Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “Quick boys, give me a hand,” I said, dismounting near one of the field pieces.

  We dragged several barrels of powder up, packed them underneath the gun mount, and prepared to light a fuse. Butler cut open a powder sack, pouring a trail back to the ammunition wagon. Six frightened horses were tethered to a line. We cut them loose and managed to catch two of them.

  Tom rode up, excited and out of breath. His squad seemed to have suffered no casualties.

  “Get going, I’ll be right behind,” I ordered, waving a torch made of dry grass.

  Only Butler stayed behind, holding Vic’s reins, as the rest of the command moved out. Cooke took the lead, followed by Morningstar, Kellogg, and the two young braves. Hughes and Voss were keeping an eye on Slow. Tom shifted his unit to a flanking position, letting others pass. The south gate of the Alamo was three hundred yards away.

  Now there was more shooting. The battery near the town had fired at the fort. Fifty or sixty Mexicans soldiers were emerging from the trees across the river, coming up at the double-quick. Perhaps they thought some of the Alamo defenders were attempting to break out. A ragged volley of musket fire came from the fort, though they probably didn’t know who to shoot at.

  “Okay, Jimmy, let’s get this done,” I said, setting the torch to our powder trails.

  I jumped on Vic, wheeled around, and followed Butler out on the open ground, leaving the Alameda behind us.

  Firing was now general between the fort and the Mexicans attempting to cross the bridge. More cannon fire came from across the river, though none aimed at us. From such a distance, they may still have believed us Mexican cavalry rather than intruders. The battery behind us exploded in three large blasts, the last shaking the ground.

  I looked toward the fort. Men were standing on the gatehouse roof, firing muskets. The chapel was to the right, quiet as there were no enemies in that area. At the end of the wall to my left, where the 18-pounder was mounted, a group of buckskin clad men were shooting toward the river, giving us what cover they could. Most of the enemy appeared to be beyond the river, well-entrenched but caught off-guard. A string of broken-down shacks lined the side of the dirt road, helping to cover our approach.

  Cooke had moved to the front of our column, shouting in English to the garrison so they would know we were friends. Seeing the enemy gathering at the river’s edge, Tom dismounted his wing into skirmishers, six men kneeling four yards apart while two men held their horses. They fired a volley, ejected the spent shells, and fired another volley within seconds. When a third volley was fired only seconds after that, the Mexicans retreated back toward their entrenchments.

  Suddenly another enemy force appeared from the rear, dozens of soldiers coming along our side the river in a quick but undisciplined rush. I saw that, deep in the trees to the south, another battery had been established among a group of slovenly adobes. I had not been able to see the camp from the top of the Alameda, and now they were charging Tom’s exposed flank.

  “Butler, the left!” I shouted, pointing at the new threat. It was hard for him to hear me. The battlefield was raging with gunfire and the occasional cannon shot. Dust rose from the Alamo walls when they were struck, and occasional bursts of dirt showed where shots were landing low.

  “Yes, sir,” Butler said, taking aim at the advancing enemy column.

  An officer in an elegant white uniform was waving his sword, hurrying his men on. The soldiers, all outfitted in dark blue jackets and light blue trousers, were hastily dressed, their tall shako hats barely strapped on. They carried muskets, but not the clumsy Brown Bess we had encountered on the Rio Grande. These men were armed with English Baker rifles, a much deadlier weapon. I guessed their numbers at forty, all on foot.

  Tom mounted his horse, Sergeant Hughes at his side, and they opened fire with their repeating rifles, hitting four or five of the enemy. Then Hughes took careful aim and killed the Mexican officer with a shot through the heart.

  “Andale!” one of their sergeants yelled, ordering his men into a firing formation.

  A dozen of them formed a long line, taking shot from their pouches to load their guns. Butler saw the sergeant who was giving directions, a burly man in a haggard blue uniform, and with a great deal of regret, he shot the man dead. Knowing Jimmy as I did, he would have rather killed an officer.

