Chapter 16

1867: the border

We -- that is Company J of the Forty-first Colored Infantry Regiment, along with the Third Light Platoon of Company J, Ninth Colored Cavalry -- reached Fort Davis on June twenty-third, eighteen sixty-seven. On arrival, we were greeted by Company F of the Thirty-eighth Colored Infantry Regiment, as well as the First Platoon of Company D, Ninth Colored Cavalry. They turned out in dress formation as a welcoming ceremony. In turn, Colonel Mackenzie had us form up in ranks as we entered the fort, though our dress was somewhat bedraggled. Nonetheless, the military pomp was a boost to our flagging spirits and tired feet.

The Thirty-eighth Infantry, and those companies of the Ninth Cavalry not posted to border duty with us, had been assigned the responsibility of safeguarding the portion of the San Antonio - El Paso Road, and its environs, west of the Pecos River. That road was an important trade route and emigrant trail.

Meanwhile, our Company J’s responsibility at Fort Davis would be safeguarding the border from the fort to Anderson Arroyo, about halfway to Camp Bird and from Fort Davis to Fort Quitman, where the San Antonio-El Paso Road ran close to the Rio Grande. From Fort Quitman north and west border security became the responsibility of the Thirty-eighth Regiment. We would be sharing Fort Davis’s facilities with the Thirty-eighth, though we each had separate commands and different assigned patrol areas.

Fort Davis itself had been established in eighteen fifty-four to deal with Apache, Comanche, and Kiowa raiders. After Union troops withdrew in eighteen sixty-one, Confederate troops occupied the fort during much of The War. It was a well established fort, with an extensive variety of wooden, quarry stone, and adobe buildings and a wide parade ground about two hundred yards square. The fort was situated in a broad, flat canyon enclosed by mesas and mountains on three sides, though none close enough to give high ground advantage to anything short of a long-range artillery piece. To the southwest the unbroken vista was of level, open desert.

The Confederates had vacated Fort Davis near the end of The War. With no military presence, the surrounding town had come under heavy Apache raiding and the residents had all but abandoned the village. While the fort’s stone and adobe buildings had remained largely intact, the Apache had put the torch to wood structures and had destroyed furnishings and equipment in general. Fortunately, supplies of army cots were still in surplus after The War and shipments were on the way.

People who had been driven from the adjoining village in the later years of The War had been returning since the Army had reoccupied the fort. It was estimated that there were more than three hundred folks already living in the village. A sutler’s store had opened, the contract having been let on behalf of the Ninth Cavalry, which had arrived some six months prior. The Thirty-eighth Infantry had not the same number of camps to establish as had the Forty-first, consequently they had arrived in early May. One of the chores they’d taken on was cleaning and repairing the quarters our units were to occupy. I, for one, was very grateful.

Moreover, I finally ran across another scout from the old Forty-fourth. Rafael Gomez, a colored man from Cuba, looked me up after evening chow that first day. Rafael was now a corporal. He, Jordie and I spent a couple hours catching up. Gomez also told us that another of our old comrades, Micah Josephs, was a sergeant with the Thirty-ninth U.S.C.I. Regiment. In turn, I told him of Doc Fraser and Zeke Saltell -- and Digger MacTavish.

Rafael told us that the local villagers were not as ill-disposed to the soldiers as some of the other towns on their line. It was thought that folks were less hostile because it was the presence of the Army which had allowed them to come home again. That would be a pleasant change.

By the time we reached Fort Davis, Jordie was working his way through the sixth McGuffey Reader. The speed at which he learned to read was remarkable and I began to realize that Jodie was a smarter-than-average man. His printing skills were lagging, but that sort of practice was more time-consuming than the reading.

I had written a report to Captain Lange about the possibility of using the McGuffey Readers to teach more of the men to read, especially the scouts who would use the heliographs. In turn, he sent me a set of booklets entitled Ray’s Arithmetic Series. It was similar to the McGuffey system, but for arithmetic.

On my part, I’d had no book education in arithmetic, but had learned the four basic functions -- addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division -- from Ma and some practical uses from Pa. I understood simple fractions like half, quarter, and third and I could apply those notions to countable things, like apples, cows, or soldiers, but that was in my head. I didn’t know how they worked as numbers on paper.

