“So this has nothing to do with the Federalist rebellion under López de Santa Anna?”
Johnson looked confused. “Who’s rebelling against what?”
“Santa Anna is leading a rebellion against President Bustamante,” Thomas explained. “It looks like it may succeed.”
“These people are mad. Bustamante just became president when he had President Guerrero executed.”
“You’re missing the point,” Thomas said. “The Law of April 6th that halted American immigration and caused all these problems was decreed by Bustamante. If Santa Anna deposes him as president we have a good chance at getting the law repealed.”
“How does that solve our immediate problem of freeing Jack, Travis and the other settlers?”
“It doesn’t but you’re at a standoff anyway, so unless you want to make those two men into martyrs, you’ve got no choice but to pull back.”
“And do what?”
“Well the first thing I’d do would be to issue a formal complaint listing your grievances so that you don’t appear to be a band of criminals attacking a legal, government institution.”
Johnson nodded. “Like a declaration of independence.”
“No, no, hell no. Don’t go that far or you’ll have Santa Anna down on you the minute he takes office or installs his puppet government.”
“You should write it.”
“You’re the lawyer.”
“I’m a law school graduate, sir. You should write it.”
“I don’t know enough about what’s been going on down here to even begin,” Thomas said. “I live in another world up there on the Colorado.”
“Well, I suppose I should put it to a vote first,” Johnson said after a moment.
“Put what to a vote?”
“Whether we should withdraw or try to free Jack, Travis and the other prisoners.”
Thomas shrugged. “That would be your decision.”
“If they vote to fight are you with us?”
“Yes. But I can’t stay here through a long siege. We’ve got troubles with the Cherokees and the Kiowa.”
“John Austin has gone to Brazoria for cannons. He should be back soon.”
“He won’t get them unless he takes them by force,” Thomas said. “When I spoke to Colonel Ugartechea he made it very clear to me that he isn’t willing to oppose Bradburn.”
“I don’t think Austin was planning to take the cannon from the fort.”
“No matter where he gets his cannon he still has to transport them up the Brazos and Ugartechea isn’t going to let him.”
“Maybe you should go over there.”
“I’ll wait and see what you people decide and if there’s not going to be a fight here, I’ll go home by way of Brazoria.”
June 28, 1832
Velasco Presidio, Coahuila, Mexican Province of Tejas
“I did my best to convince Ugartechea,” John Austin said. “But he stubbornly refuses to join us or to allow us to transport the cannon up the Brazos.”
“I was afraid of that,” Thomas said. “How long have you had him under siege?”
“Three days,” Austin replied. “He’s almost out of ammunition. He’ll ask for a truce soon.”
“Well,” Thomas said. “If you don’t need me I’ve got Indian troubles at home.”
“Go on home. Thank you for coming down here. After we’ve won our independence I’ll come up and help you get rid of those troublesome Indians.”
August 1, 1832
Mississippi River and Bad Axe River, Wisconsin Territory
The steamboat Warrior had no passenger space, but instead towed a barge that easily accommodated the soldiers and crew. Yank was in his comfortable cabin, reading a book that he’d borrowed from Captain Throckmorton when he heard musket fire from shore. As he stood to look out the porthole, the cannon on the steamboat’s bow fired and a musket ball ripped through the wainscot between his knees. He dressed quickly and by the time he reached the steamboat, the troops were heavily engaged with a band of Indians on the shore. “That’s Black Hawk’s English Band,” Yank called to Lieutenant Kingsbury.”
“Can’t you hold her steady?” Kingsbury shouted at Throckmorton, ignoring Yank. “We’re drifting out of range.”
“I’m trying,” Throckmorton shouted back. “But we don’t have enough wood to keep this up much longer.”
“How long?” Lieutenant Holmes asked.
“Maybe thirty more minutes.” Throckmorton looked at the chronograph. “I have to leave us enough fuel to maneuver in the River and at Prairie du Chien. There’s no dock there that we can use.”
