Chapter 12

1867: the border

With the arrival of the cavalry, I was reminded of one more problem associated with using horses for transportation: horseflies. With a bite equal in pain to the sting of a bee, this pestilence was apparently the reason that the Creator gave the horse a tail: to swat the horseflies biting its rump. And I am sure there must be some divine logic that can explain why it was necessary to create the horsefly to begin with, but that part of the Creator’s strategy has not been revealed to me. It would not have been so much a problem if the horseflies stuck to tormenting horses. But I think they liked to snack on humans for a little variety. And there were plenty of horseflies to go around, as each cavalry company had arrived with half-again as many remounts: over three hundred horses all told.

At least the horseflies stuck to daytime ravening. That left the evenings open for mosquitoes to come to the feast. Mosquitoes were another part of the heavenly plan that I had yet to figure out. Still, the mosquitoes weren’t as bad as they had been at Baton Rouge. And Buffalo Cape told me that the farther we traveled into the desert, the fewer there would be, with many areas totally free of mosquitoes. Of course, those were the same areas that were totally devoid of water.

I had hoped I might meet up with someone in the Ninth Cavalry companies from one of the old Union outfits, but I didn’t recognize any of the cavalrymen. I had received a letter from Doc Fraser while I was still at Baton Rouge. He and Royal Higgins had been assigned as scout trainers in the Tenth Cavalry Regiment. Then they were to deploy to the forts guarding the trails in the Nebraska and Dakota Territories. They had left for their assigned stations only a couple months after forming-up their regiment last summer and so had spent the late autumn and winter on the northern prairie.

Doc wrote that Zeke Saltell was also with the Tenth, but with a special scouting patrol squad. He said that Zeke sent his greetings, too. I was glad to receive word of Zeke, since I knew it was unlikely I’d hear from him directly. As in all but the rarest of instances, former slaves did not know how to read or write, as those skills had been denied them by law in the southern states before The War. William Fraser -- Doc -- had been a free man from birth and had been a school teacher prior to volunteering for the Forty-fourth Colored Infantry Regiment in ‘sixty-three.

Even for whites, it was not all that remarkable to be illiterate,. To pick up some cash, there were those, in the army and elsewhere, who, sometimes as a favor, sometimes for a fee, would write your letter, if you couldn’t write it yourself. You simply told them what to write. But such communications were usually limited to mundane topics and would not often include personal intimacies which the sender would usually not want known to a fellow soldier doing the writing.

Beyond any negligible disappointment I may have felt at the absence of familiar faces in the Ninth, I was mildly surprised by the haughtiness of some of the cavalrymen. They displayed an air of superiority over the “foot soldiers,” as some insisted on naming us, implying, after a fashion, that we were lesser beings. It seemed so odd, especially as most of them had served as infantry in The War. Do we never learn? As Uncle Sammie was fond of saying, “What a piece of work is man.”

Early the next morning, the other scouts and I were preparing for a twenty-mile hike when I noticed Captain Lange, accompanied by a lieutenant, step out from Fort Duncan’s main gate. They paused there and Captain Lange pointed toward us and said something to the lieutenant. The lieutenant then nodded, saluted Captain Lange, who returned the salute. Captain Lange returned to the fort and the lieutenant strode purposefully toward us, some baggage in hand.

Under a hat with a wide, floppy brim, I could see blonde hair over fair but reddish complexion, a somewhat bland countenance, though more from lack of contrasting shades than from any deficit in actual features. Otherwise he seemed generally pleasant once seen closer. He was about my size and of lanky build. As he approached, I could see he was wearing a weighty rucksack on his back and had a large but seemingly lightweight gunnysack in his hand.

Under my breath I announced to my companions, “Officer approaching,” but they knew better to all turn and gawk. Then, as he came up to us, I called aloud, “Ten-hut!” and each man straightened smartly in place, eyes forward.

I turned and saluted. “Sir, Sergeant Judah Becker at your service.”

He returned my salute, then said, “At ease, men. I’m Lieutenant Hector Absmeier, chief of scouts for the three battalions. Here at the fort or in formation I am addressed as Lieutenant Absmeier. In the field, on operations, you can call me Lou.” He turned to me and offered his hand. “Seneca, it’s my pleasure. I met some admirers of yours with the Tenth Cavalry Regiment. They told me I should get you to explain the ballistic curve if I was ever having trouble falling asleep.”

