Buffalo Soldiers | The Last to Leave | 3
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A listener note, this episode contains graphic descriptions of racial violence and may not be suitable for everyone. Imagine it's April 6th, 1880, and you're a cadet at the U.S. Military Academy in West Point, New York. You're sitting up in a bed at the infirmary. Last night, you were brutally attacked by three masked men in your dormitory. Your head is pounding and you can feel bruises forming on your neck where you were choked.

Lieutenant Colonel Henry Lazell approaches your bed and you brace for an interrogation. Good morning, sir. I need you to explain what happened last night, cadet. Don't leave anything out. It's just like I said before, sir. Three men beat me and slashed at my hands and face. They tied me to the bed and I passed out from the pain. That's all I can remember. And who were these attackers? I have no idea, sir. Well, what did they look like?

You almost laugh at the absurdity of the question. I already told you, sir. They wore masks. I couldn't see their faces. Why would anyone want to hurt you? What did you do? I don't know. Nothing. You swallow hard. Lizelle looks at you with suspicion and disdain. You've seen that look a thousand times since you've arrived at West Point. It's clear he doesn't believe you.

LaZelle pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and holds it up. Your commanding officer passed this on to me. Why didn't you mention a threatening note when I visited your room this morning? I didn't find the note until after you left, sir. Or perhaps you wrote the note yourself after we examined your room this morning, to cover your tracks. Wait a minute. You really think I did this to myself? Why would I do that? To win sympathy?

You shake your head, fighting to control your rising frustration. Please, sir. I really think you should be out finding the attackers. I have nothing more to tell you. Go back to class, cadet. We'll talk again soon. You have no choice but to obey. So you push yourself out of bed, wincing as you straighten up to salute Lizelle.

You begin to stagger out of the infirmary, cold knot forming in your stomach. You've endured years of harassment and isolation, and you've never felt so alone. Still, you refuse to give up.

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In the spring of 1880, West Point authorities accused a Black cadet of staging a brutal attack on himself to win sympathy. Once again, a Black cadet faced widespread hostility and distrust while battling to be accepted at the nation's leading officer training school.

And meanwhile, in West Texas, West Point's first Black graduate faced difficulties of his own when a careless mistake led to a court-martial for embezzlement while the rest of the Buffalo soldiers of the 9th and 10th Cavalries grappled with systemic racism while enduring relentless warfare on unforgiving desert terrain. They fought against skilled Apache warriors determined to resist displacement from their ancestral lands. And they stood guard during the final campaign of the Indian War's

But when their service was no longer needed, they found themselves cast aside by their country. This is Episode 3, The Last to Leave. On the morning of April 6, 1880, a black West Point cadet named Johnson Chestnut Whitaker failed to appear at morning roll call.

He was found unconscious in his room. His arms and legs were tied to his bed. His ears had been slashed with a razor, and his hair had been shorn in several places. He was covered in blood that also splattered the floor and the door to the room.

Whittaker was born enslaved in Camden, South Carolina. After the Civil War, his mother sent him to a school set up by Northern missionaries. And after attending the University of South Carolina, he won a congressional appointment to West Point and passed his entrance exams in 1876. During his first year at the military academy, he roomed with Henry Ossian Flipper, who became the first Black cadet to graduate from West Point the following year in 1877.

West Point was home to the U.S. Military Academy, the training ground for America's future military leaders. Nestled along the banks of the Hudson River in West Point, New York, it served as the gateway to becoming a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army. It was founded in 1802, but it did not accept Black cadets until 1870. And the handful of Black men who first attended West Point faced the same high standards and rigorous training as their white classmates—

Upon graduation, they would lead troops as commissioned officers, putting their lives on the line to serve their country. But the environment they encountered at West Point was charged with hatred. Like the two black cadets who had preceded him, Whitaker faced hostility and abuse from his white classmates, culminating in the violent attack Whitaker experienced in April 1880, just weeks before he was set to graduate.

The cadet who found Whitaker unconscious in his dorm room ran for help and summoned a doctor to examine him. After noticing a flicker in Whitaker's eyelids, the doctor decided Whitaker was exaggerating or faking his injuries. Lieutenant Colonel Henry M. Lazelle, the commandant of cadets at the academy, arrived on the scene and commanded Whitaker to get up and be a man.

