Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  Most of the men riding to my right were not Texians. Chenoweth’s United States Invincibles and the New Orleans Grays had come to Texas in the last few months seeking fame and fortune. Just as Crockett had done. They wanted land, or spoils, or just a chance to fight someone. Most of these mercenary bands broke up and went back home before getting near a battle, but a few were tough enough to stay the course. I could not agree with their politics, but they were prepared to serve.

  I had watched our new companions for a good part of the morning when a nervous delegation rode over. Crockett and I were curious, for they seemed intent on having a discussion. Their leader called himself Major Cyrus Johnson, though I doubt he held a real commission. Leadership in most militia units is by election. He was better dressed than the average frontiersman, wearing a nicely cut blue frock coat and a cherry red cravat under his shaggy black beard. I guessed him at twenty-five years old, formally well-to-do, now seeking a new start.

  “General Custer, we would have a word,” Johnson said, the accent Southern and educated. Possibly another lawyer.

  “It’s a free country, Mr. Johnson. Or will be, once this is over,” I answered, finding myself in an impish mood.

  Crockett smiled, too. We had been discussing the volunteers since the night before, pondering whether or not we should hold them in high regard. Crockett thought more of them than I did, which was to be expected.

  “General, are you really from the future?” Johnson asked.

  “That is a strange question,” I said.

  In fact, it was not strange at all. Though I had not spoken of such things in my meetings with Chenoweth and Mitchell, rumors notoriously spread though a camp like the pox. They had seen our weapons, our command structure, and no doubt heard stories from my men. And I had no doubt that, the more of Santa Anna’s wine they drank, the better the stories got. Still, it took nerve to ask such a fantastical question. A glance toward the volunteers revealed dozens of men watching our conversation. Had Johnson been chosen as their representative?

  “What if Custer and his troopers are from another time?” Crockett asked.

  “Some of us might want to join up,” Johnson said.

  “Do we need so much help?” I asked.

  “General, we all know you don’t like slavery. Well, to tell the truth, most of us don’t have no problem with it. Seems like a natural thing. But we don’t much care, neither. None of us is rich enough to own no slaves. But we do like gold, and we heard there’ll be plenty for those willing to fight for you.”

  “What if there is no gold? What if someone made that story up?” I asked, leaning from my saddle as if to speak confidentially.

  “We don’t figure it to be a yarn, sir. No sir, we see what we see,” Johnson replied. “We came to fight, and get some land, and maybe become rich. But this war ain’t likely to make no one rich, the way these Texians are fightin’ it. So much arguin’, and comin’ an’ goin’. This council says this, that governor says that. Bad as a bunch of old crones fightin’ over a Christmas ham. We figure it be better to fight under a real general. One who knows where the goose squats.”

  I laughed. It was the best assessment of the situation I’d heard in days. Crockett was grinning, too.

  “Being a soldier isn’t the same as being a volunteer, son. Any of my men tell you what I do to deserters?

  “You shoot ’em,” he said with awe.

  “Only if I don’t have time to hang them,” I said. “Mr. Johnson, go back to your friends. Tell them I may take on a few good men, but only if they know how to obey orders. If they’re still interested, we’ll speak again.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Johnson said, saluting before he rode off.

  “And so it begins,” Crockett said.

  “And so what begins?”

  “Word’s going to spread about you ghost riders from the future. Some will say you’re sent by God to free Texas. Others will say you’re sent by the devil to stir up mischief. Either way, people are going to be talking.”

  “I’ll come up with some sort of explanation. Maybe say we’re from Canada.”

  “George, with so many of your men knowin’ about the future, ain’t it gonna gum up the works?” Crockett asked.

  Tom and Bill Cooke had hinted about this, too. Were we living history or changing it? If I went back to Ohio right now and killed my father, how would I ever be born? These might be good questions, but I didn’t much care to dwell on them. Philosophy has always been my worst subject.

  “What future would that be, David?” I answered. “The one that was, or the one that’s going to be?”

