Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “That’s your crazy theory?” I asked.

  “Have you got a better one?” he said.

  I took out my field glasses and hunkered down, studying every facet of the situation. The Mexican cannon were old. Napoleonic vintage. The soldiers were armed with the same Brown Bess muskets we’d seen at the Rio Grande. The fort had a fair number of cannon but not very many defenders. A red, white and green flag with two stars on it flew from the roof of a long two-story building. The south side of the fort, between the main gate and the broken down church, was a timber palisade guarded by a pair of 6-pounders. A crudely built lunette protected the main gate, and mounted on the southwest corner was an 18-pounder aimed toward the town. Thick adobe walls enclosed about three acres of courtyard without a single bastion for defense.

  I’d read about the Alamo. Studied the battle, or at least what little we knew of it, for no formal history had ever been written. Without reinforcements, the fort was indefensible, and few if any reinforcements ever arrived. No one with any military experience would get trapped in such a place.

  “I’m estimating the enemy at eighteen hundred,” Tom said, also studying the battlefield through his binoculars. “Mostly infantry. They’ve got to have more cavalry, but they’re not here. Probably on a scout. Autie, there isn’t an American army uniform in sight. The fort isn’t flying the stars and stripes.”

  “Start making notes. Write down everything,” I ordered. “You, too, Mark. About time that notebook of yours is finally good for something. I want troop estimates, dispositions, supply locations. Artillery positions. Pin down where their headquarters is located. Let’s study the ground. Where can we use cavalry? Where’s the best place to fight dismounted?”

  “Fight? General, there are thousands of Mexicans down there!” Kellogg protested.

  “Maybe we’ll fight. Maybe we won’t. But I want all my options available,” I generously explained.

  Tom needed no explanation. He was busy scribbling everything a field commander would need to know. Though I was more charismatic, I still wondered if Tom might not be the better strategist.

  “That’s got to be the worst looking fort I’ve ever seen,” Tom whispered, making a drawing of the fortifications.

  “Strictly speaking, the Alamo was not a fortress,” Kellogg said. “It was founded as a mission back in the 1700s. The walls were for protection against Indians. If the Mexicans were armed with bows and arrows, the Texans would be doing fine.”

  From what I saw, the compound consisted of a roofless old church attached to a tall, rectangular convent. The adobe walls on the west side had rooms for workshops. Two batteries faced the river through holes cut in the wall, a shockingly poor device, for without flanking protection the guns were extremely vulnerable. The east side of the compound had corrals for cattle and horses. A thin wall and two raised batteries shielded that flank, which was also screened by a swampy morass. With a good field of fire, it was almost defensible.

  The north wall was a disaster waiting to happen. Though guarded by four cannon mounted on two platforms, it was shored up with logs and dirt. The Alamo had no ramparts, only wooden ramps that offered the defenders no protection from an attacking force. It would take six hundred men to hold such a place, and history said the Alamo had less than two hundred.

  Only a few of those two hundred were visible, most choosing to avoid the cannon balls hitting the old battered walls every few minutes.

  In one respect, I had to give the Mexican army credit. They wore impressive uniforms, each unit distinctively its own. The battalions flew their banners proudly and conducted themselves with professional élan. They were gradually surrounding the fort with a series of redoubts, filling in the gaps with small detachments. Though they probably had the strength to take the Alamo by storm, they had chosen a siege instead, possibly waiting for additional reinforcements. Larger cannon would knock down these crumbling walls in a few hours, but if the invaders were waiting for the 12-pounders we captured at the Rio Grande, they were in for a disappointment.

  As the sun set, a nearly full moon crawled out from behind the clouds. Enough light to guide us back to our hiding place downriver. We rode in silence most of the way.

  “This has got to be a trick,” Tom finally said.

  “Or a delusion,” I suggested.

  “It looked like the real thing to me,” Kellogg insisted. “I studied the Texas revolution while working for the St. Paul Dispatch. Everything adds up.”

  “Except traveling back in time forty years. I don’t think that adds up,” I disagreed.

  “You know I’m right,” Kellogg persisted.

