Chapter 10

1867: the border

The next morning at dawn, at least a half hour before six o’clock reveille, the bugle sounded Call to Arms. If there’s a bugle sequence that fires the blood quicker than the Call to Arms, I’ve yet to hear it.

That call was followed immediately by Assembly, which was just as well, since we hadn’t been assigned any battle positions at the fort. Our standing orders were to take assigned positions to form a perimeter and take cover, pending further orders.

I was with the contingent of the regiment that had been assigned to the tent camp on the east side of the fort. Our assembly position was outside the south gate. I was among the first to arrive, and I found Captain Lange, just coming out the gate, raking his disheveled hair with his fingers before jamming it under his forage cap, then finishing buttoning his blouse.

“Captain, is this a drill?” I called to him.

“I don’t think so, Seneca. There was some manner of hue and cry a short while ago. Reckon we’ll all find out together.”

By that time, at least half the regiment was forming into lines, and I went to find my place. Within another few minutes, every man was present and under arms. The last three men in any squad usually arrived together because the rifle stack could not be reduced to fewer than three muskets without the last two falling into the dirt. So the last three men had to take their weapons at the same time. If the last man was truly tardy, one of the others would carry his rifle to formation. If the man had still not made an appearance by roll call, then the soldier who held his rifle would shout “Rifle here” at the second calling of the man’s name. “Here” was used as it didn’t sound like the standard response to roll call: “Present.”

But there was no roll call this morning.

The men who had assembled on the parade ground -- those bivouacked in the barracks -- were led out at double-time to join our larger formation. This brought the assembly to a total of about three hundred fifty men, absent those four companies already deployed to garrison duty here in Texas and at Baton Rouge, plus the temporary scout platoon half of which were with the telegraph survey crew. Then Major Schofield came out and stood in the entrance road and told us that there had been an Indian raid on the corrals and that the two guards, both from Company G, were attacked. One man was dead, another severely injured, his head bashed in; both had been scalped. All of the regiment’s horses had been stolen, the cavalry mounts and those mounts which were ridden by officers’ ranks of major and above.

We were directed to stand at ease while the major gave instructions to the company captains. He called the captains to him and they received their orders right there, on the entrance road.

After only a few minutes, the Captains returned and, after a brief word with their platoon lieutenants, the men began to disperse to their assignments. Companies G, E, and F were to send skirmishers out to a one mile perimeter and one platoon each from Companies H, I, and J were to establish a perimeter at one hundred yards, and the remaining platoons were to assume camp duties, including a doubled guard roster.

The assignments were immediate, meaning most of the men would miss breakfast, but the duties would be rotated at noon, with food brought to those who would still have field assignment, then as pickets. Standing orders were that, unless on the march or in the field, all canteens were to be kept full, so water should not be an immediate problem.

After Captain Lange past on his orders to his lieutenants, he called to me, “Seneca, find Buffalo Cape and meet me at the mess tent.” Walter Buffalo Cape, a Cherokee sergeant, had been sick with dysentery when he first reached Baton Rouge in the summer and had only just recovered sufficiently to accompany the regiment on it deployment in December. He had still been on light duty, remaining with the main force up to that point.

“Yes, sir,” I called to Captain Lange. I turned to begin my search and found Buffalo Cape walking toward me. He was second to Reeds Water in command of the Indian scouts. I hadn’t seen him since we left Fort Ringgold. He was looking much healthier and was moving without any indication of lingering weakness.

Walter Buffalo Cape was from a Cherokee family which had assumed European-American culture three generations before. Despite their observance of standard American legal formalities, in the eighteen-thirties, his family and thousands of others were still driven out of Georgia when President Andrew Jackson refused to enforce a decision by the U.S. Supreme Court that prohibited the State of Georgia from ousting the Cherokee. Instead, Jackson used the crisis to force the Cherokee into an agreement to trade their land in Georgia for land in the Indian Territories, west of the Mississippi River. Those events led to the Cherokee’s notorious “Trail of Tears,” when sixteen thousand Cherokee, and one or two thousand of their slaves, were expelled from their homes. Only four thousand Cherokee and an unknown number of slaves reached the trans-Mississippi west. Some of that original number may have absconded into Florida or remote mountain regions of the Appalachians, but the federal government kept no records of the removal itself, so there are only disputed estimates of that number based on stories and suppositions. What is known is that sixteen thousand Cherokee were offered land in the west, but after an appalling journey, only four thousand arrived to accept what had been offered.

As Buffalo Cape came up to me, he said, “Two of the Pawnee have traced them to the river. They believe the raiding party and the horses are close by across the river.” Buffalo Cape had as full command of the English language as any other farm-raised American boy -- unless he happened to have a widely-read uncle like Samuel Cayuga.

