Custer at the Alamo (18 page)

I reined Vic in, an icy grip on my heart. The command was coming up behind me, not one of whom hadn’t been plagued with strange dreams. Tom stopped next to me.

“What’s wrong, Autie? We’re got a clear trail and plenty of moonlight,” he said, a happy dance in his eyes as he glanced at Morning Star.

What had I done back on the Little Big Horn? Had I sacrificed my brother to ambition? And Bill Cooke? Georgie Yates? How many others? Had I now been given a second chance? To do what? And what did the strange Indian boy have to do with it?

* * *

We rode in silence for several hours before dismounting to give the horses a rest. The weather gradually worsened, forcing us to find shelter in a tree-lined ravine. Somewhere in the area the Mexican cavalry was patrolling. At midnight we started out again, walking our horses carefully in the black night as Tom and the Indian boys found our path. Kellogg stayed close, having tried to talk since we’d left the Alamo, but I kept waving him off.

“A few reinforcements will make it in,” Kellogg said when I finally allowed him to broach the subject. “History says thirty-two men from Gonzales will enter the Alamo before dawn on March 1st. They still think Fannin is coming to help.”

“March 1st? That’s tomorrow,” I said.

“It will give the garrison a bit of hope, but on March 3rd, a courier will arrive confirming that no help is coming. I’m sure Travis already knows, he just isn’t being honest with his men.”

“Being honest with your men can be difficult. A commander needs to judge their commitment. And their character. Most of the time, troops don’t want the truth, they just want good leadership.”

“Travis seemed like a good leader to me,” Kellogg said.

“Yes, right up to the point that he got his entire command massacred,” I replied. “Travis is an amateur. I’m a professional military officer with a long record of success.”

“Until the Little Big Horn,” Kellogg dared to say.

“You can’t judge an entire career by one mistake,” I replied with some irritation, for I’ve found that many civilians find it convenient to criticize battlefield decisions from the safety of their easy chairs.

Cooke approached, walking side-by-side with Morning Star. Cooke and Tom were best friends. With Tom having taken such an interest in the young maiden, it was no surprise Bill wanted to discover the attraction. I recalled the winter I’d spent with Monahseetah, who was not only beautiful, but delightful company. Such attractions are easy to understand.

“Once we find Keogh, what will we do next?” Cooke asked.

It was an awfully good question.

“I don’t know. We’re still soldiers in the United States army. I guess we’ll ride east and report for duty,” I said.

“Report to Andy Jackson? After what he did to the Cherokee?” Cooke protested.

A protest I agreed with, at heart. I had met quite a few Cherokee over the years and admired their tenacity. And unlike most Indians, they are as civilized as any white man.

“I have not heard of the Cherokee,” Morning Star said.

“They are a proud people who once lived in the east, mostly Georgia and Tennessee. They owned farms and ranches. Some even owned slaves,” Cooke said. “Though they were friends of the United States and signed many treaties, the Southerners decided to steal their land. President Andrew Jackson helped.”

“When the Cherokee protested their eviction in Federal court and won, Jackson ignored the judges and ordered the Indians removed by force. Thousands died,” Kellogg added.

I knew this to be true, for my father had spoken of it. Not just the Cherokee, but many peaceful tribes had been robbed of their land, forced west beyond the Mississippi.

“Maybe we’ll go lend the Cherokee a hand, Bill,” I light-heartedly suggested. “If Jackson can march them out of Tennessee, we can probably march them back in. Until our ammunition runs out.”

“You would do such a thing?” Morning Star said.

“I might
like
to do such a thing, young lady. There’s not much chance we’d be successful,” I answered. “There aren’t many white men on the plains in this time, but that’s going to change. In the East, it’s already changed. There’s no turning back the clock.”

“But we
have
turned back the clock,” Cooke said.

“I’m still not sure what’s happened,” I disagreed.

“General, what do you mean,
in this time
?” Morning Star asked.

“When you attended school in St. Louis, what year was it?” I replied.

