Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  “Gentlemen, the letters we’ve sent to the Eastern press have Van Buren in a bind,” I said, starting to get riled up. “He can’t afford to support slavery in Texas— the entire North would turn on him. And Filisola is a professional soldier. I’m sure he won’t get himself in such a fix.”

  I looked to Santa Anna for support, but he didn’t seem so sure. After defeat at the Alamo and stalemates the rest of the year, the Mexican generals were under pressure for action. As General McClellan had been by the Lincoln administration before the Peninsula Campaign.

  “Filisola no es un gran estratega,” Tornel suggested.

  “I don’t like his strategy either,” Tom said. “Autie, Myles has raised another company in Béjar, but it’s still not enough. Come spring, if Sesma moves against him, he won’t be able to hold the town. And if Houston gets enough recruits, he might try for Béjar, too. We need to get back there.”

  “Béjar is a backwater, Tommy,” I disagreed. “I can write to Erasmo. Have him dismantle the armory and bring it here. Keogh and Harrington can provide escort.”

  “Abandon Texas?” Smith said.

  “We’ll get back there, Fresh. Someday. No need to worry about it now,” I said. “We have enterprises here to take care of. Indians to pacify. West Texas is nothing but buffalo and Comanche.”

  “You surprise me, Autie,” Cooke said.

  Tom and Smith exchanged glances. Apparently I had surprised them, too.

  “Autie, we’re going back in the spring, and taking our companies with us,” Tom said. “Better start making plans.”

  “Tom…?” I began.

  “We’re going, and that’s that,” Tom interrupted.

  After the Gang of Four returned to the party, I took Santa Anna aside.

  “Antonio, are you thinking of reclaiming power in Mexico City?” I asked. “Filisola’s mistakes could create an opportunity for you.”

  “No, my friend, not at this time,” Santa Anna said. “Inés and my daughters like this land. So do I. But I would like to see the Americans in Texas defeated.”

  ____________

  I rushed up river on the Sacramento Queen at the insistence of Crockett’s mysterious message. The old bear-hunter didn’t always express himself clearly in writing, but this was outright cryptic.

  “Trouble?” Dr. Lord asked, reading the poorly scrawled note.

  Lord was taking a rare break from his new hospital, built at Clarks Point to take advantage of the fresh breezes. His expertise was already attracting attention from medical societies in New England and Europe, especially the Société de Médecine de Paris.

  “Can’t tell, George,” I said. “Just says ‘Come on. Be quick.”

  “We couldn’t be any quicker, sir,” Butler said, standing on the foredeck with his Sharps ready.

  The rushing water was choppy, as would be expected in January. Jimmy Allen was looking a bit sick and stayed near the wheelhouse. The wetlands all around us thrived with geese and ducks. An occasional log floated downstream toward our speeding craft, forcing the boatmen to steer them off with long poles. Black smoke from the funnels marked our passage.

  When we finally reached the pier following a deep bend in the river, the steamer was tied up quickly and we ran across a wobbly oak plank to the deserted dock.

  “What’s all the excitement in the plaza?” Dr. Lord asked, looking up the gray winter hill where dozens of timbered buildings stood around Crockett’s Fort.

  “Some sort of parade,” Butler speculated.

  We rushed along a wide stone path, not waiting for a carriage, panting as we reached the broad plaza south of the main gate. I saw a long line of animals coming down the Gold Road from the east, hundreds of horses, mules, and even a few oxen. Some pulled freight wagons, others bore heaving bags of what looked like gravel. Guiding the cavalcade were a hundred roughly dressed frontiersmen and Washoe Indians. Some rode slowly at the head of the column while others walked alongside their charges, keeping the packs under control.

  Lining the road on either side stood a thousand or more gaily dressed citizens. I recognized merchants, tradesmen, ranchers and teachers. School must have let out for the day. There were at least a hundred children, many riding the shoulders of their fathers. The people cheered. Bright colored ribbons were waved. A brass band led by Sergeant French played “When Johnny Comes Marching Home”.

  I pushed through the crowd to a reception platform where Crockett was standing, fitted in his best gray woolen suit, a tall beaver hat, and a puffy purple cravat.

