Custer at the Alamo (25 page)

The youngster nudged his horse forward, one hand holding the reins, the other holding the Colt .45 Tom had given him. Again, Almonte took note of the strange weapon. A pistol of this era, like the ones Manchara was carrying, would fire once before requiring reloading. A cumbersome process, especially on horseback. A few pistols might have double barrels, but those were uncommon. Almonte motioned to Manchara, pointing at the Colt.

“Let us have many scalps, General,” Spotted Eagle said, his accent similar to Bouyer’s.

Gray Wolf shouted a fierce Indian war cry that startled the officers surrounding Almonte, though Almonte himself remained calm.

“The boy called you General,” Almonte questioned.

“An honorary title, sir,” I answered.

“Your unit appears filled with mysteries,” Almonte said.

“Let me be frank, sir,” I said, speaking with quiet firmness. “My men have not decided if we will stay in Texas. If we do, we are not yet sure who we might fight, if anyone. It may be that we will need to fight you, but I would rather not fight you today.”

“A bold speech, sir, for one facing certain defeat,” Manchara said.

“Señor Manchara, if there’s anything I’ve learned this last month, it’s that nothing is certain,” I responded.

Suddenly a shot rang out. I couldn’t tell where it came from, for the sound echoed off the hills, but it seemed to come from my right. Another shot answered, followed by the barest pause. Almonte seemed as confused as I, for neither of us had given an order.

“General! General!” Sergeant Hughes alerted.

Lieutenant Manchara had drawn one of his pistols, a flintlock with a large bore, and pointed it at my chest. Hughes swung his Henry around and shot the arrogant fool through the forehead, the silver helmet flying off in a spray of blood. The report sounded like a cannon, causing some of the horses to buck. Vic remained steady under my grip, but Almonte’s mount threw him hard into the damp scrub grass.

The quiet pasture now exploded in general gunfire, my command firing a full volley, the Mexicans returning fire with scattered shots. Officers were shouting orders. Flag bearers sought to catch the attention of their units. Horses not trained to such commotion grew skittish.

There was no point in continuing the negotiations. I drew a revolver and fired five quick shots, hitting three of Almonte’s men at point blank range. Voss and Gustav fired their Springfields, smart enough to hit soldiers presenting the most immediate threat. A Mexican corporal brought up his lance and tried to spear Spotted Eagle, but the youngster shot him between the eyes with his Colt.

The first rank of Mexican cavalry, fifty strong, raised lances before kicking their horses in the flanks, urging the steeds toward our skirmish line. Another fifty were right behind them, colorful lines of fierce horses and noble men, waving banners and glistening steel. A beautiful sight to every cavalryman’s heart. Such pageantry reminded me of our brave battles during the Rebellion. Jeb Stewart’s daring ride around the Army of the Potomac. Tom Rosser’s bold attack at Trevilian Station. The 5th Michigan at Gettysburg.

The enemy advance was hesitant at first, the horses needing a good prodding, but then the charge was on, the dragoons yelling encouragement to their comrades above the thundering of the hooves pounding the weed-covered plain. Behind me, I heard Tom give the order and thirty rifles barked as one, emptying a dozen Mexican saddles. Ten seconds later, the skirmish line fired again, killing both men and horses. A third volley brought the charge to a calamitous halt, falling soldiers and screaming animals caught in a mass of panic and blood.

All sense of organization around me dissolved, for my small band was caught in the middle of the battlefield. Horses bucked and neighed, many hit by errant bullets, while ten dragoons surged forward to cut us down with their sabers. It seemed like gunfire was coming from every direction, some from muskets carried by the Mexicans, others from my men down near the creek. A rapid series of shots I knew to be Tom’s Winchester.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” I shouted, drawing my other Webley and firing at the approaching dragoons.

Two went down right away, a third slowly dropped off his horse into the path of his fellows, who drew off rather than ride over him.

Private Gustav reeled in his saddle, a hand clutching his gut. Voss toppled over with a grunt, blood on his hands, and fell from his mount. I could not see where he’d been hit. Gray Wolf raised the fine Kentucky rifle Señor Seguin had given him and shot Almonte’s flag bearer, then fell backward to the ground, lying still with a wound to the head.

