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himself shed light on his application when he informed Bureau offi
cials that “I
desire the offi
ce. I need it.” To be sure, as shown by historian Lawrence Powell
and viewed in the light of the importance of earning a living, these men’s
explicit solicitation for employment does not necessarily nullify their other
motives.
Th
e evidence shows that many things motivated these men. But what most
motivated them? Was it patriotism or an opportunity for revenge against for-
mer Confederates? Perhaps they were simply in need of employment? Or did
they focus on the Bureau’s mission, desiring to help the former slaves adjust to
freedom? As with so many things involving people, there rarely is a single
answer, but rather a combination. To ascribe this reason or that one to these
men greatly oversimplifi es the complicated. It appears several motives drove
them to Bureau service.
Of course, each agent wanted employment. But it might well have been easier,
safer, and, for most agents, fi nancially better to have found a diff erent occupa-
tion—for those whose wartime injuries inhibited their physical ability, service
in the Bureau may have been their only plausible choice. Th
ere existed far
deeper reasons for wanting the responsibilities than just employment. What
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Who Were the Subassistant Commissioners?
29
appears to have motivated most Bureau men in Texas, to a great degree, was
their honest desire to help the former slaves, something supported by the
agency’s records and small number of troublesome agents and complaints by
freedpeople. Doubtless, these men had a strong philanthropic streak. Th
ey ear-
nestly wanted to help the helpless, and, in the words of one agent, not allow
them to be cast adrift . Th
e white community knew this, as witnessed by the
endemic antagonism toward Bureau men. More important, the former slaves
knew this, as witnessed by their numerous requests for redress, their many
appeals for assistance, and trust in the men of the Bureau. Too many examples
exist of agents protecting the freedpeople from white abuse, and too few exam-
ples exist to the contrary to conclude anything else. “In sum total,” stated Wil-
liam H. Heistand, the agent at Hallettsville, “my duties consist [in looking] over
the interest of the Freedpeople and in acting as their adviser and protector.”
Whatever their reason, most who applied shared one thing in common: the
proud satisfaction of doing one’s best, regardless of the outcome. In a report to
headquarters, John T. Scott, whose statement certainly embodied the opinion
of many of his fellow agents, relayed that he had “tried to do the best I could for
all parties, and it may be hard for any one not upon the spot to understand. ”
In summary, in selecting agents, Bureau offi
cials in Texas wanted men able
to meet the challenges that arose from emancipation. Th
at meant Northern-
born, mature, white men from the middle and upper- middle class, and gener-
ally with military experience, while shying away from Southern- born men who
had been part of the planter class of the Old South. Bureau offi
cials, with their
appointments, addressed not just the needs of the freedpeople, but also some-
thing else. In a very hopeful sense, Reconstruction was a process to remake the
South in the image of the capitalistic and republican North. But it also was, in a
much more practical sense, a time to prevent the South from trying to break up
the country again and restore order where chaos had existed. Th
is could be
achieved only by wiping away the last vestiges of slavery and secession, and
Northern patriotic Union men were more likely to advance the new order than
anyone else.
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“Th
e Post of
2
Greatest Peril”
Th
e E. M. Gregory Era,
September 1865–April 1866
On March 3, 1865, aft er much debate, Congress created, according to
W. E. B. DuBois, one of the most “singular and interesting of the
attempts made by a great nation to grapple with vast problems of race
and social condition.” Th
e Bureau was responsible for the freedpeople’s transi-
tion from servitude to freedom during Reconstruction, a daunting task, the
likes of which had never been tried before, and one that some people and forces
would make very diffi
cult.
Such an undertaking required the right kind of man, someone imbued with
patience and purpose, yet studied in managerial and bureaucratic ways. One
who saw the emancipated “not as he was supposed to be in 1865—illiterate,
childlike, improvident, inferior—but as a man with the same potentialities as
any other man.” Washington offi
cials selected Oliver Otis Howard to head this
unprecedented and ill- defi ned organization, and he would be its only commis-
sioner in its seven- year existence. Many applauded but few envied this appoint-
ment. “I hardly know whether to congratulate you or not,” Major General
William T. Sherman admitted to his friend and former subordinate. “I cannot
imagine [matters] that involve the future of 4,000,000 souls could be put in
more charitable and more conscientious hands . . . I fear you have Hercules’s
task. . . .” A general and a devout Christian, Howard earned a reputation as a
righteous, if not brilliant, soul. Th
e agency existed only on paper. Years later in
his Autobiography, Howard remembered. He recalled Secretary of War Edwin
Stanton handing him a basket and remarking with a smile, “Here, general,
here’s your Bureau!”
