Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  “Do you mean Tatanka?” Santa Anna asked.

  “Yes, among other names,” I said.

  And speak of the devil, if Tatanka didn’t suddenly walk into the room, covered in trail dust and tired from a hard ride.

  “General Custer, dispatches,” Tatanka said, coming to our table and handing me a packet. I recognized Crockett’s handwriting and Tom’s scrawl.

  “Take a seat, lad, we were just talking about you,” I said.

  “I know. The birds have been generous,” Tatanka replied, accepting a glass of watered wine.

  I doubted the birds had revealed my conversation with Santa Anna. More likely he’d gotten word from Voss, for they were close friends.

  “Antonio has a divided loyalty,” I explained. “You have also, between the old ways of your people and the New Path. What advice can you give?”

  I was teasing. I doubted there was an easy solution, or any solution at all. My family had not supported Lincoln, or many of his administration’s aims, but I had been an officer in his army. My oath to uphold the Constitution overruled personal sentiments. Santa Anna and Tatanka did not have such a luxury.

  “Houston may not have his way. Mexico will not keep Texas,” Tatanka said. “For my people to have a future, they need powerful allies. They need the Buffalo Flag, and because the Buffalo Flag has many enemies, it needs my people. In this manner are nations forged.”

  “We don’t have that many enemies,” I objected.

  “Your army is small, the land vast. On this field, you stand with white men, Indians, Tejanos, and Europeans, none of whom trust the others,” the young wise man said. “If Mexico rises against you, the Americans will conquer all.”

  “I fear this is true,” Santa Anna said.

  “We must be one nation. A nation forged by Custer,” Tatanka said. “It is he who brings unity. A crazy man chosen by the gods for an uncertain destiny. He belongs to none, and therefore he belongs to all.”

  “And what of my people?” Santa Anna asked.

  “They must have trust in our future, as I now have trust in mine,” Tatanka said. “To show this trust, I will marry your oldest daughter, that our families may be one.”

  “Marriage?” I said.

  “To my María de Guadalupe?” Santa Anna said, equally surprised.

  “Is this not how your people may be reassured?” Tatanka said.

  The boy had certainly figured us out. Marriage alliances are as old as history itself. Though I deeply cared for Isabella, her connection to Erasmo Seguin and the Tejano community had not escaped me. Tom truly loved Morning Star, but his marriage would give us standing with various Indian tribes. Houston had married a Cherokee girl. Even Cochise had married the daughter of Mangas Coloradas, affirming his prominence among the Apache.

  “It would be a good match,” I said. “Tatanka grows in wealth. He has the respect of the army.”

  “That he does,” Sergeant Voss said from the door.

  We turned to see Voss, Butler and Hughes watching our conversation. Inappropriately, but in such close quarters, difficult to avoid. The three made an impression, for they were the very soul of the Seventh Cavalry.

  “I will let you marry my daughter,” Santa Anna agreed.

  “Good. Now we can discuss the dowry,” Tatanka replied.

  ____________

  The fog rolled in just as Houston predicted, a thick river soup that reduced visibility to a few yards. We shored up the damaged gate, fed the horses, and settled down for a tense night. There was sporadic gunfire from the east, probably nervous sentries. Houston returned after Santa Anna retired to the barracks for some sleep. Fannin had threatened to shoot him a dawn, which must have been distressing.

  “I’ve had a letter from President Jackson,” Houston said, sitting next to me at the fire.

  Having had time to sober up, Houston was congenial and somewhat contrite. The consummate politician. He didn’t realize I’d spent a career being flattered by congressmen and senators, and I didn’t enlighten him, for I’d learned how empty their promises are.

  “I have dispatches from my brother and Colonel Crockett,” I said, laying the rushed messages on the table. “They think Fannin and Burleson are hemmed in. They want instructions for ending this quickly.”

  “I can help,” Houston said. “Most of those boys out there don’t own slaves, but they’re mighty offended by you abolitionists. They say you insult our Southern way of life. Still, most of them might set slavery aside for admission to the Union. President Jackson agrees.”