  Another volley from Tom’s skirmish line broke the center of the Mexican formation, four soldiers falling with grievous wounds. The rest beat a hasty retreat.

  Butler and I caught up to the command, providing cover for the skirmishers as they remounted.

  “Voss! Sound recall!” I shouted.

  Corporal Voss sounded the signal to withdraw, the bugle crisp in the cold morning air. Cooke paused before the rough log stockade shielding the south gate, waving the men forward as the defenders dropped a heavy plank over the ditch protecting their position.

  “Come on, boys,” I shouted, waving my hat jubilantly.

  The operation had gone just as I envisioned. Tom and his men followed Cooke while Butler and I brought up the rear. We charged over the stockade’s wooden ramp and into the Alamo no worse for wear. A hundred beleaguered frontiersmen sent up a cheer at our arrival.

  * * *

  I had never known such excitement. The iron guns of the Mexicans were large and loud, the soldiers opposing our charge anxious to shoot us. Bullets flew like summer hailstones, but Custer was fearless in battle, everywhere at once, taking the biggest risks to win the greatest glory. His brother said the white general secretly yearned to be an Indian. Though I do not think this is true, without doubt he would have made Crazy Horse jealous. But Crazy Horse knew from his vision quest that he could not be killed in battle. The white general had only his luck.

  Chapter Four

  Commanding the Alamo

  We dismounted in the courtyard just inside the south gate, the mounts breathing hard from the sudden sprint across the prairie grass. Dozens of men in dirty brown leather rushed to greet us. Even the better dressed amongst them looked a bit ragged. One tall man wearing fringed buckskin looked familiar. I had seen his portrait while in Washington.

  “Guess this answers our question,” Cooke said, shoulders slumping.

  I was disappointed, too, for I dearly hoped until the last moment that this was all some sort of huge mistake. But it wasn’t. Our families were really gone, the world we knew not yet created. We were lost in every way one can be lost from one’s home and roots, except one. I still had my command, or part of it, and that would sustain me until the world started to make sense again.

  “Crockett. David Crockett. Sure glad to see you boys,” the tall man said in a classic Tennessee drawl.

  Crockett was about fifty years old with good features, an aquiline nose, and a week-old salt-and-pepper beard that contrasted with his otherwise dark brown hair. He wore a gray broad brim hat rather than a coonskin cap, and an aura of electricity was felt from his smile. The man had been a congressman.

  “George Custer,” I introduced. “This is my adjutant, Lieutenant William Cooke. My non-commissioned officers are Sergeant James Butler, Sergeant Bobby Hughes, and Corporal Henry Voss.”

  “Mark Kellogg, late of the Bismarck Tribune. Pleased to meet you, sir,” Kellogg gushed, pushing forward to shake Crockett’s hand.

  “Bismarck? Don’t believe I’ve heard of a Bismarck Tribune,” Crockett said.

  “It’s in North Dakota, sir,” Kellogg explained.

  “Odd, I didn’t know any white men lived in the Dakotas,” Crockett said, trying to be nice.

  A fellow standing next to Crockett reached to shake my hand. He was tall and lean like Crockett, in his early forties, and had the gleam of a good education in his cool blue eyes. His clothes had been mended in several places, indicating he’d seen hard times.

  “This is my friend, Micajah Autry, also from Tennessee. We came out from Nacogdoches together,” Crockett introduced.

  “Proud to meet you, sir,” I said, returning
the handshake.

  “Glad to see so many friends, especially on horseback. Not many good horses to be had hereabouts,” Autry said, which explained the dreadful condition of his worn leather boots.

  Another man came forward, this one nattily dressed in what was supposed to be a navy blue cavalry uniform. He wore a dress sword and a broad white sash around his waist. His black boots were polished.

  “I’m Colonel William Travis, commanding the Alamo,” the young man said with an Alabama accent.

  I took Travis to be no more than twenty-five or twenty-six years old. He had light brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a clear complexion. I could tell that he had recently shaved, smelling of lilac water.

  “General George Custer, commanding a battalion of the Seventh Cavalry,” I responded, making it clear who the ranking officer was.

