Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “I’ll give you an hour.”

  “That’s impossible, sir. This is a serious injury,” Pollard said.

  “Doctor, I expect the impossible,” I replied.

  They found a canvas chair for me to sit in outside Bowie’s room where Pollard made sure the wound was cleaned before stitching it up. He thought me extraordinarily lucky the ball hadn’t cut its way through to the spine, but between the silk scarf and the damp gunpowder in Dijon’s flintlock, it was only a flesh wound. Custer’s Luck, I thought.

  “So you’re opposed to slavery?” I asked.

  “Many of us are. We came to Texas hoping to create colonies for freed slaves,” Dr. Pollard explained. “Under Mexican law, our chances were good. I’m not so sure about this new constitution everyone is talking about.”

  “It’s a harsh document. Worse than anything back in the States,” I said, for Kellogg had much to say on the subject. “From what I hear, it will be illegal for a Texan to free his slaves, and freed black men won’t even be allowed to live here.”

  “That’s sad for Texas. This land could have been an Eden.”

  “It still can,” I said.

  * * *

  Crockett, Jameson and Carey doubled their efforts in the courtyard, for we needed to be prepared. Unable to do more than advise, and be a nuisance, I ducked inside Bowie’s room for a short visit. He was not in good shape.

  “Hear everything, can’t do nothin’,” Bowie said, so ill he couldn’t even sit up. His face was white, fever burning in his eyes. I guessed malaria or black lung.

  “The men understand. You’ll be up and around in no time.”

  His room was dark, the only window boarded up. There was a musty smell unlikely to help him get better, but a small hearth was keeping the chamber warm. A bowl of half eaten soup lay on the table next to him. I also saw his famous knife and a loaded pistol.

  “Juana’s doing her best. Won’t be good enough,” Bowie said. “If Santa Anna ain’t already looted my house, parcel up the goods when this is over.”

  “Your house?” I asked.

  “Veramendi Palace. Over on Soledad Street. Not really a palace, but nice. Make sure my people are taken care of.”

  “Even the slaves?” I asked.

  “Specially the slaves. Don’t have many left. Not since my Ursula died.”

  “I’ll do what I can, after freeing them,” I said.

  “Do what’s best,” Bowie said, eyes closing.

  Suddenly I realized he wasn’t breathing. I felt for a pulse and peaked under an eyelid. Just like that, the man had died.

  I sat for a moment, surprised. A man like Bowie, bigger than life, should have had a more glorious end. Perhaps propped up in bed, firing his flintlocks as the Mexicans burst into the room, and then fighting to the last with his Bowie knife. That’s the way he’d want to be remembered.

  I covered him with a blanket and went outside without telling anyone. With so much to do, there was no point in damaging morale.

  “Rider coming in! Rider coming in!” our sentry on the old church yelled.

  The 12-pounder in the apse fired, followed by a rifle volley from the corral. I hurried to the top of the long barracks, climbing the steep stone stairs with difficulty, to see a lone horseman riding like a madman over Powder House Hill and down toward our east wall, getting so close to the morass I feared they’d stumble into the swamp.

  “Rides like a devil,” Crockett said with a whistle. “Good he’s so small. Mexicans can’t seem to hit him.”

  A squad of Mexican troops were standing on the hill firing their muskets, but the horseman had dashed past them so fast they’d hardly had time to react. Not that they weren’t trying. From the right, at the top the Alameda, another squad opened fire. And the roar of a 4-pounder was heard from the left, the cannon ball kicking up a plume of damp earth. It seemed the Mexicans were determined not to let any messengers reach the fort, no matter what.

  And all were not shooting. Twenty lancers had taken up the chase, a brave sight in their red jackets and glistening steel helmets, flashing swords drawn for a quick kill. Their horses were not the best quality, but rested and eager for a run.

  And then I saw it was not a horseman approaching the Alamo at all. It was a horse boy, and he was riding my horse!

  “Come on, David, let’s give him cover,” I said, hiding a sense of desperation.

  I raised my Remington hunting rifle, took aim at a lancer chasing down from the hill, and fired at a range of seven hundred yards, knocking the man from his saddle.

