Custer at the Alamo (47 page)

Within seconds, the dozen survivors reached the safety of our line, jumping over the bales with relief. I considered going after the young Indian, for I was quite fond of him, but the Mexicans were now approaching in strength. It would have been a futile gesture.

“Gun number one, fire!” I ordered.

When Captain Carey repeated the order, the cannon posted near the corner of the long barracks burst with red flame, raking the Alamo compound with canister shot. The black smoke swelled across our line, making it impossible to see anything more than bits of the action.

“Gun number two, fire!” Crockett ordered.

More black smoke. I tried getting up on the redoubt to see, but it was like being lost in a thick cloud. I heard Hughes order gun number three fired, Esparza number four. Dickenson ordered the redoubt guns fired. By the time the seventh gun fired at the left end of our line, the first gun had been reloaded.

“Gun number one, fire!” Captain Baugh yelled, having chosen to take his stand in the courtyard.

Many of my officers were yelling, aware the guns needed to be fired in succession, one following the other, to keep the enemy off-balance. Between the cannon, squads of riflemen were laying down heavy fire, sometimes finding targets. More often, they were just shooting into the murky darkness.

The courtyard filled with screams and shouts.
“Viva Mexico! Viva Santa! Adelante! Adelante!”

I could hear them coming, a few emerging here and there from the black fog. They came with bayonets fixed and even a few lances. One carried an ax. Blood was soaked in their blue uniforms, some their own, most from lost comrades. They were cut down by rifle fire before reaching our line, but our ammunition wouldn’t last forever.

“Keep them cannon going!” Crockett yelled, shooting an officer waving a sword.

I saw the bear-hunter was frightened but not desperate, keeping his nerve to inspire his men. Maybe some legends are true.

The crews were working as fast as possible, few of them being professionals. Gun number two was firing again, then three and four. We were taking heavy fire in return. A dozen men now lay on the ground, bleeding from severe wounds. Many of the injuries were grievous, for a Brown Bess at close range can be devastating.

A bloody hand grabbed my boot. There was a wounded private curled at my feet, one of Bowie’s Tejano youngsters, hardly more than eighteen years old. He’d been hit in the arm, a piece of broken bone showing through his sleeve. Frightened brown eyes stared up at me. I dragged him against the low barracks, whispered a few brief words of comfort, and returned to my post.

With our line fully engaged, I needed to find out what was happening on other parts of the battlefield. Butler would have a good view, but sending a messenger was too dangerous, so I moved left, going up the ramp to the 18-pounder. Firing was now general throughout the fort, but despite the hailstorm of musket balls, I sensed we were giving them a tussle.

From the top of the gun platform, I was finally able to see something of the battle. The enemy was trying to cross the compound through the smoke and darkness. With the north wall open, they no longer pressed the wall to the west, pouring into the breach like an unstoppable waterfall. Hundreds of soldiers had already swarmed through, and another thousand were coming behind them.

Crockett, Dickenson and Carey were shouting at the men, urging on the gunners, keeping the artillery hot. Blinded by the smoke, the Mexicans continued to move forward, like the Persians at Thermopylae, with no room to maneuver on their flanks. And like Leonidas at Thermopylae, I hoped to pile the enemy dead one upon the other, keeping them unaware of the danger until it was too late.

The courtyard was finally lost in smoke, the enemy’s movements being anyone’s guess. If they could overrun our line, the fight wouldn’t last another twenty minutes. I hoped none of the men were thinking of fleeing the fort, for I’d ordered Hughes to shoot the first one who tried.

Suddenly my chest burst in agony. Spinning as I collapsed to the platform, my hands reached out to break the fall. There was a momentary lost of breath, then a dulling of the wits. I crawled behind the 18-pounder, finding my shirt damp with blood. Then I sat up.

“General, are you dead?” French asked, kneeling at my side.

“Not yet,” I answered, feeling for the wound.

