Custer at the Alamo
Page 5
“You wouldn’t have been the first officer to accept a foreign appointment. John Paul Jones did,” Cooke said, though such accommodations are rare.
“I think Grant was jealous, afraid of the glory I’d win defeating the French. Had he decided differently, I’d have whipped the Mexican army into shape and overthrown Maximilian in three months.”
Though I did not reveal my thoughts to Cooke, I have often wondered what might have happened next. Would I have remained in Mexico? Become a general and entered politics? Certainly under my guidance, this army of peasants crossing the river would not be such a rabble.
“What’s our plan, sir?” Cooke asked, his Winchester held ready.
Bouyer had his old buffalo gun, Butler carried the Sharps. The Indian lads carried muskets and arrows. Combined with my Remington hunting rifle, we could boast a good punch.
“Tom and Keogh will be the hammer. We are the anvil,” I announced, the cold rattling my teeth.
Bouyer looked at me with an expression bordering on insubordination, then looked at Cooke, Butler and the two young braves.
“Gen’ral, we sure is one mighty small anvil,” he said, spitting from a chaw of tobacco.
“Be sure to make every shot count,” I replied.
It was really only a guess, but I’d used this plan against the Rebs in the Shenandoah. Not with just six soldiers, of course. I was hoping for similar good fortune now.
After digging into our new position, I studied the Mexican army as they boarded rafts and attached logs to help float the remaining wagons. A dozen long ropes were keeping the rafts from floating away as soldiers on the far shore pulled the lines in. All was quiet on the hill beyond the river, which was good. Tom was waiting to strike with maximum advantage, and I expected nothing less from him. Keogh would arrive soon and need no explanations. He had once raided deep behind enemy lines with General Stoneman. Though fond of drink, as are all the Irish, Keogh was not a drunk like Reno.
“Something’s happening, Gen’ral,” Butler said, having taken the forward position.
I crawled up to the edge of the draw but didn’t need my field glasses, for the river was less than a hundred yards to my left.
“The second cannon is finally up on the sand,” I observed. “Looks like the officers will make camp once the freight wagons are over.”
“There’s two hundred soldiers on the other side. Only a hundred left on our side. The rest are just helpers, not even armed,” Cooke said, always a good judge of such things.
“I’m surprised they’ve got so many women traveling in their train. Even old women. This is a small town, not a troop movement,” I observed with contempt. Not that wives occupying officers on campaign was unusual. Libbie had often traveled with me during the war. The rank and file were expected to leave their women home.
“Aim for the non-commissioned officers first,” I ordered.
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Sergeant Butler objected.
“War’s not fair, Jimmy. Especially this kind of war,” I replied.
Hardly a minute later, gunfire opened on the far side of the Rio Grande. I saw an officer in gold braid topple from his horse. Two sergeants went to his aid only to be wounded. Then another uniformed soldier dropped, the commonly dressed peons being ignored.
For just for a moment, the entire enemy army appeared to freeze. Birds had burst from the trees at the first shots, horses had bucked, and startled soldiers were looking in every direction. Then a young soldado shouted the alarm, echoed by a dozen others. Sergeants ran to their squads, tightening the chinstraps on their tall shako hats. Infantry reached for their muskets. Officers rushed to issue orders. The sandy riverbank became a mass of confusion.
As a full volley was fired from the low ridge, a troop of dragoons rode forward, drawing pistols. Their striking red jackets were trimmed in blue and highlighted by white cross straps. Most carried long wooden lances and wore silver helmets dressed with black plumes. For light cavalry, they made a marvelous spectacle, but forming as they did was not an effective tactic against rifles fired from a prepared position. The dragoon commander was shot from his saddle. Then the flag bearer was wounded, the banner fluttering to the ground.
“Guess they were surprised,” Cooke whispered, kneeling at my side.
“They’ll try to rally,” I said.
“Tom won’t give them time,” Cooke replied.
