Custer at the Alamo (14 page)

One of the men slumped in his chair, a deathly pallor haunting his face. I took him to be the famous Jim Bowie, though now he looked like a broken-down drunk. He was a big man, probably six feet, with broad shoulders and shaggy, dirt blond hair. He had shaved recently, possibly within the last few days. His high cheek bones were red with years of too much drink.

I decided to bring Cooke and Kellogg to the meeting, letting Tom find quarters for our men. Slow entered the room and stood in the corner, much to everyone’s surprise. But no one told him to leave.

“Have you word for us? Fannin? Houston? Has the convention responded to our appeals for help?” Travis asked.

“I’m afraid you won’t receive reinforcements in time, Mr. Travis,” Kellogg said. “Fannin feels his three hundred men aren’t enough to be of assistance. Houston is off speaking with his Cherokee friends.”

“But Houston sent you?” Bowie asked, his voice raspy.

“No one sent us. We are an independent command,” I answered.

“Where did you get them fancy guns? I was in Washington only ten months ago. War department’s got nothin’ like them,” Crockett said.

“We’re not here to discuss our weapons. The first order of business is how to stop this invasion of Texas,” I said, weary of questions for which we could not give satisfactory answers. Answers that would only make us sound like lunatics. Even Kellogg came to realize that time travel wasn’t something these hard-pressed men were likely to swallow.

“We can certainly use your help,” Travis said. “I intend to post your men on our north wall. It’s our weakest flank. If the Mexicans get their artillery close enough, they’ll have no trouble knocking it down.”

“Your north wall is hopelessly compromised. And you won’t be posting my men anywhere,” I quickly replied. “I’m a professional officer with fifteen years experience. You can’t expect me to take orders from a militia colonel.”

“I’m regular army, sir!” Travis protested.

“An army of what?” I asked. “A hundred and fifty amateurs?”

“Santa Anna will eat you for breakfast and piss on your bones,” Cooke added, doing a poor job of hiding his disdain.

I didn’t approve of the language, but Cooke was right. Right down to the pissing part. This rabble had no chance against a trained army.

“I’ve earned this command. I didn’t ask for it. Even tried to resign it. But the provisional government assigned me this post, and I will hold it to the death,” Travis argued, a proud young upstart.

“Travis don’t command
my
boys,” Bowie insisted with a trace of resentment. “All volunteers. Come and go as we please. But Travis is right about one thing. Béjar is the gateway to Texas. If we lose the Alamo, Santa Anna rides roughshod over the colonies. No one to stop him.”

“Santa Anna
will
ride roughshod over the colonies. You can’t stop him,” Kellogg said.

I hoped Kellogg wouldn’t start talking about San Jacinto, Houston’s surprise victory over an overconfident Mexican army six weeks after the Alamo’s fall. If time had been altered in some inexplicable way, how could we know if San Jacinto would ever happen? In addition to being time travelers, would we now be soothsayers?

“With all due respect, gentlemen, this position will not stand with its present defenses. The walls are not strong enough, and you lack the firepower to hold them,” I said, calmly and with conviction. “If we begin now, it might be possible to . . .”

“Mr. Custer. General, if you are a general, we are not turning command over to a stranger who rides in from nowhere,” Travis adamantly said. “For all we know, you’re one of those English mercenaries hired by Santa Anna, sent here to trick us.”

“I was born in Ohio,” I said, struggling to hold my temper.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen . . .” Crockett attempted to intervene.

“Ohio? That explains much,” Travis said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I replied.

“You Yankees have no idea what we’re fighting for. This is a free land, not a factory run by your rich banker friends,” Travis answered.

“You preening popinjay,” I responded, a hand on the hilt of my sword. “From what I’ve seen, there’s not a whorehouse in all of Texas that isn’t being managed better than the Alamo.”

“You, sir, are no gentleman, and we of the South know well how to deal with your kind,” Travis smugly declared.

“Care to back that up?” I said, rising from my seat.

