“When the Cherokee protested their eviction in Federal court and won, Jackson ignored the judges and ordered the Indians removed by force. Thousands died,” Kellogg added.
I knew this to be true, for my father had spoken of it. Not just the Cherokee, but many peaceful tribes had been robbed of their land, forced west beyond the Mississippi.
“Maybe we’ll go lend the Cherokee a hand, Bill,” I light-heartedly suggested. “If Jackson can march them out of Tennessee, we can probably march them back in. Until our ammunition runs out.”
“You would do such a thing?” Morning Star said.
“I might like to do such a thing, young lady. There’s not much chance we’d be successful,” I answered. “There aren’t many white men on the plains in this time, but that’s going to change. In the East, it’s already changed. There’s no turning back the clock.”
“But we have turned back the clock,” Cooke said.
“I’m still not sure what’s happened,” I disagreed.
“General, what do you mean, in this time?” Morning Star asked.
“When you attended school in St. Louis, what year was it?” I replied.
“The missionaries told us it was the year of our Lord 1834,” she said.
“You were, what, sixteen years old? Born in 1818?” I guessed.
“Father Duncan thought I was born in 1817, but mother said I was born the year the fox fell under the moon,” she said.
“I was born in 1839. Tom was born in 1845. Bill was born in 1846,” I recounted.
Morning Star remained quiet for a moment, her thin eyebrows bent in thought.
“General, that cannot be true. The numbering of years do not go backward, unless Father Duncan misled me about your ways,” she concluded.
“He did not mislead you, and yes, it is impossible. But here we are, in the year 1836 when we should be in the year 1876. You wouldn’t know how we got here, would you?” I asked.
“I have not heard of such a thing,” Morning Star said. And I believed her. She was not a person who felt a need to lie.
“Would Slow know the answer?” I pressed.
“You would need to ask him,” she said.
The nearly full moon poked out from behind the clouds, then disappeared again.
“Bill, tell the boys we’re making camp. We’ll start again after sunrise,” I decided.
We found a bend in the river that provided a defense on three sides. Posting a sentry near the trail, I went down toward the water where I could see the western plain, thinking for a moment of Libbie, my dogs, and our home at Fort Lincoln. Except for a wind rustling through the thick trees, the camp was quiet. Far better than the noisy Alamo, where Santa Anna’s marching band was harassing the garrison one sleepless night after another.
After three days of near constant activity, we were tired, too. When Voss blew taps on his trumpet, it sounded like home.
Because of the inclement weather, we waited until mid-morning before moving south, taking time to catch some fish and hunt a few rabbits. The horses were groomed, gratefully by their reaction, and allowed to graze on the tall grass growing along the riverbank. Slow and I tracked a deer for almost an hour but never got a clear shot. The boy had grown quiet since leaving the Alamo. I caught him looking at me several times, seemingly waiting for some great revelation. I had none to give him.
By nine o’clock we were once again out on the rugged plains riding in column of twos, four scouts in the lead and four flankers on the left. We had the San Antonio River on the right. From what I remembered, Goliad was seventy miles to the southeast, but that wasn’t our destination. Fannin could fend for himself, dithering over his summons by Travis until it was too late.
“You’re not going to warn him?” Kellogg asked, thinking it a simple thing. Which it wasn’t.
“Mark, even I know about the Goliad Massacre,” I said. “James Fannin attended West Point but washed out, eventually immigrating to Texas. In command of the garrison at Goliad, he promised to relieve the Alamo, but changed his mind. After the Alamo fell, he delayed his retreat east and eventually surrendered his entire command to the mercy of Santa Anna. And on Palm Sunday, his unarmed men were marched out into the Texas wilderness and shot to death. Four hundred of them.”
“Fannin was being cautious,” Kellogg explained.
“Fannin forgot the first rule of leadership. A commander may play Henry V, shouting ‘Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more into the breach.’ Or he may play Richard III. ‘A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.’ But if nothing else, Fannin proved there is no room on a battlefield for Hamlet.”
“I didn’t know you had such an affinity for Shakespeare,” Kellogg said, laughing with surprise.
