Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  The log palisade between the low barracks and the church appeared to be the weakest position of all, but this was an illusion. Two 4-pounders loaded with canister shot protected the stockade wall, supplemented by a ditch and branches of thick tangled briars. The lunette on the right, and the church on the left, provided flanking fire. Crockett had been assigned this position, and I had no doubt he would hold it.

  The center of the position was the low barracks. The L-shaped structure had thick walls for protection and space on the roof for sharpshooters. I had men extending a defensive line along the south end of the compound while adding another cannon to the lunette. Bobby Hughes was in charge of the modifications, ably assisted by Dickenson.

  I walked up to the church. When I had first seen it in 1866, the U.S. Army Quartermaster had turned the building into a supply depot. A barrel roof had been built and a hump atop the façade added, which gave the structure a distinctive appearance. The Alamo of 1836 had no distinctive hump. Most of it didn’t even have a roof.

  Squeezing through the oak double doors, partially blocked by a mud-filled rawhide barrier, I found small rooms to the right and left. One was being used as the powder magazine, others for food storage or housing the families of Captain Dickenson and the Tejanos.

  At one time in its history, I supposed the Alamo had contained pews and an altar for various ancient rituals. It was, after all, a Catholic church. But the pews were long gone, the central floor area now filled with a long dirt ramp leading ten feet up to the rear of the church where two 12-pounders dominated the eastern approaches. Because this portion of the church had no roof, the platform was damp and cold. A tarp had been strung up to protect the gunners from rain.

  I walked up the ramp to stand between the guns in an area called the apse, looking east toward Powder House Hill. The land was partially occupied by a morass, cut with irrigation ditches, and generally poor ground for an attack. The cottonwood trees lining the Alameda were far off to the right.

  The church certainly appeared to be a strong position. The walls were four feet thick and twenty feet high. There were few doors or windows, making it difficult for the enemy to scale the wall. But this was also its weakness. The garrison could not deploy its strength in such a confined area. For the purposes of a last stand, the church was inadequate.

  “Captain Dickenson, your attention please,” I summoned.

  “Yes, General,” Dickenson said, coming at a run.

  Like Crockett, Dickenson was from Tennessee, a blacksmith by profession, though he dabbled in various small businesses. Much like my father did. Less than thirty, he was the best artillerist in the fort, and I had come to rely on his expertise with these antique weapons. Like most blacksmiths, he was a big man with large forearms.

  “Sir, once it grows dark, I want you to withdraw one these guns,” I politely instructed. “Pull it down into the courtyard and station it facing north between the long barracks and the redoubt. Throw up a barrier. Barrels, sandbags, whatever you can find.”

  “Sir, that would leave our eastern flank weak. The only other gun is the 4-pounder above the corral,” Dickenson said.

  My instinct was to command, not debate, but I liked this young fellow and did not wish to hurt his feelings.

  “Almaron, I appreciate your concern, but I do not anticipate an attack from this quarter. Bring up one of the 3-pounders, enough to make extra noise. I also want you to mount two heavy logs on this wall. Cover them in pitch so they look like cannon barrels. The enemy will think our cannon are concentrated here.”

  “You want to fool them?” Dickenson asked, though it should not have been a surprise. The Quaker gun trick was invented long before my time.

  “An ancient Chinese philosopher wrote that war is the art of deception,” I responded, going back toward the courtyard.

  At the bottom of the ramp, I was intercepted by Dickenson’s wife and her baby, a little girl hardly more than a year old.

  “Excuse me, sir. My name is Susannah Dickenson. This is my daughter, Angelina,” she introduced. I supposed her to be twenty years old. Pretty, if not for the rugged frontier lifestyle.

  “Yes, Mrs. Dickenson. I noticed you helping Mrs. Alsbury with my uniform. I should have thanked you sooner,” I said, tipping my hat.

  ”Oh, no. No thanks necessary. Glad to help. General, do you think we kin hold out? I’m not askin’ for myself, you understand. We heard Santa Anna murders the families of rebels. I don’t want him hurtin’ my little girl.”