“What the hell happened?” Yank asked. “How did we get tangled up with Black Hawk?”
“We came around the bend and he was crossing the river here,” Throckmorton replied.
“A war party or his whole band?”
“Men, women and children. He tried to surrender but the soldiers started shooting and shouting to remember Indian Creek.”
The boat had now moved upstream too far and in addition to the musket fire, the Indians rained arrows down on it.
“Damn it man,” Kingsbury shouted at Throckmorton. “Pay attention to what you’re doing. You’re going to get us killed.”
“I could drop anchor and let you fight your way out of that,” Throckmorton countered.
As Yank walked forward, a musket ball plucked at his sleeve. “Do you have an extra rifle or musket, Lieutenant Kingsbury? If I’m going to be a target, I might as well shoot back.
“How’s that?” Kingsbury nodded toward a Kentucky rifle and ammunition pouch on the deck. “It belonged to a scout that we lost upriver.”
“That’ll do fine.” Yank knelt, loaded, stood up, fired and an Indian with a musket fell. He reloaded, fired and brought down another warrior.
“Militia.” Lieutenant Holmes pointed to the shore.
“Let’s disengage, Captain,” Kingsbury said. “The militia can keep them pinned down while we refuel and come back.”
“We don’t have time to get to Prairie du Chien, refuel and get back here before dark,” Captain Throckmorton warned.
“We’re about out of powder anyway,” Holmes added.
“Very well,” Kingsbury replied. “Cease fire,” he shouted. “Make for Prairie du Chien, Captain Throckmorton.”
As Throckmorton struggled to stop the paddles and reverse one, the big boat began to float downstream on the current.
Yank had reloaded and fired knocking a warrior down who had taken aim at the militia.
“I said cease fire,” Kingsbury growled.
“Don’t start getting the idea that I’m going to take orders from you, Lieutenant,” Yank answered as he reloaded the rifle, “or you’re in for a big disappointment,”
“We’re out of range,” Kingsbury replied for lack of anything better to say.
Yank shot a warrior with a tomahawk who was standing over a downed militiaman, ready to strike. “What was that, Lieutenant?”
Kingsbury grinned, shook his head and then looked at Holmes. “How far?”
“Two hundred and seventy-five yards,” Holmes guessed. “Twice musket range.”
Kingsbury looked back at Yank. “This would be a good time for me to shut up, I think.”
August 1, 1832
Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin Territory
The soldiers from the steamboat Warrior had marched to Fort Crawford to resupply, while the Warrior’s crew loaded fuel. Yank had followed the troops at route step until several officers and a half company of musketeers halted them outside the main gate. Unwilling to wait for the business to conclude, Yank walked around the formation but was stopped by an army surgeon. “I’m Dr. William Beaumont and I need to examine you before you can enter the fort.”
“The hell you do,” Yank replied. “I don’t need to go in there that badly.”
Beaumont signaled a colonel who walked over to join them. “What’s the trouble?”
“This man refuses to be
examined,” Beaumont said.
“That’s not quite accurate,” Yank argued. “The doctor said I couldn’t enter the fort without an examination and I said I didn’t need to go in there that badly.”
“I’m Zachery Taylor, the commanding officer here and I’m afraid that the doctor understated our needs. I’m going to have to insist that you submit to an examination.”
“The hell you are,” Yank said.
Taylor was on the verge of shouting but stopped and looked closer at Yank. “General Van Buskirk?”
Yank grinned at him.
“My God,” Taylor exclaimed, shaking Yank’s hand. “I didn’t recognize you under the whiskers.”
“The Sioux stole my scissors and razor.”
“I haven’t seen you since Fort Harrison.”
“Bill Harrison told me that you’d resigned your commission,” Yank said. “I was damn angry at you for that after I’d pulled so many strings to get you promoted to Major.”
