Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “Finally making me the general, Autie?” Tom asked with a sassy grin. I ignored him.

  “We are reducing our five companies to four,” I said. “It goes without saying that Cooke and Dr. Lord will remain with my headquarters staff. Company L is disbanded. Myles, as senior captain, you’ll retain command of I Company. Harrington will be your executive officer. Draw five more men to bring your troop up to forty. You are the left wing of this regiment.”

  “Yes, General, thank you, sir,” Keogh replied, pleased to be singled out first. But Keogh deserved it. Thirty-six years old, he was closest to me in age. Always reliable, he had fought in Italy before joining the Union army, rode with General Buford at Gettysburg, and held his own against Jeb Stuart in Virginia. By the end of the war, he held the brevet rank of lieutenant colonel. He was a stout, thick-necked, tough as nails Irishman. A quality we badly needed.

  “Fresh, you’ll keep command of E Company. I can only spare twenty men for your unit. You’ll hold the rear of the column and come forward when needed,” I said next, knowing Lieutenant ‘Fresh’ Smith would be disappointed. “I don’t have an executive officer for you, so select a man for temporary appointment. Sergeant Hohmeyer will do if you approve.”

  “Sure, Autie. Whatever’s best for the command,” Smith agreed.

  A clean-cut thirty-three-year-old New Yorker, Algernon Smith had served honorably in the volunteer infantry during the war, brevetted to the rank of major. He had fought beside me at the Washita, served on the Yellowstone campaign, and again on the Black Hills survey. He was a founding member of the ‘Custer Clan,’ as Benteen derisively referred to those officers who had served me loyally over the years.

  “F Company will be our right wing, thirty-six strong. Reily will be second- in-command,” I continued, looking at Tom and Yates.

  “And F Company’s commander will be?” Yates asked.

  A fair question. By rights, F Company belonged to Yates, but there was a complication. My brother had command of C Company for several years, first as a lieutenant and then as its captain, but only fifteen members of his troop had survived. Giving Yates the larger command would leave Tom with nothing but a platoon. I could see the anxiety in his expression.

  “Georgie, F Company is yours. I know you won’t let me down,” I said.

  “I never have, Autie,” Yates said, giving Tom a consoling pat on the knee.

  Tom tried to smile, being a good sport. It wasn’t as if I’d given the assignment to one of the junior officers.

  “Tom, you’ll continue serving as my aide-de-camp. I need you close by to keep me out of trouble,” I soon added. “And if something happens to me, I want you to take command of the entire regiment. Under these extraordinary circumstances, I’m giving you a field promotion to major.”

  Tom was happily surprised. The men clapped, everyone offering congratulations, for Tom had earned their respect many times over. If there was any jealously from Keogh or Yates, they were kind enough not to show it.

  “What about Butler?” Smith asked.

  “What about him?” I said.

  “He’s the best shot in the regiment and was assigned to L Company, which no longer exists. Seems to me E Company needs him the most,” Smith explained.

  “I Company needs him the most. We have the harder march,” Lt. Reily protested. Born in Washington D.C. and all of twenty-three years old, William Van Wyck Reily was now low man on the totem pole. Maybe if he’s stayed in the Naval Academy at Annapolis, he would have become an admiral instead.

  “We can cut cards for him,” Yates said, producing a well-used deck from his breast pocket.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said, taking the deck away from him.

  I cut the cards, cut them again, and then flipped the deck over to pick out the ace of spades.

  “Sorry boys, looks like I win,” I said, holding the card up for everyone to see. The men groaned.

  * * *

  We continued southwest for several days, hunting, fishing and seeking forage for the horses. There was talk among the men. Some thought we were lost. Some thought we were dead. Some thought to desert, but I ordered my officers to shoot anyone who tried. This was no time for discipline to break down.

  I had thought our Sioux companions might make good guides, but they were strangers to the territory. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf soon attached themselves to Bouyer, who was fluent in the Lakota language. Bouyer suppressed the anger he felt at all Sioux, who had ostracized him as a boy. Apparently the scout was unwilling to blame these youngsters for the sins of their fathers.

