Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  I went to the tent flap and looked out. Most of my officers were nearby. I waved to Kellogg. When I saw Slow, I waved him in, too. Tom started to follow but I sent him back, much to his displeasure. Seguin had found my troop of Mexican teamsters and was deep in conversation, his eyebrows raised by the stories they were telling.

  “David, you remember Mark and Slow. Mark is our expert on the Texas Revolution. Slow is a sort of mascot.”

  “A guide,” Slow said.

  “A guide and a mascot,” I replied, letting him sit next to me. “David, at the Alamo you asked me why we were leaving. I couldn’t tell you then, but I will now. When you know our story, maybe this will all make sense to you. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

  I refreshed Crockett’s coffee, took a cup for myself, and settled down. Kellogg was looking at me curiously, for I’d generally ignored him the last few days.

  “I was born December 5th, 1839, in New Rumley, Ohio. Oldest of four brothers and a sister,” I started to explain. “After teaching school in Cadiz, I won an appointment to West Point. From 1861 to 1865, I was a soldier in the United States army fighting a great Civil War. So was my brother Tom. Bill Cooke came down from Canada to sign up. Most of the officers you’ve seen riding with me are veterans of that war. We were fighting eleven southern states that had seceded from the Union, including Tennessee, Virginia, Arkansas, and Texas. David, by the time the Rebellion was defeated, half a million men had died.”

  “Half a what?” he said.

  “Half a million,” I repeated, looking him in the eye.

  Crockett leaned back with a low whistle. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe me, but it was still hard to comprehend.

  “The Union was led by a great president named Lincoln,” I continued. “For much of the war, most of the people didn’t think too highly of him, myself included, but in time we saw his wisdom. Slavery had been the cause of the war, and by ending slavery, he guaranteed that our country would never be divided again.

  “Now we find ourselves forty years in the past, by what means is a mystery. For us, it’s twenty-five years before the Civil War. America is once again divided. The plague of slavery exists once more. There’s nothing we can do about slavery in the Southern states, and maybe we can’t stop the Civil War from happening, but I think there’s a chance we can keep Texas from being part of it. Maybe that’s why we’re here.”

  “It is not the only reason,” Slow gravely said, his brows bent.

  “And there’s more,” Kellogg said. “Mr. Crockett, as you know, many of the Cherokee have migrated to northern Texas, their native land stolen by Andrew Jackson. In the next few years, the remaining Cherokee will be forcibly removed from Tennessee. Thousands will die in a forced march known as the Trail of Tears.”

  “I fought tooth and nail against that damned Indian Removal Bill,” Crockett said, getting his dander up. “Some say it’s why I lost my seat in Congress. We had a treaty with the Cherokee. Good neighbors. Good friends. Every bit as civilized as us whites. Maybe more civilized than some I could mention.”

  “As we speak, the Cherokee are trying to build new lives. Sam Houston has promised them their lands if they stay out of the war with Mexico,” Kellogg said, recounting facts of which I was unaware. “But Houston is making promises he can’t keep. In 1839, President Mirabeau B. Lamar will renounce Houston’s treaty and order the Texas Rangers to attack the Cherokee settlements. Women and children will be slaughtered, their land seized. The survivors will be driven into the Indian Territory where they’ll starve on barren reservations.”

  “That ain’t right. That just ain’t right after all those folks have gone through,” Crockett said, genuinely appalled. As was I. In my own time, the Cherokee were barely an afterthought, but injustice to the Indians was an ongoing outrage.

  “Would you have it otherwise?” Slow asked.

  “Of course I would,” Crockett said, surprised by the question.

  “This Houston you speak of makes false promises. Such is the way of the white man. Is Crockett or Custer any better?” Slow asked.

  “I always keep my word, boy,” Crockett said. “Everybody knows my motto. Be sure you’re right, then go ahead. How about you, George? Do you keep your word?”

  “Most of the time,” I said.

  The tent flap opened. It was Tom.

  “We’re ready, Autie. Got a nice spot down next to the river,” he said. “Morning Star says their gods won’t be mad that we’re burying Gray Wolf at night.”

  “Yates and Reily?” I asked.

  “Figured we’d bury them in San Antonio. In a proper Christian graveyard,” Tom said.

