Scattered Graves: The Civil War Campaigns of Confederate Brigadier General and Cherokee Chief Stand Watie

By COL USA (RET) ROY SULLIVAN

Although depicted on a U.S. postage stamp and post card, Confederate Brigadier General and Cherokee Chief Stand Watie is virtually unknown to readers. The only Indian to be promoted to general on either side of the civil war, Watie was also the last Confederate general to surrender to Union forces. This book traces his skirmishes and battles--some victories, some defeats--during that terrible war. Pea Ridge was the largest battle west of the Mississippi where Watie led his Cherokee Mounted Rifles regiment. Later, Watie became the first cavalry commander to capture a Union ship, the J.R. Williams, underway in the Arkansas River. After his surrender to a Union commissioner, Watie--a man called by events and his Cherokee people to uncommon valor and leadership--continued to represent and inspire his people during the bitter period of reconstruction in the Indian Territory which eventually became the state of Oklahoma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 28, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467077972

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations

are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual

persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2006 Col USA (Ret) Roy Sullivan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/15/2006

ISBN: 1-4259-3251-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-7797-2 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Epilogue

Suggested Reading List

CHAPTER 1

First alarmed, then amused, the two men looked up from the small blaze they fanned for coffee.

Rifle shots rang out down the path that brought them to this knob of a hill in the Indian Territory. Below they could see a lone rider spurring his horse to a gallop while being pulled backward by the pack mule he attempted to lead. Obviously the mule was in no hurry despite the clods of dirt being dug-up by bullets striking the ground around his hooves.

C’mon, Anguish! The sweating rider shouted at the mule while spurring his horse again.

Kiowas, Captain Vann Rogers announced quietly to the older man, also dressed in butternut homespun and kneeling by the fire.

And they want that mule, Brigadier General Stand Watie, Confederate States Army, added. Must be the Yankee captain we’re looking for. Carbine in the crooks of his elbows, Watie edged forward on his stomach for a better look at the rider’s predicament.

You know any Kiowa, Vann? Watie asked, not expecting an answer. Stretched out on the ground, Watie’s five-foot eight-inch height belied the true size of the man who was both principal chief of the Cherokee Indians as well as commander of the Confederacy’s highly effective but poorly provisioned Indian Division.

Captain Vann Rogers, a younger and strapping Cherokee, slapped his thigh. Want me to go pow-wow with those Kiowas, General?

Rogers—Watie’s confidant, advisor, friend and adjutant—had been with Stand Watie, on and off, since an early action at Shoal Creek four years before when Watie’s force of 300 troopers routed a larger but dispirited force of Northern-sympathizing Creeks and Seminoles.

Watie grinned. I’m not risking the best adjutant I ever had to save the neck of a blue coat—or his balky mule. Watie sighted down the barrel of his Spencer repeating carbine. If the Kiowas show themselves, we’ll argue with them from here.

Three minutes later, the rider, still bent backward over his saddle by the sluggish mule, reined-in beside their small fire.

General Watie?

That’s me, Watie replied, still looking down his carbine barrel for a target.

The man jumped down from his horse, holding reins in one hand, and stiffly saluted with the other. Captain William Kemper reporting to General Watie as ordered, sir.

Get low, Captain, Watie growled. As an afterthought, Shake hands with Captain Rogers, my adjutant. Watie sat up, carbine in his lap. The Kiowas were in no hurry, he decided.

We’ve been looking for you for three days, Captain Kemper. Didn’t know you were bringing a supply train, Watie stared at the mule. Tie your horse and mule in the brush over there.

Captain Rogers took his eyes off the hillside where the Kiowas had been and nodded at the clean-shaven young officer in blue uniform. Then he turned to Watie.

Let’s make a few miles, General, before the Kiowas decide to rush us for his mule.

Facing the newcomer, Watie extended a hand. What would Captain Kemper here think of us Rebs, Vann? He peered up at Kemper curiously. He had not seen a live Federal officer this close for a long time.

This old Cherokee seldom ran from the Yankees—unless he had no other option—much less from a few starving Kiowas. We’ll stay right here and make some coffee.