  * * *

  We made good time, reaching the Gonzales Road in the late afternoon. The wagons were formed against the creek in a wide half circle north of the road. Close enough to reach water if besieged, with cottonwood trees for cover. The horses and oxen were moved to a nearby pasture.

  “What do you think, Harry?” I asked.

  “A cannon can watch the ford. Another pointed north should hold off an attack from the prairie. We can station the third to cover the road,” Harrington said. A textbook analysis.

  “Señor Sepulveda, will your Zacatecos militia find this a suitable position?” I inquired.

  Sergeant Sepulveda’s corporal frowned, for Francisco Sanchez was from Coahuila and wanted recognition for his province. But only seven of our forty teamsters hailed from Coahuila. Most had followed Sepulveda to this desolate spot.

  “Yes, General, but we would rather fight with you,” Sepulveda said.

  “That time will come, but now I need you to support Harrington. My division is spread thin. Too thin to harass Santa Anna and protect our supplies. And to be frank, sir, I’m afraid the Alamo may fire upon you on approach. I’ll feel better knowing there are loyal friends keeping this road open.”

  “We will not disappoint you, sir. But this war will not end in Béjar. Promise us a chance to pull the tyrant down,” Sepulveda requested, humbly holding his old white hat before him.

  “You have my word, sir,” I said, reaching to shake his hand.

  The Mexican’s weather-beaten face lit up with a smile and returned my grip. Had Santa Anna burned my towns and murdered by people, I would want revenge, too, but I sensed more in Sepulveda. A common man with much potential.

  “Mr. Harrington, you have command of this position. And don’t worry, you’ll do fine,” I said with a salute.

  “Thank you, sir,” Harrington answered.

  I paused, giving the situation some thought.

  “Harry, off-duty, why don’t you call me George from now on,” I offered. The youngster burst with a grin bigger than Crockett’s.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Harrington said, pumping my hand with gratitude.

  I made an inspection of our relief station, finding it adequate. The men were setting up a teepee for Walking-In-Grass and Morning Star. The second teepee would be used as the headquarters. My command tent became Dr. Lord’s hospital and was surrounded by two dozen pup tents, courtesy of Santa Anna’s commissary.

  John was acting as Lord’s assistant, for I didn’t need a stolen slave complicating my relations in the Alamo. The surrounding meadows were filled with horses, mules, oxen and cattle. Spotted Eagle was unhappy to left behind, but I suggested he might be needed as a courier, which softened the blow.

  I did not want to delay, for San Antonio was still twenty miles away and I needed time to reconnoiter before fighting our way into the fort. But I had made that mistake before, pushing the men and mounts too hard. With the greatest reluctance, I ordered the men to get some rest. A good thing, too, because the moonlight I was counting on never materialized. It started raining just after sunset.

  I reclaimed the second teepee for the night, shared with Crockett, though Morning Star served us a meal and kept company with us most of the evening. Crockett was perfectly comfortable with her, telling tales of the Cherokee and life in west Tennessee. Morning Star laughed at many of his joke
s.

  “It is still hard to understand,” Morning Star said after one of David’s stories. “How can you be two people?”

  “I ain’t exactly two people, young lady. You see, there’s me, and then there’s this other fella who plays a character based on me. On a stage, in front of folks who buy tickets,” Crockett tried to explain again. “But because so many people see this fella, this actor, they think he’s playing me and not a character.”

  “But who is the real David Crockett?” Morning Star asked.

  “Hope I am. But then again, I’ve spent six years in Congress, so it’s kinda hard to tell,” Crockett said.

  We rode out the next morning just after dawn, Crockett and I at the head of the column. I was still pondering how our entry to the Alamo was best accomplished. Smith and his troopers would not be going in with us, nor ten of the Gonzales Rangers. They would move north to harass Santa Anna’s flank while staying in position to fall back on Harrington’s position. He had the same instructions I’d given Keogh, and Smith had the same objections.

  “Algernon, I’m not getting the entire Seventh trapped in that decrepit old fort,” I patiently explained. Again. “Even I have no special desire to go back, but it’s necessary.”

