“Camp followers,” Butler said, pointing to groups of women and children.
I counted two score, young and old, dressed in cotton and wool. Half a dozen were slaves. A few of the older boys carried muskets, but seeing eighty armed men suddenly emerging from the woods, they were unsure how to respond. When one raised his gun, he found twenty guns pointed in his direction. The lad wisely set the musket down.
“Ladies, please retire to the tents and stay there,” I said, passing through the campground.
Beyond the tents and wagons, we found a long row of armed men some two hundred yards further on. Some wore makeshift uniforms, most simply wore their common everyday clothes, made tired by a lack of care. They were formed into several units behind a thrown up barricade of tree branches and scrub wood.
“Looks like we found Lamar,” Hughes said, cocking his rifle.
The enemy was so focused on their opponents across the pasture that we remained unnoticed until one turned to see we were not his fellows.
“Mr. Voss, sound the Advance,” I ordered.
As the trumpet blew, I drew a pistol and stepped to the front of our line, but Williamson drew me back.
“Can’t let you get killed, sir,” the sergeant admonished.
The rebel line began to shift, both our forces well within range of each other. Then Voss’ bugle was answered on the left as Baugh’s troop rode forward firing their pistols. The enemy on that flank were forced to give way, firing a few shots as they fell back.
Horsemen began to pour from the woods on our right, disorganized and bewildered, with howling Apaches on their heels. One man took a spear in the back. Two more were shot from their saddles. They tried to rally only to find the warriors among them shooting at close quarters. And then the hatchets came out.
“Fire men! Open fire!” I shouted.
Our entire line let loose a volley, gray smoke blanketing our front. Half of the enemy seemed to go down, though I suspect most of them were ducking rather than wounded. A few stood their ground and returned fire. One of Crockett’s men was hit, and Jimmy Allen took a nick on the shoulder. Our line fired again, and within seconds, fired a third time. Butler, Hughes and French were busy with their Winchesters, each holding fifteen rounds.
The center of the enemy line, based near a wagon flying a blue flag with a white star, appeared to be the command post. A man in a fine gray suit staggered back, seriously wounded. Another in a tall beaver hat was waving a sword. Three men were trying to turn around a 6-pounder, but a pile of cannon shot was in the way. One brave gunner was soon hit, falling over the wheel. A comrade who went to help him was hit as well. An officer in a fine blue uniform with rows of gold buttons was yelling at all about him with feverish emotion.
There was another bugle call. A Seventh Cavalry bugle calling the Charge. Across the meadow, sixty or more men began riding toward the enemy position at a steady gallop. I saw the blue and red silk guidon of E Company, a swallowtail Buffalo Flag, and two banners I didn’t recognize.
The rebel force had no place to go, under attack from four sides. There was so much noise and smoke that the officers seemed unable to take any sort of control. One group of enemy militia managed to form a line, fire, and reload to fire again. Their action drew return fire from all over the field. Soon effective resistance began to collapse. The flank falling back from Baugh’s charge disintegrated first, running wildly to and fro. The right wing had tried to help their beleaguered cavalry, but the swirling dust had reduced visibility to a blur, obscuring friend and foe. The center of the line appeared frozen, unable to commit in any direction. The thundering of E Company made the task even harder, for they would be among them within minutes.
“Volley fire!” I heard Hughes shouting from my right.
“Lay into them, boys,” French said on the left.
For the first time, I started worrying more about the expenditure of ammunition than winning the battle. Perhaps Crockett was thinking the same thing. He’d holstered his pistol and was walking the line, seeking to slow the rate of fire.
I saw part of the enemy cavalry finally break free and ride for Peggy Lake. Some were riding double. At least a dozen bodies lay in bloody heaps. Riderless horses milling at the edge of the woods were being gathered by the Apaches.
Far to my left, I noticed the militia nearest the trees ducking past Baugh’s charge, making for the bayou. Baugh wisely let them go, keeping pressure on the enemy flank. The remainder began throwing down their arms.
