Custer at the Alamo (33 page)

“The academy has changed since the 1830s,” I said. “Most of my classmates were from families of modest means. In the North, the wealthy sort sent their boys to Harvard or Yale.”

“Bet you was top of your class,” Crockett jovially said.

“34th in a class of 34, David. It was a miracle I graduated at all.”

“Ya ain’t dumb, George. Believe me, I’d know if ya was.”

“No one thought I was dumb. Seems some folks thought my discipline was lacking.”

“Still got more schoolin’ than I did. Hardly spent more than a few months getting taught how to read and write. The woods was my teacher. My rifle was my tutor.”

“I may have learned to read in a classroom, but my teachers were the battlefields at Bull Run and Gettysburg. My tutor was a strong sword and thousands of dead countrymen.”

“Maybe this time around, it don’t have to be that way,” Crockett said, quieted by my bitterness. “Sometimes fightin’ is necessary, but more often than not, we can get what we what without fightin’. Just takes a little extra thinkin’ on is all.”

“I suppose. There was a time with this Cheyenne chief that I . . .”

My thoughts trailed off, struck by something Crockett had said. I swear, there were times the former congressman from Tennessee could be a genius.

“Bobby, up here on the double,” I ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Hughes said with a crisp salute.

He had taken off his heavy overcoat, riding in a regular cavalry uniform. Two cartridge belts were crisscrossed over his shoulders, a third wrapped around his waist. Many of the men had done the same, carrying as much ammunition as they could. Hughes’ slouch hat had been washed and decorated with a sprig of sagebrush. I glanced back and saw most of the command had given up their trapper’s clothing for our traditional dress, showing a nice
esprit de corps
.

“We left something behind in the wagons captured from Santa Anna,” I said. “Take three men and ride like hell. We’ll wait on the outskirts of town until you rejoin the command.”

“What am I looking for, sir? More muskets?” he asked in puzzlement, for we had plenty.

“Musical instruments,” I said.

Late in the afternoon, the first Mexican cavalry patrol appeared just a few miles short of San Antonio. We could not see the Alamo or Santa Anna’s army, but we could hear the sound of cannon firing every few minutes. The small unit of ten lancers kept a safe distance, or so they thought. Dressed in red dragoon uniforms, they made excellent targets even on a gray day like this one.

Our road was reasonably straight, and though wooded on occasion, generally open ground. Recent rains kept the countryside moist, but the trail had dried out just enough to be free of mud. The command continued in column of twos, four of Seguin’s scouts out in front, the Texans in the center, and Smith bringing up the rear. The Mexican cavalry gradually increased to thirty but made no effort to engage.

“We’ve got the numbers, sir. Should we take a run at them?” Butler asked, his Sharps lying across his lap.

The enemy had gotten within two hundred yards, riding parallel to our march. Some were gesturing and smiling, not taking our small force seriously.

“We’ll keep the mounts fresh, Sergeant. If the Mexicans get too close, throw out some skirmishers.”

“They won’t be gettin’ close,” Crockett said. “They is just a watchin’, wondering what the hell we’re doin’. George, what are we doin’? Shouldn’t be we waitin’ for dark?”

“That was my original plan, but I grew bored with the idea.”

“Riding into the Alamo with a thousand Mexicans shootin’ at you sounds too dull?” Crockett asked.

“A friend suggested something different.”

I halted the command a mile from Powder House Hill. The Mexicans had reestablished a guard on the ridge, but through my field glasses, I was unable to see a battery. Tom had done a thorough job of destroying the first one; apparently Santa Anna hadn’t bothered to post a new one. East of the ridge, the landscape was rolling prairie and a few small farms. We had passed several adobe houses, but the livestock was gone, driven away by their owners or stolen by Santa Anna. A campsite, now abandoned, had been used by the Mexican cavalry watching the Gonzales Road. Our horses helped themselves to the leftover grain.

“I half expect the Mexican army to pour down that hill,” Nathaniel Brister said, acting captain of the New Orleans Grays.

