Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “Does everyone understand?” I asked after presenting my plan.

  “It’s madness, General,” Sergeant Butler remarked.

  “It should work,” I calmly said.

  “Oh, hell, I’m sure it will work. Just the kind of lunacy those Mexicans will never expect. Right out of Longstreet’s handbook,” Butler agreed.

  “Actually, I got the idea from Stonewall Jackson,” I said. “No one knew how to concentrate a flank better than old Stonewall.”

  “You always were too fond of those Rebs,” Hughes complained, for the rank and file had not shared the camaraderie of the officer corps.

  “Jameson, you’ve got a long night ahead of you. Keep your workers busy,” I concluded. “Travis, the north wall is yours. Hold it to the last. Everyone else, clean your weapons and grab an hour’s sleep. We sortie at dawn.”

  My officers trudged down the stairs and out the lower door into the gloomy night. Santa Anna’s artillery fire had slackened, replaced by a brass band playing loudly enough to keep the Alamo’s defenders awake. Apparently this had been a pattern since the beginning of the siege. For those of us accustomed to noisy camps, restless horses, howling wolves and clumsy orderlies, a few musical instruments hardly cost us a wink.

  “Even if this does work, I don’t see what you expect to accomplish,” Crockett said, rocking back in his chair.

  Someone had found him a keg of corn whiskey, which he was sipping gingerly. I was drinking brown water from the well.

  “I doubt Tom can get here with Fannin’s men before the 7th. Reinforcements from Gonzales may take longer. Captain Seguin might provide some help, but I’m not counting on it. By hitting Santa Anna before he hits us, we just might buy some time. In the war I fought, there was a rebel general named Lee who kept a larger army at bay for four years with his aggressive tactics.”

  “George, I don’t give a damn how smart you are, I ain’t stayin’ in this Alamo for four years,” Crockett said.

  I laughed. And knew exactly how he felt.

  On the morning of Saturday, March 5th, an hour before dawn, I walked up the long sloping dirt ramp to the 18-pounder guarding the southwest corner of the fort. A few night lamps from the town were visible across the river. The enemy camp to the south was asleep. A dim haze to the north showed where Santa Anna’s army was marching by torchlight. The man thought himself clever.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” I said to the gun crew.

  The Alamo had nineteen working cannon, but most were antiques, some better than fifty years old. A few looked like they’d been stolen from Blackbeard’s pirate ship. But not the 18-pounder. It had been brought all the way from New Orleans just a few months before. Properly handled, it was a formidable weapon.

  “Morning, General,” Dickenson said, offering a salute.

  “Would you please fire the gun, Captain?” I requested.

  “At what, sir?” Dickenson asked.

  “Doesn’t really matter. How about that battery near the bridge? No, better yet, fire on the cathedral. Let’s see if we can knock down that blood red flag.”

  “That’s a long shot,” Dickenson said with a whistle.

  “Good practice,” I answered.

  The crew of six set to loading the gun. One swabbed the barrel with a wet sponge to clean out the dirt. Another used a ramrod to jam a power charge down the barrel, then wadding made of hay to trap the charge. A fuse was inserted into the touch hole at the rear of the barrel to set the powder off. Last came an eighteen-pound cannon ball wrapped in paper for a tight fit.

  “Let’s try the maximum elevation,” Dickenson said, his gunner turning a screw on the gun carriage to incline the barrel.

  “Permission to fire, sir,” Dickenson said.

  “Permission granted.”

  The gunner lit the fuse and the cannon roared to life, almost jumping back off the platform as a blast of red fire and black smoke streaked through the dark sky. By the sound, the shot hit something, but we couldn’t see what. The echo could be heard throughout the river valley.

  “Reload and fire again,” I instructed.

  “Sir?” he asked.

  “See if you can drop this one on the Presidio.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dickenson said.

  The crew reloaded the cannon, taking only two minutes, and fired another shot. Again, no clue what the ball hit, if anything.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. We launch our assault at dawn. Get some rest, but be ready,” I advised, walking back down the ramp to my new quarters next to Bowie’s room in the low barracks.

