The best plan in the world falls apart if
you fail to consider every factor that has an impact on it. Ben had failed to
take into account that sound, especially drumbeats, the wail of a harmonica,
and several voices raised in song, traveled a long way, and he’d not taken
Toussaint far enough away from the camp site to be out of range of the music
and singing. It came through clearly to where they sat with their backs against
a boulder, eating the dried beef and hard biscuits that constituted their
mid-day meal.
When the first notes of music drifted in
on the air, Ben tensed and watched his friend out of the corner of his eye.
Toussaint’s eyes narrowed, and a muscle in his dark cheek started twitching,
but he said nothing.
“I
gone lay down my burden, down by the rivuh side, down by the rivuh side, way
down by the rivuh side.”
The words came
clearly, with one particularly deep bass voice prominent over the mournful
sound of the harmonica. As Ben watched Toussaint, in addition to the anger, he
saw sadness in the man’s eyes. He could understand that. Both he and Toussaint
had been mere children when the Civil War ended, ending the peculiar
institution of slavery, but he still remembered.
He remembered the stories, whispered to
him late at night by his father and mother, about the slaves and their desire
to escape to freedom, and their resentment at being treated on a par with the
livestock, or in some cases even less. Songs were used to signal escape plans
or routes for those who wanted to take their freedom into their own hands. Often
their desire would be reflected in the songs they sang, using cryptic words and
phrases to avoid punishment by their masters.
Unlike slaves in other southern states, who
sought freedom in the northern states and Canada, most slaves in Texas sought
the friendly environment of Mexico to the south, where the government honored
their rights as human beings and welcomed them. Some sought refuge with the
East Texas Indian tribes where, even though they weren’t treated as equals,
they attained a degree of freedom and dignity. Those who went south, went through
the Coastal Bend, braving lakes infested with alligators, and into the Nueces
Desert, where they endured intense heat, poisonous snakes, and lack of water.
Throughout their journey they had to dodge gangs of slave hunters and along the
Rio Grande, bands of cannibalistic Karankawa Indians.
As a child, Ben could never understand how
people who endured the indignity and suffering of slavery could sing and dance,
but as he grew older, he realized that this was their way of coping, and easing
their burdens.
George Toussaint, he reckoned, had not
come to that realization. He still seemed to hold a deep resentment of anything
that reminded him of the dark period of slavery.
Ben let him stew in silence. He noticed
that when the kindling and tools were loaded on the wagons and the work party
headed back to the fort, Toussaint rode far out ahead, avoiding eye contact
with everyone.
He and his detachment separated from the
work party when they arrived at Fort Union, leaving the recruits to take the
kindling to the wood storage area, while they went directly to the stables to
take care of their horses and gear.
After taking care of his horse, Ben reported
to the adjutant who confirmed that their duty the next day would be to escort
the mail wagon to Santa Fe and back. He breathed a sigh of relief.
The evening meal was quiet, or as quiet as
a crowd of hungry soldiers can ever be. Ben and his men sat apart from the
others; they’d taken to doing that after their second mission. The other
troopers recognized them as special, and didn’t seem to mind, and truth be
told, most of them were skittish around Toussaint and Corporals Lucas Hall and
Charles Buckley anyway.
When they finished eating, they all went
back to the barracks for single soldiers, which they shared with ten other
troopers who mostly ignored them, but who were out in the quadrangle formed by
the barracks, quarters for married troopers and laundry sheds singing, talking,
and playing cards. Excited at the prospect of going to Santa Fe, Ben and his
men were preparing their gear, shining leather and polishing metal to a high
sheen.
“Can’t have troopers from the Ninth ridin’
into Santa Fe lookin’ sloppy,” Corporal Journeyman Keller said as he slapped
beeswax on his boots and began rubbing it in.
“We’d better get to sleep early tonight,”
Ben said. “Mail wagon driver likes to head out right after breakfast, so we
need to get our horses and gear ready before we eat in the mornin’.”
The sun hadn’t yet risen when Ben got up
the next morning and quietly roused his detachment. Most of the men were
already awake. They were excited about going to Santa Fe. After getting their
horses, weapons, and gear settled, they ate a quick breakfast, mounted and rode
toward the main gate where they were to meet the mail wagon.
At the gate, they found not one, but two,
wagons. Each had two passengers, a driver and an armed trooper riding shotgun,
and was pulled by a team of four horses. The first wagon was driven by a
Mexican who introduced himself as Cesar Ortega, one of the fort’s civilian
drovers. The shotgun was a lanky, dark skinned corporal named Peter Collier.
The cargo consisted of several canvas bags securely fastened. This, Ben knew
was the outgoing mail, personal letters and official dispatches. The second
wagon, with two armed troopers, Private Moses Lake and Corporal Robert
Alexander, was empty.
