Custer at the Alamo (8 page)

What had started as an ambush against a superior force now disintegrated into a rout. For whatever reason, the invaders simply had not anticipated an attack at the river. Many of their senior officers were killed in the first few minutes, their sergeants slain as they tried to organize the bewildered troops. The rest began throwing down their arms or fleeing downstream. When Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf raced forward with fierce Lakota Sioux war cries, the civilians on our side of the river shrieked in terror. Most of the women fled into the desert. Those who didn’t dropped to the ground in tears of despair, suspecting an assault by a hoard of wild savages.

“What’s that they’re saying?” I asked Bouyer.

Though not completely ignorant of Spanish, having studied the romance languages at West Point, my hearing no longer had the clarity of youth. Fifteen years of battlefields will do that.

“They’re beggin’ us not to unleash our Injuns,” Bouyer said with a chuckle. “Get scared enough, two Injuns can look like a thousand.”

As the shooting stopped, I cradled my rifle and walked fearlessly into the enemy position, for a confident victor inevitably fares better than a timid one. Across the river, Keogh and Tom’s commands were coming down toward the beach in a steady line, rifles ready for treachery. Neither company had found it necessary to mount a charge, saving men and horses. I heartily approved of their prudence.

“Who’s in command here?” I shouted.

Bouyer immediately repeated my words in Spanish, saying it several times. A captain came forward, a bullet hole in his arm.

“Tengo el honor, señor
,” the young officer said.

He was a tall, handsome fellow, with dark eyes that betrayed a good education. His uniform, even frayed from the battle, was quite elegant, a royal blue jacket, high black boots, and a red sash around the waist. A Toledo sword and steel helmet topped with a feathered plume marked him as a gentleman, probably of Spanish descent.

“You may treat your wounded, sir, if you will promise to give us no trouble,” I offered, letting Bouyer translate.

Though I had rarely needed to speak Spanish since my trip to Texas ten years before, much of the conversation seemed clear. Nevertheless, Bouyer’s interpretation would prevent any unfortunate misunderstandings.

The young officer thought for a moment, now realizing our numbers were small but better armed. The man was no fool.

“Mi libertad condicional se ha dada, señor,”
he said, offering me his sword. I accepted the blade and passed it over to Cooke.

“Nice,” Cooke said, feeling the weapon’s weight. The steel blade was finely engraved in Latin. The handle was made of silver and decorated with silk ribbons.

“Myles was unhappy about leaving our pig-stickers back on the Yellowstone,” I recounted. “Give him this one, with my compliments.”

“And the prisoners?” Cooke asked.

I turned back to the young captain. Though I had many questions, this was not the time or place.

“Stack all arms near the wagons,” I ordered. “Take your tents and a day’s rations to that clump of trees downriver. We’ll discuss your return to Mexico later.”

“Señor, estamos en México
,” the captain rudely responded.

“Not all of you,” I answered, believing it at the time.

Cooke and I went to the water’s edge where Tom was asking the same questions, though he didn’t need an interpreter, having learned the language well enough during our previous assignment. I have no doubt he spoke Spanish with a brothel accent.

“Autie?” Tom called out.

“All’s well. Send everyone but the officers back over before it gets dark,” I answered. “And have Smith turn those 12-pounders around in case they try invading our country again.”

* * *

It took several hours to straighten out the aftermath of the skirmish, and by then the sun was setting. We made fires from driftwood found along the river and posted guards every twenty yards from our camp. Two Mexican officers had been kept on our side of the Rio Grande, the rest of the invaders sent back after we had confiscated their best wagons and horses. We expected the rank and file to melt away during the night, for the last thing I needed was three hundred prisoners of war.

“Congratulations, sir,” Harrington said, coming in from his post with a shiver. Harrington hadn’t shaved since leaving the Yellowstone, giving him a bedraggled appearance. My other officers fared no better; Tom, Cooke and Dr. Lord all looked like steamer tramps. Finding shaving kits for my officers would soon be a priority.

The night had turned cold enough that even a good buffalo hide wasn’t always sufficient, though we also had wool coats found in the captured wagons. We also found plenty of tents, blankets, lanterns, and most of the necessities left behind at the Little Big Horn. There was even a box of silverware made in Italy, complete with plates and goblets. And several cases of fine wine, not that I would personally indulge.

“Not much of a battle, Harry,” I said, eating my fill of rice and beans. Which is about all the Mexicans had brought with them out of the desert. It was one of the most poorly supplied armies I’d ever seen. Almost as bad as Lee’s army during the retreat from Petersburg. Eventually we would butcher a few of the cattle, but for now we made do.

“But a victory nevertheless,” Harrington said. “And on the 4th of July, no less. They’d be singing your praises at the Centennial if they knew.”

I hadn’t realized the date, but Harrington was right. It was the 100th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. When the news got back to Philadelphia where the celebrations were being held, I’d be the talk of the country.

“Ready to run for president, Autie?” Tom asked with a grin.

“Smart ass,” I replied.

“What’s that all about?” Bouyer asked. Having been loaned to us by Colonel Gibbon, the scout wasn’t familiar with the joke.

“A few idiots who want to embarrass Grant have suggested I run for president. Some even said this war against the Sioux would be my springboard to the nomination,” I explained.

“Lots of generals have become president. Grant, Taylor, Harrison. Jackson. Even George Washington,” Kellogg said, always taking an interest in politics.

“None of them were thirty-six years old, Mark. Will
the Chicago Tribune
support such a campaign? Or
the
New York Times
?” I asked.

“I suppose not,” Kellogg conceded.

“Maybe I’ll run for office someday,” I explained. “I even considered running for Congress after the war, but I didn’t want to give up my commission. There’ll be plenty of time for politics once my military career is over.”

