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- Herausgeber: Arcadia Press
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
Here is a genuine Little Big Man story, with all the color, sweep, and tragedy of a classic American western. It is the tale of Herman Lehmann, a captive of the Apaches on the Southern Plains of Texas and New Mexico during the 1870s. Adopted by a war chief, he was trained to be a warrior and waged merciless war on Apache enemies, both Indian and Euro-American. After killing an Apache medicine man in self-defense, he fled to a lonely hermitage on the Southern Plains until he joined the Comanches. Against his will, Lehmann was returned to his family in 1879. The final chapters relate his difficult readjustment to Anglo life.
Lehmann's unapologetic narrative is extraordinary for its warm embrace of Native Americans and stinging appraisal of Anglo society. Once started, the story of this remarkable man cannot be put down. Dale Giese's introduction provides a framework for interpreting the Lehmann narrative.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Lytton Strachey
NINE YEARS AMONG THE INDIANS1870-1879
THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVITYAND LIFE OF A TEXAN AMONG THE INDIANS
Copyright © Herman Lehmann
Nine Years Among the Indians, 1870-1879
(1927)
Arcadia Press 2019
www.arcadiapress.eu
Storewww.arcadiaebookstore.eu
TABLE OF CONTENTS
NINE YEARS AMONG THE INDIANS1870-1879
INTRODUCTORY
Herman Lehmann, with whom this book has to deal, was born of German parents, June 5, 1859. He was captured by a band of Apache Indians when he was about eleven years old, and lived with this tribe for four years; later he became involved in difficulties with members of the tribe and was forced to flee for his life. He went out into the wilderness, where alone in the mountains he remained for about a year, and later he went to the Comanches, into which tribe he was adopted, and he remained with them until he was finally restored to his people, being grown at the time of the restoration, and to all intents and purposes a wild Indian. During his captivity he had forgotten his mother’s tongue, had abandoned the white man’s ways, was a blood-thirsty, thieving savage, and when brought back to civilization he had to be forcibly restrained to keep him from slipping away and going back to his tribe. In time, however, he became reconciled, re-civilized, and eventually made a good citizen.
I have known Herman Lehmann personally and intimately for thirty-five years. When he was brought back from his captivity my father, the late John Warren Hunter, was living at Loyal Valley, the home of Lehmann’s mother, and I have heard him relate amusing incidents of Lehmann’s Indian ways, and how the savage boy would scare the children of the village. My own mother used to tell me if I was not good “that Indian” would sure get me. For a long time he dressed in his Indian garb; he did not like the white man’s clothing; he wanted to be alone, out in the woods; he kept aloof from everyone for a long time after his return. Finally, as the refining influences of a mother’s undying love, the cheerful associations of a happy family circle, and the affectionate treatment by his brothers and sisters, brought about a complete change in this wild character, and the wildness gave way to a kind and noble nature, and he became a white man again. But he never forgot his friends, the Indians. Years afterward, after he had married a splendid girl at Loyal Valley, he was granted a headright in the Indian Territory, through a special act of Congress, and he went there to live upon his claim, and among his tribe. Yes, his tribe, for he was still a Comanche in the eyes of his copper-colored brothers, and he still possesses all of the tribal rights and privileges even unto this day.
In giving the story of his life in this volume, I am giving it just as he gave it to me, without exaggeration, without boasting, and only in the hope that the reader will find it interesting and a true recital of facts. There are people living today who know all of the circumstances surrounding his capture and return; there are Texas Rangers who know of his participation in battles with the Rangers; there are Indians who went on the warpath with him, and fought by his side in bloody conflict.
Herman Lehmann is an old man now; his long and eventful life is nearing its close. He feels the weight of years, but he can look back into the far and dim past without regrets over any overt act he may have, in the savage state, committed, because, as he says, he was taught by the Indians to steal and to kill. He believed it was right. After his restoration he soon learned that it was wrong to do these things, and he has not done them. His conscience is clear, and he believes that a just God has pardoned him for whatever sins he may have committed in savagery, when he knew no better.