  The young braves proved to be good students and eager scouts. Walking-In-Grass and Jumping Bull took up residence in the wagon, Sergeant Bobby Hughes and Corporal Henry French becoming my teamsters. Morning Star and Tom became inseparable, much to my concern. I did not object, in principle, for she was good company and had a lovely laugh, but I remembered my relationship with a young Cheyenne woman several years before. Such affairs never turn out well.

  After being held up for two days by persistent rain, we finally reached a river large enough to suggest eventual civilization. I wondered if we might be heading toward the Missouri River, or even the Mississippi, but our course kept turning in the wrong direction. We could not wander forever. There was little forage for the horses, and the buffalo had disappeared. The few game animals we found were not enough to feed the whole command for very long, nor could we depend on the occasional fruit tree and berry bush. Such concerns had me worried, though I did not reveal my thoughts. Right or wrong, a commander in the field must never show doubt.

  Finally, seven days after our mysterious encounter with the gray fog, we recognized our location. And discovered an incomprehensible event.

  “It’s the Rio, Gen’ral, no doubt ’bout it,” Bouyer reported.

  “The Rio Grande? The Rio Grande River?” I asked again.

  “Ain’t no lie. We’re about half a day from the Old Camino Real. Cross over into Mexico if ya want to,” my scout said.

  “I have no intention of going into Mexico,” I replied in a huff.

  “At least we know where we are,” Tom said with relief. “If we turn east, we can reach San Antonio in a few days.”

  “You been there before?” Bouyer asked.

  “General Custer and I served in Texas after the war. Mostly stationed in Austin, but we took in a few of the sites,” Tom explained.

  I remembered those days with fondness. The French government had used a debt crisis as an excuse to conquer Mexico. Our government was afraid the Emperor Maximilian might give aid to unrepentant Rebs, some of who had fled into Mexico hoping to raise a new army. The Fifth U.S. Cavalry was sent south to watch the border and maintain civil authority. Tom Rosser, my old West Point roommate, had come from Texas and bragged about how nice the people were. He’d been right.

  “We’ll make camp at noon, then start for San Antonio in the morning,” I announced.

  “We’ve still got half a day of sunlight, General,” Cooke protested.

  “We’ve also got three rivers to cross. Tell Keogh to draw in our flank but keep a sharp eye out for hostiles,” I ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” Cooke said, saluting before riding off.

  “Worried about the horses?” Tom guessed.

  “I pressed too hard coming down the divide, exhausting the men and the mounts. By the time we stumbled into the village, we were in no shape to fight. I’m not going to make that mistake again,” I explained.

  “I’ll go forward with Bouyer. Find a campsite,” Tom offered.

  “I will go, too,” Morning Star said, bundled up against the cold on her Indian pony, a white mustang with brown spots and black hooves.

  “Are you now scouting for the Seventh Cavalry, young lady?” I asked.

  “I will hunt for berries and roots. Thomas and his brother will eat well tonight,” Morning Star said with a smile.

  My scouting party moved ahead. I lingered behind, waiting for E Company and the wag
on while considering looking for some game. I was in no hurry. Even after we reached San Antonio, what then? How would I explain to General Sheridan that four-fifths of my command had disappeared? And how could anyone explain our magical appearance in Texas?

  “You must not leave the trail,” Slow suddenly said.

  The Indian boy was standing up in the wagon, staring at me with disapproval. Jumping Bull sat next to him, nodding agreement.

  “What do you mean, youngster?” I asked, using a few hand signals to make my question clearer.

  “The birds say you must continue south,” Slow explained.

  “Nothing but dirt and mud to the south. We’ve got a fair-sized town to the east,” I replied.

  “Enemy wait for you,” the boy said, pointing down the trail.

  “Comanche?” I asked.

  “Enemy,” Slow said.

  His eyes were big and black. Determined. Possessed? Did some dark spirit . . . ? No, I didn’t believe such nonsense. Then again, it wouldn’t hurt to reach the Camino Real before turning east. Even a dirt road would be easier than going cross-country in such bad weather.

  “Okay, boy, we’ll hold the trail a few more hours,” I agreed.

  Slow sat down without responding. Not even a smile of satisfaction.

