“Trouble, George?” Santa Anna asked, once again mounted on his tall Spanish gelding while I was riding Traveller.
“Standard practice, Antonio,” I said. “Sergeant Santos, answer with a six-gun volley.”
Fort Yuma was on a small elevation guarding the ferry on our side of the river. It wasn’t a big fort, but boasted two 6-pounders and a staff of twenty, most assigned to patrol duties. The town of Yuma on the opposite bank had grown considerably since my visit eighteen months before. Near the confluence of the Colorado and Gila Rivers, it had become a hub for New Mexico trade.
And there were docks. Someone had figured out that supplies could be brought upriver from the Gulf of California and started a shipping business with a small steamboat. Of course, I knew this had been standard practice in the 1870s when Yuma had been a Quartermaster Depot for the U.S. Army, but I hadn’t thought to exploit it myself. I didn’t know if Robinson’s Landing or Port Isabel had been founded yet, but guessed they soon would be.
We received a hardy welcome by the thousand or so residents, mostly Quechan Indians and Mexicans. A Catholic mission been established by some ambitious Franciscans, and the hills were filled with cattle brought in from the west. The town seemed peaceful, the people were well armed with muskets and even a few Baker rifles. Desperados would think heavily before raiding such a settlement. A Buffalo Flag flew proudly from the presidio.
We stayed a day to rest the animals, enjoying a fiesta where Santa Anna was the guest of honor, and then headed east. We were thirty miles short of Tucson, in the heart of Apache country, when a group of horsemen approached from the southwest. At first I thought they were cavalry, wearing blue jackets and flying a guidon, but I soon realized that was not the case.
“Chiricahua, Gen’ral. Looks like they has massacred one of our troops. Took their uniforms,” Bouyer said.
“Skirmish line, sir?” Captain Autry asked, looking nervous by their rapid approach.
It was probably the smart move, but something about them didn’t speak of a hostile force. I’d ridden the Great Plains for years. One gets a feeling for such things. Besides, the land was flat and open, the only protection sagebrush and cactus. The thirty or so riders could not hope to prevail against a force of three hundred.
“It is Cheis,” Tatanka said, riding next to me on a sturdy sorrel Crockett had bought for him. Not that Tatanka couldn’t afford to buy his own horses.
“I remember. He was the young chief in the village that Carson attacked,” I said.
“It was not an attack. We took back that which was stolen,” Tatanka said, insulted by the implication. Which struck me as strange, for the Sioux are notorious horse thieves.
“Crockett, take the men on to Tucson, I will speak with our strange comrades of the trail,” I ordered.
“Think’in that’s a good idea?” Crockett asked, his Springfield laid across his lap.
“I reckon so, David,” I responded, my weapons holstered.
“I will stay with General Custer,” Tatanka announced.
The command rode on, kicking up dust now that the spring rains were gone. Tatanka and I waited for the riders, our mounts impatient. I dismounted and gave each a handful of grain, whispering encouragement. Tatanka glared at the newcomers. He had not liked the Apache on first acquaintance, and nothing had changed since.
“General Custer, greetings,” Cheis said, leaping from his stout mustang to shake hands. His English had improved.
“Greetings, Cheis. Have you married the daughter of Mangas Coloradas?” I asked.
“Dos-teh-seh is my wife,” he replied, thumping his chest.
Again I was impressed with this man. Six feet tall, broad-chested, with classical features and piercing gray eyes. I wondered if there was a Spaniard in his family tree, possibly an aristocrat. His blue woolen jacket had silver buttons down the front and captain’s bars on the shoulders. The trousers were gray, reinforced in the seat with white canvas.
“You ride as a cavalry battalion. May I ask why?” I said.
“We are Company B, 8th Cavalry, reporting to Governor Sharrow,” Cheis replied, partly in English and partly in Spanish. “We are summoned to Tucson for the Great War.”
Cheis raised a Springfield rifle and shouted. His men shouted even louder. They were all young and eager for adventure.
