Custer at the Alamo (51 page)

I hadn’t gotten a good read on Ben during my previous visit, the room being filled with distractions. I guessed him at fifty years old, short for a black man, but not stooped, as so many were from bowing to white men. Ben didn’t seem the bowing type.

“I got’s respect for you, General, and I knows what you want for my people,” Ben said. “Something here might help.”

He knelt down behind the big pinewood desk and pulled out a steel strong box. A heavy steel strong box.

“President Santa Anna left this behind, sir,” Ben said.

I knelt down, finding a padlock that had been pried open, and slowly lifted the lid. The box contained enough gold and silver coin to keep an army in the field for two months. There were also a fair number of bank notes. Most were drawn on Mexican institutions, but I noticed a letter of credit from Lloyds of London and several Spanish bonds. Given the deplorable condition of Santa Anna’s impoverished army, it seemed to me the money could have been better spent on food and shoes rather than hoarded for his personal use.

“You could have kept this for yourself, Ben,” I said, surprised.

“No, sir. I reckon I couldn’t,” he replied.

I took a long look at him as he hovered over the treasure. A free black man with an independent gleam in his dark brown eyes was a rare bird in this part of the world. He had been a sailor, world traveler, and such an excellent cook that he personally served the President of Mexico.

“Are you good with your numbers?” I asked.

“Don’t just cook aboard ship, sir. Keep books and do some navigating.”

“Then I’m going to ask you do some navigating for me. The Seventh Cavalry needs a paymaster. Interested in the job?”

Now it was Ben who was surprised. For a person of his station to be offered such an important position defied contemporary conventions.

“Reckon I is,” he said.

“We’ll get you a uniform. Welcome to the Seventh,” I said, offering my hand.

He was glad to shake it. I was glad to make the gesture. If I was going to have a chance against the gathering storm, I’d need the help of honest men. Tom was right about that.

I went out into the busy street, filled with wagons, marching troops, peddlers, and returning Tejano families eagerly wanting their homes back. They would need to share, for a while.

The day was cold, crisp and clear. A good day to be alive. A Monday. In another time and place, the Alamo fell on a Sunday, all of its defenders being killed. In another time and place, on a Sunday, five companies of the Seventh Cavalry had died on a forlorn hillside, killed by a mistake of their commander. Few can truly understand how good a Monday can feel.

“Mornin’, Gen’ral,” Bouyer said, saluting.

As a civilian scout, he did not need to salute, nor was it appropriate. The rogue didn’t care. He now wore a Spanish sword on his hip and a black silk scarf around his neck, no doubt taken from a dead Mexican officer. Had we fought a Sioux village instead of Santa Anna, I had no doubt his belt would have dangled with fresh scalps.

“I’ll have dispatches for you later. Can you find this Washington-on-the-Brazos where the convention is being held?” I asked.

“Hardly more than a ghost town in 1876, but I kin find it,” Bouyer replied. “Nice to have a Winchester, though, case I runs into some Comanches.”

“Not a problem, Mitch. After those arrogant sons of bitches read the letters I’m sending, you’re going to need that Winchester.”

“That bad?”

“I’ve told them their declaration of independence is invalid, that slavery is illegal, and that anyone opposing the legitimate government of Texas will suffer confiscation of their property.”

“An’ I kin take it
you
are the legitimate government of Texas?”

“Until God says different.”

“Hell, Gen’ral, that all?” Bouyer laughed, his weather-beaten face crinkling with delight.

“After April 21st, anyone found in arms against my provisional government will be hanged.”

“Can’t wait to see that,” Bouyer said, not sure if he believed me. And I could not be sure of my resolve, for hanging a man is grim business. Time would tell.

Bouyer went off to see if he could steal a good horse. Crockett sauntered up the street, smiling to all and shaking hands.

“Morning, George,” Crockett said with a grin.

He was wearing a coonskin cap and carrying a fiddle. His fringed leather jacket hung to his knees.

“Good morning,
Davy
Crockett,” I said, almost laughing. “What brings on this transformation?”

“Reckon you’re gonna form a new government for Texas. Figured I’d start running for office now. Get me a good spot.”

“I thought we might share the burden,” I suggested.

“Share?”

“Ancient Rome had two consuls. Why not Texas? You can be president, I’ll be the lieutenant general.”

“Which of us will be the most important?” Crockett asked.

“I’m keeping command of the army.”

“The people are gonna want democracy some day.”

“And someday we’ll give it to them, but not today,” I said, hands clasped behind my back. “There’s one thing I forgot. I’ve got big plans for this country of ours. Really big plans. I’m afraid Texas is just too small for what I have in mind.”

“Texas is bigger than any state in the union. Bigger than any five states,” Crockett said.

“It will be even bigger once we add New Mexico and California. And what’s that Mexican state that wants freedom so bad? Coahuila? We’ll round up Francisco Sanchez and his friends. See if they want to join up.”

“George, you never fail to astound,” Crockett said, shaking his head.

“David, I think it’s time you called me Autie. Have you seen Slow this morning?”

“Over in the cathedral. Don’t think he’s ever saw a Catholic altar before. Some of the Irish boys are lightin’ candles.”

The San Fernando Cathedral was already a hundred years old, the tallest structure in San Antonio, and a grand example of the old church architecture I’d read about in
Harper’s Weekly
. It was in the middle of San Antonio, the center of the town’s business and spiritual life. It was a telling sign that the square had been deserted when Santa Anna’s troops arrived, and was now crowded again once they were gone.

I found Slow sitting in the second row of pews as the village priest performed a sacramental ceremony. The priest wore long white robes trimmed with gold lace, his novices wearing blue. Dozens of candles gave the cathedral a holy reverence. As a rule, Catholics are not well thought of in Michigan, being servants of the Pope and prone to idolatry. The Methodist churches of my upbringing had brought us close to God without so much rigmarole, but like many soldiers, I’d learned to tolerate other beliefs during my long years of travel. Thank God none of the worshipers were Mormons.

