Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  One of his assistants ran forward, equal in age to Señor Seguin and just as gray-haired.

  “Aqui, señors,” he said, pointing toward the bunkhouse.

  Señor Seguin mumbled a few words. His man nodded, taking our horses into the stables.

  The Seventh came forward, riding in column of twos, and dismounted in the courtyard. Most were directed toward the bunkhouse, but Tom, Morning Star, Slow and I were guided toward the hacienda. The attractive young woman fell in beside us. Her eyes were a vivid brown. I guessed her at no more than twenty-five years. She was dressed in a white cotton blouse with long silk sleeves in pink and a calico skirt. She wore women’s riding boots, much as Libbie always had, and a bright red scarf around her neck.

  “We cannot thank you enough,” she said, her accent educated. “My name is Isabella Juanita Seguin, daughter of the Alcade. You will find our home comfortable against this harsh wind.”

  Isabella took Morning Star by the elbow and hurried her to the hacienda. Slow rushed to follow, pulling his buffalo robe tight.

  “Good luck for these folks that we showed up,” Tom said.

  Luck, of course, had nothing to do with it. The move south had been Slow’s idea, but I chose not to let on about my suspicions. Tom might think me addled.

  “Good luck for us. We needed some hot food and a warm place to spend the night,” I added.

  “I guess this is our first breath of civilization in several months, isn’t it? Not since we left Ft. Lincoln,” Tom said.

  “And maybe our last for quite some time,” I grimly surmised.

  The house was richly furnished with padded furniture, lush tapestries and thick carpets. Much of it was locally made, but some was imported from Europe. A middle-aged woman emerged from the kitchen, dressed in brown woolens. She was startled at first, but when Isabella whispered something, the old woman smiled and took our Sioux friends into the kitchen. Tom and I shook out our coats before a massive stone fireplace.

  “My father would greet you in the drawing room, if you are not too weary,” Isabella said.

  “We are not too weary,” I agreed.

  Isabella curtsied and went to make the arrangements.

  “Señor Seguin has quite a few accomplishments,” Tom said, looking at documents decorating the walls. “I can’t make out all of this, but it looks like Señor Seguin helped write the Mexican Constitution in 1824. Until recently, he was quartermaster of San Antonio. Autie, he may be loyal to Santa Anna.”

  ”I am not loyal to the dictator, sir. I am a patriot,” Señor Seguin said, entering the room suddenly. Tom looked embarrassed, as was fitting.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Tom apologized.

  Now changed into a black suit with gold sequined trim, Sequin was carrying a bottle of fine white wine and several elegant glasses on a silver tray.

  “All of northern Mexico has opposed Santa Anna since he abolished our constitution and gathered power under this centralized rule. His methods have been cruel and vengeful. Many American settlers have come to oppose him, as well. I take it that is your purpose?” Señor Seguin asked.

  “No, sir. We are not here to oppose Santa Anna, though I sympathize with those who do,” I responded, glancing at Tom. He looked a little uncomfortable, but it did not alter his resolve.

  “Am I to understand that a United States cavalry unit is merely traveling through Texas, saving ranchers from the Comanche?” he asked, the sarcasm gentle.

  “It’s a little more complicated than that. A long story,” I answered.

  “The sun is setting. A north wind blows through tonight, chilling the bones of those not so fortunate as ourselves. We will have plenty of time for long stories.”

  Señor Seguin led us into the ornate drawing room filled with family portraits, silver candlesticks, and a collection of antique swords. Truly this was a successful man of great experience. And the more we spoke, the more I was impressed.

  * * *

  “So, let me understand this,” Señor Seguin asked an hour later. “You were spirited off a battlefield to be abandoned forty years in the past. You believe Texas will win independence, but at an unacceptable cost to the future. You may not oppose Santa Anna, but cannot bring yourselves to support him, either.”

  “That’s about the size of it, sir,” Tom said, working on his fifth glass of wine. Out of courtesy, I had accepted a small glass, sipping it slowly. It was the first wine I had tasted in many years.

