Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “I am General George Custer, commanding the Seventh Cavalry operating in this region. How may I help you?”

  I had stood as the men entered, waited for them to remove their hats, and then sat down. During my years in Washington, and visits to New York, I had noted how men of power entertain those who come seeking favors. John Astor III had treated me with great respect, but never as an equal.

  “We assume you are fighting Santa Anna. He has invaded Texas,” Chenoweth said, clenching his fists.

  “I am aware of that. Three days ago, I was in the Alamo conferring with Colonel Crockett. But the Seventh Cavalry is not at war with Mexico,” I explained, being very matter-of-fact. And convincingly so.

  “You cannot mean to say such a thing?” Mitchell said.

  “Santa Anna will massacre women and children from here to the Sabine,” Chenoweth said, “just as he massacred the people of Coahuila and Zacatecas. He is not just a tyrant. He is a butcher.”

  I stood up slowly, my expression grave, hands clasped behind my back. Slow and Morning Star watched from a blanket in the corner, Tom and Cooke from the mouth of the tent.

  “Gentlemen, though I sympathize with your dilemma, there is a problem,” I explained. “Most of the men of the Seventh Cavalry are from the Northern states. Some are from countries overseas where there is no slavery. We think slavery is wrong. Your congress in Washington-on-the-Brazos is preparing to write slavery into your constitution. We cannot fight for you. Thank you for visiting. We can spare some beans and rice if you need them.”

  I sat down and started to write a report on our recent activities, dismissing the captains from my mind.

  “That’s it?” Kimball said, bewildered.

  “This way, sirs,” Tom said, ushering the men out. He glanced at me, then nodded to Bill. They disappeared into the dark.

  “The white men think you are not being honest,” Morning Star said as we sat down to eat. “Certainly you will fight this Santa Anna who kills children?”

  “If Santa Anna wins, there will be no slavery in Texas,” I responded. “If the rebels win, Texas will have one of the most brutal slave systems in the entire South. When I was stationed here after the war, I saw what the slaves had gone through before Lincoln set them free. My men have seen it, too. There are no easy choices.”

  “But there are choices,” Slow observed.

  “Yes, there are always choices,” I acknowledged.

  The duck was very good. The turnips a bit hard.

  Two more delegations of frontiersmen came to call, each more cautious than the next. The first called themselves the New Orleans Grays and claimed to have friends besieged in the Alamo. They had entered Texas as a company but split up after the first few months.

  The second delegation said they were Tumlinson’s Rangers, a local militia band, but none of them knew where Captain John J. Tumlinson was. Some thought their leader had gone back to Gonzales for more reinforcements.

  Through the evening, Tom and Cooke were busy interceding on behalf of the militias, or so they claimed, but I kept dismissing each delegation with respectful regrets. After a final appeal, I finally agreed to visit their camps.

  The delay gave Corporal French time to wash my clothes, shine my boots, and repair a tear in my shirt. The Spanish steel sword hung at my side. My twin bulldog revolvers were holstered on either hip, the ivory handles showing. My party included Tom, Bill and Kellogg, though I ordered Mark not to give any history lessons. Slow tagged along without my permission.

  The first camp we visited were the so-called Invincibles, a group up from Goliad numbering about twenty-five. They seemed to have two captains, Chenoweth and Francis De Sauque, a gruff, black-eyed storekeeper with a slave named John. I shook hands with Chenoweth, then the storekeeper, and then with John, much to the shock of the group. But none were more surprised than the slave, who drew back in fear of his master’s angry gaze. Their camp was made up of a few fires, some canvas tarps and bedrolls.

  “We could sure use your help, General Custer,” Desauque said, saying ‘General’ with some hesitation. He did not have a Southern accent. More Eastern. Possibly Pennsylvania.

  “I am leading a professional force, sir. I have no use for militia who can’t obey orders,” I responded.

  “We don’t need to follow you. We don’t need to follow no one we don’t elect,” a rebel sergeant said, arms crossed angrily over his chest. His long hair was coal black, the bushy beard full enough to sweep the floor with. Just like a thousand I’d seen on the battlefields of Virginia.