“The missionaries told us it was the year of our Lord 1834,” she said.

“You were, what, sixteen years old? Born in 1818?” I guessed.

“Father Duncan thought I was born in 1817, but mother said I was born the year the fox fell under the moon,” she said.

“I was born in 1839. Tom was born in 1845. Bill was born in 1846,” I recounted.

Morning Star remained quiet for a moment, her thin eyebrows bent in thought.

“General, that cannot be true. The numbering of years do not go backward, unless Father Duncan misled me about your ways,” she concluded.

“He did not mislead you, and yes, it is impossible. But here we are, in the year 1836 when we should be in the year 1876. You wouldn’t know how we got here, would you?” I asked.

“I have not heard of such a thing,” Morning Star said. And I believed her. She was not a person who felt a need to lie.

“Would Slow know the answer?” I pressed.

“You would need to ask him,” she said.

The nearly full moon poked out from behind the clouds, then disappeared again.

“Bill, tell the boys we’re making camp. We’ll start again after sunrise,” I decided.

We found a bend in the river that provided a defense on three sides. Posting a sentry near the trail, I went down toward the water where I could see the western plain, thinking for a moment of Libbie, my dogs, and our home at Fort Lincoln. Except for a wind rustling through the thick trees, the camp was quiet. Far better than the noisy Alamo, where Santa Anna’s marching band was harassing the garrison one sleepless night after another.

After three days of near constant activity, we were tired, too. When Voss blew taps on his trumpet, it sounded like home.

Because of the inclement weather, we waited until mid-morning before moving south, taking time to catch some fish and hunt a few rabbits. The horses were groomed, gratefully by their reaction, and allowed to graze on the tall grass growing along the riverbank. Slow and I tracked a deer for almost an hour but never got a clear shot. The boy had grown quiet since leaving the Alamo. I caught him looking at me several times, seemingly waiting for some great revelation. I had none to give him.

By nine o’clock we were once again out on the rugged plains riding in column of twos, four scouts in the lead and four flankers on the left. We had the San Antonio River on the right. From what I remembered, Goliad was seventy miles to the southeast, but that wasn’t our destination. Fannin could fend for himself, dithering over his summons by Travis until it was too late.

“You’re not going to warn him?” Kellogg asked, thinking it a simple thing. Which it wasn’t.

“Mark, even I know about the Goliad Massacre,” I said. “James Fannin attended West Point but washed out, eventually immigrating to Texas. In command of the garrison at Goliad, he promised to relieve the Alamo, but changed his mind. After the Alamo fell, he delayed his retreat east and eventually surrendered his entire command to the mercy of Santa Anna. And on Palm Sunday, his unarmed men were marched out into the Texas wilderness and shot to death. Four hundred of them.”

“Fannin was being cautious,” Kellogg explained.

“Fannin forgot the first rule of leadership. A commander may play Henry V, shouting ‘Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more into the breach.’ Or he may play Richard III. ‘A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.’ But if nothing else, Fannin proved there is no room on a battlefield for Hamlet.”

“I didn’t know you had such an affinity for Shakespeare,” Kellogg said, laughing with surprise.

“Have you heard of Lawrence Barrett?”

“The actor? Of course.”

“Larry is one of my best friends. While in New York, I saw him perform as Cassius in Julius Caesar several dozen times. The theater is a wondrous place. I’ve seen many a performance in Washington, including Edwin Booth. And his accursed brother. I’ve been to McVicker’s in Chicago. But nothing beats the theaters in New York. The Winter Garden is a cathedral.”

“Hamlet aside, shouldn’t we go down to Goliad and tell Fannin what’s coming? It could avoid a lot of useless bloodshed,” Kellogg pressed.

“Travis and Bowie didn’t take my advice. Why would Fannin? Maybe we aren’t here to change history,” I said.

“We shouldn’t stand aside and do nothing,” he disagreed.

“Maybe we can join the Mexican army? Have you considered that?”

“No, that never even crossed my mind,” Kellogg sputtered.