“Why the extra wagon?” Ben asked Collier
as he rode up at the head of the detachment.
“Cap’n say we might have a extra heavy
load to bring back,” the corporal answered. “Ain’t that right, Cesar?”
“Si,” the Mexican drover answered. “El Capitan,
he say, one wagon not enough.”
Ben shrugged. It would mean stretching out
the detachment over a wider distance to cover both wagons. Some of the
territory they had to traverse consisted of narrow canyons, which would make
this a risky formation. But, if the officer in charge had ordered it, there was
little he could do but make the best of it.
“Okay,” he said. “Keep about twenty yards
between wagons so the ones behind don’t have to eat too much dust.” He turned
to his detachment. “Samuel, you and Malachi ride point. George, you ride just
in front of the lead wagon. Nat and Marcus, ride trail, about twenty, thirty
yards back. Rest of you, split up and ride flank. I’ll be moving back and forth to keep an eye
on things.”
“Is that really necessary, sergeant?”
Collier asked. “I mean, I been doin’ the mail run for two month now, and ain’t
never had no trouble.”
“If we’re ready, won’t be trouble this
time either,” Ben said. “All right, everyone take your positions.”
Hightower and Davis rode up and stationed
themselves about twenty yards in front of the lead wagon. Toussaint eased his
horse just in front of and off to the side. Tatum and Scott fell in behind the
second wagon. The rest moved to the flanks, two to the left and three to the
right. Ben decided he would ride to the left to balance the flank on that side.
“Okay, let’s move out,” he said.
With the wagons creaking and rumbling, the
convoy moved past the main gate of Fort Union and headed southwest toward the
capital. With the wagons, especially the
one loaded down with mail bags, Ben knew they’d be lucky to make 45 miles per
day, taking them two days to travel the 95 miles from Fort Union to Santa Fe.
His plan was to follow the trail south through the town of Las Vegas, and stop
for a night camp about 20 miles southeast of town. Starting the next morning at
dawn, they could make Santa Fe before dark, while the railroad depot was still
open.
They passed through Las Vegas just after
three in the afternoon. Founded in 1835 by settlers who’d received a land grant
from Mexico, it was one of the largest towns in the territory. It was laid out
in traditional Spanish colonial style, with a broad central plaza surrounded by
buildings that served as fortifications in the event of Indian attack. One of
the main stops on the Santa Fe Trail, Las Vegas had attracted businessmen as
well as outlaws. With the construction of a rail line and station underway, it
was sure to attract even more. Already, Ben and his men observed as their
convoy passed through the center of town, there were a few Victorian-style
mansions indicating the presence of someone of wealth. The opulence of the
mansions contrasted sharply with the adobe dwellings of the majority of the
town’s less prosperous residents.
The streets were crowded with people, most
of whom paid little attention to the wagons and their cavalry escort, which
suited Ben well. He’d never become accustomed to the hostility some of the
territory’s settlers had toward the black men of the Ninth, even though the
cavalry was there to protect them.
By the time they arrived at Bernal
Springs, where the trail cut west and northwest, the sun was low in the sky and
casting long shadows, and the mountain range was purple in the distance.
Ben raised his hand for a halt, and called
the point riders back.
“Okay, we’ll stop here for the night,” he
said. “If we start out as sunup tomorrow, we ought to be in Santa Fe by
mid-afternoon.”
“Fine by me,” Toussaint said, as he rode
up to Ben. “My backside could use a rest.”
Ben laughed. He knew all the men were
probably a bit saddle sore. It had been a while since they’d had to spend so
much time in the saddle. As the men rode up and dismounted, and the wagon
drivers jumped down from the seats, he explained how he wanted the camp laid
out.
He had the two wagons placed back-in, perpendicular
to each other, forming two sides of a square, or a ‘V’ shape. The horses were
tethered at the open end, and he assigned the Mexican drover the duty of
watching out for them. A few feet beyond the tethered beasts he directed a camp
fire be built, and directed the men to arrange their sleeping rolls in a
staggered row between the fire and wagons.
Two of the troopers who’d been riding the
wagons grumbled at having to undergo such ritual just for a one-night camp.
“Do it anyway,” Ben said. “This way, when
we’re on the way back, you can do it without having to think about it. Set up
like this, if we’re attacked, we can quickly move and use the wagons for cover
on one side and the horses on the other.”
“And, if you don’t do it,” Toussaint said
with a growl. “I just might make you wish the Apaches attacked us.”
With wide eyes, the two men rushed to
comply with Ben’s instructions.
“Not exactly the way I would have handled
it,” Ben said wryly.
“I know,” Toussaint said. “But, I figured
you didn’t want to have to spend half the night convincin’ ‘em to do the right
thing.”
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