  “Don’t fret yourself. Stories get exaggerated. Just stay here in the chapel where it’s safe.”

  “I will, sir. I will. God bless you,” she said, standing on her toes to kiss my cheek.

  I grew embarrassed and fled into the compound.

  Our day remained hectic. I pushed the garrison hard, telling them to ignore the occasional cannon shot that hit a building or crashed into a wall. One man was killed by the shelling, four others wounded, including Private Madsen of F Company. Anticipating an attack the next morning, I knew the men would need rest. Better to work now and sleep once the sun went down.

  John had started following me around. He was my age, if not a few years older. Calling me “sir” so often began to get uncomfortable. Not that I wasn’t accustomed to such deference by persons of his race, for it is only natural, but it’s not something you want to hear all day long.

  “Is there a problem, John?” I finally asked.

  “No, sir. No problem, sir,” he answered, but it wasn’t the truth. He shuffled his feet and looked down.

  “Dijon threatening you?”

  “Can’t say that, exactly. Not exactly.”

  “Want me to shoot the son of a bitch?”

  “No, sir! Don’t want no killin’. Not on my account. Just wish I knew what will happen to me when this fightin’ is over.”

  “What do you want to happen? Would you like to stay in Texas? If not, I’ll book passage for you back to Africa.”

  “Africa?” he said, stunned. “Sir, I don’t know nothin’ about Africa. My daddy was born in Georgia. His daddy was born in Virginia, and his daddy before him. Ain’t no one more American than I is.”

  “John, when this fight is over, you can do whatever you want. You’re a free man. If something happens to me, Tom will help you, or Bill Cooke, or anybody in my command. We helped former slaves in my own country during a time called Reconstruction. Freedom is hard, but worth the effort. And if Dijon bothers you, promise to tell me. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir. I promise,” John said. “Sir, I ain’t ever needed a last name before. Never seemed necessary. Can I have one now?”

  The request caught me off-guard. Swapping names within families is common. My sister honored me by nicknaming her son Autie, but I’d never been asked to give anyone a name before.

  “John, I was named after a family friend, George Armstrong. Old George was a minister. My father hoped I’d join the clergy someday. I’d be pleased if you took Armstrong on.”

  “John Armstrong. I like that. I like that fine. Thank you, sir, thank you,” he said, bursting into a grin.

  John rushed off to help dig the trench in the courtyard, leaving me feeling particularly proud.

  “George! George, over here!” Crockett yelled as I strolled toward the south gate.

  Crockett was standing on the mound where Travis had made his speech. Jameson was with him, along with a tall thirty year old Virginian named Bill Carey, captain of the fort’s artillery. They had been busy.

  “What do you think?” Jameson asked, eager for approval.

  They had mounted an 8-pounder on the mound and two 4-pounders on the immediate flanks, all protected by a makeshift stockade. Jameson’s men had piled stones to form a munitions bunker that was being filled with powder and canister shot. Carey now had men extending the barricade to the 18-pounder ramp on the left and to the southwest corner of the long barracks on the right. Two 6-pounders had been set in the courtyard facing north, and another entrenchm
ent was being prepared for the 12-pounder coming down from the chapel. In effect, we were building a fort within the fort, the inner wall lined with artillery. Much of the defense was nothing but oak barrels, pieces of old wagons, and chunks of adobe ripped from the inner dwellings. Had we a few cotton bales, it would have looked like Old Hickory’s lines at New Orleans.

  “Got a good crossfire here, General,” Carey said. “That is, if the Mexicans come from this direction. Travis don’t think they will.”

  “Travis don’t think about a lot of things,” I replied. “Been in Texas long, Mr. Carey?”

  “Just since last summer, sir,” he said.

  “Any military experience before that?”

  “Not really, but seen plenty of fightin’ since I got here.”

  “Well, you’ve done a good job. You all have,” I said, seeking to keep their spirits up.

  At the battle of Trevilian Station, my command had used similar materials while fending off desperate Confederate charges. Like the Alamo, we were under fire with little time to prepare. And like the men, I had been frightened that we could not hold. We had done our best then, and we would do our best now. I could not expect miracles.

