Frederick Sovereign Wade was born November 5, 1836 in Ontario, Canada but spent most of his early life in Illinois. He came to Texas in 1857. Although a resident of Williamson County, he joined Company E (Milam County Guards), 4th Texas Cavalry on September 9, 1861. This unit took part in Sibley's New Mexico Campaign. While in New Mexico, Wade was assigned to the regimental artillery known as Reily's Battery. He served with this organization from February 9 to April 29, 1862. Later in the war, he joined McNelly's Scouts which was attached to Green's Cavalry Division in Louisiana. He was captured in 1864 and confined for the remainder of the war in the prison camp at Elmira, New York. After the war, Wade was a member of Green's Brigade Association and attended many of their reunions.
The following articles appear to have been published in the Elgin Courier in 1925. While the basic story is factual, some of the information is incorrect. Wade claims that Reily's battery was formed after the battle of Val Verde but it was actually organized before the troops left Texas. He further states that two batteries of artillery were captured in that battle, but historical accounts only mention one. Wade refers to his commanding officer as Captain Reily but he was a lieutenant. Wade also claims to have been a lieutenant in this battery but his service record shows that he was only a private. Lieutenant Jim Jones has not been identified. The statement that Reily went to Mexico after the battle of Val Verde is not true. Reily, not F. S. Wade, commanded the battery during the skirmishes at Albuquerque and Peralta (Connelly's Ranch). In the latter engagement, Wade puts the number of Union soldiers killed at over 500. In reality, there were only a few casualties on each side.
Much of this story involves the Armijo family of Albuquerque, New Mexico. The Armijo brothers, Manuel and Rafael, were Confederate sympathizers. However, the individuals mentioned by F. S. Wade have not been identified.
The text is presented here as it appears in the original newspaper articles except for a few typesetting and form errors which have been corrected.
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Chapter 1.
By F. S. Wade.
The battle of Val Verde was fought on the 21st of February, 1862. Val Verde means Green Valley. This was the first battle that I was ever in. Our forces were about equal, thirty-five hundred each, but the Federals were regular soldiers, well armed with modern equipments, while we were Texas cowboys, armed with old citizens rifles, double barrel shot guns and six shooters. The day before the battle, we marched over a high mesa east of Ft. Craig without water. When we reached the river the enemy had it in possession and we were cut off. We were driven back three times. The whole Federal army, artillery and all had crossed. A boy from east Texas, by the name of John Norvel, said, "Fred we are whipped." "Yes," I said, "It seems so." He fell down on my lap and moaned, "I will never see my dear father again." Then a young man by the name of Major Lockridge came riding down our line, waving his sword and shouting, "Charge." We leaped from behind sand dunes and cotton wood trees, rushed forward like a lot of school boys getting a holiday, yelling with all our might. The Federal artillery over shot us cutting great limbs off the cotton wood trees, but I know but one man who was killed in the charge, our gallant leader, Major Lockridge. When we were within forty yards of the Federal battle line, we halted and turned loose a deadly volley from our shot guns. That battle line melted away like wheat before a reaper. Away they went to the Rio Grande, which was two hundred yards wide running much ice and waist deep. We filled it full of our dead enemies. A large man in the middle of the river made the Masonic grand hailing sign of distress. We Masons all yelled out, "Don't shoot that big man." A moment later he toppled over and went floating down stream. The next day we learned that Ft. Craig, five miles below the battle grounds raised the white flag, but we did not know it in time to take possession.
