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Title: Cavalry life in tent and field
Author: Mrs. Orsemus Bronson Boyd
Release date: March 8, 2025 [eBook #75558]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: J. Selwin Tait & Sons, 1894
Credits: Peter Becker, John Campbell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAVALRY LIFE IN TENT AND FIELD ***
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
This book has only one Footnote and it has been placed close to its
anchor [1], in Appendix A.
Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.
[Illustration: (photo portrait of O. B. Boyd, with his signature)]
CAVALRY LIFE
IN
TENT AND FIELD
BY
MRS. ORSEMUS BRONSON BOYD
NEW YORK
J. SELWIN TAIT & SONS
65 FIFTH AVENUE
1894
COPYRIGHT, 1894,
BY
MRS. ORSEMUS BRONSON BOYD.
_All Rights Reserved._
C. J. PETERS & SON,
TYPE-SETTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS,
BOSTON, U.S.A.
CAVALRY LIFE
IN
TENT AND FIELD.
TO MY DEAR BROTHER
JAMES,
I Dedicate this Little Book
AS A FAINT TOKEN OF GRATITUDE FOR THE LOVE THAT
A WHOLE LIFETIME OF DEVOTION WOULD
NOT BE SUFFICIENT TO REPAY.
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
I take pleasure in directing attention to the kind and affectionate
tribute paid my husband, Captain Orsemus Bronson Boyd, and contained
in the Appendix of this volume. It is from the pen of a former
classmate, the gifted writer, Colonel Richard Henry Savage.
I trust my readers will not think this introduction too lengthy. The
perusal of it seems necessary to a proper understanding of my reasons
for describing, in the following pages, the pains, perils, and
pleasures experienced by land and sea in the various peregrinations
of a cavalry officer’s wife. With Colonel Savage’s testimonial it
furnishes a completeness to the narrative that would otherwise be
lacking.
* * * * *
In 1861, when every heart, both North and South, was fired by
military ardor, two brothers, named Amos and Orsemus Boyd, lived
in the small town of Croton, Delaware County, New York State.
Immediately on the declaration of civil war they experienced but one
desire—to join the Northern Army. The brothers had lost their mother
when very young, but the stepmother their father had given them
always endeavored to faithfully fill her place.
Additions to the family circle of a tiny boy and girl had only
cemented its happy relations. Amos and his brother were, however,
at the ages when boys welcome any escape from a life of wearisome
monotony. Farm life, with its endless routine of seed-time and
harvest, stretched before them a barren horizon. But neither was old
enough to enlist without his father’s sanction. Amos was less than
eighteen years of age, and his brother but sixteen. Months passed
before the father could be persuaded to give even a reluctant consent
to the fervid desire of his sons to join the army. Finally it was
gained, though he afterward sorely repented, and begged his wife to
also spare him from her side, that he might accompany his boys. He
could not endure the thought of his youthful sons departing for the
scenes of such dangers without his sheltering presence.
By what means Mrs. Boyd was induced to consent to her husband’s
enlistment can only be understood by those who recall the loyal
sentiments expressed by women in 1861. Our country was then aglow
with patriotism. As in the South women gave their nearest and dearest
to the cause, so in the North they were bereft of fathers, husbands,
sons and brothers. In the little town of Croton every family sent at
least one representative to the army, and many waved adieu to all
its male members. This left to women the severe tasks of cultivating
farms and rearing families.
The young stepmother of the lads in question not only lent her
husband to his country, but during the entire three years of his
absence tilled and tended the farm, and so well, that on his return
it had not only improved in appearance, but also increased in value.
It requires little imagination to picture the sad parting when father
and sons, after having enlisted in the Eighty-ninth Regiment New York
Volunteers, left the quiet little village to join the army.
The younger son was not at first permitted to act as a soldier on
account of his youth. Allowed to carry the flag at the head of
the command, his bravery and boldness caused his father incessant
anxiety. At the battle of Camden, when the second color bearer fell,
our young hero seized his flag and carried that also until the close
of battle. For such an act of bravery General Burnside summoned him
to headquarters, and sent him home on recruiting service.
Prior to this young Boyd had been with Burnside’s expedition off Cape
Hatteras, where for twenty-six days the soldiers had lain outside,
shipwrecked, and obliged to subsist on raw rice alone, as no fires
could be built. When they finally landed on Roanoke Island our young
lads were jubilant.
Orsemus took an active part in raising the One Hundred and
Forty-fourth New York Volunteers, and for numberless acts of bravery
was commissioned second lieutenant of Company D, September, 1862. By
reason of the senior officers’ absence he was for months, though but
eighteen years of age, in command of a company of soldiers in which
his father and elder brother were enlisted men. Perhaps no incident,
even in those stirring war times, was more unusual.
The young lieutenant’s father spent much time and effort in
endeavoring to restrain his young son’s ardor and ambition, which if
unchecked would no doubt have resulted either in rapid promotion or
an early grave. The lad knew no fear, and was always in the front of
battle. His name was again and again mentioned in “General Orders”
for “meritorious conduct.”
Sadder than their home leaving was the return, two years later,
of father and youngest boy, who went back to lay the remains of
their eldest son and brother in the grave beside his mother. Amos
had served his country well, and met the fate of many other brave
soldiers.
In addition to this sorrow the father constantly feared lest his
second son should also experience a soldier’s death; and while the
father’s heart glowed with pride at the encomiums lavished upon his
boy’s bravery, and the merited rewards it had already received, yet
the fear of losing him was strongest, and at that home coming a
compromise was effected.
The member of Congress from their district, desirous of finding
an acceptable appointee to West Point, chose the gallant young
lieutenant, who unwillingly accepted. Two years of active service had
proved his essential fitness for the profession of arms.
With a heart burdened with sorrow, and yet not entirely hopeless, the
father of two brave sons returned alone to his regiment, and finished
three years of service with our noble Army of the Potomac.
Orsemus Boyd entered West Point in June, 1863, after having spent
a short time in preparation. No doubt his years of service at the
front had given the lad ideas at variance with the whims of those
young men who had already passed their first year at the academy.
Any one who has been at West Point knows that a newly appointed
cadet, or “plebe” as he is called, is expected not only to bow before
his superior officers in the line of duty, but is compelled to endure
all slights and snubs that any cadet chooses to impose. In 1863 the
discipline in that respect was excessive.
The result, in the case of Mr. Boyd, was that he became unpopular
for refusing to submit to many annoyances. The climax was reached
when, after having fought with one cadet and come out the victor,
he refused—having demonstrated his courage and ability—to fight
with another, a man who had criticised the language used in the
heat of battle, and was consequently dubbed a coward. This, though
exceedingly trying to a person of his sensitive nature, was endured
with the same patience as were subsequent trials.
After the furlough year, which comes when the first long two years
of cadet life have passed, Mr. Boyd returned to West Point from that
most desired leave of absence, with renewed hope and courage. Two
months spent in his boyhood’s home, cheered and strengthened by the
love of many friends, enabled him to go back animated by fullest
intentions to ignore all disagreeables and calmly prepare for a life
of usefulness. But it was not to be.
Shortly after Mr. Boyd’s return he missed sums of money brought from
home, but said nothing about it, as he had few confidants and was
naturally reticent.
In the same class with Mr. Boyd was a man who had entered West Point
at the avowed age of twenty-five, though undoubtedly much older,
as his appearance indicated. During war time the extreme of age
for admission there, which before and since was and is limited to
twenty-two years, had been extended to twenty-five. This was done
in order to permit young men who had achieved distinction in real
warfare the opportunity of acquiring a military education. So this
man, named Casey, had entered at the acknowledged age of twenty-five.
He was absolutely impecunious, and belonged to an Irish family in
very humble circumstances. Mr. Boyd’s parents, whose ancestors had
fought in the Revolutionary War, were of pure and unadulterated
American origin. Yet the superior age and cunning of the elder man
unfitted the younger to cope with him. Always open and above board,
Mr. Boyd neither knew nor expected tricks of any kind, and hence was
not prepared to meet them.
Mr. Casey was compelled to procure money at all hazards. Before
entering West Point he had married. That fact, if known, would have
dismissed him at once from the academy, in accordance with the laws
governing that institution, which permit no cadet to marry. It
therefore became the object of Casey’s life to conceal all knowledge
of that which, if known, would have proved a potent factor in his
downfall. Consumed with ambition and the desire to reach distinction
in every social way, he assiduously cultivated the acquaintance of
all cadets who could in any manner help him upward.
In the academy at that time were several cadets, sons of very wealthy
parents, who, contrary to West Point rules, kept in their rooms at
barracks large sums of money. That was Casey’s opportunity, for
he had constant need of it with which to silence the wife who had
threatened his exposure. So great was the confidence of the academy
classmates in each other that the money was simply placed in a trunk,
to which all the clique had free access, and used as a general fund.
Government supplies cadets with all necessary articles, therefore
only luxuries need be purchased, and the limit of these is much
reduced by the absence of stores. So even to those generous young men
the disappearance of money in large sums became puzzling, and led to
inquiries which developed into suspicions, and a plan was formed to
mark some of the bills, and thus discover the evil-doer. Mr. Boyd,
by reason of his unpopularity, was unaware of these movements, and he
had told no one of his own losses.
The cadets had informed their immediate commandant that money was
constantly being stolen in the corps. Aghast at such a state of
affairs, he had authorized and selected a committee of eight—two
from among the eldest members of each company—to find and punish the
thief. In an unguarded moment the commandant had said:
“If you find the offender, you can deal with him as you deem
advisable.”
The most prominent member of the committee was Casey, himself the
real culprit. After a perfunctory search through quarters occupied by
other cadets, they reached Mr. Boyd’s, and found nothing to reward
their efforts. At that juncture Casey glanced upward at a pile of
books lying on some shelves, and said:
“Let us look in that large dictionary.”
None but a crowd of frantic boys could have failed to have observed
how promptly he had selected the veritable book in which the money
was found, where subsequent events, as well as his dying confession,
proved he had himself placed it.
Casey’s room, shared with Cadet Hamilton, was directly opposite that
occupied by Mr. Boyd, who roomed alone because of his unpopularity.
Mr. Boyd’s room was so unguarded and accessible, that no doubt Casey
had frequently entered it and taken money from the man whom he now
accused. Casey had skillfully sought to direct suspicion in every way
toward Mr. Boyd. Long had he wielded his baleful influence, to which,
though no one had observed it, all had succumbed.
The search took place at noon, when the main body of the corps were
at dinner. On Mr. Boyd’s return to his room he found it filled with
cadets, who madly accused him of the crime. White with horror and
shame unspeakable, he answered their charges in a way which would
have convinced any judge of human nature that he was entirely
innocent. Sinking to his knees, and raising his eyes to heaven, he
said:
“By the memory of my dead mother I swear I know nothing whatever of
this money!”
To any one who knew the young man’s tender, brave soul, and how
hallowed was the memory of his mother, that avowal would have
sufficed. But it was not an occasion for calm and deliberate
judgment. The supposed culprit had at last been found, and he was in
the hands of Philistines. No thought of mercy impelled any of those
young men to hesitate in their cruelty. With brute force—eight men to
one man—they placed Mr. Boyd in confinement until later in the day,
when at dress parade they could publicly and brutally disgrace him.
I now quote, from a published account by an eye-witness, the scene
which followed:
“It was a cold, sad, lusterless day. The air was full of snow
and the cold was bitter. Orders were given to fall into ranks
in the area of barracks for undress parade. The cadet adjutant
commanded: ‘Parade Rest.’ After a pause he continued: ‘Cadet
captains will place themselves opposite their respective company
fronts, and arrest any man who leaves the ranks.’
“There was an interval of the most profound stillness. Then above
the wind’s howling came the sound of tramping feet. Across the
broad porch of the barracks and down the steps came four cadets,
bearing between them a man’s form. They advanced along the
battalion’s front. As they turned, the adjutant raised his right
hand, and forthwith the drums and fifes beat and wailed out,
in unmelodious and unearthly harmony, the terrible tune of the
‘Rogue’s March.’
“On they came; and now I saw affixed to that man’s breast a large
white placard, and on it the words: ‘COWARD!’ ‘LIAR!’ ‘THIEF!’
The face above the words was marble white as the face of the
dead, but the wild, staring, blood-red eyes seemed to wail and
shrink in their horrible misery.
“The four cadets passed along the full length of the battalion,
and with their victim turned down the slope beyond the buildings
and disappeared.”
On their way to the South Dock the persecuted man broke away from his
accusers, but was warned to “beware” how he “ever set foot again
upon West Point,” and threatened with yet worse treatment should he
do so.
General Cullum was then in command at West Point. On that particular
evening he was returning from the direction of the dock toward which
those heartless cadets had driven Mr. Boyd, when he met the young man
face to face. Amazed at the temerity of a cadet who could boldly face
him in civilian’s attire, he halted and said:
“What do you mean, sir? Return at once to your quarters!”
The general’s first and most natural thought was that Mr. Boyd had
dressed himself in civilian’s clothes, and was stealing off the post
in search of amusement. But a second glance showed him a face full
of grief and shame—a countenance on which utter woe was depicted.
He took the young man at once to his own quarters, questioned him,
and found to his dismay that the cadets had perpetrated a most
unprecedented and cruel outrage.
General Cullum determined then and there that the matter should be
sifted to the bottom. Mr. Boyd was to be tried, and proven either
guilty or guiltless. His father was sent for, and the son allowed to
return home pending the investigation.
What greater sorrow can be imagined than that which then fell upon
this sorely stricken family? A young man who had faced the enemy’s
fire again and again, who had already won his shoulder-straps in
the very front of war’s alarms, to be charged with petty thievery,
untruth, and cowardice! His stepmother said:
“Had our son been accused of fighting hastily, perhaps too readily,
I could have believed him guilty. But for the sake of money Orsemus
never could have done wrong.”
Mr. Boyd had been supplied by his father with all the money he
wanted, and at his own request an account kept of it, which showed
that before this episode he had spent three hundred dollars—a large
sum in a place like West Point, where every need is supplied by
government.
The court of inquiry instituted by General Cullum resulted in a
verdict of “not guilty.” In the eyes of the cadets, whose insensate
cruelty had warped their judgment, it was simply a Scotch verdict of
“not proven;” and, though acquitted, the defendant was thenceforth a
disgraced and dishonored man.
Mr. Boyd remained at the academy nearly two years longer, until his
graduation in June, 1867. During all that time he was completely
ostracized, and, with one, or possibly two exceptions, never
exchanged one word with any cadet, all of whom regarded him as a
coward. But none can contemplate such a life without marveling at its
wonderful courage. Mr. Boyd had determined to graduate with honor,
and thus show the world that he possessed such bravery as would not
allow false charges to ruin his whole career.
I was introduced to him in 1866, and before our meeting had heard
the whole story. The first look into his frank and manly countenance
made me from that moment his stanch and true advocate. I was then
attending school in New York, but finished in July, and we were
married in October, three months after Mr. Boyd graduated.
Then began the hardships born of that West Point episode. Of course
such bitter and terrible wrongs could not have been done a sensitive
man without their affecting his whole life. To this may be attributed
Mr. Boyd’s desire to go West, and there remain.
It engendered in him a great unwillingness to demand even his just
dues; and when he was ordered to leave California at a day’s notice,
and given no proper transportation, he submitted without a murmur. As
I shared all those hardships, and shall always feel their effects,
I have no hesitancy in saying that I attribute them all to the West
Point wrong and injury.
Mr. Boyd could have entered the artillery branch of the service had
he not longed to escape all reminders of that terrible experience,
and so chose the Eighth Cavalry, which was stationed on the Pacific
coast.
The subsequent hardships endured were due not only to the crude state
of affairs at the West in those days, but also to the crushed spirit
which so much injustice had engendered in my husband. He could not
bear to ask favors, and be, perhaps, refused. Mr. Boyd even shrank
at first from his fellow-officers. I know that no enlisted man’s
wife was ever exposed to more or severer perils than was the young
school-girl from New York City; and I consider them the direct result
of those sad years at West Point.
Mr. Boyd was always selected in after-years to handle the funds at
every post where we were stationed, which distinctly showed how
his honor was regarded by men competent to judge. But it resulted
in countless expeditions that were both hazardous and expensive.
He was sent by General Pope to build Fort Bayard because of his
incorruptible honesty; but to be so constantly changing stations
added greatly to our hardships.
“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” A singular
evidence of the truth and justice of this text is shown in the meting
out to those eight misguided young men of sorrow, misery, and sudden
death, which seems to me a return for their attempted sacrifice of
the career and honor of a gallant and innocent man. The roll is a
terrible one. Casey, after confessing his crime, concealed it, aided
and abetted by Hamilton. In less than a year after his apparently
honorable graduation, he was shot by one of his own soldiers. Of the
remainder, two committed suicide, one was murdered, one butchered by
Modoc Indians; while family sorrow, bankruptcy, and disappointment or
untimely death have caused the rest to mournfully regret their early
hastiness and error of judgment, and the acts of gross cruelty which
sprang therefrom.
THE AUTHOR.
CAVALRY LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
Whether or not these personal reminiscences will interest the public
remains to be determined; for one thing the narrator can vouch,
and that is they are not in the least exaggerated. Several army
experiences have of late been printed, and when in recounting mine I
have often been asked to write them, it was not, as I then thought,
for the purpose of publication; although, as they have been unusual,
to say the least, I have been tempted to do so; and now that the
whole course of my life has been changed I have reasons for issuing
this book which may perhaps plead my excuse should the narrative
prove uninteresting to some.
The army world, though a small one, yet extends over a large
amount of territory. My experience of it, previous to marriage,
consisted in seeing, entirely at its best, beautiful West Point,
which I considered a fair type of every army post; so when I
married, immediately after his graduation from there, a young second
lieutenant, I thought that however far we might travel such a home
would always be found at our journey’s end.
My husband, previous to his four years at West Point, as narrated
in the preface, had been a soldier for two years in the War of the
Rebellion, where he had so signalized himself by bravery that friends
united in urging his father to remove the lad from the perilous
surroundings of active warfare, and permit him to be educated in the
profession for which he had shown such a decided talent. He was at
that time but eighteen years old, and was probably the only man of
that age who ever commanded a company in which his father and brother
were enlisted men.
Mr. Boyd’s previous career causing him to prefer the cavalry branch
of the service, application was therefore made for that; so when
appointed he was ordered to San Francisco. Not knowing whence from
there he would be sent, as some of the companies of his regiment were
in Nevada, some in Arizona, and others in California, it was deemed
unwise for me to accompany him, so I remained in New York.
We had been married but two days, and it seemed to me as if San
Francisco was as far away as China, particularly as there was then no
trans-continental railroad. Besides, I had lived in New York City all
my life, and considered it the only habitable place on the globe.
When Mr. Boyd reached San Francisco he was assigned to a station in
Nevada, which was so remote, and there appeared to be so little hope
for any comfortable habitation, that he wrote me the prospect for my
journey was very indefinite.
However, with the hopefulness of youth, he counted on a far more
speedy accomplishment of his desires than anything in the nature of
the situation seemed to warrant. The troops had been sent, as a sort
of advance guard and protective force for the contemplated Pacific
Railroad, to a point in the very eastern part of Nevada. The camp was
named “Halleck,” in honor of General Halleck, and the accommodations
were so limited that ladies were hardly needed, except to emphasize
the limitations. Although it was well understood that I could not be
comfortably located until summer, yet no second hint was needed when
in mid-winter my husband wrote that I might come at least as far as
San Francisco.
In the middle of January I left New York on one of the fine steamers
of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company. The three weeks _en route_
were delightful, and the change from bleak, cold winter to the
tropical scenes of Panama, and thence to the soft and balmy air of
the Pacific, was so exhilarating that travel was simply a continuous
pleasure.
Upon reaching San Francisco, nothing seemed more natural than that I
should press on, in spite of the protestations of friends, who said
that the Sierra Nevada Mountains were impassable at that season, and
who predicted all sorts of mishaps. Nothing daunted, I determined at
least to try, and so took steamer for Sacramento, and from thence
train to Cisco, at the foot of the mountains, and the then terminus
of the Pacific Railway. After leaving the train we continued our
journey on sleds, in the midst of a blinding snow-storm, that
compelled us to envelop our heads in blankets.
The snow, however, did not last many miles, and we were soon
transferred to the regular stage-coach, a large vehicle with
thorough-braces instead of springs, and a roomy interior which
suggested comfort. Alas! only suggested! Possibly no greater
discomfort could have been endured than my companion and self
underwent that night. Those old-fashioned stage-coaches for
mountain travel were intended to be well filled inside, and well
packed outside. But it so happened that instead of the usual full
complement of passengers, one other woman and myself were all.
A pen far more expert than mine would be required to do justice to
the horrors of that night. Though we had left Cisco at noon, we did
not reach Virginia City, on the other side of the mountains, until
ten o’clock next morning. As long as daylight lasted we watched in
amazement those wonderful mountains, which should have been called
“Rocky,” for they have enormous precipices and rocky elevations at
many points; from the highest we gazed down into ravines at least
fifteen hundred feet below, and shuddered again and again.
One point, called Cape Horn, a bold promontory, is famous, and as
great a terror to stage-drivers as is the cape from which it takes
its name to navigators. We peered into endless precipices, down which
we momentarily expected to be launched, for the seeming recklessness
of our driver and extreme narrowness of the roads made such a fate
appear imminent.
Our alarm did not permit us to duly appreciate the scenery’s
magnificent grandeur; besides, every possible effort was required to
keep from being tossed about like balls. We did not expect to find
ourselves alive in the morning, and passed the entire night holding
on to anything that promised stability. An ordinary posture was quite
impossible: we had either to brace ourselves by placing both feet
against the sides of the vehicle, or seize upon every strap within
reach.
Long before morning all devices, except the extreme one of lying flat
on the bottom of the coach and resigning ourselves to the inevitable,
had failed. Every muscle ached with the strain that had been required
to keep from being bruised by the constant bumping, and even then we
had by no means escaped.
We had supped at Donner Lake, a beautiful spot in the very heart of
the mountains, made famous by the frightful sufferings of the Donner
party, which had given the lake its name, and which has been so well
described by Bret Harte in “Gabriel Conroy,” that a passing mention
will suffice. It proved an unfortunate prelude to our eventful night;
for in the midst of our own sufferings we were compelled to think of
what might befall us if we, like that ill-fated party, should be left
to the mercy of those grand but cruel mountains, which already seemed
so relentless in their embrace that although haste meant torture yet
we longed to see the last of them.
The bright sun shone high overhead long before we reached Virginia
City, where I saw for the first time a real mining-town. It is not my
purpose to describe what has been so ably done by others, but simply
confine myself to personal experiences; and I will, therefore, merely
state that I gladly left Virginia City, knowing that soon after
we should emerge from mountain roads, and on level plains be less
tortured.
We were not, however, quite prepared for the method that made jolting
impossible, and which, being the very extreme of our previous
night’s journey, was almost equally unendurable. On leaving the
breakfast-table at Virginia City, we were greatly surprised to find
our coach almost full of passengers; but we climbed in, and for five
days and nights were carried onward without the slightest change of
any sort. There was a front and back seat, and between the two a
middle one, which faced the back that we occupied. Whenever in the
course of the succeeding five days and nights it was needful to move
even our feet, we could only do so by asking our _vis-à-vis_ to move
his at the same time, as there was not one inch of space unoccupied.
The rough frontiersmen who were our fellow-passengers tried in
every way to make our situation more endurable. After we had sat
bolt upright for two days and nights, vainly trying to snatch a few
moments’ sleep, which the constant lurching of the stage rendered
impossible, the two men directly facing us proposed, with many
apologies, that we should allow them to lay folded blankets on their
laps, when, by leaning forward and laying our heads on the rests thus
provided, our weary brains might find some relief. We gratefully
assented, only to find, however, that the unnatural position rendered
sleep impossible, so decided to bear our hardships as best we could
until released by time.
Our only respite was when the stage stopped for refreshments; but
as we experienced all the mishaps consequent upon a journey in
mid-winter, such as deep, clinging mud, which made regular progress
impossible, we frequently found that meals were conspicuous by
their absence; or we breakfasted at midnight and dined in the early
morning. The food was of the sort all frontier travelers have
eaten—biscuits almost green with saleratus, and meats sodden with
grease, which disguised their natural flavors so completely that I
often wondered what animals of the prairies were represented.
The names of our stopping-places were pretentious to such a degree
that days passed before I was able to believe such grand titles
could be personated by so little. I also noticed that a particularly
forbidding exterior, and interior as well, would be called by the
most high sounding name.
Alas for my hopes of escape from mountain travel! How gladly would
I have welcomed some mountains instead of the endless monotony of
that prairie! Nevada is particularly noted for the entire absence
of trees, and the presence of a low, uninteresting shrub called
sage-brush. It looks exactly as the name indicates, is a dingy
sage-green in color, and, with the exception of a bush somewhat
darker in hue and called grease-wood because it burns so readily,
nothing else could be seen, not only for miles and miles, but day
after day, until the weary eye longed for change. At dusk imagination
compelled me to regard those countless bushes as flocks of sheep, so
similar did they appear in the dim light, and I was unable to divest
my mind of that idea during our entire stay in Nevada.
With such a state of affairs sleep was out of the question, and
consequently nights seemed endless. I considered myself fortunate
in having an end seat, and often counted the revolutions of the
wheels until they appeared to turn more and more slowly, when I would
propound that frequent query which always enraged the driver:
“How long before we reach the next station?”
I remember one night we made eight miles in fifteen hours, and the
next day fifteen miles in eight hours. Both seemed wearily slow; but
according to our driver the roads were to blame.
That night the monotony was relieved by what we considered a very
pleasing incident, as it afforded some excitement. A rather small pig
decided to accompany us, and some of the passengers made our driver
frantic by betting on piggy winning the race: as a fact, he did reach
the station first. I felt quite dejected at having to leave him
there; for in our lonely journey we longed for companions in misery,
and he seemed very miserable during that weary night.
Notwithstanding the level monotony of the country, we were constantly
being brought up short by gullies which crossed our road. The
sensation was akin to that one experiences when arrested by the
so-called “thank-you-mums,” met with in Eastern rural districts.
As the very tiniest streams in the West are designated rivers, we
were always expecting, only to be disappointed, great things in that
line. At last, when we reached Austin, and saw that the Reese River
could be stepped across, all expectations of future greatness in the
way of rivers were relinquished.
Austin, at that time a very small mining-town, was so insignificant
as to be regarded as merely a mile-stone on the journey. We gladly
left it to continue our travels, which soon became less monotonous by
reason of low mountains that we crossed in the night, before reaching
what I had hoped was to be the end of my long stage-ride.
Mr. Boyd had arrived first at the military camp at Ruby, where
we remained two days to rest before continuing our journey. This
was necessary, as the loss of sleep for five long nights had so
prostrated me that when I found myself in a recumbent position,
consciousness to all outside surroundings was so completely lost that
the intervening day and night were entirely blotted out.
I no longer felt particularly young. Experience and the loss of sleep
had aged me. Yet knowing that the years which had passed over my head
were as few as were consistent with the dignity of a married woman,
I was taken quite aback when one of the employees connected with the
stage station asked my husband:
“How did the old woman stand the trip?”
I listened intently for his answer, fully expecting to hear the man
severely rebuked, if not laid flat; but Mr. Boyd understood human
nature better than I, and in the most polite tones replied:
“Thank you, very well indeed.”
We were then within about one hundred miles of our destination, Fort
Halleck, Nevada, and the remainder of our journey was to be made
in an entirely different vehicle from the stage-coach—a government
ambulance, and in this case the most uncomfortable one I have ever
seen. Many are delightful; but that was an old, worthless affair,
and instead of the usual comfortable cross seats had long side
ones, which covered with slippery leather made security of position
impossible. My trunk was first placed inside, then a huge bundle of
forage, which left only room for two people near the door.
We jogged on monotonously the first day, seeing the same scenery:
it seemed to me a duplicate of that looked upon for days past. Very
thankful I was, however, for the absence of any steep hills; for
we fully expected, at the first climb, to be buried under my own
huge trunk, which appeared to have as great a tendency to shift its
position as I had.
Instead of feeling a womanly pride in the possession of an abundant
wardrobe, I ruefully wished most of it had been left behind, more
especially as the stage company charged a dollar for each pound of
its weight. The combined amount of this and my stage fare was just
two hundred and fifty dollars. As my fare by steamer had been exactly
that amount, I had, before reaching my husband, disposed of five
hundred dollars, in return for which five seemingly endless days and
sleepless nights of tiresome travel had been endured, together with
many bumps and bruises.
One of the objects I have in writing these adventures is to show how
an army officer is compelled to part with all he obtains from the
government in paying expenses incurred by endless journeys through
newly settled countries.
But to resume our ambulance trip. As night approached the motion
ceased, and I doubt if mortal was ever more amazed than I when told
we were to go no farther. Not a sign of habitation was in sight!
Nothing but broad plains surrounded us on all sides! Not even a tree
could be seen, and the four mules had to be hitched to our ambulance
wheels, as tiny bushes were not, of course, available for such a
purpose. A fire was made of grease-wood, a piece of bacon broiled on
the coals, and a huge pot of coffee served in quart tin cups, which
is the only way soldiers condescend to drink it, as no less amount
will suffice, coffee being their greatest solace on long marches.
That, my first real experience in camping out, was indeed novel. The
knowledge that except one tiny dot in the wilderness—our ambulance—we
had no resting-place, gave me a curiously homeless feeling that was
indeed cheerless.
When, a little later, we sought our couch, it proved to be anything
but downy. My trunk and the forage had been taken out, and the seats,
always made as in a sleeping-car so that the backs let down, formed
the bed. It was not, however, altogether uncomfortable, as we had
plenty of blankets.
Soon after falling asleep I was awakened by what seemed to be a
complete upheaval of our couch. I was thoroughly terrified and
prepared for almost anything; but examination showed that our alarm
was caused by one of the mules, that had worked his way under
our ambulance, and in attempting to rise had almost upset it. A
readjustment of the lines by which a mule was tied to each wheel
somewhat reassured me; but those playful attempts to either upset or
drag our extemporized couch in any direction in which the mules felt
inclined to go, resulted in our passing a restless night. Sometimes
one mule would be seized with an ambitious desire to break away;
this would rouse the other three, who would each in turn attempt
to stampede, and but for the driver’s timely assistance it is
difficult to state what might have happened, as our vehicle was not
sufficiently strong to withstand such violent wrenches.
When morning dawned we resumed our march, and great was my joy on
learning that we would have four walls around us during the two
succeeding nights. I was, however, rather startled to find myself
disturbing so many that evening, for when we reached the little log
hut that was to shelter us, it proved to be, though but eighteen
feet square, the abode of ten men. In all the log cabins at which
we stopped a bed occupied one corner of their only room. Those beds
were, of course, only rough bunks of unplaned pine timber; but by
reason of being raised above the mud floors formed very desirable
resting-places.
The almost chivalrous kindness of frontiersmen has become proverbial
with women who have traveled alone in the far West, where the
presence of any member of the sex is so rare the sight of one seems
to remind each man that he once had a mother, and no attention
which can be shown is ever too great. When, therefore, our hosts
saw my reluctance to deprive them of what must have been occupied
by at least two of their number, they assured me I would confer a
favor by accepting the proffered hospitality. Although shrinking
from the proximity of so many men, yet remembering my shaky bed of
the previous night, I was glad to find refuge behind the improvised
curtains which they deftly arranged.
It seemed indeed odd on this and succeeding nights to see huge,
stalwart men preparing food, baking the inevitable biscuits in Dutch
ovens over the coals in open fireplaces, and being so well pleased if
we seemed to enjoy what was placed before us.
Our next day’s journey was diversified by the discovery that our
vehicle was like the famous one-horse shay, likely to drop in pieces;
indeed, we had twice to send back several miles for the tires,
which had parted company with their wheels. Such a condition of our
conveyance, coupled with several other mishaps, led us to feel very
dubious as to our destination being eventually reached in safety.
On arriving at the cabin in which our third night was to be passed,
we found it occupied by fifteen men. As usual, we were ensconced
in the only bed. I tried to feel doubly protected, instead of
embarrassed, by the vicinity of so many men; nor did I consider it
necessary to peer about in an effort to learn how they disposed of
themselves. I well knew it was too cold to admit of any sleeping
outside. Being startled by some noise in the night, I drew back the
curtains, and looked on a scene not soon to be forgotten. Not only
were the men ranged in rows before us, but the number of sleepers had
been augmented by at least six dogs, which had crept in for shelter
from what I found in the morning was a severe snow-storm, that
covered the ground to the depth of ten inches or more.
On the last day of that long journey I arose, feeling particularly
happy at the prospect of soon reaching our destination; and even the
sight of snow did not disconcert me, as I reasoned that we were to
ride in a covered vehicle, and with only twenty miles to traverse had
nothing to fear.
Though all might have gone well had our ambulance been strong,
but two miles of the distance had been covered when we sank in an
enormous snow-drift. Our mules had wandered from the road into a deep
gully, and in trying to pull us out succeeded in extricating only the
front wheels of the wagon, so farther progress in that vehicle was
quite impossible. Nothing could be done except call upon our friends
of the past night for assistance, which they promptly rendered,
sending us their only wagon—an open, springless one—which seemed so
exposed they begged me to return to the cabin. But my anxiety to
reach our journey’s end was by that time so great I would have tried
to walk could no other mode of procedure have been found.
So, seated in the very center of the wagon, with as much protection
as our blankets could afford, we rode the remaining eighteen miles,
snow falling continually and rendering it impossible to distinguish
the road. Travel under such conditions, and especially in a
springless conveyance, made our previous jaunt over mountains fade
into insignificance.
The day seemed endless; and though at first I kept shaking off the
snow, yet when we reached our destination, after riding for twelve
long hours, I had become so worn and weary as to no longer care, and
was almost buried beneath it.
It is always the last straw which breaks the camel’s back, and that,
the last day of our journey, was the first on which I had felt
discouraged; in spite of constant efforts I finally succumbed to our
doleful surroundings, and in tears was lifted out and carried into
what proved to be my home for the next year.
CHAPTER II.
When courage to look around had at last been mustered, I found
that my new home was formed of two wall tents pitched together so
the inner one could be used as a sleeping and the outer one as a
sitting room. A calico curtain divided them, and a carpet made of
barley sacks covered the floor. In my weary state of mind and body
the effect produced was far from pleasant. The wall tents were only
eight feet square, and when windowless and doorless except for one
entrance, as were those, they seemed from the inside much like a
prison.
As I lay in bed that night, feeling decidedly homesick, familiar
airs, played upon a very good piano, suddenly sounded in my ears.
It seemed impossible that there could be a fine musical instrument
such a distance from civilization, particularly when I remembered
the roads over which we had come, and the cluster of tents that
alone represented human habitation. The piano, which I soon learned
belonged to our captain’s wife, added greatly to her happiness,
and also to the pleasure of us all, though its first strains only
intensified my homesick longings.
This lady and myself were the only women at the post, which
also included, besides our respective husbands, the doctor and
an unmarried first lieutenant. The latter, as quartermaster and
commissary, controlled all supplies, and could make us either
comfortable or the reverse, as he chose.
Shortly afterward another company of soldiers, embracing one married
officer and two unmarried ones, joined us; but at first our troop of
cavalry was all. The men, instead of living in tents, were quartered
in dugouts, which, as their name implies, were holes dug in the
ground, warm enough, but to my unaccustomed eyes places in which only
animals should have been sheltered, so forbidding and dingy did they
seem. The soldiers were not, however, destined to spend the summer in
such accommodations, for by that time very comfortable barracks had
been erected.