“Have you heard of Lawrence Barrett?”
“The actor? Of course.”
“Larry is one of my best friends. While in New York, I saw him perform as Cassius in Julius Caesar several dozen times. The theater is a wondrous place. I’ve seen many a performance in Washington, including Edwin Booth. And his accursed brother. I’ve been to McVicker’s in Chicago. But nothing beats the theaters in New York. The Winter Garden is a cathedral.”
“Hamlet aside, shouldn’t we go down to Goliad and tell Fannin what’s coming? It could avoid a lot of useless bloodshed,” Kellogg pressed.
“Travis and Bowie didn’t take my advice. Why would Fannin? Maybe we aren’t here to change history,” I said.
“We shouldn’t stand aside and do nothing,” he disagreed.
“Maybe we can join the Mexican army? Have you considered that?”
“No, that never even crossed my mind,” Kellogg sputtered.
“I turned down an appointment to the Mexican army ten years ago. In this time, the country is in chaos. Providences in rebellion. Santa Anna is a dictator leading his army from one uprising to the next, and eventually, his regime will collapse. Our intervention could give Mexico the stability it needs.”
“You wouldn’t really join the Mexican army, would you?” he asked.
“I suppose not. But it’s a thought,” I replied.
Just after noon, we saw two riders coming in our direction. I quickly recognized Lieutenant Smith and Mitch Bouyer. They were moving quickly with a single pack horse carrying their supplies.
“News, Gen’ral. Big news,” Bouyer said. “Guess what day it is?”
“How about February 29th, 1836?” I answered.
“Goddamn, maybe not such big news after all,” Bouyer said, his shoulders drooping.
“Mr. Smith, a report?” I asked.
“Captain Keogh reached Cibolo Creek like you ordered. He’s dug in about twenty miles south of the Gonzales Road,” Smith said with a salute. “All the wagons are drawn up and the artillery deployed. Later in the day, about thirty frontiersmen entered our camp, planning to join the Alamo once Colonel Fannin arrives.”
Tom rode up and shook hands with Smith. Like Cooke, they were fast friends. All three were in their early 30s, veterans and heroes of the Civil War. Those who called the tight group of officers who dominated the Seventh Cavalry ‘the Custer Clan’ usually blamed me, but they were wrong. Tom was the linchpin of that brotherhood. Most of my time was spent with Libbie or writing my latest article for Galaxy Magazine.
“So you’ve heard?” Tom asked.
“Yeah. 1836. Isn’t that a hell of a thing?” Smith said.
“We were just in the Alamo,” Tom said.
“Naw. The Alamo? Did you meet Davy Crockett?” Smith asked, his blue eyes dancing with envy.
“In the flesh. The old bear killer himself. Saw Jim Bowie, too,” Tom bragged.
“Bowie really seven foot tall?” Bouyer asked.
“Bowie’s a six foot tall drunk and dying of black lung,” Tom replied. “He led his men into the Alamo and now he’s too sick to lead them out.”
“Are we going back?” Smith asked.
“Don’t think so. Let’s take a ride,” Tom said, taking Smith off where t
hey could talk privately.
I had no doubt Smith would accept Tom’s point of view. Algernon was from a New York abolitionist family. And even if he wasn’t, Tom could talk the fur off an Eskimo.
“Captain Keogh sent us to find you,” Bouyer said, quite unnecessarily, for it was obvious why they’d come. “Any orders?”
“We’ll reunite the command. You can ride scout with the Indian lads or hang back with us,” I casually said, for I was no longer in a hurry. Not until I had someplace to go.
“Guess I’ll grab some grub and ride up front,” Bouyer said, heading for our pack horses. “Oh, bad news for the young lady. The old Indian died last night.”
I was not surprised. The old man was frail, our journey strenuous. But such a loss is always difficult. Then it suddenly occurred to me that I had suffered a similar loss. I would not see my father again, for he was just a struggling young farmer back in Ohio. I would not see my mother, who was still married to her first husband. Libbie would not even be born for another six years. By the time she was old enough to marry, I’d be an old man of fifty-five. Tears crept into my eyes that I was forced to wipe with my sleeve.