“Texas is a far distance, my friend. Far from the land of the Chiricahua,” I warned, for I had doubts such volatile warriors could be controlled.
“We will win glory in battle,” Cheis said. “We will take many rifles and many horses from our enemies. We will steal cattle from the Mexicans. We will return with boots, blankets, tobacco and coffee. And the silver promised by Governor Sharrow.”
Cheis waved to his color bearer, who unrolled a swallow-tailed version of the Buffalo Flag. I suddenly realized these were my soldiers, riding under my colors, like the Apache scouts who had served General Crook. I glanced for Tatanka’s reaction, expecting him to be displeased, but his mood was one of contemplation.
“All men seek glory,” Tatanka said.
“Captain Cheis, it will be my honor to ride with you,” I said. “But your men must maintain order. Mantener el orden. The reputation of the Apache is fierce. Many will be afraid if you do not show proper discipline.”
“General Custer, we trained for six moons in El Paso with Governor Sharrow,” Cheis said. “Company B can outride any troop, outfight any unit, and outdrink any man in the army. We know our duty.”
I sensed he did. He was a proud young man at the head of a proud unit. It reminded me of my 5th Michigan Wolverines.
“Then let us move on to Tucson. We can be there by nightfall,” I said.
“Sooner, General. We know a quicker route than the road taken by wagons,” the chief said. “And now that we serve together, you should use the name given me by my white allies.”
“And what would that be?” I asked.
“I am known as Cochise.”
____________
My detachment reached Tucson in the late afternoon, an hour before the main column. The fields were rich with spring planting, but only a few women and children were working the crops. A handful of old men armed with muskets watched from the presidio walls. They did not acknowledge our approach. As I was riding with the Apache, I could not fault them.
The town was in disarray, the north side of the river virtually deserted. I found scattered wagons near a pontoon bridge formed in a circle, but saw no horses and few mules. The citizens of Tucson appeared holed up on the south side of the river. A Buffalo Flag flew from the roof of the church.
“Mexicans hide from the Chiricahua,” Cochise said.
“They fly the Buffalo Flag, my friend. You must earn their trust,” I scolded.
“This Governor Sharrow has taught us, but it is not an easy lesson,” Cochise agreed, reining in near the river.
After a few minutes, Señor Jose Juarez came out from the main gate and walked across the plank and barrel bridge, bobbing up and down with the rough spring run-off. He looked worried but composed, unhappy about the company I was keeping.
“General Custer, I have word from Santa Fe,” the alcalde said, reaching into the pocket of his green frock coat.
The note was from Bill Sharrow. I gave it a quick read.
“What is it?” Crockett asked.
“Sharrow needs help in Santa Fe. Seems a large wagon train has arrived from Missouri filled with unruly immigrants,” I said, reading the note again.
“Should I take a few of the boys?” Crockett offered.
“No, David. We have more urgent business. Captain Cochise, please bivouac your men upriver,” I said. “Rest the horses. Tomorrow, you must ride for Santa Fe.”
“We would ride to Texas,” Cochise said.
“My friend, Governor Sharrow needs you to protect this land. Can I count on you to keep the peace?”
“Company B will help Governor Sharrow keep the peace,” Cochise promised. “I will ride to T
exas with Custer.”
“Cochise—”
Cochise put up his hand, the sharp gray eyes focused. He waited until I was forced to listen.
“I have told my people that I will go to Texas. I have told my wife,” Cochise said.
There was no use in arguing, so I waved Cochise on to inform his company they would be riding to Santa Fe without him.
____________
West Texas is an empty place except for tumbleweeds and rattlesnakes. The tall mesas can be beautiful, but they get monotonous after a while, and thick scrub brush often inhibits access to the rivers, especially in the late spring. Fortunately, the Custer Road was well built, the way stations adequately stocked, and water readily available. We moved fast, but not so quickly as to exhaust the mounts. I’d finally learned my lesson on that score.
