by Scott Zesch
Gen. William T. Sherman, the commander of the U.S. Army, had just started an inspection tour of the Texas frontier. In Washington he’d been swamped with pleas from settlers begging for more protection against Indian raiders. Two days earlier, on May 2, he’d left San Antonio with Maj. Gen. Randolph B. Marcy, inspector general of the army, and an escort of seventeen soldiers. Sherman and Marcy rode north through the lonely Texas Hill Country, lush with new growth and speckled with wildflowers. The two men traveled in a military ambulance, a boxlike cart designed to carry wounded soldiers but also used by high-ranking officers for transportation.
Sherman’s party was traveling from Fredericksburg to Fort Mason when they stopped for the night near Loyal Valley. The soldiers were surprised to see a respectable woman entering the army camp alone. In her German-accented English, Auguste asked for an audience with the general. When he appeared, she lost no time imploring him to do whatever he could to find her son. The woman described the scene that was still vivid in her mind: the Indians approaching the farm, the children playing in the wheat field, the terrifying men grabbing two of her sons and tying them on horses. One of her boys, Willie, had escaped. But Herman hadn’t been seen since.
General Sherman listened carefully. He asked Auguste which Indians had taken Herman.
She replied, “I suppose they were Comanches. He is still in their hands.”
Until then Sherman had expressed nothing but contempt for the Texans. He hadn’t seen any signs of Indians on his way north from San Antonio, and he suspected that the frontier settlers were just alarmists and complainers. Nonetheless, he was moved by Auguste Buchmeier’s story. He promised her that he would do his best. Privately, Sherman knew he could do little to help. It would be pointless for him to send small parties of soldiers out to look for the boy, for the Plains Indians ranged over an enormous territory, and the risk to his troops would be unwarranted. Experience had taught him that trying to find an Indian captive was “worse than looking for a needle in a haystack, rather like looking for a flea in a large clover field.” Still, he directed one of his officers to write to the Kiowa-Comanche agent, relating the facts of Herman Lehmann’s disappearance. As influential as General Sherman was, that was the most he could do.1
The kind of anguish known only to parents whose children have been abducted probably hasn’t changed over time. Still, it’s difficult in the twenty-first century to appreciate the sense of isolation those parents felt in the 1870s. In rural Texas after the Civil War, it sometimes took them more than an hour to notify their closest neighbors that their child had been taken. Usually, there were no soldiers or sheriffs or Texas Rangers nearby. The parents might try to round up a volunteer posse to follow the kidnappers. One San Antonio journalist rhapsodized about these chases:
There is something grand in the perseverance of frontier men, when in pursuit of kindred who have fallen into the hands of the savages. While life lasts, the pursuit never flags. Even those who are sordid and mercenary, abandon everything and seek the recovery of the lost ones, who, while in the hands of savages, are slaves in the most abject sense.2
That scenario was mostly wishful thinking. Many of the Texas settlers were too terrified or too busy with farm chores to help track down Indian kidnappers. Furthermore, these chases were virtually never successful. By the time the rescue party took to the trail, the raiders had too great a head start.
Once the posse abandoned the search, the parents’ next step was to report the abduction to the nearest military post, either in person or by mail. Some parents, such as Gottlieb Fischer, were immigrants who didn’t speak English and had to find a letter writer to help them. Other families were too poor to travel. To make matters worse, the parents had no photographs of their children and had to rely solely on verbal descriptions. By the time they made their report to the army, several days would have passed. Another week might go by before a regional newspaper announced that a child was missing.
After the initial flurry of activity, the parents and siblings of a captured child had to cope with their loss on their own. Their neighbors were too far away and too preoccupied with their own struggles to console them. When they did visit, they didn’t always offer comfort. Auguste Buchmeier remembered, “My friends would come to me and say: ‘Why do you keep worrying and thinking about that boy? He is dead long ago.’ But I would tell them that I never could believe that he was dead.”3At night, as the family huddled in a secluded log cabin, the parents were fearful that the Indians might return and take more of their children.
