Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “He’s back now,” Butler said. “Travis reported seeing Cos leading an infantry battalion. Made him mad, too. Cos gave his word of honor not to fight in Texas again.”

  On the battlefields of Virginia, especially in the early years of the war, captured soldiers would give their parole not to fight until properly exchanged. This kept down the populations of the prisoner-of-war camps, but each man was bound by his most sacred honor to keep their word. To break such an oath was unthinkable.

  We reached the plaza. Mexican soldiers in full uniform stood at attention. Most wore shako hats decorated with silver unit badges. The outfits were blue with white leather straps crossed over the chest. They held Brown Bess muskets, bayonets fixed. Only the footwear showed how difficult a journey they’d had. Some still had worn black boots but most wore sandals or moccasins. Not the best protection from the cold Texas winter. A marching band played a tune I didn’t recognize, but it was a pleasant melody and well performed.

  Beyond the town square, in the streets around the presidio, were the supply wagons and camp followers. Women in heavy wool shawls, a few old men, and even some children. Dozens of small fires were keeping them warm, the fuel of preference being buffalo chips or mesquite. A hundred or more gathered behind the rows of soldiers to see the strange Americans in their plaza. Pity showed in their eyes, for they thought us doomed men.

  A smartly dressed major began barking orders, the soldiers crisply presenting arms before returning to attention. I dismounted my borrowed stallion and saluted.

  “This way, General,” Almonte said, pointing toward a low adobe residence on the north side of the plaza.

  Several peasants in white sackcloth came forward to take our horses. They appeared nervous and underfed. I could not tell if they were impressed locals or camp followers. If I’d had two bits, I would have tipped them.

  I walked with Crockett, Slow between us, Hughes and Butler a few paces behind.

  “Should we guard the door, sir?” Butler asked.

  “No reason, Jimmy. If it’s a trap, better to be inside,” I said.

  “It is not a trap. Not as you suspect,” Slow remarked in his mysterious way.

  “Can you read Santa Anna’s thoughts?” I asked.

  “Not so well as the birds,” Slow answered.

  I glanced up to see a group of sparrows on the roof, but doubted any of them were mind readers.

  We stepped on a covered porch and entered. The dwelling was large, lit with oil lamps, and nicely furnished with maple wood furniture and thick carpets. The home of a wealthy man, by frontier standards. Beyond the entry was a dining area with a long oak table and a dozen sturdy chairs. Above was a chandelier holding thirty candles, and more candles lit the corners. A bookcase held twenty or more books, all leather-bound. A fire burned in a great hearth, fighting off the cold winter chill.

  “Very nice,” I said, finding the quarters similar to the proud hacienda of Erasmo Seguin. I dwelled fondly on memories of Isabella and hoped I would meet her again.

  “His Excellency expects the best,” Almonte said.

  I nodded to Butler and Hughes, who took up positions inside the doorway where several tall stools were set against the wall.

  Before long the other dinner guests arrived, colonels and generals. Six in all. They acknowledged us in silence and took seats at the table, leaving the head chair vacant. They were dressed for the occasion in fine uniforms decorated with silver and gold braid, ceremonial sabers at their side. I clutched the stolen Spanish steel hanging from my belt, wishing it was the handsome Tiffany sword I’d lost at Trevilian Station in 1864.

  Once everyone was settled, Colonel Almonte nodded to a servant, who ran into the adjoining study. Through the door, I saw another fireplace, colorful woven carpets, and several stuffed easy chairs. I also noticed a wooden cradle, now empty. Except for the cradle, it reminded me of my quarters at Fort Lincoln.

  “Gentlemen, I have the great honor and privilege to present His Most High Excellency, General Antonio López de Santa Anna,” Almonte announced.

  Two soldiers entered carrying flags. One was the green, white and red flag of the Republic of Mexico emblazoned with a gold eagle. The other flag I didn’t recognize, but assumed it was the dictator’s personal banner. They were followed by six soldiers carrying Baker rifles who lined up single file against the wall, standing at attention. And then Santa Anna sauntered into the room.