Some thirty years ago Judge J. H. Jones of Mason published a book, “Indianology,” which dealt at great length with the captivity of Herman Lehmann, and from this book I have obtained valuable material which is used in this volume. But most of the facts were related to me by the ex-captive, who, at this date, May 28, 1927, is with me and telling me of his harrowing and hair-raising experiences.
J. MARVIN HUNTER.
CHAPTER I.
MY CAPTIVITY
My father and mother came over from Germany with the Prince Solms Colony in 1846, and settled at Fredericksburg, Gillespie County, Texas. My father, Maurice Lehmann, died in 1864. Mother married Philip Buchmier in 1866. Some time after the war they secured a large tract of land on Squaw Creek, about twenty-five miles northwest of Fredericksburg. On this land they built their frontier cabin and engaged in farming on a small scale, and stock raising.
From the beginning of the Civil War and up to 1872 the Indians made their periodical raids into Gillespie and adjoining counties, extending their depredations as far south as Austin and nearly to San Antonio, and the sod of many of the smiling valleys had been encrimsoned with the blood of these hardy pioneers while endeavoring to establish in the wilderness a home for their families.
The valleys of Beaver Creek and Squaw Creek and their tributaries offered an inviting field for the daring pioneer, and two or three other German families located near our ranch, and these, although several miles apart, formed the nucleus of a small settlement. The soil along these valleys was exceptionally fertile; springs abounded, timber was plentiful, the range was excellent, and there was plenty of game. With these natural advantages and despite the raids of the Indians, during which numbers of horses were driven off and our cattle maimed and slaughtered, the colonists prospered beyond precedent, and today their descendants are among the most prominent in point of intelligence and wealth of all the citizens of Mason and Gillespie Counties.
One day, in the month of May, 1870, with my brother, Willie Lehmann, and my two sisters, Caroline and Gusta, were sent out into the wheat field to scare the birds away. Gusta was just a baby at the time, probably two years old, and was being cared for by Caroline. I was about eleven years old, Willie was past eight years old, and Caroline was just a little girl. We sat down in the field to play, and the first thing we knew we were surrounded by Indians. When we saw their hideously painted faces we were terribly frightened, and some of us pulled for the house. Willie was caught right where he was sitting. Caroline ran toward the house, leaving the baby, and the Indians shot at her several times, and she fell, fainted from fright. The Indians had no time to dally with her, so they passed on thinking she was dead, and they often told me she was killed, and I believed it until I came home several years later.
They chased me for a distance and caught me. I yelled and fought manfully, when the chief, Carnoviste, laid hold upon me, and a real scrap was pulled off right there. The Indian slapped me, choked me, beat me, tore my clothes off, threw away my hat—the last one I had for more than eight years—and I thought he was going to kill me. I locked my fingers in his long black hair, and pulled as hard as I could; I kicked him in the stomach; I bit him with my teeth, and I had almost succeeded in besting him and getting loose when another Indian, Chiwat, came up. Then Carnoviste caught me by the head and the other Indian took hold of my feet and they conveyed me to a rock fence nearby, where they gave me a sling and my face and breast plowed up the rocks and sand on the other side. I was so completely stunned by the jolt that I could not scramble to my feet before the two Indians had cleared the fence and were upon me. They soon had me securely bound upon the back of a bucking bronco, stark naked. The Indians lost no time in getting away from there, and as we raced through the brush and undergrowth, my flesh was pricked and torn by mesquite thorns and catclaws, and the sun blistered my naked back and limbs. Death just then would have been a relief to me. My brother, Willie, was in the same distressing predicament as I, but he murmured not. The Indians passed down near Loyal Valley and on to Moseley’s Mountains, where they located some horses in the valley. All of the Indians, except Garnoviste, who remained to guard us two boys, went for the horses, and while they were gone we heard some shots fired. Camoviste went out to a point to ascertain the cause of the shots, and Willie and I tried to run away, but Willie was unable to run fast and Carnoviste soon caught us, beat us, gagged us so we could not scream, and threatened by his countenance and actions to torture us more if we made another attempt to get away.