Whitaker rose and limped to the wash basin, and then began to recount what happened. He said that in the middle of the night, three men wearing cadet gray seized him by the throat and choked him until he almost suffocated. Then he reported that he was struck on the left temple and on the nose with something hard. The attackers overpowered him and threw him to the floor, and there one of them slashed his earlobes, declaring that they wanted to mark him like they do hogs down south.

Finally, the attackers tied him to the bed and warned him to stay silent about what had happened.

After interrogating Whitaker about the attack, Liesel sent him back to class. And despite Whitaker's detailed account of the attack and his serious injuries, West Point authorities quickly made up their minds that he had staged the incident. Liesel led the investigation and accused Whitaker of inflicting his own wounds, cutting his hair and binding himself. He even had Whitaker's soiled room and blood-stained clothes cleaned, destroying what could have been illuminating evidence. Then he offered Whitaker a choice—

withdraw from the Academy outright, or face a court inquiry into the matter. Whitaker chose the Court of Inquiry, similar to a grand jury investigation, which convened on April 9th. The case dragged on for weeks, and Whitaker's ordeal became a national news story. West Point superintendent gave a series of interviews with major newspapers, casting doubt on Whitaker's account, and the press debated his guilt and offered competing theories on what had actually happened.

In the meantime, the court of inquiry decided to bar Whitaker from attending the sessions. So his knowledge of the proceedings that would determine his fate was limited to what he read in newspapers or overheard in the halls. Yet despite the stress and isolation, Whitaker remained composed. Even the Army and Navy Journal, the military's main media organ, praised his nerve, coolness, self-possession, and defensive power that excited astonishment amongst all.

Then, finally, at the end of May 1880, the Court of Inquiry issued a report concluding that Whitaker had staged the attack, and U.S. President Rutherford B. Hayes ordered that Whitaker be tried by court-martial. In June 1881, Whitaker was once again found guilty, and he was sentenced to expulsion from West Point and dishonorable discharge from the military.

The case would later be overturned by President Chester Arthur, who cited procedural issues. But it made no difference. Citing an exam he had failed in the weeks after his attack, West Point finalized Whitaker's dismissal and he would not graduate. Commenting on the case, newspapers like the Washington Post compared Whitaker's character to that of another black cadet, former roommate Henry Ossian Flipper.

The Post wrote that many consider Whitaker ignorant and low in all his instincts. By contrast, the newspaper described Flipper as gentlemanly, intelligent, and brave. But within weeks, Flipper would find himself, pending his own court-martial, confined in a six-by-four-foot cell in Fort Davis, Texas.

Flipper was a second lieutenant in the 10th Cavalry, and America's first black commissioned officer, a promising start in the Army. After fighting in Victorio's War, he won praise from both his commanding officer Nicholas Nolan and 10th Cavalry Commander Colonel Benjamin Grierson. In the fall of 1880, Flipper was transferred to Fort Davis in West Texas, where he served as quartermaster and commissary officer, responsible for managing the store's cash.

During that time, he developed a close friendship with a white woman named Molly Dwyer, the sister-in-law of Nolan. The pair often went horseback riding together, but things took a turn in the spring of 1881, when Colonel William Shafter took command of Fort Davis. Shafter had a reputation as a harsh commander, and his former company, the All Black 24th Infantry, had leveled several harassment and misconduct charges against him.

So that July, when Flipper discovered a large shortage in the commissary funds caused by his sloppy bookkeeping and willingness to extend credit, he feared Shafter's severe judgment and tried to cover up the mistakes by writing a personal check for $1,440 to replace the missing money.

Flipper had recently published an autobiography about his time at West Point called The Colored Cadet, and he believed that royalties from the sales of this book had been deposited in a bank account in San Antonio, and that there would be more than enough to cover the shortfall. Unbeknownst to Flipper, there were no funds in his name at the San Antonio bank. So without realizing it, Flipper had submitted a fraudulent check. His desperate attempt to cover up his mistake threatened to put his hard-won career in peril.

Imagine it's August 13th, 1881, a sweltering day in Fort Davis, Texas. You take a seat across the desk from Colonel William Shafter, the commander of the fort.

