Part 15
A few days after this episode the scouts in advance of the column saw a group of horsemen riding toward them across the plain. As the party came nearer it was seen to consist of thirty or forty Indians led by a single white man. The latter proved to be one of the strangest characters ever produced by the wild life of the frontier. His name was Captain James Kirker, or, as he was called by the Mexicans, Santiago Querque, and he was an Indian fighter by profession. By this I do not mean that he took part in the periodical wars between the Indians and the whites, but that he contracted to kill Indians at so much per head, just as hunters in certain portions of the country make a business of tracking and killing vermin for the bounty. For many years past Kirker, whose fame was as wide as the plains, had been employed by the state of Chihuahua to exterminate the Apaches who terrorized its borders, and, thinking to fight the devil with fire, he had imported twoscore Delaware braves, noted even among the Indians for their abilities as trackers, to help him in hunting down the Apaches. Shortly before the outbreak of the war the government of Chihuahua owed Kirker thirty thousand dollars for the scalps of Apaches he had slain, but when hostilities began it refused to pay him and threatened him and his braves with imprisonment if they persisted in their claims. Thus it came about that Doniphan received a considerable addition to the strength of his force, for no sooner had Kirker received word of the approach of the column than he and his Delawares slipped out of Chihuahua between two days and rode off to offer their services to their countrymen. Because of his remarkable knowledge of the country and his acquaintance with the language and customs of the people, Kirker proved of essential service to Doniphan as an interpreter and forage-master, while his Delawares were invaluable as scouts. In appearance Kirker was a dime-novel hero come to life, for his long hair fell upon his shoulders; his mustaches were of a size and fierceness that would have abashed a pirate; from neck to knees he was dressed in gorgeously embroidered, soft-tanned buckskin; his breeches disappeared in high-heeled boots ornamented with enormous spurs, which jangled noisily when he walked; his high-crowned sombrero was heavy with gold braid and bullion; thrust carelessly into his scarlet sash was a veritable armory of knives and pistols, and the thoroughbred he bestrode could show its heels to any horse in northern Mexico.
On the 28th of February, when within less than ten miles of Chihuahua, the Americans caught their first glimpse of the army which had been assembled to receive them. The enemy occupied the brow of a rocky eminence, known as Sacramento Hill, which rises sharply from a plateau guarded on one side by the Sacramento River and on the other by a dried-up watercourse, known as an _arroyo seco_. The great natural strength of the position had been enormously increased by an elaborate system of fieldworks consisting of twenty-eight redoubts and intrenchments. Here, in this apparently impregnable position, which was the key to the capital of the state, and hence to all northern Mexico, the Mexican army, which, according to the muster-rolls which fell into Doniphan’s possession after the battle, consisted of four thousand two hundred and twenty men, was prepared to offer a desperate resistance to the invader. To oppose this strongly intrenched force, which comprised the very flower of the Mexican army, Colonel Doniphan had one thousand and sixty-four men, of whom one hundred and fifty were teamsters. No wonder that the Mexicans were so confident of victory that they had prepared great quantities of shackles and handcuffs to be used in marching the captured _gringos_ to the capital in triumph.
Now, if Colonel Doniphan had acted according to the cut-and-dried rules of the game as taught in military schools and books on tactics and had done what the Mexican commander expected him to do, there is little doubt that he and his men--such of them as were not killed in battle or shot in cold blood afterward--would have gone to the City of Mexico in the chains so thoughtfully provided for them. But being a shirt-sleeve fighter, as it were, and not in the least hampered by a knowledge of scientific warfare, he did the very thing that he was not expected to do. Instead of attempting to fight his way down the high-road which led to Chihuahua, which was commanded by the enemy’s guns, and where they could have wiped him out without leaving their intrenchments, he formed his column into a sort of hollow square, cavalry in front, infantry on the flanks, and guns and wagons in the centre, suddenly deflected it to the right, and before the Mexicans grasped the significance of the manœuvre he had thrown his force across the _arroyo seco_, had gained the summit of the plateau, and had deployed his men upon the highland in such a position that the Mexican commander was compelled to hastily reconstruct his whole plan of battle. By this single brilliant manœuvre Doniphan at once nullified the advantage the Mexicans derived from their commanding position.
