Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “Can’t wait to see that,” Bouyer said, not sure if he believed me. And I could not be sure of my resolve, for hanging a man is grim business. Time would tell.

  Bouyer went off to see if he could steal a good horse. Crockett sauntered up the street, smiling to all and shaking hands.

  “Morning, George,” Crockett said with a grin.

  He was wearing a coonskin cap and carrying a fiddle. His fringed leather jacket hung to his knees.

  “Good morning, Davy Crockett,” I said, almost laughing. “What brings on this transformation?”

  “Reckon you’re gonna form a new government for Texas. Figured I’d start running for office now. Get me a good spot.”

  “I thought we might share the burden,” I suggested.

  “Share?”

  “Ancient Rome had two consuls. Why not Texas? You can be president, I’ll be the lieutenant general.”

  “Which of us will be the most important?” Crockett asked.

  “I’m keeping command of the army.”

  “The people are gonna want democracy some day.”

  “And someday we’ll give it to them, but not today,” I said, hands clasped behind my back. “There’s one thing I forgot. I’ve got big plans for this country of ours. Really big plans. I’m afraid Texas is just too small for what I have in mind.”

  “Texas is bigger than any state in the union. Bigger than any five states,” Crockett said.

  “It will be even bigger once we add New Mexico and California. And what’s that Mexican state that wants freedom so bad? Coahuila? We’ll round up Francisco Sanchez and his friends. See if they want to join up.”

  “George, you never fail to astound,” Crockett said, shaking his head.

  “David, I think it’s time you called me Autie. Have you seen Slow this morning?”

  “Over in the cathedral. Don’t think he’s ever saw a Catholic altar before. Some of the Irish boys are lightin’ candles.”

  The San Fernando Cathedral was already a hundred years old, the tallest structure in San Antonio, and a grand example of the old church architecture I’d read about in Harper’s Weekly. It was in the middle of San Antonio, the center of the town’s business and spiritual life. It was a telling sign that the square had been deserted when Santa Anna’s troops arrived, and was now crowded again once they were gone.

  I found Slow sitting in the second row of pews as the village priest performed a sacramental ceremony. The priest wore long white robes trimmed with gold lace, his novices wearing blue. Dozens of candles gave the cathedral a holy reverence. As a rule, Catholics are not well thought of in Michigan, being servants of the Pope and prone to idolatry. The Methodist churches of my upbringing had brought us close to God without so much rigmarole, but like many soldiers, I’d learned to tolerate other beliefs during my long years of travel. Thank God none of the worshipers were Mormons.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked, sitting next to him.

  “The white men are still much in ignorance of Wakan Tanka, but they seek to discover the Great Spirit’s mysteries. This is a good thing,” the boy said, sounding like an old man.

  “Do you still believe Wakan Tanka sent us here?”

  “Without doubt.”

  “And he did this strange thing to help your people?”

  “There can be no other explanation. None that I can think of,” he answered.

  The boy had a puzzled expression, looking down at his leather boots. He fingered the Bowie knife tucked in his rawhide belt.

  “Lad, I’m sorry to say it, but I don’t think you know anymore about this than I do. Maybe someday we’ll figure it out,” I said.

  “I will ride at your side until we do.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  The church bell began to ring. Men were running outside. Officers shouted. I heard the big wheels of the 18-pounder in the square as it was turned to face east.

  “Autie! The Mexicans are back!” Tom yelled from the door.

  I followed him down Commerce Street toward the river, limping as fast as I could. Dozens of men ran with us, grunting with the weight of their weapons. Women and children were scrambling in the other direction, taking shelter in the cathedral. Cooke appeared on horseback with twenty mounted cavalry, passing us with ease. Harrington and Keogh were hot on his heels. I’d spent so much time in that damn fort that it hadn’t occurred to me to find my horse.

  Near the river’s edge, we saw hundreds of Mexican soldiers on the open ground south of the Alamo. The small guard we had left behind had already retreated, leaving the ruins to the enemy. And good riddance. The Alamo had no food or ammunition, just a mountain of dead bodies.