  “Quite right. Have a pleasant evening,” I said, turning to leave.

  Chenoweth caught me by the arm, turning me around. I could have knocked him down, but didn’t.

  “Sergeant Dijon doesn’t speak for all of us,” Chenoweth, giving the subordinate a disapproving stare. “Look, Custer. Most of us were sent by Fannin. We’re just a few now, but more are on the way. We’ve got friends in Béjar who need our help.”

  “I’m sure you know by now that Fannin isn’t coming. Houston isn’t coming, either. You Texians are proud, but pride won’t turn back the three thousand troops surrounding the Alamo. Not with the handful of volunteers you’ve managed to gather.”

  “Fannin may be a coward. I don’t doubt Sam Houston is a coward. Just like he’s a drunk. But I ain’t no coward. Either are my men. How yellow are you?” Chenoweth said.

  “Brave enough to fight for what we believe in,” Tom said, getting in Chenoweth’s face.

  I noticed the frontiersman was bigger than Tom, and ruggedly built, but I’d seen my little brother in more than one scrap. If Chenoweth wanted a brawl, he’d found the right man.

  “We believe in Texas,” Dijon said, rolling up his shirtsleeves.

  “A Texas where slaves do your work,” Tom answered. “A Texas where an honest day’s work is paid off with a whip.”

  “Ain’t that the natural order of things?” Dijon replied.

  “Not natural to the Seventh Cavalry. To us, the natural order of things is freedom,” Tom said, both fists clenched.

  “You’re nothing but a damned abolitionist,” Dijon said, spitting on Tom’s boots.

  Tom reared back to belt the man in the mouth. Cooke and I pulled him off. Chenoweth’s men were grumbling, some with hands on their knives. I wasn’t worried. A Colt .45 would cut half of them down before they could blink their eyes.

  “We need your help, Custer. Is there anything we can say?” Chenoweth asked, pushing Dijon away.

  “Maybe, but I will require a gesture of good faith,” I offered.

  “Name it,” Chenoweth said.

  “Give me the slave,” I said.

  The Texans were surprised, if not shocked. I noticed Tom smile.

  “John is my slave,” Desauque protested.

  “Give him the slave, Frank,” Chenoweth said.

  “No. No, he’s mine. Bought him fair and square,” Desauque replied.

  “Damn your money-grubbing soul, the lives of our friends and neighbors are at stake. That’s more important than your damn negro,” Chenoweth hissed. Most of his men nodded agreement, though not all.

  I watched them with great interest. From what Kellogg had said, many of these men would probably survive the Texas Revolution, but not those who managed to reach the Alamo. Or those who returned to Goliad, for they were doomed as well.

  “Goddamn it. Goddamn you all,” Desauque said. “John, you go with this arrogant bastard. You belong to him now.”

  “No. No, this ’ere ain’t right. Sell him to me,” Dijon said, pushing his way in. I detected a deep accent, likely from Mississippi. The man’s face was red with outrage.

  “René, if you can get John back from these slave stealers, you can keep him,” Desauque said, marching off. Dijon looked around, gave me a look fit to kill, and soon followed. The rest of Chenoweth’s men stayed to listen.

  “I will speak with you again at midnight,” I said, addressing the entire group. “At that time, I w
ill ask your Invincibles a question. Each of you will need to answer for himself. I will only ask once, and the answer must be yes or no. Know that if George Armstrong Custer decides to fight Santa Anna, I will be victorious. I am always victorious.”

  We left the camp of the United States Invincibles, a ridiculous name for a group of would-be soldiers. John rushed to catch up.

  “I will serve you all well, master. I kin cook good, and clean, too,” John said, using the exaggerated Southern accent common to slaves when addressing white men. There was a time I would have thought nothing of it, but I was no longer so naïve.

  “John, you’re a free man now. Serve who you want, or no one at all. It’s up to you.”

  “Can I stay with you, sir? Until better times?” he asked.

  “Are you really a good cook?”

