CUSTER
AT THE ALAMO
AN ALTERNATE HISTORY ADVENTURE
By Gregory Urbach
Copyright © 2013 by Gregory Urbach
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Cover by Doug Stambaugh.
Matthew Bernstein, story editor
Illustrations by Kwei-lin Lum, Chris Stewart & Matthew Bernstein
Website design by Candace Cootz Lovell
Table of Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1 Little Big Horn
Chapter 2 Encounter on the Rio Grande
Chapter 3 Trouble in Béjar
Chapter 4 Commanding the Alamo
Chapter 5 Ignominious Retreat
Chapter 6 Negotiating with the Enemy
Chapter 7 The Battle of Cibolo Creek
Chapter 8 Crockett’s Secret Mission
Chapter 9 Return to Béjar
Chapter 10 A Line in the Sand
Chapter 11 Picks, Shovels and Bowie Knives
Chapter 12 Santa Anna’s Decision
Chapter 13 By Dawn’s Early Light
Chapter 14 The Price of Glory
Acknowledgements
References
List of Illustrations
Custer & Crockett by Doug Stambaugh
Map of the Little Big Horn
Fall of the Alamo by Robert Jenkins Onderdonk, 1903
Custer’s Last Stand by Elk Eber, c.1880s
Custer’s March to the Little Big Horn
Battle of the Rio Grande
Custer’s March to the Alamo
Diagram of the Alamo
The Ruins of the Alamo by Edward Everett
Comanche Village, original source unknown
The Battle of Cibolo Creek
Crockett’s Last Stand by Robert Onderdonk
San Antonio de Béjar
Alamo Battle Position 1
Alamo Battle Position 2
Alamo Battle, The Final Position
Foreword
Following the failure of the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961, President John F. Kennedy said, “Victory has a hundred fathers and defeat is an orphan.” The same might be said for anyone foolish enough to write a historical novel about the Alamo and the Little Big Horn. Like many baby boomers who grew up under the influence of Walt Disney’s Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier, I have studied the Alamo and often blindly believed all of the various myths surrounding that historic battle. And like many who came of age in the 1970s, I often believed the revisionist propaganda that made George Armstrong Custer the great villain of the Indian Wars. Real history is, of course, more complicated.
It is hard to blame people for getting so much false information in an age where politics trumps the truth. In July of 2011, I had the misfortune to watch a so-called professor on public cable access, presumably representing California State University, Dominguez Hills. This professor was teaching about the culture clash along America’s southern border and touched on the Texas Revolution of 1836. In the process, he claimed David Crockett was from Kentucky, that he had been forced to flee from the United States, that he was an enemy of indigenous peoples, that he had brought slaves with him to Texas, and that Crockett envisioned Texas as a slave empire.
For the record, David Crockett was from Tennessee, not Kentucky. He was not forced to flee the United States; he left Tennessee after losing a re-election bid for Congress, where he had served three terms. Far from being an enemy of indigenous peoples, Crockett’s political career was destroyed when he bravely supported the Cherokee Nation against President Andrew Jackson’s infamous Indian Removal Act. Crockett did not bring slaves with him to Texas, nor is he on record as an advocate for a Texan slave empire. Can we blame kids for being so ignorant when college professors show such contempt for basic historical facts?
George Custer’s reputation has also been submerged by political correctness. Far from the hair-brained, Indian hating egomaniac we see in movies, Custer was an intelligent and dedicated soldier. And he was far more principled than the corrupt politicians who sent the Seventh Cavalry to Montana in the spring of 1876. Custer not only made more peace agreements with the Indians than he fought battles, but his army career was damaged when he spoke up against the miserable way Washington was abusing native peoples. Custer himself is quoted as saying, “If I were an Indian, I often think, I would prefer to cast my lot among those of my people adhered to the free open plains rather than submit to the confined limits of a reservation.”
This is not to say that Custer wasn’t a man of the 19th century, with all its prejudices and misconceptions, but he was better than most. And he had many friends among various Indian tribes.
I have no doubt that this novel will contain many errors, and many interpretations that honest people may disagree with. And it will likely inflame those who get their history lessons from television. For the errors, I apologize. But Custer at the Alamo is not, in the final analysis, intended to be a history book. This is an adventure story.
Gregory Urbach
Reseda, California
.
On these walls, we take our stand;
Our duty now made clear.
Life’s sweet hopes can’t blunt our cause
Nor Tyranny of fear.
On the hill, the arrows fly;
Soldiers dying side by side.
There is no future, just the past;
Fighting bravely to the last.
Chapter One
The Little Big Horn
June 25, 1876
Once I was called Tatanka Iyotake, a leader of the Strong Hearts, medicine chief of the Sioux Nation. A man powerful in the ways of Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit. We had fought the wasichu for many years, forced them from our sacred Black Hills, and some had signed a treaty to live in peace. But the white men came back. Always they come back.