First Lieutenant Frank Edmonds stands in the corner, observing. You believe you know why Shafter summoned you to his office, so you try to keep your expression as neutral as possible as Shafter puts down his pen and levels you with a stern gaze. You presented me with a very large check for commissary funds yesterday. Yes, sir. $1,440. Why was it not in the list of checks you gave me two days ago? I forgot it, sir.

Fourteen hundred and forty dollars is a very large check for a man to forget, Lieutenant. It was an honest mistake, sir. I admit that bookkeeping is not my strong suit, but I promise you that everything has been accounted for now. I've mailed all the commissary checks. They're on their way to the bank as we speak. Shafter scratches his mustache and leans back in his chair. He creaks under the weight of his stout figure. I fear I may be doing you an injustice, Lieutenant. If that proves to be true...

I will sincerely regret it, but I must say I find your explanation lacking. I believe you have stolen the missing money. Your heart hammers in your chest so hard your certain Shafter can hear it. You try to keep your voice steady. Colonel, with all due respect, you are indeed doing me an injustice. I've served faithfully and with honor. I mailed the checks. I don't know how else to prove it. I don't enjoy this, Lieutenant.

but your story just doesn't add up. Schaffer sighs and locks eyes with the lieutenant standing by the door. Search his quarters. The lieutenant nods and exits the office. As he turned back to Schaffer, it feels like the room is spinning. Sir, is this really necessary? I hope I'm wrong. I really do.

You nod, but inside you're screaming. It seems unlikely that your superiors will believe that you didn't steal the money, but you have to fight the charges. You've worked too hard to get where you are to lose everything now.

Flipper planned to replace the missing money with his own funds. But before he had the chance, Shafter discovered the discrepancy. He accused Flipper of stealing the money and had him arrested for embezzlement. Flipper's friends pooled money to replace the missing funds, but it changed nothing. Shafter convened a court-martial in Fort Davis' chapel in September 1881.

During the proceedings, fellow soldiers and local white civilians testified to Flipper's good character. Colonel Grierson wrote a long letter praising Flipper and asking the court for leniency. He declared, "'Lieutenant Flipper's character and standing as an officer and gentleman have certainly been beyond reproach. Although he may have been careless and indiscreet and may have committed irregularities from want of experience, my confidence in his honesty of purpose has not been shaken.'"

Then, when Flipper himself came before the judges, he acknowledged the shortfall but insisted that he had no intention of defrauding the government. His defense attorney argued that the case was about something more than missing funds, telling the court, "...the question before you is whether it is possible for a colored man to secure and hold a position as an officer in the Army."

That question was answered in December 1881, when the court finally issued its verdict following months of testimony. Flipper was found innocent of embezzlement, but guilty of conduct unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman. He was promptly dismissed from the Army.

Despite appeals, President Arthur upheld the sentence, and Flipper would spend the rest of his life contesting the charges. He believed that he was a man marked for retribution when Colonel Shafter and other white officers noticed his developing friendship with Molly Dwyer, Captain Nolan's white sister-in-law.

So with the court-martials of Flipper and Whitaker, the U.S. Army was without a single black commissioned officer, and West Point was once again without a single black cadet. These two men's experience revealed how even the most determined struggled to escape the burdens of institutional racism within the Army.

And those burdens persisted into the 1880s, as Buffalo soldiers continued supporting the government's agenda of westward expansion. It was a policy that would enact a devastating toll on Native American lives. And in the years to come, these Plains Indians who resisted the Army's advance were betrayed, expelled from their homes, and forced to suffer deadly violence.

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In the fall of 1880, the death of the Apache leader, Victorio, helped restore peace to West Texas and New Mexico.

But a group of Victorio's followers had escaped capture, and they were determined to avenge their leader's death. Among them was an aging warrior known as Nana. He was 75 years old and walked with a limp, but he had a reputation as a fearsome fighter. And after Victorio's death, Nana took refuge in Mexico's Sierra Madre Mountains with 15 men. They spent months collecting guns and ammunition to plot their campaign of revenge.

And in July 1881, they crossed the border into the United States and began raiding farms, ranches, and army supply trains in the New Mexico Territory. Nana recruited more men along the way until his force numbered 40 warriors.

