“How about a song?” Tom said, taking out a Spanish guitar he’d found in one of the wagons.
He played quite well. Keogh produced an Irish flute. Smith used two spoons and a log for a drum. Dr. Lord, whose illness had improved of late, filled three beakers with varying amounts of water, making a pleasant tinkling when tapped with a spoon. I play a pretty mean piano but doubted there was one nearby.
Music at the campfire is as old as soldiering itself. It would not surprise me if the Roman legions had serenaded Caesar.
“Aura Lea,” Keogh said, starting off with one of his favorites.
After that, we sang Oh Shenandoah and The Girl I Left Behind Me. Some wanted to sing Gerry Owen, the Seventh Cavalry’s marching song, but I wasn’t ready. Not until I knew where we were marching to.
“Jumping Bull is not faring well. Morning Star and Walking-In-Grass are worried,” I said to Dr. Lord as the camp was preparing to turn in.
“I’ve noticed. He tires easily and has trouble breathing,” Lord said.
Born in Maine, Lord had served on frontier outposts most of his professional career, so he had treated Indians before. For such a young doctor, only thirty, he had shown remarkable talent.
“Maybe Morning Star should stay with Keogh,” I suggested. “We can’t take the old man with us on the scout.”
“The Sioux understand death differently than we do. It doesn’t mean she won’t mourn if her grandfather dies,” Lord replied.
Just at that moment, Jumping Bull shuffled close to our fire, pausing next to me as if aware of our conversation. He looked ancient, the long hair slate gray, his face wrinkled into deep crevices.
“I have delivered my grandson. The Great Spirit seeks no more from me,” he said, sounding relieved of a great burden.
“I’m concerned your grandchildren will not find you alive when we return,” I replied, for losing a loved one is a difficult thing.
“Morning Star has said her goodbyes,” Jumping Bull replied. “Slow does not need to. We were destined to follow different paths.”
Jumping Bull continued on to his teepee. I let the subject drop, realizing the old man had made his decision.
I did not fear for Walking-In-Grass being left alone with Keogh’s detachment. She was an excellent cook and popular with the young troopers. They treated her like the mother they hoped to see again one day, and the old woman enjoyed every moment of it.
My scouting party started east the next morning, thirty-three well-armed soldiers nominally under Tom’s command. Joining us were Bouyer, Kellogg, and the four young Indians. Keogh moved southeast toward Cibolo Creek above its junction with the San Antonio River. With Sergeant Sepulveda and our Mexican volunteers, his battalion numbered better than a hundred. I hoped dividing the command wasn’t another blunder, but we needed to know what was happening in San Antonio.
Truly, Keogh had no cause for complaint. He had tents, wagons, and cattle for fresh meat. The scout party was traveling light, each trooper bringing only what he needed. Six pack horses carried dried beans and reserve ammunition. We also brought a small tent for Morning Star; everyone else would be using their buffalo hides against the weather.
I chose not to drive directly toward our objective. The main road would be patrolled by cavalry as we got closer, so we moved to a position south of San Antonio but close to the river, using the trees and fields to mask our movement. I knew of a hill that overlooked the flood plain where the old town could be seen.
My unit seemed in good spirits despite the wet winds. Most of the troopers were veterans especially picked by Tom for the mission. Men we had served with for many years and trusted should we find ourselves in a tight spot. And I think having Morning Star with us helped, for having a beautiful woman riding at the head of the column was a delightful break from the otherwise dreary scenery.
* * *
I was disappointed that my search for a white wolf or a white buffalo had led me to a white man, but now I realized this was no ordinary man. He had the courage of a Shirt Wearer, rode his horse with the grace of a falling star, and viewed his enemies as the hawk watches the meadow. His friends thought him the greatest living soldier. But I heard there were others who thought him a devil. Reckless, boastful, and arrogant. A man so driven with ambition that he could not be trusted. This would be a bad thing, for above all else a chief must understand his responsibilities. I struggled to know why the Great Spirit had sent me to this strange land, and in what manner could it help my people?
