Custer at the Alamo (46 page)

Eighteen rifles quickly fired in unison, a wave of enemy soldiers falling. Crockett ejected a spent shell, slid another bullet into the breach, and fired again. He had been practicing. Each of his men had two more muskets primed and ready, picking them up and taking aim. Effective, in the short term, but they could not maintain such a pace once they needed to reload. A difficult thing to do while someone is trying to run you through with a bayonet.

The palisade’s cannon fired again, raking the front ranks of the Mexicans trying to cross the ditch. Crockett’s men fired a second time, and then a third, each volley taking a toll. The flashes were bright enough to see there were only a few hundred Mexicans at our front, not the thousands Santa Anna might have sent.

Faced with such ferocious resistance, the Mexicans began to draw back, scrambling away from the ditch to firmer ground. Some stopped to return fire and I saw one of Crockett’s men get hit, grabbing his head as he toppled backward. Then musket balls struck the top of the palisade, forcing many to duck the splinters. Blood was dripping from a frontiersman’s eye, but he kept fighting.

Unable to reach the palisade, the enemy shifted to their left, moving parallel to the low barracks while shooting at the men in the lunette. A cannon stationed there fired canister shot, cutting down those who had lingered too close, but moans and cries rose from the lunette, indicating some of the men had been stuck by musket fire. I would need to reinforce the gun crews if they took too many casualties.

My men on the roof of the low barracks had an advantage, for the frontiersmen had trouble reloading without getting up. And when they did, they were vulnerable to enemy fire. My men could reload their breech loading rifles while lying down. But in the dark, good targets were elusive. I was glad to see they weren’t wasting ammunition on phantoms.

Suddenly rockets arched overhead with red and yellow tails lighting up the landscape. Despite deep shadows, the enemy could be seen more easily. And they could see us. Heavy fire erupted across the entire front as the Mexicans continued to move west, finding shelter in the burned adobes south of the main gate.

One of my men fell from the low barracks, landing hard in the courtyard. And then the gunner standing beside me was hit, collapsing on the platform holding his left arm, his eyes squinting in pain. I hoped the ball had not cut an artery, but a moment later it didn’t matter. A second shot struck him through the forehead and he fell back against the gun mount.

“Dickenson, fire the gun,” I ordered.

Dickenson had the 18-pounder turned, needing all six of the gun crew. He touched the charge and the cannon roared, tearing a gaping hole through the nearest hovel. The sound was so loud it blotted out the battle, the recoil so fierce we all needed to jump out of the way. Had the wheels not been secured with rope, the cannon may well have leapt entirely off the platform.

“Keep it up. Don’t give them a chance to dig in,” I said, seeing the enemy taking aim at us from their sheltered positions only fifty yards away. An effective range for a Brown Bess.

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Esparza, solid shot,” Dickenson ordered.

He turned to pick up a powder charge, then suddenly stumbled to the platform, hit through the shoulder. He groaned, sat up, and handed the powder charge to Esparza. The crew reloaded the cannon and fired again, ripping through two of the broken down houses. One caught fire, a beacon to see the enemy by. Soldiers were scrambling in every direction.

“Tear them up!” I shouted, kneeling on the wall with the Winchester.

It was a target-rich landscape, much like a slowly moving buffalo herd. I fired eight rounds in rapid succession, probably hitting a few of them. Springfields and muskets followed, the fusillade so great the enemy was forced back to the edge of the darkness, only the cries of the wounded marking their trail.

“That’ll teach ‘em,” Hughes said, standing at my side.

“They’ll reform,” I replied.

Hardly a moment later, a ragged but deadly storm of fire from the Brown Bess muskets killed and wounded several men on the walls. We hunkered down, matching shot for shot only because of our superior weapons. I could hear the Mexican officers issuing orders, trying to keep their formations together. The cries of the injured and dying rose from the darkness. The ground was too dark to see them.

