Custer at the Alamo (24 page)

Chapter Seven

Late in the afternoon, a few miles short of Cibolo Creek, Bouyer rode out to meet us, falling in at the head of the column. Sergeant Bobby Hughes was with him. It was butt cold with a light drizzle, the sky a mass of angry gray clouds. There had been rain to the north, but so far, we had been spared another soaking. Our pace was slower than usual to save the horses.

“Took your time, Gen’ral,” Bouyer complained.

“Army business, Mitch,” I said.

“Is this still an army?” Bouyer daringly questioned. I placed a hand on a Bulldog pistol, glaring defiantly.

“Damn right it’s still an army, and I’ll shoot the first man who forgets it. Bobby, how’s morale?” I asked.

“The battalion is sitting in a wet forest, eating beans and dry buffalo meat. How good can morale be?” Hughes said. “It’s all Captain Keogh can do to keep them together.”

“That won’t be a problem much longer,” I announced.

We had reached open flatland when, well off to our left, I spied a Mexican cavalry patrol. They were just a few, at first, watching us from a distance. Our company was stronger, so I expected no trouble unless the enemy achieved equal numbers.

“Keep a steady pace, men,” I ordered. “Tom, bring Slow and Morning Star to the front. Voss, keep your bugle ready. Bill, fall back with Bobby and keep the line moving.”

“Not going to need much prodding today,” Cooke said, wheeling his horse around and waving for Sergeant Hughes to follow.

“Bouyer, how far to the command?” I asked.

“I’d say ’bout three miles as the crow flies, but they’re camped on the far side of the creek. Only a few places to cross without getting tangled up in the woods.”

“Ride ahead. Tell Keogh we might need help,” I said, seeing enemy cavalry appearing at our rear.

“Better I should lead you there,” Bouyer objected.

“You don’t need to tell me where Keogh is. One glance at the creek and I’ll know,” I stubbornly replied, for Myles and I prided ourselves on picking the best camping ground.

Bouyer knew better than to argue, spurring forward on the eastern trail. I looked again to my left. The shadowing cavalry had grown from twenty to thirty, and finally to fifty. A signal from their captain caused them to move in closer. The officers wore silver helmets plumed in red. The rank and file wore black sombreros and carried long lances with tapered purple banners that fluttered in the breeze. Most had white shoulder straps over red jackets, though the officers wore ivory jackets trimmed in gold. Their horses looked thin, worn from a long trail.

“Flankers,” I ordered, three men on each side spreading out to give our column a buffer.

I took a special interest in our right flank, for no enemies had been seen there as yet.

The Mexican cavalry went from a walk to a trot, beginning a diagonal shift in our direction. They would not do that unless they expected to intercept us in the next few minutes.

“Voss, sound the gallop,” I said. “Tom, take the lead. Throw out skirmishers to cover our crossing at the creek.”

I drew Vic out of line, pulling my Remington rifle from its sheath as the command rode past me. Then the bugle sounded clear in the moist air and the horses began to move faster. Our guidon flew proudly in the cold wind.

Cooke and Hughes brought up the rear, their repeating rifles drawn. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf had joined them.

“We’ll deal with them at the crossing,” I said, riding Vic hard as it became a race.

It was not the first time I’d discovered myself in such a situation. In 1873, during the Yellowstone Expedition, I had chased a small band of hostile Sioux down a long green valley, only to realize there were five hundred more Indians waiting at the far end. The same trick Crazy Horse had used on Fetterman in 1868. But Fetterman had eighty men while I was far out in front of my battalion, alone. I turned around and rode for my life. Had I been riding a horse other than Dandy, they’d have caught me for sure.

We crested a low, scrub-covered ridge, seeing Cibolo Creek half a mile down a long sloping plain cut by a few dry creek beds. Tom’s unit had almost reached a pasture near the woods. Beyond the Cibolo was a faint trace of dust from the north, perhaps two miles off, though the source was unknown. The Mexicans closed in from the left, and as expected, another unit of thirty lancers was now visible to our right. By the time we reached the creek the enemy would have us outnumbered four to one.

