Custer at the Alamo (11 page)

“Rosser told me the Galveston line is being extended to San Antonio next year. Wherever the railroad goes, civilization will follow,” I said, a true believer in modern technology.

“You wouldn’t say that if you spent a Saturday night in Chicago,” Kellogg said, attempting to be funny.

In truth, I preferred New York. A night at the theater and dinner at Delmonico’s was my idea of a civilized evening.

A mile farther on, we heard a familiar noise. It wasn’t thunder we had heard in the distance- it was cannon fire.

“Field guns. Maybe a howitzer or two,” Tom announced.

“Guess we found the Mexican army,” I said. The firing was slow and sporadic. Not a hot fight.

“The town must be holding out,” Tom said, reaching the same conclusion I had. But they were not heavy cannon. Not like the 12-pounders we had intercepted at the Rio Grande. This was light artillery.

“Maybe we have an army in the field after all,” Kellogg guessed.

“Doesn’t sound like the guns are dueling. Whichever side is doing the firing seems to have the upper hand,” I said.

Tom nodded agreement. From 1861 to 1865, we’d seen plenty of battlefields. After awhile, you know instinctively where the firing is coming from. When Napoleon espoused the soldier’s motto, ‘ride to the sound of the guns,’ the man knew what he was talking about.

“A patrol,” Tom said, sighting a group of horsemen off in the distance.

We edged down into a ravine and held our breath. The patrol consisted of ten Mexican lancers on fast horses. Their uniforms, red jackets with white trousers, stood out from the gray landscape. One carried a purple pennant that flapped in the stiff breeze, but I could not make out an insignia. With the firepower at our disposal, we could drive the enemy off, but I didn’t wish to be discovered.

The patrol rode south toward Goliad, possibly scouting their next advance. We moved up from the river into thick woods. If I remembered right, there was a low ridge just east of the town called Powder House Hill where the Masonic cemetery was located. I expected such a place to be occupied by the enemy for observation purposes, but it would also help fix our location.

A few minutes later, we reached the Alameda. The long, tree-lined avenue had been paved with stones on my previous visit. Now it was a ruddy track of half-dried mud. The tall, draping trees had grown thicker, and not a single clapboard house stood in the area, which I found very strange.

We dismounted and approached cautiously, pistols drawn should the enemy be laying a trap. We saw no activity in the immediate vicinity, so we tied the horses to branches in the woods and crept up to the road, careful to hide in the brush.

To our right, all I saw was rolling prairie and a few small farms. A dirt trail called the Gonzales Road led due east.

Straight ahead of us was Powder House Hill, but instead of a cemetery, the hill was capped by an old adobe tower that hadn’t been there before. Next to the tower was an entrenchment manned by a dozen soldiers, most of them looking bored.

Down and to our left was the town of San Antonio de Béjar.

“By all that’s holy,” Tom whispered.

“Watch the blasphemy, Thomas,” I warned.

But he was right. The bench land from the hill down to the San Antonio River two thousand yards away was a war zone occupied by hundreds of Mexican soldiers. The town on the far side of the river was filled with tents, troops and supply wagons. A blood-red flag flew from the top of the gray stone cathedral. The more immediate activity, however, was on our side of the river around a decrepit old fort.

“What the hell is that?” Tom asked, pointing.

“Thomas,” I warned again.

“Sorry, Autie,” he apologized.

“Tommy boy, that there is the Alamo,” Kellogg said.

“The Alamo doesn’t have any walls. It’s just an old supply depot,” Tom protested.

“It’s got walls now,” Kellogg replied.

“That makes no sense. If Texas was going to build a new wall around the Alamo, why erect of piece of shit like that?” Tom asked.

“Damn it, Tom, will you quit your goddamn swearing!” I demanded.

“It’s not a new wall, Tom,” Kellogg gravely said. “It’s the original wall. It’s the original wall, and that is Santa Anna’s army down there. I don’t know how, but this isn’t 1876 anymore. It’s 1836.”

“That’s your crazy theory?” I asked.

“Have you got a better one?” he said.

I took out my field glasses and hunkered down, studying every facet of the situation. The Mexican cannon were old. Napoleonic vintage. The soldiers were armed with the same Brown Bess muskets we’d seen at the Rio Grande. The fort had a fair number of cannon but not very many defenders. A red, white and green flag with two stars on it flew from the roof of a long two-story building. The south side of the fort, between the main gate and the broken down church, was a timber palisade guarded by a pair of 6-pounders. A crudely built lunette protected the main gate, and mounted on the southwest corner was an 18-pounder aimed toward the town. Thick adobe walls enclosed about three acres of courtyard without a single bastion for defense.

I’d read about the Alamo. Studied the battle, or at least what little we knew of it, for no formal history had ever been written. Without reinforcements, the fort was indefensible, and few if any reinforcements ever arrived. No one with any military experience would get trapped in such a place.

“I’m estimating the enemy at eighteen hundred,” Tom said, also studying the battlefield through his binoculars. “Mostly infantry. They’ve got to have more cavalry, but they’re not here. Probably on a scout. Autie, there isn’t an American army uniform in sight. The fort isn’t flying the stars and stripes.”

“Start making notes. Write down everything,” I ordered. “You, too, Mark. About time that notebook of yours is finally good for something. I want troop estimates, dispositions, supply locations. Artillery positions. Pin down where their headquarters is located. Let’s study the ground. Where can we use cavalry? Where’s the best place to fight dismounted?”

“Fight? General, there are thousands of Mexicans down there!” Kellogg protested.

“Maybe we’ll fight. Maybe we won’t. But I want all my options available,” I generously explained.

Tom needed no explanation. He was busy scribbling everything a field commander would need to know. Though I was more charismatic, I still wondered if Tom might not be the better strategist.