  “Then you have a plan to defeat Santa Anna?” Smith asked.

  I saw Crockett’s ears perk up.

  “Yes, I have a plan,” I said. “Most of a plan. Well, to tell the truth, it’s more of an idea. If it doesn’t work, I’ll let Davy grin the Mexicans down.”

  “Or escape on a bolt of lightning?” Smith joked.

  “Mighty touchy things, them bolts of lightning. Better to let George here snuff the rascals out the old-fashioned way,” Crockett said.

  “We’ll have some time before riding into the fort,” I decided. “Mr. Smith, while I’m scouting the position, have the men practice their musket drills. Crockett can show the boys how it’s done.”

  “I bet he can,” Smith said, breaking off to join his troop.

  We rode in silence for a few minutes, Crockett wondering what I was thinking. Few of my thoughts had been revealed, even to him.

  “We can hold up for a few hours. Ride in after sunset,” Crockett finally said, looking back along our line.

  Crockett saw fifty troopers of the Seventh Cavalry, thirty under my command and twenty with Smith. Following were fifty American militia volunteers. We brought no wagons and only twelve pack horses. If we were forced to make a quick dash through the Mexican lines, I wasn’t sure how many animals we could control.

  “Sunset might be the smartest time, but easier for their cavalry to surprise us. We could get scattered on this plain,” I said, studying the countryside.

  The terrain started out flat before turning into rolling hills. The yellow grass was scrubby. Good ground for a cavalry action, but I doubted Santa Anna would let me draw him off his prey.

  His prey. It occurred to me to wonder why Santa Anna had allowed his invasion of Texas to be stalled in San Antonio for almost two weeks. Held up by an undermanned fort that could easily be stormed at any time.

  “You said Bowie tried to negotiate with Santa Anna?” I asked.

  “Sure did. Offered to lay down our guns and walk away. The dictator would have none of it,” Crockett said.

  “Fannin’s men were allowed to honorably surrender by General Urrea, but then Santa Anna gave the order to murder them. Why wouldn’t he do the same to the Alamo? Why not let them surrender and then kill them anyway? The man clearly has no scruples about such things.”

  “Can’t say. Does seem a right strange thing,” Crockett admitted. “Unless he’s using the Alamo as bait. He might want to draw Houston in. Cut up the army of Texas piecemeal.”

  “You’re a clever man, Crockett. Good with strategy,” I said, realizing he was right. “How’d you ever manage to lose your seat in congress?”

  “Lost the first time I ran,” he recalled. “Then won a couple, lost one, then won again. Might have kept winning after that, but I got Old Andy’s dander up by opposing most everything he did. Presents himself as a man of the people, but plantation owners are the only folks Andrew Jackson cares about. Plantations and land speculators. That’s why he robbed the Indians despite our treaties. And he’s robbed thousands of whites who settled the west only to be kicked off their land by crooked lawyers.”

  “We won’t let that happen here,” I said, for my own family had similar stories. Hell, I didn’t know of a family in all of Ohio who didn’t have similar stories.

  “George, how’d you ever wind up at West Point? That school’s a fine place for rich spoiled brats playing at soldier. No place for a blacksmith’s son.”

  “Davy Crockett’s disdain for West Point is famous even in my day,” I said, grinning, for Crockett had tried to abolish West Point while a member of Congress. To say the least, Crockett’s memory was not revered among the older officers. Especially Winfield Scott, who was said to spit every time Crockett’s name was mentioned.

  “The academy has changed since the 1830s,” I said. “Most of my classmates were from families of modest means. In the North, the wealthy sort sent their boys to Harvard or Yale.”

  “Bet you was top of your class,” Crockett jovially said.

  “34th in a class of 34, David. It was a miracle I graduated at all.”

  “Ya ain’t dumb, George. Believe me, I’d know if ya was.”

  “No one thought I was dumb. Seems some folks thought my discipline was lacking.”

  “Still got more schoolin’ than I did. Hardly spent more than a few months getting taught how to read and write. The woods was my teacher. My rifle was my tutor.”

