On the Trail of Deserters; A Phenomenal Capture

by Robert Goldthwaite Carter

The wagon master was a cool and determined fellow with cold, grey eyes, and a pugnacious nose and chin; he and his teamsters were well armed, their guns showing conspicuously in their holsters—or open belt scabbards— He had been threatening the Corporal, and now, seeing no insignia of rank on my citizen's clothes, he began to threaten me with criminal prosecution as soon as he reached Hillsboro for illegally holding up his train— Visions of Mackenzie's instructions relating to a "violation of the Civil Laws", began to loom up large before my eyes. He saw my hesitation and becoming abusive began to be more insistent for the release of himself and men— Sizing up the situation at a glance, the bluff was made— "Look here, my man! We have found a wagon in your train filled with deserters from the United States Army— I am an officer of the Army—and if you don't stop your abuse I will put you in irons and take you along to the Civil authorities and turn you over on a charge of assisting them to escape"— That quieted him— "Are these all of the teamsters in your train? Produce every man who was with you when it was first sighted, or I will order my men to search it before you can go! Never mind your threats! We are out for deserters". He replied: "These are two men who joined my train a few days ago; they are citizens— I know nothing about them— They can tell their own story." The two men stepped forward in citizen's clothes unarmed and with no "set up" or the slightest appearance or sign of the soldier about them. The larger and older, told with a strong Irish brogue a very straight story; how they had "been working" their way along; had sought the train for "shelter"—had "not been in the country very long", etc. The other was a mere boy. I was about to let them go with the train, none of the detachment or the deserters whom I had already secured being able to recognize or identify them, when my attention was suddenly attracted to the older man's face— It showed distinctly that a heavy beard had but recently been shaved off—and this as winter was coming on— I gave no signs, however, of having made this discovery, but said: "You teamsters can go—but I shall hold these men— If they are not deserters, they can easily clear themselves, and will be released". As I watched the older man's face, I saw him change color, but he maintained his nerve—replying that he would "prosecute me for false arrest and imprisonment," probably taking his cue from the wagon master—who, after more bluster and more threats of what he would do, disappeared in the distance and we never saw or heard of him again. It was a chance on the bluff— Loading the nine men thus accumulated into the old man's wagon, upon reaching Hillsboro, a few miles away, and securing the services of Deputy Sheriff, H. A. Macomber, we and the prisoners were given a good meal at the house of the jailer, J. A. Purnell, the first any had had since leaving Fort R—— and shortly after dark, the jailer leading with a lantern, the prisoners closely guarded, and the three citizens (?) loudly protesting in Chimmie Fadden's vernacular: "Wot 'tell"!—and then adding: "What's the use"! etc., the astounded ranchers of H—— saw this strange procession proceeding to the county jail to give them protection from the howling, icy gale—still blowing— All jails in Texas were then made of huge, square-hewn, green logs—built up solid, and the outside thickly studded with sharp nails— Upon the outside a flight of rickety steps led up to a door heavily padlocked and barred. We entered by file, a sort of chamber or loft, about 12 or 14 feet square. In the centre of the floor was a large trap door with a ring in it— This trap being lifted a ladder was lowered down to the ground floor inside, and the prisoners were ordered to descend into this ground cell in which was but one small grated window, high up—for air only. The ladder then being drawn up and the trap door secured, they were supposed to be safe, as it was eight or ten feet from the floor of the cell to the floor of the loft— In this Hillsboro jail, however, the ladders had been broken and had disappeared, so that the deserters had to be let down by hand, the little short old wagoner coming last— It was most amusing to hear this well paid old scoundrel's squeals and whining, and his piteous appeals for mercy as he hung dangling in mid-air through the "Man hole" before dropping him the four or five feet to the ground. He kicked, squirmed and wriggled in his agony of fright; he moaned, groaned—grunted and sighed; begged, implored and prayed—in the most ridiculous manner— All the time the deserters below him, realizing how fortunate they were in being sheltered from the icy blast of the "Norther" now howling around the corners of the old log jail, were mocking—"booing" and sarcastically commenting on the little man's lack of sand—grit and courage— Having heard much and seen little of these Texas jails, except the outside, and at a distance, my curiosity was aroused to more closely examine one— The jailer tried to persuade me not to take the risk— But after assuring him that I had nothing to fear from these men in going down among them as I knew every one—and handing him my pistols—he lowered me down—passing the lantern down after me. After carefully examining this uninteresting hole very carefully, however, I felt that my curiosity had been amply satisfied—and cheering up the "old man" much to the amusement of the prisoners, all of whom seemed to be contented with their blankets and a comparatively warm shelter from the storm—telling one of the men to give me a "leg up"— I was pulled up by the jailer—all of the prisoners assisting and bidding me a most cheerful "good-night". The next morning after "turning out" the deserters and filling them with a hot breakfast at the jailer's where Charlton and the rest of the detachment with myself had spent the night, they opened up with a long and very strange story— Peters, the spokesman for the deserters, declared that two detectives (?) or, as they called themselves—"constables"—had followed them from near Weatherford, on the Bear Creek road, and arrested them. Instead of being armed as Sergeant Varily had informed the writer, they (the deserters) had parted with all of their carbines before reaching W—— for a good round sum. The pseudo detectives, therefore, found it a comparatively easy matter, with their double barrel shot guns to persuade the unarmed soldiers to "throw up their hands"— They had even started to turn back to Weatherford, when at the suggestion of one of their number negotiations were opened by which they were released by the fake constables—but, at the sacrifice of all the "greenbacks" the entire party possessed— After this compulsory squeeze, the detectives (?) and their plucked friends parted company. The writer resolved, upon his return, to investigate this matter and if the deserter's story proved true—and they had all corroborated Peters' statement—to secure the arrest and indictment of these Border Sharks.

