This time I returned to the hotel ready for a glass of apple juice. The street fair that Isabella predicted would not begin until after the hangings, but I expected there to be good food.
“General, pardon, sir,” Captain Forsyth said, following on my heels. “Not to be disrespectful, but are you really going to hang white men for killing Indians? I like these Indians well enough. Most of them. But they’re only heathens.”
“Will you say that to Morning Star?” I asked, for she was standing next to me on the porch. Morning Star gave the man a gentle stare. It was hard to read her thoughts.
“Sorry, mam. Really, but it’s the way of things,” Forsyth said.
“Captain Forsyth, I’m not in a habit of explaining myself,” I said, taking the man aside and speaking softly. “This one time, I’ll make an exception.”
Like all New Yorkers, Forsyth was handled best by a straightforward manner.
“It’s just not usual, sir. Not usual at all. And that reporter wrote everything down. He’ll probably print it in the newspaper,” Forsyth said.
“He will print it in the newspaper. That’s why I brought him,” I replied.
Slow joined us, a knowing look in his black eyes. He was finding the day filled with interesting events.
“John, I don’t want a war with the Indians,” I said, using my hands to make the point clear. “The Seventh Cavalry is spread thin. Thinner than most realize. If we fight the Indians, the Californios might rebel. Mexico might invade. The English might land troops in San Francisco. Wars are costly and unpredictable. If the Indians believe they will receive justice, as they did here today, maybe there won’t be any fighting. Isn’t that true, Slow?”
“For a time,” Slow agreed.
“Time is what I need, and if it means hanging three worthless bummers, or three hundred, that’s what I’ll do. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. It makes sense,” Forsyth said.
“That’s good, John. You should know I have big plans for you. Plans that don’t include questioning my decisions.”
Before we made our way back to Crockett’s Fort, I said goodbye to a friend. For the time being.
“Be back in the spring, Gen’ral,” Bouyer said.
“Nevada can wait, Mitch. What’s the hurry?” I asked again.
“Everythin’ ’ere’s gettin’ discovered. Want my name on somethin’. Somethin’ good,” he replied.
“You wanted the gold more than anyone. I kept my promise,” I insisted, for I did not want to lose my most reliable scout.
“Gots me a gold claim. Now I want silver, too,” Bouyer said. “Comstock Lode is just out there a waitin’. A bonanza fer the takin’.”
“You’ll be a regular George Hearst,” I said.
“Who?” Bouyer asked.
“Hearst is a famous prospector,” I replied. “He discovered silver outside Virginia City. Packed forty tons of high-grade ore over the Sierras in the dead of winter for smelting in San Francisco. Made him rich.”
“And when did Mr. Hearst do all this magic?” Bouyer inquired, wondering if I was spinning tall tales.
“1859, as I recall.”
“Well, it ain’t 1859 yet, Gen’ral. An’ I am to get me a piece of history,” Bouyer swore.
“Will you cut me in for a share? It is on my land,” I hinted.
“Have to think on that,” he said, offering a rare salute.
Many believe the Missouri River country of my birth was a peaceful land before the white man came. This is not true. The People have always struggled against many enemies. The Crow and Pawnee are treacherous, knowing no honor. Our hunting lands were often encroached upon, even by our cousins, the Cheyenne. And life in the village could be troubled. Crazy Horse was shot in the face by No Water for trying to steal Black Buffalo Woman. But throughout it all, the Sioux stood tall as a great nation. We needed no writing on paper to do this. The white men are not so strong.
Chapter Seven
BUFFALO FLAG NATIONS
“We have news from Texas,” Tom said, entering my Presidio office wrapped in a thick bearskin coat. The cut was good, the collar made of rabbit fur. I guessed Morning Star had been busy, for her furrier shop on Montgomery Street was always crowded. It was turning into a cold winter, and everyone in town knew Morning Star traded for the best hides.
November 4th, 1837, had dawned cold and clear. Knowing the regional leaders would want to be back home in time for the Christmas holidays, I had summoned them for an important occasion. Many were friends, and many were not.