  “General Custer,” Crockett called, showing me due respect. He emerged from the long barracks and took me aside.

  “Been talkin’ to Travis. Think you two should shake hands. Put the hard feelin’s aside,” he said, using a firm but calm tone. It really wasn’t a request.

  “David, for your sake I’ll try, but don’t get your hopes up,” I agreed.

  We walked the length of the compound toward the north wall where Travis commanded forty men. A long ditch was on our left. It had been an aquifer supplying water to the mission until Santa Anna dammed the flow upstream. It occurred to me that if the enemy breached the outer perimeter, they might be able to take cover in the dry channel, much like the Rebs had done in the Sunken Road at Antietam.

  “We need to post a cannon where it will flank this trench,” I said to Crockett, turning to look for the best position. The bottom of the ramp where the 18-pounder was stationed seemed a good spot. It would compromise the entire channel all the way to the north wall.

  “Let’s talk to Travis first,” Crockett said, thinking I was stalling.

  “Catch up in a minute,” I promised, kneeling down to study the angle.

  Crockett sighed and went to warn Travis that I was coming. I didn’t know if Travis had initiated the contact with the possible intention of apologizing. Or if he expected me to apologize.

  “Custer! Custer, you goddamned son of a bitch!” someone shouted.

  I stood up and turned, finding Dijon coming towards me with a pistol in his hand. Before I could react, his raised the flintlock and fired. All I saw was a red streak and black smoke. And then there was a sharp pain in my neck. I instinctively put a hand to the wound as Dijon emerged from the black cloud, leveling another pistol. He pulled the trigger, but it misfired, white smoke swirling in his face. And then he was on me, a hunting knife thrusting at my heart.

  I reached to grasp his arm, but my reactions were slowed by the sore leg and I lost balance, landing on my back with my head hanging above the dry ditch. Dijon jumped on top, trying to cut my throat. I grabbed a wrist, then sought to push him off with my other hand, but he had the strength of a demon, hatred burning in black-brown eyes. I could smell whisky on his breath.

  The blade got closer, the edge starting to draw blood. There seemed little I could do to stop it, for I could not wrestle the man off.

  “You goddamn swaggering Northern trash are done,” Dijon grunted, pressing the knife harder. “And after I’ve carved your hide for a new hat, I’ll flay that darkie’s . . .”

  Suddenly there was a spray of crimson. Blood everywhere, like a wet blanket. At first I supposed it to be mine, but Dijon grew limp. The knife fell from his clutch. His eyes blankly rolled back. A second spray blotted out the gray clouds as Dijon’s body dipped down, only to be yanked back. A Sioux war cry filled the Alamo compound.

  “Custer! My God!” Crockett shouted, appearing at my side.

  As I sat up, I saw Spotted Eagle standing over Dijon, one hand gripped in his hair, the other holding a bloody hatchet. Dijon’s skull was chopped open, the brains spilling out of the jagged hole. Spotted Eagle drew a knife to claim Dijon’s scalp. I made no effort to stop him.

  “George, are you hurt?” Crockett asked.

  “I might be. My neck hurts.”

  Crockett probed the neck just above the shoulder. I flinched.

  “Don’t move. You’ve been shot,” Crockett said.

  Shot? I’d ridden though hails of bullets during the Civil War without ever receiving a serious injury, and now I had been shot by some dim-witted frontiersman? It made me angry.

  “General, what have they done?” Sergeant Hughes asked.

  I found myself surrounded by twenty of my men, Colts drawn. There were angry mutters. And a good deal of swearing. Crockett was pushed away. I heard Butler chamber a shell in his Sharps. The battle of the Alamo may have started right then and there.

  “Relax, Bobby. It was just that idiot,” I said, trying to get up. My legs felt weak.

  “Easy there, sir. We’ll get a stretcher,” French said. “I wish Dr. Lord was here.”

  Dr. Lord said the life he could save might be mine. Was he right?

  “It can’t be that serious. I’m still breathing,” I protested, for the indignity of being carried away would only weaken my authority.

  “Let me have a see,” Travis said, elbowing French aside.

