Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “Until Reconstruction is over, you’re not letting most of the South vote, either. What does that say about your democracy?” Cooke answered.

  “If the sons of bitches hadn’t started the war, they wouldn’t need to worry about their damn voting rights,” Harrington objected, expressing what most of the Seventh felt about the Rebellion.

  For some, the wounds of the Civil War were still fresh. Nearly every officer and most the troopers had shed blood on battlefields from Bull Run to Vicksburg. Those who had not served in battle had lost friends and family members. Some, like myself, thought the South needed to be treated more fairly, but mine was a minority opinion.

  “We have better things to do than refight the war,” I said. “What are we going to do about this invasion? This is only the tail of the beast. Somewhere east of us is the main army, and even though General Sheridan is probably gathering a force to oppose them, it will be several months before he can take the field.”

  “Do we know who the Mexican commander is?” Kellogg asked.

  “Hell, I don’t even know who’s ruling Mexico these days. They change presidents like soiled underwear,” Yates said.

  “It’s not that bad,” I said. “President de Tejada has been in charge since Juárez died. A rebel named Diaz has been trying to overthrow the government, but I don’t think he has much chance.”

  “Is this de Tejada’s way of showing he’s in charge?” Cooke suggested. “What better way to unite the country than a war?”

  “Heard one of them soldiers mention Santa Anna,” Bouyer said.

  “Santa Anna? Isn’t he dead?” Tom wondered in surprise.

  “It can’t be Santa Anna. He’s got to be eighty years old by now,” I said, remembering his biography from my West Point days.

  Santa Anna, former president of Mexico, had once called himself the Napoleon of the West. I couldn’t say if he was a bad general or just unlucky, but he managed to lose Texas in 1836. After that he was overthrown, came back into power, and was overthrown again. During one of his many exiles, he even lived on Staten Island.

  “Eighty years old? That would make him their most experienced general,” Yates said. Everyone laughed.

  Keogh came up to the bonfire with Morning Star and the Indian boy. Morning Star found a place next to Tom, the boy sat between me and Bouyer. Keogh stood for a moment accepting a plate of beans, then squatted close to the fire pit.

  “Tents all set up. Finally got the boys settled in. They’re all fired up from the fight,” Keogh said.

  “Causalities?” I asked.

  “One dead, four wounded. Looks like the Mexicans lost about forty-five. Hard to tell how many wounded. Most took off back to Mexico,” Keogh said.

  “Good riddance,” Tom said.

  “Who died?” I asked.

  “Young trumpeter named Martin. F Company. You know, that Italian kid who was acting as your orderly,” Keogh said. “Took a musket ball through the head.”

  “Didn’t we send him back to Benteen with a message?” Tom asked.

  “He won’t be taking any messages now,” Keogh answered.

  “Strange. We lost thousands of good men during the war. Thousands upon thousands. Out here on the plains, even losing one seems like a lot,” Yates said.

  “Probably going to lose more, Georgie,” I remarked. “Have we gotten any information from those Mexican officers?”

  “Naw, they’re professionals. Threw their orders in the river,” Tom said.

  “We got this scrap of paper. Doesn’t make any sense, though,” Keogh said, pulling a crumpled page from his breast pocket.

  I looked the page over. It was in Spanish, the handwriting florid. I recognized the word Béjar and a few harsh lines to the commanding officer. I’d have probably been able to read the whole damn letter if I’d paid more attention in school.

  “Scratch orders saying to hurry the artillery along,” I surmised, handing the document to Tom.

  “Of course, sir. But look at the date. It’s from February. Five months ago,” Keogh pointed out. He was right. Even though the paper and ink appeared fresh, it was dated February 19th.

  “Are their communications that bad? Marching with orders this old?” Tom asked in disbelief.

  “Has anyone asked the Mexican captain about this? Or that young lieutenant?” I inquired, for it did seem strange.

  “Tried to. None of them will tell us anything,” Keogh answered.

  “I’ve seen their faces around the Indians. Take my word for it, Gen’ral, give Gray Wolf a tomahawk and they’ll sing like nightingales,” Bouyer replied.

  “It does not matter,” Morning Star said.

