Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  Several minutes later, I finally caught up with Keogh. His men were dismounted in skirmish formation. There was little if any gunfire. What remained of the rebel force was crouching in the smoke a hundred yards away trapped against the river. There were so many troops around us that I was forced to halt. Voss held Traveller’s reins.

  “George, what happened to you?” Keogh asked, his blouse torn and hat lost.

  “The general fell off his horse. Broke his leg,” Engle said.

  “Fell off your horse?” Keogh asked.

  “I didn’t fall off my horse,” I protested.

  “What happened?” Butler asked, busy with several prisoners.

  “General Custer fell off his horse. Broke his leg,” a militia sergeant said, spreading word among his men.

  “We’ll win this fight without you, sir. Don’t worry,” Voss insisted.

  I wanted in on the last phase of the battle, pushing forward until reaching the skirmish line. Seguin was there, his head wrapped in a bandage, but otherwise no worse for wear. Rather than press the issue, he was holding his rangers back, satisfied to contain the situation. I saw the enemy at our immediate front was milling around, neither fighting nor surrendering.

  “We can end this now, Myles,” I said.

  “They’ve got no place to go, George,” Keogh said, sensing my eagerness. “No reason to get more men killed. Not now.”

  “It would only take one volley,” I insisted, for the collapse of the militia before us would surely spread throughout the surviving rebel horde.

  “It’s not what Tom wants,” Keogh said.

  “Tom? It’s not what Tom wants?”

  “He has command of the field.”

  “I’m still the general,” I insisted.

  “Tom’s a general, too. And it was Tom who returned from California in time to save Texas,” Keogh explained. “No disrespect, George. It’s the way things are.”

  Five minutes later, the shooting stopped. Hundreds of muskets were dropped at our feet. Seguin’s men began rounding up prisoners, taking them back to the wagon park that was now empty of animals. My leg began to ache again, so I found a supply box to sit on. Doctors were soon roaming the field looking for patients, of which there were plenty. I ordered them to care for our own first.

  The battle was over, and I’d hardly fired more than a few shots. Younger and quicker men had won the glory, and I was forced to settle for victory. Or was it Tom’s victory?

  ____________

  Dusk came sooner than expected. I was resting in a large campaign tent overlooking the Brazos when Tom, Crockett and Cooke came calling. They had been busy while a crude Boston butcher scraped my wound and applied a new dressing. I could only hope that infection didn’t set in.

  “Seven hundred and fifty prisoners,” Cooke reported. “We’ve counted two hundred and fifty-eight dead. Some of the survivors took boats across the river. Kid Flacco is looking for them.”

  “Our losses?” I asked.

  “Forty-two dead, another hundred wounded,” Cooke said.

  “Sam Houston’s in bad shape,” Crockett added. “Musket ball shattered ’is ankle. He kan’t walk none. Lost him a good horse, too.”

  “What about Santa Anna?” I inquired.

  “You should go see him, Autie,” Tom urged. “He’s hanging on, but probably not much longer.”

  I was reluctant. After Stonewall Jackson had been mortally wounded at Chancellorsville, Bobby Lee had declined to visit him. The thought of losing Jackson was too painful. I was having similar emotions about Santa Anna, who had taught me how to be more than a general.

  “Where’s the boy?” I asked, suddenly remembering I hadn’t see Tatanka since the start of the fight.

  “Laid up with a broken arm,” Crockett said. “His mare got shot out from under him. Doc Pollard says he be fine.”

  “He’s the hero of the charge,” Cooke added. “First one to jump the barrier. Shot Rusk in the neck. Almost grabbed a rebel flag.”

  “I’m giving him a medal of honor,” Tom announced.

  “Let him sleep in my tent tonight,” I offered. “I can watch him while writing my report.”

  “What report is that?” Cooke asked, for he was the one who usually wrote the reports.

  “I’m sending dispatches to the newspapers,” I explained. “Now that the war is over, Mexico will know to stop sending troops. The plantation owners will learn their dreams of empire are defeated. Van Buren’s government will be informed that the Buffalo Flag flies proudly from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific. And our own people should know it’s time to rebuild.”

