Chapter XXXVIII: The Brownsville Episode

AN EVENT OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE. THE TWENTY-FIFTH INFANTRY'S MIDNIGHT RAID

The year 1906 was Captain Bill McDonald's last and most important year in the Ranger service. He was still concerned in the work at Edna when there occurred not far away an event in which certain negro characteristics were even more strikingly manifested--an event which was presently to grow into an episode of national importance.

On the night of August 13, 1906, armed men, in number from ten to twenty, believed to be colored soldiers of the Twenty-fifth Infantry, quartered at Brownsville, Texas, appeared about midnight upon the streets and "shot up the town," firing recklessly into many buildings, killing one man, severely wounding another and endangering the lives of many citizens. Official investigation failed to identify the offenders, and three months later, President Roosevelt assuming that the offense was nevertheless committed by certain members of the Twenty-fifth Infantry, with guilty knowledge on the part of their comrades, dismissed the entire command, "without honor," on the ground that the three companies, numbering one hundred and seventy men, had banded in a "conspiracy of silence for the purpose of shielding those who took part in the original conspiracy of murder."

Captain William J. McDonald, then of the State Rangers, was prominently identified with the early investigation of this unusual episode, and the story of his court of inquiry, with its revelations, and of his remarkable experiences following the same, has become history.

Brownsville, Texas, is a city of less than ten thousand population, situated on the north bank of the Rio Grande, in the extreme southern portion of the State. It has long been a military point--its garrison, Fort Brown, being situated but a little way from the business center. Opposite Brownsville, on the Mexican side of the river, lies Matamoras.

Late in the summer of 1906, three negro companies--B, C, and D, of the Twenty-fifth Infantry, Major C.W. Penrose commanding, were ordered to Brownsville, and quartered at Fort Brown. They arrived July 28th, in bad humor. There was a military encampment of State troops at Austin, and they had not been permitted to participate in the maneuvers--drills, sham battles and the like--in progress there. They had been told that the Texas boys did not care to drill with them--that if they went to Austin and took part in the sham battles, blank cartridges might be discarded for real ones by the white troops. Of course this was idle talk, but they repeated it and nursed their resentment, becoming noisy and braggart, as ignorant men, whether white or negro, will. On the way they had torn down the signs, "For Negroes," placed by law, in the South, in the cars intended for colored passengers, and had boasted to the conductor that "all women in Brownsville would look alike to them, whether white, negro or Mexican."

They were not long in beginning their demonstrations. They set in drinking immediately upon their arrival, and their anger grew when they found they were not permitted to drink at the bar with white men, increasing still further in violence when one or more of the saloons set up a separate bar for their accommodation. They became loud and insolent on the street; crowded white women from the walks, and made themselves generally offensive and hateful.

Brownsville as a community did not openly resent these indignities, but individuals did. A Mr. Tate, an inspector of customs, whose wife was run over and rudely jostled by a negro soldier, administered summary correction with the butt of his revolver. In another case an ex-ranger named Bates applied like treatment for similar offense. A third instance is recorded of a negro soldier who, returning drunk from Matamoras--a favorite excursion point--was ordered to move on by a Mr. Baker, another inspector of customs, and upon becoming more obnoxious was eventually pushed into the mud. But public feeling reached the boiling-point when a Mrs. Evans--a lady of refinement--upon dismounting from her horse was seized by the hair and dragged violently to the ground by a tall negro soldier. She clung to the bridle of the frightened animal, that reared and plunged and finally tore her free from her assailant, who then ran away. As a result of this assault, patrols were put on and soldiers' passes canceled. This doubtless added to the ire of the negroes, and whatever purpose of retaliation they may have had would appear to have assumed definite form. The catastrophe was not delayed.

Monday, August 13, was a rather quiet day, owing to the new restrictions, and a majority of the citizens perhaps believed that their troubles with the military were over. But there were others who claimed to have heard muttered threats, and these, as evening drew on, were anxious and watchful. It was about midnight that a bar-keeper named Natus was serving a final round of drinks to a few belated customers, white men, in a saloon where a bar had been erected for the accommodation of negro soldiers. The men lingering about the bar were talking quietly, and it is certain that they had been discussing the possibility of an outbreak from the garrison. Suddenly they were startled by a succession of shots, loud voices and general commotion from the direction of the fort. One of the group cried out:

"That must be the niggers coming, now!"