Soon the Indians returned with the stolen horses, and from there we turned west and traveled for a ways, and the Indians picked up a gray and sorrel horse; one had William Kidd’s brand and the other Mr. Stone’s. We then turned northwest, passed by the Keyser ranch and on to the Llano River. At the river they took us from the ponies, tied me securely and hobbled Willie, and then all lay down to rest. They neither made a fire nor ate anything here. We had had nothing to eat since breakfast that morning. Late in the night we were aroused and set out up Willow Creek, passing to the right of Mason, where the band scattered. Willie and I were separated, he being taken with one party and I with another. The Indians sent back scouts to see if we were followed, and to cover up our tracks if possible.
Carnoviste had me with him. We found a young calf lying down. He made signs for me to catch that calf, using about the persuasion you would to a dog. I was afraid not to obey him, so after the young bovine I went and caught him. Camoviste jumped down, cut the calf’s throat, cut it open, plunged his knife into its stomach, got out the soured milk contents, and ate that nasty stuff with a relish that was sickening to see. I turned away disgusted and sick at the stomach. He made signs for me to eat some, but I made signs that I could not and would not. He grabbed me and soused my head into that calf’s paunch and rubbed that nauseous stuff all over my face, in my eyes, up my nose, into my ears and forced some down my throat. He held my nose and made me swallow, but the stuff would not stay on my stomach, and I vomited copiously. He then cut out the kidneys and liver and compelled me to eat some of them while they were warm with the animal heat. I would vomit the mess up, but he would gather it up and make me swallow the same dose again, and again I would vomit. He would soak it in the warm blood and make me swallow it down again. The blood settled my stomach, and I finally retained the revolting filth. Then Carnoviste took me to a hole of water, washed my face, put me on the horse with him, and we went to rejoin the other Indians of our party.
CHAPTER II.
WE TRAVEL ON
After traveling some distance we went up on a hill and made a big fire, and soon discovered six Indians approaching with a large bunch of stolen horses. They approached cautiously, and when they discovered our identity they came up and we sat down to a hearty meal of raw and barbecued bull. The other six Indians, who had Willie with them, had gone farther north. We destroyed as much as we could the signs of our camp, sent back scouts, and proceeded on our way northward. There was water all along the way, but I was not allowed to drink, although I was real thirsty. Again we scattered, Carnoviste taking charge of me. He took the loads out of his pistol and gave it to me to see if I knew how to shoot. We played with the weapon for some time, and I began to think the old boy was a pretty jolly companion, although I could not exactly understand him, and then he would beat me.
Suddenly all of the band came together again, twelve in number, and after a consultation they again divided in two parties. Six went west; I was in that company. Six went north; Willie went with them. That afternoon our party stole nine more horses. We came together again, and traveled together until we came to a muddy pond, full of bugs and laden with the essence of frog. We dismounted, and the Indians pulled up a lot of nice clean grass, spread it over the water and used it as a strainer. I went off a little way from the Indians, threw myself on the ground and began to suck up the muddy water through the debris, and was enjoying the cool, refreshing breeze that was then blowing, wetting my palate, and thinking of home, when stealthy old Carnoviste came up to me, soused my head into the mud, and every one of the red rascals laughed at me.