“They reduced me back to captain in 1814 so I resigned. But then they took me back the next year as a major.” He looked over his shoulder. “Your son is here, General, but I really can’t let you go into the fort until you’ve been examined. We’re fighting cholera.”
“Cholera,” Yank repeated. “I thought it was confined to Europe.”
“So you don’t know,” Taylor said, nervously.
Yank shook his head.
“It came in through Canada and there was a terrible epidemic in Buffalo.” He squirmed. “It killed your daughter-in-law and your grandchildren.”
“Little John’s dead?” Yank staggered back as if he’d lost his balance then almost immediately recovered some of his composure, walked away, blew his nose in his handkerchief and then walked back. “Sorry, Zach.”
“I thought I should tell you and save Jack from having to do it,” Colonel Taylor said apologetically. “I guess I could have done it better.”
“No, no, thank you, Zach.” Yank looked at Beaumont. “I’ll take the physical examination, Doctor. Where should I go?”
“I can do it,” Beaumont said. “I’m terribly sorry about your family, General.”
~
Yank knocked on the door and waited until it opened. “Hello, Jack.”
“Dad?” Jack gasped. “Dad.” He threw his arms around Yank. “Oh Dad.”
Yank looked nervously down the hall then awkwardly patted his son on the back.
Jack stepped back with tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Don’t be.” Yank pushed him gently into the room and closed the door. “Zach Taylor told me about Caroline, little John and baby Thomas. I’m very sorry.”
“I miss them every day,” Jack said. He turned away abruptly, went to the wash basin, washed his face then blew his nose in a handkerchief and washed his face again. “Being here, so far from them, I wouldn’t have seen them anyway but I’d be able to think about them. I could imagine how the children had grown.” He shook his head and blinked back more tears.
Yank sat down on the bunk. “I know I haven’t been much of a father, Jack, but…”
“Don’t say that, Dad. You’ve been a fine father. There’s never been a moment in my life when I wasn’t proud to be your son.”
“Somehow that doesn’t seem to be enough.”
Jack’s reply was interrupted by a knock on the door and Yank got up to open it.
“Sorry to intrude,” General Henry Atkinson said. “But we need to move out in pursuit of Black Hawk before he slips away again.”
Yank looked at Jack who nodded almost imperceptivity before shaking Atkinson’s hand. “Come in, Henry.” He closed the door behind the general.
“I’m moving out with the militia immediately, Major,” Atkinson said to Jack, “and I would be grateful if your regulars could come with us.”
Jack opened the door again and looked out. “Captain Davis?”
“Sir.” The man hurried toward him.
“A favor please.”
“Yes, sir?” The captain came into the room.
“Oh.” Jack turned to Yank. “General John Van Buskirk, may I present Captain Jefferson Davis.”
“Captain Davis.” Yank shook the young man’s hand.
“It’s an honor to meet you, General.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Davis turned back to Jack. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Would you please tell Captain Turner to get the men out in the company street, armed and in battle dress? We are moving out immediately in pursuit of Black Hawk and his British Band.” He looked at Atkinson. “Where are they, sir?”
“They’re at Bad Axe River,” Atkinson said.
“Please tell Turner that the troops are to pack for three days.”
Davis nodded and left the room.
“That boy doesn’t like me,” Atkinson said.
“He has a strong prejudice against militia, General,” Jack said. “It’s nothing personal.”
“Jerk a knot in his tail, Henry,” Yank suggested. “Who’s his commanding officer?”
“Colonel Taylor,” Atkinson said. “But I don’t want to cause any trouble, Yank.”
“Is Zach marching with you too Henry?”
“Taylor? No. His orders are explicit to defend the fort.”
“Well, you couldn’t find a better man than Zach Taylor for that job. At least you know that if you have to retreat to here, the fort will still be in friendly hands.”
“How many are we facing out there?” Atkinson asked.
“The whole band is up there,” Yank said. “Over a thousand. But there are no more than five or six hundred warriors.”
“Then we have a two to one advantage. We’ll crush him this time.”