He was right. I watched as a junior officer ordered the bugler to sound recall, but when a second volley tore through their troop, the rest of the dragoons scattered, the majority attempting to regroup downriver.
The sudden withdrawal of the cavalry had the Mexican infantry scrambling, shaking mud off their muskets while looking for their sergeants. Most of the soldiers were dressed in blue tunics with white straps across their chests. Along with the tall shako hats, which appeared to be standard issue, they carried leather ammunition pouches on their wide black belts. Nearly all had long knives and bayonets. A few of the Mexicans knelt to fire at the ridge, the shots sporadic, but a return volley knocked several of them down.
There was just as much confusion on our side of the river. The wagons all came to a halt, the teamsters jumping from their seats. Skittish animals bucked, causing some of the carts to spin around. Women grabbed children, seeking shelter from stray gunfire, while old men desperately tried to pull their mules off the road. There was a great deal of noise and shouting.
The soldiers nearest our position knelt, looking toward the opposite shore, not sure where the shots were coming from as the entire ridge was bathed in gray smoke. Their officers acted more quickly, issuing orders while drawing swords. Slowly, fifty or so men started moving toward the riverbank, but their view of the fight was largely blocked by the dragoons splashing at the water’s edge. And there wasn’t much to see. Tom was keeping the men so low that even I couldn’t tell their numbers.
In the first few minutes of the fight, at least twenty of the enemy lay dead or wounded, but they didn’t give up easily. Nearly two hundred soldiers eventually responded to the orders of their officers, loading muskets and forming into units. I expected them to make a bayonet charge up the gentle slope, for Tom’s men were only seventy-five yards away. When I saw that Yates had arrived, I knew Tom had the firepower to discourage an attack, but if the Mexicans were determined enough, they just might carry the position with an all-out assault.
But to my amazement, the enemy did not charge. They formed into long ranks, like the Napoleonic armies of 1800, and prepared to return fire while waiting for their field artillery to be unlimbered. As such, they were merely targets.
The firing from the ridge paused. Tom was also surprised, but he only hesitated for a moment. Just as the enemy was about to fire, a fearsome volley was unleashed into the Mexican ranks. Whole groups of men fell where they stood, and before the enemy quite grasped what had happened, another volley cut down even more. Men were sprawled along the shore moaning in pain, torn open by .45 calibur bullets. There was so much blood it couldn’t soak into the ground, running down the beach in rivulets.
The Mexicans finally raised their muskets and returned fire, dust kicking up all over the slope, but if they hit anything it was a miracle. It seemed the enemy’s weapon of choice was the Brown Bess, a sturdy old smoothbore musket with a limited range of accuracy.
I had not even seen a Brown Bess since visiting the collection of old firearms at the New York Historical Society. To fire the ancient weapon, the Mexicans needed to stand upright, jam a powder charge down the barrel using a ramrod, drop in a lead ball, pack the charge with the ramrod again, and then put a spot of gunpowder in the musket’s firing pan before aiming and pulling the trigger. A long and clumsy process, even for a trained professional. Our Springfield 1873 carbine was a completely different creature. All we had to do was open the firing chamber, put in a bullet, close the chamber using the lever, and fire. A raw recruit could easily fire six or seven times for every shot fired by the Brown Bess.
At this point I expected the Mexicans to withdraw, spreading toward the flanks while keeping a small holding force behind the supply wagons. As such, they could use their superior numbers effectively. But for the next several minutes, nothing of the kind developed. The enemy stood their ground, reloading as best they could, reforming among the bleeding bodies of their comrades.
Upon the desperate orders of their officers, and Mexicans finally fired a full volley at the ridge, dirt bursting along the crest. And then there was a pause. Beyond the noise of frightened animals and crying children, the battlefield across the river hung in a strange calmness. A calmness that was soon shattered.
