In the last seat he found someone awake—an army officer. “May I, captain?” he asked, pointing to the empty space beside him.
“Yes, do,” the soldier responded, sliding over to make more room. “I’d appreciate the company.”
After introducing themselves, James and the soldier talked casually to pass the time. Harrison was interested in a soldier’s life along the Mexican border, and asked several questions about chasing smugglers. But the soldier was unwilling to share any information except on the weather. “Pretty dry this fall, Mr. James. Too dry. Dust everywhere. The cotton didn’t do too well, I fear, sir,” he said.
“Do you think the Mexicans will declare war against us?” Harrison finally asked, tiring of crop talk.
The captain laughed. “No, sir. They’re too busy fighting each other.”
“What about Pancho Villa, captain? My brother, who fought against him, said he was very popular around here.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes. Captain James, Captain Bartlett James, 24th U.S. Infantry.”
“I knew him, sir. A fine man.”
“Yes, he was,” Harrison said softly.
“I’m sorry. His death was a great loss to the United States Army. Even General Pershing said as much.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Did you know my brother well, captain?”
“Not well, sir. Your brother and I served together briefly while the Army was in Mexico chasing Villa. We first met in Washington….” He suddenly stopped talking
“In Washington? You worked together in Washington?”
“Yes, sir, but different assignments, actually…not together at all.”
Harrison was excited to meet someone who knew Bart. “What type of work did you do?”
“Staff work, Mr. James,” he answered shortly.
“Were you also working in intelligence?”
“No, Mr. James. We worked in different sections. My job was mostly routine staff work. I don’t know anything about your brother’s work there, I’m afraid,” he said, looking away. “If you will excuse me, sir, I need to stretch my legs.” The captain got up and walked down the aisle. James returned to his own seat, puzzled by the captain’s abruptness.
*
As children, Bart and Harrison had traveled extensively with their parents. They were as much at home in London and Paris as in Chicago. Bart spoke fluent German and Spanish, and Harrison, who was only fluent in French, had always envied his younger brother’s ability to speak several languages well. Bart passed as a native speaker when they traveled in Spanish speaking countries on business with their father.
Back in his seat, Harrison reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a bundle of papers the family had received from the Department of the Army. He leafed through them until he found the citation from General Pershing, given to the 24th Infantry upon returning to New Mexico.
“Men, I am authorized by Congress to tell you that our people back in the States are mighty glad and proud at the way the soldiers have conducted themselves while in Mexico, and I, General Pershing, can say with pride that a finer body of men never stood under the flag of our nation than we find here tonight.”
*
Harrison knew receiving that citation had been a proud moment in his brother’s life. Bartlett had welcomed the opportunity to lead Negro troops, and believed devoutly that he was helping to prepare the U.S. Army for war in Europe.
Harrison’s mind returned to the last letter he had received from his brother, written in June. Bartlett wrote that his troops were chasing bandits and smugglers along the border. Bart had seemed satisfied with his duty. He confided that it was a difficult assignment, with his men having to perform garrison duty while other units prepared to go overseas, but he did not complain. Bart never complained. Then, not more than three months later, the family received the telegram informing them of his death.
In the news article, the writer had stated that Bartlett’s battalion had rioted in the streets of Houston, and that many of the Negro troops were charged with mutiny and murder. But he had also written that Bart acted courageously.
He refolded the bundle of documents, then pushed them back into his breast pocket with the photograph of Bart. Harrison considered the information: a suicidal hero? His brother was very adaptive, and handled difficult situations well, but he could be overly emotional, too. Had he become depressed over the Houston troubles? No, Harrison decided, Bart could not have committed suicide. But he was not certain. Doubt remained.
CHAPTER SIX
The old wooden El Paso and Southern railcar James was riding in suddenly hissed loudly and screeched, jerking to a stop and throwing him forward in his seat. His wide-brimmed felt hat rolled into the lap of one of the two soldiers asleep in the seat facing his.
“What?” the young soldier stammered, jerking awake.
