Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “No, I reckon not. They’d be shootin’ like crazy,” Brister said.

  “And if the Alamo was shootin’ like crazy, we’d hear it,” I concluded. “Tell your men not to worry, Captain. We’ll have plenty of warning if there’s going to be trouble.”

  “You don’t think there’s going to be trouble?” Crockett asked.

  “I have no desire to expend our ammunition so near my goal, but I doubt the enemy can reach us in sufficient strength out here on the road. Not against fifty .45 caliber Springfield rifles. No, David, they’re going to watch. Wait for my next move.”

  A boom echoed off the hills, the Alamo’s 18-pounder. There was just the one shot. A signal?

  “At least we know Travis and the boys are still there,” Crockett said. “Bet Texas can hear that cannon thirty miles around.”

  I doubted it could be heard so far away, but it was certainly loud.

  A few minutes later, Sergeant Hughes returned with my musical instruments. Spotted Eagle was with him, grinning like he killed a buffalo single-handed. And worse, John was riding with him, two flintlock pistols tucked in his belt. In Texas, in 1836, a black man rarely carried sidearms. It was not common in 1876, either. But there was no time to worry over such prejudices.

  “We got a bunch of ‘em, sir. Drums, horns. Even a fiddle,” Hughes said, waving some sort of flute.

  “A fiddle? I’ll take that,” Crockett eagerly said, reaching for a finely made violin.

  “Gather some of the boys who know how to play these things,” I ordered. “Butler, prepare the command to move out. Smith, ride with me.”

  I was not worried about finding enough musicians. Frontier life is not the constant din of Indian battles and gunfights that the dime novels like to portray. Most of the time is spent at the post waiting for new assignments, allowing plenty of time for reading, music, and even a few of the scientific arts. And excessive drinking, which is typically the army’s greatest challenge.

  With Lieutenant Smith, Crockett and Spotted Eagle, I rode west where the road made its final gradual climb to the top of the Alameda. Brister and John soon joined us, Brister giving my new servant a wary glance. John handed me a canteen of cool river water and I drank thirstily before speaking.

  “Algernon, you’ve got the hardest part of this operation,” I began. “E Company is going to cover our movement toward the fort. Take a position on the ridge, skirmishers ready. Have your scouts hold the mounts back of the line. I’m not taking all the horses into the Alamo. The garrison is short on feed, so we’ll only take the horses needed to carry the supplies.”

  “You’re going in on foot? In broad daylight?” Smith asked, incredulous. “How do you expect to fight your way in?”

  “I don’t. Colonel Crockett says it’s better not to fight.”

  “Sometimes it’s better not to fight. I never said this is one of those times!” Crockett protested.

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” I asked.

  “General, you’re beginning to scare me a little,” Smith said.

  “It’s okay, Algernon. This gamble is most likely a stacked deck. One way or the other, we’ll know soon enough.”

  We rode slowly up the long sloping hill. I noticed the cannon fire had stopped, almost as if in anticipation of some new event. At the crest of the hill, I dismounted the command.

  “Santa Anna has been busy,” Crockett remarked.

  It was true. The size of the Mexican army had doubled since our previous foray, from fifteen hundred to three thousand. The town across the river was filled with tents and wagons. With the army were several hundred camp followers who cooked the meals, washed the clothing, and supplied various other services. A large house off the main square flew Santa Anna’s personal banner.

  To the north of the Alamo, an entire camp had grown among the cottonwood trees just beyond an entrenched battery. South of the Alamo, among the shanties referred to by the locals as La Villita, a smaller camp had been expanded, supporting two batteries near the main road. To my right, near the fire-damaged Powder House, a tiny garrison had pulled back along the ridge. The wreckage of two destroyed cannon lay behind a crude rock wall.

  “Officer’s call,” I ordered.

  Corporal French’s bugle sounded sharp and clear in the crisp air, audible all the way down the hill to the Alamo.

