Custer at the Alamo (26 page)

As we moved north in column of fours, Keogh fell in next to me.

“Five dead, nine wounded,” he said, knowing that would be my first question. “And some bad news, I’m afraid. George Yates. And young Reily, too.”

“Georgie and Little Billy?” I said, scarcely able to believe it. After all we’d been through, how could Yates die in a pointless skirmish?

“What happened?” I asked.

“George got shot through the thigh. Cut the artery. Reily stopped to help and took a musket ball through the spine. George bled out before anyone could stop it,” Keogh said, handing me Yates’s watch and wallet. “Said to tell Annie and the kids that he loves them. If we ever get back to where we belong.”

I took out the photo of Annie Yates that Georgie always carried. We had served together during the Civil War. I had been at their wedding in Monroe. Helped George get his commission with the Seventh Cavalry. If not for me, he might have become an insurance salesman in Ohio and lived to be a grandfather. I hadn’t known William Van Wyck Reily all that well, but it seemed to me he’d have been better off staying in the Navy.

“We weren’t looking for trouble,” I said, putting the photo in my pocket.

“Plenty are. There’s a camp upriver of militia volunteers looking for a way into the Alamo. Call themselves Texians,” Keogh said.

“Not our job to stop them.”

“How many men are in the Alamo?” Keogh asked, pleasantly ignorant of Kellogg’s lectures.

“A hundred and fifty amateurs surrounded by eighteen hundred Mexican troops, and another two thousand on the way.”

“Our little band won’t make much of a difference there. What are we going to do?” Keogh said.

Having survived Stoneman’s raids into Georgia, Keogh was in no hurry to get himself killed.

“I’ve been giving it some thought.”

“And?”

“Still thinking,” I said.

* * *

We rode north along Cibolo Creek toward the Gonzales Road, the main trail between San Antonio and the Texan colonies to the east. It was an exaggeration in this part of Texas to call anything a road, for most were nothing more than worn paths through the wilderness. The creek on our left was heavily wooded. Bench land rose to the right leading to the occasional hill sparsely occupied by red oaks. The weather turned from damp to frosty.

Bouyer was scouting ahead, knowing the best route. Tom, Cooke and I rode at the head of the column with Keogh. Hughes and Butler brought up the rear, keeping the men in good order. The bodies of our lost comrades were tied over their horses, awaiting a proper funeral. I had been worried about desertion, but now we had several victories under our belt. No one likes to quit a winning team.

“Harrington?” I asked, seeking a report from Keogh. I had already guessed the answer but wanted Tom and Cooke briefed on the situation.

“Up from the Rio Grande in good order. Spiked the siege guns and rolled them in the mud,” Keogh said with an Irish grin, for the people the Emerald Isles enjoy such destruction.

“What about this encampment?” Tom asked, pressing Athena so close to Keogh’s horse, called Comanche, that their stirrups were bumping together.

“A rabble,” Keogh said. “Scattered militia bands and groups of volunteers. There’s sixty or seventy of them, including this bunch that rode with us.”

“Slavers?” Bill asked.

“What?” Keogh said.

“These militia bands, are they fighting for slavery?” Cooke said.

“Never asked them, though I had the impression they’re fighting for liberty,” Keogh said, seemingly mystified.

“Jefferson Davis’s form of liberty. Are you forgetting which side Texas fought for during the war?” Cooke pressed, almost angry.

“Guess I hadn’t thought about it that way,” Keogh said, scratching his shaggy, month-old beard.

Though Keogh was a year younger than me, he was already showing gray. I promised myself to shave off my beard if I ever started looking like an old grizzly bear.

“If these guys are Rebs, reckon we should shoot them?” Keogh asked.

“This isn’t funny,” Tom protested.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t shoot them,” Keogh answered with an impish wink in my direction.

It was good to see Myles in such high spirits. After Tom and Bill, and with Georgie gone, there was no one I trusted more.

“What is the Seventh’s position in this manful gathering of eager patriots?” I inquired.

