Journal Notes

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“In the house of terror and death, there came to the front a willing volunteer, the mule-skinning, bull whacking and rough, roving woman from the depths—Calamity Jane.” Anonymous

Cold rain lashed the huddle of tents staked just outside the rough encampment at Rapid City. Wind howled across the Dakota Territory as though driven by the devil himself, rattling the dripping canvas and blowing crude shakes from the leaky roofs of the buildings. Struggling through the mud, a young woman leaned into the gale and cursed. The stupidity of setting up a camp for sick soldiers on the lowest ground near General Crook’s encampment was enough to make a deacon swear, thought Martha Jane Canary.

The wind tore the tent flap from her grasp. Cursing again, she grabbed the wet canvas and yanked it into place. A lantern swaying from a hook on the tent pole cast meager light on the three men huddled in damp bedrolls. Martha Jane bent down to examine their scruffy faces, looking for the flush of fever, the outbreak of pustules, or the gray stillness of death.

Martha Jane knew the risk of close contact with these particular sick men. Settlers and soldiers moving onto the northern plains in 1876 still talked about the terrible smallpox epidemic of 1837. At the first sign of fevers or red lesions, victims were isolated because the contagion spread so quickly—and so fatally. It had literally wiped-out whole tribes of Native Americans and killed thousands of fur traders, prospectors, and settlers. The Indians called it “Rotting Face” because that’s exactly what it looked like.

Fevers as high as 106 degrees, terrible back pain, a vicious headache that hammered with each heartbeat, chills, nausea, and convulsions marked the onset of the disease. Four days into the illness, the flat, red lesions appeared; then they puffed up and became clear blisters filled with pus that sometimes merged into one gigantic, painful mass. Smallpox victims were unable to care for themselves and were often dumped into “pest houses” to prevent the spread of the sickness.

Twenty-four-year-old Martha Jane Canary knew the symptoms and the fate of those who came into contact with the disease. Yet, she’d volunteered to nurse those in the leaky tents set up outside the town. She breathed a sigh of relief after studying her patients. None of the men she examined in the cold, damp tent showed those terrifying symptoms.

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Always armed with a revolver or two in her belt and a long sheath-knife in her bootleg, she seemed perfectly able to protect herself in any emergency. —George West, publisher of the Colorado Transcript, January 14, 1885

Music from an out-of-tune piano spilled out of Schell’s Saloon in St. Louis and bounced off the buildings up and down Vine Street. A hot breeze pushed past Charley Hatfield, an overgrown cowboy with a cherub’s face, as he sauntered up to the swinging doors of the weather-beaten bar and gazed inside.

It was the summer of 1854, and every saloon in town was filled with thirsty, ambitious people en route to the gold fields in California. It wasn’t Charley’s love of gold that was driving him west, however; it was something more primal. He had been driven to this place by revenge. Charley surveyed the scene before him. His eyes fixed on a swarthy, careworn man sitting at a poker table in the back of the room. There was no doubt in his mind that he had found the man he’d been looking for—a character named Jamieson. Charley had memorized his enemy’s face; the features had been burned indelibly into his mind. Wandering over to the bar, Charley ordered a beer from a scraggly bartender. In the mirror behind the dusty counter, he watched Jamieson deal a hand.

Ever so slowly Charley’s hand sought the butt of his revolver cradled in the holster on his hip. He toyed with the notion of putting a bullet into Jamieson’s head right then. “It would be too cowardly,” Charley mumbled to himself as the bartender slid his drink in front of him. “Before I send him to the unknown, I want him to know why,” he added as he swallowed a big gulp. Charley picked up his beer and walked closer to the table where Jamieson was sitting. He wanted to study the face of the man who had tormented his soul for more than five years.