We were gathering for one last hunt when the white general Crook attacked. We drove him away and traveled up the Rosebud River to celebrate. There I performed the Sun Dance, cutting a hundred strips of flesh from my body. In return, I received a vision of that which would come. The people rejoiced. Though another army of white soldiers were approaching, they would fall into our camp and perish. I did not tell my people of the vision’s end, of our eventual defeat, or of the reservations. I did not tell them of the starvation and humiliation yet to come. Destroying this second group of bluecoats would mean the end of the Sioux nation for all time.
What could be done? What offering might Wakan Tanka accept to forge a different path? I began to pray as we crossed over the Wolf Mountains into the valley of the Greasy Grass, each day growing more pensive. Our numbers increased as young men left the reservations to join us, the warriors soon numbering in the thousands. Never had the People gathered in such strength.
On a quiet afternoon, the trouble began. Gunshots at the southern end of the encampment. The final battle had begun, a battle we would win but destroy our way of life. I did not reach for a weapon, nor even leave my teepee. I searched the mystic lands for wisdom from
the Great Spirit. Deep into my heart, I looked for hope. A path not taken. Then a strange mist arose, lifting me, guiding me, but not in a direction I understood. Was this to be Wakan Tanka’s answer?
A Journey through Gray Clouds
My name is George Armstrong Custer, once a major general in the United State Army during my country’s Civil War. Because I’ve been known to embellish upon my accomplishments, there are some who may doubt the veracity of this account. I cannot explain the recent events that have led to this chronicle. I don’t think there is an explanation. All I can do is relate the story to the best of my ability, and let history be the judge.
June 25, 1876 - Montana Territory
“They’re down there, General,” Lt. Varnum said as we studied the misty valley from a vantage point called the Crow’s Nest.
The Little Big Horn was still a good fifteen miles away, a morning haze rising from the distant river. Even though I had borrowed Lt. DeRudio’s Austrian binoculars, I could detect no evidence of a village.
“I don’t see them. Not a one,” I said. Not that I doubted Varnum’s judgment, but I needed to know what we were up against.
I had pushed the command hard for three days, riding up the Rosebud River from the Yellowstone before crossing the divide over the Wolf Mountains. The Sioux and Cheyenne were nearby, gathered in strength but ready to flee the moment they realized the Seventh Cavalry was following their trail. I could not allow that. This needed to be a short war, brutal if necessary. A scattering of the hostiles would lead to the massacre of white settlers throughout the Powder River country and, inevitably, to the decimation of the Indians themselves.
Since my final conference with General Terry on the Yellowstone, we had traveled south through empty badlands. Six hundred cavalry and an unruly pack train driven by hired teamsters. Fifty Crow and Arikara Indians scouted our path. Needing to travel fast over rough ground, we had taken no wagons. I even rejected the two Gatling guns I’d been offered, afraid they would slow our march.
The late June weather was brutally hot, the Montana landscape already turned dry. Sagebrush and weedy gullies often hindered our passage. The only trees tall enough for shelter grew near the twisting creek that we were forced to cross several times.
The Wolf Mountains are low series of hills, the creek water so alkaline that we struggled to find a clean spring. The mules kept losing their packs, causing a good deal of cursing, but we had no trouble following the trail left behind by the Sioux. The wide path crossed from the Rosebud into the Valley of the Little Big Horn, the terrain torn up by heavy lodge poles and thousands of ponies. I guessed that several tribes lay ahead of us, mostly Lakota and perhaps a few Cheyenne.
We paused for several hours at the crest of the mountains. I would rest the command for a day, scout the enemy location, and attack at dawn on the 26th. That should give General Terry and Colonel Gibbon time to come upriver from the north and block any attempt at escape.
Varnum and I were still at the Crow’s Nest, searching for signs of the elusive village, when I received word of a most disturbing nature.
“General, compliments of Captain Custer,” Corporal Voss reported, a reliable young man acting as the regiment’s chief trumpeter. “The captain says we’ve been spotted.”
“How is that?” I asked, startled by the bad news.
“Lost some packs on the back trail. We was retrieving ‘em when a bunch of hostiles saw us from a hill,” Voss said.
I instantly realized there was no longer time to scout the village or wait for General Terry. If I was going to catch the Indians before they fled into the mountains, we would need to advance at once.
“So much for a surprise attack,” Lt. Varnum lamented.
“We haven’t lost the initiative yet,” I replied. “Voss, my compliments to Captain Custer. Tell him to bring the entire command forward on the double.”
By noon the Seventh Cavalry was in motion with barely a few hours rest. We crossed the divide and started down the long slope toward the Little Big Horn, reaching a lone teepee a few miles above the valley. A dead warrior lay inside, dressed in his finest regalia.