“We’re camped in a river bend ten miles below the main road,” Keogh said. “Harry has the Mexican volunteers guarding our wagons. Sharrow has a scout probing west of here. The Rebs didn’t even bring wagons, only what they could carry in their saddlebags.”

“Myles, they aren’t Rebs. Not even in fun,” I felt required to say. “And they’re not soldiers, either. They’re just a mob of husbands, fathers and brothers banded together as our grandfathers did in 1776. As for the rest of it, we’ll just have to see.”

“What are you trying to say, Autie?” Tom asked.

“I’m still the general,” I insisted.

It was close to sunset when we rode into camp. Five different circles had been arranged around Harrington’s position near the river. Bouyer led us past the curious companies, each with its own name and elected captain. They were suitably dressed for the weather, armed with good rifles, and each had a horse.

“Shouldn’t we stop and talk?” Tom whispered as I ignored the curious pioneers gathering along our trail.

“The militia leaders will be coming to me before long,” I said. “It’s better that way. The command needs rest.”

There were many smiles as the three segments of the Seventh Cavalry finally reunited. Stories were quickly exchanged of Indian battles, fights with the Mexicans, and how nice it was to have a campfire. No one spoke of the bigger questions, for most weren’t ready to admit that our former way of life had come to an end.

With the compliments of the Mexican army, I had a large canvas campaign tent and a small Franklin stove. Two lanterns hung from the crossbeam. Private Engle chopped up a few logs, and before the sun set, had built a crude desk. Tree stumps were used for chairs. Spare buffalo robes passed for fur carpeting. As the teepees were being used for the wounded, Slow, Morning Star and Walking-In-Grass would bunk with me.

A welcome dinner of roast duck and turnips was almost ready when the first militia captains came to talk, passing through alert sentries with a sense of fear and resentment.

“John Chenoweth of the United States Invincibles,” the first said, a tall, lean roughneck with ten years of frontier life written on his face. “This is George Kimball of the Gonzales Rangers, and Edwin Mitchell, personal representative of Colonel James Fannin.”

Neither Kimball nor Mitchell appeared particularly remarkable. Brave enough, I supposed, or they wouldn’t have responded to Travis’s call for help. But they looked like storekeepers to me, average in features and modestly dressed.

“I am General George Custer, commanding the Seventh Cavalry operating in this region. How may I help you?”

I had stood as the men entered, waited for them to remove their hats, and then sat down. During my years in Washington, and visits to New York, I had noted how men of power entertain those who come seeking favors. John Astor III had treated me with great respect, but never as an equal.

“We assume you are fighting Santa Anna. He has invaded Texas,” Chenoweth said, clenching his fists.

“I am aware of that. Three days ago, I was in the Alamo conferring with Colonel Crockett. But the Seventh Cavalry is not at war with Mexico,” I explained, being very matter-of-fact. And convincingly so.

“You cannot mean to say such a thing?” Mitchell said.

“Santa Anna will massacre women and children from here to the Sabine,” Chenoweth said, “just as he massacred the people of Coahuila and Zacatecas. He is not just a tyrant. He is a butcher.”

I stood up slowly, my expression grave, hands clasped behind my back. Slow and Morning Star watched from a blanket in the corner, Tom and Cooke from the mouth of the tent.

“Gentlemen, though I sympathize with your dilemma, there is a problem,” I explained. “Most of the men of the Seventh Cavalry are from the Northern states. Some are from countries overseas where there is no slavery. We think slavery is wrong. Your congress in Washington-on-the-Brazos is preparing to write slavery into your constitution. We cannot fight for you. Thank you for visiting. We can spare some beans and rice if you need them.”

I sat down and started to write a report on our recent activities, dismissing the captains from my mind.

“That’s it?” Kimball said, bewildered.

“This way, sirs,” Tom said, ushering the men out. He glanced at me, then nodded to Bill. They disappeared into the dark.

“The white men think you are not being honest,” Morning Star said as we sat down to eat. “Certainly you will fight this Santa Anna who kills children?”