It was early May when we finally reached the Medina River and found the first evidence of trouble. The tiny village of Castroville had expanded with the tents of refugees from San Antonio, which we learned was under siege. Most were women and children, with just enough men to discourage the Comanche. Their ammunition was low but we had none to spare. I could only promise that if they were attacked, the Seventh Cavalry would seek revenge. And then we moved on.
Nearly twenty miles later, just short of Leon Creek, we saw smoke rising from the east. It was not a small fire. I guessed the San Antonio was being burned but could not be sure. Being late in the day, and with eight miles to go, we would not be there before nightfall.
“We should press on,” Santa Anna said.
“A night movement could be dangerous,” I disagreed.
“If General Sesma had seized Béjar on the 22nd like I ordered, the rebel garrison would not have taken shelter in the Alamo on the 23rd,” Santa Anna recalled. “The Army of Operations suffered hundreds of casualties instead of a handful. That mistake should not be made again.”
“What do you think, Crockett?” I asked.
“Shot more bears at night than in the day, George,” Crockett answered.
“Then we march. Order the command to tie down everything that makes noise, especially their sabers,” I said. “Column of fours, maintain separation between the units. And no shooting without orders. If the rebels have occupied the town, I don’t want them to know we’re nearby.”
“May I have the honor of the lead?” Santa Anna requested.
“You may, sir, and good luck,” I agreed.
We crossed the creek in good order. The night was fairly clear and we had the benefit of a waxing moon. I looked for Tatanka, for I did not want him lost in the confusion. Or riding ahead with Antonio, as he was inclined to do. He surprised me by returning just before sunset with a band of Lipan Apache.
“This is Chief Flacco and his first-born, Flacco the Younger,” Tatanka introduced. “They have fought the Mexicans, and they have fought Comanche. Now they wish to fight for Texas.”
“Greetings, warriors,” I said, not sure if they spoke English.
“This is a time to stand with friends,” Flacco said with a rough accent.
The elder chief was a vigorous gray-haired man about fifty years old. His son appeared about twenty and every inch a horseman. I knew the Lipan to range southwest of San Antonio, sometimes as far as the Rio Grande. Flacco had a good reputation with white settlers in the region, and I had read stories of him riding with the Texas Rangers.
“You are welcome allies,” I said, shaking his hand. “We have food and drink to share. Your horses may graze with ours.”
As the Apache went to make camp, I turned to Tatanka.
“Where did you find them?” I asked.
“They have found us. I will ride with them to Béjar,” Tatanka said.
“Those Indians are brave, but they have no training,” I complained. “Stay with the regimental staff. I may need you to ride messenger.”
“I will learn how to fight in the badlands of Texas,” Tatanka insisted.
“Flacco will be a good teacher, I’m sure. Be careful,” I said.
As Tatanka disappeared into the dark, Crockett rode up. I had attached my staff to his troop, following a few hundred yards behind Santa Anna.
“Guess we is ready. What do you reckon we’ll find?” Crockett asked.
“Bears,” I said.
The farms leading into San Antonio were deserted, the fields stripped clean of crops and livestock. A cannon sounded in the distance, and flames were seen as we crested a hill overlooking the river valley. Some were bonfires, at least one was a building near the plaza.
“Crockett, Cochise, Chief Flacco, you’ll ride with me,” I decided. “Autry, advance on La Villita. Hold the ford open in case we get in trouble.”
I motioned for our group to make a right oblique, leaving the main road toward a river crossing a few miles downstream from Béjar, then riding northeast through pastures until reaching the Alameda.
The Alameda was long dirt road running east and west, heavily lined by cottonwoods. In my own time, it had been known as Commerce Street. Using the trees to screen our movement, we soon reached the top of a hill where Tom, Kellogg and I had first seen the besieged Alamo two years before. It was besieged again, but not with the force I expected.
“What do you make of it?” Crockett asked, squatting next to me in the tall damp grass. I studied the scene with my binoculars.
“There’s an army camped north of the Alamo, and I see a battery posted on Powder House Hill,” I observed. “Can’t tell who is who.”
“Do we still hold Béjar?” Crockett asked.
“Santa Anna is about to find out. He’s only a mile from San Pedro Creek,” I said.