Most families on the Texas frontier had little knowledge of the world beyond their rural communities. They didn’t know which branch of government to contact for information on Native Americans and their captives. If the parents wrote to a military post, the officers usually forwarded their letters to the civilian Indian agents, since the army wasn’t in the business of finding stolen children. The Indian agents questioned the tribal chiefs and traders who stopped by their agencies. However, the agents had their hands full dealing with reservation politics and the distribution of rations. Besides, they usually didn’t know for sure whether the tribes under their jurisdiction were holding particular children.
In desperation some parents went higher up the chain of command, contacting the Texas governor or the secretary of the Interior in Washington. Gottlieb Fischer even wrote directly to Pres. Andrew Johnson about his son, Rudolph. It usually took several weeks to get a reply. The letters they received typically contained nothing more than bland assurances that the government was doing everything it could. Sometimes the parents’ letters went unanswered. Eventually, most families stopped writing.
My own family gave up fairly quickly. Shortly after Uncle Adolph was kidnapped, Grandpa Korn traveled a hundred miles to San Antonio and reported Adolph’s capture to Bvt. Maj. Gen. James W. Carleton. Three days later, Grandpa’s account was published in the San Antonio Daily Herald. By then Adolph had been missing nearly two weeks, and any chance of overtaking his captors was long gone. The authorities presumed that the Indians had “taken their human and other booty to some more northern trading post or reservation.” The Korns’ best hope was that a trader doing business with the Indians might see Adolph and barter for his release.
Two months later, still having heard no news, Grandpa Korn asked Texas governor Edmund J. Davis for help in locating the boy. The governor was sympathetic, but he pointed out that he “could do nothing further than… give publicity to the fact.” In this case, “publicity” meant notifying the headquarters of the Fifth Military District in Austin and the commissioner of Indian Affairs in Washington.
The Texas secretary of state, James P. Newcomb, used a blatant ploy to enlist the “sympathies and aid” of the Reconstruction government in Washington toward a family from a former Confederate state that was “bereft of a child by a band of savages.” He was careful to emphasize that Grandpa Korn had been “a loyal citizen throughout the late war” who had “suffered misfortune in consequence” of his support for the Union. The Korns, like most German-Americans in the Texas Hill Country, had opposed secession and remained unionists after the Civil War broke out. These first-generation Americans had felt no desire to separate from their newly adopted country, and they had also been afraid that the federal army would abandon its frontier forts and leave them unprotected if the nation divided.
Newcomb’s letter to Washington got results. The commissioner of Indian Affairs, Ely S. Parker, directed his superintendent at Lawrence, Kansas, to instruct the Kiowa-Comanche agent “to make diligent inquiry among the Indians of his charge concerning the boy.” The superintendent, Enoch Hoag, brought the matter to the attention of Indian agent Lawrie Tatum at Fort Sill, Indian Territory: “This is an appeal of such a nature as to enlist thy sympathies and stimulate to a diligent search. As soon as practicable thou will notify this office of the result of thy investigation and inquiry.” Tatum, as agent for the Kiowas and Comanches, was practically the only civilian employee
of the federal government who had any direct contact with the tribes believed to be holding most of the captives from Texas. However, he was unable to learn anything about Adolph from the chiefs who came to his agency.
After only one round of letter writing, Grandpa Korn quit. He moved his family out of the rural Texas Hill Country and returned to San Antonio, where he went back into the confectionery business. Believing Adolph was dead, Louis and Johanna Korn moved on with their lives.