“What are you thinking?” I asked, sitting next to him.

“The white men are still much in ignorance of Wakan Tanka, but they seek to discover the Great Spirit’s mysteries. This is a good thing,” the boy said, sounding like an old man.

“Do you still believe Wakan Tanka sent us here?”

“Without doubt.”

“And he did this strange thing to help your people?”

“There can be no other explanation. None that I can think of,” he answered.

The boy had a puzzled expression, looking down at his leather boots. He fingered the Bowie knife tucked in his rawhide belt.

“Lad, I’m sorry to say it, but I don’t think you know anymore about this than I do. Maybe someday we’ll figure it out,” I said.

“I will ride at your side until we do.”

“Yes, I know.”

The church bell began to ring. Men were running outside. Officers shouted. I heard the big wheels of the 18-pounder in the square as it was turned to face east.

“Autie! The Mexicans are back!” Tom yelled from the door.

I followed him down Commerce Street toward the river, limping as fast as I could. Dozens of men ran with us, grunting with the weight of their weapons. Women and children were scrambling in the other direction, taking shelter in the cathedral. Cooke appeared on horseback with twenty mounted cavalry, passing us with ease. Harrington and Keogh were hot on his heels. I’d spent so much time in that damn fort that it hadn’t occurred to me to find my horse.

Near the river’s edge, we saw hundreds of Mexican soldiers on the open ground south of the Alamo. The small guard we had left behind had already retreated, leaving the ruins to the enemy. And good riddance. The Alamo had no food or ammunition, just a mountain of dead bodies.

“Hold the bridge,” I ordered, for I saw no reason to advance beyond our position against superior numbers. We had the river on our flanks, trees for cover, and four cannon trained on the opposite bank.

“I count seven hundred,” Tom said, studying their formations through his binoculars.

“Seven hundred and fifty,” Cooke reported, having been at it a few minutes longer.

“Our strength?” I asked, looking to the right and left.

I only saw sixty men.

“Smith’s coming with E Company, and we’ll have a hundred more in another ten minutes. And the men from Goliad are on the trail behind the Mexicans. Should arrive by midday,” Tom said.

He was careful not to say Fannin’s men, but even if the illustrious Colonel Fannin had chosen to stay in Goliad, he had still sent the bulk of his force forward. Something to the man’s credit.

“General Custer, we are reporting to battle,” Mario Sepulveda said, arriving with several of the Zacatecan militia.

Francisco Sanchez and the other volunteer teamsters soon joined us, all carrying Brown Bess muskets or Kentucky long rifles.

“If you don’t wish to fire on your own people, I understand.”

“We would have the tyrant pulled down. You promised we could help,” Sanchez said with determination.

“It’s a promise I won’t break. Take positions here among the trees, but don’t fire unless given the order.”

“It will be as you say,” Sanchez agreed, directing his men.

Tom returned after placing F Company near the bridge, using Santa Anna’s abandoned entrenchments.

“They’ll never cross the river,” Tom said, holding his Winchester.

Hughes and Butler were at my side, and most of my officers. We didn’t have much ammunition left for the Springfields, barely three hundred rounds, but enough blunt an attack.

“Myles, assemble I Company. Be ready to ford the river downstream and strike them in flank,” I reluctantly said. “Harry, spread your troops out to hold this riverbank. Captain Baugh, please gather a mounted patrol to guard our rear, we don’t know where the Mexican cavalry is. Dickenson, Jameson, draw up more powder for the cannon. Let’s move, everyone. What we do here in the next few minutes may decide who wins this war.”

As my staff hurried to carry out their orders, I hunkered down in the trees above to river to study the enemy’s battle plan. I didn’t need my binoculars; they were only two hundred yards away.

“What’s wrong, George?” Crockett asked, kneeling next to me.

Crockett was once again carrying a Springfield, a bandolier with twenty shells slung over his shoulder.

“I didn’t want another bloodbath,” I said, unhappy with the enemy’s return. With flags flying, they still made a fine impression. Worthy foes. Was I getting too old for battle?

“They’re hardly likely to carry the bridge lined up like that,” Cooke pointed out.

And he was right. The Mexicans were formed in squares, standing at attention, banners flapping in the breeze and drums beating. It reminded me of that time just a few days before when I had marched into the Alamo on parade. Is imitation the sincerest form of flattery?

Two officers walked toward the bridge under a flag of truce. I recognized General Castrillón and Colonel Almonte.

“Voss, sound the parley. We’ll hear what they have to say,” I ordered, going to the bridge before the bugle even sounded. “Tom, Jimmy, Bobby, you’re with me. Myles, if it’s a trick, kill them all.”

Keogh would have killed them anyway, but it felt good to say.

We walked to the middle of the bridge, meeting the Mexican officers half way. Without ammunition for my Bulldogs, I carried a standard issue Colt .45 revolver. My brother and the sergeants were armed with repeating rifles. General Castrillón carried a fancy dress sword. Almonte appeared to have no weapons at all.

“Buen dia, señores. Estoy contento ver que ustedes sobrevivieron el dia desagardable de ayer
,” I said, meaning every word.

“We appreciate your good will, General Custer,” Castrillón replied in English, acknowledging me with a bow of his head.

“We heard you were wounded,” Almonte said.

“Lost a valuable pocket watch,” I answered, tapping my chest where the musket ball had almost struck my heart. My tunic had been sewn where the hole had been, the fabric still stained with blood.

“Maybe it’s as the men say. You are favored by the gods,” General Castrillón said, giving me a strange look.