In the morning after the battle, we buried fifty nine of our dead boys, wrapped in their blankets, in a long ditch, firing a salute over the graves. The Federals sent a flag of truce and gathered up many wagon loads of their dead and wounded. Amongst many other captures were two batteries, one the celebrated Val Verde battery afterward commanded by J. D. Sayers now ex-governor of Texas, living in Austin, and a mountain howitzer battery that was placed in command of Cap. Reiley [Reily], myself 1st Lieutenant and Jim Jones 2nd Lieutenant. We began our march up the Rio Grande, greatly encumbered with wounded and sick men. On reaching little San Antonio, fifteen miles east of Albuquerque, Cap. W. P. Hardeman, afterwards Gen. Hardeman, old 'Gotch' as we familiarly called him, was ordered with his company to take the sick and wounded down to Albuquerque and establish a hospital and my battery was to escort him. Cap. Reily had been sent with his father from Val Verde to Mexico to procure supplies. That left me in command of the battery.
On arrival at the town we were met by the Mayor Senor Armiho [Armijo], who told Cap.
Hardeman that he had procured an old church as a hospital, and he asked me to take my battery to his coral, which I did. There were, say, five acres with a high adobe wall around it, several vacant houses and a large two story, flat roofed, stone house in the north east corner of the coral which he said was his residence. This was a splendid camp, especially the vacant houses, for we had no tents.
After we got rested I ordered the company out to drill. Some of the boys said that there were two beautiful girls on the roof of the Mayor's house watching us. I asked an old Mexican who they were he said they were Senor Armicho's [Armijo's] beautiful daughters, Senoritas Inez and Oneta. I faced the company about and saluted the ladies. They waved their handkerchiefs. The next day I ordered the company out to drill, the whole roof was covered with spectators, but the next day the wind was off the Rocky mountains, cold and snowing. The two young ladies of the first day were there wrapped in Navaho blankets to their chins. It was so cold that I soon ordered the company to their quarters.
Then Jim and I held a consultation. We called at the store of Senor Armiho [Armijo] and thanked him for our fine camping place. Then we told him that we were two lonely young men, that his beautiful daughters had honored us by their presence at our drills, and if he were willing, that we would like to be introduced to them. He laughed a jolly laugh, then said, "If you two boys are half as anxious for an acquaintance as my silly girls are to get to meet you the sooner the agony will be ended. I will send my son Paul, to conduct you to supper tonight." We thanked him, hurried to our camp, brushed our best clothes, turned a pot over, got a corn cob and blacked our shoes, shining them with a rag.
At dusk young Paul came to our quarters and conducted us up a long flight of stone stairs on the east of the building. At the top was a kennel in which was a fierce looking bull dog. Paul said no one could pass the dog without a fight unless some of the family were present. At the door the old Senor met us, first introduced us to his wife, a tall gray haired lady, then to his two daughters, Senoritas Inez and Oneta. As I took Senorita Inez hand I looked at the most beautiful woman I ever saw. I have never seen her equal since and never will in this world. She did not withdraw her hand, I felt its pulsation race thru my whole body like some far away sweet music. I thanked her for honoring my company with her presence at our drills. She said she had always loved to see soldiers drill, especially artillery. I expressed my surprise to hear her speak English so perfectly. She said when she was six years old her father had been appointed Mexican Minister to Washington and was not recalled until she was eighteen. Then he had sent the two girls to the academy of music at Philadelphia where they graduated two years later, then six months ago had come to their home here. Then supper was announced. Senorita Inez placed me on her mother's right, the seat of honor in a Mexican household. The table was ornamental with old china and silverware, and was elaborate. After supper the old lady ordered Senorita Inez to serve coffee. As she bent over me to fill my cup her glorious black hair fell on my face and neck. Talk about shell shocks, one hundred volts of electricity, nothing ever thrilled me so before.
