Custer at the Alamo (12 page)

“It is possible I am here for a reason. It is possible you are, too,” Slow said. Then he pulled his buffalo robe tighter against the night and returned to camp.

The inevitable could no longer be postponed. I stood before the campfire and explained to the men what we had found. At first a few thought I was joking, for I had a history of playing pranks going back to my childhood in Ohio, but Tom and Kellogg added their own grim details.

“Have you got a plan, Autie?” Tom asked.

“Yes. We’ll ride into the Alamo and find out what’s going on, once and for all. No more fantasies and guessing games,” I answered.

“Ride into the Alamo? And what then, sir?” Voss asked. “Are you going to say ‘Hello, I’m General Custer. Are you Davy Crockett?’”

“Why not? Do you think Davy Crockett would lie?” I answered.

“Well, no. I don’t think he’d lie, sir,” Voss said.

“Think Davy can really leap the Mississippi? Or ride a bolt of lightning?” Bouyer asked.

“Maybe he’s half alligator and a bit of snapping turtle,” Butler added.

“Damn it, Jimmy, do you think this is funny?” Sergeant Mike Kenny said, jumping up with his fists clenched. Kenny was also Irish, a thick-necked brawler with the wit of an ape and the courage of a lion.

Butler stood as well. Sometimes a nice scuffle can ease a troop’s tension, but I doubted it would come to that.

“No one thinks this is funny, Mike,” Cooke intervened, standing to keep them separated.

“I used to read Crockett’s almanac. My pa and his pa read Crockett’s almanac. He lived fifty years ago. If this is fifty years ago, everybody we know is dead,” Kenny shouted.

“Is that true, General? Is everybody dead?” Sergeant Hughes asked.

“They can’t be dead, Bobby. If this is 1836, none of us are even born yet,” I guessed, for who could really know for sure.

“And it’s only forty years, not fifty,” Kellogg added.

“That should make us feel better,” a hushed voice said from the back.

I couldn’t tell who, which was good for him, as I’d have had the son of a bitch horsewhipped.

“What are we going to do, sir?” Private Engle asked.

“We’ll move out before sunrise. At the crack of dawn, we’ll attack the Mexican batteries south of the Alamo and ride into the fort,” I explained.

“Is it wise to attack such a large force, General?” Cooke asked, surprised.

“We’re soldiers in the United States army, and as far as I’m concerned, Texas is still part of the United States. Or will be. We’ll hit them hard and fast,” I said, anticipating a glorious charge.

“We’re riding into the Alamo?” Corporal French asked.

“Coming into the conversation late, Henry?” Cooke said.

“No, no. I was just thinking. Didn’t the Alamo lose?” French inquired. “They was massacred, weren’t they? Every single one.”

“The Alamo didn’t have the Springfield Model 1873 carbine. I think we’ll see that modern weapons and professional officers will tip the scales,” I assured him.

“Hopefully it will tip the scales a lot,” Tom said with a nervous laugh.

I let the men get a few hours rest and sat down to write a dispatch for Keogh. I was careful not to give him a blunt appraisal. Such news cannot be transmitted in a letter if it’s to be believed, but I did want him ready to move when the time was right.

“Bouyer,” I summoned once the orders were ready.

“Yes, Gen’ral,” the scout said, still dubious. I could not blame him.

“I need you to deliver a message. Return if it’s safe, otherwise stay with Keogh,” I instructed.

“Gen’ral, if this is 1836, then I ain’t in the army no more,” Bouyer whispered.

“Mitch, you’re in the army until I say different. We all are. Once this is sorted out, we’ll decide what to do next. Can I trust you?”

“Yes, sir, you kin trust me. But I’m gonna ask for a favor when this is all over. A mighty big favor. And I expect you’re gonna say yes.”

“I will.”

“You don’t even know what I’m gonna ask,” Bouyer said in surprise.

“I need every man, loyal and true. People have said a lot about me, much of it unflattering, but no one has ever said George Custer isn’t loyal to his friends. Are you my friend?”