As everything in the life I then led was new and strange, and
surroundings have always powerfully influenced me, I took note
of many things which it seemed should have been remedied. One
which greatly troubled me was the power extremely young officers
exercised over enlisted men. If the latter were in the least unruly,
most fearful punishment awaited them, which in my opinion was not
commensurate with the offense, but depended entirely upon the mercy
and justice of the offender’s superior officer, who usually but a boy
himself had most rigid ideas of discipline.
I have always noticed how years temper judgment with any one in
authority, and thus have come to believe that no very young man
is capable of wielding it. Situated as we were in tents, so the
slightest sound could be heard, we were made aware of all that
transpired outside. When an enlisted man transgressed some rule and
was severely punished, I always became frantic, for his outcries
reached my ears, and I recognized the injustice and impropriety of
some mere boy exercising cruel authority over any man old enough to
be his father.
Methods have completely changed in the army since that time, and I am
glad to state that for many years past such scenes as then wrung my
heart have been unknown; but in those days our military organization
was so crude many things were permitted which are now scarcely
remembered by any one. Our soldiers, recruited from the Pacific
coast, then famous for the demoralized state of its poorer classes,
were indeed in need of firm discipline; but it required men with more
experience than those young officers possessed to wield it.
I always have had, and always shall have, a tender, sympathetic
feeling for American soldiers. In fact, most of the kindly help which
made life on the frontier endurable to me came from those men. We
were never able to procure domestic help; it was simply out of the
question, and for years it would have been necessary for me either to
have cooked or starved but for their ever-ready service.
To cook in a modern kitchen, or even in an ancient one, is not so
dreadful; but to cook amid the discomforts and inconveniences which
surrounded me for many years would have been impossible to any
delicately nurtured woman. I recall the delight with which an offer
of help from a soldier in that, my first effort at housekeeping,
was welcomed. Although I soon became the slave of my cook’s whims,
because of my utter inexperience and ignorance, yet his forethought
when the floor was soaked with rain in always having a large adobe
brick heated ready to be placed under my feet when dining, will never
be forgotten.
The greatest proof of devotion I ever received was when that man,
learning that the laundress declined longer employing her services in
our behalf, saw me preparing to essay the task myself. To prevent
that he rose sufficiently early to do the work, and continued the
practice so long as we remained there, despite the fact that it
subjected him to ridicule from other soldiers; and so sensitive
was he in regard to the subject that I never unexpectedly entered
the kitchen while he was ironing without noticing his endeavors to
hastily remove all trace of such occupation.
As the season was severe—the thermometer during that and the
succeeding winter frequently fell to thirty-three degrees below
zero—a large stove had been placed in the outer tent, and a huge
fireplace built in the inner one. A large pine bunk, forming a
double bed, occupied nearly all the spare space, and left only just
room enough in front of the fire to seat one’s self, and also to
accommodate the tiniest shelf for toilet purposes. It therefore
required constant watchfulness to avoid setting one’s clothing on
fire; and among other ludicrous occurrences was the following:
In our inability to find suitable places for necessary articles, we
were apt to use most inappropriate ones. On the occasion referred
to, a lighted candle had been placed on the bed, where my husband
seated himself without noticing the candle. Soon arose the accustomed
smell of burning, and I executed my usual maneuver of turning about
in front of the fire to see if my draperies had caught. The odor of
burning continued to increase, yet I could find no occasion for it.
The cause, however, was discovered when I leaned over the bed, and
saw that a large hole had been burned in the center of Mr. Boyd’s
only uniform coat. He had been too intent on shielding me to be
conscious of his own peril. It was an accident much to be regretted,
for our isolation was so complete that any loss, however trifling,
seemed irreparable by reason of our remoteness from supplies. A
lengthened account of our difficulties in procuring needed articles
during this and many subsequent years would seem incredible.
I had been delighted to purchase, at the stage station where we
stopped previous to our one hundred miles’ ambulance trip, and for
exactly the amount of one month’s pay, a modest supply of dishes and
cooking utensils. Prior to their arrival we were happy to obtain our
meals at the house of the quartermaster’s clerk; yet I looked eagerly
forward to my first attempt at housekeeping, and daily sought to
induce our quartermaster to send for the goods. At last he informed
us that they were on the way, and then began tiresome efforts to have
some sort of kitchen and dining-room prepared.
All my entreaties resulted only in a number of willows being stuck
in the ground and covered with barley sacking. Even the door was
composed of two upright and two cross pieces of willow covered with
sacking; a simple piece of leather, which when caught on a nail
served as fastening and handle, was deemed sufficient guard. The
floor was primitive ground, and in time, as it became hardened by
our feet, was smooth except where the water from above wore it into
hollows. No efforts of mine could ever induce the powers that were
to cover the roof so as to exclude rain. At first some old canvas
was simply stretched over it; but as the roof was nearly flat this
soon had to be replaced. By degrees, as cattle were killed for the
soldiers, we used the skins which were otherwise valueless, lapping
them as much as possible. However, they formed no effectual barrier
to melting snow or falling rain, as later experience proved, when it
became only an ordinary occurrence for me to change my seat half a
dozen times during one meal.
Young people are not easily discouraged, and I was very happy when
informed that our housekeeping goods had arrived and been placed
in the quarters prepared for them. An ominous sound which greeted
our ears as we opened the boxes rather dismayed us; but we were not
prepared for the utter ruin that met our eyes. What had not been
so brittle as to break, had been rendered useless and unsightly by
having been chipped or cracked; and as we took out the last piece
of broken ware I concluded that what was left might be sold in New
York for a dollar. On comparing the residue with the inventory, we
discovered that half the goods were missing.
The articles had been bought from an army officer who was changing
stations, and were not strictly what I should have chosen.
Everything, however, was useful there, and I was rather pleased that
we had duplicates of nearly every article, although results showed
that this had tempted the freighters’ cupidity, and they had fitted
themselves out with the primary supply; so when by breakages the
secondary disappeared, we had really nothing of any consequence left.
Bitterness was added to sorrow, when of a dozen tumblers only the
_débris_ of six were found. The common kitchen ware was too solid to
be shattered, but everything at all fragile was in fragments.
The triumph with which we evolved from the chaos a large wash-bowl
and pitcher, which though in close proximity to a pair of flat-irons
had escaped injury, was equaled only by our chagrin when we found
our little toilet shelf too small to hold them, and were therefore
obliged to return to a primitive tin basin, though hoping in time for
enough lumber to build accommodations which would allow us the luxury
of white ware.
I regret to state that the climate proved too much for our large
pitcher. One morning we found it cracked from the cold to which it
had been exposed in the out-door kitchen, in which we were obliged
to keep it. Our basin was cherished; but on the anniversary of our
wedding-day I nearly sank from mortification when Mr. Boyd came
into our tent, which was filled with friends who had gathered to
celebrate the occasion, carrying the wash-bowl full of very strong
punch which he had concocted. No thought of apologizing for our lack
of delicacies occurred to me, but I felt compelled to explain, in the
most vehement fashion, that the wash-bowl had never been utilized
for its obvious purpose; in fact, this was the first period of its
usefulness.
My housekeeping was simplified by absolute lack of materials. I had,
as a basis of supplies, during that and the succeeding two years,
nothing but soldiers’ rations, which consisted entirely of bacon,
flour, beans, coffee, tea, rice, sugar, soap, and condiments. Our
only luxury was dried apples, and with these I experimented in every
imaginable way until toward the last my efforts to disguise them
utterly failed, and we returned to our simple rations. I was unable
to ring any changes on rice, for after Mr. Boyd’s experience with
General Burnside’s expedition off Cape Hatteras, the very sight of it
had become disagreeable to him.
We had at that time no trader’s store within two miles, which was a
matter of congratulation, for when we indulged our desire for any
change of fare, however slight, we felt as if eating gold. Nothing
on the Pacific coast could be paid for in greenbacks; only gold and
silver were used; and when an officer’s pay, received in greenbacks,
was converted into gold, a premium of fifty per cent always had to be
paid. That, added to frontier prices, kept us poor and hungry for
years. If we indulged in a dozen eggs the price was two dollars in
gold. If we wanted the simplest kind of canned goods to relieve the
monotony of our diet, the equivalent was a dollar in gold.
I had always disliked to offend any one; but remarking one day that
the flavor of wild onions which permeated the only butter we could
procure, and for which we paid two dollars and a half a pound, was
not exactly to our taste, seriously offended the person who made it.
I quite rejoiced thereat when she refused to supply us with any more,
feeling that a lasting economy had been achieved without any great
self-denial. The taint of numerous kinds of wild herbs of all sorts,
during the many years of my frontier life, always made both beef and
milk as well as butter unpalatable, especially in the early spring
season, and in Texas, where the flavor was abominable.
There were so many motives for economy that we rejoiced continually
at our inability to procure supplies. First should be named the
fact that a lieutenant’s pay, exceedingly small at best, was, when
converted into gold, just eighty dollars per month. That reality was
augmented by an utter inequality in the cost of actual necessaries.
We found, for instance, that we must have at least two stoves—one
for cooking and the other for heating purposes. Their combined
cost was one hundred and seventy-five dollars, although both could
have been bought in New York for about twenty dollars. If we ever
rebelled against such seeming impositions, the cost of freight would
be alluded to; and remembering what the expenses of my poor solitary
trip had been we were effectually silenced.
Among the many amusing stories told on that subject, none was
more frequently quoted in every frontier station than the retort
of a Hebrew trader, who, when expostulated with on account of the
exorbitant charge of a dollar for a paper of needles, vehemently
replied:
“Oh, it is not de cost of de needles! It is de freight, de freight!”
So when obliged to purchase any article we counted its cost as
compared with the freight as one to one hundred.
Shortly after we reached Camp Halleck, a team was sent to Austin for
supplies; and being sadly in need of chairs it was decided that if we
ordered the very strongest and ugliest kitchen ones they would escape
injury, and be cheap. The bill was received before the team returned,
and to our dismay we found that the six chairs cost just six dollars
each in gold, or fifty dollars in greenbacks. We tried to hope they
would be so nice that the price would prove of slight consequence.
But lo! the teamster brought but one chair, and that a common, black,
old-fashioned kitchen one.
When asked about the other five, the man replied that the roads were
so bad, our chairs, having been placed on top of the load, were
continually falling under the wheels, and finally, broken in pieces,
had been left to their fate. We, however, suspected that they had
served as firewood. We frequently joked, after the first pangs had
worn away, over our fifty-dollar chair, claiming a great favor was
bestowed upon any one allowed to occupy it.
Reading matter was our only luxury, and the weekly mail, always an
uncertainty, was just as apt to have been lightened of its contents
in transit, if the roads were at all heavy, as any other package. We
were never sure, therefore, that we should be able to understand the
next chapters in serial stories, which were our delight.
I remember being very much engrossed in one of Charles Reade’s
novels, the heroine of which was cast on a desert island, where I
thought only her lover’s presence could reconcile her to the absence
of supplies. The story was published in _Every Saturday_, and at
first came weekly; but after we had become most deeply interested
five weeks passed during which not a single number was received, and
we were left to imagine the sequel.
Several periodicals of a more solid nature always came regularly,
which fact constrained us to believe that we were furnishing light
literature to the poor inhabitants of some lonely stage station on
the road; and in that belief we tried to find consolation for our
own losses. Rumors of the outside world grow dim in such an isolated
life: we were unwilling to become rusty, and hence read with avidity
all printed matter that reached us.
There were, however, other diversions. I learned to play cribbage
admirably; and as my husband was able to give me a good deal of his
time we found it a pleasant pastime. The winter seemed well-nigh
interminable, and we longed for snow to disappear, intending then to
explore the whole country. I was such a novice in the saddle that
the steadiest old horse, called “Honest John,” was chosen for me;
and by the time pleasant weather had come I was ready to ride in any
direction, having learned that my steed was all his name implied.
We found the streams, so small and insignificant during the dry
season, enlarged by melting snows from the mountains; and they were
not only beautiful, as clear running water ever is, but were filled
with the most delicious spotted trout, which on our fishing-trips we
caught and cooked on the spot, and whose excellence as food simply
beggars description.
Though the country remained almost as dreary as in mid-winter, grass
made some improvement. The lovely wild-flowers, in endless beauty
and variety, were a ceaseless delight; while our camp, situated on
a lovely little stream in a grove of cottonwood-trees, was far more
beautiful than I had ever imagined it could be.
Unfortunately there were no trees to cast their shade over our tents;
and as in mid-winter we had suffered from intense cold, so in summer
we suffered from intense heat. The sun penetrated the thin canvas
overhead to such an extent that my face was burned as if I had been
continually out-of-doors, or even more so, as its reflected glare
was most excessive. Then we were almost devoured by gnats so small
that netting was no protection against them. I had never before, nor
have I ever since, seen any insect in such quantities, nor any so
troublesome and annoying.
In after-years I became accustomed to the most venomous creatures
of all sorts, and in time learned not to mind any of them; but
while in Nevada I endured tortures from a colony of wasps that took
possession of the canvas over the ridge-poles which connected the
uprights of our tents. At first we scarcely noticed them; but they
must either have multiplied incredibly, or else gathered recruits
from all directions, for soon they swarmed in countless numbers above
our heads, going in and out through the knot-holes in our rough pine
door, buzzing about angrily whenever we entered hastily—in fact,
disputing possession with us to such a degree that I dared not open
the door quickly. Whenever I did, one of the angry insects was sure
to meet and sting me. They remained with us during the summer, and
when we finally left were masters of the field by reason of their
superior numbers.
I have often since wondered why we did not dispossess them by some
means, as they were the terror of my life. One day while in the inner
tent, where I felt safe, dressing for breakfast, I experienced the
most intense sting on my ankle. The pain was so great I screamed,
doubly frightened because confident a rattlesnake had bitten me, and
too terrified to exercise any self-control. My cries soon brought
a dozen or more persons to the scene, who found a wretched wasp,
and calmed my fears; but my nerves had been terribly shaken. Since
then I have met army ladies who live in constant terror of snakes,
tarantulas, and scorpions; though no longer sharing their fears, I
always sympathize with them.
I soon became an expert fisher; and the dainty food thus procured was
a great addition to our supplies. With all its drawbacks, life in the
open air then began to have many charms for me.
We made friends with the neighboring ranchmen, particularly those who
were married, as their wives interested us greatly, they were such
perfect specimens of frontier women. At first the rancheros were a
little shy, but soon made us welcome to their homes and festivities,
where we were always urged to remain as long as possible. Gradually
new arrivals—always called “sister” or “cousin”—appeared at several
of the ranches, and soon a rumor gained ground that though not
exactly in Utah, the Mormon religion prevailed to some extent in our
locality.
Another source of great interest was the Piute and Shoshone Indians,
who were so numerous that I soon regarded red men as fearlessly
as if I had been accustomed to them all my life. They were deeply
interested in us, at times inconveniently so; for they never timed
their visits, but always came to stay, and would frequently spend the
entire day watching our movements.
In one of their camps, several miles away, I found a beautiful
dark-eyed baby boy, to whom I paid frequent visits, which were at
first well received. But one day I carried the child a neat little
dress—my own handiwork—and before arraying baby in it gave him a
bath, which evidently caused his mother to decide that I had sinister
designs upon her prize, for on my subsequent visits no trace of the
baby could ever be found. Had his sex been different I probably could
have obtained complete possession; but boys are highly prized among
the Indians.
We considered ourselves well repaid for a ride of twenty miles by
an Indian dance. It was, of course, only picturesque at night, when
seen by the light of huge fires; then, indeed, the sight was weird
and strange! On such an occasion, when depicting so perfectly their
warfare, the Indians seemed to return to their original savage
natures. Had it not been for our fully armed escort we might have
feared for safety.
It was startling to see the Indians slowly circle around their
camp-fire, at first keeping time to a very slow, monotonous chant,
which by degrees increased in volume and rapidity, until finally
their movements became fast and furious, when savagery would be
written in every line of their implacable countenances. I could
then realize in some degree how little mercy would be shown us
should they once become inimical; but seeing them at all times so
thoroughly friendly made it difficult to think of them as otherwise;
and therefore, when we afterwards lived among the most savage tribes,
I never experienced that dread which has made life so hard for many
army ladies.
With the advent of early spring active preparations were made to
build houses for the officers before the ensuing winter. We watched
their slow progress, hoping against hope that we might occupy one
of the cozy little dwellings. All sorts of difficulties, however,
seemed to delay their construction, for good workmen were as scarce
as good food, and we found that while anticipation and expectation
were pleasing fancies, realization was but a dream. All our hopes
were doomed to disappointment, for we finally left the post on the
following January, just one year after my arrival, with the house
we had longed to occupy still unfinished; thus I passed half of the
second winter in our two small tents.
CHAPTER III.
Meantime much had happened to make that year an eventful one. My
expectation of finding the new, untried world into which I was
ushered a place where all were ready to meet me with open hearts and
hands had been completely shattered. The captain who commanded our
company, and the first lieutenant, had taken a violent dislike to
Mr. Boyd because he was unaccustomed to the lack of discipline they
allowed; and their almost unlimited powers enabled them to deprive us
of much to which we were justly entitled.
They were two of the most illiterate men whom I have ever met; and
shortly after, when the army consolidated, both found more fitting
occupation in a frontier mining-town. I mention this only to account
for the unnecessary hardships to which we were subjected. For
instance, when gardens were planted, and the company was raising fine
vegetables, we were allowed neither to buy nor to use any, and had to
continue to live on rations.
But the most unkind treatment of all was shown when my husband
met with a severe accident. He was returning from a successful
fishing-trip when his horse—and a more unruly mustang cannot well
be imagined—fancied some cause for fright, and began to buck on the
side of a steep hill. Mr. Boyd, deeming discretion the better part
of valor, jumped off, and fell with his entire weight upon one leg,
fracturing it just below the knee. His companion decided to ride into
camp, a distance of six miles, for assistance, and a litter was at
once sent out. My husband lay there alone, helpless and suffering,
until long after dark, the coyotes, or small wolves, coming around in
droves, and it was with the greatest difficulty he kept them off by
the use of both gun and pistol.
When he was brought into camp late at night, my first remark was
that I derived some comfort from the situation, inasmuch as he would
not be compelled to join an expedition which had been for some time
projected. Mr. Boyd was to have been sent with an escort of twenty
men on a surveying party. That would have kept him in the field all
summer, and left me entirely alone.
The officer in command displayed his malevolence by sending with
the expedition the soldier who had volunteered to wait on us, thus
leaving me without the slightest assistance in caring for my husband.
The doctor was exceedingly kind and good, and I could obtain my meals
where we had on my first arrival; but I was obliged to carry Mr.
Boyd’s food quite a long distance, and perform every sort of hard,
menial labor—even chopping wood; for nights, lying unable to move, my
husband would become chilly and need a fire.
Many other hardships were entailed, and I was quite worn out with
working and nursing, when, in a month’s time, Mr. Boyd was able to
walk on crutches. However, the accident had given me his society for
the entire summer, at which I rejoiced exceedingly; for I had often
wondered what I should do if left alone, friendless as I felt myself
to be.
At that time the whole army was in a chaotic state, especially on
the Pacific coast, where California volunteers, though brave and
hardy men, were totally unaccustomed to military discipline, and the
officers not of a character to enforce it. The wild lawlessness which
had made California a place of terror, and that had only been subdued
by the vigilance committee, was still extant, and many occurrences
during our first year of army life showed there were desperadoes
among us.
Had the officers in command been gentlemen, at least a semblance of
respect would have been shown; but the enlisted men, treated by their
officers exactly as they had been while both were volunteers, were
disposed to dislike a man who after four years of rigid training at
West Point had grown accustomed to discipline and was disposed to
exact it.
The first duty which called my husband from home was an expedition
after some horses that had been sent to Camp McDermott, a distance of
about two hundred miles. He took with him ten men, and experienced
very little difficulty in managing them while going; but returning,
with twenty extra horses, the soldiers were in a lawless state,
disposed to be unruly, and would become intoxicated whenever liquor
could be had. Despite the fact that water was obtainable only at
the stations _en route_, Mr. Boyd made a practice of procuring in
casks all that would be needed, and marching a few miles beyond the
stations, so as to prevent liquor being obtained; for in all those
places, although water might be scarce, a barrel of the vilest whisky
could always be found.
The plan worked well for the first hundred miles; but one night the
men stole back to the station and insisted that liquor be given
them. Mr. Boyd always warned station-masters of the extreme danger
of allowing his men to have whisky, as with so many horses the
services of all were required; but that day some had been procured
from an unknown source, and they were determined to have more. The
station-master refused to furnish it, and barricaded his door so that
no one could enter.
The men were infuriated; and just as my husband arrived on the scene
one of them rushed madly against the door and forced it open, only
to be met by a ball from a pistol fired by some one inside the room,
which killed him instantly. That sobered the rest, who obeyed the
order given to carry their dead comrade back to the encampment.
Fearing further disturbance my husband broke camp and traveled till
daylight, when finding the already over-loaded wagon much encumbered
by the dead body, which had repeatedly slipped off, he stopped and
buried it by the roadside. After that he had no trouble, as the men
were completely subdued.
On their return to camp the entire story was related to me; and
knowing how great Mr. Boyd’s anxiety had been, I fully expected he
would be commended, if not rewarded. Instead of that he was actually
called to account, principally for burying the dead soldier by the
roadside, which the commanding officer seemed to consider wrong, when
to have traveled so many days with the body uncoffined would have
been quite impossible.
I was highly diverted by the efforts my husband made to procure
presents for me, and shall never forget the peculiarity of his gifts.
In passing through Austin at one time he endeavored to buy fruit, as
we missed it greatly, and deemed a box of apples at only one dollar a
dozen a marvelous bargain, as three dollars had been paid for those
previously purchased.
On another occasion Mr. Boyd had yielded to the temptation to buy a
sewing-machine, which he thought would please me very much, as indeed
it would had I been able to use it; but the machine was entirely out
of order and represented nothing in the way of usefulness, unless a
month’s pay which it had cost might be so considered.
Another present was of a more noisy sort. Knowing that I had never
seen a “burro,” Mr. Boyd was induced to buy one for me because it was
cheap and so docile a child might ride it. The latter it certainly
proved to be; but living in tents, where every sound penetrated to
our ears, the animal became a perpetual nuisance; consequently, when
one day he strayed away, never to reappear, we were not sorry.
The brute was indeed small, but his voice was a marvel of strength
and volume, and his bray resounded on all sides at the most
inopportune moments. If military orders were being read, “Burro”
kept up an accompaniment which drowned all other sounds; and in his
apparent loneliness, the poor fellow had a way of seeking human
companionship, and would appear at our doorstep and lift up his voice
in a manner that made us feel the roof must rise above our heads in
order to allow the fearful sound to escape. He afforded us a great
deal of amusement, however, and all his antics were laughed at and
condoned.
About that time another troop of the regiment was sent from Idaho,
and we then enjoyed the society of a very charming New York woman,
who accompanied her husband, and the fittings of whose tent amused
us much. This lady had a large private fortune, yet she had not been
with us a month before, resigning herself to the inevitable, she
bent weekly over the wash-tub and ironing-board, as help was not
procurable; nor did this officer’s wife find a treasure of a soldier,
as I had, who would volunteer to relieve her of such unaccustomed
drudgery.
Deciding that her tent would present a more cheerful appearance if
papered, all newspapers received were, immediately after being read,
pasted on the walls. A preference was given to illustrated journals,
and it was very diverting to inspect those pictures which reflected
many scenes of our former lives. How often the wish was expressed
that we could be as well sheltered as were the servants in city
homes, and my friend frequently longed for as good a roof overhead as
had her mother’s barn. A year of such hardships sufficed; at the end
of that time her husband resigned his commission, and for many years
they have been quartered in New York City.
As the second winter of our camp life approached, we prepared in a
measure for it by procuring a larger heating stove; but the stove
took up a great deal of room in our little tent, and so was crowded
into a corner, with the result of constant danger from fire. I
attempted to keep account of the number of times our tent had ignited
and been patched to cover the burned places. Mr. Boyd usually built
a fire very early, before going to his duties, and on one memorable
morning the entire top of our sitting-room tent burned away, leaving
it quite uncovered.
My anxiety to live in a house was so great that I calmly deliberated
whether or not to call for assistance; but second thoughts concerning
the probable destruction of our belongings, and the absurdity of
expecting a house to immediately erect itself for our benefit,
decided me. I had really grown inured to fire, as one would
naturally become who was exempt from all personal danger; for if the
canvas had burned away, open air and sky would have surrounded us.
During all those months work had been actively prosecuted on the
Union Pacific Railroad; and as it was to approach us very closely,
we felt that not only would personal benefit result therefrom, but
it would bring an influx of inhabitants into the country which
must promote its prosperity through opening mines, irrigating and
cultivating arable land, and so forth. The latter, however, became
problematical, as it was found impossible to procure other labor
than Chinese on the railroad. The class of settlers who occasionally
appeared were of a restless, nomadic sort; and if they located on a
plot of land soon tired of the industry required to make of the place
a home.
The chief result of the increased population was most noticeable in
the number of accidents which occurred both on the railroad and in
our neighborhood. The post doctor’s services were in almost daily
requisition; and as our hospital was also a tent, and many of the
injured were carried there, my soul was harrowed by the cries of
wounded men which could not be stifled in that clear atmosphere with
nothing but canvas intervening.
One of the young officers who knew my terror on that score, delighted
in giving me exaggerated accounts of their sufferings, and used to
relate the most remarkable cases, which I fully believed at the time,
though later his deceit and exaggeration were discovered. It seemed
to me that the frontier at best was a place where suffering prevailed
to a degree not commensurate with the number of inhabitants.
We were very near the “white pine region,” where an immense silver
mine created great excitement, the novelty of which pleased us almost
as much as if we were to share in the material benefits thereof.
Mr. Boyd’s promotion to a first lieutenantcy, which had been
expected for many months, was at that time received, and we hoped
the railroad would enable us to make the journey consequent upon
such promotion in greater comfort than had been possible on our
previous one. Alas! how bitterly we deplored the unalterable fact so
common in army life, that after having endured severe hardships, and
watched the advent of brighter days, as promised by the approach of a
railroad and the completion of officers’ quarters, we were compelled
to leave for distant Arizona without sharing in any of the advantages
which would naturally follow.
My husband’s promotion transferred him to a company of the regiment
stationed at Prescott, Arizona Territory. We had first to reach San
Francisco, go from thence by sea to Southern California, and then
across into Arizona. One beautiful morning, just a year from the
time of my arrival, we started for California. We were glad to be
able, instead of having to endure the discomforts of a stage-ride,
to strike the railroad twelve miles from Camp Halleck. The road had
reached that point only a few days before, and the rails having been
newly laid none but construction trains had passed over it.
We were obliged to wait for a car until the next morning, when a
hospitable welcome was given us by the engineer in charge, who with
his wife and family occupied the construction train, and seemed most
comfortable in their movable home. They had every needful arrangement
to make them so, for the cars, two in number, were roomy as possible.
The first car was divided into an admirable kitchen and dining-room,
which were presided over by a Chinese cook; the second into sitting
and bedrooms so arranged that they were cozy and comfortable.
Our only fear was of the possibly infested atmosphere, for we
were told that smallpox had broken out among the Chinese railroad
employees, and was prevailing to an alarming extent. A delightful day
and night were, however, passed with our new friends, who shared with
us their sleeping accommodations, Mr. Boyd rooming with the engineer
and I with his wife. At nine o’clock next morning we left them,
feeling very grateful for the kindness received.
Our gratitude was in no wise lessened, though our fears were
increased, when the following day a telegram overtook us which stated
that our engineer friend had succumbed to smallpox. He recovered from
the disease perhaps sooner than we did from our panic: so great an
exposure was at a most inconvenient time, for, like Joe, we had to
“move on.”
I was astonished to find that the car which was to take us farther
West was only the caboose or freight car of an ordinary train; and
when, having climbed into the huge side opening, the steps were taken
away, leaving us high and dry, the prospect was far from encouraging.
There was no accommodation for comfort of any sort, and only rough
benches for seats. The car, too, was filled with railroad employees,
and the atmosphere soon became intolerable. The roadbed was so new
and the jolting so alarming, I concluded a stage-ride would have
been preferable, as we could at least have seen what was before us.
We stopped frequently, yet were so far above the ground I dared not
descend, and, in fact, there was no special occasion to do so, for
we rode until three the next morning before reaching a place where a
mouthful of food could be obtained. Having anticipated when once on
the railroad to travel so rapidly that we need make no preparations
beforehand, our ride of eighteen hours in covering less than fifty
miles was not only unexpected, but almost unendurable from hunger and
fatigue. When at three o’clock in the morning a stopping-place was at
last reached I was quite exhausted. Food and rest were found there,
and best of all a civilized sleeping-car, in which we went on to
Sacramento.
The journey through Nevada seemed incredibly swift. As we crossed
the Sierra Nevada mountains and passed through twenty-five miles of
snow-sheds, which cut off the view just as one began to enjoy it,
I felt almost glad to have taken what had become so completely a
memory of the past—a stage-ride over those grand old mountains.
It was wonderful to observe the marked difference in vegetation
between Nevada and California. Just as soon as we reached the Pacific
coast exquisite green verdure contrasted so favorably with Nevada’s
arid desolation as to cause one to feel as if in a veritable “land
of promise.” The refreshment to our weary eyes after a year of
absence from such scenery was a source of the greatest imaginable
pleasure. Then to cover in a few short hours the same distance which
had previously required five weary days and nights was not the least
of our many causes for gratitude. When Sacramento was reached, the
exquisite beauty of the country was so great we felt that all the
encomiums California had ever received were fully warranted.
The next day we arrived in San Francisco, and once more felt
civilized.
CHAPTER IV.
My husband’s first duty was to report to the commanding general,
who gave him permission to remain there for two months, promising
to place him on duty in order that he might receive full pay and
allowances. That seemed a very great boon until we found the duty
consisted in Mr. Boyd’s being ordered five hundred miles away to
inspect some horses, which left me utterly lonely in a strange city.
The place to which he was sent could be reached only by water, and
the steamers sailed weekly both going and returning, so I felt
particularly forlorn, knowing he could not be back for at least ten
days. When the first return steamer reached San Francisco without him
I was in despair, and indeed with reason. I had already found the
tender mercy of a boarding-house keeper to be all it is generally
represented.
That night our little daughter was born, and a facetious friend
telegraphed to my husband: “Mother and child are doing well,” thus
leaving the sex to be conjectured, which caused bets to be made by
such officers as were always glad of an excuse to bet on any chance.
But, indeed, “mother and child” were not doing well. A veritable
Sairy Gamp had taken possession of both: my own sufferings were
almost intolerable, while I felt sure the poor little baby was being
continually dosed. The nurse weighed nearly three hundred pounds, and
at night when she lay down beside me her enormous weight made such an
inclined plane of the bed that I could not keep from rolling against
her; and she snored so loudly that not only was it impossible for me
to sleep, but for any one else on the same floor. The sounds were not
at all sedative in their effects, and I spent the nights praying for
morning.
My baby, too, was so restless that her position had to be frequently
changed; and when the nurse was awakened she treated me exactly as if
I were a naughty child, and so completely cowed me by her roughness
that I dared offer no remonstrance, but simply endured.
Matters went on thus for several days until some of the kind ladies
in the house interfered; but not before I had been left entirely
alone the night our little one was a week old, and was found
unconscious with baby screaming so loudly that every one in the house
was aroused.
The good old days are not so much to be deplored when we consider
that the nurse was a fair specimen of her class, and had no hesitancy
in asking forty dollars a week for the services she rendered. Now
that trained nurses are to be found everywhere, such creatures are
unknown. Instances of her cruel conduct might be multiplied, but it
is unnecessary.
As usual I was tormented by fears on the score of expense, as all
supplies were most exorbitant in price. The increase in rank had
added only one hundred dollars a year to my husband’s pay, and
the land of fruitful abundance in which we then were was almost as
costly, so far as living expenses were concerned, as the frontier,
and under the circumstances far more so.
After two steamers had arrived without bringing Mr. Boyd, I grew so
restless under the care of such a nurse that the determination to
discharge her was formed; yet sufficient courage to do so was not
summoned until after the arrival of my husband, five days before our
baby was three weeks old.
We then essayed to minister to baby’s wants ourselves, and some
of the attempts were ludicrous. Having seen the nurse give the
child paregoric, once, when she cried desperately, I poured out
a teaspoonful, and while my husband held baby, tried to make her
swallow it. Had not the drug in its raw strength nearly strangled
her, we would, undoubtedly, have murdered our dear little infant.
That was not the only experiment we tried, and looking back I pity
the poor child with all my heart. Our anxiety to improve her
appearance was so great that whatever we were advised to do was
attempted. I cut off baby’s eyelashes one day to make them grow
thicker; and when she was a little older, while we were in Arizona,
I found her father pressing that dear little nose between the prongs
of a clothespin to better its shape. She resented such treatment, and
her cries filled me with indignation, for at least my experiments had
all been painless.
The day after Mr. Boyd’s return, notwithstanding the commanding
general’s promise that we should remain in San Francisco until May,
orders were received to proceed immediately to Arizona. It never
occurred to my husband that he should dispute the order, nor to me
that I could remain for a time in California.
After a couple of days spent in purchasing needful supplies and
hunting the city over for a servant, we took steamer for Wilmington
in Southern California. The trip occupied two days, and as we kept
very near the coast, choppy seas made me extremely seasick and
miserable. I was so thin and pale as to excite the sympathies of
all who saw me. The doctor had said that the change would benefit
me, while, perhaps, I could not improve if left in California.
His prediction might have proved true had not the journey been so
fearfully hard. Baby was exactly three weeks old the day we reached
Los Angeles, from which place we were to start on our long interior
ride.
Nothing can be more beautiful than were the surroundings of that
town. As we drove in from Wilmington the air was odorous with the
perfume of orange blossoms; and trees, heavy with their loads of
ripening fruits of different kinds, overshadowed our road. I have
never cared for oranges since eating those brought me still clinging
to their branches: no packed fruit can compare with such in flavor
and lusciousness.
Having been housed so long I enjoyed to the full the flowers that
bloomed on all sides, making a perfect paradise of the spot. My
recollections of California, for I have never seen it since, are most
delightful, and I deem any one fortunate who has a settled home there.
That part of Southern California is particularly favored, and my
recollections of the five days consumed in traveling toward the East
are among the pleasantest of my life. We stopped every night at some
ranch, where the occupants not only received us kindly, but where our
eyes could feast on glorious scenery, which combined with the liberal
creature comforts that were enjoyed, left little to be wished for.
I longed to remain in Los Angeles; but we were obliged to hurry on
in compliance with military orders, and also for another reason. An
entire day spent in San Francisco hunting for a servant had only
resulted in procuring a Chinese boy twelve years old. No woman could
be induced to go to Arizona. First, because no church was there.
Second, and mainly, because many Indians were.
Even the mercenary Chinese had never dreamed of passing into so
dangerous a region; and when on reaching Los Angeles my little
servant naturally exchanged confidences with those employed in the
hotel, such a tale of horrors—principally in the shape of Indian
cruelties—was told the boy, that he was terrified beyond belief,
and fairly shook with anguish and fear when informed that he must
accompany us. Evidently believing that his long queue would prove an
additional inducement for the Indians to scalp him, he was determined
to escape at all hazards. Our little servant could be kept from
running away only by locking him up; he was not released until we
were ready to step into the wagon, and a more woebegone face I have
never seen.
It is to this day an historical fact, both in Arizona and New Mexico,
that we took the first Chinaman into those States which now swarm
with them, and where only recently they were boycotted.