“Bobby, retreat!” I ordered.

Hughes took the reins of Gustav’s horse and rode back toward the creek, ducking under the heavy fire. I dismounted, grabbed Voss by his blouse, and shoved him over Vic’s back. After yanking my rifle free of the saddle boot, I gave Vic a slap and sent him running toward our line.

Spotted Eagle had ridden within a few feet of his cousin, firing at any enemy who dared approach, but the Colt was soon out of ammunition. I pulled the youngster off his horse, taking him out of the line of fire, and knelt next to Gray Wolf, firing my rifle with careful deliberation.

Mexican soldiers were dropping all around us. Cooke and Smith were directing the fire from the skirmish line, keeping the men steady. The companies of enemy cavalry on the ridge were too far away for immediate support, and those closest to our position had been thrown into confusion, their crazed horses untrained for the terrifying noise of battle.

Then, for a moment, the scene grew quiet. Two hundred yards back on the ridge, the Mexicans were trying to reform. Some were pulling wounded from the field, others giving orders for a counterattack. Horses with empty saddles ran to and fro, frothing at the bit and eyes wild. The skirmish line ceased firing, the best targets having retreated, but only momentarily. By the yelling and gesturing, I guessed the Mexicans would be on us again in a few minutes, only this time they’d have a better idea what to expect.

Kneeling on the ground, I experienced a disturbing sensation. Similar to my dreams of the Little Big Horn and the weed-covered hill, for I was in the middle of the exposed battlefield fighting for my life. Though, ironically, I now had two Sioux warriors at my side rather than my own men. As a group of three dozen lancers prepared to overwhelm our position, it looked to me as if George Custer had made his last stand.

Then a bugle sounded in the distance. It was Keogh crossing the creek, riding to our aid at a full gallop, forty heavily armed troopers of the Seventh Cavalry. With him were a score of roughly clad frontiersmen, not so well-armed but just as determined. Cheered by the reinforcements, Tom ordered the skirmish line to stand up, firing methodically at the disorganized enemy. Few of the Mexicans were stupid enough to resist the sudden tide, falling back in ragged groups.

Even as Keogh was riding through the trees, I heard renewed fighting break out on the right. The Mexicans were being stuck in flank, probably by Yates. Many of the better armed lancers dismounted, forming a defensive line at the crest of the hill. The firing grew intense, but it was soon clear the Mexicans lacked the firepower to hold their ground. Cooke sent a platoon of dismounted troopers to Yates support while Keogh veered in that direction as well. Before long, we had control of the field.

“Autie! Autie, thank God,” Tom said, coming to my side.

“Thank somebody. Who started the shooting?” I asked.

“Don’t know. The sons of bitches were coming for us anyway.”

“It would have been nice to wait until I finished speaking with Almonte,” I complained.

“General, are you well?” Morning Star asked, riding up on her painted mare. Slow and Kellogg were with her. I wiped a streak of blood from my forehead, but I’d only been grazed.

“Custer’s luck again, young lady,” I said.

“Perhaps you have the magic of Crazy Horse,” Slow suggested.

“I’ll settle for my own luck, youngster, but thanks all the same.”

I saw Cooke directing our men back toward the creek. Keogh pressed the enemy to the top of the hill, then retreated in good order. Our wounded were being carried to a gully near the ford. Most of the men were still in skirmish formation, rifles ready but with no one to shoot at. Which was for the best. I had not wanted a battle here, nor did I want to waste ammunition.

Suddenly the grass-covered plain seemed calm. A few horses wandered aimlessly. Thirty to forty Mexican cavalrymen lay dead or wounded. I saw Almonte struggling to sit up, his arm bent in pain from the fall. It would not take long for the enemy to regroup and consider charging down on us, for that’s what I would do.

A howl of anguish rose beside me. It was Spotted Eagle, who had discovered Gray Wolf’s wound had proved fatal. There was no time for a death song.