  Just before noon, I saw a messenger riding hard in our direction. We were fairly close to the river, which at this point of the Rio Grande’s course, was mostly brown mud churned up by the recent rains. I stayed with Dr. Lord near the wagon, the pace sluggish because of the storm-soaked trail. The messenger was Corporal Henry Voss, my chief trumpeter. He’d thrown off the buffalo hide, riding in his blue tunic, a yellow scarf flapping in the wind.

  “General Custer! General Custer! You won’t believe it!” the young man yelled. His blue eyes were wide with excitement, the shaggy blond hair spotted with mud. Voss spoke English well despite his German accent.

  “Calm down, boy. Are we back in Dakota?” I asked.

  “Major Custer says to come on quick. I’m to find Captain Keogh,” he said, spurring past me without another word.

  It would have been nice to know what the shouting was about, but communication has never been my battalion’s strong point. Something to work on. I turned to Harrington, the only officer riding with my group.

  “Harry, have Yates draw the command up to escort the wagon. Tell Smith to follow on my trail. C Company, you’re with me,” I ordered, giving Vic a gentle kick.

  We moved at a trot for several miles, sometimes following the course of the river, sometimes cutting over low weed-covered hills. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf rode up beside me, agitated by the suspense. Spotted Eagle carried a musket taken from one of the dead hunters, a long ungainly buffalo gun that must have weighed twelve pounds. Gray Wolf not only carried a musket, but he had Tom’s spare Colt .45 tucked in his waistband. If Spotted Eagle wanted one of my Webley Bulldog revolvers, he was going to be disappointed. The ivory-handled pistols had been a gift from an admirer and I had no intention of giving them up.

  A quarter mile short of the Camino Real, Cooke came out to meet us, holding up a hand for silence. We dismounted and left the horses with Private Engle, creeping up on a long barren ridge. Tom, Bouyer and Morning Star were laying flat on the ground, looking at the river.

  “They’ve got to be crazy,” Tom whispered.

  I couldn’t agree more. Below us, at the ford, was a Mexican army, and they were invading the United States!

  “Counted five hundred so far, Gen’ral,” Bouyer said. “’Bout fifty cavalry and three hundred infantry.”

  “The rest appear to be teamsters and camp followers,” Cooke said. “We’ve spotted four freight wagons, two siege cannon, three field pieces, and dozens of carts.”

  The line of weary soldiers and two-wheel carts spread back along the Camino Real for half a mile, but most of them were stopped at the river where the cold choppy water presented an obstacle. The Mexicans’ uniforms were largely blue jackets and white slacks, though the dust of the prairie gave everything a brown tint. They looked tired, as if they’d been on the move for several weeks.

  “Gots to be a hundred draught animals down there. Horses, mules, oxen. Few head of cattle. Haulin’ a lot supplies for somebody,” Bouyer added.

  Bouyer was right, and it was the siege guns that had stalled their progress. A pair of 12-pounders were mounted on two rafts, buffeted by the current. Such large cannon are never easy to move. A few cavalry and a squad of infantry had reached our side of the Rio Grande, but only one freight wagon had made it across. It would take them the rest of the day to complete the crossing.

  “This isn’t the advance guard,” Tom said.

  “No, it isn’t,” I agreed, studying the scene through my field glasses.

  The invaders had not posted guards. The infantry looked footsore. Their cavalry horses, by all appearances of poor stock, were nearly played out. The column was pushing hard to catch up with their main body. If there were five hundred here, there would be twenty-five hundred ahead of them. If not more. What had possessed the Mexican government to engage in such a foolhardy adventure?

  “San Antonio?” Cooke wondered.

  “Can’t think where else they’re going. Our closest garrisons are in Austin and Galveston, hundreds of miles away,” I guessed.

  “What should we do?” Tom asked.

  “No question about that. We will attack,” I decided.

  We crawled back down the ridge. Corporals Brown and French were my acting orderlies. C Company was drawn up behind the low hill, fourteen men clutching their rifles. Within a few minutes, Smith arrived with E Company, giving us about forty troopers. Most of the command was still on the back trail.

  “Ten to one odds, Autie,” Tom warned.

