Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  I looked the document over quickly, my Spanish fairly good. The thrust of the message was clear. Mexico did not want Texas becoming part of the United States, and the Buffalo Flag seemed less of a threat. Maybe we’d find ourselves at odds someday, but not today. I handed the paper to Santa Anna, who seemed surprised. And a little disappointed.

  “Que es lo que se,” Santa Anna said, not knowing he would be quoted for years afterwards.

  “What’s that, sir?” the younger Crockett asked.

  “It is what it is,” I said. “And it is. What are we going to do with these trouble-makers?”

  “They’re in a tough spot, but digging them out will cost us,” Keogh said.

  “Tom?” I inquired.

  “We’ve been offering them terms since the Seventh rode back from California, and the sons of bitches have spit in our faces,” Tom complained. “I think the time for terms is over.”

  “We have the artillery to break their square. A steady advance followed by a charge will run them over,” Smith advised.

  “Colonel Seguin? Your thoughts?” I requested.

  “The Tejano people have been driven from our homes,” Seguin said. “Our stock stolen. Promises broken. We are tired of these interlopers.”

  “Tired enough to let it rest? Or angry enough to seek retribution?” I asked.

  “A price should be paid,” Seguin replied, gripping the butt of his pistol.

  I noticed that, as we spoke, Tom, Cooke, Smith, and Seguin had gradually grouped themselves together, and when Almonte wandered down from the porch, he joined them. All similar in age, ambition, and even temperament. Keogh stood apart, but not very far apart. Crockett, Santa Anna and I were the old men.

  “Crockett?” I asked.

  “Hate ta kill them that don’t need killin’,” Crockett said. “Maybe some of them fellers ain’t too fixed on fightin’?”

  “Let’s see what they’ve got to say,” I decided. “General Santa Anna, Colonel Crockett and I will do the talking, but if someone needs to jump in, don’t be shy. We’ve all earned a voice today.”

  We walked around to the front of McMaster House. It wasn’t the McLean House by any means, but it reminded me of that April day at Appomattox when General Lee had surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia. Lee’s horse was named Traveller, too.

  The rebel leaders came forward from the stable, stopping in the middle of the dirt courtyard. I recognized James Fannin and Mirabeau Lamar. Two I knew by reputation, Ed Burleson and Colonel Albert Horton. The others were strangers, though I guessed them to be Thomas Rusk, Frank Johnson, and some recent arrivals from the States. All were wearing new blue uniforms, most decorated with silver buttons and gilded thread. Fannin was the youngster at thirty-four. Burleson and Lamar were my age, about to scrape forty.

  “General Fannin, you are in arms against the Buffalo Flag. You were warned of this,” I said, standing with one hand on my sword.

  “Texas must be free, General Custer,” Fannin said, his Georgia accent more pronounced than I remembered. “Your flag suppresses liberty. Robs the people of their natural rights as Americans.”

  “You claim land that isn’t yours,” Burleson added, his bearing that of a military man. I understood him to have fought in the War of 1812 and had a long history as an Indian fighter. He had certainly given Keogh many sleepless nights.

  “I’ve seen your army, Custer. Nothing but a rabble of Mexicans, Indians and Frenchmen,” Lamar said. “They won’t hold up in a real fight.”

  “We kicked your tails at Buffalo Bayou,” Tom said, stepping forward with clenched fists.

  “Ya snuck up on us in the dark. That Yankee trick won’t work twice,” Lamar retorted.

  “This ’ere arguin’ ain’t gettin’ us nowhere,” Crockett interjected. “You boys is in a spot, and we got more a comin’. Insults ain’t gonna help ya none.”

  “What is it you want?” Burleson asked.

  “Unconditional surrender,” I replied.

  “No surrender,” Fannin said. “We march out, rifles on our shoulders, and take ship for the states. For now. We keep our flags.”

  “Your flags shall decorate my palace,” Santa Anna said, also gripping his sword.

  “You got no power here, tyrant. Not even an army,” Fannin said. “Bustamante holds you in contempt.”

  “Santa Anna commands three hundred Tejanos,” I exaggerated. “How many of your militia groups are bigger than that?”

