Comanche Moon Falling

by Drew McGunn

  The site of the Comanche ambush now secured by more than a hundred men, Will let Caldwell alone, allowing the commander of the Rangers to assess the damage sustained. By the time the infantry arrived, Caldwell confirmed eight of his men were dead or missing. Of the Comanche, they found four dead. Will ground his teeth, wishing he could find out how many of their dead and wounded the Comanche had made off with.

  With the arrival of the infantry, Will decided they would rest until the next evening. The Rangers buried their dead, and patched their wounded. Will grimaced as the regimental surgeon sewed the cut on the back of his hand closed. It wasn’t the sutures which hurt, but the trauma inflicted by the sawbones when he dug out the bits of cartilage. Will tried to put the pain out of his mind, reminding himself it was better the fragments had come from the warrior who nearly killed him.

  The next morning, as the sun crested the eastern sky, Will’s army arrived on the banks of the sluggishly flowing Leon River. Flacco and his Apache warriors had been right to think they would find a Comanche camp here, but the camp was abandoned. From the number of firepits and how much prairie was trodden, the camp had been large; possibly two hundred teepees. Now, it was just open prairie along the banks of the river.

  The Comanche left a reminder of their recent departure. Hanging between two poles, less than six feet apart, was the body of one of the Rangers, who had gone missing in the previous night’s battle. His skin had been torn to ribbons, the ground below his naked body, soaked in blood. Next to him, another figure had been hung similarly. This was the naked body of a young woman, not likely eighteen. Her body was horribly disfigured, burn marks ran along both her arms and her body. Her nose had been burned off, exposing bone. Her hair was closely shorn, but unlike the Ranger, her scalp was intact. Blood caked her thighs, evidence of her lowly place within the society which had cast her aside like refuse, in its effort to put distance between itself and the Texian army, seeking vengeance.

  The soldiers, who make their camp in same fields which until a day ago, contained the Comanche village, burned with anger toward the men and women who casually desecrated the bodies of their prisoners. Will worried that when they found their next Comanche village, his men would retaliate against the Comanche. He found Captain Seguin and the Apache, Flacco studying the camp.

  As they discussed this, Seguin translated Flacco’s words, “They do this to terrorize their opponents. They believe if they can strike fear into the hearts of their enemy then they will be victorious.”

  Flacco’s eyes followed the trail westward, staring hard, as though still following the retreating Comanche. “They have chased my people out of our hunting grounds, and forced us to rely upon the Spanish, then the Mexicans and now you Texians. We Lipan feared no man, we waged war against the Spanish and their Indian allies and they knew we were fierce warriors. When the Comanche came, in my Grandfather’s time, they made everyone fear them. This is their way. They kidnapped our children, made slaves of our women and killed our warriors, until we grew weak.”

  Through Seguin, Will asked, “What now, Flacco?”

  “We go now, and find the Comanche. When you next march, we will not fail you. The next camp be full of Comanche.” With that declaration, Flacco turned and strode away, and a short while later, his band of warriors rode to the west.

  Will allowed his army time to rest, while waiting for the Apache to return. Two days after they rode out, a pair of Apache raced into camp and reported Flacco had located the Comanche who had fled their camp along the Leon River. Before the last glow of day slid below the western sky, Will flung his army west, as the Apache warriors led them across the prairie. For most of the night, the trail left by the Comanche was easy to follow, despite the dark sky of the new moon. Long before dawn, Will lost the trail, but the Apaches continued along, certain in retracing their route.

  With the coming dawn, Will’s army made camp and waited. Flacco’s men all returned to the camp before the next nightfall, reporting the location of the newly erected Comanche village. The encampment was on the north bank of the Sabana River, a meandering tributary of the Leon.

  In the darkness of predawn, Will’s army quietly approached the sleeping encampment. Before sending the Rangers around the camp, to cut off the retreat, he met with his officers. “Same as before, gentlemen. I want prisoners.” He focused on Major Wyatt. “Your boys will lead the attack. I know they’ve got their blood up, but we don’t want to kill any noncombatants. Make sure your officers pass it along.”