  “This battlefield you were on, were you winning?” Señor Seguin asked.

  “No, we were pretty bad off,” Tom said.

  “That is unfortunate. You are not only soldiers lost in time, but not very good soldiers,” Señor Seguin said.

  I straightened up in my chair, fists clenched, but Señor Seguin was only teasing. He flashed a smile, gold showing in his dental work. I let out my breath and sat back, brows bent in humility.

  “The Seventh Cavalry was the finest fighting unit in the world, Señor Seguin,” Tom said. “Until our last battle.”

  “This is not an ordinary thing,” Señor Seguin remarked. “I have not heard of anything like it, except from the Apache, who believe in black magic. Were you fighting the Apache when this transformation occurred?”

  “No, we were up north in Montana. Fighting the Sioux and Cheyenne,” Tom said.

  “I know of the Cheyenne. Good with their horses. Aren’t the Indians traveling with you Sioux? Are they the ones you were fighting?” the old gentleman asked.

  “No, they are from your time. We think. Even they aren’t sure,” I explained, shifting closer to the fireplace.

  In the past, I was always indifferent to heat or cold, comfort or discomfort, but now I felt older. The heat was heavenly. I noticed a distinguished oak bookcase filled with leather volumes. A stuffed owl looked down on us from the corner. The artwork was distinctly provincial, but of good quality. Señor Sequin donned a fine linen jacket embroidered with white and silver threads.

  “Is there anything you would ask of me?” he inquired.

  “No, sir. You have given us a temporary refuge from our troubles. We will always be grateful,” I assured him.

  “It is I who must be grateful,” Señor Seguin said. “My son has led our vaqueros to Béjar, there to hold the town against the dictator. The Comanche have sought to take advantage. I am friends with the local villages, but there are so many Comanche bands, it is hard to be friends with them all.”

  “They better be friends with us, if they know what’s good for them,” Tom said, finishing his drink and holding out his glass for another.

  “Are you so formidable?” Señor Seguin said with a smile, filling Tom’s glass.

  Tom went back into the main room and retrieved his Winchester Model 1873. One of the best weapons ever made. He withdrew fifteen live rounds, set them on the table, and handed Señor Seguin the rifle with the chamber open.

  “Tell me that’s not formidable,” Tom dared.

  A man of much knowledge, Señor Seguin quickly sensed the power in his hands.

  “This hammer allows you repeated fire,” Seguin guessed, playing with the level. “And there is a space underneath here for ammunition. Are these powder charges self-contained?”

  “We call them bullets. No ramrods. No dropping a lead pellet down the barrel. Just pull the trigger, cock the lever to eject the spent shell, and fire again as a new round is pushed into the chamber,” Tom said. “A full magazine can be fired in less than a minute.”

  “And what happens when you run out of bullets?” Señor Seguin asked.

  “You know, Autie, I’ve been wondering about that, too,” Tom said, trying to make joke of it. But neither of us thought it was funny.

  “Maybe we can talk,” Señor Seguin said, suddenly sounding like a merchant.

  “Father, may we join you now?” Isabella asked, poking her head through the doorway.

  He waved his hand, causing Isabella, Morning Star and Slow to enter and take seats. The old woman followe
d with hot soup and fresh baked bread. Slow’s eyes lit up at the wonderful aroma, convincing me he was partially human after all.

  “What have you gentlemen decided?” Isabella asked, pouring everybody a round of excellent port.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “About defeating Santa Anna,” she explained. “Morning Star has spoken of your feats. Certainly soldiers of such remarkable valor can ride the dictator down?”

  I was not sure if Isabella was serious. The intelligent gleam in her eyes indicated a joke, but she was also seeking information.

  “We have not taken sides in this rebellion, Señorita Seguin,” I said, accepting her challenge. “But if we do, being soldiers of valor, we will put up a good fight.”

  “Not all are good fights,” Slow said, the first time he had spoken all evening.

  “That depends on who you’re fighting,” I said.

  “And what you’re fighting for,” Tom said, just as earnestly.