The heaviest fire began to strike around the 18-pounder, the most obvious source of the enemy’s distress. Esparza had the gun fire two more times before being force to find shelter. Dickenson was wounded, two others were dead. Even I had stepped down from the wall, fearing an early death. If the lunette could not keep up a flanking fire, the corner of the fort might be stormed.

“Jameson!” I shouted.

“Yes, sir?” Jameson called back.

“To the right! The right!” I said, pointing.

A 6-pounder was fired, striking the dark areas between my bastion and the bridge. The powerful blast was quickly followed by the 4-pounder, causing the remaining adobe shacks to shatter. I suspect more men were wounded by deadly fragments than the cannon shots. I opened fire with the Winchester again, Hughes with the Henry, and the enemy was finally forced back even further. They were still within the effective range of our guns, but we were beyond the range of theirs.

With the pressure on the palisade relieved, Crockett and some of his men reinforced the low barracks. My men on the roof adapted to the murky warfare, selecting their best targets. The momentum of the attack had been halted, the Mexican officers unable to push their men forward. We heard a great deal of cursing, browbeating, and even a few threats, but marching frightened soldiers over the bodies of their slaughtered comrades is no easy task.

At that moment, had I mounted a cavalry attack, I’d have chased Colonel Morales all the way back to Mexico.

“Dickenson?” I asked.

“Alive, sir,” he said, sitting with his back against the parapet.

“Gregorio, reload the gun. Canister shot,” I ordered, for the next time I expected the enemy to get much closer.

Just as our portion of the fort grew calm, shooting erupted three hundred yards away at the opposite end of the compound. It was as I expected, but still a surprise. The attack on the palisade had been a diversion, just as Santa Anna intended, though his men had paid dearly for it. The cannon on the north wall opened fire, but it was too dark for me to determine the extent of the danger. Another gun fired, the cannon overlooking the corral at the east side of the long barracks, and then the gun at the back of the church. It sounded like the entire north and east sides of the fort were under sudden assault.

“Steady, men. This is our station,” I said, limping down the ramp toward the redoubt. My neck hurt from all the physical activity. I tied the silk scarf a little tighter, hoping to relieve the pain.

“General, we can whip them,” Dickenson protested, though his arm dripped blood and he could barely stand. Half the men were ready to charge across the compound to help the north wall.

“Our instinct is to rush to the new scene of battle. That is just what the dictator wants,” I answered, reluctantly deciding militia need their strategies explained. “Don’t worry, fellows. There’s plenty of fighting coming our way.”

“Maybe this one can go to the wall?” Spotted Eagle said, hatchet in hand. Driving the first wave back had denied him a scalp.

“Patience, my friend,” I urged.

All four cannon on the north wall were engaged now, switching from shot to canister. We heard shouts of encouragement from the defenders, and once I even heard Travis. I briefly wondered if Travis had been right. Could the position be held?

More cannon fired, but these were not the Alamo’s guns. Mexican artillery had been drawn forward, trying to blow a hole through the northeast corner of the fort. Plumes of dust rose from the weakened adobe bricks, some of the supporting timbers collapsing.

Tremendous commotion was heard as the enemy surged against the wall, and suddenly the defenders were struggling to keep the attackers off their bastion. Though I could not see them, I imagined the Mexicans gathered in strength, mounting their scaling ladders. Climbing up, being knocked down, and then climbing again. An unstoppable wave. More rockets streaked across the pre-dawn sky.

I looked up to my right. Butler and his hand-picked sharpshooters were maintaining a heavy fire, benefiting from higher ground and closer range, but it was impossible to see how effective their efforts were. Much of the fighting was a jumble of shadow and confusion.

“General, Captain Baugh’s compliments,” a messenger reported, a seventeen-year-old named Espalier who had been a favorite of Bowie. “Captain says the Mexicans are withdrawing to the north. His gun can’t do no more.”

“Thank you, Carlos. My compliments to Captain Baugh. Have him leave a guard in the church and send the rest of his men to support the corral,” I instructed.