“Let’s pick it up, gentlemen,” I recommended, kicking Vic to a full run as the Mexican cavalry finally began the chase in earnest.

For a moment, I thought it was going to be close, but our mounts were in better condition, having thrived in Casa Blanca’s stables.

Tom had dismounted the command at the wood’s edge, setting a skirmish line while every fourth man led the horses into the trees. Twenty-four men were spaced eight feet apart, giving us a broad front. As the horses were tied to trees and logs at the water’s edge, several more troopers came back, standing behind the line as a mobile reserve. I rode through the position, jumped from Vic’s back, and knelt next to Tom at the center of our line, my rifle pointed.

Our pursuers slowed, a few dozen spreading out toward our flanks while the main body came to a halt two hundred yards away. I noticed several well-appointed officers conferring with their staff. Groups of sergeants and corporals awaited orders, loitering under a red, green and white Mexican flag emblazoned with a golden eagle.

“If we’re forced to fight, target the noncommissioned officers first,” I said.

“To hell with that. The officers. Kill the officers,” Butler insisted.

I started to object, then reconsidered. The cavalry bearing down on us showed no fear. In a typical volley of musket fire, they could expect nine or ten casualties before overrunning our position. Our speed of fire could triple those casualties, but they would still be on us in large numbers. Unless . . .

“Tom, have the men hold their fire unless fired upon. If the Mexicans cut loose, return two volleys and fall back into the trees. Smith, you have the right flank. Cooke, command our left. Hughes, Voss, you’re with me,” I decided, running back for Vic.

The woods behind our position were thick enough for cover, but the creek was running high. Difficult to cross under fire. If Keogh came up in time, we’d have an easy escape, but I couldn’t count on it. And after all we’d been through, I had no intention of getting killed next to some stupid river.

“Off with the buffalo robes. Uniforms only. Straighten up and look professional,” I ordered Hughes and Voss, tugging down my weather beaten campaign hat and clearing my Bulldogs for a quick draw. “Voss, carry my guidon. Bobby, you’ve got the colors.”

Just as the three of us were riding up from the creek bed, I saw Private Gustav and motioned for him to follow. Gustav had emigrated from Italy a few years before and spoke fairly good Spanish. I let him carry my silk guidon and had Voss hold his bugle ready to sound a call. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf were quickly mounted at our side, determined to participate. I tried to wave them off. Gray Wolf raised his lance and grinned.

“Autie, what are you doing?” Tom asked.

“Negotiating,” I replied. “But if they start shooting, you all start shooting back. Kill the officers first.”

“Yes! Thank you, general,” Jimmy Butler said.

Butler let out a shout, joined by the rest of the command. For men outnumbered by such steep odds, they sounded awfully optimistic.

I rode directly toward the Mexican officers, moving slowly and without a white flag of truce. Such would have defeated my purpose. When the Mexicans saw the six of us casually coming forward, they paused their preparations to attack. No doubt the battle flag of the United States had aroused their curiosity.

“Señor, what is the meaning of this hostility?” I boldly asked the commander. He was a junior officer riding a thoroughbred Spanish charger and wearing an expensive sword. His finely tailored uniform was soiled from hard riding.

“Is it not the responsibility of the army to intercept invaders?” the young officer said, his well-spoken English tinged with a Southern accent.

“May I ask who I am addressing?” I inquired.

“I am Juan Neponmuceno Almonte, secretary and aide-de-camp to His Excellency, General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna,” the man said. “My father was General Jose Maria Morelos. I was educated in New Orleans and have traveled as far as London. Why have you traveled so far? To steal Texas for America?”

To say the least, I was surprised. I had never traveled to Europe. My father was a blacksmith. Almonte made me feel like a country bumpkin. I guessed him in his early thirties, about my height, and stately in appearance, with blue eyes and curly black hair. He spoke with the confidence of born leader. If he was not a Spanish aristocrat, he could easily have passed for one.