  “I don’t know anything yet. I’m certainly not subscribing to this fantasy without more proof.”

  “What more proof do you need?”

  “I don’t know. Something. Am I to believe our entire world is gone? Our friends and family no longer exist? That . . . who? Andrew Jackson is President of the United States? I am to believe that I haven’t even been born yet? That my wife hasn’t been born yet? No, I’ll believe I’m dead on some weed-covered battlefield before believing any of that.”

  “Are we?” Tom asked.

  “Are we what?” I said.

  “Dead on some weed-covered battlefield. Autie, I . . . I don’t know how to say this. I’ve had these dreams ever since riding through that fog. We were on a hillside. Shot our horses. Hostiles closing in from all directions. I found you on the ground, hit through the chest, barely breathing. I. . . I couldn’t let the devils take you alive.”

  “So you’ve had a few nightmares. So have I. We had them during the war, and after the Washita. Soldiers have nightmares; it doesn’t make us time travelers.”

  “Who are you trying to convince, General?” Kellogg said.

  “I am the general. I don’t need to convince anyone,” I said, giving Vic a kick and riding forward alone. I heard Tom and Kellogg talking but didn’t try to listen.

  * * *

  Cooke had pickets guarding the ravine where the command was camped, several small fires discreet enough keep them warm without alerting the enemy. I dismounted from Vic, gave him a scratch behind the ears, and let Voss take him to the makeshift corral. Butler offered a cup of hot coffee when I came close to the largest campfire. After the cold ride, the flames felt like heaven. Tom and Kellogg rode in a few minutes later.

  “Well, what happened? Have the Mexicans captured San Antonio?” Cooke asked, growing impatient.

  “You could say that,” I answered.

  “I could, but what would you say? Did you reach the town?” he pressed.

  “Yes, Bill, we reached the damn town,” I said, backing from the fire to walk down near the river.

  Cooke started to follow, but Tom stopped him.

  The moon had gradually disappeared behind some clouds, but stars were visible on the eastern horizon. The river babbled and I heard the occasional fish jump from the water. A steady wind rustled through the trees.

  I didn’t know what to do. What to think. This was new ground, for I had always known what to do. Always sized up any situation and acted without hesitation. Usually with great success, for Custer’s Luck had never failed me. Until now. Or had it? I had the dreams, too. Knew I had blundered at the Little Big Horn by trying to flank the Indian village without bringing Benteen up first. And then I had waited for him on that cursed hill. Waited for reinforcements that never came. Waited until it was too late to escape.

  Texas. 1836. The Alamo. It certainly made no possible sense, but we had something in common, for they had also waited for reinforcements that never came. They had waited until it was too late for anything but a last stand. And none had survived. Was this journey, this hallucination, a sort of redemption? A second chance? A second chance to do what? And how would I explain it to the men? I couldn’t even explain it to myself.

  Footsteps, soft and unhurried, approached through the woods. I saw the young Indian boy emerge from the trees carrying a blanket. The night was
cold.

  “For you,” he said.

  “Thank you, Slow,” I gratefully acknowledged, adding the same thought in sign language.

  “You are troubled,” he observed.

  “Yes. Something very strange has happened.”

  “The world you knew has slipped away.”

  “Yes, it has. How did you know?”

  “Because the world I knew was also slipping away.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “It is not a thing for words. Wakan Tanka has not made the path clear.”

  “Son, I don’t think your Great Spirit is much of a factor here, though if someone’s god was going to intervene, I wish it would be mine.”

  “Can you be sure the two spirits are not the same?”

  “No. At the moment I’m not sure of anything.”

  “It is possible I am here for a reason. It is possible you are, too,” Slow said. Then he pulled his buffalo robe tighter against the night and returned to camp.

  The inevitable could no longer be postponed. I stood before the campfire and explained to the men what we had found. At first a few thought I was joking, for I had a history of playing pranks going back to my childhood in Ohio, but Tom and Kellogg added their own grim details.

  “Have you got a plan, Autie?” Tom asked.