  “Glad ya could make it, George. ’Fraid ya might ’rive late,” Crockett said with a mischievous grin.

  “Late for what? What the hell is this?” I asked.

  “It ain’t Washington’s birthday,” Crockett replied.

  “It’s not my birthday, either,” I snapped.

  Another cheer went up. I saw the head of the column turning at the far end of the plaza and coming back toward us. It was Mitch Bouyer in the lead, smiling like I’d never seen. He doffed his fur hat, bent over to flatter the ladies, and finally halted before the greeting committee. I noticed Major Brister, Mayor John Raffetto, and Chief Maidu standing with us. A step down were reporters Jay Phillip Marcus of the Examiner and Jedidiah Burns of the Philadelphia National Gazette. Miciagh Autry was acting as master of ceremonies. Across the plaza, on an iron balcony overlooking the proceedings, I spied Slow, Morning Star and Voss.

  “Well, Gen’ral, I done it. Done jus’ like I promised,” the grizzly old scout said, dismounting a fine Buckskin stallion with a jaunty bounce.

  “And what have ya done?” I asked, descending the platform to meet him in the street.

  “I found it. The Bouyer Bonanza. Biggest silver strike in the whole world,” Bouyer said. “An’ no one gots to take my word fer it. Brought back fifty tons of blue ore, over the Sierras, in the winter. Reckon that’ll make me a famous man.”

  “I reckon it will, Mitch,” I said, shaking his hand.

  The son of a bitch had really done it. Found what would have been the Ophir Mine at the head of Six Mile Canyon and then named the discovery for himself. Mitch Bouyer had become immortal.

  “I hope you saved a share for me,” I said, only half-joking.

  “Just a small one, sir. Just a small one,” Bouyer said, gesturing for me to lower my expectations. “Thar’s plenty more where this come from. Plenty for all. But first I got to reward my benefactors.”

  Bouyer turned toward the Drake Hotel across the plaza and waved. Morning Star waved back, blowing him a kiss.

  “Benefactors?” I asked.

  “Didn’t ya know, Gen’ral? Slow and Voss, and the little squaw, they grubstaked my claim,” Bouyer answered.

  I looked up with a frown, unhappy to once again be outfoxed by a boy and a bugler. Crockett came forward to shake Bouyer’s hand. Several of Bouyer’s teamsters cut their canvas bags open, letting rich blue-black nuggets pour out for all to see. I retreated from the festivities, walking down the line of animals until reaching a heavy freight wagon. The driver was a burly blond-haired teenager in a checkered shirt who’d I never seen before.

  “Where you from, boy?” I asked.

  “Missouri, sir. All the way from Franklin County,” he respectfully replied. His voice was high-pitched, like mine.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “General Custer, sir. Everybody knows who General Custer is.”

  I was glad to hear that. I climbed up next to him on the creaking wagon seat, taking in the scene from the new perspective. Profitable silver mines in addition to our gold fields would draw thousands to Nevada, causing problems and opportunities. I could already see the headlines in the eastern newspapers.

  “How did you join up with Mr. Bouyer?” I asked.

  “Sixteen of us was comin’ west. I done a little mining while minding Pa’s farm, then decided to make my own way,” the boy explained.

  “Have you studied mining?”

  “No, not yet. But I int
ends to.”

  “What’s your name, lad?” I asked.

  “Hearst. George Hearst, sir. My Pa is William Hearst,” he answered. “I ain’t got much schoolin’, but I’m smart. I’m gonna make somethin’ of myself.”

  “I bet you will, son,” I said. “George, I know a spot or two that might be worth prospecting. Would you be interested in forming a mining company?”

  ____________

  The Brazos Convention had three armies in the field, all making progress. We received newspaper reports of Mexican setbacks, and the Buffalo Flag’s position in Texas was beginning to look tenuous.

  “It’s a message from San Antonio,” Smith said, handing the note to Tom first, then to me.

  “Keogh is fortifying the Alamo?” I said.

  “Erasmo Seguin moved the armory into the Long Barracks,” Tom read. “Put a roof on the chapel for a supply depot.”