Though I had not been able to see the hostile village from the Crow’s Nest, my scouts assured me they were waiting for us down in the grasslands, hidden by a series of steep bluffs. I sent Captain Benteen to the left with companies H, D and K to prevent the Indians from escaping into the foothills. Benteen and I had not been on good terms for many years. Though a good soldier, he was also a back-stabbing complainer, always seeking to cause trouble. But I wanted Captain Keogh with me, so Benteen, as the senior captain, won the assignment.
As Benteen split off with a hundred and twenty troopers, I preceded along a shallow creek until a group of mounted Sioux suddenly appeared on the trail ahead. They were not dressed in war paint or carrying their traditional weapons. It could be a hunting party, but they would soon sound the alarm.
I could not afford to delay, ordering Major Reno to cross the river and charge the village with three companies. This would panic the Indians and allow me, with five companies, to attack in flank and complete the rout. By nightfall the campaign would be over. I was already looking forward to seeing my beloved Libbie again. Maybe we would spend the holidays with the family in Monroe, or go to New York City for the winter.
“Autie!” my younger brother yelled.
Tom knew he wasn’t supposed to address me informally in the field. My official rank was lieutenant colonel. Twelve years before, during the Civil War, I had achieved the rank of major general at the rambunctious age of twenty-five. But it was a brevet rank, subject to reduction when the war ended.
Tom had never been much for formality, however. Six years my junior, ruggedly handsome and largely self-educated, he had joined the Union Army as a private, only sixteen years old. By 1864 he held the volunteer rank of 2nd lieutenant, and by the end of the war, he had earned the brevet rank of lieutenant colonel. Now he was my aide-de-camp, newly promoted to captain only a year before.
There were times I envied my little brother. Tom seemed to have all the qualities I lacked, like cool judgment and a popular style of leadership. He also had one of my best qualities, having won the Medal of Honor during the Civil War. Twice. While winning the second award, he had been shot in the face at point blank range, leaving a long scar on his jaw. And even then, he refused to leave the battlefield. Tom bowed to no man when it came to courage.
“Autie, over here!” Tom shouted, waving from the back of his horse. “We can see the valley from this peak!”
I gave my brown sorrel a good kick in the flanks and followed Tom up a steep slope to a high point along the trail. I was followed by my adjutant, Lieutenant William Cooke, called Queen’s Own because of his Canadian birth. Cooke was thirty years old, and, like Tom, a veteran of the Civil War. The day had turned unmercifully hot, the dust terrible, and the long marches necessary to bring us to the battlefield had the entire command exhausted. But we were still the Seventh Cavalry, the finest unit in the United States Army, so I figured we had plenty of fight left in us. I quickly realized we were going to need it.
“Goddamn, George, there must be ten thousand Indians down there,” Lieutenant Cooke said, scratching his long bushy sideburns.
We had reached a rocky outcrop east of the Little Big Horn River atop a string of hundred foot bluffs. Cooke knew I didn’t care for his swearing, but I overlooked the indiscretion.
“Not quite that many, Bill,” I replied, though it wasn’t a bad guess.
I turned to look back at our line of march. Coming down from the divide, the village had been hidden from view. Now the size of the enemy encampment was all too clear. The Indian agents, those grasping, corrupt bastards appointed by Ulysses S. Grant, had told us that only eight hundred Indians had left the reservations, but here were six times that number. The village stretched along this twisting tributary of the Big Horn River for at least a mile. Probably a thousand lodges. It was without doubt the largest gath
ering of Indians ever seen on the western plains. And I had blindly stumbled right into it.
I recalled my conversation with General Terry, a final conference on the paddle-wheeler Far West up on the Yellowstone. The Indians had been ordered to report to the reservations, and failing that, would be rounded up and sent back by force. Sitting Bull and the other non-treaty tribes had chosen to resist, making it the army’s job to enforce the government’s policy. General Crook was approaching from the south. Colonel Gibbon had come from Fort Ellis to the west, the Seventh Cavalry from Fort Lincoln to the east. We had endured five weeks of hard riding, trying to find Indians that didn’t want to be found.
Well, now we had found them. No telling what had happened to General Crook. Colonel Gibbon was two days away, beyond supporting distance. If the hostiles were going to be defeated, the Seventh would need to do it alone.
“Reno’s charging the upper end of the village, if you can call that lazy-ass attack a charge,” Tom said. “Where the hell is Benteen?”
Down to our left, Major Reno was making a half-hearted assault on the village with his three companies. Reno had a brave Civil War record but didn’t know squat about fighting Indians, and I suspect he had an unspoken fear of the savage red man. One generally shared by those who had seen the mutilated bodies of their victims.
Reno’s approach had taken the Indians off-guard, but now they were stirred up madder than a hornet’s nest, riding out against him in force on their war ponies. If Reno stopped his charge, if he gave up the initiative, not one of his hundred and twenty men would leave the valley alive.
I waved back to the ravine where my five companies were waiting. Two hundred and ten tired but brave soldiers anxious to get into the fight. The men cheered. After two months in the saddle, they wanted to go home as much as I did.
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