I nodded. “That seems to be their wont. I know the Apache and Comanche would like nothing better than to torture Indian scouts, so I would understand your reluctance, but I plan to suggest an answering raid, to recover the horses and maybe take some prisoners.”

He looked at me in solemn fashion for a moment, then said, “I know that your offer to take account of the special dangers to the Indian scouts is meant sincerely and as a courtesy, but any of the Indian scouts in this command would take it as an insult to their courage. I recommend you not mention it to anyone again.”

I now regarded him. After a moment, I said, “I hadn’t considered it from that point of view. I appreciate you setting me straight. Let’s go see Captain Lange.”

In serious discussions with our Indian scouts, it was customary to pause before your response as a way to indicate you were giving careful consideration to what had just been said. In practical terms, it actually afforded that opportunity.

Meal call had not yet been sounded, but Captain Lange had brought three tin cups filled with coffee to a table in the far corner of the mess tent.

Buffalo Cape and I both stepped up to the table, came to attention and saluted. Captain Lange gave a passable salute in return then invited us to sit down. We were in the enlisted mess, but it was less remarkable for an officer to be in our mess than for enlisted men to be in the officers’ mess, which was in the headquarters building.

He said, “I want you to trail those horses--”

“Excuse me, Captain,” I interrupted -- something I would not do with any other officer, save for two or three of the lieutenants, with whom I was on good terms.

“Go ahead, Seneca.”

“Sergeant Buffalo Cape, please report what you told me.” I said. He told of the discovery that the Pawnee scouts had made.

Lange said, “We were afraid of that.”

I added, “It’s our opinion that the raiders are holed up on the south side of the river, waiting for more opportunities to plunder the US side.”

Lange nodded with a slight grimace. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

I said, “Captain, Sergeant Buffalo Cape and I, and maybe six or eight others of the scouts were thinking we might request some leave time, maybe three days, to visit with some of the locals, gain a better appreciation of their way of life. Or maybe do a little hunting, with our bows.”

He peered at me closely, then glanced at Buffalo Cape. “Sergeant, are you likewise intrigued by local customs?”

With his solemn-speech face in place, Buffalo Cape intoned, “Captain, I would accompany Sergeant Becker to assure he did not get lost.”

Lange didn’t react to the humor, but began nodding as he looked back and forth between Buffalo Cape and me, his eyes in a partial squint, as if peering into our heads. Still nodding slowly, he turned and began toying with his coffee cup, apparently lost in thought. Some barely noticeable alternating nods and head shakes suggested to me that an internal argument was going on in Captain Lange’s mind.

After what had to be a full minute, and still toying with his coffee cup, he said, “Funny you should be interested in local customs. I am reminded of an orientation lecture the officers were required to attend, before we left Baton Rouge. A lawyer from the US State Department instructed us on border protocols, by that I mean the laws and practices regarding the US-Mexico border. He made it clear that the United States Army could not cross the border under under any circumstances, save for orders direct from the War Department. In answer to a question, he specified that the Army was prohibited from crossing the border even to aid US citizens or members of the Army, even if they were calling for help from the opposite river bank only a couple hundred feet away. We were especially enjoined from shooting into Mexico. So, if someone were hunting, he would have to mind the direction of his projectiles.”

After a pause, he looked closely at us and, with a frown, he added, “At a formal tea after the training, I overheard a conversation in which the attorney said that it would be especially damning if an American citizen who was illegally in Mexico brought back across the border any evidence of his illegal border crossing. Since we had been talking about the Army, the lawyer mentioned prisoners specifically, because prisoners could give evidence of the illegal incursion. He said anyone doing that was likely too stupid to wear the uniform.” I felt my face heat up and Lange focused on me. “Wouldn’t you agree that such a move would be incredibly stupid, Sergeant?”

“Now that you’ve explained it so clearly, sir, who could possibly disagree?”

He nodded and asked, “If you go hunting, would you be wearing your buckskins?”

“Have to, Captain. We can’t be wearing Army gewgaws with their shine an’ jinglin’ an’ clankin’ to spook the critters.”

He nodded, but looked sad.

I said, “What about our leave, sir?”

The nearest dependable river crossings, other than at Eagle Pass, were six miles northwest or nine miles southeast. We chose to go southeast because that meant we would not have to bypass the town of Piedras Negras, which was situated opposite Eagle Pass, in the Mexican State of Coahuila. There was also a fairly busy road leading south from Piedras Negras that we wouldn’t have to cross. The name, Piedras Negras, means “black stones,” a reference to the coal deposits in the area, on both sides of the rio. We were using coal from a nearby mine as fuel for our cook fires.