I looked back toward the Cibolo where I Company was dismounting. Keogh saluted and pointed to his new recruits, the ragamuffin frontiersmen who had ridden in his wake. It was a motley group. Rawhide jackets and store bought coats. Cloth shirts and linen cravats. Coonskin caps and silk hats. They were trappers and storekeepers, ranchers and lawyers. Family men and adventurers. I assumed Keogh had stumbled across a group of local militia. Farther down the line, I saw F Company regrouping after their flanking attack.

“Voss! Voss, where are you? Are you still alive?” I called.

“Yes, General. Got me through the arm,” Voss said. He was sitting under a tree where Dr. Lord was dressing the wound.

“Corporal French, sound recall,” I ordered.

The men began withdrawing, watchful for trouble. Horse holders let the mounts drink from the creek. More of the wounded gathered under the tree where Dr. Lord had setup a makeshift field hospital.

“General, what the hell happened?” Cooke asked, walking to my side through the carnage.

“Guess we’ve made more enemies,” I answered, gazing at the Mexican bodies lying all around us.

Tom and Morning Star were kneeling next to Gray Wolf trying to console Spotted Eagle. Without needing orders, Keogh had extended a skirmish line into the meadow should he need to cover our withdrawal.

“We can’t stay here,” Cooke said. “It’s just a matter of time before they come back.”

“Get the command ready to move. Priority to the wounded,” I ordered.

“And the bodies of the dead?” Cooke asked.

“Have we so many?”

“Not many, but enough.”

“Let’s not leave anyone behind,” I decided.

Cooke went back to the creek, ordering poles cut for litters. I had other business.

“Señor, how do you fair? Is the arm broken?” I asked, kneeling next to Colonel Almonte. He had fallen hard, his fine uniform soiled.

“I hope not,” he said, sitting on his butt while fashioning a sling with his red sash. “Have I become your prisoner?”

“I have no need of prisoners. If one of your men fired the first shot, you’ve gotten what you deserve. If it was one of my men, you have my apology.”

”Gallantly spoken, General Custer.”

“Colonel
Custer,” I corrected.

“I know a general when I hear one, damn you all,” Almonte said.

Gray Wolf’s body had been laid over the back of Almonte’s horse and led away by Spotted Eagle, followed by Morning Star and Tom. We would mourn the brave lad once we were safely beyond reach of the enemy. Slow remained behind, coming to stand next to me.

“And who is this Indian boy? A Comanche ally?” Almonte asked in painful jest.

“Lakota,” I said, offering Almonte a handkerchief. His cheek was scratched, a trickle of blood seeping into his three-day-old beard.

“I have not heard of Lakota,” Almonte said, wiping his face and keeping my handkerchief.

“You will. One day you will know all the nations,” Slow said, staring at the young man with great interest.

“Will I live so long?” Almonte said.

“Longer than most,” Slow said.

“So the mysterious Seventh Cavalry travels with a boy medicine chief. Thus is your victory easily explained,” Almonte said with a sigh.

I liked the man. A cheerful, if ironic sense of humor. I helped him to his feet and waved Dr. Lord forward.

“Not bad. Sprain, no break,” Lord said, wrapping the arm well.

We had captured a few medical supplies on the Rio Grande. If Almonte noticed the source of the doctor’s bandages, he was discreet enough to keep it to himself.

“Thank you, sir,” Almonte said.

“An honor, señor,” Lord said.

“May I ask your plans, General Custer?” Almonte asked.

“I’m not in a position to make plans at the moment. But when I do, your Santa Anna will be the first to know,” I said. “Advise him to think well on his thirst for conquest. I do not fight for the United States, but I am an American. We take a dim view of tyranny.”

“We seek to preserve our country,” Almonte answered, a grim look in his pained eyes.

“I understand, sir. And I wish you well,” I said, shaking his hand.

I did not leave Almonte a horse. Spotted Eagle had stolen his fine mount, as Indians are wont to do, and I saw no reason to interfere.

A few minutes later, the command was mounted and crossing the Cibolo, riding north toward the Gonzales Road. We plundered some of the enemy for weapons, especially their swords and gunpowder. Their horses weren’t the best quality, but we rounded up a group of them for pack animals. A handful of Mexican dragoons watched us from the ridge but refused to engage. I don’t know where the rest went and didn’t especially care so long as they weren’t following us.