Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  “Maybe we’ll find out now,” Crockett said, spying a group of Mexican lancers riding toward us. They looked dirty. The mounts exhausted. There was a sense of desperation about them.

  “Tenemos que ver General Custer,” their sergeant said, halting before us.

  “Yo soy General Custer,” Tom and I said at the same time.

  “General Tomas Custer,” the sergeant clarified.

  Tom dismounted and walked forward. The sergeant handed him a rolled up letter, frayed at the edges. Tom read it and frowned.

  “This is Sergeant Bernardo, messenger from Santa Anna,” Tom said. “Fannin arrived outside Velasco four days ago, and a flotilla of six schooners are blockading the harbor. Santa Anna only has garrison troops, and he’s low on powder. He bids me to march with all possible speed.”

  “What other support does Santa Anna have?” I asked, for surely the small force Tom brought to Buffalo Bayou would be of little help, and Santa Anna could not know we had linked forces just a week before.

  “Santa Anna has summoned General Urrea from Copano,” Tom said, reading more of the letter. “It doesn’t look good, Autie.”

  Voss blew Officer’s Call, and within twenty minutes each of the troop commanders and their subordinates had gathered under a grand sycamore tree. I had the commissary provide lunch, for there might not be time later.

  “What do we know of Velasco?” I asked.

  Cooke unrolled a map. It was sparse on detail, but I knew the town was fairly small, with a customs house and a wooden palisade fort.

  “The fort is on the east bank of the Brazos, upriver from the bay. That’s good,” I said. “I see a road along the coast, and woods to the north. The river takes a sharp turn west just past this creek.”

  “Is that a moat around the fort?” Smith asked.

  “Mostly dry now,” Seguin said. “The fortifications were neglected after the fight in 1832.”

  “Unless Burleson has concentrated his forces, he may still have men in Brazoria acting as a rear guard,” Cooke warned.

  “I’ll take the artillery north of town. The woods will provide cover,” Tom said. “From there, I can threaten the fort and block reinforcements from coming down river. Howell, you’ll stay with my command until we take position. Set our supply camp along that creek. Goodfellow will go with you. Have the teamsters fortify the encampment.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howell said, glancing around for the elusive doctor. Who was normally found providing instructions among the señoritas.

  “I’ll move along the coast, possibly draw some attention off Santa Anna,” I decided. “Crockett, your militia are the least trained. Form a skirmish line with Tom on your right, my battalion on the left, and your sturdiest men in the center.”

  “Them is my Tennesseans, George,” Crockett said. “They won’t never let me down. Or you, neither.”

  “Make sure each man has a hundred rounds for the rifles, fifty rounds for the pistols,” Tom said to the gathered officers.

  “That will strain the supply,” Howell warned.

  “The ammunition won’t do us any good if we lose,” Tom replied.

  I thought the allocation excessive, too. Under the circumstances. But we had run short at the Little Big Horn, and that had been my fault.

  “Watch your flanks. Stay within supporting distance,” I advised.

  We rode on a few more miles, the artillery moving off to the right, Crockett keeping the main trail, and my battalion drifting toward the gulf. Before we were within sight of our objective, a band of hard riding Indians emerged from the woods to our left.

  “Captain Cochise and some Cherokee,” Major Baugh said, leading with C Company.

  Cochise had found thirty or so of Gatunwali’s warriors and brought them back to the column. I recognized them as the scouts who had accompanied Houston to burn the ferry at Fort Bend, but I didn’t see Houston among them.

  “Where is the Raven?” I asked the Cherokee leader, a tall gray-eyed warrior wearing a blue campaign jacket with sergeant stripes.

  “White men came to speak with him yesterday,” the sergeant said. “The Raven was troubled by their talk. He told us to go away, and went west with the white men.”

  “To Velasco?” Baugh asked.

  “We could not see. There is an enemy camp blocking the way,” the sergeant explained.

  “Are you going home?” I inquired.

  The Cherokee seemed miffed by my question. A young brave in leathers rode forward and unfurled their Buffalo Flag, the sea breeze letting it flap in the wind.