For some reason unknown to us, we were refused proper
transportation—an ambulance and four mules with driver. A small,
two-seated vehicle and span of horses had instead been provided,
which when loaded with our most needed articles presented a strange
appearance. A mattress and blankets were strapped on the back, and
over those a chair. The inside was simply crowded with an array of
articles demanded by our long journey. We had not only all necessary
clothing, but as much food in a condensed shape as could be taken;
there was no room for luxuries. Our first care was to be well armed,
as we were going among hostile Indians, a fact I could scarcely
realize; therefore our vehicle held, in addition to all else, a gun,
two pistols, and strapped overhead my husband’s two sabers, which he
required when on duty.
Some premonition, which perhaps was the result of past experience,
made me careful to select all we might need for future as well as
present use in the way of clothing. It proved a wise precaution, for
the remainder of our baggage, including all household goods, which we
had left in the hands of freighters, was seized for their debts on
the borders of California, and not permitted to cross into Arizona
until means to liquidate the men’s obligations had been found. It
took just six months to do that, during which time we waited for our
property.
With my usual docility in accepting advice concerning baby, I had
followed the suggestion of an army paymaster’s wife, who considered a
champagne basket the proper receptacle for an infant when traveling.
Never was advice given which proved more useful or beneficial. If
with all the other hardships of that journey I had been compelled
to hold baby day after day, not only would I have been far more
fatigued, but she far less comfortable. Cradled in that basket, the
motion of our carriage acted as a perpetual lullaby, and the little
one slept soundly all the time, waking only when progress ceased. The
basket was tightly strapped to the front seat beside my husband, who
drove, while I sat on the back one with our little Chinaman.
CHAPTER V.
The time-honored “babes in the woods” could not have started on
their pilgrimage with more childlike simplicity than did my husband
and myself. The first five days, through the most beautiful country
imaginable, were like a pleasure trip, and little prepared us for the
hardships which followed. The roads were good, the scenery superb,
and each night we were most hospitably entertained by some kind
family.
Besides good food and comfortable beds, considerable advice as to
the treatment of baby was thrown in gratuitously. It seemed all the
more necessary just then, for although during the entire trip our
little one slept sweetly throughout the day, no doubt lulled to rest
by the motion of the vehicle, when night came she was tortured by
that baby’s enemy—colic. As a cure, we kept adding to her coverings,
until no one could have dreamed that the tightly strapped and
blanketed basket contained a human being. Many were the comments of
surprise when the child was exhumed from her manifold wrappings. If
the custom of traveling by carriage long distances was not almost
obsolete, I should advise all young mothers to try the basket plan.
Not only was baby perfectly comfortable, but the saving of my
strength was great, and that alone enabled me to survive the journey.
We passed the celebrated Cocomungo Ranch, with its beautiful
vineyards and delicious wines, and many other spots, then unoccupied
lands, which have since become populous towns. On the fifth day Camp
Cady, where we expected to take final leave of civilization and
enter the California desert, was reached. The camp was garrisoned by
a detachment of only twenty men, and but two could be spared as an
escort for us. Even then the wife of the officer in charge demurred,
saying:
“Suppose the Indians should attack us? What could we do with only
eighteen men?”
When during subsequent weeks I fully realized the dangers we were
encountering, her remark was frequently recalled. Certainly two men
were not sufficient to protect us from Indians.
Immediately after leaving Camp Cady we descended into a small cañon,
and on emerging therefrom found ourselves dragging through deep
sand, which continued for miles and was wearisome in the extreme.
Our horses plodded along, and the monotony of desert travel was
thoroughly established. Only eighteen miles were covered that day,
yet it took ten hours, as we dared not urge the horses through such
deep sand.
Our first encampment was a memorable one. Like all desert travelers,
we did not stop on account of having reached an oasis, but simply
because our horses could go no farther. I wondered then, as on our
previous journey, why the particular spot at which we stopped had
been selected. It always seemed to me that we might have gone on;
but that was not a common-sense view—merely an eager desire to hasten
toward home.
I never knew why we had no tent of any kind, not even the tiny
shelter tent with which every soldier is supposed to be provided on
all journeys; I do, however, know that we had not a stitch of canvas
of any sort, and that baby was awakened every morning by the glaring
sun shining full in her face. As the sun on the desert sand is
reflective, we soon learned to dread it extremely.
I wish it were possible to impress others with the sensation those
camps invariably produced upon me! Usually occupying as a spectator
a passive position, I sat apart and watched the blazing fire and
the figures of the men sharply defined against its light as they
prepared supper, and then, peering into the unfathomable distance
of loneliness beyond and on all sides, I indulged in all kinds of
visions, none of which were calculated to make me especially happy.
That night, however, the men who accompanied us pretended to be
unequal to the task of making ready our slight repast, and I essayed
for the first time in my life, and under the greatest disadvantages,
to cook an entire meal. A strong wind was blowing, which drove the
smoke in my face and eyes. The more I tried to avoid this, the
more it seemed to torture me; while my utter lack of knowledge
in all culinary matters, especially when prosecuted under such
circumstances, was very trying. Baby added to my misery by screaming
with pain from her usual attack of colic.
Want of space in our little wagon had compelled us to forego all but
the actual necessaries of life; and thus our bill of fare was limited
to bacon, hard tack, and a small supply of eggs, which, with coffee,
was our only food during that desert travel of five days. I learned
to grill bacon and make excellent coffee, but never to enjoy cooking
over a camp-fire.
Bright and early, awakened by the sun shining full in our faces, we
started on our seventh day’s journey, which proved almost exactly
like our sixth, yet closed with a tragic incident. The horses were
our pride and glory—they were not only beautiful, but strong and
useful. Watching them as they carried us along so swiftly and safely
during the first five days had been a real pleasure, and we had
become attached to the faithful animals.
On reaching Soda Lake at the end of our seventh day’s journey,
and second after leaving Camp Cady, we were not a little dismayed
to find that the horses were suffering quite severely from the
effects of their hard two days’ pull through the deep sand. On being
unharnessed, one immediately plunged into the lake, and in spite of
all efforts remained there. The result may be conjectured. In his
heated and exhausted condition he foundered, and to our great sorrow
had to be shot.
That was a serious hindrance to our progress; but, fortunately, we
had with us a pack-mule laden with grain for the horses. Needless
to state he was relieved of his load, much of which we left by the
roadside; the remainder, necessary for the animals’ sustenance, was
placed in our wagon, which rendered us still more uncomfortable. It
would be difficult to tell what we did with our feet, for not an inch
of space on the bottom of the wagon was unoccupied.
We left Soda Lake with joy, as its alkaline properties rendered the
water useless for all ordinary purposes, and a better supply was
longed for. During that entire desert journey, until the Colorado
River was reached, we had not a drop of water that could quench
thirst. Both men and animals were to be pitied.
Our eighth day was dreadful in its manner of progress. The pack-mule,
quite unaccustomed to harness, had no idea of bearing his share of
the burden, while our beautiful little mare chafed in the company
of such an ungainly creature, and seemed so desirous to be rid of
him that she did all the pulling. For days our minds were occupied
with the problem of how to restrain her and urge on the mule. Every
effort to accomplish this only made matters worse, for it invariably
resulted in the latter breaking into a clumsy, lumbering gallop that
was very ludicrous.
At length we left the deep sand and traveled over the most level
country imaginable. It proved, however, even more dreary, for the
ground was white as snow with alkaline deposits. As far as the eye
could reach, only an endless, white, barren plain, unrelieved by even
a scrub bush, was visible. In all my frontier life and travel I never
saw anything so utterly desolate as was that desert.
We found, after the first day of unmatched steeds, that our little
mare must be favored or she too would die. It was therefore decided
to travel mainly at night. The ground was so hard and white that
the sun’s reflection was most dazzling. When, on the ninth day, we
encamped with only our wagon to shade us from its intense rays, I
would have given almost anything for the shelter a strip of canvas
would have afforded. Long before noon, and long after, the pitiless
sun poured down upon us, until hands and faces were blistered; even
poor little baby had to be smeared with glycerine as a preventive.
In that manner we traveled for two days over the desert; and although
the sun’s heat was almost unendurable, yet our only safety lay in so
doing.
We started about sundown on the ninth night, and reaching an
old disused house about midnight, prepared to camp. I had been
so tortured for several days and nights by the absence of all
shelter, that my husband readily complied with the request to place
our mattress inside those old walls. The roof had long before
disappeared: but it seemed good to be once more in any sort of
inclosure, and I lay down very composedly. My sleep was, however,
soon disturbed by the strangest sounds. I awakened to find that a
veritable carnival was being held by insects, and the uncertainty
concerning their species was anything but agreeable. Every imaginable
noise could be detected. I bore it silently as long as possible,
until confident I heard rattlesnakes, when in great fear I hugged
my baby closer, expecting our last moments had come, yet hoping to
shield her from their fangs.
Such a night of wretchedness I hope never again to experience. All
kinds of horrible sounds terrified me to such an extent that a firm
resolve was formed never to pass another night in a place of whose
inhabitants I was unaware. I am confident that every sort of vermin
infested that old ruined house, and our subsequent perils with
visible foes gave me far less anxiety.
Having learned to dread being a source of extra trouble to Mr. Boyd
on a journey which taxed every energy of his mind and body, I always
endured everything quietly as long as possible. That alone enabled
me to go through such a night of agony—interminable it seemed at the
time, but in reality only a few hours, for dawn soon came.
Midday again found us on our way; and when we began to descend into
the Colorado basin, and caught sight of Fort Mojave’s adobe walls
and the muddy banks of the river, we felt as if the end of a hard
journey had at last been reached, and rejoiced exceedingly to see
friendly faces and receive a hearty welcome. Knowing that each day’s
travel was bringing us nearer home, we gladly crossed the river and
shook the dust of California from our feet.
CHAPTER VI.
Fort Mojave, at that time a mere collection of adobe buildings with
no special pretensions to comfort, stood on the eastern bank of the
Colorado River. It seemed to me, except for the extreme heat which
made it an uncomfortable sleeping-place, a very haven of rest. The
muddy river sluggishly wound its way to the gulf many miles below,
and nine months of the year the temperature of every place on its
banks was torrid. Fort Yuma, at its mouth, was noted for being a
veritable Tophet.
A yarn illustrative of the general opinion of its climate is told of
a soldier who ventured out in the middle of a July day, and never
returned. Diligent search served only to discover a huge grease-spot
and pile of bones on the parade ground.
Another tradition, very hackneyed to army ears, is that of a soldier
famous for his wickedness, who, having died, reappeared, and was seen
hunting for his blankets; the inference being that the warm place to
which he had been assigned was not hot enough for one accustomed to
Fort Yuma’s climate.
All ladies who have lived there supplement these ridiculous tales
with more credible ones. It is quite true that eggs, if not gathered
as soon as laid, were sure to be roasted if the sun shone on them.
It is also a fact that those who had leisure to do so spent the
greater part of their time in the bath, and Indians would remain in
the stream for hours at a time, their heads covered with mud as a
protection from the sun’s rays.
I soon realized that not being obliged to remain in so warm a climate
was a favor, and rejoiced greatly when once more fairly _en route_,
although the two days had been very pleasantly passed. We were
furnished with a pair of mules, so our poor little mare could be led
the remainder of the way, and we had as escort two men who were sent
into Arizona with the weekly mails.
Our first day’s travel was pleasant; but when night came on we were
alarmed at the number of signal fires on all sides, which indicated
the near presence of hostile Indians. I shall never forget the shock
experienced when I first realized that we were in danger from such a
source. The past year had so accustomed me to Indians, that it seemed
as if all tribes were harmless; yet the constant wariness of our
escort soon convinced me of the contrary.
The part of Arizona through which we were then passing was such an
agreeable contrast to our weary desert journey that I thoroughly
enjoyed the beautiful pine lands; and the change, as we ascended
daily into more mountainous regions, was delightful. Our second day
from Fort Mojave, and the twelfth of that long journey, however,
considerably dampened my ardor.
The road had been rough from the start, but nothing to be compared
with what we then experienced. After a tedious ascent a long hill
was reached, seemingly miles in length, and which must be descended
amid boulders strewn all over the road. I was compelled to walk, with
baby in my arms, picking my way as best I could from one rock to
another. The time occupied in making the descent was three hours. My
fatigue can hardly be imagined.
The wagon wheels were lashed together by ropes, which were held by
men on either side; and even then the vehicle fairly bounded onward,
each leap almost wrenching it asunder. I expected every moment to see
it lying in ruins. That such was not its fate was entirely due to the
care Mr. Boyd and the men took in guiding it safely between and over
the boulders.
No hill I have ever since seen was like that, and no words are
adequate to give any idea of its horrors. I felt every moment as if
a single mis-step would launch my infant and self into eternity,
and wondered if I could survive the fatigue, even if successful in
placing my feet carefully enough to escape the greater danger. When
finally our little company at the foot of the hill was reached, I
sank, completely exhausted. Many days passed before I could step
without feeling the effects of that terrible scramble in mid-air.
We had hoped to reach our destination in four days after leaving Fort
Mojave; but each day seemed longer than its predecessor, especially
as dangers increased. Our second night was spent in a military camp,
and a detachment of troops guarded the highway. I could no longer
doubt the necessity of exercising constant vigilance against hostile
foes.
Every animal in the temporary stables had been maimed in some manner
by Indians, who would steal in under cover of darkness and shoot
whatever living thing they saw. The men were always in peril, even in
their tents; and the officer in charge did not lessen in any degree
my uneasiness when he showed me how his tent had been riddled in many
places by bullets. He was then recovering from the effects of a
wound received while pursuing Indians.
We had breakfasted, and were about ready to start next morning,
when our attention was called to Indians’ footprints all over the
garden spot which the troops had prepared for their hoped-for supply
of vegetables. Alas for the poor people who in those days thought
to make fortunes out West! No amount of energy, perseverance, or
endurance, to say nothing of hardships bravely borne, could ward off
the cruel Indians.
Although it may be justly said that our dealings with the red men
were the primary cause of all the suffering, yet could the hundreds
of settlers who lost their lives while endeavoring to make homes for
themselves in the West be avenged, not an Indian would be left to
tell the tale. My heart was wrung during those travels, when, every
hour of the day, we passed a pile of stones that marked a grave.
Arizona seemed to me a very burying-ground—a huge cemetery—for men
and women killed by Indians.
In after-years I agreed perfectly with the common army belief
that attempting to settle a ranch in either Arizona or New Mexico
was simply courting an inevitable fate—death at the hands of
ruthless Indians. History was ever new in those regions, and kept
ever repeating itself. I frequently heard it said, referring to a
comparatively recent settler:
“Well, his time will surely come.”
Whenever a ranch was in an exceptionally isolated region, the sequel
would be accelerated. Indian horrors were every-day occurrences;
and yet I never grew accustomed to them. Long residence among those
much-abused frontiersmen taught me to feel that the early martyrs
suffered little in comparison with the constant peril in which they
lived.
But to return to our journey and its growing dangers. A number
of soldiers escorted us through a perilous cañon outside of the
little detachment post, where, at ten o’clock, our officer friend
reluctantly bade us adieu, saying we were in great danger. Could his
post have been left with safety, he would willingly have escorted us
farther.
We rode on, feeling indeed very anxious, and soon met a Major of
the Eighth Cavalry, who with an escort of sixteen men had been
peppered by Indians’ bullets in a cañon through which we must pass
the same day. As the escort of two men with which we left Camp Cady
had not been augmented, our feelings may be imagined. There was no
alternative; go on we must.
I now see that we were then too young and inexperienced to realize
the dangers of our terrible position. It was, however, soon
understood, and before entering the cañon at six o’clock that evening
all warlike preparations possible under the circumstances had been
made. A civilian had joined our party at Fort Mojave, and thus there
were three outriders. The two sabres in our wagon overhead we took
down and unsheathed, so that, when thrust out on either side, there
seemed to be four weapons—at least we hoped the Indians would think
so, and unless they came very close, the dim light would favor our
deception. The gun was placed so it could be used at a moment’s
notice. I held one pistol, and Mr. Boyd the other. The soldiers,
with their bayonets bristling, looked as warlike as possible;
and altogether we relied upon what eventually saved our lives—an
appearance of strength which we in no wise possessed.
We had been told that the Indians, at least in that region, never
attacked unless confident of victory; and we knew that unless they
were directly beside us, the appearance our wagon presented, so
covered they could not see its interior, and seemingly full of
weapons, would indicate a well-armed party of men. Instead, there
was one man, handicapped by the care of his team and the helpless
nature of his charges—a feeble woman, an infant, and a diminutive
heathen, who on perceiving the active preparations being made for
resisting what he had so feared, became literally green with terror
and altogether useless.
The cañon was so precipitous on both sides that we seemed to be
traveling between two high walls. The rocks were of that treacherous
gray against which I had been told an Indian could so effectually
conceal himself as to seem but a part of them. The entire region
was weird and awful. The sides of the cañon towered far above us to
almost unseen heights, and as we slowly drove onward, our hearts
quivered with excitement and fear at the probability of an attack.
We had proceeded some little distance and were feeling considerably
relieved, when suddenly a fearful Indian war-whoop arose. It was so
abrupt, and seemed such a natural outcome of our fears, that only
for repeated repetitions I could have believed it imaginary. Others,
however, quickly followed, so no doubt could be entertained of their
reality. I had only sufficient consciousness to wonder when we should
die, and how. I glanced involuntarily at our Chinese servant, who was
crouched in one corner of the wagon in a most pitiable heap, and
then at our poor little baby, bundled in many wraps and sleeping in
her basket. All were silent. No word was uttered, and no sound heard
but the lashing of the whip that urged forward our mules. Although
they fairly leaped onward, yet we seemed to crawl. Cruel death was
momentarily expected.
At last, and it seemed ages, we were out of the cañon and on open
ground. Even then no time was lost. The mules were still hurried on.
I have often thought that, like Tennyson’s brook, we might have “gone
on forever” had not a large party of freighters soon been reached,
who were camping in front of a blazing wood fire. Their presence
gave us that sense of companionship and security so sorely needed.
We joined them; and while I sat in the blaze of their fire, Mr. Boyd
recounted our perilous ride. The conclusion was reached that we
had been spared only because apparently so well prepared to resist
attack. Any doubts which might have been entertained concerning the
presence of foes in the cañon were dispelled by what followed.
I crawled that night under a wagon, for my nerves were too shattered
to sleep without some kind of shelter if it could be procured, and
my last waking thought was that our companions for the night would
have to pass next morning through the same dangerous cañon, their
destination being California. They started first, and one of the
superintendents—there were two in the party—foolishly disregarded
our warning and lagged behind. His mangled body was afterwards found
horribly mutilated on the very spot where we had heard the Indians’
fearful yells.
It was a well-known fact that the savages would lurk for days in one
place, and if disappointed by any party being too numerous or well
armed, would invariably later on destroy some careless straggler.
The freighters, having escaped such dangers again and again, would
frequently become reckless, when they were almost sure to finally
fall victims to their lack of caution.
CHAPTER VII.
Only two days were left in which to reach our destination. The
remainder of the road was level, and no further danger from Indians
need be apprehended. Our next encampment was at Willow Grove, a
lovely wooded spot where some of our own troops were stationed, and
but a short distance from what we supposed was to be our home, at
least for a time.
At last Prescott, then a mining-town, was gained. Everything seemed
delightful. Situated among the hills, surrounded by trees, and with a
most enjoyable climate, never very hot or very cold, but bracing at
all seasons, it would indeed prove a desirable home to wanderers like
ourselves, and I fondly hoped we might remain there.
We were warmly welcomed at the garrison, which was situated half
a mile from town. There were but three houses in the post, and all
occupied. The houses contained only three rooms each, and one of the
officers kindly relinquished his room in my favor. The ladies were
very hospitable in providing me with nourishing food, of which I was
in great need.
Our dismay on learning that Mr. Boyd must leave the next day to join
his company, which had been sent eighty miles distant to a post
called Camp Date Creek, may be imagined. The movement was considered
only temporary, as the troop was permanently stationed at Prescott;
so, supposing that my husband might return almost immediately, it was
decided that I should remain there.
All would have gone well had there been suitable accommodations; but
no sooner had Mr. Boyd left than the inspector-general, accompanied
by several other officers, arrived, and their baggage was placed in
the room I was occupying. There was no alternative but for me to move
into the adjoining room, an old, deserted kitchen, which had for
years past been the receptacle of miscellaneous _débris_.
My bed had to be made on the floor between two windows, whose panes
of glass were either cracked or broken. An old stove, utterly
useless, occupied the hearth. As the nights and mornings were very
cold I tried to build a fire; but the smoke, instead of ascending,
poured into the room in volumes, and compelled me to abandon the task
as hopeless. I suffered far more from the cold there than I had while
on the march, and longed for a camp-fire.
The kitchen was a perfect curiosity shop. Garments of every
imaginable kind, when no longer of use to their owners, had evidently
been left there. An “old clothes man” would have rejoiced at the
wealth of rubbish. I counted twenty pairs of boots and shoes, and
there were quite as many hats, coats, and nether garments. The
corners of that room were to be avoided as one would avoid the
plague. My chair, which had been brought from California, was planted
in the only clean spot—the floor’s immediate center.
I tried to imagine myself camping out, but my surroundings were far
less agreeable than they would have been in that case, and whichever
way my eyes turned, they met unsightly objects. No one seemed to
consider the situation unpleasant, so I simply resigned myself to the
inevitable.
After I had been living in that way for ten days, the post surgeon
came in and said:
“Mrs. Boyd, I have observed your disagreeable plight if no one else
has, and am exceedingly sorry. I am ordered to Camp Date Creek, and
if you would like will escort you.”
No farther words were needed. I was ready to leave immediately; and
when told of the disagreeables that would be encountered simply
laughed, I was so tired of homelessness.
Prescott was in such a healthy location as to be a very desirable
station, while Camp Date Creek was low and malarious. The post
statistics showed that eighty per cent of the men were then suffering
from fever. The extreme heat and numerous supply of vermin were also
enlarged upon; but nothing daunted me, and I went on my way rejoicing.
The journey was indeed very trying. The road was principally a lava
bed, and we were fearfully jolted. I disliked making trouble, and
remember riding for miles, holding on to the basket in which baby was
lying, which had been placed on the bottom of the vehicle at my feet.
To prevent the basket—precious contents and all—from slipping out
under the front seat, I was obliged to cling tightly to it, and at
the same time firmly brace myself in order to keep from being tossed
about.
However, everything must have an end—even such a journey. I was
inexpressibly glad to find a house once more over my head, and to
receive my husband’s hearty welcome.
Army life is uncertain in the extreme, and our detail proved no
exception to the rule. The troop was sent to Camp Date Creek for a
month, but it remained a year, until the regiment left Arizona. The
consolidation of regiments was at that time being effected. The
infantry had been reduced from forty to twenty-five regiments, which
necessitated many moves, and was the occasion for the detention there
of some troops until more infantry arrived.
It was indeed a desolate and undesirable locality. The country was
ugly, flat, and inexpressibly dreary. The section stretching in front
of our camp was called “bad lands” (_mala pice_). The only pretty
spot at all near was a slow, sluggish stream some miles away, where
no one dared remain long for fear of malaria.
Our only associate was the doctor, and subsequently, when a company
of infantry arrived, two officers; but for at least six months of
that year I was the only woman within at least fifty miles. I found,
too, that housekeeping was a burden; for in all the travel from north
to south, and the reverse, through Arizona, every one stopped _en
route_. Before we left I felt competent to keep a hotel if experience
was any education in the art. Even stage passengers had frequently
to be cared for, as in that region it would have been cruel, when
delays occurred, to have permitted them to have gone farther without
food.
As usual, I had the help of a soldier; but unfortunately one who,
when he found that too much was likely to be required of him,
took refuge in intoxication; then the entire burden fell upon me.
Our little Chinese boy proved a treasure. He could wash and iron
capitally, excepting my husband’s shirts and the baby’s clothes, the
ironing of both of which came upon me.
That year of my life was, in spite of many hardships, a very happy
one. I have often since wondered how it could have been so, for
surely no one ever lived more queerly. The houses were built of
mud-brick (adobe), which was not, as is usual, plastered either
inside or out. Being left unfinished they soon began to crumble in
the dry atmosphere, and large holes or openings formed, in which
vermin, especially centipeds, found hiding-places. The latter were
so plentiful that I have frequently counted a dozen or more crawling
in and out of the interstices. Scorpions and rattlesnakes also took
up their abode with us, and one snake of a more harmless nature
used almost daily to thrust his head through a hole in the floor.
Altogether we had plenty of such visitors.
In faithfully recording my experiences, honesty compels me to state
that although I have encountered almost every species of noxious
and deadly vermin, from the ubiquitous rattlesnake to the deadly
vinageroon, my real trials have arisen from the simpler sorts, such
as wasps, gnats, fleas, flies, and mosquitoes, which, everywhere
prolific, are doubly so on the frontier. I think a kind Providence
must have watched over our encounters with deadly reptiles, though
nothing could save us from ordinary pests.
Perhaps the most trying of all my experiences was when we made our
camp after dark. On those occasions we would be almost certain either
to find that our tents had been erected close beside a bed of
cacti, to fall into whenever we moved, or over an ant-heap of such
dimensions that cannot be conceived of by any one in the East. The
busy population of one of those ant-hills was among the millions; and
evidently each inhabitant felt called upon to resent our intrusion,
for soon we would be literally covered with the stinging pests. When
our little ones were the victims, as often happened, we longed to
live in a land where such creatures were unknown.
But to return to a description of our home. The house consisted of
one long room, with a door at either end, and two windows on each
side. The room was sufficiently large to enable us to divide it by
a canvas curtain, and thus have a sitting-room and bedroom. We felt
very happy on account of having a floor other than the ground, though
it consisted only of broad, rough, unplaned planks, which had shrunk
so that the spaces between them were at least two inches in width,
and proved a trap for every little article that fell upon the floor.
The brown, rough adobe walls were very uninviting, and centipeds
were so numerous I never dared place our bed within at least two
feet of them. The adjoining house, which was vacant, I used for a
dining-room. Our kitchen stood as far away in another direction, so
I seemed to daily walk miles in the simple routine of housekeeping
duties.
The country was very desolate, and the dismal cry of the coyotes
at night anything but enlivening. Those animals became so bold as
actually to approach our door, and one night carried off a box of
shoe-blacking. They evidently did not care for that kind of relish,
as it was discovered next day a short distance from the house.
We killed so many snakes that I made a collection of rattles. One
of the tales told about me was that a box of them sent to New York
was labelled “Rattlesnakes’ Rattles! Poison!” Of course that was not
true; but our lives were so monotonous we enjoyed any joke on each
other.
I thought the last would never have been heard of my early
pronunciation of “Fort Mojave,” which it is probably needless to
state was exactly in English accord with its spelling. Probably had
I known the word was Spanish, not understanding the language, my
pronunciation would have been the same.
I was always delighted when ladies passed through the post, and
invariably begged them to remain as long as possible. One lovely
woman, whose husband had been ordered from Southern to Northern
Arizona, only to find on reaching there that his station was to be
but twenty miles from the place he had just left, gladdened me twice
by her presence. When I expressed regret because she was obliged to
traverse the same road again during such extremely warm weather,
her assurance that she did not in the least mind it, surprised and
relieved me.
I found Arizona even worse than Nevada, so far as supplies were
concerned. We could seldom obtain luxuries of any kind, and when
procurable they were exorbitant in price. Eggs cost two dollars and
fifty cents a dozen; butter the same per pound; chickens two dollars
and fifty cents apiece; potatoes, twenty cents per pound; kerosene
oil, five dollars a gallon, and I was told it had been as high as
fourteen dollars. Fortunately we could buy candles at government
rates.
We were often at our wit’s ends to supply food for guests. I had five
bantam chickens, that each laid an egg daily for some time, which
we considered great cause for thankfulness. I actually learned to
concoct dainties without many of the ingredients usually supposed
necessary, and they were declared very good.
Finally, after having been at Camp Date Creek some months, another
lady joined us, at which I rejoiced exceedingly. She proved a very
great acquisition to our army circle.
Our mail was due once a week, but became very uncertain on account of
the Indians. Mr. Boyd was twice awakened late at night by sentries,
who reported the return of one man very badly wounded, and that
the other had been left dead, and the mail scattered all over the
country. Whenever the drums beat over the remains of any young man,
thoughts of his absent friends always came to me. Our miserable
little cemetery, out on that lonely plain, had not one grave whose
quiet occupant was more than twenty-three years of age, and none had
died a natural death.
My husband was the busiest man imaginable. He had not only to command
his company, but was also in charge of all stores and buildings. The
quartermaster’s storehouse was a long distance off, and Mr. Boyd
was there all day long. I used to be in continual fear lest Indians
should attack him. No greater diligence could have been displayed
by any one, and no one could have worked more conscientiously or
faithfully than he did all through life.
We feared to ride over the country on account of the Indians, and
therefore had less amusement and recreation than while in Nevada, yet
contentment shed its blessed rays about us. I was always joyful, and
ceased to wish that the hardships we were enduring might be exchanged
for even attic life if in New York. My regret on learning that we
were to leave for New Mexico was keen, although aware better quarters
were awaiting us. But I had grown to love my Arizona home, if the
walls were only rough adobe ones. In just nine months from the time
of my arrival at Date Creek, and in mid-winter, we left for our new
destination. It was with vexation of spirit that I again took up the
march.
CHAPTER VIII.
As an illustration of the many delays consequent upon frontier travel
may be mentioned the receipt, just before leaving for New Mexico,
of a box that had been fourteen months _en route_, though sent by
express from New York. To recount the mishaps which had befallen it
would be tiresome; yet that was but one of many similar experiences.
I had ordered the box in December, while at Camp Halleck, fully
expecting it would reach San Francisco by the time we did. The
contents were very valuable, and included an army overcoat intended
as a surprise for my husband, together with many other useful and
needed additions to our wardrobe.
It was shipped by my brother, who mailed at the same time two bills
of lading. The box arrived safely by sea, but the mail, which was
sent overland, was snowbound on the Union Pacific, and consequently
our letters were delayed. Knowing my brother’s habitual promptness,
I haunted the express office in San Francisco, only to be told again
and again that no such box was there. We therefore started for
Arizona without it. On our arrival, letters and the two bills of
lading were awaiting us. The box had been in San Francisco all the
time.
One of the bills was intrusted to an officer going there, who
promised to attend to the matter, but he never troubled himself about
it. After months had elapsed we begged another officer to hunt up the
box, which he not only did, but kindly brought it to us, after its
arrival had been vainly expected for fourteen months. The strangest
part of the whole affair, to my unworldly mind, was that the first
officer was under great obligations to us, while the one who really
obtained the box was almost a stranger.
The present may not seem a fitting occasion to moralize; but as this
is a true account of my army life and experience, I desire to state
that my reward for undue exertions on any one’s behalf was usually
the basest ingratitude. Of course this is only in accordance with all
the time-honored maxims of wiser people than myself, but the personal
experience was none the less unpleasant.
The officer to whom I refer as having been under obligations, had
brought a sick wife and child to the post for a temporary sojourn,
but the illness of his wife was so prolonged I was completely worn
out nursing her. As an addition to my troubles a second child
appeared upon the scene, which I was not only compelled to care
for, but supply with a wardrobe, in order that they might leave
for California in a month’s time. I was ill in bed, the result of
overwork, for weeks after they left, yet never have received a line
from them.
My long experience on the frontier plainly demonstrated that the
absence of civilization and all its appliances compelled any one with
a sympathetic heart to learn all branches of nursing. Before having
been married ten years I had acted as midwife at least that number of
times, and, far sadder, had prepared sweet and beautiful women for
their last resting-places.
Few who have seen delicately nurtured city girls marry so gladly the
men of their choice, have any idea of what they must endure in army
life. The utter absence of so much that is considered indispensable
in ordinary homes, added to the constant possibility of a move at the
most infelicitous moment, causes anxiety and restlessness which have
no adequate compensations in either the emoluments or glory that can
be gained in the service. Children always enjoy frontier travel, but
anxiety falls to the lot of mothers.
In one march of our regiment from New Mexico to Texas, nine children
were born _en route_. In those instances which came under my
observation, both mothers and babies were on the second day bundled
into ambulances and marched onward. In my opinion the natural
desire of army officers’ wives to be with their husbands has cost
the sacrifice of many precious lives; while those who survive the
hardships have bitter sufferings to contend with in after years of
chronic illness.
It is notorious that no provision is made for women in the army. Many
indignation meetings were held at which we discussed the matter, and
rebelled at being considered mere camp followers. It is a recognized
fact that woman’s presence—as wife—alone prevents demoralization, and
army officers are always encouraged to marry for that reason.
While at Camp Date Creek we formed several pleasant friendships, and
it is a matter of regret that in the years which have since elapsed
I have never met any of the ladies. Through the resignation of our
company captain and promotion of the senior lieutenant, an addition
was made to our circle of a brave, true soldier a man appointed from
the ranks—who by his nobility of character graced the higher position.
Consolidation at that time weeded out all worthless men. If an
officer’s reputation was aspersed, the charges were investigated, and
if proved, the chances of retaining his commission were very slight.
A second lieutenant of our troop was a scamp. He victimized me before
receiving his _congé_. I had supposed the mere title, “officer of
the army,” to be synonymous with honesty, so intrusted to him the
hoardings of many months with which I had designed to purchase a
pipe, and present to my husband. The amount, seventy-five dollars,
was large to me, and evidently to him also, for I never saw the money
again, nor the pipe it was to buy. Neither did the lieutenant return,
for he was dismissed the service, or rather dropped for incompetency.
Mr. Boyd had his pipe after all; for not discouraged by my loss I
began to save again, and although funds accumulated slowly, and a
year passed before the requisite amount was laid by, the pipe remains
to this day a memento of my early extravagance.
We had no outside society at Date Creek except a few rough
frontiersmen, who not only dared the danger from Indians, but also
that of the low, malarious atmosphere, for the sake of raising
vegetables, which commanded high prices. True, our small military
post was the only market, and as all supplies required to supplement
the gardeners’ stores were by reason of freight equally high-priced,
I doubt if the men even succeeded in making a comfortable living.
With all its drawbacks life was very enjoyable. Though out of the
question to go far, yet we explored the country within a radius
of several miles. Neither game nor fish were found, but it was a
pleasure to meet the strange characters with which that region
abounded.
We indulged in one visit to our regimental friends at Camp Willow
Grove. Everything was delightful when once there, but we had as usual
a disagreeable time going. Two days were consumed on the way. The
first night was spent at a stage station where all the strange and
uncouth experiences of our Nevada journey were repeated. There was,
however, a woman in this rough home who shared her bed with me; but
as it was originally intended only for one person, and we each had an
infant to care for, it soon became a question of whether or not I,
who occupied the side next the wall, should be shoved through it.
The thin boards of which the house was built were distinguished,
as is all frontier lumber, by their ability to warp, and therefore
proved a protection only from the rain, and not from the wind which
blew through the knot-holes and cracks. The inclemency of the weather
made matters worse. It was a fearful night! I mentally resolved
never to spend another in that rickety house. We changed our route
returning, and passed through Prescott.
About that time we began to rejoice in the prospect of additional
stores being furnished by the commissary department. After striving
for nearly two years to vary the monotony of our rations, we felt as
if the promised treat, in the shape of chocolate, macaroni, prunes,
raisins, and currants, would be almost too much of a luxury, and
care must be exercised if indigestion was not desired.
How much we enjoyed the slight variety! The zest with which cook and
I rang the changes on those different comestibles would seem really
childish at the present day, when almost all varieties of canned
goods and luxuries in the shape of grocers’ supplies can be found at
every military post, however small and remote.
The amount of pleasure which can be derived from the most
insignificant sources seems incredible; but I attribute much of the
happiness I found in army life to my delight in trivial matters. Then
we all were so united in mutual interests. The officers, instead
of being immersed in business cares, were ever ready to be amazed
or amused, as the case might be, with the results of our industry,
and absolute delight was manifested over the most trifling plan for
social enjoyment, which doubled the pleasure.
