Custer at the Alamo (23 page)

“Except in spirit,” Morning Star said.

* * *

I rejoined the column near sunset, Slow riding to my side as I fell in behind Voss and Butler.

“You did not slay your enemies,” Slow said.

“Which enemies?” I asked, egging him on.

“The Comanche who stole your woman. Though they had greater numbers, your guns could have swept them aside. You did not need to make peace with them. They had many good horses you could have captured.”

“Superior firepower does not win every battle. In the great war of the whites in the East, the Union army often had superior firepower, but they only won half the battles. Warriors on both sides sold their lives dearly for causes they believed in. The Comanche are a brave people. It’s better not to fight unless we must.”

“You win all your battles. You always expect to win,” he pressed.

“I don’t win all my battles, but I’ve been luckier than most. I figured that luck would reward me today. It’s wet, it’s cold, and food is scarce. And it’s still winter. The Comanche did not want to fight. I just needed to give them a good excuse.”

“So they could keep their pride?”

“Something like that.”

“You could have been killed. An angry warrior might have defied his chief. Or Tom’s gun might have jammed.”

“I’ve walked into hostile villages before. It looks more dangerous than it is.”

“But never into a Comanche village. My grandfather said they are a people without honor,” Slow declared with conviction.

“All people have some sort of honor. Even Comanche. You just have to look for it.”

“Would you still have saved the women captives if Isabella wasn’t one of them?” the impertinent son of a gun asked. And it was a good question. I wasn’t sure of the answer.

Near the last stretch of road before Casa Blanca, Señor Seguin summoned me to the rear of the column for a private conversation.

“No thanks are too great for your service, George,” he started.

“None needed, sir.”

“You must call me Erasmo, because we are going to be friends. And business partners.”

“Business partners? Sir, I don’t want a reward for saving your daughter,” I said, almost insulted.

“Isabella can do her own rewarding, I am speaking of arms,” he said, taking no offense.

“I’m not inclined to sell our guns.”

“But you are going to need ammunition,” Seguin said.

He took several .45-calibur copper cased cartridges from his breast pocket, holding them up in the waning sunlight. “The bullets you carry are not an ordinary thing in 1836. You are going to need more.”

“Do you know where I can get more?”

“I was quartermaster of San Antonio, responsible for purchasing supplies for the garrison. I have many friends. Jewelers. Blacksmiths. Machinists. They will make your bullets. And someday, make your guns, too. I think great riches may be had by manufacturing such weapons.”

“It’s good to have friends,” I said, making a quick decision, for the ammunition supply had me worried.

“Erasmo, instead of copper, can we make the bullet casings in brass?”

“That should not be difficult,” he said.

“If the opportunity arose, would you be quartermaster for Texas?” I asked, for he seemed a logical choice.

“Texas has no government, only squabbling land grabbers devoted to self-interest. And even if Texas had a government, there is no money for a quartermaster to spend. Why do you ask?”

“Just a thought,” I answered.

We spent a final night at Casa Blanca. Ten of the
vaqueros
had returned from rounding up cattle. A few had been in San Antonio but left when Santa Anna’s army grew into the thousands. Señor Seguin was worried about his son, but I had not remembered seeing Juan while we were there. Kellogg mentioned Juan had probably been sent to find Sam Houston, but a dozen of his neighbors had been left behind in the Alamo.

I had not smoked a cigar since the night before my wedding in Monroe, but Seguin coaxed me into relaxing on the upstairs veranda. It had been a fine meal of roast beef and creamed corn, with all of my staff invited. We even sang a few songs before most went off to bed.

The night was cold but pleasant. Isabella sat to my right, Seguin to my left. Tom and Morning Star cuddled together at the far end of the balcony, in a world of their own. I had seen Tom with scores of girls over the years: tavern wenches, seamstresses, nurses, and even a congressman’s daughter. Morning Star seemed different. She certainly had a charming smile, deep enticing brown eyes, and a perfectly shaped figure, all of which ranked high on Tom’s necessary list, but the couple also had something very important in common—they were both ghosts.

“What troubles you tonight, George? Not enough victories for one day?” Isabella asked.

“Señor Seguin, you have a very insolent daughter,” I remarked, puffing cautiously on my Cuban cigar.

The outline of the ranch was vaguely visible in the moonlight, and it was a comforting sight. The farmland below us was tilled and ready for spring planting. Nearby, a herd of sheep lay bunched in their pens. In the darkness beyond, I heard the river despite the rowdy noise coming from the bunkhouse. The boys were celebrating, making me glad I’d put Cooke in charge.

“My daughter is of age to have her own mind,” Seguin said. “And her question is well asked. Though, as you say, insolent.”

“Young woman, I have been a soldier since I was seventeen years old,” I said, taking a good puff while suppressing a need to cough. “I fought in my country’s greatest war. Then I fought the Cheyenne and the Kiowa. And I fought the Klu Klux Klan. Now I’ve fought the Mexican army, and I almost had to fight the Comanche. So your answer is no, one victory a day is not enough for George Custer. I expect more.”

“And how often do you get more, Señor Custer?” she asked.

“More often than people think, señorita,” I relied in a whisper.

Señor Seguin stood up, his shoulders a bit stiff, and snubbed out his cigar.

“The hour is late for an old man. I will let you young people have the beauty of it,” he said, quickly retiring to his rooms.

He had barely left the balcony when Isabella was in my arms. We didn’t speak, for there seemed no need to. We understood each other perfectly.

