Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  “General Custer, gentlemen of the court,” Burnet said. “I come humbly before you. I’ve had a busy life. As a young man I lived with the Comanche. I joined General Francisco de Miranda to liberate Venezuela from Spain, though we failed. Then I fought in Chile, and again in Venezuela, always in the name of liberty. When I came to Texas, Stephen Austin welcomed me. In 1836, I answered Travis’s plea to aid the Alamo, but arrived too late. I have meant no disrespect to the Buffalo Flag. I own no slaves. All I seek is freedom for the people.”

  There were many cheers from the crowd, and even a few from my own troopers. I glanced at Seguin, who was not impressed by the speech. I wasn’t, either.

  “Mr. Burnet, how does your quest for liberty reconcile with the massacre at the Cherokee village?” I asked.

  “I did not order that,” Burnet vehemently protested. “The army was sent to make a treaty. To secure food and horses. The Cherokee have lived in peace with us.”

  “Until you murdered Chief Bowles,” I said.

  “I was not there. I was in Harrisburg when I learned of Bowles’s death,” Burnet said. A convincing alibi.

  “Then you blame your subordinates?” Baugh inquired.

  “I blame no one. I only say what I know to be the truth,” Burnet responded.

  Awaiting their turns were six more belligerent officers, all of low rank. Except for Lamar, who styled himself a colonel. Houston had said it was Lamar who gave the orders at the Cherokee village, and he was yet to return from burning the ferry at Fort Bend. I had no specific knowledge of the others.

  “Thank you, Mr. Burnet,” I said, calling the judges back to confer in private. Crockett, Tom and Tatanka joined us, unofficially.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “He makes a good case,” Autry said.

  “He is a good liar,” Seguin said.

  “Being a lawyer, he kin likely talk the feathers off a goose, but I kan’t see that he’s a criminal,” Crockett added.

  “Tom?” I asked.

  “Burnet’s pretty much been out of sight since I got back to Texas,” he said. “Fannin and Burleson attacked Béjar. Fannin allowed the Goliad massacre. Houston and Lamar marched against the Cherokee. Burnet is more of a quartermaster than a general.”

  “Tatanka?” I requested.

  “It would be good to shoot all of the white captives, but it might cause trouble,” Tatanka said. “The Buffalo Flags should have friends as well as enemies.”

  “I guess this is Burnet’s lucky day,” I concluded.

  The court reconvened. I stood while Seguin and Autry remained seated. Burnet was brought before us.

  “Mr. Burnet, this court finds you guilty of misdemeanors against the legitimate government of Texas. You are sentenced to ten years exile,” I announced. “Return to Galveston and take ship to New Orleans, and thank God for your life.”

  “Yes, General. Thank you. Thank you members of the court,” Burnet said, bowing as he withdrew.

  I pointed to the other five officers standing next to Lamar and motioned them forward.

  “Would any of you gentlemen like to join Mr. Burnet, or take your chances at trial?” I asked.

  They looked at each other, whispered, and one stepped forward.

  “Captain von Blücher got family in San Felipe, sir,” the spokesman said. “If he could go home, he promises to cause no more trouble. The rest of us, we take whatever you give us.”

  “What is your name, sir?” I asked, impressed with his loyalty.

  “Silas Beecher, sir. I served in the Nashville Battalion under Parsons Miller,” Beecher answered.

  “You’re a Tennessee man?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  I began to wonder if there was anyone in this war that wasn’t from Tennessee.

  “Colonel Crockett, please come forward,” I summoned.

  Crockett hurried over and stood next to Beecher.

  “Colonel Crockett, this court suspends the charges against these men and places them in your charge,” I said.

  “Thank you, George. General. That’s mighty generous,” Crockett said, slapping Beecher on the shoulder.

  The entire group looked relieved, and I saw among the faces of the other prisoners that they approved. Tom was giving me his devil’s eye, believing it a cagy gesture on my part.

  “Mr. Lamar, you face serious accusations,” I declared as the forty-year-old Georgia lawyer was pushed forward.

  “I am a colonel of cavalry for the Republic of Texas, serving under General Sam Houston,” Lamar answered. “I have done no more than my duty.”

