The Apache Campaign of 1885-1886

By Clarence Chrisman

(Continued from March 1827 issue)

(Note: in the installment of March 30th an error was made and the companies designated as F, G and H should have read F, D and H.)

To those of my readers who intend to follow this narrative I wish to call particular attention to the group of noncoms of Company F shown in my first article. For all of these men are to play important parts in the events to follow. All of this group were comparatively young men, the only one along in years being 1^st Sergeant Downs and next to him in point of age and service being Sergeant Magurie. This Mcgurie was a wonderful soldier, hardy as a oak, one of the best shots in the army and a man withal who held in contempt any sort of weakness. When he spoke, which was none to often, he drew down one corner of his mouth and the words emanating from that particular corner sounded as though coming from exceedingly thick flail, more of him later.

Before going further I wish to call attention to the fact that the above mentioned group is also pictured in the thrilling story by Comrade Anton Mazzanovich, "Trailing Geronimo", if you have not read the story I advise you to lose no time in procuring a copy. It will interest you and at the same time give you a world of information about the southwest of the Indian war days.

On the particular campaign about which I am writing I carried with me a little leather back notebook about 4 by 6 and in this precious little volume I have a record of every march and every camp we made on that memorable campaign. And besides, as I was handy with a pencil, I made sketches of many of the camps and of scenes in the vicinity. It is doubtful if this had ever been done before on an Indian campaign and at that time I had no idea in the world that many years later I would be consulting this little book for data concerning our trip.

On the first page I find entered Camp 1 of the Nutri, September 22, 1885 and under this heading in part appears the following, "Left Wingate about 11:00 am. Marched to the beautiful valley of the Nutri and went into camp at 5:30 PM. Our camp is beautifully situated at the foot of a high rocky bluff and nearby is a running stream with clear, cold spring water. This is what is called Nutri River but it is nothing more or less than a babbling, rippling brook. I'm on guard tonight and it is 1:40 am. I am writing this by the light of our campfire assisted by a full bright moon. The coyotes are giving a serenade while I write and their distant howl and grating yelp lend a dreariness to the lonely hour."

Although I made no entry of some of the incidents of our first camp, I remember distinctly how the fellows yanked off their shoes, good old heavy regulation government brogans and begin doctoring blisters and sore spots. And that night, how we gathered around the campfires, some laughing, some singing and some, especially the recruits (we had a bunch of raw ones with us) casting furtive glances at the dark woods surrounding us and up at the towering bluff as though expecting any moment to hear the crack of firearms or the war whoops of hostile Indians. But most of us gave no thought to such things and we grouped around the fire exposing ourselves as openly and brazenly as though there were no Indians within a thousand miles.

Once a rookie voiced aloud his thought, " I wonder if we will get to fight any Indians?" Sgt. Mcgurie, happening to overhear him said, "Don't worry, me bukko, you'll get plenty of fighting before this thing is over. And, if you'll take my advice, you'll write to your best girl and your momma this very night and tell them goodbye while you have a chance." Down in our hearts we older soldiers wished only that he was right.

Everything in this world goes by contrast. Sometimes you conclude you're having it pretty hard, unless you happen to think of a time when you had it much harder. Up in those mountains it gets exceedingly cold at night, even in mid-summer. And while I was on guard that evening I could hear the fellows turning and groaning while they tried to get warm under a blanket or two and find a soft spot on which to rest their weary buts. But the rocks of New Mexico are not noted for being soft. I couldn't help but think, listening to the occasional growl of some poor rookie, about the time some nine months previously in the dead of winter with snow and ice piled all around me I had made camp with several other soldiers in that identical spot. We were then on an expedition from Fort Wingate to Fort Craig, New Mexico and had followed the backbone of the Rockies through snow and ice all the way.

Finally some of the rookies could stand it no longer and out they piled and joined me at the campfire. One of them had a small photo at which he gazed intently, and by the firelight I caught a glimpse of a tear bedimming his eye. "Your sweetheart, buddy?" says I. "Sweetheart, hell," says he, "that's my Mother."           (To be continued)