“It will need to wait, Tom. The delegates are arriving about now,” I said.
“Autie, this is important,” Tom persisted.
“Texas is nine weeks away. It can’t be that important,” I replied.
“After the meeting. No later,” Tom said, departing as quickly as he’d arrived.
“The Pennsylvania has docked with the delegates from San Diego,” Sergeant Travane said, entering my office with Slow. “I’ve asked Señora Richardson to start making coffee.”
My office was comfortably warm and decorated with numerous keepsakes, but not lavishly. Not like some of the new houses appearing on the hillsides above San Francisco, with their covered porches and gilded window frames.
“Are those my accounts?” I inquired, pointing to the ledger Ben was carrying close to his chest.
“Yes, sir. Got the final tally,” Travane said.
“So where do I stand?”
“You ain’t poor, sir. Least, not land poor. Ya just ain’t got much money.”
“Maybe Slow can loan me some?” I asked, only half in jest.
“Interest rates are high, General,” Slow said.
Some would think an Indian boy dressed in a fine gray wool suit, black boots and a stringy black tie would look ridiculous, but not Slow. He carried the appropriate gravity and was growing fast, with straight shoulders and a proud demeanor. He wore his hair at half-length, like Crockett, and enjoyed his growing fame.
“Gentlemen, leaders are coming from all over Alta California to vote the new government,” I said. “And not just California. John Jones, the American consul in Hawaii, is joining us along with the British consul, Sir Richard Charlton. Faxon Atherton is bringing a delegation of merchants with ties to the Chinese trade. While I have been promoting our new country, everyone else has been getting rich.”
“Not everyone, sir,” Travane said.
“Name one of our group who isn’t?” I asked.
They avoided my gaze.
“You have large land grants in Sonoma,” Travane pointed out. “A few in the south, too. That valley north of Los Angeles.”
“I get little revenue from any of them, thanks to the Gang of Three,” I complained.
“Is that what you call them now?” Cooke asked, entering our conversation without permission. He took a place by the fire, shaking out his heavy blue navy jacket.
“Alvarado, Castro and Vallejo oppose me at every turn,” I explained. “All of the Californios do, and I’m tired of it.”
“You have bad partners,” Slow agreed.
“That’s easy for you to say, youngster,” I replied. “You have Voss, Butler, Hughes and French. Williamson and Howell. Nearly all the non-commissioned officers that regulations forbid me from doing business with. You own horses, cattle, stables, freight companies, barrel makers, and your own riverboat. You even own your own towns.”
“They are not towns. Henry Voss calls them stagecoach depots,” Slow corrected.
“Depots with hotels, corrals, and even saloons.”
“The white men must have food. They like to drink,” Slow said. “The tribes want guns. Their women want pots and knives. It is good to give people what they want.”
“And make a fortune doing it.”
“That is what Butler and Hughes often say.”
“Ben, can’t you find me enough cash to look respectable?” I pleaded.
“You gots cattle on your ranches. Come spring
we can round ’em up,” Travane suggested.
“And how do I do that? I spend my time managing soldiers, not vaqueros,” I replied.
“I will speak with Father Mendez. Perhaps he can loan you some workers from the mission,” Slow offered, his influence with the Catholics much greater than mine.
“You know, I’ve returned a million acres of land to the missions, and made enemies doing it. You think they’d be more grateful,” I complained.
“Least you’re not going to hell, George. They light candles for you,” Cooke said.
I went to the window, looking over the north wall. The entrance to San Francisco Bay lay to my left, the harbor around the point to my right. Barges were moving up the Sacramento River delivering trade goods and coming down with gold, timber and furs. Ships were arriving from all over the world with engineers, carpenters, drovers, tanners, blacksmiths, and every other trade. Most thought they would rush to the gold fields, not realizing they would need to establish residency first.
“Let’s get going, gentlemen,” I said.