“Cease fire!” I ordered, the command being repeated down the line by the sergeants. “Voss, sound Recall.”
The recall was met with similar calls across the field, the rapid firing quickly dying to an occasional shot, and then an eerie silence. The sound of victory.
“Hughes, Butler, disarm the prisoners,” I said. “Tatanka, where are you?”
“Here, General,” he answered, standing only a few feet away. A trace of blood dripped from a scalp wound.
“Good work, my young friend. Good work,” I complimented, slapping him on the shoulder.
The aftermath of a pitched battle is excitement, melancholy, fear for the wounded, and a sense of relief. And in this case, surprise, for I had blundered into triumph as surely as I had once blundered into defeat.
“Orders, George?” Crockett asked, his face smudged with powder.
“Round them up. Weed out the officers. We’ll take over their camp for the night,” I said.
I looked around for Traveller, wanting to find my brother and needing to speak with Flacco. Corporal Vasquez brought my horse forward, but when I went to mount, my leg grew stiff.
“You are wounded, sir,” Vasquez said, pointing to my boot.
Son of a gun if I wasn’t. I thought for a moment of General Johnston, killed at Pittsburg Landing, when a bullet cut the artery behind his knee. And I remembered Sam Houston at the Battle of San Jacinto, lying under an oak tree with a shattered ankle while accepting the surrender of Santa Anna. I looked about for the famous tree, but all the oaks looked alike.
French and Vasquez soon had me sitting on the ground, cutting off the boot and calling for a doctor. The injury didn’t look serious, a flesh wound in the calf, but there was no point in bleeding out. I looked up as Tom was jumping from Athena.
“Autie, what happened?” he said, kneeling at my side.
“Just a stray. How are you? Last I saw, you were bedridden.”
“Weren’t that bad,” he answered. “Looks like I got to Galveston first.”
“Looks so. E Company. Is Smith with you?”
“Gathering up the enemy flags. His arm’s kinda stiff, but he rides well enough. Let’s find you a tent.”
I would not be put in a tent, there were too many decisions to be made, but we did find a sturdy wagon bed that would let me see the camp. Tom rushed off to find a doctor, always scarce after a fight.
“General Custer, what should we do?” Flacco the Younger asked, reining up but not dismounting. His painted mustang was covered in sweat. He’d removed his shirt, a half-empty cartridge belt slung over his shoulder. I looked to see if he’d taken any scalps, and was relieved that he had not.
“Casualties?”
“Three wounded. Bipin was stuck with a sword,” Flacco said.
“Bipin must report for treatment. Pursue the rebel horse as far as the creek and then return,” I ordered.
Flacco saluted and rode off. He was not one for long conversations.
“George! What the hell?” Crockett shouted, rushing up with a dozen men on his heels. Only two were Seventh Cavalry. The rest looked like recent enemies.
“Who are your friends?” I inquired.
“Few old neighbors from Tennessee,” Crockett said, though he didn’t seem personally familiar with them. “This is John Moore. Friend of Chief Flacco. He’s got a ranch on the upper Colorado. This ’ere youngster is Jack Hayes, born back home in Cedar Lick. They got ’xperience fightin’ the Comanche.”
“And
fighting the Seventh Cavalry,” I pointed out.
“Jack and I weren’t fighting the Buffalo Flag, sir,” Moore said, a man of middle height, about forty years old, with long brown hair and hazel eyes. “We’re Texas Rangers, and we haven’t taken sides in this war.”
I vaguely recalled something about Moore and the Texas Rangers, but the details escaped me. The younger man, which I guessed at twenty years old, looked like a younger version of Crockett, though shorter.
“We don’t own no slaves, and there ain’t a government in Texas worth a pitcher a spit. Except maybe Colonel Crockett’s,” young Hayes said. “Our job is fightin’ Indians, not white men.”
“What do you expect of me, gentlemen?” I asked.
“My wife Eliza is in this camp,” Moore said. “We only joined Burnet to protect families against the Comanche. We ask for pardon.”
I looked to Crockett. He would not have brought these men before me had he not expected a favorable decision.
