Adelsverein

by Celia Hayes

  “Mama?” Sam ventured uncertainly, just as young Tackett asked, with a worried note in his voice, “Ma’am?

  “George?” Magda turned to her nephew. “I am acquainted with Mr. Tackett. I shall authorize an account for him, up to five hundred dollars. As long as,” she added with a severe look at the farmer, “regular payments are made, in cash or kind; wild game or pecans, or even cut shingles.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Tackett was, to her relief, too proud to make an abject display of his gratitude. “That will make all the difference in the world to my wife and the chirren, it surely will, ma’am!”

  “I am sure of that,” Magda answered. Queerly, she felt almost lightheaded with a feeling akin to joy, as if the sun had just come from behind the clouds, or the first cool breeze of autumn had just begun to stir the trees, banishing the sullen heat of summer. “You should always have a special care for your children, Mr. Tackett.”

  “Are we going now, Mama?” Sam asked with impatience.

  “Yes, we are,” and she added, in a whisper to George, “Give Mr. Tackett a little penny candy for his children. Don’t charge his account; just write it off as my gift.”

  Having done that, I felt a most curious sense of well being, she wrote later to Irina Cherkevsky, which I cannot quite account for. I have always been advised that it is better to return good for evil, although admittedly his actions so many years ago were not precisely evil, more a matter of indulging himself in a careless and brute impulse. My dear Vati’s oldest friend, the Reverend Altmueller, once preached a sermon on how hate not only destroys the person hated, but also subtly destroys the person who hates. I did not entirely comprehend then—but now I do! For I had hated so many men, some with cause, and one in particular to whom I was finally able to mete out justice—but still I hated them. This hate did no great harm to anyone but myself! Now, having put it aside with some small effort, I can see clearly and without rancor.

  I still despise the Comanche raiders who murdered our sister and stole Liesel’s children from her. But there is no future in dwelling overmuch on that emotion, no more than if I should waste my emotions in hating the little wild wolves that raid the chicken coop and slaughter our prized chickens out of sheer wantonness. It is what they do, it is in their nature. There can be no other explanation; it is what it is.

  Regarding my nephew; he has been working these last months as a horse wrangler with the spring cattle round-up. I have scarce laid eyes on him above two or three times, always with the other drovers and hands, but he seems happy enough among them. My son tells me the other wranglers have nothing but the highest praise for him, in his abilities to ride and tame the wildest pony! I should tell you that our native custom of conversation, especially among those men hired as drovers and cattle herders, tends to the laconic. So a man who is few of words and vouchsafes little of his origins is not thought strange or eccentric. He rides most adeptly, a perfect centaur! Once in the saddle his lameness counts for nothing. Mr. Inman and some of the others who have lived here long know that he is Samuel’s cousin, but know not of his return from captivity or his disinclination to rejoin white society. Long have been the sufferings of settlers here, fifty years of depredations, murder, and pillage! Those who have been affected so are not inclined to look kindly on such whose natural sympathies seem to be with the raiders!

  Irina, I do not know what will become of him. His words about his “Indian father” weighed upon my mind—as if all the care and affection that his parents have lavished upon him are for naught. . .

  * * *

  Magda sat in the parlor of her husband’s stone house, the house with the bird and branch carved over the door. It was early on a summer evening in June. The windows stood open to their farthest extent to catch the fitful breeze. She had a letter from England in her lap, but it was a secondary matter to her. Dolph had found a bride for himself, the not-so-pretty filly with a good heart who loved dogs and horses and, with luck, would come to care for cattle and for this place as well. She had never doubted that he would, never doubted Dolph’s ability to take care of himself. No, she had another care tonight; Sam and his men would take the herd north in the morning, north to the railheads in Kansas. Hansi had already decided this would be the last year they would take that momentous journey. By next trail season, they would have a railhead in Texas; no more the months-long adventure to the Red River, through Indian Territory and into Kansas with thousands of head of cattle. Hansi was already looking ahead to the future, accepting and adapting to the changes brought to him by time.

