Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “Your north wall is hopelessly compromised. And you won’t be posting my men anywhere,” I quickly replied. “I’m a professional officer with fifteen years experience. You can’t expect me to take orders from a militia colonel.”

  “I’m regular army, sir!” Travis protested.

  “An army of what?” I asked. “A hundred and fifty amateurs?”

  “Santa Anna will eat you for breakfast and piss on your bones,” Cooke added, doing a poor job of hiding his disdain.

  I didn’t approve of the language, but Cooke was right. Right down to the pissing part. This rabble had no chance against a trained army.

  “I’ve earned this command. I didn’t ask for it. Even tried to resign it. But the provisional government assigned me this post, and I will hold it to the death,” Travis argued, a proud young upstart.

  “Travis don’t command my boys,” Bowie insisted with a trace of resentment. “All volunteers. Come and go as we please. But Travis is right about one thing. Béjar is the gateway to Texas. If we lose the Alamo, Santa Anna rides roughshod over the colonies. No one to stop him.”

  “Santa Anna will ride roughshod over the colonies. You can’t stop him,” Kellogg said.

  I hoped Kellogg wouldn’t start talking about San Jacinto, Houston’s surprise victory over an overconfident Mexican army six weeks after the Alamo’s fall. If time had been altered in some inexplicable way, how could we know if San Jacinto would ever happen? In addition to being time travelers, would we now be soothsayers?

  “With all due respect, gentlemen, this position will not stand with its present defenses. The walls are not strong enough, and you lack the firepower to hold them,” I said, calmly and with conviction. “If we begin now, it might be possible to . . .”

  “Mr. Custer. General, if you are a general, we are not turning command over to a stranger who rides in from nowhere,” Travis adamantly said. “For all we know, you’re one of those English mercenaries hired by Santa Anna, sent here to trick us.”

  “I was born in Ohio,” I said, struggling to hold my temper.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen . . .” Crockett attempted to intervene.

  “Ohio? That explains much,” Travis said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I replied.

  “You Yankees have no idea what we’re fighting for. This is a free land, not a factory run by your rich banker friends,” Travis answered.

  “You preening popinjay,” I responded, a hand on the hilt of my sword. “From what I’ve seen, there’s not a whorehouse in all of Texas that isn’t being managed better than the Alamo.”

  “You, sir, are no gentleman, and we of the South know well how to deal with your kind,” Travis smugly declared.

  “Care to back that up?” I said, rising from my seat.

  “At your pleasure. Just name your second,” the peacock agreed, standing with a hand on his sword.

  The man was a damn lawyer. I had spent four years on the back of a horse with my saber killing Rebs just like him. The duel would be short and sweet. Probably too short.

  “Gentlemen! This is no time for personal quarrels!” Crockett shouted, pounding on the table.

  “Hell, let’em fight,” Bowie said, evidently no fan of Travis.

  “We will not,” Crockett insisted. “I believe we can find one or two more important challenges than a clash of egos.”

  “You have no command here, Crockett. When offered responsibility, you declared yourself a high private,” Travis said.

  “Buck, there are a lot of high privates in this fort, and most of us prefer to live long enough to claim our lands and raise our children,” Crockett answered with profound truth.

  Dickenson and Jameson, both reported to be family men, nodded that they agreed. Travis shut his damn mouth.

  “I would like to inspect your fortifications. Perhaps I can make some suggestions based on my experience of such things,” I offered.

  “Mr. Jameson will see to it,” Travis said, abruptly leaving the room.

  The moment he was gone, everyone relaxed.

  “Sorry about that. Travis may be an ass, but he gets things done. These days, Texas has a lot of leaders but very little leadership,” Captain Dickenson said.

  I remembered reading about Dickenson who, like my father, had once been a blacksmith. He seemed a grounded young man now in his late twenties. Six feet tall, short black hair with snowflake white skin, his blue-gray eyes gazed with the experience of an ex-soldier. Like Crockett, he was from Tennessee, come to Texas for free land and a new life.

  “What kind of leader gets you boxed up in a place like this?” Cooke asked.

  “Mexicans caught us with our pants down,” Bowie said, coughing into a bloody rag. “No clue they was so close. Night before, we was celebratin’ Washington’s birthday. Next mornin’, their army was movin’ into town. Barely had time to reach the Alamo.”

  “Why didn’t you burn the town as you retreated?” I asked.

  “Burn the town?” another officer asked.

  “Your name, sir?” Kellogg asked.

  “Captain John Baugh, adjutant for Travis. Came to Texas with the New Orleans Grays.”

  I guessed Baugh in his early thirties, slightly pudgy, and by his accent, from Virginia rather than Louisiana. The young man appeared intelligent and good-natured, which explained his popularity with the volunteers.

  “Standard tactic,” Cooke explained, seeing nothing but blank faces.

  “Guess none of us thought of it,” Bowie admitted.

  “My wife and my daughter are here with me. So is the family of Gregorio Esparza,” Dickenson explained. “We would have sent them to Gonzales if there’d been time. Santa Anna is known to kill the families of rebels, so we’re in a tough spot. Travis has sent riders for help.”

  “It isn’t coming,” Kellogg said. “Not enough, anyway.”

  “How do you know?” Jameson asked.

