Custer and Crockett Read online

“Stolen? Sir! I understand the government at San Felipe guaranteed compensation for your voyage. If I’ve stolen from anyone, I’ve stolen from them. And as I don’t recognize their misbegotten rabble of a government, it can’t honestly be said I’ve stolen from anyone. Now apologize.”

  “Sir, I shall do no such thing. I am an American citizen, protected by international law,” DeLaure protested. “The moment I return to New Orleans, you may expect my superiors will hear of your conduct.”

  I heard footsteps on the plank. Tom and Butler were coming with several troopers to secure the ship. Tom sensed the tension between the captain and myself.

  “What’s the problem, Autie?” Tom asked.

  “Captain DeLaure claims we are violating international law and stealing his cargo,” I said. Butler frowned and cocked his Sharps rifle.

  “Let me understand this,” Tom said, scratching the long scar on his chin. “This ship is bringing arms and ammunition to a Mexican port, where the weapons are being sold to rebels fighting the Mexican government, and he is accusing us of violating international law?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s the brunt of it,” I said. “Captain, have we overlooked anything?”

  DeLaure stood with arms crossed, daring us to call him a pirate. Though he was.

  “I say we hang the son of a bitch, sir,” Butler said, looking for a rope.

  “Sad, but I guess there’s nothing else to be done. Better scuttle the ship, too. Don’t want it falling into enemy hands,” I said, beginning to walk away.

  “The Pennsylvania is a merchant ship, sir. My company is contracted to move cargo. The sellers and buyers are none of our concern,” DeLaure explained, unsure of our intentions.

  “Your ship is for hire?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, that’s our business,” DeLaure said.

  Tom and I exchanged a glance. It was important for DeLaure to make the point clear on his own, otherwise we might be guilty of theft.

  “In that case, we will hire your ship,” I said. “You have one week to get ready.”

  “Hire? A week? But sir, there are papers to arrange. Agreements and rates to set. I don’t have the authority,” DeLaure stalled.

  “You will come to my lodging tonight. Contracts will be signed, and approvals made,” I said.

  “Approved by who?”

  “General Antonio López de Santa Anna, President of Mexico,” I said. “And Captain, if you refuse, I can promise that Santa Anna will hang you.”

  I heard DeLaure gulp, for there was no doubt of my resolve.

  “Where is the Pennsylvania going?” he asked.

  “It will be a long voyage,” I replied.

  Toward mid-morning, Isabella and I walked up from the harbor to the pasture where a herd of cattle lingered along a shallow creek. Our horses were grazing among a grove of trees getting much needed rest.

  “There will be a big city here someday. We should consider buying parcels,” I said, holding her hand.

  Isabella wore a high-collared jacket, for the early April weather was damp.

  “You must feel strange, to expect a town where there is only grass,” she said.

  “There’s no way to explain it,” I answered. “The future is so different than the world we know now, and yet the same in so many ways.”

  “Tom and Bill. And Algernon. They all expect to have a better world than the one you knew. One without the blood of a civil war. My father thinks the Texas you saw, where my people are robbed and reduced to peasants, may now be avoided. Are such things possible?”

  The meadow was peaceful, bushy trees surrounding us in a great circle. Some young girls passed by with a goat. A German youngster and his collie were driving a flock of sheep toward town. Recent rains had turned everything green.

  “Slow believes there may be a new path for his people, too. One where their land is not stolen by Washington politicians,” I said. “Izzy, I don’t know if such things are possible. I’m just a soldier. I’m well-read, but not especially clever. I nearly failed philosophy at West Point.”

  “I think you underestimate yourself, Autie. There is a reason God selected you to repair the world,” she said, standing on her toes to give me a kiss.

  “If that’s true, then there’s a reason I found you,” I said, clutching her tightly.

  ____________

  Our first few days on Galveston Island were routine for an undermanned force constantly in danger of being attacked, but in time, we discovered our foes shared the same fears. The remaining locals quickly adapted to our presence. Part of the Mexican Army across the bay gradually moved north in search of food. I allowed Santa Anna to continue issuing orders, maintaining the fiction that he was my guest. As for Houston, he continued gathering volunteers in San Felipe, lacking sufficient supplies for an offense. Overall, I was very pleased. The Buffalo Flag had become a thorn in everyone’s side.