“Hell, George, you’re a democrat. No one in their right mind would vote for a democrat,” Cooke said.

“Last I heard, we weren’t letting Canadians vote at all,” Tom said, poking fun at his friend.

“Until Reconstruction is over, you’re not letting most of the South vote, either. What does that say about your democracy?” Cooke answered.

“If the sons of bitches hadn’t started the war, they wouldn’t need to worry about their damn voting rights,” Harrington objected, expressing what most of the Seventh felt about the Rebellion.

For some, the wounds of the Civil War were still fresh. Nearly every officer and most the troopers had shed blood on battlefields from Bull Run to Vicksburg. Those who had not served in battle had lost friends and family members. Some, like myself, thought the South needed to be treated more fairly, but mine was a minority opinion.

“We have better things to do than refight the war,” I said. “What are we going to do about this invasion? This is only the tail of the beast. Somewhere east of us is the main army, and even though General Sheridan is probably gathering a force to oppose them, it will be several months before he can take the field.”

“Do we know who the Mexican commander is?” Kellogg asked.

“Hell, I don’t even know who’s ruling Mexico these days. They change presidents like soiled underwear,” Yates said.

“It’s not that bad,” I said. “President de Tejada has been in charge since Juárez died. A rebel named Diaz has been trying to overthrow the government, but I don’t think he has much chance.”

“Is this de Tejada’s way of showing he’s in charge?” Cooke suggested. “What better way to unite the country than a war?”

“Heard one of them soldiers mention Santa Anna,” Bouyer said.

“Santa Anna? Isn’t he dead?” Tom wondered in surprise.

“It can’t be Santa Anna. He’s got to be eighty years old by now,” I said, remembering his biography from my West Point days.

Santa Anna, former president of Mexico, had once called himself the Napoleon of the West. I couldn’t say if he was a bad general or just unlucky, but he managed to lose Texas in 1836. After that he was overthrown, came back into power, and was overthrown again. During one of his many exiles, he even lived on Staten Island.

“Eighty years old? That would make him their most experienced general,” Yates said. Everyone laughed.

Keogh came up to the bonfire with Morning Star and the Indian boy. Morning Star found a place next to Tom, the boy sat between me and Bouyer. Keogh stood for a moment accepting a plate of beans, then squatted close to the fire pit.

“Tents all set up. Finally got the boys settled in. They’re all fired up from the fight,” Keogh said.

“Causalities?” I asked.

“One dead, four wounded. Looks like the Mexicans lost about forty-five. Hard to tell how many wounded. Most took off back to Mexico,” Keogh said.

“Good riddance,” Tom said.

“Who died?” I asked.

“Young trumpeter named Martin. F Company. You know, that Italian kid who was acting as your orderly,” Keogh said. “Took a musket ball through the head.”

“Didn’t we send him back to Benteen with a message?” Tom asked.

“He won’t be taking any messages now,” Keogh answered.

“Strange. We lost thousands of good men during the war. Thousands upon thousands. Out here on the plains, even losing one seems like a lot,” Yates said.

“Probably going to lose more, Georgie,” I remarked. “Have we gotten any information from those Mexican officers?”

“Naw, they’re professionals. Threw their orders in the river,” Tom said.

“We got this scrap of paper. Doesn’t make any sense, though,” Keogh said, pulling a crumpled page from his breast pocket.

I looked the page over. It was in Spanish, the handwriting florid. I recognized the word
Béjar
and a few harsh lines to the commanding officer. I’d have probably been able to read the whole damn letter if I’d paid more attention in school.

“Scratch orders saying to hurry the artillery along,” I surmised, handing the document to Tom.

“Of course, sir. But look at the date. It’s from February. Five months ago,” Keogh pointed out. He was right. Even though the paper and ink appeared fresh, it was dated February 19th.

“Are their communications that bad? Marching with orders this old?” Tom asked in disbelief.

“Has anyone asked the Mexican captain about this? Or that young lieutenant?” I inquired, for it did seem strange.

“Tried to. None of them will tell us anything,” Keogh answered.

“I’ve seen their faces around the Indians. Take my word for it, Gen’ral, give Gray Wolf a tomahawk and they’ll sing like nightingales,” Bouyer replied.

“It does not matter,” Morning Star said.

“Why is that?” Bouyer asked.

“Slow says you will be going east, regardless of the odds,” Morning Star explained.

“Sure, we’ll probe toward San Antonio, but . . .” Harrington started to say.

Morning Star raised her hands, her tawny rawhide dress reflecting glowing shadows, and looked to the boy. Slow stood up, his face lit by the campfire. His dark eyes glistened ominously in the flickering light. He studied everyone in the circle before turning his attention on me.

“You will seek the enemy, as you have always done. It is your way,” the boy said. Then he sat down and accepted a plate of beans.

The boy was right about that.

* * *

It was another freezing cold night. An hour after the command turned in, I walked down to the river. Fires burned on the other side. Most of the invaders had headed back to their homes in Mexico, but not all. I soon learned why.

“General, over here,” a trooper called.

It was Corporal French, one of Tom’s men. He and four others were manning the cannon at the ford. Each was wearing a Mexican winter coat and draped in a buffalo hide to keep out the killing frost.

“What is it, French?” I asked.

“This fellow here. Says he’s a sergeant. Wants a parley,” French explained. “Speaks pretty fair English for a foreigner.”

I saw three Mexicans dressed in white sackcloth and heavy wool coats. Possibly peasants pressed into service by their government. The sergeant was tall for one of his race, the shoulders straight and head held high. He had come to talk, not beg. He only had sandals and rags for footwear.