Begging the General’s pardon … Kemper stammered. I didn’t mean to endanger you.

Watie added a stick to the fire, then bent down to blow on the flames. We’ll make a little coffee and get acquainted before we ride on.

Then I’d better provide a little advance warning in case the Kiowas decide to visit. Rogers picked up his long Springfield musket and began weaving silently downhill through the brush, smiling at Kemper’s words. He doubted that General Stand Watie had ever had his pardon begged before by a blue coat captain.

Just then a bullet struck their small fire, scattering burning embers everywhere.

CHAPTER 2

Get your butt down, Watie hissed, still bemused by Kemper’s words. Then, remembering he was the host, Help yourself to the coffee here, a rare treat for us. He again studied the young man in Federal uniform and held out a tin cup.

Let’s begin by telling me—-in your own words—-why you’re here, Captain.

Yes, sir. But who is shooting at us, General? Kemper blurted, then gulped a mouthful of the coffee, wincing at the taste.

Kiowas, Watie answered. "A hunting party far from home. I know the feeling well. They’d like to eat your mule—-maybe you, too!"

Kemper wiped his mouth with a still-gloved hand, creating a grimy frame around his wispy moustache. The bright blue uniform made him look younger than his 24 years spent in Massachusetts, the U.S. Military Academy, and the army.

From practice, Kemper said the words confidently. Sir, my mission is to escort you to the surrender site, to witness, and record the ceremony for the U.S. Army’s military history office.

Watie sipped his own coffee and stared at the young man. Clearly the words surrender and ceremony had little appeal.

He spat between his boots. What if I decide not to surrender?

I … I have no instructions, sir, for such a contingency. Is, is that your intention, General?

Watie flattened himself on the ground before Kemper heard approaching footsteps. A bobwhite called from a nearby thicket, followed by Captain Rogers slowly edging out toward the fire.

Watie offered Rogers his own cup, nodding to the small, blackened pot on the coals. Try that stuff, Vann. Not bad, even if I made it.

Four Kiowas are still there, General, Rogers reported in a low voice. But they’ll be leaving soon. They didn’t much like my coming up behind ‘em. Rogers’ face puckered as he tasted the coffee.

We were discussing Captain Kemper’s orders, Vann. I want the three of us to be clear on what’s happening here and in the days to come.

At nods from the two captains, Watie marked the ground with a stick. There’s the Jones farm near Doaksville where we’re headed to meet a Federal commissioner, a lieutenant colonel named Matthews. You know him, Captain Kemper?

Kemper shook his head.

I’ve given my word to go there, Watie paused, to surrender the Indian Division as its commander. Also, as principal chief of the Cherokees, I’m to submit us to Federal jurisdiction. I understand Vann, he looked at Rogers, and I will be allowed to keep our weapons afterwards. As you have just learned, he eyed Kemper again, "this can be dangerous country.

After the signing, Captain Rogers and I are free to go home. Our war is over. You, he nodded at Kemper again, "return to Washington to write your report, I reckon.

Once we find your commissioner, Captain Rogers and I are no longer responsible for your safety, Captain Kemper. Is that understood?

General, you’re not …

If you attempt to disarm us, Watie continued, "we will resist and you’re on your own. I take no further responsibility for you unless you follow my orders. I’ll call them suggestions, if you like.

And my first suggestion is that you take off that blue coat and stick it in your saddlebag. Plenty of folks out here wouldn’t mind shooting a last Yankee-—especially an officer.

Later, Rogers and Kemper stared at the embers of the dying fire. Somewhere on the lee side of the hill, Stand Watie sat by himself watching the sunset.

Irritably, Rogers kicked the coals. Now Yankee captain, I want to know why you’re really here. With that he cocked his pistol and jammed it against Kemper’s ear.

You’ve already been a burden and I’m not crazy about your company, Rogers growled. Why are you riding with us? Are you writing something with which your people can prosecute or plague General Watie?

Course not! Kemper’s voice wavered with anger as he pushed the pistol barrel away. That’s not the reason I’m here at all.

Then let’s hear it. Rogers held the pistol loosely in his lap. And it better be the truth.