  Smith, Brister, and nearly everyone else who thought themselves important came running, all curious about my strategy. The bustle of activity around the Alamo had quieted. On the walls, and from the gun platform at the back of the chapel, I saw dozens of men looking in our direction. One appeared to be Travis, another Jameson. I did not see Bowie. The Mexican army was equally interested, many coming out of their fortifications to see the strange battalion on the hill.

  “Sergeant Hughes, unfurl my guidon,” I instructed.

  My blue and red silk banner soon fluttered in a light breeze. The red and white company flags of E Troop and F Troop appeared beside it. Our regimental flags had been left behind with the supply train, for we were no longer fighting as a division of the United States.

  “Gentlemen, we are going to march down the Alameda and enter the Alamo,” I announced. “Corporal French, you will lead the band. Eight men should be sufficient, drums and horns. Butler, you’ll have three skirmishes forward. Hughes, three skirmishers to the left. No one is to fire unless fired upon, and only then under extreme pressure. The rest of the command will march in formation behind the band. Brister, your men will follow mine. All will be on foot. Select twelve men to lead the pack horses. The rest will bring up the rear, rifles on their shoulders, four abreast, three paces between your ranks. When my command stops a hundred yards short of the bridge, make a right oblique and take your men into the fort.”

  “General, if the Mexicans attack . . . ?” Brister started to ask.

  “Let me worry about that,” I answered.

  “But sir . . .?” he persisted.

  “Nathaniel, can your men follow orders or not?” I snapped.

  “By God, sir, you’ll see our worth,” Brister agreed.

  Brister went to issue the orders, no doubt wondering how to explain the situation.

  “Crockett, Spotted Eagle and I will remain mounted, leading the procession,” I continued. “Most of the Mexican army is out of range with those antique muskets, so we’ll keep an eye on their artillery. If you see a man about to touch off a cannon, kill him. Otherwise, I don’t want any shooting. None. Gentlemen, is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” several quickly repeated.

  They were starting to understand, and though there was the normal about of fear in such a precarious situation, I noted a bit of amusement, too.

  “Mr. Smith, you’ll hold this position until the command has entered the Alamo. Appear as if you’re waiting for additional reinforcements,” I said. “Once we’re inside, withdraw as quickly as you deem prudent. Return the extra horses to Harrington, then move north against Santa Anna’s left flank. Questions?”

  “No, General,” Smith said. “Good luck, sir.”

  As with Keogh, I envied Smith’s assignment. Riding free on the open plain, striking behind the enemy lines. Creating havoc. And I was headed into a decrepit fort. Trapped behind those adobe walls. I could only hope that Custer’s Luck would see me through.

  I rode forward with Crockett and Spotted Eagle. The youngster didn’t care a whit about all the fuss, he just wanted excitement. He had stripped off his heavy robes, riding in a gold vest stolen from a dead Mexican officer. His rawhide pants had fringes down the sides. He carried a fine Kentucky long rifle and one of Tom’s Colts. Two eagle feathers were stuck in his beaded headband.

  “Spotted Eagle, I think you will find more scalps with Algernon. Would you not ride with him?” I asked, for the Alamo seemed no place for an Indian.

  “Slow said I will count many coup at your side,” Spotted Eagle said, raising a knotted war club.

  He had painted red and black stripes on his c
heeks, his brown eyes dancing with anticipation. Striking an enemy, whether with club or lance, was a revered Sioux custom. A mark of high prestige. But not very helpful if the enemy responds with a bullet.

  “Take scalps instead, youngster. You’ll live longer,” I advised.

  Crockett sat on his horse gazing at the battlefield. I heard a low whistle.

  “Not a one of them is shootin,’” Crockett said.

  “Surprised?” I asked.

  “Damned surprised.”

  “There’s always a hush before the curtain rises,” I said, my heart pounding. I had often ridden into battle with sabers flashing, but this was quite different.

  “Command, take your positions!” I yelled. “Band, strike up the Gerry Owen! Forward march!”

  And so the Seventh Cavalry marched down the Alameda in good order, rifles on their shoulders with heads held high. Hughes had picked his musicians well, performing a rousing version of the old Irish drinking ballad. And then, suddenly, the men started singing. I could not help but join in, knowing that the enemy, and our allies, must think us crazed.

