Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “Sorry, Bill. For now, we is all thar is,” Crockett answered.

  Travis looked around the Alamo with a momentary flash of despair. He had two hundred and fifty men to defend three acres of broken down fort. A few good cannon, but short on powder and shot. Kentucky long rifles were generally accurate up to two hundred yards, but slow to reload and worthless in hand-to-hand fighting. Travis turned to a scrawny youngster holding a French horn.

  “Jimmy, call the men together,” he ordered.

  Private James Allen, barely twenty years old, blew a call on his trumpet that I didn’t recognize, more gibberish than a military summons, but the garrison responded just the same.

  As the defenders of the Alamo began to gather, I noticed an unusually large number of corporals, sergeants, lieutenants and captains. Perhaps because communications were so poor, extra leaders were needed. Or maybe it was just a way to make the volunteers feel more important.

  Most of my men had followed Sergeant Hughes towards the long two-story barracks looking for a place to sleep, but now they surged back into the courtyard. The famous Alamo church was behind them. Extending from the church to the low barracks was a log stockade guarded by two cannon overlooking the prairie we had crossed coming in. I stood with Crockett and Jameson, closer to the south gate. In the middle of the Alamo’s southern courtyard, a redoubt had been build for a 6-pounder, and it was near the foot of this low dirt mound that Travis took his position. All but a handful of men gathered around, a few left on the walls to watch for enemy treachery.

  The day was growing late, not half an hour left before sunset. As the sun faded, the frosty cold returned, for it had been a gray day marked by stubborn clouds. The firing from Santa Anna’s cannon had paused, and in the distance, I heard a band playing Mexican music. Not the famous El Degüello, but just as annoying.

  The men were mumbling, wondering what had caused Travis to call them together. James Bonham, the courageous twenty-nine-year-old dispatch rider born in South Carolina, came to Travis’s side with a leather pouch. Kellogg had told me of Bonham. Of all the messengers sent from the Alamo to find help, only Bonham and one other had returned. Like Travis, he was tall and lean with blue eyes and a clear complexion. A popular officer with a winning smile. His loyalty to Travis had brought him back to this place of certain death, just like Tom’s loyalty to me had led him to the Little Big Horn.

  “Friends, I bear tragic news,” Travis announced, loud but not quite shouting. He took a letter from the leather pouch, waving with one hand while gripping his sword hilt with the other.

  “Yesterday, Major Bonham brought good news from Three-legged Willie, urging us to hold out. My good friend thought help was near at hand. My friend was wrong. It is now clear that no help will arrive in time.”

  Travis stepped back up the dirt hill for a better view of the men, letting his words sink in. It could not have been startling news, for in the eleven days of the siege, only a handful of men from Gonzales had answered the many letters Travis sent out.

  ”Mr. Custer and his men have returned, and a few friends from Goliad, but we are still only ten dozen against Santa Anna’s army of thousands. The dictator has promised us no quarter. When he attacks, be it tomorrow or the next day, every patriot in the Alamo will fall. You have bought Texas precious time. Time that will allow our country to arm and organize. Though this will come too late for us, our sacrifice will bequeath a rich heritage of freedom for our children.”

  Travis walked down from the hill, unsheathed his long Spanish saber, and drew a line in the cold sand extending from the gatehouse toward the long barracks. I turned to look back at the church, seeing Mrs. Dickenson and some of the Tejano wives watching the proceedings from the doorway. Mrs. Dickenson had a baby clutched to her breast, staring from hollowed cheeks. Her blond hair was gray with dust. I also noticed John standing with Travis’s slave, Joe, and Bowie’s servant, Sam.

  “You’ve done all you can. All that can be expected,” Travis continued. “If any of you wish to surrender, or take your chances going over the wall, you may do so with honor. None here will doubt your courage. But if you stay, I believe we can bleed Santa Anna’s army. Make his victory so costly, it will be a defeat. It’s even possible that once the tyrant realizes our determination, he may relent his harsh terms. I can promise nothing. Nothing but that our names will be remembered by posterity.”

