Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  Travis reached to shake my hand. I accepted, hiding my reservations. What I suspected of the coming battle made me feel like a hypocrite.

  Travis and Crockett followed the other Alamo officers down the steep steps. Butler and Hughes were gone, too, leaving me alone with Slow. I sat down on a barrel near the edge of the roof, wondering where the enemy army was forming. What strength? Was my theory of their attack correct? If I was wrong, we were all in big trouble.

  I took out my pocket watch, found the key, and slowly wound the spring. It was almost nine o’clock. I remembered how Judge Bacon often toyed with the watch while talking, as he had when I asked for Libbie’s hand in marriage. The Judge had died two years later. Now he wouldn’t die for another thirty years. The watch I was holding wouldn’t even be invented until 1857.

  “You worry greatly,” Slow said. “Were you dishonest with the white soldiers?”

  “Less than truthful,” I replied. “I had hoped to delay Santa Anna’s attack for a few days. Give time for Tom to encroach on their flank. But it looks like my plan didn’t work. If the Mexicans throw their whole force at us in the morning, I don’t think we’ll hold.”

  “Mr. Kellogg said this Alamo fought bravely. He said your people remembered it for many years. Is this not the glory you seek?”

  “I’d rather not get everyone killed if I can help it. When the shooting starts, I want you to find Mrs. Dickenson. Stay with her until the battle is over.”

  “My place is at your side.”

  “You’re a brave lad. I sense someday you’ll be a great leader. It’s not your place to die at my side.”

  “Death cannot be so certain.”

  “There was a time I didn’t think so. I thought myself above such a fate, trusting in my luck. But my luck failed me at the Little Big Horn. Now I fear it might fail again.”

  I turned back to the open prairie, gazing at the darkness. How could so peaceful a scene be filled with death?

  “We will bleed the enemy,” I said, sighing deeply. “Bleed him so bad that Tom and Keogh will sweep up what’s left. There will be a free Texas, but I won’t be here to see it.”

  “The Great Spirit has not brought you this far for an early death. There is a plan.”

  “And what plan would this be? What is its purpose?”

  “I do not know the answer,” Slow admitted.

  “Youngster, I’m afraid that’s not much help,” I said, warming my hands at the brazier before going downstairs.

  I left Slow on the roof staring at the stars, apparently praying to his Great Spirit. Strangely, I heard birds chirping.

  “Going to get some sleep?” Crockett asked as I entered the quadrangle before the church.

  The small area had been transformed into a self-sufficient fort. One sentry stood near the palisade, everyone else having bunked down as ordered. I heard snoring from the long barracks.

  “You’ve done good work here, David. Unless the enemy is able to seize our artillery, it will be a hard position to take.”

  “That’s why you keep stressin’ the ’portance of spikin’ them cannon. We all got that.”

  “Nothing is worse than getting whipped with your own guns.”

  “This civil war you fought, sounds awful bad,” Crockett said.

  “Any sacrifice will be worthwhile if we can head it off.”

  “You know, if the people of this time knew what was coming, if they knew where this national division is taking us, maybe they’d think different on it,” Crockett suggested.

  “I wish that was so, but I doubt it. I’m no expert on history, but I know a lot of politicians. Once they dig in their heels, they’ll take us straight to hell regardless of the consequences.”

  “Guess I’m not one to disagree. Told many a tall tale to get elected to congress. Only lost because I decided to tell the truth.”

  “If we make it out of this, what are your plans? Sell your land grant and head back to Tennessee?”

  “That was my first thought. Only came out here to rebuild my fortune. Never did have much luck with money.”

  “I’m afraid my brother won’t make it back in time to help,” I whispered, not wanting the men to hear my doubts. “But a few might be able to hold out here in the church for an extra day. By then Tom will take what’s left of Santa Anna’s army to task. He’s a bright young man, but to make Texas what it needs to be, he’ll need your help.”

  “George, what are ya tryin’ to say?” Crockett asked.

  “Not really sure. Just thinking out loud.”

