Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  The first rank of Mexican cavalry, fifty strong, raised lances before kicking their horses in the flanks, urging the steeds toward our skirmish line. Another fifty were right behind them, colorful lines of fierce horses and noble men, waving banners and glistening steel. A beautiful sight to every cavalryman’s heart. Such pageantry reminded me of our brave battles during the Rebellion. Jeb Stewart’s daring ride around the Army of the Potomac. Tom Rosser’s bold attack at Trevilian Station. The 5th Michigan at Gettysburg.

  The enemy advance was hesitant at first, the horses needing a good prodding, but then the charge was on, the dragoons yelling encouragement to their comrades above the thundering of the hooves pounding the weed-covered plain. Behind me, I heard Tom give the order and thirty rifles barked as one, emptying a dozen Mexican saddles. Ten seconds later, the skirmish line fired again, killing both men and horses. A third volley brought the charge to a calamitous halt, falling soldiers and screaming animals caught in a mass of panic and blood.

  All sense of organization around me dissolved, for my small band was caught in the middle of the battlefield. Horses bucked and neighed, many hit by errant bullets, while ten dragoons surged forward to cut us down with their sabers. It seemed like gunfire was coming from every direction, some from muskets carried by the Mexicans, others from my men down near the creek. A rapid series of shots I knew to be Tom’s Winchester.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” I shouted, drawing my other Webley and firing at the approaching dragoons.

  Two went down right away, a third slowly dropped off his horse into the path of his fellows, who drew off rather than ride over him.

  Private Gustav reeled in his saddle, a hand clutching his gut. Voss toppled over with a grunt, blood on his hands, and fell from his mount. I could not see where he’d been hit. Gray Wolf raised the fine Kentucky rifle Señor Seguin had given him and shot Almonte’s flag bearer, then fell backward to the ground, lying still with a wound to the head.

  “Bobby, retreat!” I ordered.

  Hughes took the reins of Gustav’s horse and rode back toward the creek, ducking under the heavy fire. I dismounted, grabbed Voss by his blouse, and shoved him over Vic’s back. After yanking my rifle free of the saddle boot, I gave Vic a slap and sent him running toward our line.

  Spotted Eagle had ridden within a few feet of his cousin, firing at any enemy who dared approach, but the Colt was soon out of ammunition. I pulled the youngster off his horse, taking him out of the line of fire, and knelt next to Gray Wolf, firing my rifle with careful deliberation.

  Mexican soldiers were dropping all around us. Cooke and Smith were directing the fire from the skirmish line, keeping the men steady. The companies of enemy cavalry on the ridge were too far away for immediate support, and those closest to our position had been thrown into confusion, their crazed horses untrained for the terrifying noise of battle.

  Then, for a moment, the scene grew quiet. Two hundred yards back on the ridge, the Mexicans were trying to reform. Some were pulling wounded from the field, others giving orders for a counterattack. Horses with empty saddles ran to and fro, frothing at the bit and eyes wild. The skirmish line ceased firing, the best targets having retreated, but only momentarily. By the yelling and gesturing, I guessed the Mexicans would be on us again in a few minutes, only this time they’d have a better idea what to expect.

  Kneeling on the ground, I experienced a disturbing sensation. Similar to my dreams of the Little Big Horn and the weed-covered hill, for I was in the middle of the exposed battlefield fighting for my life. Though, ironically, I now had two Sioux warriors at my side rather than my own men. As a group of three dozen lancers prepared to overwhelm our position, it looked to me as if George Custer had made his last stand.

  Then a bugle sounded in the distance. It was Keogh crossing the creek, riding to our aid at a full gallop, forty heavily armed troopers of the Seventh Cavalry. With him were a score of roughly clad frontiersmen, not so well-armed but just as determined. Cheered by the reinforcements, Tom ordered the skirmish line to stand up, firing methodically at the disorganized enemy. Few of the Mexicans were stupid enough to resist the sudden tide, falling back in ragged groups.