  Sorrow crept into the major’s eyes. The brutal executions they had found earlier weighed heavy upon him. “The boys got their blood up, but I’ll make sure their discipline holds. There will be no massacre.”

  ***

  Acrid black smoke billowed into the sky. Nearly two hundred teepees were on fire. A company of infantry guarded their prisoners, who huddled in a circle, tired and scared. There were fourteen elderly men, fifty women and fifty-three children. The children ranged in age from infants to preteens. After watching the men of the village die where they stood, defending against the overwhelming force brought to bear against them, many of the survivors were in shock.

  Will had ridden through the smoldering camp; the dead were still strewn where they had fallen. Will had watched the infantry fan through the camp, their discipline barely holding, as officers screamed the command to take prisoners. Even so, no warrior survived. No matter the orders, Will found several bodies which had been bayoneted repeatedly. The officers could not be everywhere at once, and when the angered soldiers could, they had visited back upon the Comanche warriors the same ferocity they received. It reminded Will of the terrible images played endlessly of the helicopter pilot dragged through the streets of Mogadishu. It was an image that as a soldier in the twenty-first century had plagued him and other soldiers. And now, here in nineteenth century Texas, his own soldiers hadn’t hesitated to repay the Comanche in the same brutal coin in which they had been paid.

  He turned about and came back to where the soldiers guarded the prisoners. While most of the children wore vacant looks, shock still etched on their innocent faces, the old men nursed the bruises that arose on their arms and legs where the soldiers had grabbed them, forcibly propelling them to the area where they now sat. They saw an overwhelming number of soldiers surrounding them and they sat on the ground, dejected in defeat. Some women were as shocked as the children, and others as dejected as the old men, but others glared at the soldiers and cursed them in Comanche.

  In addition to the seventy-five prisoners taken on the banks of the Brazos, now Will’s army had an additional one hundred seventeen. Will considered dispatching more of his mounted troops to escort the prisoners back to San Antonio, but then decided it would leave him with too small a force. He recalled what happened the previous summer when he brought his army north, unprepared for the war, and decided the main objective of capturing enough prisoners to draw the Comanche people to the peace table had been achieved.

  The hardest part in leaving the still smoldering camp was the decision to leave the bodies where they fell. Even though he could have issued the order, when confronted on the issue by Seguin, Caldwell, and the Apache, Flacco, all had argued that leaving the bodies was a calculated signal to the Comanche. Seguin summed up the other men’s position when he said, “General, this is like war in the old testament. When the army of Israel won, they tore down the buildings and salted the ground. It was a signal to their enemies they were willing to wage total war. The other bands will come, they will see the utter destruction of this band, and they will know that if they will not agree to a peace, we are willing to show them the same mercy they have shown us.”

  The army’s return to San Antonio took another ten days, as Will placed caution to the side and ordered his army to march by the most direct path through the Comancheria. There was little doubt the Comanche watched his army’s southerly march, but his army’s vigilance discouraged any attempt to free the prisoners. By the time hi
s tired and dirty army marched through the gate at the Alamo with their prisoners in tow, the Comanche would be coming.

  ***

  Spirit Talker walked among the remains of the village along the river. The fires had long burned out, but the bodies remained. Ravaged by the wind, rain, and sun from above and coyotes and wolves on the ground, the many warriors who had died defending their village still bore the wounds of battle. Spirit Talker was used to it. He had seen it, many winters before in his youth, when he had taken horses from the people called the Mexicans. But the savagery visited on some of the warriors reminded him of the raids between his people, the Penateka against the Lenape. He spat on the ground as his thoughts ran to the treacherous Apache.

  This was not the work of the Apache, though. The iron shod hoofs stamped into the mud along the river left no doubt those who called themselves Texians were the perpetrators. Next to him walked Buffalo Hump. The two men were as different in appearance as in temperament. Spirit Talker had long given up the raid. Arthritis made it impossible now for him to pull the war bow, and made his steps slower than they used to be. It was fitting and right that he now guided his band in peace. Buffalo Hump still walked tall and straight. Forty winters old, he was still bold and decisive. Spirit Talker could not deny his companion was a fine war chief for the band.

