Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “As you wish, Captain. Sergeant Hughes will assign you rifle support,” I agreed.

  “Can I have my turn on the long barracks? I ain’t shot me a general yet,” Hughes asked impertinently.

  “Okay, Bobby, you’ve earned it. But keep your head down. It’s daylight now, and Santa Anna has sharpshooters of his own,” I reluctantly answered. “You, too, Mr. Butler. Take ten men. Shoot anyone wearing gold buttons.”

  “Yes, sir!” they both responded, saluting smartly.

  I sensed it wasn’t a question how many officers they would kill, only who would kill the most. My money was on Jimmy Butler.

  “Crockett, your job is to hold this position,” I ordered.

  “Shouldn’t it be your job?” Crockett said, eyeing me with suspicion.

  “We need more powder and shot. Once my men run out of .45 calibur shells, we’ll all be firing flintlocks,” I explained. “Gentlemen, I need volunteers. I’m going among the enemy soldiers to gather what ammunition we can find.”

  “Someone will stick you with a sword, sir. Let a few of us boys do it,” Allen said.

  “I’m going. Jimmy, you’re my first volunteer. Anyone else?”

  Everyone within earshot raised their hands. I took a dozen of the youngest and strongest, for the older men were invariably more experienced marksmen. Our feeble position needed all the veterans we had.

  “What about me?” Jameson asked.

  “Keep an eye up there,” I said, pointing to the empty platform where the 18-pounder had been mounted. “The left flank is now our weakest spot. If they come over that corner in strength . . . Green, do whatever you can. That’s your job.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, saluting.

  I had won the man’s respect, as he had won mine.

  I crawled over the barricade, struggling to keep my balance. Dickenson had suggested a stiff shot of whisky to kill the pain, but I had declined. Probably unwisely. Once again, I wished Dr. Lord had come with us, and wondered how the rest of the command was faring. Tom in the south at Goliad. Keogh somewhere across the river. Smith in the north, and young Harrington holding the Gonzales Road. I’d certainly done a fine job of spreading the Seventh Cavalry all over the countryside. Would it have been better to keep the command together?

  No. I hadn’t thought so at the time, and still believed myself correct. Cavalry needs to move fast, strike unexpectedly, and harass the enemy. That can’t be done behind stone walls.

  Led by Allen and Esparza, my brave volunteers entered the compound slowly, stepping carefully among the field of death. There was still enough smoke to burn the eyes, the smell of gunpowder almost overwhelming.

  “Watch out for possums,” I warned. “There’s always one wounded soldier looking for a final blow against the enemy.”

  The youngsters surrounding me carried Brown Bess muskets with bayonets for a quick dispatch. I held a Bulldog in one hand and my saber in the other. Riflemen on the long barracks were watchful.

  I immediately regretted exposing these young men to the atrocities we found, for many of the bodies were mangled beyond human understanding. Arms and legs ripped off. Heads torn in half. Entrails spilling out. The ground was so soaked in blood that red mud clung to our boots.

  “Powder and shot, boys. Powder and shot,” I urged, anxious to grab what we could.

  We spread out, digging into pouches for lead balls and powder horns that might be full. Several hundred feet away, I noticed Mexican soldiers watching from beyond the breach. Some realized what we were doing, others didn’t care. I was sure there were a thousand or more soldiers I could not see, all preparing for a second assault. We would not have the cover of darkness this time.

  “Hurry, boys,” I said, feeling anxious.

  The search was fruitless at first. It appeared Santa Anna had sent his men into battle with little or no ammunition. A staggering error, in my opinion. Our search of the officers proved more satisfactory, finding British made pistols and pouches of ammunition. Many of the wounded mumbled to us in Spanish.

  “No problema,” I said many times.

  One of the mangled bodies was a colonel I’d met at Santa Anna’s dinner. I did not remember his name, but it wasn’t Almonte. I hoped Juan wasn’t one of the pitiful remains, for I’d grown fond of him.