“Lieutenant, it’s cavalrymen like those that convinced me to stick with the infantry.”

“Well said, Sergeant” he commented, a grin on his face. Then he turned to Buffalo Cape and offered his hand, “Sergeant Buffalo Cape, I’m happy to know there is at least one sergeant with this cadre who isn’t burdened with a low reputation.”

“I am associating with low companions, though, sir. Welcome to the border.”

Absmeier turned to the others and shook hands with each, giving his rank and name and hearing theirs each time.

Then he bent to the gunnysack. “Men, as you can see, I am very fair complected and the sun will peel my skin to the bone if given a chance. So I’ve borrowed this soft style of cavalry cap to protect my head and neck. I’ve brought a supply of them if any of you would like to adopt them in place of the forage cap. I have Colonel Mackenzie’s approval to use them except for official parade dress, so hold on to the forage caps.”

I thought the hat serviceable, but it would not be considered dressy unless it happened to be that you were otherwise naked.

I was first in line. “Is there a choice of colors, sir?”

With an amused expression and a shake of his head, he said, “Of course there is, Sergeant. You can have a black one like mine, or a black one like these others.”

“And they won’t fall off if we’re not riding horses, sir?”

“Not unless you’re digging yourself into a hole, Sergeant.”

“Then I’d admire to have one like yours, Lieutenant. I want to look just as dashing.”

Grinning, he replied, “The first rule for getting out of a hole, Sergeant, is to quit digging it deeper.”

“Noted, sir.”

Lieutenant Absmeier hiked with us that morning. He apologized for carrying only two twenty-four pound balls rather than our two thirty-two pounders. “I’ve never trained like this. I’ve been practicing twice a week for the past month to be prepared, but I have yet to meet your level of performance. I will do so within two weeks.”

I set our pace just a bit slower, but I could tell Absmeier was struggling the final miles. Still, he was game for every last step.

At the end, I told him, “You’re the first officer to exercise with us, sir. If I can be permitted to say so, I’m impressed and I think the scouts will respond well to your effort.”

“Thanks, Seneca. I intend to train with you every morning. I learned many fieldcraft skills while riding with Colonel Carson and his Indian scouts, but I want to bring my performance in line with the Forty-first’s scout cadre.”

“It goes without saying that your participation is at your discretion, sir, but from the men’s reaction today, I’m sure you will be more than welcome.”

Having dropped our rucksacks, we had been walking slowly while he caught his breath. Now more composed, he said, “Unfortunately, I am about to disrupt your schedule.”

“We won’t be leaving with the regiment, sir?”

“Leaving with the regiment yes, but with the Ninth Cavalry Regiment, at least parts of it, and heading southeast, back to Fort Ringgold. We’re to meet with Captain Lange to go over the plans after dinner.”

“Does this mean I’ll be riding a horse, Lieutenant?”

“It does, Sergeant.”

I was afraid of that, sir.”

Captain Lange explained, “You and Sergeant Buffalo Cape, and acting Sergeant Tipton, will accompany Lieutenant Absmeier on a familiarization tour of the southeastern borderlands. You will ride with those elements of the Ninth Cavalry which are to be stationed with the garrisons of the Forty-first Infantry which are already on station between here and Fort Ringgold.

“The three companies of the Ninth will each be assigned to one of the three field battalions. Each cavalry company will be further subdivided into three light platoons of twenty-one troopers, each platoon to be led by two non-commissioned and one commissioned officer. One of those commissioned officers will be the captain of that company who will remain in nominal command of all three light cavalry platoons. One light platoon will be assigned to each of our nine garrisons.

“Upon reaching Fort Ringgold, the four of you, along with four cavalry troopers, will provide escort for the paymaster’s coach all the way back to to Fort Duncan. You will stop for three nights at each garrison post to rest your mounts and the draft stock. The paymaster’s coach is drawn by six mules and, besides the paymaster, will have a driver and a guard.”