  “We will have vengeance for Duwa'li,” their leader said, straightening tall in his saddle.

  “Colonel Crockett can use your help. He is just north of here, preparing to fight those who seek to steal you land,” I said, pointing the way. They rode off without another word.

  “Orders, General?” Cochise asked.

  “Report to Crockett. See if you can find good ground for a fight,” I said.

  “What about Houston?” Baugh asked.

  “I don’t know, John,” I replied. “He was angry about Bowles’s murder, but he has also schemed with Jackson to annex Texas.”

  “If he’s turned traitor, will you hang him?” Tatanka asked.

  “I don’t know that, either. My father loved Houston. He was my childhood hero,” I said. “That’s the hardest part of a civil war, fighting men you admire on the wrong side.”

  I finally saw smoke on the horizon. Campfires. I did not hear any muskets or cannon. It was growing late in the day, but there were a few hours of light left. If Velasco was under siege, immediate action might prove necessary. If the town had already fallen, I would want to attack at dawn to retake it.

  “There they are, sir,” Butler said, pointing to a guard post stationed five hundred yards up the road.

  In the distance, hundreds of small tents were arranged haphazardly in a meadow, and beyond was a larger town than I expected, mostly adobes but with a few wooden buildings. The fort rose near the Brazos River, a tall timber enclosure big enough for a modest garrison. The sky was too hazy to make out the flag even with my binoculars. I guessed the enemy force between fourteen and sixteen hundred, spread out in an arc from east to north of town. Easily twice our number.

  “General, my scouts find only a light guard along the beach, and they say a schooner is unloading cargo at the dock,” Colonel Seguin reported, riding in with twenty of his rangers. They had been on the move for days. Their mounts were tiring.

  “The fort?” I asked.

  “There has been fighting. We don’t know who won,” Seguin said.

  I studied the enemy crouching behind their hastily erected barricade. They were ill prepared for a rapid assault, but what then? Overrunning a sentry post would prove futile if a thousand or fifteen hundred rebels launched a counterattack. Tom and Crockett still needed time to get in position before we started a general engagement.

  There wasn’t time to scout the ground. The road was wide and dry, good for quick movement but without cover. We had a grassy prairie on our right, thick woods growing on the left. And beyond the woods was the Gulf of Mexico. I noticed seagulls and wondered what Tatanka would say.

  “Baugh, Badillo, your companies will hold the road,” I said. “Threaten their barricade, then fall back and establish a line. Flacco, you will follow Seguin and I down to the beach, then hold in support. You are the guardian of our flank. Colonel Seguin, we’ll move along the surf, then turn toward the dock. If we’re able, we’ll capture their supplies and relieve the fort. Gentlemen, this is the time to be steady. We are the Seventh Cavalry, and we are destined for glory.”

  I let the officers relate my speech before riding out, for such eloquence should not be wasted, and then broke off with the Béjar Rangers and Lipan Apache to begin my raid. Belatedly, I remembered that I was riding with very few white men, mostly my regimental staff, but it no longer mattered. They were all my men. My army.

  The trail down to the gulf was
lined with oak trees, ash trees and mesquite. There were so many large birds that a good hunter wouldn’t even need a shotgun. We burst out on a broad sandy beach, surprising half a dozen men and boys fishing in the surf. None raised a weapon, so Seguin and I bypassed them, leaving Flacco to protect our rear.

  The churning sea was now on our left, dunes and woods to the right. A few small ships lay at anchor near the mouth of the river up ahead. We could not see the fort or the town but would as we closed on the Brazos. There were only sixty of us, well-armed with Springfields, Baker rifles, Colts, and six of us carried Winchesters. What we lacked in numbers we made up in firepower, speed and determination.

  “They’re in a bad place, sir,” Hughes said. “Rebs got the river to the rear, cuttin’ off their retreat. If General Keogh were here, we’d trap ’em and carve ’em up.”

  “Then for us, the greater share of glory,” I said.

  “Shakespeare?”

  “Henry V.”

  “I hope he won that battle,” Hughes said.

  “He won all his battles, Bobby,” I replied.

