Custer and Crockett Page 6

  “What newspapers are you familiar with back east? The New York Tribune?” I asked.

  “Know a few. Went on a tour of the Yankee states jus’ two year ago. Saw Philadelphia, New York, Boston. Met lots of right friendly folks,” he replied.

  “We’ve got to write some letters.”

  “Letters?”

  “Southerners are flooding into east Texas. Several thousand now, more later. Many are bringing slaves with them, in defiance of Mexican law. The northern states will raise objections if it looks like a plot of the plantation owners.”

  “George, no one hates plantation owners more ’an me, but I don’t think this is no plot. Jus’ folks lookin’ for good land,” Crockett said.

  “They will need to find good land somewhere else. If we can discourage immigration, Burnet and his gang of horse thieves will be forced to flee.”

  “Flee who? Thought the Mexicans is headed south.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Let’s sit down and write some of those newspapers. Explain the Seventh Cavalry is upholding the laws against slavery in Texas. It should rile up Washington, and maybe win us a few recruits.”

  “You takin’ up politics, George?”

  “Don’t know that I have a choice,” I replied.

  Slow and Morning Star emerged from the church. I don’t think Slow was planning on taking up Christianity, but he continued to be impressed with the ceremonies. Morning Star, not so much. She had spent two years at a Catholic girls’ school in St. Louis. Slow was bundled up in a heavy fur coat, for he was not fond of the cold wind. Morning Star was less sensitive, wearing a lovely beaded leather dress, high rawhide boots, and a blue cavalry cape.

  “We must go east,” Slow said, the black eyes shining like they still had candle light in them.

  “Yes, I know,” I said, for it was no secret.

  “I have heard the Gulf of Mexico has much water. I will see this thing for myself,” Slow said, walking toward our headquarters.

  “Morning Star, I’m thinking it’s best the women stay behind when we begin our march. Harrington and Jameson will be rebuilding the town, and there are a hundred wounded men to care for. Including Spotted Eagle,” I said.

  She smiled in a condescending way. Beautiful, but condescending. It was no surprise Tom was smitten with her.

  ____________

  I wasn’t optimistic as we rode southeast along the river. With volunteers pouring in from the slave states, the Brazos army could swell into the thousands. And they’d be well-armed, though likely low on food. And the Mexican army was far from defeated.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom asked.

  “If I commanded a thousand operational troops, I’d launch another campaign within the week,” I explained.

  “Will Santa Anna be so bold?” Cooke asked. “Half of his army was captured or killed at the Alamo.”

  “He wasn’t bold at Churubusco,” I said. “In his memoirs, General Scott wrote that Santa Anna often hesitated when confronted with the unexpected.”

  “Hesitation has never been one of your faults,” Tom said.

  I rode to the head of the column, finding Slow riding with Voss. The boy seemed to sense my uneasiness, but he could hardly grasp the complexities.

  “Which enemies will you kill first?” Slow inquired as we rode together.

  “That is a good question. What do the birds say?” I asked.

  “The birds will not speak of the future. There are many clouds.”

  “Then I will attack the clouds, that the birds might speak,” I replied.

  “Even Custer may not attack a cloud,” he said, irritated by my teasing.

  “I have ridden in the clouds,” I boasted. “As a young lieutenant in Virginia, I rode in a gas filled balloon a thousand feet above the ground. I flew higher than the birds.”

  “How many clouds did you slay while flying among the birds?”

  “I was a general. Then a ghost. And now I am a general again. One day I will be the Great Custer, compared to Caesar, Charlemagne, and Bonaparte. If I choose to slay a cloud, what cloud may resist my onslaught?”

  I gave Traveller a kick, riding toward the head of the column. It had rained that morning, but only lightly, giving us a good trail. Without wagons, we maintained a rapid pace. Bouyer and Kellogg were at the front, an unusual duo, for they normally didn’t care for each other’s company. Bouyer spoke little, and when he did, it was of the landscape, the weather, and available game. Kellogg cared for none of these things, but would not shut up about everything else.

