Custer at the Alamo (41 page)

“Try not to lose the fort while I’m gone,” I said lightheartedly to Travis.

The man frowned. Jameson smiled. Both knew there was little chance of such an attack. The Mexican battalions moving to the north were not yet in position, while their entrenchments to the south were badly mauled.

“Listen. They’ve stopped firing their artillery,” Jameson said.

The sun had just set a few minutes before. After twelve days of bombardment, the garrison was exhausted. They would sleep like babies.

“Bed the men down now, Captain. They need the rest,” I said, a bit sleepy myself. “Warn them we’ll be back up well before dawn.”

“Bring us some leftovers, General,” Jameson said, tired of boiled beef and corn.

We went out the corral gate and under the battery at the rear of the church, riding slowly toward the Alameda. Above us, what looked like three cannon were really one cannon and two black logs. We avoided a tangle of trees and brush screening the south palisade before reaching the main road. A dozen mounted lancers were waiting for us. At the same time, six hostages walked toward the lunette where they would await our return, for they would not be allowed inside the fort. One was said to be Santa Anna’s nephew, another was a colonel named Morales. The other four were all prominent in one manner or another, though I hadn’t paid attention to the details.

I saw Carey and Dickenson at the portal verifying the identity of the hostages, for the young lawyer was afraid of treachery. It seemed a prudent precaution, so my small party paused, hands poised on our sidearms. When Carey waved his hat, we proceeded. Colonel Juan Almonte was our escort.

“Good evening, general,” Juan said, tipping his hat.

“Good evening to you, Colonel Almonte. You are looking better,” I replied.

“And you are looking worse. Did one of our cannon balls find you out in the open?”

“Nothing so serious as that. You remember Slow, don’t you?”

“Of course. The medicine boy. Do child warriors now defend the Alamo?”

“It saves ammunition. Rather than fight your army, Slow is going to cast a spell on you,” I said. “We haven’t decided which is better yet, the pox or leprosy.”

Almonte laughed, but I heard his men whispering among themselves and looking at Slow with dread. None of them thought it was funny. I don’t think Slow quite grasped the joke, but he glanced around with those dark eyes, and even I sensed a chill.

We rode over the old wooden bridge and down a dirt boulevard. The small houses to either side had been abandoned at the first approach of the Mexican army two weeks before. Though most of the towns east of San Antonio were Anglo settlements, west Texas was predominately Tejano. Especially Béjar. One should think the exodus of the local population would have alerted Travis and Bowie to Santa Anna’s imminent arrival before February 23rd, but they had still been taken by surprise. Had the volunteers garrisoning the town been betrayed by the Hispanic citizens? Or had they simply taken the threat too lightly? I guessed the latter.

I knew Santa Anna had taken the initiative once Texas rose in rebellion. He quickly assembled an army and marched through northern Mexico in the dead of winter, invoking such terror in the locals that few dared oppose him. I had done the same in 1868, attacking Black Kettle’s snowbound village on the Washita. Unpleasant business, but that’s how wars are won.

A dog barked from a fenced yard, reminding me how much I missed my hounds. It was a furry white mongrel, more interested in making noise than trouble. I’d have thrown him a bone if I had one.

“The people fled so fast their pets were left behind,” I remarked. “Does the dictator inspire so much fear?”

“Only among traitors,” Colonel Almonte said. “But you need not worry. The white flag will be respected.”

“Your master refused to treat with Bowie and Travis, and earlier he refused to treat with me. What has caused him change his mind?” I asked, not expecting a truthful answer. I was surprised.

“His Excellency likes to know his opponents. To understand them is to know their weaknesses. Travis and Bowie are not hard to understand, being pirates. General Custer is a mystery.”

I gave thought to such mysteries. It was said General Lee thrived against McClellan, Hooker and Burnside because he knew them. Understood how they thought, and how they would react in a given circumstance. It wasn’t until Grant arrived that Lee found himself perplexed by an unknown adversary.

What did I know about Santa Anna? The Texans called him a dictator and tyrant, but that didn’t make it true. The South had said the same things about President Lincoln. I recalled reading an article in the
Army and Navy Journal
back in 1864, the memoirs of General Winfield Scott, who had fought Santa Anna in the Mexican-American War. Scott wrote that Santa Anna was energetic and vigilant, with unquestionable powers of organization. Scott thought him personally courageous, but a failure in his quickness of perception. Slow to adapt to changing conditions on a battlefield, and hence his many defeats. But was the Santa Anna of 1836 a better general than that of 1847? Was I in a position to know the difference?

As a commander, I had already recognized Santa Anna to be methodical. His winter march and sudden investment of the Alamo was decisive. The siege had been well-planned. Until the Seventh Cavalry arrived, there had been no problems with his line of supply. Santa Anna considered himself the Napoleon of the West. In every respect, it appeared I would soon meet a worthy opponent.

Custer rode tall on his white stallion, searching the path with the steady gaze of a mountain lion. He was not so confident as he pretended, but I would not have known this had we not shared the trail together. I rode beside him on Vic, for the general thought me well-suited to his favorite horse. Many of the Mexican soldiers looked at us with great curiosity, and I heard them whisper of the ghost riders. It was said we had died once. They believed we would die again, for they held great faith in their leader. I looked back at Hughes and Butler, who I had come to admire as fine warriors. They had great faith in their leader. Among the People, it is important to have faith in our leaders, for chiefs do not give orders, and the medicine men may not issue commands. Without belief in a leader’s qualities, no one would follow. I thought back on the future. The future that would not see my people thrive. I realized we would need to walk a different path, following a leader who would take us to a different place.