The march back was cold and bitter— We were more than 100 miles from Fort R—— No handcuffs or irons could be obtained—and it was decided not to "rope them"— Thick ice was in all the streams— Calling Peters, the most intelligent of the prisoners, to me, the writer laid down the law: "Peters, I am going to march you to Fort R—— and I want no trouble; tell the men they shall be well fed and they shall have shelter whenever it is possible to obtain it— Corporal Charlton will be placed in direct charge of you—'fall in'—the men in the middle of the road in column of twos"— Then turning to the men—so that all could hear me—I added: "You men must keep the middle of the road and obey all orders issued through Corporal C—— by me, without any question or discussion; Any movement by you to bolt the trail, or to escape into the chaparral will only result in your being shot down— You can talk and smoke and have freedom of movement—but you know both of us well enough to understand that there will be no trifling"— At 11 a. m. we started and camped at the Widow Jewell's ranch, 15 miles from Hillsboro— Placing the men in an open corn crib—assigning each a sleeping place and posting a man at the log door—he was ordered to "shoot the first man who left that position without authority from me". This was said loudly in the hearing of every man, and he was then asked if he understood it.

For the first time we now ascertained from the prisoners why they had so mysteriously disappeared from the map after leaving Weatherford and after being seen and talked to by Sergt. Varily on the Bear Creek Road—and why we got no trace of them the next night in Cleburne. It seems that just before reaching the town, upon the advice of the wily driver of their get-away wagon—they had turned off the Bear Creek Road and following a blind trail to the right had reached the little settlement of Buchanan—and bivouacking there that night—had come into the Cleburne-Hillsboro road again the next morning—shortly before I sighted them at the small creek or "branch" near H. During all of that miserable night while we were searching the slums and dives of Cleburne, they were at a comfortable, blazing bivouac fire not more than three or four miles away, debating the probabilities of their being followed.