I have for many years entertained the greatest regard for
physicians, because during our army life they displayed so warm an
interest in my children. One of the merits of frontier residence is
that little ones thrive so much better there than in a city, and
rarely suffer from the many ailments to which town-bred children are
subject. The interest they inspire in every one, especially the post
surgeon, whose constant presence in cases of emergency gives one a
feeling of comfort and security nothing else can afford, is very
gratifying. The result, even in cases of severe illness, is usually
complete recovery. Both parents and patients unavoidably benefit by
the surroundings.
Our doctor at Camp Date Creek was a character so uncommon that my
recollections of him can never be effaced. He was an Irishman, a
grandnephew of John Philpot Curran, the distinguished Irish wit, and
himself so full of humor that his very presence was an antidote to
sickness and sorrow.
The doctor received a government contract after having been in
America but a few months. He never wearied of recounting the
impressions American slang had made upon him. Immediately on entering
our house he would seize baby and hold her for hours, all the time
pouring forth reminiscences of Ireland, and expressing surprise at
the difference between the two countries.
Our slang was described as very effective, especially the
Californian, which had, or so the doctor assured me, a distinct
vocabulary of its own, that, like adjectives, was capable of being
positive, comparative, and superlative. As an example he instanced
the following:
“You bet, you bet you, you bet your life.” “Why,” said he, “here is a
perfect declension! You bet your boots, you bet your bottom dollar,
you bet stamps.”
The genial Irish doctor was immensely pleased with our vernacular, if
with nothing else.
It would afford me much pleasure to prolong the narration of
incidents connected with those friends who aided so greatly in making
our life enjoyable, but I must hurry on with the account of our
journey to New Mexico.
CHAPTER IX.
Our little daughter was just eleven months old when the regiment was
ordered to move. We started on our long journey in mid-winter. The
troops from Prescott were to cross directly into New Mexico, and we
had hoped to accompany them, but were instead sent to join others
from the southern posts. That made our journey much longer, as after
going in a southerly, then easterly direction, our line lay north to
Fort Stanton, New Mexico.
Eve could hardly have felt more reluctant to leave the Garden of
Eden than I did when we bade farewell to the camp, which though
indeed desolate, never had seemed so to me, but, rather, the most
delightful imaginable spot. I cried bitterly for days. My packing was
accomplished with a heavy heart, I was so miserable at the thought
of leaving that which had been my first real home.
We were to have no company for some days but that of the troop and
our dear old captain, who was really like one of ourselves. His true
and loving nature had greatly endeared him to us, and he formed a
firm link in the family chain.
Unaccustomed to any comfort on former journeys, I was not inclined
to exact much on that, so soon learned instinctively to fall into
the regular routine and discipline, and expected no consideration
on account of my sex. I had never before traveled with troops; and
though I did not like to rise long before the first peep of day, and
after a hurried and scanty breakfast climb into an ambulance and
drive for hours, I soon learned to do so without a murmur. My reward
came in the praise our captain bestowed, when he declared that during
the entire march of six long, weary weeks, I had never caused one
moment’s delay or trouble.
I have often since questioned whether some plan might not have been
devised to prevent the officers’ wives from being subjected to the
stringent rules that must be enforced among soldiers. I suppose that
just as a woman whose husband is in business regulates her household
according to the needs or conveniences of its head, so, with the
same spirit, the wife of an army officer endures the hardships her
husband’s position imposes.
Our beloved commanding officer had been in the army so many years
that the possibility of deviating in any degree from the routine
which had become second nature doubtless never occurred to him.
Probably no question of expediency—simply that of duty—ever suggested
itself.
Though a sufferer all my life from army discipline, which has
continually controlled my movements, yet, when chafing most against
its restraints, I have admired the grand soldierly spirit which made
nearly every officer uncomplainingly forego all personal comfort for
the sake of duty. No one outside the army can realize what the true
soldier relinquishes when he forsakes home and family for the noble
cause.
Every one has read or heard of the mad courage displayed in times
of war, and my knowledge of the soldier is in times of peace; yet I
have then seen exhibited what to me is by far the truer heroism. It
is easy to be brave when war trumps sound and the spirit is roused to
great hopes of personal achievements, when love for a cause deepens
the ardor which sustains men even in death; but tame submission to
petty and altogether unnecessary hardships, because in the line of
duty and part of a soldier’s inevitable fate, is, in my opinion, far
more praiseworthy.
Our captain was a hero in the truest sense of the word. Like many
others, he had served for years during our civil war as a private
before being promoted to the rank of an officer. But after promotion
the possession and exercise of rare soldierly qualities soon enabled
him to reach a position of influence. He was intrusted with the
command of a company, which after a desperate resistance was
captured. Having been severely wounded, he was released on parole,
and remained in a little town of Southern New Mexico, where he was
well taken care of, and during that season of forced inactivity
recovered his health.
Almost anyone would have considered him fairly entitled to pay; but
such was his idea of rectitude that he refused to accept a dollar,
not considering that it had been fairly earned; and to this day the
five months’ pay due him while a prisoner remains in the coffers of
our government. The subsequent life of this honorable man has been
one of duty and devotion to country. His health is ruined by the
almost incredible hardships a cavalry soldier’s duties entail.
We journeyed south through Arizona to Tucson, then turned east. Our
outfit consisted of a wall tent, which on encamping at night was
placed on as smooth ground as could be found, and a mess chest filled
with supplies. By placing a support under the raised cover of the
latter, and filling the open space with a board that fitted nicely,
it could be utilized as a table. The interior contained plates and
dishes in addition to supplies, and the moment we reached camp our
cook, a soldier, would begin preparations for a meal, which though
ever so plain was always done full justice to by appetites the long
ride had sharpened.
In accordance with my usual habit, I made all necessary preparations
in advance for supplying our wants; and it soon became more a
question of quantity than of quality, for the generous hearts of Mr.
Boyd and the captain always forgot that our supplies were limited. An
instance of their thoughtlessness in such matters was on one occasion
evinced by the arrival, unexpectedly to me, of four guests whom they
had invited to remain with us for a few days. To supply food for a
week—as it happened in that case—to those extra people, blessed with
unusually good appetites, taxed my ingenuity.
We had by that time reached the celebrated Indian villages of the
Pimas and Maricopas. Those two tribes had been at peace with the
pale faces for a century. They cultivated land, and were industrious
and prosperous. Their villages stretched along the highway for many
miles, so we spent six days among them. They watched our progress in
the well-known, somewhat indifferent Indian fashion, though evincing
real interest when we encamped at night, and swarming about us with
various wares for sale, such as pottery and baskets, both unique in
pattern and very serviceable. The latter were made so fine in texture
and quality as to hold water. The various designs in which those
useful articles were woven displayed much taste.
We felt that a land flowing with milk and honey had indeed been
reached. Not only could eggs and chickens be bought, but so cheaply
we could indulge in them to our hearts’ content.
The Pima and Maricopa Indians, like all others, were unprepossessing
in appearance; but aware that after leaving them we would be once
more among the murderous Apaches, I, for one at least, enjoyed their
society because of the protection it afforded.
Every night when we pitched our tents the women would crowd about
and indulge in ecstasies over the little white baby whose ablutions
were a source of constant and serious wonderment. This can be well
understood when one remembers that Indians rarely, if ever, use water
other than for drinking purposes. I never permitted any of them to
touch baby, being afraid to do so.
Our little Chinaman, with his long pigtail, also caused much
amazement and no doubt speculation as to what he really was. As
no attempt was made to disguise this, he evidently became at once
disgusted with notoriety. It was, I believe, the cause of his one day
appearing minus that appendage so revered by all Chinese—his cue.
When I inquired what had become of it, and told him he could never
return to China, he replied:
“Me no care. Me want to be ’Melican man.”
Our baby was singularly fair and white; and in all our travels, both
among Indians and Mexicans, all went into raptures over the children,
who with their sunny heads were such utter contrasts to the swarthy
races among which we moved.
A few days of travel after leaving the Indian villages brought
us to Tucson, then an insignificant town of flat mud houses, so
unprepossessing that we were glad to drive through without stopping,
and encamp beside a beautiful stream two miles beyond. The town was
then being decimated by smallpox, which raged among the Mexicans.
We were obliged to flee from contact with it, especially as our
soldiers were always ready to explore any new place, regardless of
consequences.
We spent one day in sight seeing, though the only point of special
interest was a noted church nine miles from Tucson. I cannot express
the astonishment excited by the sight of that house of worship built
in those vast wilds, hundreds of miles from all civilization. The
edifice, of noble proportions, was of red brick and whitish stucco.
Both belfry and tower were complete. The interior decorations were
profuse, and covered the walls. The floor, once hard and smooth, had
been worn into hollows by the footsteps of countless devotees, whose
race even was unknown, though surmised to be that of the ancient
Aztecs, or followers of Montezuma.
I doubt if even in Europe, with its mystic shrines dating back
countless ages, I could have experienced a more profound sense of awe
than when standing in that absolutely desert spot, and realizing that
skilled hands had once erected there such a monument.
In that old church were marriage records dating back hundreds of
years; but the structure was to me the all absorbing wonder.
The Mexicans living near worshiped most devoutly at its shrines;
and they were not the only frequenters of that house of prayer,
for the Spanish priests had a large following of Indians who had
intermarried with the Spaniards and settled there.
I could hardly tear myself from the spot, and returned again and
again to ascend the belfry stairs and wonder and speculate upon the
strange mystery called “San Xavier del Bac.”
CHAPTER X.
At that point we parted with our four guests, who had contributed,
by their fund of wit and humor, to render the journey pleasant, and
had added much to our merriment at meal times. It required, however,
a stronger sense of humor than I possessed to be merry at breakfast,
eaten in semi-darkness, after having been awakened with military
precision.
It was certainly not cheerful to watch the tent and its furnishings
disappear in the wagon while we sat trying to imagine ourselves
breakfasting, with the sharp morning air of February chilling, or
the March winds blowing about us. When the dreary meal was over we
scrambled into our ambulance, and by the time a few miles had been
passed I would be fairly awake and longing for lunch time.
The strangest part of those travels is that children thrive so well,
and really enjoy every moment of the journey, however monotonous.
My baby could not walk, and I was glad of it; for a more thorny,
desolate country than that it has never been my lot to traverse.
The innumerable beds of cacti were the spots most delighted in by
children, and I rejoiced that baby had no chance of being lost among
those dangerous plants.
After leaving Tucson, we passed many lonely graves dispersed over
the weird desolation of that uninhabited space, and soon learned to
discern where savage Apaches had moved. With our escort of fifty
well-mounted men we had nothing to fear; but those mounds of stones,
appealing in mute silence to the passer by, touched me deeply.
On arriving at the different stage stations we generally rested a
while, and usually found there some poor woman who was working day
and night to assist her husband, and with whom I always made it a
custom to converse. The comparison of the lives of those women with
mine caused me to feel additional sympathy for them, and gratitude on
my own account.
Notwithstanding our large escort, it was necessary to proceed with
great caution, for one never could tell what might happen when
passing through the mountainous regions of Southern Arizona. Camp
Bowie, at which we remained three days, was nestled amid high
mountains, and Indians often appeared on the bluffs above, from which
they fired recklessly and sometimes effectively. A large guard was
always detailed to watch the outposts; and yet so subtle, as is well
known, are Indians, that although close at hand they were seldom
caught.
One evening while we were at Camp Bowie an Indian crept into the
stables, and while the sentry was pacing to and fro at the farther
end, mounted a fine horse standing near the entrance, and with a
yell of victory horse and rider disappeared. He well knew that once
mounted, pursuit could be defied.
That strange little fort in the very heart of the mountain fastness
sheltered a number of women and children. As usual, we received a
hearty welcome, and were feasted and _fêted_ in true army fashion.
The post surgeon vacated his room in our honor; for which we were
very grateful, especially when one of those terrible mountain
blizzards came on, in which clouds of dust so thick are formed that
objects cannot be distinguished at a distance of ten feet. The room
we occupied was built of logs, and dust blew through the crevices
until it seemed as if we were a part of the universal grit. The tents
were simply uninhabitable, though before our destination was reached
we were compelled to occupy them through what seemed fully as severe
a storm.
Officers have the habit of beautifying their quarters all
circumstances permit; and our friend the doctor, who had incommoded
himself for us, was no exception to the general rule. The rough
mud ceiling of his room had been covered with unbleached cotton;
and shelves, mostly laden with books, were suspended from rafters
by means of the same material torn into strips. One hanging over
the open fireplace was crowded with bottles of all sizes and
descriptions, which contained every form of vermin and reptile life
to be found in that region. In the eyes of one unaccustomed to such
sights it would, indeed, have been an alarming display.
The collection embraced centipeds, scorpions, tarantulas in their
hideous blackness, and snakes of all kinds—at least those small
enough to be bottled. They were not elegant mantel ornaments, but
having been long accustomed to such sights I did not mind them. It
was, however, altogether another matter to be brought in actual
contact with the monstrosities, as happened on the second night of
the storm.
We were thoroughly worn out combating the omnipresent dust, and had
retired early, when a tremendous crash suddenly awakened us from
sound sleep. At first we thought the end of the world had come;
but soon discovered that the shelf containing bottled tenants had
fallen. It was some time before a light could be procured; for
matches and lamps, as well as clocks and watches, were all buried
under the _débris_.
No description can do justice to the scene. Everything upon the
shelf, ornamental as well as useful, formed a conglomerate mass, over
which the liberated monstrosities were scattered in every direction.
The doctor apologized for the accident, but we were none the worse,
and it added one more to the list of funny experiences that were
often afterward laughed over.
From Camp Bowie our road lay through grand and gorgeous mountain
scenery to Fort Cummings, in south-western New Mexico. A mountain
pass on that route has been the scene of more Indian atrocities than
any other spot in the entire Apache region. Magnificent Cook’s Peak
has looked down upon more outrages than time can ever efface. The
stage road wound through this pass for years, and the number of times
the Indians have brutally murdered passengers is countless. Even now
that a railroad has superseded the stage, it is a place of terror to
most travelers, and the history of its bloody battles and massacres
would fill volumes.
We remained at Fort Cummings one day, and found it indeed a wretched
place, devoid of all attractions save the kind friends who made us so
welcome.
Another day’s march brought us to Fort Selden, on the Rio Grande,
from whence we caught our first glimpse of that strange river. Rising
in Southern Colorado, a beautifully clear stream, it flows on for
hundreds and hundreds of miles, changing color as frequently as does
the famous chameleon. Now it is bright and sparkling, again dull and
sluggish, and anon disappears completely, to reappear with added
volume and intensity. How many have been deceived by that treacherous
river! Trusting to its apparently listless course, travelers have
been suddenly swept away in a mad, headlong current, which absorbed
their lives as the vampire is said to do those of his prey. Ah! if
the casualties that have occurred on the Rio Grande could be written,
each of its victims adding but one line to the record, what a strange
and fearful story would be told.
There is a tradition to the effect that any one tasting its waters
will be compelled, by some strange, subtle charm or influence,
to return, even though after the lapse of years. Certain it is
that people always long to again experience its strange and weird
fascination, which seems really to follow them, and from which there
is no respite until the mighty stream is actually revisited.
The Rio Grande, which I first saw twenty years ago, has often charmed
me since. Though not often again in the same region, I have elsewhere
followed its banks for miles, and the borders of no other river it
has ever been my fortune to gaze upon, present so many varieties
of life. Desolation and beautiful verdure are mingled; while its
fruitful produce tends to make the country, which without its
beneficent influence would indeed be a desert, a very paradise.
But I would not forestall my narrative by saying too much of this
river, to which I so often returned, and which finally became like a
familiar friend, a part of my very life itself.
We left the Rio Grande at Don Aña, and struck off into beautiful,
piney Lincoln County, New Mexico, where we had a happy home for
another year. Before reaching there we encamped for one night at
White Sands, memorable on account of the peculiarity of its soil. A
perfectly wonderful mass of pure white sand, which lay in hillocks,
extended far as the eye could reach. We climbed onward, our feet
sinking in slightly, just enough to remind us of “footsteps on the
sands of time.” Those sand hillocks had existed from time immemorial,
and will remain for ages to come, I suppose, unless some commercial
mind shall divine their value and utilize the white commodity, by
converting it into a merchantable article. I am glad to have seen
them in their spotless purity and beauty.
The remainder of our journey to dear old Fort Stanton was through
exquisite forests of mountain pines, and beside clear streams that
yielded delicious trout.
CHAPTER XI.
At Fort Stanton nature was a constant source of joy and pleasure. The
nearby streams were fairly alive with delicious fish, so abundant
that a line could hardly be thrown before one would bite. Besides
fish, we had game of almost every variety, and fairly lived on
the “fat of the land.” New Mexico had been called “The Troopers’
Paradise,” and we found the name to be well merited.
Perhaps the very wildness of the country and abundance of game
provoked a lawless element; for Lincoln County, if a good one for
natural supplies, has always been regarded as a rallying point for
desperadoes, and its history is famous in the annals of crime.
At first my wonder and sympathies were excited; but in time the
peaceful security one always experiences when surrounded by
well-armed troops deadened susceptibilities to what transpired
outside. Army officers’ wives hear of bloodshed with much the same
feeling as is experienced by women living in cities when they learn
of frightful accidents which involve the lives of others, but of none
who are near and dear to them.
We passed one happy, peaceful year at Fort Stanton. The houses, built
of stone, which was very plentiful in that mountainous region, were
very comfortable. Each had two rooms, with a detached kitchen and
dining-room about fifteen feet in the rear.
The climate was perfect, the air so exquisitely pure as to lend a
freshness and charm to each day’s existence. To breathe was like
drinking new wine. I cannot pity the isolation of settlers in those
regions, for the beauty of natural scenery displayed on all sides is
ample compensation, and to live is to enjoy. My recollections of that
year are delightful.
Several companies had preceded us, so I had companions of my own
sex. Our amusements consisted in part of driving, and fishing in
streams where success, however inferior the angler’s skill, was
certain. Our wildest gayety was a card-party, and we always attended
military balls. There were not enough officers’ wives to have
dances of our own; but we always opened those of the soldiers’, and
thoroughly appreciated their enjoyment.
Some of those affairs would have presented a strange picture to
people in the East; but the very absurdity and variety of the
costumes and conduct of frontiersmen and their wives, who were always
invited, only added zest to our enjoyment, and the recollections
amused us for days.
One evening so fierce a storm raged that we hardly dared cross the
parade ground; yet our desire to go was sufficient to induce the
attempt. We were fairly blown into the room, and to our surprise
found it filled with the usual throng. How in the world they had all
reached the place through such a severe storm puzzled us greatly,
but there they were.
It was a curious sight, and a still more curious sound, that all
those people produced. The strains of music, the stamping of many
feet, and the wild howling of the wind, all combined to greatly
stimulate our nerves. The excitement was still further increased when
suddenly a loud crash was heard; every one rushed out in alarm to
discover that a huge flagstaff, which it had taken months to make and
erect, had fallen and been splintered into a thousand fragments. The
staff had not been properly secured by stanchions.
The occurrence was regretted, not only because the making and
erecting had consumed much time, but also because it had been
difficult to find a suitable tree tall enough for the purpose. Thus
our towering flagstaff, which had taken many years to grow and
several months to fashion, had been laid low in a less number of
seconds.
Soon after I experienced another fright, quite different in its
nature from the one just related. I now firmly believe an army
garrison to be the most secure place on earth, and in later years
almost forgot the use of keys; but in those earlier days I was always
on the alert.
One night when Mr. Boyd was away I placed a student lamp at the foot
of our bed, and after looking under it in the usual approved woman
fashion, lay down to rest. My nervous fears had only just passed
away, permitting me to fall into a light slumber, when I found myself
suddenly sitting up gazing at the form of a man entering the door. My
heart seemed to stop beating, yet fortunately I had the courage to
exclaim:
“What are you doing here? Leave the room!”
The man promptly obeyed. I sprang up, locked the door, and called the
servants. When I found that my nurse, who slept in the next room, had
disappeared, and that cook, on account of the distance between the
house and kitchen, could not hear me, I felt as if a plan was on
foot to murder me, and endured a half-hour of absolute agony, such as
I hope it will never again be my lot to experience.
At last the nurse appeared, and I went once more to rest; but so
vivid were my impressions of the man that I picked him out next day
from among a hundred; and then begged, on learning that he had been
wandering around intoxicated, and merely entered the first door which
responded to his touch, that no punishment be inflicted.
Beautiful Fort Stanton was not only perfect in natural scenery and
surroundings, but had been improved by excellent methods. Various
officers had from time to time planted trees around the parade
ground; and to facilitate their growth an _acequia_, as it was called
in Spanish, or ditch, had been dug, and the water, constantly running
through it, kept the roots of the trees always moist, so they grew
rapidly and formed a delightful shade in front of our quarters.
We became so fond of our home in that charming spot that everything
else contented us. The mail came, as before, but once a week, and
its arrival made that day a red-letter one in our quiet lives. It
was always devoted to eager anticipations and close watching of
the long line of road over which the mail rider came. If over due,
nothing else could be thought or talked of until he arrived, and we
received our news from beyond the border. Even baby learned to look
for letters, and to expect some token of love from absent friends.
She would forsake her favorite playground near the muddy _acequia_ to
join the anxious group of watchers.
Every one has heard the story of the baby who was taken by her mother
to some performance in San Francisco in the early days, when women
were scarce and babies so rare as almost to be wonders; and how, when
the little one cried and refused to be pacified, an old miner arose
and requested that the play should cease so they might hear the baby
cry. His request was applauded on all sides, and a hat passed round
for the baby, who had reminded those rough men of a home life almost
forgotten in their pioneer surroundings.
My baby was not only of the greatest importance to me, but if I
noticed any sign of the devotion she was expected to receive from
other sources flagging, my displeasure was quickly expressed. I have
since been told that the officers, after reporting for duty to their
commander, would say:
“Now we must go see baby, and report her condition.”
Consequently she received as much notice as if it had been her divine
right. The little one could talk plainly by the time she was fifteen
months old, and amused us all greatly.
In looking back upon those happy days I often wonder how I could
voluntarily have left so dear a home. But after residing there a year
I decided to visit friends in New York, so bade farewell to beautiful
Fort Stanton, not knowing I never should again see it.
CHAPTER XII.
We left Fort Stanton in March, prepared for a seemingly almost
interminable journey before reaching the railroad at Denver, five
hundred miles distant. Expecting to find houses in which to pass the
nights, we took no tent, and besides my trunk very little baggage.
It was entirely too early in the season for traveling to be really
comfortable, as in that exquisite mountain air mornings and evenings
are very cold.
The country between Forts Stanton and Union was simply superb in
its wild grandeur and beauty. Only the pen of an artist could have
done justice to its many charms. We stopped every night with Mexican
families, who in their simple kindness were most truly hospitable.
They made us welcome, and yet exacted no reward for the time and
attention bestowed. I always required those hours for rest and
looking after baby, who with the happy unconcern of childhood had a
way of wandering in paths unsuited to such tender feet.
In all those rough travels I never met with anything else which
gave me so much trouble as the cactus plant. Wherever we went, and
whatever else we missed, that was always present in some shape or
form. In regions where nothing else could be prevailed upon to grow,
that useful but disagreeable plant always throve; and the more
dreary, parched, and barren the soil, the more surely did the cactus
flourish and expand its bayonet-armed leaves.
If very young children were allowed to wander in the least, one could
safely depend upon finding them in the vicinity of the dangerous
cacti. During that journey our little one tripped and fell directly
upon a large plant, which, it seemed to me, had more than the usual
complement of thorns, for her little knees were fairly filled with
them, and days passed before all were picked out.
Cacti are the main feature of Western plant life. Sometimes with
fluted columns, as in Arizona, they rear their heads aloft in stately
grandeur. Again they are found in some one of the numerous less
inspiring shapes and forms the plant assumes in different parts of
the West. There must be at least fifty varieties. All are supplied
with that chief characteristic—sharp-pointed prickers—which remind
the unwary of their presence and power.
It takes a great deal of frontier experience to deal correctly
with cacti. They have many and valuable properties which the early
settlers long since discovered. The most common variety is the low,
flat-land species which requires no seeking. In the far West it
flaunts itself by all roadsides and everywhere dots the prairies. It
is very nutritive, and utilized by natives as food for cattle; they
first burn away the prickles with which it has been so bountifully
supplied by nature. Even in that land of seeming barrenness for man
and beast, much can be found to support life. The cactus supplies an
intoxicating liquor called _mescal_; and one variety bears a fruit
which tastes somewhat like the strawberry, and is much sought after
by Mexicans.
The only time when cacti are really pretty is in early spring, when
they bloom. Then the bright-hued flowers dot the country with color,
and relieve the eye from the monotonous gray hue which pervades all
nature in a region where rains are so periodical as to prevent the
vernal freshness of the East.
There is a rare and nameless charm in the contemplation of those
extended prairies, with their soft gray tints, dreary to Eastern
people, but so dearly loved by those who become imbued with the deep
sentiment their vast expanse inspires.
I shall never become reconciled to localities where the eye cannot
look for miles and miles beyond the spot where one stands, and where
the density of the atmosphere circumscribes the view, limiting it
to a comparatively short distance. I have traveled in New Mexico and
Arizona for days, when on starting early in the morning the objective
point of my journey, and an endless stretch of road, perhaps for a
hundred miles, could be seen.
To mount a horse, such as can be found only in the West, perfect for
the purpose, and gallop over prairies, completely losing one’s self
in vast and illimitable space, as silent as lonely, is to leave every
petty care, and feel the contented frame of mind which can only be
produced by such surroundings. In those grand wastes one is truly
alone with God. Oh, I love the West, and dislike to think that the
day will surely come when it will teem with human life and all its
warring elements!
On that journey East from my dear Western home everything seemed new.
After traveling for days, Fort Union was reached, where we remained
a while, and then went North, passing through beautiful Colorado,
stopping at Trinidad, Pueblo, and finally, after seventeen days
of ambulance travel, reaching Denver. It was more like a panoramic
journey than a real one; for we kept continually advancing toward a
higher and higher degree of civilization, till its apex—New York—was
reached.
All those strange, crude, and uncivilized Western villages have since
become thriving railroad towns. Denver, with its perfect environment
of exquisite mountain scenery, will always remain in my mind a
picture of beauty.
Mr. Boyd was to leave me at Denver, and return to Fort Stanton; but
we first spent a delightful week there. My brother met and introduced
us to some pleasant people. There was a fine company at the principal
theatre, which we attended nightly, and I shed tears over dear
old Rip Van Winkle, who, though not personated by Jefferson, was
sufficiently well portrayed to merit and receive great applause.
The absolute freshness of feeling one experiences after years of
absence from such scenes is sufficiently delightful to make the jaded
theater-goer envious.
I was exceedingly proud of my introduction to that estimable
couple, Mr. and Mrs. McKee Rankin, the “stars” in that theatrical
combination; and we were honored by an invitation to dine with them,
which was accepted. We had the pleasantest imaginable time.
My brother had been living in Cheyenne for some time, and, in his
great desire to again witness a fine theatrical performance, had,
with a friend, assumed the entire responsibility of the troupe’s
success. A week had been spent in enlisting every one’s interest;
and although he guaranteed expenses in any event, yet when the
important night arrived there was a full house, and one of the most
picturesque audiences ever collected. Every miner, ranchman, gambler,
and the whole military garrison at Cheyenne, were not only there, but
applauded everything as a Western audience alone can—in a manner that
made the very building tremble.
Such an audience is a sight which once seen is not easily forgotten.
Similar heterogeneous elements never enter into the lives of the
people at the East, and it is almost impossible to describe such
a gathering. Imagine a peculiarly picturesque and large audience,
composed of every imaginable species of the human race, each so
intent upon the performance that actual surroundings are entirely
ignored.
In those early days of which I am writing, the population of Denver
was much more composite than it is at the present time; and the
experienced eye could readily distinguish men and women of every
nationality, and from every station in life, from the cowboy to
the millionaire. Beautiful Denver! my heart turns longingly to its
perfect climate; and the desire to once again inhale that sweet, pure
air, and catch a glimpse of its glorious mountain scenery, cannot be
overcome.
We left that lovely town after a week’s delightful stay, and for
two days and nights rolled over the prairies in cars, watching the
endless stretch of level and monotonous plains, relieved here and
there by herds of buffaloes, which sometimes approached so near as to
be shot at from the train. It reminded me of the excitement created
when whales are encountered on a sea voyage, because the passengers,
after once having seen them, were constantly on the lookout for more,
and the state of expectancy rendered their journey less tedious.
These herds of buffaloes have long since disappeared from the Kansas
plains, and their very memory will soon become a recollection of the
past.
As we rolled into dingy St. Louis, where brother left me, my heart
sank at the prospect of again breathing air too heavy and dense to
be anything but suffocating. The next morning found me in Chicago,
where I was to be met by another brother. Our little daughter was so
accustomed to being on friendly terms with every one, that she used
to go from one end of the car to the other, chatting and enjoying
every moment of her trip. To ride in cars, after lurching about in
all sorts of uncomfortable conveyances over rough mountains and
plains, was like gently gliding; and but for the heavy atmosphere and
coal dust, it seemed as if I should never tire.
A very enjoyable day was passed in Chicago. My brother pointed out,
with evident pride, the splendid public buildings, which but a
few months later were devastated by the fire fiend, only to rise,
phœnix-like, from their ruins in greater beauty and splendor.
I have the most profound admiration both for Chicago and the spirit
of enterprise shown by its inhabitants; and when I saw it again after
the calamity, I bowed in reverence to a community that could evolve
so much architectural beauty and elegance, to say nothing of comfort,
from so disastrous a misfortune as that terrible fire.
Twenty hours after leaving Chicago found me in New York. I had looked
forward with intense longing to that moment, supposing ineffable
happiness would be my portion when again there; but standing in front
of the Fifth Avenue hotel, a landmark more familiar to me than any
other in the city, my disappointment and heart sickness were severe.
I had seen the hotel rise from nothing; had always lived in the
immediate vicinity, daily passed it going to and from school; and
when homesick during my army life the mere thought of that hotel
would awaken the happiest feelings; but when the desire to again
see it had been attained my heart sank with a bitter feeling of
loneliness.
No longing has ever equaled in intensity the one which then took
possession of me—to be back again in my dear Western home, surrounded
by all the lonely grandeur of its lovely scenery. Though I remained
East an entire year, it was only because obliged to, and during all
those months I never ceased to sigh for the day of my return.
I had many joyful reunions with kind relatives and dear friends, much
to make life bright and cheerful; but I raved about the delights
of the West until friends thought me nearly crazy on the subject.
Besides missing my own home, as do all married women, in spite of
the unbounded hospitality of friends, I missed the quiet and freedom
from that mad rush which seems an inevitable part of life in a great
city. I was also in the hands of physicians, which was depressing.
The hardships of frontier life, at times when I was entirely unfitted
for travel, had told their tale, and compelled my return East in
order that my shattered health might be regained.
Three months were spent in New York, and then, with the approach of
warm weather, I wended my way to the mountains. Although they seemed
insipid after the rocky grandeur of the West, I preferred them, such
as they were, to the city with its endless streets and turmoil, where
tall chimney tops prevented my obtaining a glimpse of the blue sky I
had seen so freely and loved so well.
CHAPTER XIII.
I doubt if any but those who have lived among the prairies or
mountains of the far West can realize how keenly is felt the loss of
that endless environment which becomes a part of life itself, and
which is missed when deprived of, especially at first, almost like
one’s daily bread.
From the city I went to my husband’s home in New York State, on
a spur of the Catskill Mountains, where I seemed to breathe more
freely, and was enchanted during those long summer months by the
exquisite green of grass, trees, and landscape—in a word, by every
thing that refreshed the eye after such a long period of gray hues,
and which certainly my beloved West lacked.
I was enthusiastic over the fresh verdure of our beautiful mountain
home, just as I had been over the gray loveliness of the West. It
was, no doubt, the marked contrast which gladdened my eyes. Not a
moment was spent in-doors if it could be avoided; and when compelled
to do so, I placed myself where a perpetual feast to the eyes was in
full view.
One could dwell perpetually amid recollections of the past; so I will
hasten over that quiet, restful summer to the succeeding fall, when
my husband arrived on his first leave of absence. Needless to say the
young soldier was greeted by his family with the welcome befitting
one, who, having spent three years in distant service, returned to
his home with unalloyed pleasure, and reviewed with renewed delight
the early surroundings and memories of his youth.
During the month following Mr. Boyd’s arrival our first boy was
born, and no prince could ever have been received with more sincere
delight. Parents and grandparents were unanimous in considering
him wonderful, and indeed he was a splendid baby! My husband
celebrated his advent as we would have done on the frontier, with
much rejoicing; but the Puritan grandparents seriously objected to
conviviality of any kind, and seized the occasion to obtain their
son’s promise to abstain in future from intoxicating liquors of every
description. To gratify his dear father Mr. Boyd agreed, although
there was no necessity for such a pledge, as he had always been most
temperate. Our son was ten years of age before Captain Boyd again
tasted liquor, and then it was by the doctor’s express order.
When our baby boy was three months old his father began to think
the country a cold place for us, and to debate the desirability
of a return to New York, especially as he felt we were entitled,
after our long sojourn on the frontier, to some of the pleasures
of Eastern life. One entire morning was spent in discussing the
matter. The conclusion arrived at was, that even if we remained with
relatives the amount of my husband’s pay would in no wise suffice
for the ordinary expenses of life in New York. In order to have any
leisure I should require a nurse for our two little children, and the
half-pay received was only sixty-five dollars a month.
In relating these experiences of army life, I wish it distinctly
understood that I am not exaggerating—simply stating facts. A cavalry
officer was deprived of almost every opportunity of visiting home
and relatives in the East, and when permitted to do so on leave was
compelled to plunge in debt, which involved him for years afterward
in difficulties: so, great as was the pleasure, and most innocent and
natural, we considered it too dearly bought ever to be repeated, and
therefore did not again come East until compelled to do so on account
of our children’s education.
My husband had journeyed from Fort Stanton to New York at frightful
expense, traveling by stage to Denver, which, as my previous
experience has shown, was the most costly mode of transit. An officer
has not only to make all trips when on leave at his own expense, but
in those days the pay was reduced to half its full amount; and as a
lieutenant was then allowed only one hundred and thirty dollars, Mr.
Boyd received but sixty-five dollars a month. Such reduction seems to
me most unjust, for surely no one can be expected to spend a lifetime
away from all early associations, or pay so dearly for the natural
desire to occasionally see parents and friends.
We were indeed happy with the pleasure of again visiting our
relatives; but when the long, long return journey from New York to
New Mexico had to be undertaken, and we found that with the utmost
economy it would cost seven hundred dollars, which, with the limited
supply of household necessaries absolutely required, and the expenses
of Mr. Boyd’s journey East added, aggregated upwards of thirteen
hundred dollars, it was anything but a pleasant outlook for the
future. We were in debt to that amount, and must provide for its
payment.
Can any one wonder either at our dismay, or the resolve never again
to think of leave of absence? For economy we had actually buried
ourselves in the mountains during the entire winter; and although
that was no great hardship, yet it would have been very pleasant
to have enjoyed New York during the season, especially as I never
expected to come East again.
We realized the stern fact that with an income of only sixty-five
dollars a month, four people should be thankful to have the bare
necessaries of life, without expecting luxuries; but it did seem
rather hard to return without seeing more of the city than a fleeting
glimpse obtained in passing, and—because we were poor.
While in New York one of my cousins found a servant willing to return
West with us, which seemed desirable, as a nurse would be needed on
that long journey, and the amount of her traveling expenses would be
saved in the wages to be paid—those current in New York instead of
the double rate demanded on the frontier.