Look, Kemper struggled to his knees. You’re probably too close to see the drama of this, he swallowed.

"General Stand Watie, the only Indian to win general officer rank on either side of the war, is also the last Confederate general to surrender.

"Not only could he write the manual on mounted tactics, he’s also chief of the Cherokees.

"Witnessing his surrender in those two roles, as the last Confederate general and the Cherokee chief, is a real opportunity and honor for me.

For you, too, Rogers. You can tell your grandchildren that you rode with General Stand Watie, that you were present at his surrender. I call that opportunity—uhh—what’s the word? Awesome?

Rogers replaced his pistol and curled his fist. "What’s going to be awesome, as you say, is what I’ll do if you don’t treat him as you would one of your own generals.

Cause if you don’t, I’ll tie you and your damn mule to a tree and tell the Kiowas they can have you both.

Out of earshot of the captains, Stand Watie spoke softly to himself. "Only a few more days to go and I’ll be home. I’m going to hang this carbine over the mantle piece and rest my weary carcass someplace, anyplace. But that’s the easy part.

What can I do to protect my people from further harm? How can I best help them? He knelt a moment longer. Then, with the aid of the carbine, he painfully got to his feet and started over the hill to the two waiting captains.

Before he had gone two steps, he stopped, leaning on the carbine again, and looked skyward. That’s presuming I’m not murdered by the Ross bunch first, he whispered.

Two days later, the three men rode toward a small hill west of Doakesville in what would eventually become the State of Oklahoma. A squad tent and U.S. flag moved with the insipid breeze blowing near the crest of the hill. A group of Union soldiers lolled in the tall prairie grass, smoking and talking.

Under the canvas sat Lieutenant Colonel Asa C. Matthews, newly appointed commissioner of the U.S. Government for the purpose of conducting this surrender ceremony. Alongside him, smoking a thin cheroot, stood Matthews’ adjutant and assistant, Lieutenant Vance, studying the horizon.

Vance pointed toward the next hillock. Three riders over there, Colonel.

Must be them. Matthews shaded his eyes to see the approaching horsemen better. When they get within 50 yards, call the men to attention and present arms. Remember, I want this ceremony to be exactly correct.

Slowly, Matthews got out of the canvas chair, groping for his sword belt. I’ve often wondered what the famous General Stand Watie would be like, he said aloud to himself, putting on his hat. "Always imagined him to be a giant of a man. So big, he would need two horses."

Watie and Rogers rode side by side up the hill, followed by Captain Kemper who wore a fresh blue uniform and carried his dress saber. When Kemper had earlier suggested that he precede the two Cherokees with a white flag, they had answered with hard stares.

As the Union soldiers presented arms, the Cherokees drew up to Matthews and Vance, who also saluted.

Rogers was first off his horse and held Watie’s bridle as he dismounted. Glumly, Watie stood in front of Matthews and returned the salute.

Good day, General Watie. My name is Matthews and I’ve been appointed a federal commissioner to receive you.

Stand Watie. He shook Matthews outstretched hand. This is Captain Vann Rogers, my adjutant. I suppose you already know Captain Kemper, here, of your army’s military history office?

Nodding at Kemper and Rogers, Matthews motioned to his lieutenant standing stiffly nearby. May I present Lieutenant Vance, my assistant.

Matthews gestured toward a field dining table to which Watie and Rogers moved after handing their reins to a blue-shirt veteran wearing the elaborate yellow stripes of a sergeant major.

The two Cherokees took chairs on one side of the table and the three Federals on the other. Matthews and Watie eyed each other wordlessly for several moments.

Matthews broke the silence. On behalf of my government, General, I thank you for keeping this invitation so promptly. We weren’t certain when to expect you. I’m-–ahh—pleased that Captain Kemper, your escort officer, found you and accompanied you here.

Watie’s dark eyes regarded Matthews a moment longer. What’s your plan, Commissioner?

Clearing his throat, Matthews referred to his notes. I believe you are familiar, he looked up, with the provisions of the peace treaty we signed with the Choctaws a few weeks ago?

At Watie’s nod, Matthews continued. This document contains identical conditions. He pushed it forward.