The next morning, after a leisurely breakfast of eggs and ham, I went out to the corral to saddle Vic. We could delay our departure no longer, finally starting out at seven o’clock. Vic seemed rested, ready for the trail. I gave him a carrot I’d found in the kitchen.

“Thank you, George,” Seguin said, holding an envelope of signed documents we had drawn up.

The papers signified our partnership, for a new thought was lingering in the back of my mind. Something strange and unlikely, yet so intriguing that I couldn’t let it go.

I have rarely known fear. After four years of leading daring cavalry charges into hails of bullets and cannon fire, one learns to separate desire and fear. Desire for victory can make one fearless. Anything less on a battlefield is not helpful. But I was sensing fear now. Not a physical sense of fear, but just as troubling. A fear of gambling with people’s lives in a way that could end badly.

The command fell into formation, a steady column of twos ready for a full day’s march. Tom led the men out, followed by Cooke, Morning Star, and my sergeants. Only Slow and Kellogg lingered back with me.

“Thank you for such hospitality, Erasmo,” I said, doffing my weather-beaten campaign hat.

“You are always welcome at Casa Blanca,” the great gentleman said.

“But next time, don’t bring so many friends,” Isabella added, offering a short curtsey.

“Madam, it will be as you say,” I lustily agreed, giving Vic a boot.

Kellogg, Slow and I followed the column out to the road and turned south. The road east that we needed was only two miles away.

“Sad, isn’t it?” Kellogg said, announcing that he was going to be an ass again.

“Yes, Mr. Kellogg. What is sad this time?” I routinely asked, looking aside to Slow and rolling my eyes. The boy smiled.

“After Houston wins independence for Texas at the battle of San Jacinto, white men will flood into Texas. Southern white men, and they’ll bring their slaves with them. Tejanos like Erasmo Seguin will be pushed aside, often treated no better than the negros. Their rights will be trampled, and in time, their lands will be stolen.”

“Just like the Cherokee were pillaged by Andy Jackson. And just like the Sioux will have their land stolen by a succession of corrupt congresses,” I interrupted.

“You already know?” Kellogg said, dumbfounded.

“Lord Almighty, you must think me a dunce,” I said.

“So what are you going to do about it?” he demanded, as if I were omnipotent.

“Ask Slow,” I said, tired of hearing the reporter’s preaching.

In school, I had learned of Rome conquering Gaul. Genghis Khan conquering China. England conquering India. Peoples get their lands stolen all the time—it’s just the way of things. Better to stick your finger in a dike than try to stop history.

I looked at Slow, riding quietly to my left. The boy was not on a pony now but a golden Spanish mare loaned by Señor Seguin. The saddle was fine leather with full-length stirrups, the rings stitched higher to accommodate Slow’s short legs.

“What does Slow know of such things?” Kellogg asked.

“My God, Mark!” I shouted. “How long have you been a reporter?”

“Well, I’ve been bumping around here and there the last ten years. Council Bluffs. Brainerd. St. Paul. A little of this, some of that.”

“If this story with the Seventh worked out, what was your next career going to be?”

“Thought I might run for mayor of Bismarck.”

“And we wonder why the world is in such a state,” I said.

“I think you’re trying to insult me,” Kellogg suddenly realized.

“What do you think, Slow? Am I trying to insult Mark?” I asked.

“You merely think faster,” the boy said.

“And you know what I’m thinking?” I responded with a grin.

“Not always. In some ways, you think faster than me,” he solemnly answered. “But in other ways, you have not thought at all. I think it is your way not to see too great a future, for it frightens you.”

“Maybe you can see a greater future for me?”

“That would be a grave a responsibility,” Slow said, disturbed by my teasing.

We pushed toward the rising sun, leaving the San Antonio River behind. Low hills and badlands became our world, for this portion of Texas is more prairie than the lush counties farther east. The wind kicked up, forcing us to buddle against the cold.

“California?” Bill Cooke said, riding to my side.

“No gold in Canada,” I said.

“No slaves, either.”

“No slaves in California. Isn’t that what you and Tom want? Take the battalion to a place where slavery isn’t permitted?”

“I’m not sure what Tom and I want, we just don’t want to fight for the Confederacy. Not now or twenty-five years from now.”

I sensed Cooke was nervous, scratching his famously long brown sideburns more than usual. We’d served side by side for ten years, but he had never made a point of pressing his opinions. Especially opinions opposed to mine. Maybe that’s why we got along so well.

“Bill, you’re family. Like Tom and Algernon. Georgie and Jimmy Butler. We’ve been through a lot together. I’m not just your commanding officer; I’m your big brother. And as your big brother, I expect you to do what you’re told.”

“Thanks for clearing that up,” he said, smiling. “What about . . . ?”

“Ask me again tomorrow night,” I abruptly said.

“Tomorrow? You’re sure? Do I have your word on it?”

“Tomorrow,” I repeated, riding to the head of the column.

Slow had lagged behind us, but as I moved forward, he rushed up beside me as if he’d been waiting his turn.

“The white soldiers ask many questions that you won’t answer.”

“I don’t know all the answers. Not yet,” I patiently explained.

“They think you do.”

“It’s important that they think that.”

“Can you hope to fool so many?” he asked.

“My young warrior friend, command isn’t about fooling your men. It’s about not fooling yourself.”

After leaving the place called Alamo, we fought the Comanche and saved the land of Casa Blanca. Many were in good spirits, but I felt lost. The past that I could not quite remember was now the future. The future, that should have been the past, had not yet happened. I sought insight from General Custer, but he was a disturbed man, struggling with strong emotions. The white soldiers had equally strong emotions, but they were less disturbed. They followed their leader as moths flock to a flame.