We congratulated ourselves on the servant’s appearance, which was so
far from pleasing it seemed safe to take her. Had it been otherwise
she would, we were sure, soon desert us for matrimony. The girl was
almost a grenadier in looks and manners; and although not absolutely
hideous, was so far from pleasing that we were confident of retaining
her services, so made a contract for one year.
Our Western journey was uneventful in comparison with others that
had preceded it. It seemed a slight undertaking to travel with
our two little children, who were so good and healthy, and I had
the assistance both of my husband and the nurse. Besides, the joy
experienced at being fairly _en route_ for our own home made me feel
like a caged bird let loose.
After four days and nights of travel from the East into the West, we
reached Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, where the children, nurse, and I
were to remain with my brother, while Mr. Boyd went to New Mexico by
stage, and returned with an ambulance for our long journey.
My heart swells when I think of those perfect days! It was in the
month of May, and we either camped out every night, or slept in some
ranch. Each moment was fraught with pleasure. Every whiff of mountain
air was inhaled with delight, for, like a Mohammedan, my face was
turned toward Mecca. I so rejoiced that our nurse, who was undergoing
the same disagreeable sensations I had experienced at the outset of
my army life in the strange surroundings, was so overpowered she
dared not express her dissatisfaction.
On arriving at Trinidad, a halt was made, for I had forgotten to
check our trunks from Denver to Kit Carson, so they did not follow.
We awaited them there for a while, but finally decided to go on.
When the trunks eventually reached us, we discovered that they had
been left standing somewhere in the rain until their contents were
saturated with water and had mildewed.
I felt badly enough over my own trunk; but the nurse wept, “refusing
to be comforted,” for all her finery was ruined. My own regrets
were silenced in listening to her lamentations, especially as I was
entirely to blame.
We did not return to Fort Stanton, Mr. Boyd’s company having been
ordered to Fort Union; so the journey, which I regarded in the light
of a picnic, from the railroad to our home, required only twelve
days. It was delightful in every respect, or would have been but for
the sour face of our nurse, “who mourned, and mourned, and mourned.”
When we reached Fort Union, and I asked if it would not be a pleasant
home for us, she looked out on the wide and desolate plain that faced
the fort, and with a weary sigh, said she “preferred New York.”
Having known the pangs of homesickness, I sympathized with her
deeply; but she kept up so continuously her wail of despair over the
discomforts of our life generally, and it became so tiresome, that
when, five months afterward, she married a soldier, I was rather glad
than otherwise, and returned with a sense of relief to the faithful
men for service.
We had soon discovered the fallacy of our belief that her plainness
would prevent the possibility of a lover. Women were so scarce,
and men so plenty, that no matter how old or ugly, a woman was not
neglected, and our unprepossessing nurse had scores of suitors for
her hand. She had not been in the fort three days before the man who
laid our carpets proposed to her. It required but little time in
which to become aware of her own value, and on learning that he was
intemperate she quickly discarded him.
The one whom she finally married was brave in every sense of the
word. Trusting to the old adage, “Faint heart ne’er won fair ladie,”
that man engaged a carriage at Las Vegas for the wedding-trip before
ever having seen her. He was a soldier belonging at Fort Union, who
had been away on distant service for months, and, hearing that we
had a girl from the East with us, made the necessary preparations
for their marriage while _en route_ to the post. His pluck must have
pleased her, for three days after his return she accompanied him to
Las Vegas, where they were united for life.
She had made my life harder in every way, and taught us the folly of
taking a servant accustomed to Eastern civilization into the Western
wilds. Not only had she scorned all our belongings and surroundings,
but absolutely wearied me with incessant complaints over the absence
of modern conveniences, which was absurd; for the climate was so
exquisite, and the houses so compact, there was really no necessity
for such fretfulness. We had clean, sweet, fresh quarters, which to
me seemed perfect.
So greatly, however, had the girl deplored the situation, that I
wondered she thought to better her condition by marrying a soldier,
who can often give his wife no shelter whatever; in fact, unless
permitted to marry by the consent of his officers, she is not allowed
to live in the garrison.
That was a hard summer in spite of my joy at our return. Mr. Boyd
had been ordered to join his troop in the field immediately after
our arrival. I had a dear little house, and with new carpets and
curtains, and the absolute freshness of all, would have been happy
enough but for the load of debt that was constantly worrying me, and
the discontent of our servant, which made her incapable to such a
degree that I had to work so hard the flesh and strength gained by my
pleasant Eastern visit greatly decreased. Before the summer was over
I had lost twenty-five pounds.
Our dear captain had taken unto himself a bride, and in accordance
with the usual army experience had been ordered away immediately on
reaching the post, where he had hoped to enjoy his wife’s society at
least for a while. But the fortunes of war are ever the same, and our
garrison was denuded of cavalry, which pursued Indians all summer.
The officers always had so many comical stories to tell on their
return, that even the bride failed to realize her husband’s danger,
and joined in the general laugh over those recitals.
One night the Indians actually invaded camp, and the officers were
obliged to fight in their night clothes, having no time even to
slip on shoes, but rushed immediately into the inclosure, that
when camping was always formed by the wagons, and within which the
animals were led. Having succeeded in driving off the Indians they
laughed immoderately at each other, and considered the whole affair a
great joke. The colonel was unusually tall, the quartermaster short
and very stout, and each must have presented a comical appearance,
fighting for dear life in such attire.
When absent on those expeditions the troop usually encamped on the
banks of some stream. On one occasion the river by which they had
camped rose—agreeably to the frequent custom of Western rivers—and
carried away everything on its banks. When it fell their huge
blacksmith’s forge was found imbedded in the opposite shore, an
eighth of a mile lower down.
The rainy season in those south-western countries is mostly confined
to a few months, either in early spring or midsummer; and as no
warning precedes its coming, sad accidents not infrequently occur.
Sometimes in the course of a few hours a tiny little stream grows
into an angry, surging torrent, so great is the downpour even in that
short time. One dear woman, an officer’s wife, who was camped with
her husband on the banks of a river apparently in full security, lost
her life from that cause.
A storm arose so suddenly, that, seeing their camp would soon be
under water, she took shelter in an ambulance, to be driven across
the stream to higher ground; but the treacherous current had grown so
swift and strong that she and their child, together with the driver
and mules, were swept away before the eyes of her husband, who stood
agonized and helpless on the shore.
CHAPTER XIV.
We were always delighted to welcome back the troops from their
Indian reconnoitering, life was so dull without them. During their
absence the garrison would consist perhaps of only one company of
infantry, with its captain and lieutenant; and if at headquarters a
quartermaster and an adjutant, with of course a doctor, who was our
mainstay, and to whom we rushed if only a finger ached. That summer
even the band was in the field, so we had no music to cheer us.
All was, however, made up for on their return in November, when we
inaugurated a series of hops that were delightful.
The quarters at Fort Union had an unusually wide hall which was
superb for dancing, and three rooms on each side. We had only to
notify the quartermaster that a hop was to be given, when our barren
hallway would immediately be transferred into a beautiful ballroom,
with canvas stretched tightly over the floor, flags decorating the
sides, and ceiling so charmingly draped as to make us feel doubly
patriotic.
Many ladies greatly dislike Fort Union. It has always been noted
for severe dust-storms. Situated on a barren plain, the nearest
mountains, and those not very high, three miles distant, it has the
most exposed position of any military fort in New Mexico.
The soil is composed of the finest and, seemingly, lightest brown
sand, which when the wind blows banks itself to a prodigious height
against any convenient object. The most exposed place was between two
sets of quarters, which were some distance apart. The wind would blow
from a certain direction one day, and completely bank the side of one
house; the next it would shift, when the sand would be found lying
against the other.
The hope of having any trees, or even a grassy parade ground, had
been abandoned long before our residence there; for either the
grass-seed would be scattered by the wind, or the grass actually
uprooted and blown away after it had grown.
In 1886, when I again visited Fort Union, it seemed indeed a
cheerless place on account of the lack of verdure. The cause is
simply want of shelter; for with the ample water-works which have
been built since we lived there, much could be done if it were in a
less exposed position.
Those sand-banks were famous playgrounds for the children. One
little girl, whose mother was constantly upbraiding her for lack of
neatness, contrasting her with our little daughter who was almost
painfully tidy, determining to be avenged, coaxed my child near a
large sand-pile and threw her down on it, saying, as she again and
again poured the dirt over her:
“There, now! I am glad to see you as dirty as I am!”
Every eye is said to form its own beauty. Mine was disposed to see
much in Fort Union, for I had a home there.
When my husband returned from his long scout we rode horseback daily.
Our objective point was always the mountains, where trees and green
grass were to be found in abundance. One day when in the Turkey
mountains, about three miles from home, we saw two very ugly-visaged
men approaching. Some instinct, or kind Providence, warned Mr. Boyd
to keep a watchful eye on them, so he deliberately turned in the
saddle, and placing one hand on a pistol to show that he was armed,
watched them out of sight. One of the men, who turned back and looked
at us, also rested a hand on his hip where the pistol is carried.
Observing that we were intently watching their movements, they rode
on, leaving us unmolested.
On our return we were greeted with the tale of a horrible murder
that had been committed on the very outskirts of the post. A soldier
messenger, who for ten years had carried the mail between Fort Union
and the arsenal, a mile distant, had been shot within fifteen
hundred yards of the garrison, and fallen lifeless by the roadside.
His horse, instead of being captured by the murderers as they had
hoped, galloped wildly toward the arsenal, and thus raised an alarm.
The murderers were actually in sight when the poor man’s body was
found, still warm, but with life extinct.
A pursuing party was organized without loss of time, and on that
open, level plain the wretches were almost immediately captured and
placed in the guard-house. Mr. Boyd at once visited them, and found,
as he expected, that they were the same men whom we had met in the
mountains only a few hours previously. They would not, of course,
reply to his query why they did not kill us for the sake of the fine
horses we rode. He felt certain the murderers would be dealt with
as summarily, and told them so, as had been the poor messenger whom
they so foully murdered, and whose family was then suffering the most
poignant sorrow.
Late that evening the civil authorities demanded the prisoners. Their
only safety lay in the commanding officer refusing the request; but
claiming that he had no authority for so doing, they were delivered
to the sheriff, though begging and pleading to be permitted to remain
in the guard-house. The men dreaded lynch law, but saw no mercy in
the faces of their jailers.
After proceeding a short distance from the garrison, their escort
increased in numbers until soon an immense crowd surrounded them. Not
a sound was heard until the very verge of the military reservation
had been reached, yet a more resolute and relentless body of men
never marched together.
The very moment the last foot of military ground had been passed the
sheriff was overpowered, evidently with no very great reluctance; and
the crowd, producing coils of rope, quickly proceeded to hang the
prisoners to telegraph-poles, where their bodies dangled for days, a
warning to all horse-thieves and murderers.
For a time my rides were spoiled; but soon I grew brave again, though
we were always thereafter careful to be thoroughly well armed on
leaving home.
I might multiply accounts of our experiences at various garrisons,
but it would take too long. In a monotonous life days slip away
almost unconsciously, and one is surprised to find how quickly time
has flown. Looking back, it seems incredibly short, because there
were no important events to mark its progress.
We were so happily situated that I hoped to remain at Fort Union, but
as usual springtime saw us on the wing. It was undoubtedly a high
compliment to my husband that he should always have been chosen as an
administrative officer. It not only proved Mr. Boyd’s ability, but
was a testimony to his honesty, and thus a complete refutation of the
charges made against him at West Point. It was also a special honor
to be singled out from among so many men by the general in command
at distant headquarters; but an inconvenience, particularly when we
were at a very desirable post or station, to be ordered to a most
uncomfortable one. Fort Union seemed far enough from the railroad,
especially as our year East had made us anxious to be as near
civilization as possible.
We were looking forward to a long stay at our pleasant post, when an
unexpected order came for Mr. Boyd to proceed immediately to Fort
Bayard, and build the officers’ quarters needed there. He kept the
news from me during the day of its arrival, because I was deeply
engrossed in preparations for a hop to be given at our house that
evening, and he did not wish to spoil my pleasure.
The entire day had been spent in decorating the hall and preparing
supper. Unfortunately the first guest who arrived effectually
dampened my spirits by sympathetically exclaiming:
“Isn’t it too bad you have to leave here?”
I was too unhappy to enjoy a single moment of the festivities which
followed; but the arrival of the entire garrison, who danced and
otherwise greatly enjoyed themselves, left in my mind a picture of
pleasant army gayety surpassed by none.
As usual I packed our household belongings with a heavy heart. That
move was decidedly for the worse; and even if the journey, with its
attendant fatigue and expense, had not been dreaded, I would have
disliked going to a place so much farther from the railroad, and
where so little could be expected in the way of comfort.
Fort Bayard, six hundred miles south-west of Fort Union, and a
few miles distant from Arizona, was considered a most undesirable
locality, both on account of its remoteness, and because no houses
had then been built for the officers’ use. It required eighteen days
to reach our destination by ambulance, traveling about thirty-five
miles each day.
After leaving Fort Union we went directly to Santa Fé, and saw that
quaint old Mexican town, then across to Albuquerque, down by the
borders of the Rio Grande to Fort Selden, and from there by ascending
grades to Fort Bayard, which was in the more mountainous region.
The journey was like all others in which ambulances were used as
conveyances—tiresome and monotonous in the extreme, but in my case
always either modified or intensified by the gladness or reluctance
experienced in regard to our destination. In that case I was heartily
sorry for the move. We had been only nine months at Fort Union; my
baby was at a troublesome age and needed constant care, and for
the first time I was without a nurse of any sort. Besides, it was
mid-winter, and unusual care must be exercised to keep the children
warm when camping out, which we were compelled to do a part of the
time. The season was, however, too cold to permit of that when it
could be avoided, so we occupied Mexican houses almost every night.
The houses were very warm and comfortable, but oddly arranged
according to American ideas. In place of windows there were merely
openings for air, tightly closed or covered by solid wooden shutters
at night. Several beds were ranged about the walls of each long,
oddly shaped room, which except for a primitive wash-stand contained
no other furniture. There was, however, always an open fireplace and
a cheerful blaze of mesquite roots, which emitted much heat, and a
curious odor that one never forgets.
The food was always enjoyed, for after long, open-air rides no one
is ever very fastidious. Mexican cooking is not usually relished by
those unaccustomed to it, because always highly flavored with garlic,
much soaked in grease, and almost everything deluged with red pepper,
without a lavish use of which no Mexican can prepare a single dish.
The most primitive mode of grinding corn—by hand between two
stones—was then still in vogue; and the tortillas made from meal
thus obtained, simply mixed with water and baked, were not only
very sweet, but strange to say also light, probably because of the
manipulation by skilled hands. They reminded me of the delicious
beaten biscuits prepared in the South, which are never fit to be
eaten anywhere else.
The Rio Grande again became our constant companion, and we drove
for days within sight of its banks. How I envied the Mexicans who
were able to spend their lives on its sunny shores. Volumes could be
written about those peculiar people, with their almost deathlike calm
of manner, seldom, under any circumstances, varied; though sometimes
the fact is betrayed that volcanic fires slumber beneath, to be fully
roused and find vent only when their deepest emotions are stirred.
When living among them one feels the necessity of absorbing some of
their traits, which are indeed needed in a country where progress is
unknown, and where the customs of centuries past still remain, not as
traditions but as facts. They were always kind and gentle, and such
devoted admirers of our fairer race as to make most admirable nurses
for the children, except for their over indulgence.
The towns of Mesilla and Las Cruçes are as characteristic in their
way as any of old Spain, and quite as interesting. We passed through
both _en route_ to Bayard, and my pen would fain linger over their
many peculiarities. Several days elapsed after leaving the Rio Grande
before our arrival at Fort Bayard in New Mexico, where we prepared
to begin afresh the old story of life in a new garrison. Baby had
climbed over me until I was glad to rest on terra firma again.
CHAPTER XV.
Fort Bayard, surrounded by high mountains, is pleasantly situated
in a very hilly region. The officers’ quarters face the Santa Rita
Mountains, which rise to an abrupt point directly opposite the post,
a few miles distant, forming a landmark which is not soon forgotten,
especially if constantly in view for three years, during which time
we had the good fortune to remain there.
On the brow of that sharp decline, which rises almost at right angles
with the hill beneath, a large, irregularly shaped rock had fallen,
which bears a perfect resemblance to a kneeling figure, and faces
the higher point. It was called the kneeling nun, and, of course,
invested with the natives by a suggestive history! The suppliant
posture is perfect, and the figure conveyed to me a world of deep
meaning.
That little corner of South-western New Mexico, in which we remained
three years, a length of sojourn so unusual and unexpected that every
spring I looked for an order to move, has an unwritten history which
would cover many pages. It is the mining region of New Mexico, and
has the most perfect climate of any in the United States, neither
extremely warm in summer, nor severely cold in winter; and the sun
shines at least three hundred days in each year with a warmth and
brightness which render life perfectly enjoyable, if spent out of
doors as it should be.
The only real storms are in summer, when during the rainy season
clouds suddenly gather in the afternoon, and are followed by such a
downpour of rain, with perhaps thunder and lightning, that it seems
as if everything would be washed away. After the full force and fury
of the elements have been spent, every cloud disappears, and the day
ends with a perfect sunset, which is followed by a night still,
calm, and wonderfully beautiful.
Occasionally, but not often, snow falls in winter; altogether,
the climate is perfect, and I have often since wondered why that
locality is not popular as a health resort, for a more bracing and
invigorating air is never breathed anywhere.
On account of the infrequency of rain, vegetation is not very green,
but neither is it shriveled and parched. Cattle never fail to find
succulent pasturage in the bunch grass, which even when perfectly dry
is nutritious. But for the constant Indian depredations from which
that region has suffered for twenty years, it would be the garden
spot of the West. The climate is much milder in winter than that of
Colorado.
Mines of every description have been found in New Mexico, from the
famous Santa Rita copper mines, which bear traces of having been
worked centuries ago, to more recently discovered ones of silver and
gold. These latter have caused the building of the only American
town, known there, Silver City, which, with its one hundred beautiful
red brick houses, is a wonderful place, considering the locality and
surroundings. All this is, however, more recent, although the town
had a number of fine residences when we were there nearly a score of
years ago. It is only an hour’s drive from Fort Bayard, over the most
lovely rolling mountain road, and the visits to Silver City were a
very pleasant feature of our life when at that fort.
The Fort Bayard which first greeted our eyes was, except for climate
and scenery, a sorry place. It boasted a large garrison, but we were
shown into a perfectly miserable hut that was our shelter for months.
The cabins or huts in which the officers lived were directly back of
the new quarters, stone foundations for which had already been laid.
The houses were to be built of adobe bricks, that were made by simply
mixing to a proper consistency with water the earth obtained from
excavating in front of our dwellings, shaping in primitive wooden
molds, and drying in the hot sun.
All the workmen were slow-moving Mexicans, who built houses in the
same way as had their forefathers for generations. They knew no
meaning for the word “hurry,” so it took months to erect those simple
homes; and meantime we not only lived in wretched huts, but could not
venture out after dark for fear of falling into some one of the many
pits.
Our experience was dreadful for one long year, then the houses were
finally completed. The ground had been so torn up that the least gust
of wind seemed sufficient to start all the loose earth in motion,
when we would be almost buried in clouds of dust; but our worst
trouble was during the rainy season.
Our houses were situated on the brow of a hill, and when sudden
summer storms arose they washed right through the house. We preferred
to give them the right of way rather than have the buildings,
wretched as they were, entirely disappear, so the back doors would
be opened, and the storms permitted to sweep through before finding
egress at the front doors. The houses, so-called by courtesy, were
merely log cabins without floors; it was therefore necessary, at
such times, to mount on chairs or tables if we desired to escape
mud baths. The roofs, thatched with straw and overlaid with mud,
had a way of leaking that was apt to result in huge mud-puddles
being spread in all directions. The ladies always took refuge under
umbrellas until after the storms subsided.
None could envy others, for all were in the same boat, with no
comforts whatever. Sometimes the whole roof fell in, but no one was
ever hurt, and on the two occasions which I recall, bachelor officers
were the sufferers.
The lieutenant-colonel who commanded our post, having no family, had
kindly given his house to a little bride, whose husband was a recent
graduate of West Point. She, like myself, had started out expecting
to find all military stations like that lovely place, and had brought
from New York the most luxurious outfit ever seen on the frontier.
Magnificent carpets and curtains from Sloan’s, fit for any New York
palace, had been shipped all that long distance, and she proceeded to
lay the former directly over the mud floor in her house, and to hang
the latter at her little windows.
The house was in every respect like all the rest, with three rooms
in a row, and one or two forming an ell; yet she had decked the
interior to look like a perfect fairy bower. The front room, that
opened directly out of doors, was the sitting-room; back of that was
a sleeping apartment, and then the kitchen.
When the first severe storm arose and swept right through that house,
the rain coming in at the back and going out at the front door, I
never saw a more dismayed and discouraged woman than was our little
bride, and no wonder. Her fairy bower had been transformed into a
mud-bank; the pretty white curtains were streaked and discolored
beyond recognition, the carpets covered with mud, while the pictures
and ornaments were unrecognizable.
That lady was like many I have met, both before and since. She
expected ordinary modes of life to prevail at the frontier, and had
carried with her at least a dozen large trunks, for which she was
glad to find simply storage, and whose pretty contents never saw the
light.
Her experience was pitiable. Having an abundance of money, she
naturally supposed it would purchase some comforts; but money was of
no use to her there, and, indeed, seemed only an aggravation. The
little woman used to send East for articles, which for economy’s sake
the rest of us went without, and disappointments invariably followed.
Whatever was received—which would be only after almost incredible
waiting—was never what she had expected; and if garments had been
ordered, alterations which none but a skilled hand could make were
always needed.
I remember being once consulted about a Christmas present designed
for her husband. She had decided upon a beautiful picture, which,
although ordered in ample time, did not arrive until long after
the holidays, and the express charges alone were fifty dollars. Her
disappointments were well-nigh endless, and led me to believe that
money was not so much a promoter of happiness in frontier life as it,
would usually be considered elsewhere; for no matter how much people
were able to spend they could not buy luxuries, and to send East for
them meant only tantalization and weary waiting.
Perhaps some of my own experiences in the matter of express charges
may not prove uninteresting. Every woman is said to love a new
bonnet; but army women show the greatest unconcern regarding
fashions, probably because their lives are so different from those of
their city sisters.
When some head covering became a positive necessity, we usually sent
East for a plain little hat, dark and useful, as it was needed mainly
for wear when driving around the country. I had quite worn out my
Eastern supply after a two years’ residence at Bayard, so ordered
a quiet little hat or bonnet from New York. Instead, I received a
very gaudy, dashing piece of millinery that would have been suitable
for the opera, but was altogether out of place on the frontier. The
bonnet cost twenty dollars, and the express charges were twenty-two.
For that entirely useless arrangement, therefore, I had to pay
forty-two dollars, and then had no bonnet, for I never wore it.
That little lady had all the ambition and pride in a refined way
of living that naturally arose from having spent her early life
amid luxurious surroundings. She had passed several years in the
gayest capitals of Europe, had imbibed most extravagant ideas from
fond and indulgent parents, had scarcely ever known an ungratified
wish, and was therefore less prepared for the actual realities of
life, as developed at Fort Bayard, than any one else I have ever
known. The desire and attempt to live in accordance with her means
resulted in constant disappointments and trials. I have never seen
any one who worked so hard to accomplish what were considered simply
necessities, and yet whose labor was so entirely unrewarded.
She wanted to entertain lavishly; and having beautiful table
appointments it was really a treat to dine at her house; but when
she told of the labor involved, by reason of incompetent help, the
task seemed too great to include any pleasure. Her utter ignorance of
household duties made her an easy prey to servants’ wiles, and the
very fact that she could so lavishly supply materials only made them
more ready to take advantage.
She tried the same experiment we had—taking a servant from
New York—but fared even worse, as her maid left when Santa Fé
was reached, saying she did “not care to go any farther from
civilization.” The officer’s wife had no redress, although she had
spent quite a large sum both on the girl’s fare and baggage, as they
had traveled by stage.
When, a year later, this same lady had a dear little girl born, she
offered, but in vain, fifty dollars a week to any one who would care
for herself and child. It was really pitiful to see the beautiful
young woman lying neglected, deprived of the most common care, when
if money could have availed she would have been enveloped in luxury.
Of course, attentions were received from other ladies, but hers was
one of the many cases I have known where Dame Nature alone was at
hand to assist.
My pen glides lovingly over the paper when I begin to describe army
ladies, and fain would linger to fill page after page with loving
reminiscences of their sweet goodness and devotion to husbands and
the cause they represented. Surely in no other life can women be
found who are at once so brave and true.
At each post I formed devoted attachments to some woman, and were the
love experienced for them all and their perfections to be described,
this book could contain little else; for one story after another of
their wifely devotion and absolute self-abnegation, carried to such
an extent as to be actually heroic, is recalled.
No murmur was ever heard at the order to move, if women were to be
included; for no matter how hard, long, or wearisome the journey,
they were content if permitted to accompany their husbands. But when
the officers were sent away on the many expeditions cavalry service
demanded, where their wives could not go with them, then were they
indeed wretched; hours and days seemed endless until the return of
loved ones.
This intense devotion was the cause of incessant hardships being
borne; for in many instances, if the ladies would have returned to
their Eastern homes, care and attention would have been bestowed
which can never be expected on the frontier.
The difficulty of obtaining competent help in household cares could
never be surmounted. Even when near Mexican settlements we would find
that a long line of idle ancestry, together with every tendency of
climate, surroundings, and viciousness, had so developed indolence
in the natives as to utterly incapacitate them for any serious
employment. They were capable only of such tasks as allowed them
to bask in the sun and smoke cigarettes all day long. As they made
admirable nurses, and we liked to have our children live out of
doors, they could be utilized in that way; but heavier household
tasks were left for more energetic hands.
When I think of that delicious sun and air, and recall those happy
days, I wonder how any thing can be remembered except the absolute
content experienced when we finally moved into our new quarters, and
regularly settled down into sweet home life. The children throve and
bloomed like flowers, and were never ill.
In the South-western climate ordinary diseases do not prevail, and
if any of the epidemics which mothers usually dread break out, the
absolute pureness of the air renders them innocuous; and with even
ordinary care children speedily recover. Army doctors, in the double
capacity of physician and family friend, also give most extraordinary
care, so sickness is rarely fatal. Except from teething and its
attendant ills, babies are almost exempt from maladies, and children
live so secluded from outside influences that mine never even had
measles or any other childish disease.
One beautiful babe died from teething, and during its illness every
lady in the post passed her entire time at its bedside when allowed
to do so. But that may be instanced as only one proof of the sincere
interest felt in each other by people who are isolated from all the
rest of the world.
CHAPTER XVI.
I have always thought army life would be delightful if there was the
slightest certainty of remaining at any post for a given length of
time; but this is so out of the question that many comforts which
might otherwise be procured are gradually tabooed.
Officers become so accustomed to expect removal, that they are
unwilling to accumulate comforts which must be left when marching
orders are received; and every one is apt to give credence in some
degree to the rumors which continually gain ground, and usually
emanate from an unknown source, that a change is soon to be made. One
lives in a veritable atmosphere of unrest until it becomes second
nature.
At Bayard, for the first time during our army life, we felt somewhat
settled. Cavalry service consists entirely of unforeseen emergencies,
dependent upon the country’s condition and its need for the movement
of troops, either in the pursuit of Indians or horse-thieves. As
Mr. Boyd had been sent to superintend the building of the quarters
at Bayard, we felt that unless his regiment moved he would remain
as quartermaster until they were completed, so quietly established
ourselves in one of the new houses to enjoy life and a more prolonged
stay than usual.
We made many pleasant friends in the neighboring town of Silver City,
enjoyed a great deal of company from there, and always drove over to
the entertainments they gave, some of which were of a very comical
nature.
Imagine a ball at which every element is represented, from the most
refined to the most uncultivated, from the transplanted branches of
excellent Eastern families, who lured by enticing descriptions of
great mineral wealth to be found at the West had gone there in search
of fortunes, to the rudest specimens of frontier life, who had never
seen anything else, and were devoid of all education, yet, like true
Americans, regarded themselves as the very quintessence of knowledge
and good-breeding.
The balls were always held in the courthouse; and when, during court
session, the judge and attendant lawyers were to be honored with an
entertainment in consonance with their dignity, the rude room would
be cleared of benches just before the hour at which the dance was to
begin, and pretty dresses would trail over the floor which had not
been cleaned for weeks, and which was the recipient of every kind of
_débris_.
At one of those balls, held immediately after court had adjourned,
the window-sills had been made receptacles for all such usual
appliances of lawyers as paper, pens, and ink. The army-post guests
laid their many wraps in one of those windows because there was
no dressing-room. In fact, such a luxury was unknown. When ready
to return home, our wraps were pulled down, and with them came
several bottles of ink, which sprinkled their contents liberally
over shawls and head-gear. As usual, I was a sufferer, and have to
this day, as memento of the occasion, a very handsome shawl that was
completely ruined. But to remain at home from the only pleasure our
circumstances afforded was not to be thought of, and fine clothes
were willingly sacrificed.
We could rarely indulge in dancing-parties at Bayard because there
were so few ladies. When, occasionally, a special effort in that
direction was made, the fact that we had no proper dancing-hall
would be emphasized, and the large double parlors of our commanding
officer’s house utilized. With the facilities at hand for decorating
them with beautiful flags, cannon, stacked bayonets and swords, we
gave several dances, which contrasted favorably with the town balls,
and quite cured me of any desire to ever again dance on so different
a floor.
Yet we sincerely enjoyed our Silver City friends, and our greatest
pleasure was to drive over and visit them, returning early in the
evening, very much fatigued, but happy because we lived near any sort
of town, instead of being cut entirely off from all outside life.
Our cook often rebelled at the large parties of friends who sometimes
visited us unexpectedly, and, as before in similar experiences,
showed his displeasure by indulging too freely in “strong water.”
One day he notably distinguished himself, and almost extinguished
me, by reeling in before a whole party of friends who were awaiting
luncheon, and declaring that he was no slave, neither had he engaged
himself as a hotel cook. His freedom of manner was so natural among
frontier people, that every one laughed, and all sallied out in the
dining-room, where we passed around bowls of bread and milk.
We had two excellent cows, and my delight was to work large rolls of
butter into dainty pats for the table. Never before or since have
I so enjoyed housekeeping as at Fort Bayard. Our chickens seemed
fairly to multiply, and I could keep no count of the eggs they laid.
We were able to supply every one, and still have quantities left for
our own use.
I was in my element; for I found that by dint of judicious management
fifty dollars a month could be laid aside, so in two years’ time we
were entirely out of debt, and fully resolved never again to enter
the state. That was our golden harvest time, and I look back upon it
with unspeakable pleasure.
I would like the ability to describe one beautiful friend who was my
constant companion at that time, but no pen can do justice to the
admirable traits of so perfect a woman. She is still with her husband
in the West, a pattern of all womanly goodness. Her example may well
be followed by all who leave good homes to follow their husbands in
army life, for only the absolute unselfishness she so beautifully
exemplified will enable women to endure the same hardships. It was
her sweet little first baby to whose death I have alluded, and which
left us all sincere mourners for her dear sake. She always reminded
me of the virtuous woman described in the Bible, whose “children
arise up, and call her blessed.”
But I must not linger over those recollections of dear Fort Bayard,
where we enjoyed a real home for three years, and even flowers in
abundance. If people in civil life could know of the weeks and months
of care one little plant has often received from an army woman,
because a dear reminder of her distant home, they would understand
what a luxury it was to be able to raise flowers without any
particular effort. Though one loves work, yet it is pleasant to be
sometimes rewarded; and we had never before been where flowers could
be freely indulged in, nor have we since.
There was another especial pleasure we enjoyed at Fort Bayard, which
to me is the chief charm of army life—constant rides on horseback.
At that post they were delightful; for, go where we would in any
direction, excellent mountain roads and superb scenery rewarded us.
Our favorite jaunt was to the Santa Rita mountains. Having gained
them, we would dismount and explore the famous mines which were
tunneled in so many directions that I always feared lest we should be
buried alive. Those tunnels had been dug centuries before, and the
then so-called “new industry” was but a revival of past labors.
Mr. Boyd, true to his nature, which was to employ every moment in
devoted service to the government, rarely found time to escort me
until after the day’s duties were over; or we would arise very early
in the morning, and enjoy a ride that colored my mind for weeks with
a vague fancy that life was not altogether and entirely real and
practical, but was full of deep beauty; and if we could only live
more out-of-doors, and be permeated more often and thoroughly with
the charms of nature as seen in the early freshness and beauty of
such mornings as were those, we should be elevated, and enabled to
grasp more of spiritual things than tame and ordinary humdrum life
permits.
Oh, I envy the woodsman who is content with nature, and never pines
for the artificial life of cities! Nature is perfect, and in such
deep solitudes the most prosaic minds must realize this truth.
CHAPTER XVII.
I have not very often referred in this volume to the character of my
husband, for in my opinion it needs no vindication. Mr. Boyd always
left in the minds of every one with whom he came in contact the
impress of a most noble nature. His devotion to duty was so extreme
that all else was laid aside at its call; and at Fort Bayard he so
entirely gave his whole time and attention to arduous and unremitting
labors as to scarcely find time for any pleasures. Mr. Boyd was as
much of a worker as ever can be found in civil life, where a man
expects reward for faithful service. In the army there is none. Of
course that is well understood, and any one who devotes his life to
duty there, does it purely from principle.
Two singular occurrences, which have always been mysteries to me,
happened at Fort Bayard. We moved into the new quarters before our
new house—a double one—was entirely completed. The part in which we
lived was separated from the other by a wall that divided the halls,
and the unoccupied side was filled with shavings and _débris_. One
night after we had retired, some one laid a lighted candle on a large
pile of shavings, which of course caught fire, and we were awakened
from sound sleep by a strong smell of smoke. This was soon traced to
its source, and we found a fine fire rapidly developing. The floor
had burned away, leaving a cavernous depth beneath.
It was unquestionably the work of an incendiary; and a few weeks
afterward the same wicked hand, presumably, fired a huge stack of
hay, consisting of the entire winter’s supply of six hundred tons,
which at frontier posts is always stacked near the corral and guarded
day and night by sentries.
In that absolutely dry climate such a fire, when once started, has
no hindrance to its progress; and though every available hand was
quickly on the spot pouring water, of course it was a useless task.
Though a beautiful sight to see that brilliant blaze of light defined
against the clear, dark sky, my heart ached when I thought of the
trouble and worry it would cause Mr. Boyd, and also of the animals’
deprivation. The entire summer had been required in which to procure
enough hay for so many; and the fire occurred in early winter, when
no more could be cut.
It is a custom in the army at the slightest alarm of fire to sound
a call, which brings every man to the spot with a bucket in his
hand. It is really marvelous to see how soon ordinary fires yield
to army treatment. But if a high wind is blowing, the supply of
water, limited to barrels which are placed between the houses and
always kept filled, is insufficient, and little can be done to stay
its devastating progress. In spite of sympathy and real concern for
losses sustained, one is sure to enjoy the excitement.
I witnessed one shocking fire at Bayard which broke out in a small
private stable attached to the post-trader’s house. It had made such
headway that when discovered three beautiful horses were already
enveloped in flames: they were fairly roasted alive before the eyes
of the assembled garrison. Most pathetic cries proceeded from the
helpless animals before death mercifully released them from their
sufferings.
While the ladies sorrowfully looked on, the men spread wet blankets
over an adjoining roof in order that it might be saved; for if a tiny
spark had fallen on the dry shingles they would have immediately
ignited and the flames spread rapidly.
