“We’ve had no word from Fort Defiance,” Baugh mentioned, though with the countryside swarming with cavalry patrols, messages might have been intercepted.
“Gentlemen, we will attack,” I ordered. “Captain Dickenson, bring the artillery up to support Colonel Custer at the ford. Captain Sepulveda, have your teamsters hurry the train along. I don’t want Dickenson’s guns running out of ammunition. Myles, I want you to probe toward the left. Cross the river where you can and find their line of supply. Burn whatever you can’t bring back.”
Being a true Irishman, Keogh’s face lit up like a Christmas pudding.
“And you, General Custer?” Mark Kellogg asked.
I didn’t even know Kellogg was riding with the command. The last I’d heard, the former reporter for the Bismarck Tribune had gone to Gonzales. In his early forties, Kellogg wore a rumpled blue suit, tall leather boots, and a yellow straw hat. His dark brown eyes were always filled with a smirking challenge.
“What are you doing here? Thought you were looking for Houston?” I inquired.
“Houston is getting ready to fall back on San Felipe, when he’s not getting drunk,” Kellogg said. “I didn’t see much point in staying around.”
“Do you know his plans?” I asked.
“The Brazos Convention is standing by their declaration of independence,” Kellogg reported. “Trouble is, they don’t have any money, and they fight with each other more than anything else. That doesn’t answer my question, general. What are you doing to do?”
“We’ll branch off to the right. See if we can take the enemy in flank,” I replied, tightening my belt.
The Goliad Road was the primary avenue from the port town of Copano to San Antonio, wide enough for wagons. The countryside to the west was less promising. Rolling hills and tangled thickets stretched as far as the eye could see. But there were buffalo trails, and I was leading a cavalry outfit. Anyplace the buffalo could go, the Seventh could go, too.
“Crockett, keep the column moving forward. E Company, you’re with me,” I said, seeing a worn path.
The forty of us followed the narrow trail through thick brush, then into a long valley. Portions were swampy due to the recent rain. A mile on, I led the command into the woods, scouting the best path. A few scattered shots were heard in the distance.
“Call the company forward, but quietly,” I said to my color bearer.
“One company to turn their flank, General?” Sergeant Hughes asked, waiting for a chance to unfurl our colors.
Bobby Hughes had been my color bearer for several years now. Thirty-six years old, standing at my own height of 5’9”, and a bit stocky for a cavalryman, he had the deep blue eyes and bushy brown hair of one born in Dublin. Though most of the non-commissioned officers carried Springfields, Hughes kept a Henry lever-action 16-shot repeating rifle in his saddle sheath.
“We’ll just need to see what they’ve got, Bobby. Should be a small holding force,” I answered.
“And if it ain’t?” Butler said.
“Tom has a hundred men. So does Keogh. Crockett is coming up with two hundred more. The enemy should have more to worry about than gadflies like us.”
“General George Armstrong Custer? A gadfly?” Sergeant Butler said.
“That’s what General Grant called me,” I replied.
The trail took a turn south toward the river, passing through a large meadow. I saw birds but no game. The firing from downriver intensified from scattered reports to an occasional volley. And then an artillery shot.
“That can’t be Dickenson, sir. There hasn’t been enough time,” Butler said.
He was right. A final line of trees separated my command from the San Antonio River, the underbrush thick except where the buffalo trails crept though. I looked back along our line moving in column of twos through the woods, knowing there was barely enough space. The men did not look afraid, but they understood the situation.
“Let us go first, sir,” Voss said, coming up with Private Watson. Corporal French and Private Knecht crowded forward, too.
“Can’t let our general get shot by a sentry,” French said.
His impertinence irked me. Was I letting discipline get too lax?
“Dismount. Horse holders to the rear. Rifles at the ready,” I said, for we were all sensing an unseen danger.
“Look, sir. Two rifle companies, at least. And they’re getting ready to cross,” Sergeant Hughes said, pointing through the trees at the far bank fifty yards away.
I counted sixty to seventy Mexican infantry in full battle dress. Half a dozen officers rode along their line keeping order on worn horses. They had no artillery but appeared well armed. Nor did they look concerned. This was a veteran force.
