Custer and Crockett Page 10

“We’re issuing notes in lieu of payment. What more can we do?” I answered.

  “Worthless script, isn’t it?” Tom said.

  “It worked for Sherman’s army when he marched to the sea. Would you rather go without? California in 1836 is a wilderness. We’re not going to find any of these tools there.”

  “Someday we’ll make the notes good,” Tom swore.

  During the night, one of the American merchant ships in the harbor slipped away, no doubt warned by Captain DeLaure that they were sure to be shanghaied. The second ship ran aground on Pelican Island. I sent French and Voss with twenty men to see what supplies they could salvage. A ship of the Texas navy, the Invincible, flirted with an anchorage, but withdrew into Galveston Bay. Another ship was not so fainthearted, gliding toward the harbor through a light morning mist.

  “Sir, look at that,” Butler said, standing with me on the bastion of the Customs House. “I haven’t seen anything like that since Hampton Roads. What is it?”

  “It’s a British man-of-war, Jimmy. I knew they patrol Caribbean waters, but didn’t expect to see them here,” I said, watching through the long spyglass. Butler had my binoculars.

  The ship was a beauty. Three tall masts with billowing sails. There were a dozen cannon on the upper deck and closed hatches on the lower deck for a dozen more. Seamen were tying down unneeded sheeting. A large British flag flew from the stern while smaller flags flapped from the top mast. Hundreds of people on both sides of the bay rushed toward the beaches to watch.

  “What does it mean, sir?” Butler asked.

  “I don’t know, but that ship is much too large to dock at our pier. They’ll need to anchor in the channel and use their rowboats. Have Sepulveda take a detachment down to greet them.”

  “Hell, sir, are we going to capture the limey ship now, too?” Butler inquired.

  I looked at Butler in wonderment, and a bit of pride that he thought me so daring.

  “No, Jimmy, I’m not declaring war on the British Empire,” I replied.

  Butler rushed off to issue my orders, though it would take the warship at least two more hours to find a good anchorage. I left Cooke in command of the Customs House and returned to the plaza, wondering how to deal with our new guests, but was soon interrupted by a passel of German immigrants.

  “Voss, what is this?” I asked as six large wagons with thirty hardy men entered the town, followed by a dozen women and just as many children.

  “Sir, Mr. Johann Friedrich Ernst from Oldenburg,” Voss explained with great excitement. Born in Germany himself, he clearly enjoyed finding these fellow expatriates. “They were forced to flee their ranches when the Mexicans came.”

  The tall German whispered to Voss, shaking an angry finger as his cheeks turned red. He was about forty years old, stoutly built, and dressed better than average for this part of the country.

  “Mr. Ernst says it was General Burleson’s men who stole his cattle and burned their colony, which old Steve Austin gave them,” Voss continued. “Says he didn’t survive Napoleon just to have his land ravaged by outlaws.”

  “What are they doing here? Looking for a ship home?” I asked.

  “Been camping down near Pelican Island, sir,” Voss said. “Helped us offload some of the supplies from that wrecked ship. Don’t think they want back to Germany.”

  I went to inspect the wagons, impressed by their quality. Back in New Rumley, my father had repaired such wagons in his blacksmith shop, though not quite so good as these.

  “Mr. Ernst appears to be a master of his craft,” I remarked.

  Ernst spoke again in rapid sentences. My own family has German roots, originally being the Küster clan from the Rhineland. But that was a hundred and forty years before I was born. I had never learned to speak my ancestral language, nor the Irish of my mother.

  “Their town was called Industry, sir,” Voss explained. “Says they made everything they needed, and sold the rest to colonists around Mill Creek. He hoped more immigrants would follow them here, until the war broke out.”

  The wagons not only had sacks of coffee and sugar from the beached merchant ship, but Voss had salvaged crates of French wine, rolls of silk, and a chest of fine china. For a country at war, the Texans were sure importing some strange cargo. I took Voss aside.

  “Henry, a colony with such skills can be very valuable,” I whispered. “Can you convince them to join us in California?”

  “Sir?” Voss said in surprise.

  “Invite Mr. Ernst to dinner. We’ll talk more,” I eagerly said. “The ship that ran aground. Can it still sail?”

