Custer at the Alamo

We dismounted in the courtyard just inside the south gate, the mounts breathing hard from the sudden sprint across the prairie grass. Dozens of men in dirty brown leather rushed to greet us. Even the better dressed amongst them looked a bit ragged. One tall man wearing fringed buckskin looked familiar. I had seen his portrait while in Washington.

“Guess this answers our question,” Cooke said, shoulders slumping.

I was disappointed, too, for I dearly hoped until the last moment that this was all some sort of huge mistake. But it wasn’t. Our families were really gone, the world we knew not yet created. We were lost in every way one can be lost from one’s home and roots, except one. I still had my command, or part of it, and that would sustain me until the world started to make sense again.

“Crockett. David Crockett. Sure glad to see you boys,” the tall man said in a classic Tennessee drawl.

Crockett was about fifty years old with good features, an aquiline nose, and a week-old salt-and-pepper beard that contrasted with his otherwise dark brown hair. He wore a gray broad brim hat rather than a coonskin cap, and an aura of electricity was felt from his smile. The man had been a congressman.

“George Custer,” I introduced. “This is my adjutant, Lieutenant William Cooke. My non-commissioned officers are Sergeant James Butler, Sergeant Bobby Hughes, and Corporal Henry Voss.”

“Mark Kellogg, late of the Bismarck Tribune. Pleased to meet you, sir,” Kellogg gushed, pushing forward to shake Crockett’s hand.

“Bismarck? Don’t believe I’ve heard of a Bismarck Tribune,” Crockett said.

“It’s in North Dakota, sir,” Kellogg explained.

“Odd, I didn’t know any white men lived in the Dakotas,” Crockett said, trying to be nice.

A fellow standing next to Crockett reached to shake my hand. He was tall and lean like Crockett, in his early forties, and had the gleam of a good education in his cool blue eyes. His clothes had been mended in several places, indicating he’d seen hard times.

“This is my friend, Micajah Autry, also from Tennessee. We came out from Nacogdoches together,” Crockett introduced.

“Proud to meet you, sir,” I said, returning the handshake.

“Glad to see so many friends, especially on horseback. Not many good horses to be had hereabouts,” Autry said, which explained the dreadful condition of his worn leather boots.

Another man came forward, this one nattily dressed in what was supposed to be a navy blue cavalry uniform. He wore a dress sword and a broad white sash around his waist. His black boots were polished.

“I’m Colonel William Travis, commanding the Alamo,” the young man said with an Alabama accent.

I took Travis to be no more than twenty-five or twenty-six years old. He had light brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a clear complexion. I could tell that he had recently shaved, smelling of lilac water.

“General George Custer, commanding a battalion of the Seventh Cavalry,” I responded, making it clear who the ranking officer was.

“United States cavalry? Here?” Travis said, looking at my men with doubt. Though roughly in the same uniforms, the long march from Fort Lincoln and more recent travails had taken a toll. And none of us had shaved in two weeks. What stood out most were the buffalo hides we used to stay warm.

“I suppose you can’t say were officially United States cavalry. At the moment. But we’re here to stop this invasion,” I replied.

Tom finished giving Butler instructions for billeting our horses, then approached with Morning Star and Slow. They raised many eyebrows.

“Gentlemen, my brother, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Custer,” I said, using Tom’s brevet rank from the Civil War. “And my guests, Morning Star and Slow of the Great Sioux Nation. My scouts are Gray Wolf and Spotted Eagle.”

“You’re traveling with Indians?” a gruff pioneer said with a sneer of disapproval.

“I travel with whom I please. Do you have a problem with that?” I answered, focusing on the boorish ruffian and several of his friends.

Tom stepped forward with his fists clenched, but I put out an arm to keep him back. We hadn’t come to fight with a bunch of illiterate bumpkins.

“I guess not,” the rude frontiersman said, wisely backing off.

“Where are the rest of your men?” Travis asked, making a quick count. “From the licking you gave the Mexicans, we guessed your strength at a hundred.”

“Or two hundred,” a voice said from the watching crowd. I took a quick look at the Alamo defenders, seeing brave men with frayed nerves.

“Only thirty for now. Maybe a few more later,” I said.

Travis stepped up to take a closer look at my Remington hunting rifle. He saw the Winchesters carried by Tom and Cooke. A closer glance at my troopers revealed their Springfield carbines.

“Sir, I think we should talk. Mr. Dickenson, officer’s call. The barracks in ten minutes,” Travis suddenly said.

And with that he walked away without another word.

“Young Travis can be a bit abrupt,” Crockett said.

“Me, too,” I responded.