The Americans scarcely had time to get their guns into position and form their line of battle before a cavalry brigade, twelve hundred strong, led by General Garcia Condé, ex-minister of war, swept down from the fortified heights with a thunder and roar to open the engagement. This time there was no waiting, as at the Brazitos, for the Mexicans to get within close range; the advancing force was too formidable for that. In the centre of the American position was posted the artillery--four howitzers and six field-guns--under Captain Weightman. Above the ever loudening thunder of the approaching cavalry could be heard that young officer’s cool, clear voice: “Form battery! Action front! Load with grape! Fire at will!” As the wave of galloping horses and madly cheering men surged nearer, Weightman’s gunners, getting the range with deadly accuracy, poured in their thirty shots a minute as methodically as though they were on a target-range. In the face of that blast of death the Mexican cavalry scattered like autumn leaves. Within five minutes after their bugles had screamed the charge, the finest brigade of cavalry that ever followed Mexican kettle-drums, shattered, torn, and bleeding, had turned tail and was spurring full tilt for the shelter of the fortifications, leaving the ground over which they had just passed strewn with their dead and dying. For the next fifty minutes the battle consisted of an artillery duel at long range, throughout which Colonel Doniphan sat on his war-horse at the rear of the American battery, his foot thrown carelessly across the pommel of his saddle, whittling a piece of wood--an object-lesson in coolness for his men and, incidentally, a splendid mark for the Mexican gunners.
While the guns of the opposing forces were exchanging compliments at long range the American officers busied themselves in forming their men preparatory to taking the offensive. That was Doniphan’s plan of battle always--to get in the first blow. When everything was in readiness, Colonel Doniphan tossed away his stick, pocketed his knife, drew his sabre, and signalled to his bugler to sound the advance. As the bugles shrieked their signal the whole line, horse, foot, and guns, dashed forward at a run. It was a daring and hazardous proceeding, a thousand men charging across open ground and up a hill to carry fortifications held by a force four times the strength of their own, but its very audacity brought success. So splendid was the discipline which Doniphan had hammered into his force that the infantry officers ran sideways and backward in front of their men as they advanced, just as they would have done on the drill field, keeping them in such perfect step and order that, as an English eye-witness afterward remarked, a cannon-ball could have been fired between their legs down the line without injuring a man. Not a shot was fired by the Americans until they reached the first line of redoubts, behind which the Mexican officers were frantically endeavoring to steady their wavering men. As the Americans surged over the intrenchments they paused just long enough to pour in a volley and then went in with the bayonet. At almost the same moment Captain Weightman brought his guns into action with a rattle and crash and began pouring a torrent of grape into the now thoroughly demoralized Mexicans. As the right wing stormed the breastworks an American sergeant who was well in advance of the line, having emptied his rifle and pistols and being too hard-pressed to reload them, threw away his weapons and defended himself by hurling rocks. When the order to charge was given, Kirker, the Indian fighter, called to another scout named Collins: “Say, Jim, let’s see which of us can get into that battery first.” The battery referred to was in the second redoubt, whence it was directing a galling fire upon the Americans over the heads of the Mexicans defending the first line of fortifications. Collins’s only reply was to pull down his hat, draw his sword, bury his spurs in his horse’s flanks, and ride at the battery as a steeplechaser rides at a water-jump, Kirker, his long hair streaming in the wind, tearing along beside him. Is it any wonder that the Mexicans exclaimed to each other: “These are not men we are fighting--they are devils!”
All the companies were now pressing forward and pouring over the intrenchments, the Mexicans sullenly giving way before them. Meanwhile the left wing, under Major Gilpin, had scaled the heights, swarmed over the breastworks, and driven out the enemy, while a company under Captain Hughes had burst into a battery defended by trenches filled with Mexican infantry, which they had literally cut to pieces, and had killed or captured the artillerymen as they were endeavoring to set off the guns. Though the Mexican commander, General Heredia, made a desperate attempt to rally his panic-stricken troops under cover of repeated gallant charges by the cavalry under Condé, the men were too far gone with terror to pay any heed to the frantic appeals of their officers. With the American cavalry clinging to its flanks and dealing it blow upon savage blow, the retreat of the Mexican army quickly turned into a rout, the splendid force that had marched out of Chihuahua a few days before returning to it a beaten, cowed, and bleeding rabble. The battle of the Sacramento lasted three hours and a half, and in that time an American force of nine hundred and twenty-four effective men--the rest were teamsters--utterly routed a Mexican army of four thousand two hundred and twenty men fighting from behind supposedly impregnable intrenchments. In killed, wounded, and prisoners the Mexicans lost upward of nine hundred men; the Americans had four killed and seven wounded. The battle of the Sacramento was in many respects the most wonderful ever fought by American arms. For sheer audacity, disproportionate numbers, and sweeping success the battle of Manila Bay may be set down as its only rival. The only land battle at all approaching it was that of New Orleans, but there the Americans fought at home, on their own soil, behind fortifications. At Sacramento Doniphan’s men attacked a fortified position held by troops outnumbering them more than four to one. They were in a strange land, thousands of miles from home. They were in rags, suffering from lack of food. They believed that they had been abandoned by their own government and left to their fate. In case of defeat there was no hope of succor, no help--nothing but inevitable destruction. That is why I say that the exploit of these Missourians has never been surpassed, if, indeed, it has ever been equalled in the annals of the world’s warfare.