  “Christ Almighty, no one’s beatin’ that shot!” Crockett exclaimed.

  I wasn’t interested in praise, firing three more times. When another lancer fell, the others slowed to a more cautious trot, finally giving up the chase. The horse boy veered around the morass toward the gate on the east side of the corral, entering below the raised battery emplacement. The garrison sent up a cheer.

  “Slow! Goddamn it, what the hell are you doing here!” I shouted, storming into the corral only minutes later.

  I’d run down the stairs so fast it was a miracle I’d not broken my neck, nor had I sworn so much since Benteen accused me of abandoning Joel Elliot at the Washita.

  “Take it easy, General, nobody got hurt,” Dickenson said, lifting Slow from Vic’s back.

  Good old Vic seemed excited by all the fuss, but he was always one for adventure, nudging Hughes with his nose and stomping a forefoot. French rushed to remove the saddle and sponge the horse down, for he’d had a hard run.

  “My people’s future does not lie in Goliad,” Slow said, calmly even though he was out of breath. The lad looked worn to the bone, only the black eyes shining with any strength.

  “It can’t lie in the Alamo,” I replied.

  “The spirits focus in strange places. As I rode closer to Goliad, I felt only darkness. In the Alamo, I sense light.”

  “The Alamo will soon be a place of great death,” I said.

  “This is where the spirits dwell. This is where the spirits will be remembered,” Slow insisted.

  Even I remembered the Alamo, forty years after its fall. Maybe there was something in the medicine boy’s words.

  “You’ll stay in my quarters. French, have Juana find him some food,” I ordered. The lad started to follow my aide, but I stopped him, a hand on his shoulder, and then knelt down to look him straight in the eye. “Slow, that was the bravest ride I’ve ever seen. Your people are proud of you, and so am I. But don’t ever ride Vic through a bullet storm like that again.”

  Slow smiled, quiet and pleased, and went to take a nap.

  It was an hour before sunset. I had the 18-pounder fired so the world, particularly Keogh and Smith, would know the Alamo was holding out. We would continue working until the last sliver of light, preparing our defenses for the desperate struggle ahead, and then the garrison would be put to bed for a full night’s sleep. If I were Santa Anna, I would attack in the predawn hours. I expected him to do the same.

  There was a bugle call from across the river, and then a summons. I walked up the southwest ramp to see another Mexican delegation on the bridge under a white flag. This time I sent Jameson out to see what they wanted, and was astonished by the answer.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “No doubt, sir. Santa Anna has invited you to dinner. A civilized forum to discuss your differences,” Jameson reported.

  We were sitting in my quarters, a coal fire burning in the old Franklin stove. The room was so small that Crockett and I sat on stools around an empty water barrel while Jameson, Travis and Carey sat on my bed. Butler, Hughes and Dickenson stood near the door. Slow slept on the floor in the corner, covered by a buffalo robe.

  “I’ll be . . . I’m surprised,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t go. It’s a trick,” Butler said.

  “Let’s shoot the lying sons of bitches,” Hughes added.

  “All of them, or just the officers?” I inquired with a grin.
<
br />   “We can start with the officers,” Hughes said.

  “The Mexicans are offering hostages, including Santa Anna’s nephew,” Jameson said. “I don’t think it’s a trick.”

  “They’ve always been good about respecting a truce,” Travis said, anxious to accept the invitation but knowing I would forbid his participation. Travis was hated by our enemies; Crockett and I were enigmas.

  “Think I should go, too,” Crockett said.

  “Along with me and Henry,” Hughes said, hefting his Henry repeating rifle.

  “Mr. Sharp is hungry,” Butler was quick to say, propping the heavy rifle on his knee.

  I rocked in my chair, a hand pressing the poultice Pollard had prepared for my neck wound. I didn’t care for the smell, but a touch of morphine Butler carried in his saddlebags helped the pain. After Mrs. Dickenson washed the blood off my red silk scarf, I put it back on for good luck.