  Just before sunrise one spring morning, a party approached me from the King’s Arms. Butler, French and Private Engle were escorting Santa Anna. The dictator appeared nervous, for if we had decided to shoot him, dawn was the perfect time. Nevertheless, he held himself with dignity.

  “Mr. President,” I greeted.

  “General Custer. Señora Velázquez,” he replied, looking around.

  We stood at the edge of town near the south road. A few stars still twinkled in the dark sky. There had been a waning moon, but it was gone now.

  “Sergeant French, I see you’ve brought the weapons I requested,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” French said, handing me a shotgun recently purchased from the general store. Engle held a shotgun as well.

  “May I inquire as to the meaning of this?” Santa Anna said, straightening to full height, his narrow jaw jutting out.

  I allowed for a dramatic pause, a technique Santa Anna was well schooled in. Then, to his astonishment, I handed him my shotgun and took the other from Engle.

  “It’s a pleasant morning, sir,” I finally replied. “We are going duck hunting. I understand you are quite the sportsman.”

  The president sighed with relief and checked the gun, finding it loaded.

  “How can you be sure I will not shoot you?” he asked.

  “We are both gentlemen,” I replied.

  It was doubtful Santa Anna and I would ever be friends, but I suspected we might discover mutual interests. We spent the rest of the morning on the south shore, discussing the politics of Mexico City, strategies that might be useful against the Brazos rebels, and how to keep the United States out of the war. He laughed when I told him of the letters we’d been writing to the Eastern newspapers. We bagged four mallards.

  That night, I surprised my guest again. As we prepared for a fine meal in the dining room of the King’s Arms, three Mexican officers were escorted from the ferry. I had not previously met Generals José de Urrea or Joaquín Ramírez y Sesma. Colonel Juan Morales, who I had met in Béjar, accompanied them. I greeted them warmly, offering wine and seats at our table. They were suspicious at first.

  “You are brave to accept my invitation, gentlemen,” I said, sitting at the head of the table. We ate from colorfully styled Spanish china, drinking an excellent vintage from crystal cups.

  “We are here under flag of truce,” General Sesma said, taking the chair next to Santa Anna.

  Sesma was about Tom’s age with straight black hair and a long goatee. He had led the Mexican advance into San Antonio more than a month before and commanded the cavalry when they retreated south two weeks later. Next to him was Genera Urrea, a stocky man about my age with a fiery temperament. I was surprised to learn he had been born in Tucson.

  “You fought well at Goliad, General Sesma. Sad you could not take Fort Defiance when you had the chance,” I said.

  “Defeating you was a pleasure,” Sesma said. “And many of the rebels did not get far. We caught their rearguard at Guadalupe y Victoria.”

  This was news to me. Sesma smiled.

  “Fannin?” I asked.
r />   “Most of the rebel leaders escaped, but we shot a hundred of their minions before marching east,” Morales said. “Fannin we will hang, when we catch him.”

  I glanced at Santa Anna, who showed mixed emotions. He had certainly issued the execution orders and felt no sympathy for the rebels, but had to wonder if the massacre would now lead to his own demise. General Urrea did not seem comfortable with the outcome, either. Perhaps he had opposed the decision.

  Sitting near me was Tom, Cooke, and Kellogg. Slow sat on a tall stool by the fireplace. None of the women had been invited, while Smith and Sepulveda were watching the beach for treachery.

  “It is sad when courageous men die for an unholy cause,” I said, raising my glass. “Gentlemen, a toast to the fallen, may their souls find rest in a better world.”

  None rejected my toast. As soldiers, we all knew that one day we may be one of the fallen. Santa Anna let out a relieved breath, his anxiety unnoticed except by me.