  “Why is that?” Bouyer asked.

  “Slow says you will be going east, regardless of the odds,” Morning Star explained.

  “Sure, we’ll probe toward San Antonio, but . . .” Harrington started to say.

  Morning Star raised her hands, her tawny rawhide dress reflecting glowing shadows, and looked to the boy. Slow stood up, his face lit by the campfire. His dark eyes glistened ominously in the flickering light. He studied everyone in the circle before turning his attention on me.

  “You will seek the enemy, as you have always done. It is your way,” the boy said. Then he sat down and accepted a plate of beans.

  The boy was right about that.

  * * *

  It was another freezing cold night. An hour after the command turned in, I walked down to the river. Fires burned on the other side. Most of the invaders had headed back to their homes in Mexico, but not all. I soon learned why.

  “General, over here,” a trooper called.

  It was Corporal French, one of Tom’s men. He and four others were manning the cannon at the ford. Each was wearing a Mexican winter coat and draped in a buffalo hide to keep out the killing frost.

  “What is it, French?” I asked.

  “This fellow here. Says he’s a sergeant. Wants a parley,” French explained. “Speaks pretty fair English for a foreigner.”

  I saw three Mexicans dressed in white sackcloth and heavy wool coats. Possibly peasants pressed into service by their government. The sergeant was tall for one of his race, the shoulders straight and head held high. He had come to talk, not beg. He only had sandals and rags for footwear.

  “General, sir,” he said. “I am Mario Sepulveda of the Zacatecan militia. We rose in revolt against the tyrant, but we were defeated. He burned our homes. Raped our women. Stole our cattle and burned our crops. Then he forced us to come north or face his wrath again.”

  “I had not heard of these latest troubles,” I said, though I recalled reading of such a rebellion many years before. “How may I be of service?”

  “It is we who would be of service,” Sepulveda said.

  One of the other Mexicans came forward, hat in hand, and spoke something in Spanish.

  “What’s that he’s saying?” I asked, pretending I had no clue.

  “Francisco Sanchez is from Coahuila. He and his three brothers have also been coerced into servitude. They hate the dictator,” Sepulveda said.

  I heard footsteps. Tom, Morning Star and Slow approached through the gloomy darkness.

  “Yes? And so?” I persisted.

  “We want to join you, sir, if you will have us,” Sepulveda said.

  Francisco began speaking again, and then the other one, both agitated. It had taken courage to cross the river on that rickety old raft at night with such a bold proposal, especially as it was difficult to believe. Tom whispered in my ear.

  “A few of these boys acting as teamsters would free up our own men,” he urged. “We need the wagons. And it wouldn’t hurt to keep the three field guns.”

  “Don’t know that I’d trust them,” I whispered back, but Tom had good instincts about people. Far better than I.

  Tom took Sepulveda by the arm and walked off, asking a few pertinent questions. Tom gestured to the river, then to the east. Sepulveda pointed east as well, then back toward Mexico. They
returned a few minutes later. Tom was smiling.

  “We’ve got some teamsters. And a few scouts to check on the locals,” Tom said.

  “Are you sure he’s telling the truth?” I asked.

  “Pretty sure,” Tom said. “Without help, we’ll need to leave most of the supplies. And we already know how much trouble mules are with packs on their backs.”

  I did know. Mules had been a problem on our march up from the Yellowstone to the Little Big Horn, one hundred and seventy-five stubborn animals tossing about and slowing us at every opportunity. The ornery animals were the main reason I had chosen not to bring the Gatling Guns. Wagons would be even slower, but a lot less trouble. And we weren’t on a seven day scout now. There was no telling how long this new war would last.

  “They speak the truth,” Slow suddenly announced.

  Everyone turned to look at the boy, who seemed older in the moonlight. Tom put a hand on Slow’s shoulder. Morning Star knelt to wrap his buffalo robe tighter. I felt a chill looking into the youngster’s eyes.

  “Mister Sepulveda, I am sorry for the many outrages of this tyrant and accept your assistance,” I formally invited, bowing my head in respect.

  “All of us?” he asked

  “How many are you?”