I had learned that Brister was a Virginian. A tall man, about Tom’s age, with a strong physique. His brown hair was short, the curly beard trimmed. Since arriving in Texas, he had already been in several battles, including the siege of Béjar the previous December.

“Not too likely,” I said. “To come over the hill, Santa Anna’s right flank would have to leave their siege positions and march up the Alameda. His left flank would need to leave their trenches and cross that swampy morass underneath the Alamo’s cannon stationed in the church. Do you think Travis’s garrison would sit quietly and watch?”

“No, I reckon not. They’d be shootin’ like crazy,” Brister said.

“And if the Alamo was shootin’ like crazy, we’d hear it,” I concluded. “Tell your men not to worry, Captain. We’ll have plenty of warning if there’s going to be trouble.”

“You don’t think there’s going to be trouble?” Crockett asked.

“I have no desire to expend our ammunition so near my goal, but I doubt the enemy can reach us in sufficient strength out here on the road. Not against fifty .45 caliber Springfield rifles. No, David, they’re going to watch. Wait for my next move.”

A boom echoed off the hills, the Alamo’s 18-pounder. There was just the one shot. A signal?

“At least we know Travis and the boys are still there,” Crockett said. “Bet Texas can hear that cannon thirty miles around.”

I doubted it could be heard so far away, but it was certainly loud.

A few minutes later, Sergeant Hughes returned with my musical instruments. Spotted Eagle was with him, grinning like he killed a buffalo single-handed. And worse, John was riding with him, two flintlock pistols tucked in his belt. In Texas, in 1836, a black man rarely carried sidearms. It was not common in 1876, either. But there was no time to worry over such prejudices.

“We got a bunch of ‘em, sir. Drums, horns. Even a fiddle,” Hughes said, waving some sort of flute.

“A fiddle? I’ll take that,” Crockett eagerly said, reaching for a finely made violin.

“Gather some of the boys who know how to play these things,” I ordered. “Butler, prepare the command to move out. Smith, ride with me.”

I was not worried about finding enough musicians. Frontier life is not the constant din of Indian battles and gunfights that the dime novels like to portray. Most of the time is spent at the post waiting for new assignments, allowing plenty of time for reading, music, and even a few of the scientific arts. And excessive drinking, which is typically the army’s greatest challenge.

With Lieutenant Smith, Crockett and Spotted Eagle, I rode west where the road made its final gradual climb to the top of the Alameda. Brister and John soon joined us, Brister giving my new servant a wary glance. John handed me a canteen of cool river water and I drank thirstily before speaking.

“Algernon, you’ve got the hardest part of this operation,” I began. “E Company is going to cover our movement toward the fort. Take a position on the ridge, skirmishers ready. Have your scouts hold the mounts back of the line. I’m not taking all the horses into the Alamo. The garrison is short on feed, so we’ll only take the horses needed to carry the supplies.”

“You’re going in on foot? In broad daylight?” Smith asked, incredulous. “How do you expect to fight your way in?”

“I don’t. Colonel Crockett says it’s better not to fight.”

“Sometimes
it’s better not to fight. I never said this is one of those times!” Crockett protested.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” I asked.

“General, you’re beginning to scare me a little,” Smith said.

“It’s okay, Algernon. This gamble is most likely a stacked deck. One way or the other, we’ll know soon enough.”

We rode slowly up the long sloping hill. I noticed the cannon fire had stopped, almost as if in anticipation of some new event. At the crest of the hill, I dismounted the command.

“Santa Anna has been busy,” Crockett remarked.

It was true. The size of the Mexican army had doubled since our previous foray, from fifteen hundred to three thousand. The town across the river was filled with tents and wagons. With the army were several hundred camp followers who cooked the meals, washed the clothing, and supplied various other services. A large house off the main square flew Santa Anna’s personal banner.