At the first opportunity I proved the two citizens—who had been "kidnapped" from the train near Hillsboro—to be deserters— While giving them the "Third degree" in camp the first night after leaving H—— they were thrown off their guard by my suddenly shouting— "Stand Attention, Sir! when talking to an officer"! Which he did instantly. I then had them stripped and found Government shirts and socks on both of them— They then made a "clean breast" of it, declaring that they were recruits of Troop "K" and had been enlisted but two or three months; all of which accounted for their non-military appearance when it was decided to hold them on suspicion— It also accounted for the inability of any one, either in the detachment, or among the old deserters of Troop "B", to identify them. Turning out the prisoners in the morning they were placed in column and the order was repeated— "Shoot dead instantly any man who starts to leave the road without my permission". It had the desired effect. Wherever I could find one they were placed in jail. In passing through Cleburne and stopping off to pay some bills—suspicion having been attracted to another man, I "rounded him up"—and after some strenuous "Third Degree" questioning—he proved to be a deserter from "Troop F" who had preceded the others by a few days— I had now ten deserters, and the "old man" driver of the freight wagon. As we approached Weatherford—I began to give some thought to the two alleged detectives or constables (?), and ransacked my brain as to the method for their capture. The rascally old driver had, after much diplomatic persuasion, informed me that these men were really constables and acting detectives, and one was even then acting as Deputy Sheriff of the County, and lived just outside of W—— While I was doubtful as to my power to arrest either, I determined to make a show of frightening them, and to report their case to the Civil Authorities for their disposal— I commenced a vigorous search— Riding into a ranch, pointed out by the prisoners, I inquired—"does Mr. —— live here"? Being in citizen's clothes and alone, my mission was not suspected— "That is my name", said a man sitting in a chair on the porch— "I arrest you then in the name of the United States Government for accepting bribes of deserters from our army, and allowing them to escape— My men are outside in the road—don't waste any words, but come right along"— To my astonishment, the man was so frightened that mounting his horse, which stood outside, and surrendering his gun—he preceded me to the road—where he came face to face with all of his accusers, who now seeing him under arrest, made bold to unmercifully taunt him with his rascality—shouting—"Hey, Johnnie, where's my $10.00?" "How much of a pile did you pull out of me at Bear Creek (?)" etc., etc., much to the bogus detective's discomfiture and chagrin. They had now the "whip hand". He rode like a little kitten under charge of Corporal Charlton into W—— when a complaint was entered and sworn to by all of the deserters, and he was placed under bonds for his appearance at the Spring term of the U. S. District Court at Tyler, Texas, where, some months later, the writer was ordered from Department Headquarters to appear as a witness against him, and the second constable whom I captured in much the same manner as the first, but nearer Weatherford. The old wagoner pleaded hard, saying that he had never been in such a scrape. It would "kill him to have to go to prison", etc.—but, knowing that Mackenzie was anxious and determined to break up these wholesale desertions that were then taking place in the regiment—many of them with the secret connivance and assistance of citizens, although it was never discovered that any of them were constables—and would endorse the most extreme measures I might make to accomplish it, I promptly placed him under bonds—and left him in W—— in charge of the Civil Authorities.

The Discovery—The Deserter "Squeals"

The streams were all frozen up— The weather was still icy cold— So far I had been unable to get any trace, or sure clue of the missing carbines which the men had carried with them when deserting, and sold. The deserters refused to divulge their whereabouts except to hint that they were somewhere between Crawford's Ranch and Fort R—— At last I determined to use heroic methods— At that date such methods were recognized as legitimate, if not legal in bringing recalcitrants to their senses, instead of resorting to the slow and laborious, as well as questionable methods of Court Martial. These methods were legacies of the Civil War, and in the field, away from the complicated machinery of Post Administration—and on such duty—and under such wide open instructions as Mackenzie had given us, I considered it absolutely necessary to employ— I resolved to select the weakest minded man in the group of deserters, and, in the presence of them, the two corporals and the entire detachment, "tie him up by the thumbs", until he "squealed"— Such punishment was of almost daily occurrence at the great Draft Rendezvous— This was done with the desired result—and I located the missing arms, the property of the United States which I was out after, without further trouble. This man was Crafts— Placing the deserters in Mrs. Crawford's corn bins, the ground still being covered with snow and ice and the weather bitter cold—I determined to send in a mounted courier or runner to Mackenzie. Writing a hasty message—a personal note on a piece of soiled brown paper—a brief announcement of the capture was made, but reciting no details—also the condition of both the men and horses—"all nearly exhausted from cold and loss of sleep—the prisoners nearly barefooted, and with sore and blistered feet, chafed legs, etc.—but plenty to eat; horses unshod." He was urged to "send a wagon, some handcuffs—ropes—rations, etc., to meet me somewhere on the road—and without delay—between Crawford's Ranch and Fort R—— I was proceeding slowly", etc.— The wagon met me, but not until I was within a few miles of the post—and just as the prisoners were emphatically exclaiming that they "could go no further." They were bundled into the wagon, much to their and my relief, for these footsore and chafed cavalrymen, as I had seen them in October after being dismounted in the stampede near Cañon Blancho, were now in the same demoralized condition, and it is extremely doubtful if they could have been pushed any further afoot.

