“That you, Baugh?” I asked.
“General Custer?” Baugh said.
“Thought you deserted on me,” I replied.
“Came back, sir. Brought a company New Orleans Grays with me,” he boasted.
“Glad to hear it, John. May I pass?” I requested.
“Be careful. Town’s all shot up,” he warned.
The bridge appeared weakened by cannon shot, creaking under the horse’s hooves, but there seemed no danger of collapse. The sentries we saw in the struggling moonlight were bedraggled. Worn out. Several had been wounded but were still on duty. Baugh was once again in his gray uniform, though tattered.
“My compliments, señors,” I said, offering the brave men a salute.
Garcia and I rode up the muddy road toward the plaza. Many of the small farm houses were wrecked, the fences torn up. I saw where Green Jameson had erected a wall around the plaza enclosing the church, presidio and many of the old adobe buildings. On the far side of town, I saw Santa Anna’s troops walking their horses in our direction. There was no formal gate, but several men pulled open a barricade for us to enter. Campfires and lanterns lit the area.
“George, this is a surprise,” Keogh said, rushing up as I dismounted. The man looked like hell, thin, ragged and bearded. His command looked equally stressed.
“General Keogh, looks like you’ve had a time,” I said, reaching to shake hands.
“Two weeks of hard fighting, sir. Burleson’s men came in from the east, Fannin from the south. I think they were going to make a final effort until they heard you were coming,” Keogh said.
“We found Fannin’s rearguard on Powder House Hill. Did Burleson leave without him?” I asked.
“Our spy says the two of them have been fighting like cats and dogs,” Keogh said. “Houston hates Burleson so much, he refused to come. Lucky for us these Texians spend more time fighting each other than us.”
“Losses?”
“Eighty-seven dead at last count. Close to two hundred wounded,” he reported. “Damn Rebs got it worse, most likely, but no way of knowin’ for sure.”
“Where’s my brother?”
“La Casa de Caminar-en-la-Hierba,” Keogh said, pointing toward Main Street.
“Where?”
“Your old headquarters,” Keogh explained. “Walking-in-Grass started a dormitory there for orphans. They make blankets. At the moment, it’s a hospital.”
“Tom’s wounded?”
“Early in the fight, but he should make it,” Keogh said. “Young Harrington weren’t so lucky. Shot though the heart. Smith may lose his arm. Bill Cooke led a raid behind the enemy lines. We haven’t heard from him in several days.”
I felt like this was my fault, but disguised my thoughts. This was no time for introspection.
“Thanks, Myles,” I said, gripping his shoulder.
I heard a cheer go up. Or was it a jeer? Santa Anna rode into the light of the bonfires, much to the surprise of all. The Tejanos in our numbers were encouraged, old wrongs forgotten. I must admit, the dictator looked grand on his white horse wearing a cocked hat, the gilt sword hanging at his side. He smiled graciously, especially to the ladies.
“We heard you took him in,” Keogh whispered.
“Best we gather every ally we can,” I quietly replied, for Keogh’s army looked more defeated than victorious. “Help Santa Anna quarter his troops. Officer call at dawn.”
I went to my former headquarters, a fine hacienda across the street from the San Fernando Cathedral, dreading what I might find. Tom had been wounded before, most seriously at Sailor’s Creek, where a Reb had shot him while the daring scalawag was seizing a Confederate battle flag.
“General,” Sergeant Voss said, jumping from a chair at the door of the hacienda.
“Henry, you hurt, too?” I said.
“Just lost a finger, sir. I’ll still be sounding my trumpet,” he said, holding up the bandaged hand streaked with blood.
Without thinking, I embraced my young subordinate, happy to see him alive and with such courage. Voss was surprised and uncomfortable with the gesture.
“General Custer is inside, sir. Should be awake,” Voss said.
I entered slowly. The hall was lit with oil lamps. I heard the moans of the wounded. There were a dozen women, Mexican, Indian and a few whites, tending thirty or forty soldiers in the former dining room. One looked up, her eyes growing wide, and she rushed toward me.
“Autie, you’ve come,” Isabella said, keeping her voice low despite obvious excitement.