  “Yes, sir. Really good.”

  “Then you’re hired.”

  John’s face lit up with a smile. He had good teeth.

  I visited two more camps, each time declaring my conditions. And my ability to defeat Santa Anna, though for the moment, I had no way of supporting such a boast. After each visit, I left Tom, Cooke and Kellogg behind to gauge the mood of the frontiersmen. They had seen our weapons, and some told stories of our victory at Cibolo Creek over a force ten times our strength. These were brave men, willing to challenge the army invading their country, but they knew the odds were against them.

  “You are going to fight,” Slow said, walking at my side as we returned to our camp.

  “That choice isn’t up to me, but I would like to fight.”

  “It is your way.”

  “It’s a good way if you know what you’re fighting for,” I said.

  We had just passed the first row of sentries when a shout went up from the edge of our position. Seconds later, two men riding exhausted horses appeared on the dark trail. One of them was David Crockett.

  * * *

  General Custer was not a liar, but being a leader of men, he could not always tell the truth. I sensed wisdom in this, though in what manner the two thoughts could be honorably reconciled eluded me. I knew the General had a plan, still unfocused, but clear enough that he would not disclose his thoughts even to his closest friends. Perhaps this is as it must be, I decided, for I had once been a leader, too. A leader who had lived longer than Custer, but given the ultimate results, perhaps no better.

  Chapter Eight

  Crockett’s Secret Mission

  The camps sent up a cheer as Crockett dismounted on the main trail and waved his hat, standing tall and broad-shouldered in the moonlight. He was riding a good mount, stronger than any I’d seen while in the Alamo. Likely he had slipped free of the fort and found a better horse along the way. With him was a young Hispanic man, slim and agile, with familiar features. I was no less excited than everybody else, running from my tent with Slow right behind me.

  “David! Damn, it’s good to see you,” I shouted with a rare burst of swearing.

  “George! Just the gentleman I was looking for. And it seems you’ve gathered a few friends,” Crockett answered, his face lit with a winning smile. Though only a portion of our encampment was visible, dozens of campfires could be seen through the trees.

  “Not sure how many friends, but plenty of brave men,” I said. “What are you doing here? Did the garrison decide to escape?”

  Crockett looked around. Fifty militia volunteers and most of the Seventh had already gathered around and more were coming, some carrying torches. The former congressman from Tennessee seemed reluctant to speak of military secrets before such a crowd.

  “Give me a moment to address these stout fellows and we’ll talk,” Crockett said, giving me a confidential wink.

  “Crockett! Crockett!” the men were chanting.

  The dreary evening had grown brighter, the air felt warmer, and our small numbers suddenly seemed larger. Such is the impact of a truly charismatic leader. Crockett waved a coonskin cap, something I had not seen him wear at the fort, and climbed up on a log.

  “Friends, fellow countrymen, thanks to ya all,” Crockett said, holding up his hands for attention. “I’ve come from the Alamo where a band of your neighbors are holding Santa Anna at bay. We’ve whooped him sound so far, but there’s thousands of them and only a few score of us. We sure could use your help. I’ve got to speak with General Custer now, but later I’d like to come by on a visit. I’ll answer any questions you got. If ya got any cider, I’d sure be glad to share.”

  Watching Crockett in the torch light give me the final bit of inspiration I needed. It was as if God had read my thoughts and responded in a manner that none could doubt. Though I would not claim my relations with God had been all that close in recent years. Not since the final days of the Rebellion, when everyone was praying the war would be over soon.

  “It is a sign,” Slow said, tugging my sleeve.

  “You think so?”

  “We both think so,” Slow replied.

  “Lad, I need you to fetch Tom and Kellogg for me. Tell Tom to bring one of the extra rifles,” I said. “John, prepare my tent for guests. See about hustling up some coffee."

  Slow backed up, going around the edge of the mob where Tom and Morning Star were standing with Cooke and Smith. John headed for the wagons, speaking good Spanish with our Mexican teamsters for the requested supplies. Crockett jumped down from the log, shook hands, slapped a few backs, and came up with his Hispanic companion.