  “Hell, sir, I don’t know,” Voss said.

  I smiled before running toward the hotel, seeking my best uniform. And wondering if acquiring a fleet would make me an admiral.

  Just before noon, the British warship dropped anchor in the channel with a great splash. The sound of a crisp whistle echoed over the water, assembling the crew. I ordered our Mexican flag taken down and the Buffalo Flag raised in its place, for I did not wish the English captain to feel tricked. They lowered a long boat and smoothly rowed toward our small dock, the craft carrying twenty men.

  Slow and I watched from the pier, where they would need to dock opposite the Pennsylvania. Isabella and Morning Star joined us, straw baskets filled with fresh picked oranges, plums and cherries. On the embankment to my right was Smith with E Company. To the left was Sepulveda and G Company. Tom had C Company in the plaza, the Twin Sisters pulled back to avoid misunderstandings.

  When they docked, the Royal Marines came first, a dozen brightly red clad soldiers armed with single shot muskets, bayonets hanging from their thick white belts. The marines lined up on the pier in column of twos led by their sergeant. Two officers followed.

  “Captain William Bush of His Majesty’s Ship Lydia,” the younger officer introduced, tall and thin with clear perceptive eyes. His straight brown hair was cut short, and he had recently shaved, smelling of lilac water. “Accompanying me is Sir Thomas Cochrane, 10th Earl of Dundonald, Rear Admiral of the Blue.”

  The admiral was smartly dressed in a black frock coat and gray trousers. Brass buckles adorned his shoes, worn over long white stockings. His cocked hat was carried under his left arm. I would put him at sixty years old, likely Scottish. Gray stubble ran along the edge of his broad chin.

  “Not Sir Thomas,” Cochrane said with a trace of bitterness. “Whom do I address?”

  “General George Custer, commanding the Seventh Cavalry,” I said. “This is Isabella Seguin, daughter of Erasmo Seguin, quartermaster of Texas. And Morning Star of the Great Sioux Nation with her brother, Slow.”

  “Yesterday your town flew a Mexican flag. Last week, it flew a Texian flag. Now it flies a buffalo. May we inquire as to the meaning?” Captain Bush asked.

  His accent was common for an Englishman, possibly not an aristocrat. Unlike Cochrane, who reeked of nobility.

  “Most certainly, but first the ceremony,” I said, giving Voss the signal.

  My troops came to attention, presenting arms, and the band began playing “God Save the King.” When they were done, the men stood down and returned to their duties.

  “We have organized a demonstration for you,” I said. “The Seventh Cavalry carries weapons you’ve never seen before. You will find them interesting. And the women of Galveston have goods for sale. After the festivities, I’ve arranged a fine meal for you at the King’s Arms. Your sailors may have the liberty of the town.”

  Captain Bush looked to Cochrane for instructions. The admiral acquiesced.

  The sun had set by the time we finished our tour. Twelve years before, I had met a British admiral while in Washington, just before the Grand Review. Times change, but admirals don’t. Cochrane was proud, stuffy, and easily offended, though I did not sense his anger was directed at me.

  “We have long standing obligations in this sea,” Bush said, drinking rum. “The Admiral led the Chilean Navy to victory over Spain. And the Brazilian Navy, too. His cou
nsel on local conditions is much sought after.”

  “But he has no command of his own?” Tom asked.

  “My knighthood was stolen from me by the Prince Regent. I will not accept a command until my honor is restored,” Cochrane said, sipping our best vintage wine.

  “But they made you an admiral?” Tom pressed.

  “I earned my flag, youngster,” Cochrane replied.

  We were a small dinner group. The two British officers, Tom, myself, and the ladies. Even Slow had found excitement elsewhere.

  “Does your government intend to take sides in the revolution?” I asked, for that is what I most wished to learn.

  During the Civil War, the threat of British recognition of the Confederacy had been a constant worry, for France and Spain would quickly follow. Our blockade of Southern ports would have been disrupted. Only the issue of slavery, unpopular in England, had kept the British Navy out of the war.

  “No. We are watching, but no more,” Captain Bush said.

  “Placing any bets?” I asked.

  “Sir?” Bush replied.

  “The Earl may have won independence for Chile and Brazil, but he didn’t do so well in Greece, did he?” I said.

