.

  The signal gun rang out from the Presidio. I looked out the stern window to see a large ship with tall sails rounding the headland. Had it been a British or French man-of-war, three shots would have been fired, but we were still on alert. The United States was not the only country with imperial ambitions. We rushed up to La Sirena’s stern deck for a better view.

  “Twenty-gun frigate, sir,” Voss reported, studying the ship through a long spyglass. “Flying a Spanish flag and Cuban pennants. More ships coming around the point. Four or five, at least.”

  “This could be an invasion,” I speculated, a hand on my sidearm.

  “We should have been warned,” Tom said, holding his binoculars.

  As the ships grew closer, I saw the frigate was an old warship. There were also two schooners and a bark, probably merchants.

  “It’s not an invasion. None of the guns are rolled out. No marines on deck,” Cooke said, knowledgeable of such tactics.

  Then I saw why only one signal gun was fired. Herding the flotilla into port was the armed schooner Invincible. Admiral Cochrane was on the foredeck holding his cocked hat under his arm, his long gray hair blowing in the brisk wind.

  “Glad to see him,” Cooke said with relief.

  “Let’s get down to the harbor,” I urged, reaching the stairs first.

  The Santa Victoria, dropped anchor twenty yards off the end of the pier. One of the merchant ships halted close by, the other two headed across the bay to Oakland. The Invincible continued straight into the northern end of the bay until making a broad turn around a rocky island famous for its noisy bird population. I supposed Cochrane had VIP guests aboard who wanted some sight-seeing before docking.

  The captain of the Spanish galleon appeared above a jolly boat being lowered into the water. He was just as ancient as his ship, with a flowing white beard and tall cocked hat. He remained on board as several passengers descended a ramp to the rowboat, all huddled against the cold. It wasn’t until they had almost reached the pier that I recognized one of them.

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” I said, breaking into a grin.

  I ran down to the Embarcadero as a man, three women, and a young Negro boy reached the landing. The rowboat docked and they disembarked, looking tired from a long voyage.

  “Antonio!” I shouted, gripping his hand.

  General Antonio López de Santa Anna, former president of Mexico, seemed surprised by my warm greeting but was quick to return it.

  “George, let me introduce my wife, Inés, and my daughters, María de Guadalupe and María del Carmen,�
�� Santa Anna said. He did not introduce the boy, who was struggling with their luggage.

  “Welcome to San Francisco, ladies,” I said, gallantly sweeping the hat from my head. “Please be my guests at The Appomattox, the finest hotel in town. You’ll find a warm bath, hot food and feather beds.”

  “That is very generous,” Santa Anna said.

  His wife’s black hood fell back and I saw she was quite lovely, with pale skin, dark brown eyes, and reddish brown hair. Her daughters were of like coloring. I guessed them at ages ten and seven, but was no expert on such things.

  “My staff is still aboard the Santa Victoria. May they come ashore?” Santa Anna requested. He pointed to about thirty officers and aides, now exiles from their country, and almost as many women. They looked anxious.

  “There’s a new hotel on Kearny Street. The top floor isn’t finished yet, but the lower rooms don’t leak. I’ll have Sergeant Travane find your people quarters,” I replied.

  I signaled for Corporal Espalier to help with the ladies’ bags and led the party toward Portsmouth Square, past the startled stares of my officers.

  “We’ve heard things have not gone well in Mexico City,” I said.

  “My enemies used the Texas problem to undermine me, but they are fools. Their government will soon fall,” Santa Anna said. “When it does, I will be ready.”

  “Until then, I hope you will enjoy the benefits of California. Perhaps share your wisdom on some thorny problems?” I asked.

  “Mexico still does not recognize the Republic of Texas. Or your Buffalo Flag,” he warned.

  “They will, in time,” I replied, expecting it to be true. “And in the meantime, you may share in the fruits of our labors.”

  “I heard you found gold,” Santa Anna said, his tone cautious.