Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  The two wagons we’d captured were rushed toward the gate, followed by several burros. Suddenly the artillery pieces in the woods across the river opened fire. The first wagon exploded, blowing fragments and splinters in every direction. Both horses were killed and several men went down. Bits of flaming wreckage lit the gray trail.

  Like many, I was momentarily stunned by the bright flash, catching my balance against a broken adobe wall. My leg still hurt. I aimed a revolver only to find the gun empty. Our retreat had stalled.

  “Let’s go! Let’s go! Come on, boys,” I shouted, my voice high-pitched with excitement. I grabbed a soldier and pushed him toward the fort, and then another, waving the tattered Mexican flag.

  The men began to move again. The surviving wagon was hurried on. Wounded men were helped to their feet, using their muskets as crutches. Two needed to be carried. I saw a burro rush by with a dead Texan thrown over its back.

  As my men reached the approach to the lunette, Crockett’s men fell back in good order, then Hughes and Butler, collapsing the line we had extended fifteen minutes before. The Alamo walls were filled with riflemen protecting our retreat. The 18-pounder roared, then several of the 6-pounders. I could not see who or what they were firing on, for the confusion of battle was all around me. This is why cavalry commanders are so fond of their horses. It not only makes us look important to sit astride a noble steed, but it helps us see above the fray.

  The men in the lunette hauled the wagon over the ditch into the fort. The burros were not so cooperative. A few were led across the creaking planks, the others unloaded and cut free. My men, having been exposed to the greatest danger, were the first to reach safety, followed by Crockett and Hughes. Butler’s troop brought up the rear, bringing the last of four dead and nine wounded. Not a bloodless foray.

  * * *

  It was the best breakfast I’d eaten in months. Pan-fried bacon, fresh flour biscuits, and a scrambled egg. I sat on a stool, a cracker barrel for my table, just outside my headquarters near the south gate. Crockett and Jameson were with me as I discussed a reorganization of the Alamo’s defenses. Kellogg had told me how the Alamo fell, in its original history, and I was determined not to make the same mistakes.

  “Trouble in the town, general,” Captain Dickenson reported.

  We ran up the gun platform next to the 18-pounder and looked west. Columns of black smoke swirled in the morning light, for it was barely after seven o’clock. The commotion was coming from the far side of San Antonio where we supposed Santa Anna’s supply wagons were parked. Travis joined us on the platform.

  “What the living hell?” he said, looking through a spyglass.

  I held my binoculars, but didn’t need them to answer the young lawyer’s question.

  “It’s Captain Keogh. I gave him fifty men with orders to harass the enemy supply,” I explained. “Firing the 18-pounder this morning was a signal for him to attack. It’s just a raid, however. He’ll burn some wagons and then withdraw. Or he might burn a lot of wagons. The Irish like that sort of thing.”

  “That’s not all, general. Take a look,” Jameson said, pointing toward the bridge.

  What I saw was a surprise. Two Mexican officers were waving a white flag. It seemed that General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, the Napoleon of the West, was requesting a parley with the commander of the Alamo.

  Custer had sent me south with his brother to learn of leadership, but it was a trick. He thought me too young to be a warrior. What the white general did not understand is that a warrior’s heart is not measured in years, and the farther I rode away on Custer’s horse, the more I thought about Wakan Tanka’s gift. Was it to seek more learning? Or was it to share the wisdom I already had? There were birds in the trees and I listened to their song, for the birds are not bound by that which can be seen from the earth. They told me of a great battle, with much blood and death. I gave my reasons to Thomas Custer, for I would not have him worry, and turned back, riding Custer’s horse as hard as I dared.

  Chapter Eleven

  Picks, Shovels and Bowie Knives

  I went back to finish breakfast, asking Jameson and Crockett to join me. Travis was unhappy not to be included, but he had duties on the north wall that required his attention. And from what I’d heard, Travis’s negotiating skills weren’t the best. Early in the siege, he had fired a cannon shot at Santa Anna’s messengers.