  “It’s a damn shame we’ve got to bury them at all,” I replied.

  Thinking of George Yates was still too painful. I fondly remembered our days in Monroe, and serving with Sheridan. Our nights at Fort Lincoln playing whist with Libbie and Annie. I needed to remove him from my thoughts or lose composure.

  As for Gray Wolf, he had reminded me of my young nephew, Autie Reed, lost on the Little Big Horn. I hoped my little brother, Boston, had the good sense to stay with the pack train. It would be a bad day for my mother if three of her sons had died on that godforsaken hill.

  “Lost some men fightin’ the Mexicans?” Crockett asked.

  “Family members,” I glumly answered.

  Crockett followed Tom and I down to the river where several members of the Seventh were watching. Morning Star and Walking-In-Grass were kneeling in wet weeds next to the body. Spotted Eagle stood a little farther on among the willow reeds, gazing at the dark prairie to the west. Torches had been lit, held by Bouyer and Voss.

  “We have little to offer the Great Spirit,” Morning Star said.

  I saw from the forlorn expression on Walking-In-Grass’s face that she was equally disturbed, for they had traveled down from Dakota Territory with the barest of supplies. Sioux funerals were no mystery to me, however, for I have witnessed many during my years on the plains, as well as those of the Arikara, Crow and Cheyenne. Each tribe performed the ceremonies differently, yet they all had things in common.

  Had we a teepee to spare, Gray Wolf might have made use of it. We had discovered a dead warrior in just such a teepee only an hour before reaching the Sioux village on the Little Big Horn, the body wrapped in fur and surrounded by weapons and food. But here, in the wilderness, a tall tree with sturdy branches would suffice.

  The men had found a buffalo robe to wrap the body, but it wasn’t long enough, leaving Gray Wolf’s feet sticking out. I motioned to Butler.

  “Jimmy, fetch a tarp from the wagons. And some rope,” I ordered. “Bring the musket Señor Seguin gave him. John, find some coffee and jerky from our stores. Ask Captain Keogh if he can spare some tobacco.”

  Tom took the hint, going back to camp with Butler to gather a few articles for Gray Wolf’s journey to the next world. The women began to moan, clawing at the ground and pulling at their hair. I thought their form of grief primitive, but could not help wondering if my Libbie would do the same for me. I like to think she would. Before long, groups of frontiersmen were gathering around the unusual sight.

  Gray Wolf’s body had been washed in the creek. He wore his leather breeches and moccasins, but the shirt had been a bloody mess, the bullet that killed him having gone through his jaw. Tom returned with a long sleeve cotton shirt from the Buffalo hunter’s wagon. Butler came back with the tarp. We laid the musket next to Gray Wolf, added some food and tobacco, and began to wrap him, starting at the feet. It was important to make the covering watertight. At the last moment, I took off my red scarf and knotted it around Gray Wolf’s neck. A good luck charm the lad might need.

  The wailing of the women grew louder. Walking-In-Grass took locks of her torn out hair to weave into Gray Wolf’s long black tresses. Morning Star wiped tears from her face to moisten the boy’s cheeks. Spotted Eagle had found a white, chalky rock that he used to mark Gray Wolf’s arms. We had no war paint, but a little soap and
alcohol helped bleed some red dye from an old shirt, enough to make a few streaks.

  At last the body was properly bundled. Six of us, with Crockett helping, lifted him to a tree branch eight feet above the ground, where it was secured with additional rope. The scaffold would keep Gray Wolf closer to the stars and safe from roving wolves.

  “The father must speak,” Slow said.

  “You’re the medicine man,” I answered, unwilling to extend myself so far. Even at funerals for Christians, I rarely had words to say. Death touches some too closely, especially me. What could I say about a young heathen that the gods would want to hear?

  “I am not a man. In another life, some may have called be a medicine man, but it was not true,” Slow said, drawing deeply from dim memories. “To know the spirits is not to know the arts of healing. The white man may not know the difference, but the People do.”

  “The boy is right, General. One of us should say the words,” Cooke said.

  “Then you say them,” I replied, miffed at his presumption.

  “I am not the father,” Cooke said, just to be an ass.

