Custer at the Alamo (19 page)

Smith had been generous enough to bring two small pup tents on their packhorse. I let him and Bouyer keep one, not wanting to be unfair, while I shared the second with Cooke and Slow. Tom would be sharing Morning Star’s tent, but respectfully so. Sergeant Butler was left to stand guard. In such a wilderness, I suspected our only enemies would be the Comanche.

“It’s getting colder,” Cooke complained, crawling under the buffalo robes keeping Slow and I warm.

“Queen’s Own whining about the cold? That’s a laugh,” I teased.

“A Canadian who knows something about the weather, George. Bouyer says there’s a ranch half a day’s ride from here. We’re going to need the shelter,” Cooke said.

“The Cibolo is well-sheltered by the woods,” I said.

“If we get there by tomorrow night,” Cooke pressed.

“We should,” I supposed.

“But you won’t,” Slow suddenly said.

“And why is that, youngster?” I asked, waiting for a mysterious pronouncement. He did not disappoint.

“Friends await you at the ranch. And enemies,” Slow said.

“Slow, you need to be a little more specific,” I protested. “We can’t keep riding this way and that, forty years out of our time, merely to chase phantoms.”

“I think you can,” Slow answered.

“And why would that be?” I said.

“Because you have nothing else to do,” he defiantly answered.

Damn if the youngster hadn’t hit the nail on the head.

“Bill, tell Tom and Bouyer we’re going south in the morning,” I said.

Cooke poked his head from under the buffalo robe.

“Damn it, George, I just got into bed!” he pleaded.

I rolled over and went to sleep. When and how Bill carried out my order was up to him.

We were off the next morning after a cup of coffee and a bit of dried beef. Bouyer was dispatched with letters for Keogh, informing him of the situation in San Antonio. He was to remain on station while I would join him in two days following a scout to the south. Yates was to cover Harrington’s withdrawal from the Rio Grande, reuniting that portion of the command.

I did not tell Keogh about our reasons for abandoning the Alamo. As an Irishman, he had never been very sympathetic to the abolitionist’s cause, but most of the command would be. Better to tell the men myself about our decision. Or let Tom do it.

We turned south, back toward the San Antonio River, reaching it in a few hours. From time to time, we saw small farms, but much of the land lay fallow. The houses were mostly adobe, though we noticed the occasional wooden shack. Nothing was especially noteworthy until late in the day, some thirty miles from San Antonio, when we approached a lovely valley nestled among wooded hills.

Coming over a shallow pass, we stopped at the crest. The flatlands along a tributary creek were rich with farmland. Sheep and cattle herds lay in the gullies sheltering from the wind. Tom and Morning Star dismounted to stretch their legs. I remained seated on Vic, distracted by many memories.

“This must be it,” Cooke said, recognizing Bouyer’s description of our destination.

“Nice,” I absently observed.

Much of the green valley was fenced to contain animals. Several sturdy buildings were surrounded by low adobe walls. A two-story hacienda sat on a rise back from an irrigated field. The red tile roof was slanted to drain off rain and a second-story porch ran around all four sides. Some of the windows were tinted in blue and green. Near the hacienda stood a long two-story bunkhouse, many smaller adobe houses, and half a dozen barns of all sizes.

Though Spanish in style, this remote ranch reminded me of my childhood back on the farm in New Rumley. Chasing chickens. Playing pranks on my brothers. Being lectured by my father. Making my mother laugh. When money became scarce, I was sent to live with my older sister in Monroe. My days on the farm were over.

We paused at the top of the pass, the command trailed out behind me. The Sioux lads formed up on my flanks, impatiently awaiting orders. And I soon saw why. Twenty or so Comanche Indians occupied the main road just before the main gate of the ranch, half mounted and the others armed for combat.