To the north of the Alamo, an entire camp had grown among the cottonwood trees just beyond an entrenched battery. South of the Alamo, among the shanties referred to by the locals as La Villita, a smaller camp had been expanded, supporting two batteries near the main road. To my right, near the fire-damaged Powder House, a tiny garrison had pulled back along the ridge. The wreckage of two destroyed cannon lay behind a crude rock wall.

“Officer’s call,” I ordered.

Corporal French’s bugle sounded sharp and clear in the crisp air, audible all the way down the hill to the Alamo.

Smith, Brister, and nearly everyone else who thought themselves important came running, all curious about my strategy. The bustle of activity around the Alamo had quieted. On the walls, and from the gun platform at the back of the chapel, I saw dozens of men looking in our direction. One appeared to be Travis, another Jameson. I did not see Bowie. The Mexican army was equally interested, many coming out of their fortifications to see the strange battalion on the hill.

“Sergeant Hughes, unfurl my guidon,” I instructed.

My blue and red silk banner soon fluttered in a light breeze. The red and white company flags of E Troop and F Troop appeared beside it. Our regimental flags had been left behind with the supply train, for we were no longer fighting as a division of the United States.

“Gentlemen, we are going to march down the Alameda and enter the Alamo,” I announced. “Corporal French, you will lead the band. Eight men should be sufficient, drums and horns. Butler, you’ll have three skirmishes forward. Hughes, three skirmishers to the left. No one is to fire unless fired upon, and only then under extreme pressure. The rest of the command will march in formation behind the band. Brister, your men will follow mine. All will be on foot. Select twelve men to lead the pack horses. The rest will bring up the rear, rifles on their shoulders, four abreast, three paces between your ranks. When my command stops a hundred yards short of the bridge, make a right oblique and take your men into the fort.”

“General, if the Mexicans attack . . . ?” Brister started to ask.

“Let me worry about that,” I answered.

“But sir . . .?” he persisted.

“Nathaniel, can your men follow orders or not?” I snapped.

“By God, sir, you’ll see our worth,” Brister agreed.

Brister went to issue the orders, no doubt wondering how to explain the situation.

“Crockett, Spotted Eagle and I will remain mounted, leading the procession,” I continued. “Most of the Mexican army is out of range with those antique muskets, so we’ll keep an eye on their artillery. If you see a man about to touch off a cannon, kill him. Otherwise, I don’t want any shooting. None. Gentlemen, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” several quickly repeated.

They were starting to understand, and though there was the normal about of fear in such a precarious situation, I noted a bit of amusement, too.

“Mr. Smith, you’ll hold this position until the command has entered the Alamo. Appear as if you’re waiting for additional reinforcements,” I said. “Once we’re inside, withdraw as quickly as you deem prudent. Return the extra horses to Harrington, then move north against Santa Anna’s left flank. Questions?”

“No, General,” Smith said. “Good luck, sir.”

As with Keogh, I envied Smith’s assignment. Riding free on the open plain, striking behind the enemy lines. Creating havoc. And I was headed into a decrepit fort. Trapped behind those adobe walls. I could only hope that Custer’s Luck would see me through.

I rode forward with Crockett and Spotted Eagle. The youngster didn’t care a whit about all the fuss, he just wanted excitement. He had stripped off his heavy robes, riding in a gold vest stolen from a dead Mexican officer. His rawhide pants had fringes down the sides. He carried a fine Kentucky long rifle and one of Tom’s Colts. Two eagle feathers were stuck in his beaded headband.

“Spotted Eagle, I think you will find more scalps with Algernon. Would you not ride with him?” I asked, for the Alamo seemed no place for an Indian.

“Slow said I will count many coup at your side,” Spotted Eagle said, raising a knotted war club.

He had painted red and black stripes on his cheeks, his brown eyes dancing with anticipation. Striking an enemy, whether with club or lance, was a revered Sioux custom. A mark of high prestige. But not very helpful if the enemy responds with a bullet.

“Take scalps instead, youngster. You’ll live longer,” I advised.