  The others in the room felt our tension. Was I still angry about the mutiny at the Alamo? Was Tom feeling distrustful? I had given him cause.

  “The fights will be better,” Slow said, finishing his soup.

  Then Slow jumped from his chair, going into the next room and sitting before the great fireplace. Perhaps he was seeking another vision.

  “That’s a strange boy,” Isabella said, though not unkindly.

  “Is he a seer?” Señor Seguin asked.

  “I don’t think he sees the future,” I said.

  I did not say what I was really thinking—that Slow didn’t see the future so much as he seemed to remember it.

  After dinner, Tom and Señor Seguin adjourned to an upstairs balcony for cigars. Morning Star and Slow left, too, leaving Isabella and I alone. We went out on the front porch, looking at the bunkhouse across the courtyard. Most of the lights were out, the men exhausted.

  “You never smoke?” Isabella asked, taking my arm.

  “No. And I rarely drink. Tonight was my first glass of wine in a very long time.”

  “And Thomas says you object to swearing.”

  “That is true, too. Swearing shows a lack of character.”

  “You must be a perfect human being,” she laughed.

  I laughed, too. It was very funny.

  “There was a time I believed in perfectibility. If not for others, at least for myself. But though I gave up drink and smoking and swearing, I still gambled at cards and horses. Not always wisely. And I was not the perfect husband I should have been.”

  “Not all men are honest enough to admit such things,” she said.

  “Dishonesty has never been one of my failings, though I may exaggerate on occasion.”

  “This journey of yours. From another time. It is not a story many would believe.”

  “I haven’t decided to believe it myself. For all I know, this may be a delusion,” I said.

  “And if you were going to have a delusion, why Texas? And why would I be in it?” Isabella asked, fluttering her long eyelashes.

  Awfully good questions. If I was going to have a delusion, riding into the Alamo and dying gloriously might make some sense. But riding out again? Finding this lovely ranch, and this beautiful girl? These events tended to exceed my imagination.

  “How does an insightful young woman, such as yourself, become stranded so far from civilization?” I asked, squeezing closer to her on the bench. “Is your husband with Juan Seguin at San Antonio?”

  “I am a widow, señor, but we do not talk of such intimate matters with new acquaintances. Perhaps when I know you better,” Isabella replied. And charmingly so.

  At midnight, the vicious wind miraculously began to die down. I checked on the men, a few smelling of rum, and went to visit the horses. Vic was tucked in a cozy barn with plenty of feed. Corporal Voss was on guard duty, alert for trouble.

  “Goodnight, Henry,” I said, going back to the house.

  “Goodnight, General. God bless you,” Voss said, a rare and inappropriate outburst. I let it pass.

  * * *

  The wind soon picked up again, howling like all the banshees of hell descending on the prairie. The Texans called it a norther. Trees bent halfway to the ground. Ice flurries flew sideways, pounding against the glass of my bedroom window. It would not surprise me if birds dropped from the sky, frozen solid. I huddled for warmth under a thick quilt, glad for once to have taken someone’s advice. Cooke had been right about the need to find shelter.

  A new day began with grim clouds. I decided to hold up at Casa Blanca, giving the horses a chance to rest. After breakfast, I played three games of chess with Señor Seguin. He won the first two with little trouble, but was surprised when I won the third with a daringly aggressive opening. At lunch time, I summoned an officers’ call.

  The dining room on the hacienda’s ground floor was large but still warm. It was paneled in oak and rosewood, the floors made of colorful clay tiles. In addition to Tom, Cooke, and Smith, I had also invited Morning Star and Slow. And our host, Señor Seguin. Sergeant Butler and Sergeant Hughes acted as my orderlies, letting Voss get some well-earned sleep. I even let Kellogg in the room, much as I was annoyed with him.

  After a fine meal of broiled steak and rice, we cleared the table and rolled out a map Señor Seguin was kind enough to loan me. As a campaign map, it left much to be desired.

  “Captain Keogh is here, about fifteen miles northeast of Casa Blanca through these low hills,” I said, drawing a line with my finger. “Harrington should be up by tomorrow. If we leave in the morning, we should be there by late afternoon.”