“Not too late, I trust. How is your father? Your brother?” I asked, giving her a hug.
“My father is well. He moved what he could of the armory to Bowie’s casa,” Isabella said. “Juan rode away with Bill. We haven’t heard from them in days.”
“They’ll be fine. Cooke’s come through worse than this,” I said.
“Tom is in the master bedroom with Morning Star. He’ll be glad to see you,” Isabella said.
“I can only hope,” I replied.
We passed through the outer rooms, stopping among the men to whisper encouragement. I recognized many, some of them from the original Seventh Cavalry, some from the Alamo garrison who had once served Bowie and Travis. The majority I did not recognize, volunteers Keogh had recruited during my absence. I paid them my attentions, too.
“Autie?” Morning Star said, looking up from a chair next to a quilt covered bed.
I saw Tom propped up in the candlelight, his face pale and chest wrapped in bandages. He was holding a Spanish bible. Morning Star rushed to embrace me, tears in her eyes. Odd, I thought, for I’d always thought her more stoic. I took the red scarf from around my neck and dabbed her face.
“It’s going to be all right,” I said.
Tom seemed half asleep until noticing me at his side.
“Forgot to duck?” I asked.
“What are you doing here?” Tom weakly replied.
“Ghost walk.”
“Long way for that,” he said.
“We’ve made longer journeys,” I replied.
“Come alone?”
“Brought Crockett, Santa Anna, and three hundred good men. What’s our assignment, sir?”
“Conquer Texas,” Tom said, resting back and closing his eyes.
I quietly went to the far side of the room. Walking-in-Grass was sitting by the fire with three young apprentice nurses, the ancient toothless woman looking at me with large black eyes. She had become the mother of my regiment after our transition from another place and time, and now she was revered by hundreds more. I knelt at her feet, taking her wrinkled hand.
“Como estás, madre?” I asked in Spanish, for I’d never learned to speak Lakota.
“I am well, George,” she answered in English.
“Thank you for taking care of my brother.”
“One accepts no thanks for helping family.”
“How is Spotted Eagle? I hoped he could come to California,” I said, for I’d grown fond of the young lad in our travels.
“My grandson is to the east, riding scout for Colonel Seguin. There is much danger in this land,” she said.
“I’ll bring him back safe,” I promised, possibly foolishly.
I caught a catnap near the back door to the stables and was up before dawn, finding a water bowl to wash my face. An early morning mist rose from the river, invading the downtown streets. There was the rank smell of decaying bodies not yet moved to the cemetery.
“How is the husband of my sister?” Tatanka asked, emerging from the fog in a mud-streaked buckskin outfit. He had Bowie’s knife in a sheath on his belt and a carbine slung over his shoulder, looking older than his years.
“Thomas should be fine if there is no infection. Morning Star and Walking-in-Grass sit at his bedside. Where have you been?”
“My command has taken position north of the Alamo, awaiting orders,” he replied.
“Burleson?” I asked.
“Running for Gonza
les,” Slow reported. “Only the Alamo stands against us.”
We walked across the plaza, past the looming church, and into the presidio, finding the surviving officers gathering outside the hundred-year-old governor’s palace. Though, in fact, the single-story hacienda wasn’t much of a palace, nor was it used by governors, normally housing Béjar’s garrison commander. Nevertheless, it had room for our meeting and a kitchen to prepare breakfast.
Thirty of us found space in the grand dining room, twenty on fine wooden chairs, and the rest on benches or milling about. I saw Keogh, Crockett, Santa Anna, Smith with his wounded arm in a sling, Brister, Baugh, Cochise, and many others, all gritted with determination. I was sorry to hear of young Harrington’s fate, having been killed defending the Alamo armory.
“With President Crockett’s permission, I now assume command of our country’s army,” I announced, standing at the head of the table.
I did not cut the best figure, having slept in my clothes, but few looked much better. This was not the spit and polished Union Army enjoying our well supplied bivouac on the Potomac, but a battle-hardened force ready for more. Or so I hoped and expected.
“General Keogh, a report for those of us newly arrived,” I requested.