While he watched Jamieson win hand after hand, his mind mulled over the reason he was here. He remembered how Jamieson had shot the one person he loved more than anything. He remembered how happy his life had been, right up to the hour Jamieson had crossed his path. Charley pulled his hat low over his eyes in an attempt to hide the strong emotions etched into his face. Jamieson, completely unaware of what lay ahead of him, laughed a hearty laugh while raking his winnings into a pile.

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Susan Shelby Magoffin gazed around the small, white-plastered room in Santa Fe and wondered if she might die there. No one seemed sure where the Mexican army was, or how soon a battle might commence.  But there was no doubt about the danger to herself and her husband now that her brother-in-law had been taken by the Mexicans as a spy.  As she had since the start of her honeymoon journey, Susan recorded the day’s events in her journal:

December 1846, Tuesday 1^st:  News comes in very ugly today.  An Englishman from Chihuahua direct, says that the three traders, Dr. Conely, Mr. McMannus, and brother James, who went on ahead to the Chihuahua have been taken prisoners, the two former lodged in the calaboza [jail] while Brother James is on trial for his life.

The messenger who brought the ominous news had gone, but the impact of the latest information from Chihuahua still reverberated like an alarm bell. The fate of everyone associated with James Magoffin was hanging in the balance.  What if her own dear husband, Samuel, left her behind to ride to her brother’s aide?  They had been married less than a year, and despite their strange honeymoon, she could not bear to be parted from the man she called “mi alma,” my soul.

She would insist on going, too, she thought. After traveling thousands of miles across wild and dangerous terrain and through the lands of unfriendly Native Americans on her prairie honeymoon, she had proved her courage to herself and her husband.  She had survived the hazardous two thousand mile journey despite raging storms, wild beasts, hostile tribes, outlaws, and the awful waterless desert they had traversed a few week before.

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Among the exhibits on display at P. T. Barnum’s American Theatre in New York City during the summer of 1864 was an actress and patriot of the Union army named Pauline Cushman. Billed as the “Spy of Cumberland,” the celebrated thespian was dressed in the complete uniform of an infantry man, including a saber, a crimson, silk sash, and a forage cap. Her hair under the cap was disheveled, shoulder-length, and curly. She sported a mustache, thin, but unmistakable above her upper lip, and below the lip was a dark tuft of hair. The makeup and overall look was so convincing that unless otherwise notified ticket buyers had no idea the man was really a woman.

Pauline Cushman appeared on stage in the lecture room at P. T. Barnum’s American Theatre from June 6, 1864, to July 9, 1864. She offered a patriotic presentation to more than twenty thousand people in a single month. According to the advertisement issued by P. T. Barnam about Pauline’s engagement, “she was the modern American model of the renowned ‘Joan of Arc.’”

“Miss Pauline Cushman, the Union scout and spy, who under orders from General Rosecrans, passed through enemy lines and accomplished such wonders for the Army of the Cumberland while she was engaged in the secret service of the United States,” the July 6, 1864, edition of the Charleston Mercury read. “Every father and mother who have a son in the Union Army; every child who has learned to love its country and call on heaven to bless its present struggle and preserve its nationality, will rejoice at this opportunity of listening to ‘thoughts that breath and words that burn,’ as they fall from the lips of this high-souled, gallant girl, who, in her deter[1]mination to serve her country, risked her inestimable precious life, and was rescued from a Rebel prison, where by order of the notori[1]ous General Bragg, she lay wounded and languishing with sickness, UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH!

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The Nevada County Railroad Museum Presents

The Women Who Helped Build the Railroad

Thursday, July 17, 2024 7-8 P.M. at the Nevada County Railroad Museum 

5 Kidder Court  Nevada City, CA.  

Free to the Public.  Refreshments will be served.

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The distant cadence of drums from the nearly deserted town of San Antonio de Bexar sent a shiver of fear through Juana Navarro Alsbury.  She clutched her baby son closer and strained to hear.  Mexican president and General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, enemy of her uncle and her husband, had come when least expected, bringing thousands of men and artillery as well as a thirst for vengeance.  The baby wailed at the nearby roar of exploding powder from the cannon mounted at one corner of the Alamo.