I waited to hear if there’d be gunfire. I hadn’t thought what the reaction would be to a largely Mexican force approaching in the dark. Would Santa Anna suffer the same fate as Stonewall Jackson?
“Who goes there?” a voice shouted from our right. It was a Southern accent, possibly Georgia.
“Who’s askin’?” Crockett shouted back.
“Fannin’s Volunteers,” the picket announced.
“Are we holdin’ that Alamo?” Crockett deceptively asked.
“Fer awhile longer. General Fannin’s got us pullin’ back to Goliad,” the sentry explained.
“Why’s that?” Crockett persisted.
“Scouts say an army is coming this a way. Mostly Mex’cans and In’dins. Where ya been?” Fannin’s man said.
“Californy,” Crockett answered, firing a shot in the air.
There was a burst of activity all along the ridge. We could hear officers calling for their men. I stood up and fired my pistol into the dark, and then Crockett’s company fired a volley.
“Charge!” I shouted, running forward with my sword drawn.
We were only sixty strong, with no idea of our opposition’s strength, but we were on their flank, like the Rebs at Chancellorsville, and under cover of darkness. I could see movement against the light of their campfires while we were just shadowy phantoms.
We crossed the Alameda toward Powder House Hill, covering ground quickly toward the old weather-beaten watchtower that spied down on the Alamo a thousand yards away. A guard post was overrun, two men surrendering and two others killed. I tried to stay in the lead but some of the younger boys were getting ahead, slashing with swords and jabbing with lances. One daring private had a bayonet mounted on his Baker rifle and drove it though a surprised picket’s chest. I wished it had been Fannin.
The enemy began shooting back, but the resistance was sporadic, without structure. I supposed they thought us an army of Mex’can and In’dins. When two gray-garbed militia suddenly loomed on my right, I drew a Bulldog and shot both of them. One went down forever, the other started to crawl off, then twisted around and pointed a pistol at me. Corporal Garcia shot him in the head.
“Occupy the ridge!” I shouted, for I didn’t want my men spreading out toward the cemetery in the dark.
We pushed on toward the campfires of the ridgetop outpost. Th
ere was some hand-to-hand fighting, grunts and groans, and the occasional wounded man, but no organized resistance. I noticed Cochise and several Lipan Apache rounding up horses.
The watchtower was abandoned by the time I got there, two bronze 8-pounders having been captured. The rebels had broken northeast into the wilderness, leaving most of their supplies. Even their bedding, which Crockett’s men quickly scooped up.
“Should we mount a pursuit?” Crockett asked, out of breath.
“No, Colonel. Custer’s luck got us this far. I’m not going to press it,” I said.
I climbed up on a low adobe wall to look at San Antonio. Our action on the ridge had been noticed, but the garrison in the town were not sallying out. Much closer, the Alamo could be seen by the light of a large bonfire. There was activity around the corral. I guessed enemy militia still had a force occupying the battered mission.
“Crockett, have your men hold this position,” I ordered. “Garcia, you’re with me.”
I returned to the thicket where we had left our horses and mounted Traveller, sheathing my sword and putting the Bulldog back in the holster. My regimental staff was helping Captain Badillo secure the hill, but I only needed one orderly.
“Pedro, will you carry my personal guidon?” I offered.
The young Tejano smiled and took the flag, mounting his spirited stallion to ride at my side. The skirmish had been his first real battle, and he’d performed well. His parents would be proud.
We rode down the Alameda slowly, the Alamo off to our right, the tall cottonwoods on the left. The ground leveled out as we crossed over an irrigation ditch and approached the bridge. But it was no longer the crude suspension bridge I had known. Keogh had replaced it with a log bridge made of cypress and cedar, sturdy enough for freight wagons. I saw a redoubt on the other side.
“Quién va allí?” a sentry shouted.
“Custer de la séptima caballeria,” Garcia answered, halting twenty feet back of the bridge.
“Tomas?” the voice said.
“George,” I replied.
“What’s that?” a Virginia voice asked.
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