After three happy years had been passed at that post, orders were
received to march into Texas and exchange with the Ninth Cavalry.
Christmas Day was celebrated in camp, and in a double sense, for we
had that morning a narrow escape from almost instant death.
On reaching the Rio Grande, we found the river fairly booming.
It was a glorious sight, swelled to a huge flood that swept past
in majestic grandeur. A primitive flat-boat worked by ropes and
pulleys—nothing but a rude raft with no railing or chain either fore
or aft—was called into requisition to ferry us across, and we sat
quietly in the ambulance while it was driven aboard.
A superb dog that belonged to one of our friends, and had been our
pet for years, was inadvertently left standing on the bank. Some one
on the boat tried to induce him to swim across, making the same sound
in calling the dog that would have been used to start the mules. Our
four mules, supposing it was a signal to them, immediately started,
and the leaders’ fore feet were actually on the very edge of the boat
when a man seized them by their heads. Another second, another step,
and our heavy ambulance would have been overboard.
So rapidly had the occurrence passed that almost before realizing an
accident was seemingly inevitable, we had been saved from a watery
grave. The river at that point was at least twenty feet deep, and had
the mules plunged in, sudden and swift death would have followed.
I have never since been able to sit quietly in a carriage while
crossing a ferry; though of course no such rude craft, without even a
rope guard, can be found in civilized parts of the world.
After all was over, I looked at my little children, so unconscious
of danger, and shuddered at the thought of the horrible fate we had
escaped. If people should dwell continually on the perils of Western
life they would be wretched. That journey embraced every element of
danger, and yet I actually became callous.
Our mules were such superb animals, and so capable of swift progress,
that every few days they evinced a spirit with which I heartily
sympathized, running for miles and creating a profound excitement
throughout the entire command. As nine-tenths of Texas is flat
prairie with excellent roads, I rather enjoyed the sensation. Nothing
in my whole army experience wearied me so much as those endless days
of slow, monotonous travel. When with troops we could not go faster
than a walk, for the horses must be favored in order that their
strength might hold out during the weeks those journeys consumed; and
it was not safe, in the then unsettled condition of the country, for
us to ride far in advance.
Our march occupied eight weeks; but some of the troops that were
ordered from Northern New Mexico to Southern Texas were between three
and four months on the road, and the chapter of incidents which beset
their path was remarkable. I have before alluded to this journey—the
one on which nine infants were born _en route_; and in every instance
mothers and children were obliged to proceed the next day, regardless
of health or even life.
During one week of our march it rained day and night, and tents were
pitched in the midst of mud and general discomfort; but after a
cheerful blaze had been started in our little stove we did not mind
so very much, though of course it was not pleasant. The real trials
from which others suffered, and which were therefore kept constantly
in mind, enabled us to realize that, our lot might be much worse.
The baggage of one woman, who had four little girls to clothe and
care for, was deluged in crossing the Pecos River, and the fact not
discovered until their destination had been reached, when the clothes
dropped in pieces on being touched.
As each family packed all superfluities, and kept only a traveling
outfit, the trunks with reserve clothing were never opened while _en
route_; and the treacherous streams, that seemed shallow enough in
crossing, would often, in some inexplicable way, reach the contents
of the wagons.
To me the strangest part of that journey was the passing over so much
territory without seeing any inhabitants. El Paso, then a mining-town
of very slight importance, was the last we saw in Texas. If there
were others in that section they could not have been on the traveled
highway; for except the military posts, we saw nothing but prairies,
which were indeed a striking contrast to our beautiful mountains.
We had all sorts of experiences before New Mexico was left; but after
that we settled down to calm travel, which the children enjoyed so
much, and that was rendered less monotonous to me by the daily use of
a fine saddle horse, and a delightful gallop over tufted grass.
We remained at Mesilla and Las Cruçes long enough to enjoy a ball
given in our honor by the residents; and there, for the first time,
we saw really beautiful Mexican women, who danced with all the grace
for which the Spanish race is noted. We were obliged to hasten our
departure, because the soldiers celebrated Christmas too freely;
during the ball a perfect battle was raging outside, which compelled
the officers to break camp and resume the march before daylight,
leaving us to follow.
Those old towns of Mesilla and Las Cruçes would surprise any one
from the East. They are situated on the Rio Grande, and surrounded
by dense and forbidding sand-hills; but the location being such
that much irrigation is practicable, are simply the most fruitful
imaginable places. I have never anywhere else seen such absolute
abundance of fruit in its season; grapes such as only a southern sun
can ripen, and in immense clusters; peaches, large and luscious, that
loaded the trees till it seemed impossible they could bear the burden
and live; apricots, and every species of small fruits. The same
luxuriance prevails in El Paso, and the wine made there is pure and
delicious.
It seems needless to dwell at very great length on that journey into
Texas, for all those marches were so monotonously alike. If, as in
that case, no Indian dangers were to be feared, both on account of
our cavalry escort, and because at that time no active Indian warfare
was in progress, we were not allowed to forget the possibilities in
that line. Not only were the usual sad reminders present in graves
that bestrewed the country, but we encamped again and again in places
where the most violent outrages had been perpetrated, and entire
parties mercilessly slaughtered. It cast a sad shadow over our
resting-places, which shrinking women would fain have escaped; but we
were obliged to use the same old accustomed grounds, and even then
could not always find enough water for the horses and mules.
That journey was on a progressive scale; and guided by previous
experiences we had taken two wall tents, and even a board floor for
the outer one in which we dined. It was quite envied by other ladies,
particularly when we had ten consecutive days of rain; for boards,
even if laid on wet ground inside a tent, make a flooring quite
different and much superior to mud. Our floor was, of course, in
sections, otherwise it could not have been carried. Skins covered the
earth in our inner tent, which was furnished with two large beds.
A fire was lighted every night in our tiny stove, and I made
chocolate, custards, and many other dainties. It would surprise
Eastern people, who deem all the modern conveniences a necessity, to
see how systematic even such a mode of life can be, when, knowing it
is to last for weeks and months, proper preparations have been made.
On leaving home we had taken the housekeeping supplies that would
have been used had we remained stationary. So, when encamped in
different military posts, at which we always remained several days,
I occupied the time in making mince-pies and baking them in a Dutch
oven, which is nothing more nor less than a broad and shallow iron
pot, with a cover like a frying-pan. On this cover hot coals are
laid, so when the utensil is placed over a bed of the same, uniform
heat from above and beneath bakes admirably.
It was a time of rejoicing when we could remain long enough at a post
to straighten out the tangled ends continuous travel always produces.
Journeying in that way with women and children necessitated laundry
work; and when we encamped on the river bank the scene was animated.
Again our route lay for days beside the Rio Grande; in fact, during
our entire journey we left it only to make a _détour_ and return.
When finally our destination, distant Fort Clark, was reached,
we were but forty miles from that famous river, and nearly the
entire regiment was to find a resting-place on its banks; for soon
our encampments were dispersed from Eagle Pass, on the river, to
Matamoras, six hundred miles below, at its mouth.
We heard so many wearisome accounts of those lower camps, with their
continuous heat and glare, as to deem ourselves fortunate in being
permitted to remain at one situated on a high hill, where we would be
sure of a breeze, however warm the Texas summer nights might prove.
A large ball was given on our arrival, and the different posts at
which we had stopped _en route_—Forts Bliss, Davis, and Stockton—had
all honored us in the same way.
We were obliged to remain in camp at Fort Clark ten days, as the
Ninth Cavalry did not leave sooner for New Mexico, and consequently
houses were not vacated. Never did the same length of time seem
longer or more tedious, the shelter of a roof once again was so
longed for. Finally we moved into a very comfortable little house,
built of limestone, and charming as to exterior; for even in the
month of February vines were growing rapidly, and beginning to cover
verandas with beautiful green.
If each woman who has lived at Fort Clark would give a chapter of her
experiences while there, I know people would be interested because of
the utter novelty.
No other army post has ever been the scene of so constant a
succession of regimental changes, and at no other have such a large
number of people, for the same reason, been made so uncomfortable.
However little there might have been to expect in all the other
territories in which we had lived, that little, when once obtained,
was kept; but at Clark no one seemed sure, from day to day, of any
house in which he lived remaining his own for a length of time.
This arose partly from the fact of there being an insufficient
number of quarters, but mainly from the position of the post being
such that troops were sent there to be held in readiness for any
emergency—which was generally supposed to be impending war with
Mexico.
We were so near the border that whenever any marauding band of
Indians or horse-thieves succeeded in capturing a herd of cattle from
some neighboring ranch, they would coolly slip over the Rio Grande
into Mexico with their booty; and by the time our troops, again and
again called out, could overtake them, the marauders would have
crossed the border, where capture was impossible, because Mexico
allowed no American forces to enter her territory without special
permission.
Matters continued on that basis for years, infuriating our troops,
who were delighted when it produced results that seemed likely to
culminate in a war between the two countries.
But that never occurred, though its threatenings filled our post with
troops until they formed a little army, which when mustered in full
parade stretched in double columns across the immense parade ground,
and made a beautiful sight; one which, seen daily, was so pleasing
that we almost forgot the discomforts of life that surrounded us.
Our first home, a pretty little house with double parlors on the
ground floor and two large bedrooms above, seemed delightful; though
we had no furnishings for months, and simply used our camp equipage,
until carpets, etc., could be sent for. The climate was so fearfully
hot, bare floors were no hardship; and during the long summer which
followed our arrival, I was so absorbed in the problem of how to live
at all, that the absence of luxuries was unheeded.
Leaving the bright and bracing climate of New Mexico for a country
where one hundred and ten degrees in the shade was only to be
expected, and for six months of the year, was indeed a transition.
Ice was an unknown luxury. We had nothing to use for cooling
purposes except the _ollas_, made of porous earth by Mexicans.
The post was one hundred and thirty-five miles from San Antonio,
the nearest point where anything except absolute essentials could
be obtained; and as stages were the only means of transportation,
charges of course were exorbitant. Even in San Antonio there was none
but manufactured ice; and to transport it such a distance in so warm
a climate, required not only much sawdust to prevent its melting, but
also a heavy box, all of which multiplied its weight, and the express
charges, as I found to my sorrow.
I never indulged in such luxuries; but an officer, who considered
himself indebted for kindnesses extended during a severe attack of
malarial fever, was most anxious to show his gratitude; and when I,
in turn, succumbed to the fever, that was epidemic, he sent me three
boxes of ice. I accepted the gift, though, not caring for the ice,
dispatched it to the hospital. Some months afterward we received a
bill from the express office which amounted to eighteen dollars. It
was the charges on that ice—which we paid. The ice having been sent
direct to us, so was the bill, instead of being presented to our kind
friend who never imagined the sequel.
After our bountiful supply of good things in Bayard, we nearly
starved in Texas. The butter was simply oil, if procurable at all;
the milk thin—not tasteless, but with a decidedly disagreeable flavor
of wild garlic and onions; and the beef dry, and with so strange a
flavor we could not eat it. Vegetables could not be procured; and
potatoes shipped from a distance were a mass of decay when received.
I never knew a woman who, amid all those conditions of improper and
insufficient food and severe heat, did not lose health and strength.
For two years I re-lived all my former experiences in trying to keep
house under every disadvantage.
We had hoped much from the accounts of famous colored cooks, who, in
our experience, proved delusions and snares. We had a succession so
worthless that I never have overcome my prejudice against them. They
must have been field-hands, who trusting to our Northern ignorance
boldly announced themselves as cooks, when perhaps they had never
cooked even one simple meal before. Each was succeeded by a worse
specimen, until finally, in despair, I begged for a soldier. After
that, housekeeping became once again a pleasure, even if under
difficulties; for I had a willing coadjutor, who joined heartily in
my plans to disguise the flavor of meats by every art we could devise
in the way of seasoning.
When the long, hot summer had worn its weary six months away,
we began to again breathe freely, and with the advent of cooler
weather found ourselves able to enjoy every pleasure. The heat had
been so intense that during its continuance life had been simply
endured. Then everything brightened and improved, as it always does
with custom or habit; or rather, we knew better how to overcome
difficulties as time and experience familiarized us with them.
In the winter we not only had better beef, because of the grass
which had grown during summer, so the cattle were not obliged to eat
weeds and vegetables, but, for the same reason, our milk improved in
flavor; butter also kept its consistency.
The experience of a little bride on whom I called one summer evening
will perhaps better illustrate the difficulties of housekeeping. In
reply to my inquiry if she did not find the enforced idleness because
of heat tiresome, she said:
“I am never idle, because my entire time is occupied in keeping wet
clothes around the jars that contain our milk and butter.”
In that atmosphere of heat, devoid of dampness, no sooner was a wet
cloth wrapped about a jar than it began to dry, and evaporation
cooled the contents. If in addition the jar was placed in a draught,
great results in that line were attained, but at the expense of
constant attention.
One reason that made our army life endurable was the constant
exchange of grievances, and our real sympathy one for the other. A
group of ladies would naturally fall into conversation regarding the
peculiar trials of such a life, and yet not one of them could have
been persuaded to leave her husband and seek more comfortable and
civilized surroundings.
Fort Clark eventually became very dear to me; but the first two years
were exceedingly trying, for I had to accustom myself anew to fresh
modes in every direction. The peculiarities of our colored servants
would fill a volume.
CHAPTER XVIII.
It took our first colored cook, a huge, strapping creature, who
seemed a very giant in strength and stature, three days to scrub our
tiny kitchen floor; and his ideas, one of which was that he should
sleep until nine o’clock in the morning, nor did he awaken then
unless called, were not to be changed to suit our convenience.
I remember so well our first breakfast! Rice batter cakes had been
ordered; but the strangest looking and queerest tasting dish was
produced, which, when questioned, the cook admitted was simply rice
and molasses mixed together and fried in much grease.
Our last colored cook was so surly I was afraid of him, and rejoiced
when he was finally replaced by a white man. On leaving us he
moved to the little town of Brackett, and after only a few days had
passed, murdered a woman, and to hide his guilt burned the house.
Circumstantial evidence was so strong that he was captured and
imprisoned in the little jail, which, constructed of heavy stone,
was the only decent building in town. The murdered woman had been
the widow of a white soldier, and his comrades-in-arms determined
to avenge her. So, one night, under cover of the darkness, a number
stormed the jail. Though well guarded, and the thick doors seemingly
impregnable, they effected an entrance.
Meantime the garrison was greatly alarmed, for the town was so
near we could hear the firing and tumult. The ladies were doubly
frightened, because each one’s husband had been summoned to march at
the head of his troops and quell the disturbance.
All were terrified, scarcely knowing what had happened, and the
volume of sound that reached our ears made us dread untold dangers.
We were frightened at having been left alone, and more alarmed for
our husbands, because, in the promiscuous firing which began the
moment the troops reached town, we knew not what shot had or might
hit one of them.
Altogether we were panic-stricken, and moments seemed hours until
the troops returned, which they did very soon, and without a single
officer or soldier having been injured, although the shots were
numerous enough to have killed an army.
The jail had been forced before the arrival of the troops; but the
soldiers, though carefully searching every cell, had been unable to
find the prisoner, and, after vowing vengeance on the authorities for
having removed him, assembled outside, where they vented their wrath
and disappointment by firing against the heavy stone building. When
the cavalry reached the scene, and in their turn began to fire, every
man disappeared, escaping under cover of the darkness and confusion,
and found his way back to the fort, where at roll-call all answered
to their names as innocently as possible.
The officers were inclined to condone the offense, both from sympathy
with the murdered woman’s friends, and also because the murderer was
such a despicable coward, as was proved not only by his taking a
woman’s life, but also in his behavior afterward.
The first officer who entered the jail was Mr. Boyd, who was at
once told by the sheriff that the murderer was secreted on its
roof, which, unknown to outsiders, had a stone coping six feet high
that well concealed him. A more pitiable object was never seen; for
expecting every moment would be his last he was praying and groaning
in true darkey fashion, and had the tumult outside been less would
have been quickly discovered.
Mr. Boyd tried to calm him, but it was useless; the man was so
thoroughly frightened he could not be silenced, but kept calling on
the good Lord for protection, and throwing himself about with the
most grotesque contortions of face and figure.
The sequel proved the soldiers to have been right in not trusting to
the course of law, for in Texas no crime but that of horse-stealing
is considered deserving of hanging; the murderer was only imprisoned,
but fortunately for himself was taken to another county.
On this occasion Mr. Boyd interviewed a murderer to whose tender
mercies his own family had been exposed, and after that I was allowed
to have a white cook; for although they sometimes indulged in
dissipation, colored men and women did the same, and there is no such
fear known on earth as that a woman experiences when confronted by a
drunken negro.
The cavalry stationed at Fort Clark previous to our arrival had been
colored, though the infantry, which composed half the post, was white.
Never having been South before, we had much to learn before a home
feeling was possible. The level country seemed strange after having
lived among lovely mountains, and we had a new set of insects to
deal with. I had thought nothing could be worse than my first
enemies, the wasps, but soon found the immense roaches with which
our house was actually crammed much more disagreeable. They not only
covered the kitchen floor until it was black, but actually flew
around our heads, and even invaded the bedrooms up-stairs until life
seemed intolerable. A thorough system of cleaning and scrubbing was
instituted; for they love dirt, which was, in fact, the original
cause of such an undue supply. We tried borax and all other known
remedies, and in time greatly lessened their numbers.
A picnic in Texas was simply impossible on account of the red bugs
and wood-ticks, which were not only countless and disagreeable, but
so poisonous that I knew an officer, who had been obliged to camp out
on the ground, suffer so severely from their attentions that hospital
treatment was necessary for weeks. The sores caused by these insects
are frequently very painful, because they bury themselves beneath the
skin, and actually have to be dug out.
The larger vermin, scorpions, tarantulas, centipeds, and snakes I did
not mind; for they never molested us, and, like the really weighty
trials of life, were more easily endured than minor ones. I speak
from actual experience, having lived out of doors during our five
years residence in Texas, and allowed my children to enjoy themselves
in the same way, both because I deemed it necessary to health, and
because observation had convinced me that those ladies who did
otherwise suffered indescribably from fear; while to us, after we had
settled down, every moment was a joy in spite of heat and vermin.
One evening a lady caller started frantically for the door
immediately after having entered. The cause of her terror was a
huge tarantula or spider of the most deadly sort, black, ugly, and
venomous, which measured fully three inches around the body. I picked
up a heavy basket and killed it. She called me very brave; but I
thought greater bravery would have been required to permit it to
live, when perhaps it might bite one of my children.
Our first winter at Fort Clark was delightful. All had comfortable
double houses; and I felt very proud because of the bright, pretty
carpets and lace curtains that had been sent from the East. The
troops were called out only occasionally for Indian raids, but never
went farther than the river which divides Texas from Mexico.
We enjoyed the game, which was so plentiful that delicious wild
turkey could be enjoyed every day if desired. The one vegetable that
grew almost spontaneously was sweet potato, which we luxuriated in
for months, as it improved by keeping.
I scoured the country on horseback in all directions, and found a
rare charm in those boundless prairies, carpeted with gray grass so
thick the horse’s hoofs sank far out of sight, which made the pace an
exhilarating bound. A stream, which rose from the clear spring that
supplied us with water, flowed for miles amid groves of wild oak and
pecan trees which it was my delight to explore.
We hunted jack rabbits a good deal. They were so numerous as to
destroy all hopes of the gardens in which the early freshets had
allowed us to indulge. A lady just from the East was appalled when I
said that each small head of cabbage cost a dollar, and was really
worth it; for the man who had sufficient enterprise to evade rabbits,
and build walls against freshets, must also examine each cabbage leaf
three times a day in order to destroy the ever encroaching worm or
bug. This will not seem exaggerated to any one who has ever gardened
under similar conditions.
Our little streams were beautiful, and so well stocked with delicious
bass and trout that the children used to beg to picnic: after a day
thus spent, it would take hours of diligent search to find the dozens
of wood-ticks and tiny red insects which covered their clothing and
buried themselves in their tender flesh. Sometimes one would escape
notice, and be afterward found with head imbedded beneath the skin,
and body distended to treble its original size.
Those torments made scouting in Texas a thing to be dreaded; and yet,
after the first year of quiet, our cavalry were kept in the field
nine months out of twelve. Though encamped most of the time on the
banks of a stream only seven miles distant, yet none the less they
were separated from us, and as the officers’ wives said, “Compelled
us to keep up two messes, and incur great expense, besides being
lonely and forlorn.”
The sun’s scorching heat made it impossible to raise any flowers,
for if plants grew and budded the fierce heat would burn the outer
petals so blossoms never fully opened. Only one plant, the Madeira
vine, throve there, and it was esteemed a special luxury; for as
the post was located on a high limestone ridge, and the houses were
built of limestone, the white glare was something to be dreaded.
Those luxuriant green vines covered our porches so closely as to form
perfect little arbors, and enabled us to enjoy out-of-door life.
At least two hammocks were swung on every veranda, and they were
occupied most of the time, for the air was so hot and lifeless that
effort was impossible.
Only one of the five summers we passed at Fort Clark was cool and
comfortable. That year the rainy season commenced late and lasted
throughout the summer. The other four were so fearfully hot and
uncomfortable that we were much exhausted when cooler weather arrived.
Nevertheless, strange as it may seem, after we had once become
accustomed to the life and that routine which alone makes existence
in warm countries endurable, we were satisfied.
During the day our costumes were the lightest and airiest that
could be devised. But when evening came—and no woman ever ventured
out-of-doors until after sunset—we arrayed ourselves in pretty white
dresses, and started forth to enjoy the breeze, whose never-failing,
grateful presence was compensation for the day’s intense heat.
In that clear atmosphere the tiniest arc of a moon gives more light
than does a full one under other conditions; so by the time its
greatest splendor was reached, nothing on earth could have surpassed
the perfect beauty of those southern nights. The air was soft and
balmy, and every one rejoiced to find respite from the sun’s extreme
heat. Indeed, the change was so grateful that we fell into a habit of
almost turning night into day in our unwillingness to leave a scene
of such enchantment.
Even our unsheltered, gray parade ground, on which grass absolutely
refused to grow, was softened by the moon’s mellow rays into a
semblance of all we desired it to be; and when, night after night,
our glorious band played entrancing strains of sweet music on the
luminous spot, we felt that life in the tropics was not so very
unendurable after all.
Our limestone houses, which in the daytime could not be looked
upon because of the blinding glare, were toned by the moon’s magic
influence into poetic beauty, with their shading vines and groups of
dainty ladies in white, and gallant officers in uniform.
I became wedded, heart and soul, to that part of our life, which made
me quite willing to live and die in Texas, despite many more prosaic
drawbacks.
CHAPTER XIX.
That unpleasant features were there is not, however, to be denied;
and as my aim is to present both the lights and shadows of army life,
I will now describe a few of the latter.
As before stated, the supposed impending war with Mexico was the
occasion of an influx of troops far greater than our post could
comfortably accommodate. After we had been at Fort Clark a year and
a half, occupying that pretty, vine-embowered house, we learned that
our garrison of ten companies was to be increased to twenty-five,
with two headquarters and two bands.
The custom that obtains throughout the army of each officer selecting
according to his rank the quarters which he may prefer, was never
more fully enforced than at Fort Clark. Fifty times, perhaps, there
was a general move of at least ten families, because some officer had
arrived who, in selecting a house, caused a dozen other officers to
move, for each in turn chose the one then occupied by the next lower
in rank. We used to call it “bricks falling,” because each toppled
that next in order over; but the annoyance was endured with great
good nature.
When tidings of such an unusual expected influx reached our ears, we
wondered what would become of us, as there were not accommodations
for half the number who were to arrive. An onlooker would doubtless
have found the anxiety experienced by the officers’ wives amusing;
for though prepared for the worst we were, of course, solicitous.
I was ill at the time, confined to my room; and messages were brought
at intervals from six different officers, who all outranked Mr. Boyd,
that each had selected our house. Ridiculous as it may seem, every
one was outranked by another. Finally, a captain of infantry chose
our quarters, and then the doctor declared I could not be moved;
consequently, the captain went temporarily into the house which we
were eventually compelled to occupy.
Next day our third child and second son was born. During the entire
time of my recovery I indulged a delusive hope that the officer who
had chosen our home would be content to remain in the little house he
was then occupying, and which I dreaded to think of living in because
it was so small for our increased family. Delusive hope! built
entirely upon my belief in, or knowledge of, our respective needs. I
felt that a bachelor could live less inconveniently in one room than
could a family of five.
The very day our baby was born the little fellow contracted
whooping-cough from his sister, who, charmed to welcome a new
brother, had repeatedly kissed him. I had no idea such a disease was
in the garrison, and when we learned of it the harm had been done.
Not only did all three of our children suffer in the most pronounced
fashion, but it was pitiable to see and hear that tiny baby coughing
violently before he was two weeks old. He would turn so black in the
face, perhaps a hundred times a day, that his nurse hardly dared
close her eyes, as it would be necessary to raise the infant to a
perfectly erect posture to prevent his strangling.
In spite of baby’s sufferings he never lost flesh, which the doctor
said was marvelous, for my neighbors declared they could hear him
cough a hundred yards away. Our anxiety was great, and Mr. Boyd was a
veritable slave.
For a week I was at death’s door with fever; and yet the very day
baby was four weeks old we were obliged to move, that the captain,
who demanded his house without further delay, might be accommodated.
Each of the children caught cold, and bronchitis was added to
whooping-cough; in consequence of which, during that and the
succeeding winter, I always slept with one hand under baby’s head, in
order to raise him suddenly when attacked by those terrible fits of
coughing.
When I state that our new house consisted of but one room, with a
tiny addition back which was quite uninhabitable, and that we lived
in such quarters for two long summers and winters, it will scarcely
be believed. But even those meager accommodations were not deemed a
very severe hardship by many of the ladies who had been at Fort Clark
for years before the new quarters had been built, and who told tales
of far greater crowding.
Among others, the case of a little bride was cited, who, coming from
a luxurious Eastern home, had been glad to find quarters in a hallway
between two other families. One morning her husband was told that
some superior officer wanted his hall, and disgusted he resigned.
The recital of many such absolutely true tales might, perhaps, have
comforted me in some measure, had we not already endured ten long
years of hardships; and it seemed as if the time should have come
when length of service counted for something.
But it never does in the army, as possibly only those know who have
realized the fact through actual experience. There one must endure
all discomforts as uncomplainingly as possible, and meekly relinquish
the refinements of life, which such a mode of living absolutely
forbids. For a family of five to live in one room through two
fearfully warm summers and two winters was far from pleasant; and in
order to relieve ourselves of discomforts so far as was possible, we
remained out-doors on our pleasant porch nearly all the time.
The winters were delightful in that part of Texas, and yet very
trying. The only really cold weather there is caused by the
“northers,” which come up so suddenly as to render it out of
the question to be prepared for the change. A norther is always
preceded by a very sultry day; then the thermometer falls perhaps
fifty degrees in an hour, and there is something in the chill north
wind which seems to freeze the very blood in one’s veins. When, in
addition, a rainstorm follows, it is little wonder that the cattle
interests of Texas suffer, for no living creature can well exist in
such an atmosphere when exposed.
Our little back room faced the north, so we could not use it in
winter, for the tiny house, built of wood with a canvas ceiling,
was then like a barn; and it was so old that in summer the canvas
and woodwork harbored every species of vermin, with which it simply
became alive.
I was awakened one night by the raging of a violent storm that seemed
to shake the house to its foundations. The rain descended with such
force that I expected every moment the roof would fall in. A glance
showed me water pouring in under the door which separated the small
back room from the larger one in which we slept. I quickly arose
and stepped into the little room to find myself literally wading in
water which reached above my ankles. The fierce storm had beaten in
the old, weather-worn roof, and through a large hole which had been
forced in the canvas ceiling a stream of liquid mud was pouring that
deluged everything. The opening was directly over an open bureau
drawer, the contents of which were a strange sight. The mud was
formed by rain falling on the accumulation of dirt that miserable old
canvas held; and before the storm had ceased our possessions were
worthless, and the room, which within our knowledge never had been
worthy of the name, was still less so.
Every house in the post was in a wretched condition long before
morning, and each woman thought that her individual experience could
not be exceeded in misery.
It was so common for roofs to leak and plaster to fall that we
expected such mishaps; but fortunately, because they left more
serious trouble in their wake, such furious storms were not frequent.
One lady, a bride, who until that night had seen only the bright side
of army life, decided that if such experiences were common she did
not care to become accustomed to them; so one result in that instance
was her husband’s resignation from the army.
A large double bed stood in one corner of our only room, and in the
other a lounge that could be used for the children at night. Over
our bed I swung a hammock, which served admirably for baby’s cradle,
and as an economy of space it was a great success. But during warm
weather the porch, as already stated, was our dwelling-place, and
at night the hammock suspended there was frequently occupied by Mr.
Boyd; for in such a climate to sleep with four other persons in one
small room was not very refreshing.
We were, however, very gay through all our miseries and deprivations;
for with seventy-five officers and forty ladies in the garrison
many pleasures could be enjoyed. During the first winter we had a
series of balls for the exchange of regimental courtesies. Those
already stationed at Fort Clark gave a large ball to welcome the
new-comers, even if they did turn us out of houses and homes, which
courtesy was returned by a very grand affair. Then each regiment—six
were represented, two of them colored—extended hospitalities on
its individual account, and each vied with the others in somewhat
varying the character of the entertainment.
Following that, the bachelors gave a large german where the favors
were superb. Then the ladies united in a New Year’s reception,
which was said to surpass all the rest. Afterward we had weekly
hops, a masquerade and phantom party, at which it was difficult to
hide our identity; for in a garrison where every personal trait was
necessarily observed, to disguise one’s individuality was not easy.
Probably the officer who entered the room encased in a well-stuffed
mattress did so most effectually.
Studying how to puzzle the rest was great fun. So many amusements,
combined with the real kindly feeling constantly evinced, made our
social life very enjoyable. Every excuse for pleasant intercourse
was freely sought; and so long as life lasts I shall remember those
years at Fort Clark as not only joyous, but given up to experiences
so distinctly different from all others as to merit perpetual and
delightful recollection.
In the first place, every one lived out-of-doors nine months of the
year. That necessitated, or made more easily possible, a constant
interchange of friendly remarks, and we became more like one large
family than like strangers. Our interests were identical. If any
change was made, it affected so many that all were drawn together by
that “fellow feeling which makes us wondrous kind.”
When troops were ordered away, their departure was dreaded because
the officers’ society would be greatly missed. If new-comers arrived,
as they constantly did, we welcomed them cordially. Every time
an inspecting officer or one of high rank came to Fort Clark, as
frequently happened, we rejoiced in the opportunity to give a ball
in his honor, and the band serenaded him each night of his sojourn;
in fact, nothing was lacking that would prove our hospitality and
cordiality.
Riding and driving parties were indulged in daily; for fully half of
the officers stationed at our garrison were in the cavalry, and in
addition to their mounts had fine carriages. When the cavalry were
sent to graze their horses near streams, and permanent camps were
thus established, we visited them frequently. In turn, they combined
their forces and gave grand picnics, which were so successful we were
enraptured.
One night I shall never forget. The moon shone her best and brightest
on a smooth stretch of canvas, spread so as to form a splendid
dancing-floor, and on trees hung with fairy lanterns, which extending
as far as the eye could reach met as background the pretty little
stream on whose banks lovers wandered. Of course, in that region of
soft tropic warmth and fervor, romance blended with everything; and
no eligible young lady was ever known to leave Fort Clark without a
tiny circlet on her finger, which proved her right to return as an
officer’s bride.
Meantime, rumors of war kept increasing, and finally all our troops
were marched into Mexico during the hottest month of the year. This
was, however, done merely as a menace; for in a week’s time they
returned, having faced the Mexicans on their own ground without
even exchanging shots. Blistered feet and swollen limbs, gained by
marching through parching sands, were the only reminders of the
affair brought back.
Soon after, Mexico arranged new terms with our authorities, in
accordance with which incursions over the border were allowed when
our troops were on the trail of desperate adventurers who were
escaping with much booty. This caused the withdrawal from Fort Clark
of the gallant cavalry regiment, which with our own had hoped to reap
a little glory from the strained relations between our country and
her sister republic.
Courtesies were exchanged between leading officers in the Mexican
and American armies, which we shared in by giving a grand ball to
the general and staff of the Mexican army on their visit to our post
while negotiating terms of peace. Our third winter at Fort Clark was
brilliant socially. We organized a theatrical company, which gave
with great success a number of popular plays, including “Caste,”
“Ours,” and several farces that were a source of much merriment. The
soldiers were allowed to fill the hall to its utmost capacity, and
their appreciation was an additional reward for our efforts.
I doubt if anything can be funnier than a familiar face and form
rendered unrecognizable by an absurd and ridiculous disguise. The
night “Caste” was produced, I excelled myself in so completely
changing Mr. Boyd’s appearance that his entrance on the stage as
“Old Eccles” was greeted by loud and long-continued shouts, which
ceased only to be again and again renewed. It was the success of the
evening. In our sentimental parts Mr. Boyd eclipsed us all, and was
the cynosure of all eyes in his maudlin drunkenness.
After having studied the book of directions until I understood how
to make my husband look utterly disreputable and unlike himself, I
delighted in having him assume various odd characters; for the moment
he appeared before an audience, deafening applause invariably greeted
him.
We worked as hard to secure the success of our plays as though
fortunes had depended upon it, and unhesitatingly robbed our houses
of ornaments in order that the stage might present an attractive
appearance.
I would not like to be a professional on the boards if it
necessitated as much real labor as did our amateur performances. But
we soon found that a good paying audience could readily be commanded,
and after the first few evenings raised money enough to build a very
pretty stage, and completely renovate the only hall in the garrison,
which had been used for church, schoolroom, ballroom, and theater for
years without any improvements or alterations having been made, and
was in sad need of the new floor and ceiling our money supplied.
We also gave performances for several charities. One for the
famishing Irish, when we “Caste” our bread upon the waters, was
especially successful; and when at the approach of Christmas, money
was needed for a tree with which to gladden the hearts of the
soldiers’ one hundred little children, we had an immense audience.
The actors afterwards went to San Antonio, where they played for the
Masonic fund; and also to a little nearby town where a church was
greatly needed.
CHAPTER XX.
It was customary for companies of Mr. Boyd’s regiment to be sent for
six months to garrison the forts on the Rio Grande, which were close
by; our turn came when we had been two years at Fort Clark, which we
left reluctantly.
No station immediately on the river was ever considered desirable,
on account of its unfailing sand and heat; and Fort Duncan, to which
we were assigned, had no comfortable houses. It was only forty miles
from Fort Clark, and as but two companies of infantry were stationed
there, the small garrison was inevitably dull.
Our dwelling consisted of one room in a very dilapidated building. It
had been previously used as a store-room, and the barred windows made
it seem prison-like.
The kitchen was so far away that a complete circuit of the house was
necessary in order to reach it, and the dining-room was a part of the
kitchen.
Our sorrows were added to when our beautiful ponies, that had borne
us about the country for miles in every direction during our stay at
Clark, and which I had confidently expected would relieve the tedium
of life at Duncan, were attacked by glanders and ordered shot. In
spite, however, of this caution, the contagion spread; and before
another month Mr. Boyd’s splendid charger, and our other dear little
Mexican pony, had also been condemned. Thus we lost four horses
within one month, and I would have been in despair had we not found a
superb riding-horse in the troop, which proved so safe and reliable
that I was often tempted to go far beyond proper limits.
One day, when riding alone, I espied smoke; ahead, and idly followed
in its direction until I found myself facing a house which I recalled
as having been described to me as a den of horse-thieves. My mount
was superb, but I was nine miles from home and conscious that rest
was imperative. I dismounted, led my horse to the house, and asked
for water. The man who appeared not only gave me that, but also
coffee; and when I related the loss of my ponies, offered to sell me
a fine pair very cheap.