Their campaign quickly became a problem for the army and the Buffalo soldiers stationed in the region. General John Pope later complained, They rushed through the country from one mountain range to another like a pack of hungry wolves, killing everybody they met and stealing all the horses they could get their hands on.

That summer, Company I of the 9th Cavalry was stationed in Fort Craig, a lonely outpost on a main road between Mexico and New Mexico. Among the men there was a seasoned First Sergeant named Moses Williams. When Williams first enlisted in the Army in 1866, he could only sign his papers with an axe. But after learning to read and write in the Army, he was able to sign his name when he re-enlisted five years later.

By 1881, he had spent 11 years with the 9th Cavalry and had far more experience than his white commanding officer, Lieutenant George Burnett, who was just one year out of West Point.

And it was on August 16, 1881, while Company I was on patrol near Cuchillo, New Mexico, when a panicked Mexican man ran into their camp. He announced that Nana had murdered his family at a nearby ranch. Burnett, Williams, and 14 other soldiers hurried out and, when they arrived, discovered the mutilated bodies of a woman and three children.

The soldiers set off in pursuit and caught up with Nana and his band in the foothills of New Mexico's Cuchillo Negro Mountains. Bullets started flying from the rocks and crevices where the warriors had taken cover. Moses Williams led repeated flanking attacks, rallying his fellow troopers to regroup and keep fighting, and in so doing, forced the Apache to retreat deeper into the foothills. But still, the U.S. Army soldiers struggled to dislodge Nana's men completely.

Then, hours into the battle, 9th Cavalry reinforcements arrived at the scene. Their commander ordered the soldiers to fall back to a stronger position. Burnett, Williams, and another Buffalo soldier, Private Augustus Wally, held the Apache at bay while the remainder withdrew to a ridgeline behind them.

But then a voice cried out for help, and Burnett realized that three of his soldiers had been left behind at the front. They'd been pinned down behind prairie dog mounds 200 yards away and couldn't flee without exposing themselves to enemy fire. Burnett, Williams, and Wally jumped to the rescue, braving a storm of bullets to reach the stranded men and carry them to safety. Meanwhile, as night fell, Nana and his men disappeared into the hills.

Burnett, Williams, and Wally would eventually receive the Medal of Honor for risking their lives to rescue their comrades. Burnett praised Williams for his coolness, bravery, and unflinching devotion to duty that day. But their work wasn't done, and the 9th Cavalry kept up pursuit. By that fall, they drove Nana and his followers back across the Mexican border, and the task of subduing the final remnants of Apache resistance fell to other regiments, including Colonel Benjamin Grierson's 10th Cavalry.

The soldiers of the 10th Cavalry took up the pursuit of Geronimo, a medicine man and the last major Apache war leader. When Geronimo was a young man, Mexican soldiers massacred his wife, mother, and three young children. This experience instilled in him a deep-seated hatred for anyone who threatened his people's freedom. And he found a new enemy as the United States extended its reach into the Southwest.

In 1874, the U.S. government forcibly removed 4,000 members of Geronimo's tribe to the San Carlos Reservations in eastern Arizona. Soldiers dubbed the barren landscape Hell's Forty Acres because summer temperatures hovered between 100 and 120 degrees with no shade and little water or game.

These conditions made it impossible for the Apache to hunt or grow their own food, and U.S. government rations fell short. In 1877, the U.S. Army captured Geronimo and relocated him to San Carlos, but he refused to give up on his dream of securing his people's freedom. In the fall of 1881, he broke out of San Carlos with 75 followers.

They spent the next several years raiding the Southwest and sometimes killing civilians, all while evading Mexican and American forces, including the 10th Cavalry. His stamina became legendary. One white veteran remembered, Geronimo could march 70 miles during a night, fight all day, and appear no more weary than an ordinary man after an ordinary day's labor. In 1884, Geronimo agreed to return to the reservation, but he didn't stay long. Only a year later, in May 1885, he

He fled San Carlos again, this time with 130 followers. The army put thousands of soldiers into the field to hunt them down, and the men of the 10th Cavalry spent months in the saddle guarding watering holes and mountain passes with no success and having to endure extreme hardship.