Subject to confirmation by the Grand Council of the Cherokees, it says your citizens must cease all hostile activities, swear allegiance to the United States and resume their normal, peaceful pursuits.

Matthews looked at Watie, then back to his notes. Cherokee citizens may keep their individual arms but must not take any reprisal actions against any other citizen of the United States, white or Indian.

Watie extracted a pair of reading spectacles from a tattered pocket, blew dust off them and examined the document for several minutes. He shoved the pages toward Captain Rogers.

Who enforces these conditions? Watie asked as Rogers read the document.

We expect you, as chief of the Cherokee tribe, to enforce them, or to call upon the Federal commander at Fort Gibson if you determine that you cannot do so.

Watie leaned forward. All Cherokees will be allowed to return to their former homes with their horses and any livestock left?

Matthews smiled, pleased at Watie’s practicality or dispatch. Exactly, sir.

Watie and Rogers looked at each other.

Seems fair, Watie said, taking a pen from the table and signing the papers. As you say, I must present this to the Cherokee Council for ratification.

An orderly approached the table with a big tray filled with steaming cups of coffee. Matthews passed the sugar and Watie and Rogers added heaping spoonfuls to their cups.

Been a long time since we’ve seen sugar, Watie explained softly. Matthews nodded sympathetically, adding more sugar than usual to his own coffee.

How will your people react to your news about peace, General Watie? Matthews stirred his coffee.

With a great sense of relief. Watie almost smiled. We’re anxious to reunite our families, rebuild homes, plant crops, try to restore the abundant life that many of our people enjoyed before the war.

Matthews studied the man opposite him, about whom countless stories—some true, some false—had evolved over the past four years. Stand Watie, the elusive, almost invincible leader of a ragged band of Confederate Cherokees. If you believed all the reports Matthews heard, Watie and his band were everywhere and usually at the same time. Sighted in Missouri, raiding in Arkansas, even capturing a Federal steamboat in Indian Territory. It was impossible to separate the truth from the fables circulating all the way back to Washington. Matthews had even heard that President Lincoln often and irritably asked his advisors, Haven’t you captured that Stand Watie yet?

Matthews smiled at the thought. Here the man sat, not physically large, not handsomely uniformed, without a military band, even a flag.

May I ask when you last saw your family, General? Matthews asked softly.

This time Watie actually smiled. I was lucky to see them in East Texas about six months ago. Watie’s face softened with the memory. Despite the hardships and separation, his wife Sarah kept their youngest children as well and happy as she could under the circumstances of a long and bitter struggle in which her husband was now the last surrendered enemy leader.

Captain Rogers and I are anxious to see our families, Commissioner. Can we proceed to the other matter?

Certainly, General. With this second document, you formally surrender the Confederate Indian Division, all troops, cannon, and heavy equipment therein.

Both Rogers and Watie grimaced at the mention of artillery and heavy equipment. There was none.

You must—they must— Matthews intoned, "cease all hostile activities, swear to uphold the Constitution of the United States and resume peaceful pursuits as citizens of the United States.

No former soldier may take any reprisal against another citizen, white or Indian, Matthews repeated from his notes, now stained by the wet edge of his coffee cup.

Watie looked up. I understand, he nodded. But can you assure me, Commissioner, that there will be no reprisals against my people by your forces, including your Union Indian regiments or, Watie’s voice raised an octave, by Union-sympathizing Cherokees?

Matthews grimaced, surprised by the tone of the question. I assure you, sir, that the Federal commander at Fort Gibson will help you keep order if you request, based upon the circumstances you present him. Nonplussed, Matthews toyed with his spoon.

Finally he looked up. That’s the best answer I can give you, General. We can’t guarantee you that individuals, white or Indian, won’t misbehave. You’ll have to deal with those instances on a case-by-case basis as they occur. And request assistance from Fort Gibson, if needed, he added lamely.

Again, Watie put on his glasses and read the document all the way through, before handing it to Captain Rogers. Otherwise, he studied Matthews, these provisions appear to be generous.

Thank you, General, Matthews sighed audibly. "I’m sure you’ll have