  Even as Keogh was riding through the trees, I heard renewed fighting break out on the right. The Mexicans were being stuck in flank, probably by Yates. Many of the better armed lancers dismounted, forming a defensive line at the crest of the hill. The firing grew intense, but it was soon clear the Mexicans lacked the firepower to hold their ground. Cooke sent a platoon of dismounted troopers to Yates support while Keogh veered in that direction as well. Before long, we had control of the field.

  “Autie! Autie, thank God,” Tom said, coming to my side.

  “Thank somebody. Who started the shooting?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. The sons of bitches were coming for us anyway.”

  “It would have been nice to wait until I finished speaking with Almonte,” I complained.

  “General, are you well?” Morning Star asked, riding up on her painted mare. Slow and Kellogg were with her. I wiped a streak of blood from my forehead, but I’d only been grazed.

  “Custer’s luck again, young lady,” I said.

  “Perhaps you have the magic of Crazy Horse,” Slow suggested.

  “I’ll settle for my own luck, youngster, but thanks all the same.”

  I saw Cooke directing our men back toward the creek. Keogh pressed the enemy to the top of the hill, then retreated in good order. Our wounded were being carried to a gully near the ford. Most of the men were still in skirmish formation, rifles ready but with no one to shoot at. Which was for the best. I had not wanted a battle here, nor did I want to waste ammunition.

  Suddenly the grass-covered plain seemed calm. A few horses wandered aimlessly. Thirty to forty Mexican cavalrymen lay dead or wounded. I saw Almonte struggling to sit up, his arm bent in pain from the fall. It would not take long for the enemy to regroup and consider charging down on us, for that’s what I would do.

  A howl of anguish rose beside me. It was Spotted Eagle, who had discovered Gray Wolf’s wound had proved fatal. There was no time for a death song.

  I looked back toward the Cibolo where I Company was dismounting. Keogh saluted and pointed to his new recruits, the ragamuffin frontiersmen who had ridden in his wake. It was a motley group. Rawhide jackets and store bought coats. Cloth shirts and linen cravats. Coonskin caps and silk hats. They were trappers and storekeepers, ranchers and lawyers. Family men and adventurers. I assumed Keogh had stumbled across a group of local militia. Farther down the line, I saw F Company regrouping after their flanking attack.

  “Voss! Voss, where are you? Are you still alive?” I called.

  “Yes, General. Got me through the arm,” Voss said. He was sitting under a tree where Dr. Lord was dressing the wound.

  “Corporal French, sound recall,” I ordered.

  The men began withdrawing, watchful for trouble. Horse holders let the mounts drink from the creek. More of the wounded gathered under the tree where Dr. Lord had setup a makeshift field hospital.

  “General, what the hell happened?” Cooke asked, walking to my side through the carnage.

  “Guess we’ve made more enemies,” I answered, gazing at the Mexican bodies lying all around us.

  Tom and Morning Star were kneeling next to Gray Wolf trying to console Spotted Eagle. Without needing orders, Keogh had extended a skirmish line into the meadow should he need to cover our withdrawal.

  “We can’t stay here,” Cooke said. “It’s just a matter of time before they come back.”

  “Get the command ready to move. Priority to the wounded,” I ordered.

  “And the bodies of the dead?” Cooke asked.

  “Have we so many?”

  “Not many, but enough.”

  “Let’s not leave anyone behind,” I decided.

  Cooke went back to the creek, ordering poles cut for litters. I had other business.

  “Señor, how do
you fair? Is the arm broken?” I asked, kneeling next to Colonel Almonte. He had fallen hard, his fine uniform soiled.

  “I hope not,” he said, sitting on his butt while fashioning a sling with his red sash. “Have I become your prisoner?”

  “I have no need of prisoners. If one of your men fired the first shot, you’ve gotten what you deserve. If it was one of my men, you have my apology.”

  ”Gallantly spoken, General Custer.”

  “Colonel Custer,” I corrected.

  “I know a general when I hear one, damn you all,” Almonte said.

  Gray Wolf’s body had been laid over the back of Almonte’s horse and led away by Spotted Eagle, followed by Morning Star and Tom. We would mourn the brave lad once we were safely beyond reach of the enemy. Slow remained behind, coming to stand next to me.