  “Autie, it will mean more coming from you,” Tom said. “Gray Wolf looked to you as a father.”

  “Just like the men do,” Cooke added.

  I was startled by this, and shaken, but it made sense. And Bill was always, above all else, a sensible man. In such strange circumstances, it should be no surprise that the rank and file would invest their hopes in me.

  Slow took my hand, walking to the base of the tree. The women stopped their wailing. It was not unusual for Indians to cut and mutilate themselves during mourning, but this I had forbidden. Doctor Lord was pressed enough already by our recent skirmish.

  The night had turned frosty, causing us to bundle up against the breeze rustling through the trees. The burning campfires along the rough dirt road looked like dim stars among the woods. The men, unafraid of the Mexican cavalry now that we were gathered in sufficient strength, chatted boisterously in small groups.

  Nevertheless, our three artillery pieces were posted on the north trail against an unexpected incursion. Bringing the cannon had slowed Keogh’s march, but worth the effort. Once again, I thought back on the Gatling guns that Terry had offered me on the Yellowstone, wishing now I had taken them.

  “Great Father of us all,” I prayed. “We knew this boy as Gray Wolf, no older than many who fell on the battlefields of Virginia and Pennsylvania. He was brave and loyal. A good companion. Have mercy on him for his sins, praise him for his devotion, and protect him in the world to come, as I hope you will protect us, your servants, in life everlasting. Amen.”

  “Amen,” a dozen soldiers chanted.

  “Lot of trouble for a damn Indian, if you ask me,” a shaggy-bearded frontiersman said from the crowd. He was tall, lanky, with big fists that were clenched. A red and black checkered scarf covered his head.

  “Waste of a good rifle, too. Let’s climb up there and take it back,” his burly friend agreed, pushing forward. Like the other, he was dressed in buckskins but wore a beaver hat. Trappers, most likely. His bright red hair hung down to shoulders.

  “Leave my cousin alone,” Morning Star protested, standing in the man’s path. She looked like a stick compared to the two men coming at her, but stood her ground.

  “Out of my way, squaw,” the tall trapper warned.

  “And you squaw men better back off, too,” the burly one said, pointing a finger in our direction. “Don’t know why you even buried this red devil. Nothing but raping, murdering scum. Better left to the scavengers.”

  “Goddamn Indian lovers,” a third frontiersman said, short but thick at the shoulders, his head so covered in matted hair that he looked like a small black bear. The coverings on his feet weren’t even boots, just furs wrapped by leather twine.

  “That’s far enough,” Cooke said, standing at Morning Star’s side.

  Tom was already there, his brows bent. The long scar on his jaw was beginning to bulge. Smith and Butler were with them. Even Voss came up despite his wounded arm, passing the torch to Walking-In-Grass so he could grip the hilt of his sword.

  “No fighting,” I demanded, this being neither the time or place.

  “Cowards,” one of the trappers said.

  It looked like he was going to push Morning Star out of his way. A glance over his shoulder found fifty or so militia members standing behind him in a group. Men he expected to support his intrusion. Crocket went to intervene. I put a hand on his shoulder.

  “George?” Crockett whispered.

  “Let’s give them a moment,” I said.

  The Custer Clan closed ranks, Tom and Cooke taking charge. A dozen of their friends were ready to join in, including Smith, Harrington, Butler and Hughes. Not all were particularly fond of Indians, nor had most of them known Gray Wolf, but that didn’t matter. It was one for all and all for one, regardless of the cause.

  “We got you blue boys two-to-one,” the little bear-man said.

  “Make it ten-to-one and see if we care,” Tom dared, taking off his heavy coat and dropping it in the damp grass.

  Keogh walked down from the camp, saw the trouble, and hurried to prevent an altercation. He put one hand out to stop Tom, the other to ward off the frontiersmen. With a buffalo robe over his uniform, he looked bigger than any of them, and the month-old beard gave him a formidable look.

  “That’s enough, boys. We’re all in this kettle together,” Keogh said, his Irish accent thick. I knew he’d been drinking.

  “Orders from the Pope?” someone said from the back, alluding to the Irishman’s religion.

