Custer at the Alamo (37 page)

A heavy mist shrouded the woods as dawn broke over Powder House Hill. The half-dozen men holding the night watch in the trench soon found themselves overrun with swords and bayonets, but not before shouting for help.

“That’s it, lads! Have at them!” I yelled as gunfire echoed off the hills. And then the Alamo cannon opened fire, the guns along the north wall shelling the Mexican positions. Scattered rifle fire erupted throughout the valley, friend and foe aiming blindly at shadows.

I fired the musket, then tossed it aside and drew my Bulldogs, running toward the battery while we all screamed like banshees. The gun crews jumped to their posts to load the cannon, and one managed to ram a ball down, but didn’t have time fire. I shot the commanding officer, a young lieutenant, who bravely went down still calling out orders. The rest of the Mexicans fell in a storm of hot lead, our forty sweeping over fifteen startled defenders. But more enemies were on the way. Fifty or so soldiers were on the road, arriving for their morning posting. The yelling and firing had them confused. They began running toward us to see what the uproar was all about.

“Swing the gun around!” I shouted, jumping to the 6-pounder that was already loaded.

Four men quickly had the cannon turned. I picked up a match from a dead Mexican gunner.

“Watch out!” I warned, touching the fuse.

The gun roared, sweeping a red path of death down the road through the enemy ranks. The cannon jerked back from the force, the wheel hitting me above the ankle, for I had neglected to get myself clear. I would have cursed myself for a fool, but there wasn’t time.

“Are you all right, sir?” someone asked, helping me to my feet.

“Yes, private. French! French, where are you?”

“Here, sir!” French said, climbing over the sandbag barrier.

“Sound the charge!” I ordered, half running and half stumbling toward the enemy camp.

I was not in the lead, nor even close. The moment the 6-pounder had cut loose, men were driving on our objective. No more instructions were needed. No urging on. Our blood was up.

Thick trees and a rail fence screened us on one side, heavy brush along the river on the other. The road was strewn with dead and wounded men. Those who moved too much were instantly bayoneted. We had no time for the others.

The hovels of La Villita appeared on the right, the village in chaos. Not just soldiers, but women and camp followers were fleeing in every direction. A few of the Mexicans stood their ground, raising their muskets and firing. A man went down next to me, one of the buckskinned volunteers. Then I saw one of my own boys take a hit, Private Tim Donnelly of F Company. I holstered the Bulldogs and pulled out Tom’s Winchester, cocking and firing as I advanced steadily on the village. The closer I got, the better my aim.

The small group of Mexicans defending their camp tried to resist the onslaught, but all it brought them was destruction. Those who fell under our gunfire were rapidly finished off with swords and knives. No one was taking prisoners.

Suddenly Spotted Eagle was at my side. He had been told to stay behind with Crockett, but disobeyed. It reminded me of Tom at Sayler’s Creek. Though shot through the face and bleeding like a Virginia ham, Tom seized a Confederate battle flag, rode back to our lines in triumph, and then returned to the fight against orders.

Spotted Eagle was stripped to the waist, streaked in war paint, and wielding a bloody hatchet. When he let out a Sioux war cry, some of our terrified enemies froze. Others merely ran that much faster.

“Do not get yourself killed,” I told him.

“I cannot die at the General’s side,” he answered.

“Gray Wolf died at my side.”

“I am not my cousin. Today, I live forever!”

He saw a group of Mexicans heading for the river and went after them, thirsty for more coup.

A musket ball whistled past my head. I reloaded the Winchester and looked for the miscreant, but no one seemed to be giving me special attention. I shot a sergeant trying to reload his gun, then a private fumbling with his bayonet. Turning, I spotted an officer in a white uniform waving a lance, but he disappeared behind a shack before I could take aim.

Amid the fighting, I saw women grabbing babies, fleeing into the woods. An old woman rocked on the ground, an old man lying dead in her arms. A boy emerged from an adobe shack waving a cooking knife, only to be shot down.