  “The first day, I rode out to the bridge and met with Santa Anna’s adjutant,” Jameson recalled, sitting next to me outside the low barracks. “Bowie was still in command at the time. Or so I thought. We hoped to withdraw from San Antonio without a fight. The dictator’s minion said His Excellency would never negotiate with pirates.”

  “Good I left my peg leg at home,” I said, dabbing my chin with a clean napkin. Quite the luxury in this godforsaken land.

  “What do you think Santa Anna wants?” Crockett asked. “He’s not givin’ up the siege. His name would be shit in Mexico.”

  “Does he think we’ll surrender after kicking his butt this morning?” Jameson asked. He ate another biscuit, knowing we might not have time later.

  “We didn’t exactly kick his butt, Green. Just ruffled a few feathers,” I said, looking around to see if Juana might have another egg for me.

  It was a greedy thought, though not an unusual one. Generals expect such things. Juana smiled but shook her head.

  Having Juana Alsbury serve me was quite a privilege. She was the cousin of Bowie’s late wife and the daughter of a prominent San Antonio family. Her uncle had once been governor of Texas.

  “Call it what you want, General. The men are stirred up like I’ve never seen them. After today, they’ll walk into hell if you give the order,” Jameson said.

  “Let’s not make the same mistake twice,” I said, standing up and straightening my buckskin jacket. “Is the messenger still on the bridge?”

  “Yes, sir. Waiting for our reply,” Dickenson said.

  “Let’s not keep him waiting,” I decided.

  We started toward the south gate. Bobby Hughes and Jimmy Butler were quickly at my side as word spread. Corporal French and Spotted Eagle caught up as we entered the lunette. And then Travis arrived.

  “No negotiations unless I’m there, too,” Travis insisted.

  “I think not,” was my immediate reaction. My temper was bad enough without a hothead like Travis gumming up the works.

  “I know the conditions here better than you. Better than you or Crockett. I know the law, and I know what the provisional government in Washington-on-the-Brazos is planning,” Travis explained.

  “The Declaration of Independence? Hell, Bill, everybody in Texas knows about that,” Crockett said. “Besides, Santa Anna knows who ya are. Knows you’ve been causin’ trouble since the ferst day you ’rived in Texas. How many times were you arrested for agitation? Two or three?”

  “All I did was demand our rights under the Constitution of 1824,” Travis defended.

  “Say that ’til the cows come home, but Santa Anna ain’t gonna negotiate with someone trying to steal Texas away from him,” Crockett insisted.

  “You’re trying to steal Texas from Mexico. So is Custer,” Travis said, waving an angry finger.

  “Am I?” I asked.

  “Damn right you are!”

  “I haven’t decided what my plan is. It’s possible Santa Anna and I can reach an accommodation,” I said, almost saying too much.

  Truthfully, I had no specific plan, but the kind of Texas Travis wanted wasn’t the one my men would fight for. It wasn’t the Texas President Lincoln would have wanted us to fight for.

  “Make a deal with the tyrant and we’ll hang you,” Travis threatened.

  Curiously, General John Mosby, the Gray Ghost, had once threatened me with a hanging, too. Travis almost made me laugh.

  “Wait until this is over, my lawyer friend, and we’ll see who does the hanging,” I jovially said, slapping him on the back. “Come on, David, let’s see what the
tyrant would have of us.”

  I ducked through the portal of the lunette with Crockett, Butler and Hughes. Corporal French kept Spotted Eagle back, for the young brave would only make the situation more complicated. We walked among the ruined adobes to the bridge, all the while prepared for treachery, for I had no reason to trust Santa Anna’s honor. Especially after what Kellogg had told me about the massacre at Goliad.

  “If they try a double-cross, kill the officers,” Sergeant Hughes said, holding his Henry repeating rifle. I had Tom’s Winchester, Butler had his Sharps. Crockett carried the Springfield I’d given him.

  There were two officers waiting for us under the flag of truce, a colonel and a lieutenant. I recognized the colonel— it was Juan Almonte, the aide-de-camp to Santa Anna who had been thrown from his horse during the skirmish on the Cibolo. His shoulder looked stiff but not broken.

