Custer at the Alamo (48 page)

But Cos was not finished. I saw him straighten up, waving at his men through the breach, giving orders to his staff. The man was no coward. And then suddenly Cos’s head twisted around in a pink spray, his arms flayed out, and he dropped backward against the cannon, killed instantly. I looked up to my right, seeing Butler on the roof of the long barracks holding his Sharps. He had notched himself a general.

I heard a crash. The 18-pounder had rolled backward off the platform and landed upside down in the courtyard in a wave of dust. There were some powder bags to carry out, though most were empty. We left the eighteen pound shot behind. There wasn’t another cannon this side of St. Louis large enough use it.

“I think the Mexicans are withdrawing,” French said.

“Taking cover along the walls,” Hughes corrected, for the enemy was still present in force.

“Fall back,” I said.

Crockett and Jameson had withdrawn the men to the quadrangle before the church. The chosen ground for our last stand. The best cannon were repositioned facing into the courtyard, all three loaded with grapeshot.

“Come on, George!” Crockett yelled, waving us on.

My small group gathered the wounded as we retreated. There was no panic. No fear, beyond the ordinary fear one should expect. I was very proud of these men. When we crawled over a low adobe wall and took cover, I was finally able to catch my breath. Hughes and French drew their pistols. I felt for my Bulldogs and found them still in the holsters.

“What do you think, George?” Crockett asked.

“If the Mexicans were up against muskets, they could overrun us in a few minutes,” I said, for there was simply no way the Texans could reload fast enough to stem such a tide. “They weren’t prepared for our Springfields and Colts.”

“If they keep pressing, we’ll run out of ammunition,” Hughes said, showing he only had a few shells left.

I still had two boxes of Winchester shells, but only one box of cartridges for the Bulldogs. I hoped the enemy wouldn’t figure out how pressed we were.

The sun finally rose over Powder House Hill, and we were still alive. From what Kellogg had told me of the Alamo battle, the entire garrison had been killed before the first glint of sunlight. In this respect, we had exceeded expectations.

As the smoke lifted from the courtyard, we had our first glimpse of the carnage our cannon had created. There were hundreds upon hundreds of Mexican soldiers lying on the cold damp ground, most stacked up near our trench lined with stakes. The trail of dead led all the way back to the north wall where the parapets were filled with more bodies. Many of the deceased on those parapets were Alamo defenders, presumably Travis and Bonham among them. I hadn’t seen such a thing since walking the ground at Gettysburg after Pickett’s Charge.

“I’ll need a count,” was my quiet reaction. “Jimmy, my compliments to Sergeant Butler. Have him give me a report.”

Allen ran off, happy to have no one shooting at him. Even though the enemy still held the north wall and much of the west side, only a few were visible. They would need time to regroup, just as I would. We still held the long barracks and the church courtyard, and maybe part of the corral, but not much else. Santa Anna wasn’t running out of men, but we were running out of space.

“Crockett?” I asked, for he had been talking among the men.

“We got fifty, maybe sixty dead that we know of. Just as many wounded,” Crockett said. “Still got a hundred men full of fight. Baugh went to see on the long barracks. Heard a few Mexicans managed to break in but didn’t get too far.”

“Same in the corral,” Butler said, coming down from his roof top. “About twenty made it over the wall, but they didn’t get much farther. After the officers went down, the rest broke off the other direction.”

“Causalities?” I asked.

“Two dead, Omling and Knecht. Three more wounded,” Butler said, referring strictly to our own men. “Santa Anna’s got his red flag, we’ve got ours.”

He pointed to the roof. Flying from a lance at the highest point in the fort was my personal guidon, the red and blue silk banner with crossed sabers that Libbie had made for me.

“And a mighty fine flag it is,” Crockett agreed. “Men, let’s hear one for General Custer. Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!”

The men lustily joined the cheer, surprised to be alive. The cheer was premature, but good for morale.

“Sir, what about them?” French asked, pointing into the compound.