  “Gen’ral, why we headed for Galveston? Ain’t no gold there,” Bouyer said, dressed in frontier leathers and a straw hat shading the emerging sun.

  “It’s the largest seaport in Texas. It needs to fly the Buffalo Flag,” I answered.

  “Ah don’t give a damn ’bout none of these Texians, and you shouldn’t, neither. ’Specially after that Fannin,” Bouyer complained.

  “Mr. Fannin was a disappointment, and he won’t be the last, but there is a method to my madness. Can you bear with me for a few weeks?”

  “Care to explain this madness?” Kellogg asked, wearing a thick maroon coat and tall fur cap against the cold.

  “And what has our representative from the fourth estate so irritable? Still sore about your clay-footed hero?” I said.

  “Not pleased Houston called me an abolitionist spy after refusing a meeting, but this march is a little more worrisome,” Kellogg said. “I agree with Mitch. This seems a foolhardy adventure. And not your first.”

  “Mark, if you’d come with me to the Alamo, you’d have had the noblest war story since Leonidas bled Xerxes at Thermopylae. You dashed off instead. When we get to Galveston, you can take ship back to the states and spend the rest of your life writing dime novels.”

  “Now who’s irritated?” Kellogg said.

  “We’ve got some difficult days ahead, and I can’t read the future,” I replied. “Even the damn birds aren’t talking.”

  I spotted a small group of hunters in the trees off to my right, recognizing Tom, Morning Star and Fresh. With no interest in debating Kellogg or listening to Bouyer complain, I broke off at a gentle trot.

  “What you got?” I asked, pulling my Remington hunting rifle from the sheath. I only had a few rounds left until Señor Seguin could make more, but spending a cartridge would be worth a good kill.

  “Herd of elk,” Tom said.

  Instead of his Winchester, Tom was holding a borrowed Springfield for its greater range.

  “Mind if I join?” I said.

  “Don’t hog the biggest buck, Autie,” Tom said, glancing at Smith.

  I took out the Austrian field glasses stolen from Lt. DeRudio above the Little Big Horn, taking a look. The herd was about forty strong, moving slowly up a broad valley away from the river toward a stand of timber. They hadn’t smelled us yet, but that could change with a shift in the wind.

  “Not elk. Mule deer,” I said, being an expert on all the western species.

  “Don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to, George,” Smith said.

  I saw Fresh had borrowed Butler’s .50 Sharps, the heavy weapon lying across his lap.

  “We’ll see who eats what,” I replied.

  We rode down the broad valley slowly before spreading out. I had the far left, then Tom and Morning Star. Smith was near the trees well to the right. I glanced back toward the road where the command was riding in column of twos. Captain Sepulveda and Sergeant Francisco Sanchez stopped to watch the hunt, both riding noble stallions. Sepulveda’s horse had previously belonged to Fannin.

  We closed within a hundred yards of the herd, a healthy and alert group of beasts. I spied a buck that would make a good kill. Smith dismounted and moved along the edge of the trees. Tom and Morning Star stopped in the middle of the meadow. I saw Morning Star was holding Tom’s Winchester. I started to go around the herd near the tree line when they suddenly spooked, and I quickly saw why. There were half a dozen Comanche on the far side
of the clearing.

  Unlike the Plains Indians of my experience, who often dressed colorfully and wore paint appropriate for the occasion, be it hunting or war, the Comanche appeared drab. Their leather outfits were worn and dirty, lacking in decoration. They seemed like poor cousins of the more famous tribes, but they were not to be underestimated. These warriors had a fierce reputation, were bold in battle, and determined once they’d set their minds to something.

  No words were spoken. I waved to Tom, who nodded to Morning Star and motioned to Smith. The three of them withdrew slowly. Once they were headed back, I rode Traveller out into the meadow and raised my hand, a sign that I wanted to parley. An arrow was loosed at me instead and a dozen warriors burst from the woods, riding hard on spotted mustangs. I wheeled about and rode for my life in the other direction, just as I had when a hundred Sioux had chased me near the Tongue River in 1873. Tom had been there that day, too, with twenty troopers to hold off the charging horde.