“I turned down an appointment to the Mexican army ten years ago. In this time, the country is in chaos. Providences in rebellion. Santa Anna is a dictator leading his army from one uprising to the next, and eventually, his regime will collapse. Our intervention could give Mexico the stability it needs.”

“You wouldn’t really join the Mexican army, would you?” he asked.

“I suppose not. But it’s a thought,” I replied.

Just after noon, we saw two riders coming in our direction. I quickly recognized Lieutenant Smith and Mitch Bouyer. They were moving quickly with a single pack horse carrying their supplies.

“News, Gen’ral. Big news,” Bouyer said. “Guess what day it is?”

“How about February 29th, 1836?” I answered.

“Goddamn, maybe not such big news after all,” Bouyer said, his shoulders drooping.

“Mr. Smith, a report?” I asked.

“Captain Keogh reached Cibolo Creek like you ordered. He’s dug in about twenty miles south of the Gonzales Road,” Smith said with a salute. “All the wagons are drawn up and the artillery deployed. Later in the day, about thirty frontiersmen entered our camp, planning to join the Alamo once Colonel Fannin arrives.”

Tom rode up and shook hands with Smith. Like Cooke, they were fast friends. All three were in their early 30s, veterans and heroes of the Civil War. Those who called the tight group of officers who dominated the Seventh Cavalry ‘the Custer Clan’ usually blamed me, but they were wrong. Tom was the linchpin of that brotherhood. Most of my time was spent with Libbie or writing my latest article for
Galaxy Magazine.

“So you’ve heard?” Tom asked.

“Yeah. 1836. Isn’t that a hell of a thing?” Smith said.

“We were just in the Alamo,” Tom said.

“Naw. The Alamo? Did you meet Davy Crockett?” Smith asked, his blue eyes dancing with envy.

“In the flesh. The old bear killer himself. Saw Jim Bowie, too,” Tom bragged.

“Bowie really seven foot tall?” Bouyer asked.

“Bowie’s a six foot tall drunk and dying of black lung,” Tom replied. “He led his men into the Alamo and now he’s too sick to lead them out.”

“Are we going back?” Smith asked.

“Don’t think so. Let’s take a ride,” Tom said, taking Smith off where they could talk privately.

I had no doubt Smith would accept Tom’s point of view. Algernon was from a New York abolitionist family. And even if he wasn’t, Tom could talk the fur off an Eskimo.

“Captain Keogh sent us to find you,” Bouyer said, quite unnecessarily, for it was obvious why they’d come. “Any orders?”

“We’ll reunite the command. You can ride scout with the Indian lads or hang back with us,” I casually said, for I was no longer in a hurry. Not until I had someplace to go.

“Guess I’ll grab some grub and ride up front,” Bouyer said, heading for our pack horses. “Oh, bad news for the young lady. The old Indian died last night.”

I was not surprised. The old man was frail, our journey strenuous. But such a loss is always difficult. Then it suddenly occurred to me that I had suffered a similar loss. I would not see my father again, for he was just a struggling young farmer back in Ohio. I would not see my mother, who was still married to her first husband. Libbie would not even be born for another six years. By the time she was old enough to marry, I’d be an old man of fifty-five. Tears crept into my eyes that I was forced to wipe with my sleeve.

“Something wrong, Autie?” Tom asked, riding up.

“All’s well, Tommy. How is Algernon taking the news?”

“As well as anybody, I guess. Knows he won’t be seeing Nettie again,” Tom answered. “I’ll always miss Lucia, but it makes me glad we never got married.”

Tom had been thinking about the loss, too, but declined to burden me with his feelings. I told him about Jumping Bull so he could tell Morning Star and her cousins, being better at such things.

We left the San Antonio River behind, cutting southeast at an angle toward Cibolo Creek. The land was dry and swept with icy winds. Away from the river, there was scant water or forage for the horses. What few trees we found provided little protection, but we did locate a deep gully for our campsite with plenty of firewood nearby.