Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  “Of which you will receive a rightful share. As we agreed in Galveston.”

  The fallen politician relaxed his shoulders in relief.

  “What do you need of me?” he asked.

  “I would like you to help govern California,” I answered.

  The wily politician smiled and nodded his head.

  The Appomattox might not have been the largest of the new hotels in San Francisco, but it was becoming an oasis of civilization, as I intended. William Richardson’s wife, Maria Martinez, had taken over management, and she was an exacting woman. The eldest daughter of Ygnacio Martinez, the former commandant of the Presidio, she was also the most influential woman in town. Maria had not much cared for me on early acquaintance, but after I introduced her to Santa Anna’s charming wife, my stock went up. Her sons worked for me as well, one supervising my carpenters, the other as harbor master. They were fluent in Spanish, unlike their father, who retained a strong English accent.

  I ordered a fine meal for us on the second floor veranda just as the sun was dipping behind the mountain. We ate thick beef steaks, boiled green beans, and baked potatoes grown by an Irishman in San Jose. As we neared dessert, I saw the Invincible drop anchor near the Santa Victoria and row its passengers to shore. Even from a distance, one of the passengers was unmistakable.

  “Excuse me,” I said, nearly jumping down the stairs with a pounding heart.

  Isabella was walking up from the dock with Admiral Cochrane carrying her bags when she saw me. She pulled back her cowl with a lovely smile and rushed into my embrace. Only decorum stopped us from kissing in front of everyone.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe,” I said.

  “Y usted, mi dulce,” she whispered. “Congratulations on your great achievement.”

  “Nuestro gran logro,” I said with uncharacteristic modesty.

  “I see Yerba Linda has houses. I was expecting mud huts,” she said as we strolled arm-in-arm up Washington Street.

  One of my first acts had been to rename the town plaza Portsmouth Square, but I did not explain why, much to William Richardson’s confusion. The honor guard was just taking down our flag. A cannon fired from the Presidio three miles away as Voss played Retreat on his bugle. Tom and Morning Star emerged from their bungalow, happy to see Isabella looking so well.

  “Santa Anna is here,” I said.

  “Yes, we met in San Diego,” Isabella said. “Antonio was very gracious. The people of San Diego were not. They do not appreciate your activities.”

  “So Tom has said,” I replied, unworried about a sleepy fishing village five hundred miles away.

  I offered Isabella a chance to clean up, but she was hungry, so the four of us returned to The Appomattox. I would have invited Admiral Cochrane as well, but he had gone to the Boar’s Head, Isaac Graham’s new tavern at Clark’s Point. Decorated with a Union Jack and a portrait of King William IV, it was a popular bit of England for our British friends.

  “Inés, su viaje ha ido bien?” Isabella asked, taking a seat between Santa Anna’s two young daughters.

  “El barco no se hundió,” Mrs. Santa Anna said, her accent cultured. Isabella laughed, possibly in agreement. I could sympathize, for ocean voyages were not to my liking, either.

  “No pirates?” I asked.

  “Everyone says the pirates are in California,” Santa Anna remarked.

  “Sixteen years ago, California was a province of the Spanish Empire,” Tom said. “Was California stolen from Spain by pirates?”

  “Ferdinand VII is dead, and so is his empire,” Santa Anna said, an important figure in those tumultuous times.

  “America became free because the British could not defeat us,” I said. “Mexico became free by throwing off the chains of Spain. California will be free as well, if we are strong, and if we are vigilant.”

  ”Hablas como un hombre de destino, General Custer,” Mrs. Santa Anna said.

  “A man of destiny?” I replied. “I don’t know about that, but there is a job to do.”

  “George is a man of destiny, in the opinion of my father,” Isabella said. “And I know of an Indian boy who says the same thing. Where is Slow?”

  “Slow is huddling with Butler, Hughes, French and Voss,” Tom said. “They’re planning some sort of enterprise.”

  “Is that legal?” I asked.

  “No law against making money in California, Autie,” Tom said. “And if you really want a revolt, try making one.”