  “Pretty darn ambitious,” Crockett observed.

  “I had a good teacher. What’s being done with the prisoners?” I said.

  “Gonna parole ’em, ’cept the leaders. ’Lessen you gots objections,” Crockett answered.

  “No, no objections. We can’t shoot them all,” I replied.

  “But we will shoot some of them,” Tom said, the scar on his jaw turning red.

  “It would be criminal not to,” I agreed.

  Near midnight, I went to visit Santa Anna, who had been grievously shot through the lung. Dr. Pollard gave him morphine to make him comfortable. Morning Star and Isabella did what they could to help, but there seemed little hope. Tatanka joined us, assisted by Voss. They were business partners, after all.

  “I asked you to be careful,” I complained, sitting on a canvas chair at his bedside.

  “You wanted all the glory,” Santa Anna replied.

  “I have plenty of glory.”

  “And now I do, too,” he said.

  “Your daughters will be taken care of,” Tatanka announced.

  “You must still marry Guadalupe,” Santa Anna said, reaching to take Tatanka’s hand. The boy returned the grip firmly.

  “She will be my first wife,” Tatanka promised.

  “Isabella and Inés are close friends. I will make a home for her in San Francisco. She’ll want for nothing,” I said, glancing up to see if she’d heard.

  “Can you still trick Isabella into marrying you?” Santa Anna said, offering a weak smile.

  “Yes, Isabella will still marry me. It just might take a little longer,” I responded. “I’m just sorry you won’t be there.”

  “I will be there, George. I will be there,” he said.

  General Antonio López de Santa Anna died just before dawn, surrounded by many friends.

  After the priest finished saying the Last Rites, I walked from the tent holding Isabella’s hand. We found a log to sit on, for I could only get around on crutches. The night was misty but not cold, a few stars poking through the gloom.

  “I was wrong last winter. In San Francisco, when I turned coward. I’m sorry,” I apologized.

  “You were not a coward. I see that now. You had grown tired of battlefields,” she said.

  All around us were the moans of the latest battlefield. Bodies were being carried to the small cemetery adjoining the Velasco church. Catholic priests and Baptist ministers were having a busy night.

  “When I was a young man, little of this had an effect on me,” I confessed. “I thought only of the fight. What I had done, how I would receive credit. What the newspapers would say. Then the war ended, and for ten years after, I thirsted to recapture the glory of my youth.”

  “And now?” Isabella asked.

  “I don’t know if a leopard can change its spots, but I want a different life. One without cannon fire and weed-covered hillsides. And I want that life with you.”

  “Autie, I’ve loved you since we first met at Casa Blanca. And then you learned Spanish, just so you could ask my father for my hand in his own language. You are bold, and crazy, and face the world with a full heart. But my people have a heritage, too. Deep faith. Ties of family. Can a white man from Ohio embrace such a life?”

  “It would be hard, if I was still a white man from Ohio. But I don’t care about such things anymore,” I said, surprised to discover
it was true. “I’ve grown to love your father as my own. Lived with Mexicans, Negroes and Indians. And the Irish. There comes a time to outgrow the conceits of our youth.”

  “I think maybe you have,” Isabella said, leaning forward to give me a gentle kiss. “We will marry in Béjar, if my father gives permission. Then we will return to California, and you will build your empire. We will have ranches, donate to the church, and leave our children a rich heritage.”

  I reached into my campaign blouse, ripped from falling against the wagon, and found the gold ring I’d given her once before. I slipped it back on her finger. It was my greatest victory of the day.

  A moment later, Tatanka emerged from the tent, his arm in a sling. We told him the good news.

  “Then you will be my sister, as Morning Star will be your sister,” Tatanka said, giving her a hug. “When I marry the daughter of Santa Anna, our children will be cousins, and our family will reach from Mexico to the Black Hills.”

  “A Custer dynasty?” I asked.

  “Morning Star is married to your brother. Her sons are my nephews. Her sons are your nephews. Her nephews are the cousins of all. Why would it not be Morning Star’s dynasty?” Tatanka asked.

  We both laughed. In a man’s world, women do not have dynasties. Tatanka took a flask from his back pocket and unscrewed the cap. I could smell a fine brandy.