After supper we retired to the parlor when the young ladies with their brother Paul, and Jim Jones gave us good old Southern music for an hour. Then as now, I could not sing a little bit. While the music was in progress, I noticed some fine old paintings hanging on the wall and asked the old lady to explain them to me. She said that her English was so imperfect, that I must wait until the music ended then she would call one of the girls. After awhile, the Senor said that he and Paul had some office work to do, but that they would return in less than an hour. In the meantime the ladies would entertain us. The old lady called Senorita Inez to explain the paintings to me. On reaching the fourth picture I exclaimed, "Boabdil the Unlucky." The old lady rushed up to me and asked what I knew about Boabdil the Unlucky. I said that I had recently read Washington Irving's "Conquest of Granada" and "The Capture of the Alhambra." She said that she was born in the Alhambra and that her mother was a Moorish princess of the house of Boabdil, but that her father left them when she was a child and emigrated to Mexico. She had heard but little since about the land of her nativity. It seems to me that I never saw a woman more excited than she was, as she asked question after question about Boabdil and the Moorish chivalry. Then the old man and his son came in and asked where his youngest daughter was. I said that a few minutes ago I saw her and Lieutenant Jones go out in the hall. He seemed greatly excited and called me to the hall door, having my hat in one hand and Jim's in the other. He said, "They have gone down stairs together, for Jones could not pass the dog unless one of the family guarded him."
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Chapter 2.
By F. S. Wade.
As we opened room after room in the lower story of the building, the old Senor became more and more excited. At last we found the truants sitting at a table, the girl holding up a piece of cloth for Jim's inspection. The Senor spoke very harshly in Spanish to his daughter. She sprang up and said, "Papa I asked Lieut. Jones to come with me to our work room that I might show him some of my drawn work." He ordered her to go up stairs to her mother. She ran out of the room crying, then he approached Jim and handed him his hat, and said, "You infamous scoundrel, don't ever darken my door again." Jim sprang at him in a white heat, but I caught him by the arm and hurried him to our quarters.
The next morning I called at the Senor's office and expressed my regret at the episode of Lieut. Jones and his youngest daughter. His face darkened as he said, "Please don't call it an episode, it was a tragedy. Do you know that if the people of this city knew that my girl went to an unoccupied part of the house with a strange man unchaperoned by some of the family, her good name would be forever ruined, and the rest of my family would be ostracized. God will surely send a swift and awful judgment on this nation for permitting their girls and boys to parade the streets at night going to shows, theatres and dances, or sitting in darkened rooms."
"Sodom and Gomorrah were submerged and destroyed on account of their immorality. So was Babylon the great, Greece and Rome suffering the same fate, and in less than a hundred years God's vengeance will be poured out on the American people. A stronger and purer race will supercede us."
Then I asked him if I was also barred from visiting his home. He said, "No, no, my wife talked me to sleep last night about the Alhambra and Boabdil and Moorish Chivalry, and was still talking this morning and if you don't visit her to tell her more, she will hunt you up in your quarters, because she is a Moorish Princess."
When I returned to my quarters I found an order from Col. Green requiring me to send Lieut. Jones with two pieces of battery and twelve men to Santa Fe to reinforce him. At twelve o'clock he was gone. At dusk I saw the girls at the foot of the stairs waving at me. Upon meeting them, they escorted me upstairs to their mother where the subject of the Alhambra was opened up again and we talked until midnight. The next two weeks were very happy weeks to me. In the mornings the Senoritas and I took long horse-back rides over the beautiful country around Albuquerque. One day I was sitting on a rock under the shade of a Pinion tree with Senorita Inez, I looked up at her suddenly and said, "Inez. I love you." A curious smile came on her face and she said, "You've told me that one thousand times before." Said I, "When did I ever tell you that?" Said she, "The first time we were introduced you held my hand and looked into my eyes with eyes that love to eyes that spoke again. The pulsation of your hand rushed thru me in a torrent and I knew then that you loved me, for eyes and hands speak more truthfully than lips." Then I said, "Do you love me?" and she replied, "Forever more."
I clasped her in my arms and touched her lips with mine. She pushed me away. "After we are married you may kiss me galore, but not until then."