  But what if one didn’t want to look ahead, what if one wished things to remain as they were? She sat with the letter and daguerreotype of Dolph and Isobel, stiff in their fashionable wedding finery, lying in her lap. Not a pretty girl, but capable and determined, Magda had decided upon close examination; a girl who would suit this place, this country. This Isobel would probably meet with all the customary shocks and disturbances—but she had the look of someone who would prevail.

  Magda lifted her head from the daguerreotype, gazing out the tall parlor window. When Dolph had added onto the house, he had Mr. Berg build a tripartite window in the new parlor; a double glass window, with two smaller windows on either side, the whole of it framing the view all the way down to the river, over all this part of the ranch. There was the orchard below, the long meadow, the river slipping between its veil of cypress trees, and the hills beyond, diminishing dusty green and pale blue as the setting sun touched them with gold and orange highlights.

  Carl Becker would have loved this aspect upon his property, Magda thought. She hoped that her son’s wife would come to do the same.

  There was a horseman in the lower meadow, riding a pinto pony at a dead gallop back and forth across the meadow, weaving between the few sparse trees. She set the letter and the daguerreotype aside, and went to stand at the window. Yes, it was Willi, flying across the same meadow where her husband, together with Porfirio, young Matt Brown, and Trap Talmadge, had taught her brothers to ride; to ride as true horsemen and Texians did, fearlessly and as one with their mount. She closed her eyes for a moment, nearly overcome with the memory of her husband riding across the meadow and laughing, slipping to one side of his horse and scooping up his hat from the ground. Just so was Willi slipping from one side of the spotted pony, and then the other, clinging with one foot to his saddle. Willi had his bow and quiver, and he was shooting under the neck of his horse at the tree trunks as he flashed past at a gallop. Magda clicked her tongue as she saw that—he should not do such where anyone could see. They would know then where his true sympathies lay, which was not good. But still she lingered, inexpressibly saddened by the sight; it was like watching a caged bird. Even if the cage was large and the conditions commodious, it was yet a cage.

  The door opened at her back, and she turned; Sam, exuberant and sketchily washed for the evening meal. Tia Leticia’s daughters would serve it, as appropriate, in the dining room. Magda felt a brief pang of regret. In the old days, the days of the smaller house and when her husband lived, they would have eaten in the kitchen. No, that would not have suited her new daughter, the very proper English Isobel.

  “Hello, Mama! I see you have a letter from Dolph! So have I! He says she loves dogs and is bringing two more with her!” Sam kissed her cheek, and picked up her letter and the daguerreotype. “Dolph said he had sent you this. I expect that I shall meet her when I return in the fall. What fun—she sounds like a proper wife for him! At any rate, she got him to wear that proper monkey-suit. Oh,” Sam’s gaze followed hers, to the boy on a pinto horse circling the meadow. “Looks rather sad, doesn’t he, Mama?” Sam added, with astonishing perception. Then she reminded herself of how Sam was the artist—his insights came from his brush on the canvas! Of course, he would have observed such matters; at some point they must have flowed through his intellect!

  “He is, Samuel,” Magda answered. “It’s enough to break the heart. Call him in. Leticia’s girls will w
ant to serve supper soon.”

  Sam stepped to the open window. He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled piercingly. Below in the meadow, Willi swung to the top side of his pony and looked towards the house. Seeing Sam in the window, he waved casually. He turned his pony towards the lane, presently vanishing from sight.

  “He’s coming.” Sam turned grave eyes towards his mother. “So, Mama, what do you want to tell me, before he puts away his horse and washes up enough for supper?”

  “I think you should take him on the drive to Kansas,” Magda intoned. “I think we should let him take the wages that he has earned. And once you have reached the Indian Territory, let him do what he likes.”

  To her astonished relief, Sam nodded in acquiescence. “I think that would be the best thing, Mama. Onkel Hansi wants to do the best thing for him, but I do not think Willi looks to his family at all.”