That shot signaled defiance by the Texians and Tejanos holed up in the old mission.  Juana soothed the baby and waited, holding her breath for Santa Anna’s response.

It was said he had 1,500 to 6,000 troops, cavalry, and cannon at his command.  Inside the crumbling fortress were several dozen women and children protected by fewer than 200 defenders.  Juana’s new husband, Dr. Horatio A. Alsbury, had galloped off to find volunteers to join the fight, leaving Juana and the baby behind.

Dr. Alsbury had warned that Santa Anna would come down with a heavy hand on the Tejanos (Texans of Mexican descent) and Texians (from the United States) who had settled in the area.  Her husband’s activities were known to the Mexican dictator, as were those of her father, who opposed Santa Anna’s overthrow of the constitution of 1824.  Her father’s brother, Jose Antonio, had put his name on the Texas Declaration of Independence.  If the Alamo fell under the general’s onslaught, the respected name of her Spanish forebears would not protect her little family.

Juana recognized the futility of attempting to hold off the overwhelming force of hardened troops surrounding the old mission turned fortress.  Those inside the Alamo’s walls were also ill prepared to fight Santa Anna, in part because too many people had discounted the Mexican dictator’s determination.  He had already killed all prisoners taken in a battle the year before and been granted by the Mexican government permission to treat as pirates all Tejanos as well as Texians found armed for battle, meaning they would be executed immediately.

The Tejanos and Texians had dismissed reports that the Mexican dictator was nearby.  After all, they argued, two blue northers had recently swept through the area, their freezing winds covering the barren landscape to the south with snow.  What commander would move his troops, many of them barefoot, in such conditions?

Thinking themselves relatively safe, they had celebrated the arrival on February 11, 1836, of the naturalist Davy Crockett with a fandango, a party with music and dancing and merry good spirits, despite the ominous threat said to be marching toward them.  Then, on February 20, a messenger galvanized the town with news that Santa Anna’s army was but twenty-five miles away.  Many townspeople rushed within the walls of the old mission for protection, including Juana, her baby son, and her sister Gertrudis.  The next morning, Juana’s husband had galloped off to bring back reinforcements.

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A cold sunrise greeted the soldiers stationed at Fort Cummings, New Mexico, on the first day of 1868. An eager bugler sounded a call to arms, and members of the Thirty-eighth Infantry hurried out of their barracks to line up in formation, their rifles perched over their shoulders. The enlisted African American men who made up the regiment pulled their army-issued jackets tightly around their necks in an effort to protect themselves from a bitter winter wind. Among the troops falling into place was Private William Cathay. Cathay proudly stood at attention, willing and ready to do battle with the Apaches who were raiding villages and wagon trains heading west. The determined expression the private wore was not unlike the look the other members of the outfit possessed.

The Thirty-eighth Infantry was just one of many black units known as the Buffalo Soldiers, a dedicated division of the US Army that seemed to consistently wear a determined expression. Cathay was not unique in that manner. By all appearances Private Cathay was like the other 134 men who made up Company A. What set this soldier apart from the others, however, was her gender. Cathay was a woman disguised as a man—anxious to follow orders to overtake the Chiricahua Apache warriors.

Cathay stomped her feet to warm them and allowed her eyes to scan the faces of the troops on either side. She’d been with this regiment for more than a year, and no one had learned her secret. No one knew the extremes to which she was willing to go to defend the country that had saved her from a life of slavery.

Fort Cummings’ commander, James N. Morgan, and his entourage approached the soldiers from the headquarters office and looked over the armed men assembled on the parade field. “The Apaches are less mobile in the dead of winter,” Lieutenant Morgan announced. “In fact, this is the only time of year they are even remotely vulnerable.” Private Cathay and the other soldiers hung on every word their commanding officer said. They knew this would be a dangerous mission. Many of the Buffalo Soldiers would die trying to overtake the Indians.