  The man did not look Mexican, which I generally took to be of Indian or mixed Indian blood. This gentleman was of pure European descent, average height and build, with dark hair and pale skin. A good-looking fellow, and from what I’d heard, popular with the ladies. There was a charismatic glint in his dark brown eyes as he gazed upon his adversaries. I didn’t know whether to admire the man as a leader or hate him as a rival.

  The officers stood up and saluted. Santa Anna smiled and gestured for them to reclaim their seats before sitting at the head of the table.

  “Gentlemen, you may sit here,” Almonte said, giving me the chair opposite his president at the far end of the table.

  Crockett sat to my right, Slow on a pillow to my left. Hughes and Butler remained in the corner where they watched without getting in the way. Everyone in the room was armed.

  “Your Excellency, I have the honor to present General George Custer, commander of the Seventh Cavalry. With him is Colonel Davy Crockett of Tennessee.”

  “Saludos, Señor Presidente,” I said, my Spanish improving with practice. He looked at me with studious eyes before responding.

  “I believe my English is better than your Spanish, sir,” Santa Anna said, the voice more causal than I expected. “And who is the Indian boy? The new commander of the Alamo? No doubt he will do better than those pirates, Bowie and Travis.”

  “This is Slow of the Great Sioux Nation. He studies to become a medicine chief,” I introduced.

  “Does he listen to the stars?” Santa Anna asked, his face lit with a grin. His officers smiled at his joke.

  “Yes, I listen to the stars, just as I can read the hearts of white men who would steal the land of my people,” Slow said, black eyes staring under bent brows.

  “Then we have something in common, young Indian boy. I can also read the hearts of those come to steal the land of my people,” Santa Anna said. “But we must not forget our manners. General Custer, allow me to introduce General Ramirez y Sesma, General Martín Perfecto de Cos, General Manuel Castrillón, Colonel Francisco Duque, Colonel José María Romero, and Colonel Estevan de la Mora. And you know Colonel Almonte, my aide-de-camp. I have many other officers, but they are occupied with their duties.”

  The colonels were generally in the late thirties, the generals in their late thirties to mid-fifties. By their dress and manner, I saw they were accustomed to traveling in style. Clean uniforms, polished buttons. Well-fed and unconcerned with trivial needs. During our stay on the plains, Libbie and I had used an old ambulance wagon with only Annie, our black cook, for help. It was all I could afford.

  “It’s my honor, gentlemen,” I said, briefly standing.

  Some of the officers understood English, but most did not. Almonte whispered a translation to the three generals.

  “We have much to discuss, but first the formalities,” Santa Anna said, apparently in a good mood.

  The dictator smiled, glanced about, and clapped his hands. Four attractive serving girls entered carrying bottles of red wine. All the young ladies were fitted in white flowing dresses with wide blue belts and yellow trim along the hems, and each wore a delicate silver chain necklace. The wine was in elegant decanters, the glasses made of expensive crystal. Each person at the table was served, even Slow, and then my sergeants. The Mexican soldiers remained at attention.

  “A toast to General Custer and the Seventh Cavalry, regardless of how short their stay in Texas may be,” Santa Anna said.

  “And to His Excellency, General Santa Anna. May his stay in Texas prove no longer than necessary,” I res
ponded.

  Santa Anna laughed and drank deeply, as did his officers and Crockett. I sipped mine, not wishing to be rude, while Slow sniffed his wine and took a good swig, crinkling his nose.

  “Are you hungry, gentlemen?” our host asked.

  He clapped again. A middle-aged black servant arrived with large silver plates of roast chicken, rice and tortillas. I was surprised, for the man looked like an American.

  “My name is Ben, sir. A free man. I cook for Colonel Almonte,” Ben said, seeing my expression. “I is right pleased to serve you. Right pleased. Good to see you again, too, Colonel Crockett. We met once while you was in Washington.”

  “Glad to see an old friend,” Crockett said, getting to his feet and warmly shaking Ben’s hand.

  I looked down the table at Santa Anna. He was enjoying himself, watching for my reaction. I had initially thought Ben a slave, and my presumption had been wrong. Just as Santa Anna intended.