  “The regular army is eight hundred strong, and we have seven hundred more in reserve,” Fannin lied.

  “One white man is as good as any ten Mexicans,” Lamar added. “And better than twenty of your dirt-digging Indians.”

  “There’s only one way to prove that, gentlemen,” I said. “I will make one concession. Any enlisted man who lays down his arms will be spared. For the rest of you, no promises.”

  “You offer us nothing,” Burleson said.

  “I made a promise to General Fannin at Goliad, and I intend to keep it,” I replied. “You have an hour to make a decision.”

  My command retreated to McMaster House, except for Crockett, who lingered speaking with Captain Philip Dimmitt. I knew Dimmitt to be a thirty-seven-year old Kentuckian who had led the first assault on La Bahia in 1835 and later served with Crockett at Béjar.

  While Crockett and Dimmitt were still conferring, Fannin and his other officers stormed back to their lines in a fury, waving their arms and shouting.

  “You didn’t give them much choice, Autie,” Tom said.

  “Should they be allowed to march out under arms? Is that how we beat down the Rebellion?” I asked.

  “I ain’t against a fight,” Tom said. “After all, I did win all the medals.”

  “Try not to win one today, little brother,” I urged.

  Crockett eventually returned with a wink, but declined to explain. Tom rejoined his command on the northern flank, taking Smith with him, while Santa Anna and I stayed with Keogh in a forested glen. Crockett lingered for a bit, having loyal subordinates to command his militia before wandering off with Juan Seguin. I saw the Buffalo Flag flying over Fort Velasco, though Houston still had most of his men occupying the town. Just before the hour was up, we noticed some movement.

  “There, General,” Cooke said, handing me his binoculars.

  I saw commotion along the southern side of the enemy square opposite Houston. Several flags abruptly came down and a hundred or so rebels climbed over their barriers, a few holding muskets over their heads. Most held no weapons at all. They were soon followed by a second wave of fifty or so. I saw Captain Dimmitt in the lead and realized why Crockett had been grinning. Houston went out to meet them halfway, shaking Dimmitt’s hand.

  “That can’t be good for morale,” Butler said, standing at my elbow.

  “We should get ready, General. Fannin’s got no choice but to break out now,” Hughes said, cocking his rifle.

  I glanced at Keogh, who already had his men dug in and supported by a mounted reserve. Three cannon were loaded with grape shot, and the open ground offered a wide field of fire. To my left, Crockett’s men were stationed among the trees, two cannon on the far end of the line near the waterfront road. Seguin’s cavalry was patrolling the beaches. Houston’s position was the weakest, but recapturing the fort would still leave Fannin trapped against the river, and the few schooners he might gather wouldn’t be enough to evacuate his army.

  “They have to cut north along the river,” I decided. “If they hit Tom’s right flank in strength, they might break out.”

  “Should we warn him?” Cooke asked.

  A warning became unnecessary. Tom’s entire line suddenly erupted in cannon fire, at least six guns that I could count. The cannon were followed by rapid volley fire—Springfields, Baker rifles and muskets that raked Fannin’s front. The enemy tried to return fire, but they didn’t have the range. And then the field was covered in smoke, obscuring the battle.

  We heard the cannon being fired a
gain, moving sequentially down the line. I looked through the binoculars, seeing Fannin and Burleson in the center of the square desperately trying to rally their men. Burleson was hit and went down. I could not tell how serious the wound was. Lamar was getting his men mounted, moving toward the Brazos River. A sudden push by the rebels could have Tom outnumbered three or four to one.

  “Voss, Boots and Saddles,” I ordered.

  As the men rushed for their horses, Keogh ran up to me.

  “George, what the hell?” he shouted.

  “They’re running for the river, Myles,” I explained. “Keep men on the guns, but prepare to charge.”

  “Tom won’t let them out,” Myles protested.

  “This battle can last five hours or fifteen minutes. I prefer fifteen minutes,” I said. “We’re cavalry. We’ll act as cavalry.”