“It’s an ambush,” Butler said, checking the chamber on his .45 caliber 1874 Sharps carbine.
“There’s more coming up through the trees. They’re holding Tom at the Goliad Road while sending out units to turn our flanks,” Hughes guessed. “This Urrea fellow ain’t no slouch.”
“Indeed he isn’t,” I agreed.
I tried to picture the terrain in my mind like I had at Yellow Tavern. The Rebs had been seeking our flanks, but we refused to give ground. Jeb Stuart got himself killed trying to press an impossible position.
“Private Watson, go back the way we came. Report to Colonel Custer. Tell him the enemy is attacking in force and to consolidate his position,” I ordered. “Have Keogh recalled. I don’t want to take on Urrea’s army advancing through these woods.”
“Yes, sir,” Watson said, disappearing almost instantly. A reliable young man.
“Bobby, Jimmy, it appears we’ll be the ones holding the river crossing. Tie the horses in the trees and spread the company along this growth.”
“Ammunition ain’t gonna last long,” Butler warned.
“Don’t know that we have a choice. Get moving, Jimmy,” I answered.
I took a position in the center of the line, readying my Remington Rolling Block .50 caliber hunting rifle. I only had twenty rounds, but the Remington had the best range in the army. Eight hundred yards on a good day, while the British Brown Bess carried by the Mexican soldiers were barely accurate at fifty. And I had a plan. What troubled me was the lack of warning. If Fannin knew such a large force was nearing Goliad, why hadn’t he sent word? Was his command wiped out?
The enemy paused on the river’s edge, waiting for the rear column to catch up. They had a small meadow to work in, unlike the north bank that had trees right down to the water’s edge. A decisive advantage for a defensive force, or so I hoped. But none of my doubts were revealed, for a successful commander never projects anything but confidence.
The Mexicans finally formed up. Downstream, the firing was now general. Cannon and rifle fire echoed through the trees. Smoke began to drift along the skyline. This was no skirmish, but a significant engagement, and I desperately wished to be at the ford. But I had stumbled into my own obligation, and Tom would know how to handle anything Urrea threw at him.
“We’re ready, sir. And so are they. Reckon we should kill the officers first?” Butler asked.
“You bagged yourself a general at the Alamo. Isn’t one enough, Jimmy?” I asked, for I had seen the fatal shot that killed Cos on the north wall.
“Ain’t a full hand without some colonels and captains,” he replied.
“Kill the officers first,” I agreed, for that was a conclusion I’d already reached. A leaderless army was less likely to make an effective attack under stressful conditions.
The first private was just stepping into the water, a short fellow in a red tunic, white cross straps over his chest, a tall back shako hat, and white trousers now grimy from the trail dust. His leather shoes were badly worn, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week. I estimated the river at forty feet wide and about four feet deep. The enemy would need to hold their muskets and powder above their shoulders to keep them dry.
“Okay, Jimmy, you have the first shot,” I granted
.
Butler’s rifle bucked, the loud crack scaring birds from the tree tops, and a gray-haired major toppled from his black stallion, a bullet through his chest. I shot the captain riding next to him, then chambered another round and killed the sergeant major standing at their side. Hughes shot a lieutenant, a sergeant, and the color bearer in rapid succession. And then my entire troop opened fire on the surprised enemy, twelve of them falling in wounded piles.
The majority of the bewildered Mexicans retreated into the trees, and most kept going, heading toward whatever camp they had come from. But one brave unit refused to flee. A surviving officer rallied a platoon of sharpshooters dressed in white. Possibly some of the famous Cazadores. Though the river was now shrouded in gun smoke, I could see the sergeants arranging a line of forty men, half kneeling and half standing behind them. Belatedly, I realized they carried Baker rifles. A fusillade of lead tore through the trees, felling several of my men.