  I’ve always had the ability to grab some sleep, even a few minutes worth, in any situation. It was one of the things that allowed my inexhaustible energy to be inexhaustible, but this time I couldn’t close my eyes. It wasn’t the battle that bothered me—war had been my life since I was a teenager. It was the politics, by far my weakest quality. I’d turned down a chance to run for congress in 1866, afraid my temper was not up to the task. I’d even flirted with the governorship of Michigan. I wished Tom was here. He’d know how to handle these squabbling frontiersmen.

  As dawn approached, I got up to get dressed. One of the Tejano ladies had washed my uniform, including my gray campaign hat. A colorful scarf of red silk was tied around my neck, a gift from Jim Bowie’s cousin-in-law. The twin bulldogs were holstered on my hips.

  I had decided not to take my Remington hunting rifle on the raid. When General Cos had abandoned San Antonio, he left several hundred Brown Bess muskets behind, along with a bayonet for each. One of these muskets was now gripped before me, the bayonet locked on the muzzle. This undertaking would not be about long range sniping, but close range combat. We would be meeting the enemy with cold steel. With Tom’s Winchester slung over my shoulder, I was ready.

  “Should I sound assembly, sir?” Corporal French asked, waiting outside my door.

  A New Hampshire lad now twenty-six years old, French stood five and half feet tall. Average for a cavalryman. He had hazel eyes and a complexion bronzed by the sun. Promoted to corporal just a year before, he was not a great bugler but capable enough to sound a charge.

  “Henry, this is a surprise attack. We don’t sound assembly for a surprise attack.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” French said with a dumb grin.

  The command was forming near the south gate, a hundred in all, divided into four sections. Hughes had the first company of twenty men, Butler the second, Crockett the third, and I would lead the forty man vanguard.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Any questions?” I asked.

  They stood quietly. This was not a complex operation, and anyone who had ever fought Indians knew what was needed, but it was best to nip confusion in the bud.

  “Very good. Let’s move,” I ordered, being the first through the gate.

  The men guarding the lunette opened the portal and ran several sturdy planks across the muddy ditch. We filed out as quietly as possible, creeping toward the dirt road leading to the Alameda. I could hear the river to our right and saw a few enemy campfires through the trees.

  The dozen burned-out adobe shacks lined our path to the main road. Sergeant Butler started positioning his company among the rubble, guns facing the river. The ground to the left was open except for a shallow irrigation channel that Santa Anna had tried to dam. Sergeant Hughes deployed his men along the ditch, guns facing Power House Hill where the enemy cavalry was stationed.

  “So far, so good,” I whispered to Crockett as we continued to extend our line. “Remember, you asked for the toughest assignment.”

  “You took the toughest assignment, but I got me a good one,” Crockett whispered back.

  Brister and Johnson were at his side, most of their detachment being the mercenary volunteers. I had promised them that if they served well, they would be accepted as recruits into the Seventh Cavalry. I had also decided they were best placed in the middle of the battle line where they couldn’t flee at the first shot.

  We reached the
old wooden bridge crossing the San Antonio River, the enemy no wiser to our movement. Like so many rivers, the San Antonio made a crazy square-shaped loop at this juncture. Generally the river ran north to south, but at this point it bulged out toward the Alamo, straightened for a hundred yards, and then turned back west. The low-lying bulge, probably susceptible to chronic flooding, was mostly filled with quaint houses and animal pens.

  The town center was a thousand yards back of the bridge. I suspected Santa Anna still had several hundred men quartered there, for San Antonio de Béjar was built around two large plazas designed for occupation by a garrison. The nearest plaza was a public square, and, behind that, a walled enclosure for the military. Between the two squares was the Cathedral of San Fernando, the tallest structure for miles around.

  Several fine haciendas and a number of warehouses lined the downtown streets, all laid out in a rough grid pattern. It had been through these streets that the Texan’s had defeated Cos the previous December, fighting from house to house. If necessary, I would do it again. But not on this day.

  Santa Anna’s western battery, consisting of two 4-pounders, was the nearest danger, lying a few dozen yards from the bridge among thick trees. I had given Crockett an important assignment.