  Sheathing the sword, Travis walked back up the mound, going halfway to the top before turning to face his troops. His hands trembled, not for fear, for he was a brave man, but with nervousness. This was not a backwoods courtroom. Rarely does a lawyer tell his jury they are doomed.

  “Major Bonham and I are determined to sustain ourselves to the last. If you will join us, cross over the line to stand at our side,” Travis concluded.

  He straightened his shoulders, head held high. An artillery shell from the battery across the river sailed over the east wall and struck at the northern edge of the long barracks, but Travis didn’t flinch.

  “Guess there ain’t much choice,” a middle-aged frontiersman said, clad in worn buckskins.

  The man hefted his Pennsylvania long rifle and crossed the line, turning to see what his fellows would do. With sighs of resignation, more surged forward. It appeared the entire garrison that had endured the siege under Travis would answer his final call, except for one. An old Frenchman with a gold earring was hanging back, clinging to his shotgun. I did not catch his name. By the fuzzy black beard and red bandanna wrapped around his head, I would have taken the grizzled old veteran for a pirate.

  “I am sorry, my friends. I did not survive Waterloo to die ’ere,” the Frenchman said.

  With most of the original garrison joining Travis, my own men looked to me for direction. Crockett was yet to cross the line, but it was clear he would. Noise from the low barracks caught our attention.

  “Don’t leave me back!” Bowie shouted, his voice was weak.

  Crockett and three others rushed to Bowie’s room, carrying him out on his cot. The famous knife-fighter was bone white, racked with fever. I doubted he had more than days to live.

  Crockett crossed the line as he carried Bowie to the foot of the mound, looking for my reaction. Dijon waved to his boys and crossed over, then Brister as well. The New Orleans Grays followed. Only my command remained.

  “What do you think, sir?” Sergeant Hughes asked.

  “We’re in a tight spot, Bobby. The men should make their own decision,” I replied, though of course, I had no intention of giving command to Travis. The drama needed to play itself out.

  “I’m with you, general, whatever happens,” Sergeant Butler quickly stated, holding his Sharps ready.

  “Me, too,” Hughes said, cocking the Henry.

  “And me,” Spotted Eagle added, drawing his borrowed Colt.

  “We all are, sir,” Corporal French said, the thirty of us banded together.

  As if it were an old dream, I recalled our final minutes on the sun-baked hillside in Montana, the smoke of gunfire obscuring thousands of hostiles swarming at us from all directions. There had been no choice then. No place to run.

  John came forward, the muzzle-loading pistols still tucked in his belt. Sergeant Dijon frowned, a promise of revenge in the bent eyebrows. I felt like shooting the son of a bitch right then and there, but it wouldn’t have been prudent.

  “Well, General Custer, what have you to say now? Are you a coward?” Travis said, frowning with scorn.

  “Coward? You goddamned . . .” Butler started to protest, but I put out my arm. Hughes quieted the others.

  Truth is, I now wanted to shoot Travis even more than I wanted to shoot Dijon, but I kept my temper. None of this was unexpected, and during our ride up from the Cibolo, I’d given much thought on what needed to be done. My plan was not perfect, nor detailed, but during the Rebellion it had often been necessary to size up the situation and act. Today would be no different.

  “Gentlemen, let me congratulate you
on your courage,” I said, stepping forward with hands clasped behind my back. “You have held Santa Anna at bay for nearly two weeks, even though you were taken by surprise and forced to flee into this fort without adequate supplies. It’s unfortunate your leaders underestimated Santa Anna’s resolve and were not prepared for his arrival.”

  Many of the men murmured agreement. The night before Santa Anna’s arrival, the San Antonio garrison had been celebrating George Washington’s birthday with a drunken all-night party. The average soldier had no reason to know the town was about to be overrun, but good commanders are not so careless. I walked up to the line in the sand, stopped to study it for a moment, then paced back and forth along its edge without stepping over.

  “Even though you were not expecting to be trapped in this noble fortress, you have fought well,” I graciously complimented. “You have cost the enemy time and blood. And now you’re ready to die for liberty. Ready to be put to the sword. Your corpses will be mutilated by an angry foe and then burned on a giant funeral pyre, cast into gray smoke for all time. Most of your names will be lost to history, but I have no doubt that Mr. Travis, Colonel Bowie, and Colonel Crockett will be remembered. Your sacrifice will make their names immortal.”