This was not an ordinary force we were facing. We had captured two score of Baker rifles in San Antonio, an English weapon only used by elite corps. I’d heard that some of them were even made in the Tower of London. The .625 caliber model had an accurate range of 100 yards, far better than a Brown Bess, though they were slower to reload. With our own .45 caliber ammunition in short supply, a company armed with Baker rifles would be a boon.
A series of scattered shots caused several of the sharpshooters to fall, but they were quickly reloading, protected by a cloud of musket smoke. I ignored the officers and began targeting the rank and file, for they knew their business and needed no orders. After two additional exchanges, a handful of survivors finally fled into the forest, leaving half their unit on the field.
“You okay, Jimmy? How about you, Bobby?” I called out.
“Well enough, General,” Hughes said, having walked our line checking for casualties. “We gots three wounded, but none too bad.”
“Should we cross over and take their equipment?” Butler asked.
We needed all the powder we could find, and I wanted those Baker rifles now lying on the beach. But I feared some of the enemy may still be lingering in the trees, and from the sound of heavy guns downstream, my regiment was fully engaged.
“Leave six men to cover the ford,” I said. “Corporal French can have the command. Or would you rather be a sergeant, Henry?”
“Sergeant sounds fine, sir. Long as you don’t try to make me no officer,” French answered, much to Butler’s delight. Like Butler and Hughes, French was a sturdy veteran. Strong, lean and swarthy from duty on the plains. A good man in a fight.
“It’s not like being an officer is such a bad thing,” I protested.
“Ain’t no good thing, neither,” Butler said, slapping French on the shoulder.
“Men, find your horses. We’re moving out,” I said, running for Traveller.
The sturdy stallion was unperturbed by the recent battle, munching flowers and casually relieving himself. I didn’t wait for the troop, but mounted up and rode out, anxious to discover what was happening on the Goliad Road.
Cannon fire, but not just the Mexican 4-pounders. They were being answered by Dickenson’s 6-pounders, both guns active. It made me hopeful, for I sensed no panic.
Butler rode past me, then Hughes. Traveller was a good horse, but he wasn’t Vic. It made me sorry I’d loaned him to Slow. Half the troop was ahead of me when we regained the main road, turning right for the sound of the guns. We met Mitch Bouyer a mile later.
Bouyer was my most valuable scout, the half breed son of a French Canadian trader and Santee Sioux squaw. He’d been loaned to me by General Terry for the Little Big Horn march, and stayed with the command to the end. Bouyer and I didn’t always get along, for he could be crusty and insubordinate, but his faults were few compared to his virtues.
“Lots of Mex’cans,” he reported. “Tommy took a chunk a high ground. Kan’t find Keogh, and Seguin took off with the T’janos.”
“Deserted?” I asked.
“Nah, don’t think thar’s no desertin’. But they’s a disappeared.”
“What about the supply train?”
“Ole Davy got ’em in right enough,” Bouyer said. “I’m s’pposed to take you off to the left. Lower piece of the road takin’ fire.”
We followed Bouyer down into a shallow valley and back up a gentle series of lightly wooded hills, close enough to hear the musket balls ripping through the trees. A hundred yards back of the river, we came to a dry creek bed filled with our wagons, and just beyond, a low ridge where fifty men were lying down along the crest. A tent had been set up for the wounded. Younger members of our command were carrying ammunition to the artillery set just behind the hill, Brister directing fire while Dickenson kept the guns in action. The position seemed organized and under control.
“Welcome back, George. ‘Fraid ya was gonna miss the fightin’,” Crockett said, helping a wounded man down from the hill. His ammunition belt was empty, and he wouldn’t be the only one.
“Big army?” I asked.
“Not so big as the Alamo, but plenty big enough,” Crockett answered, moving on.
I ran past the artillery toward the top of the hill, kneeling in a shallow ravine just below the crest. There were fewer trees here, a gentle wind scattering the smoke of battle. Two companies of the Seventh were nearby, all using muskets captured in San Antonio. It was good not to waste our .45 ammunition.
“What’s the situation, Tom?” I inquired, drawing one of my Webley Bulldogs.
“Doing fine, Autie,” he answered, face smudged with powder. “About six hundred infantry. Some of Semsa’s cavalry. We caught them crossing the river. Or they caught us. Kinda hard to tell which.”