He looked around at the men present: me, Jordie, Buffalo Cape, Lieutenant Absmeier, Captain Lars Jorgensen of the Ninth Cavalry Company B, and the Forty-first Regiment’s Major George Schofield. “You will depart tomorrow morning at the same time as the remaining elements of the Forty-first and the Ninth depart to the northwest to complete the garrison assignments. Any questions?” Lange asked. He gave me a quick frown to dissuade me from asking the impertinent questions that normally came to my lips.

Lieutenant Absmeier took the opportunity to slide two small jars of salve down the table to me and Jordie. “I’m told that you men would be familiar with its use as you renew your riding, ah, skills.”

Biting my tongue, I said only, “Very kind of you, sir.” But it gave me an idea.

After the meeting, I spoke to Captain Lange, who was my immediate superior in the Forty-first, as opposed to Lieutenant Absmeier’s role as functional commander of scouts on special assignments. In that manner,, Lieutenant Absmeier would be my commanding officer tomorrow for the special scout escort duty.

“Captain, may I have leave to go into town? I want to make some purchases prior to our departure.”

“You’ll be back by supper?”

“Well before, sir.”

“Permission granted. Just let Lieutenant Absmeier know, in case he has something for you to deal with before departure.”

Yes, sir. Thank you.” I saluted and was on my way.

I found Lieutenant Absmeier and told him my plan.

“That might work. Probably won’t be a cure, but it may help,” he said.

A couple hours later I caught up with Jordie.

“C’mon,” I said. “I’ve got an idea for getting used to the horses, again.”

“What? Wha’cha got there?”

“Some doe skin. I want us to make some close-fitting leggings just for our butts and thighs. We’ll wear ‘em under our uniform trousers and small clothes.”

He was nodding. “That might help. And the sheepskin?”

“Turn it wool side down on the saddle.”

He looked at me askance. “Them horse soldiers will laugh us into next week.”

“The hell with them. You can bet that every last one of ‘em suffered through it when they first started serious riding. We’ll just be showin’ ‘em how it’s done right, when you’re not all ga-ga about bein’ up on a horse for the first time. They’re just horses, after all, not winged Pegasus.”

“Winged who?”

Later, I approached Sergeant Buffalo Cape. “I know you’re an experienced rider but I also know you’ve been with the infantry for a few years. I bought some skins in town.” I explained the purpose.

At first, he looked like he was going to turn up his nose at the offer, then he asked, “How much?”

“Nothin’. I had to buy the whole skins just to make my own. Consider this wastage. I already gave some to Jordie.”

He nodded, while he felt the skins. Then he looked at me. “Thanks, Seneca.”

Several of the men did make derisive comments about the sheepskin, but some of them didn’t seem too well adjusted to riding, themselves. They rode awkwardly and I expected some were going to chip their own teeth from the way the rode out the trot. The lessons we’d had back in Georgia stood Jordie and I in good stead. Buffalo Cape was another matter. He rode in such a way that he appeared to be fixed to the horse as it moved along.

Even so, there was nothing that would prevent the first few days in the saddle from being a misery, but, even though our muscles took a beating, at least we avoided most of the abraded skin. We rode the standard McClellan saddle, a saddle with the open strip down the center, where it would fit over the horse’s spine. Even with the open design, the McClellans were light and rugged saddles with a fairly secure seat, so I had no legitimate complaints. However, as a soldier, one always reserved the right to complain, legitimate or not.

One pleasant surprise was that Jordie, Buffalo Cape, and I had been armed with the seven-shot Spenser carbine. These were a shorter-barrel version of the repeating rifles our Forty-Fourth Regiment’s scout platoon had used, albeit surreptitiously, in Georgia and Tennessee. The amusing aspect was that these were now considered obsolete weapons as the army was converting the 1861 muzzle-loading Springfield fifty-eight caliber rifles into single shot breech-loading rifles and carbines in the same caliber. Just like the logic that went into the creation of the horsefly and the mosquito, I was at a loss to understand the army’s approach to arming its cavalry, moving from repeating arms to single shot. In any event, it would likely be years before the colored infantry saw any manner of metal-cartridge breech loader.

My Whitworth rifle was traveling in one of the cavalry’s supply wagons, along with most of the cavalrymen’s dunnage.