“I reckon so, sir. I reckon so,” Bouyer said, taking the dispatch.

Fifteen minutes later he rode off into the darkness.

“Think we’ll ever see him again?” Tom asked, standing at my side.

“I reckon so,” was my answer.

* * *

Just before dawn, we were ready to make our move. Once again I had divided the command, eight troopers with Tom on our right flank with the bulk of our party on the left. I had hoped to keep Kellogg and the Indians from entering the fort, but they would have none of it. They considered themselves part of the unit now, especially Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf, who intended to lead our charge. I convinced them not to wear the captured sombreros, fearing the Alamo defenders might mistake them for Mexican Lancers.

We came up from the southeast in the first rays of sunrise. Tom’s unit split off to the right, riding silently toward Power House Hill where we had observed two cannon the afternoon before. The battery was about twelve hundred yards from the Alamo, far enough that they expected no danger from the garrison. The rest of us rode to the top of the Alameda and waited beneath the trees. The upper portion of the road was screened with tall poplars on both sides as it gradually sloped down toward an old wooden bridge crossing the river. Halfway down the slope, on the right side facing the Alamo, the ground opened into an empty field overrun with tumbleweeds. The left side of the road was thick with woods.

Another enemy battery, better armed, was a thousand yards down the road, just off to the south among a thick grove of cottonwoods. The second battery posed the greatest threat to our reaching the fort, so we would need to neutralize those guns before making the attempt. That would be my job.

From our position atop the hill, I saw no large forces of infantry in the area, most of the troop concentrations being in town or to the north of the fort where a series of encroaching fortifications were being dug.

“Okay, just like we planned, boys. Hit hard and keep moving,” I urged, taking the lead.

We moved down the Alameda in column of twos as if we had a right to be there. In the gray light of dawn, we could easily be mistaken for Mexican cavalry returning from a patrol. Just as we approached the nearest battery, commotion was heard from the top of the hill. Gunfire, followed by shouting and the clash of sabers.

I paused the command, looking to see the how the enemy was reacting. The pace of the gunshots indicated Tom’s men had caught the small outpost by surprise. I heard Cooke’s Winchester, followed quickly by Army Colt .45s, the sounds distinctive over the muffled report of a musket.

A Mexican officer shouted, though we were too far away to make out the orders. An attempt to rally his men, no doubt, but they were soon seen pouring from the entrenchment, retreating north along the ridge. Hardly a minute later, there was an explosion as Tom put a torch to the battery’s powder barrels. A fireball erupted that lit the eastern horizon.

Anxious to see what had happened, twenty or so Mexicans ran out on the road in front of us, their questions muttered in Spanish. Some pointed in our direction, others toward the flames on the hill. An officer came forward issuing orders, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“Okay, boys, have at them!” I shouted, spurring Vic forward with one of my Bulldogs drawn.

I fired the first shot. Hughes and Butler opened fire with their Colts, and then the whole command began shooting. In seconds we were on them, chasing the surprised soldiers back into the entrenchment. Yelling and cursing surrounded us, the enemy startled by the sudden assault. A few tried to organize a defense only to be cut down. A brave officer in a silver helmet lunged at me with his sword. I shot him through the forehead. Then the Sioux lads let out a blood-curdling Indian war cry. Voss blew the recall on his trumpet, letting Tom know it was time to rejoin the command.

Another group of soldiers came up through the trees, bayonets on their muskets, but none of them fired. It seemed none of their rifles were loaded. I turned Vic sideways, firing until my Bulldog was empty, and then drew the other. I could see the astonishment on the young soldiers’ faces, for they had never seen a pistol fire so rapidly, nor with such devastating force. At close range, the Bulldog’s .44 Short Rimfire bullets tore through flesh far more harshly than any musket ball.

Several of the Mexicans paused, unsure what to do, until a few brave lads pointed their bayonets and rushed forward. I shot three of them in rapid succession. At a distance of fifteen feet, it was impossible to miss. Kellogg killed a fourth, the Spencer’s .50 calibur round tearing the young man’s head nearly in half. Butler shot two more. Of the small band that had rushed toward us with bayonets fixed, not one was left standing.

