THROUGH THE ENEMY'S LINES (1846)
THE THREE KIT CARSON COURIERS
On December 8, 1846, one hundred and twenty-five United States
dragoons, rangers and scouts were being closely besieged upon a bare
hill in Southern California by one hundred and fifty Mexican California
cavalry. The place was thirty miles northeast of San Diego, near the
Indian village of San Bernardo.
Texas, for which Jim Bowie and many another brave man fought and died,
had won independence ten years back. Last year it had been admitted
into the United States, and the boundaries of the United States had
been extended to the Rio Grande River at last.
To this boundary Mexico objected; she said that it had not been the
boundary of the Louisiana Territory nor of Texas. Now she was prepared
to hold Texas and the Rio Grande. War neared and in March of 1846 the
United States troops under General Zachary Taylor had marched across
Texas to the north bank of the river.
An American column from Fort Leavenworth on the Kansas side of the
Missouri River had marched eight hundred miles through the southwest
desert, and captured Santa Fe and the province of New Mexico. From
Santa Fe the First Dragoons had set out upon a desert trail of one
thousand miles more, to capture California.
Here they were, less then one hundred of them "fit for service,"
reinforced by a detachment sent by Commodore Robert Stockton of the
navy, who had seized San Diego; all commanded by General Stephen Watts
Kearny of the army, and their advance stopped short. The "Horse-Chief
of the Long Knives," as the Plains Indians called him, had met with
misfortune.
There had been a battle. After their long, toiling march of close to
the thousand miles the California irregular cavalry under Captain
Andres Pico had attacked them among the California hills; had caught
them at disadvantage; killed eighteen, wounded fifteen including
General Kearny himself; and driven them to refuge upon this other hill.
Indians could not have been more swift and wary than those light-riding
Californians armed with lances.
Rain had been falling. The ground, cold and wet, was so rocky and
cactus-covered that even the wounded could not be placed comfortably.
The morning following the battle had "dawned on the most tattered and
ill-fed detachment of men that ever the United States mustered under
her colors"--"provisions were exhausted, horses dead, mules on their
last legs, men, reduced to one-third of their number, were ragged, worn
and emaciated."
On this second day, here upon the hill, there was no water except that
which gathered in holes. For the dragoon mules no water at all, and no
forage except the stiff brush. The fattest mule was killed, as food,
but he proved very tough. The wounded could not be moved save in rude
travois or litters of blankets slung between poles, the ends of which
dragged along the ground. The hill was open, and exposed to weather
and the enemy's view. Although San Diego and Commodore Stockton were
only thirty miles distant (yet far out of sight beyond the high, brushy
hills), the camp was completely cut off by the nimble riders of Captain
Pico, and without doubt reinforcements for him were spurring in.
Altogether, General Kearny was in a fix: a fix both mortifying and
perilous. He himself had been lanced twice, and was not a young man.
Commodore Stockton must be notified, to send relief of men, ambulances
and food, at once. After the battle, and before the siege, the scout
Alexander Godey and three other trappers had set out on foot, using
their best skill, to take the word to San Diego; but they had been
captured by the Pico videttes, and nobody upon the hill knew whether
the Stockton relief was coming. A second try should be made.
With the General Kearny dragoons there was the famous Kit Carson. He
had been met by the general at the Rio Grande River in New Mexico south
of Santa Fe, and had turned back to act as guide to California. He was
a veteran on the long trail: had been traveling mountains and deserts
for over twenty years, or ever since he was sixteen.
There was a greenhorn, much younger than he, but just as brave:
Acting-Lieutenant Edward Fitzgerald Beale of the navy, aged twenty-four
and commissioned midshipman only sixteen months ago. He came of a
stanch navy family; his grandfather and his father had been navy
officers before him; the spirit of service to his country was in his
blood.
The boyish Lieutenant Beale had joined the Kearny column before the
battle, with the little force that brought dispatches to the general
from San Diego. He was a sailor; had not been trained in scouting upon
land; but that made no difference, for when this afternoon General
Kearny called a council, to discuss means again of reaching Commodore
Stockton, the first scout volunteer was Lieutenant Beale.
He said that he had come out; he thought that he could find his way
back. He offered himself and his Indian boy servant, who would be able
to guide him. The boy was a native of this country, and knew the
trails.