When I showed the Ray’s Arithmetic books to Jordie, he immediately recognized them. “Them’s the same books what, uh, that my sister had. With her readin’ to me, I was able to get through the first couple in that month I was with them.”

“Well, I’ve never seen a teaching book about ‘rithmetic, so maybe we can go through them together,” I told him.

“And this time I’ll be able to read the words,” he said, sounding a bit more excited at the prospect than I felt.

I think Jordie appreciated the opportunities for education more than I did. I’d always felt those lessons were an unpleasant chore in my childhood. Even when I was with Uncle Sammie, some of the books he asked me to read or sample made for evenings of tedium, though lately I’d been giving some of those books second thoughts. It made me wonder why that was, why I now felt some longing to pick up those books and encounter those ideas anew. I thought I might write to Uncle Sammie about it.

It was at this point that Reeds Water and I received orders from Captain Lange, who had remained at Fort Duncan as the Deputy Commander for the Second Battalion. Reeds and I were to divide the Indian Scouts into three groups, one group to be assigned to each battalion rather than to the individual companies. Each battalion would assign the Indian scouts to particular missions rather than to particular posts.

Other than Reeds, there were now fifteen Indian scouts remaining in the cadre, including the three corporals. I said to Reeds, “Assuming you would agree that we should assign an Indian corporal to each battalion, let’s get together with Clay Pipe, Twin, and Micah and let them choose their own cadre.”

Reeds asked, “Are they going to replace Buffalo Cape, do you reckon?” Buffalo Cape was the Indian sergeant killed at the ambush at the Ahern farmstead.

“I have no idea. I’ve not heard any talk.”

“You haven’t asked Captain Lange?”

“No. It never occurred to me. I take it you haven’t asked him either.”

He just shook his head.

“We could send a note and ask, I suppose. Did you have someone in mind for promotion?”

“Any of the corporals,” he said. “They are all solid men and good leaders. I might lean a bit toward Twin, but only because he speaks Spanish.” In fact, Twin, one of the Black Seminoles, had been born in Florida but grew up in Mexico, and he spoke English with a mild Mexican accent.

“Let’s send the Captain a note, unless you don’t want to stir the pot right now. Have any of them asked you about promotion?”

“No. It’s not that. I am just ... I think I don’t want Buffalo Cape dishonored. If we don’t replace him, then it looks like he was of no ... no value, and his death had no meaning.”

Jordie leaned forward. “It might look that way, Reeds, but I think,” then Jordie dropped into his old patois, “d’ Massas still tryin’ t’ figger out dey wants fish ‘r fowl.” He smiled, then. “I reckon once they settle on that, we’ll have lots of questions answered.”

Reeds nodded. “I know that seems to be, and I know Captain Lange is a fair man. But there has been no talk of Buffalo Cape and it has brought up these questions in my mind.”

I said, “I’m perfectly happy to send a note to him. Whatever you think would best suit the Indian scouts.”

He shook his head. “No, that was not my purpose. I am satisfied that you have heard me. And the cadre has balance if we are to divide between three battalions.”

I said, “If I could change the subject, Reeds, where did you learn to divide numbers like that?”

“The chief of scouts with the old Thirty-eighth spent some time teaching us what he called ‘army arithmetic’. We learned adding, and subtracting, and how to divide things into two, three, four, and ten parts.”

“Jordie and I are going to be learning arithmetic from some booklets called Ray’s Arithmetic Series. You do know how to read?”

“I can read orders well enough, even in long hand,” Reeds said.

“What about the corporals?” I asked.

“Same like me.”

“Ain’t be much time,” Jordie observed, “if the Cap’n wants these battalion postings.”

“Ah, you’re right,” I admitted. “But maybe we could all just take a look and if we like ‘em then maybe Captain Lange could get ahold of more of the Readers and the ‘rithmetic books for every battalion.”

“Better they be for each company,” Jordie said.

It was a substantial group that set out that July the first, eighteen sixty-seven, on what was now being called the Rio Grande Military Road, or just the River Road. While the trail had become more pronounced with the continued passage of the supply trains, it still remained a dirt road, not more than a track cut across the land by hooves and wheels and brogans.

