Custer at the Alamo (15 page)

During the day, I noticed my men spreading throughout the fort, talking with the Texans, checking on our horses, and looking for a dry bunk in the long barracks, for the weather remained wet and cold. We had more in common with the defenders than I originally thought. Though the majority were Southerners from states like South Carolina and Georgia, there were also some from the North and others born overseas, much like the composition of the Seventh. We found immigrants from England and Ireland, Scotland and France. There was even a Dane and a German. Since the earliest days of the Civil War, the ranks of the U.S. Army had been filled with men from Europe come to fight for freedom and a better life. Thousands had fallen on battlefields from Virginia to Mississippi, but those who survived had become Americans.

“Is that why you’re here, David? Have you come from Tennessee to start a new life?” I asked Crockett.

Calling him David was a sign of respect, for he didn’t like to be called Davy. A better life appeared to be the primary motivation for the Alamo’s garrison, though everyone’s experience is different.

“Provisional government of Texas promised 640 acres of land for six months service. Got a few troubles with my creditors back home, so that land would come in mighty handy. Though saying Texas has a government is a bit of an exaggeration,” Crockett said

“How so?” I asked, for Kellogg had been vague on the details.

Crockett leaned against one of the 6-pounders guarding the south palisade and offered me a chaw of tobacco. I declined.

“Well, seems these Texans got fed up with Santa Anna and besieged General Cos here in San Antonio. Cos surrendered in December, just before I rode in. Cos is Santa Anna’s brother-in-law, so you know the family honor’s at stake. Santa Anna swore he’d crush Texas, whatever it takes. You’d think that would unite everybody, but it ain’t so. Colonel Frank Grant decided to invade Matamoros and took most of the volunteers with him. Stripped the Alamo bare of supplies. Governor Smith had himself a fit and ordered Grant back. The governing council, friends of Grant, decided to impeach Smith and appoint Robinson governor, but Smith refused to quit.

“So now we got two Texan governments. Worse, some folks say Sam Houston is commander of the army. Others say Grant is commander of the army. Jim Fannin’s got a few hundred men down at La Bahia, and since that’s the biggest army in Texas, they say he’s the commander. And here in the Alamo, Travis and Bowie have been a right testy, too.”

“And this conglomeration of schoolyard bullies expect to defeat Santa Anna?” I said, disgusted by the bickering. Though having attended several sessions of congress, I should have known better.

“They beat the Mexicans at Gonzales, and at the Grass Fight, and here in Béjar. These Texans don’t think much of the Mexican army,” Crockett said, his personal thoughts on the subject hidden.

“They haven’t fought the Mexican army, David. Just an untrained frontier force.”

“I reckon Santa Anna will be a surprise to them,” Crockett admitted.

“A fatal one,” I said.

Pending a declaration of independence, Texas was still a province of Mexico. The governor was fighting with his council. Leaders of the different militias were fighting with each other. Travis had issued a call to arms, warning Texas that Santa Anna was about to march through their colonies with fire and sword. From what Kellogg said, few had answered. Had the nation responded to Lincoln’s call in 1861 in a like fashion, the United States would now be three or four different countries.

My tour with Jameson ended on the north wall where a battery of two 6-pounders overlooked approaches from the San Antonio River. To my right, the weed-covered prairie was cut by irrigation ditches. In days past, it would have been farmland. The Mexican army had stationed several hundred infantry just beyond musket range and were busy digging siege works, gradually moving their light cannon closer and closer. The crumbling wall was shored up with timber beams.

I leaned against the makeshift rampart, studying the enemy positions through my field glasses. They were well-entrenched.

“We needed another month to fix this wall,” Jameson said with sigh. “After we took Béjar from General Cos, the army started to disband. Then Grant took most of our ammunition and horses, leaving the garrison half-naked. It’s a miracle the men have stuck it out this long.”

“I must agree with you, there,” I said. “In the army, if a soldier tries to walk away, we shoot him. Militia is a constant discipline problem.”