  “Hold the bridge,” I ordered, for I saw no reason to advance beyond our position against superior numbers. We had the river on our flanks, trees for cover, and four cannon trained on the opposite bank.

  “I count seven hundred,” Tom said, studying their formations through his binoculars.

  “Seven hundred and fifty,” Cooke reported, having been at it a few minutes longer.

  “Our strength?” I asked, looking to the right and left.

  I only saw sixty men.

  “Smith’s coming with E Company, and we’ll have a hundred more in another ten minutes. And the men from Goliad are on the trail behind the Mexicans. Should arrive by midday,” Tom said.

  He was careful not to say Fannin’s men, but even if the illustrious Colonel Fannin had chosen to stay in Goliad, he had still sent the bulk of his force forward. Something to the man’s credit.

  “General Custer, we are reporting to battle,” Mario Sepulveda said, arriving with several of the Zacatecan militia.

  Francisco Sanchez and the other volunteer teamsters soon joined us, all carrying Brown Bess muskets or Kentucky long rifles.

  “If you don’t wish to fire on your own people, I understand.”

  “We would have the tyrant pulled down. You promised we could help,” Sanchez said with determination.

  “It’s a promise I won’t break. Take positions here among the trees, but don’t fire unless given the order.”

  “It will be as you say,” Sanchez agreed, directing his men.

  Tom returned after placing F Company near the bridge, using Santa Anna’s abandoned entrenchments.

  “They’ll never cross the river,” Tom said, holding his Winchester.

  Hughes and Butler were at my side, and most of my officers. We didn’t have much ammunition left for the Springfields, barely three hundred rounds, but enough blunt an attack.

  “Myles, assemble I Company. Be ready to ford the river downstream and strike them in flank,” I reluctantly said. “Harry, spread your troops out to hold this riverbank. Captain Baugh, please gather a mounted patrol to guard our rear, we don’t know where the Mexican cavalry is. Dickenson, Jameson, draw up more powder for the cannon. Let’s move, everyone. What we do here in the next few minutes may decide who wins this war.”

  As my staff hurried to carry out their orders, I hunkered down in the trees above to river to study the enemy’s battle plan. I didn’t need my binoculars; they were only two hundred yards away.

  “What’s wrong, George?” Crockett asked, kneeling next to me.

  Crockett was once again carrying a Springfield, a bandolier with twenty shells slung over his shoulder.

  “I didn’t want another bloodbath,” I said, unhappy with the enemy’s return. With flags flying, they still made a fine impression. Worthy foes. Was I getting too old for battle?

  “They’re hardly likely to carry the bridge lined up like that,” Cooke pointed out.

  And he was right. The Mexicans were formed in squares, standing at attention, banners flapping in the breeze and drums beating. It reminded me of that time just a few days before when I had marched into the Alamo on parade. Is imitation the sincerest form of flattery?

  Two officers walked toward the bridge under a flag of truce. I recognized General Castrillón and Colonel Almonte.

  “V
oss, sound the parley. We’ll hear what they have to say,” I ordered, going to the bridge before the bugle even sounded. “Tom, Jimmy, Bobby, you’re with me. Myles, if it’s a trick, kill them all.”

  Keogh would have killed them anyway, but it felt good to say.

  We walked to the middle of the bridge, meeting the Mexican officers half way. Without ammunition for my Bulldogs, I carried a standard issue Colt .45 revolver. My brother and the sergeants were armed with repeating rifles. General Castrillón carried a fancy dress sword. Almonte appeared to have no weapons at all.

  “Buen dia, señores. Estoy contento ver que ustedes sobrevivieron el dia desagardable de ayer,” I said, meaning every word.

  “We appreciate your good will, General Custer,” Castrillón replied in English, acknowledging me with a bow of his head.

  “We heard you were wounded,” Almonte said.

  “Lost a valuable pocket watch,” I answered, tapping my chest where the musket ball had almost struck my heart. My tunic had been sewn where the hole had been, the fabric still stained with blood.

  “Maybe it’s as the men say. You are favored by the gods,” General Castrillón said, giving me a strange look.