The field was a bloody mosaic of slaughtered Mexican soldiers. Some of the wounded were struggling to stagger from the battlefield, others were barely crawling. There were moans and the occasional curse. A few were attempting to comfort their dying comrades.

“As Christians, we must do something,” Dickenson said, returned to duty with his arm dressed in a sling.

“Not while Santa Anna flies his red flag,” Butler objected.

“Damn right. Let them rot,” Hughes said.

“Naw, don’t see how we can to that,” Crockett disagreed. “We got our own wounded first, then we should see on it. Ain’t that right, George?”

I needed time to think. Everyone knows how Santa Anna had ordered the murder of prisoners after the Alamo battle, and I recalled Kellogg’s story of the Goliad Massacre. Which, in this time, had not yet happened. Could I hold the enemy responsible for a butchery that might never occur?

“War is a cruel business, and this battle isn’t over,” I decided. “If Santa Anna offers a truce, we’ll let him retrieve his wounded. I’m sorry, friends, that’s the way it must be.”

There were no arguments. Dickenson had made the necessary offer and been refused by his commanding officer. Honor had been satisfied. And besides, there was still a good chance none of us would see another sunset. It did not stop the unease we felt at so much suffering.

“Santa Anna will regroup and attack again,” I said. “We need to preserve this perimeter. Bobby, take eight men up on the low barracks. Drag the bales from the west end of the building and make a redoubt here at the east end.”

“A castle in the sky, General?” Hughes asked.

Bobby had read Sir Walter Scott. I think it surprises people that many soldiers in the United States Army are actually literate.

“Protecting the high ground,” I replied.

Holding part of the low barracks roof was crucial to my plan. A redoubt above the palisade would give us a strong point overlooking the south side. And every general wants to hold the high ground. Wellington at Waterloo. Longstreet at Fredericksburg. Every castle ever built was designed for high ground advantage. Of course, the Alamo was no castle, but it was all we had.

“General, I think your boys are doing enough already. How ‘bout givin’ me that chore?” Baugh asked, possibility feeling left out.

“As you wish, Captain. Sergeant Hughes will assign you rifle support,” I agreed.

“Can I have my turn on the long barracks? I ain’t shot me a general yet,” Hughes asked impertinently.

“Okay, Bobby, you’ve earned it. But keep your head down. It’s daylight now, and Santa Anna has sharpshooters of his own,” I reluctantly answered. “You, too, Mr. Butler. Take ten men. Shoot anyone wearing gold buttons.”

“Yes, sir!” they both responded, saluting smartly.

I sensed it wasn’t a question how many officers they would kill, only who would kill the most. My money was on Jimmy Butler.

“Crockett, your job is to hold this position,” I ordered.

“Shouldn’t it be your job?” Crockett said, eyeing me with suspicion.

“We need more powder and shot. Once my men run out of .45 calibur shells, we’ll all be firing flintlocks,” I explained. “Gentlemen, I need volunteers. I’m going among the enemy soldiers to gather what ammunition we can find.”

“Someone will stick you with a sword, sir. Let a few of us boys do it,” Allen said.

“I’m going. Jimmy, you’re my first volunteer. Anyone else?”

Everyone within earshot raised their hands. I took a dozen of the youngest and strongest, for the older men were invariably more experienced marksmen. Our feeble position needed all the veterans we had.

“What about me?” Jameson asked.

“Keep an eye up there,” I said, pointing to the empty platform where the 18-pounder had been mounted. “The left flank is now our weakest spot. If they come over that corner in strength . . . Green, do whatever you can. That’s your job.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, saluting.

I had won the man’s respect, as he had won mine.

I crawled over the barricade, struggling to keep my balance. Dickenson had suggested a stiff shot of whisky to kill the pain, but I had declined. Probably unwisely. Once again, I wished Dr. Lord had come with us, and wondered how the rest of the command was faring. Tom in the south at Goliad. Keogh somewhere across the river. Smith in the north, and young Harrington holding the Gonzales Road. I’d certainly done a fine job of spreading the Seventh Cavalry all over the countryside. Would it have been better to keep the command together?