“It doesn’t mean we won’t fight,” Jameson said.

“With that red flag flying over there, I don’t see that you have much choice. The question is,
how
will you fight?”

“I guess we just wait for the Mexicans to make their move, then hurt them so bad they back off. If we hold on long enough, eventually our friends and neighbors will come to our support. Or maybe the Mexicans will starve. Food can get scarce this time of year.”

“That army out there is fifteen hundred strong. In another week, it will grow to two or three thousand. How many friends and neighbors are you expecting?” I asked, attempting not to sound sarcastic.

“Not that many,” Jameson conceded. “Why? What’s your plan?”

“I would not wait in this fort for extinction,” I immediately replied. “I would attack. Burn the enemy’s supplies. Capture their guns. Harass their patrols. Cut their communications. I would locate their commanders and drive down on them in the pre-dawn hours. But I’m a cavalry officer, and that’s what cavalry officers do. I’ve never been good at waiting for the enemy to seize the initiative.”

Crockett came up with Tom and Morning Star, standing beside us on the platform. Another cannon shot sailed over the south wall, landing in a ditch that supplied water for the fort. Apparently a needed source of water until they finished digging a new well. I noticed two negroes, slaves of Bowie and Travis, busy with their shovels. The work would go faster if their masters pitched in.

“That’s getting very annoying,” Tom said when a second cannon fired, this one from the north side. We saw the Mexicans had pushed a gun within five hundred yards of the northeast corner.

“We should wait until all their guns are in range,” I decided.

“We’ve been fired on since the moment we rode in, and the Alamo is so low on ammunition, they rarely return fire. It won’t hurt to slow those siege works down a little,” Tom suggested.

“Okay. Just enough to make them duck,” I reluctantly agreed.

Tom waved to Cooke. He and Butler came running with their rifles and my Remington.

“That’s a long shot,” Crockett warned. “My Tennessee boys have wounded a few across the river. That battery is only three hundred or so yards off. These rascals are a lot farther.”

“We’ll see,” I answered.

Butler returned first with his modified Sharps carbine, rubbing dust off the sight. Tom had borrowed a Springfield, his Winchester better suited to shorter ranges. My Remington hunting rifle was the only one in the command with an octagonal barrel, giving a distinctive appearance. I had used it while hunting elk on the Black Hills Expedition.

“One shot each, gentlemen. Best hit wins,” I announced.

Crockett and Jameson thought we were crazy. Seeing the attention on the wall, Travis came up to join us. John Baugh and Almaron Dickenson quickly followed. Had the Mexican artillery been fortunate at this moment, they could have wiped out most of the Alamo’s commanders. When Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf joined us, the packed dirt firing platform grew crowded.

“Other than presenting targets for the enemy, what nonsense is this?” Travis demanded.

“A shooting contest,” Crockett said, loading his Kentucky long rifle.

I saw it wasn’t the famous Old Betsy we boys had read about in grade school, but still a good weapon in capable hands. He took out a powder horn, tapped in a bit of powder, added a piece of wadding, and dropped a round lead ball down the barrel before packing it down with a ramrod. A spot of priming powder in the flash pan and a flint would ignite the gun powder. Such muzzle loaders were used early in the Civil War until paper cartridges came into regular use.

Crockett knelt at the wall, took careful aim, and squeezed the trigger. A delayed half second later, the rifle fired with a puff of black smoke. A speck of dirt kicked up about a hundred yards short of the Mexican entrenchment. Several soldiers digging a new ditch looked up without much concern. One laughed.

“Just a touch far off,” Crockett concluded.

Tom did not bother to kneel down. He opened the trap door on the Springfield, loaded a copper cased 45-55 bullet in the breech, and snapped it shut with the lever. He then sighted the most likely target, a sergeant standing above his men giving orders. When Tom fired, the sergeant keeled over, shot through the shoulder. Several men rushed to his aid.

“Howdy do, boy!” Crockett shouted.