The meeting was being held at La Sirena. I told Tom to clean up the vomit and chase out the whores, which he did. Boasting a fresh coat of paint, the old hulk was large enough for the fifty delegates I was expecting. John waited for me outside my office, ready to drive my fine black carriage into town. A few months before, the large wheeled coach had belonged to an opinionated merchant in San Diego who didn’t want the Buffalo Flag flying over his town. Two companies of Seventh Cavalry had convinced him otherwise. And now his imported Spanish coach belonged to me.
John was better dressed than I was, wearing a gray wool suit with a fox fur collar and high leather boots. I looked like General Grant, my uniform worn and streaked with mud from my morning ride on Vic. I would change in the coach on the way to town, but there was little time to clean up.
The gravel road from the Presidio wound around Telegraph Hill along the waterfront. Where there had been several ranches interspaced with forest, there were now quaint houses, workshops, livery stables and fisheries. I owned a smokehouse near Clark Point, but was still trying to pay off the construction cost.
We turned south along the Embarcadero and then west up Washington Street to Portsmouth Square. Laid out with stone and brick, the wide plaza had become a popular gathering place. Our flag waved proudly from a tall pole, the painted buffalo on a white field with its underlying green stripe.
I disembarked in front of the new municipal building, walking up the slate steps through heavy oak doors into the lobby. Every newcomer to California, immigrant, merchant or visitor, needed to register with the administration office or face arrest.
“Hola Manuel. Está el Gobernador Santa Anna?” I asked the clerk on duty.
Corporal Contreras sat behind a high desk lit by oil lamps. Six men in traveling clothes waited for his attention.
“Mis saludos, General Custer. Su Excelencia está en su oficina,” Contreras answered, pointing up the stairs to the second floor.
I knocked on the former dictator’s door and let myself in. Santa Anna stood at his massive oak desk, a gift from Admiral Cochrane before he had departed for the Atlantic. He was magnificently dressed in a blue uniform, black tunic, gold epaulets, and high leather boots. He looked like Napoleon, only taller.
“Almost time, George. Are you ready?” Santa Anna asked.
“Are you sure this will work?” I asked.
“If you or I tried this alone, probably not. But together? How can they stop us?”
“Antonio, I need to thank you again,” I said, reaching to shake hands. “Leading an army is quite different from running a country.”
“Then it is good I have done both,” Santa Anna said.
We walked across the square to La Sirena perched on its low rise. The nearby stables were filled with horses. Morning Star’s Garden, planted with fruit trees and flowers, was crowded with arriving delegates. Including the Gang of Three, who I barely managed to acknowledge with a tip of my hat.
“Everyone’s here, General. Even got reporters,” Cooke said.
I noticed Marcus of the Examiner, who worked for me, along with Samuel Jeffers from the New York Tribune and Argon López, who wrote dispatches for several Mexican newspapers. They were harder to handle, as many still sought to cast the Buffalo Flag as mere freebooters occupying conquered lands. I made a point of shaking the British ambassador’s hand right in front of them.
La Sirena quickly filled up. Having been impressed by the drawings in Harper’s Weekly and Leslie’s Illustrated, I had contracted a sketch artist to immortalize the scene and wondered if cameras had been invented yet.
The long wooden tables had been turned to face the stern. Most of the delegates sat on benches, though there were a few chairs for the older men. Slow was sitting with Señor Peralta and Friar Mendez among the delegates. Sitting on the second deck was Isabella, Señora Santa Anna, Señora Richardson, and many of the territory’s most prominent women. Outside, my band was playing our favorite songs until the meeting was called to order. It was quite the gathering.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” I said, standing nervously before the assembly. “In the year since the Buffalo Flag sought our destiny in California, there have been many changes. Good changes. Our land is prosperous, and will grow more prosperous. The administration of Governor Santa Anna, and the efforts of the Seventh Cavalry, have kept the peace. We enjoy the benefits of the Kellogg Code, and we are obligated to no foreign power. Now it is time to formalize our new country.”
I gave way to Santa Anna, who was especially charismatic on this occasion. He was not popular with the immigrants, for he restricted their activities, but he was widely respected. And obeyed.