Hardin's Ranch—Two Viragos—The Search—The Threat

When Hardin's Ranch, 16 miles from Fort R——, was reached, I bivouacked my men and taking Charlton proceeded to reconnoitre— I found two tall, gaunt, leathery, bony, unprepossessing, sour-looking females— With some hesitation, I approached my delicate mission or undertaking and began to interview them, using all of the engaging manners and suave (?) diplomacy I was capable of—which, as a soldier—so I have been told—has never been of a very pronounced character. It availed me nothing— To the inquiry as to whether any of the men were at home, and if any carbines had been left at the ranch by these soldiers when going down the country, the reply was curtly snapped out—"No"!— They 'lowed they hadn't never seen no carbines; the "old man" wasn't home— I politely asked if I might "look about the ranch and premises"— That stirred the gall of these specimens of the gentle, tender sex— "No! you can't"!— Then I began a mild form of the "Third Degree"—and bringing up the man who had—under pressure—"Squealed"—to identify the women—and to make an even stronger statement as to the disposal of their carbines—we were met with nothing but repulses, followed by foul abuse—such as: "You blue-bellied Yankees better go away from here—if the "old man" was here he would lick you uns outen yer boots", etc.— I was not, at this point, inclined to spoil the reputation I had already acquired or sacrifice my good name, or make any slip by any "Violation of the Civil Law" now in full force in all parts of Texas—in view of Mackenzie's explicit instructions on that point— Neither did I feel inclined to be beaten just at this stage of the game—the end of this frightfully exhausting and most momentous trip, or to be balked and bluffed by these two raw bone, belligerent termagants, and lose the fruits of my thus far assured success— I wanted to make a clean "sweep up" of my trip, and, in order to do so—I must have those carbines, now that I felt I was so close to them— So I swung around to other tactics—or, rather Grand Strategy— "If you don't produce those carbines from their places of concealment, which I know to be here or about your premises, I shall be compelled to search your ranch"— This last shot hit hard— More and more abuse, coupled with more threats of what the "old man" would do to me. The climax had now come— I could not see my way clear to bluff any longer— I felt that I must act at once and decisively— "Corporal Charlton, call the men at once— Search this ranch thoroughly— If necessary rip up the floors, and turn over the "loft"; ransack all of the out buildings, but be careful that you do not injure these ladies" (?) "If they resist or try to use any guns, treat them as you would 'he' men; jump on them, and securely rope them—and don't let them get 'the drop' on you— You take charge of the job and see that it is well done"— His steel-blue eyes flashed— My musketeer Corporal—"d'Artagnon"—sprang at it with a relish— He had heard, and been the object—of much of the abuse of these scolding viragos— The ranch was thoroughly searched—the "rough-neck" women offering no resistance except with their bitter tongues which shot off the vilest sort of "Billings gate"— It was without avail. The carbines were evidently concealed at some point distant from the house— As we were about to leave—the women, unconquered—again spat out— "If the 'old man' wuz heah he would lick you uns out o' yer boots". Here was a fine chance for another bluff. I walked up to them, and in my most impressive manner gave here this decisive Coup d'Etat— "If your old man doesn't deliver those carbines into Fort Richardson by 10 o'clock to-morrow morning—I will bring this same detachment out here with a raw hide lariat and hang him to that oak tree"— They had seen me ransack the ranch, they had known what that threat of hanging meant in the reconstruction days among the "bad men"—the "gun men" and desperadoes of the far South West— They showed signs of wilting—and I departed, inwardly cursing the luck which had deserted me at the last moment and compelled me to make a raw bluff which I knew full well I could not carry out or enforce in view of Mackenzie's most strenuous official objections—

Land the Prisoners—The "Old Man" Makes Good

Reaching Fort R—— in a few hours and reporting to Mackenzie the prisoners were "turned over"—and I was just seeking a shave, a hot bath—some good grub and a rest from the dreadful "wear and tear" of one of the most wearing and completely exhaustive duties I had ever performed, either during the Civil War or later, when Mackenzie sent for me— I was still in a very dirty and bedraggled suit of citizen clothes— I needed complete relaxation and rest from my week's gruelling trip—during which, with the exception of two nights, I had slept, or tried to sleep—"out in the open" in this howling icy "Norther"—and with much responsibility pressing upon me. "Ask the General to please excuse me until I shave, wash, and change my clothes"— Word came back at once— "Tell him that Gen. Hardie is here and wishes to see him particularly. Never mind his personal appearance—come now just as he is"! It was virtually an order— So I went but in a condition of wilted militarism. Mackenzie opened up with a most cordial introduction to Gen. H—— and the remark: "Gen. Hardie, I want you to see what my officers of Civil War record" (I inwardly grew profane) "can accomplish when they are sent out in weather like this to get results under merely 'verbal instructions', and acting alone under their own initiative, good judgment and discretion— He has done far more than I expected of him and I am extremely gratified". He continued with profuse congratulations, thanks and personal commendations.