  After dinner, Isabella and I strolled several blocks down toward the beach. Yerba Linda had maintained a gravel road along the shore for wagons, but as new buildings were erected, we had started to build rough wooden sidewalks along the streets to keep our shoes out of the mud. The boards creaked beneath our feet.

  “This will be Clay Street,” I said. “Señora Richardson’s husband and Francisco de Haro are laying out the town. I’m calling that peak to the north Nob Hill. We’ll build a house on it.”

  “Don’t you think Béjar is a better place for a family?” she asked.

  “San Francisco will be a big city someday. Prosperous. Cultured. It will have opera houses.”

  “And mud. And fog. And sailors.”

  “A few years from now, Sacramento will look like Béjar. We have a town square, and the Franciscans have promised to build us a church,” I suggested.

  “Alta California is a long way from home, Autie,” Isabella softly protested.

  “We have time for these decisions. I haven’t even asked Erasmo for your hand yet.”

  “You had best do that before making too many plans. My father liked Jim Bowie, but he thinks Americans are crazy.”

  “He’s right about that,” I said, taking her in my arms.

  ____________

  I cannot say operations in California over the next few months went smoothly. Controlled chaos would be a better description, but I had trained under General George B. McClellan, and Little Mac was the best organizer in the history of the United States Army. I don’t know that anyone could have done better.

  “General Custer, I hear you are going to Sacramento,” Sergeant Voss said, having made an appointment at my office in the Presidio.

  “Yes, Henry. Colonel Crockett has invited Isabella and I to the grand opening of Crockett’s Fort. Going to be quite a party,” I said, rushing to wrap up my paperwork for the day. A much smaller stack since the appointment of Governor Santa Anna.

  “I have a ship going up river. Me and Slow,” Voss said.

  This caught my interest. So many ships had been abandoned in the harbor that they had been put up for auction. Containing nails, hinges, rope, sails, barrels, pots, tar, and hundreds of other scarce items, the auctions were well attended and often vigorous. On the morrow, four of the auctioned ships were being towed upriver to Sacramento where the hulks were destined for building materials.

  “What’s this about you and Slow? Going into business?” I asked.

  “Harpoons,” Voss said.

  “Harpoons?”

  “Slow’s idea. We’re going to be rich,” Voss said, abruptly leaving.

  Ben Travane walked in with another batch of dispatches. None were from Texas, so I set them aside.

  “Ben, what’s this about Slow and Voss?” I asked.

  “Don’t know ’bout that, but everyone is getting’ into some enterprise,” Ben said. “I gots a piece of Mister Graham’s new brewery on Market Street, and there’s a brickwork startin’ up in San Leandro. Lots a people wantin’ bricks.”

  “Is everyone going to be rich except me?” I wondered.

  “According to Colonel Custer, you never was much good with money,” Ben replied.

  “Maybe you can manage my investments for me?” I said, trying to make a joke.

  “Only for a fee, sir. Only for a fee,” Ben demurred.

  The next morning, our newly acquired riverboat, the Sacramento Queen, started the seventy-five-mile trip upriver pulling the four old boats. Progress was slow where the currents
were heavy, but gradually grew faster. Along the way, we saw numerous animals in the marshy flatlands including black-tailed deer, beaver, muskrats, eagles, and more ducks than a man could count. Tom and Morning Star joined Isabella and I on the main deck.

  Morning Star was wearing an attractive homespun dress made for her by Mrs. Richardson in the popular fashion. Tom was wearing the buckskin jacket he’d taken into the battle at the Little Big Horn. The white broad-brimmed hat was new, purchased at a recently established millinery shop on Second Street. I wore a blue dress jacket like General Sherman favored, made for me by an Austrian tailor. The gold-colored buttons were from a sea captain’s blouse.

  “Word from Keogh?” Tom asked, for he’d had no recent news, having just returned from Fort Ross.

  “Just a little about the spring campaign. Filisola is moving east along the coast supported by the Mexican navy,” I said, though it was nothing that hadn’t already been printed in the New Orleans newspapers. “They expect to retake Galveston and cut off Houston’s line of supply. Burnet’s government is still in Washington-on-the-Brazos waiting for reinforcements.”

  “Béjar?” Tom inquired.