  “Yes. We’ll ride into the Alamo and find out what’s going on, once and for all. No more fantasies and guessing games,” I answered.

  “Ride into the Alamo? And what then, sir?” Voss asked. “Are you going to say ‘Hello, I’m General Custer. Are you Davy Crockett?’”

  “Why not? Do you think Davy Crockett would lie?” I answered.

  “Well, no. I don’t think he’d lie, sir,” Voss said.

  “Think Davy can really leap the Mississippi? Or ride a bolt of lightning?” Bouyer asked.

  “Maybe he’s half alligator and a bit of snapping turtle,” Butler added.

  “Damn it, Jimmy, do you think this is funny?” Sergeant Mike Kenny said, jumping up with his fists clenched. Kenny was also Irish, a thick-necked brawler with the wit of an ape and the courage of a lion.

  Butler stood as well. Sometimes a nice scuffle can ease a troop’s tension, but I doubted it would come to that.

  “No one thinks this is funny, Mike,” Cooke intervened, standing to keep them separated.

  “I used to read Crockett’s almanac. My pa and his pa read Crockett’s almanac. He lived fifty years ago. If this is fifty years ago, everybody we know is dead,” Kenny shouted.

  “Is that true, General? Is everybody dead?” Sergeant Hughes asked.

  “They can’t be dead, Bobby. If this is 1836, none of us are even born yet,” I guessed, for who could really know for sure.

  “And it’s only forty years, not fifty,” Kellogg added.

  “That should make us feel better,” a hushed voice said from the back.

  I couldn’t tell who, which was good for him, as I’d have had the son of a bitch horsewhipped.

  “What are we going to do, sir?” Private Engle asked.

  “We’ll move out before sunrise. At the crack of dawn, we’ll attack the Mexican batteries south of the Alamo and ride into the fort,” I explained.

  “Is it wise to attack such a large force, General?” Cooke asked, surprised.

  “We’re soldiers in the United States army, and as far as I’m concerned, Texas is still part of the United States. Or will be. We’ll hit them hard and fast,” I said, anticipating a glorious charge.

  “We’re riding into the Alamo?” Corporal French asked.

  “Coming into the conversation late, Henry?” Cooke said.

  “No, no. I was just thinking. Didn’t the Alamo lose?” French inquired. “They was massacred, weren’t they? Every single one.”

  “The Alamo didn’t have the Springfield Model 1873 carbine. I think we’ll see that modern weapons and professional officers will tip the scales,” I assured him.

  “Hopefully it will tip the scales a lot,” Tom said with a nervous laugh.

  I let the men get a few hours rest and sat down to write a dispatch for Keogh. I was careful not to give him a blunt appraisal. Such news cannot be transmitted in a letter if it’s to be believed, but I did want him ready to move when the time was right.

  “Bouyer,” I summoned once the orders were ready.

  “Yes, Gen’ral,” the scout said, still dubious. I could not blame him.

  “I need you to deliver a message. Return if it’s safe, otherwise stay with Keogh,” I instructed.

  “Gen’ral, if this is 1836, then I ain’t in the army no more,” Bouyer whispered.

  “Mitch, you’re in the army until I say different. We all are. Once this is sorted out, we’ll decide what to do next. Can I trust you?”

  “Yes, sir, you kin trust me. But I’m gonna ask for a favor when this is all over. A mighty big favor. And I expect you’re gonna say yes.”

  “I will.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m gonna ask,” Bouyer said in surprise.

  “I need every man, loyal and true. People have said a lot about me, much of it unflattering, but no one has ever said George Custer isn’t loyal to his friends. Are you my friend?”

  “I reckon so, sir. I reckon so,” Bouyer said, taking the dispatch.

  Fifteen minutes later he rode off into the darkness.

  “Think we’ll ever see him again?” Tom asked, standing at my side.

  “I reckon so,” was my answer.

  * * *

  Just before dawn, we were ready to make our move. Once again I had divided the command, eight troopers with Tom on our right flank with the bulk of our party on the left. I had hoped to keep Kellogg and the Indians from entering the fort, but they would have none of it. They considered themselves part of the unit now, especially Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf, who intended to lead our charge. I convinced them not to wear the captured sombreros, fearing the Alamo defenders might mistake them for Mexican Lancers.