Our party included Colonel Mackenzie and Major Schofield. The Colonel and the Major had been on a familiarization tour of each company post, before returning to Regimental field headquarters at Fort Duncan. Lieutenant Colonel Shafter had remained at Fort Duncan to begin organizing the battalion operations, which he would oversee.

The Colonel was accompanied by Lieutenant Arnaud Woodmeister. Lieutenant Woodmeister and Major Schofield were the Colonel’s staff officers for the regimental command. Lieutenant Woodmeister was a blonde-haired, swarthy-complected man with a contrasting dark beard. He was broad shouldered and reminded me much of a lumberman I met in New York.

Besides the officers, there were me, Jordie, and ten of the Indian Scouts. As we journeyed, five-man Indian scout detachments would be posted to Fort Duncan, and Camp Mackenzie, each the central post for its battalion. The Third Battalion Scout team under Corporal Micah Foxpaw had remained at Fort Davis, the Third Battalion headquarters. His team included Cat Stalk, a Caddo, Franco Panther, a Black Seminole who went by ‘Frank,’ and Little Turtle and Crazy Wolf, both Pawnee, as was Micah.

Jordie, Reeds, and I were posted to Fort Duncan to assist Captain Lange with battalion scout planning and operations. Lange was staff for Lieutenant Colonel Shafter, who was the designated operations officer for the field regiment

Our contingent of officers and scouts, had joined a train of five empty freight wagon sets returning to Fort Ringgold and its nearby river port for more supplies. Accompanying the five freighters and their two helpers were eight infantrymen from Camp Bird, returning to their post after escorting the most recent supply train on the final leg of its journey from Camp Bird to Fort Davis. At Camp Bird, the squad of infantrymen would be relieved by a squad of their fellows from Camp Smith, who would thence return to their home post escorting the empty train.

While the three officers were mounted, the rest of us walked, even the teamsters, who some called bull-whackers.

Yokes of oxen, unlike teams of horses and mules, were led, sometimes driven, by a man on foot rather than from a wagon seat. To direct and goad the oxen, the more common tool was a stout staff as opposed to the long traces and the whip of a mule-skinner. An oxen teamster, or bull-whacker, was more of a drover than a driver. For the infantrymen, keeping up with with the oxen, even with the slightly faster pace allowed by the empty wagons, presented no difficulty.

I learned from the teamsters, who all worked for the same company, that their oxen were experienced and dependable animals. Their company preferred to use only the castrated male bovines, rather than a mix of steers and cows. After the more than two-month round trip from Fort Ringgold to Fort Davis and back, or an equivalent period of work, the bullocks were given a month in pasture to rest and regain weight.

Depending on the tonnage and load-out of the wagons in a particular train, and subject to other scheduling, some wagons might return after being emptied at the various posts. Other times, loads would be re-distributed among the wagons as supplies were offloaded and the entire train would make the round trip together.

The wagons in our column had been hauling bundled hay. The hay wagons were larger than a standard freight wagon and constructed of lighter members, with open slats on the sides and deck to help ventilate the hay. Each one also pulled a second wagon hitched to the first. Even so, we moved at a steady pace.

Twelve days later we were about ten miles southeast of Camp Smith, once more in the more plentifully wooded landscape along the rio. While still somewhat sparse when compared to the river shores southeast of Fort Duncan, it was still mostly sufficient for partial concealment of the scouts on perimeter duty.

I was on point with John South, a Cherokee who was assigned to the First Battalion, Corporal Clay Pipe’s team. I was on the river side of the trail, South was on the inland side. The trees and undergrowth allowed us to be seen only close by, even by each other.

All at once I heard a loud cry of anguish from across the trail and I froze in place. Next there was a minor commotion in the brush over there. After the briefest thought, I realized my first responsibility was to warn the column, so I stepped to the edge of the trail, aimed my carbine back toward the column, and fired into the open space between the trees that bordered the trail. Then I stepped back into the trees, dropped to my belly, and crawled parallel to and further along the trail, in the direction the breeze had taken my powder smoke.