A few days afterwards the old Senor said, "Back in the mountains about fifteen miles, there is a cave that has been inhabited by a prehistoric race. I want you to join me and some other friends in inspecting it." A party of about thirty, some soldiers amongst them started at sunrise to the cave. We had lanterns and entered the cave and there we saw many paintings in a dull amber red, some animals that are now in existence and some that are entirely extinct. But the most wonderful thing was the paintings of themselves. They were pictured about 4½ feet high, very large limbs and very full chests, possessing apparently much muscular vigor. But the most wonderful thing about them, all were painted with six toes upon each foot and six fingers upon each hand. At last he carried me to a cave where it seemed that an evolution had taken place, for the pictures represented them as a foot taller, and more slender of limb with five fingers and five toes. Out in the beautiful sunshine, a lunch was spread from hamper baskets that had been carried by mules from the city. While we were enjoying the feast, we saw a horseman riding from toward Albuquerque full speed. On arrival he exclaimed, "Every soldier and every man capable of bearing arms is ordered by Cap. Hardeman to his post." He said that a considerable federal force was coming down the mountain from the direction of Fort Union evidently with the intention of capturing the hospital. Every man sprang to his horse, Senor Armiho [Armijo] with the balance, leaving the lunch half finished. Upon reaching the city fear was on every face. Capt. Hardeman had not only ordered his own company, but every man out of the hospital able to bear arms, and every citizen who would bear arms to go to our defence. I ordered my battery to a sand dune, three miles east of the city where I awaited the approach of the enemy. They soon came into open view and seemed to be about eight hundred men. I at once unlimbered my guns and sent twenty-four well directed shots in quick succession. At the same time, Hardeman's force appeared on my left and commenced a desultory musket firing. The federals evidently thought they had cut off more than they could chew, and suddenly took flight. The next two days, I was the hero of the town, for I had saved the hospital from capture. Then came an order from Col. Green to prepare to evacuate Albuquerque and the hospital in the morning, and said that he was on a retreat thru Albuquerque followed by five times his number in well armed Pike's Peakers.
Chaos prevailed in the town, but we were ready in the morning. I went to the Armiho [Armijo] residence to bid my sweetheart good-bye. There I was told that the old Senor, his wife and two daughters had left the midnight before in their carriage followed by two peons with wagon loads of furniture.
After we abandoned the hospital and bid farewell to our poor, sick and wounded boys, the wife of Gen. Canby, the federal commander, at once took charge of the hospital, organizing the ladies of Albuquerque in a kind of Red Cross Association and nursed the most of our boys back to health and life. Months afterward, as they came straying into camps, being paroled, everyone blessed the love of Mrs. Canby. She was a mother to all the boys, and had nursed and loved them as tho' they had been her own.
By ten o'clock that morning, Col. Green arrived with his force and we at once abandoned Albuquerque. That day I overtook Senor Armiho [Armijo] and his family in their carriage. I asked him why he had abandoned his home and business in Albuquerque and had fled. He said that he had been out-spoken in favor of the South since the out-break of the war, and if he had stayed he would have been captured and thrown into jail for disloyalty and that he had preferred liberty to life imprisonment. That he had a good home in the city, Chihuahua which he hoped to reach. While talking to the Senor, I held my Inez's hand in mine all the time.
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Chapter III.
By F. S. Wade.
The second night after we abandoned Albuquerque, we camped at an Indian town called Isleta. The 4th regiment and the artillery were on the West side of the Rio Grande, the rest of the brigade on the opposite side. Forty Indians wanted to join our command, but we had no arms for them. As we started down the river the next morning, news came that the Federals were threatening an attack on the East side. We were ordered to cross to reinforce Green. On crossing, we found Green entrenched in Conoly's [Connelly's] Ranch, about forty acres having an adobe wall five feet high around it. The artillery took position in the North-west corner of the ranch. The forty Indians had followed my battery and climbed up in the tall cotton wood trees over us.