The Irishman stood up, not tall but broad-shouldered, his hair cut close. He’d taken time to clean his uniform and patch the tears.
“The Brazos Convention has moved to San Felipe. They are offering gold to recruits,” Keogh said. “Gold they plan to take from California. Thousands of Southerners poured in after the Patricio Massacre, taking Galveston back from the Mexicans. Winter was quiet, but come spring they moved down the coast and occupied Victoria.
“Harrington and I rode to Copano and met with General Filisola, still licking his wounds. We agree to give up Goliad until the rebels were defeated so the army could concentrate on defending Gonzales.”
“That worked out fine,” Captain Forsyth sarcastically said from the back of the room, accompanied by muttering agreement.
“I’m not entertaining criticism at this time, Mister Forsyth,” I rebuked, looking at the other complainers with a glare of warning. No soldier likes to give away a position that was honestly won.
“When Refugio fell to Fannin, Seguin reported that Goliad was in trouble, too,” Keogh continued. “On March 22nd, the Rebs took La Bahia and put the garrison to the sword. Two hundred of Filisola’s men died, but he escaped to Matamoros. We’ve heard he’s going to abandon Texas entirely. We were forced to fall back on San Antonio and prepare for an attack.”
“That’s when Tom and I arrived,” Smith said, sitting opposite me at the far end of the long table. I hoped Dr. Lord had managed to save his arm, but remembered that General Phil Kearney still had a noble military career even after losing an arm at Churubusco. Until he was shot in the back by rebels in ’62.
“Please report, Colonel Smith,” I said.
“Señor Seguin had the armory established in the Alamo’s barracks, and General Keogh had tightened the fort’s perimeter, but Tom wasn’t convinced,” Smith said. “We started transferring the arsenal to Veramendi House. The powder, shot and molds for the cartridges were already safe when Burleson’s cavalry arrived. Henry—that is Major Harrington—thought the tools for making the Springfields could still be saved, but when Fannin launched a night attack, the Alamo was overrun. We lost forty good men, and Tom was wounded trying to save them. Henry died on the south bastion covering the retreat.”
Smith appeared spent, resting back in his chair. I wished Cooke was here. No one could present a more comprehensive report than Bill Cooke. Or Tom, who Dr. Lord would not release from his sick bed. I suddenly realized Juan Almonte wasn’t here, either, and no one had even mentioned him.
“Captain Forsyth, I believe you had something to say?” I requested.
Forsyth was sitting with Brister, Baugh and Blazeby, all good men who had served at the Alamo. I sensed Forsyth regretted his intemperate words. Something I rarely did.
“The Goliad army was led by Fannin, Tom Rusk and Mirabeau Lamar, sir,” Forsyth said. “Two thousand strong. Maybe more. Eight cannon. Burleson came from Gonzales, mostly cavalry and some militia. Three or four hundred. We barely had five hundred men under arms, but proved better than the odds.”
A soft cheer rose from the assembly. This was not a beaten army.
“Fought the bastards good for thirteen days, sir,” Sergeant Hughes said, side-by-side with Butler, Voss, French and Williamson. “They finally ran out of powder. Ran out of food, too. Most pulled back to Gonzales for supplies, but they left a hundred men in the Alamo, so we expect them back soon enough. A prisoner says Houston is comin’ with another thousand men.”
Every face in the room suddenly turned in my direction. Béjar was also low on powder, the food nearly gone. And an army of thousands might soon be knocking on our door again, with a legendary commander leading them. I stood up, adjusted my jacket, and walked thoughtfully around the room, a hand on the hilt of my saber. In the past, I might have bristled with arrogance and declared a plan to attack. I still wanted to.
“This has been a noble fight, gentlemen. The Third Battle of San Antonio will go down in the annals of history, but I don’t propose a fourth engagement on this ground,” I said. “Colonel Crockett, prepare your men to storm the Alamo this afternoon. General Santa Anna, you will command the assault. Lull the garrison into a sense of complacency, then move on them late in the day.”
“Thank you for the honor, General Custer,” Santa Anna said, departing with his staff. Crockett and Cochise followed, for they had much to do.