  This time we had the odds. Sepulveda deployed G Company just as I had trained him, every fourth man holding the horses while his command formed a skirmish line. Armed with Baker rifles, they would make short work of the Comanche if they came within range.

  Morning Star reached safety first, quickly followed by Tom and Fresh. I stopped twenty yards short of the road and turned, the Remington lying across my knees. Traveller danced beneath me, excited by the sprint. I held up the rifle in warning to my would-be enemies, for I did not want a war. The small band of savages wisely halted, debated for a moment, and then skulked back into the forest. The mule deer had gotten away.

  We left the San Antonio River behind us, turning east through low foothills. I was not very familiar with west Texas, but I knew east Texas fairly well. After the war ended, I had spent six months headquartered in Austin with the 2nd Cavalry. Diligent in my duties, I had earned the respect of the Texans, but not the riffraff assigned to my command. Desertion and insubordination had been vexing problems. So unlike the loyal soldiers of the 5th Michigan I nobly led during the Rebellion.

  “We should be there in a few days,” Isabella said, riding at my side.

  “Have you used this trail before?” I asked.

  “Many times. It is the quickest route from Casa Blanca to Galveston, where my father often had business when I was young,” she said. “It was from Galveston that I left for Cuba.”

  “I did not realize you are so well traveled,” I said in admiration, for she was not only a handsome woman, but well-spoken.

  “My father sent me to the Sisters of Mercy in Mexico City for an education, and later to finishing school in Havana,” she recalled. “My best friend was Anna, the daughter of Sir Lawrence Mulberry. Sir Lawrence was the British consul. Anna and I once wintered in New Orleans. It is a beautiful city.”

  “I’ve been to New Orleans, too. Back in 1865.”

  “You mean up in 1865,” she corrected. “If you are to be a ghost rider, you must remember these details.”

  “I did not set out to be a ghost rider. None of us did. We were sent to corral the Sioux tribes and return them to the reservations, but things didn’t turn out as we expected.”

  “You were killed in this battle? Truly?”

  “That’s one of the strange things. I don’t remember being killed. I remember riding down into a draw toward the village, and then a fog rose up. There was gunfire, and hollering. The pounding of hooves. I’ve had dreams of standing on a weed-covered hill waiting for my regiment to regroup, surrounded by hostiles. And then I was in Texas, forty years in the past. It makes no possible sense.”

  “My father thinks it is a miracle of God,” she said.

  “I don’t know about that. I’ve been lucky all my life, not but enough to attract God’s attention. Besides, Tom and I aren’t the only beneficiaries of this miracle. Morning Star and her cousin Spotted Eagle are ghost riders, too.”

  “What about Slow?” she asked.

  “No, not Slow. Weird, isn’t it?”

  “I should think there is significance there.”

  “He’s an unusual boy, no doubt about that,” I said. “What was New Orleans like when you visited? And Havana? Large garrisons? Trade? What sort of ships are people using in 1836? How often do you see an American flag?”

  “You ask many questions, Autie,” she said with a charming smile.

  “We have many days on the trail, Izzy. There is time.”

  ____________

  It was a late June day, stifling hot, the air choked with dust. The hazy sun hung in the great Montana sky, possibly for the last time. I had divided the command to prevent the hostiles from escaping, unaware that the non-treaty tribes had gathered in unprecedented numbers. But even then, I sensed a chance of victory. A chance that proved illusionary.

  “Tom! Any sign of Benteen?” I asked, turning in my saddle. Vic was tired but still game, having served me well for many years.

  “Nothing, Autie,” my worried brother answered, sitting astride his prized thoroughbred, Athena.

  The command was spread along a grassy ridge. Below us was the Little Big Horn River, and beyond that, the biggest village I had ever seen. Most of the warriors were gone, having ridden south to oppose Major Reno’s charge.

  “I don’t see the women and children,” I said, studying the village through Lt. DeRudio’s Austrian field glasses.

  “Maybe run off, Gen’ral,” Mitch Bouyer said, an experienced scout I had borrowed from General Terry.