  “Just think about how we’re gonna win this fight,” he said, slapping me on the back. “When you’re out huntin’, and its gettin’ dark, and you’re startin’ to feel alone, it don’t help to wonder if the bear’s smarter than you.”

  “Santa Anna isn’t smarter than me. He just has more bears.”

  “Fer the last two weeks, I been worried that I’d die in this dry old rat trap. After ridin’ out to find Fannin, I even wondered if I should keep on goin’ until the Mississippi was at my back. I ain’t so worried now. Live or die, I’m in good company. Wouldn’t trade my place for nothin’ in this world, not even the White House.”

  “There were some who said my campaign against the Sioux was an attempt to win the Democratic nomination for president.”

  “Was it?”

  “Hell, David, I’m only thirty-six years old. The presidency is for old men.”

  “Not that old,” Crockett laughed, having aspired to the golden crown when he was forty-seven.

  “I’ve never wanted political office. Too much politicking. Too much backstabbing. The army has enough of that already. I just want to lead a force of good men and keep the peace. I like to read. I love the theatre. There was a time I thought to make a career as a writer. I could even teach at a military college, despite my academic record. Not everything young men need to know is found in books.”

  “I wrote a book. Well, wrote one with help from a friend. Wrote it about myself, and made some money, too. Maybe one day we can write a book together.”

  “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot. Custer and Crockett, written by themselves.”

  The Alamo was quiet as a tomb. As I thought, the Mexican artillery had gone silent to lull the defenders into a deep sleep. An effective tactic against amateurs. The moon had risen in the east, just two days past full. I guessed sunrise about 6:30. Time to get some rest, for I needed to be up in five hours.

  “Good night, David. Sleep while you can. Tomorrow will be a long day,” I said, shaking the old bear hunter’s hand.

  “You need it more than me,” Crockett said with a grin.

  I crawled over the makeshift barrier between the long barracks and the low barracks, going to my quarters near the room where Bowie’s body lay hidden under a pile of blankets. A few suspected the famous knife fighter had made his last battle, but we all had other things to worry about.

  Falling asleep wasn’t a problem. I was bone tired and ready to close my eyes. Tomorrow would be March 6th, 1836. A Sunday. If Santa Anna decided to attack, it would be a bloody day. The bloodiest I had seen since Cedar Creek. As a youngster, I had eagerly sought battle against the enemy. Sought glory at any cost. Looked forward to reading my name in the newspapers, and losing myself in the passion of my Libbie’s seductive embrace. Always the dashing young cavalier whose luck never failed. Now I only felt weariness. I was getting old.

  I remained on the stone building after Custer left, realizing for the first time that he expected to lose his great battle. And in losing, the future of my people would be lost with him. This could not be why Wakan Tanka had reversed the course of history. But the enemy was vast, as large as a buffalo herd. The white general needed help. What help could I provide? What help would the Great Spirit allow? I sat near the fire of red coals and began to chant. The great knife I had found in the room of the dead Bowie lay at my side, a long blade much revered by the white-eyes. I cut a small flake of flesh from my arm, dropping
it into the fire. And then another. The stars glowed brighter. The moon smiled. More strips of flesh were offered to the flames, but this was not the vision quest I had performed after the Rosebud battle, where a hundred pieces of my body had been given in sacrifice. That vision had revealed the white soldiers falling into our camp. A vision that presaged both victory and disaster. I needed no more darkness. I was seeking light. A solution to my people’s woes. I prayed. And I saw blood.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By Dawn’s Early Light

  I woke up from a strange dream. I was standing on a weed-covered hillside above the Little Big Horn, but there were no hordes of hostile Indians. A small village lay in the valley below, mostly hunting lodges, and all was peaceful. Women were curing buffalo hides, children were playing in the cold rushing river, and dogs guarded a herd of horses grazing in the tall green grasses. A red, white and green flag flew from one of the teepees.

  My hunting rifle lay on a blanket at my feet. Near a picnic basket. The day was warm, cloudless. Late spring. I was not wearing an army uniform, but a checkered cotton shirt and buckskin breeches. And moccasins. Had I become an Indian?