  We went as far as the ditch. I wanted to go all the way to the north wall, maybe discover the fate of Travis and Bonham, but it was folly to venture so far. And the ditch was gruesome enough for any man, filled to the brim with twisted corpses, the faces frozen in deathly surprise. They had not seen the deathtrap in the dark. Had not seen the spikes. Could not stop with the press of men coming up from behind.

  I reflected on Tennyson, paraphrasing the experience. “Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, cannon in front of them, volleyed and thundered. Into the Valley of Death, charged the six hundred.”

  And charge these brave men did, right into my guns. Strange. When I was a young man, I had not thought war so sad.

  “Yellow Hair?” a voice whispered.

  I knelt at the edge of the ditch. It was Spotted Eagle.

  “I need help here,” I shouted, sheathing the sword to lift the youngster from the trench.

  Allen and two others came running, taking the burden away from me. Spotted Eagle had a serious wound in the lower back, but hopefully not fatal. I did not have the strength to assist, so I raised a Bulldog to cover our retreat. I’d had enough of this particular battlefield.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I ordered.

  We hurried back to our line, stepping over torn bodies. Spotted Eagle was carried into the church where Dr. Pollard was tending the wounded. The youngster had passed out, and when a reluctant patient refused to make space, I gave the ungrateful man a kick.

  “Spotted Eagle is a member of my command,” I said to Pollard, so they’d be no mistakes.

  “Every patient is equal to me, sir,” Pollard replied, sounding offended.

  “Don’t worry none, General. We’ll do for yours, as you’ve done for ours,” Mrs. Dickenson said, kneeling at the boy’s side and tearing open his jacket. It looked like the ball had passed completely through his side. With luck, he’d survive the battle. If any of us did.

  I noticed Crockett had followed us in, watching from the door. Having many friends among the Cherokee, he knew how I felt.

  When I returned to the courtyard, I saw the Mexican army was taking their time reorganizing. In his memoirs, General Scott had said Santa Anna was not good at adapting to new conditions, and apparently this still applied. The dictator had relied on the assault to carry the fort, and having failed, now needed a new strategy.

  As we waited during the next several hours, women began appearing at the north breach. They were young and old, largely dressed in white cotton, though some wore black. They moved among the fallen Mexican soldiers, helping those who could still be helped, wailing for those who couldn’t. A few dozen were carried from the field. We let them go, quietly watching from our stronghold.

  “That could be us out there,” Crockett said, kneeling next to the 12-pounder as he cleaned his rifle. “But we won’t have no women cryin’ over our bodies. What do you figure Santa Anna’s up to?”

  “He would be smart to starve us out. He’s got us cooped up without much food left, but he won’t. The Napoleon of the West is massing his troops to the north and along the river. Probably bringing up his artillery. Then he’ll order everyone in at once.”

  Crockett looked around our small fort. We had less than a hundred men still on their feet. Thirty of those were needed to crew the cannon. David didn’t require any more explanations. He knew we were reaching the end.

  I walked with Crockett as we prepared for the final onslaught, talking to the men, trying to keep up their spirits. And our own. The small amount of ground we had left was filled with wounded, many who could barely sit up. Our ammunition was low. We were all streaked in blood. Our blood. The blood of friend
s. The enemy’s. But there could be no surrender. Santa Anna’s red flag had seen to that.

  “Fellas, keep all your guns loaded,” Crockett said, standing before the church. He face was blackened with powder, his buckskin jacket torn, but he cut a gallant figure. He patted young Allen on the head.

  “Flintlocks at long range, then use the Brown Bess, and then your bayonets,” Crockett continued. “We got more cannon than the Mexicans. We ain’t just a bunch of farmers drafted by a dictator. We ain’t criminals and castoffs freed from some prison. We’re Texans, and Americans. Our heritage is liberty. We fight for the better world we know is comin’, and God is on our side. Don’t have no fear. Form up around the cannon and we’ll do fine.”

  Crockett didn’t mention we were still outnumbered fifteen-to-one, but it was a good speech. Even I felt encouraged.

  “General, isn’t there anything else we can do?” French whispered.

  “It has been done,” Slow said, emerging from the long barracks with John at his side.