My personal guidon appeared atop the ridge, followed by the regimental stars and stripes, the banners flapping in the wind. Then sixty mud-streaked cavalrymen rose to their knees, taking careful aim, and unleashed a storm into the Mexican ranks. Two more explosions followed so quickly that the Mexicans never had time to reload, their formations crumbling. Even the officers realized their position was untenable, but there was no place on the beach for them to entrench. On my side of the river, the hundred or so soldiers who had rushed to the water’s edge were waiting for orders to fire. A young officer on horseback was watching but hesitant to act, fearing to hit his own men.
Just as the battered enemy was drawing back toward the ford using the supply wagons for cover, Keogh’s command suddenly appeared at the top of the hill with guidon flying. I could only see a few cavalrymen at first, then a dozen, and finally Keogh’s whole troop of forty. They looked like a hundred, filling the eastern horizon.
“Now!” I shouted, stepping up and firing at the closest blue uniform. My first shot hit him right between the white cross straps.
Cooke stood up beside me, levering his Winchester repeater and knocking out eight shots in a matter of seconds. Butler took an extra moment to sight his Sharps, killing a captain at eighty yards. Bouyer fired the buffalo gun, the bark so loud it sounded like a small cannon. The surprise flank attack soon caused the enemy to scatter.
“General, watch out!” Cooke shouted, hurrying to reload.
I glanced at Cooke, then saw a brave Mexican corporal kneeling twenty yards away, pointing an old smooth-bore pistol at me. There was no time to reload my rifle, so I reached for one of the Webley Bulldogs, though it appeared I had reacted too late. Suddenly Spotted Eagle jumped in front of me, raised his bow, and sent a shaft through the young corporal’s throat. The man’s hand jerked up, the shot fired wild, and he rolled backward, legs kicking in his death throes.
“Thanks, youngster,” I said, though I still had no intention of giving him one of my pistols. The young brave drew a knife, anxious to claim the corporal’s scalp. Bouyer came forward to explain that no trophies could be taken until after the battle.
What had started as an ambush against a superior force now disintegrated into a rout. For whatever reason, the invaders simply had not anticipated an attack at the river. Many of their senior officers were killed in the first few minutes, their sergeants slain as they tried to organize the bewildered troops. The rest began throwing down their arms or fleeing downstream. When Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf raced forward with fierce Lakota Sioux war cries, the civilians on our side of the river shrieked in terror. Most of the women fled into the desert. Those who didn’t dropped to the ground in tears of despair, suspecting an assault by a hoard of wild savages.
“What’s that they’re saying?” I asked Bouyer.
Though not completely ignorant of Spanish, having studied the romance languages at West Point, my hearing no longer had the clarity of youth. Fifteen years of battlefields will do that.
“They’re beggin’ us not to unleash our Injuns,” Bouyer said with a chuckle. “Get scared enough, two Injuns can look like a thousand.”
As the shooting stopped, I cradled my rifle and walked fearlessly into the enemy position, for a confident victor inevitably fares better than a timid one. Across the river, Keogh and Tom’s commands were coming down toward the beach in a steady line, rifles ready for treachery. Neither company had found it necessary to mount a charge, saving men and horses. I heartily approved of their prudence.
“Who’s in command here?” I shouted.
Bouyer immediately repeated my words in Spanish, saying it several times. A captain came forward, a bullet hole in his arm.
“Tengo el honor, señor,” the young officer said.
He was a tall, handsome fellow, with dark eyes that betrayed a good education. His uniform, even frayed from the battle, was quite elegant, a royal blue jacket, high black boots, and a red sash around the waist. A Toledo sword and steel helmet topped with a feathered plume marked him as a gentleman, probably of Spanish descent.
“You may treat your wounded, sir, if you will promise to give us no trouble,” I offered, letting Bouyer translate.
Though I had rarely needed to speak Spanish since my trip to Texas ten years before, much of the conversation seemed clear. Nevertheless, Bouyer’s interpretation would prevent any unfortunate misunderstandings.