  Before we reached the Brazos, a trail cut northwest over the dunes. The top of the fort was visible through the trees, but no alarm had been raised. Gunfire from the east indicated Baugh and Badillo were keeping the enemy’s attention, and artillery from the north spoke of Tom’s arrival near the bend in the river. No doubt Crockett would be demonstrating, threatening the enemy center.

  “Column of twos. No bugle, Voss, let’s see if we can catch these bastards by surprise,” I said.

  Our trail turned north up a narrow dirt road running parallel to the river. A two-masted schooner was tied to a short dock, the lane filled with boxes and barrels. Several wood plank buildings, possibly warehouses, were coming up on our right. I saw half a dozen burly men unloading the ship, taking their time. Two armed guards saw us approach but seemed to have no idea who we were. It all seemed too easy, and it was. Suddenly dozens of leather clad soldiers rushed from the fort, running down a slight hill to intercept us.

  “General?” Seguin asked.

  “Charge the fort, I’ve got the dock,” I said, giving Traveller a kick while drawing my sidearm.

  Voss blew the Charge for my staff. Corporal Garcia joined in for the Béjar Rangers. As the command burst into a gait, a few of the men shouted. I tried to stay in the lead, but Traveller was more stout than quick, and several passed me. Both dockworkers dropped their bundles and ran. Two guards raised their muskets, only to be shot down before taking aim. A group of sailors on the schooner hurried to ready a cannon but came under fire from Butler and Hughes.

  In an instant we had reached the docks. I dismounted among the stacked supplies, still not having fired a shot. There were boxes of rifles, lead shot, powder charges, food and powder. There was even a cannon, though it wasn’t mounted on a gun carriage. Seguin had cut through the infantry coming down the path, then swung around for another charge, taking some pressure off our right flank. I spotted two wagons just a bit farther on.

  “Allen, Voss, with me,” I said, racing to seize the harnesses on the mules before they could drag the wagons away.

  Allen got there first, taking hold of the lead mule. Voss climbed up on the seat, using the reins to halt the wagon. We didn’t need the rifles, though I wanted them. We did need the powder. Cooke, Butler, Hughes and French arranged a skirmish line, keeping a steady fire on any enemy who tried to approach. We couldn’t stay long, not outnumbered a ten to one, but we sure were causing a distraction for Tom and Crockett to take advantage of.

  “Sir, look out!” Allen shouted, pointing at the river.

  I turned in utter surprise, and dread. Another schooner had appeared, drifting upriver on a light breeze, the mainsail and jib providing movement. On the top deck, three cannon were pointed in our direction, the crews busily preparing them for action. And standing on the deck, giving the orders, was Colonel Sam Houston.

  “Oh my God,” I muttered, for if the cannon were loaded with grapeshot, they would sweep my entire command away. And me with them.

  “Allen, get down. Everybody scatter!” I shouted.

  I waved to the men, tossed Voss under the wagon, and turned back toward the schooner as the cannon fuses were lit.

  “General, duck!” Butler yelled.

  But I refused, standing my ground, shoulders straight. If this was my moment, I would go down fighting, like I had at the Little Big Horn. Without regrets, and without apologies.

  The cannons roared, smoke engulfed the dock, and burning lead poured past me, but I was not dead. When the smoke cleared, I saw the schooner had fired on the stockade.

  “Custer, you damn fool!” I heard Houston bellow. ‘’The gate is down! Take the fort!”

  I saw Houston was right. The gate facing the river was hanging on broken hinges. The defenders not routed by Seguin were retreating north, leaving the path open except for a brave few who couldn’t or wouldn’t run.

  “Voss, the Charge if you please,” I said in a calm voice, drawing a Colt and limping up the path as quickly as I could go.

  Seguin’s men were there first, some riding through the open gate, others dismounting and taking rifles from their sheaths before entering. Butler and French were right behind them, all greeted by a brief storm of gunfire. By the time I reached the enclosure, the shooting was sporadic. Apparently, most of the garrison was out in the meadow dealing with Crockett.