Custer’s Luck again. It hurt like the dickens, but my pocket watch had taken the brunt of the musket ball. Pieces of the shattered crystal had cut into the skin, but it was not a serious injury.

French plucked out a few of the shards before using a handkerchief to sop the blood, handing me what remained of the watch—a bent disk of silver with tiny gears. I remembered Judge Bacon looking at it with impatience the first time I approached him about Libbie. The first time he had said no. It had taken patience to win her father’s approval. Now he was dead these eight years, and my life might be measured in minutes.

“You’re one lucky son of a bitch, sir,” French said. “Sir? Sir?”

I glanced at him, not sure what he wanted. The noise was terrible. For a brief moment, the world seemed to swirl around.

“Sir, we’ve got to get down from here. Can’t hold the wall in this crossfire,” French urged.

I saw what he meant. Five men lay dead around the 18-pounder, the rest had retreated down the ramp.

“Let’s get out of here,” I finally responded, staggering a dozen feet before falling near the bottom of the ramp.

“Sir, are you all right?” Hughes asked, kneeling next to me.

“A little dizzy,” I said, gathering my bearings. “We need some rifles on this ramp. If Morales bypasses the lunette and climbs the west corner, there will be no one to stop him. He’ll overrun our flank.”

“Well, sir, I reckon we had best stop the bastards,” French said.

“Henry, you’ll make great sergeant someday. Where’s Allen?”

“Here, General,” young Jimmy said, coming up the ramp on his hands and knees to avoid getting shot. His face was covered in soot, his pants torn at the knees. He carried a flintlock pistol but no powder horn to reload.

“My compliments to Colonel Jameson. Tell him the 18-pounder is out of action. If he cannot protect our flank, he must spike the guns in the lunette and withdraw. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Allen said, scurrying off to deliver the message.

I looked back across the compound. Dozens of Mexicans had taken over the north wall, many shooting at Butler’s men on the long barrack’s roof. A few ambitious soldiers were turning a cannon around to fire in our direction. Down in the courtyard, three of our cannon had stopped firing. Some had lost gun crews; others had run out of ammunition. I couldn’t see what most of the enemy was doing, though they had apparently been held back by the intense resistance.

Then I saw a scene both remarkable and tragic. The workshops along the west wall were fully engulfed, the flames traveling high in the dark sky. The light revealed the long dry irrigation channel that had once brought water into the fort, now filled with hundreds of Mexican soldiers. A few fired their muskets, but most were crouching down, waiting for the chance to advance. Why weren’t more firing their guns? Had they attacked the Alamo with so little ammunition that they had already run out? A few officers were attempting to motivate their men, pointing swords at the long barracks. The channel was also filled with pitifully wounded men.

It could not matter. I had stationed gun number six overlooking this trench, knowing the enemy might use it for shelter. Now I acted.

“French, Hughes, Esparza!” I shouted, staggering down to the 8-pounder.

Two men were already there trying to turn the gun for a better angle. They had seen the enemy hiding in the ditch, too.

“We’ll aim, you load,” I told them.

“Already loaded, sir. Five sacks of buckshot,” one said, a captain named Baker. I swear, these Texians had more captains than the Seventh Cavalry had sergeants.

“We’ve got it, sir,” Hughes said, six men coming to help.

They angled the gun so it looked straight down the entire length of the trench. Rifleman kept the Mexicans closest to us at bay, a hot exchange that dropped several on both sides. At the last minute, one of the Mexican officers, a burly major, recognized the danger. I remember staring into his surprised eyes as he stared into mine, for we were only seventy feet apart.

“Fuera de aquí! Fuera de aquí!”
he shouted, grabbing a soldier by the collar, but it was too late.

“Fire the gun,” I calmly said.

When the 8-pounder bucked with the recoil, hundreds of tiny metal bits spewed a long bloody swath all the way to the north wall. When the smoke faded, nearly every man in the ditch lay dead or wounded, their bodies ripped in the most unseemly ways.