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Frances eyed the horizon before them then disappeared into the wagon. She picked up two sabers lying next to a trunk, unsheathed them, and thrust them out either side of the back of the wagon. From a distance she hoped it would look like they were armed with more travelers who were ready to do battle with the Apaches. Unless they come very close, she thought, the dim light will favor our deception.

She returned to her husband’s side, cradling a pistol in her lap. The strap on Orsemus’ gun in his holster had been undone, and he was ready to fire his weapon as well. The riders in front of them had pulled their bayonets from their sheaths, the blades gleaming in the low-hanging sun. Frances believed the small band looked as warlike as possible. Members of the Eighth Cavalry had passed this same way a few days before and had been assaulted with bullets from some of Apache leader Geronimo’s warriors. Frances and the others were relying on an appearance of strength they in nowise possessed. They knew the Natives would not attack unless they were confident of victory.

The train proceeded into the canyon. The mountain walls on either side were jagged and high. They were a treacherous color against which an Indian could hide himself and almost seem to be a part of them. Frances later wrote that their “hearts quivered with excitement and fear at the probability of an attack.”

The going was slow, and, as time progressed without any hint of an ambush, the party started to relax. Then, suddenly, they heard the fearful cry of an Indian. His cry was answered by another.

Frances stared down at her baby lying at her feet. The child was bundled up in many blankets and sleeping soundly. Orsemus urged on the mule team pulling the wagon through the imposing gorge. Everyone with the party believed death was moments away. “At last, and it seemed ages,” Frances later recalled, “we were out of the canyon and on open ground.” The Boyds eventually met up with a large party of freighters and made their way to the northern part of the state, frazzled but unharmed. Thus was the life of a military wife on the wild frontier.

Women like Frances Boyd chose to endure the hardships of army living in order to make life for their husbands less burdensome and to help settle an untamed land. “I cast my lot with a soldier,” Frances wrote in her memoirs, “where he was, was home to me.”

Frances Anne was born into a well-to-do family in New York City on February 14, 1848. Her father owned a bakery; her mother was a housewife who died when Frances was quite young. Historians record that she was a bright girl with an agile mind. She met Orsemus Boyd when she was a high school senior and he was a cadet at West Point. They were married a year later, on October 9, 1867. Orsemus had a desire to go west, and Frances had a desire to be with Orsemus.

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The moment Madam Alavez arrived at Copano, she began her work of intercession and performed deeds of mercy for the poor[,] suffering Texans who had fallen into the hands of the Mexican enemy. —Pioneer Press, October 1920

A slim shadow darted toward the old church at the ruined fortress of Goliad.  The smell of smoke stained the night air as the figure picked a careful path through the rubble inside the fortress walls.  Moonlight starkly displayed the damage caused by the retreating forces of Colonel James Fannin’s command.  Hundreds of Fannin’s men now lay on the hard ground, prisoners of General Jose de Urrea, one of Supreme Commandant General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna’s best commanders.

Pausing in a dark corner, Francita Alavez gazed toward the southwest gate and the dull gleam of a cannon positioned to fire on anyone who might attempt a rescue of the Americans.  She shivered in the warm night as the knowledge of their fate bowed her shoulders.  She knew what the captives did not.  They believed they would be returned to the United States as prisoners of war.  Francita had seen the order sent by Santa Anna to execute all of them.

As she had at Copano Bay almost the moment she arrived in Texas, Francita vowed to save as many as she could.  On the eve of Palm Sunday, March 27, 1846, she slipped into the church and began the task.

“She had heard many tales of the bad, bold, immoral Texans, but like all good souls loath to think ill of others, scarcely believed they could be as bad as painted,” recounted the Pioneer Press in 1920.  The article went on to outline what was then known about the woman who came to be called the “Angel of Goliad.”  Little more is known today about the young woman who worked against a dictator’s orders at the risk of her own life.

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