One trooper recalled, "...in the fall of 1885, we encountered a very severe snowstorm. We got lost in the mountains for four days and we could not get out." This same soldier claimed later to have developed symptoms of scurvy, including the loss of teeth and a bladder disorder that affected him for the rest of his life. A blacksmith that served with the regiment would also later recall, "...that is where I lost my health in the line of duty, trying to protect my country."

Eventually, one quarter of the entire standing U.S. Army was deployed to track Geronimo and his tiny band. At last, in August 1886, Geronimo finally surrendered in exchange for the promise that he and his people would be allowed to return to Arizona after a period of exile in Florida.

The vast majority of Apache had remained on the San Carlos reservation during Geronimo's resistance, but army officials decided to punish the peaceful Indians along with Geronimo's followers. They too would suffer the pain of exile to a strange and distant land.

Imagine it's August 1886, and the afternoon sun is beating down on the dry, cracked earth of the San Carlos Reservation in Arizona. You're a soldier in the 10th Cavalry, and you and your fellow troopers are rounding up dozens of Apache families for relocation. You approach an older Apache man who sits in the shadow of the commissary, watching his grandson play nearby. It's time to go, old man. We have to take everyone north to the train station. The man looks up, his gaze defiant. We are not going.

I never did anything wrong. I followed the rules. I never left the reservation. You shift your stance, feeling uncomfortable. It ain't up to me. I'm just following orders. Where are you sending us? You're going to a new reservation in Florida. Florida? It's hundreds of miles east. Just think, you and your grandson will get to live near the ocean. No more dust, no more scorpions. You'll eat all the oranges you want. I reckon it'll be much better than this godforsaken place.

His stare is too much to endure, so you glance away, just as your commander rides up on his horse. You snap to attention and salute. Sir!

Stop wasting time, soldier. Get them moving. Yes, sir. The commander turns his horse around and rides off in the direction of another family. You return your gaze to the old man. If you don't come along, I'll be forced to make you. Don't make this any harder than it needs to be.

His drawn, hollow-eyed expression makes you wonder if he even heard you. But at last, he rises. The boy clings to his grandfather's pant leg as they walk toward the line of Apache families being ushered into wagons. You tell yourself it's just another order, that you're doing your duty. But the weight of your uniform suddenly feels unbearable.

After Geronimo's surrender, half of the companies of the 10th Cavalry were tasked with arresting and transporting 400 Apache men, women, and children to Holbrook, Arizona, where they would board a train bound for Fort Marion in St. Augustine, Florida. It was a place they considered even worse than San Carlos, far from their cherished homeland.

Later that fall, the 10th Cavalry captured the last hostile Apache chief on the Arizona frontier. This surrender marked the end of Apache resistance in the West. Several black soldiers received official commendations for their performance against the Apache. By then, more than a dozen Buffalo soldiers had carried out acts of bravery that would earn them medals of honor.

It was a record of service that made Grierson proud when he finally gave up his command of the 10th Cavalry in 1888. He recalled the regiment's splendid record of nearly 22 years' service to the government, in the field and at the most isolated posts on the frontier, always in the vanguard of civilization and in contact with the most warlike and savage Indians of the Plains.

Despite the outstanding service of Buffalo soldiers on the frontier, Black cadets at West Point still faced severe opposition. In 1889, Charles Young, the son of a Civil War veteran, became the third Black man to graduate from West Point, following Henry Ossian Flipper and another cadet named John Hanks Alexander. Twelve Black men had been admitted to the military academy since 1870, but violent harassment and discrimination had caused nine of those twelve to leave before they graduated.

And the advent of Jim Crow segregation ensured that Young would be West Point's last Black graduate for nearly half a century. Soon, Buffalo Soldiers would take part in the final chapter of the Indian Wars and the federal government's long and bloody quest to displace and subjugate Native people. But despite their service and sacrifice, their own opportunities for advancement and equality began to disappear. ♪

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From binge-worthy original series to blockbuster movies and live sports, everything you love is at your fingertips. Streamline your streaming today. Check out add-on subscriptions on Prime Video. By 1890, the United States had seized millions of acres from the Lakota Sioux, driven them from their homelands, and confined them to half a dozen reservations in the Dakotas.