“My god, General,” Baker said.

“I’ve seen worse,” I replied. “Esparza, reload the gun.”

To my alarm, there was suddenly an explosion behind us, a plume of dirt followed by a shower of debris. Bits of wood and mud fell throughout the south side of our position, covering us in dusty fragments. At first I feared the Mexicans had moved artillery up against the gate, but then I realized Jameson had decided to abandon the lunette, blowing up the powder he was unable to carry out. Of the twenty men who held that post, I only saw twelve coming through the gate. Jameson came last, helping to close the heavy oak doors.

Only the few soldiers I’d stationed on the low barracks roof now protected our rear flank. In the original battle, Morales had climbed the wall, seized the 18-pounder, and turned it around against the long barracks. Had we spiked the gun before withdrawing? I didn’t know. Confusion was everywhere.

“Jameson!” I called.

Green hurried over with a slight limp. He was blackened with spent powder, his clothes grimy from sweat and blood.

“I was afraid they’d overrun us, sir,” Jameson reported.

“You did the right thing,” I said with a nod.

“The north wall? Travis?” he asked.

“Enemy has the wall. Don’t know about Travis,” I said. “We need to consolidate our position. Pull these guns back into the churchyard. If your wounded can still fight, put them on the palisade, otherwise get them to Doctor Pollard.”

“We can still hold, can’t we?” Jameson asked, for it seemed we now had more wounded than not.

“Do we have a choice?” I said.

Then I slapped him on the back and smiled. I’d forgotten how exciting a battle can be.

“The 18-pounder. I should spike it,” Jameson offered, seeing the abandoned cannon on the corner bastion.

He was right that the gun needed to be disabled. I should have done it myself when I’d had the chance.

“My job. You get going,” I ordered, taking Hughes and French with me.

Most of the men were pulling back, ready to make a final stand in the church courtyard. We had several cannon there and flanking fire from the long barracks. A handful from Company F remained near the redoubt, but only my small band now held the left flank, the three of us kneeling around the 18-pounder. I wasn’t sure what the enemy was doing, the waves of advancing troops having faded in moans and curses.

Some of the shooting seemed to slack off. I was sure the enemy had taken heavy losses, but so did we. Daylight crept up from the east, turning the black clouds of smoke to gray. The rockets had stopped streaking overhead.

“Can’t find the spike, sir,” French said, searching under bodies and dropped equipment.

“Let’s roll the gun over the side,” I said, refusing to let the enemy capture our most powerful weapon.

We put our shoulders to the big wooden wheels, though I was not much help. My chest wound ached. My arms felt like they had no strength. I finally had to give up, raising my Winchester to provide covering fire instead.

And then I saw him. As I kneeled on the southwest bastion, I spied General Cos standing on the northwest bastion five hundred and twenty feet away. He was in full uniform, silver buttons, gold braid, and a tall sea captain’s hat on his head. A long saber waved in his hand as he directed troops into the compound.

“As long as I have arms and legs,” I whispered.

“What’s that, sir?” Jimmy Allen asked, having rejoined our team.

“Santa Anna’s orders to his brother-in-law. The oath breaker. You will come back into Texas as long as you have the arms and legs to fight with,” I said.

Though I sympathized with Cos, who clearly hated the task he’d been assigned, I could not forgive the breaking of his sacred word. He was now killing the very men who had generously spared his life the previous December, and I could think of no greater sacrilege.

I raised my rifle, took careful aim, and shot Cos in the upper right arm holding the sword. He pitched back, the sword flying over the wall. With luck he would lose the arm, for I was pretty sure I’d cut bone. But he could still walk.

It was not a difficult shot at such a range. I aimed for a leg and shot him through the thigh. He grabbed the wound with his good arm while falling over the cannon mounted on the platform.

“No more arms and legs for you, oath breaker,” I grunted with satisfaction. I envisioned him being carried back to Mexico, a cripple. A lesson for others to learn by.