  Though not a doctor, any commander responsible for the welfare of his men learns to assess a wound. It’s particularly important if you have slackers seeking to be put on the sick list.

  “Odd. Crockett, take a look at this,” Travis said, fingers entangled in my red scarf.

  “I’ll be damned,” Crockett said, almost amused.

  “We need Dr. Pollard,” Travis said, motioning to one of his men.

  Dr. Amos Pollard was already halfway across the compound. We’d had no chance to talk before, for the hospital was not my priority. I sincerely hoped the hospital would not become a priority now.

  “Give us some air, sirs,” Dr. Pollard said, kneeling down and opening a black leather medical bag.

  Pollard was a New England man, about thirty-five years old, probably from Massachusetts. He was short, rather thin, and prematurely balding, yet had a presence that made him seem larger. Such is not unusual among doctors. He probed, squinted, and made doctorly sighs as if he wasn’t one step removed from a corner butcher.

  “Vermont College of Medicine,” he said, seeking to assure me of his credentials. “And I hate slavery as much as you.”

  “It looks like . . .” Travis started to say.

  “Yes, yes. I think you are right,” Dr. Pollard said, taking tweezers from his bag to work on the wound.

  Hughes frowned. If Pollard hadn’t had that Northern accent, I’m sure threats would have been made.

  “George, this is going to hurt. Are you ready?” Crockett said.

  I gritted my teeth, hands gripping the butts of my pistols. Pollard pulled on my scarf, then pulled a little more. With a final effort, the scarf came free, followed by a generous flow of blood. Pollard shook the scarf and out came to musket ball.

  “Good you had that neckerchief. The ball didn’t penetrate the silk,” Dr. Pollard said.

  “Ancient Romans wore silk underwear for the same reason,” Travis added, indicating he’d had a classical education.

  I knew much of the Romans from my studies; I just never imagined such a benefit ever applying to me.

  “Wait while we bandage this wound,” Dr. Pollard said.

  Before he moved, Mrs. Dickenson and Juana had arrived with strips of white cloth from the infirmary.

  “Anyone have whisky?” Hughes asked.

  I glanced up. There were fifty men standing around me gawking instead of working.

 
“Thought your general weren’t no drinker,” someone said.

  “Here, I got this brandy,” another offered, passing a green glass bottle.

  Hughes soaked the bandage with the brandy, then let Mrs. Dickenson tie it around my neck. It stung like Black Death, but I tried not to let it show. Pollard looked surprised, wondering at the strange ritual. Though it was not certain that alcohol could stop deadly infections, it had become a common belief during the war. Even I subscribed to the strange theory after a British doctor wrote a book about it.

  “Need a jolt, sir?” Hughes asked.

  “No thank you, Bobby. Thanks everybody. Back to duty,” I ordered, slowly standing up.

  There was momentary dizziness but nothing worse. Twisting my head might be difficult for awhile.

  “Mr. Custer, I can’t express my dismay,” Travis said. “I assure you, I had no hint this might happen. None of us did. No gentleman would tolerate such bad manners.”

  “You are above suspicion, Mr. Travis,” I said.

  Then, after taking a sideways look at Crockett, I extended my hand. Travis shook it. Our peace was made, for now.

  “Spotted Eagle, my young friend, thank you for saving my life,” I said. I started to shake his hand until seeing it covered in gore.

  “Slow said you would find much coup and many scalps. Slow is never wrong,” Spotted Eagle said, tying Dijon’s scalp to his belt.

  I could not let him walk around like that for long, for there were many angry stares from the garrison, but thought it best to give the youngster a few minutes to enjoy his prize. And if anyone had a problem that Spotted Eagle had killed a white man, they would need to deal with me first.

  “What of the body, sir? We shouldn’t leave it here,” Hughes said, glancing around the busy compound.

  “Dump it over the wall. When Santa Anna’s troops attack in the morning, it’s the first thing I want them to see,” I answered.

  “General, I know you don’t wish to show weakness before the men, but this is still a serious wound,” Dr. Pollard said. “Give me a quiet place to work and you might be back on your feet by tomorrow.”