  I thought it unlikely the Alamo defenders wanted to die just to make their leaders immortal, anymore than my men would sacrifice their lives merely to be footnotes in a book about Custer’s Last Stand. Such things read better in the history texts.

  I paced a bit more before stopping in the middle of the courtyard, gazing steadily at the men. I stood erect. Confident. A soldier’s solider, as General Phil Sheridan had often described me.

  “Even though you have chosen to die with Travis, I would suggest another possibility,” I said, finally getting to point. “He has done a sufficient job of leading you, for a lawyer and amateur soldier, but he has no vision for victory. I am a professional officer, a graduate of West Point. Santa Anna is a great general when he’s attacking an unarmed village, torturing helpless victims, and raping young girls. These are effective instruments of terror, and those in his path have reason to be afraid. But the Alamo is not an unarmed village. We are not helpless victims. And you are not young girls.”

  The men laughed. None guessed I had a sense of humor.

  “My men and I did not come here to die, and Mr. Travis is wrong to assume the Alamo must fall. No battle is decided until one side or the other concedes defeat, and that I will never do. I am General George Armstrong Custer of the Seventh Cavalry, and where I ride, victory rides with me.

  “Holding the Alamo will be difficult. It will take hard work, discipline, and steady nerve, but if you have the guts to meet the challenge, Santa Anna will find far more trouble than he’s bargained for. So I’m asking you boys to give up on this idea of martyrdom. Join me. Join my brave troopers. Give me a chance, and I will lead you to glory.”

  My men cheered, raising their rifles and pumping their fists. Crockett was the first to cross back over the line, smiling like he just killed a bear. Brister and the New Orleans Grays quickly followed.

  “Well, boys, ya got a choice,” Crockett said, standing at my side. “We all talked about this before I went to find help. What are ya gonna do?”

  The men looked back at Travis, turned to look at me, and finally seemed to focus on Crockett. Micajah Autry crossed the line, then Green Jameson. There were a few whispers, and suddenly the garrison surged forward en masse. Handshakes and backslaps were exchanged, many of the men smiling.

  Soon only Travis, James Bonham, Francis Dijon, and a score of hardcore followers remained. Even Almaron Dickenson had crossed the line. I turned to see Mrs. Dickenson smiling with relief. It was the first time since the siege began that she’d felt a glimmer of hope.

  “Mr. Travis, it appears the votes are in,” I said, finding several hundred on my side of the line and only twenty-two on his.

  “You have command of the volunteers, sir. Only the volunteers,” Travis bitterly conceded.

  “No, this ain’t right,” Dijon shouted, coming forward with a hand poised on his hunting knife. “Don’t you boys understand? This Custer fella is a Northerner. A slave stealer. He stole John from Mr. De Sauque, and he’ll steal your slaves, too. He ain’t fit to lead this fight.”

  “That’s true. We heard you don’t take with our Southern way of life,” Bonham said.

  “The Seventh Cavalry doesn’t tolerate slavery. There’s no secret about that,” I answered. “We’re fighting to make a free Texas. Free for everyone.”

  “And if any of you Carolina scum don’t like that, crawl your yellowbellies over the wall,” Sergeant Butler said. “Once we’ve dealt with the Mexicans, we’ll deal with you next.”

  I had preferred that Butler not say that, even if it was the inevitable conclusion to our disagreement. Dijon drew his knife, a twelve-inch steel blade with a guard at the handle. A man-killer, much like the famous Bowie knife. Sergeant Hughes drew his Colt and pointed at the man’s forehead from a range of ten feet. I raised my hands to halt the confrontation even as Bonham and Travis were grabbing Dijon.

  “Boys, I suggest we stop this here arguing among ourselves until we’ve whooped Santa Anna,” Crockett said, playing the peacemaker.

  “I am calling you to account, sir,” Dijon said, pointing an angry finger at me. “You will face me on the field of honor, unless you are a coward.”

  “Mr. Travis has first call on my services, as I recall,” I replied, glancing at Travis for his reaction. “But rest assured, Mr. Dijon, I look forward to the contest.”