  “Shall we toast your engagement, in the tradition of your people?” Tatanka offered.

  “That’s strong drink for a youngster,” I warned.

  “I am not so young as you believe,” Tatanka said.

  The next morning dawned clear for the first time in weeks. The rebel leaders wished to meet, but I declined, and ordered Tom and Crockett to decline as well. There would be time to hear their excuses later, but we needed order first. They were confined to the same dank storeroom where Santa Anna had been held after the fall of Fort Velasco.

  “Wagons coming in, sir,” Voss reported just after breakfast.

  I was under Goodfellow’s care in a large tavern at the end of town, my balcony giving me a good view of the surrounding fields. I saw Crockett, Baugh and Brister all busy speaking with our former enemies, attempting to win them over. I was not enthusiastic about their efforts, but Tom insisted on taking Lincoln’s approach to the problem by letting them up easy.

  “Galveston?” I asked.

  “No, sir. General Keogh’s train,” Voss said.

  With some help, I stood up at the railing. Twenty wagons guided by a hundred scouts and teamsters were bringing in supplies from San Antonio. The army would welcome more ammunition. I recognized Kit Carson leading the scouts, fifty rough men looking for a fight.

  “Is that Erasmo I see?” I asked, pointing at the lead wagon.

  Dr. Pollard, consulting with Goodfellow, came to my side for a look.

  “That’s Mr. Seguin, all right,” Pollard said. “And that’s Lorenza de Zavala with him. Looks like the Tejano leaders finally made peace.”

  “I know Señor Seguin holds him in high regard,” I remarked, glad to see they were friends again.

  Just after noon, a meeting was called at McMaster House. Letting Traveller recover, I rode a borrowed mare to the eastern plain, passing a thousand soldiers, along with hundreds of camp followers, townspeople, teamsters, ranchers, hunters and sailors. It occurred to me that this was possibly the largest gathering ever in Texas up to that time.

  The new rulers of Texas were already assembling in the courtyard where planks had been laid across water barrels to make a long conference table. Chairs and boxes had been taken from the town. I noticed Tom sitting at the head, accompanied by Bill Cooke, Algernon Smith, Juan Seguin, Juan Almonte, Nathanial Brister, Kit Carson, Captain Cochise, and even the younger Crockett.

  “Feelin’ left out, George?” Crockett asked, approaching with Tatanka and Morning Star.

  “Remember when we sat around the dining table the night before the Alamo?” I wistfully recalled. “We tried to convince Santa Anna to let us settle the question of Texas.”

  “We’re the old men now. You, me an’ Myles,” Crockett said.

  “Not that old,” I protested.

  “Thomas has big plans,” Morning Star said. “We are going to start a new city to be the capital. He will call it Austin, to please the Texians. He says we will have many children.”

  “Texas will be strong,” Tatanka added. “So strong that if the Americans threaten to steal land from the People, they will know the Lakota have powerful allies.”

  “Might be awhile ’fore the States threaten anyone,” Crockett said. “Newspapers say South Carolina is ready for secession. Maybe Alabama, too. That fool Van Buren don’t know what ta do. He ain’t no Andy Jackson.”

  I wondered if the United States might break up in 1838 instead of 1861. Would there still be a Civil War? Certainly not the devastation that my generation saw, where the industrial revolution had created mechanized slaughter. And if the United States did dissolve, would that leave the Buffalo Flag as the most powerful nation in North America?

  “We shouldn’t give up leadership to the kids yet,” I said to Crockett. “Find Myles and Señor Seguin. Invite Señor de Zavala. And I want the Cherokee here, too. Ask Chief Gatunwali to join us.”

  The old men, though none of us were really that old, barged in on Tom’s meeting, taking the best seats and forcing the adjutants to set up another table. Those without chairs were forced to stand. I took the head seat, Crockett on my right, Tom to the left. Erasmo Seguin, de Zavala and Gatunwali sat close by.