  Ben cooked the meal, John and Maria serving. Young Jimmy Allen of C Company was acting as my orderly. Santa Anna’s own orderly assisted, for he had proven a reliable servant. By the time our second course arrived, succulent roast duck, the atmosphere began to relax. Two large fireplaces kept out the chill. Rain still threatened while candles flickered from the occasional draught.

  “It’s too bad General Filisola could not attend,” Cooke said.

  “Vicente waits at Victoria with a thousand men,” Urrea said, unafraid to reveal military information. “When the Army of Operations reunites, we will outnumber the rebels three to one.”

  “Americans are pouring over the Sabine in the hundreds. By summer, they will overrun all of east Texas,” Tom said, for Kellogg had briefed us on the numbers.

  “We are not afraid of such rabble. Nor are we afraid of the troops your President Jackson has stationed on our border,” Sesma said.

  “He’s not our President Jackson,” Tom said. “The Seventh Cavalry is dedicated to freedom. We owe no allegiance to Jackson or any of his plantation owners.”

  “But you are Americans?” Urrea said.

  “General Filisola is Italian, yet he serves your cause,” Cooke said.

  “And whose cause does General Custer serve?” Urrea asked.

  All eyes turned toward me as the table fell silent. I reflected on many things. My riotous youth at West Point. The daring charge of the Michigan Brigade at Gettysburg. Riding off with the spool-turned table upon which Grant had written Lee’s terms of surrender at Appomattox. My court-martial in 1867. The Washita. The Yellowstone Expedition. The Black Hills. The final moments on the weed-covered ridge.

  I got up and went to the fire, standing near Slow. The flames danced in his dark eyes.

  “Whose cause do I serve?” I asked him.

  “You serve the Great Spirit,” Slow answered without hesitation.

  Several of the Mexican officers laughed. My officers did not. Nor did Santa Anna.

  Cooke came to the center of the table and unrolled a map we had prepared. It was a better depiction of Texas than was available in 1836, based on our own maps printed in 1874. The Mexican officers were impressed.

  “President Santa Anna and I have discussed the situation here in Texas,” I said, directing their attention to an area north of Galveston. “Though we have not reached any decisions, we agree the Brazos government as constituted on March 2nd is illegal and must be opposed. David Crockett and myself have organized an army under the Buffalo Flag to protect Texas from these rebels, with or without help from the government in Mexico. We have not declared for an independent country, nor have we dismissed the possibility. To be perfectly frank, we don’t believe Mexico has the strength to hold this territory.”

  “You are arrogant to think we cannot preserve our nation,” Sesma disagreed.

  “Mexico cannot even protect itself from France,” Kellogg said. “During the Pastry War, you’ll discover . . .”

  “Mark, perhaps this isn’t the time,” I said, offering a cold stare.

  “General, they should know that France . . .” he tried to continue.

  “Corporal Allen, please escort Mr. Kellogg from the room,” I ordered.

  The youngster rushed forward, took Kellogg by the jacket, and hustled him outside. Needless to say, this inspired great curiosity among the visitors.

  “Let me apologize, gentlemen. Mr. Kellogg is a story writer,” I explained as the sound of their footsteps faded on the wooden steps.

  “Ghost riders,” Santa Anna whispered, studying the expressions of Tom and Cooke, for both knew of the French interventions that would lead to the conquest of Mexico by Napoleon III.

  “We are proposing a truce,” Tom said, standing over the map. “We occupy San Antonio. We hold Goliad. By now, General Keogh has taken Gonzales. We want a peaceful corridor to the sea, preferably Corpus Christi.”

  “Corpus Christi?” Urrea asked.

  “Copano,” Cooke said, for in 1836 Corpus Christi did not yet exist.

  “You ask much for interlopers. After brushing aside these Texian vermin, we will sweep north and—” Urrea started to say.

  Santa Anna stood up, raising a hand for attention. His expression was imperious, and grim.

  “As my good amigo José says, you ask much. What do you offer?” Santa Anna asked.

  “The Buffalo Flag will hold west Texas as an ally to the Army of Operations,” I said, cautiously feeling my way. For I had not expected such a question so soon. “General Castrillón will be released. We will protect Mexican citizens from marauding Indians, and from the outlaws infesting the country. And we will use our influence in the United States to force the American government to remain neutral.”