  “Last I heard, Sam wasn’t too pleased with you,” I said.

  “The heathens fired first. We were just defending ourselves,” Lamar replied.

  The man was well-spoken. Educated. I had no doubt he could argue his way out of a deep hole if given the chance, but I knew him well by reputation. As the second president of Texas, he had started a long and bloody war against the Comanche that lasted into the 1870s. He not only murdered Chief Bowles, but stole the Cherokee land more ruthlessly than Andrew Jackson had. He was a bold politician and brave soldier. He had even been appointed Minister to Nicaragua by President Buchanan while I was attending West Point. In every respect, Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar was a dangerous man.

  “This court has heard enough,” I abruptly decided, standing up.

  Tom, Crockett and Tatanka started toward our conference area, but I held up a hand to stop them. I whispered to Seguin, who looked back in surprise, and then whispered to Autry, who nodded reluctant agreement.

  “Colonel Lamar, you are found guilty of murder and treason against the Buffalo Flag. The sentence is death, to be carried out at dawn,” I declared. “Sergeant of the guard, take the prisoner to Father Rodriquez that he might forgive his sins.”

  Sergeant Knowles of Crockett’s command hesitated, for the sentence was unexpected. Hughes elbowed him aside.

  “We got the duty, sir,” Hughes said, Butler and French at his side.

  “Jimmy,” I whispered as Lamar was led away.

  “Yes, General,” Butler said.

  “If Lamar were to escape during the night, he’ll want to rejoin Fannin. Assign a scout to follow him,” I suggested.

  Among the People, leaders earn respect through their wisdom. The People may follow such a leader, or they may not. None may be told what to do. This is not so among the white men, where a powerful few appoint the leaders, and punish those who will not obey. Except in Texas, for the white men of that land were difficult to rule, and they would not follow a chief they did not believe in. Crockett and many others realized this truth, but Custer resisted such a thought. Custer believed a leader should be obeyed, and Custer believed he should be the leader.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE TRAP CLOSES

  We spent four days at Buffalo Bayou treating the wounded, burying the dead, and deciding what to do next. The aggressive move was toward Harrisburg, which I’d still had no word from, but cooler heads urged a return to Galveston.

  “Burleson can’t go west because of Keogh,” Cooke said, his finger on a hand drawn map. “If he goes east to Lynchburg, he’ll be caught between us and the Cherokee. If he goes south to Velasco, Santa Anna will be waiting for him.”

  “Antonio’s in Velasco?” I asked.

  “After taking Goliad, we found the Mexican Navy at Copano. What’s left of it,” Tom explained. “Santa Anna sent two companies under Castrillón to chase Fannin, and took the other two to Velasco. We stayed with him while the troops landed, then sailed on to Galveston.”

  “Our old friend Admiral Cochrane is there,” Cooke said. “The rebels didn’t want to pick a fight with England, so they’ve sort of left the town open.”

  “Very wise of them,” I approved.

  “You knew Cochrane would be patrolling the gulf, didn’t you?” Tom asked.

  “We discussed it last year,” I admitted. “The King’s government doesn’t want the United States annexing
Texas, and they’re not too happy with Mexico because of the unpaid debts. At least we pay in gold.”

  “Some of the time,” Cooke said, knowing much of our commerce was still being conducted in notes.

  “Galveston has a Buffalo Flag over it now,” Smith bragged. “And it won’t be coming down again. The port is ours.”

  “If Galveston is safe, maybe we should march on Harrisburg?” I suggested. “Fannin and Burleson combined can’t have more than two thousand men, and I suspect their real number is closer to fourteen hundred. Our force alone is sufficient to finish the rebellion.”

  “No, Autie, Harrisburg isn’t the right move,” Tom said with some impatience. “Almonte is gathering supplies in Galveston. Cochrane will wish to confer with you, and that’s where Houston expects to rejoin the command. And if Myles is sending a messenger, he’ll need to come by sea to Galveston. When we know what Myles and Santa Anna are doing, we can coordinate for a final campaign.”

