Custer at the Alamo by Gregory Urbach Read Free Book Online Page A

and scribbled a few quick instructions for my messengers.
    “Sergeant Major, be sure keep the men low. We want the element of surprise. The moment those siege guns reach our side of the river, the entire command is to open fire.”
    “Yes, General,” Sergeant Major Sharrow with a salute.
    I looked around, seeing everybody busy, some taking positions on the ridge, others holding our horses to the rear. Tom and Smith were doing a good job of placing the men in skirmish order.
    “I need four volunteers,” I announced.
    “Reckon that’s me,” Bouyer said.
    “And me,” Cooke said.
    “You need a good shot, General. I’m the best,” Sergeant Butler said.
    “Second best,” I disagreed.
    “Sorry, sir, you’re wrong about that,” Butler insisted.
    “Jimmy, I once went shot for shot against Buffalo Bill,” I protested.
    “Yeah, and I once heard Cody isn’t the great shot he pretends to be,” Butler replied, patting the heavy Sharps rifle lying across his lap.
    Gray Wolf and Spotted Eagle raised their muskets, volunteering to go with us.
    “Bouyer, tell the youngsters this is not their fight,” I ordered. Bouyer exchanged a few words. He looked surprised.
    “Gen’ral, they say Slow told ’em to expect a fight an’ stay with you. They ain’t going no place you don’t go. Is it true? Did the boy know ’bout the Mexicans?” Bouyer said.
    “The boy didn’t say anything to me about Mexicans,” I answered, telling a half-truth. No point in getting everybody spooked by a child mystic. “Come on, boys, let’s ride.”
    With my small detachment, we went back up to the nearest bend and plunged into the cold river. Crossing any river can be difficult, especially one as wide as the Rio Grande. The water buffeted us harshly, and for a moment, I was worried we might be washed downstream. Fortunately, our mounts found footing most of the way, and we were only forced to swim a short distance.
    Once we reached the opposite shore, we travelled west a good half mile before turning south, seeking to avoid Mexican patrols. The land here was rolling prairie prone to occasional flooding. Stringy trees and prickly bushes sprang up in pockets. The Comanche Indians were known to roam these badlands before disease and war with the Texas Rangers whittled down their numbers. As far as I was concerned, the Comanche could have it back.
    We soon reached a shallow ravine north of the Mexican column, dismounting in a dip fifty yards from the old Spanish road. While Butler and Cooke kept the horses quiet, I went alone to scout the new position. One of the 12-pounders was finally across the river, the raft pulled up on the muddy shore. The long iron cannon must have weighed fourteen hundred pounds, making it hard to manage. Several soldiers were untying the carriage wheels so it could be rolled to higher ground. The other raft was nearly on the embankment.
    I noticed a second freight wagon had been floated to the eastern shore. More than fifty smaller wagons, filled with sacks of beans and supplies, were impatiently waiting their turn to cross. The enemy looked exhausted, ready to make camp. A colonel in a smart blue uniform was issuing orders, a plumed helmet on his head and a gleaming saber at his side, but most of the Mexicans appeared armed with old-fashioned muskets and lances. Their clothes were soiled, some almost in rags. I assumed many were peasants, not considered worthy of the regular army.
    “What are you thinking, General?” Cooke asked, always more respectful of my rank when the shooting was about to start.
    “I was recalling that time back in 1866, when President Juarez offered me command of the Mexican cavalry, but Grant refused to let me accept the appointment. He claimed that an American officer serving the Mexican revolution would set a bad precedent.”
    “You wouldn’t have been the first officer to accept a foreign appointment. John Paul Jones did,” Cooke said, though such accommodations are rare.
    “I