  “We have a small force south of here. If help was coming, we’d have seen it,” I said, stretching the truth. And wishing Kellogg would quit being such an expert.

  “Sir, we would like your help, but Travis is the legal commander of the garrison until relieved,” Dickenson regretfully said.

  “Gentlemen, some think bad leadership is better than no leadership. I am not one of them. When outnumbered ten-to-one, you can’t afford anything but the best. From what I’ve seen, Crockett is a natural leader. Far better than that wet-nosed kid,” I said.

  “Thank you for that, but Colonel Travis and Colonel Bowie have been in command since I arrived. And Colonel Neil before them. I have never led anything larger than a scout against the Creeks, and that was twenty-five years ago,” Crockett said.

  Bowie coughed again. The man was barely able to sit the table. I guessed a fever, possibly malaria, though it could also be a sickness of the lungs. Dr. Lord would know more, but I had left him behind with Keogh.

  “Not much anyone can do anyhow,” Bowie said. “We got a hundred and fifty men, only twenty horses. Can’t leave, and stayin’ don’t seem like such a good idea, neither. Tried gettin’ honorable terms, but all we gots is that red flag flying from the church. It means no quarter. Least Travis writes a good letter. Should bring us some help.”

  Kellogg shook his head. “Travis writes a great letter, but only the men from—”

  “Mark, these gentlemen have pressing duties,” I interjected. “So do we. Let’s get to work.”

  I nodded to Cooke and we hustled Kellogg out into the dreary courtyard, preventing him from saying anything more than necessary.

  “General, what the devil?” Kellogg protested.

  “Mr. Kellogg, we can’t pretend omnipotent knowledge of every event. There’s enough distrust already,” I lectured, angry with him. “For now, let them think what they want. It doesn’t matter. What matters is bringing Keogh up and whipping this garrison into shape. I’m going to inspect the defenses. I want you to talk to the Texans. Get a feel for their morale. Will they fig
ht? What are they fighting for?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kellogg said, saluting.

  He marched off, notebook in hand.

  “Bill, look for the best place to position our sharpshooters.”

  “We have some good shots in the regiment, George, but not enough to turn back an all-out assault,” Cooke said.

  It was true. Many of the troopers were good with their Springfields but not experts. And we didn’t have enough spare ammunition for target practice.

  “Dickenson says this post has twenty-one cannon. Not much powder and shot, maybe, but concentrated fire can discourage even the most determined attack. Let’s see what the possibilities are,” I said, studying the various positions where the guns had been posted.

  “There’s a lot more cannon than men to handle them,” Cooke said, doing the math. “And probably not more than a handful of experienced gunners. Hell, George, our best artillery man is Harrington, and we left him on the Rio Grande.”

  “Bill, at the range we’ll be firing these guns, we aren’t likely to miss,” I replied.

  We were busy throughout the morning. Morning Star made me eat breakfast, a tortilla stuffed with steamed beef and rice. She and the other Sioux had attracted a good deal of attention, the local Texans more accustomed to Comanche or Apache. Many, such as Crockett, had fought the Creeks. Within a few years, the Cherokee Nation would be forced off their lands, driven into Oklahoma by Andrew Jackson’s unjust policies. Much as the government was trying to do to the Plains Indians in my own time. I did not approve of such practices, convinced that civilization would find the Indians in God’s own time, without bullets or a bayonet. And with a little help from the railroads.

  Morning Star, in particular, was an object of interest. Even in a buffalo robe, she drew every eye as she walked about the compound. Her obvious affinity for Tom did not stop several of the frontiersmen from seeking her attention. She smiled and put them off with polite remarks, indicating her education in St. Louis had prepared her well for dealing with wolves.

  There were several Tejano children among the garrison’s families, so Slow was less conspicuous. Other than his mysterious gaze and tendency to ask unusual questions. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf soon blended in, eager to learn about the strange fortifications and the men who hid behind stone walls. When the Mexican artillery fired on us, which they did every ten or fifteen minutes, the young Sioux would climb up on a rampart and fire their muskets in response, often getting a cheer from the men. The Alamo garrison, worn down by six days of siege, found encouragement from their enthusiasm.

  I discovered that, as engineers go, Jameson was not a complete fool. With limited resources, he had set firing positions to cover the most likely approaches. I pulled him aside, walking through the compound as he pointed to the fort’s strong points.

  “The south gate is well protected by that stockade you entered,” Jameson explained. “Armed with two cannon and screened by a ditch. Our high firing platform at the back of the church guards the east flank, and another battery is stationed above the corral. The west wall is close enough to the river that a direct assault would be difficult. But, as you said, our problem is the north wall. Patched it as best we could, but all it’s held together with is mud and a few skinny logs.”

  Clearly the Alamo was not a fort. Before the siege, the sturdy abode buildings surrounding the courtyard had housed workshops and homes for the workers. Like most 18th century missions established by the Catholic Church, its function had been to convert Indians to Christianity, not hold off a force of several thousand soldiers.

  Jameson seemed to recognize the situation clearly; he just didn’t have a good solution. Initially, I didn’t see a solution, either. But I would. The Mexican army may have had the upper hand for the moment, but they weren’t the Seventh Cavalry, and they weren’t led by George Armstrong Custer.

  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.