“Sorry,” James responded, reaching over and taking his hat. He wondered how long he had been daydreaming. It didn’t seem more than a few minutes, but the dull ache in the back of his neck told him it was longer. Standing to rid himself of the stiffness in his legs and back, he focused on the two soldiers. “Where did you gentlemen come from?” he asked, still somewhat disoriented. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes to refocus.
“Got on in El Paso,” one of the soldiers answered. He nudged his buddy. “’Bout a half hour ago, I reckon.”
Still feeling a little groggy, Harrison squinted out the grimy window. Platform lights indicated that they were stopped, but where he didn’t know. A faint light was forcing its way through the dirty glass. Peering across the wooden station platform, he glimpsed unpainted clapboard and adobe buildings lining a deserted street, empty except for an early morning rider and several horses tied to posts. Here and there he saw a light peeking through a window. Everything appeared to James to be the same dusty red color. Bleak and barren, he thought. He was again reminded of La Paz.
“Canutillo. Canutillo, New Mexico,” the conductor announced as he marched quickly down the aisle. “All aboard,” he yelled. “All aboard.”
“How long to Columbus?” Harrison asked him. He blocked the aisle.
“’Bout two urs, sir,” the conductor answered without looking up. Intimidated by the much taller man standing in the narrow aisle, he tried to step around him.
“Sir, do we have time to eat?” James asked, moving aside.
“Nope,” the conductor responded. “Nothin’ open this time a’day, noways, sir.”
“Where ya headin’?” the other soldier asked, awakened by the noise. He was older than his companion. The spider webs of wrinkles around his eyes indicated he had spent a lot of time in the harsh desert sun.
“Columbus,” James said, sitting down again.
“Why ya goin’ there?” the older private asked. “If I didn’t have ta, I know I wouldn’t. It’s worse’n hell.”
Harrison observed him casually. “Do you gentlemen know anything about the 24th Regiment? L Company, 24th Regiment?”
“One of the nigger companies,” the thin, younger private answered, rubbing the back of his hand. “What business ya got there?” He pulled a leather pouch filled with tobacco and some cigarette papers from inside his wool tunic, and carefully shook tobacco into a paper slip.
Harrison looked at him. “How long have you been in the Army?”
“Joined up ’bout a year back to fight Pancho Villa,” he said, licking the crude edge of the paper. “But, time I got out here, it was all over. So they send me to Columbus to guard the niggers. Me ‘n’ Charlie been doin’ that since September. Right, Charlie?”
“Yeah. Oughta hang ’em all, I say. Guardin’ them niggers and chasin’ smugglers ever’ day ain’t what I joined up for. Now, I want to kill them Germans,” Charlie replied.
“I know some people in Columbus…at Camp Furlong. Relatives from Illinois,” James said. “What’s your unit?”
“We with t
he 13th Cavalry. Regulars,” the young soldier answered. Once sealed, he popped the cigarette into his mouth. “Not infantry.”
Charlie eyed the well-dressed Yankee enviously.
“What kinds of units are out there?” Harrison asked.
“They got infantry, cavalry like us. And, when they moved us in…moved us in with some nigger cavalry—Tenth Cavalry—already stationed there along the Rio Grande. We fightin’ those Mexicans. Chasin’ ’em all over hell. That is, Charlie here was fightin’ ’em,” the younger one said.
“Yeah, I been in the Army since ’15. Always in the cavalry, too. Best place in the whole U.S. Army to be, I reckon,” Charlie confirmed.
“You serve with the Negro soldiers then?”
“Those boys are in our camp,” Charlie said. “Don’t like niggers or spics, and I don’t like nosey Yankees.” Charlie gave him a sour grin, revealing a mouth filled with black, stumpy teeth.
“Where are you boys from?” Harrison pressed deliberately.
“I’m from Illinois,” Jonesy said. He struck a match across the metal back of the seat to light another hand rolled cigarette. Smoke enveloped them as bits of tobacco sparked and fell on the floor. Charlie’s from Kentucky,” he said with a smile.