  “There are rumors of your cavalry,” General Cos said, a man about my age, taller than average, with premature gray whiskers. He seemed intelligent but weary of his duties.

  “What rumors are those?” I asked, for one never knows what strange tales are spread by the rank and file.

  “That you are ghost riders,” Cos said.

  “We are flesh and blood,” I said.

  “Remade by the Great Spirit,” Slow added, so quietly that only our end of the table heard him.

  Nevertheless, the remark was repeated all the way down to Santa Anna. None chose to comment. I was served half a roast chicken and eagerly cut off a leg, tasting the salt and pepper seasoning. It was a marvelous thing, making me wish I was back at Delmonico’s in New York, supping on sautéed asparagus and braised lamb chops.

  “General Cos, should I welcome you back to Texas? I heard you took an oath not to return under arms,” I asked, curious about his rationale.

  “My president says a soldier must fight while he has the legs to walk and the arms to raise a weapon,” Cos said.

  “Then you blame President Santa Anna for despoiling your honor? In my country, a pledge of parole is a sacred thing. No man violating such an oath would be accepted among gentlemen of good character.”

  I noticed General Castrillón stiffen, and several others looked away. Our host seemed momentarily indignant at my remark, but quickly regained his composure.

  “My sister’s husband owes no obligation to the rebels who drove him from his assigned post,” Santa Anna interjected, speaking with a practiced grace. “A pledge made to criminals is not binding by civilized law.”

  “And yet your subordinate made such an oath, which you have ordered him to disregard,” I said, steeped in an irrevocable tradition. “An army’s integrity can be no better than its leaders. Am I to think you hold yourselves to a lower standard than the rebels?”

  “I value my honor as much as any man, but I love my country more,” General Cos protested.

  Cos looked toward Santa Anna. I had the impression there had been words between them regarding this sensitive subject—and Santa Anna had prevailed. The dictator appeared a willful and imperious leader, easily dominating the weaker personalities around him. I let the subject drop. I had only provoked the conversation to see how they would react, and I was not disappointed.

  There were several courses, each better than the one before. Three of the serving girls helped Ben with the dishes while the fourth made sure everyone’s wine glasses stayed full. The plates were of the finest china, bone white with blue and gold trim along the edges. The candlesticks were gold plated. It was by far the most elegant dining I’d had since visiting President Johnson at the White House following our Midwestern tour in 1866. President Grant had never invited me to the White House, but knowing Grant’s habits, I had no doubt Santa Anna kept a better table.

  “Mr. President, we are pleased to have such a luscious meal after the boiled beef in the Alamo,” I said. “May I inquire why you have brought us here?”

  “A better question would be what has brought the United States cavalry to Texas?” Santa Anna replied. “I rejected President Jackson’s bid to buy my country. Are you here to take it by force?”

  “We have not been sent by Andrew Jackson, and we are no longer United States cavalry,” I replied, finding a reasonable explanation difficult. “We arrived in Texas by accident.”

  “Not by accident,” Slow said, drawing everyone’s attention.

  “We did not come here on purpose,” I quickly said.

  “That is true. The Great Spirit brought you here,” Slow said.

  “Why?” I asked, for I had no clue.

  “The future failed. It was necessary to find a new one,” the boy said.

  The table was silent. I’m sure the generals thought we were putting on a performance to confuse the situation. One of those fantasies so popular in the Paris salons, where intellectuals once met to discuss the works of Dante and Voltaire. Our hosts were not amused.

  “The future is easy to predict,” Colonel Romero said. “His Excellency will crush the rebels and free Texas of these vermin. Once the pirates are driven out, the land will be open for settlement by loyal citizens of Mexico. A few American cavalry will make no difference.”

  The Mexican officers tapped the wine glasses with their spoons in appreciation. Santa Anna smiled victoriously. They were a confident bunch. So was Burnside before Fredericksburg.

