Chapter 12: 1875: Fort Davis, Texas

Through the remainder of 1874, the hard times continued to affect us in odd ways.

While company strength was held at sixty men, we had to carry vacancies for six months before we could fill them. While the normal turnover caused by men not re-enlisting for another two years might be tolerated, the six-month policy was especially hard if an outfit had suffered multiple casualties on some mission and the troop was reduced by ten or fifteen percent. There was quite a lot of shuffling men around into different companies within a regiment to try to cover all the posts, with real company strength at fifty-seven or -eight men, on average.

On the other hand, with the high incidence of unemployment in the country, re-enlistment rates had more than doubled.

Meanwhile, in the town of Fort Davis, businessman Whit Keesey had prospered. Well, perhaps prospered is a bit overstated, but his interests had suffered little and had, to a degree, expanded. Despite, or possibly because of the tough financial straits, people continued to move west and the civilian community outside the fort had slowly grown. If his business had any problem, it was the lack of cash, the actual dollars and cents of normal commerce. Nor had Whit been forced to cut back on his baking contract with the fort because the Army was depending more on baked goods as it reduced meat rations.

With that, Janie’s job at the fort went on as usual. She hired Panchito, a seven-year-old Indio boy, for five cents a day -- plus two eggs for his mother -- to help tend to the chickens. His primary chore was to watch over the birds at night. We built a shed for him attached to the coop, so that anything disturbing the hens -- such as a cat, weasel, or other animal -- would wake him up. His other duties included collecting the eggs every morning and then sweeping out the coop once a week.

Jordie did not enjoy the increase in clerical duties that came with being the battalion’s first sergeant of the scout cadre. On the other hand, my new status allowed me to depend on the regimental headquarters staff to handle my routine paperwork, leaving me with time for planning, evaluation, and assembling the information for the necessary reports. It took both of us most of that autumn season to get comfortable with our new duties. Fortunately, our corner of the frontier was relatively quiet after The Irregulars had been removed from the picture. We knew, though, that it was only a matter of time before some other group of scoundrels moved into the gap that had been left.

In November, I invited the scout first sergeants and the Indian scout sergeants to a planning meeting at Fort Stockton, which was the more-or-less mid-point for the battalions’ scout cadres at Forts Davis, Duncan, and Stockton. I wanted the scouts to offer training exercises to the rank-and-file infantrymen, but I wanted to be sure the others would be agreeable.

I did spend another week at Fort Stockton in early December, providing testimony and detailed reports for a combined War Department and State Department inquiry into the cross-border incursion into Mexico led by Captain Nathan Fowles.

I was in the witness chair for over four hours on the first day of the hearing, Monday, December sixth. In that afternoon of testimony, I was questioned about everything I did after I left Fort Davis until I returned there. The officials doing the questioning were under-secretaries of the State and War Departments, along with several officers from the War Department in Washington, the Army’s Western District headquarters in New Orleans, and from Brigade HQ at Fort Richardson. I’m sure I was made to repeat everything at least three times.

I was called back for additional questioning three days later, on Thursday. I was surprised to see Capitan Carranza, the Mexican cavalry commander I’d encountered on the fateful expedition, among the observers.

During a break in the proceedings, I was in the hall outside the meeting room when Carranza came up and greeted me.

“Sergeant Major, you appear to be doing well.”

I saluted him before accepting his hand. “I am doing well, thank you Capitan. But I have to ask, did you ever catch up with those renegades?”

“Only for a brief skirmish. They broke into smaller bands and scattered, some deeper into Mexico, but most back across the border into Texas.”

He turned to a man who was apparently with him. “Sergeant Major Becker, this is Mister Raymond Dugan of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. The Pinkerton Agency has been engaged by my government to look into certain details regarding the incident being examined.” Dugan was a man of medium build with sandy hair, blue eyes, and a short-trimmed beard.

I shook his hand. “Mister Dugan, it’s a pleasure, sir.”

He said, “I’ve been intrigued by your testimony, Sergeant Major. Do you always retain that much detail?”

I chuckled. “Not usually, Mister Dugan. I just seem to have a sharper memory when bullets are flying.”

Major Lange had walked up on me unawares, and he rested a hand on my shoulder. “At ease, Seneca,” he said, feeling my muscles tense as I was about to come to attention. Capitan Carranza did salute, which Lange returned.