  As word of the meeting spread, even Sam Houston insisted on being carried from his tent, the pain of his shattered ankle offset by morphine and corn whiskey. After a moment of frustration, Houston demanded a bench near Crockett. Cooke stood behind me, ready to issue directives, while Tatanka took a tall stool just behind my shoulder, close enough to whisper his cryptic advice.

  “What is this, Autie?” Tom asked, his voice gruff with displeasure.

  “’We have business to conduct, little brother,” I responded. “It’s time to reward our friends, punish our enemies, and form a real government. Isn’t that right, Tatanka?”

  “The General speaks truth,” Tatanka agreed, staring at Tom with impatient black eyes. I could not say exactly what passed between them, but they now had a long history. And they were brothers-in-law.

  “What do you think, David? Shall we punish our enemies first?” I asked.

  “What ya got in mind, George?” Crockett said.

  “Just enough justice to make a point,” I replied, standing for attention and then motioning to Cooke.

  It was time for a reckoning with the rebel leaders. Hughes raised his hand and five bedraggled prisoners were led forward under guard. The uniforms were tattered. They wore no hats. A large crowd gathered, some having fought the rebel leaders, others having fought for them. I had a special squad of troopers under Butler and French to maintain order, for I would not have the proceedings interrupted.

  “General Custer, sir. These men were taken under arms against the Buffalo Flag,” Cooke announced, acting as my adjutant-general.

  “Their names?” I requested for the official record.

  “James Fannin, Mirabeau Lamar, William Ward, Albert Horton, and Dr. Jack Shackelford,” Cooke called out, indicating each villain as they lined up before us.

  I moved around the edge of the conference table to face them, followed by Crockett and Tom. It had been more than two years since we had confronted Fannin at Goliad, and I had not forgotten my promise.

  “Edward Burleson?” I asked.

  “Dead on the field, sir,” Cooke confirmed.

  “Just as well,” I said. “Mr. Fannin, have you anything to say before I pronounce sentence?”

  “Sentence? What about my trial?” Fannin stuttered.

  The man looked pale, his hair turning prematurely gray. The shoulders were bent, not in fear, but weary from losing a war he might have won.

  “You had y
our trial yesterday when you failed to lay down your arms. Now dozens of my men are dead, and you will answer for it,” I replied.

  I glanced back at Crockett, my expression firm. Tom nodded agreement. A look at Houston showed no particular reaction either way. They had not been on good terms since Houston ordered Fannin to abandon Fort Defiance and Fannin refused.

  “I am a soldier, sir. Fighting for my country and my constitution,” Fannin said, raising his voice so all could hear. “Our cause is just, for we ask no more than our forefathers earned at Cowpens and Yorktown. You have no right to judge me.”

  “Be that as it may, you raised a rebel flag to fight a free land, and rejected an honorable surrender,” I said, in no mood for hollow politics.

  I paused to allow the surrounding multitude a moment to consider my words, studying the faces of Señor Seguin, my own captains, and our Indian allies, some of whom needed time for translation. When I was sure all eyes were on me, I turned to my sergeant-at-arms.

  “Sergeant Williamson, please have your detail escort Mr. Fannin over to that oak tree and shoot him,” I ordered, pointing to the spot where Santa Anna had been treated after his fatal wound. “And take Mr. Lamar with him.”

  “George…” Crockett began to say.

  “You’ve pardoned enough treason, Colonel Crockett. You’ve been pardoning treason since Buffalo Bayou. It’s time to show that not all scoundrels may expect mercy.”

  French needed no extra prodding. This war had cost us enough already. He positioned eight men armed with Springfields around the prisoners and marched them the eighty yards to the old oak. Butler and Hughes followed a few steps behind should they be needed. A few minutes later, the shots rang out.

  “General Custer, ’bout these others?” Crockett asked, indicating Ward, Horton, and Shackelford. There was great suspense, and I was enjoying it.

  “Mr. Ward, at the urging of Colonel Crockett, you may lead what remains of your Georgia Battalion back to Georgia. Do not return,” I sternly said.

  “For my men, I thank you, General,” Ward said, pretending he wasn’t relieved.

  “Dr. Shackelford, what of your Red Rovers?” I respectfully asked, for I had heard good stories of their conduct, unlike many of the militias.