Chapter Three
Trouble in Béjar
We approached a small river within a few miles of town, the rolling prairie making it difficult to know what we would find over the next rise. Normally it was a stand of trees or a sudden forest that indicated water. The day was dry, not so cold as the day before. But it was still winter.
“Should be the Medina up ahead, Gen’ral,” Bouyer said.
“Or Indians,” I drolly replied, for there were several well-armed hostiles near the ford where we intended to cross.
I saw at least seven, all riding brown mustangs. None wore paint, nor were they carrying any special accruements, such as ribboned lances or feathered bonnets. In fact, their thick buffalo jackets and plain hide outfits were rather frayed, reminding me of New Jersey dock workers.
“Comanche,” Bouyer instantly knew, drawing his 1861 Navy Colt revolver.
Tom drew his Colt .45, and without a word, the two of them spurred forward. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf quickly followed. I stayed behind with the command.
“General, shouldn’t we help?” Corporal Voss said, ready to trumpet the charge.
“Nothing Tom and Bouyer can’t handle,” I said, pretending to yawn.
Morning Star glanced at me with a moment of concern, but I knew the Comanche would flee at the first shot. Then Slow looked at me with a bent brow, as if questioning my judgment. I doubted the six-year-old knew as much about Indian fighting as I did.
Shots rang out, and before my party could get within range, the Comanche scattered. One tried to drag off a captured horse but was unable to handle the startled creature, finally being forced to abandon the effort. I ordered Butler and Voss forward, then signaled the command to remain at a steady pace. Kellogg disobeyed, rushing to meet Tom before the rest of us could catch up.
We found three dead Mexican soldiers at the ford. Two of their horses were gone, but the one that remained was a fine sorrel, fit for an officer, with long legs and a white stripe down the snout.
Tom and Bouyer dismounted, inspecting the bodies. Two were at the edge of the water, laying face down on the rocks. The third had tried to crawl upstream into the brush but hadn’t made it more than a few yards. All three had been scalped.
“Dispatch riders,” Tom said, holding a courier pouch.
“Must’ve stopped to water the horses an’ got jumped,” Bouyer guessed, inspecting the tracks in the mud.
Bouyer took a flintlock pistol and a pocket watch from one of the bodies, a middle-aged man with noble features. The officer wore a blue uniform with white epilates, a red sash around his waist, and a steel helmet crowned with black plumes. At his side was an expensive saber. The other two victims looked like elite cavalry, their crimson jackets trimmed with gold lace. Their high black boots were polished. They had been armed with swords and short-barrel muskets. Arrows in their backs indicated they never knew what hit them.
“I’ll have that sword, Mr. Bouyer,” I firmly requested.
It was a fine Toledo blade, more ornate than the one I carried during the war. Cavalry has little use for sabers on the plains, as the hostiles never get close enough for hand-to-hand fighting. And sabers also tend to make a lot of rattling noises while on the march, which is why the Seventh left our swords boxed up back on the Yellowstone. I strapped the belt around my waist, enjoying the weight of the steel. Nothing makes a man feel more like a general than a good sword at his side.
“Damn, this is weird,” Tom said, handing a dispatch t
o Cooke.
Fluent in French, Cooke was able to pick out a few words. He whistled and passed the dispatch to Kellogg.
The reporter’s eyes went wide with disbelief. His knees wobbled and he fell down in the scrubby grass. I reached for the dispatch.
“Is this some sort of joke?” I asked, angry that anyone would think such a farce amusing.
“If it’s a joke, three men have died for it,” Cooke said.
I gave the dispatch case to Sergeant Butler, who knew even less Spanish than I did, and wished I’d brought one of the Mexicans with us as an interpreter.
“Okay, this . . . parchment, says it’s from General Joaquin Ramierz y Sesma to General Jose Urrea, and it’s dated February 27th, 1836,” I said. “Gentlemen, I’m not a historian, but even I know Sesma and Urrea were part of Santa Anna’s invasion force forty years ago. What the hell is going on here? Were these gentlemen dispatch riders or were they delivering antique documents to their national library?”