  “What would you know of my war against Ottoman tyranny?” Cochrane asked, eyes wide and chin out.

  “I read your autobiography while at West Point, sir. Even got demerits for being late to drill. Liked it so much, I sent a copy to Tom. Cooke has read it, too. Your adventures read like a novel,” I said.

  “Sir, I have not yet published my memoirs. Have not even finished them,” Cochrane insisted, his ruddy cheeks blushing.

  Tom and I laughed, though we should have shown more restraint. Cochrane was the stuff of legend, like John Paul Jones or Horatio Nelson. Just meeting him was an unexpected honor.

  “Your knighthood will be restored,” Tom said. “Though it’s sad you must spend so many years idle. It’s a bustling world, your Highness.”

  “I am a lord, not a highness, and I doubt you can read the King’s mind on matters of state,” Cochrane said. “But it is indeed a bustling world.”

  “Your rapid fire weapons are impressive, and there are strange stories about,” Bush said. “But we have traveled the world. We hear many strange stories.”

  “If a new nation were to appear, one stretching from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific Ocean, what position might your government take?” I abruptly asked. “Such a nation might not wish to ally with the United States. Or with Mexico. Such a nation might seek allies elsewhere.”

  “You ask where I place my bets?” Bush answered. “Not on a small mercenary force with no support among the population. Mexico has a government. The Texians have a rudimentary government. All you have is a flag.”

  A rocket lit the sky over the bay. I dabbed my chin with a napkin and walked out on the balcony. The night had cleared, the stars twinkling off the dark water.

  “A flag and a navy,” I casually remarked.

  The others came to the railing with me, watching as another rocket streaked overhead.

  “Major Cooke has just captured the Invincible,” I said, taking out my binoculars. “Schooner class, eight cannon, 125 tons. Formally registered to the Provisional Government of Texas. A fine escort for my fleet.”

  “How?” Bush asked, taking the binoculars from me without asking.

  “A bit of a ruse, I’m afraid. Cooke borrowed your long boat and went out under a British flag. Cooke is Canadian. He can speak with a Welsh accent when he wants to. Those rockets mean C Company now has command of the ship.”

  “Piracy! It’s piracy under His Majesty’s colors!” Bush said, not at all pleased.

  Admiral Cochrane laughed, his gray eyes squinting with delight. He returned to the table and filled his wine glass to the brim. We had a long evening ahead with much to discuss.

  Seven days after HMS Lydia dropped anchor, the warship had taken on fresh water and departed for parts unknown. My ships left the next morning. Escorted by the Invincible, the schooners Pennsylvania and Santiago were on their way to California. Cooke had been given the assignment, taking Sepulveda and G Company with him, along with Frederic Ernst and his colonists, ready to begin a new life in a richer land.

  Admiral Thomas Cochrane had joined Cooke as well, as an unofficial adviser. At least, that’s how the log books read. He had really taken command of the fleet, promising them a safe voyage around the cape. The old man seemed anxious for one last adventure, and I had promised him one for the history books.

  When the ships sailed from Galveston Bay, they carried cargo more precious than cannons, tools and Germans. Isabella had decided to visit Mexico City, meet with old friends, and speak discreetly to members of the Mexican congress. I asked her not to become a spy. We didn’t need another Belle Boyd, but Isabella said the Seguin family name could do much for our cause. And she was quite determined. I gave her the red silk scarf that had saved my life at the Alamo, kissing her farewell. And I dispatched Juan Almonte to keep her out of danger.

  On Thursday, April 21th, 1836, the remaining troopers of the Seventh Cavalry crossed Galveston Bay and rode out for Goliad, led by Smith. He took the heavy freight wagons and a train of pack animals. Mules, burrows, oxen, and every horse we could find. It was either take them or shoot the poor beasts, and I’d had enough of that at the Washita.

  Only a few of us stayed behind, for we still had a special mission to accomplish. That afternoon, I formed my party aboard the steamboat Yellowstone, contracted to carry us up the Trinity River. There were ten of us, our horses, and enough supplies for two weeks. It would not be the swift moving battalion I wanted, for we dragged along six mules and the weather was still poor. Nor was I pleased that Morning Star had decided to join us.