  Keogh grudgingly called his mounted reserve forward. Crockett’s men heard the bugle call and were also racing for their horses. The rebels watching us from behind their boxes and hay bales seemed confused by our preparations, for the open ground acted to their benefit as well. Some looked back to see Lamar’s men going the other direction. I knew Lamar was seeking a favorable angle to attack Tom’s flank, but to his infantry, it surely looked like a retreat. One of the officers from the parley ran along the line trying to keep order, but they were militia and undisciplined.

  “They’re nervous, George,” Cooke said, flushed with excitement. “Let’s demonstrate just out of range as if ready to charge.”

  “It’s my intent to charge, Bill,” I said.

  “Give them time to see what they’re up against. Blow the bugles. Let the sharpshooters open a gap in their line,” Cooke urged.

  Despite my best instincts, I thought Cooke might be right. If even a few of the enemy broke from their line, the rest might fall into disarray.

  “See to it,” I agreed.

  It was a beautiful fight. Fannin was keeping his north line engaged, the sound of rolling gunfire filling the meadow. Cannon continued to duel, though without the ferocity of the early bombardment. As I Company rode back and forth as if ready to attack, the enemy’s east line was gradually breaking up, and since the departure of Colonel Horton, the south flank had all but disappeared.

  “Houston is getting ready to charge,” Santa Anna said, riding up on his fine white stallion with a naval spyglass in his hand. “If we wait too long, the glory will be his.”

  “Houston only has a few horses. No charge on foot can rob glory from a cavalry charge,” I disagreed.

  “I’ve gathered thirty lancers. Let me have the lead,” Santa Anna requested.

  “No, you’ll get yourself killed,” I said.

  “Are you so concerned?”

  “Sí, amigo mío, tú eres un buen hombre para perderte.”

  “No more valuable than you. We shall ride together,” Santa Anna persisted.

  “And I, too,” Tatanka said, coming to my side on a borrowed mare, his Colt already drawn.

  “The charge of the Light Brigade?” I said.

  “Did they win?” Tatanka asked.

  “That’s not important. At least there’s no valley of death.”

  In truth, sitting on the horse made my leg hurt. I was getting impatient, and I wasn’t the only one.

  “General, what the hell are we waiting for?” Hughes said.

  I looked around to see my entire staff ready for action, their horses snorting and pawing the ground in anticipation. A bugle sounded to my left, the Forward echoing off the trees. I saw Seguin’s mounted rangers coming up from the beach at a gallop, their flag flying.

  Another bugle. Crockett’s men emerged from the woods, forming a long line. The younger Crockett rode at his father’s side along Chief Flacco the Younger. Forty Lipan Apache and dozens of Cherokee were with them flying their Owl decorated Buffalo Flag.

  “George, por Dios!” Santa Anna complained.

  Cooke had a dozen skirmishers before us raining hot fire on the center of the rebel line. Keogh had abandoned his cannon, seeing they weren’t going to be needed, and was rapidly mounting two companies on my right. Houston’s men slowly moved out from the town, firing, stopping to reload, and then firing again. There was just enough resistance to slow him down, but the smoke was beginning to drift over the field, hampering visibility.

  “Bill! How much longer?” I shouted.

  Cooke saw the command was ready to move, and though he still thought it premature, recalled his sharpshooters, who ran for their horses. Voss brought Cooke’s horse forward, letting him mount in time to join us.

  As firing slackened on our side of the field, the intensity grew near the river. Lamar was making his move, the bulk of his army trying to move up the Brazos along the beach and trees. Closer to us, Fannin’s men were still on foot, slowly falling back.

  “General, are we attacking or making camp?” Butler asked.

  “Damnit, Jimmy …” I started to say.

  Crockett’s corporal blew the Charge, causing a hundred and twenty-five horses to surge across the field. The old bear hunter was stealing my thunder.

  “Voss, sound the Charge,” I ordered, giving Traveller a kick.

  The call was hardly begun when Santa Anna drew his saber and started forward, followed closely by Tatanka, the Tejano lancers, and my own staff. Traveller hesitated, almost leaving me behind. Slightly closer, Keogh’s command rushed ahead on our right, striking toward the corner of the square.

  “For glory!” I shouted, waving my sword as Traveller broke into a gallop. The ground was flat, at first, then grew cluttered with shell holes.