I never saw such grim determination on the faces of men. Five times our number were charging us. Fifty miles down the river was Ft. Craig, with an enemy force equal to our own. We had but little ammunition. This was to be a fight to the finish. I wonder if the gallant French army at Verdun who said, "They shall not pass" had not the same look that our men had. The Federals made charges, but the adobe walls protected our boys. As the enemy got near, a deadly fire met them and they fell back. Then their artillery took possession in the front of our guns and opened fire. The Indians had climbed the tall cotton wood trees to see the battle. The Federals shells exploded in the tops of the trees. The Indians let all "holts" go and down they tumbled. An old chief was thirty feet above my battery. Down he came, striking the ground on the back of his neck. I ran to him, thinking that he was killed, but up he jumped, and away he went. We saw our volunteers no more. We returned the artillery fire with effect, soon silencing their batteries. Then the enemy sounded a retreat. We learned after the battle of Conoly's [Connelly's] Ranch that their loss was over five hundred men killed; our loss was small, as we were so well protected by the adobe wall.
After the battle was over, our whole army crossed to the West side of the river, continuing our retreat. The next night, we camped at the mouth of the Salt Canon. There a council of war was held, and all our wagons were to be burned and I was ordered to bury my battery in the head of a canon three-quarters of a mile from our camp. We took the guns off their carriages and put all six of them side by side, piling many tons of stones over them. They have never been found.
Then we began our dreadful retreat through the high mountains. The Val Verde Battery we carried thru. That morning I overtook the Armiho [Armijo] family, all on bareback horses. The old Senora was crying bitterly. She said that if she only had a saddle she could stand it better.
That afternoon we saw something running. One of the boys had a spy glass, and after taking a look, said it was a bear. I got permission to take four men and try to kill it as we had nothing to eat. We five started full speed, one of the boys out rode the rest of us and emptied his six shooter in the bear just as it reached a brushy knob near a large mountain. Four of the boys dismounted and followed the bear; I rode around the knob, hoping to get a shot on the other side of the knob. I dismounted and soon saw the bear lying down looking back where I could hear the boys. I shot him in the neck, killing him. The boys came up and we soon had old Grizzly's hide off and quartered. We put the tallow off the entrails, the heart, lungs and brains in the hide and put it on one of our horses. Then a quarter on each of the other horses, and led our horses to camp t__ miles off. You can imagine what a feast we had. I slipped about t__ pounds of the bear steak to the Armiho [Armijo] family. We named the camp "Bear Springs." The next day, some of the boys killed two more bears.
In the morning, I got a message from Senor Armiho [Armijo] that some enemy had turned all his horses loose and that they had been followed to the Federal lines. We continued our march through the roughest mountains I ever saw. It was ten days after before I could find the Armiho [Armijo] family. The old man and the two peons were loaded with blankets and provisions; the old Senora was stumbling along between her two daughters and all three were weeping, the Senora saying she could not live the day out. I halted the party and said, "Senor Armiho [Armijo], you and your family have been very dear friends of mine while I was in Albuquerque. Now I want to show my gratitude. I have a large, absolutely gentle horse. I am going to put the Senora in my saddle and your daughters behind her. You can return him to me at El Paso." Then I lifted the old lady and put her in my saddle and the girls behind her. She called on all the saints to bless me. I bid all good-bye. As Inez took my hand she bent over as almost to touch her lips to mine. I never wanted to kiss a girl so before in my life, but I remembered how mad the old Senor got at Jim Jones for a much less offense. I never saw my dear Inez again.
Many days later, we reached the mouth of Lamosa Canon far below Ft. Craig on the Rio Grande where we met Col. and Capt. Reiley [Reily] with many mule loads of provisions and some clothing that they had procured in Old Mexico. You can imagine what a feast we had, for we had had but little to eat since the mountain retreat began. The Federals had abandoned the pursuit.
One of Senor Armiho's [Armijo's] peons brought my horse to me stating that he had procured a wagon and had gone on his way to Chihuahua. I felt mighty glad to get in the saddle again, but happier when the man handed me a letter from my Inez. It was a sure enough love letter. She said that she dreamed of me every night, and thought of me every hour in the day, and that her mother prayed to all the saints to bless and care for me. She hoped that we would soon meet never to part again in this world.