“Don’t tell ’im nothin’,” Charlie mumbled. He didn’t like James. Yankees, Charlie thought, always thinkin’ they’s so almighty important.
“And the Negro soldiers out here? Where’re they from?” Harrison asked, ignoring the older soldier.
“Everywhere. Like us, they’s regulars. Even them that rioted in Houston. Right, Charlie?”
“Maybe,” Charlie responded. “Most of them niggers should be shot or hung fur what they did up to Houston. We’s here,” he said with sudden anger, “Out here in the damn desert ’cause a what they done in Texas. ’Bout burned the damn town to the ground. We should be over in El Paso or down to Brownsville gettin’ ready to move out to France. But hell no, we’s here patrollin’ this damn border an’ watchin’ them damn niggers. Ain’t right. Now we’s all crowded in out there at Camp Furlong, in the desert. Out in the damn desert wid the fleas and the snakes and the niggers.”
“Yup,” mumbled Jonesy.
“Is that right?” Harrison replied slowly, considering. “What happened to the Negro soldiers who rioted?”
“Loaded ’em up and shipped ’em to Fort Sam. Threw ’em in the stockade. Rest of’ em got shipped here…to hell. Our horses is livin’ better un us,” Charlie growled. “That’s ’nough questions. Ya ask too many questions.”
“Yup,” Jonesy agreed.
“Where did ya say you’s from?” Jonesy asked, the heavy smoke streaming from his mouth and nose.
“I’m from Kankakee, Illinois,” Harrison answered. “Near Chicago.”
“Don’t know no one from there, I guess. You, Charlie?”
“Don’t know no Yankees an’ don’t wanta.”
“I’m from Harrisburg, further south,” Jonesy stated. “I’ll show ya to the camp if ya want. Since we both from Illinois. That ok, Charlie?”
“None a my bus’ness what ya do, kid,” Charlie mumbled. But I don’t want ya carryin’ no bags fur the Yankee, now.”
“I’d greatly appreciate the escort, private, but I’ve decided to go directly to the hotel and find a room. Any suggestions?”
“There’s only one for a man like yurself, sir,” Jonesy said, thoughtfully.
“Like myself, private?”
“Yeah, a white man.”
“And what hotel is that?”
“The Hotel Hoover. It’s the best place in town. An’ on the other side of town. We’ll take ya there. It ain’t that far. Columbus ain’t a big place, is it, Charlie?”
Charlie, still staring at the Yankee, only grunted. Somethin’ ’bout him, he thought. Act like some rich dandy.
“Thank you,” Harrison said, smiling at the young man.
“I like that fancy hat,” Charlie said suddenly. “I bet you a banker, lawyer, something like that, eh? That suit must a cost a whole lot of money.”
“No, just a businessman,” Harrison replied. “What’s your name?” he asked the other soldier.
“Jones, Abraham Lincoln Jones,” he answered directly.
“Nice to meet you, Private Jones.”
“How much a hat like that cost?” Charlie persisted. He reached to grab James’ hat from his head.
“Careful with the hat.” Harrison caught the shorter man’s wrist in a viselike grip so quickly that Charlie jumped back, startled. “I’m superstitious about my hat, gentlemen.”
“Leave the man alone, Charlie.” Jones elbowed him. “A man’s hat is personal, like his piece. Right? What ya say yur name is?”
“I suppose. Yes.” James released his grip, but still held Charlie’s gaze. “Harrison James.”
Jones flipped the butt of his cigarette out the partly opened window.
“No hard feelings ’bout the hat, eh?” Charlie stuck out his other hand. Now he liked the Yankee even less.
Harrison shook Charlie’s hand. “Of course not, Charlie,” he said. “Of course not.”
*
Two hours later, the soldiers escorted Harrison away from the train depot that consisted mainly of a long wooden, open-air platform. Most of the travelers he saw were soldiers, while most people standing or sitting around the station appeared to be Mexicans. The army camp began across the street from the depot. Harrison saw tents stretching off into the distance toward the southwest, disappearing in a cloud of dust. Other than street vendors selling fruit, vegetables, and hot tortillas, he saw no women anywhere.