“Saludos mis amigos. Bienvenido a San Francisco,” he said. “Let me congratulate General Custer, Colonel Crockett, and all who have forged an empire from this wilderness. When the history of the world is written, they will stand tall in its annuals.”
The convention applauded, even the Gang of Three. A neglected province whose primary trade had once been cow hides was now a source of pride.
“You have all read the Articles of Confederation,” Santa Anna continued. “These statues will apply to Alta California, New Mexico, and in time, the nation of Texas. The Buffalo Flag will wave from the Pacific Ocean to the Caribbean Sea. Roads have been built for trade, treaties signed with the Indians.”
“We is makin’ a new world fer our kids,” Crockett said, suddenly standing up in the middle of the hall. “I’ve sent word fer my family, as have many others. This here is a free land, and by our vote today, we be a keepin’ her free forever!”
I heard another cheer, mostly by the white immigrants, but also some of our Indian friends. The Californios were less convinced, but applauded politely. Santa Anna stepped forward again as Crockett sat down. I almost expected Slow to make one of his mysterious pronouncements, and was thankful he didn’t.
“Friends, it is time for a motion,” Santa Anna said, using a gavel.
“I move we accept the Articles of Confederation,” Isaac Richardson shouted.
“I second the motion,” Father Mendez said.
“Is there any debate?” Santa Anna asked.
A dozen hands went up, nearly all of them Californios.
“Seeing no opposition, the question is called,” Santa Anna said, ignoring the dissenters. “All in favor?”
“Aye!” the greater majority of the hall shouted.
“All opposed?” Santa Anna inquired.
The tavern grew quiet. Alvarado stood up but said nothing. He was joined by Castro and Señor Félix of Los Angeles. Two of the San Diego delegates joined them. One white representative, Orrin Welch of Santa Barbara, slowly got up. I waited to see if there were more.
“With forty-four voting in the affirmative and six opposed, the motion is passed,” Santa Anna declared.
“Let’s hear it for the Buffalo Flag Nations,” Crockett said.
There was more c
heering, followed many handshakes, before we moved outside. Tables had been set up in the park filled with hot food and strong beverages, the señoritas wearing their most colorful dresses. The band began to play again and dancing broke out.
“Time for some business?” Tom asked.
He was joined by Cooke, Smith and Almonte. I should have called them the Gang of Four.
“This is a day to celebrate,” I said.
“General Urrea has recaptured Harrisburg,” Tom said, his expression grim.
“And there has been a massacre in San Patricio,” Cooke added. “Sesma’s troops murdered eighty of Burleson’s men after they surrendered.”
“Word spread to New Orleans, then to Alabama and the Carolinas. Southerners are outraged. They are gathering militia groups to seek revenge,” Smith said, holding out a New Orleans newspaper for me to see.
“By spring Sam Houston will have three or four thousand troops. Filisola barely has two-thirds that number,” Tom said. “Mexico is broke. They can’t raise another army.”
Santa Anna walked up. General José María Tornel, recently arrived from Mexico, was with him serving as aide-de-camp. They were old friends, the forty-three-year-old Tornel having been Santa Anna’s Secretary of War. He was a tall, distinguished fellow, with long gray sideburns. Like myself, he was the son of humble origins. His father had been a shopkeeper.
“It is true, George,” Santa Anna said, relaxed in our company. “José says the government is pleased with Filisola’s progress, but they worry he may overextend.”
“General Filisola tiene la intención de recapturar Galveston y suministro por mar,” Tornel said. “Escuchamos los norteamericanos se ajustan a una flota pirata a detenerlos.”
“If Filisola does not abandon Galveston, and the Brazos forces commandeer a fleet strong enough to hold the harbor, the Mexican army will be cut off,” Tom said, suddenly thinking himself a general. Or an admiral.
“We stole half the rebel navy. I doubt they can raise another,” I said.
“What if Van Buren sends the U.S. Navy under false colors?” Cooke asked. “We already know they have cavalry on the Sabine River waiting for a chance to invade.”
Custer and Crockett Page 23