  “You’re right, Major Custer, but once the invaders have their big guns across the river, they’ll be difficult to assault. Better to throw them into confusion now while Keogh and Yates come forward.”

  “Algernon and I can hold this ridge,” Tom said, studying the ground. And without another word, he walked off and started issuing orders.

  “Corporal Brown, my compliments to Captain Keogh,” I said. “Tell him to swing his troop east, block the road to San Antonio, and then come on strong toward the river. French, you are to find Captain Yates. Have him come forward at a gallop to support Major Custer. If the firing has already started, he’s to pitch into whatever he finds. And get Voss back here on the double. We’ll need him to sound the charge.”

  I was speaking fast. Excited. Cooke took out his notebook and scribbled a few quick instructions for my messengers.

  “Sergeant Major, be sure keep the men low. We want the element of surprise. The moment those siege guns reach our side of the river, the entire command is to open fire.”

  “Yes, General,” Sergeant Major Sharrow with a salute.

  I looked around, seeing everybody busy, some taking positions on the ridge, others holding our horses to the rear. Tom and Smith were doing a good job of placing the men in skirmish order.

  “I need four volunteers,” I announced.

  “Reckon that’s me,” Bouyer said.

  “And me,” Cooke said.

  “You need a good shot, General. I’m the best,” Sergeant Butler said.

  “Second best,” I disagreed.

  “Sorry, sir, you’re wrong about that,” Butler insisted.

  “Jimmy, I once went shot for shot against Buffalo Bill,” I protested.

  “Yeah, and I once heard Cody isn’t the great shot he pretends to be,” Butler replied, patting the heavy Sharps rifle lying across his lap.

  Gray Wolf and Spotted Eagle raised their muskets, volunteering to go with us.

  “Bouyer, tell the youngsters this is not their fight,” I ordered. Bouyer exchanged a few words. He looked surprised.

  “Gen’ral, they say Slow told ’em to expect a fight an’ stay with you. They ain’t going no place you don’t go. Is it true? Did the boy know ’bout the Me
xicans?” Bouyer said.

  “The boy didn’t say anything to me about Mexicans,” I answered, telling a half-truth. No point in getting everybody spooked by a child mystic. “Come on, boys, let’s ride.”

  With my small detachment, we went back up to the nearest bend and plunged into the cold river. Crossing any river can be difficult, especially one as wide as the Rio Grande. The water buffeted us harshly, and for a moment, I was worried we might be washed downstream. Fortunately, our mounts found footing most of the way, and we were only forced to swim a short distance.

  Once we reached the opposite shore, we travelled west a good half mile before turning south, seeking to avoid Mexican patrols. The land here was rolling prairie prone to occasional flooding. Stringy trees and prickly bushes sprang up in pockets. The Comanche Indians were known to roam these badlands before disease and war with the Texas Rangers whittled down their numbers. As far as I was concerned, the Comanche could have it back.

  We soon reached a shallow ravine north of the Mexican column, dismounting in a dip fifty yards from the old Spanish road. While Butler and Cooke kept the horses quiet, I went alone to scout the new position. One of the 12-pounders was finally across the river, the raft pulled up on the muddy shore. The long iron cannon must have weighed fourteen hundred pounds, making it hard to manage. Several soldiers were untying the carriage wheels so it could be rolled to higher ground. The other raft was nearly on the embankment.

  I noticed a second freight wagon had been floated to the eastern shore. More than fifty smaller wagons, filled with sacks of beans and supplies, were impatiently waiting their turn to cross. The enemy looked exhausted, ready to make camp. A colonel in a smart blue uniform was issuing orders, a plumed helmet on his head and a gleaming saber at his side, but most of the Mexicans appeared armed with old-fashioned muskets and lances. Their clothes were soiled, some almost in rags. I assumed many were peasants, not considered worthy of the regular army.

  “What are you thinking, General?” Cooke asked, always more respectful of my rank when the shooting was about to start.

  “I was recalling that time back in 1866, when President Juarez offered me command of the Mexican cavalry, but Grant refused to let me accept the appointment. He claimed that an American officer serving the Mexican revolution would set a bad precedent.”