  “She is necessary,” Slow declared.

  “It’s also dangerous,” I said. “We cover two hundred miles of enemy infested country before reaching the Cherokee villages.”

  “The Tsalagiyi Nvdagi need to know your treaty is not another trick of the white man. As they have been tricked by this Houston,” Slow said.

  “I don’t know that Houston has tricked them, only that he’s made promises he can’t keep,” I said, wanting to be fair.

  “Is that not the way of the white man? To say he cannot keep his promises?” Slow challenged, annoying and quite correct.

  “If you feel that way, what makes my word any better?” I asked.

  Slow stared at me with those big black eyes, gazed toward the trees for a moment as if hearing something no one else could, and then nodded. But he didn’t answer my question.

  Morning Star looked beautiful, having acquired a red British marine uniform, complete with a short blue cape. The leather boots were knee length, and she wore a black cockade hat. She laughed when I gaped at her in amazement, for she was a vision not to be dismissed.

  The Yellowstone pushed off from the dock, leaving Galveston to whichever army occupied it first. Captain John Ross joined me on the main deck, a brusque old river rat smoking a corncob pipe. His sailor’s cap was faded, the sleeves of his flannel coat frayed. His shaggy gray beard hung down over a yellow scarf.

  “Sure ye won’t rather go up the Brazos? Get ya lots closer to Gonzales,” Ross recommended.

  “We’re headed for Fort Worth,” Tom said, standing on the bow with Morning Star and Slow.

  Morning Star had seen many steamboats during her school years in St. Louis, but this was a first for Slow. And a disappointing one. The Yellowstone was an old Mississippi cotton barge, patched up just enough to stay afloat, and there were bullet holes in her smokestacks.

  “Don’t know no Fort Worth,” Ross said. “Ain’t no forts upriver a ’tall, though there’s been talk of buildin’ one. Had some good fightin’ below Groce’s Landin’ when Houston moved his men ’cross. Cannon, even. But they’s all moved on by now.”

  “Just get us as far as you can. We’re on our way to visit Chief Bowles,” I said, looking back to see how the horses w
ere doing. Vic and Athena had been on boats before, but Traveller and some of the new mounts looked a little skittish. Butler and Voss were keeping them calm. Poor Jimmy Allen was on shovel duty.

  “Cherokee? What in Sam Hill for?” Ross asked, spitting over the wooden rail. “Kill ’em all, sir. Kill ’em all. Nothing but hell-born heathen scum.”

  “What do you think, Slow? Should we kill them all?” I asked.

  “No, Yellow Hair,” the boy said in all seriousness. “They are Cherokee, not Crows.”

  “There you have it, Captain. The Cherokee are not Crows,” I said.

  Captain Ross walked away, convinced we were crazy.

  “This shouldn’t be hard, Autie,” Tom said. “We’ll be riding straight north until reaching the Neches. From there the Cherokee won’t be hard to find.”

  It took several days to work our way up the Trinity River. Most of the countryside was wilderness, though there were occasional plantations and small outposts. We learned Fannin had fallen back from the Colorado River and General Filísola was quick on his trail. With Santa Anna and Urrea slowly approaching from the south, the rebel army would soon find itself pressed on two flanks.

  The river grew narrow, the water shallow. The Yellowstone could give us another twenty miles or so. From there we would need to find our own way. The only maps we’d found for this part of Texas weren’t helpful.

  Life aboard the Yellowstone was not bad. It reminded me of the Far West, the steamboat General Terry had used for his headquarters during our march into the Dakotas. Our cramped cabins were bearable, and we had use of a latrine rather than buckets. We had brought meats and vegetables with us, not trusting the riverboat’s cuisine, and there was plenty of jerky for the trail. John insisted on serving us, just as he had insisted on joining our party rather than return to San Antonio. I promised myself to give him a raise when funds permitted.

  Finally grounded, we disembarked to make camp, needing a full day to organize our march. Captain Ross accepted the hundred dollars in gold I gave him, and a note for a hundred more. Kellogg told me the Yellowstone would disappear somewhere in the Buffalo Bayou in 1837, presumably sunk in the swamps. I offered no warning, for making such predictions gathered more scorn than appreciation.