  “Ignored, for the time being. Whoever wins will eventually turn toward San Antonio, but neither can take the chance right now. Myles is strengthening the fortifications. Señor Seguin has ten men making new Springfields and ammunition.”

  “How is Juan doing? Still holding Goliad?” Tom asked.

  “It’s been quiet since he came to terms with la Graza,” I said.

  “We should get back there soon. Late fall,” Tom said.

  “Why?” I asked in surprise.

  “Autie, we can’t let Burnet’s government take control of Texas,” he said. “They’re building their army with money from the big plantations. If Filisola is defeated, thousands of colonists will pour in with their slaves.”

  “I see no reason to hurry,” I argued. “Myles can hold Béjar until hell freezes over. For now, we have a lot of work to do right here.”

  “Myles only has four companies and a few Tejano volunteers. Two hundred men won’t hold off an army,” Tom complained.

  “It’s been done before,” I said.

  Sacramento was a bustling place. When I had last visited in late March, it was a cold encampment of gray tents and pinewood sheds. Now log cabins with stone foundations lined the main road. New warehouses rose on the dock. Several decommissioned ships were anchored in an estuary, some used for barracks, others for storage. A Miwok Indian village had appeared near the American River. Back from the plaza on a low hill stood Crockett’s Fort, built on the sketches Cooke had provided of Fort Sutter. It was a close copy, with eighteen foot walls, four corner towers, and a large compound.

  North of the fort, in a sheltered green valley, was a quaint German village. Johann Ernst, formally of Oldenburg, had chosen Sacramento to reestablish his colony. These industrious immigrants were now making wagons, forging tools, crafting furniture, and creating a new standard of prosperity. Their services were in such high demand that they had hired dozens of Indian apprentices.

  “Good day, Isabella. Morning Star. Glad you ladies could make it,” Crockett said, hustling down from his headquarters to the docks.

  He was not Davy Crockett on this morning, wearing a brown frock coat and top hat. I noticed he was freshly shaven. The graying hair that hung halfway down to his shoulders had been washed. I smelled lilac water. And there was a ledger book under his arm. For all of Crockett’s pretense at being illiterate, he kept good accounts and could write a clear report when he wanted to.

  “Hola, David, es un placer verla de Nuevo,” Isabella said.

  “El placer es mío,” Crockett said, kissing her hand.

  Crockett took the women by the arms and led us to the plaza where I caught the succulent aroma of roasting beef. A keg of ale was being shared by a dozen guests. Indian women were making tortillas and fried beans. I nodded to our old comrade, Sergeant French. He was wearing a Buffalo Flag coin as a medallion around his neck.

  Recently promoted Major John Forsyth arrived. Having served with me at the Alamo, he was now Crockett’s aide-de-camp in charge of Coloma. A good post for a cavalry officer. Forsyth was my age, and a New Yorker. He also wore one of the gold medallions. I considered having one made for myself.

  “Good to see you, John,” I said, shaking hands rather than saluting due to the informal circumstances. “Would you be related to Van Buren’s new Secretary of State? He’s John Forsyth, too.”

  “Sorry, General. My family don’t rate so high. Just simple folk from Livingston,” Forsyth explained.

  “How is your son? Any word from home?”

  “Edmond’s almost fourteen now,” he said. “Once everything settles down, I’d like to send for him. Ed’s still back on my father’s farm.”

  “Lots of the recruits have family back east, Autie. Maybe we can make some arrangements for them?” Tom suggested.

  “With the Apaches quiet, Governor Sharrow thinks the trail out of St. Louis is safe,” I said. “If anyone wants to organize a wagon train, the Department of New Mexico could assign protection.”

  “That would be fine, sir. I’ll write my father and ask what he thinks,” Forsyth said, running off to write the letter. I hoped it wasn’t premature.

  “I gots youngins back home, too,” Crockett said. “Six of ‘em, by last count. Oldest is John. Gonna turn thirty next month. Little Matilda should be ’bout sixteen now. I even got a wife, come to think of it.”

  “Would you rather bring them to California, or wait until the war in Texas is over?” Tom asked.