  “Hold the bridge, David,” I said, waving his boys into the rocks and shrubs near the river.

  “We can burn the damn thing if you like,” Crockett quietly replied.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” I said, thinking the bridge might be useful if I decided to storm the town.

  I took my command past the bridge and stopped only ten yards from the trees where the first Mexican entrenchment was dug in. We heard no challenge. If they had a sentry, he was asleep. An adobe warehouse, battered by errant artillery shots but still intact, stood on our side of the road. With a gesture, I put three sharpshooters on the roof where they would dominate the approaches from every direction.

  Several hundred yards beyond the road were the shanties and saloons of La Villita. If we were looking for tequila and whores, we were on the right track. La Villita also sheltered two 6-pounders, the largest entrenchment south of the Alamo on our side of the river.

  Several cooking fires showed through the trees where I estimated their camp at two hundred strong. The road south, and it wasn’t much of a road, was still too dark to see, though the first glimmer of sunrise was appearing on our left. Before long, the enemy would be stirring.

  “Okay boys, here we go. Shoot anything that moves. Burn everything. No looting until the enemy is routed,” I said.

  There was no specific order to move, I just crept forward toward the first enemy entrenchment with the Brown Bess ready for action. Mumbling could be heard up ahead, and crickets in the pasture beyond the trees. An icy wind rose from the river.

  “Quién es?” a voice asked.

  “Es el Diablo,” I replied, jumping over the earthen barrier and running the man through with the bayonet. The sentry moaned and fell backward as I pulled the blade free. A startled corporal came toward me, so surprised he had not drawn a weapon. I jabbed the bayonet into his heart.

  A heavy mist shrouded the woods as dawn broke over Powder House Hill. The half-dozen men holding the night watch in the trench soon found themselves overrun with swords and bayonets, but not before shouting for help.

  “That’s it, lads! Have at them!” I yelled as gunfire echoed off the hills. And then the Alamo cannon opened fire, the guns along the north wall shelling the Mexican positions. Scattered rifle fire erupted throughout the valley, friend and foe aiming blindly at shadows.

  I fired the musket, then tossed it aside and drew my Bulldogs, running toward the battery while we all screamed like banshees. The gun crews jumped to their posts to load the cannon, and one managed to ram a ball down, but didn’t have time fire. I shot the commanding officer, a young lieutenant, who bravely went down still calling out orders. The rest of the Mexicans fell in a storm of hot lead, our forty sweeping over fifteen startled defenders. But more enemies were on the way. Fifty or so soldiers were on the road, arriving for their morning posting. The yelling and firing had them confused. They began running toward us to see what the uproar was all about.

  “Swing the gun around!” I shouted, jumping to the 6-pounder that was already loaded.

  Four men quickly had the cannon turned. I picked up a match from a dead Mexican gunner.

  “Watch out!” I warned, touching the fuse.

  The gun roared, sweeping a red path of death down the road through the enemy ranks. The cannon jerked back from the force, the wheel hitting me above the ankle, for I had neglected to get myself clear. I would have cursed myself for a fool, but there wasn’t time.

  “Are you all right, sir?” someone asked, helping me to my feet.

  “Yes, private. French! French, where are you?”

  “Here, sir!” French said, climbing over the sandbag barrier.

  “Sound the charge!” I ordered, half running and half stumbling toward the enemy camp.

  I was not in the lead, nor even close. The moment the 6-pounder had cut loose, men were driving on our objective. No more instructions were needed. No urging on. Our blood was up.

  Thick trees and a rail fence screened us on one side, heavy brush along the river on the other. The road was strewn with dead and wounded men. Those who moved too much were instantly bayoneted. We had no time for the others.

  The hovels of La Villita appeared on the right, the village in chaos. Not just soldiers, but women and camp followers were fleeing in every direction. A few of the Mexicans stood their ground, raising their muskets and firing. A man went down next to me, one of the buckskinned volunteers. Then I saw one of my own boys take a hit, Private Tim Donnelly of F Company. I holstered the Bulldogs and pulled out Tom’s Winchester, cocking and firing as I advanced steadily on the village. The closer I got, the better my aim.