  “We’re going to win this war, George,” Smith said. “I wouldn’t have said that two months ago, but now I can.”

  “We’ll squeeze the rebels out of whatever shelter they’ve found, like Lee at Petersburg, and then run them to ground,” Cooke added.

  It suddenly dawned on me the plans were already made. They weren’t asking my permission, they were telling me what would happen. It was a revolt. Insubordination, at the very least. And it was a fait accompli.

  “Very well, gentlemen, we move at sunrise,” I agreed.

  I went outside my new campaign tent, formerly used by the provisional president of Texas, and met up with Crockett. He had his hands full with the prisoners, and though I’m sure they all weren’t from Tennessee, it felt like they were.

  “Keep them in the center of the line,” I advised. “The women can ride in the wagons. Let the older boys mind the mules. We’ll ship the mercenaries back to New Orleans.”

  “And the colonists? Those who were ’ere ’fore the war?” Crockett asked.

  “They can’t stay and own slaves, David,” I said. “The whole point of a free Texas is to blunt the slavery issue. The Missouri Compromise, the Compromise of 1850, the Kansas-Nebraska Act, all led to war. That can’t happen this time.”

  “Tom already give me that lecture. And Bill, and Algernon. Pretty strong in thar ’pinions. Can’t say I’m always sure you believe it.”

  “The Gang thinks they can control the future. I learned the hard way that we can’t. But it’s our best course for now.”

  “I’m still needin’ wiggle room. No slaves, but we should give some of these folks a chance ta live under our laws. Be peaceable neighbors.”

  “Caesar gave clemency to his enemies, and look what happened to him.”

  “George, ya ain’t Caesar,” Crockett said.

  Tom had made that clear.

  “President Crockett, do what’s right. They are your responsibility,” I granted.

  I figured it was about three days to Galveston by foot and wagon. Maybe four, with women and children in tow. Faster for the cavalry, though most would stay with the battalion. I decided to take my staff ahead, leaving Tom in charge of the column, fielding complaints, tending mules, and searching for lost strays. If he was going to be the general, it was time to learn that rank isn’t all privilege.

  We headed southwest, crossing several rowdy creeks. On our left, the San Jacinto River gave way to Galveston Bay, though the locals just called it the Bay. The countryside was hilly, filled with oak trees, and good for cattle, though there were few to be seen. We camped near a clear blue lake and were off again the next morning. I needed a little help from Allen getting on and off my horse, for the leg was stiff, but I was determined to shake off the pain. French cut me a maplewood staff to lean on.

  The land eventually grew flat down near the water where we would find the ferry station.

  “General, look,” Butler said as we paused above a new settlement.

  “Refugees,” Hughes observed.

  It was a shanty town of tents, shacks and hovels. Ragged people of all ages, burned out or chased out of their homes. Two years of war had not been kind, but I had seen worse in Virginia during the Rebellion. They would rebuild.

  “Hughes, Allen, unfurl our colors,” I ordered. “Voss, play us a tune as we ride through. Something to reassure them.”

  “Dixie?” Voss asked.

  “Don’t be smart,” I rebuked. “But you don’t need to play “Marching Through Georgia”, either.”

  Neither song had been written in 1838, but that wasn’t the point.

  The forty of us proceeded down a gentle slope, the ruddy road well-beaten, and acknowledged the dispossessed mob who watched us in silence as we rode by. I took off my wide-brimmed trail hat, tipping it at the women folk, and tried not to look too grim. My men were relaxed, offering a few smiles. Corporal Vasquez paused to give a pouch of bread rolls to a group of waifs.

  Riding on my right, Tatanka did not share our mood, often glaring.

  “What’s wrong there, lad?” I asked.

  “This was the future of my people. It still could be. I did not know the white man lived in such a way,” he answered.

  “The poor are everywhere,” I said. “Some work hard and rise above it. Most don’t.”

  “These white men did not work hard?” Tatanka asked.

  “They probably did,” I conceded.

  “My people are not the only ones who need a new path,” Tatanka concluded.

  We reached the ferry and dismounted. A log fort of sorts had been established, with stables and a storeroom, but no cannon. There were plenty of cannon on the island protecting the approaches.