There is little more to tell. The following day, with the regimental bands playing “Hail Columbia” and “Yankee Doodle,” Colonel Doniphan and his men entered the city of Chihuahua in triumph. For two months they held undisputed possession of the metropolis of northern Mexico; the city was cleaned and policed; law and order were rigidly enforced and the rights of the citizens strictly respected. On the 28th of April, 1847, in pursuance of orders received from General Wool, the expedition evacuated Chihuahua and set out across an arid and desolate country for Saltillo, covering the six hundred and seventy-five miles in twenty-five days. After being reviewed and publicly thanked by General Taylor, the Missourians started on the last stage of their wonderful march. Reaching Matamoros, at the mouth of the Rio Grande, they took ship for New Orleans, whose citizens went mad with enthusiasm. Their journey by steamboat up the Mississippi was one continuous ovation; at every town they passed the whistles shrieked, the bells rang, and the townspeople cheered themselves hoarse at sight of the sun-browned veterans in their faded and tattered uniforms. On July 1, after an absence of a little more than a year, to the strains of “Auld Lang Syne” and “Home, Sweet Home,” Doniphan and his One Thousand once again set foot on the soil of old Missouri. Going out from the western border of their State, they re-entered it from the east, having made a circuit equal to a fourth of the circumference of the globe, providing for themselves as they went, driving before them forces many times the strength of their own, leaving law and order and justice in their wake, and returning with trophies taken on battle-fields whose names few Americans had ever heard before. It is a sad commentary on the gratitude of republics that the government never acknowledged, either by promotion, decoration, or the thanks of Congress, the invaluable services of Alexander Doniphan; there is no statue to him in any town or city of his State; not even a mention of his immortal expedition can be found in the school histories of the nation he served so well. He lived for forty years after his great march and lies buried under a granite shaft in the cemetery at Liberty, Mo. Though forgotten by his countrymen, the brown-faced folk below the Rio Grande still tell of the days when the great captain came riding down from the north to invade a nation at the head of a thousand men.
WHEN WE FOUGHT THE JAPANESE
WHEN WE FOUGHT THE JAPANESE
“... I met ’im all over the world, a-doin’ all kinds of things, Like landin’ ’isself with a Gatlin’ gun to talk to them ’eathen kings. * * * * * For there isn’t a job on the top o’ the earth the beggar don’t know, nor do-- You can leave ’im at night on a bald man’s ’ead to paddle ’is own canoe.”
There you have a four-line epitome of the career and character of the burly, tousle-headed, gruff-voiced old sea-dog who is the hero of this narrative. His name? Matthew Calbraith Perry, one time commodore in the navy of the United States and younger brother of that other Yankee sea-fighter, Oliver Hazard Perry, without whose picture, wrapped in the Chesapeake’s flag and standing in a dramatic attitude in the stern-sheets of a small boat, no school history of the United States would be complete. Though Matthew did not have to depend upon the reflected glory of his famous brother, for he won glory enough of his own, his extraordinary exploits have never received the attention of which they are deserving, partly, no doubt, because they were obscured by the smoke of his brother’s guns on Lake Erie and partly because they were performed at a period in our national history when the public mind was occupied with happenings nearer home.
His father, a Yankee privateersman of the up-boys-and-at-’em school, was captured by a British cruiser during the Revolution and sent as a prisoner of war to Ireland, where his captivity was made considerably more than endurable by a peaches-and-cream beauty from the County Down. After the war was over he returned to Ireland and gave a typical story-book ending to the romance by hunting up the girl who had cheered his prison hours and making her his wife. The dashing young skipper and his sixteen-year-old bride built themselves a house within sight of the shipping along the Newport wharfs, and there, when the eighteenth century lacked but half a dozen years of having run its course and when our flag bore but fifteen stars, Matthew was born. How many of the neighbors who came flocking in to admire the lusty youngster dreamed that he would live to command the largest fleet which, in his lifetime, ever gathered under the folds of that flag and that his exploits on the remotest seaboards of the world would make the wildest fiction seem probable and tame?