“The Sergeant Major is being modest, Mister Dugan. He has an outstanding eye for detail, among other skills. He’d be wearing officer’s rank, if he’d only accept a commission.” I felt my face coloring.

I said, “Major Lange used to be a sergeant and he’s regretted leaving the ranks of honest soldiering ever since. His offer to me is a matter of misery wanting company.”

Carranza smiled. “I take it you are old comrades in arms.”

Lange nodded. “Back to ‘sixty four, in Georgia and Tennessee.”

“Ah, that war. I understand now.”

A corporal in white gloves and a formal uniform stepped into the hall and announced, “Witnesses and committee members will kindly retake their seats.”

When my questioning resumed, I was asked how I had known Captain Fowles, had I served under him or had I been in the same unit, to which questions I answered that Captain Fowles had been unknown to me prior to meeting him at Persimmon Gap. Finally, it was established that I had no knowledge of Fowles before his arrival with his troop on April seventeenth.

I thought the intensity of this line of questions unusual in that they worked so hard to establish such a simple point. But then the Major who was questioning me asked, “Then how did you conclude that the officer you met was, indeed, Captain Nathan Fowles?”

I noticed the Pinkerton detective had slid forward in his chair and was staring at me with some intensity.

I said, “Sir, Captain Fowles did not introduce himself to me, so, at first, I simply assumed he was the officer I had been told was leading the troop of the Fourth Cavalry we were to meet. Later, I heard the men of that troop refer to him as Captain Fowles. In subsequent encounters, I addressed him as Captain Fowles, and he made no objection.”

“And you had no additional proof?”

“No, sir, no more than any unknown officer I might encounter while going about my duties.’

“But you took orders from him, based only on your own deductive reasoning.” He said this with the hint of a sneer and I had the impression he was trying to humiliate me for some reason.

“Major, neither you nor any of the officers on this panel have been introduced to me, but I give you the deference and respect due your uniform insignia. As far as I can deduce, that is how the Army operates.”

I heard a few sniggers and I noticed Major Lange hiding his lower face behind a sheet of paper.

A colonel seated across the long table said, “Major, move on to the battlefield identification.”

“Yes, sir.” He faced me again. “Sergeant Major, you testified earlier this week that you identified and buried the Fourth Cavalry officers who had died during the battle with the Comanches, did you not?”

“Major, I was not close enough to those officers during the fighting to determine exactly when or how they were killed. I do know that, when the firing stopped, I ventured onto the field under a white flag and proceeded to them, in the hope they were still alive.”

“But you were interrupted in that purpose by a Mexican officer, were you not?”

One of the civilians at the table nudged the Colonel and whispered briefly. The Colonel then said, “Move on to the identification, Major.”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Major, were any of the officers alive when you finally came to them?”

“No, sir. Each had received several serious wounds; any one of those could have been fatal.”

“Oh? Are you a doctor?”

The Colonel said, “The identification, please, Major.”

“Of course, sir. Sergeant Major, how were you able to identify the man you knew as Captain Fowles?”

“Sir, I knew Captain Fowles by face, which was uninjured in the battle. He wore the same flowing mustache and beard of the same sandy color. I also took note that his ear-lobe--” I reached up and flicked the fleshy tab at the bottom of my ear “--was missing from his left ear, which I’d noticed earlier.” I saw Dugan, the Pinkerton man, turn to Capitan Carranza and shrug, opening his hands in a resigned gesture.

The Colonel asked me directly, “Sergeant Major, did you mark the graves of the officers or men?”

“Sir, as I described in my written report, we buried them at the base of a low cliff, up-slope and south from Tornillo Creek, directly opposite the lower entrance to Persimmon Gap. There is a two-foot high cross chipped into the rock above Captain Fowles grave. The officers and men are buried to the west of his grave. To his east are two male Mexican civilians we assumed were killed by the Comanche renegades we’d been pursuing.”

“That cross was the only marker?”

“Yes, sir. We purposely obscured the graves, not wanting to draw further attention to them, in the hope they’d remain undisturbed. We thought the cross could pass as a pilgrim’s shrine and not attract undue notice.”

The Colonel looked around the table. “Does anyone have another matter for the Sergeant Major?” He looked toward the Pinkerton man. “Mister Dugan? Are you satisfied?”