  “And who is this Indian boy? A Comanche ally?” Almonte asked in painful jest.

  “Lakota,” I said, offering Almonte a handkerchief. His cheek was scratched, a trickle of blood seeping into his three-day-old beard.

  “I have not heard of Lakota,” Almonte said, wiping his face and keeping my handkerchief.

  “You will. One day you will know all the nations,” Slow said, staring at the young man with great interest.

  “Will I live so long?” Almonte said.

  “Longer than most,” Slow said.

  “So the mysterious Seventh Cavalry travels with a boy medicine chief. Thus is your victory easily explained,” Almonte said with a sigh.

  I liked the man. A cheerful, if ironic sense of humor. I helped him to his feet and waved Dr. Lord forward.

  “Not bad. Sprain, no break,” Lord said, wrapping the arm well.

  We had captured a few medical supplies on the Rio Grande. If Almonte noticed the source of the doctor’s bandages, he was discreet enough to keep it to himself.

  “Thank you, sir,” Almonte said.

  “An honor, señor,” Lord said.

  “May I ask your plans, General Custer?” Almonte asked.

  “I’m not in a position to make plans at the moment. But when I do, your Santa Anna will be the first to know,” I said. “Advise him to think well on his thirst for conquest. I do not fight for the United States, but I am an American. We take a dim view of tyranny.”

  “We seek to preserve our country,” Almonte answered, a grim look in his pained eyes.

  “I understand, sir. And I wish you well,” I said, shaking his hand.

  I did not leave Almonte a horse. Spotted Eagle had stolen his fine mount, as Indians are wont to do, and I saw no reason to interfere.

  A few minutes later, the command was mounted and crossing the Cibolo, riding north toward the Gonzales Road. We plundered some of the enemy for weapons, especially their swords and gunpowder. Their horses weren’t the best quality, but we rounded up a group of them for pack animals. A handful of Mexican dragoons watched us from the ridge but refused to engage. I don’t know where the rest went and didn’t especially care so long as they weren’t following us.

  As we moved north in column of fours, Keogh fell in next to me.

  “Five dead, nine wounded,” he said, knowing that would be my first question. “And some bad news, I’m afraid. George Yates. And young Reily, too.”

  “Georgie and Little Billy?” I said, scarcely able to believe it. After all we’d been through, how could Yates die in a pointless skirmish?

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “George got shot through the thigh. Cut the artery. Reily stopped to help and took a musket ball through the spine. George bled out before anyone could stop it,” Keogh said, handing me Yates’s watch and wallet. “Said to tell Annie and the kids that he loves them. If we ever get back to where we belong.”

  I took out the photo of Annie Yates that Georgie always carried. We had served together during the Civil War. I had been at their wedding in Monroe. Helped George get his commission with the Seventh Cavalry. If not for me, he might have become an insurance salesman in Ohio and lived to be a grandfather. I hadn’t known William Van Wyck Reily all that well, but it seemed to me he’d have been better off staying in the Navy.

  “We weren’t looking for trouble,” I said, putting the photo in my pocket.

  “Plenty are. There’s a camp upriver of militia volunteers looking for a way into the Alamo. Call themselves Texians,” Keogh said.

  “Not our job to stop them.”

  “How many men are in the Alamo?” Keogh asked, pleasantly ignorant of Kellogg’s lectures.

  “A hundred and fifty amateurs surrounded by eighteen hundred Mexican troops, and another two thousand on the way.”

  “Our little band won’t make much of a difference there. What are we going to do?” Keogh said.

  Having survived Stoneman’s raids into Georgia, Keogh was in no hurry to get himself killed.

  “I’ve been giving it some thought.”

  “And?”

  “Still thinking,” I said.

  * * *

  We rode north along Cibolo Creek toward the Gonzales Road, the main trail between San Antonio and the Texan colonies to the east. It was an exaggeration in this part of Texas to call anything a road, for most were nothing more than worn paths through the wilderness. The creek on our left was heavily wooded. Bench land rose to the right leading to the occasional hill sparsely occupied by red oaks. The weather turned from damp to frosty.