The enemy, never more than fifty to begin with, finally gave up the fight and fled into the woods. I wanted to take their field artillery, a nice pair of brass 4-pounders, but there wasn’t an opportunity. In ten minute’s time, hundreds of Mexican troops could be charging over the bridge from town and cutting off our approach to the fort. If I had the tools, I would have driven spikes through the cannon touchholes, rendering them useless.

“Quick boys, give me a hand,” I said, dismounting near one of the field pieces.

We dragged several barrels of powder up, packed them underneath the gun mount, and prepared to light a fuse. Butler cut open a powder sack, pouring a trail back to the ammunition wagon. Six frightened horses were tethered to a line. We cut them loose and managed to catch two of them.

Tom rode up, excited and out of breath. His squad seemed to have suffered no casualties.

“Get going, I’ll be right behind,” I ordered, waving a torch made of dry grass.

Only Butler stayed behind, holding Vic’s reins, as the rest of the command moved out. Cooke took the lead, followed by Morningstar, Kellogg, and the two young braves. Hughes and Voss were keeping an eye on Slow. Tom shifted his unit to a flanking position, letting others pass. The south gate of the Alamo was three hundred yards away.

Now there was more shooting. The battery near the town had fired at the fort. Fifty or sixty Mexicans soldiers were emerging from the trees across the river, coming up at the double-quick. Perhaps they thought some of the Alamo defenders were attempting to break out. A ragged volley of musket fire came from the fort, though they probably didn’t know who to shoot at.

“Okay, Jimmy, let’s get this done,” I said, setting the torch to our powder trails.

I jumped on Vic, wheeled around, and followed Butler out on the open ground, leaving the Alameda behind us.

Firing was now general between the fort and the Mexicans attempting to cross the bridge. More cannon fire came from across the river, though none aimed at us. From such a distance, they may still have believed us Mexican cavalry rather than intruders. The battery behind us exploded in three large blasts, the last shaking the ground.

I looked toward the fort. Men were standing on the gatehouse roof, firing muskets. The chapel was to the right, quiet as there were no enemies in that area. At the end of the wall to my left, where the 18-pounder was mounted, a group of buckskin clad men were shooting toward the river, giving us what cover they could. Most of the enemy appeared to be beyond the river, well-entrenched but caught off-guard. A string of broken-down shacks lined the side of the dirt road, helping to cover our approach.

Cooke had moved to the front of our column, shouting in English to the garrison so they would know we were friends. Seeing the enemy gathering at the river’s edge, Tom dismounted his wing into skirmishers, six men kneeling four yards apart while two men held their horses. They fired a volley, ejected the spent shells, and fired another volley within seconds. When a third volley was fired only seconds after that, the Mexicans retreated back toward their entrenchments.

Suddenly another enemy force appeared from the rear, dozens of soldiers coming along our side the river in a quick but undisciplined rush. I saw that, deep in the trees to the south, another battery had been established among a group of slovenly adobes. I had not been able to see the camp from the top of the Alameda, and now they were charging Tom’s exposed flank.

“Butler, the left!” I shouted, pointing at the new threat. It was hard for him to hear me. The battlefield was raging with gunfire and the occasional cannon shot. Dust rose from the Alamo walls when they were struck, and occasional bursts of dirt showed where shots were landing low.

“Yes, sir,” Butler said, taking aim at the advancing enemy column.

An officer in an elegant white uniform was waving his sword, hurrying his men on. The soldiers, all outfitted in dark blue jackets and light blue trousers, were hastily dressed, their tall shako hats barely strapped on. They carried muskets, but not the clumsy Brown Bess we had encountered on the Rio Grande. These men were armed with English Baker rifles, a much deadlier weapon. I guessed their numbers at forty, all on foot.

Tom mounted his horse, Sergeant Hughes at his side, and they opened fire with their repeating rifles, hitting four or five of the enemy. Then Hughes took careful aim and killed the Mexican officer with a shot through the heart.