I quickly regretted swearing, having promised myself not to, but I was angry. We had enough trouble without the enemy playing absurd pranks on us.
“What should we do, sir?” Butler asked, tucking the dispatch pouch in his blouse.
“No time for a burial detail. Gather their personal effects and drag the bodies into the brush. We’ll bury them on the way back if there’s an opportunity,” I ordered.
Gray Wolf motioned to Bouyer, who turned to me.
“The young braves ask for their knives and hats,” Bouyer said. “I don’t think we should be leaving their boots or jackets behind, neither. No sense lettin’ their kit get scavenged by their killers. And you did take the officer’s sword.”
Stealing from the dead is an Indian custom, not something white men normally do. Not Christian white men. But Bouyer had a point. We were not in a position to squander resources.
“Take what’s needed,” I agreed. “But leave them enough for decency. And tell Gray Wolf not to touch what’s left of their scalps. He’s not here to hang trophies from his lodge pole.”
Bouyer and the Indians quickly stripped the bodies almost bare. I gave the extra swords to Tom and Cooke, and armed Morning Star with a short-barreled musket. I had no doubt Tom would enjoy teaching her how to shoot.
After crossing the river we turned north, riding in column of twos. An odd sight, I’m sure, covered as we were in buffalo hides and fur hats. The Indian lads riding ahead of us wore sombreros and carried ribboned lances. Slow rode with them but declined to wear any of the stolen Mexican trinkets. I rode at the head of the column with Sergeant Hughes and Corporal Voss, but my guidon remained furled and there were no trumpet calls. Kellogg came to my side, wanting to talk about the fake dispatches, but I waved him off. Tom and Morning Star fell to the back of the column, joined by Sergeant Butler, where their guns would provide a strong rearguard.
By late afternoon, I was sure we were getting close, perhaps a mile shy of the Gonzales road. The weather remained cold but clear, which was surprising, for we could hear occasional thunder from the west.
“Good cover here,” I said, finding a heavily forested bend in the river. “Bill, you’ll take command while Tom and I go forward. Keep out of sight. Don’t engage the enemy unless you have no choice. If necessary, fall back to Keogh’s position and wait for us there.”
“And you’re going to do what? Ride into San An’tone pretending to be buffalo hunters?” Cooke sarcastically asked.
“Just going for a look, and we’re not taking any company. Bouyer, you keep these Indian boys on a leash while I’m gone,” I ordered.
“General, please, let me go with you,” Kellogg begged.
“Sorry, Mark, don’t need a reporter tagging along,” I decided, turning Vic back toward the higher ground.
“Please, sir! General Custer! I have a theory about what’s going on. If I come with you, I can prove it,” Kellogg said.
“And what theory would that be?” I asked.
“You’ll think I’m crazy,” he answered.
“I think all you reporters are crazy.”
“Let me come and you’ll change your mind,” Kellogg insisted.
Kellogg had proved himself rugged on the trail, a good shot with his .50 caliber Spencer, and never offered a word of complaint. I relented.
“We’ll be back just after sunset. Don’t shoot us,” I said, tipping my hat to Cooke.
“Keep Tom away from the cantinas,” Cooke said.
The three of us rode quietly toward the next rise. I intended to find the Gonzales road and approach a tree-lined avenue known as the Alameda. From the top of the hill, and under the protection of the trees, we could survey the town without much chance of being seen. It was important not to be spotted by enemy cavalry that was likely patrolling the area.
“I bet the town has changed a lot in the last ten years,” Tom speculated.
It was our experience that most frontier cities had expanded since the end of the war. Thousands of soldiers, unable to settle back down to life on their farms, had headed west for new opportunities. Some became famous, like Wild Bill Hickok, the Kansas City lawman, and Joe McCoy, who created the Abilene stockyards. Many were looking for gold, like the miners in the Black Hills, or starting great cattle ranches in the southwest. Protecting immigrants had become the army’s primary purpose in recent years, for the Indians were not well disposed to have their hunting grounds overrun by settlers.