From a farm only twenty-three miles northwest of San Antonio, Henry M. Smith was working much more aggressively to find his stolen boys, Clinton and Jeff. Henry and his wife, Harriet, wrote a long series of impassioned letters to anyone who might help them. In one letter, Henry implored Indian agent Lawrie Tatum:
I beg, aye pray you, in the name of humanity and the sufferings of my poor children to exert yourself to the utmost of your power and ability, to get them back for me, from these merciless, inhuman creatures, what shall I say to you sir, to press this matter upon you, shall I tell you of my own feelings: words would fail me, they have no meaning, shall I tell you of the mother! no Sir, I will make no such vain attempts, but I will appeal to you trusting to your own good sense and humane feelings in the matter.4
Henry Smith was a former Texas Ranger who was used to dealing with his problems by taking quick, decisive action. It must have tormented him that the most important matter in his life, the search for his boys, was in the hands of federal bureaucrats. Nothing Henry did could hasten the recovery of Clinton and Jeff. On another occasion, he wrote to agent Tatum:
Imagine yourself for a moment, in my situation, my dear friend, and then pardon me for again pressing this matter upon you, you have power, I have none, with all my anxiety of mind, I have to sit here at home with my hands folded as it were and can do nothing, all the hope I have left is in your section.5
H. R. Clum, the acting commissioner of Indian Affairs in Washington, tried to reassure Henry—or at least pacify him. He wrote, “Sympathizing with you in your distress by reason of so great an outrage, this office will do all it possibly can to cause your sons to be delivered up by the Indians, and returned to their home.” He ordered the Indian agents to inquire among the Comanches, Kiowas, and Kickapoos.
Over time Henry Smith grew less confident that the federal officials were really doing much to find Clinton and Jeff. He put his case before the Texas governor: “Perhaps my over anxiety of mind causes me to come to wrong conclusions, but it seems to me that all but myself have forgotten that my poor little boys are still in the hands of the merciless savage, and that no effort is now being made to recover them.”
After a few months, Henry Smith was no longer content just to write letters and wait for unsatisfactory responses. He met personally with Indian agent John D. Miles, who was traveling on government business from Kansas to the Rio Grande. However, Miles was unable to locate the Smith children among the Kickapoos in Mexico. Henry also made at least one trip to the Kiowa-Comanche agency in Indian Territory to ask about his boys.
However, the Smiths, like the Korns and the Buchmeiers, made most of their inquiries from home. In contrast, the relatives of a few captives left home to conduct extensive searches on their own. Temple Friend’s grandfather, a Methodist circuit rider named Leonard S. Friend, traveled more than fifteen thousand miles and spent over $5,000 of his own money looking for the boy. He visited the Kiowa-Comanche agency, the Apache reservations in Arizona and New Mexico, and even the Office of Indian Affairs in Washington, D.C. On July 18, 1868, Texas governor E.M. Pease appointed Reverend Friend to be the state’s agent for recovering captives,6under Texas legislation appropriating $2,500 to be used “in procuring the release of children or other persons, citizens of this State, who are now, have been, or may hereafter be held as prisoners of war by the Indians.”7Several times Leonard Friend thought he was on the verge of finding his grandson; but the Comanches would break up into smaller groups, separate their captives, and head for the plains.
Roving traders sometimes stumbled upon captives in remote Native American camps and tried to buy them from their captors. One of the most persistent searchers on the Southern Plains was a thirty-one-year-old merchant named Marcus Goldbaum. A native of Germany and a butcher by trade, he moved around Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, and California, occasionally prospecting in Arizona.
In late April 1866, Goldbaum arrived at a Comanche and Kiowa camp in New Mexico, expecting to barter with the Indians for a few days before moving on. The trader soon discovered that the Indians in the village were holding about twenty captives. Goldbaum was deeply troubled by what he saw. Over the next two weeks, he tried his utmost to liberate the prisoners. Perhaps because of his own German roots, he felt “particularly attracted” to a fourteen-year-old German-American boy living with the Comanches. Goldbaum had several conversations with this captive and learned that his name was Rudolph Fischer. The youngster related the details of his kidnapping near Fredericksburg, Texas, nine months earlier. (Rudolph had already lost track of time; he told Goldbaum he’d been with the tribe about two years.) The trader wrote, “To see that boy a slave of the wild Comanches is heartrending!”
Although Goldbaum perceived Rudolph as a “slave,” it’s unlikely that the teenager was still a menial of his Comanche owner after nine months with the tribe. Dot Babb became an active warrior in less time than that. Clinton Smith also indicated that his battle training began shortly after he was abducted. However, Goldbaum assumed Rudolph was being mistreated and was determined to get him away from the tribe. He tried everything he could think of to ransom the boy, but the Comanches weren’t interested in giving up Rudolph. Before Goldbaum left the Indian camp, he did his best “to provide for the better treatment of the poor boy, by promising the Indians to see the great father and to get presents for them if possible.”