“At your pleasure. Just name your second,” the peacock agreed, standing with a hand on his sword.

The man was a damn lawyer. I had spent four years on the back of a horse with my saber killing Rebs just like him. The duel would be short and sweet. Probably too short.

“Gentlemen! This is no time for personal quarrels!” Crockett shouted, pounding on the table.

“Hell, let’em fight,” Bowie said, evidently no fan of Travis.

“We will not,” Crockett insisted. “I believe we can find one or two more important challenges than a clash of egos.”

“You have no command here, Crockett. When offered responsibility, you declared yourself a high private,” Travis said.

“Buck, there are a lot of high privates in this fort, and most of us prefer to live long enough to claim our lands and raise our children,” Crockett answered with profound truth.

Dickenson and Jameson, both reported to be family men, nodded that they agreed. Travis shut his damn mouth.

“I would like to inspect your fortifications. Perhaps I can make some suggestions based on my experience of such things,” I offered.

“Mr. Jameson will see to it,” Travis said, abruptly leaving the room.

The moment he was gone, everyone relaxed.

“Sorry about that. Travis may be an ass, but he gets things done. These days, Texas has a lot of leaders but very little leadership,” Captain Dickenson said.

I remembered reading about Dickenson who, like my father, had once been a blacksmith. He seemed a grounded young man now in his late twenties. Six feet tall, short black hair with snowflake white skin, his blue-gray eyes gazed with the experience of an ex-soldier. Like Crockett, he was from Tennessee, come to Texas for free land and a new life.

“What kind of leader gets you boxed up in a place like this?” Cooke asked.

“Mexicans caught us with our pants down,” Bowie said, coughing into a bloody rag. “No clue they was so close. Night before, we was celebratin’ Washington’s birthday. Next mornin’, their army was movin’ into town. Barely had time to reach the Alamo.”

“Why didn’t you burn the town as you retreated?” I asked.

“Burn the town?” another officer asked.

“Your name, sir?” Kellogg asked.

“Captain John Baugh, adjutant for Travis. Came to Texas with the New Orleans Grays.”

I guessed Baugh in his early thirties, slightly pudgy, and by his accent, from Virginia rather than Louisiana. The young man appeared intelligent and good-natured, which explained his popularity with the volunteers.

“Standard tactic,” Cooke explained, seeing nothing but blank faces.

“Guess none of us thought of it,” Bowie admitted.

“My wife and my daughter are here with me. So is the family of Gregorio Esparza,” Dickenson explained. “We would have sent them to Gonzales if there’d been time. Santa Anna is known to kill the families of rebels, so we’re in a tough spot. Travis has sent riders for help.”

“It isn’t coming,” Kellogg said. “Not enough, anyway.”

“How do you know?” Jameson asked.

“We have a small force south of here. If help was coming, we’d have seen it,” I said, stretching the truth. And wishing Kellogg would quit being such an expert.

“Sir, we would like your help, but Travis is the legal commander of the garrison until relieved,” Dickenson regretfully said.

“Gentlemen, some think bad leadership is better than no leadership. I am not one of them. When outnumbered ten-to-one, you can’t afford anything but the best. From what I’ve seen, Crockett is a natural leader. Far better than that wet-nosed kid,” I said.

“Thank you for that, but Colonel Travis and Colonel Bowie have been in command since I arrived. And Colonel Neil before them. I have never led anything larger than a scout against the Creeks, and that was twenty-five years ago,” Crockett said.

Bowie coughed again. The man was barely able to sit the table. I guessed a fever, possibly malaria, though it could also be a sickness of the lungs. Dr. Lord would know more, but I had left him behind with Keogh.

“Not much anyone can do anyhow,” Bowie said. “We got a hundred and fifty men, only twenty horses. Can’t leave, and stayin’ don’t seem like such a good idea, neither. Tried gettin’ honorable terms, but all we gots is that red flag flying from the church. It means no quarter. Least Travis writes a good letter. Should bring us some help.”