The mounted warriors were carrying lances with iron spear points. Those on foot had bows and arrows. Most wore fur jackets, hide pants and moccasins. Some of the outfits were decorated with colorful beadwork and feathers, but most were rather plain. I did not see any war paint or elaborate headgear.

The Comanche were opposed by three or four defenders in a dugout below the hacienda. A musket shot rang out.

“From the house. It’s a signal they need help,” Tom said, pointing to the besieged ranchers.

“We will attack. Voss, sound the charge,” I ordered, giving Vic a boot.

I drew one of my bulldogs and galloped down the dirt road toward the hostiles, feeling the cold wind in my face as Vic grunted beneath me. I felt the excitement again, the sudden flush of fear and anger. Future worries faded in the face of imminent combat. The past became a fond memory, a source of strength. The present crystallized with the certain knowledge of living from one second to the next.

The Comanche turned at our approach, mostly in surprise. They neither retreated nor appeared alarmed, though all held tightly to their weapons. For all I knew, the rest of my command was still on the hill and I was charging alone like a crazy lunatic. But I was not alone.

Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf appeared at my side, their eyes shining with a warrior’s quest for glory. Their horses were snorting at a near run, anxious to best each other. I let loose a Sioux war cry and spurred Vic on. The lads managed to keep up, but barely. We were but three against twenty, and it was glorious.

By now the Comanche must have thought us completely insane, and no one, especially Indians, want to fight mad men. They mounted in a hurry and started into the woods toward the river. We closed so fast they were finally forced to hurry their escape, ignominiously fleeing like cowardly rabbits. It was a bloodless triumph for George Custer.

I reined Vic in before the rough wooden gate, seeing no point in chasing the hostiles through endless thickets. When Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf stopped beside me, I hollered a victory cheer, which they joined in. Fifty yards behind us were Tom, Cooke and Jimmy Butler, their Colt .45s ready for action. Morning Star and Slow soon caught up as well. The entire command was pouring down the road, looking like a hundred instead of a ragged thirty.

“Good work, lads,” I congratulated.

“Yellow Hair! Yellow Hair!” Gray Wolf shouted, waving his sombrero.

“Hell, Autie, you could have given us a minute,” Tom complained, holstering his Colt.

His horse was breathing hard, and Athena was the fastest horse in the Seventh. I had given them a good run.

“Cooke, reform the command. Butler, throw out a picket,” I quickly ordered. “Lads, wait here. These folks have had one good scare already.”

With Tom at my side, we rode up the gravel road toward the hacienda, taking our time so the defenders would not think us enemies. The sheep pens were to the left, away from the house. A tilled field lay on the right. The defenders emerged from the stone bunker below the main building. I saw three men, all somewhat gray-haired, a young woman, and an older woman. The young woman was especially graceful, having a good figure, large dark eyes, and long black hair.

“Gracias, señor, gracias
. We thank you,” the oldest gentleman said, a slender
Don
in his mid-fifties. He wore a colorfully woven suit of wool, a black sash around his waist, and carried a double-barreled shotgun. His gray-bearded face showed great relief.

“I’m George Custer,” I said, reluctant to claim a rank that might no longer be valid. “This is my brother, Tom, and supporting us is the Seventh Cavalry.”

The Spanish gentleman looked at the four Sioux riding in our party and smiled. Friendly Indians were not outside his experience.

“My name is Erasmo Seguin, master of Casa Blanca. I was once
Alcade
of Béjar and postmaster of all Texas. You are welcome to shelter here from the coming storm,” he said, his broken English spoken with a strong accent.

One of his assistants ran forward, equal in age to Señor Seguin and just as gray-haired.

“Aqui, señors,”
he said, pointing toward the bunkhouse.

Señor Seguin mumbled a few words. His man nodded, taking our horses into the stables.