Marcus Goldbaum immediately started planning another expedition into Comanche land for the express purpose of rescuing Rudolph. When the boy’s father, Gottlieb Fischer, learned about this plan, he offered to put up money for Goldbaum to pay the Comanches if necessary. However, the trader wasn’t any more successful on his second attempt. Much of Goldbaum’s tale has been lost, and no information has surfaced about what happened during his trip in the summer of 1866. It’s possible that the trader wasn’t able to find the group that was holding the boy. If he did locate Rudolph, the Comanches may have still been unwilling surrender him. Or maybe Rudolph refused to go. Nonetheless, Goldbaum wasn’t ready to quit. He kept searching for the youngster every time he traveled through Comanche territory. Four years would pass before he saw Rudolph again.
The federal Indian agents usually stayed close to their posts, waiting for the tribal representatives to come to them. Occasionally, however, the more intrepid agents went out into the field to visit the Native American camps—and in the process became active searchers for captives. In the summer of 1867, the agent at Santa Fe, Lorenzo Labadi, made a risky trip into Comanche country, taking only six men with him. Labadi believed it was safer to travel with civilians rather than a military escort, perhaps thinking the appearance of soldiers would alarm the Comanches and set off a skirmish. He sent his six employees in different directions, instructing them to invite all the Indians they saw to a council at a place in the Texas Panhandle called Quitaque.
Labadi was pleased with the results. Over seven hundred lodges of the Comanches and Kiowas showed up for the meeting. Fifteen-year-old Rudolph Fischer was with them. Labadi had no trouble identifying him, even though he was dressed in buckskin, his complexion darkened by two years in the sun and his black hair long and matted. The Comanches grudgingly allowed the Indian agent to speak with Rudolph and his fellow captives. Labadi reported that “they seemed afraid of the Indians and the Indians disliked it when they spoke to” him.
During the council, Labadi told the Indians they must give up Rudolph Fischer and all the other captives. They were surprised by his demand. At first they said nothing. Then they withdr
ew and held a conference among themselves. When they spoke with Labadi again, they assured him, rather cagily, they were willing to stop their raiding and deliver all the captives they were holding. There was one hitch, however. Their main chiefs were away from camp at the time, getting more horses and captives in Texas, and no one could conclude an agreement without their approval. The chiefs were expected to return at the full moon in October. The Comanches and Kiowas promised Labadi they’d deliver their captives at that time.
When Labadi got back to Santa Fe during the last week of August 1867, he reported that his meeting with the Comanches and Kiowas had been successful. He was confident that they would keep their word and give up their captives, including Rudolph Fischer, at the appointed time and place. However, when Labadi returned to Quitaque for the council in the fall, cholera had decimated the village. The Indians had fled, taking their captives with them.
In the latter part of 1868, President-elect Ulysses Grant started outlining a new peace policy toward the nation’s native people. As part of his plan, he decided to ask religious organizations to choose the nation’s Indian agents, most of whom had previously been military men. On January 25 and 26, 1869, two groups of Quakers met with Grant in Washington. They emphasized the importance of applying Christian principles in dealing with the Native American tribes. Grant reportedly told them, “If you can make Quakers out of the Indians, it will take the fight out of them. Let us have peace.” Grant put the pacifist Quakers in charge of the central superintendency of the Indian Office, a region that was home to two of the country’s most warlike tribes, the Comanches and the Kiowas. The irony was not lost on the Quakers. They described their mission on the Southern Plains as a “holy experiment.”
To head the Kiowa-Comanche agency, the Quakers selected Lawrie Tatum, an Iowa farmer and civic leader in his late forties.8 Tatum had studied law and had helped runaway slaves escape to freedom, but he had no previous experience working with Native Americans. A portly, avuncular man with a gentle but firm demeanor, he accepted the appointment out of a sense of duty. His job was one of the least enviable in the entire Indian Affairs bureau, for the Kiowas and Comanches were considered unmanageable and were on poor terms with the federal government at the time.