  “And then what? Our previous lives are gone. Our families don’t exist anymore,” Butler said, speaking for the rank and file.

  “For a few of us, the command is family. We still have that in common,” Tom said.

  “But most of the men don’t,” Smith said.

  I did not doubt Smith’s observation. I trusted him almost as much as I trusted Tom, for we had been close for many years. Brothers on the campaign trail. Companions in the dining parlor while our wives knitted socks in the next room. A young man of sound judgment.

  I briefly reflected on Jimmy Calhoun, the brother-in-law I would never see again. And my little brother, Boston. In fact, all of my family were now gone, and Tom’s as well. We hadn’t spoken of it. I doubted we ever would.

  “The command must not be allowed to break up, no matter what,” I insisted.

  “We should have a talk with the men. Soon,” Smith said.

  “And tell them what?” I objected.

  “Give them a choice, General. We’re not the only ones whose lives have been turned upside down,” Smith said.

  “Algernon is right,” Tom agreed. “There are a hundred men without homes or loved ones. Many can’t read or write English. A third weren’t even born in this country. It needs to be their decision.”

  “That is not going to happen, little brother. Not ever,” I swore. “We are not letting a mob of Springfield-toting homesick men roam the Wild West. I don’t know why we’re here. Hell, it looks like Slow doesn’t know why we’re here. But we came here as the Seventh Cavalry, and whatever lies in store of us, we’ll meet it as the Seventh Cavalry.”

  “I hope you’re right, Autie,” Tom said, doubting my chances.

  “Once the command is reunited, we’ll huddle with Georgie and Myles. Something will work out,” I confidently said.

  But I was not confident. Under the circumstances, it would not surprise me if some of the men deserted. I hate deserters, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t know how they feel.

  The door opened. Señor Seguin looked surprised by the interruption. It was one of the older servants, his expression horrified. The servant spoke quickly in Spanish and shut the door. Señor Seguin looked stricken.

  “It is my daughter, Isabella. She was in the field harvesting winter tomatoes. The Comanche have taken her,” Señor Seguin said, slowly rising from his chair.

  Everyone was stunn
ed by the news, Morning Star in particular. She and Isabella had struck up quite a friendship, as women will on the frontier. Señor Seguin looked to me with the obvious request. His four ranch hands, three of them fifty or older, could not take on a band of Comanche by themselves.

  “Bill, inform the command about what’s happened. Ask for volunteers,” I ordered. “Señor Seguin, have you any hunting dogs?”

  “Excellent dogs,” he bragged.

  Not so excellent as my dogs, I thought. But I would never see Maida and Brutus again.

  “Have them ready. We will find your daughter no matter what it takes,” I assured him.

  “The Comanche often steal women. Usually as wives, or slaves. Only a few are ransomed back to their families,” Señor Seguin said, thinking me too optimistic.

  “Sir, I have been recovering women from hostile Indians for the last ten years. It’s an aspect of my profession,” I instantly said. Perhaps with some exaggeration, but it was not an empty boast.

  General Custer would not let me ride against the Comanche, who are bitter enemies of our cousins, the Cheyenne. The General said I was too young. He said if the enemy proved too strong, the white soldiers may be forced to flee. This was a lie. I knew the General would not abandon the woman who made him smile. Nor was it his nature to flee in the face of danger. Morning Star said the General followed a code that his own people thought foolish. A code once lived in ages past by men who wore iron suits, fought dragons, and saved beautiful women from ogres. I did not understand anything Morning Star said, but if someone was going to fight a dragon, I wanted to see it. Minutes after the soldiers left, Morning Star and I saddled our horses to follow.

  Chapter Six

  Negotiating With an Enemy

  “The men are saddling their horses,” Smith reported as I stepped out into the cold afternoon air. I wore the Spanish sword, the two Bulldogs, and carried my hunting rifle. My red scarf was tied carefully around my neck. Smith was dressed in the same buckskins he’d worn at the Little Big Horn.