I used my eyes to good advantage, not neglecting to notice a ford,
directly in front of the door, which could be utilized at a moment’s
notice for horses to cross into Mexico. But that was none of my
affairs, and like all rough frontiersmen mine host of the hour was
exceedingly polite. He led up for inspection several pairs of fine
ponies. I did not, however, buy any, as I feared the owners might
meet me some day and claim their property.
After a brief rest I remounted, and on reaching home found that my
absence had been of five hours’ duration, and the entire garrison was
alarmed.
We remained at Duncan all that winter, and aside from daily rides
our only amusement was a trip across the river into Mexico. The
quaint old town of Piedras Negras lay directly opposite Fort Duncan;
and the same style of primitive boats as were used in New Mexico,
and on one of which we came so near to losing our lives, was there
employed to ferry us across. We were able to enjoy everything Piedras
Negras afforded in the way of sight seeing, having arrived just
before the yearly _fiesta_, which is the gala time among Mexicans.
The town, like all I saw in Mexico, was built around squares called
_plazas_. These were occupied during the _fiesta_ as booths for the
sale of curiosities, and also for that sport so dear to Mexican
hearts—gambling. Any game could be indulged in, from three card monte
to roulette; or, if disposed, visitors might partake of Mexican
viands, served by bashful señoritas clad in pretty Spanish costumes.
The climax of festivities was, of course, bullfights, when the large
amphitheater would be crowded by an excited Mexican audience. Having
heard so much of those affairs, we were, of course, eager to see one;
but our curiosity was soon satisfied, for a more tame encounter I
never beheld.
The poor bull absolutely refused to fight, and, after having been
goaded and prodded by the matador with sharp-pointed spears, gayly
ribbon-bedecked, kept turning wistfully toward the door by which he
had entered, and every now and then rushed to it, only to be met by
more spear pricks, which, though causing his blood to flow, served
only to still farther intimidate the poor animal. Finally, amid the
shouts of the people, he would be dispatched and replaced by another,
that invariably showed the same want of spirit.
To American on-lookers it seemed a cruel sport, unworthy its historic
greatness.
The only delightful features connected with that so-called pastime
were the perfect Mexican band and superb drilling of Mexican
soldiers, who marched and countermarched for at least an hour without
a single order being spoken, they responding merely to a tap of the
drum as each new movement was initiated.
The band was superb, and the music so sweet and thrilling we could
have listened for hours without weariness. On account of exchanging
many hospitalities with the Mexican officers, we enjoyed numerous
opportunities of hearing it.
On one occasion the band was brought over to serenade us, and we
listened as in a dream to its rendering of various operas and Mexican
national airs, played with such expression that all the sentiments
they indicated were aroused.
The perfect submission of Mexican soldiers, and the never-ending
drilling they received, made them more thorough than our own, who
never could have been kept in such slavish subjection. The Mexican
soldier is usually born a _peon_, or slave, and never dreams of
resenting the will of his superiors—nor of having one of his own.
Those men were drilled hours before dawn, and that they might be in
good marching order were compelled to walk ten and even twenty miles
a day out in the open country.
We were invited to all balls given by the Mexican officers, and
found them curious affairs. The women’s costumes were tawdry in
the extreme, and their manner of dancing so slow as to seem most
monotonous; yet I have never seen more perfect natural grace anywhere
displayed than in those measured Spanish dances.
The variety those balls afforded was quite enjoyable until one night
a Mexican officer of high rank drew a pistol and fired directly at
a man who moved too slowly out of his path to suit the officer’s
dignity. I never attended another ball, being unwilling to witness
such scenes. We had also experienced much difficulty in crossing the
Rio Grande at night; so I was glad of an excuse to remain our side of
the river after dark, but loved to drive over in broad daylight, when
I felt safe and could avoid all midnight perils.
It always seemed to me as if the suave Spanish politeness of those
Mexican officers concealed smoldering volcanoes. I have known an
officer to shoot a soldier dead at the first hint of insubordination.
We remained at Fort Duncan until early spring, when the mesquite
trees, which beautified the parade grounds, were clothed in a tender,
fresh green whose tint I have never seen equaled. Our recall to Clark
by exchange in March was heartily welcomed.
A cloud, however, loomed on my horizon in the certainty that I
must soon leave our dear army life for the East. It is never
deemed prudent to remain long in so debilitating a climate, and
malarial fever had fastened itself upon both our elder children,
completely reducing their strength. We had, however, great cause for
thankfulness in their being spared; for the disease was unusually
fatal that season, and, indeed, for three long weeks the lives of our
little ones hung in the balance, while fear and anxiety harassed our
souls.
Texas malarial fever burns with an unremitting ardor nothing can
quench until its course has been run. Our good doctor almost lived
with us; and whenever the temperature rose above one hundred and two
degrees he would plunge our little boy into a tub of the coldest
water procurable,—no ice was to be had,—and hold him there until the
child’s body became blue, and his teeth began to chatter, when he
would be wrapped in blankets, and hot bottles placed at his feet.
Heroic treatment that could not fail to wring a mother’s heart! When
our little daughter fought the same hard battle for three long weeks,
and came out from it a perfect shadow, with her head bald as any
infant’s, I realized that our physician was right, and that I must
leave Texas or we should lose our children.
Better educational facilities also seemed imperative. Thus far I
had taught the little ones, and they were well advanced, but no one
expects to find very desirable schools in the wilderness; so we
began our preparations for departure, feeling that years must pass
before we could again settle down, as education had become the most
important need.
CHAPTER XXI.
Exactly ten years from the day we had left New York I returned. My
heart was so bound up in frontier life I had hoped until the last
moment that the spring rains, which had been unusually severe, would
keep us storm-bound in Texas. The town of Brackett had been flooded
just before our departure, and the post, from its high and dry hill,
looked down upon a scene of devastation and misery. Every house on
the low lands was undermined, and many were washed away; the people
sought refuge in trees, where they were obliged to remain for hours,
until assistance in the shape of boats reached them.
Of course, as in all scenes where the colored race is conspicuous,
several ludicrous incidents occurred. One old mammy, who weighed at
least two hundred pounds, in her joy at being rescued, fell into the
arms of an unusually small white soldier, and swamped herself, the
soldier, and the boat.
Days passed before the water subsided, and in consequence our journey
was delayed a month; as with four days of ambulance travel to San
Antonio we did not dare start until the roads were dry. I was wicked
enough to hope they never would be in condition for travel; but when
the mail again reached us regularly there was no farther excuse for
delay, and with tearful eyes I bade adieu to dearly loved Fort Clark.
Many of the ladies thought my unwillingness to leave Texas could not
be really sincere, a change seemed to them so desirable. But my fears
that I should not feel at home in civil life, where everything was so
different, were verified.
Four days’ travel by ambulance through deep mud was required to reach
San Antonio. We did not tarry to explore that curious old town, but
stepped immediately on board a train for Galveston, where we arrived
in twenty-four hours. At that place I parted from my husband, and
took a steamer for New York. Seven days’ passage over Southern and
into Northern seas brought us to the city, where our children saw
civilization for the first time within their recollections.
It is needless to recount our experiences in New York, or rather
Coney Island, where we remained through the summer, and which was
just the place for little barbarians to see strange sights and become
familiarized with strange scenes.
After all the frontier travel and its dangers through which we had
passed, it seemed odd that this land of safety should hardly have
been reached before we narrowly escaped serious harm. I chose the
boat as a means of transit to Coney Island; and when we reached the
pier found that our trunks had not arrived, and so waited hours for
the expressman, who did not come until very late in the day.
I was overwhelmed with our belongings, which consisted of two
large trunks, the same number of hand-bags, an immense valise, and
a violin. After we had boarded the boat and fairly started on our
way, I was dismayed to find night rapidly approaching, and most
ominous-looking clouds arising. They proved precursors of a furious
storm, the violence of which reminded me of those experienced while
at the West. Much damage was done in and around New York Harbor.
When we neared the island after a terrifying trip, I saw to my horror
that the boat, instead of landing at the first and completed iron
pier, passed it, and made for the uncompleted pier, which jutted much
farther out into the ocean, and at that time was simply an uncovered
walk about a quarter of a mile in length.
Nothing, however, could be done except land—with three children—and
stand in the maddest rush of rain to which I had ever been exposed,
watching our trunks and bags tumbled out into the storm. Aware that a
few moments’ exposure to such a torrent would ruin their contents, I
looked, but in vain, for a means of conveyance to the hotel. No one
was in sight, the few passengers who had landed having immediately
hastened away; and as we were being completely drenched, I decided to
leave the baggage to its fate.
Carrying as much as possible in my hands, I sent our little girl in
advance with her small brothers. Judge of my horror when suddenly I
saw the piles of boards that were stacked in readiness for roofing
the pier, moving and actually filling the air on all sides. The
children were directly in the path of that furious hurricane, and
I could only helplessly watch them. Fortunately it did not last
long; and my little daughter was wise enough to race ahead with
her brothers, so no damage was done except the loss of both the
boys’ hats, which blew into the ocean. Then the rain descended with
redoubled force; but some one compassionately let us into a little
house built for the workmen, where, terrified beyond measure, we were
shut in with darkness.
I was all the while worrying about our trunks, and finally induced a
workman to promise that he would have them taken to the hotel. But
the man soon returned, and reported that they had disappeared. That
was a severe blow; and in the darkness I wandered all over the pier
until finally a kind policeman was found, who assured me the trunks
could not have been stolen. Our search was at last rewarded by their
discovery, when the policeman called a coach and bade me take the
children to a hotel. I did so, and then sent the coachman back for
our trunks.
An hour passed without his return, when I made inquiries, only to be
consoled by being told that the coachman was unknown in the hotel,
and had probably stolen our possessions.
I started again, in spite of the continued storm, for that pier,
where to my joy I spied the policeman, who said he had refused to
deliver the trunks without a written order. Although deeply grateful
for his caution, I would gladly have been back in Texas, where,
whatever happened, there was some one to share hardships with me.
The storm was unusually severe. After its cessation sign-boards were
found scattered all over the island, and some buildings had been
unroofed.
It is not my intention to dwell at length on our sojourn in the
East, which lasted four years. This is a tale of army life, and one
accustomed to it is amazed when living among civilians to find how
little they know of such an institution as the army.
My husband had long been entitled, by reason of rank and length of
service, to the one detail—that of recruiting—which brings a cavalry
officer East. He had always intended to reserve this for the time
when an education would be demanded for our children, and that time
had come; so Mr. Boyd applied for and received the detail in the fall
of 1882.
On reaching St. Louis, where the choice of several cities was given
him, he selected Boston because of its excellent schools. We spent
there a winter, which seemed to us, fresh from sunny climes, one long
succession of rain, fogs, and east winds. Still, the many advantages
of that well-regulated city were appreciated, and had I been well
we should have enjoyed its intellectual atmosphere. As it was, we
were glad when summer arrived, and a little cottage on one of the
delightful beaches near by could be taken. It was a great treat, and
we were most thoroughly enjoying our surroundings, when, in the month
of August, a thunder-clap fell on our ears in the shape of an order
for that Eastern cavalry recruiting station to be discontinued.
Boston had kept the station for so many years I could not at first
believe the bad news was true. But it proved to be; and Captain
Boyd, who had just received his promotion, was ordered to open a
recruiting office in Davenport, Iowa. After having served faithfully
as lieutenant for twenty-one years, he had at last been advanced to
the rank of captain.
It was not deemed advisable for the entire family to be continually
changing from East to West, and _vice versâ_, so Captain Boyd went
alone to his new station. Time showed that our decision had been
judicious; for before his two years of recruiting service were
over he had been assigned to four different stations, going from
Davenport, Iowa, to Rochester, New York, and finally spending three
months at Jefferson Barracks, Missouri.
Our long planned Eastern tour had proved an utter failure, and was
one more added to the list of many disappointments. After giving up
our country home near Boston, I went to New York with our children,
and placing them in excellent schools entered a hospital, where I
remained for one long year, a sufferer from illness entailed by early
army hardships. Our little boy was sent to his grandparents in the
country, and my husband returned to Texas.
After Captain Boyd had been alone there a year, he asked for and
obtained leave of absence, which permitted us to spend four pleasant
months at Cooperstown, on Otsego Lake, where we had a glorious time.
My husband endeared himself to every one, for he was constantly
helping others.
While he was stationed at Davenport, Iowa, a gentleman from there
called on me in New York, who described Captain Boyd as the most
popular man in the city. He said that every white man, woman, and
child in the town knew and loved my husband, while every old darky
idolized him.
The ladies connected with one of Davenport’s principal churches were
greatly in need of money for charitable purposes, and Captain Boyd
wrote and delivered a lecture in their behalf which netted nearly
three hundred dollars. It was a humorous view of the Indian question,
and elicited shouts of applause. He was subsequently invited to give
the same address in other cities.
On Captain Boyd’s return to the frontier his services as a lecturer
were in great demand, and he was in that way able to raise large sums
of money for charitable purposes. My husband became the best-known
army officer at the West on account of his frequent appearances on
the lecture platform.
In the early spring of 1885, four years after having left Texas,
I returned. In all that time not one moment had passed in which I
would not gladly have been there; so I seized the first plausible
excuse afforded—a greatly needed change for our daughter—and leaving
the eldest boy at school in New York, again sailed for husband and
frontier life.
The sea voyage to Galveston was the most soothing and delightful trip
of the kind possible. The water never appears rough immediately after
leaving New York; and for three days, while off the coast of Florida,
the vessel seemed gently—almost imperceptibly so far as motion was
concerned—gliding along. On arriving at San Antonio, instead of a
tedious ambulance-ride awaiting us, we went by rail to Fort Clark,
which was reached in a few hours.
The sight of dear old familiar landmarks was inexpressibly pleasant;
and when we were ushered into one of those well-remembered little
houses, with all the old furniture about, it really seemed too
good to be true. Everything was more than satisfactory; and the
gratification afforded by the change can be understood only by those
who have been away from loved scenes for years, and on returning
found all expectations realized. Old friends were there to greet us,
and we were supremely happy in the renewal of our former life.
My content and joy lasted four months, when rumors of Indian
outbreaks in far away New Mexico reached our ears, and were soon
followed by an order for all cavalry troops to hold themselves in
immediate marching readiness.
Captain Boyd had just returned from a trip to San Antonio, having
gone there in compliance with a request to deliver the oration at
the National Cemetery on Decoration Day. In that address my husband
distinguished himself in a way to be long remembered by his family
and friends. It was the most touching and felicitous tribute to
our dead soldiers ever written; touching because of the truest
sentiments; felicitous because in a place where sectional feeling
had for years run riot, not one word was uttered to which the
veterans on either side could object.
The address was very lengthy, occupying four columns of the _San
Antonio Express_, in which it was published next day; but every word
was listened to with eager interest by the immense audience. Long
before its conclusion the fervent tears that fell from old soldiers’
eyes attested Captain Boyd’s eloquence; and when he ceased speaking
the veterans, mainly of the Southern army, crowded about him with
words of earnest praise, and begged that he honor them with a visit.
The Texas papers were unanimous in the declaration that no such
masterly address had ever before been heard on a similar occasion.
Captain Boyd was obliged to hasten his return because feeling very
ill; he had been scarcely able to stand in the heat of that day, May
30, 1885, when, as usual at that season of the year in Texas, the
temperature was extreme and the atmosphere torrid. After reaching
home he was confined to his room for a week, and then came word for
the troops to start for New Mexico.
The order was received in a telegraphic dispatch from Washington,
and was immediately complied with. Before we could realize it, every
troop of cavalry had left Fort Clark for an indefinite period. A long
series of Apache outrages headed by Geronimo had resulted in the
determination to capture him and his band, if it took the whole army
to do it. Accordingly, from every post in New Mexico and Texas all
troops that could be spared were sent.
A cordon of outposts was established, so that the Indians who had
gone into Mexico could not return without being captured. The
devastations they had wrought were terrible. The little corner of
south-western New Mexico, in the neighborhood of Fort Bayard, had
become a veritable charnel house. Every interest of the country had
been ruined by their constant raids.
The President’s attention was directly drawn to the state of affairs
by my brother, who was in Washington at the time. He had edited a
paper in Silver City, New Mexico, for several years, and had kept an
account of the number of murders committed by Indians—five hundred in
eight years. In such a sparsely settled country the loss of so many
precious lives was not only sad beyond expression, but if continued
must result in hopeless ruin to that region, which, as I have before
stated, is the garden spot of the West. Sheltered by numerous hills,
cattle always thrive and increase there, because of the perfectly
equable climate and a constant supply of nutritive food.
For those very reasons, probably, it was a paradise for the Indians,
who could steal in and out more readily on account of the numerous
mountain hiding-places.
It was very unusual for troops stationed in Texas to be sent out of
their district; but in that case everything possible was done to
enhance the safety of the long-suffering people. I shall not try
to give an account of that long-protracted warfare, which lasted
eighteen months before Geronimo was captured. During that time our
troops marched over ground that was well-nigh impassable, and endured
every species of hardships. The cavalry worked night and day to
secure those wily Indians, and finally succeeded; but a volume would
be required if their hardships and sufferings were to be recounted.
It is simply impossible for any one who has not seen the unsettled
portions of this country to imagine its character and the
difficulties which beset troops that follow on the trails of Indians.
Our cavalry has been criticised freely; but I would say to the
critic: “Go thou and do likewise.” More than they have done, it would
be impossible to do, and no country could be less grateful than ours.
If soldiers were rewarded according to their deserts, each cavalryman
would wear the choicest prize within the nation’s gift. The service
is very trying. I can scarcely recall an officer who is not a martyr
to severe sufferings caused by constant exposure, and who in middle
life is not an old man both in feeling and experience.
After reaching Deming, New Mexico, Captain Boyd’s troop was sent
into the Black Range, where they encamped at a little place called
Grafton, fifty miles from the mountains. I have my husband’s diary,
which contains an account of the march and the country over which
they traveled. He greatly disliked to settle quietly down in the
camp selected as a permanent one, and was delighted when a letter
summoning him away was received.
The letter was sent from a little Mexican town about one hundred
miles distant, and informed him that ten Indian women had reached
there, who, if captured, would perhaps prove valuable hostages. They
were the wives of some members of the band that were on the war-path;
and if they could be secured the probability of effecting a treaty
seemed reasonable.
Captain Boyd lost no time in preparations, but started at once with
twenty mounted men. The march occupied five days, and on reaching the
town the Indian women were found in an almost starving condition.
The country was very rough, and a few lines received from my husband
while there stated that he was suffering greatly from the effects of
bad drinking-water. The man who had sent the letter begged him to
remain a few days, and not risk the effects of the return to camp
while so ill. But he refused to stay, fearing the Indian women might
escape if not speedily taken to a permanent military station.
My husband returned to camp, having suffered intensely during the ten
days of his absence, and when he reached his troop was dying, though
still refusing to consider himself seriously ill. He at once ordered
the only officer with him to proceed with the Indian women to the
place where the main body of the regiment was encamped, one hundred
and fifty miles distant.
The young officer was so anxious about Captain Boyd that he sent
a courier for the nearest surgeon, who was at Hillsboro, eighty
miles away. It was four days before the doctor could reach Grafton,
and meantime Captain Boyd was without proper medical attendance.
Everything his faithful soldiers could do was done; but, alas, to no
purpose! The army doctor’s first glance showed him that Captain Boyd
was doomed.
For five days the most unremitting care and attention were given him,
both by the kind physician and by a captain of the regiment who had
accompanied him. But all was useless. The fifth day ended the life of
this noble and true man.
Captain Boyd’s last hard ride had developed violent inflammation
which was simply incurable, as the disease had been increasing for
years, having first developed when during the war the young soldier
had been compelled to drink impure water and go without food for
days. Subsequent years of cavalry hardships had increased its
strength until that last exposure proved fatal.
Home in Texas we scarcely realized that he was ill when the terrible
news of his death came in a telegram that had been two days _en
route_.
Letters had been received from him so regularly that when they ceased
I supposed he was still on the march. When the doctor and captain
began to write, their communications were at first so encouraging
that we could scarcely believe he was in any danger, and were totally
unprepared for the terrible sequel. In fact, no one could at first
accept the sad truth; for Captain Boyd had been the picture of
health, and had impressed every one with his unusual vitality. When
the young officer who had been sent forward with the Indian women
returned to find his beloved captain dead and buried, the shock was
so great he almost fell from his horse.
That Indian campaign resulted in some terrible deaths, but none was
more shocking than this sad ending to a long and most faithful career.
Only a few months previously Captain Boyd had spoken very feelingly
of the double loss army women sustained when death robbed them of
their husbands—the loss of both husband and home. He realized how
deeply attached to the life they became, and how sad it was that
they must be cast adrift from all the associations of years. But
such, though sorrowful in all its aspects, is the fate of army women.
My grief was intensified by the utter refusal of the Secretary of
War to remove all that remained of so true and manly a soldier to
a National Cemetery. After my first request had been denied I went
to Washington, only to receive there a second from the same source;
the reason given being that government could not afford to incur the
expense.
Had I not made every effort possible, there would have been another
lonely grave in the very heart of a remote mountain region, where
none who loved him could ever have visited the spot.
Captain Boyd died on the same day as General Grant. A week later
orders were received at Fort Clark from the War Department, directing
that the nation’s great general should have every honor paid his
memory. Guns were fired, flags displayed at half-mast, and the band
played sad and solemn music, while troops paraded in honor of the
dead general and his great achievements.
It seemed to me mournful and unjust, that while high and deserved
honors were paid the memory of one, the other, as noble and true a
soldier as ever walked this earth, and who had given twenty-four of
his forty-one years of life in faithful service, had endured terrible
hardships, and yielded at last even his life for his country, should
be laid to rest far from home and friends, out on the lonely prairie,
and except in the hearts of a few his memory should utterly fade.
Captain Boyd sleeps in the National Cemetery at San Antonio, where
six weeks previously he had touched all hearts with his eloquence.
Graven on his tomb are the last words of that memorable address:
“Sleep, soldier, still in honored rest
Thy truth and valor wearing;
The bravest are the tenderest,
The loving are the daring.”
APPENDIX A.
_Extract from the proceedings of the Association of Graduates of the
United States military Academy at its annual reunion, held at West
Point, New York, June 10, 1886._[1]
[1] This obituary was distributed throughout the corps of cadets at
West Point by the Commandant at the time of Captain Boyd’s death, and
its perfect justice has never in the slightest degree been challenged.
ORSEMUS B. BOYD.
NO. 2216. CLASS OF 1867.
_Died (in the field), at Camp near Grafton, New Mexico, July 23,
1885, aged 41._
“So passed the strong, heroic soul away—”
Born in New York; appointed from New York; class rank, 61.
Entered the War of the Rebellion as a member of the Eighty-ninth New
York Volunteer Infantry, Sept. 1, 1861, and served until July 1,
1863, when he was appointed a Cadet in the United States Military
Academy. He saw active service in our great war, and was mentioned
for gallantry at Roanoke Island, North Carolina.
He was graduated on June 17, 1867, and appointed second lieutenant
Eighth United States Cavalry; first lieutenant same, Oct. 13,
1868; captain, Jan. 26, 1882. He died July 23, 1885, closing in
_acknowledged honor_ and undoubted manly effectiveness _twenty-four
years of faithful and gallant service_ in the saddest of our
wars, and in Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas, where he assisted in
developing our great inland resources.
His family have an honest pride in his unostentatious record, and we
all may say:
“Duncan is in his grave.
After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well.”
THE RECORD OF A NOBLE LIFE.
“I, the despised of fortune, lift mine eyes,
Bright with the luster of integrity,
In unappealing wretchedness, on high,
And the last rage of Destiny defy.”
It is with deep solicitude that the writer endeavors, in a few words,
to do justice to the memory of Captain Boyd.
For several long and intensely painful years I knew him to be
an innocent Enoch Arden in a lonely desert of solitude, bereft
of—dearer to the soldier than wife or life—his HONOR—a sufferer for
the crime of _another man_.
It was in 1863 that he entered the academy—a veteran soldier, a young
man whose merits had gained for him the honorable rank of cadet.
In 1864 the writer joined the corps, and for three years marched
shoulder to shoulder in the line of the dear old Gray Battalion with
the man who sleeps far away from the Hudson, and where the foot
of the idle stranger may stop to mark where a good, honest, and
much-wronged man sleeps the sleep which knows no waking.
No man ever did better work in the army than Boyd. By steady,
faithful, and efficient service, he wore out suspicion,
conspiracy, bad luck, and scandal. Since the establishment of his
innocence—unsought, unchallenged by him—his defamer has preceded him
to the awful bar of the Great Judge.
He lived to round a career of usefulness and gallant service with the
tributes of regimental and army respect, the affection of his brother
officers, the endearments of family life, the respect of the people
of Texas and of the territories where he had served. Demonstrations
by his company and comments of the general press prove that his
once-shadowed name is now clear and clean, and may be honored by
those who loved him.
The facts are these: In the winter of 1865-1866 the robbery of
certain sums of money occurred in “B” Company, United States Corps
of Cadets. It is unnecessary to refer to the facts other than that
after repeated robberies and some rather crude detective work, one
evening, at undress parade in the area of barracks, Cadet Boyd was
ignominiously brought before the battalion of cadets with a placard
of “Thief” on his breast, drummed out of the corps, mobbed and
maltreated. A most intense state of excitement prevailed on the
post, and the strongest discipline was enforced, the cadets being
summarily quelled in any riotous actions. Innocent parties had their
names dragged into the affair, and poor Boyd finished his cadetship
generally cut in the corps, and endured, till he graduated, a life
which was a living hell.
The scandal followed him to his regiment, and years of exemplary
behavior were needed to enable him to live down his trouble. His
quiet, manly obstinacy in clinging to the army is explained by his
innocence. To the honorable but hot-headed men who so long made Boyd
carry the burden of another’s crime, deepest regret must ever attend
the memories of this affair. It is a matter of strange remark that
the guilty man who made Boyd suffer for him—John Joseph Casey, of
the class of 1868—was accidentally shot at drill, by a soldier, at
Fort Washington, Md., March 24, 1869, within nine months after his
apparently honorable graduation. The careers and untimely end of
several who bore down on the suffering man of whom we speak show
some strange and continued sadness or burdens of expiation. It is
all over now. The wandering squadron passing poor Boyd’s grave may
dip the colors to a man whose eyes closed in honor, true to himself,
to his family, his corps and to the dear old flag that he served so
patiently, so quietly, and so well. God rest his soul! Amen.
His innocence was publicly established as follows: In the winter of
1867-1868, Cadet Casey, while sick in the hospital, confessed to his
room-mate, Cadet Hamilton (now dead), that he (Casey) had stolen the
moneys for which poor Boyd had suffered the loss of name and fame.
* * * * *
[The records show that Casey was in the hospital from Jan. 24 to Jan.
31, 1868, suffering from dementia. He was so ill that his classmates
took turns in nursing him. One night, in his delirium, he spoke of
the Boyd affair. Hamilton happened to be with him at the time. The
next morning, when Casey was again in a conscious condition, Hamilton
told him what he had said. It was _then_ that Casey confessed his
part of the conspiracy. If it had not been for Casey’s illness the
facts above narrated would never, in all human probability, have come
to light.—_Sec. Assn._]
* * * * *
It is unnecessary for the writer to state why Hamilton kept this
awful secret locked in his breast from 1867-1868 until he died,
Jan. 22, 1872, from consumption; but he did, alas for him! Casey
had peculiar temptations. Private matters and a hounding blackmail
pressed him for money, which he stole from rich cadets. The cause was
a concealed marriage of Casey’s, that if known would have voided his
cadetship and destroyed his chance for social elevation.
Poor Boyd lived alone in a room on the third floor, third division,
“B” Company. Casey lived directly opposite, and concealed marked
money in Boyd’s books, which caused Boyd to be suspected as the thief
of all the money previously stolen.
Hamilton, the confidant, feared his room-mate of four years,
erred, and kept silent, as far as I know, until June, 1871. At
the St. Marc Hotel, Washington, D.C., Lieutenant Hamilton, in
view of his approaching death, communicated to me his knowledge
of Casey’s confession and of Boyd’s innocence. I was shocked, and
at once communicated the facts to the then Lieut. O. B. Boyd, on
the frontier. On my return, after three years of absence in the
Orient, Europe, and the South, I discovered, in a conversation with
Captain Price of the engineers, that full justice had not been done.
Duplicate affidavits were immediately made by me and forwarded to
Captain Boyd and another person interested. I received a letter from
Boyd thanking me for my efforts—a letter that has made me always
happy, and which, I regret, is stored with valuable archives where I
cannot at once find it. It speaks of his struggles, and pleasantly
says that his character needs no present backing, but that a time
will come when I may speak and tell all, if I think it will please
those who value him.
It was in Siberia that I received the letter asking me to commit
these facts to paper, and by hazard I found a stray copy of the
_Army and Navy_ which contained a report of Captain Boyd’s honorable
obsequies.
From the Pacific I pen the last tribute to a man of much-tried worth.
The subject brings back painful memories of two men whom I loved and
honored in my cadet days—Casey and Hamilton. I am proud to state here
that two of my class never cut Boyd, and several others in the corps
did him some act of kindness in the awful silence of two years. With
pride I recall that the officers of the post did full justice to his
barren rights, and that the old and faithful servants of the Academy
treated him with a discerning kindness which is a wreath of honor on
their silent graves. I will not refer to one affection which cheered
him—there are things too sacred for words.
It is all over! There is only one name off the duty roster; an empty
chair; a lonely grave; an old sword hanging idly in the sunshine
somewhere; a riderless horse; a void in the little family circle
which knew and loved the man who is no more.
It is well to know that his name is mentioned with honor and respect;
that the burden of another’s crime has been cast from him, and that
Time will quietly and in honor carpet the grave of the honest soldier
with “the grass which springeth under the rain which raineth on the
just and the unjust alike.” I believe restitution of honor and
public consideration has, in so far as possible, been fully made. I
look back sadly on my waning youth, as I think of this story, its
actors, and that—
“The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones with the dust.”
RICHARD H. SAVAGE,
_Class of 1868_.
APPENDIX B.
AMERICAN CIVILIZATION.
AS VIEWED BY WEEPING WEASEL, LATE CHIEF OF THE KIOWAS.
A LECTURE
_Written by_ CAPTAIN ORSEMUS BRONSON BOYD, _in behalf of the
Charitable Enterprises of the Ladies connected with the —— Church
of Davenport, Iowa, and also given before the Masonic Lodge in
San Antonio, Texas._
_Ladies and Gentlemen_:—In the first place I am not a lecturer. I
make this announcement now, for fear you may not discover it before I
shall have finished, or if the fact should be rudely thrust upon you,
I will have pleaded guilty in advance to the indictment.
When, a boy, I took part in the debating clubs that were held in
those old red schoolhouses where all great affairs of state—wars,
revolution, politics and finance—were discussed with the freedom of
boys and the ignorance of savages, there was one question which never
failed to elicit ample talk: “Resolved, that anticipation is better
than reality,” and on that question I was always in the affirmative.
In an hour you will all be with me.
I shall tell no tale of personal adventure; nothing worth recording
ever happened to me. Diogenes, with a lantern, and open sunlight to
aid the lantern, in the city of Athens failed to find an honest man.
An untutored Indian from the plains of Texas, amid the common events
and every-day life of the Pale-faces, discovered that their vaunted
civilization was a myth, and their boasted culture a delusion. Let us
at once annihilate the Indian and discredit Diogenes.
In common with all Christians of our kind, we believe that it is
easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich
man to inherit the kingdom of heaven. There are other Christians who
believe that it is easier for a rich man to go through the eye of a
needle than for a camel to inherit the kingdom of heaven. Who shall
say which Christian is _the_ Christian?
Before the brothers of this noble profession, this mystic tie, whose
deeds have been known in every land and under every sun—amid burning
flames and on frozen mountains, on swollen rivers and tempestuous
seas, by the bedsides of dying princes, in the cabins of poverty,
desolation, and disease, in public and private, to bond and free, to
all brothers who own its symbolic rites—to all brothers and wives of
the brothers, I can more freely speak of one who, though ignorant and
a savage, still found in his own faith and his own civilization his
own Christianity.
Eighteen hundred years ago, in Capernaum by the Sea of Galilee, a
man, whom the charity of God had sent into the world, was preaching
to the people. And a certain lawyer, willing to justify himself,
stood up and asked, “Who is my neighbor?” Promptly came the answer:
“A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among
thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and
departed, leaving him half dead.
“And by chance there came down a certain priest that way, and when he
saw him he passed by on the other side.
“And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked on
him, and passed by on the other side.
“But a certain Samaritan as he journeyed, came where he was; and when
he saw him, he had compassion on him.
“And went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine,
and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took
care of him.
“And on the morrow when he departed, he took out two pence, and gave
them to the host, and said unto him, Take care of him: and whatsoever
thou spendest more, when I come again, I will repay thee.
“Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbor unto him that
fell among the thieves?”
On the boundless prairies of the West and South, that are in extent
empires, the white man has learned that devotion which Nature, in her
grandest forms, most surely teaches. He has learned that tolerance
which men unfettered by the bonds of conventional society most
quickly learn.
Two years ago last July I found myself encamped upon the banks of the
Red River of Texas, with forty horsemen as scouts under my command.
Like a silver thread the river ran a thousand feet beneath us,
through the wildest and most precipitous cañon.
At four o’clock one morning, a Seminole Indian, attached to the
command, brought me intelligence that six hours previously six
horses, four lodges, one sick Indian, five squaws, and several
children had descended into the cañon one mile above us, and were
then lost to sight. I asked:
“Had they provisions?”
“Yes; corn and buffalo meat.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw corn scattered upon one side of the trail, and flies
had gathered upon a piece of buffalo meat on the other.”
“How do you know that one of the Indians is sick?”
“Because the lodge poles were formed into a travois, that was drawn
by a horse blind in one eye.”
“How do you know the horse was half blind?”
“Because, while all the other horses grazed upon both sides of the
trail, this one ate only the grass that grew upon one side.”
“How do you know the sick one was a man?”
“Because when a halt was made all the women gathered around him.”
“Of what tribe are they?”
“Of the Kiowa tribe.”
And thus, with no ray of intelligence upon his stolid face, the
Seminole Indian stood before me and told all I wished to know
concerning our new neighbors, whom he had never seen.
Two hours from that time, not knowing whether they were friends or
enemies, I was carefully studying, from the bluff above, through a
field-glass, the Indian camp.
The lodges had all been erected, and were gay with the robes of the
buffalo of the plains, the prairie wolf, and the coyote. A great war
bonnet of eagles’ feathers hung before the door of the principal
tepee, denoting that its occupant was a chief. From the lodge pole
floated a blue streamer, bearing the rude device, in red paint, of a
whip-poor-will attacking a rattlesnake; this told me that he was the
chief of all the Kiowas. I knew the man. I had met him, with many
others of his tribe, one night several years before, one hundred
miles below on the same river, and the meeting had not been pleasant
to either of us.
In fact, several hours had been required in which to adjust our
differences; and as the chief left me amid the crack of rifles and
the swish of arrows, I heard his clear voice solemnly declaring in
Spanish that he would surely come again “when the moon was young.”
Fate was too strong even for the chief of the Kiowas; he never came;
his tribe had been conquered and were at peace.
Returning to my cantonment, I hastily saddled a small detachment,
and descending the almost precipitous sides of the gorge reached the
Indian encampment, and dismounting, raised the buffalo skin that hung
before the entrance of the principal lodge, and stood unsummoned in
the presence of the chief. An old and shriveled man, with nerveless
arms and sunken eyes, from which the fire of battle had forever fled,
lay upon a rude couch of skins. He gave courteous greeting, said he
knew me, and even spoke my name. As I sat upon the ground at his side
he told me how, for weeks before our previous meeting to which I have
alluded, he had been upon my trail when I marched over the short,
crisp buffalo grass of the staked-plains. He had known my personal
habits, the disposition of the camp for defense at night, the number
of men, animals, and wagons; in fact, all that I had known myself.