The Seventh came forward, riding in column of twos, and dismounted in the courtyard. Most were directed toward the bunkhouse, but Tom, Morning Star, Slow and I were guided toward the hacienda. The attractive young woman fell in beside us. Her eyes were a vivid brown. I guessed her at no more than twenty-five years. She was dressed in a white cotton blouse with long silk sleeves in pink and a calico skirt. She wore women’s riding boots, much as Libbie always had, and a bright red scarf around her neck.

“We cannot thank you enough,” she said, her accent educated. “My name is Isabella Juanita Seguin, daughter of the
Alcade
. You will find our home comfortable against this harsh wind.”

Isabella took Morning Star by the elbow and hurried her to the hacienda. Slow rushed to follow, pulling his buffalo robe tight.

“Good luck for these folks that we showed up,” Tom said.

Luck, of course, had nothing to do with it. The move south had been Slow’s idea, but I chose not to let on about my suspicions. Tom might think me addled.

“Good luck for us. We needed some hot food and a warm place to spend the night,” I added.

“I guess this is our first breath of civilization in several months, isn’t it? Not since we left Ft. Lincoln,” Tom said.

“And maybe our last for quite some time,” I grimly surmised.

The house was richly furnished with padded furniture, lush tapestries and thick carpets. Much of it was locally made, but some was imported from Europe. A middle-aged woman emerged from the kitchen, dressed in brown woolens. She was startled at first, but when Isabella whispered something, the old woman smiled and took our Sioux friends into the kitchen. Tom and I shook out our coats before a massive stone fireplace.

“My father would greet you in the drawing room, if you are not too weary,” Isabella said.

“We are not too weary,” I agreed.

Isabella curtsied and went to make the arrangements.

“Señor Seguin has quite a few accomplishments,” Tom said, looking at documents decorating the walls. “I can’t make out all of this, but it looks like Señor Seguin helped write the Mexican Constitution in 1824. Until recently, he was quartermaster of San Antonio. Autie, he may be loyal to Santa Anna.”

”I am not loyal to the dictator, sir. I am a patriot,” Señor Seguin said, entering the room suddenly. Tom looked embarrassed, as was fitting.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Tom apologized.

Now changed into a black suit with gold sequined trim, Sequin was carrying a bottle of fine white wine and several elegant glasses on a silver tray.

“All of northern Mexico has opposed Santa Anna since he abolished our constitution and gathered power under this centralized rule. His methods have been cruel and vengeful. Many American settlers have come to oppose him, as well. I take it that is your purpose?” Señor Seguin asked.

“No, sir. We are not here to oppose Santa Anna, though I sympathize with those who do,” I responded, glancing at Tom. He looked a little uncomfortable, but it did not alter his resolve.

“Am I to understand that a United States cavalry unit is merely traveling through Texas, saving ranchers from the Comanche?” he asked, the sarcasm gentle.

“It’s a little more complicated than that. A long story,” I answered.

“The sun is setting. A north wind blows through tonight, chilling the bones of those not so fortunate as ourselves. We will have plenty of time for long stories.”

Señor Seguin led us into the ornate drawing room filled with family portraits, silver candlesticks, and a collection of antique swords. Truly this was a successful man of great experience. And the more we spoke, the more I was impressed.

* * *

“So, let me understand this,” Señor Seguin asked an hour later. “You were spirited off a battlefield to be abandoned forty years in the past. You believe Texas will win independence, but at an unacceptable cost to the future. You may not oppose Santa Anna, but cannot bring yourselves to support him, either.”

“That’s about the size of it, sir,” Tom said, working on his fifth glass of wine. Out of courtesy, I had accepted a small glass, sipping it slowly. It was the first wine I had tasted in many years.

“This battlefield you were on, were you winning?” Señor Seguin asked.

“No, we were pretty bad off,” Tom said.

“That is unfortunate. You are not only soldiers lost in time, but not very good soldiers,” Señor Seguin said.

I straightened up in my chair, fists clenched, but Señor Seguin was only teasing. He flashed a smile, gold showing in his dental work. I let out my breath and sat back, brows bent in humility.