Custer at the Alamo (40 page)

“Vermont College of Medicine,” he said, seeking to assure me of his credentials. “And I hate slavery as much as you.”

“It looks like . . .” Travis started to say.

“Yes, yes. I think you are right,” Dr. Pollard said, taking tweezers from his bag to work on the wound.

Hughes frowned. If Pollard hadn’t had that Northern accent, I’m sure threats would have been made.

“George, this is going to hurt. Are you ready?” Crockett said.

I gritted my teeth, hands gripping the butts of my pistols. Pollard pulled on my scarf, then pulled a little more. With a final effort, the scarf came free, followed by a generous flow of blood. Pollard shook the scarf and out came to musket ball.

“Good you had that neckerchief. The ball didn’t penetrate the silk,” Dr. Pollard said.

“Ancient Romans wore silk underwear for the same reason,” Travis added, indicating he’d had a classical education.

I knew much of the Romans from my studies; I just never imagined such a benefit ever applying to me.

“Wait while we bandage this wound,” Dr. Pollard said.

Before he moved, Mrs. Dickenson and Juana had arrived with strips of white cloth from the infirmary.

“Anyone have whisky?” Hughes asked.

I glanced up. There were fifty men standing around me gawking instead of working.

“Thought your general weren’t no drinker,” someone said.

“Here, I got this brandy,” another offered, passing a green glass bottle.

Hughes soaked the bandage with the brandy, then let Mrs. Dickenson tie it around my neck. It stung like Black Death, but I tried not to let it show. Pollard looked surprised, wondering at the strange ritual. Though it was not certain that alcohol could stop deadly infections, it had become a common belief during the war. Even I subscribed to the strange theory after a British doctor wrote a book about it.

“Need a jolt, sir?” Hughes asked.

“No thank you, Bobby. Thanks everybody. Back to duty,” I ordered, slowly standing up.

There was momentary dizziness but nothing worse. Twisting my head might be difficult for awhile.

“Mr. Custer, I can’t express my dismay,” Travis said. “I assure you, I had no hint this might happen. None of us did. No gentleman would tolerate such bad manners.”

“You are above suspicion, Mr. Travis,” I said.

Then, after taking a sideways look at Crockett, I extended my hand. Travis shook it. Our peace was made, for now.

“Spotted Eagle, my young friend, thank you for saving my life,” I said. I started to shake his hand until seeing it covered in gore.

“Slow said you would find much coup and many scalps. Slow is never wrong,” Spotted Eagle said, tying Dijon’s scalp to his belt.

I could not let him walk around like that for long, for there were many angry stares from the garrison, but thought it best to give the youngster a few minutes to enjoy his prize. And if anyone had a problem that Spotted Eagle had killed a white man, they would need to deal with me first.

“What of the body, sir? We shouldn’t leave it here,” Hughes said, glancing around the busy compound.

“Dump it over the wall. When Santa Anna’s troops attack in the morning, it’s the first thing I want them to see,” I answered.

“General, I know you don’t wish to show weakness before the men, but this is still a serious wound,” Dr. Pollard said. “Give me a quiet place to work and you might be back on your feet by tomorrow.”

“I’ll give you an hour.”

“That’s impossible, sir. This is a serious injury,” Pollard said.

“Doctor, I expect the impossible,” I replied.

They found a canvas chair for me to sit in outside Bowie’s room where Pollard made sure the wound was cleaned before stitching it up. He thought me extraordinarily lucky the ball hadn’t cut its way through to the spine, but between the silk scarf and the damp gunpowder in Dijon’s flintlock, it was only a flesh wound. Custer’s Luck, I thought.

“So you’re opposed to slavery?” I asked.

“Many of us are. We came to Texas hoping to create colonies for freed slaves,” Dr. Pollard explained. “Under Mexican law, our chances were good. I’m not so sure about this new constitution everyone is talking about.”

“It’s a harsh document. Worse than anything back in the States,” I said, for Kellogg had much to say on the subject. “From what I hear, it will be illegal for a Texan to free his slaves, and freed black men won’t even be allowed to live here.”