  The two of them had formed a unique bond, the former slave and mysterious Indian boy. Slow’s brows were bent in thought, his hands clasped before him. John pointed up, indicating they had been on the roof. He had quiet, grim smile.

  “What’s been done?” Dickenson asked.

  Dickenson’s wife and several of the Tejano women appeared with pots of soup and clay bowls. A thoughtful gesture.

  “Thank you, Susanna,” Crockett said, for we were all hungry.

  “Okay, boy, what’s that you were saying?” Dickenson continued.

  “The Great Spirit will not abandon his chosen,” Slow answered.

  “And just what do you expect this Great Spirit to do? Descend from the heavens with avenging angels?” Baugh asked.

  “The Great Spirit has no need of the white man’s angels,” Slow stiffly said, for he did not care to be mocked.

  Suddenly there was an explosion. We looked to our right where a large portion of the north wall abruptly caved in. Another explosion opened the gap even wider. Then the west wall exploded, exploded again, and exploded a third time, leaving huge holes large enough for an army to march through. Smoke filled the courtyard, but not enough to hide what was happening. Santa Anna had figured out how to assault our position en masse.

  “Gentlemen, to your posts,” I said, cocking the Winchester. The women retreated, but Slow remained at my side.

  “Into the church, lad. This is no place for a medicine boy,” I said, pointing to the door only fifty feet away.

  Slow took one of the Bulldogs out of my holster, checked the chamber to see it was loaded, and knelt on the ground behind the low wall.

  “I will fight at your side,” Slow said.

  “Slow—” I tried to object.

  “No point in arguin’,” Crockett interrupted. “Boy’s made his decision. We all have.”

  Crockett looked me in the eye. All around me, the men appeared just as resolved.

  “Keep your head down, and keep my guns loaded,” I said, handing Slow my other pistol and last box of cartridges.

  Butler and Hughes began shooting from the long barracks, having the best angle, but they were forced to stay low, a hundred Mexican sharpshooters returning the fire. I looked back over the palisade to see if we were being flanked. There were a few infantry far out on the Alameda, but no cavalry. Was Santa Anna tempting us to breakout to the south? It hadn’t worked before.

  Then the Mexican army appeared in the new breaches, bayonets fixed and ready to charge. A few slipped in, forming a skirmish line. The attack would need to trample their dead fellows. Not that Santa Anna cared.

  “Mr. Dickenson, open fire, if you please,” I said, standing just behind the line to control the action.

  The 8-pounder barked, mowing through a rank of enemies while blowing chunks out of the west wall. There would be little left of this fort once the fighting was over. I waited until Dickenson’s crew had started to reload before firing the 12-pounder, for it was important the Mexicans not catch us with all three guns inactive. And then they started pouring through the gaps in earnest, shouting with renewed energy, wave upon wave.

  “Viva Santa Anna! Viva Mexico! Cos! Cos!” they exclaimed.

  They came on like devils, and we met them with every gun in the fort. The first rank went down, and then the second, but more kept coming. More and then more, stacking up in ghastly, writhing piles. Sporadic fire emerged from their lines, the bayonets gleaming in the weak sun. A young Kentuckian went down beside me, and then French took a hit, falling at feet with a grunt. My Winchester was out of ammunition. French handed me his Springfield.

  It was like the Hornet’s Nest at Shiloh, but we had no choice but to fight on. I drew a Bulldog, standing with Crockett at my side, firing into the oncoming ranks at such close range that I could see their expressions as the bullets struck.

  Kneeling at my side, Slow took one of the pistols to reload as I emptied the other. I should have ordered him back into the church, but I needed his help. I emptied the revolver and reached for the other just as Slow was handing it up. His black eyes showed neither apprehension nor resignation. He simply accepted our situation with a quiet bravery. Then I drew my sword, suspecting it would be needed soon. Another wave of desperate foes almost reached our barricade, pushing forward with fixed bayonets.

  I wondered again what had happened to the Mexican cavalry. Were they about ride through one of the breaches? I had charged entrenched positions during the Civil War, a dangerous but effective tactic.