“I am, sir. Thank you.”

When there was no response from anyone else, he said, “Very well, then.” He turned to me and said, “Thank you, Sergeant Major. You are dismissed.”

I stood., faced the table, came to attention, and saluted. The Colonel returned the salute and I made a sharp about face and stepped to the door, where the Corporal turned the knob, and held it open for me.

They were calling another witness as the door closed behind me, but I’d had enough of that toadying major and his underhanded questions. I decided to head out to the benches that were set around the springs, just south of the fort. As I reached the exit door, my name was called, “Seneca, hold up a minute.” I recognized the voice of Major Lange.

I turned at attention and he called, “At ease, Sergeant Major,” as he continued to walk toward me. Behind him, I saw Capitan Carranza and the Pinkerton agent come out of the meeting room and look our way.

Carranza called, “Major Lange, un momento, por favor.” Now it was Lange’s turn to stop and look back up the hall. I assumed a posture of parade rest.

Carranza and Dugan caught up with Lange and they spoke briefly, then looked my way, and resumed walking toward me. As Major Lange was senior to Carranza, I stayed at parade rest, as had been his last order. When they reached me, Lange said to me, “We’ll talk outside,” and we followed the other two, who had kept going, out the door.

Lange directed us to a heavy plank table near the spring run. The table had attached bench seats and was in the full sun, which was a pleasant warmth on that cool afternoon. Lange sat down, then Carranza sat next to him. Dugan sat across from Carranza. I had respectfully stood by until the others were seated.

As I settled in next to Dugan, he withdrew a shiny metal flask from his frock coat pocket and offered it to us, but both officers shook their heads, He glanced at me, but I smiled and said, “No, thank you, Mister Dugan.” He half-smiled and slid the flask back under his coat.

Carranza asked Lange, “Sir, why was that Major so antagonistic when he was interrogating the witnesses?”

“He’s a hustler from brigade who wants to go to New Orleans or Washington City.”

“Hustler?” Carranza repeated.

“Un estafador,” Dugan explained.

“Ah. He did seem oddly persistent.”

Lange said, “He’s one of those who think the best way to look good is to make others look bad.”

Carranza shook his head. “A failing of some in the Mexican military, as well.”

I finally asked, “Major, do you know why they were concerned about Captain Fowles identification?”

Lange’s facial expression told me he wasn’t sure, but Carranza said, “That would be due to me, Major, or due to my government, to be more precise. That is why Mister Dugan’s agency was engaged by our Foreign Ministry. There had been a report -- hardly more than a rumor, if I were to be accurate -- that the border incursion had been part of some broader plan that had been contrived by Nathan Fowles, and that Captain Fowles had not died in that ill-conceived attack.”

Lange scoffed, saying, “Broader plan? What sort of broader plan would be served by having a company of cavalry wiped out?”

Carranza shook his head and shrugged. “Of that I have not the first guess. I do not even know where the rumor originated. All I know is that I am here on this wild geese chase.”

We Americans smiled. Lange said, “The expression is ‘wild goose chase,’ Capitan.”

Carranza chuckled. “Muchas gracias, Major.”

Dugan said, “Gentlemen, if I may jump in here?”

“Please,” Lange said, making a “go ahead” gesture with his hand.

Dugan turned toward me. “Sergeant Major, what other details might you add to Captain Nathan Fowles physical description.”

I thought for a few seconds, recalling our first encounter. “Captain Fowles was a bit on the short side, sir, perhaps five foot six or seven”--average height of men being closer to five foot eight or nine --”and he was left-handed.”

“And that was the man you buried?”

“That was the man we buried by Tornillo Creek, down on the border, north of the Big Bend.”

Dugan looked to Carranza. “Capitan, the only way we’ll get a better identification is if we dig up his body.”

Carranza shook his head. “I saw the body. I took note of the missing ear lobe. I cannot attest to him being left-handed, but exhuming the body would not likely prove or disprove that, either. I see no reason to pursue this further.”

Dugan nodded. “I’m inclined to agree, Capitan. We could insist that one of his fellow officers go with us to the grave and identify him, but I see two problems with that. First, there is nothing to guarantee that the officer would not also be a part of this purported conspiracy and, second, the body has likely begun to discolor and decay, making identification a matter of conjecture.”