Chapter Twelve

Though the main boulevard was dark and largely deserted except for a few detachments of soldiers, the town square was more crowded. A hundred campfires lit the plaza, which was paved, unlike the dirt roads we’d found every place else. The Cathedral of San Fernando stood tall over the surrounding shops and houses. Like most Mexican villages, the hundred-year-old church was the center of civic life. The red flag of No Quarter still flew from the highest steeple.

“Military town,” Butler said.

“Comanche,” Hughes said, offering the obvious explanation.

All of west Texas seemed plagued by Indian attacks. The Comanche were the worst, murdering and kidnapping at will, but they weren’t the only perpetrators. The walls of the Alamo had been built for protection from hostile raids, and San Antonio had similar defenses, including the walled presidio behind the church almost as large as the plaza in front of it. The bells in the church did more than summon worshippers to Sunday services—they signaled danger, too. To the east, dozens of settlements were growing along the rivers that flowed south to the Gulf of Mexico, but to the west there was nothing but wilderness and Indians.

“Don’t see how Cos lost this town to the Texans,” Hughes said, referring to the fight four months prior. “He had a thousand men. Ammunition and food. We could have held this position until hell froze over.”

“Guess his enemies wanted it more. That’s the difference between winning and losing,” I said.

“Bet Santa Anna wants this one bad, after the way these Texians humiliated his brother-in-law,” Crockett said. “I weren’t here, but they say Cos was chased out with his tail between his legs.”

“He’s back now,” Butler said. “Travis reported seeing Cos leading an infantry battalion. Made him mad, too. Cos gave his word of honor not to fight in Texas again.”

On the battlefields of Virginia, especially in the early years of the war, captured soldiers would give their parole not to fight until properly exchanged. This kept down the populations of the prisoner-of-war camps, but each man was bound by his most sacred honor to keep their word. To break such an oath was unthinkable.

We reached the plaza. Mexican soldiers in full uniform stood at attention. Most wore shako hats decorated with silver unit badges. The outfits were blue with white leather straps crossed over the chest. They held Brown Bess muskets, bayonets fixed. Only the footwear showed how difficult a journey they’d had. Some still had worn black boots but most wore sandals or moccasins. Not the best protection from the cold Texas winter. A marching band played a tune I didn’t recognize, but it was a pleasant melody and well performed.

Beyond the town square, in the streets around the presidio, were the supply wagons and camp followers. Women in heavy wool shawls, a few old men, and even some children. Dozens of small fires were keeping them warm, the fuel of preference being buffalo chips or mesquite. A hundred or more gathered behind the rows of soldiers to see the strange Americans in their plaza. Pity showed in their eyes, for they thought us doomed men.

A smartly dressed major began barking orders, the soldiers crisply presenting arms before returning to attention. I dismounted my borrowed stallion and saluted.

“This way, General,” Almonte said, pointing toward a low adobe residence on the north side of the plaza.

Several peasants in white sackcloth came forward to take our horses. They appeared nervous and underfed. I could not tell if they were impressed locals or camp followers. If I’d had two bits, I would have tipped them.

I walked with Crockett, Slow between us, Hughes and Butler a few paces behind.

“Should we guard the door, sir?” Butler asked.

“No reason, Jimmy. If it’s a trap, better to be inside,” I said.

“It is not a trap. Not as you suspect,” Slow remarked in his mysterious way.

“Can you read Santa Anna’s thoughts?” I asked.

“Not so well as the birds,” Slow answered.

I glanced up to see a group of sparrows on the roof, but doubted any of them were mind readers.

We stepped on a covered porch and entered. The dwelling was large, lit with oil lamps, and nicely furnished with maple wood furniture and thick carpets. The home of a wealthy man, by frontier standards. Beyond the entry was a dining area with a long oak table and a dozen sturdy chairs. Above was a chandelier holding thirty candles, and more candles lit the corners. A bookcase held twenty or more books, all leather-bound. A fire burned in a great hearth, fighting off the cold winter chill.

“Very nice,” I said, finding the quarters similar to the proud hacienda of Erasmo Seguin. I dwelled fondly on memories of Isabella and hoped I would meet her again.

“His Excellency expects the best,” Almonte said.

I nodded to Butler and Hughes, who took up positions inside the doorway where several tall stools were set against the wall.

Before long the other dinner guests arrived, colonels and generals. Six in all. They acknowledged us in silence and took seats at the table, leaving the head chair vacant. They were dressed for the occasion in fine uniforms decorated with silver and gold braid, ceremonial sabers at their side. I clutched the stolen Spanish steel hanging from my belt, wishing it was the handsome Tiffany sword I’d lost at Trevilian Station in 1864.

Once everyone was settled, Colonel Almonte nodded to a servant, who ran into the adjoining study. Through the door, I saw another fireplace, colorful woven carpets, and several stuffed easy chairs. I also noticed a wooden cradle, now empty. Except for the cradle, it reminded me of my quarters at Fort Lincoln.

“Gentlemen, I have the great honor and privilege to present His Most High Excellency, General Antonio López de Santa Anna,” Almonte announced.

Two soldiers entered carrying flags. One was the green, white and red flag of the Republic of Mexico emblazoned with a gold eagle. The other flag I didn’t recognize, but assumed it was the dictator’s personal banner. They were followed by six soldiers carrying Baker rifles who lined up single file against the wall, standing at attention. And then Santa Anna sauntered into the room.