“That’s sad for Texas. This land could have been an Eden.”

“It still can,” I said.

* * *

Crockett, Jameson and Carey doubled their efforts in the courtyard, for we needed to be prepared. Unable to do more than advise, and be a nuisance, I ducked inside Bowie’s room for a short visit. He was not in good shape.

“Hear everything, can’t do nothin’,” Bowie said, so ill he couldn’t even sit up. His face was white, fever burning in his eyes. I guessed malaria or black lung.

“The men understand. You’ll be up and around in no time.”

His room was dark, the only window boarded up. There was a musty smell unlikely to help him get better, but a small hearth was keeping the chamber warm. A bowl of half eaten soup lay on the table next to him. I also saw his famous knife and a loaded pistol.

“Juana’s doing her best. Won’t be good enough,” Bowie said. “If Santa Anna ain’t already looted my house, parcel up the goods when this is over.”

“Your house?” I asked.

“Veramendi Palace. Over on Soledad Street. Not really a palace, but nice. Make sure my people are taken care of.”

“Even the slaves?” I asked.

“Specially the slaves. Don’t have many left. Not since my Ursula died.”

“I’ll do what I can, after freeing them,” I said.

“Do what’s best,” Bowie said, eyes closing.

Suddenly I realized he wasn’t breathing. I felt for a pulse and peaked under an eyelid. Just like that, the man had died.

I sat for a moment, surprised. A man like Bowie, bigger than life, should have had a more glorious end. Perhaps propped up in bed, firing his flintlocks as the Mexicans burst into the room, and then fighting to the last with his Bowie knife. That’s the way he’d want to be remembered.

I covered him with a blanket and went outside without telling anyone. With so much to do, there was no point in damaging morale.

“Rider coming in! Rider coming in!” our sentry on the old church yelled.

The 12-pounder in the apse fired, followed by a rifle volley from the corral. I hurried to the top of the long barracks, climbing the steep stone stairs with difficulty, to see a lone horseman riding like a madman over Powder House Hill and down toward our east wall, getting so close to the morass I feared they’d stumble into the swamp.

“Rides like a devil,” Crockett said with a whistle. “Good he’s so small. Mexicans can’t seem to hit him.”

A squad of Mexican troops were standing on the hill firing their muskets, but the horseman had dashed past them so fast they’d hardly had time to react. Not that they weren’t trying. From the right, at the top the Alameda, another squad opened fire. And the roar of a 4-pounder was heard from the left, the cannon ball kicking up a plume of damp earth. It seemed the Mexicans were determined not to let any messengers reach the fort, no matter what.

And all were not shooting. Twenty lancers had taken up the chase, a brave sight in their red jackets and glistening steel helmets, flashing swords drawn for a quick kill. Their horses were not the best quality, but rested and eager for a run.

And then I saw it was not a horseman approaching the Alamo at all. It was a horse boy, and he was riding my horse!

“Come on, David, let’s give him cover,” I said, hiding a sense of desperation.

I raised my Remington hunting rifle, took aim at a lancer chasing down from the hill, and fired at a range of seven hundred yards, knocking the man from his saddle.

“Christ Almighty, no one’s beatin’ that shot!” Crockett exclaimed.

I wasn’t interested in praise, firing three more times. When another lancer fell, the others slowed to a more cautious trot, finally giving up the chase. The horse boy veered around the morass toward the gate on the east side of the corral, entering below the raised battery emplacement. The garrison sent up a cheer.

“Slow! Goddamn it, what the hell are you doing here!” I shouted, storming into the corral only minutes later.

I’d run down the stairs so fast it was a miracle I’d not broken my neck, nor had I sworn so much since Benteen accused me of abandoning Joel Elliot at the Washita.

“Take it easy, General, nobody got hurt,” Dickenson said, lifting Slow from Vic’s back.

Good old Vic seemed excited by all the fuss, but he was always one for adventure, nudging Hughes with his nose and stomping a forefoot. French rushed to remove the saddle and sponge the horse down, for he’d had a hard run.