  “I will be honest with you gentlemen,” I said, thinking a bit of honesty wouldn’t hurt. “The Seventh Cavalry was in Montana territory, far north of here, engaged in operations against hostile Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. And then suddenly we were here, in Texas. I can’t explain it. I do not subscribe to the boy’s theory about a Great Spirit, but something out of the ordinary occurred.”

  “I would say such a tale is well beyond ordinary,” General Castrillón said, questioning without mocking.

  I noticed that Castrillón’s accent was different from the others. Possibly Cuban. He was also the oldest man at the table, bearing himself with the quiet dignity of a professional.

  “Are we to believe such a fantasy?” Colonel Romero asked.

  “Sirs, I am a soldier. I’ve been a soldier all my life,” I sternly replied, for even a small amount wine goes quickly to my head. “It doesn’t matter to me what is ordinary or not ordinary. It doesn’t matter to me what is fantasy or not fantasy. All I want to know to who to fight, and when, and where, and not have some politician tell me how. In this, I have been successful.”

  “And who ordered you to attack Mexico?” Colonel de la Mora impatiently asked. A young hothead. In another time, I guessed he might have survived the battle of the Alamo. I doubted his chances this time around.

  “History is yet to decide if this land is part of Mexico,” I said, much to their anger. “Fifteen years ago, it was owned by Spain. It’s claimed by the Comanche, and Kiowa, and many other tribes. Local Tejanos believe your government is remote and unresponsive. But having given the problem much thought, I don’t think Texas should become part of the United States. Is there no way to resolve the grievances of the colonists short of independence?”

  “They are thieves. They deserve nothing but death,” Santa Anna said, the charm dissipating.

  “In my own land, in the times I am accustomed to, liberty is held in high regard,” I wearily said. “The men in the Alamo realize this. It appears the esteemed leaders of Mexico have not learned this lesson.”

  “Who are you to lecture the people of Mexico on liberty?” Santa Anna asked, rising slowly from his chair.

  “I am George Armstrong Custer, commander of the Seventh Cavalry, and you are not the people of Mexico,” I said, slowly standing. “You, sir, were elected by aristocratic elitists, who you promptly turned on and arrested. You swore to uphold the constitution of 1824, and then cast it aside once you took power. I will not say Andrew Jackson is any better, but he’s certainly no worse. So I ask you again, is there no way to resolve this revolt of the Tex
ans short of independence?”

  Santa Anna seemed somewhat surprised by my question, slowly retaking his seat. I sat back down, taking a sip of water.

  “General Custer, as an American, I should think you would favor independence,” Almonte said, surprised by my attitude.

  “Juan, if Texas wins independence, it will pass a constitution favoring slavery. I do not need to tell you gentlemen about the evils of that peculiar institution, though you tolerated it in this province while it suited your purposes.”

  “Sir, what do you mean by that?” Colonel Romero asked, his face flushed with indignation. He seemed an ambitious officer, eager for advancement. And fond of wine.

  “When Stephen Austin said his new colony needed slaves, you cut a deal with him. Slaves would serve ten years before winning their freedom, but we all know their day of freedom will never come. For the Southerners, once a slave is always a slave. You needed a buffer against the Comanche, and Austin provided that buffer. The price was human bondage. Now there are a thousand slaves in Texas and you’ve done nothing to stop the trade.”

  “We tried,” General Cos said. “Austin said the economy would fail without slaves. And Travis threatened a revolution if we tried to set them free. When we arrested the firebrand for his incendiary speeches, the colonists rose in revolt.”

  The exasperation was clear. Santa Anna’s brother-in-law had not enjoyed his assignment in Texas.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “there will always be those who claim the prosperity of their country depends on some dark atrocity. In the South, it’s slavery. In the North, it’s the urban slums. In Mexico, you suppress the peasants. I come from Ohio, where free men live by their own wits and their own labor. We pay no homage to the oppressions you find so acceptable.”

  “General Custer, what is it you want of us?” General Castrillón asked. The white-haired gentleman was genuinely interested, not merely looking for a fight. I liked him.

  “I would like you to march back to Mexico City and let me deal with these Texans in my own way,” I answered.