  “Sirs, you will need to watch your manners,” I said, tacitly approving. “Santa Anna may be a ruthless tyrant, but he is President of Mexico. And a gentleman. I’ll not be embarrassed by your uncouth ways.”

  “You fart just like the rest of us,” Butler said.

  “I beg your pardon, Sergeant Butler, but generals do not fart. We pass wind,” I corrected.

  “My mistake,” Butler said, poking Hughes with his elbow.

  Travis smiled, something I’d not seen him do before.

  “Mr. Jameson, you may tell Santa Anna’s emissary that we accept his invitation,” I instructed.

  “I go as well,” Slow said, sitting up with drowsy eyes.

  “Of course,” I agreed. “Who am I to stop you?”

  We dressed in our best, such as it was, and had five horses saddled for the ride into town. I wore my army blues with a fringed buckskin jacket. The two sergeants were outfitted in clean uniforms and Crockett in a frock coat. Slow wore fresh leathers loaned by eight-year-old Enrique, the son of Tejano defender Gregorio Esparza.

  “Try not to lose the fort while I’m gone,” I said lightheartedly to Travis.

  The man frowned. Jameson smiled. Both knew there was little chance of such an attack. The Mexican battalions moving to the north were not yet in position, while their entrenchments to the south were badly mauled.

  “Listen. They’ve stopped firing their artillery,” Jameson said.

  The sun had just set a few minutes before. After twelve days of bombardment, the garrison was exhausted. They would sleep like babies.

  “Bed the men down now, Captain. They need the rest,” I said, a bit sleepy myself. “Warn them we’ll be back up well before dawn.”

  “Bring us some leftovers, General,” Jameson said, tired of boiled beef and corn.

  We went out the corral gate and under the battery at the rear of the church, riding slowly toward the Alameda. Above us, what looked like three cannon were really one cannon and two black logs. We avoided a tangle of trees and brush screening the south palisade before reaching the main road. A dozen mounted lancers were waiting for us. At the same time, six hostages walked toward the lunette where they would await our return, for they would not be allowed inside the fort. One was said to be Santa Anna’s nephew, another was a colonel named Morales. The other four were all prominent in one manner or another, though I hadn’t paid attention to the details.

  I saw Carey and Dickenson at the portal verifying the identity of the hostages, for the young lawyer was afraid of treachery. It seemed a prudent precaution, so my small party paused, hands poised on our sidearms. When Carey waved his hat, we proceeded. Colonel Juan Almonte was our escort.

  “Good evening, general,” Juan said, tipping his hat.

  “Good evening to you, Colonel Almonte. You are looking better,” I replied.

  “And you are looking worse. Did one of our cannon balls find you out in the open?”

  “Nothing so serious as that. You remember Slow, don’t you?”

  “Of course. The medicine boy. Do child warriors now defend the Alamo?”

  “It saves ammunition. Rather than fight your army, Slow is going to cast a spell on you,” I said. “We haven’t decided which is better yet, the pox or leprosy.”

  Almonte laughed, but I heard his men whispering among themselves and looking at Slow with dread. None of them thought it was funny. I don’t think Slow quite grasped the joke, but he glanced around with those dark eyes, and even I sensed a chill.

  We rode over the old wooden bridge and down a dirt boulevard. The small houses to either side had been abandoned at the first approach of the Mexican army two weeks before. Though most of the towns east of San Antonio were Anglo settlements, west Texas was predominately Tejano. Especially Béjar. One should think the exodus of the local population would have alerted Travis and Bowie to Santa Anna’s imminent arrival before February 23rd, but they had still been taken by surprise. Had the volunteers garrisoning the town been betrayed by the Hispanic citizens? Or had they simply taken the threat too lightly? I guessed the latter.

  I knew Santa Anna had taken the initiative once Texas rose in rebellion. He quickly assembled an army and marched through northern Mexico in the dead of winter, invoking such terror in the locals that few dared oppose him. I had done the same in 1868, attacking Black Kettle’s snowbound village on the Washita. Unpleasant business, but that’s how wars are won.