  “Forty-two, General. All strong and determined to see the tyrant defeated,” he answered.

  “Be ready to march at dawn, sir. You will drive the wagons and watch the extra horses. If there’s a fight, you’ll be welcome to pitch in,” I offered.

  “Gracias, sir. We will be ready,” Sepulveda said, taking his comrades back toward the river.

  “Tom, assign Sergeant Major Sharrow to keep an eye them,” I ordered. “And maybe it would be best if Morning Star and Slow stayed back with our supply train from now on.”

  “No,” the boy said.

  “This isn’t your decision, lad. Until you’ve been returned to your people, I’m responsible for your safety,” I objected.

  “I ride with the White Chief,” Slow said with determination.

  “So do I, sir. I’m sorry, General Custer. We have not come so far from our hunting lands to ride on a wagon,” Morning Star agreed.

  She took Slow’s hand and they walked back to camp.

  “Stubborn woman,” I said.

  “Yes,” Tom said, badly smitten.

  * * *

  I decided to leave a small rearguard at the Rio Grande commanded by Lt. Harrington, whose West Point studies had included the proper use of artillery. As we couldn’t take the two big siege guns with us, the 12-pounders were mounted on the ridge overlooking the ford. Any force attempting to cross the river would be badly compromised. As Tom suggested, we did take the three light artillery pieces, sturdy 4-pounders that would add punch to any position we decided to hold.

  “Understand your orders?” I asked again, for Harrington had only graduated four years before.

  “Yes, sir. Pretty sure, sir. Delay the enemy, watch my flanks. When the position proves untenable, I’m to spike the guns and withdraw east toward Gonzales,” he nervously answered.

  “Harry, you proved yourself on the Yellowstone, but we’re not surveying for the railroads now,” I said. “And when Sheridan ordered us into the Black Hills, you were a big help finding the best trails.”

  “And the gold in that creek,” Cooke remembered, a discovery that had riled the Sioux, for greedy treasure seekers had poured into the Black Hills, trespassing on their sacred hunting grounds.

  I could tell Harrington was still unsure. When General Stanley led our survey expedition in 1873, there had been a thousand soldiers, engineers, cooks, muleskinners and Indian scouts. And a wagon train that trailed us for twenty miles. We were not, by definition, a military force, but explorers. We had a skirmish or two with the Sioux, but nothing compared to our current situation. A year later, I had led twelve hundred men into the Black Hills, searching for a place to build a fort. Harry had been with me then, too, along with Tom, Algernon, George Yates and Jimmy Calhoun. Bill Illingworth came along to take photographs. There were no major confrontations with the Sioux on that expedition, just two months of hunting, fishing and camping under the stars.

  “Harry, we aren’t chasing Indians this time,” I grimly said. “Unlike the rest of us, you’ve never fought against a civilized army, but you’ve got the training. Keep a clear head and everything will be fine.”

  “Yes, sir. Clear head,” Harrington said.

  “Good luck, Harry. You’ll make a great captain someday,” I said, shaking his hand before mounting Vic.

  We formed in column of twos, the command moving briskly northeast. Had the road been drier, the air would have choked with dust, so in this respect the damp weather worked to our advantage. The men were trading stories and joking. Some had peeled back their buffalo robes, once again looking like a cavalry unit in their blue jackets. Even the horses seemed to trot with a new spirit, enjoying a brief respite from the rain and cold wind. After cresting a low hill, the land flattened out, the horizon broken only by the occasional grove of trees. I rushed to catch up with Tom, Morning Star and Slow, who were bringing up the rear.

  “Autie, why Gonzales? Aren’t we headed for San Antonio?” Tom asked.

  I had not explained my plan, nor felt a need to. Tom frowned until I relented.

  “The invaders have probably reached San Antonio. If they’ve already captured the garrison, I don’t want Harry stumbling into an ambush. We’ll skirt south of town, establish a base of operations, and then a few of us will scout the enemy advance. I remember a crossing at Cibolo Creek about twenty miles below San Antonio. From there the command can swing east to Gonzales, south to Goliad, or north to San Antonio as the situation requires.”

  “I expect you are going to this San Antonio,” Morning Star said.