  Even though settlers immigrating to Texas were compelled by Mexican law to convert to Catholicism, most were confirmed Protestants. It seemed that even here, in this godforsaken backwater, prejudices from the East ran deep.

  “No reason for insult, friend. We are all equal in the eyes of God,” Keogh replied.

  “Equal my ass,” the stocky trapper said. “No idolater ever stood eye-to-eye with me.”

  “Nor with me, you damned Friday fish-eater,” the bear-man said, forced to look up at Keogh.

  “The saints have their place, boys. Let’s not fight over it,” Keogh said, offering to shake hands.

  “You’re nothing but a damn abolitionist,” the red-haired man said.

  “A damn what?” Keogh asked, the smile disappearing.

  “Abolitionist, darkie lover,” the trapper answered.

  “That’s what I thought you said,” Keogh said.

  When Keogh reared back and punched the trapper in the face, the man went down hard, his nose spurting blood.

  The tallest of the frontiersmen jumped forward, swinging at Keogh, but Cooke blocked the blow and returned a kidney punch. Tom leaped into the fray and soon the fight was on, ten or fifteen men jabbing, kicking and sprawling on the ground. A hundred others came to watch, cheering friend and foe alike.

  There was a good deal of yelling, most of it good-natured, though a few seemed determined on blood. Sergeant Hughes was standing next to me, his Henry rifle cocked should anyone draw a knife or pistol, but so far fists appeared the weapons of choice. A brawny fellow knocked Keogh to the ground. Cooke, watching Tom’s back, launched a solid round-house punch followed by two left hooks. Queen’s Own must have had boxing lessons during his busy career.

  Let them have a fair fight, I remembered saying during my cadet days. Those words had cost me a court-martial. But I wasn’t the sergeant-at-arms anymore. Now I was the general.

  Voss had run to Keogh’s assistance, helping the big Irishman up. A blow from behind sent Voss reeling, but the corporal was tough as German leather, turning to kick the dastardly attacker where it hurt the most.

  Two of Chenoweth’s men decided to gang up on Tom, which was a mistake. Tom was already a wild lad when he lied about his age to join the army. They caught him, kicked him out, and he turned right around to rejoin. Libbie had struggled for years to curb Tom’s drinking, swearing and fig
hting, but she had only managed to curb the drinking. Tom hit one man with a strong right-hand punch, threw him against the other, and then pummeled them both until they retreated.

  “George, don’t you think we should stop this?” Crockett asked.

  “What?” I said, lost in thought.

  “Maybe they’ve had enough,” Crockett said.

  “I suppose you’re right, David,” I agreed.

  We waded into the battle, pushing the two groups apart with little difficulty, for the bitter cold was not conducive to a good brawl.

  “That was a mighty fine scrap, fellers,” Crockett announced. “Now let’s get cleaned up and have some vittles.”

  “We have a cask of Santa Anna’s Portuguese bourbon in our wagon,” I added. “Some of you may need a sip after such a good fight. Come by our camp. No hard feelings.”

  I saw Chenoweth and Dijon in the crowd but didn’t know if they’d thrown any punches. Chenoweth seemed lighthearted about the incident, but Dijon was still harboring a grudge.

  “Myles, is that how you stop a fight?” I asked, wrapping an arm around Keogh’s shoulders.

  “Damn ignoramuses,” Keogh said, rubbing his jaw.

  “Tommy would have started the fight for you.”

  “Don’t need no snot-nosed kids to start my fights, thank you. Or any damn generals stopping them,” Keogh said, going back to his troop with a limp. I saw the flask in his back pocket.

  “Satisfied with yourselves?” I asked Tom and Cooke.

  “Hell yes,” Tom said, holding Morning Star close.

  Morning Star looked up at him like the hero he was, her big brown eyes filled with admiration.

  “Whooped them Rebs good, didn’t we?” Butler bragged, shaking mud out of his overcoat.

  “Return to your units, gentlemen. Officer’s call in half an hour,” I said, declining any encouragement. “John, see that Morning Star and Walking-In-Grass eat some supper. No nonsense. They need to be strong for the days ahead.”

  I gave the women a firm look. Squaws can take their mourning rituals to an extreme if not kept in check.

  “We will eat,” Morning Star said, leading Walking-In-Grass away.