“Sir, is something wrong?” French asked, coming to my side.

“For a moment, this reminded me of our attack on Black Kettle’s village. Warn the men to avoid shooting at the women and children.”

After a few hectic minutes, firing in our portion of the field gradually ceased. Skirmishes continued on the flanks, but we mounted no pursuit when the broken enemy ran for the west ford.

“Sir, we found some wagons. Ammunition wagons,” a breathless youngster said. He’d lost his leather hat, his wild red hair a mass of curls. Smoke streaked his pink face. It was Jimmy Allen. I’d seen him in the fort but didn’t realize he’d been assigned to my troop.

“Hitch some horses and take them home,” I ordered, breathless myself, for my shin ached.

“Already being done, sir. Ready in a few minutes,” Allen said, running back to wherever he had come from.

“Fire the shacks. Burn it all,” I said, finding a torch and setting it to a haystack.

Some of the men followed my lead, others were grabbing sacks of grain and tying them to the backs of burros, for the Alamo’s food supply was growing thin. I regretted not thinking of it myself.

Within minutes the ramshackle village was in flames, and we hardly needed to make an effort. The place had been a firetrap to begin with.

“French, sound recall,” I said, leaning against a rail fence.

The bugle call summoned our force back along the narrow road. We returned toward the Alamo, picking up equipment, retrieving our wounded, and cutting enemy throats along the way. From time to time, we came across an adversary who was so young that murdering them seemed a crime. Some died anyway, but a few were spared. All was random chance.

Among the fallen soldiers, I noticed a battle flag and picked it up. The red, white and green banner decorated with an eagle was a worthy souvenir of our effort.

We emerged into the open space where the roads came together. Crockett’s men were keeping a hot fire on the bridge where a hundred soldiers in blue uniforms were attempting to cross. Some of the enemy fired their muskets, but most were trying to press the bridge armed with bayonets. A dozen had already fallen.

I was relieved to see Crockett still alive, kneeling in the center of the line, firing his Springfield. Micajah knelt next to him, handing the former congressman ammunition as fast as he could reload. The smoke of the Texan muskets was thicker than the river fog.

Up Powder House Hill to the east, a cavalry charge of fifty dragoons was being forestalled by Sergeant Hughes, his skirmishers taking a heavy toll of officers. His favorite targets. The first rush was stopped with a volley. As the cavalry tried to reform, the flag bearers were shot from their saddles. Cannon from the rear of the Alamo chapel struck the enemy right flank. After a few minutes of frustration, the cavalry slowly withdrew, waving their short barrel carbines. None had even gotten within range.

The two wagons we’d captured were rushed toward the gate, followed by several burros. Suddenly the artillery pieces in the woods across the river opened fire. The first wagon exploded, blowing fragments and splinters in every direction. Both horses were killed and several men went down. Bits of flaming wreckage lit the gray trail.

Like many, I was momentarily stunned by the bright flash, catching my balance against a broken adobe wall. My leg still hurt. I aimed a revolver only to find the gun empty. Our retreat had stalled.

“Let’s go! Let’s go! Come on, boys,” I shouted, my voice high-pitched with excitement. I grabbed a soldier and pushed him toward the fort, and then another, waving the tattered Mexican flag.

The men began to move again. The surviving wagon was hurried on. Wounded men were helped to their feet, using their muskets as crutches. Two needed to be carried. I saw a burro rush by with a dead Texan thrown over its back.

As my men reached the approach to the lunette, Crockett’s men fell back in good order, then Hughes and Butler, collapsing the line we had extended fifteen minutes before. The Alamo walls were filled with riflemen protecting our retreat. The 18-pounder roared, then several of the 6-pounders. I could not see who or what they were firing on, for the confusion of battle was all around me. This is why cavalry commanders are so fond of their horses. It not only makes us look important to sit astride a noble steed, but it helps us see above the fray.