  “What are they thinking?” I wondered.

  Smith took the note back, reading all the way to the end.

  “Señor Seguin has made three hundred new Springfields,” Smith reported.

  “Three hundred! That’s twice as many as the whole regiment has,” Tom said. “Autie, we can’t let those guns fall to the enemy.”

  “Myles has scaled back the size of the fort, and he’s mostly building bastions,” Smith said. “It’s going to look like an Irish castle.”

  “No, not really?” I said.

  “Maybe not exactly,” Smith conceded.

  I went to my desk, pulled out a stack of blank paper, and found a quill. My orders were written quickly but clearly, unlike so many of the missives I’d been given during the Civil War by careless superior officers.

  “Every wagon in Los Angeles and San Diego will leave immediately,” I said. “Send a rider to Sharrow, and Carson in Santa Fe. They are to raise their militia. Have an interpreter go to Mangas Coloradas. Tell the chief it’s time for him to be my friend.”

  “Where are these wagons going?” Tom asked.

  “San Antonio, where else? They’ll pack up the armory and bring it here,” I said. “They should bring all the tools, molds, powder and forging equipment.”

  “Myles can’t abandon Béjar,” Tom protested. “It would be the end of the Buffalo Flag in Texas.”

  “We can worry about that later. Right now we must act,” I decided.

  I handed the orders to Tom, Smith and Cooke, waiting for them to agree. They left my office without comment.

  ____________

  It was February, 1838, and I was in a melancholy mood. I finished for the day and went downstairs, finding my heavy overcoat. Five clerks, two of them women, nodded as I left the building. The day was cold and dreary.

  Corporal Espalier had Vic waiting for me at the Presidio gate, the old warhorse looking his age. The marches up and down California, and then back and forth to the gold fields, were taking a toll. I felt it, too, and gave him a hug.

  “Gracias, Carlos,” I said. “Encontrar un cuarto caliente.”

  “Voy a usar su oficina,” Espalier replied.

  I didn’t really think Carlos would use my office to stay warm, but I wasn’t sure. I had once slept in General Sheridan’s tent.

  Vic and I walked slowly on the gravel road toward town. The fishing boats were returning with the day’s catch, and a herd of cows briefly blocked our path. We came to an empty stretch that was largely forested on the right where I spotted a winter apple. Vic enjoyed it.

  A rider approached quickly on a spirited mount. A woman in red Spanish leathers, sitting the saddle well. I knew it to be Isabella.

  “George, Tom is leaving for Texas,” Isabella said, breathlessly jumping from the horse. “So is Bill, and Fresh, and Juan. They’re all leaving.”

  “Yes, I suspected as much, but didn’t hear it confirmed until this morning,” I replied, resigned to the situation. Tom had defied me at the Alamo, too.

  “When do we leave? Why aren’t we packing?” Isabella asked.

  “We’re not. There are enough important duties right here.”

  “Tom says Texas is in danger. Béjar. My father. We must go. We must fight for our families.”

  I waved for a young Indian boy to hold our horses, tipped him a copper, and took Isabella’s hand, walking down to the rocky beach. Some people actually liked to swim in the cold water, which I found astonishing.

  “I’ve sent orders to Keogh and your father,” I explained. “They are to blow up the Alamo and retreat to Yuma. When Tom encounters them on the road, they’ll all turn back together.”

  “No, they won’t. My father will not leave Béjar, and neither will Myles. They are too brave. You know that.”

  “Southerners are enraged by the San Patricio Massacre. Newspapers from New Orleans to Charleston have everyone stirred up. Thousands of volunteers are pouring into east Texas, and Filisola is getting himself boxed in. When the rebel forces overrun the Mexican army, they’ll turn on San Antonio. Especially if they’ve heard about the new rifles. Myles needs to be smart and withdraw.”

  “You told me the plantation owners must not be allowed to rule Texas,” Isabella replied, looking down at the ground. “Tom, Bill— they all say there will be a terrible war if they do. You cannot let this happen.”

  “We’ll stop them, when we’re stronger,” I said. “We need gold to fight a war.”