  It would seem rumors of ghost riders not only spread within an army, but between armies as well. Even Almonte eyed me with a reserved awe.

  “It will be time for lunch soon. May I offer you gentlemen the hospitality of my headquarters? As you know, Ben is a wonderful cook,” I suggested with a mischievous twinkle.

  Castrillón grimaced. Almonte almost smiled.

  “I’m afraid we must deal with the situation at hand,” Castrillón said.

  “I would not recommend an assault on our lines. There has been enough blood,” I warned.

  “We have not come to wage battle,” Castrillón said.

  He nodded to Almonte and stepped back. Juan took a deep breath. This was a painful experience for him.

  “General Custer, General Santa Anna has left Béjar,” Almonte reported. “He took the cavalry and most of our supplies. When he ordered yesterday’s attack, the men were not allowed to bring their winter coats. We were given only five rounds of ammunition per man, which is now gone.”

  “Five rounds?” Tom said in disbelief. Having inspected the bodies in the courtyard, I suspected it was true.

  “His Excellency did not wish the men to rely on their marksmanship, believing the bayonet more expedient,” Almonte explained. “Now we have no food. We have no doctors and no medicine.”

  He paused, waiting to see if I would offer a comment. Tom started to speak but I held him back. This was for Almonte to explain without interference.

  “Sir, if you may give honorable terms, we have come to surrender the army,” Almonte finally said.

  Needless to say, we were stunned. Outnumbered better than three-to-one, it didn’t seem possible, but the condition of Santa Anna’s abandoned army was indeed lamentable. They had no ammunition for an attack, and they had no resources to retreat. Their spare food and winter coats had been captured by Keogh.

  When I had been a young officer, full of beans and ready to spit, I’d have challenged them to come forward with their bayonets. Taunted them to die like men. Four years of civil war, and ten years on the plains, had taught me better. And if I wasn’t more humble now than in my youth, at least I was a bit wiser. And I remembered what Tom had said earlier that morning—we needed all the friends we could get.

  “Sergeant Butler, my compliments to Sergeant Major Sharrow. Instruct him to prepare sufficient rations for our honorable foes. And tell Dr. Lord to expect more casualties,” I ordered.

  “But General . . .?” Butler started to object, for we were stretched thin.

  “Jimmy, do as I say,” I whispered, adding a touch of urgency.

  “Yes, sir,” Butler said, backing off.

  “Sergeant Hughes, fetch Crockett, Morning Star, and Slow for me. On the double, if you please,” I said. “And bring our band forward.”

  “The band, General?” Hughes said.

  “We should have some music.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” Hughes acknowledged.

  I turned my attention back to Almonte and Castrillón, who appeared cautiously optimistic.

  “Gentlemen, I would like to inspect your troops,” I said, catching them off guard.

  When my party came up, I crossed the bridge. I wanted Tom with me, for he was a good judge of perilous situations. And I had plans for him that went beyond commanding a cavalry troop. Slow would pique their interest, for a Sioux Indian boy is not common in Texas, and his searching black eyes would enhance my own reputation for mystical powers. As for Morning Star, it never hurts to have a beautiful woman hanging on one’s elbow.

  I posted my band on the Alamo side of the bridge, mostly drummers, horns, and Private Engle on his flute, giving Voss orders to play a variety of pleasant tunes to put the Mexican soldiers at ease. I suggested Oh Shenandoah, Ashokan Farewell, and Bonnie Blue Flag, but the final selection would be up to him. Whatever the nationality, we soldiers love our music.

  “You are a clever man, General Custer,” Castrillón said as we approached, for he understood what I was trying to do.

  “Not so clever, sir. But I’ve had good teachers.”

  I saw the long lines of troops staring. They were cold, hungry and curious. They had attacked under a flag of no-quarter, and most would not expect to receive any now. But I remembered how gracious Grant had been at Appomattox. And I recalled the advice President Lincoln had given to his generals at City Point to “let them up easy.”