  “United States cavalry? Here?” Travis said, looking at my men with doubt. Though roughly in the same uniforms, the long march from Fort Lincoln and more recent travails had taken a toll. And none of us had shaved in two weeks. What stood out most were the buffalo hides we used to stay warm.

  “I suppose you can’t say were officially United States cavalry. At the moment. But we’re here to stop this invasion,” I replied.

  Tom finished giving Butler instructions for billeting our horses, then approached with Morning Star and Slow. They raised many eyebrows.

  “Gentlemen, my brother, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Custer,” I said, using Tom’s brevet rank from the Civil War. “And my guests, Morning Star and Slow of the Great Sioux Nation. My scouts are Gray Wolf and Spotted Eagle.”

  “You’re traveling with Indians?” a gruff pioneer said with a sneer of disapproval.

  “I travel with whom I please. Do you have a problem with that?” I answered, focusing on the boorish ruffian and several of his friends.

  Tom stepped forward with his fists clenched, but I put out an arm to keep him back. We hadn’t come to fight with a bunch of illiterate bumpkins.

  “I guess not,” the rude frontiersman said, wisely backing off.

  “Where are the rest of your men?” Travis asked, making a quick count. “From the licking you gave the Mexicans, we guessed your strength at a hundred.”

  “Or two hundred,” a voice said from the watching crowd. I took a quick look at the Alamo defenders, seeing brave men with frayed nerves.

  “Only thirty for now. Maybe a few more later,” I said.

  Travis stepped up to take a closer look at my Remington hunting rifle. He saw the Winchesters carried by Tom and Cooke. A closer glance at my troopers revealed their Springfield carbines.

  “Sir, I think we should talk. Mr. Dickenson, officer’s call. The barracks in ten minutes,” Travis suddenly said.

  And with that he walked away without another word.

  “Young Travis can be a bit abrupt,” Crockett said.

  “Me, too,” I responded.

  I did not rush to the young lawyer’s officer call. My men were tired and needed food. The horses needed care. Suddenly artillery was heard from the river. Everybody but me ducked as a cannon ball sailed over the west wall and bounced into the courtyard. Another shot struck the east wall, dust flying up from the impact. The fort’s defenders hurried to find cover.

  “They’re at it again,” Crockett said. “Every few minutes, all day long. All night long. And when they’re not shootin’ at us, their brass band plays those damn marches. We ain’t slept in a week.”

  I went to the southeast corner of the fort and up a sloping ramp where the 18-pounder was mounted. It was the largest cannon I’d seen in years and must have weighed two thousand pounds. The main gate was to my left, a low adobe structure with several small rooms attached. To my right was a long straight wall protected by a shallow ditch. I saw a battery across the river about three hundred yards away. Trees and brush grew thickly along the San Antonio riverbank. The other enemy battery, on our side of the river, was three hundred and fifty yards south hidden among the shanties. A squad of cavalry and a hundred infantry had rushed to the positions we attacked on our way in. The woods were still smoldering where we had blown up their ammunition wagon, and atop Powder House Hill, the old observation tower had caught fire, raging like a red torch in the morning sky.

  Crockett and another Alamo officer joined me on the firing platform.

  “Just a bit out of range,” Crockett said.

  “We’ll see about that,” I replied.

  “If you sortie out, they’ll have two hundred rifles on you,” Crockett warned.

  Tom and Cooke came up the ramp just as the cannon across the river fired. The ball fell short, striking the wall below us without effect.

  “To hell with that. Let me get a Springfield and give those bastards a lesson in manners,” Tom said, starting back down the ramp. I stopped him.

  “No hurry. The batteries don’t warrant my attention yet. Better to let the enemy think themselves safe,” I ordered, for it would not be prudent to warn the enemy they were within range of our carbines.

  “We didn’t expect the Mexicans until the middle of March, if they came this far north at all. I needed a few more weeks to get our defenses ready,” the other officer said, explaining and apologizing. He didn’t look like a soldier, being slightly overweight and casually dressed in a gray woolen suit.