Kellogg shook his head. “Travis writes a great letter, but only the men from—”

“Mark, these gentlemen have pressing duties,” I interjected. “So do we. Let’s get to work.”

I nodded to Cooke and we hustled Kellogg out into the dreary courtyard, preventing him from saying anything more than necessary.

“General, what the devil?” Kellogg protested.

“Mr. Kellogg, we can’t pretend omnipotent knowledge of every event. There’s enough distrust already,” I lectured, angry with him. “For now, let them think what they want. It doesn’t matter. What matters is bringing Keogh up and whipping this garrison into shape. I’m going to inspect the defenses. I want you to talk to the Texans. Get a feel for their morale. Will they fight? What are they fighting for?”

“Yes, sir,” Kellogg said, saluting.

He marched off, notebook in hand.

“Bill, look for the best place to position our sharpshooters.”

“We have some good shots in the regiment, George, but not enough to turn back an all-out assault,” Cooke said.

It was true. Many of the troopers were good with their Springfields but not experts. And we didn’t have enough spare ammunition for target practice.

“Dickenson says this post has twenty-one cannon. Not much powder and shot, maybe, but concentrated fire can discourage even the most determined attack. Let’s see what the possibilities are,” I said, studying the various positions where the guns had been posted.

“There’s a lot more cannon than men to handle them,” Cooke said, doing the math. “And probably not more than a handful of experienced gunners. Hell, George, our best artillery man is Harrington, and we left him on the Rio Grande.”

“Bill, at the range we’ll be firing these guns, we aren’t likely to miss,” I replied.

We were busy throughout the morning. Morning Star made me eat breakfast, a tortilla stuffed with steamed beef and rice. She and the other Sioux had attracted a good deal of attention, the local Texans more accustomed to Comanche or Apache. Many, such as Crockett, had fought the Creeks. Within a few years, the Cherokee Nation would be forced off their lands, driven into Oklahoma by Andrew Jackson’s unjust policies. Much as the government was trying to do to the Plains Indians in my own time. I did not approve of such practices, convinced that civilization would find the Indians in God’s own time, without bullets or a bayonet. And with a little help from the railroads.

Morning Star, in particular, was an object of interest. Even in a buffalo robe, she drew every eye as she walked about the compound. Her obvious affinity for Tom did not stop several of the frontiersmen from seeking her attention. She smiled and put them off with polite remarks, indicating her education in St. Louis had prepared her well for dealing with wolves.

There were several Tejano children among the garrison’s families, so Slow was less conspicuous. Other than his mysterious gaze and tendency to ask unusual questions. Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf soon blended in, eager to learn about the strange fortifications and the men who hid behind stone walls. When the Mexican artillery fired on us, which they did every ten or fifteen minutes, the young Sioux would climb up on a rampart and fire their muskets in response, often getting a cheer from the men. The Alamo garrison, worn down by six days of siege, found encouragement from their enthusiasm.

I discovered that, as engineers go, Jameson was not a complete fool. With limited resources, he had set firing positions to cover the most likely approaches. I pulled him aside, walking through the compound as he pointed to the fort’s strong points.

“The south gate is well protected by that stockade you entered,” Jameson explained. “Armed with two cannon and screened by a ditch. Our high firing platform at the back of the church guards the east flank, and another battery is stationed above the corral. The west wall is close enough to the river that a direct assault would be difficult. But, as you said, our problem is the north wall. Patched it as best we could, but all it’s held together with is mud and a few skinny logs.”

Clearly the Alamo was not a fort. Before the siege, the sturdy abode buildings surrounding the courtyard had housed workshops and homes for the workers. Like most 18th century missions established by the Catholic Church, its function had been to convert Indians to Christianity, not hold off a force of several thousand soldiers.

Jameson seemed to recognize the situation clearly; he just didn’t have a good solution. Initially, I didn’t see a solution, either. But I would. The Mexican army may have had the upper hand for the moment, but they weren’t the Seventh Cavalry, and they weren’t led by George Armstrong Custer.