“May President Crockett and I confer for a moment?” I requested.
The crowd backed off, leaving me alone with the old bear hunter. And Corporal Vasquez, who was wiping down my leg with murky river water.
“We need ta figure on this,” Crockett said. “Some of these men come fer free land and booty. But thar are others, like Moore, who been settlin’ this land fer years. Good folks. We done beat this batch, now we gotta decide what ta do with ’em.”
“Did we capture Burnet?” I asked.
“Yeah, an’ Lamar. Houston be glad to hear that,” Crockett reported.
“Put the ringleaders under guard,” I said. “The freebooters who offer no resistance can return to the states. As for colonists like Moore, you should decide which neighbors are worth keeping.”
“Thanks, George,” Crockett said, offering a lazy salute.
He strolled back to the prisoners with the good news. Moore looked in my direction with a nod and ran to find his wife. Jack Hayes stood by Crockett earnestly asking questions, pleading his case, and after a suitable delay, he was handed a rifle. I suspected Crockett had just signed up a new recruit. What young man from Tennessee wouldn’t want to serve with Davy Crockett?
Tom returned with a middle-aged man in a fine cloth suit carrying a black leather satchel. He was tall but tended to slouch, the eyes studious. A gray week old beard covered his chin.
“Autie, this is Doc Virgil Goodfellow, all the way from Boston,” Tom introduced.
“You’ve traveled far, sir,” I said.
“Not alone, General. There are forty-five of us, all fit and ready to serve your cause,” Goodfellow boasted. He peeled back the cloth over my leg and made a face. “What is this?”
“Calf wound. Looks like it went all the way through,” Tom said, taking a close look.
“Not the wound, this filthy water,” Goodfellow said.
The doctor reached into his bag, took out a quart-sized bottle of clear liquid labeled carbolic acid, and poured it on the bullet hole.
“Goddamn! What in the living god of hell?” I shouted, the pain so bad my eyes rolled back in my head.
Goodfellow poured more of the horrid fluid into a clean cloth, grabbed my leg, and began to scrub deeply into the wound. Only a need for dignity prevented me from disgracing myself.
“Just an antiseptic, sir. Haven’t you read Dr. Lord’s paper?” Goodfellow said.
“Dr. Lord? The Seventh Cavalry’s Dr. George Edwin Lord?” I asked.
“One and the same,” Goodfellow said. “When Lord’s thesis first appeared in the Boston medical journals, his theory was treated with disdain. As one would expect. But trials on test subjects have proven sterilization fights infection, especially during surgery. Every physician in New England is now adopting the practice.”
I knew Lord subscribed to the theories of Joseph Lister, who probably hadn’t been born yet. But even the U.S. Army still had its doubts.
“Has Dr. Lord submitted any papers on pasteurization?” I asked, for I had read of Pasteur’s experiments in Harper’s Weekly.
“That’s a crazy theory, too, but we’re looking at it,” Goodfellow admitted. “Anything that fights child-bed fever would be a blessing.”
As Goodfellow was wrapping my leg, I saw Algernon Smith walking in my direction.
“Glad to see you, Fresh. How’s the arm?” I asked.
“Dr. Pollard says I’ll get full use eventually, if I keep exercising it,” Smith said, flexing the muscles. He looked good, bronzed from the sun and healthy. His uniform, a dark blue jacket and tan trousers, was well-tailored.
“Casualty report?” I requested.
“We’ll have that in a minute,” Smith said.
“I have it now,” a voice said with a Canadian accent.
“Queen’s Own? I was wondering when you’d turn up,” I said. “I was afraid you might have gotten yourself killed.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Cooke answered. “As for my report, thirty-two dead on their side, six on ours. We have about twenty wounded, including a careless general.”
“I wasn’t careless, just unlucky,” I responded.
“We’re still counting, but French thinks there are two hundred prisoners in all,” Cooke continued with barely a pause. “We’ve captured three hundred rifles, one cannon, and two hundred pounds of powder. We’re not unhappy about the tents and wagons, either.”