Our force grew smaller as we progressed down river, as the light platoons of twenty-one men, plus officers and thirty-six horses remained at each each outpost. I explained to the officers the trouble we’d had at Laredo. Captain Jorgensen made it a point to go into Laredo and arrange for the purchase of some extra hay and oats for Fort McIntosh, emphasizing once again the economic benefit the “Yankee nigger army” would be to the community.

Then I made sure we stopped briefly at the Ahern farm, and I introduced Captain Jorgensen and Lieutenant Absmeier to them. They were gracious and reported they’d had no more trouble. I showed the officers the setting where we’d ambushed the Apache raiders.

Eleven days after leaving Fort Duncan, we rode into Fort Ringgold. We could have easily made it in seven or eight days, but we lingered a day at each post and took our time to inspect known river fords and other points of interest, such as the areas enclosed by the wide river bends that were bypassed by the wagon trail.

As it was, the paymaster, Major Joseph Groelsch, had not yet arrived at Fort Ringgold. Major Groelsch was in the Army’s Paymaster-General’s command and was stationed in Saint Louis. He was bringing three months worth of pay, approximately fifteen thousand dollars, to Fort Duncan, the regimental field headquarters. At Fort Duncan, the cash would be locked in a safe in a purpose-built strong room, similar to an especially secure jail cell. We learned further that the safe, itself, would be arriving with Major Groelsch and the payroll, which would already be locked in the one-ton strong-box which we would see delivered to Fort Duncan.

The reason for the large amount of cash was due to the Army’s commitment to on-time pay, even though it lacked the wherewithal to meet that standard, given the far-flung frontier locations of much of its forces. East of the Mississippi River was not so much a problem, with the growing network of railroads, but the west was an entirely different matter. Vast distances over unimproved trails, often in the face of hostile opposition, proved the undoing of the Paymaster General’s good intentions. On-time monthly pay would have meant having two or three payrolls always in transit, at least in the wilderness of the western plains The commitment of men and resources just to that purpose would have pressed those local forces required to provide escort.

So accommodations had to be made.

The Army satisfied itself with a compromise: one or two late payrolls followed by one or two on-time payrolls, all delivered in a schedule of quarterly distributions from the Paymaster General. For us, it meant that those major portions of the Forty-first and Ninth Regiments now in the field were already a month behind in pay, and some units would be two months behind before this payroll could be fully distributed. Still, most units would receive the current month’s month’s pay on time, and everyone should receive next month’s pay on time. Then the awkward cycle would repeat, belying the army’s promise of monthly pay.

One might ask, why not just distribute all the payroll money ahead of time so that all paydays could be on time? In fact, I asked that very question of Lieutenant Absmeier one evening at our campfire.

“Because,” he explained, “of the federal government’s twelve month fiscal year. Every September thirtieth, at the end of that twelve-month business year, the money runs out. All accounts go to zero. There is no money to advance. So the system has to start up anew every October first. All that is available in October is the money for October. The Paymaster General has to wait until December first to have three months of payroll funds for his quarterly distribution.” Of course, that all but guaranteed three late payrolls every autumn.

Still, no matter how you scheduled it, fifteen thousand dollars was a tremendous sum. Consider that the average wage, other than when room and board were included, was about forty to eighty dollars a month, depending on the skills required. As such, soldiering was not considered to be highly skilled. But even with the average unskilled laborer able to earn only five hundred dollars a year or less, fifteen thousand dollars was a king’s ransom.

The payroll escort consisted of six troopers, including the two driving the paymaster’s coach. We also had two teamsters who were driving the wagon with the safe. Then there were Lieutenant Absmeier, Buffalo Cape, Jordie, and me.

With the amount of money involved, and with the Regiments depending on it, we did not take our escort duty lightly. Nor was the veritable fortune in that five-foot high strong box ever far from our minds.

On the fifth day out, we had planned to take our noon break at the Ahern farmstead. On arrival, we had stopped at a respectful distance from the cabin so as not to disturb the Aherns’ routines -- when we were met by a fusillade of rifle fire from the cabin, the barn, and the nearby woods. My horse shied and hopped sideways. I fell from the saddle and--

I awoke looking up the barrel of an Army Colt revolver aimed at my eye. Beyond the revolver I saw a face -- Digger MacTavish!