“My people’s future does not lie in Goliad,” Slow said, calmly even though he was out of breath. The lad looked worn to the bone, only the black eyes shining with any strength.

“It can’t lie in the Alamo,” I replied.

“The spirits focus in strange places. As I rode closer to Goliad, I felt only darkness. In the Alamo, I sense light.”

“The Alamo will soon be a place of great death,” I said.

“This is where the spirits dwell. This is where the spirits will be remembered,” Slow insisted.

Even I remembered the Alamo, forty years after its fall. Maybe there was something in the medicine boy’s words.

“You’ll stay in my quarters. French, have Juana find him some food,” I ordered. The lad started to follow my aide, but I stopped him, a hand on his shoulder, and then knelt down to look him straight in the eye. “Slow, that was the bravest ride I’ve ever seen. Your people are proud of you, and so am I. But don’t ever ride Vic through a bullet storm like that again.”

Slow smiled, quiet and pleased, and went to take a nap.

It was an hour before sunset. I had the 18-pounder fired so the world, particularly Keogh and Smith, would know the Alamo was holding out. We would continue working until the last sliver of light, preparing our defenses for the desperate struggle ahead, and then the garrison would be put to bed for a full night’s sleep. If I were Santa Anna, I would attack in the predawn hours. I expected him to do the same.

There was a bugle call from across the river, and then a summons. I walked up the southwest ramp to see another Mexican delegation on the bridge under a white flag. This time I sent Jameson out to see what they wanted, and was astonished by the answer.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“No doubt, sir. Santa Anna has invited you to dinner. A civilized forum to discuss your differences,” Jameson reported.

We were sitting in my quarters, a coal fire burning in the old Franklin stove. The room was so small that Crockett and I sat on stools around an empty water barrel while Jameson, Travis and Carey sat on my bed. Butler, Hughes and Dickenson stood near the door. Slow slept on the floor in the corner, covered by a buffalo robe.

“I’ll be . . . I’m surprised,” I said.

“You shouldn’t go. It’s a trick,” Butler said.

“Let’s shoot the lying sons of bitches,” Hughes added.

“All of them, or just the officers?” I inquired with a grin.

“We can start with the officers,” Hughes said.

“The Mexicans are offering hostages, including Santa Anna’s nephew,” Jameson said. “I don’t think it’s a trick.”

“They’ve always been good about respecting a truce,” Travis said, anxious to accept the invitation but knowing I would forbid his participation. Travis was hated by our enemies; Crockett and I were enigmas.

“Think I should go, too,” Crockett said.

“Along with me and Henry,” Hughes said, hefting his Henry repeating rifle.

“Mr. Sharp is hungry,” Butler was quick to say, propping the heavy rifle on his knee.

I rocked in my chair, a hand pressing the poultice Pollard had prepared for my neck wound. I didn’t care for the smell, but a touch of morphine Butler carried in his saddlebags helped the pain. After Mrs. Dickenson washed the blood off my red silk scarf, I put it back on for good luck.

“Sirs, you will need to watch your manners,” I said, tacitly approving. “Santa Anna may be a ruthless tyrant, but he is President of Mexico. And a gentleman. I’ll not be embarrassed by your uncouth ways.”

“You fart just like the rest of us,” Butler said.

“I beg your pardon, Sergeant Butler, but generals do not fart. We pass wind,” I corrected.

“My mistake,” Butler said, poking Hughes with his elbow.

Travis smiled, something I’d not seen him do before.

“Mr. Jameson, you may tell Santa Anna’s emissary that we accept his invitation,” I instructed.

“I go as well,” Slow said, sitting up with drowsy eyes.

“Of course,” I agreed. “Who am I to stop you?”

We dressed in our best, such as it was, and had five horses saddled for the ride into town. I wore my army blues with a fringed buckskin jacket. The two sergeants were outfitted in clean uniforms and Crockett in a frock coat. Slow wore fresh leathers loaned by eight-year-old Enrique, the son of Tejano defender Gregorio Esparza.