Kit Carson heard, and lost no time in volunteering also. That was
good. Everybody had confidence in the bravery of young Lieutenant
Beale, but felt more dependence upon the training of Kit Carson. He
had performed such trips, through watchful Indians themselves, many a
time before.
They three, the scout, the sailor and the California Indian, proceeded
to get ready, in order to start at nightfall. Each was supplied with a
rifle, a pistol, knife and a canteen; but food seemed a question.
General Kearny had saved a handful of mouldy flour. This was baked
into a loaf and given to Lieutenant Beale, with the general's
compliments.
"It's the last of everything, sir," said the soldier who brought it.
"The general'll have to do without breakfast, but you're welcome to it,
sir."
"Take it back to General Kearny," Lieutenant Beale directed. "Tell him
that I thank him heartily, and will provide for myself."
So he scraped in the ashes where some baggage had been burned; managed
to find a little charred corn and dried peas; stowed that in his
pocket. Kit Carson and the Indian provisioned themselves with a small
piece, each, of half-cooked mule beef.
Of all Kit Carson's dangerous scouts in enemy country this turned out
to be the most ticklish. For young Lieutenant Beale, the tenderfoot,
it was hair-raising. Captain Pico had known that the celebrated Kit
Carson was with the Americans upon the hill, and feared him. He had
placed three lines of mounted patrols around the base of the hill, and
instructed them to keep riding so as to leave no intervals.
"Se escapara el lobo (The wolf will escape)," he warned.
And the wolf did escape.
Naturally, Lieutenant Beale let Kit Carson take the lead, for "Kit"
knew best what to do. They had to crawl on their hands and knees, and
stomachs, through the brush, down the hill, for if they stood up they
might be seen against the sky.
"Wait," Kit Carson whispered back. "Take off yore shoes, lieutenant.
They make too much noise. Stow them in yore belt."
They tucked their shoes in their belts. Twigs had been cracking
alarmingly. Presently their feet, knees and hands were afire with the
cactus spines. Now twigs rasped along the canteens. Kit Carson paused
and laid his canteen aside. Lieutenant Beale did the same; so did the
cautious Indian.
They reached the base of the hill; waited here for a sentinel in the
first line to pass; and crawled silently across almost at his horse's
heels.
Foot by foot, wellnigh inch by inch, they snaked on, listening and
peering for other patrols. Suddenly they encountered a second outpost,
and crouched low, flattening themselves, scarcely daring to breathe. A
Californian horseman leisurely rode by. Kit instantly squirmed
forward, and they crossed this line also.
It was nervous work, in the thick, dark brush, and amidst the barbed
prickly-pears that filled their flesh with sharp needles, all the worse
because they struck unexpectedly.
Lieutenant Beale was hoping that now an open way lay before. They had
avoided two outposts; were there others, still?
Ah! Kit Carson again flattened, motionless except that he kicked
behind him and with touch of his bare foot signaled danger. Lieutenant
Beale flattened; the Indian, third in the file, had flattened. The
brush cracked; a horseman, dimly seen, was right upon them. He was
another of the patrols. His figure towered huge as he halted, at Kit
Carson's very head. He got off his horse; and shielding himself from
the chill, damp breeze, stood there.
What was the matter? Was he searching? Should he be killed? And what
then? Young Lieutenant Scale's heart pounded so that Kit Carson
afterward said he had heard it beating "like a maul."
The sentry struck flint and steel. As some tinder in his hands caught,
they might see that he was lighting a cigarette. The glow revealed his
olive face, his flashing eyes, and the blanket shrouding him to his
chin; it momentarily revealed the brush under which the two
_Americanos_ and the Indian were lying.
Whether they had been seen, who might tell? The sentry remounted, in
careless manner, and slowly rode on--but perhaps to give the alarm and
bring reinforcements to beat the brush. Lieutenant Beale broke. He
could stand the suspense no longer. He was not used to so many close
calls without action. They are the hardest of all to bear. And to
crawl on and on, in this way, over rocks and cactus, made his heart
sick. He would rather stand up and challenge the enemy.
He crawled ahead to Kit.
"Kit, we're gone. We can't escape. Let's jump and fight it out."
Kit Carson laid hand upon his arm, and steadied him.
"No, no, boy. I've been in worse places before and got through."