From in front of me, in the direction I was moving, I could hear a rustle in the undergrowth from the direction of the riverbank. I realized someone was stalking me. This close to the river and Mexico I suspected it was the Apache. I was wearing my Colt Army Model 1860 and I very slowly drew it from its holster, keeping my movements in occurrence with passing breezes. I had one advantage: he -- or they -- had to find me. They might outnumbered me, but I had all six cylinders of the revolver loaded, though I only had percussion caps on five of the nipples, with the cylinder under the hammer being unfused.

I thought I had the other fellow spotted, though only by the movement of brush. The question was, how many of his companions were in the immediate area?

Then there was another commotion from across the trail, a scream of pain, then a discharge from one of our Springfield carbines.

I aimed the pistol at where I thought my stalker was crouching, pulled back the hammer and quickly fired. I was rewarded with a barely audible grunt and what sounded like a body falling among the undergrowth.

A half second later, I heard John South, in a strained voice, call, “Seneca, there’s two of ‘em.”

At that, an Apache rose from the brush further to my right and charged with his war club raised above his head. He appeared surprised to learn I was carrying a revolver rather than a single-shot pistol. He took the lesson to heart.

Then the sounds of gunfire emanated from the direction of the column. I stepped out onto the trail intending to jog for a couple hundred yards before returning to the trees, but South stepped out from the other side of the trail, his head and face covered in blood and holding what was apparently a wound to his side. As I stepped closer to him he said, somewhat breathless, “Go, help them. I’ll wait here in the trees. This isn’t as bad as it looks. Just come back for me.”

I gripped his shoulder and looked into his eyes, but he appeared to be in resolute. I said, “I’ll be back,” and I began jogging down the trail toward the gunfire. After a minute, I moved back into the trees, but even then I could tell the gunfire was slowing down. Within another minute it had stopped altogether. Then I heard running footfalls of several men, either barefoot or in moccasins, moving along the damp sand of the riverbank: Apache in retreat.

I was tempted to follow and get in a last lick, but felt obligated to both the column and to South. I moved back out into the trail and proceeded at a fast but cautious pace toward the column.

Just before coming into their view, I shouted, “Hello the column, this is Sergeant Becker, coming in on the trail.”

A voice called back, it sounded like Lieutenant Woodmeister, “Come on in, Becker.”

As it happened, my warning shot had allowed the teamsters to form their offset double-line formation, providing defensive cover from side attacks, though only partial cover for the stock. At the same time, as the infantrymen and the drovers had taken up positions, Jordie and the Indian scouts had moved into the woods, to take any ambushers on their own ground.

The Apache had apparently set up just a bit further along the trail, and the timing had been spoiled by John South’s outcry to me. Jordie and the other scouts had caught the Apache in a hasty lateral movement to try to flank the column to make up for their busted plan. The Apache should have just withdrawn. They lost six men killed in the main attack, and four more that South and I had managed to add, and there was evidence of perhaps six more being wounded, one bleeding severely.

But the battle wasn’t entirely one-sided. Colonel Mackenzie had also been wounded, with an arrow to the front of his right thigh. A drover’s helper had been killed, one of the drovers had an arrow in his shoulder, and two of the bullocks had to be put down.

I immediately enlisted Jordie and Reeds to join me in seeing to John South. With Major Schofield’s permission, we went forward to where I’d left John.

South related that had been ambushed himself, as I nearly had, taking an arrow into his left side. He had the wits to realize that, though the wound looked possibly fatal, the arrowhead had slid across his ribs under his chest muscle, rather than penetrating to his heart or lungs. He also realized he was unable to fight efficiently, so he decided to play dead. Releasing a loud cry in the hopes of alerting me, which it did, he fell, removing his knife as he did so, and played possum.

An Apache approached him and, apparently thinking him dead as intended, he jerked out the arrow -- for which event South had steeled himself to remain still -- and then the Apache had reached for his hair to scalp him. John took that opportunity to run his blade into the Apache’s belly and up into his heart. That had been the second scream I’d heard.

Hearing more movement in the brush, John grabbed his carbine and fired just as a second Apache came at him. Then he called to warn me about a second assailant.

Of the three wounded men -- Colonel Mackenzie, John South, and the teamster -- the Colonel had the worst of it.

Both South and the teamster were walking wounded and quickly eschewed the wagons, which provided an often teeth-shattering, kidney-pounding ride, and worse if you were wounded. The Colonel, however, with his painful and swollen thigh, could not sit a saddle nor adequately direct a horse, and he was certainly unable to walk, which didn’t seem advisable even if had he could have.