  “I’m in command, young lady, and I left my best scouts back on the Little Big Horn. If Bloody Knife or Varnum were here, I could send them for a quick look,” I replied.

  “I’m going, too,” Tom quickly said.

  “Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf will also want to go. And the one called Bouyer,” Morning Star said, taking for granted that she and Slow would be members of the party.

  As I didn’t expect to take on the entire Mexican army with my depleted regiment, there seemed no harm.

  “Tell Yates to loan us a few troopers from F Company. Along with C Company and the headquarters staff, we’ll have enough. Keogh will escort the supply train to the rendezvous point and hold the position until we rejoin the command,” I ordered.

  “Splitting our forces again?” Tom said.

  “If we run into Mexican cavalry, I don’t need a bunch of wagons slowing our retreat,” I replied, for I wanted nothing encumbering the scout party should we need to move fast.

  “Myles won’t like babysitting the bean sacks,” Tom warned.

  “Are you volunteering to take his place?” I asked.

  “No,” Tom said, giving Athena a kick to catch up with the column.

  Morning Star stirred her mare to follow, leaving me riding at the rear with Slow.

  “What say you, youngster? No mystical wisdom?” I said.

  The boy’s brows were bent in thought. At times, he seemed more sixty than six.

  “You face more enemies than you know. Enemies you think of as friends, but this has happened before,” Slow answered. Then he hurried to catch up with Tom and Morning Star.

  I was dumbfounded. I didn’t know what he meant about more enemies, but he was exactly right about the rest. I remembered many friends from West Point who had resigned their commissions to fight for Jefferson Davis. James Parker of Missouri had been my roommate, sharing meals, studies and hardships. I was nearly in tears the night he left for a Southern regiment. Tom Rosser, born in Virginia and raised in Texas, was a classmate who shared the trail with me surveying for the railroad just a few years ago, but we had opposed each other at Trevilian Station in 1864. Such bonds of youth are not easily broken, and though
my companions were mistaken to have fought for a cause so unholy as slavery, the essential love of our friendships remained even after the war.

  * * *

  Two days later we reached the Nueces River, primarily keeping to the Camino Real but with scouts well out in front. The Nueces was running fast, but the water was shallow enough not to cause much trouble. We continued on until we were halfway to the San Antonio River, making camp at a small creek among a grove of leafless trees. It was time to divide the command.

  The weather had been butt cold and often rainy throughout the march. From time to time we saw a few Comanche Indians following our trail, but they kept their distance. And wisely so. A handful of small farms were deserted, the stock plundered. We formed our four freight wagons in a wide circle with the horses and oxen in the middle. Sentries were set at regular intervals, watching for intruders.

  “Our provisions will only last a few weeks. Once you’ve dug in, send a few of the wagons downriver. Buy whatever food you can. If the farmers won’t sell, confiscate it and give them a note for future payment,” I told Keogh.

  As Tom predicted, Myles was unhappy to be given an assignment watching the wagons.

  “I don’t know Texas like you do, General,” Keogh complained.

  “Sergeant Major Sharrow knows the Cibolo Creek area. Plenty of trees for cover and firewood. A ravine will protect and horses and guns. If you haven’t heard from us after three days, send a messenger,” I instructed. “Myles, we don’t know the enemy strength or intentions. You saw what happened when I blundered into the Sioux camp. Let’s not make that mistake again.”

  It was the first time in years I had admitted a mistake to a subordinate. More often than not, I had ducked responsibility for my failures. Blamed bad orders. Blamed the weather. Blamed fellow officers. Had I learned something at the Little Big Horn after all?

  Stars started poking out through billowy clouds as we experienced the first dry evening in days. All of my staff officers sat close by, as did our Indian guests. Tom and Morning Star were together, and had also been sharing the same tent, but no more than that. The situation was too dire for such frivolity, and besides, I suspected Tom was beginning to have stronger feelings for her than a quick roll in the hay would allow. Slow sat between Gray Wolf and Spotted Eagle, the lads listening intently. I don’t know how much English they’d learned, especially around a crusty half-breed like Bouyer, but I suspected they understood more than they let on.