“We are not here to steal Texas for the United States,” I said.

“Then explain yourself,” Almonte demanded.

“I am Lt. Colonel George Custer, commander of the Seventh Cavalry. We visited the garrison surrounded in the Alamo, and when we learned they are trying to impose slavery upon the people of this region, we rode away. We do not serve President Jackson or the politicians attempting to annex Texas to the United States.”

“That does not explain your presence in Mexico,” Almonte said.

“There is no easy explanation, sir, but it is not a deliberate incursion on our part.”

“Deliberate or not, I must require you lay down your arms and ride with me to San Antonio. General Santa Anna will decide your fate.”

“I’m afraid that is unacceptable,” I responded.

“You have no choice,” Almonte said.

I glanced back toward the creek. As I suspected, the dust cloud coming from the north was getting closer, made by dozens of cavalry horses. They would be here in fifteen minutes, at the most. If it was another Mexican patrol, we were certainly doomed, but I had already determined it to be Keogh and Yates. Almonte read my thoughts.

“Another hundred rebels will not help you. Lt. Manchara and I have four hundred dragoons close by, and they are on
this
side of the Cibolo,” he said with a confident gleam.

As if on cue, two more companies of Mexican cavalry appeared on the northern ridge a quarter mile away, their ranks forming a long battle line with banners fluttering in the cold breeze. A rumble of the earth and dust on the horizon hinted that more were on the way, but I did not believe they could muster four hundred dragoons in such a short period of time. I doubted Santa Anna’s entire cavalry amounted to more than four hundred, with many of those still back at the Alamo.

Within minutes, another officer and several sergeants rode down the hill to Almonte’s side. Their horses were tired, the tongues dry. They had come cross-country with little water or fodder. A closer look at the soldiers showed frayed uniforms. A few held short-barreled muskets but most were armed with long wooden lances and swords.

“You are just in time, Manuel,” Almonte said.

“We were almost to the Seguin ranch when your messenger arrived,” Lt. Manchara said. “You have captured a nice batch of pirates.”

“They say they are not pirates. And they say they are not captured. Perhaps they intend to fight,” Almonte reported.

The young lieutenant looked surprised. Like Almonte, he appeared well-educated, possibly the son of an aristocrat, as were many officers in the Mexican army. He was dressed in a blue tunic with white trousers now stained with mud, tall black riding boots, and a pair of fancy brass pistols. His staff was equally well-dressed, indicating a formal cavalry unit rather than the militia we had fought on the Rio Grande.

“The entire 2nd company of Tamaulipas will be drawn up in the next few minutes. If the pirates do not surrender, there will be no quarter,” Manchara announced, his tone reeking with arrogance.

The young fool must have thought himself a god of war. Or maybe Ulysses S. Grant.

“Well, sir, your decision?” Almonte asked.

Almonte thought he had me, but I no longer felt my earlier insecurity. The enemy had halted their advance and it would take time to reform an effective charge. Fighting from the trees, and with Keogh in support, we’d give a good accounting of ourselves. I was not alone in these thoughts.

“What do you think, Bobby? Should we surrender?” I asked.

“Take ’em in the arse, sir,” Sergeant Hughes said.

“Voss?” I summoned.

“Let us shoot the sons of bitches, sir. The day is getting late,” Voss said, a hand ready to draw his Colt.

I looked back at Private Gustav, who had a Springfield lying across his lap. Almonte noticed the weapon with a raised eyebrow. My subordinate was not carrying a Kentucky long rifle or Brown Bess, but a gun he’d never seen before. Almonte was not an ignorant savage. Even in 1836, there had been efforts to invent a breech loading rifle. He noticed Voss also carried a Springfield, and then Hughes slowly revealed his Henry repeating rifle.

“Spotted Eagle, what do you think? Should we fight?” I asked.