  I plucked at a stringy curl, finding a strand of thin gray hair. Not helpful. Then I remembered my watch, finding it where it should always be, in my breast pocket. The watch I found was not my father-in-law’s, but something more modern, and engraved, to Autie, with love, from I. Glancing at the silver facing, I saw a reflection. Distorted, but clear enough to see an old white man wearing spectacles. I took the spectacles off, discovering myself nearsighted, and studied my wrinkled hands.

  I was not an Indian. Someone waved from the river, a slender man with long black hair. It looked like Slow, only decades older. Others were coming from the village, gesturing. They wanted me to come down the hill and join them. Smoke was rising from the campfires. I smelled trout. Was I late for supper? I began to stand, but suddenly my knees grew weak. There was pain in my left arm. A shortness of breath. I fell back into the grass, one hand on my heart, the other on my rifle. A beautiful blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon.

  * * *

  It was morning, dark and cold. I had slept fully clothed except for my boots, which I pulled on with a grunt. I strapped on the Spanish steel saber, then my leather holster with the two Bulldogs. Fifty rounds of ammunition were tucked in my pockets for quick retrieval. I picked up Tom’s Winchester and checked to be sure there was a shell in the chamber. Then I tied the red silk scarf around my neck, careful not to aggravate the deeply bruised wound, and tugged on my gray wide-brimmed campaign hat. If this was to be George Armstrong Custer’s last fight, I’d go out the way I’d lived.

  “Good morning, General,” Corporal French said, waiting outside my door.

  “Get some sleep?” I asked.

  “A little. Hard to get too much,” he explained.

  “We’ll sleep good tonight, one way or the other,” I said with a grin.

  “Yes, sir,” French said, almost returning the smile.

  John appeared. It looked like he hadn’t slept at all. He still carried the flintlock pistol in his belt, but I considered him a noncombatant.

  “Doctor Pollard and Mrs. Dickenson will need help in the church. I’d like you to stay there until the fighting’s done,” I said.

  “Rather help you, sir,” John protested.

  “Not recruiting Buffalo soldiers today,” I said.

  “Not recruitin’ who, sir?”

  “An all-negro cavalry regiment. The 10th. Maybe someday we’ll make our own 10th regiment, but not now. I need you helping Mrs. Dickenson.”

  John reluctantly obeyed, walking slowly toward the decrepit old church while French and I went around the compound, quietly waking the garrison while reminding everyone to stay silent. I found Crockett first and roused his Tennessee boys, most of whom were not even from Tennessee. So much for the myth.

  Hughes and Butler had already stirred, putting our men in position. Ten would go with Butler to the roof of the long barracks, eight more on the roof of the low barracks, and the rest would support either me or Crockett inside the south wall. Our internal defense line had been established from the platform holding the 18-pounder at the southwest corner to Crockett’s position before the church. Spotted Eagle and Slow appeared out the darkness. The teenager was ready for a good fight, holding a Colt pistol. A steel hatchet was tucked in his belt. He’d painted his face with red and black streaks. He was also wearing a blue cavalry blouse, the one that had belonged to the late Private Milton of F Company.

  Slow seemed a bit withdrawn, his eyes red and arms wrapped in thick fur. He did not look at me with his usual curiosity.

  “Light the candles, my friend,” I ordered, handing a torch to Spotted Eagle.

  Some people say Indians can see in the dark. I don’t believe it. Growing up in Monroe, nearly everyone was white, but the more I’d seen of different types of people, the more it seemed they were all essentially the same. Except for the defects of their character. Nevertheless, Spotted Eagle was half my age and likely to see better in the dark than I, so he had been given a special mission.

  Two paths led from the north wall to our defensive line near the low barracks. Ditches and stake barriers had been placed across the compound to slow an enemy charge, but the obstacles would also hamper the retreat of Travis and his men. To make the withdrawal safer, small oil pots had been placed to mark the planks over the ditches. Once the retreat was complete, the planks would be pulled back and the pots kicked over. At least, that was the plan. Amid the smoke and chaos of battle, who could say what would happen?