  Bouyer was scouting ahead, knowing the best route. Tom, Cooke and I rode at the head of the column with Keogh. Hughes and Butler brought up the rear, keeping the men in good order. The bodies of our lost comrades were tied over their horses, awaiting a proper funeral. I had been worried about desertion, but now we had several victories under our belt. No one likes to quit a winning team.

  “Harrington?” I asked, seeking a report from Keogh. I had already guessed the answer but wanted Tom and Cooke briefed on the situation.

  “Up from the Rio Grande in good order. Spiked the siege guns and rolled them in the mud,” Keogh said with an Irish grin, for the people the Emerald Isles enjoy such destruction.

  “What about this encampment?” Tom asked, pressing Athena so close to Keogh’s horse, called Comanche, that their stirrups were bumping together.

  “A rabble,” Keogh said. “Scattered militia bands and groups of volunteers. There’s sixty or seventy of them, including this bunch that rode with us.”

  “Slavers?” Bill asked.

  “What?” Keogh said.

  “These militia bands, are they fighting for slavery?” Cooke said.

  “Never asked them, though I had the impression they’re fighting for liberty,” Keogh said, seemingly mystified.

  “Jefferson Davis’s form of liberty. Are you forgetting which side Texas fought for during the war?” Cooke pressed, almost angry.

  “Guess I hadn’t thought about it that way,” Keogh said, scratching his shaggy, month-old beard.

  Though Keogh was a year younger than me, he was already showing gray. I promised myself to shave off my beard if I ever started looking like an old grizzly bear.

  “If these guys are Rebs, reckon we should shoot them?” Keogh asked.

  “This isn’t funny,” Tom protested.

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t shoot them,” Keogh answered with an impish wink in my direction.

  It was good to see Myles in such high spirits. After Tom and Bill, and with Georgie gone, there was no one I trusted more.

  “What is the Seventh’s position in this manful gathering of eager patriots?” I inquired.

  “We’re camped in a river bend ten miles below the main road,” Keogh said. “Harry has the Mexican volunteers guarding our wagons. Sharrow has a scout probing west of here. The Rebs didn’t even bring wagons, only what they could carry in their saddlebags.”

  “Myles, they aren’t Rebs. Not even in fun,” I felt required to say. “And they’re not soldiers, either. They’re just a mob of husbands, fathers and brothers banded together as our grandfathers did
in 1776. As for the rest of it, we’ll just have to see.”

  “What are you trying to say, Autie?” Tom asked.

  “I’m still the general,” I insisted.

  It was close to sunset when we rode into camp. Five different circles had been arranged around Harrington’s position near the river. Bouyer led us past the curious companies, each with its own name and elected captain. They were suitably dressed for the weather, armed with good rifles, and each had a horse.

  “Shouldn’t we stop and talk?” Tom whispered as I ignored the curious pioneers gathering along our trail.

  “The militia leaders will be coming to me before long,” I said. “It’s better that way. The command needs rest.”

  There were many smiles as the three segments of the Seventh Cavalry finally reunited. Stories were quickly exchanged of Indian battles, fights with the Mexicans, and how nice it was to have a campfire. No one spoke of the bigger questions, for most weren’t ready to admit that our former way of life had come to an end.

  With the compliments of the Mexican army, I had a large canvas campaign tent and a small Franklin stove. Two lanterns hung from the crossbeam. Private Engle chopped up a few logs, and before the sun set, had built a crude desk. Tree stumps were used for chairs. Spare buffalo robes passed for fur carpeting. As the teepees were being used for the wounded, Slow, Morning Star and Walking-In-Grass would bunk with me.

  A welcome dinner of roast duck and turnips was almost ready when the first militia captains came to talk, passing through alert sentries with a sense of fear and resentment.

  “John Chenoweth of the United States Invincibles,” the first said, a tall, lean roughneck with ten years of frontier life written on his face. “This is George Kimball of the Gonzales Rangers, and Edwin Mitchell, personal representative of Colonel James Fannin.”

  Neither Kimball nor Mitchell appeared particularly remarkable. Brave enough, I supposed, or they wouldn’t have responded to Travis’s call for help. But they looked like storekeepers to me, average in features and modestly dressed.