  “Hola, Coronel Almonte. Como esta el brazo?” I asked, reaching to shake his hand.

  “The arm is fine, General Custer. How is your leg? Have you been run over by a cannon lately?” he replied in English.

  “It’s a cold day. What can I do for you?” I said, realizing Santa Anna had received a detailed report on the Battle of La Villita.

  “General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna recognizes your bravery and offers to negotiate an honorable surrender,” Almonte said.

  “Premature, isn’t it? Your general still has a large army in the field,” I said.

  Almonte paused in surprise. His lieutenant frowned, insulted by my jest.

  “No, it is not my general who wishes to surrender,” Almonte patiently said. “If you will lay down your arms and surrender the fort, your men may depart with all honor. We will send the rebel leaders to Mexico City, where they will receive a fair trial.”

  “Generous terms. Please thank your master on my behalf. I will relay his terms to the rebel leaders. I hear Mexico City is lovely in the spring,” I said, bowing deeply.

  “Not the jail cells,” Crockett remarked.

  “I heard Steven Austin spent a year in Santa Anna’s prisons. Was he a rebel?” I asked.

  “No, Old Steven just wanted to present a peaceful petition,” Crockett explained.

  “Not the best way to treat an emissary,” I remarked.

  “Sir, I sense that you take His Excellency’s proposal lightly,” the lieutenant said, his accent not difficult to understand.

  The lieutenant was a middle-aged man of high birth, but given his rank, low abilities. His white uniform was smartly pressed and decorated with more gold braid than I’d worn with the Michigan Brigade at Gettysburg. Streaks of gray hair were showing under his silver steel helmet, though the crest was nicely plumed with red feathers. I had to admit, these guys knew how to dress.

  “Not at all, sir. I am honored that he would suggest terms to me when he has declined to do so during these past twelve days of siege. I offer him no disrespect.”

  “What should we tell him?” Almonte inquired.

  “Tell your general that great men should discuss great issues face to face, and not through our inferiors.”

  “His Excellency will not meet with rabble,” the lieutenant protested, his cheeks flushing.

  “Now who shows disrespect?” I curtly demanded.

  And my cheeks were getting a little red, too. I had met with President Lincoln and President Johnson. Cornelius Vanderbilt and Alexis, Grand Duke of Russia. I knew senators and congressmen on a first name basis. Who was Santa Anna? President of Mexico? I didn’t recall the people ever voting for him.

  “We will give him your message, General Custer,” Almonte said, pulling his angry subordinate away.

  We backed up slowly, guns ready but not aimed. A Mexican cannon crew in the battery to our right was watching, but there were only a handful of infantry. To our left, the remains of La Villita continued to burn. I spotted a few sentries, but for the most part, the position had not been reoccupied.

  “They’re making the flank look empty, General. Bet they got cavalry back there,” Hughes said, indicating the destroyed village.

  “It’s an ambush, for sure. Do they think we’re that stupid?” Butler said.

  As thick trees blocked our view to the south, there was no way of knowing how many troops might be hidden there waiting for us.

  “They think the Alamo’s garrison will try to escape,” I guessed. “If I had my druthers, I’d rather take the town instead.”

  San Antonio was visible straight ahead, about a half a mile beyond the bridge. The presidio’s walls weren’t very high. Despite the occupation, the town would still have more food and better water than the Alamo. But I had to give up the idea. Moving the entire garrison, along with the women and wounded, was too complicated an operation for my resources.

  A few minutes later, we were back in the Alamo surrounded by a dozen men asking questions.

  “What did he say? What does he want?” Travis asked.

  “How would you like a trip to Mexico City?” I answered.

  * * *

  By noon the entire garrison was hard at work. This was not so easy as it sounds. The Alamo had been under constant siege, hounded by a persistent artillery barrage, and left short on supply. The men were tired. Our eighty reinforcements helped, being fresh blood to the scene, but life on the frontier is always hard, and even the Seventh had endured many weeks of arduous effort. There is only so much you can expect from any group of men subjected to such hardships.