Young Perry was helping to make history at an age when most boys are still in school, for, as a midshipman of seventeen, he stood beside Commodore Rodgers when he lighted the fuse of the “Long Tom” in the forecastle battery of the frigate _President_ and sent a ball crashing into the British war-ship _Belvidera_--the first shot fired in the War of 1812. In the same ship and under the same commander he scoured the seas of northern Europe in a commerce-destroying raid which extended from the English Channel to the Arctic, during which the daring American was hunted by twenty British men-of-war, sailing, for safety’s sake, in pairs. As a young lieutenant in command of the _Cyane_ he convoyed the first party of American negroes sent to West Africa to establish, under the name of Liberia, a country of their own. It was on this voyage that the character of the man who, in later years, was to revolutionize the commerce of the world first evidenced itself. Putting into Teneriffe, in the Canaries, for water and provisions, Perry, resplendent in “whites” and gold lace, went ashore to pay the Portuguese governor the customary call of ceremony. As he was taking leave of the governor he casually remarked that the _Cyane_, on leaving the harbor, would, of course, fire the usual salute. Whereupon the Portuguese official, a pompous royalist who had a deep-seated aversion to republican institutions and went out of his way to show his contempt for them, told the young commander that the shore batteries would return the salute _less one gun_, for, as he impudently remarked, Portugal considered herself superior to republics and could not treat them as equals. Perry, white with anger, told the governor that the nation which he had the honor to serve was the equal of any monarchy on earth, and that unless he received an assurance that his salute would be returned gun for gun, he would fire no salute at all. That afternoon the _Cyane_ sailed past the batteries, over which flew the Portuguese flag, in a silence which unmistakably spelled contempt. Though personally Perry was the most peaceable of men, as the representative of the United States in distant oceans he perpetually carried a chip on his shoulder and defied any one to knock it off. A cannibal king tried it once, and--but of that you shall hear a little later.
A year or so after he had landed his party of negro colonists he visited the coast of cannibals and fevers again and at the mouth of the Mesurado River chose the site of the future capital of Liberia, which was named Monrovia in honor of President Monroe, thus establishing the first and only colony ever founded by the United States. His next commission was to wipe out the pirates who, shielding themselves under the flags of the new South American republics and assuming the thin disguise of privateersmen, were terrorizing commerce upon the Spanish main. Under Commodore David Porter he spent eight months under sail upon the Gulf, and when he at last turned his bowsprit toward the north, he had put an end to the depredations of the “dago robbers,” as his seamen called them. It was here, in fact, that the term “dago” as applied by Americans to foreigners of the Latin race began. The name of James, the Spaniards’ patron saint, has been indiscriminately bestowed, in its Spanish form, Iago, upon provinces, islands, towns, and rivers from one end of Spanish America to the other, Santiago, San Diego, Iago, and Diego being such constantly recurring names that the American sailors early fell into the custom of calling the natives of these parts “Diegos” or “dago men,” whence the slang term so universally used to-day.
About the time that the United States was celebrating its fiftieth birthday the government at Washington, thinking it high time to give the Europeans an object-lesson in the naval power of the oversea republic, ordered a squadron of war-ships to the Mediterranean, in many of whose ports the American flag was as unfamiliar as China’s dragon banner. The command of the expedition was given to Commodore Rodgers, who hoisted his pennant on the _North Carolina_, the finest and most formidable craft that had yet been launched from an American shipyard, and Perry went along as executive officer to his old chief. When the great ship, with the grim muzzles of her one hundred and two guns peering from her three tiers of port-holes, majestically entered the European harbors under her cloud of snowy canvas, the natives were goggle-eyed with admiration and amazement, for in those days most Europeans thought of America--when they gave it any thought at all--as a land of Indians, grizzly bears, and buckskin-clad frontiersmen. As executive officer, Perry’s duties comprised pretty much everything which needed to be done on deck. Whether in cocked hat and gold epaulets by day or in oilskins and sou’wester at night, he was regent of the ship and crew. The duties of the squadron were not confined to visits of ceremony, either, for one of the objects for which it had been sent was to teach the pirates who infested Levantine waters that it was as dangerous to molest vessels flying the American flag as to tamper with a stick of dynamite. During the Greek struggle for independence, which was then in progress, the Greek privateers had on more than one occasion been a trifle careless in differentiating between the vessels of neutral nations and those of their Turkish oppressors, and in May, 1825, they committed a particularly bad error of judgment by seizing a merchant ship from Boston. In those days the administration at Washington was as quick to resent such affronts as it is tardy nowadays, and no sooner had the American squadron arrived in Levantine waters than it sought an opportunity to teach the Greeks a lesson. An opportunity soon presented itself. Learning that a British merchantman, the _Comet_, had been seized by the Greeks, Rodgers ordered her to be recaptured and sent a boarding party of bluejackets and marines to do the business. Swarming up the bow-chains, the Americans gained the deck before the pirates realized just what was happening, though the ship was not taken without a desperate hand-to-hand struggle, in which Lieutenant Carr, singling out the pirate chief, killed him with his own hand. Thenceforward the Greeks, whenever they saw a vessel flying the stars and stripes, touched their hats, figuratively speaking. The _North Carolina’s_ mission thus having been accomplished, in the spring of 1827 Perry ordered the boatswain to sound the welcome call: “All hands up anchor for home.”