  “Former President Jackson,” I corrected.

  “Yes, former president,” Houston acknowledged.

  “Sam. May I call you Sam? There may come a time when Jackson’s dream will come true, but I can make no promises. My men and I, we’ve seen the future. Being a proud white man, I once thought it was a good future. I saw an America where our civilization ruled from the Atlantic to the Pacific. But I was mistaken. This world is bigger than such an ambition.”

  “You speak like a Boston preacher,” Houston said.

  “And it embarrasses me,” I conceded.

  “Custer, I didn’t know what kind of half-baked plans you Yankees got in mind,” Houston said. “Tejanos are civilized some, and the Cherokee can rule their own, but you’ll never make a nation without white men in charge. And they need to be the right kind of white men.”

  “Are you extending an invitation?”

  “You’ll have position. Support. When Texas becomes a state, you can be the first senator. Maybe even President of the United States someday.”

  Houston’s words were well-spoken. Even elegant. And without doubt, it was a tempting bribe. But what would Tom say? Or Isabella?

  “One day I may take you up on that, Sam. But today I have other obligations,” I answered.

  Houston nodded with resignation. He had thought me a weaker man, and didn’t know how close he’d come to being right.

  Santa Anna entered, a warm summer breeze following him through the door. He’d found a clean captain’s uniform and a servant to polish his boots. He had not shaven, his narrow chin sprouting gray whiskers.

  “Cooke reports we have a hundred and ten men under arms,” Santa Anna said. “All but the sentries are bedded down. When the fog lifts in the morning, this fort will be under attack.”

  “Unless we attack first,” I said.

  It was not a quiet night. Gunfire continued from the east, and just past midnight, there was a brief exchange of artillery. The horses in the stable were spooked, few of them trained for battle conditions. I spent half an hour with Traveller stroking his long gray neck. Later, I met with Cooke on the rampart, though we could see nothing in the gloom.

  “This stronghold was their fallback position,” Cooke said. “Food, powder, shot. They’re in trouble if they can’t take it away from us.”

  “I want to take the whole town,” I replied. “With Crockett and Tom on their flanks, they’ll have no place to go. We can finish this up in one day.”

  “Dreams of San Jacinto?” Cooke said.

  “I already won San Jacinto, but that just was a skirmish. If we win here, we win the war. This is where the monuments will be built.”

  “A monument to who?”

  “To whoever wins, Bill. No one build monuments to the losers.”

  Velasco was not a good fort. Not like the ones the Americans built on the Missouri River, or even the Alamo. This fort was made of dank timber and smelled of rot. The barracks leaked in the summer rain. The parade ground turned to mud, and the stables were not fit for Crows, let alone our horses. When I rode in, I thought the fort too big for our force, for we had but a hundred warriors and needed twice that number. But I soon realized my mistake. Now that Velasco held Custer, Houston and Santa Anna, the fort felt very small.

  Chapter Twelve

  Velasco

  Dawn could not come soon enough, though I managed to snatch a few hours’ sleep. The fog settled like a shroud, as it ofte
n does near oceans and rivers, leaving us blind. Even after the morning sun should have been rising, all we saw was murky gray. A few musket shots were heard from the north, and then from the east. I became nervous, pacing the courtyard, wondering what the enemy was doing. When sporadic cannon fire resumed, I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “We’ve got to get out there,” I said to Cooke, going toward the stables.

  “Can’t ride in this soup, George. We’ll only hurt the horses,” he replied.

  I paused, and then the solution occurred to me.

  “We don’t need the horses,” I said. “Gather the command. We’ll sally out the gate on foot. The fog will break at some point and let us see the battle.”

  “And if a thousand of them are coming at a hundred of us? What do we do then?” Cooke asked.

  “Better than hiding here like a bunch of cowards,” I decided.