  As the trees along the Alameda receded, I took my boys straight ahead toward the old wooden bridge crossing the San Antonio River. With a nod, Crockett peeled off with the Texian volunteers, heading for the lunette guarding the south gate. They were not marching with military precision, but doing their best.

  My skirmishers were watching the Mexican artillery on the left, for they were closest to our position. The faces of our enemies were bemused, if not awed, by my audacity. None made an effort to fire on us, perhaps because they had no orders to cover such an unusual occurrence.

  The Alamo on our right grew near enough to recognize the defenders on the walls. They were equally startled. Though their rifles were ready should a fight break out, it did not look like they expected trouble. There was a wide, stone-paved plaza where the roads between the Alamo, the Alameda, and the bridge to San Antonio all intersected. Toward the Alamo eighty yards away, several burned-out hovels showed there had been a skirmish. Crockett had told me he helped burn the shacks to deny the Mexicans cover so close to their walls.

  “Command, halt,” I ordered, forming the troops in two squares with the band in front. “Present, arms!”

  The men stood in a steady line as if on parade. Though I pretended nonchalance, my Remington lay across my lap ready to shoot the first artillery officer who dared fire on us. Butler and Hughes were similarly disposed, but it soon became clear that Crockett had been right. Santa Anna wanted more victims in the Alamo. More fodder for his bloodbath. And even if he decided to open fire, giving the order would take more time than I would give him.

  “Gentlemen, Marching Though Georgia, if you please,” I ordered.

  The band struck up a favorite tune of General Sherman’s, and though I had not the honor to serve on that glorious campaign in 1864, I knew the song well. We stood at attention until the stirring ballad was finished. I sat erect on my mount, an old mare named Daisy, staring across the river as if I didn’t have a care in the world.

  Crockett and his men reached the south gate, scrambling through a portal of the lunette into the fort, followed closely by the supply horses. I looked to my left where there was a Mexican battery hardly more than forty yards away. The lieutenant in charge was standing near his cannon but showing no sign of hostility. I even detected a hint of admiration in his eyes. The Mexicans were no slouches when it came to marching and drilling, and in this we shared a common bond.

  “Right shoulder, arms!” I shouted. “Right wheel, march!”

  Formed in column of twos, the battalion turned toward the Alamo, skirmishers at the rear, and made a steady drive toward the south gate. The burned-out adobes sheltered us on the left. The Mexicans on Powder House Hill were more than a thousand yards away. I lingered behind, being the last to leave, then drew my saber while waiting for the command to reach the fort. Across the river, among the trees lining the bank, I saw a dozen Mexican officers dressed in silver and gold trim. One of them, I supposed, was General Antonio López de Santa Anna. I saluted him and rode into the Alamo. Not a single shot had been fired.

  Damn it felt good.

  Among the People, it is not unusual for a warrior to give away their possessions when death in battle is certain. Custer had given me his horse, but I did not know if he expected to die. White men do not dwell among the spirits. Then I remembered the legend of a great warrior who saw many enemies coming, but rather than retreat, he pounded a stake into the ground and tied it to his ankle, promising never to run. The warrior was killed in that place, counting many coup, and winning great honor. I wondered if Custer now sought similar glory. I wondered if the Alamo was to be his stake in the ground from which he could not run.

  Chapter Ten

  A Line in the Sand

  “What the hell was that all about?” Crockett asked as I led my horse across a rough plank bridge into the lunette.

  The Alamo was not a castle. It did not have high towers and a drawbridge to protect its gate. The long gatehouse, generally called the low barracks, did not even offer a crenellated wall, forcing the rifleman to expose themselves to enemy fire when standing on the roof. This is why the defenders had built the lunette before the south entrance, hoping to supply some flanking protection.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Colonel?” I said, feigning innocence.