The Lakota chafed under the restrictions of reservation life. White settlers and sport hunters had annihilated the buffalo they depended on. The once free-roaming people were forced to farm plains stricken by drought, leaving them no choice but to rely on government-issued rations for survival. But in 1889, Congress slashed the Lakota rations budget. Severe winter weather pushed families to the brink of starvation.

In this harsh environment, many Lakota became drawn to a spiritual movement called the Ghost Dance. It promised a future utopia in which Indians would be free from white oppression and a trance-inducing ritual that would allow Indians to glimpse this new world. The Ghost Dance swept through Sioux reservations in 1890. It was a peaceful movement, but the sight of large numbers of dancing Indians alarmed white settlers.

In November 1890, the new agent at the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota dashed off a panic letter to Washington demanding that the Army restore order. In November 1890, five companies from the 9th Cavalry and eight white units arrived at Pine Ridge and the neighboring Rosebud Reservation. Their presence frightened the Lakota and prompted hundreds of families to withdraw to a remote corner of Pine Ridge.

Tensions worsened after the Lakota learned that the influential leader's sitting bull had been killed by U.S. agents during a botched arrest attempt. Some fled Pine Ridge. The 9th Cavalry was ordered to track down the Indians who had escaped.

On December 29th, the soldiers of the 9th were still in pursuit when, 20 miles away from Pine Ridge at Wounded Knee Creek, the 7th Cavalry committed one of the most notorious massacres of Native Americans in U.S. history. The soldiers surrounded a Lakota camp and opened fire, killing as many as 300 Lakota. Most of the dead were unarmed, and many were women and children.

The day after this slaughter, furious Lakota warriors trapped the 7th Cavalry in a canyon and fired on them. Major Guy Henry and the soldiers at the 9th mounted their horses and hurried to the rescue. They charged and scattered the attackers, saving the white soldiers' lives.

The clash that day was the final battle between Buffalo soldiers and Native Americans. In the weeks that followed, the remaining Lakota returned to Pine Ridge and surrendered. Wounded Knee marked the end of Indian resistance to the U.S. Army. After decades of bloodshed, the Indian wars were over.

The White regiments quickly returned to their regular posts, but four companies of the Ninth Cavalry spent a frigid winter at Pine Ridge on guard duty. One private composed a poem calling out the injustice of their extended service in South Dakota, writing, We were the first to come, we'll be the last to leave. Why are we compelled to stay? Why this reward receive? In war barracks, our recent comrades take their ease, while we poor devils and the Sioux are left to freeze.

Finally, in March 1891, the troopers filed out of the reservation for the last time. But there was good news awaiting them. Major Henry was so impressed with the courage and effectiveness of the 9th Cavalry that he fought for the regiment to be rewarded with an assignment to the prestigious Fort Myer, located just outside Washington, D.C., in Virginia.

His efforts paid off when the 9th Cavalry's K Troop was stationed at Fort Myer in May 1891. The soldiers took pride in performing ceremonial burials at Arlington Cemetery and serving in the Presidential Parade Unit. The assignment of Buffalo soldiers to Fort Myer prompted the Army and Navy Journal to declare the death of prejudice against blacks in the Army.

Despite the Journal's optimism, Black and white soldiers would be kept segregated in the military for another 50 years. And in broader society, racial segregation would worsen in the late 19th century. In the 1890s, Southern states enacted ruthless Jim Crow laws to legalize discrimination and disenfranchise Black Americans. The 1896 Supreme Court decision Plessy v. Ferguson established the doctrine of separate but equal and gave Jim Crow the backing of the highest court in the land.

Still, black men continued to serve in the army after the Indian Wars. Buffalo soldiers were among the first National Parks Rangers. When America intervened in Cuba's struggle for independence from Spain, the 9th and 10th Cavalries joined Theodore Roosevelt and his Rough Riders in the famous charge up San Juan Hill. When the United States invaded the Philippines, West Point graduate Charles Young was named captain of a 9th Cavalry troop.

Despite their accomplishments, many veterans in the Indian Wars discovered that their struggles were not yet over. After leaving the Army, they would continue to fight for support and recognition.