I saw his finger tighten on the trigger and I closed my eyes. Then he said, quietly, “Don’t follow us, Seneca,” and he shot into the sand next to my head. I felt the hot powder pepper my face and had to struggle to keep myself from trying to brush it away. The pistol’s report did for my hearing, and I only felt the hoofbeats as the ambushers rode off.

I counted to a hundred before I carefully opened my eyes and surveyed the scene, keeping my head movement slow and minimal, in case someone of the bushwhackers had lingered.

There were bodies laying about. No standing horses, though there were a few dead ones. The wagon and coach were gone. Nothing moved, other than birds in the nearby trees, which meant my hearing was coming back. I sat up -- and threw up, as pain flashed through my head and my vision went momentarily gray.

Now I felt the back of my head and found a large and very tender lump and felt some stickiness. Turning slowly, I saw some blood on a rock behind me. But the movement intensified the already fierce pain. I considered lying back down, but knew that would only mean I’d soon have to sit up again.

I sat there for several minutes, breathing in and out in a deliberate manner. Then very slowly I moved to my hands and knees. Having my head hanging down seemed to make things worse, so I slowly sat higher until I could rest my butt on my heels. But I had a hard time keeping my eyes open against the brightness of the day. All the colors seemed washed out. I dearly wanted to lay back down, but forced myself to remain upright. I continued the deep breathing pattern and things slowly began to improve, though they were far from good. The intense headache persisted, but the pounding eased off. My vision began to return to normal.

My revolver was gone, as was the Spenser. My horse was one of the dead ones.

I could see Lieutenant Absmeier’s body, and Major Groelsch, and a couple of the trooper escorts, I looked toward the Ahern cabin, but could see no one, dead or alive.

Taking several deep, even breaths, I slowly rose to my feet, pausing on one knee, keeping my head upright and level, before finally gaining my feet. Now I could see more bodies and piles of debris, the detritus of the ambushers search of our baggage and belongings. I saw my bow and quiver lying amid the leavings of what had been in the coach’s boot. I counted all six trooper escorts, but no teamsters and no Jordie.

Feeling an overwhelming thirst, I walked carefully to the Aherns’ well and tossed the rope-secured bucket in. Instead of the splash I expected to hear, the bucket had landed on something and made only a small plop sound. Looking down at the water, some ten or twelve feet below. I could see a body floating there. It was dark, but the appearance of a beard led me to think it was Mr. Ahern. I looked toward the cabin and shuffled off that direction. On the floor inside, I found the bodies of the seventeen-year-old son and Mrs. Ahern. Her body was nude and had been subject to vicious treatment.

The eleven-year-old daughter’s corpse showed similar mistreatment. Her body, also nude, was on a bed and was bloody about the genitals and chest, where it looked like the girl’s undeveloped breasts had been bitten away. Her sightless eyes looked toward a window. There was no sign of the older three daughters. The cabin had been ransacked.

I went into the barn, which was attached to the cabin. It, too, had been ransacked and all of the animals, but for a few hens, were missing or dead.

I went back out to the yard and walked over to collect my bow and quiver. I slowly crouched, keeping my head upright, rather than bending down. Then I looked to my bedroll, which was stuck under my horse. My buckskins, hatchet, and a second knife were rolled up in my blankets. As I went to retrieve it, I realized it was likely the knife and the hatchet that were wedged under the horse and preventing the bedroll from sliding out from under the horse’s weight. Tugging on it made the headache throb. I was forced to take break off from the exertions and I lowered myself to sit on the horse’s rump. As I sat there, waiting for the head thumping to ease off, I heard a call, “Seneca?” Then, a bit joyous, “Seneca?”

I turned to see Jordie limping in from the east, opposite the rio. He was decidedly bedraggled, his uniform blouse tattered, trousers missing, no cap, and caked in dust. About ten yards behind him there followed what I assumed was his horse, looking abject but wary.

Jordie limped toward me and I slowly stood up, keeping my head straight and level. He must have seen how gingerly I was moving because he paused before he reached me.

“Are you all right?”

With the slightest of nods, I replied, “Hit my head on a rock. Still throbs if I push it. What happened to you?” I again lowered my self to the horse’s rump.