Generously, the Colonel offered his mount to John South, who gratefully accepted. Lieutenant Woodmeister offered his horse to the teamster, but that worthy had one of his fellow teamsters locate a purpose-made saddle among his baggage, a saddle which his fellow strapped to the nearside lead bullock of a three-yoke team. In fact, that mount was probably a smoother ride than he would have had on the horse. Nor was the loss of the two bullocks a problem as a two-yoke team, four oxen, had no trouble with the empty wagons.

After that episode, all of the scouts assigned to outer perimeter positions wore buckskins and moccasins.

A grim-faced Captain Lange was at Camp Walker when we arrived. He immediately went into conference with Colonel Mackenzie and Major Schofield. It was three days after the failed Apache ambush and the Colonel was on his feet, using a crutch one of the men had fashioned from a sapling.

The reason for the urgent conference was soon explained by the men of G Company Who garrisoned Camp Walker. We were told that one of their men had been arrested for raping a white woman and was in jail in San Felipe Del Rio. A mob of white men had formed with the intent of lynching Private Moses Scotsman. Captain Roland Franks, Company G’s commander, had sent a squad of men into town to guard the jail, which was hardly more than a log shed with a padlocked door in an empty lot behind the deputy sheriff’s office.

I was to learn that Captain Franks had also sent a report by wire to Second Battalion headquarters at Fort Duncan, which was also Regimental Headquarters for our Texas field outposts. Lieutenant Colonel Shafter had sent Captain Lange to deal with the situation. That was according to Captain Lange, who sent for me to meet with him after assembly the next morning.

We went to the mess hall and over coffee he explained “With Texas under military governance until it can be readmitted to the Union, we could simply take custody of Private Scotsman and deal with him under the Articles of War.”

The Articles of War, officially the Articles for the Government of the Armies of the United States, were the one hundred one rules of conduct and administrative responsibility for the Army, set down by Congress in eighteen aught-six. A similar law, the Articles for the Government of the United States Navy, provided rules of conduct and responsibility for the Navy and its officers and men.

“But the Colonel would prefer not to do that. He wants the locals to cooperate with us in our mission and doesn’t want to be at odds any more than we already are. So he wants the Texas state system to handle a trial, if it comes to that. He wants me to act in Private Scotsman’s defense and he figured it would be less objectionable to the locals if a white man assisted me as an investigator, and not another officer, as we’re all perceived as carpet-baggers. He suggested you, Judah.”

“Gladly, sir, whatever I can do to help.”

“Fine, then. Put on your best and we’ll head into town in thirty minutes. We’ll ride down there.” San Felipe Del Rio was several miles south of the Devil River ford where Camp Walker was located.

A Bexar (BAY-ahr colloquially, BEYKS-ahr in Spanish) County deputy was standing across the alley from at the town lockup when we arrived.

Pointing toward the guard contingent that Captain Franks had sent down, the deputy said to Captain Lange, “You can take these nigger soldiers back to your camp, Captain. I’ll safeguard the rapist.”

“They’re not under my authority, Deputy. Captain Franks is their commander.”

“Then what the hell do you want here, soldier?”

“My name is Oskar Lange. Colonel Mackenzie has appointed me to see to Private Scotsman’s interests.”

“Simple enough: his interests runs to white women, Lange. An’ I’d think twice before you try to move him to the camp.”

Captain Lange said, “Colonel Mackenzie wants the state courts to deal with this and Private Scotsman is to remain here, though we will continue to guard him.”

Pointing to me the deputy demanded, “So who’s this nigger-lover with you?”

Making a show of turning to see who the deputy might be asking about, Lange turned back to him and said, “The soldier with me is First Sergeant Judah Becker. He will be assisting me. His first assignment is to get a statement from the woman who made the accusation against Private Scotsman.”

“Ain’t gonna happen.”

“Has she withdrawn the complaint?”

“She’s dead. Killed herself last night. Her husband’s already buried her.”

The news caught both of us by surprise. I recovered first. “How did she die, sir?” I asked the deputy.

“Shot herself.”

“In the head?”

“What does that matter?”