Imagine it's September 1904 in Fort Robinson, Nebraska. You are a veteran of the 9th Cavalry, and for hours you've been seated in the waiting area of the Fort Hospital, avoiding the gaze of white soldiers and veterans who eye you suspiciously. You've come here today to see a doctor about your kidney condition. The nurse at the front desk tried to turn you away, but you refused to leave until you received care.

The nurse walks back into the waiting area, accompanied by a doctor wearing a crisp white coat. He looks like he's just out of medical school. What's the issue here? You stand and step toward him, trying to ignore the pain in your stiff knees. But he holds out his hand to stop you. Not so fast. Just tell me what's the matter. Good afternoon, doctor. I'm a veteran of the 9th Cavalry. I serve right here in Fort Robinson. It's my kidneys. Been having trouble for months now.

There's blood in my urine, my feet are swollen, I'm tired all the time. I'm hoping you could take a look. The doctor folds his arms and frowns. Sounds like kidney disease, all right. I'm afraid I can't help you. You best get yourself a train ticket to Washington, D.C. They'll treat you at the old soldier's home. Washington? That's more than 1,000 miles from here. I can't travel all the way to Washington, especially not like this.

Even if I had the money for a ticket, the trip would kill me. I understand it's inconvenient for you. Inconvenient? I gave years of my life to the army. To this very fort. Same as everyone else in this room. All I'm asking for is some medicine. And I'm telling you, if you want medicine, you can go get it in Washington, D.C. There's nothing I can do for you here. Can't or won't.

The doctor's gaze flicks to the white veterans in the seats beside you. I have other patients to see. He turns to help an older white veteran, and you lower yourself back into the hard chair, feeling the stares of everyone in the room. You're forced to reckon with the bitter truth that you've been forgotten by the very nation you served.

In 1904, a veteran Buffalo soldier named George Jordan sought treatment for kidney disease at the Army Hospital in Fort Robinson, Nebraska. Jordan had enlisted on Christmas Day, 1866. In the years that followed, he won promotions to corporal and sergeant and received a Medal of Honor for his bravery during the Victorio campaign. Despite his service, the doctor at Fort Robinson turned him away. He died soon after at the age of 57. He had just $11 to his name.

The fort's black chaplain wrote that Jordan had died for the want of proper attention. Even the most distinguished Buffalo soldiers found they had little to show for their sacrifices. The Army provided retired soldiers with transportation home, the possibility of a bed in the old soldier's home in Washington, and in some cases, a small pension. But it was far short of what most veterans needed in order to survive.

Reuben Walder was a 10th Cavalry veteran who'd taken part in the famous rescue of George Forsythe's White Scouts in 1868. Years later, he reflected, "...we were regular soldiers, and we had to make the West safe for the soldiers of the Civil War to get homesteads in and $72 per month pensions, while we poor regulars got nothing." Many of these veterans returned home to the South, where they faced racial violence, Jim Crow segregation, and limited economic opportunities.

Even so, Black men continued to enlist. Black soldiers served courageously in segregated regiments in World War I and World War II. It was not until 1948 that President Harry Truman finally desegregated the Army. Some of the Black regiments in World War I, World War II, and the Korean War wore buffalo insignia on their shoulder patches, calling back to the generation that paved the way for their service.

For 25 years after the Civil War, thousands of Black men faithfully carried out the nation's agenda of supporting westward expansion. In extreme conditions, they protected shelters, built roads, and laid telegraph lines. Complicating their legacy, they helped subjugate Native people and remove them from their homelands.

For many Black soldiers, service in the segregated military was one of the only available avenues for honor, dignity, and opportunity. But in the end, they found little reward for their dedicated service and sacrifice on behalf of their country. From Wondery, this is Episode 3 of our three-part series, Buffalo Soldiers from American History Tellers.

On the next episode, I speak with Lieutenant Colonel Rory Montgomery, an associate professor in the Department of History at West Point, and the co-editor of Race, Politics, and Reconstruction, the first Black cadets at Old West Point. ♪

If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.

American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham, for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Molly Bond. Music by Lindsey Graham. Voice acting by Ace Anderson. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton. Edited by Dorian Marina. Produced by Alita Rozanski. Managing producer is Desi Blaylock. Senior managing producer, Callum Clues. Senior producer, Andy Herman. And executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman, Marsha Louis, and Erin O'Flaherty for Wondery.

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