  A dog barked from a fenced yard, reminding me how much I missed my hounds. It was a furry white mongrel, more interested in making noise than trouble. I’d have thrown him a bone if I had one.

  “The people fled so fast their pets were left behind,” I remarked. “Does the dictator inspire so much fear?”

  “Only among traitors,” Colonel Almonte said. “But you need not worry. The white flag will be respected.”

  “Your master refused to treat with Bowie and Travis, and earlier he refused to treat with me. What has caused him change his mind?” I asked, not expecting a truthful answer. I was surprised.

  “His Excellency likes to know his opponents. To understand them is to know their weaknesses. Travis and Bowie are not hard to understand, being pirates. General Custer is a mystery.”

  I gave thought to such mysteries. It was said General Lee thrived against McClellan, Hooker and Burnside because he knew them. Understood how they thought, and how they would react in a given circumstance. It wasn’t until Grant arrived that Lee found himself perplexed by an unknown adversary.

  What did I know about Santa Anna? The Texans called him a dictator and tyrant, but that didn’t make it true. The South had said the same things about President Lincoln. I recalled reading an article in the Army and Navy Journal back in 1864, the memoirs of General Winfield Scott, who had fought Santa Anna in the Mexican-American War. Scott wrote that Santa Anna was energetic and vigilant, with unquestionable powers of organization. Scott thought him personally courageous, but a failure in his quickness of perception. Slow to adapt to changing conditions on a battlefield, and hence his many defeats. But was the Santa Anna of 1836 a better general than that of 1847? Was I in a position to know the difference?

  As a commander, I had already recognized Santa Anna to be methodical. His winter march and sudden investment of the Alamo was decisive. The siege had been well-planned. Until the Seventh Cavalry arrived, there had been no problems with his line of supply. Santa Anna considered himself the Napoleon of the West. In every respect, it appeared I would soon meet a worthy opponent.

  Custer rode tall on his white stallion, searching the path with the steady gaze of a mountain lion. He was not so confident as he pretended, but I would not have known this had we not shared the trail together. I rode beside him on Vic, for the general thought me well-suited to his favorite horse. Many of the Mexican soldiers looked at us with great curiosity, and I heard them whisper of the ghost riders. It was said we had died once. They believed we would die again, for they held great faith in their leader. I looked back at Hughes and Butler, who I had come to admire as fine warriors. They had great faith in their
leader. Among the People, it is important to have faith in our leaders, for chiefs do not give orders, and the medicine men may not issue commands. Without belief in a leader’s qualities, no one would follow. I thought back on the future. The future that would not see my people thrive. I realized we would need to walk a different path, following a leader who would take us to a different place.

  Chapter Twelve

  Santa Anna’s Decision

  Though the main boulevard was dark and largely deserted except for a few detachments of soldiers, the town square was more crowded. A hundred campfires lit the plaza, which was paved, unlike the dirt roads we’d found every place else. The Cathedral of San Fernando stood tall over the surrounding shops and houses. Like most Mexican villages, the hundred-year-old church was the center of civic life. The red flag of No Quarter still flew from the highest steeple.

  “Military town,” Butler said.

  “Comanche,” Hughes said, offering the obvious explanation.

  All of west Texas seemed plagued by Indian attacks. The Comanche were the worst, murdering and kidnapping at will, but they weren’t the only perpetrators. The walls of the Alamo had been built for protection from hostile raids, and San Antonio had similar defenses, including the walled presidio behind the church almost as large as the plaza in front of it. The bells in the church did more than summon worshippers to Sunday services—they signaled danger, too. To the east, dozens of settlements were growing along the rivers that flowed south to the Gulf of Mexico, but to the west there was nothing but wilderness and Indians.

  “Don’t see how Cos lost this town to the Texans,” Hughes said, referring to the fight four months prior. “He had a thousand men. Ammunition and food. We could have held this position until hell froze over.”

  “Guess his enemies wanted it more. That’s the difference between winning and losing,” I said.

  “Bet Santa Anna wants this one bad, after the way these Texians humiliated his brother-in-law,” Crockett said. “I weren’t here, but they say Cos was chased out with his tail between his legs.”