We marched slowly down the river to El Paso, where we took a long rest. There we got the first and only pay that we ever received while in the Confederate army—$62.00 each, in Confederate money. Also some clothing that the English had smuggled through Mexico and the best pair of English army shoes that I ever wore.
After we had rested some two weeks, one of the boys came up to me and said, "Fred, I have a silver dollar in this hand and a letter for you in the other. When you take the letter, the dollar is mine." He handed me the letter.
It was from Senor Armiho [Armijo], who gave me a street and number in El Paso where he was waiting for me, and telling me to meet him there at nine o'clock in the morning, for he had something of great importance to say to me. "Destroy this letter and meet me tomorrow morning."
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Chapter 4.
By F. S. Wade.
At nine o'clock I met Senor Armiho [Armijo] at this hotel in El Paso. He embraced me as friends did in Old Testament days and as friends do now in Mexico. We entered his room in the hotel.
He said he wanted to have a long talk with me. "You have often said that you are a Northern boy and that all your interests are in the North except your love for the South. Now I want to be candid with you. I also love the South, but I fear that we will lose. We have five million white people in the South, and there is five times that many in the North. They have the army, navy, training and the sympathy of the civilized world. Slavery is the issue and I feel sure that it must go. Our only hope was recognition by England and France, but that hope is gone. You are endangering your life for a lost cause. Now about myself. For generations my family have lived in Chihuahua. While I was in Washington my oldest son managed my business there very successfully. The stock of goods is worth forty thousand dollars, the store house twenty and my residence as much, besides I have ranch property worth two hundred thousand. Recently I deeded my Albuquerque property to my youngest son, Paul, and to my wife, my oldest son and my two daughters, my Chihuahua property, share and share alike. My daughter, Inez and my wife sent me to take you home with me. When you and Inez marry her part will be yours, and my wife will immediately deed you her part of the estate if you agree for her to spend the rest of her life with you. You know that it would be impossible for the Confederates to arrest you for desertion. What will you get? A splendid estate and a wife who loves you, who has said a thousand times that you are the only man that she will ever marry. The proposition is up to you. They have sent me after you."
I walked across the floor several times, then said, "Senor when I was mustered in the Confederate army a year ago, in the old Alamo in San Antonio, I took a solemn oath that I would serve faithfully in the Confederate army until the close of the war. I cannot go back on that oath, but when the war is over tell Inez that she may look for me if she is yet unmarried." He sprang up and said, "The more I want you for a son-in-law, don't doubt but that she will be waiting for you. If you should change your mind before the close of the war, cross the Rio Grande to the arms of your bride."
At last the war was over. I wrote to Inez that if she had not changed her mind, I would be in
Chihuahua as soon as I made enough money to buy a wedding suit. She answered, "Oh my love, appoint a time when you can meet me in San Antonio, and father and I will be there with money enough for a dozen wedding suits, and we will be married there, and take you home with us."
I got a school at the Garwood school house five miles South of where Elgin now is, planning to go to Chihuahua when I got my wedding suit. Then one day a curious thought struck me. My family were all Protestants, my dear Inez was part Catholic and part Mohammedan. If I married Inez I would expect her to bare me children. What a mongrel race they would be, Spanish, Mexican and Moorish. I could not drive this out of my mind. Then I met Miriam Ocenia Billingsley, eighteen years old, the daughter of Elisha Billingsley and the niece of Capt. Jesse Billingsley, the last surviving Captain of the battle of San Jacinto. We married and she bore me many children. When God took her away, I married another Bastrop county girl, Bettie Chandler. She has been my good angel every since. May God spare her until I am taken away. Inez seems to me now like a beautiful star fading further and further away. I know that I will never meet her here, but will I see her in Heaven? She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw.
Source: Fred S. Wade Papers, ca. 1820-1930, The Center for American History, The University of Texas at Austin.
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