  That’s when I saw the new threat, infantry suddenly appearing on our left. The southwest bastion had been unoccupied since we’d made our retreat, but now soldiers were climbing over the corner, forming a skirmish line to protect those coming up behind them. Once they had gathered in force, they could rush down the ramp into our weakest flank. I looked up at Baugh on the low barracks. Why weren’t they shooting? Were they all dead?

  I handed Slow the other Bulldog so I could aim the Springfield, hoping to pick off the commanding officer. He was a young man in a heavy coat, bearded, and not carrying a sword. But instead of pointing his men toward our exposed position, he raised his rifle and fired into the compound, hitting a Mexican sergeant. The bearded officer ejected a spent cartridge, reloaded, and fired another. The man was firing a Springfield!

  That’s when I belatedly realized it was Bill Cooke on the platform. I recognized Tom standing next to him, and Sergeant Major Sharrow. And Corporal Voss, now shedding his coat to blow his bugle. It was a charge. The charge of the Seventh Cavalry! I had never heard more beautiful music in my life.

  In less than a minute, a dozen men on were the bastion, some firing rifles, others using their Colts. And more were crawling over to join them. The platform became so crowded they began moving down the ramp, firing into the flank of our attackers. The enemy assault was thrown into confusion.

  “Carey, quick! All three guns,” I ordered.

  Carey was a step ahead of me, as were Dickenson and Crockett, the gun crews rushing to load what little was left of our shot.

  “Now, boys,” Carey said, touching off the 12-pounder himself.

  All three cannon roared, spewing broken nails and any other deadly piece of scrap that was available. When the smoke cleared, we saw nothing but broken bodies. It was if a summer storm had taken vengeance upon a field of wheat.

  “What hath God wrought,” Crockett devoutly whispered, quoting the Book of Numbers. I had not thought him so well-acquainted with the Bible.

  I heard a new sound. Artillery. But these guns were not firing into the fort. The sound was coming from across the river, the shells striking the west wall where hundreds of Mexican troops were still trying to enter the fort.

  “Captain Baugh! What’s going on?” I shouted.

  Baugh came to the edge of the roof, staying low so he wouldn’t be a target. A bloody rag was tied around his head.

  “Cavalry in the town, General. Flying one of your flags,” Baugh s
houted, red-faced with excitement. “They captured the guns near the bridge. Givin’ the Mexicans hell, I’ll tell you that!”

  The artillery across the river fired again, forcing the enemy outside the west wall to stop their advance. Many tried to take cover among the brush, turning to meet the threat to their rear. Officers were yelling at the soldiers to regroup. Yelling at them to stand their ground. Yelling at them to retreat. Suddenly it became difficult to know who was surrounding who.

  I was frightened by the yelling and gunfire, but staying close to the white general helped. The man knew no fear. He was either blessed by the Great Spirit or too stupid to be afraid. The Mexicans came in huge numbers, sacrificing themselves for their country’s honor. I thought it strange that they would do this, for Texas was not their land. Most of the soldiers lived far to the south, beyond the deserts, but they came to die in this foreign place because their leader said it was their duty. To die for one’s home and family is a great thing. Such an honor is a warrior’s gift. But it is foolish to die for an ambitious chief who wants something that is not his.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Price of Glory

  The surprise reinforcements were too much for the Mexican assault to continue. A few who were trapped in the courtyard threw down their muskets, realizing retreat was impossible. Most ran for the breaches in the north wall now that the west wall was being battered by their own artillery.

  “Cease fire,” I ordered.

  “Cease fire, boys, they’s a runnin’,” Crockett agreed.

  “God be praised,” Dickenson said, barely able to believe it.

  “God and the Great Spirit,” I said, giving Slow a hug. The boy was full of quiet smiles.

  The men let out sighs of relief, most leaning against a wall or dropping to the ground in exhaustion. We were a ragged bunch now, blackened with smoke and grime, but there was much to do. I needed casualty reports, estimates of our remaining ammunition, and scouts to track the enemy’s retreat. But for the moment, that could wait. The sun peeked out from behind a gray cloud.