  Fortunately, they had George Custer to lead them. Old Iron Butt, the martinet, and shooter of deserters. My reputation soon spread throughout the fort, and I did not disappoint.

  The first order of business was the north side of the Alamo, the weakest position. Jameson had stationed five cannon on two elevated platforms, but the antiquated guns could not be pointed down once the enemy was below the wall. At a range of one hundred yards, the guns were deadly. At a range of ten yards, they were worthless. And the wall wasn’t much of a barrier. Variously eight to ten feet high, it had been reinforced with an outer curtain of timber supports packed with mud. If a large attacking force congregated at the foot of the wall, they would be able to push over in overwhelming numbers. And according to Kellogg, that’s exactly what happened.

  “We must hold this wall,” Travis said, repeating it several times. “Our entire defense is based on maintaining our perimeter.”

  I stood on the northwest bastion near two 6-pounders, the river to my left. Before us lay a vast prairie marked by a few small farms on the rolling plain. Santa Anna had established two batteries to the north that were slowly pounding the wall into submission. If I had brought my entire command into the Alamo, and if we had an inexhaustible supply of ammunition, the wall might be held. And even then, it would be a fruitless effort. With four thousand men, Santa Anna could shift entire battalions to the west or east. Or starve the garrison into submission.

  No, I decided. This is the crucial position. Not because it is strong, but because it is weak. And the enemy knows it’s weak.

  Travis and Jameson were standing at my elbow, ready to make more arguments. I had enough of arguments.

  “Mr. Jameson, I have not changed my mind,” I said, trying to be gentle. “Have your men strip this entire half of the fort. Pull one of the guns back. Go into the houses along the walls and take out the timber supports. We’ll sharpen them into stakes. Once the new ditch is dug across the center of the courtyard, we’ll fill the trench with the sharpened timber. Take off the latches and hinges. Pull out the nails. We’ll use them as canister shot.”

  “Fifty of our men live in these houses. Going to make the barracks awful crowded,” Jameson warned.

  “During the war I fought, we discovered our cemeteries so crowded that we buried the dead in General Lee’s front yard. Which do you prefer?”

  “We’ll sleep in the long barracks tonight,” he agreed, going to see it done. A competent officer. I hoped he would survive the battle.

  I walked down the slop
ing dirt ramp into the north courtyard. The area may have been a garden at one time, or a cattle pen, but now it was just a large empty space for men to die in. All the buildings at this end of the fort were one story, made of adobe, and roofed with straw or rough wood slats. Only the long barracks had two stories, though the church was fairly tall, as well.

  The long barracks, known to the Tejanos as the convent, was the compound’s primary structure, the famous church being a half-finished ruin. About twenty feet wide and almost two hundred feet long, the barracks had once been used by padres to help the poor and treat the sick. The main courtyard lay on the west side, the horse corral and cattle pen on the east. For reasons I did not understand, Jameson had his men digging trenches inside the barracks. He called it a last ditch defense, but they may as well have been digging their graves. Once the enemy was over the walls, the garrison was doomed.

  Being more optimistic, I had moved the diggers out into the courtyard, cutting a trench from the middle of the long barracks to the west wall. This trench would be filled with the sharpened stakes, much like Lee’s defenses at Petersburg. In the daylight, such a barrier would be a joke. We did not have enough time to dig deeply. But in the predawn darkness, amid the smoke of battle, even a small trench might entrap some of the enemy.

  The south side of the Alamo must be my stronghold. The left flank would be the bastion on the west wall holding the 18-pounder. The platform guarded approaches from the south or an attack from across the river. In a desperate moment, the 18-pounder could be turned around to fire into the courtyard.

  Our right flank was the quadrangle in front of the church, screened on the south by the wooden palisade. The long barracks and a spur of the low barracks formed irregular walls protecting the area from a quick assault. We would throw up some boxes and barrels to complete the enclosure.