“Good Lord,” Jameson added, taking the Springfield from Tom to look it over. Travis took the gun from Jameson, opening the trap door and staring at the firing mechanism.

It seemed everyone in the fort was suddenly watching our game. Men on the adjoining gun platform, and on the roof of the long barracks, were waving to their fellows who could not get a view. They had wondered what our strange weapons could do.

“My turn,” Butler said, kneeling where Crockett had and gazing down his sights.

Butler was using a customized falling block Sharps carbine. Though a single shot weapon, it had great range. I had never faced off against Jimmy in a contest, but everyone knew he was a crack shot. He took his time, watching a group of peasants as they crowded around the wounded sergeant. But one man was better dressed, possibly an officer. Butler held his breath for a moment, then squeezed off a shot, hitting the man through the forehead. The blood spray was visible even from such a distance.

Most of the peasants dropped their shovels and ran. Those who remained ducked behind their partially dug earthwork.

“You didn’t leave me much to shoot at, Jimmy,” I complained, taking his place on the wall and kneeling to steady my aim.

“General, you couldn’t beat my shot even if you had something to shoot at,” Butler bragged, which certainly was not true.

I saw an officer come forward yelling at the workers to pick up their shovels. A few obeyed. The man’s uniform was not elaborate enough to be a colonel, or even a captain, though I was not an expert on such things. I guessed him to be a lieutenant. Three soldiers in white were following, two carrying cannon shot, the third a small powder barrel.

I noticed Slow had made his way up on the platform, standing at my elbow. He seemed intrigued with the proceedings.

“A warrior’s game,” I whispered, happy to see the quiet boy so excited. “Would you like a shot?”

“I have come to see the sunrise,” Slow said.

“That was hours ago,” I replied.

“There will be another,” the youngster insisted. How he had guessed my plan is something I’ll never know.

“Gentlemen, it saddens me that we did not place a wager on this contest,” I said.

“Get on with it, Autie. We’d all have aimed twice as good if money had been involved,” Tom said. As usual, he was probably right.

I didn’t need to think twice about my target, taking aim at the unlucky private carrying the powder barrel and squeezing the trigger. The powder barrel exploded, a brief fireball lighting the gray day. A second sunrise. The man carrying it was killed instantly, his companions burned. When I last saw the junior officer, he was crawling for the trench with his arm on fire.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” Captain Baugh whispered.

The men watching from the walls and the roof of the long barracks sent up a cheer. Travis returned the Springfield to Tom and walked away without comment.

“Looks like I’ve won, gentlemen,” I casually said, ejecting the spent shell.

“Lots more targets,” Butler glumly said, studying the entrenchment.

“No, Jimmy. It might slow them down a little, but the siege works will still get closer. Better an overconfident enemy than a cautious one.”

Tom nodded that he agreed. Cooke made a note in his memo pad.

“My cousins think we should steal the iron guns,” Morning Star said. “Spotted Eagle says we could come on them under the moon while they sleep.” I turned to look at Gray Wolf and Spotted Eagle, liking their aggressive attitude. But in this situation, it wasn’t very practical.

“Good thinking, lads, but they’ll have pickets guarding the batteries,” I said, using my hands to emphasize some of the words. “If we attack, it will be at dawn.”

I wrapped an arm around Spotted Eagle’s shoulders and walked my party down from the firing platform, receiving another cheer from the garrison. I tipped my hat with a smile. Then a cannon shot flew over the fort, whistling as it cut the air and almost hit the corral. Tom was right about it being annoying.

* * *

The bombardment continued throughout the day, sometimes several guns in rapid succession, followed by a lull.

I met with Jameson and Crockett inside Bowie’s quarters next to the south gate. The room was small, warmed by a wood-burning stove, and decorated with colorful painted tiles. The dirt floor had a small woven carpet and rushes. The plank table was surrounded by three rickety benches. A Mexican woman, the cousin of Bowie’s late wife, hovered nearby with broth and a pitcher of brown ale.