  “That could take some thinkin’ on, Tommy,” Crockett replied. “What would you do?”

  “Most of my family hasn’t been born yet,” Tom answered.

  There was a commotion down at the dock. Several hundred Indians had suddenly formed into mob, shouting and waving their fists. I put a hand on my sidearm without drawing it and rushed down the hill with Tom on my heels.

  “Wait your turns! Esperar tu turno!” Voss shouted from the gangplank of the ship he and Slow had purchased.

  Slow and three hirelings were on the deck holding iron spears. No, not spears. Harpoons. I finally recognized the ship, it was the Northampton, a Boston sloop which had provided supplies to New England whalers in the Pacific before the crew abandoned her in Oakland.

  The mob settled down a little, but only a little. Indians are not famous for their patience. Crockett caught up to me.

  “Don’t worry, George, they have a license,” Crockett said, out of breath.

  I thought of objecting, but didn’t know what to object to. The mob looked ready to riot, but there was no actual violence, only a lot of shouting and hand waving. I couldn’t hear most of what Voss was saying, being too far back.

  After a few minutes, part of the crowd cleared and an Indian emerged holding a harpoon. It was a young Patwin, well dressed and exuberant with his new prize. He whooped with excitement, holding the harpoon above his head for all to see.

  “Harpoons? Where are these Indians going to find whales?” I asked.

  “They’s pretty fancy weapons in these parts, that’s fer sure,” Crockett said.

  Soon other young Indian men were leaving the scene clutching the iron spears as if they were the most valuable of prizes. Squaws came up to them, stroking the smooth iron shafts and showing interest in the manly owners. One young woman was so attractive it made me want to buy a harpoon.

  When the spectacle was finally over, I saw Voss and Slow on Northampton’s deck looking very pleased with themselves.

  “What the hell is this?” I asked, stomping up the gangplank. “Why are you giving harpoons to Indians?”

  “We are not giving the people spears, we are trading,” Slow said, ignoring my anger.

  “Trading for what?” I demanded.

  “Gold, General,” Voss said, holding up scores of small pouches. “One hundred dollars each, in gold.”

 
”A hundred dollars? For that junk?” I said. “You must have sold seventy or eighty of them.”

  “One hundred and five,” Voss said. “Slow and I just took in ten thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  Crockett came up the gangplank wearing a grin. He shook Voss’ hand, then Slow’s. He handed them a document.

  “Don’t forget, boys, the gold belongs to the mint,” Crockett said. “Here is half pay in script. You kin have the other half in land grants or cattle vouchers.”

  “Cattle,” Slow said. “The white men who seek gold need food.”

  “Señor Peralta has a herd coming up next week. Three hundred head, and we get first crack at them,” Voss said, slapping Slow on the back.

  I found a barrel to sit on. Others were coming onboard congratulating the successful businessmen. Everyone seemed to know more about it than I did.

  “George, this ’ere ain’t nothin’ ta git ’xcited ’bout,” Crockett said, sitting next to me. “We gots hundreds of prospectors and thousands of In’dins fetchin’ gold fer us. It’s needed. In returns, we is tradin’ ’bout anythin’ we kin. Ain’t no other way. In’dins are happy with their trinkets. Cavalry is keepin’ the peace. What more do ya want?”

  “I’d like to think I’m more enterprising than an eight-year-old,” I said, jealously looking at Slow. The lad was surrounded by well-wishers, for the idea of making harpoons a popular product among the heathens was apparently his doing.

  “I weren’t always so successful,” Crockett said. “Back ‘n Tennessee, I owned a gristmill. Owned a distillery. Even had a powder mill. All got wiped out when Shoal Creek flooded an’ left me bankrupt. Didn’t do so well in politics, neither.”

  “You are a legend in your own time,” I said.

  “That don’t put food on the table fer my children,” Crockett answered. “But now I got a second chance. We all do.”

  Crockett was right, of course. I got up, pushed my way through the admiring crowd, and shook Slow’s hand. Then I offered Voss a salute.

  Our visit to Sacramento was not all frivolity. We had important business to conduct, and not all of it pleasant. The orderlies were getting our horses ready.