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most . . . atrocious and unmitigated [despot]” in the Lone Star State.
McGary’s stance made him a hero. White locals daily visited the new celeb-
rity in jail. On several occasions, guards even allowed him brief stints out of his
cell to parade defi antly outside the jailhouse. All the while, McGary continued
to write editorials from jail. “Captain Craig, the ‘Booro man’ hath an itching
palm,” he wrote, “he refused to take greenbacks, but demands gold coin in pay-
ment of fi nes.” Incensed, Craig again appealed to superiors for guidance. Once
again he was pushed toward stern action. By this time, Craig feared possible
violence, with many threats against his life. Despite this, he arrested the jailer
and deputy and decided to guard the three prisoners personally.
Meanwhile, Governor Th
rockmorton, aft er many white citizens appealed to
him for help, involved himself in the matter. “I intend to demand Craig for
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[this] matter and have him turned over,” he wrote to a friend. Th
e governor
protested to Washington offi
cials, including the president, who then pressured
Commissioner Howard. Aft er a myriad of letters and telegraphs, in which the
president informed Kiddoo that Craig (and also Kiddoo) had overstepped their
jurisdiction, Kiddoo ordered the release of McGary in early September 1866.
Th
rockmorton had already called for Craig to be punished as “he deserves.” But
Kiddoo defended his subordinate’s actions by stating if a SAC cannot protect
himself against such “virulent and vulgar abuse as was heaped upon” him, then
he has “no clearly defi ned powers.” It soon became obvious the aff air had irrepa-
rably damaged Craig’s relationship with the white community, only encourag-
ing more vitriol. Upon his release, the editor relished the opportunity to get in
the last word. “Th
e Bureau’s jurisdiction is confi ned to refugees, freedmen, and
abandoned lands,” McGary pointed out. “Under which one of these headings,
we wonder, do we come? We are not a refugee—we are not a freedman; perhaps
we may be abandoned lands.” With this, Kiddoo replaced Craig and reassigned
him to Seguin, a place not any more welcoming than Brenham.
At Seguin, Craig entered an already tense situation as the problems created
by Longworth were still unfolding. Longworth, now a private citizen and
smarting from his removal, told Bureau offi
cials he fully expected (“it is inevi-
table”) to have to answer to a “rebel jury.” Never one to miss an opportunity for
self- congratulation, however, he notifi ed Kiddoo that the freedpeople “can
scarcely realize the fact that I am out of offi
ce” and “will never give confi dence
to any one again, not even Capt. Craig.” Despite belittling Craig, Longworth
soon appealed to him for protection, especially aft er Guadalupe County
(Seguin) offi
cials arrested him for “illegal” acts committed during his time with
the Bureau. Kiddoo ordered Craig to secure Longworth’s release and seize all
papers relating to his arrest. Although some at headquarters believed he
deserved his current fate, Longworth still had acted in service of the U.S. gov-
ernment and his arrest was an aff ront to its authority. Such actions could not be
allowed to stand, for the ramifi cations would be detrimental to all other Bureau
agents.
Craig, accompanied by some soldiers, freed Longworth from jail and secured
all papers relating to his arrest. According to the county clerk, Craig forcefully
“rifl ed” through the offi
ce looking for all papers dealing with Longworth, some
of which happened to be locked away in the clerk’s desk. At that moment,
another local offi
cial arrived and threatened the clerk with arrest if he assisted
by unlocking the desk. Craig, not taking this lightly, threatened the clerk with a
military trial in San Antonio unless he unlocked the desk. Th
e clerk immedi-
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ately produced the keys, and Craig “abstracted” the desired records. Craig later
comically compared the whole event to a child resisting medicine, noting how
the “children” had “succumbed,” but only aft er he had administered it with “a
wholesome dash of brown sugar [the military force].” He laughingly empha-
sized by adding, “Chuck a cha lunk a cha lunk. . . . ”
His stern course drew praise from Kiddoo and enmity from civil offi
cials.