Captain Lange said, “Do you know, Deputy?”

He hesitated, the admitted, “I only got here an hour ago. She was already in the ground.”

“Is that the usual practice in these parts, to bury the dead within a few hours? No coroner’s inquest?”

Obviously trying to avoid a direct answer, the deputy said, “We’re on a hostile frontier here, and your nigger soldiers only add to it. For our part, we do what we can, when we can.”

“It just seems unusually fast,” Lange persisted. “Most folks allow a visitation by friends and family, let alone time for an official inquiry.”

“Different folks have different ways. Might be they had no family hereabouts.”

“Did anyone join the husband to lay the woman to rest?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

“How was the fact that she killed herself established?”

“The husband told a neighbor who had stopped by to comfort the wife following the attack by the rapist in there.” He pointed his finger, on outstretched arm, toward the jail. “It’s the same as if that shit-eating tar baby in there murdered her.”

I looked at him closely and asked, “Did her husband kill her?”

He blinked at me, then hesitated a second before he shouted, “Didn’t you hear me, nigger lover? I said that sniveling coon in there as much as murdered her.” Then the Deputy turned and tromped off toward the center the main street.

Lange looked at me and I said, “I’m sorry, Captain. All of--”

But he waved me to silence. “It was a good instinct, Judah.” He straightened up a bit and turned toward the jail. “Well, shall we meet Private Scotsman?”

The door was padlocked. Lange asked the corporal in charge of the guard squad, “Is there a key, Corporal?”

“Must be, Cap’n, but we ain’t seen it.”

“Did someone unlock the door when they fed him?”

“No food been brung, Cap’n, not since the company’s had guards here. An’ he havin’ to piss an’ shit in a corner, sir.” The building had no windows so there was no way to pass a prisoner anything.

“You mean he hasn’t had food or water for nearly three days?” Using two horses, Captain Lange had made the sixty-five mile trip from Fort Duncan in a long day and a half.

“Get me a couple full canteens, Corporal, and have you seen a shovel around here?”

“They be one out back, by the offal pile.”

“Have one of the men fetch it, please.” The corporal turned and walked around the corner of the shed.

Captain Lange said to me, “Have you your hatchet with you, Seneca?”

“I do, sir.” I’d concealed the hatchet in the small of my back, under my blouse. Captain Lange had wanted us to go unarmed, but I’d grown so used to carrying the hatchet, I felt undressed without it.

“Please see what you can do about releasing this hasp -- with as little damage as might be called for.”

“Sir, there are townsfolk observing us. Perhaps they might know who has the key.”

“Possibly. I’m sure they’ll reveal that fact if it suits them.”

At Captain Lange’s direction I had arranged my uniform in semi-dress mode with my blouse, or sack coat, over my shirt, and my cartridge belt -- without the cartridge case -- buckled over the blouse. I’d tucked the hatchet into the small of my back under the blouse in my trouser’s waist band, the head hanging on that band and held in place by the cartridge belt. To remove the hatchet I released the buckle on my cartridge belt so that I could slide the hatchet up and out of the waistband of my trousers. Then I refastened the belt over my blouse before proceeding.

The locked hasp was nailed to the door frame, as I assumed had been the staple, the half loop which the hasp engaged and through which the padlock’s shackle was passed. The hasp covered the staple, so I couldn’t be sure of its fastenings, but it too was likely nailed in place. I intended to use the hatchet head to pry up the hasp where it was nailed to the frame.

As I brought the hatchet up to the hasp, Captain Lange stepped away, allowing my actions to be visible to those watching across the way. The Captain said, “Just fiddle with it for a moment, Judah.”

Across the open lot that separated the jail from the town, a man called, “Here, now, what in hell are you doin’?” I turned to look and a man in the sort of clothes a store clerk might wear was walking quickly toward us. He carried a double-barreled shotgun.”Get the hell away from that lock, blue-belly.”

The man strode up and went to push me away from the door using the shotgun side-on. I’d anticipated the move and had wedged the heel of my left boot against the inside of the door frame. When he gave a shove and I failed to mover, his arms fell back against himself and he stumbled forward, bashing his nose against my chin. I pulled the shotgun from his grip. He stepped back, slightly stunned. I leaned the shotgun against the door.