  The small group of Mexicans defending their camp tried to resist the onslaught, but all it brought them was destruction. Those who fell under our gunfire were rapidly finished off with swords and knives. No one was taking prisoners.

  Suddenly Spotted Eagle was at my side. He had been told to stay behind with Crockett, but disobeyed. It reminded me of Tom at Sayler’s Creek. Though shot through the face and bleeding like a Virginia ham, Tom seized a Confederate battle flag, rode back to our lines in triumph, and then returned to the fight against orders.

  Spotted Eagle was stripped to the waist, streaked in war paint, and wielding a bloody hatchet. When he let out a Sioux war cry, some of our terrified enemies froze. Others merely ran that much faster.

  “Do not get yourself killed,” I told him.

  “I cannot die at the General’s side,” he answered.

  “Gray Wolf died at my side.”

  “I am not my cousin. Today, I live forever!”

  He saw a group of Mexicans heading for the river and went after them, thirsty for more coup.

  A musket ball whistled past my head. I reloaded the Winchester and looked for the miscreant, but no one seemed to be giving me special attention. I shot a sergeant trying to reload his gun, then a private fumbling with his bayonet. Turning, I spotted an officer in a white uniform waving a lance, but he disappeared behind a shack before I could take aim.

  Amid the fighting, I saw women grabbing babies, fleeing into the woods. An old woman rocked on the ground, an old man lying dead in her arms. A boy emerged from an adobe shack waving a cooking knife, only to be shot down.

  “Sir, is something wrong?” French asked, coming to my side.

  “For a moment, this reminded me of our attack on Black Kettle’s village. Warn the men to avoid shooting at the women and children.”

  After a few hectic minutes, firing in our portion of the field gradually ceased. Skirmishes continued on the flanks, but we mounted no pursuit when the broken enemy ran for the west ford.

  “Sir, we found some wagons. Ammunition wagons,” a breathless youngster said. He’d lost his leather hat, his
wild red hair a mass of curls. Smoke streaked his pink face. It was Jimmy Allen. I’d seen him in the fort but didn’t realize he’d been assigned to my troop.

  “Hitch some horses and take them home,” I ordered, breathless myself, for my shin ached.

  “Already being done, sir. Ready in a few minutes,” Allen said, running back to wherever he had come from.

  “Fire the shacks. Burn it all,” I said, finding a torch and setting it to a haystack.

  Some of the men followed my lead, others were grabbing sacks of grain and tying them to the backs of burros, for the Alamo’s food supply was growing thin. I regretted not thinking of it myself.

  Within minutes the ramshackle village was in flames, and we hardly needed to make an effort. The place had been a firetrap to begin with.

  “French, sound recall,” I said, leaning against a rail fence.

  The bugle call summoned our force back along the narrow road. We returned toward the Alamo, picking up equipment, retrieving our wounded, and cutting enemy throats along the way. From time to time, we came across an adversary who was so young that murdering them seemed a crime. Some died anyway, but a few were spared. All was random chance.

  Among the fallen soldiers, I noticed a battle flag and picked it up. The red, white and green banner decorated with an eagle was a worthy souvenir of our effort.

  We emerged into the open space where the roads came together. Crockett’s men were keeping a hot fire on the bridge where a hundred soldiers in blue uniforms were attempting to cross. Some of the enemy fired their muskets, but most were trying to press the bridge armed with bayonets. A dozen had already fallen.

  I was relieved to see Crockett still alive, kneeling in the center of the line, firing his Springfield. Micajah knelt next to him, handing the former congressman ammunition as fast as he could reload. The smoke of the Texan muskets was thicker than the river fog.

  Up Powder House Hill to the east, a cavalry charge of fifty dragoons was being forestalled by Sergeant Hughes, his skirmishers taking a heavy toll of officers. His favorite targets. The first rush was stopped with a volley. As the cavalry tried to reform, the flag bearers were shot from their saddles. Cannon from the rear of the Alamo chapel struck the enemy right flank. After a few minutes of frustration, the cavalry slowly withdrew, waving their short barrel carbines. None had even gotten within range.