  But, he was worried. This was the second village attacked by the Texians. In the first attack a few days before the Texians left no doubt it was revenge for the attack on the fort belonging to the people known as the Parkers. He came to stand before a young woman, lifeless, body ravaged by scavengers, the dagger still gripped in her hand. He turned to Buffalo Hump, “You want revenge my young friend. You see what the Texians have done to our people in this village, and I see it in your eyes. You want to take many scalps and prisoners.”

  Buffalo Hump pointed to the woman, “They kill even the women who have many years of child bearing ahead of them. They have no appreciation for our lives or our children. How many of our People have they taken into captivity?”

  Spirit Talker shrugged, “Too many. Listen to me, Buffalo Hump. Like you, I want revenge. I want the Texians to know the sorrow of the loss of their women, but that way may lay our destruction.”

  Buffalo Hump shook his head. “Don’t let the voices of old women keep you from seeing our way forward, my old friend. We shall let all of the families and bands among the Penateka know and invite the Nokoni and Tenewa bands to take many horses and women from the Texians.”

  Spirit Talker turned on the younger man, “Would you toss all of the women and children of the people prisoners of the white man on the fire? That way is impetuous. There are no old women’s voices rattling in my head, when I counsel caution. Yes. Rally the other chieftains among the Penateka and we shall go find out what the Texians want in return for our women and children.”

  Buffalo Hump stormed away, stopping after a few feet, and turning, “I will not stop you, Spirit Talker, but while you counsel peace, I will prepare for war. I do not trust the white man. They eat away at our hunting ground, and drive away our buffalo.”

  Spirit Talker waved the younger man away. Understandably he was angry. The casual way the Texians had left the People scattered among the remnants of the teepees was a stark reminder they were willing to learn from his warriors. He had heard of the raid on the Parkers’ Fort. They had built on the edge of the Comancheria. Many warriors had felt a stern message needed to be sent to the white men who were flooding into the land to the east. Now, Spirit Talker scanned the broken remains of the village. The Texians had heard the People’s message and had responded in a way which threatened the very existence of the People.

  “No, we must try to find peace with the Texians.” Spirit Talker thought, “Or there will be no future for our people.”

  ***

  April gave way to May and life returned to normal as the Alamo’s garrison drilled and trained. Most of the Rangers had returned to the forts along the frontier. East of the fort, a large paddock had been constructed, where the captured Comanche men and women were kept as prisoners. As an act of compassion, Will ordered blankets and tents provided to give the prisoners protection from the elements. The Comanche children were being kept at the decaying convent at the Mission Conception in town.

  Soldiers guarded both locations. While watching a platoon march from the Alamo to relieve the guards at the paddock, Will couldn’t help noticing the soldiers’ uniforms were worse for wear, having been in the field for more than a month, but there was something else about the men. The way they marched out the gate, there was a cool determination and purpose in their steps that said these men knew they were now veterans.

  He followed the men toward the paddock. As the days wore on, he wondered how long before the Comanche either came raiding or came to negotiate. As he arrived, the soldiers were changing the guard and the relieved soldiers marched back to the fort. As he looked through the slats at the women and old men, he couldn’t help thinking of the old daguerreotype photographs he’d seen of the prisoner of war camps during the civil war. Despite regular food and the tents providing cover, the air of human misery hung palpably over the camp.

  “Sweet Jesus, this is worse than the internment camps where the Japanese were imprisoned in World War II.” Will thought to himself.

  Not for the first time, he said a prayer the Comanche war would end soon. While his heart beat with compassion springing from his own twenty-first-century values and renewed faith, he couldn’t avoid the actions required by the standards of 1837. It was one more example of how he had changed since the transference into William B. Travis’ body and he didn’t like it.