With his organization literally in both hands, Commissioner Howard began
to man it with personnel. He initially appointed ten (later twelve) subordinates
throughout the former slaveholding South. Th
ese men, called assistant com-
missioners (AC), oversaw Bureau operations within their specifi ed jurisdic-
tions. In July 1865 Howard requested and received approval from the War
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The E. M. Gregory Era, Sept. 1865–April 1866
31
Department to appoint sixty-
one-
year-
old Edgar Mandlebert Gregory for
Bureau service. Prior to the war, he worked (and ultimately failed) as a lumber
merchant and banker. Gregory did not let such failures dampen his spirits. A
native New Yorker known for a caring nature, Gregory entered the army in 1861
with the 91st Pennsylvania Volunteer Regiment, a unit in the Army of the
Potomac. Devoutly religious and a temperance advocate, he received the nick-
name “the Fighting Parson” during the war. Aft er hearing about an encounter
during the Siege of Petersburg where Gregory had two horses shot out from
under him, General Charles Griffi
n, his superior and later an AC in Texas,
humorously observed Gregory was advantaged since most men feared “both
the Rebels and hell, whereas Gregory was in danger only from the Rebels!” He
varied the “duties of military life by preaching and conducting prayer- meeting
services at his own brigade headquarters.” He fought at Antietam, was wounded
at Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, promoted for his action before Peters-
burg, and witnessed the Confederate surrender at Appomattox. Doubtless
brave, later historians are not in consensus about the extent of his abolitionism.
Less uncertain was his commitment to the emancipated. Howard believed him
so genuine and “fearless of opposition or danger” he specifi cally sent him to
Texas, an assignment believed to be “the post of greatest peril.” Aft er his removal
from Texas in early 1866, Gregory was reassigned within the Bureau. He died in
Philadelphia in 1871.
Meanwhile, Gregory arrived in Galveston in early September 1865, and
assumed responsibility from the military. Since mid- June 1865, when Brevet
General Gordon Granger announced to Texans the Emancipation Proclamation,
the military had responsibility for the freedpeople. Gregory kept much of what
the military had started. Besides a few guidelines and some wise advice by How-
ard to refrain from “ill- advised” policies, the AC, for the most part, was free to
use his best judgment. Aft er setting headquarters in Galveston (the state’s port of
entry), Gregory toured the state. He relied on these tours for valuable informa-
tion and took four in his nine months’ service in Texas. What he discovered was
the war had barely touched the state. In a few places, the “breakup” ushered in
chaos. But in other areas life went on relatively unchanged, with some slaves in
the interior having not yet been informed of emancipation.
With information from his tours, Gregory began sift ing through applica-
tions for positions, a process that was primarily his responsibility with little
interference from superiors. It was important to choose wisely since these men
would be the fl esh and blood of the organization. But the prospective applicant
pool was limited. With no funds allocated for civilian agents and few willing to
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32
“The Post of Greatest Peril”
do the work unpaid, offi
cers were chosen from regiments already in Texas. Th
e
organization would have been nothing more than a dream without the military.
Drawing from army personnel had certain disadvantages. Along with ongoing
demilitarization, another hurdle was the military itself, as bureaucratic and
self- serving as any other institution. More than a few detached duty with the
Freedmen’s Bureau, especially if he was simultaneously to serve as agent and
commanding offi
cer. Sometimes he was still enlisted and superiors were hesi-
tant to lose their better personnel for such service. On the other hand, the
armed forces could use the opportunity to purge some “troublesome” individu-
als from its ranks.
Gregory initially asked for only fi ft een offi
cers. Inspector General of the
Freedmen’s Bureau William E. Strong, however, pressed for fi ft y, desiring a
larger footprint. “Th
e campaign of an army through the eastern part of the
State, such as was made by General Sherman in South Carolina,” Strong con-
cluded, “would improve the temper and generosity of the people.” Realizing the
enormity of the task, Gregory asked his boss for an additional fi ft een men a few
months later—although he really wanted an additional seventy. Howard denied
the request for even the smaller number, however. Th
e initial twelve Bureau
agents would have to do.