  “George, this is Captain Juan Seguin. The Mexicans shot my horse while I was riding out of the Alamo, but the old girl got me far enough to find some friends. Juan’s got ten men gathered from the local ranches, and I’ve got to say, I was mighty scared to find myself surrounded by a bunch of Mexicans out in the dark.”

  “We are not Mexicans. We are Tejanos, and more Texan than many who claim such a right,” Seguin said, his English rough but readily understood.

  I saw the resemblance clearly now. Juan was taller than his father, but the face was rounded the same. The smile, with its white teeth, looked just like Erasmo’s. The searching brown eyes looked more like Isabella, as did the tousled black hair.

  “Conoci a tu papa y a tu hermana en tu rancho, señor,” I said, responding in my rudimentary Spanish, for I still needed much practice. “There was some trouble with the Comanche, but all was well when we left there yesterday.”

  “So I have been told. I thank you for your gallantry, sir. My father sends word to trust your judgment,” Seguin said.

  “Enough to put your men at risk?” I asked.

  “We are at war with a great tyrant. Everything we hold dear is at risk,” Seguin said. “Will we ride to the Alamo? I left many friends there when Travis ordered me to find Houston.”

  “And did you find Houston?” I inquired.

  “In a whisky bottle. He will come, but I fear he will come too late,” Seguin said, spitting on the ground. “He sits in Washington-on-the-Brazos making a government that will benefit the United States more than it will help Texas.”

  I noticed Crockett frown. He was not surprised by the bad news.

  “Where are your men now?” I asked.

  “On the Gonzales Road. They will be here within the hour.”

  “Sergeant Sharrow, find provisions for Señor Seguin and his men,” I ordered. “David, care for a cup of coffee?”

  “Right gladly, George,” he said, following me back to my tent.

  Though the night was dark, the moon often covered by clouds, the campfires cast a decent glow. And a legendary woodsman like Crockett would not even need that much light. John was already brewing a pot of fresh coffee when we arrived. I pulled the flap shut and offered Crockett a seat on a rough wooden stool.

  “You are a man on a mission,” I said, letting John serve.

  Crockett gave John a look, wondering why the commander of the Seventh Cavalry who had ridden out of the Alamo to protest slavery now had a black servant. I had to smile at the irony.

  “A desperate missio
n, I fear,” Crockett said. “Bonham returned from Fannin. We won’t get any help there, and now Seguin says Houston is dallying on the Brazos, neck deep in the saloons. He doesn’t even believe Santa Anna’s in Texas. Travis tried to cut a deal with Santa Anna, but all the tyrant wants is blood. George, if you don’t help us, the entire garrison will be put to the sword.”

  “I want to help. You know why I can’t.”

  “Funny you should mention that. Me and the boys, we had us a talk about this slavery thing. Mind you, not all are happy ’bout it, ’specially Travis. But most of the men are willing to go along with you. Hardly any of them even own slaves. You know I sold the few I had years ago, being too poor to feed them. Even Bowie said he doesn’t give a damn. He set Sam free on the spot, for all the good it will do.”

  “Did Travis free Joe?”

  “No.”

  “Is Travis ready to abolish slavery?” I asked.

  “One fight at a time, George,” Crockett replied, giving me a subtle nod to speak of it later.

  I heard rustling outside my tent. Slow had brought Tom and Kellogg, as requested, but I wasn’t ready for them yet. I sent John out to keep everybody away for a few more minutes.

  “David, when you first arrived at San Antonio and the people called you Colonel Crockett, you humbly declared yourself a high private. I would like to help you, but a humble private is no good to me. I understand why you want to play down your celebrity. You’re a stranger to Texas, just like I am. You’re afraid of offending those who have already set down roots here. I’m not happy about that, either. But we play the cards we’re dealt.”

  “What are you asking?”

  “I’m asking you to take on a more important role. One I can’t fill. I don’t know how you or I individually can succeed, but together, we just may well make history.”

  “Are you really from the future, George?”

  “I guess that depends on what future we’re talking about.”