  Voss blew Assembly, the men rushing into the courtyard. We were Seventh Cavalry, Tejanos, Mexicans and Texans. Even a few Indians. None with a temperament to stand aside while there was a fight going on. Houston came up, sword in hand. Santa Anna appeared, riding his stallion. Two lancers and a bugler rode with him. Outside our walls, all could hear the near continuous gunfire.

  “Soldiers!” I shouted, my sword drawn. “The battle rages without us! The enemy may be trying to break out, or maybe they have the numbers. It matters not. Strike hard! For victory. For glory!”

  The north gate swung open and I led the charge, Cooke at my elbow, Hughes, Butler and Voss on my heels. The gray mist swirled around us as our boots caused the wooden bridge over the dry moat to creak. Flashes of musket fire flinted about like fireflies. There was a clammy smell to the air.

  “Flankers,” I called out, sending skirmishers to the left and right.

  Then we began moving forward again, probing for opportunity in the mist. The marshy ground was flat, cleared of brush. We reached a low rock wall, possibly a breakwater protecting the town from high tides.

  “George, I still don’t see anything,” Cooke said, pausing next to me. “It’s just like that fog at the Little Big Horn. The one that brought us to Texas.”

  “What are you trying to say, Bill?” I asked, staying low, for we could feel the wild musket balls cutting through the air.

  “What if we’re going back? What if this fog is taking us back to Dakota? Back to the Little Big Horn?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped.

  “Because nothing strange has ever happened before?”

  I looked around at the murky landscape. The scrub-covered dirt and occasional spiny plant. The shouting in the distance was not so much different than Sioux war cries. And for a moment, I began to wonder. A light from the edge of the haze revealed a tall pointed structure. A teepee? Could…?

  “Hell, George, I’m only joking,” Cooke said.

  Cooke stood up, waved to those around us, and advanced with his Winchester ready for action. I followed, relieved to find the mysterious teepee was actually a pile of hay.

  A few old wooden storage buildings lay before us, but most of the town was laid out to my right along a single avenue going east, the largest adobes surrounding the plaza. As we emerged into the morning glare, I saw an effort had been made to blockade the street, but most of the defenses were facing Crockett’s men in the eastern woods. As the town was too cramped for deployment, the enemy was camped farther on, occupying the flat prairie to the north. There was steady fire coming from both sides, though still long distance, creating a gray haze over the battlefield.

  “Take the high ground,” Butler said, pointing to a two-story tavern on the south side of the plaza.

  “This way!” Hughes shouted.

  I tried to keep up, but stumbled, and then stumbled again. The wounded leg would not allow me walk quickly, let alone run. I was finally forced to sit on a flour barrel outside a bakery as the men poured past, cursing in frustration. Finally Lieutenant Mendoza, an aide to Santa Anna, came by with a mule and helped me mount.

  “Gracias, Señor,” I said, allowing Mendoza to lead the animal.

  At the edge of town, my men had stopped to form a skirmish line in a corral while sharpshooters took positions on the roof of a tavern. I was helped up the staircase, puffing for breath.

  “It’s a magnificent sight,” I said to Cooke, who had graciously returned to my side.

  “I’ve only read about this in story books,” Cooke observed.

  Before us on the plain was the rebel army formed in a great square, much like the formations of Wellington at Waterloo. The four long lines of supply boxes and hay bales, a hundred yards to each side, were well organized, the soldiers alert. A variety of flags and banners indicated dozens of different militia groups, the dress varying from formal uniforms to store bought broad cloth and even some rough rawhide. Hundreds of horses, mules and oxen were kept in the middle of the formation within a wagon park. I counted eight cannon, mostly 4-pounders and one 8-pounder.

  The side nearest our position was hurriedly thrown together, surprised by our sudden advance. A weaker wing faced the river where two lightly gunned schooners were at anchor. I could not tell if the ships were enemies or friendly. Facing east was a strong force with three cannon, supported by forty or fifty dismounted cavalry. I could not see Crockett’s force, they being dug in among the woods about fifteen hundred yards away.