  “General Custer, sir!” the sergeant of the guard said, snapping to attention.

  “Sergeant Mendez, how fares the command?” I asked.

  “Standing tall, sir. Standing tall,” he said, squaring his thin shoulders.

  A score of soldiers, all in blue uniforms and looking sharp, had lined up to greet us. They were a mixture of white and Tejano, with an Indian or two and several freed Negroes. Morale was high. I noticed two British warships anchored in the harbor, and our flag flying over the town.

  “Return to duty,” I said with a salute.

  Stable hands unsaddled our mounts and led them to a grassy field to graze. I gave Traveller a hug, for he was a superb horse, worthy of the best treatment. A boy came forward to give Traveller an apple, earning my appreciation.

  Near the fort was a new mercantile run by a vigorous pioneer named Samuel Parr, who wanted to call his small outpost Parrsville. The league of land he was claiming seemed somewhat excessive, but I promised to consider his petition.

  We wandered down to the dock, the ferry boats much improved since my previous visit, being wider and more stable. Out in the bay, I saw HMS Lydia bobbing quietly at anchor with her colors waving in a gentle breeze. Nearby was an armed British brig that I didn’t recognize. The spray of the cold salt air contrasted sharply with the dusty trails we’d ridden the last month, though after a while, I sheltered in the steering house. Powered by a small steam engine and a crude sail, the voyage took about thirty minutes. A rushed but respectful delegation awaited us at the Galveston Pier.

  “General Custer, you’re alive,” Juan Almonte said, giving a salute. “We heard you were killed by Comanche. Or Sam Houston.”

  Almonte was looking fit. Now thirty-five years old and growing mature.

  “I wasn’t killed by Houston, but I did consider hanging him,” I replied.

  Almonte went to greet Butler and Hughes, for they’d served together in the days after the Alamo. Galveston was still the weather-worn beach town I remembered, though somewhat larger. One of the old warehouses had burned down, but two more had been built. There was a sense of prosperity, for in every war, some areas will thrive while others suffer. Being the busiest port west of New Orleans had its benefits.

  I saw Lord Thomas Cochrane emerge from the King’s Arms Hotel. He fully looked the admiral
, dressed in a formal blue navy jacket covered in brass buttons, a velvet collar, white trousers and a cocked hat. I didn’t know if his lost knighthood had been restored yet, but he seemed happy. There was a beautiful woman hanging on his arm that I recognized.

  “Good to see you again, Custer. Afraid you were going to miss the show,” Cochrane said, gripping my hand.

  “Another week and I might have missed the whole war,” I replied.

  “Still have some war left,” Cochrane said, giving me a knowing look. It wasn’t something to discuss on a crowded dock.

  I gazed at Isabella, so happy to see her that I nearly rushed into her arms, but I still wasn’t sure where we stood. I had left Béjar without saying goodbye.

  “Miss Seguin,” I said, for she preferred her maiden name when not visiting her late husband’s family in Mexico City.

  “George, I am pleased to see you still have your scalp,” she replied, possibly in jest, for my hair continued to thin.

  “Is your father well? And your mother?” I inquired.

  “They are, thank you. Have you seen my brother?”

  “I have. He is scouting east of Harrisburg, earning a name for himself.”

  She gave a charming smile, and then stepped forward, offering both hands. I drew her close, feeling her breath against my face, and though we would not kiss in public, I had hopes of her affections.

  I wanted an immediate briefing. What was the situation in Galveston? What had Cochrane discovered? What were newspapers in the east saying? Would Van Buren send troops across the Sabine? Where was the Mexican army? Was there a Mexican army? But that all had to wait, for I needed to greet the garrison first. Shake hands. Give compliments. Tip my hat. I would never be a Davy Crockett, or a Sam Houston, or even a Tom Custer, but if I wanted the loyalty of this army, I would need to win hearts.

  ____________

  Isabella joined me for a brief walk around town, though there were too many spectators for us to talk. I leaned on my maplewood cane and managed to get along well enough. Isabella remarked on my bravery, and appropriate concern for the wound, but did not embarrass me by dwelling on it.