No. I hadn’t thought so at the time, and still believed myself correct. Cavalry needs to move fast, strike unexpectedly, and harass the enemy. That can’t be done behind stone walls.

Led by Allen and Esparza, my brave volunteers entered the compound slowly, stepping carefully among the field of death. There was still enough smoke to burn the eyes, the smell of gunpowder almost overwhelming.

“Watch out for possums,” I warned. “There’s always one wounded soldier looking for a final blow against the enemy.”

The youngsters surrounding me carried Brown Bess muskets with bayonets for a quick dispatch. I held a Bulldog in one hand and my saber in the other. Riflemen on the long barracks were watchful.

I immediately regretted exposing these young men to the atrocities we found, for many of the bodies were mangled beyond human understanding. Arms and legs ripped off. Heads torn in half. Entrails spilling out. The ground was so soaked in blood that red mud clung to our boots.

“Powder and shot, boys. Powder and shot,” I urged, anxious to grab what we could.

We spread out, digging into pouches for lead balls and powder horns that might be full. Several hundred feet away, I noticed Mexican soldiers watching from beyond the breach. Some realized what we were doing, others didn’t care. I was sure there were a thousand or more soldiers I could not see, all preparing for a second assault. We would not have the cover of darkness this time.

“Hurry, boys,” I said, feeling anxious.

The search was fruitless at first. It appeared Santa Anna had sent his men into battle with little or no ammunition. A staggering error, in my opinion. Our search of the officers proved more satisfactory, finding British made pistols and pouches of ammunition. Many of the wounded mumbled to us in Spanish.

“No problema
,” I said many times.

One of the mangled bodies was a colonel I’d met at Santa Anna’s dinner. I did not remember his name, but it wasn’t Almonte. I hoped Juan wasn’t one of the pitiful remains, for I’d grown fond of him.

We went as far as the ditch. I wanted to go all the way to the north wall, maybe discover the fate of Travis and Bonham, but it was folly to venture so far. And the ditch was gruesome enough for any man, filled to the brim with twisted corpses, the faces frozen in deathly surprise. They had not seen the deathtrap in the dark. Had not seen the spikes. Could not stop with the press of men coming up from behind.

I reflected on Tennyson, paraphrasing the experience. “Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, cannon in front of them, volleyed and thundered. Into the Valley of Death, charged the six hundred.”

And charge these brave men did, right into my guns. Strange. When I was a young man, I had not thought war so sad.

“Yellow Hair?” a voice whispered.

I knelt at the edge of the ditch. It was Spotted Eagle.

“I need help here,” I shouted, sheathing the sword to lift the youngster from the trench.

Allen and two others came running, taking the burden away from me. Spotted Eagle had a serious wound in the lower back, but hopefully not fatal. I did not have the strength to assist, so I raised a Bulldog to cover our retreat. I’d had enough of this particular battlefield.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I ordered.

We hurried back to our line, stepping over torn bodies. Spotted Eagle was carried into the church where Dr. Pollard was tending the wounded. The youngster had passed out, and when a reluctant patient refused to make space, I gave the ungrateful man a kick.

“Spotted Eagle is a member of my command,” I said to Pollard, so they’d be no mistakes.

“Every patient is equal to me, sir,” Pollard replied, sounding offended.

“Don’t worry none, General. We’ll do for yours, as you’ve done for ours,” Mrs. Dickenson said, kneeling at the boy’s side and tearing open his jacket. It looked like the ball had passed completely through his side. With luck, he’d survive the battle. If any of us did.

I noticed Crockett had followed us in, watching from the door. Having many friends among the Cherokee, he knew how I felt.

When I returned to the courtyard, I saw the Mexican army was taking their time reorganizing. In his memoirs, General Scott had said Santa Anna was not good at adapting to new conditions, and apparently this still applied. The dictator had relied on the assault to carry the fort, and having failed, now needed a new strategy.