The young officer thought for a moment, now realizing our numbers were small but better armed. The man was no fool.
“Mi libertad condicional se ha dada, señor,” he said, offering me his sword. I accepted the blade and passed it over to Cooke.
“Nice,” Cooke said, feeling the weapon’s weight. The steel blade was finely engraved in Latin. The handle was made of silver and decorated with silk ribbons.
“Myles was unhappy about leaving our pig-stickers back on the Yellowstone,” I recounted. “Give him this one, with my compliments.”
“And the prisoners?” Cooke asked.
I turned back to the young captain. Though I had many questions, this was not the time or place.
“Stack all arms near the wagons,” I ordered. “Take your tents and a day’s rations to that clump of trees downriver. We’ll discuss your return to Mexico later.”
“Señor, estamos en México,” the captain rudely responded.
“Not all of you,” I answered, believing it at the time.
Cooke and I went to the water’s edge where Tom was asking the same questions, though he didn’t need an interpreter, having learned the language well enough during our previous assignment. I have no doubt he spoke Spanish with a brothel accent.
“Autie?” Tom called out.
“All’s well. Send everyone but the officers back over before it gets dark,” I answered. “And have Smith turn those 12-pounders around in case they try invading our country again.”
* * *
It took several hours to straighten out the aftermath of the skirmish, and by then the sun was setting. We made fires from driftwood found along the river and posted guards every twenty yards from our camp. Two Mexican officers had been kept on our side of the Rio Grande, the rest of the invaders sent back after we had confiscated their best wagons and horses. We expected the rank and file to melt away during the night, for the last thing I needed was three hundred prisoners of war.
“Congratulations, sir,” Harrington said, coming in from his post with a shiver. Harrington hadn’t shaved since leaving the Yellowstone, giving him a bedraggled appearance. My other officers fared no better; Tom, Cooke and Dr. Lord all looked like steamer tramps. Finding shaving kits for my officers would soon be a priority.
The night had turned cold enough that even a good buffalo hide wasn’t always sufficient, though we also had wool coats found in the captured wagons. We also found plenty of tents, blankets, lanterns, and most of the necessities left behind at the Little Big Horn. There was even a box of silverware made in Italy, complete with plates and goblets. And several ca
ses of fine wine, not that I would personally indulge.
“Not much of a battle, Harry,” I said, eating my fill of rice and beans. Which is about all the Mexicans had brought with them out of the desert. It was one of the most poorly supplied armies I’d ever seen. Almost as bad as Lee’s army during the retreat from Petersburg. Eventually we would butcher a few of the cattle, but for now we made do.
“But a victory nevertheless,” Harrington said. “And on the 4th of July, no less. They’d be singing your praises at the Centennial if they knew.”
I hadn’t realized the date, but Harrington was right. It was the 100th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. When the news got back to Philadelphia where the celebrations were being held, I’d be the talk of the country.
“Ready to run for president, Autie?” Tom asked with a grin.
“Smart ass,” I replied.
“What’s that all about?” Bouyer asked. Having been loaned to us by Colonel Gibbon, the scout wasn’t familiar with the joke.
“A few idiots who want to embarrass Grant have suggested I run for president. Some even said this war against the Sioux would be my springboard to the nomination,” I explained.
“Lots of generals have become president. Grant, Taylor, Harrison. Jackson. Even George Washington,” Kellogg said, always taking an interest in politics.
“None of them were thirty-six years old, Mark. Will the Chicago Tribune support such a campaign? Or the New York Times?” I asked.
“I suppose not,” Kellogg conceded.
“Maybe I’ll run for office someday,” I explained. “I even considered running for Congress after the war, but I didn’t want to give up my commission. There’ll be plenty of time for politics once my military career is over.”
“Hell, George, you’re a democrat. No one in their right mind would vote for a democrat,” Cooke said.
“Last I heard, we weren’t letting Canadians vote at all,” Tom said, poking fun at his friend.