“Don’t buy nothin’ from her,” Charlie advised as they walked by a vendor. “It’ll make ya sick.”
Although still early, business appeared to be brisk along Broadway Street, several blocks from the depot. Broadway was obviously the town’s main thoroughfare. Several motorcars mingled with horse-drawn wagons, riders on horseback, and pedestrians to clog the wide, dusty, unpaved streets at the main intersection that was also a crossroads. Harrison turned and looked south. “Mexico, eh?” He asked Jonesy, pointing in that direction.
“Yeah, Mexico,” Jonesy replied.
“You don’t get lost out there, now. The desert can git ya real confused,” Charlie said.
“I’ll remember that,” Harrison responded, then turned. He casually considered the layout of the town, scanning the road running east and west. In both directions, the road disappeared into the flatness of the land. A dust devil swirled down the wide street toward the west, kicked up by several trucks pulling out of the army camp. He had a strange sense that he was being watched, then decided it was because in small towns like Columbus everyone seemed to know when a stranger was in town. He had learned that from living in rural pueblos in Bolivia. “Do those mountains have a name?” he asked, pointing to three nearby peaks rising out of the desert floor just to the northwest.
“The locals call ’em Tres Hermanas. That means ‘Three Sisters,” Jonesy answered, proud to demonstrate his knowledge of the area. “We use ’em to git ar bearin’ out there.”
“Shut up,” Charlie growled for no special reason.
“Getoutaway!” someone yelled as the three navigated through traffic, attempting to reach the other side of the street. They sidestepped several autos, halted to allow a carriage to pass, and still the swirling red dust kept James from seeing two approaching motor trucks bearing down on them.
“Hey! Look out!” a driver growled at James. The rear fender of a Model T Ford covered in dust grazed his leg, missing his foot by inches as it passed.
“Hey, why didn’t you boys say something?” he asked, dusting himself off. A young Mexican woman with three small children in tow walked by, all four staring at the well-dressed white man walking with the soldiers.
The two privates looked at each other and grinned. “Sorry, Harry. Ya gotta be careful ’round here,” Jonesy said. “This differ’nt t
han Chicago?”
“No different from Market Street, I guess,” James replied, throwing the grip over his shoulder again. “But Chicago is a large city.”
The soldiers shrugged.
“May I buy you gentlemen a beer for helping me?”
“Yeah, that’d be right friendly, Harry,” Jonesy said. “We in no hurry, are we, Charlie?”
“No, I guess not,” Charlie said, indifferent to the offer. “We got a place right ’round the corner here.” Leading the way, he directed them to a two-story, unpainted, clapboard and wood framed building. A double swinging door with large windows dominated the front. Turning to look out upon the wide dusty street, also congested with animal and motor vehicle traffic, Harrison judged that this could be the main thoroughfare of the small town. He saw soldiers everywhere.
“Last Chance Saloon,” Harrison read as they walked by the dirty window. “I like that. Any reason for the name?”
“Don’t reckon I know for sure,” Jonesy said. “Maybe before a man crosses the border? Yeah, that’s it. Mexico is only about five, six miles down the road. An’ the next big town west a us in the U.S. of A. is Douglas. Yup, Douglas, Arizona. Mighty long ways if ya got a thirst.” The three entered the saloon. Even this early, Harrison saw that the place was doing good business.
They headed through the tobacco smoke for the bar across the room. “Wait. Boys, I think we should find ourselves a table. No room up there, eh?” Harrison said, peering through the smoke.
The two soldiers followed his gaze, looking at the uniformed backs of men lining the mahogany. “You right, Harry. Ain’t he, Charlie?”
“We sit over there, I think,” Charlie said, pointing to three empty chairs in the corner. “I know them boys. They’s in the regiment.” Charlie and Jonesy walked over and sat down. Harrison followed, casually looking the crowd over.
“Hi boys,” Charlie said. The two soldiers at the table looked up at James, not speaking. “He be a Yankee, but don’t worry none.”
Chasing Pancho Villa Page 4