  We came up from the southeast in the first rays of sunrise. Tom’s unit split off to the right, riding silently toward Power House Hill where we had observed two cannon the afternoon before. The battery was about twelve hundred yards from the Alamo, far enough that they expected no danger from the garrison. The rest of us rode to the top of the Alameda and waited beneath the trees. The upper portion of the road was screened with tall poplars on both sides as it gradually sloped down toward an old wooden bridge crossing the river. Halfway down the slope, on the right side facing the Alamo, the ground opened into an empty field overrun with tumbleweeds. The left side of the road was thick with woods.

  Another enemy battery, better armed, was a thousand yards down the road, just off to the south among a thick grove of cottonwoods. The second battery posed the greatest threat to our reaching the fort, so we would need to neutralize those guns before making the attempt. That would be my job.

  From our position atop the hill, I saw no large forces of infantry in the area, most of the troop concentrations being in town or to the north of the fort where a series of encroaching fortifications were being dug.

  “Okay, just like we planned, boys. Hit hard and keep moving,” I urged, taking the lead.

  We moved down the Alameda in column of twos as if we had a right to be there. In the gray light of dawn, we could easily be mistaken for Mexican cavalry returning from a patrol. Just as we approached the nearest battery, commotion was heard from the top of the hill. Gunfire, followed by shouting and the clash of sabers.

  I paused the command, looking to see the how the enemy was reacting. The pace of the gunshots indicated Tom’s men had caught the small outpost by surprise. I heard Cooke’s Winchester, followed quickly by Army Colt .45s, the sounds distinctive over the muffled report of a musket.

  A Mexican officer shouted, though we were too far away to make out the orders. An attempt to rally his men, no doubt, but they were soon seen pouring from the entrenchment, retreating north along the ridge. Hardly
a minute later, there was an explosion as Tom put a torch to the battery’s powder barrels. A fireball erupted that lit the eastern horizon.

  Anxious to see what had happened, twenty or so Mexicans ran out on the road in front of us, their questions muttered in Spanish. Some pointed in our direction, others toward the flames on the hill. An officer came forward issuing orders, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  “Okay, boys, have at them!” I shouted, spurring Vic forward with one of my Bulldogs drawn.

  I fired the first shot. Hughes and Butler opened fire with their Colts, and then the whole command began shooting. In seconds we were on them, chasing the surprised soldiers back into the entrenchment. Yelling and cursing surrounded us, the enemy startled by the sudden assault. A few tried to organize a defense only to be cut down. A brave officer in a silver helmet lunged at me with his sword. I shot him through the forehead. Then the Sioux lads let out a blood-curdling Indian war cry. Voss blew the recall on his trumpet, letting Tom know it was time to rejoin the command.

  Another group of soldiers came up through the trees, bayonets on their muskets, but none of them fired. It seemed none of their rifles were loaded. I turned Vic sideways, firing until my Bulldog was empty, and then drew the other. I could see the astonishment on the young soldiers’ faces, for they had never seen a pistol fire so rapidly, nor with such devastating force. At close range, the Bulldog’s .44 Short Rimfire bullets tore through flesh far more harshly than any musket ball.

  Several of the Mexicans paused, unsure what to do, until a few brave lads pointed their bayonets and rushed forward. I shot three of them in rapid succession. At a distance of fifteen feet, it was impossible to miss. Kellogg killed a fourth, the Spencer’s .50 calibur round tearing the young man’s head nearly in half. Butler shot two more. Of the small band that had rushed toward us with bayonets fixed, not one was left standing.

  The enemy, never more than fifty to begin with, finally gave up the fight and fled into the woods. I wanted to take their field artillery, a nice pair of brass 4-pounders, but there wasn’t an opportunity. In ten minute’s time, hundreds of Mexican troops could be charging over the bridge from town and cutting off our approach to the fort. If I had the tools, I would have driven spikes through the cannon touchholes, rendering them useless.