“We would have taken the fort in a day or two,” Keogh said.
“My men are fresh, General Keogh. We have a good supply of ammunition,” I said, for my desire was not to insult him. “Now that the batteries have been chased off Powder House Hill, the Alamo has no flanking protection. How soon can your command be prepared to march?”
“March?”
“I’m not staying here waiting for Houston, or waiting for our enemies to find new lines of supply,” I explained. “You have Cooke, Juan Seguin, and I assume Almonte out in the field?”
“Yes, they have orders to harass and delay reinforcements. That’s what cavalry does,” Keogh said.
“Then we’d better get out there and help,” I decided.
The battered town took new energy from my arrival. I had Chief Flacco ride about the streets with his Lipan Apache, reassuring all they were on our side. His warriors were flattered by female attention. I visited the church where dozens of wounded soldiers lay, offering encouragement as General McClellan had done during the Peninsular Campaign, for I needed their loyalty.
Before noon, I went to Veramendi House on Soledad Street just west of the river, passing through the large doors into the entry hall. Parlors lay to the left and right, a large courtyard just ahead. The Veramendi family had been prominent in Texas politics, inspiring Jim Bowie to marry Ursula Veramendi and become part of the Tejano community. Ursula, her parents, and her children died in the cholera epidemic of 1833, but Bowie had kept his prominence. His last words to me as he lay dying in the Low Barracks were to take care of his people. A task I had neglected.
"Señor Seguin, es bueno verte bien," I said, finding the elder statesman near the rear door. Beyond were wagons filled with tools, barrels, and a forge, all hurriedly loaded.
“I am not so well, George. I am a tired old man. It is good to see you,” Erasmo Seguin said, embracing me. I noticed Isabella in the courtyard and gave her a smile.
“You rescued the ammunition, and the Springfields,” I complimented.
“They did not get the weapons we already made, but they have the molds for the breechblocks,” Erasmo explained.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get them back,” I assured him, for if the molds were not still in the Alamo, they could not have gone very far. Not on these muddy Texas roads.
“I have enjoyed your letters from California. You must be ve
ry rich now,” Erasmo said.
“In time, perhaps we will both be rich. Are we not still partners?”
“We are,” he said, glad to be reassured. “What of you and my Isabella?”
“I mean to talk with you of that once we have the time.”
“There is something here for you. I had hoped to present it under more auspicious circumstances,” Erasmo said, going into the next room and reemerging with a leather rifle sheath. He opened the flap and pulled out a brand new Winchester, complete with silver inlays.
“This is marvelous,” I said, testing the rifle’s weight and looking down the sights.
“The armory has produced forty of them,” Erasmo proudly said. “Myles has one, and we have one for Colonel Crockett. Before the siege, we had six thousand rounds of ammunition. Most of that was expended, but there are still eight hundred rounds left.”
“Are you able to make more?” I asked.
“My shop boys produce two hundred cartridges a day, but more powder would be helpful,” he said, pointing to a separate building on the back of the lot, possibly once used as servant quarters. And his workers were boys, most of them barely teenagers.
“We brought a good supply from California, and there’s more on the way,” I assured him, and hoping it was true. Transporting heavy loads over thousands of miles never comes with a guarantee.
As Señor Seguin resumed rebuilding his armory, I looked for Isabella, but she had disappeared. We had not spoken much since our argument in San Francisco, nor did she seem anxious to speak now. I went into the street, studying the defensive positions Keogh had established to protect the town. Many of the redoubts had been built by General Cos in December of 1835, though he lacked the ability to man them properly. Keogh had done better.
I soon found Jimmy Butler, Bobby Hughes and Henry Voss following in my footsteps. I showed them my new Winchester. Voss was similarly armed, though Butler still preferred his Sharps and Hughes his lever action Henry.
“We formed a new unit, sir,” Hughes said. “Had to reorganize with so many casualties. We saved C Company for you.”
“Tom’s company?” I said.
“Young General Custer will be laid up for a bit, and we have places to ride. Don’t we?” Butler said.
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