Carranza slowly nodded.

Dugan said, “in which case, I will retire to my hotel room and write my report.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced business cards and handed one to each of us. I glanced at it and saw that he was located in El Paso.

The Pinkerton man stood up and asked, “Shall I see you for supper, Capitan?

Carranza nodded. “Si, Señor Dugan.”

Dugan said, “Good afternoon, gentleman,” and he donned his bowler and walked off.

Carranza said, “Everyone has been surprisingly tolerant of me, Major, considering what my tropas (troops) did to your cavalry.”

Lange shook his head. “You were attacked by a foreign military force within your own borders, Capitan. You had no choice. An American officer would have done the same.” In the course of testimony, it had come out that Fowles had been issued explicit orders not to cross into Mexico.

“Yes, Major, but given the history of animosity between our two countries...”

“I can only speak for myself, Capitan, though I am certain many others share my opinion. But I won’t pretend that some may not harbor ill feelings.”

Carranza looked at me. “What about you, Sergeant Major? After all, you were there.”

“Sir, I’m not paid to have that sort of opinion. I feel whatever way the senior officer on duty tells me to feel.” I let the hint of a smile show in my eyes.

He nodded with a knowing smile of his own. “You are too smart to be a sergeant. I knew this when I spoke with you on that battlefield.”

Lange said, “He has a standing offer for a lieutenant’s shoulder bars, but always turns them down.”

“Too much responsibility, sirs. The pay ain’t nearly enough.”

Carranza said, “You do not strike me as a particularly irresponsible soldier, Sergeant Major. You certainly assumed responsibility in Mexico.”

“But I volunteered myself for that, Capitan. If you’re an officer, you’ve got no choice. I only take on the responsibility that looks interesting to me.”

Lange laughed. “Seneca, that is such a bill of goods.”

Carranza turned quickly toward Lange. “Major, did you call the Sergeant Major Seneca?”

Lange nodded. “It’s a nickname from the Civil War.”

“Sergeant Major, were you stationed along the border, opposite Estado Coahuila in eighteen sixty-seven and eighteen sixty-eight?”

“I was. I was stationed at Fort Duncan, near Eagle Pass and Piedras Negras for some of that period.”

He squinted at me. “Then perhaps this was not the first time you were on an operation in Mexico.”

“I’ve visited Mexico, Capitan, several times, when on leave, but never on a mission for the Army, until this matter with Captain Fowles.”

He still peered at me, one eyebrow raised. “There were rumors of American soldiers who pursued some Anglo bandits into Mexico to retrieve an army payroll. Their leader was said to go by the name Seneca.”

Lange said, “It’s the name of a Great Lakes region Indian tribe, Capitan. Sergeant Major Becker’s grandmother was a member. But there must be dozens of Seneca who have come west.”

Carranza nodded. “I’m sure there are, Major.” He waved it off with a dismissive gesture. “But it is not a matter of consequence, since there was no evidence of American Army activity. However, there had been evidence of an Indian attack since there were arrow wounds on some of the bodies, though all the arrows had been removed.”

“Who was attacked?” Lange asked.

“A particularly vicious Anglo bandit gang. They were all killed.”

I asked, “Were you posted to Coahuila, Capitan?”

“Yes, at Piedras Negras, after I was promoted to first lieutenant.” Piedras Negras was across the Rio Grande from Eagle Pass.

I said, “There are some good restaurantes in Piedras Negras, Capitan.”

“Indeed there are, Sergeant Major.”

Between those obligations, I managed one round of training exercises at the three battalion headquarters before Christmas. We were a bit short-handed, but the scouts were as ready as I could make them.

It was at the first of the New Year -- eighteen seventy-five -- that brought the most profound change to my life.

After breakfast on New Year’s Day, Janie invited me to take a walk, despite a blustery chill. She led me on a foot trail toward the mountain bluffs east of the fort.

Once away from the town, Janie took my hand. She said, with an uncertain tone, “Judah, I have something important to tell you.”

Immediately concerned, I paused and looked at her. “What is it, Janie? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Judah. It’s just very important.”

I felt a prickling of impatience. “Then please tell me, dearest.”

She looked up at me and said, “I am with child, Judah. You are to be a father.”