  The strongest segment of the square enjoyed the protection of a creek or half dug canal, probably a thousand men in all. More than a mile away, Tom’s banners were flying in a morning breeze.

  “George, look,” Cooke said, handing me binoculars and pointing to the northeast.

  “Keogh,” I said.

  “Must have arrived during the night,” Cooke guessed. “We should have equal numbers on them now, or close to it.”

  “Officer’s call, I want Houston and Santa Anna here on the double,” I ordered.

  The firing along the lines had died to an occasional warning shot, both armies waiting to see what might happen.

  “Fannin has to break out,” I said. “Either break out or surrender.”

  “He tried to break out last night. Lost his nerve,” Houston reported, for he had spies all over the field. “Now he’ll ask for a parley. Try to talk his way out of this.”

  Houston was right. A few minutes later, a white flag was waved and a score of rebels emerged on the eastern side of their square. I recognized Fannin and Lamar among them.

  “What’s that building?” I asked, watching through my binoculars.

  “It’s a trading post. McMaster House,” Houston said.

  “Colonel Houston, you have the command here. Cooke, gather the regimental staff. We’re going to the parley,” I ordered.

  “I should come,” Houston said.

  “These were your friends, Sam. I think its best you stay back until we have a resolution,” I insisted.

  “What about Santa Anna?” Cooke asked.

  “Antonio should come, too. And call Tatanka,” I said.

  While Cooke gathered up my command, I gave instructions for the men in town to fall back on the fort if necessary. If the rebels decided to push south, the eighty troops with Houston wouldn’t hold the streets, but they could hold the stockade long enough for the other wings of the army to close in. I shook Houston’s hand before riding out, for I’d decided he’d make a better ally than an enemy.

  Sixteen of us rode from the central plaza along the line of militia facing us. We were well armed with Colts, Winchesters and Springfields.

  “We could just sit four hundred yards off their square, out of musket range, and shoot into their lines,” Butler suggested.

  “We could. But that would force them to charge one direction or the other,” Cooke said. “And they just might overrun whoever gets in their way.”

  “There must be blood,” Tatanka said.

  “That’s something I expected Antonio to say,” I remarked, though it was not out of character.

  “
The boy is right,” Santa Anna said. “If the pirates are allowed to surrender and go home, they will come back. Fortune may not favor us a second time.”

  It had been my intention to accept surrender on terms, but now I wasn’t sure. This wasn’t the Civil War, where high codes of conduct were expected among honorable men. It was an invasion of marauders who had plagued Texas for two years.

  “Let’s see what’s being offered,” I decided.

  We skirted the southeast corner of the square. McMaster House stood on a knoll above a creek surrounded by open fields. The ground floor was adobe brick, the second floor made of pinewood slat board. I guessed the observation post on the roof was used to watch for Comanche. The corrals that had once kept horses or cattle were empty, most of the fences broken down. If the owner of the trading post was nearby, I never saw him.

  Fifty or more leaders and officers were gathering for the parley. Fannin and his staff milled around the west of the building near a stable while Crockett, Tom and Keogh waited just to the east by a smokehouse. Juan Almonte stood on the broad covered porch waiting to act as arbiter. I choose to avoid our adversaries, taking a wide loop through the fields.

  “Autie, heard you got shot again,” Tom said, helping me down from my horse.

  “Looks like no one shot you,” I said, embracing him.

  “Not yet,” he answered.

  Keogh and Crockett came forward, none looking worse for wear. The campaign had been pursuit and containment so far. Everyone wondered if that was about to change.

  “Did you hang Houston?” Crockett asked, half in jest.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Don’t ’pect ya need to. He’s been a sendin’ us regular reports,” Crockett said, relieved his old friend had not betrayed him.

  “What’s our strength?” I asked.

  “Figure we got about eleven hundred,” Keogh said. “But there’s a Mexican force under Urrea coming up from Copano. We’ll have three hundred more by tomorrow night.”

  “We?” Santa Anna asked.

  “Official alliance,” Tom said, taking a parchment from his blouse.