“Rosser told me the Galveston line is being extended to San Antonio next year. Wherever the railroad goes, civilization will follow,” I said, a true believer in modern technology.
“You wouldn’t say that if you spent a Saturday night in Chicago,” Kellogg said, attempting to be funny.
In truth, I preferred New York. A night at the theater and dinner at Delmonico’s was my idea of a civilized evening.
A mile farther on, we heard a familiar noise. It wasn’t thunder we had heard in the distance- it was cannon fire.
“Field guns. Maybe a howitzer or two,” Tom announced.
“Guess we found the Mexican army,” I said. The firing was slow and sporadic. Not a hot fight.
“The town must be holding out,” Tom said, reaching the same conclusion I had. But they were not heavy cannon. Not like the 12-pounders we had intercepted at the Rio Grande. This was light artillery.
“Maybe we have an army in the field after all,” Kellogg guessed.
“Doesn’t sound like the guns are dueling. Whichever side is doing the firing seems to have the upper hand,” I said.
Tom nodded agreement. From 1861 to 1865, we’d seen plenty of battlefields. After awhile, you know instinctively where the firing is coming from. When Napoleon espoused the soldier’s motto, ‘ride to the sound of the guns,’ the man knew what he was talking about.
“A patrol,” Tom said, sighting a group of horsemen off in the distance.
We edged down into a ravine and held our breath. The patrol consisted of ten Mexican lancers on fast horses. Their uniforms, red jackets with white trousers, stood out from the gray landscape. One carried a purple pennant that flapped in the stiff breeze, but I could not make out an insignia. With the firepower at our disposal, we could drive the enemy off, but I didn’t wish to be discovered.
The patrol rode south toward Goliad, possibly scouting their next advance. We moved up from the river into thick woods. If I remembered right, there was a low ridge just east of the town called Powder House Hill where the Masonic cemetery was located. I expected such a place to be occupied by the enemy for observation purposes, but it would also help fix our location.
A few minutes later, we reached the Alameda. The long, tree-lined avenue had been paved with stones on my previous visit. Now it was a ruddy track of half-dried mud. The tall, draping trees had grown thicker, and not a single clapboard house stood in the area, which I found very strange.
We dismounted and approached cautiously, pistols drawn should the enemy be laying a trap. We saw no activity in the im
mediate vicinity, so we tied the horses to branches in the woods and crept up to the road, careful to hide in the brush.
To our right, all I saw was rolling prairie and a few small farms. A dirt trail called the Gonzales Road led due east.
Straight ahead of us was Powder House Hill, but instead of a cemetery, the hill was capped by an old adobe tower that hadn’t been there before. Next to the tower was an entrenchment manned by a dozen soldiers, most of them looking bored.
Down and to our left was the town of San Antonio de Béjar.
“By all that’s holy,” Tom whispered.
“Watch the blasphemy, Thomas,” I warned.
But he was right. The bench land from the hill down to the San Antonio River two thousand yards away was a war zone occupied by hundreds of Mexican soldiers. The town on the far side of the river was filled with tents, troops and supply wagons. A blood-red flag flew from the top of the gray stone cathedral. The more immediate activity, however, was on our side of the river around a decrepit old fort.
“What the hell is that?” Tom asked, pointing.
“Thomas,” I warned again.
“Sorry, Autie,” he apologized.
“Tommy boy, that there is the Alamo,” Kellogg said.
“The Alamo doesn’t have any walls. It’s just an old supply depot,” Tom protested.
“It’s got walls now,” Kellogg replied.
“That makes no sense. If Texas was going to build a new wall around the Alamo, why erect of piece of shit like that?” Tom asked.
“Damn it, Tom, will you quit your goddamn swearing!” I demanded.
“It’s not a new wall, Tom,” Kellogg gravely said. “It’s the original wall. It’s the original wall, and that is Santa Anna’s army down there. I don’t know how, but this isn’t 1876 anymore. It’s 1836.”
Custer at the Alamo Page 7