It took me a few seconds to process the words, as my mind seemed suddenly befogged.

“Judah? Did you hear me?”

I nodded. “Unless I heard wrong, you just told me that you were going to have a baby.” Inside my head there was the roaring of a flash flood. I couldn’t gather my thoughts; nothing would hold together. I looked through sightless eyes at the boulder-strewn ground behind her.

“Judah? I thought you wanted children.”

I put my arms around her and drew her to me, but speech failed me. We’d talked of it. I wanted children, of course. But this wasn’t talk. This was a baby, Janie, and me -- it simply wasn’t a picture I could put together in my mind’s eye. It was the “me” part that looked smeared, like someone who’d moved during the photographic plate’s exposure. The rest -- Janie with a babe in her arms -- was sharp and clear.

Janie wrapped her arms around me and held tight. Wisely, she now remained silent.

I felt a tear run down my cheek. Janie started; the tear must have dropped onto her forehead. I felt her relax in my embrace.

“You’ll get to be a papa, Judah,” she said softly. “Our little boy or girl will reach out for you to be picked up, calling ‘Papa, Papa.’ You’ll teach our child what it is to be a real man or woman -- to be strong, and patient, and kind, and oh so smart. He or she will run their fingers over all the stripes on your sleeve and they will be so very proud that you’re their Papa, a sergeant major of the regiment. You’ll tell Jordie the clever things that our little one has done, and he’ll beam and repeat the stories to others. And you’ll come home and I’ll be there, with our baby in my arms, waiting for my husband and our baby’s father.”

I sobbed and she squeezed me tight. We stood there like that, amidst the fallen rocks at the base of the mountains, me sobbing like a child, while my dear wife allowed the time for my mind and my heart to come together in the joy that was now bubbling to the top. The blurred face in the photo came into focus, and it was grinning like the brain-addled man I was.

The stupid-ass grin I was unable to keep from my face betrayed me at every turn, and soon the entire garrison knew that I was to be a father. Of course, Jordie had no respect for decorum and had blabbed the news as if he were getting paid to do it. All I knew was that my precious Janie was to make us a real family, likely early in July.

Finally, a grinning Colonel Andrews called me into his office near the end of January.

George Andrews was commander of the Twenty-fifth Infantry Regiment and had been posted to Fort Davis in September of ‘seventy-four along with two companies of that regiment. Part of his assignment was to see to the transfer of elements of both the Twenty-fifth and Twenty-fourth Infantry Regiments, in coordination with elements of the Ninth Cavalry, to garrison posts in New Mexico and Arizona Territories.

While Texas could hardly be called settled, it was no longer the forward edge of Anglo expansion in the southwest. In fact, the term “southwest” itself may have moved on, abandoning Texas for those territories further west. Even the battles with the Indians -- especially the Apache and Comanche -- while not forgoing Texas entirely, had also become more prominent further west. Notably this transition took place as gold and other minerals were discovered in what the government had once considered wasteland and had given over to those tribes through treaties. As I’d learned from Uncle Sammie, this was a story often repeated over the past two hundred years.

In any event, garrisons and posts in Texas were being reduced in strength and number with troops being moved further west. Field command of the Twenty-fourth Infantry regiment had already been transferred to Fort Union, in New Mexico Territory, along with the three companies of the third brigade. Meanwhile, Colonel Andrews had assumed command of the remaining elements of both infantry regiments along the western part of the San Antonio-El Paso Road and the western end of the Military River Road, west of Fort Duncan. Responsibility for the eastern stretch of the border had been transferred to the Texas Rangers, which force had been recommissioned late in eighteen seventy-three.

I saluted the Colonel and he returned the honor, saying, “I see you’re still grinning like a loon, Sergeant Major.”

I made an effort to present a more sober expression. “Sorry, Colonel.”

“Don’t worry about it, Seneca. I think morale has noticeably improved since word got out. You and Janie are both well-liked and the men are happy for you.”

Just then, Jordie arrived and reported his presence with his own salute.

Andrews stood up, saying, “At ease, both of you. Come, have a look at this map.” He led us to a large map that had been tacked to the wall. I recognized it as a map of the New Mexico Territory.

He pointed to a shaded area on the south-central region of the map. “I believe you’ve been through this area, Sergeant Major.”