  “He looks to his family,” Magda corrected him, “but not to your aunt and uncle; rather towards the family he has in Indian Territory.” She sighed heavily; Liesel and Hansi would be disappointed, even grieved. But she couldn’t help thinking that they would also be relieved, and accept what she had done. Willi might be their son in blood, but in his heart he had long since chosen his father, Black Otter of the Quahadi Comanche. Just as her own husband had chosen to honor Vati with filial devotion, rather than that harsh, unloving man in whose house he had lived until he was nearly grown. No, Willi would put off his white clothes, his white family, and remain in Indian Territory. His heart was already there and Magda was in no doubt that he would have gone as soon as he was able anyway.

  She looked out the window at the broad valley of the Guadalupe. This was her home, this had always been home. It was time to let Willi go to his own, where he was loved, where were those whose hearts would not be in their throats every day and every hour, fearing for him or the trouble that he might make for himself in a world where he didn’t belong, didn’t wish to belong. He should be allowed leave to go to his true home, to wherever Black Otter might have set up his skin lodge on the Reservation.

  “Shall I tell him, Mama? He will need to pack his traps for tomorrow, then.” Sam lingered uncertainly in the parlor door.

  “Yes—tell him that he may go home.” Magda again looked out the window as her son left the parlor to find his cousin. She rejoiced once more in the beauty of the evening, the look of the setting sun burnishing the limestone of the walls, glowing pink and amber, as blue shadows crept out from the trees.

  “May my son’s wife come to treasure this,” she said out loud, “and might Willi come to treasure that place he goes to.”

  From his basket in the corner, Mouse lifted his head, hearing the sound of approaching footsteps in the hallway. He barked once, his warning bark, and came to sit adoring at her feet.

  “Yes, I know, Mauschen,” Magda responded cheerfully. “Suppertime.”

  * * *

  “He did return to Texas now and again, although never as Wilhelm Richter. He came as Ase-Tamy, Grey Brother of the Quahadi Comanche, son of Black Otter, sometime war chief. He married—for all we know he might have been married when the Agency returned him to Hansi and Liesel! He came to Hansi’s funeral, years later, with his two sons. I think it was his sons who made him come to Texas. They were curious about his white family. And once their curiosity had been satisfied, they went away, saying little to any of us. He was courteous to me, though. I have often wondered why.”

  “Because of all of us, you saw clearly what had to be done, Mama,” Lottie answered. “You had saved his life, I think. Onkel Hansi would have been stubborn, tried to keep him close and turn him into the son that he should have been. And he would have made trouble, been put into prison, or maybe wasted away like these poor lads today.” Lottie’s eyes brimmed and her mother snorted.

  “Don’t be a sentimental goose, Lottie. Fredi said as much, but being Fredi, everyone thought it a joke.” She stared unseeingly into the fire. The ache in her shoulder and her arm intensified; she would have to ask Lottie for a hot poultice, to sooth away the pain. “I merely saw things clear, Lottie. That is one of the few benefits of getting old—seeing matters clearly, and knowing when you should let go.” She stood, carefully leaning upon her cane, and walked over to the window to open the heavy curtains. A pale watery light was just dawning in the eastern sky. “Look, my dear—we have talked the night through and now it is dawn. Is it not glorious?”

  Under the trees across the road, the familiar, tall young man held the reins of his brown horse in his hands and smiled at her. The sun blazed on his fair hair like a beacon. His eyes were as blue as the sky, and lit with joyful welcome, still brighter than the white blaze of the sun that was coming up in the sky behind him.

  Historical Notes: The Harvesting

  Cowboys, Comanche Tribes, and other Texiana

  In his magisterial one-volume history of Texas, T.R Fehrenbach suggested that Texas evolved a unique identity out of fifty years of bloody and bitter war with the various Indian tribes that also claimed it as a home; in other words, being forged by constant and unrelenting conflict. Other states seemed to follow the carefully choreographed steps of a minuet: settlement, conflict with the Indians, resolution of the conflict followed by dispatch to a reservation, statehood, and subsequent peace and quiet. Wars with the local Tribes were usually short, sharp and decisive. Within a few years Indian/settler disputes were resolved to the advantage and satisfaction of the settlers and soldiers. Not so in Texas—where war between the Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache against Mexican and later Anglo settlers continued with unrelenting ferocity from the time of the first settlements until late in the 19th century. Any spot along the frontier—which by the time of the Civil War was a rough arc stretching northwards from Rio Grande Station, bisecting the Hill Country, through the headwaters of the Brazos and Trinity Rivers, to Red River Station—could in the blink of an eye become a war zone. This was simply a reality for generations of settlers; not only the first-comers.