  Two weeks after the army’s return to San Antonio, a dozen Comanche showed up outside of the walls of the Alamo, holding shields painted white, symbolizing peace. Will was called to the wall, as dozens of soldiers ran, with carbines in hand, and took up their positions atop the wall. A few hundred yards away, Will noticed a platoon of Texas cavalry shadowing the Comanche delegation. He was relieved the Comanche hadn’t come this close without being spotted. An old man, his long hair pulled back, sat on his horse at the head of the group of Indians. The image of the prisoners wallowing in the paddock a few hundred yards away was all the motivation he needed to see if the Comanche could be reasoned with.

  Juan Seguin was already at the gate, sword clipped to his belt. Will eyed the saber and quipped, “Ever show up to a knife fight and have a gunfight break out, Juan?”

  Seguin smiled sheepishly and unclipped the scabbard, and after handing it to a nearby soldier, followed Will out the gate.

  ***

  Spirit Talker sat atop his horse looking at the long walls, ringing the large fort. In his youth, he remembered coming here and trading with the Spanish for food, horses, and weapons. The transformation of the walled complex was disconcerting. As the gate swung open, he saw two men walk out. The taller of the two was pale skinned and he was bare headed with hair the color of fire. The shorter of the two wore a black, wide brimmed hat and was swarthy. Spirit Talker was sure he was a Mexican. It was strange the White man and Mexicans were both part of what they called Texas. More disconcerting, were the uniforms both men wore. They were the color of mud. The Spaniards had worn bright blue and red uniforms, as had the Mexicans after them. Spirit Talker had assumed it was the nature of both races to announce to their enemies their presence by being more colorful than the birds of the air.

  “The Texians were proving to be different birds,” Spirit Talker thought drily.

  Before they could speak, Spirit Talker addressed them in Spanish, “You have destroyed two of our bands and have captured many of our women and children. I, Spirit Talker, have come on behalf of the Penateka to negotiate a peace treaty and end the fighting between the People and the white man of Texas. I also seek the release of my people you hold here.”

  The shorter of the two mud draped men spoke in the language of the white man. The taller of the two men listened and then the
silence grew long as Spirit Talker waited for him to respond. Finally, after what seemed too long, he spoke one word. There was no need for a translator, “no” was the same in Spanish as in English.

  Spirit Talker blinked. He expected something. A counter-offer or some proposal. He held his hand open to the men below him, “I have come in peace, as is the custom between all men. In our battles with you Texians and the Mexicans before you, all have found it good to seek peace. We have always been willing to sell back any captives you wish to buy. You have many of ours and we wish to trade for them.”

  Through the Mexican, the White man said, “It is true that if we wished we could trade captives with you, and I have no doubt you would be fair in returning to us an equal number, if you and your band have them. And you and I may even agree on a peace between Texas and your band. But I don’t care to have a peace treaty with only your band. I will have peace with all the Comanche or none of them. That is your choice to make.”

  This was unexpected. Even before the time of his grandfathers, it was custom for the Spanish and Mexicans to seek peace and provide gifts to the People. It was how it had always been. “I am but one among several Penateka chiefs. I can make peace with you and my own band. The other chiefs keep their own counsel and do as they choose.”

  The man with fiery hair replied, “I am aware of that. I will give you time to consult with the other chiefs of the Penateka Comanche. Let them all come to negotiate peace or let them select a few among them to act for them. Be warned. Any band who attacks a Texas settlement or our farmers, will receive the same treatment that we have given out over the past month.”

  Spirit Talker looked searchingly into the eyes of the fiery haired chief, looking for a sign of compromise. Finding none, he nodded his head, sadly, and pulled the reins to the left, guiding his horse away from the walls of the old fort. He had hoped for more. The greatest strength of the People was its defused governance. Each band followed its own leaders. When there was disagreement, as was common between the proud warriors of the People, rather than battle within the band, it customary for the band to split. The land of the Comancheria was wide and rich in game and buffalo. Until now. The White man pushed into their land and took that which didn’t belong. Looking back at the faces of the warriors who rode with him, their faces told him all he needed to know. An ill wind blew from the south. It chilled his neck. It was the winds of war.