“That’s got to be the worst looking fort I’ve ever seen,” Tom whispered, making a drawing of the fortifications.

“Strictly speaking, the Alamo was not a fortress,” Kellogg said. “It was founded as a mission back in the 1700s. The walls were for protection against Indians. If the Mexicans were armed with bows and arrows, the Texans would be doing fine.”

From what I saw, the compound consisted of a roofless old church attached to a tall, rectangular convent. The adobe walls on the west side had rooms for workshops. Two batteries faced the river through holes cut in the wall, a shockingly poor device, for without flanking protection the guns were extremely vulnerable. The east side of the compound had corrals for cattle and horses. A thin wall and two raised batteries shielded that flank, which was also screened by a swampy morass. With a good field of fire, it was almost defensible.

The north wall was a disaster waiting to happen. Though guarded by four cannon mounted on two platforms, it was shored up with logs and dirt. The Alamo had no ramparts, only wooden ramps that offered the defenders no protection from an attacking force. It would take six hundred men to hold such a place, and history said the Alamo had less than two hundred.

Only a few of those two hundred were visible, most choosing to avoid the cannon balls hitting the old battered walls every few minutes.

In one respect, I had to give the Mexican army credit. They wore impressive uniforms, each unit distinctively its own. The battalions flew their banners proudly and conducted themselves with professional élan. They were gradually surrounding the fort with a series of redoubts, filling in the gaps with small detachments. Though they probably had the strength to take the Alamo by storm, they had chosen a siege instead, possibly waiting for additional reinforcements. Larger cannon would knock down these crumbling walls in a few hours, but if the invaders were waiting for the 12-pounders we captured at the Rio Grande, they were in for a disappointment.

As the sun set, a nearly full moon crawled out from behind the clouds. Enough light to guide us back to our hiding place downriver. We rode in silence most of the way.

“This has got to be a trick,” Tom finally said.

“Or a delusion,” I suggested.

“It looked like the real thing to me,” Kellogg insisted. “I studied the Texas revolution while working for the St. Paul Dispatch. Everything adds up.”

“Except traveling back in time forty years. I don’t think that adds up,” I disagreed.

“You know I’m right,” Kellogg persisted.

“I don’t know anything yet. I’m certainly not subscribing to this fantasy without more proof.”

“What more proof do you need?”

“I don’t know. Something. Am I to believe our entire world is gone? Our friends and family no longer exist? That . . . who? Andrew Jackson is President of the United States? I am to believe that I haven’t even been born yet? That my wife hasn’t been born yet? No, I’ll believe I’m dead on some weed-covered battlefield before believing any of that.”

“Are we?” Tom asked.

“Are we what?” I said.

“Dead on some weed-covered battlefield. Autie, I . . . I don’t know how to say this. I’ve had these dreams ever since riding through that fog. We were on a hillside. Shot our horses. Hostiles closing in from all directions. I found you on the ground, hit through the chest, barely breathing. I. . . I couldn’t let the devils take you alive.”

“So you’ve had a few nightmares. So have I. We had them during the war, and after the Washita. Soldiers have nightmares; it doesn’t make us time travelers.”

“Who are you trying to convince, General?” Kellogg said.

“I
am
the general. I don’t need to convince anyone,” I said, giving Vic a kick and riding forward alone. I heard Tom and Kellogg talking but didn’t try to listen.

* * *

Cooke had pickets guarding the ravine where the command was camped, several small fires discreet enough keep them warm without alerting the enemy. I dismounted from Vic, gave him a scratch behind the ears, and let Voss take him to the makeshift corral. Butler offered a cup of hot coffee when I came close to the largest campfire. After the cold ride, the flames felt like heaven. Tom and Kellogg rode in a few minutes later.

“Well, what happened? Have the Mexicans captured San Antonio?” Cooke asked, growing impatient.

“You could say that,” I answered.

“I could, but what would you say? Did you reach the town?” he pressed.

“Yes, Bill, we reached the damn town,” I said, backing from the fire to walk down near the river.

Cooke started to follow, but Tom stopped him.

The moon had gradually disappeared behind some clouds, but stars were visible on the eastern horizon. The river babbled and I heard the occasional fish jump from the water. A steady wind rustled through the trees.

I didn’t know what to do. What to think. This was new ground, for I had
always
known what to do. Always sized up any situation and acted without hesitation. Usually with great success, for Custer’s Luck had never failed me. Until now. Or had it? I had the dreams, too. Knew I had blundered at the Little Big Horn by trying to flank the Indian village without bringing Benteen up first. And then I had waited for him on that cursed hill. Waited for reinforcements that never came. Waited until it was too late to escape.

Texas. 1836. The Alamo. It certainly made no possible sense, but we had something in common, for they had also waited for reinforcements that never came. They had waited until it was too late for anything but a last stand. And none had survived. Was this journey, this hallucination, a sort of redemption? A second chance? A second chance to do what? And how would I explain it to the men? I couldn’t even explain it to myself.

Footsteps, soft and unhurried, approached through the woods. I saw the young Indian boy emerge from the trees carrying a blanket. The night was cold.

“For you,” he said.

“Thank you, Slow,” I gratefully acknowledged, adding the same thought in sign language.

“You are troubled,” he observed.

“Yes. Something very strange has happened.”

“The world you knew has slipped away.”

“Yes, it has. How did you know?”

“Because the world I knew was also slipping away.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It is not a thing for words. Wakan Tanka has not made the path clear.”

“Son, I don’t think your Great Spirit is much of a factor here, though if someone’s god was going to intervene, I wish it would be mine.”

“Can you be sure the two spirits are not the same?”

“No. At the moment I’m not sure of anything.”