  “We’ve got to find them. If we capture the non-combatants, the warriors will return to the reservations without a fight,” I said, glancing to the north. For that’s where I suspected they had gone.

  “Thought you wanted a fight, General,” Mark Kellogg said, a reporter from the Bismarck Tribune. He was riding a mule, but a sturdy one.

  I looked at the village again. Large enough to house thousands. Perhaps thousands upon thousands.

  “I will settle for a victory, Mr. Kellogg,” I replied. “Sergeant Butler, order Lt. Calhoun to hold the southern end of this ridge until Benteen comes up. Captain Keogh will stand in reserve. Lieutenant Smith, you will hold this hill and watch for developments. Captain Custer, you’re with me.”

  Tom and I rode down the gently sloping hill overlooking the river. Bouyer and Kellogg followed. Close by was Sergeant Bobby Hughes, my guidon bearer, and Corporal Henry Voss, the regimental trumpeter. Companies E and F casually followed, sharing what remained of the water and checking their weapons. Our portion of the battlefield was surprisingly quiet.

  “Sir, there they are,” Voss said, pointing to thick woods around a sharp bend in the river.

  We stopped on a bluff, looking down at hundreds of women, children, and a few old men. They had taken what food they could, but most possessions had been left behind in the village in the panic of their flight. There were a few horses and dozens of barking dogs.

  “Rounding them all up will take more men than we have,” Tom said.

  “We need Keogh and Benteen. Let’s reunite the command,” I decided.

  A shot rang out. I glanced at Tom, then Voss. Both were startled.

  “General?” Kellogg said.

  The reporter had a stricken look, his mouth hanging open.

  Several more shots whistled by, and then a group of mounted Cheyenne were riding toward us, hell bent for murder. We wheeled around and headed back up the hill, belatedly realizing Kellogg was no longer with us.

  ____________

  The command did not make directly for Galveston. I knew the town to be located on a barrier island in Galveston Bay. Crossing the wide waterway would require a ferryboat. Probably many ferryboats. Getting a hundred and twenty-five troopers across the water in time to seize the town by surprise seemed a remote possibility.

  We rode south instead, down a marshy peninsula where Seguin said we would find a ferry station. The village there was recently abandoned but not looted. We found several large flatboats and some fishing boats, enough to move the co
mmand across the straight to the western tip of Galveston Island. The operation took the entire day, the waters off San Luis Pass being treacherous.

  Finally back on firm ground, we had the Gulf of Mexico on our right as we moved east along a long spur of land only forty yards wide and filled with reeds.

  “I’ve had enough of these swamps,” Tom said.

  “Better than rowing across the bay in broad daylight. This whole end of the island is unguarded,” I replied, walking cautiously with Traveller trailing behind me.

  “Glad when we find a campsite. It’s starting to get dark,” Cooke said, the sun low on the horizon behind us.

  “Slow?” I asked.

  The boy was up ahead on Vic, the only one of us riding.

  “There is a hill,” Slow tiredly said.

  “The birds tell you that?” Tom asked.

  “I can see it,” Slow answered.

  The narrow strip of swamp land gradually widened into a meadow filled with scraggily trees. We fed the horses and pitched our tents, some of the men searching for firewood. Everyone was looking forward to supper and a hot cup of coffee.

  Though Tom and Morning Star often shared a tent on the trail, respectfully, Morning Star and Isabella had been tent mates on this journey. I would risk no question of Isabella’s virtue.

  “We’re about five miles from the town,” Cooke said, having drawn a map based on his atlas. “I’m guessing flat terrain most of the way.”

  “Port city. Could be a lot of ships. Sailors, too,” Tom said, for we had both visited the harbor before taking ship for New Orleans.

  “Small fort. Only a few cannon,” I said. “We’ll ride in with guns ready. If we’re lucky, no one will need to fire a shot.”

  “I’d call that pretty optimistic,” Almonte said, lingering in the shadows of our campfire with Smith.

  Sepulveda, Bouyer and Kellogg came to join us. Along with Hughes, Butler and Voss, they compromised the majority of my immediate staff.