“Not so fast, Henry,” Yank said. “There are several hundred Sauk and Fox somewhere near Black Hawk that are, so far, unaccounted for.”
“We can handle them too.”
“Who has your brigades?” Yank asked.
“James Henry, Alexander Posey, Milton Alexander and Major Van Buskirk’s regulars.”
August 2, 1832
Bad Axe River, Wisconsin Territory
The steamboat Warrior finished refueling at midnight and left Prairie du Chien immediately. Captain Throckmorton estimated that against the river’s strong current, they would arrive at the previous day’s location no sooner than 10:00 AM.
At dawn, Jack’s regulars took the center and led Atkinson’s forces toward the Indians’ main camp and brushed the scouts aside. Black Hawk and many others had slipped away during the night to go north leaving a vacuum in leadership that soon turned a retreat into flight.
Alexander and Posey were on Jack’s right with Henry’s brigade on the left. Henry came out of the woods, on the top of a bluff, above several hundred Sauk and Fox warriors, women and children. A fierce battle followed for about thirty minutes, until Jack ordered half his regulars to break contact and close with Henry’s force to cut off the enemy’s escape route. Some of the Indians took to the river, reaching a willow-covered island, but many, mostly women and children, drowned.
At about 10:30 when Warrior reached the island, Holmes directed fire from the 6-pounder onto the island until all resistance vanished. Soon after, the militia commanders lost control of their men and a massacre followed with the soldiers killing both combatants and noncombatants indiscriminately and then scalping or otherwise mutilating the dead.
The regulars, under Major Jack Van Buskirk, took seventy-five prisoners and no scalps, the militia took no prisoners but countless scalps.
The few Sauk and Fox who had managed to escape across the River ran into the Sioux warriors of Chief Wabasha. Wabasha brought in sixty-eight scalps and twenty-two prisoners. U.S. forces losses totaled five dead and nineteen wounded.
October 1, 1832
San Felipe de Austin, Coahuila, Mexican Province of Tejas
“This man is a squatter.” Wharton pointed at Thomas Van Buskirk. “He doesn�
�t have the right to attend this meeting let alone be elected as a delegate.”
Stephen Austin banged his gavel for order as several people shouted in response. “Mr. Van Buskirk is not a squatter, sir. Through a series of missteps on my part he was denied the land that he paid for and he has now settled on public domain land.”
“That’s Comanche land,” the delegate from Nacogdoches shouted. “Nothin’ public about it.”
“If it belongs to the Comanches,” Captain Whipple shouted back, “it’s only theirs by right of conquest since they took it by force from the Caddo that was up there first. Who’s t’ say that Tom can’t take it from them by the same method?”
“You’re just sayin’ that it belongs to anyone who wants it,” the other man challenged.
“I’m sayin’ that it belongs to anyone strong enough to take it and hold it until the Government says who’s the rightful owner,” Whipple shot back.
“Order please,” Austin called, pounding the gavel again. “Anyone that wants to speak will be given the opportunity. The chair recognizes Frank Johnson.”
Johnson got to his feet. “When I asked for help at Anahuac, Thomas Van Buskirk came all the way down from his ranch on the Colorado with armed vaqueros. That, to me, is more than enough to entitle him to attend this meeting. I don’t know about the rest.”
“And he stood by me at Velasco,” John Austin added.
Stephen Austin banged the gavel again as voices were raised in argument. “Let’s just put it to a vote and get on to the main issue. All those in favor of recognizing Thomas Van Buskirk as a delegate to this convention signifying by saying aye.” He waited for the response. “Those opposed?” He waited again then banged his gavel. “The ayes have it. Welcome, Delegate Van Buskirk.”
“Hold on,” Wharton bellowed. “What does he represent?”
Austin walked to the map. “This area of Comanche territory along the Colorado River from the Beale and Rayuellas Grant, to the Austin and Williams Grant, formerly known as the Nashville Grant.”
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