  “There is already plenty of gold,” she flared. “If you aren’t going back to Texas with me, then I’ll go without you.”

  “I will not be dictated to. After we’re married—”

  “We will not be married,” she said, running for her horse.

  Before I could stop her, Isabella was gone. I turned around and went back to the Presidio.

  ____________

  “We’re moving out tomorrow,” Tom said.

  “There’s still time to change your mind,” I said, clutching a shining California twenty dollar gold piece. “I’ve recalled Keogh, and asked Crockett to join us here. Damnit, Tom, there’s nothing left in Texas but dirt and flies.”

  “That’s not the mission, Autie,” Tom patiently disagreed. “We started this to stop slavery like Mr. Lincoln wanted. To prevent the Civil War. Most of us… some of us, anyway, we think this is why we were spared from the Little Big Horn. Slow thinks so, too.”

  “Sioux gods aren’t going to protect you, little brother. They didn’t protect Georgie Yates at the Cibolo, or Mark Kellogg from a mangy ambusher. You’ll be outnumbered five to one. Maybe ten to one.”

  “You’ve faced worse.”

  “I have Custer’s Luck.”

  “I’m a Custer, too,” Tom said, turning to leave the room. “By the way, Autie, I countermanded your order to Keogh. We’ll make a stand in Béjar, then drive the rebs back across the Sabine.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Then you should take these,” I said, reaching into my breast pocket.

  It was a small snuff box holding two silver stars. I pinned one on each of Tom’s shoulders.

  “Take care of my army, General Custer,” I said, confirming the promotion.

  “You always said I should be the general,” he replied, tearing up.

  “Try not to win all the medals,” I urged.

  My army, and my girl, were going east whether I liked it or not. On February 23rd, 1838, four veteran companies of cavalry started south on the El Camino Real, first to Los Angeles, then to Yuma, El Paso and San Antonio. They took twenty wagons but no artillery. It was two years to the day since the Mexican army had laid siege to the Alamo.

  The White Man can be forgiven for not understanding the ways of the Great Spirit. Even those of us wise in the ways of Wakan Tanka may not always follow a straight path, for there are many clouds. On a day of great victory for The People, I celebrated with a cheerful heart, for hundreds of bluecoats fell before our warriors on the Greasy Grass in brave battle. Proud campfires lit the night. Captured weapons and bloody scalps were raised in triumph. The People shouted, and they lau
ghed, and they cried. The next morning, we prepared to flee. No matter how many white men are killed, there are always more.

  A Hanging in Coloma, 1837

  Chapter Eight

  VISION QUEST

  “History has gone wrong,” Slow said, bursting into my office without invitation.

  I had just returned from Crockett’s Fort, where I’d spent five days adjudicating disputes in the gold fields. The new arrivals pouring into California had slowed during the winter, especially as news of our harsh immigration policy began to spread, but there was still much to keep me busy.

  “Don’t need a professor to tell you that, lad,” I said, glad for the distraction.

  “You read more of the white man’s newspapers?” Slow asked, taking his usual seat at the edge of my desk.

  “The British have recognized our decree of sovereignty,” I said, holding up the treaty dripping in blue ribbon and gold seals. “The French are threatening to invade Mexico instead of California. The Russians have abandoned their claims in the north. Even the Indians are building towns instead of waging war.”

  “Are these things not what you wanted?”

  “Our empire grows domestic, and General George Armstrong Custer has become a clerk,” I complained.

  “We are on an untraveled path. The birds say it is not the correct path,” Slow insisted.

  “I’m not going back to Texas. Nothing but war and poverty there.”

  “I do not speak of Tejas,” Slow said.

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “Our destiny must be served.”

  “My destiny is doing just fine,” I protested, playing with a solid gold paperweight. It looked like a Kentucky thoroughbred and weighed six ounces.

  “General, you are not meant to be here,” Slow said.

  “Boy, I won’t even be born until next year. Of course I’m not meant to be here.”

  “It is more than that,” he insisted.

  I knew Slow was upset. He was often absorbed and moody, curious and provoking, but rarely emotional. Had he been a normal child, I’d have sent him off to play baseball or clean the stables, but we’d shared too many adventures for that.