“Something wrong, Autie?” Tom asked, riding up.
“All’s well, Tommy. How is Algernon taking the news?”
“As well as anybody, I guess. Knows he won’t be seeing Nettie again,” Tom answered. “I’ll always miss Lucia, but it makes me glad we never got married.”
Tom had been thinking about the loss, too, but declined to burden me with his feelings. I told him about Jumping Bull so he could tell Morning Star and her cousins, being better at such things.
We left the San Antonio River behind, cutting southeast at an angle toward Cibolo Creek. The land was dry and swept with icy winds. Away from the river, there was scant water or forage for the horses. What few trees we found provided little protection, but we did locate a deep gully for our campsite with plenty of firewood nearby.
Smith had been generous enough to bring two small pup tents on their packhorse. I let him and Bouyer keep one, not wanting to be unfair, while I shared the second with Cooke and Slow. Tom would be sharing Morning Star’s tent, but respectfully so. Sergeant Butler was left to stand guard. In such a wilderness, I suspected our only enemies would be the Comanche.
“It’s getting colder,” Cooke complained, crawling under the buffalo robes keeping Slow and I warm.
“Queen’s Own whining about the cold? That’s a laugh,” I teased.
“A Canadian who knows something about the weather, George. Bouyer says there’s a ranch half a day’s ride from here. We’re going to need the shelter,” Cooke said.
“The Cibolo is well-sheltered by the woods,” I said.
“If we get there by tomorrow night,” Cooke pressed.
“We should,” I supposed.
“But you won’t,” Slow suddenly said.
“And why is that, youngster?” I asked, waiting for a mysterious pronouncement. He did not disappoint.
“Friends await you at the ranch. And enemies,” Slow said.
“Slow, you need to be a little more specific,” I protested. “We can’t keep riding this way and that, forty years out of our time, merely to chase phantoms.”
“I think you can,” Slow answered.
“And why would that be?” I said.
“Because you have nothing else to do,” he defiantly answered.
Damn if the youngster hadn’t hit the nail on the head.
“Bill, tell Tom and Bouyer we’re going south in the morning,” I said.
Cooke poked his head from under the buffalo robe.
“Damn it, George, I just got into bed!” he pleaded.
I rolled over and went to sleep. When and how Bill carried out my order was up to him.
We were off the next morning after a cup of coffee and a bit of dried beef. Bouyer was dispatched with letters for Keogh, informing him of the situation in San Antonio. He was to remain on station while I would join him in two days following a scout to the south. Yates was to cover Harrington’s withdrawal from the Rio Grande, reuniting that portion of the command.
I did not tell Keogh about our reasons for abandoning the Alamo. As an Irishman, he had never been very sympathetic to the abolitionist’s cause, but most of the command would be. Better to tell the men myself about our decision. Or let Tom do it.
We turned south, back toward the San Antonio River, reaching it in a few hours. From time to time, we saw small farms, but much of the land lay fallow. The houses were mostly adobe, though we noticed the occasional wooden shack. Nothing was especially noteworthy until late in the day, some thirty miles from San Antonio, when we approached a lovely valley nestled among wooded hills.
Coming over a shallow pass, we stopped at the crest. The flatlands along a tributary creek were rich with farmland. Sheep and cattle herds lay in the gullies sheltering from the wind. Tom and Morning Star dismounted to stretch their legs. I remained seated on Vic, distracted by many memories.
“This must be it,” Cooke said, recognizing Bouyer’s description of our destination.
“Nice,” I absently observed.
Much of the green valley was fenced to contain animals. Several sturdy buildings were surrounded by low adobe walls. A two-story hacienda sat on a rise back from an irrigated field. The red tile roof was slanted to drain off rain and a second-story porch ran around all four sides. Some of the windows were tinted in blue and green. Near the hacienda stood a long two-story bunkhouse, many smaller adobe houses, and half a dozen barns of all sizes.