  Spotted Eagle took the torch and began lighting the pots. I followed, finding Travis in a gutted bungalow on the west wall close to his post. He was already awake but not yet armed.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “A little before four,” I said, checking my watch.

  Travis’s slave was sleeping on a pallet in the corner. As slavery goes, Joe’s could be worse. He dressed warmly, ate what Travis ate, and slept where Travis slept. But he was not free to go his own way. There was a time in my life when I wouldn’t have cared. My father had told me that slavery was the South’s problem, but I’d come to believe my father had been wrong about that.

  “Morning, Joe. Mrs. Dickenson will be making breakfast in a few minutes,” I said.

  Joe looked to Travis, who agreed with a nod. I could tell Travis would prefer to have Joe at his beck and call, but he was not in command. Joe’s ownership was one of the many issues to be decided after the battle. If we were fortunate enough to live so long.

  “Thank you, sir. Can I fetch you some, Mr. William?” Joe asked.

  “Wish we still had some coffee left,” Travis said, sending Joe away with a wave of his hand. He was still sleepy, the Alabama drawl a bit more pronounced.

  “Remember to spike the guns,” I said.

  “We won’t need to. They’ll never get over the wall,” Travis replied.

  “I need your word.”

  “We have spikes and mallets next to each gun. If I can’t hold, we’ll ram the touchholes before withdrawing.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” I said, offering to shake hands.

  Travis appeared surprised, then accepted the gesture. He seemed the type of a man who would make a good friend or a determined foe.

  We walked up the dirt ramp to the bastion on the northwest corner. The gun crew was yet to arrive, but the powder was safely stored under a heavy tarp, protected from the damp weather.

  With dawn still two hours away, there was no glimmer of light from the east. If the moon was still up, it was hidden behind the clouds. The platform held two 6-pounders. Solid shot and canister loads were piled along the ledges. Fifteen yards to our right, another platform held two more 6-pounders. Between us, the wall was battered so badly that only a few adobe bricks and bent timbers were holding it together. Jameson had wanted to shore the wall up but I told him not to bother. We were joined a f
ew minutes later.

  “Morning, boys,” I whispered, recognizing Bonham and a few others in the dim light. I pointed back across the compound where a dozen small trail markers were burning. “Remember, when you hear the bugle, come running.”

  “Won’t need your bugle, sir, but thank you all the same,” Bonham said, wrapped in a heavy fur coat and drinking some sort of warm porridge from a clay mug.

  There was no point in arguing.

  “Give ‘em hell, boys,” I said, going back down into the compound.

  Hughes and Spotted Eagle were waiting for me, and the blond-haired youngster, Jimmy Allen, who I was using as a messenger.

  “Everyone at their posts, sir. Some of the powder got a little damp,” Hughes reported.

  “Low grain, it will still fire,” I said, hopefully. “Jimmy, tell Crockett to watch out. They might be on us anytime now. Spotted Eagle, make sure Slow stays with Mrs. Dickenson. He worries me. Bobby, check on the 18-pounder. It’s the key to our position.”

  They dashed off, no questions and no debate. There was no more time for that. I followed the trail of firepots, not wanting to start the battle in a ditch impaled on a wooden stake. The long barracks lay on my left, a strong position if properly supported. The west wall was to the right, so weak it amazed me that anyone thought it could be held. The wall was barely nine feet high, had no parapets and no bastions. Only a day before, there had been two large holes cut in the adobe for cannon ports that I immediately ordered sealed up. Amateur engineers. Untrained militia. Undisciplined frontiersmen. And lawyers for officers. My God, what had I gotten into?

  No, it wasn’t the men. They were better than could be expected, under the circumstances. It was the waiting. My whole career had been spent as a cavalry officer. Sure, there was endless paperwork, tedious ceremonies, and the dreary boredom of life on a frontier post, but when it came time to fight, I was accustomed to probing the enemy, looking for an opening, and launching an attack. Through hard experience, I had learned that taking the offense was the surest path to victory. More often than not, the only path.