Th
e district judge for the area, John Ireland, a former Confederate, wanted to
“make short work of the Bureau.” Described as “notoriously disloyal,” Ireland
issued a warrant for Craig’s arrest, but the sheriff , who the agent had a “semi-
friendly” relationship with, feared the soldiers still in the county and refused to
arrest him. In fact, Craig informed the law enforcer that “I had ten men each
armed with a 16 shot rifl e [and] with plenty of provisions to withstand a siege,”
warning he “did not propose to be arrested, and would fi ght and kill, if any
attempt were made.” By early 1867, however, the soldiers had left the county and
Ireland again moved against Craig. It was rumored that Ireland saw the agent
on the street and yelled out, “What, isn’t that God damn yankee- thief arrested
yet!” Craig recalled later that the sheriff shortly thereaft er arrived at a pool hall
where he was playing. “I slowly with my cue in hand, backed toward the door
and found it locked,” the agent later wrote. “Th
e sheriff came over near as
tho[ugh] watching the game . . . Soon he took out the warrant and commenced
to read it to me.” Resistance was futile once six men had arrived to help the
sheriff with the arrest, “all . . . loaded [with] six, six shooters to my one, it was no
use to resist.” Military offi
cials ordered the recently departed detail back to
Guadalupe County to aff ect his release. Although freed, the whole aff air (and
that which previously occurred at Seguin) weighed on Craig. He also lamented
perceived Rebel victories throughout the state and yearned for the peace and
quiet of home back in Pennsylvania. “Like a little boy who stands to one side
with a fi nger in his mouth and a tear in his eye—Oh, say, fellers, I want to go
home,” he stated to superiors. He was discharged and returned north.
Th
e experiences of Charles F. Rand, William Longworth, and Samuel A.
Craig underscore the general confl icts between civil offi
cers and SACs. Rand’s
problems stemmed from derelict offi
cials, not from any aggressive actions on his
part. His insistence on holding them accountable for the county’s poor was
&
nbsp; justifi ed and proper. His case typifi es many other similar frays with local offi
-
cials: agent insists local authorities treat freedpeople the same as whites; local
authorities will not; both agent and offi
cials dig in their heels; and dispute inten-
sifi es. Th
e point, however, is that the dispute developed for no reason other than
Rand’s insistence that local authorities uphold state and federal law. Longworth’s
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experience shows how a zealous, committed man can blur the line between
sound and unsound. It also shows how one could go too far, much to the chagrin
of his superiors, his successors, and his charges. Certainly Longworth desired
justice, but his vengeful approach not only reverberated back on him but also his
successors. Longworth could not see—or maybe he could and did not care—that
his actions had unintended consequences. His commitment to the freedpeople
did not deter him from his controversial actions. Nor did it excuse him from any
unwise, unsound, and generally hostile manner. Being a Bureau agent demanded
patience, tact, and common sense, reinforced with fortitude and presence. It also
demanded the ability to know when to act and, most important, when not to.
Enough instances exist of agents being able to diff erentiate between benign
slights by the white community and those actions and words meant to under-
mine their authority and credibility. Few, no matter how committed to the Union
cause, used their positions for vengeful purposes. Bureau offi
cials deemed it
“desirable to have a discreet [agent] . . . who can do justice to both parties
[because] any other will only make mischief.” Unable to distinguish between the
two, Longworth’s unwise course unfortunately hurt the freedpeople, unneces-
sarily antagonized an already on edge white community, and needlessly made
his successor’s task more diffi
cult.
Craig took a more prudent course, a characteristic that prompted Kiddoo to
call him “a good and effi
cient offi
cer.” He still experienced resistance. In his
dealings with McGary, Craig did not want to act. He realized the editorials were
nothing more than the words of frustration and mere annoyances. He thus
ignored McGary, not because of any lack of fortitude, but because it was really
not worth it. Craig decided his mandate was to protect the freedpeople, not to
censor newspapers, and he moved against the editor only when forced to. Later
that summer, aft er Commissioner Howard and President Johnson heard about
the editor’s arrest and punishment, Kiddoo was personally ordered by his supe-
riors to “settle the diffi
culty.” Th
is resulted in Craig becoming an object of
abuse, fi rst by superiors and then by local offi
cials.
As civil offi
cers recovered from the shock of defeat, so too did the citizens.
Realizing the Radical Republicans’ desires, white defi ance increased. In the
spring and summer of 1866 white Texans elected the Th
rockmorton adminis-
tration to state offi
ce. Inspector for Texas William H. Sinclair attributed such
behavior to “ignorance and ill- breeding.” Although the vast majority of these
insults amounted to little more than annoyances, a few whites went further. As
Bureau historian George R. Bentley concluded decades ago, “planters did not
think of the Bureau in its best [interest and] they resented its very existence,
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regardless of what it might do, for it had power over them and was beyond their
control.” Resistance increased throughout the spring and summer of 1866,
especially as the agency’s expected demise neared in July. (In March 1865 Con-
gress had authorized it to operate for one year aft er the war’s end.) In Falls
County, A. P. Delano, who suff ered maltreatment by several locals, described an
incident in which a white man entered his store with “cocked pistol in his hand.”