Though Spanish in style, this remote ranch reminded me of my childhood back on the farm in New Rumley. Chasing chickens. Playing pranks on my brothers. Being lectured by my father. Making my mother laugh. When money became scarce, I was sent to live with my older sister in Monroe. My days on the farm were over.
We paused at the top of the pass, the command trailed out behind me. The Sioux lads formed up on my flanks, impatiently awaiting orders. And I soon saw why. Twenty or so Comanche Indians occupied the main road just before the main gate of the ranch, half mounted and the others armed for combat.
The mounted warriors were carrying lances with iron spear points. Those on foot had bows and arrows. Most wore fur jackets, hide pants and moccasins. Some of the outfits were decorated with colorful beadwork and feathers, but most were rather plain. I did not see any war paint or elaborate headgear.
The Comanche were opposed by three or four defenders in a dugout below the hacienda. A musket shot rang out.
“From the house. It’s a signal they need help,” Tom said, pointing to the besieged ranchers.
“We will attack. Voss, sound the charge,” I ordered, giving Vic a boot.
I drew one of my bulldogs and galloped down the dirt road toward the hostiles, feeling the cold wind in my face as Vic grunted beneath me. I felt the excitement again, the sudden flush of fear and anger. Future worries faded in the face of imminent combat. The past became a fond memory, a source of strength. The present crystallized with the certain knowledge of living from one second to the next.
The Comanche turned at our approach, mostly in surprise. They neither retreated nor appeared alarmed, though all held tightly to their weapons. For all I knew, the rest of my command was still on the hill and I was charging alone like a crazy lunatic. But I was not alone.
Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf appeared at my side, their eyes shining with a warrior’s quest for glory. Their horses were snorting at a near run, anxious to best each other. I let loose a Sioux war cry and spurred Vic on. The lads managed to keep up, but barely. We were but three against twenty, and it was glorious.
By now the Comanche must have thought us completely insane, and no one, especially Indians, want to fight mad men. They mounted in a hurry and started into the woods toward the river. We closed so fast they were finally forced to hurry their escape, ignominiously fleeing like cowardly rabbits. It was a bloodless triumph for George Custer.
I reine
d Vic in before the rough wooden gate, seeing no point in chasing the hostiles through endless thickets. When Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf stopped beside me, I hollered a victory cheer, which they joined in. Fifty yards behind us were Tom, Cooke and Jimmy Butler, their Colt .45s ready for action. Morning Star and Slow soon caught up as well. The entire command was pouring down the road, looking like a hundred instead of a ragged thirty.
“Good work, lads,” I congratulated.
“Yellow Hair! Yellow Hair!” Gray Wolf shouted, waving his sombrero.
“Hell, Autie, you could have given us a minute,” Tom complained, holstering his Colt.
His horse was breathing hard, and Athena was the fastest horse in the Seventh. I had given them a good run.
“Cooke, reform the command. Butler, throw out a picket,” I quickly ordered. “Lads, wait here. These folks have had one good scare already.”
With Tom at my side, we rode up the gravel road toward the hacienda, taking our time so the defenders would not think us enemies. The sheep pens were to the left, away from the house. A tilled field lay on the right. The defenders emerged from the stone bunker below the main building. I saw three men, all somewhat gray-haired, a young woman, and an older woman. The young woman was especially graceful, having a good figure, large dark eyes, and long black hair.
“Gracias, señor, gracias. We thank you,” the oldest gentleman said, a slender Don in his mid-fifties. He wore a colorfully woven suit of wool, a black sash around his waist, and carried a double-barreled shotgun. His gray-bearded face showed great relief.
“I’m George Custer,” I said, reluctant to claim a rank that might no longer be valid. “This is my brother, Tom, and supporting us is the Seventh Cavalry.”
The Spanish gentleman looked at the four Sioux riding in our party and smiled. Friendly Indians were not outside his experience.
“My name is Erasmo Seguin, master of Casa Blanca. I was once Alcade of Béjar and postmaster of all Texas. You are welcome to shelter here from the coming storm,” he said, his broken English spoken with a strong accent.
Custer at the Alamo Page 13