The men in the lunette hauled the wagon over the ditch into the fort. The burros were not so cooperative. A few were led across the creaking planks, the others unloaded and cut free. My men, having been exposed to the greatest danger, were the first to reach safety, followed by Crockett and Hughes. Butler’s troop brought up the rear, bringing the last of four dead and nine wounded. Not a bloodless foray.

* * *

It was the best breakfast I’d eaten in months. Pan-fried bacon, fresh flour biscuits, and a scrambled egg. I sat on a stool, a cracker barrel for my table, just outside my headquarters near the south gate. Crockett and Jameson were with me as I discussed a reorganization of the Alamo’s defenses. Kellogg had told me how the Alamo fell, in its original history, and I was determined not to make the same mistakes.

“Trouble in the town, general,” Captain Dickenson reported.

We ran up the gun platform next to the 18-pounder and looked west. Columns of black smoke swirled in the morning light, for it was barely after seven o’clock. The commotion was coming from the far side of San Antonio where we supposed Santa Anna’s supply wagons were parked. Travis joined us on the platform.

“What the living hell?” he said, looking through a spyglass.

I held my binoculars, but didn’t need them to answer the young lawyer’s question.

“It’s Captain Keogh. I gave him fifty men with orders to harass the enemy supply,” I explained. “Firing the 18-pounder this morning was a signal for him to attack. It’s just a raid, however. He’ll burn some wagons and then withdraw. Or he might burn a lot of wagons. The Irish like that sort of thing.”

“That’s not all, general. Take a look,” Jameson said, pointing toward the bridge.

What I saw was a surprise. Two Mexican officers were waving a white flag. It seemed that General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, the Napoleon of the West, was requesting a parley with the commander of the Alamo.

Custer had sent me south with his brother to learn of leadership, but it was a trick. He thought me too young to be a warrior. What the white general did not understand is that a warrior’s heart is not measured in years, and the farther I rode away on Custer’s horse, the more I thought about Wakan Tanka’s gift. Was it to seek more learning? Or was it to share the wisdom I already had? There were birds in the trees and I listened to their song, for the birds are not bound by that which can be seen from the earth. They told me of a great battle, with much blood and death. I gave my reasons to Thomas Custer, for I would not have him worry, and turned back, riding Custer’s horse as hard as I dared.

Chapter Eleven

I went back to finish breakfast, asking Jameson and Crockett to join me. Travis was unhappy not to be included, but he had duties on the north wall that required his attention. And from what I’d heard, Travis’s negotiating skills weren’t the best. Early in the siege, he had fired a cannon shot at Santa Anna’s messengers.

“The first day, I rode out to the bridge and met with Santa Anna’s adjutant,” Jameson recalled, sitting next to me outside the low barracks. “Bowie was still in command at the time. Or so I thought. We hoped to withdraw from San Antonio without a fight. The dictator’s minion said His Excellency would never negotiate with pirates.”

“Good I left my peg leg at home,” I said, dabbing my chin with a clean napkin. Quite the luxury in this godforsaken land.

“What do you think Santa Anna wants?” Crockett asked. “He’s not givin’ up the siege. His name would be shit in Mexico.”

“Does he think we’ll surrender after kicking his butt this morning?” Jameson asked. He ate another biscuit, knowing we might not have time later.

“We didn’t exactly kick his butt, Green. Just ruffled a few feathers,” I said, looking around to see if Juana might have another egg for me.

It was a greedy thought, though not an unusual one. Generals expect such things. Juana smiled but shook her head.

Having Juana Alsbury serve me was quite a privilege. She was the cousin of Bowie’s late wife and the daughter of a prominent San Antonio family. Her uncle had once been governor of Texas.

“Call it what you want, General. The men are stirred up like I’ve never seen them. After today, they’ll walk into hell if you give the order,” Jameson said.

“Let’s not make the same mistake twice,” I said, standing up and straightening my buckskin jacket. “Is the messenger still on the bridge?”