  Ten of the Alamo defenders stood at their stations within the grimy lunette, their frayed clothes stained with splotches. They were tired, lean in both body and spirit. Santa Anna’s prolonged siege was having the desired effect. Through the gate, I saw that Hughes and Butler were keeping my men in line awaiting orders. My newfound mercenaries were formed up as well, seeking favor by appearing professional. To an extent, it was working.

  “You know what I mean!” Crockett protested. “Is that what you learned at West Point? March under the enemy guns in broad daylight, playing at parade?”

  “It was your idea.”

  “The hell is was.”

  “You said that sometimes we can get what we want without fighting, we just need to think about it. Well, I did think about it. And it worked.”

  “You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded to the small group of men around us, who were yet to utter a word, and walked with Crockett through the crude gate, the heavy oak doors left open. Twenty or so men were at their posts in the sprawling compound. About forty had rushed to greet us, including William Travis and Green Jameson. They looked thin. Unshaved, except for Travis. One would think that eighty reinforcements would lift their spirits, but this was hardly the case. Santa Anna’s army had pressed them hard since the Seventh Cavalry had ridden out nearly a week before.

  “Davy, thank God,” Travis said, rushing to shake Crockett’s hand. “Where’s Houston? Will he be here this afternoon?”

  “Houston?” Crockett said, surprised.

  “You’re the advance guard, ain’t you?” a burly sergeant asked. “Got to have a thousand men behind you, a comin’ in brass balls like ya did.”

  “I don’t know where Houston is. Still back on the Brazos, probably,” Crockett admitted.

  “But the rest of the men? Our relief?” Jameson asked.

  The Kentucky lawyer turned engineer was more haggard than the rest, exhausted by rebuilding the fortifications that Santa Anna’s artillery kept knocking down. His fine blue coat was tattered.

  “General Custer here is the only relief I found. Custer and these volunteers up from Goliad,” Crockett explained.

  Travis gazed at the men standing in the courtyard, frowning at the count.

  “Fannin has four hundred men, I only see fifty,” Travis said.

  “The rest were coming, sir, but they must’ve turned back,” Brister said. “Colonel Fannin believes Urrea is coming up from the south. Maybe he thought he couldn’t spare no more.”

  “No one else is coming?” Jameson asked.<
br />
  “Nothing from Houston. A handful from Fannin. Goddamn them! Goddamn Texas if this is all they’ll send,” Travis said, his fists clenched in frustration.

  How the young attorney expected all of Texas to rally in the space of ten days was a mystery to me, for the territory was vast and the eastern colonies hundreds of miles away. I sensed the man’s idealism had gotten the better of him, only to be confronted by a grim reality.

  “If that’s the way you feel about it, I reckon we can march back out,” Brister angrily said. “Can’t we, General? Can’t you march us right back out?”

  All eyes turned towards me. I had not interjected myself in their conversation, gauging their reactions. The situation was not favorable, and nothing I could say would change that. But I was not without resources.

  “Captain Brister, billet your men. Sergeant Hughes, find quarters for ours. Keep everyone to the south side of the fortress,” I calmly instructed. “Mr. Jameson, I’ll need to gut those workshops on the north side. Strip out all the timber and metals. Then . . .”

  “Sir, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Travis asked. “This is my command. I give the orders here.”

  “Where is Colonel Bowie?” I asked, causing the young man’s face to turn red with resentment.

  “Sick. Most likely dying,” Captain Baugh said, pointing to one of the small rooms in the low barracks.

  “Mr. Travis, your commission is from the regular army of Texas, a government I don’t recognize,” I said. “The rest of these men are Bowie’s volunteers, my troopers, and the militia who came in with me. How many in this garrison are actually under your direct authority? Ten or twelve?”

  “Eighteen,” Travis reluctantly admitted. “But Bowie and I agreed to share command when Colonel Neill left.”

  “And what orders are you going to issue? How are you going to save these men’s lives?” I asked.

  “Are you sure no one else is coming?” Travis said, turning to Crockett.

  Crockett looked down at the ground. He knew I’d sent Tom and Seguin off to find more help, but nothing could be promised.