  Although John Meusebach’s treaty with the Penateka Comanche, as described in the first volume of this story, was made in good faith and honored by all parties involved, it had been made with only a small portion of those tribes and divisions who roamed at will throughout Northern and Western Texas. The German settlers of the Hill Country were at just as much at hazard of sudden brutal murder, rape and capture as any other settler on the frontier in the time that I am describing.

  I should also reiterate that the various Comanche tribes and, to a lesser extent the Kiowa, adhered to a warrior culture. Their societies were built around it, no less than that of the Spartans of ancient Greece. There was literally no honorable way to live other than by hunting and raiding for horses, plunder and slaves. There is no politically correct way to soften those facts or to soft-pedal the truly horrible situation that anyone taken captive found themselves in. A large part of the detestation which those on the Texas frontier came to feel for their Indian foes was due to the fact that the standards of 19th century chivalrous conduct required that if war be waged, it should not be waged on women and children. In this long war along the Texas frontier, the cruelest sorts of atrocities were frequently perpetrated upon just those—women and children—whom Victorian propriety held to be noncombatants.

  Another book which I read by way of doing research—and to which I kept coming back, over and over, was Scott Zesch’s The Captured, which followed the experiences of a number of children taken from the Hill Country settlements at about this time. Some of these children described therein so absorbed the values of their captors that they identified ever afterwards with their Indian families. As a parent, that struck me as a particularly refined cruelty: to lose a child, have that child miraculously returned, only to discover that your child is indeed lost to you. The experiences of Grete and Willi Richter are based roughly on those of Minnie Caudle, Rudolph Fischer, Hermann Lehmann and Adolph Korn, as outlined in The Captured. The deaths of Rosalie and Robert Hunter are
loosely based on the deaths of Johanna and Henry Kensing, although the Kensings were the parents of a number of older children. Mrs. Kensing was indeed pregnant, was treated with particular brutality by her captors, was not told of her husband’s death, and miscarried shortly before she herself died of her injuries. The pursuit of the war party which had taken the Richter children is based on Captain John W. Sansom’s pursuit of a raiding party that had taken his cousins Jeff and Clinton Smith from their home on Cibolo Creek, northwest of San Antonio, in the spring of 1871. For a week, Captain Sansom’s Ranger company chased the raiders all the way to the Llano River, until they lost the trail in a rainstorm.

  Britt Johnson, teamster and frontiersman, did indeed ransom his wife and younger children from captivity in Indian Territory, as described. He is thought to have made four trips into Indian Territory, attempting to locate and ransom other captives. Along with two other teamsters he was killed, also as described, by raiding Kiowa Indians in 1871, near Salt Creek. Those who came upon the aftermath counted nearly two hundred empty rifle and pistol shells where Britt Johnson had made his last stand, behind the body of his horse. His efforts to rescue his family and others are supposed to be the inspiration for the movie The Searchers.

  J.P. Waldrip, the leader of the Hanging Band which particularly plagued those of Unionist sympathies in the Hill Country, mysteriously returned to Fredericksburg two years after the war. He was killed by an unknown assailant in broad daylight according to local legend, and fell under the tree by the side of the Nimitz Hotel, which still exists. His last words were reported to be, as I wrote in Chapter Ten: “Please don’t shoot me any more!” The identity of his assailant has been a mystery ever since, although I suspect that at the time, it was common knowledge. Philip Braubach, the son-in-law of Mr. Scheutze the schoolteacher, did indeed take a shot at him and missed. By one obscure account, Mr. Fischer the cobbler confessed to his wife on his deathbed that he had killed J.P. Waldrip, had sniped at him from an upper window of his workshop and home on Magazine Street (now Washington Street), but swore his wife to secrecy out of fear of Waldrip’s friends and relations. That was a very real consideration, post-Civil War. The bad relations established between German settlers and their Anglo-American neighbors before and during that war did not die down for decades.