  “I may have learned to read in a classroom, but my teachers were the battlefields at Bull Run and Gettysburg. My tutor was a strong sword and thousands of dead countrymen.”

  “Maybe this time around, it don’t have to be that way,” Crockett said, quieted by my bitterness. “Sometimes fightin’ is necessary, but more often than not, we can get what we what without fightin’. Just takes a little extra thinkin’ on is all.”

  “I suppose. There was a time with this Cheyenne chief that I . . .”

  My thoughts trailed off, struck by something Crockett had said. I swear, there were times the former congressman from Tennessee could be a genius.

  “Bobby, up here on the double,” I ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Hughes said with a crisp salute.

  He had taken off his heavy overcoat, riding in a regular cavalry uniform. Two cartridge belts were crisscrossed over his shoulders, a third wrapped around his waist. Many of the men had done the same, carrying as much ammunition as they could. Hughes’ slouch hat had been washed and decorated with a sprig of sagebrush. I glanced back and saw most of the command had given up their trapper’s clothing for our traditional dress, showing a nice esprit de corps.

  “We left something behind in the wagons captured from Santa Anna,” I said. “Take three men and ride like hell. We’ll wait on the outskirts of town until you rejoin the command.”

  “What am I looking for, sir? More muskets?” he asked in puzzlement, for we had plenty.

  “Musical instruments,” I said.

  Late in the afternoon, the first Mexican cavalry patrol appeared just a few miles short of San Antonio. We could not see the Alamo or Santa Anna’s army, but we could hear the sound of cannon firing every few minutes. The small unit of ten lancers kept a safe distance, or so they thought. Dressed in red dragoon uniforms, they made excellent targets even on a gray day like this one.

  Our road was reasonably straight, and though wooded on occasion, generally open ground. Recent rains kept the countryside moist, but the trail had dried out just enough to be free of mud. The command continued in column of twos, four of Seguin’s scouts out in front, the Texans in the center, and Smith bringing up the rear. The Mexican cavalry gradually increased to thirty but made no effort to engage.

  “We’ve got the numbers, sir. Should we take a ru
n at them?” Butler asked, his Sharps lying across his lap.

  The enemy had gotten within two hundred yards, riding parallel to our march. Some were gesturing and smiling, not taking our small force seriously.

  “We’ll keep the mounts fresh, Sergeant. If the Mexicans get too close, throw out some skirmishers.”

  “They won’t be gettin’ close,” Crockett said. “They is just a watchin’, wondering what the hell we’re doin’. George, what are we doin’? Shouldn’t be we waitin’ for dark?”

  “That was my original plan, but I grew bored with the idea.”

  “Riding into the Alamo with a thousand Mexicans shootin’ at you sounds too dull?” Crockett asked.

  “A friend suggested something different.”

  I halted the command a mile from Powder House Hill. The Mexicans had reestablished a guard on the ridge, but through my field glasses, I was unable to see a battery. Tom had done a thorough job of destroying the first one; apparently Santa Anna hadn’t bothered to post a new one. East of the ridge, the landscape was rolling prairie and a few small farms. We had passed several adobe houses, but the livestock was gone, driven away by their owners or stolen by Santa Anna. A campsite, now abandoned, had been used by the Mexican cavalry watching the Gonzales Road. Our horses helped themselves to the leftover grain.

  “I half expect the Mexican army to pour down that hill,” Nathaniel Brister said, acting captain of the New Orleans Grays.

  I had learned that Brister was a Virginian. A tall man, about Tom’s age, with a strong physique. His brown hair was short, the curly beard trimmed. Since arriving in Texas, he had already been in several battles, including the siege of Béjar the previous December.

  “Not too likely,” I said. “To come over the hill, Santa Anna’s right flank would have to leave their siege positions and march up the Alameda. His left flank would need to leave their trenches and cross that swampy morass underneath the Alamo’s cannon stationed in the church. Do you think Travis’s garrison would sit quietly and watch?”