  “Secure the fort,” I ordered, quite unnecessarily, for my troopers were already taking positions on the ramparts.

  Cooke and French took time to disarm the prisoners, and two of the wounded who continued to resist were shot dead on the spot, discouraging others.

  “Four dead, four wounded,” Cooke reported.

  “Us or them?” I asked.

  “Us. Fourteen dead rebs, about a dozen wounded,” he replied. “Are you hit, George?”

  “Me? No, why would you ask?”

  “You don’t seem as lucky as you used to be,” he said, pointing at my sore leg. And my limp had grown more pronounced with all the exertion.

  “I’m about to conquer Texas, Bill. Seems pretty lucky to me.”

  ____________

  The battlefield grew quiet. Helped to the top of the wall, I saw men, women and children dashing about in the streets of the town, but no soldiers. Farther out on the plain, a knot of rebel leaders were gathered around a big tent. No doubt they were trying to come up with a plan, for they were now surrounded. They still outnumbered us two or three to one, but there was no way for them to know that.

  “Orders, sir?” Seguin asked.

  I looked to the flag pole, seeing a blue banner with a five-pointed white star in the middle.

  “Take that flag down, raise ours,” I said. “Get that gate back up. See if this fort has any cannon worth using. Some food and coffee for the men would be good, too.”

  I remained on the wall a few minutes more, tempted to order an attack. Maybe chase off their horses. But decided against it. We had been on the march since dawn and achieved advantageous positions. I would not turn a marginal victory into a rash defeat.

  “Help me down,” I asked Cooke, descending the ladder with difficulty.

  The headquarters was a log cabin surrounded by a barracks, blacksmith, supply depot and stable. As I walked across the compound looking forward to a chair and tall glass of cold water, I saw a dozen prisoners being removed from a woodshed. They were dirty, their uniforms torn, and most spattered in dried blood. They were not rebel prisoners, but survivors of the Mexican garrison. One was Antonio López de Santa Anna.

  “Anthony,” I said, hobbling faster to shake his hand.

  The man looked like hell. Gaunt, unshaven, and his right arm in a rag sling.

  “George, I should have known it would be you,” Santa Anna said, embracing me with his good arm. “Have you beaten the pirates?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it,” I replied.

  We retired to the headquarter
s where I found Santa Anna clean clothes and an orderly to scrub out his wounds. I needed his presence on the ramparts with me, as a general, standing tall and ready to fight. He knew this as well as I.

  Half an hour later, as the sun was setting over the trees beyond the Brazos, Houston entered the fort with thirty armed river rats. They were disheveled, boisterous, and drunk. Houston and Santa Anna had been enemies for years, but until now, they’d never met. I wasn’t sure what would happen.

  “Colonel Houston, let me introduce General Santa Anna,” I said, standing slightly between them with a hand on my sword.

  Santa Anna straightened up, reluctantly offering his hand. Houston looked Santa Anna over and grunted, ignoring the gesture.

  “Fog comin’ in,” Houston said. “Best get the rest of our supplies off the dock ’fore they get stole.”

  After Houston left, I sat down at a small table in the corner near the fire. It reminded me of the table Grant had used to write out the terms of surrender for Lee at Appomattox. Phil Sheridan quickly bought the table from Mr. McLean and gave it to Libbie, saying no officer in the Union army had done more to bring about the country’s victory than her husband. I opened a bottle of wine and waved Santa Anna over.

  “Houston still wants Texas for the United States,” I said. “If it would be a free state, I might sympathize, but the South will never permit it. We need to decide how this is going to work.”

  “My country still wants Texas,” Santa Anna said.

  “Then you need to decide which country is yours, Mexico or the Buffalo Flag,” I replied. “But before you answer, you should know I’ve had a vision.”

  “You? A vision? When did George Custer start believing in visions?” he asked.

  “I’ve always believed in Custer’s Luck.”

  “Which took you to the Little Big Horn.”

  “And the Little Big Horn brought me here,” I persisted. “Antonio, the Buffalo Flag will be a nation. The clock isn’t turning back. In my vision, I saw Slow being inaugurated president, all grown up with a family.”