Those were good words. Kit Carson knew, if anybody did. It was
fortunate that he had come! The Indian might have got through, but
Lieutenant Beale, never. Even Alex Godey, who had a great reputation
as a scout and path-finder, had been captured.
They kept on, Kit Carson leading; narrowly dodged other patrols--for
the outskirts of the hill seemed alive with them. They finally met no
more, and Kit announced that they were through, he thought, at last.
But they found disappointment. Their route was cut by a wide, open
valley covered only with stones and cactus. They dared not stand up;
they might yet be seen. It was two miles across, and they hitched
along, on their knees and on hands and knees, every foot of the way,
while the rocks and cactus tortured them.
Here, where the brush grew high, Kit stopped and appeared to be
relieved.
"Put on yore shoes, boy. We're out of the trap and we can make better
time."
Hurrah! Lieutenant Beale laid his hand to his belt. What!
"I've lost my shoes, Kit."
"So've I. That's mean, but we can't help it. Come on. We've a long
way yit; we daren't line in direct. Thar'll be more o' those patrols
watchin' the trails into San Diego."
They hastened as best they might, on a circuit to avoid the trails.
The country was rough and rolling. When day dawned, they left the
mesas and kept to the dense brush of the canyons; were almost lost, so
crooked their path; but the Indian guided them, and constantly sniffed
for the salty air from the ocean. In the middle of the day they
rested; their soles, knees, and hands were raw, and body and limb
burned with the cactus; their throats were parched for lack of water.
At evening they smelled the ocean. The Indian said that they were
within twelve miles of San Diego. From a high point they might have
seen the glimmer of the Pacific. Kit Carson spoke.
"We'd better divide up, I think. Then one of us will get through.
That's safer than travelin' together. Lieutenant, you head off to
southward; amigo (that to the Indian boy, in Spanish), you go on
straight; I'll take around north'ard, whar the _Mexicanos_ probably are
thickest to close the Los Angeles trail. Whoever gets in fust will
report without wastin' any time."
"All right, sir," agreed the lieutenant.
"Bueno (Good)," muttered the Indian, nodding.
It was understood. The lieutenant and Kit shook hands; and they three
separated, to steal swiftly away in the waning twilight.
At San Diego, Commodore Stockton had landed sailors and marines to
reinforce the American Riflemen in San Diego. He was building Fort
Stockton, to command the town. The frigate _Congress_ and the
sloop-of-war _Portsmouth_ swung at anchor in the narrow channel of the
harbor.
He had learned of the plight of General Kearny, and was just starting a
relief column upon a night march for the hill, when at nine o'clock one
of his sentries challenged a dark figure laboring in.
"Halt! Who goes there?"
"Amigo, amigo (Friend, friend)!"
'Twas the Indian boy. He had arrived first. The sentry called the
sergeant of the guard, the sergeant of the guard took the boy to the
officer of the guard, and the officer took him at once to the commodore.
The Indian was still telling his story in breathless Spanish, when
another of the couriers arrived--carried by two marines. He was
Lieutenant Beale, unable to walk.
Away trudged the relief party; the Indian and the lieutenant were
placed in bed and the surgeon was summoned. The lieutenant had grown
delirious--babbled and tossed and moaned. His boy lay twitching with
pain and weariness, but uttered never a sound.
Where was Kit Carson? He staggered in about three o'clock in the
morning. Had been obliged to wander and hide before he struck a way
through. He had chosen for himself the longest and the hardest route.
That was like him, and that was proper for the oldest and the most
experienced. Now he, too, needed a surgeon. The bandy-legged,
long-bodied, toughly-sinewed little Kit Carson who had faced many a
scrape and "scrimmage" on plains and mountains, was "all in."
After this night we do not know what became of the Indian. His name
never was recorded; he has been forgotten; all of which is a pity,
because he risked his life to serve a new people and a new flag.
In the morning Lieutenant Beale was transferred aboard the _Congress_,
and placed in the sick-bay. He was invalided for more than a year--did
not really recover until after he resigned from the navy in 1852; he
rose to be brigadier general in the Civil War, was United States
minister to Vienna in 1876, and while ranching on two hundred and
seventy-six thousand acres of land in California died, aged
seventy-one, in 1893.
Through several days the surgeon thought that he would have to cut off
Kit Carson's feet. But he saved them, and the plucky Kit marched north
to Los Angeles with the rescued Kearny column.