A fusillade followed, coming nearer. The bar-keeper, Natus, sprang to the front doors, flung them shut, and fastened them. An instant later, he ran into the back yard to prevent entrance in that quarter. He was not in time. Before he could close the gate, he received a volley, and dropped dead.

The mob of murderers passed on, pouring their fire into houses where men, women and little children were asleep. Their course was up an alley, leading from the fort through the town. Already, before killing Natus, they had fired on a house in which were two women and five children--one of the shots putting out a lamp. Ten shots had passed through this house, all aimed about four and a half feet above the floor, evidently intended to kill. They had next met the chief of the police, fired upon him, killing his horse and shattering his arm. Next came the Miller Hotel, where they fired at guests in the windows, breaking the glass and filling the casements with bullets. They shot at whatever they saw moving, and wherever they saw a light. In a house where a woman and two children were asleep, two bullets passed through the mosquito bar that covered their bed. For two blocks and a half the assault on the defenseless street continued, then suddenly the assassins disappeared in the direction of the fort--the midnight raid was over. In ten minutes had been written a unique chapter in the history of the American Army--a chapter that would be told, and retold, and debated and deformed until its volumes would fill a library.

And now from the garrison came shouts and the sound of bugle--a general call to arms. The town, already in a turmoil, fell into a panic of fear and disorder. A renewal of the attack was expected at any moment. It was believed that a general massacre would take place. Men armed themselves with whatever they could lay hands on; women and children hid themselves and waited in terror and trembling.

Morning came without further assault. Daylight showed the shattered glass, the bullet holes in the weather-boards and window casings, and, on the street, empty shells, cartridges and clips--of government rifles. At one place in the mud lay a soldier cap. The night had been too dark and the town too poorly lighted to identify the individuals of the mob, but the evidence as to its origin seemed unmistakable.

A citizen committee to deal with the situation was quickly formed. Telegraphic reports of the outbreak, with urgent demands for immediate action and for the removal of the negro troops, were sent to Governor Lanham, General Hulen, Senators Bailey and Culberson and to the President of the United States. No immediate relief seemed forthcoming from any source. Governor Lanham waited for Washington, Washington waited for an investigation. The public at large took but a small interest in the whole affair--the metropolitan dailies according it but the barest mention in obscure corners. It would be a big matter to them some day. It was a big matter to Brownsville already.

"We cannot convince our women and children that another outbreak may not occur at any time. Their condition is deplorable. They will scarcely venture out of their homes and only feel secure there by our maintaining a heavy guard and patrol of armed citizens every night. We know the accidental discharge of a fire-arm, any overt act of an excited citizen--and our citizens are fearfully excited--would precipitate upon us the whole negro force at Fort Brown." ... This from a telegram sent to President Roosevelt on August 18, five days after the raid. Brownsville was in a sad plight indeed.

Three days more brought no relief from any source. At the fort, the soldiers were kept under arms, perhaps fearing a general attack from the citizens, while on their part the citizens expected a general outbreak of the troops, at any moment. The officers in command were supposed to be conducting an investigation, and when it was given out that the midnight attack could not have come from the garrison, but had probably been made by a gang of Mexicans from across the river; when it was further stated that the garrison had been attacked, and the shots said to have been fired from there during the raid, had been fired in defense; such statements only meant, to the citizens of Brownsville, that Major Penrose and his officers were going to protect their troops, or had been intimidated by them. Rumors of another outbreak continued. Women barely slept. Men began to move their families away. Two rangers of Captain McDonald's command--Blaze Delling and Sam McKenzie--came over from a subordinate ranger camp at Harlingen, twenty-five miles distant, and these undertook to collect evidence, and aided in patrolling the town. Other appeals for help had brought no result. Telegrams for relief were answered non-committally, or not at all. When Captain McDonald himself, with the other two members of his little company--Sergeant W.J. McCauley and C.T. Ryan--arrived on the evening of the twenty-first, Brownsville, resentful and despairing, hailed the veteran regulator with open arms.