  I wondered how well the arrogant mercenary could handle a saber. As the challenged, the Code Duello dictated that I have the choice of weapons, and I’ve always enjoyed a good tussle with a long blade. Travis struck me as the type who would favor a dueling pistol, the great equalizer for those of modest skill. Too bad for him.

  “Enough of this nonsense. Don’t make me act as Mr. Custer’s second,” Crockett warned. “I’ve only done this a few times and never lost a man yet. Or a friend.”

  “Thanks, David,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Colonel Crockett is right, this has gone too far. I take responsibility, and if I’ve given offense, I apologize.”

  “You’ll give me the slave?” Dijon asked.

  “No, sir. But I’ll ask Spotted Eagle not to hang your scalp from his lodge pole,” I answered.

  Dijon huffed and walked away. Spotted Eagle smiled, though I doubt he had any idea what all the fuss was about.

  “General Custer, sir. Now that you’ve taken command of the volunteers, what are your intentions?” Travis asked.

  Except for another enemy cannon shot, one far to my right that struck the rubble strewn north wall, the courtyard fell into silence. I let the moment linger, enjoying being the center of attention. As General McClellan had shown me, this is what ranking officers do to maintain their authority. Then I drew my sword and walked to Travis’s line in the sand.

  “Here, sirs, is the Alamo,” I said, drawing a square in the damp ground. “I believe Santa Anna intends to launch his assault on the morning of March 6th, thirty-six hours from now. To do this, he must move his troops to the north where our defenses are weakest.”

  The men made a wide circle around my sketch, everyone trying to see. I gave them a moment to settle down. Bobby Hughes was grinning. I suspected he already knew what I was going to say.

  “Every general knows you must mask the movement of your army to take an enemy by surprise,” I explained. “To do this, Santa Anna will need to pull his infantry from their present positions under the cloak of darkness, cross the San Antonio upriver beyond the trees, and assume new positions behind his entrenched batteries.”

  I indicated where Santa Anna would concentrate his forces to the north and northeast. Then I showed how he would move his cannon forward to supporting positions.

  “To the southeast, along Powder House Hill, he’ll station his cavalry to block an attempt by the garrison to b
reak out,” I said, almost done with my presentation. “A nice snug trap, but so much maneuvering takes time. And for the next twenty-four hours, Santa Anna will leave his siege lines thin.”

  “Are you suggesting we try to escape?” Jameson asked. “What of our wounded? What of the women and children?”

  “No, Mr. Jameson, I am not suggesting we try to escape,” I quickly said. “My plan is far bolder than that. We will attack.”

  * * *

  I held an officer call on the second floor of the long barracks, a musty room lit by candles now that the sun had set. A few Texian wounded lay in the far corner on straw mats, mostly quiet and minding their own business. A small coal-burning stove kept the room warm.

  “Who are they?” I asked, pointing at the old oil paintings hanging on the bleached stone walls.

  “That one is Ferdinand VII, the last Spanish King of Mexico,” Green Jameson said. “Most of these others are Catholic saints. The Franciscan monks used this room as a library before General Cos turned it into the infirmary.”

  I guessed as much, but was still impressed by Jameson’s breadth of knowledge. Of medium height and a bit round in the middle, he looked more like a bookkeeper than a soldier. He wore his brown hair cut short, and his blue eyes squinted as if he needed spectacles. Crockett told me Jameson hailed from Kentucky, though I had not noticed an interest in slave owning. He became the first member of the garrison that I invited to join my personal staff, and he agreed without hesitation.

  Also included in the war council were Travis and his adjutant, Captain John Baugh. Crockett sat at my right, Sergeant Hughes on my left. Dickenson, Brister and Sergeant Butler filled out our roster. Bowie was too ill to attend. I recalled Dr. Lord’s words, that his presence in the Alamo might save lives, and wondered if Bowie might have been one of them.

  The meeting was not long, for there was much to do. And unlike most war councils held during the Texas Revolution, this would not be a debating society. I entertained no democratic resolutions. In fact, the only counsel I valued was from Crockett, whose wits I respected.