“If Santa Anna wins, there will be no slavery in Texas,” I responded. “If the rebels win, Texas will have one of the most brutal slave systems in the entire South. When I was stationed here after the war, I saw what the slaves had gone through before Lincoln set them free. My men have seen it, too. There are no easy choices.”

“But there
are
choices,” Slow observed.

“Yes, there are always choices,” I acknowledged.

The duck was very good. The turnips a bit hard.

Two more delegations of frontiersmen came to call, each more cautious than the next. The first called themselves the New Orleans Grays and claimed to have friends besieged in the Alamo. They had entered Texas as a company but split up after the first few months.

The second delegation said they were Tumlinson’s Rangers, a local militia band, but none of them knew where Captain John J. Tumlinson was. Some thought their leader had gone back to Gonzales for more reinforcements.

Through the evening, Tom and Cooke were busy interceding on behalf of the militias, or so they claimed, but I kept dismissing each delegation with respectful regrets. After a final appeal, I finally agreed to visit their camps.

The delay gave Corporal French time to wash my clothes, shine my boots, and repair a tear in my shirt. The Spanish steel sword hung at my side. My twin bulldog revolvers were holstered on either hip, the ivory handles showing. My party included Tom, Bill and Kellogg, though I ordered Mark not to give any history lessons. Slow tagged along without my permission.

The first camp we visited were the so-called Invincibles, a group up from Goliad numbering about twenty-five. They seemed to have two captains, Chenoweth and Francis De Sauque, a gruff, black-eyed storekeeper with a slave named John. I shook hands with Chenoweth, then the storekeeper, and then with John, much to the shock of the group. But none were more surprised than the slave, who drew back in fear of his master’s angry gaze. Their camp was made up of a few fires, some canvas tarps and bedrolls.

“We could sure use your help, General Custer,” Desauque said, saying ‘General’ with some hesitation. He did not have a Southern accent. More Eastern. Possibly Pennsylvania.

“I am leading a professional force, sir. I have no use for militia who can’t obey orders,” I responded.

“We don’t need to follow you. We don’t need to follow no one we don’t elect,” a rebel sergeant said, arms crossed angrily over his chest. His long hair was coal black, the bushy beard full enough to sweep the floor with. Just like a thousand I’d seen on the battlefields of Virginia.

“Quite right. Have a pleasant evening,” I said, turning to leave.

Chenoweth caught me by the arm, turning me around. I could have knocked him down, but didn’t.

“Sergeant Dijon doesn’t speak for all of us,” Chenoweth, giving the subordinate a disapproving stare. “Look, Custer. Most of us were sent by Fannin. We’re just a few now, but more are on the way. We’ve got friends in Béjar who need our help.”

“I’m sure you know by now that Fannin isn’t coming. Houston isn’t coming, either. You Texians are proud, but pride won’t turn back the three thousand troops surrounding the Alamo. Not with the handful of volunteers you’ve managed to gather.”

“Fannin may be a coward. I don’t doubt Sam Houston
is
a coward. Just like he’s a drunk. But I ain’t no coward. Either are my men. How yellow are you?” Chenoweth said.

“Brave enough to fight for what we believe in,” Tom said, getting in Chenoweth’s face.

I noticed the frontiersman was bigger than Tom, and ruggedly built, but I’d seen my little brother in more than one scrap. If Chenoweth wanted a brawl, he’d found the right man.

“We believe in Texas,” Dijon said, rolling up his shirtsleeves.

“A Texas where slaves do your work,” Tom answered. “A Texas where an honest day’s work is paid off with a whip.”

“Ain’t that the natural order of things?” Dijon replied.

“Not natural to the Seventh Cavalry. To us, the natural order of things is freedom,” Tom said, both fists clenched.

“You’re nothing but a damned abolitionist,” Dijon said, spitting on Tom’s boots.

Tom reared back to belt the man in the mouth. Cooke and I pulled him off. Chenoweth’s men were grumbling, some with hands on their knives. I wasn’t worried. A Colt .45 would cut half of them down before they could blink their eyes.