“Froggie back there,” he hooked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the horse, “took up hopping when the shooting started. Trying to stay astraddle, I broke the stirrup’s tread and my foot slid through but the broken pieces came back together and snagged my trouser leg between them. Damn horse must’ve dragged me a quarter mile. Then every time I reached up loose the snag on my trousers, she started running again. I finally figured just to push my braces off, kick off my shoes, and let the trousers go on without me ... Froggie still has my trousers, there, hangin’ from the broken stirrup. She won’t let me get close.”

Then he looked around. “They all dead?”

“I haven’t checked all of them, but I think so. Buffalo Cape and the lieutenant are, for certain. They apparently shot the wounded. The only reason I escaped is because the man that came to finish me was Digger MacTavish.”

“Digger? From the Forty-fourth?” he exclaimed.

I started to nod, but then grimaced. “Uh, yeah. He told me not to follow them, then shot into the ground next to my head.”

“But you’re going to follow them, ain’t you?”

“Probably. They have the three older Ahern daughters. The rest of the family is dead. And I think our teamsters were in on it. At least their bodies aren’t here.”

He nodded. “Wouldn’t surprise me. They weren’t very friendly. I thought they just didn’t care for darkies, or maybe soldiers.” He looked around, then asked, “How many of ‘em do you reckon there are?”

“Besides the teamsters, I’m figurin’ about ten or a dozen. There’d have to be that many guns to take us down so quickly, but not many more or the payoff wouldn’t be worth the split. And knowing Digger is with them makes me think they’re likely a smaller group rather than a larger one.”

“You think he’s the leader?”

I gave a very slight, gentle shrug. “That’d be my guess. We both know he ain’t the followin’ type.” I noticed the canteen on his horse. “Is there water in your canteen. I’m powerful thirsty.”

“Near full, if you can get to it. What’s wrong with the well?”

“Ahern’s body’s down there.”

“Ah.”

“If you can get my bedroll out from under my horse, I’ll try to get hold of your Froggie. There’s my hatchet and a hunting knife in my blankets; I think it’s hung up on those. But my ‘skins are in there, so...”

“All right, one bedroll for one horse; it’s a deal.”

“Help me up,” I asked as I offered my hand to him. “Gently,” I warned. He took hold of my hand and drew me slowly to my feet. I was again standing, but this time without the throbbing head. I turned toward his skittish horse while he bent to my dead one.

The gelding, now dubbed Froggie, watched me nervously. Then, as I came within about a dozen feet, he’d begin to back away and, if I pressed, he’d turn and begin to move more directly toward open ground. So I stopped at his apparent limit of tolerance and spoke softly to him. Meanwhile, I took the occasional glance toward Jordie to gauge his progress. He finally sat down on the ground, wedged the heels of his boots against the horse’s croup, and pushed with his legs while dragging the bedroll out from behind the saddle. He looked at me in triumph. I gave him a pleased smile, then turned back to his nervous horse.

At that point, I was inspired with a possible means of luring the horse to come to me.

Standing in a relaxed posture as I continued to speak softly, I made a show of reaching into my trousers pocket to draw out my empty fist. Then I extended my partially closed hand as if it held a treat. As often as not, the cavalrymen would bring a small treat to their horse, typically discarded vegetable scraps, pieces of carrot or potato, or some of the peel, maybe an apple core, or even some rice or some oatmeal gruel from their own ration. I continued my quiet patter while giving an occasional shake of my hand. The horse was very interested but was having some trouble overcoming its fear. I finally reached my left hand into my other pocket, then held them both out. Froggie dropped his head and slowly walked over. When he went for my left hand, I took hold of the bridle with my right hand, then opened my left hand and let him lick the salty sweat from my palm.

About a half hour later, after I had helped Jordie clean all the bloody scrapes on his back, we were both pulling on our buckskins when Jordie asked, “What about all these bodies?”

“Let’s just put ‘em inside for now. I’m betting that the bushwhackers haven’t gone far. They looked to be mostly Anglos, from the brief glimpse I had when I woke up to Digger’s pistol barrel in my face. And I don’t think a gang of Mexicans would follow an Anglo leader, unless maybe Digger has learned Spanish, but that seems unlikely. I’m also guessing that they won’t have gone far. They’ll figure there were no surviving witnesses, so they’d be safe to come back across the border in a few days, once things calm down. I’m bettin’ they’re nearby, and likely celebratin’.”