“Not the north wall, sir?” the youngster asked.

“Follow orders,” I insisted.

Espalier saluted and ran back. The only attacking force east of the Alamo now was on horseback, and they weren’t likely to make a twelve-foot leap into the church.

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

With the enemy having withdrawn on his flank, the Tennesseans were getting a short respite. I thought Crockett looked tired, and scared. And excited. His face was smudged with gunpowder.

“There are two thousand soldiers trying to break through over there. Nothing we can do will stop them,” I said, pointing at the growing breach to the right of the center bastion.

Another shell hit the wall dead center, the upper portion collapsing into the courtyard. In a few more minutes, the Mexicans would not need ladders to enter the fort—they could just charge over the rubble.

The last cannon on the northern bastions went quiet. There were no longer any encouraging shouts, only the grunts of desperate men as the enemy tried to storm the shattered wall. The hand-to-hand fighting would be intense now. No more time to reload the muskets. No way to use the artillery. Fifty men using knives and bayonets were trying to stave off thousands.

Another rocket revealed several Mexicans crawling on a workshop near the northwest corner, standing for a moment to look down into the courtyard. They didn’t know the rooms along the west wall had been stripped of ceilings supports. Seconds later, the roof suddenly caved in. The surprised soldiers would find little but sharpened stakes to land on. Straw on the floors would allow Travis’s men to burn the huts as they retreated.

“French, sound recall,” I said, fearing even a few more seconds would be too late.

French blew the bugle, loud even in battle. Another bugle took up the call from the roof of the long barracks. It was Charlie Clark, one of the New Orleans Grays. He’d been studying with French.

“Covering fire!” I ordered. “Crockett, Carey, to your posts! Prime your guns, boys!”

The cannon crews pulled back the tarps keeping their power dry, lighting the matches. The hundred men assigned to this position knelt between the guns in a long line, hay bales and debris for cover. My soldiers on the low barracks turned their attention inward, relying on Jameson in the lunette to guard our rear.

The ghostly trail leading across the compound quickly filled with retreating men. They ran down the ramps from the northern bastions. Some jumped from the parapets. One slowed to torch the workshops, but the rest did not look back, arms waving as they tried to steal a march on the Mexicans. I did not see them spike the guns as ordered. They might have, I just couldn’t tell. Fighting continued at the northwest bastion, and soon it became evident the defenders there had been cut off. It was the place I last saw Travis.

“Give ‘em a hand, boys,” Crockett said, shooting a Mexican off the wall. A fine shot, given the foggy visibility.

Hughes knelt and fired his Henry, hitting another. The first dozen attackers who climbed the north wall fell back just as quickly, taking fire from several directions. But more kept coming.

An explosion rocked the battered breach, opening an eight foot gap of crumbling rubble. Ten, fifteen, and then thirty Mexican soldiers charged though, bayonets fixed on their muskets. Santa Anna’s attack force had been attempting to get a foothold in the courtyard, and now they had one.

“Rifles only!” I shouted, for our cannon would kill most our fellows fleeing for safety.

The smoke of battle was growing thick, obscuring the enemy. Only twenty or so of our men were making it across the planks, the rest missing and probably dead. One bringing up the rear was kicking over the firepots. A brave man. Crockett noticed and took aim at the remaining pots, shooting them over.

“The brown-eyes will cross the bridges,” Spotted Eagle said, pointing with his hatchet.

He was right; the only man who tried pulling up a plank was shot for his trouble. I didn’t think the planks would prove very helpful to the enemy. The boards were narrow and the compound dark.

That didn’t matter to Spotted Eagle, who suddenly jumped from our line, running the hundred feet to the closet plank, and throwing it aside. When the last of the north wall defenders crossed the second plank, Spotted Eagle pushed that one over, too. And then he went down, shot in the upper body. I saw him crawl for a moment before tumbling into the ditch. None of the retreating men saw him fall, or if they did, chose not go back and help.