“I saw some new flags out there,” I remembered.
“Juan Almonte brought a battalion from southern Texas, the Goliad Rangers,” Tom said. “Mostly Tejanos and a few Mexican recruits.”
“Almonte? Here?” I asked, looking around.
“Juan is still gathering supplies in Galveston,” Smith explained. “We drew lots to see who would stay behind, and he lost.”
“The other company are New Englanders under Captain Bill Garrison. Call themselves the Boston Liberators,” Cooke said. “Garrison’s got no military experience, so Tom put me in temporary command.”
No one said it, but we all knew who William Garrison was. Or would be, in another time. Some blamed him for bringing on the Civil War rather than let slavery die out naturally, especially my father. But none of that mattered now. And it was good to know there were those in the North rallying to our cause.
“Dr. Goodfellow, what does President Van Buren have to say about all this commotion?” I asked.
“Sir, if Texas were to sink into the sea, no man would be more pleased,” Goodfellow replied.
We camped that evening near the battlefield, several blazing bonfires marking our celebration. Whiskey found in the captured wagons was shared, though not in great quantities. I finally found my oak tree and lay under it on a blanket, setting about making plans for the upcoming campaign. Crockett wanted to discuss the captured officers, but I put it off until morning. When I noticed Tom and Tatanka huddling together, I waved them over.
“Take a seat, brother,” I offered. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Tom sheepishly sat on the blanket, Tatanka next to him. Tom poured a finger of whiskey into my empty coffee cup.
“Been tryin’ to avoid it, Autie. Not sure what you’d say,” Tom hedged.
“Morning Star? Well, Indian marriages aren’t all that formal,” I said.
“They are when conducted by a priest,” Tom replied.
“A priest?” I said.
“My sister was educated by the Catholic sisters in St. Louis,” Tatanka explained. “They made her one of their faith.”
“I’m sort of a Catholic now, too,” Tom admitted. “I know Pa would skin my hide, but we’re Texans now. Father Francis converted me. Morning Star and I married just before you returned from California.”
“And you neglected to tell me?” I said.
“Everyone was kind of busy,” he answered. “Anyway, this makes Tatanka my brother-in-law. Which I guess makes him your family, too. Sort of a little brother.”
I was a bit peeved. It was one thing to take up with an Indian girl
, quite another to marry one. But Tom never was one for conventions. I reached out my hand.
“Congratulations, brother, you’ve married above your station,” I said. “So who else knows? Smith? Cooke? Crockett?”
“Yes,” Tom said.
“All of them? Everybody except me?”
“Tough subject to bring up, Autie,” Tom repeated.
“I hope you’ll tell me when to expect a nephew,” I insisted.
“Well, now that you mention it,” Tom said.
“That’s enough for now, Mr. Custer. Tatanka and I need to talk,” I said, pointing for him to leave.
Tatanka sat cross-legged looking at me, sipping coffee. For some reason he seemed pleased by my discomfort.
“We are brothers. You must help the People,” Tatanka finally said.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“You are Custer. No one knows what you will do.”
____________
The next morning dawned cool and clear. I slept well after Dr. Goodfellow administered a mild opiate, for the leg had a tendency to throb. I soon choose to ignore it, for the day would begin grimly.
“Bring the prisoners forward,” I commanded before a large gathering.
We assembled in the green pasture where the battle had been fought the day before. Company C and the Apache scouts were mounted, positioned behind the surrendered rebel army should any decide to cause trouble. Company E and the Boston Liberators, on foot, were stationed on the flanks, weapons loaded. Crockett’s Company A acted as orderlies of the court. I sat in session with Juan Seguin and Miciagh Autry.
The first defendant was David G. Burnet, a fifty-year-old New Jerseyite and former president of Texas. His republic had crumbled when other rebel leaders formed into rival groups, but he had remained to cause trouble.
“Mr. Burnet, we see that you have taken up arms against the Buffalo Flag even after our declaration,” I said. “Can you offer some defense?”
He was a lawyer. Of course he could offer a defense. But would it be good enough?
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