From this water hole we went north, and about 4 o’clock in the afternoon we killed a steer and made a fire on a hill. The Indians were very careful what kind of wood, and also the quantity they used, lest the smoke ascend in too great a cloud, and thus reveal to the white people our presence. Carnoviste staked his horse, and taking me with him, went back some distance. He had a sort of mirror made of a bright piece of steel (the other scouts also had similar mirrors); this he used to throw the reflection of the sun in a certain manner. These signs were signaled from one to another way back the line, and an answer that all was well came. Carnoviste motioned to me, but I did not understand what he wanted. I went a little way and came back. He motioned and growled again. 1 went again and returned. He got mad, drew his pistol and pointed it at me, but still I could not understand what he wanted me to do. He lowered his pistol and started toward his horse. Then I knew he wanted me to get his horse for him, and when I brought the animal he threw me up, and jumped up in front of me and we went to join the Indians on the bank of a small stream. Willie was there. There they washed and dressed our sores and painted us up like Indians, after which they placed us on horses for a long ride. The forked stick Indian saddles were not very comfortable to us by any means, as we were naked and these saddles more than tortured us. The reader can imagine the sufferings of a child who had up to a day or two before been tenderly cared for by a kind father, loved by a devoted mother, cut off from all hope of recovery, not knowing but that each moment was to be the last, his face blistered by the scorching sun, the skin peeled off his back and breast, his feet and hands tied, and where he had rubbed against the saddle (forked sticks) the meat was worn away nearly to the bone. Could the sufferings of Job have been greater?
CHAPTER III.
WILLIE’S ESCAPE
With a drove of horses we were traveling northwestward, and on the fifth day after our capture, while near Lipan Creek, we ran into a party of Rangers while they were dismounted at a water hole watering their stock or preparing to camp. We were not discovered by the Rangers, and the Indians hastily withdrew and turned back the way we had come, leaving the drove of horses, and fit out at top speed. One of the Indians was walking, because he had a sore leg and it pained him to ride. This Indian jumped on the horse which Willie was riding, and followed the other fleeing Indians. The horse began to show signs of giving out, when this Indian threw Willie off into some brush, and continued his flight after his comrades. He urged the horse on for some distance, when the poor animal fell exhausted, and another Indian went back and took him up behind him and they came on.
When Willie realized that he had been abandoned by his captors he got up and wandered around until he came to a plain road, and he traveled this road for a mile or two. He met a man on horseback, who talked awhile to him and then rode on, leaving the little fellow there. Going on further he met a man in a wagon loaded with freight and going to Fort McKavett. This man took Willie as far as Kickapoo Springs, where there was a stage stand, and he left Willie there until he could return and get him. The stage from Fort Concho to Fredericksburg and San Antonio came by while Willie was there at Kickapoo Springs, and the driver wanted to take Willie on home, but the little fellow had promised the freighter that he would wait for him, and in a day or two the freighter returned, got him and took him home to his almost frantic mother. He was gone from home about nine days, and his return was the cause of much rejoicing on the part of the distracted members of our family, who feared they would never see either of us again.
When Willie met the man on horseback near Kickapoo, the boy evidently presented a ludicrous appearance, being painted as an Indian and decorated with a cap made from the scalp of a calf’s head which the Indians had put on him, and being of a very timid nature he did not talk much to the man. When he left him, and when, a little further on, Willie saw the freight wagon coming, he mustered up more courage, took off that calf’s head cap and threw it away, and hailed the wagoner with confidence, and they at once became good friends.
After we had run for many miles, they keeping me in the lead, the Indians finally halted and held a pow-wow, and as they had lost their herd of horses they decided to go back down into the settlements and get some more, as it would not speak well for them to go back to the tribe without some stolen horses. Accordingly, ten of the number took the back trail, while two Indians, Chiwat and Pinero, agreed to take me and pull for the Indian headquarters, somewhere to the northwest. I was still tied on the horse and riding very uncomfortably, and as we rode forward my thoughts were of my little brother. I did not know what had become of him, and I feared our captors had killed him. I wept bitter tears, and oh, how lonesome I felt, and I yearned to know what had happened to him. Something seemed to tell me he had escaped, but how on earth could he, just a little boy eight years old, ever hope to find his way so far back home across that howling wilderness? And I thought of home, my happy home, and of my dear mother and my little sisters. These unhappy thoughts occupied my mind during the weary hours as we rode along, and I was downcast and sad.