“Yes, sir, chasing Victorio, a couple years ago.”

He slid his finger a little further south and west. “This is Fort Bayard. We’re transferring Company D of the Twenty-fourth Infantry and Company C of the Ninth Cavalry to Bayard. They’ll leave Fort Stockton this coming Monday, the first of February and should arrive here by the fourth. They’ll have wagons, so they’ll have to take the wagon road. You two will join them to lead their scouts and then you’ll return here. Take Many Hands with you.”

I asked, “Who’s commanding the column, Colonel?”

Instead of answering me, he tapped the dot that marked Fort Bayard with his finger, then turned to step back to his desk. “Come sit down.”

As he sank into his chair, we sat in two of the chairs facing his desk.

He said, “Your friend, Major Lange, will command the column and then take command at Fort Bayard. Another friend of yours, Rufus Unger, has been promoted to Captain and given command of the Ninth’s Company C, so you should be sitting pretty on this mission, Seneca.”

“Or at least walking pretty, Colonel.”

“You plan to hoof it all the way?”

“Unless something comes up, sir.”

“Don’t forget, you’ll be managing the cavalry scouts, too, Sergeant Major.”

“Yes, sir. I hadn’t really considered that.” I looked at Jordie. “Maybe we can switch off between the mounted and the foot.”

Jordie nodded. “Whichever way you want to handle it.”

Andrews added, “Unger will be second-in-command at Bayard. Bayard’s current garrison is being transferred to Fort Union in April.”

Then he leaned forward on the desk. “Besides leading the scouts, you’re to begin to familiarize yourselves with the area. By the end of ‘seventy-six, all of the Twenty-fourth will have been transferred from Texas to posts in New Mexico and Arizona, as far west as the Tucson Presedio. Fort Union will be the logistics hub, but there will be an operations headquarters more central to the posts. Fort Bayard is one that’s under consideration. They’re also looking for places to establish Indian reservations, which is another consideration.

I brought out my notepad and a pencil to make a record.

Andrews said, “It will all be in your orders, Seneca.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“How far is it to Fort Bayard, Colonel?” Jordie asked.

“About three hundred fifty miles from Davis, First Sergeant. With the wagons, the plan is to make twenty-five-mile days Monday through Friday, then ten miles on Saturday morning, and then rest through Sunday. Figure three weeks to get there. Then you and Many Hands spend a few days looking around the area, then head back, mounted.”

Jordie asked, “Colonel, will D Company be carrying their packs and bedding?”

“Only weapons, cartridges, and canteens. There will be six of the light freight wagons carrying food, equipment, and fodder; the infantrymen can stow their packs on those. Cavalry will carry theirs, unless there’s enough space. Oh -- Doc Eddington will be going, too, with two ambulances, but they’ll only have two-mule teams, so you can’t load up anything but medical supplies in the ambulances.” Captain Blaise Eddington, who looked to be in his early thirties, had only been at Fort Davis a year.

I said, “Can we take a fourth man, Colonel?”

He shrugged, “If you want. D’you have someone in mind?”

“Not really, sir. I’ll let Many Hands choose someone. I mostly want a fourth man for our watch rotations on the return trip.”

Jordie added, “Another sharpshooter would be fine by me, sir.”

“I’ll add that to your orders. Anything else? D’you want to carry Spencers?”

I looked at Jordie; he shrugged. I said, “We’ll stick with the Springfields, sir. Most of the Spencers are worn out.”

Jordie said, “Last one I shot with, sir, I swear I could hear the ball rattlin’ down the barrel.”

Andrews nodded, chucking. “I know. I doubt if even an Indian would take one as a gift.”

I added, “That could well be, sir. We hauled those carbines out here in ‘sixty-seven and they’d seen heavy service in The War even before that. Besides, we’ve got our revolvers, if it comes down to it, Colonel.”

The main complaint about the Springfield, once you got past the notion of it being a single shot, was that it fouled easily and then the cartridge ejector jammed. As to the first, it reloaded fairly quickly, and it’s accuracy at distance was better than the Spencers. As to the fouling, it did need to be swabbed after every twelve or fifteen shots, but the ejector could be kept serviceable with a wipe by an oily rag every half dozen shots, which only took a few seconds. The Springfield had kind of grown on me over the years.