  “General, watch out!” Hughes shouted as the rebels prepared to volley fire.

  A cavalry charge must absorb such things, and we rode forward into a wave of red flashes and gray smoke. Half a dozen horses went down. Half a dozen men were knocked from their saddles. There was no time to stop and help the wounded. No time to tally the dead. I urged Traveller on before the enemy could reload, following Butler and Hughes through a hole blown in the barricade. The air was thick. Choking. I pointed my revolver and shot the first leather clad man I saw.

  We were among them, Colts firing right and left at the desperate defenders, for they could not reload fast enough. I saw Cooke raise his Winchester and get off eight rapid shots, hitting three or four unlucky foes. Butler emptied his revolver and drew another, rarely missing at such close range.

  When I halted to reload, I suddenly discovered a wounded man staggering toward me with a fixed bayonet. At first I thought he was trying to run me through the belly, but at the last moment, I realized it was Traveller the scoundrel was aiming at. I stuck out my wounded leg just in time for the bayonet to drive through the calf, catching Traveller in the shoulder. The proud old horse bucked up, throwing me off against a wagon with the broken end of the bayonet still protruding from my leg.

  The reb backed away from Traveller, then came at me with his hunting knife. My pistol was gone, lost somewhere on the field. I struggled to draw the sword, but found myself sitting on the bent scabbard. There was a hateful glare in my attacker’s eyes as he lunged, and a great deal of satisfaction. And then his head exploded.

  “General, are you hurt?” Cochise asked, a Colt in his hand.

  “Ride on, Captain,” I ordered, slowly drawing up my leg to pull the bayonet free. I hoped not to lose the leg.

  Private Engle found Traveller, bleeding but not seriously wounded, and after quickly wrapping my seeping injury, had me back on the horse. I was well behind now, the charge of the Seventh Cavalry having disappeared into a churning dust cloud. Through the drifting mist, I was able to see Keogh’s men flanking the north front, and Seguin was overwhelming the struggling defense to my left. A few rebels began falling back toward their wagon park, and then more.

  I borrowed a Colt from Engle and resumed the pursuit, Traveller now forced to pick his way through broken supply boxes and lost equipment. I heard another bugle. The Charge. Our attack was now general t
hroughout the square, the enemy running for the river in full flight. They simply didn’t have the firepower to stop us.

  When I reached the circled wagons, I found that some of the men were forced to rein in. Keogh and Seguin had us squeezed, and the oxen trapped among the wagons blocked our path. A few of the defenders had taken shelter there, but none were pointing their weapons. I saw no officers, only bewildered militia.

  “Autie, some of them are surrendering,” Cooke said, coming up beside me.

  Cooke was splashed in blood, but it wasn’t his blood. His eyes were lit with excitement. Sweat dripped from his long sideburns.

  “Spare any man who throws down his arms,” I said, not wanting a massacre.

  “I think they killed Santa Anna,” Cooke said.

  “Antonio? Dead?”

  “Went down just short of the barrier. Looked bad,” Cooke explained.

  I hoped it wasn’t true, but there was no the time to find out.

  “Drop your guns,” Cooke shouted, riding up to the wagons with his Colt ready.

  Soon my sergeants were doing the same, waving at the enemy to lay down their arms. The men there needed no more convincing, especially with wives and camp followers cowering among them.

  With a better view than I had from the barricade, I watched Crockett’s men pour over the last resistance on the eastern side of the field. The ground around us subsided to moans and groans, the braying of wounded horses, and the thuds of muskets being thrown down. I turned Traveller to the right, trying to see where the main fighting was. I heard gunshots and screaming from the river, but could see nothing in the cloudy confusion.

  “Voss, sound Recall,” I ordered, anxious to get back in the fight.

  Forty men rallied around my guidon as we skirted the wagon park, following Keogh. I saw the old bear hunter, now on foot, hurrying his company along. Young Crockett was with him, faces grim and black with powder.

  We passed a few wounded and dead scattered from place to place, though not so many as one might think. I found Keogh’s adjutant seated on a barrel, his left arm in a bloody sling, his good hand holding a pistol on several prisoners. He saluted as we moved on.