“Keogh?”
“Off on the left looking for their flank. Seguin is behind the lines somewhere with his rangers.”
“What’s the plan?” I asked.
“Our artillery has them stopped. Now that the command is drawn up, we’ll press their position,” Tom said. “Sepulveda, order your boys down behind those fallen trees near the road. Prepare for volley fire.”
“Who is the general now?” I asked.
“It’s what you would have done,” Tom said, lowering his head.
“Maybe. If I’d been given the chance,” I answered, walking back down the hill toward a small clump of oaks that had become our headquarters.
A long spiny branch was hung with a swallow tail Seventh Cavalry guidon and the silken gold flag of the New Orleans Greys. We had left the Alamo’s double-starred flag back in San Antonio, the tattered banner only fit for a museum.
My aide-de-camp, Major William Cooke, had drawn a map of the position and was dispatching Tom’s orders. New members of the command were acting as orderlies, running to and fro. The sweet sound of cannon fire echoed off the hill.
“What do you need, General?” Cooke asked, briefly looking up from his memo book. Now thirty years old, and known at Queen’s Own due to his Canadian birth, Cooke had served me loyally since joining the Seventh ten years before. Without doubt the tall young man, famous for his long sideburns, was my most efficient officer.
“Ammunition for my revolvers,” I replied.
“Third wagon,” Cooke said.
I expected him, or an orderly, to fetch the bullets for me, but everyone was busy. I went to find the ammunition boxes myself.
“Hello, George,” a lilting voice greeted.
It was Isabella, her sleeves rolled up and blood on her blue cotton skirt. Her hands were filled with bandages for the wounded.
“You’re awful close to the battle, dulce paloma,” I said in surprise.
“This is Texas,” she replied. “Women do not shrink from their duties here. Sweet dove or not.”
I looked around, saw everyone was preoccupied, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. The lovely senorita blushed.
I heard the volley of Sepulveda’s men, followed by shouting and a brief lull. Something was happening, so I grabbed a handful
of ammunition and ran back up the hill, loading the pistols as I went. Voss and Private Donnelly of F Company had a nice spot among the rocks, so I knelt between them.
“They’re backing off, sir,” Voss said, holding his fire.
The ground across the river was rough, strewn with deep ruts. I saw no wagons, no cannon, and only a few horses. Of the six hundred that had faced Tom, only a few dozen were left.
“Let’s go!” I shouted, jumping to my feet with both pistols drawn.
I ran down the hill to the water’s edge, firing several times and watching with glee as the enemy fled. Then noticed I was alone.
“Autie, get back up here, you damn fool!” Tom yelled from the hilltop.
The command was spread out along the crest, still holding their positions. Tom’s sergeants were keeping the men in line, refusing to let them advance. Bullets kicked up dirt at my feet, and a shot whistled near my ear. Butler ran down the slope, grabbing my arm to pull me back.
“Damn it, Tom! What the hell?” I cursed. “We had them on the run.”
“And we’re going to let them go,” Tom calmly replied. “Those woods are a maze of narrow trails.”
“We can run them to ground,” I protested.
“That’s what Grant thought at the Wilderness.”
“These aren’t Lee’s boys. They’re half-starved conscripts.”
“I’m not taking the command forward without reconnaissance,” he insisted.
“You aren’t going to?”
“I have command of the field,” Tom replied.
As much as I wanted to object, I had too much respect for Tom to call him out. Especially in front of the men. But I intended to have a serious conversation later.
It took an hour to reform. Urrea had fallen back in good order. Baugh told me they were headed south, possibly toward Refugio. A logical place to resupply.
Late in the day, we finally crossed a shallow ford of the San Antonio River, making room in the wagons for the wounded. Sergeant French reported, having captured thirty much needed Baker rifles on his portion of the battlefield. And proving the soundness of my judgment in promoting him. Captain Seguin was still absent, but Keogh returned. His command looked beat up, their uniforms dusty and tattered.
Custer and Crockett Page 2