  “You have such influence?” Sesma asked.

  “We will,” Tom answered.

  Our guests looked at each other, wondering what to make of the proposal.

  “There is something else,” I added. “Tomorrow morning, after a pleasant breakfast, your president will be returning to his army, without conditions.”

  Tom turned in surprise, but said nothing. I had not warned him of my decision. Cooke scratched at his long sideburns.

  “We have made no agreements,” Urrea warned.

  “Either have I. You know my expectations,” I concluded, very happy with myself. “Gentlemen, another toast. To friends and foes, whoever they may be.”

  After dinner, the women were invited back. We played music and emptied several bottles of wine. I would not say there was no tension, for we remained adversaries, but we grew to understand each other.

  The next morning was cold and shrouded with fog. Before he boarded the ferry, I made Santa Anna a final gesture.

  “Your Excellency, a gift from the Seventh Cavalry,” I said, presenting him with a sword we’d found on the Pennsylvania.

  “It is a fine blade,” Santa Anna said, the ornate weapon shining with a gold-plated hilt.

  “A South Carolina planter intended it for Sam Houston,” I explained.

  “I have something for you,” the president of Mexico replied, reaching into his heavy coat. He withdrew rolled parchments tied with red ribbon. I gripped the documents firmly and shook his hand.

  “Good luck, Antonio,” I said.

  “And to you, George,” he replied.

  The flat boat was loaded with officers, crew, and forty sacks of cornmeal that we were donating to our potential allies. The bay was fairly calm for early April. Santa Anna stood on the stern near the tiller, looking at me until the fog swallowed them.

  “What the hell, Autie?” Tom said. “First you let that son of a bitch go, and then give him that fancy sword?”

  “Tommy, you should listen to your own advice,” I said. “Santa Anna isn’t going to be bound by any agreements we make. He’s a dictator. And a politician. We’re better off making friends than provoking enemies.”

  “What’s on the scroll?” Tom asked.

  “A worthy exchange for a stolen sword, brother.”

&nb
sp; ____________

  In the days that followed, I kept Tom, Cooke, Smith, and even Kellogg busy with constant projects. At first they were mystified by my inquiries, but the lists I gave them soon made my plan clear. We would take everything from Galveston we could carry. And what we couldn’t carry, I would ship to California on our hired schooner.

  “Really, General? A printing press?” Kellogg asked, watching as the equipment was being crated. In addition to the press, an old-fashioned cylinder model made in Boston, we had gathered type, paper, cleansers and ink.

  “Until a few weeks ago, it was the Brazoria Gazette. The publisher shipped it here for safety,” I said, appreciating the irony.

  “And what will you do with your own newspaper? Glorify the adventures of George Armstrong Custer?” Kellogg said.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to. Along with handbills, advertisements, and proclamations. Anything Harper’s Weekly can do, we can do.”

  “Harper’s Weekly isn’t even published yet,” Kellogg said. “Won’t be for another twenty years.”

  “Good, that makes us innovators. Haven’t you ever wanted to publish a newspaper? You helped establish the Bismarck Tribune, didn’t you?”

  “You know I did,” he said.

  “We’ll need a newspaper when we reach California. One that will tell people what they need to know.”

  “What you want them to know.”

  “Mark, we fought a Civil War where newspaper correspondents from all over the world reported every battle. They watched Congress. Quoted Lincoln. Wrote editorials. Men like Greely and Raymond shaped opinion. Now we’ll do the same.”

  “Was this your idea, George?” Kellogg asked.

  “No, it was Bill Cooke’s idea, but it’s still a good one.”

  “I’ll make sure they use plenty of straw in the packing,” Kellogg said, going to help.

  The printing press wasn’t the only booty we were confiscating. Galveston had a blacksmith, a gunsmith, barrel makers, leather shop and feed store. If we didn’t take advantage, the Mexican army or the rebels would.

  “No twinge of conscience, Autie?” Tom asked, for several craftsmen were now out of work.