Of the fi rst twelve, who were generally assigned to places of greatest need or
importance such as major cities or areas with larger black populations, seven
served the Union in the war, including one in the navy. Most came from the
volunteer services, and one served as an offi
cer in a U.S.C.T. unit. To help off set
the shortage, Gregory, with cautious encouragement from superiors, turned to
civilians. William H. Farner was a physician, and Ira P. Pedigo was a lawyer and
lumber businessman. John F. Brown, Johnathan F. Whiteside, and F. D. Inge
worked in the agricultural business, with the latter two having owned slaves.
All declared their willingness to serve without pay so long as they could remain
in their current jobs and serve within their home counties. Th
ese men, at least
on the surface, benefi ted the agency. First, they were no expense to the govern-
ment; and second, they knew the community’s surroundings and people
(although some historians would not see this as a plus) and were viewed less as
outsiders. On the other hand, they had to work other jobs for support, thus
splitting their commitment. Doubtless, a small footprint, these assignments
still helped to stabilize operations with the freedpeople.
Because of the Freedmen’s Bureau bill’s “disfi gured” and “loose and indefi -
nite phraseology,” Gregory himself had to ensure uniformity for his district—a
diffi
cult task considering his vague mandate. Agents were to oversee the transi-
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The E. M. Gregory Era, Sept. 1865–April 1866
33
tion to free labor and, at the same time, dispel any ideas the emancipated might
have of not working. Th
ey also had to ensure their civil rights and inculcate
respect for the law. White Texans also had to be disabused of old ways. When
civil offi
cials failed to render impartial justice, agents had authority to adjudi-
cate “all cases arising between Freedmen themselves or between Freedmen and
white persons” and “between whites when the matter in dispute relates to freed-
men.” SACs were to dispense color- blind justice, for only “a spirit of fairness
and great discretion . . . may conquer the opposition of all reasonable men.” Th
e
military would lend assistance upon request.
Before beginning their work, they needed to establish an offi
ce and fi nd
quarters. Th
e two oft en were the same. With complainants calling at all hours,
rarely paying attention to offi
ce hours, this necessitated combining the two
spaces. Rent ranged from three dollars to fi ft een dollars a month, and any
amount above, superiors oft en questioned. Requisitions for rent had to be sent
to headquarters, where, if agreed to by offi
cials in Washington (later by a board
in Galveston), the proprietor receiv
ed a monthly check. In no instance was the
agent to pay out- of- pocket for offi
cial business (circumstance made that imprac-
tical). Superiors required the offi
ce to be in a convenient location, like a county
seat or populous city. In districts comprising multiple counties, however, it
generally was located in the most populous county in the district. Superiors
required a posting of offi
ce hours. Complainants rarely respected set hours.
Finding quarters appeared on the surface the easiest of tasks, and for many
it was. But for others it proved quite troublesome. “[E]very where I stop to get
meals and accommodation,” one harassed agent reported, “they charge me the
highest specie price.” He described it as “humiliating.” H. W. Allen at Hemp-
stead in early 1866 wrote about his landlady. She complained, he reported, when
he took business out in the hallway instead of in his room, and she “forbids its
continuance.” Allen believed he might be justifi ed to secure another offi
ce, but
he wanted permission before acting. A week later, aft er no response, a frustrated
Allen reiterated his problems in another letter. His superiors took off ense to his
letter, as his frustration and aggravation was evident. “Th
is communication is
impertinent and uncalled for,” they responded. “[A] repetition of such language
will not be overlooked.” Such confl icts between proprietors and agents contin-
ued throughout the agency’s existence.
Superiors sometimes frustrated subordinates more than white Texans. One
example best highlights such frustration experienced by fi eld agents. It further
highlights the belief fi eld agents had that superiors sometimes trivialized and
ignored their problems. “Th
e endorsement of the board [the one to determine
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34
“The Post of Greatest Peril”
offi
ce rent] in regard to the little matter of offi
ce rent is . . . calculated to cut,”
wrote a frustrated P. B. Johnson from Woodville in 1867. “When I fi nd that I am
not more respected by the offi
cers of the Bureau, I shall not consider myself a
proper person [to] fi ll the important functions of S.A. Com.” Further underscor-
ing his point, Johnson added: “I do not mind any of my applications to be simply