“[He] attempted to get to me,” he recalled, “which caused me to fl ee from my
store to my offi
ce (in the rear part of the store) and place myself under lock and
key.” Samuel C. Sloan at Richmond heard many rumors about his possible
assassination. “I have since seen enough,” he wrote, “to convince me that such
action of the Mil. authorities was absolutely necessary in order to enable me to
discharge the duties of my offi
ce. . . .” Unless he received soldiers, Sloan wanted
to be relieved. Philip Howard, while touring his subdistrict in the spring of
1866, had “some of the worst of mankind” accost him. New Yorker Charles C.
Hardenbrook experienced a change with the white community aft er a detail of
soldiers at Beaumont was reassigned. “I heard today,” he wrote, “that I was soon
to receive a dose that would silence me now that the Yankees had gone away.”
Hardenbrook requested the troops be returned or at least he be allowed to move
his offi
ce closer to federal troops. When some whites signed a petition pledging
their support for him, Hardenbrook admitted he “would rather have them
before my face than behind my back.” His suspicions were warranted. Only a
month aft er prematurely writing superiors he did “not anticipate problems,”
Hardenbrook was forced to fl ee for his safety. Headquarters reassigned him to
Houston. Perhaps infl uenced by his desire to live, his constant discomfort from
wartime injuries, or his wife’s failing health, he asked to be relieved. Kiddoo
honored the request. In a parting shot, Flake’s Daily Bulletin, a Houston news-
paper, sarcastically remarked “What a pity. ”
Events in Washington, D.C., only exacerbated problems. In early 1866 Bureau
offi
cials in Washington and Galveston warned personnel to expect trouble as
Congress moved to renew the Freedmen’s Bureau. President Andrew Johnson’s
actions proved these offi
cials quite prescient. Th
rough proclamations and
vetoes, including the second Bureau bill and Civil Rights Act, the president
resisted congressional infl uence in Reconstruction. With “a friend in Washing-
ton,” white Texans were emboldened to resist. A planter from southeast Texas
spoke for many white Texans when he applauded the veto of “that most rascally
Freedmen’s Bureau Bill.” “[I]t was a great misfortune that President Johnson
vetoed the Bureau Bill at this time,” a dismayed Philip Howard stated. “I believe
this year would have nearly or quite haved [sic] settled the hostility of the white
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man against the Black man and each would have been much better off than they
are. . . .” But now, Howard lamented, whites were optimistic that “slavery will be
returned in some shape. . . .” Champ Carter listed the “many vague notions”
held by whites aft er the president’s vetoes and proclamations. William Long-
worth, in the middle of his problems in Seguin, likewise witnessed the eff ect
Johnson had on the local citizenry. “Between vetoes, proclamations, and writs,”
he noticed, “I have had rather a sweet time of it, in maintaining the jurisdiction
of the Bureau.” Hoping to steel the resolve of superiors, Longworth encouraged
them “not [to] let the president’s policy cow you.” If they wavered, he predicted,
“Johnson . . . will split the Union, you can safely note that down as a fact.” Long-
worth strongly believed the “Bureau must be continued, on it rests the Unity of
the states, do not let the humble source from which those assertions come
make you doubt or disbelieve them.” Never one to miss an opportunity at self-
aggrandizement, he yearned for a showdown with the president and believed
himself up to the task to check Johnson’s ways. “Were I present in Congress, and
could I get myself listened to,” he boasted, “I could carry the Bureau Bill against
forty vetoes.”
Since the Bureau never eliminated the president’s infl uence, according to
Reconstruction historian Donald J. Nieman, “it failed to go to the root of the
problem.” Many Bureau men in Texas disliked Johnson, not out of love for the
Radical Republicans, but because he made their jobs more diffi
cult. Even amidst
the increased hostilities, reports of violence could be misleading, especially
when based on hearsay and second- hand knowledge. “In reference to murders
of union men and Freedmen, and outrages committed within this District,”
wrote F. B. Sturgis at La Grange in late 1866, “any Report I may make will be but
from Hearsay and no evidence of facts.” Unable to tour subdistricts eff ectively,
some agents took shortcuts in their reports. Rumors, suggestions, and specula-
tions were passed off as facts to meet superiors’ need for information and timely
monthly reports. John William De Forest, a Bureau agent in western South
Carolina who later penned a memorable work about his experiences with the
organization, admitted to judging in some of his reports. A few Bureau agents