  The long rows of Mexican soldiers straightened as I walked along their line, heads held high. They had been defeated, but not beaten. Had Santa Anna not fled with their supplies, they might still be a force to be reckoned with.

  The inspection only took half an hour, for the day was still frosty and I didn’t wish to try anyone’s patience. After the first few minutes, the rank and file began to relax, smiling at my unusual menagerie. I made some small jokes in Spanish, complimented them on their valor, and then made my offer.

  “General Castrillón, I will accept the surrender of your men on the following terms: those who choose to accept service in my regiment will remain in Texas, be well-paid, and given grants of land. Those who decline will be given sufficient provisions to return home on condition that they never return in arms again.”

  Slow tugged on my shirt. I knelt down, letting him whisper so that no one else could hear. My eyebrows went up in surprise.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “The birds would not lie,” Slow answered.

  I stood up and took a deep breath, which hurt a little, and turned back to General Castrillón.

  “And there is a final condition. I want Colonel Almonte to serve as my liaison until all the conflicts in Texas have been resolved.”

  “All? That might take years!” Almonte protested.

  “It will take a lifetime,” Slow said without hesitation.

  Castrillón retreated with Almonte and two officers I didn’t recognize. None of the other gentlemen who had dined with us at Santa Anna’s dinner table were present. At least two had died in the fighting. For the others, I had no clue.

  “Your terms are acceptable, sir. And I thank you,” General Castrillón said when he returned, for he was a true gentleman and concerned for the welfare of his troops. Far more than his president.

  When Castrillón offered me his sword, I declined. And I had made a friend.

  * * *

  The days that followed were the busiest of my life. Messengers came and went from San Antonio with amazing speed, given the hundreds of miles that separated the various towns. Crockett was just as busy, for all letters were issued under our joint signatures. But it didn’t mean David and I neglected our hunting, for we went out one day and returned with a buffalo. Slow thought it a good sign.

  The convention at Washington-on-the-Brazos was not pleased with our nullification of th
eir declaration of independence. The slavery faction swore to raise an army, retreating east to friendlier country. Most of the towns in central Texas shrugged with indifference, as only a handful of colonists actually owned any slaves.

  Seven days after the Battle of the Alamo, Isabella Seguin rode in with fifty Tejano reinforcements and good news from her father. Erasmo Seguin had found craftsmen in Victoria who could make .45 calibur ammunition for our Springfields, and they were already producing brass-jacketed rounds. Crockett and I appointed Señor Seguin Quartermaster of Texas, meaning he would need to stand good for our supplies until we had a government to reimburse him.

  But we had not been lazy in Béjar. Young boys from the town had been sent to search the battlefields for copper cartridge casings. Those that were still in good condition were brought to the Presidio where Sergeant Major Sharrow supervised the manufacture of new shells. In this manner, we had produced nearly a thousand rounds. The quality of the gunpowder was a problem, but I could not expect perfection.

  I was especially glad to see Isabella again. The fire of our earlier meeting had not gone out. She was beautiful, intelligent, had lovely brown eyes, and though a widow, young enough to bear children. And her family was among the wealthiest in Texas. I would always love my Libbie, but life goes on.

  Ten days after the surrender of General Castrillón’s army, a quarter of whom were now in my army, we received an urgent dispatch. Voss sounded the officer’s call, and by mid-afternoon, twenty subordinates were gathered around the long oak table in my headquarters. We were a varied bunch: white settlers from the east, native born Tejanos, allies from Mexico, and my own men from the Seventh, who would always be nearest my heart.

  Between the various elements, I now commanded eight hundred men divided into seven battalions. Three cavalry, three infantry, and one artillery. All the units were socially mixed, each learning from the other, just as the Union forces had done toward the end of the Civil War, when it no longer mattered what state a man was from, so long as he was loyal. It was Tom’s idea.

  There was some good-natured bantering as we sat down to our meeting, the pretty maids serving fresh bread and wine. I was drinking water. Ben was no longer the cook, sitting to my left with our account books in hand. John had decided to stay on as my valet, and I made sure everyone knew he was well-paid. Or would be, once I could afford it.