  “Even a few more months would have made no difference. This rat hole would still be indefensible,” Tom said.

  “Sir, this is a strong position. We have more cannon that any post west of the Mississippi,” the insulted man answered.

  “Your name, sir?” I asked.

  “Green Jameson. Chief engineer of the Alamo,” he said, not offering to shake hands.

  “What is your real profession? When not patching adobe with mud?” I inquired.

  “I have a law practice in San Felipe,” he admitted.

  “Mr. Jameson,” I said. “Let me suggest that you stick to robbing widows of their pensions, and leave military engineering to those who understand such things.”

  The cannon across the river roared again. Apparently the enemy felt insulted that we stood on the wall without bothering to duck. We returned to the courtyard where my men were beginning to assemble in front of the dilapidated church. Many held tin plates of hot beans and cornbread.

  “General! General!” Kellogg shouted, running to meet us. “General, it’s February 28th. They’ve been besieged since the 23rd.”

  “The battle was when? March 8th?” I asked.

  “March 6th. Seven days from now every man in this fort will be—” Kellogg blabbered from excitement.

  “That’s not much time to whip these boys into shape,” I interrupted, for the garrison seemed to have more courage than discipline. The guards stood casually at their posts. The clothes of the rank and file were unkempt. Most of the men appeared to be huddled in small groups with nothing to do.

  From a door on the ground floor of the two-story barracks, I saw Travis emerge, scowling. I had completely forgotten about his officers’ call, and still felt no particular need for one.

  “Maybe we should hear what the youngster has to say,” Crockett gently suggested, sensing my disapproval.

  It’s easy to forget that in any situation, be it a war council, business meeting, or a ballroom dance, there is always an element of politics. Many in Lincoln’s administration tried to block my promotion to major general, calling me a McClellan democrat. The accusation was true, but it didn’t stop me from endorsing Lincoln’s policies to win my star. I resigned myself to indulging Travis, at least for the time being.

  “My apologies, sir. We’ve had many a long march these last few weeks,” I said, following Travis, Crockett, Jameson and several others into the long adobe building. It seemed the lower floor was being used as a billet and storehouse. I guessed part of the upper floor was the Alamo hospital.

  We found an empty room off the south entrance, taking seats around an old oak table. The sparse quarters were dimly lit with two o
il lamps and a small fireplace in the corner. The room had a foul, overcrowded smell to it. After so many weeks on the open plains, it was an odd way to reacquaint myself with civilization.

  One of the men slumped in his chair, a deathly pallor haunting his face. I took him to be the famous Jim Bowie, though now he looked like a broken-down drunk. He was a big man, probably six feet, with broad shoulders and shaggy, dirt blond hair. He had shaved recently, possibly within the last few days. His high cheek bones were red with years of too much drink.

  I decided to bring Cooke and Kellogg to the meeting, letting Tom find quarters for our men. Slow entered the room and stood in the corner, much to everyone’s surprise. But no one told him to leave.

  “Have you word for us? Fannin? Houston? Has the convention responded to our appeals for help?” Travis asked.

  “I’m afraid you won’t receive reinforcements in time, Mr. Travis,” Kellogg said. “Fannin feels his three hundred men aren’t enough to be of assistance. Houston is off speaking with his Cherokee friends.”

  “But Houston sent you?” Bowie asked, his voice raspy.

  “No one sent us. We are an independent command,” I answered.

  “Where did you get them fancy guns? I was in Washington only ten months ago. War department’s got nothin’ like them,” Crockett said.

  “We’re not here to discuss our weapons. The first order of business is how to stop this invasion of Texas,” I said, weary of questions for which we could not give satisfactory answers. Answers that would only make us sound like lunatics. Even Kellogg came to realize that time travel wasn’t something these hard-pressed men were likely to swallow.

  “We can certainly use your help,” Travis said. “I intend to post your men on our north wall. It’s our weakest flank. If the Mexicans get their artillery close enough, they’ll have no trouble knocking it down.”