The chief then told me that he was stricken by death, and should soon
be in the presence of the Great Spirit, roaming the happy hunting
grounds of his tribe, and asked that he be allowed to die in peace.
Day after day I visited the dying warrior, who related from time to
time, as his strength permitted, the story of his life and the story
of his tribe. He recounted the wrongs they had suffered, and the
wrongs they had done. He told me of their customs and traditions,
their marriages, births, and deaths. For days he talked, sometimes in
the soft Spanish tongue, often in the beautiful sign language of the
plain Indian.
In my youth I lived near, and of course read the romantic creations
of that clever gentleman who resided upon the shores of the beautiful
Cooperstown Lake. I had also read the works of a novelist from the
South who had invested the Indian character with all the warmth and
color of his native skies, with all the romance that belonged to
his Southern forests, gay with flowers and poetic with festoons of
clinging moss.
In consequence of this I had come to look upon the Indian as all that
was noble, grand, and heroic in war, all that was gentle, tender,
and true in peace. I had read with breathless interest of his loves,
courtships, and marriages. I had admired his keenness of vision upon
the trail, his untiring energy, fleetness of foot, immunity from
fatigue, his long fasts, and the halo of romance that seemed to
ever encircle him. I considered him a “Chevalier Bayard,” a model of
physical beauty, who resembled, perhaps, the dying gladiator.
My boyhood’s dream was rudely broken, and like many another boyish
illusion it disappeared in a day. I found the Indian dirty, unwashed,
and treacherous, a prey to the lowest instincts and the most
revolting cruelty.
He was no “Chevalier Bayard,” and did not resemble the dying
gladiator. The romance, color, light and shades—all were gone, and I
learned that the Indian and our treatment of him were deformities and
blots upon our fair land and our modern civilization. Between the law
of force upon one side, and the law of civilization upon the other,
the Indian has been tossed like an unripe apple, and has not known
which to obey.
One night the old Indian chief died, and the next morning, with such
rude and simple rites as obtained among the Kiowas, we carried him to
his last resting-place upon the platform which had been erected for
the purpose.
The dawning light was flushing rosy red in the blushing East; in
the West the darkness of the night still lingered. The songs of a
thousand birds and the chirp of millions of insects broke in some
measure the eternal silence of those great plains. The buzzard, a
mere speck in the sky, with the eye of the eagle waited impatiently
for his prey. Herds of timid antelopes, with great startled eyes,
watched us from a distance, ready to dash away on fleetest foot at
a moment’s warning. Troops of buffaloes were slaking their thirst
in the rippling river. The great cat-fish, with strong leaps, rose
bodily from the water in pursuit of prey, and fell back with a splash.
All animal life was awake with the flush of the morning; and as the
sun’s disk appeared above the horizon’s dead level, we laid the chief
upon the platform, with his face turned toward the “God of the Dome.”
His body was wrapped in a red blanket stoutly bound about with cords.
He had been brave in battle, so all his war implements were laid by
his side. His great war bonnet of eagle’s feathers was hung upon one
of the upright poles. His horses were slain by the scaffold. Then, to
the accompaniment of low-voiced chants, his widows began their work
of scarification with knives upon the lower extremities. When that
was finished we left him to the hush of those vast plains.
That night in one of the lodges a great great granddaughter but a
few months old died. The child was placed in a frail burial canoe,
covered with trailing vines that had grown upon the river’s banks,
and gently cast adrift. No doubt the tiny bark was soon caught in
rippling eddies, or its course stopped by stout rushes, and in time
its lifeless occupant returned to the dust from which it had sprung.
After the obsequies of the dead chief I returned to camp, and in
order to divert my mind sought to fatigue my body by stalking
buffaloes all day. But I had gained a new insight into the Indian
character, and one which enabled me to respect it.
That evening, lying in a hammock under the awning of my tent, as the
first shades of darkness came creeping over the plains, there struck
upon my ears, borne upward from the gorge below, the chant of Indian
women for their dead. Its tones were the rhythm of sorrow and the
notes of woe. Until midnight the songs continued, now loud, then
sinking to the faint whisperings of the wind. Next morning the lodges
were in ashes, and nothing was left of our strange neighbors but the
dead chief upon his platform, and the footprints of their moccasins
as they traveled straight toward the North Star.
These events made so strange and strong an impression upon me, that
I propose telling you this evening, in as simple words as possible,
the story of the pilgrimage of Weeping Weasel, late chief of all the
Kiowas. I shall dwell longer upon his attempts to introduce the white
man’s civilization in his tribe, what he saw, and the inferences
drawn therefrom, than upon all the other incidents he related. The
conclusions at which Weeping Weasel, with the intellect of an Indian
and the sagacity of a politician, arrived, are not necessarily mine;
and if their recital should wound any one within the sound of my
voice, I would beg them to remember that they were told me by a dying
Indian chief, as he lay in his lodge upon the banks of the Red River
flowing peacefully through the great staked-plains of Texas.
Years and years before—even for hundreds of summers—the Kiowas had
been a powerful nation. When the tent of the chief was planted, there
clustered around it five thousand lodges. The tribe was rich in the
implements of war, owned thousands of horses, were mighty hunters,
bold and aggressive warriors. No footprint of man or animal, no
upturned stone, broken twig or bended grass escaped the keen vision
of their scouts.
From El Paso, where the Rio Grande del Norte commences its westward
course, and swings in the arc of a great circle until completed at
the mouth of the Pecos, where it again flows south, they owned the
lands of which this river formed the Western boundary; thence south
across the “Devil’s River” and the Nueces, to where it empties into
beautiful Matagorda Bay. On the east they had fought for supremacy
with the Comanches, and been victorious. They had made the Tonkawas
a nation of beggars and old women. From across the border they had
repelled invasions of the Kickapoos and Lipan-Apaches. They had
marched, an irresistible army, across the pine ridges and cedar
mountains of New Mexico, and fearlessly confronted the Warm Springs
and Mescalero tribes. The Utes of Colorado had descended from their
mountain fastnesses, battled with them in the open plain, and
been defeated. They had measured lances with and beaten the Tonto
and Jicarrila—Apaches of Arizona. They had destroyed the great
wheat-fields on the Gila River of the Pima and Maricopa tribes. The
Yumas had heard their battle-cry. They had pushed their conquests
amongst the Pi-Utes and Shoshones of Nevada, and from thence had
marched against the Bannocks of Idaho, and the Nez Perces of Oregon.
Their spoils of war had been great.
But in course of time the hands of all other tribes were raised
against them, and through disaster and defeat they had been reduced
to the occupancy of only the great plains of Western Texas.
At that time Weeping Weasel became their chief. He was then in the
prime of manhood. The nerveless arm that I saw in his lodge could
then draw the six-foot arrow to its head, and make the cord of deer
sinews writhe and moan as in pain.
He saw that peace and industry would perhaps be of great benefit to
his tribe, and after much communion with himself and consultation
with the elders, concluded at no distant day to turn his face toward
the rising sun, and learn the strange and barbarous ways of the
Pale-faces. He had been told they were as numberless as the leaves of
the forest when the hot sirocco that comes from the southern islands
shakes them with its fiery breath.
Marching over these great and silent plains under the blazing sun, he
had learned in some instinctive way that the Pale-faces would build
cities there, and people them with busy men and women.
Weeping Weasel had seen the _Pongo_ or smoke-man in the North that
traversed its iron rails faster than his fleetest pony could gallop.
He had seen a small wire stretched on poles through which he could
but dimly comprehend that the men who lived at the rising sun talked
with their brothers who lived at the setting sun.
But before starting on a journey so fraught with peril, he thought
best to call to his aid teachers—those of good repute among the
Pale-faces. Through a missionary he secured the services of two
devotees from Massachusetts, who came and opened a school for the
boys and girls of his tribe.
It is true that in visage and mien these teachers did not resemble
the dusky beauties of the Kiowa race. The ringlets worn at the
side of the face, the eyes that looked through strange pieces of
glass, the mysterious scrolls which they held in their hands, and
the sounding fall of a heavy foot instead of the dewy touch of the
moccasin, were not calculated to inspire love and respect from
untutored savages.
Still, with the devotion of their calling, and in their desire
to do good, these mistaken and misguided women taught on. But one
fatal day they were surprised by Weeping Weasel while teaching the
children that the world is round. The Kiowas believed it to be flat.
Weeping Weasel, with the decision worthy a general of iron nerve and
unflinching courage in the right, seized and burned them at the stake.
He scattered their ashes to the four winds of heaven, and in a long
address to the Historical Society of Boston, asked that others with
less pernicious doctrines be sent. It is perhaps needless to state
that even the old Bay State, with its advanced ideas and unyielding
principles, could find no more volunteer missionaries for that work.
Therefore Weeping Weasel must needs start upon his pilgrimage toward
the rising sun.
The night previous to his departure all the tribes assembled, and
with the great Southern Cross gleaming and burning, they performed
the sacred rites and mysteries of the sun dance. A hundred fires
flamed brightly. Amid the yells of warriors and the shrieks of those
fainting from self-inflicted tortures, there arose the monotonous
chants of the women as they prayed for the safety of their chief.
At break of day he left them, and a great silence fell upon the tribe
as they mournfully sought their separate lodges.
Day by day Weeping Weasel traveled north and east, sleeping at night
under the stars, his food procured by bow and arrow, his drink taken
from limpid streams.
At last he came to the country of the “Smoke-man,” and taking passage
was borne swiftly over mountains and through the valleys to some
bluffs upon the boundary of a great State, where other Indians had
held their councils years before, and where he determined to commence
his researches and investigations.
His pilgrimage becoming known, the chief was hospitably lodged in the
house of a Christian gentleman of that town who was a land agent.
Among the Kiowas the title to all lands and the occupancy thereof
were considered sacred. Even in their forays against other tribes
they contended for supremacy, not for a title to the country. Indeed,
so strong was this honesty implanted in the breast of the savage and
barbarous Indian, that once, after a great battle with the Comanches,
rather than do violence to this principle he had ceded to them a
thousand square miles of his own country, deeming that better than
to question such undoubted right.
The land agent showed him, in his office, maps of lands which bore
strong resemblance to those occupied by his tribe. Upon leaving, this
same Christian gentleman followed him across the State to a city with
a great bridge and offered to sell, beseeching him to buy, for a
merely nominal sum, thousands and thousands of acres upon which his
tribe had dwelt from time immemorial. Weeping Weasel determined not
to incorporate the land usages of the Pale-faces amongst his people.
In the towns and camps of the Kiowas, great attention had been paid
to the sanitary conditions of their immediate surroundings. This was
necessary for the life and health of individual members of the tribe.
In that city by the bridge he found the people in a certain locality
stricken unto death by a strange pestilence. Upon investigating the
cause, he learned they all had drank water from a certain well.
Weeping Weasel concluded that, if he were the chief in this locality,
there would be sewers and water-mains; or failing these, the
inhabitants who refused or were too indolent to carry water from the
river would receive a punishment, compared with which the cholera
would be a lingering and painless death. But Weeping Weasel was an
untaught, rude, and barbarous savage.
The “Father of Waters” next attracted the attention of this curious
pilgrim. Compared with all other rivers he had ever seen, it was as
the sun to the faintest twinkling star. He worshiped it as a god. Day
by day he sat upon the banks, watched it through all changing moods,
loved it best when angry currents brought down yellow mud from the
far North, and worshiped it most when the setting sun’s ocher light
fell upon its surging waters, enveloping beautiful islands.
There floated upon its broad expanse numberless strange monsters,
propelled in some mysterious way. Weeping Weasel found they carried
grain, fruit, and other produce from one part of the country to
another, and then first began to understand the law of trade—of
barter and sale. He took passage upon one of these palaces,
descending a hundred miles; saw the busy towns upon the banks of his
idol, filled, as he thought, with crazy men and women. Why all this
rush, ceaseless activity and strife for wealth, he questioned.
Returning at night, and standing upon the deck with head uncovered
in the reverent attitude a savage always assumes when awe-stricken
in the presence of nature, he suddenly became conscious of a strange
throbbing through every fiber of the monster. He also saw abreast
another monster all aglow with fire; men were shouting and running
like mad! Every few minutes its huge furnace doors were opened, and
the blazing fires fed with pitch and resin. The vessel shook in every
joint; men and women were crowding the deck all hoarse from shouting;
money was freely changing hands; from the smoke-stacks long lines
of fire trailed out through the darkness; the gurgling water at the
bow was thrown in spray upon the deck. Suddenly there was a terrible
roar, a great flash of fire, then darkness came, and Weeping Weasel
knew no more until he found himself safe upon the river’s bank.
He was told that a hundred men, women, and children had been
sacrificed that night. Burning with anger and righteous indignation,
Weeping Weasel attended the coroner’s inquest; the evidence was
conflicting; no one in particular seemed to have been to blame; it
was an accident. Weeping Weasel went forward to offer his testimony;
a savage could not take the oath. The coroner’s jury promptly
acquitted all of blame, even the poor Indian, and the event was soon
forgotten. Weeping Weasel determined that the civilization of the
steamboat should never be introduced among his people.
Again he turned his face to the east, and traveled across a great
State where the fields were waving with ripening grain. Neat
farmhouses had been erected on every side. The corn and wheat that he
saw growing seemed to him of no use. Who would require it?
On these undulating plains with cattle, sheep, and horses, where
peace and plenty seemed to reign and the merry voices of children
were heard at sunset, our untutored savage began to think perhaps was
the civilization of which he had dreamed. Still he had the Indian’s
caution, and arrived at conclusions slowly.
He determined to abide three days in the most peaceful and quiet
village, and chose one with two churches, a bank, and store.
Upon awakening the first morning, he found that the store had been
robbed and burned during the night. The following day the two
churches were in fierce dispute over some minor point of doctrine.
The third morning it was learned that the bank cashier had absconded
with all the funds, leaving hundreds of families destitute.
The Kiowas did not steal from each other; the simple faith in the
Great Spirit which they had in common furnished no cause for dispute;
and the custodian of the tribe’s public goods never ran away with
them. They never had thought of such an occurrence; and the event was
so improbable that those barbarous savages had not even prescribed a
mode of punishment for it.
Weary, harassed, tormented, and worn out even at the commencement
of his pilgrimage, Weeping Weasel would gladly have turned his face
toward the setting sun; but patience being one of the great virtues
of the Kiowas, he again girded up his loins and proceeded on his
journey.
But a great fear was coming upon his superstitious soul. One
afternoon, years before, while hunting, Weeping Weasel had fallen
asleep by the side of a spring that bubbled from beneath an immense
boulder, which was sufficiently large to protect him from the sun’s
rays. As he slept, there appeared before him the god Stone-Shirt,
followed by Pantasco, or he who robs the living; Kay-Wit, he who robs
the dead; and Quite-Qiu, who robs both living and dead. All passed
before the sleeping warrior, to whom Stone-Shirt foretold in the sign
language this pilgrimage and the events which would follow.
Weeping Weasel could only dimly comprehend on awaking, that in case
of failure he was to be turned into one of the three horrid shapes
shown him by Stone-Shirt; and, forever shut out from the Great Spirit
and the happy hunting grounds, his soul, without arms to defend
itself, must wander and fall through unfathomable space and darkness.
When he saw the terrible anxiety, woe, and despair written upon the
faces of fathers, mothers, and children whom the vandal acts of the
faithless cashier had ruined, Weeping Weasel concluded to ever pray
that he be not turned into the horrid shape which steals from the
living.
In the robbery of the store the proprietor had been killed; and as
this ignorant savage gazed upon the form of the man who had died
while defending his property, Weeping Weasel, in the agony of his
soul, prayed to Stone-Shirt that he be spared, both in this his
mortal, and in his future spiritual, existence, assuming the form of
him who robs the dead.
In the dispute between the churches, so much rancor and venom had
been developed that men who were peacefully lying, as they had
lain for years, in the little cemetery of the town, were publicly
discussed, and motives and opinions the worst imputed to them.
Happily they were ignorant of all this.
The living were slandered and the dead vilified. Brother became
the enemy of brother, sisters were estranged, husbands and wives
separated. Again Weeping Weasel besought Stone-Shirt, and with the
sweat of mortal agony upon his brow, that, if he must, he would face
either of the two horrible shapes to be spared the form of the one
who robs both the living and the dead.
Weeping Weasel soon found himself in a great city by a lake. Here
he was lodged in the house of a gray-haired and respectable man, a
pillar of the church, and one who gave largely, in an indiscriminate
way, to churches and the poor. He had no time to investigate
charities, and only contributed to them because he had money, or
perhaps to ease the gnawings of a conscience not altogether dormant.
Weeping Weasel was taken to church, where an eloquent preacher
held his audience spell-bound as he impressed upon it the evils of
gambling. To all his strictures the gray-haired man responded with
fervent “Ahmens!”
The next morning his host escorted Weeping Weasel to a great mart of
trade in that populous city. There the savage Indian remembered the
immense wheat and corn fields he had passed as he journeyed east. He
saw the reverend gentleman who had spoken so eloquently on the sin
of gambling stealthily enter a broker’s office and sell thousands
and thousands of bushels of grain which he did not own, and never
would. His gray-haired entertainer, who had so graciously responded
“Ahmen!” stood in the center of hundreds of other men, all of whom
were shouting and howling as he drove grain up and down by a nod of
his head; men were ruined and families made destitute by this man,
who called gambling a sin.
Weeping Weasel learned, but it was difficult to grasp the idea, that
crops were bought and sold before they were sown; that they became
a football upon “Change,” even while growing; and when finally sent
to market they ruined thousands. He found that all this disastrously
affected the poor brethren of the Pale-faces, and that children were
hungry in consequence. The chief decided he would grow only enough
corn to satisfy the wants of his people, and would forever remain
silent in regard to the gambling transactions.
Once in the history of the Kiowa tribe an old and respected warrior
had been selected to build a lodge in which public meetings were
to be held. He was to be paid from the goods owned in common. To
the dismay and horror of all, it was found that this rude architect
had not been honest; he had demanded more buffalo hides than were
needed for the building, and the best he had conveyed to his own
lodge, and afterward sold to wandering traders. When the man’s crime
became known he was seized, and the elders sat around him with
stern visages. His trial was short; he was bound on the top of the
dishonestly built lodge, and met his death in its flames.
Weeping Weasel was shown a great hall of justice in that city where
the granite was the finest and the workmanship the most skillful.
He was told that the builder had taken the best granite and sold
it to the traders among the Pale-faces. Thinking this had just
been discovered, our barbarous Indian went early the next morning
to witness the destruction of the building and cremation of the
dishonest builder. He waited until noon, and as the building
still stood and no torch had been applied, Weeping Weasel turned
sorrowfully away just in time to see the false builder drinking
champagne at a fashionable restaurant with his friends. This phase
of civilization would not do for the fierce and warlike Kiowas.
The right of husbands to exact obedience, and the duty of wives to
obey, was one of the laws of the Kiowas, as unalterable as if written
upon tablets of stone. So strongly was this doctrine implanted in the
breast of the savage that once, in a foray against a Northern tribe,
a favorite squaw of Weeping Weasel’s had, in direct disobedience to
his command, followed a distance of two days’ march and entered his
lodge at nightfall. She was beautiful then; but when I saw her on the
banks of the Red River she was disfigured. A broken collar bone and
a flattened nose were the results of her disobedience. She returned
quickly; her only cause of anxiety being that she could not travel
nights for fear of passing her own village.
But among the Pale-faces Weeping Weasel learned that the custom
was different. He found the wife frittered away her time while the
husband was at the counting-room or office. If he commanded her to
abstain from the round dances, she danced them; if he ordered her
east, she went west; if he asked her to attend church, she preferred
the opera; if he expressed a desire for the sea-shore, she chose the
mountains of New Hampshire. Weeping Weasel, with the cunning of the
savage, decided that this should never be told the squaws of his
nation.
As no man, intent upon a great mission, can hope to escape annoyances
and observation from the idle, vulgar, and indolent, this warrior
from the South found that his wearing apparel, the dress of his
fathers, and the habit of his tribe, was a matter of curious comment
even among those busy people. His clothes were good enough for him,
and there were no fashion plates and paper patterns in use among the
Kiowas. Still, at a council held at one time for the general good of
the tribe, a daring innovator had, as a protection against snakes
while marching, suggested that the boots of the Pale-face be adopted.
A pair had been found amongst their war plunder at one time, and had
been examined curiously by all the tribe.
In an institution for the sick, Weeping Weasel saw in a padded cell
a maniac, confined and chained to the floor. He held a wisp of straw
in his mouth, his clothes were torn to tatters, his hands cut and
bleeding, foam issued from his mouth and mingled with blasphemy
from his lips. His cries for salvation from invisible enemies were
piteous. The matted hair and bloodshot eye told the Indian a tale as
graphic as the pictured rocks of his own tribe. He found that the man
was young, rich, and respected. He asked the nature of the disease,
and was carelessly told that it was “snakes in his boots.” Sadly
Weeping Weasel asked that the wire be at once ordered to carry a
message to his tribe for the immediate destruction of the boots found
among their plunder. He also wondered why the Pale-faces did not at
once destroy the serpent whose terrible folds were coiling around the
youth of their country.
All this time Weeping Weasel’s perceptions were being quickened and
his reasoning powers enlarged. The Kiowas had always considered
the marriage tie sacred. It was true a man might have many wives,
enough to do all the work of his lodge, while he used his energies
only for war or in the pursuit of game. But once taken, the man and
woman were bound for life. No power on earth could dissolve the tie.
Infidelity in either was punished by death. But in that great city
he found courts open as the day, in which shameless men and brazen
women sought the strong arm of the law to break and tear asunder the
most sacred and binding of oaths. Weeping Weasel learned that only
a publication in an obscure newspaper was necessary to satisfy the
goddess whom Weeping Weasel had seen represented as blind-folded,
with scales in her hand. Incompatibility of temperament was often the
cause alleged. This the Indian could not understand. Among the Kiowa
husbands and wives such a thing was unknown. The husband commanded,
the wife obeyed. Weeping Weasel found after a time that this term
was used to indicate that wives had become tired of their husbands,
or husbands had grown weary of their wives. It often meant dishonest
and unholy loves, and could be construed as indicative of a thousand
things when the cord that first bound two people together had become
a gnawing, corroding chain of iron.
The ignorant savage had not as yet found any advantage to be gained
from the civilization of the Pale-faces. Weary and sick at heart,
the pilgrim pushed on until he reached the chief city of the great
nation. He had begun to comprehend the numbers of the Pale-faces
and their strength. His brain was confused. He was so torn by
conflicting emotions that he feared his judgment would become warped
and valueless. Arriving in the great city, he learned that a man with
unlimited power had betrayed his trust and plundered the city’s
treasury of millions. Yet the blind goddess had thrown around him
all possible shields to cover his glaring rascality. He had banded
with him an army of thieves. Again a great hall of justice had been
the means used to rob and plunder the people at will. Before public
exposure the thing had been a byword and a jest at the clubs.
The man who had done all this had risen to power from the ranks of
the common people. Weeping Weasel wondered if he had risen to power
by his rascality. But conscious that he was ignorant and a savage, he
rejected the thought as unmanly.
When a warrior among the Kiowas betrayed a public trust he was
terribly punished. But one such case had ever been handed down in the
traditions of their tribe. In that instance the culprit had been led
in a circle surrounded by all his tribe—every man, woman, and child
was present—the silence was fearful; then the body of the victim was
covered with the broad leaves of the prickly pear, and they were one
by one set on fire. The punishment seemed to have been effectual.
Next morning our Indian appeared at the city hall to witness the
torture; again he waited until noon, and as no steps had been taken
against the wrong-doer, he concluded, to say the least, that the
white man was slow in punishing criminals.
The Kiowas had always paid great attention to the rearing of their
children, and especially exercised great care and foresight over
the girls, who were to become future mothers of the warriors of the
tribe. No Indian girl of six or twelve years could be absent from her
lodge after the fall of evening dew. She knew no lovers until she had
arrived at the age and estate of womanhood. Among the Pale-faces this
custom did not obtain. Weeping Weasel saw misses of tender age, in
pinafores, give large parties to other children; boys were invited.
He saw childish eyes sparkle with bandied jest and compliments
fit only for mature years. He saw children, excited by the dance,
intoxicated with music, satiated with rich food, spend the best hours
of the night in gay and reckless dissipation.
At certain seasons of the year the Chickasaw plum furnished much of
the food used by his tribe. If the pure white dust was brushed from
its surface when half-ripe, it never fruited in perfection. Weeping
Weasel found that the Pale-faces often brushed the dust of the plum
from the cheek of childhood.
The Kiowa woman was to him the model of physical beauty; her large
waist, broad, strong shoulders, the strength of limb, elastic,
springing step, and downcast eyes were such as he deemed fitting for
women who were to rear the future braves of their race.
Among the Pale-faces he found that maternity was a burden to be
avoided; that the waist was contracted by springs of steel; the body
thrown forward at an angle upon the hips by strong pieces of wood
placed under the heels; the face was covered by a vile compound
which looked like flour, or was painted as the savage paints when
he marches to battle or prepares for the sun dance. Curious to
ascertain the exact value of all this nonsense he made calculation,
and learned that the muslin and silk, velvet and ribbons, paint and
powder, flowers and bits of steel, amounted to about four hundred
and fifty-three dollars. That is to say, in the Kiowa computation,
forty-five and a half horses.
Weeping Weasel determined to be silent upon this manifest absurdity
of the Pale-face women.
The Kiowa women wore the hair straight down their backs and combed
away from their eyes. The daughters of the Pale-faces cut theirs
short in front and allowed it, except when curled by hot irons,
which the damp strangely affected, to fall into their eyes. The
meaning and mystery of this Weeping Weasel never attempted to fathom.
Besides the Great Spirit whom the Kiowas worshiped in common, each
Indian had a personal god to whom alone he was responsible. This god
was the conscience of the savage, and above it was only the commands
of the Great Spirit. His religion was always with him; it was his
shield and strength in the day of battle, his comfort in time of
peace: he heard it in the whispering of the wind and the sighing
of the trees; he recognized it in the rustle of the growing grass
and the ripening grain; he felt it in the songs of birds and the
whirr of insects’ wings. It warned him in the broken watch-spring
buzz of the deadly rattlesnake; in the forms of the clouds he saw
it; in the flush of morning and the darkness of evening he knew it.
It was his only ideal of the estate of future happiness where game
would be plenty and peace eternal. The bark on which these mysteries
were written was to him sacred. The savage accepted as truth its
teachings, which long generations of Kiowas had confirmed.
He went while in that city to hear a speaker—silver-tongued and
magnetic, who had all the graces which belong to the polished orator;
his voice was like the sound of bells to the Indian, whose nature is
ever open to the charm of this God-like gift. But he heard the man
revile, distort, and falsify the religion of the white man. He heard
him read from the sacred book, with laughing mien and careless jest,
most solemn promises. The mysteries of the creation and the origin of
the Pale-faces became in the mouth of this man as intangible as the
will-o’-the-wisp he had seen floating over his Southern swamps.
Listening to him, and applauding to the echo, were sons and daughters
of the Pale-faces. Fair women and intelligent men accepted as
eternal truth the words of the speaker. Weeping Weasel was ashamed,
astonished, dismayed! In this desecration of religion the wild Indian
of the Southern plains thought he could dimly comprehend the future
downfall of a great nation.
The pilgrim lost hope. Still he determined to pursue the subject to
its bitter end, and went one bright morning to the City of Churches.
Business had ceased, and the streets were quiet. In a darkened
temple, rich with stained glass, the air heavy with burning incense,
and stirred only by the notes of a great organ as it kept time
to the voices of boys who sang in angelic tones the litany of the
church, he heard an eloquent preacher tell of the wickedness and sin
of two great cities; and how, because not ten righteous men could
be found therein, they were destroyed from the face of the earth.
He also listened to the story of the wife who looked back, and was
turned into a pillar of salt. The next morning Weeping Weasel bought
a canopy of asbestos roofing, and thereafter never appeared in the
streets of either of the cities without carrying it above his head.
Again he was shown the great marts of trade, larger than the grain
exchange of another city. Here men bought and sold scraps of paper
and the country’s gold. It was the same old scenes. Stocks went up
and down by a nod of the head, and again men were made poor in a
moment. The ruined ones were driven from the exchange, and forever
after, with wild eyes and fevered pulse, they haunted its doors and
talked, with the strange infatuation of the Indian hemp-eater, of the
rise and fall of the stocks that had ruined them.
One terrible day Weeping Weasel saw a coin that the Pale-face used
in exchange for goods become enhanced in value three times. Wild,
haggard men clung to railings for support, so faint they could not
stand. Two unprincipled members of the exchange were the agents of
this scheme. When night came, the credit of the country had been
nearly ruined. The two conspirators slunk to a hotel that was soon
surrounded by a howling mob. Trade and industry were impaired,
commerce nearly swept from the sea and land, and credit almost lost
by the act of those two men. Weeping Weasel again determined that
gambling should forever be prohibited among his people, even the
throw of the six cherry stones for a quart of Chickasaw plums.
Among the Kiowas the public singer of the tribe’s heroic deeds was
a warrior, always well paid for his services. He had the warmest
seat in the lodge, and at the feast of dog-meat the tenderest piece;
but the newspaper man of the Pale-faces was lean, ill-fed, and most
lightly paid. Weeping Weasel found that medicines for the cure of all
diseases were sold in bottles, and that the proprietors waxed rich.
The savage concluded that all the Pale-faces could drink, but that
few could read.
In settling disputes among the Kiowas, all matters in question were
referred to a council composed of fifteen elders of the tribe. Each
principal laid his case before the tribunal with all the clearness
possible, in order that a just decision might be reached. Among the
Pale-faces the Indian found a class of men skilled in the preparation
of causes in dispute. From long practice, close study, and great
care, these men, who talked only of others’ rights and not of their
own, had become so skillful that white was made black, and black
white, as each argued his own point. Doubt was thrown upon the most
open and public transactions. Witnesses swore to the most improbable
events, and to occurrences they had never seen. In their harangues
before the elders each quoted the same statutes in the same words,
as applicable to his side of the cause. There were fierce disputes
and incessant wrangling. Weeping Weasel determined that this kind of
practice should never obtain a footing in his tribe.
The Kiowas had always considered sacred the life of each member of
the tribe. In their rude and barbarous code there was no deviation
from the rule of “blood for blood;” it was as unchangeable as the
“Laws of the Medes and Persians.” In a court of justice Weeping
Weasel saw a man arraigned who had wantonly slain a brother by
sending a bullet through his heart. The crime had been seen by many;
there was no conflicting evidence; it was premeditated; but again the
counselors covered the case with doubt. The murderer had a bright,
intelligent face and an undimmed intellect. Weeping Weasel heard
him acquitted on the ground of temporary emotional insanity. The
proceedings of that court were unfit for the uncivilized Kiowa.
Among the Kiowas, the position of medicine-man was one of great honor
and trust, but extremely hazardous to the incumbent. When a warrior
sickened the medicine-man was at once summoned. With rude rites, much
beating of drums and strange incantations, he sought to drive away
the disease. Sometimes he was unsuccessful and the patient died. When
the corpse of his mismanagement was ready for burial the medicine-man
was summoned, and he always came. He was divested of all his titles
to respect, all the trophies he had gained by successful practice of
physic, and manfully met his death on the scaffold with his victim.
Such was not the custom among the Pale-faces. Everywhere Weeping
Weasel saw gilt-lettered signs of the medicine-man of the whites;
yet the Pale-faces died, and the same medicine-man ministered to
another. The savage also noticed that in this strange country the
physician never attended the burial of his victim. Weeping Weasel
concluded that the death of the doctor had once been a custom among
the Pale-faces, but having fallen into disuse the fraternity attended
no funerals for fear it might be revived.
Among the medicine-men of the Pale-faces, Weeping Weasel found a
class who with pictures and posters attracted the eye to fabulous
certificates of wonderful cures. They resided in great houses wherein
were all comforts, and where, with endless noise and show, they
professed to cure all diseases by water, by physic, by pills, by
powders, by plasters, by new and strange remedies, even by the laying
on of hands. He found that while regular practitioners were allowed
to live, these people fared better even than they. They waxed fat
and grew rich upon the credulity of an ignorant public. They lived
and moved in the open glare of the noonday sun. After all he had
seen, Weeping Weasel ceased to wonder at the strange epidemics that
sometimes prevailed among the Pale-faces.
He saw long trains, drawn by the mysterious Pongo man, and managed by
underpaid and careless workmen, collide with other trains, and as a
result men and women were killed and children maimed; yet no one was
punished.
Our pilgrim now turned his face toward the capital of the great
nation. One of the three horrible shapes shown him by Stone-Shirt
must inevitably become his. But he did not look back. Civilization
had caused him to think of the exhortations of the Pale-faced
preacher. He “remembered Lot’s wife.”
The Massachusetts school teachers had displayed in rude letters
on the walls of the lodge in which they taught this text from the
scriptures: “The wicked flee when no man pursueth.” In the city in
which Weeping Weasel had just arrived he found that an officer of
the Pale-face warriors was a defaulter to the sum of many thousands
of the coins of his people. He was shamefully untrue! His position
and name had been used to further defraud. There were no extenuating
circumstances—there could be none. But the officer escaped, and no
one followed and brought him back. Weeping Weasel was glad that he
had burned the teachers at the stake, for he concluded they had
willfully misrepresented the text hung upon the walls of the lodge,
and that it should have read, “No man pursueth when the wicked flee.”
In the Kiowa tribe all the councils were held and the proceedings
argued in a grave and dignified manner. The pipe, signifying good
will and friendship, was first passed around. Each warrior touched it
with his lips. That day on the banks of the Red River, when Weeping
Weasel attempted to tell me of the councils of the elders of the
white man, his breath was short, and much of what he said was lost.
In that city he was told offices were bargained for; the daughters
of the Pale-faces solicited them for their husbands and friends. He
saw a cabinet minister fall from his high place through the sale of
paltry positions.
Worn, harassed and broken in spirit, his pilgrimage useless, as no
good could, in his opinion, come to the savage from the white man’s
civilization, Weeping Weasel turned his face towards the setting sun.
He traveled as before, sleeping at night under the stars, and again
his drink came from limpid streams; but his food was procured by a
revolver and magazine gun of the Pale-faces. Civilization had taught
him the deadly effect of these weapons which he afterward used upon
his enemies and the Pale-faces themselves.
He returned to his tribe. His coming was seen from afar. Without a
word he entered his lodge: he had no greeting for his faithful wives
who clustered around him.
Three days passed, and then Weeping Weasel told to his people the
story of his pilgrimage, told what he had seen and heard, and the
conclusions he had drawn therefrom. With barbarous splendor he was
tried for the crime of falsehood, which is capital among Indians, all
the men, women and children of the tribe serving as judges.
In a great amphitheater of rock, at the junction of the Pecos with
the Rio Bravo del Norte, where the swift rush and meeting of the two
rivers forms a whirlpool from which nothing can escape, the public
trials of the tribe were held, the people sitting for days in solemn
judgment. If sentence of death was decreed the body was thrown into
this fearful eddy, and watched by all the tribe as it whirled,
leaped, and sprang in the boiling water until its final disappearance.
For generations and generations the gray and frowning rocks had
witnessed the trials of offenders among the Kiowas. On one side rose
sloping to the bluff a half-circle of trees. So thickly grew the
branches of those pines and cedars that but scant sunlight could
filter through them. Custom had decreed that if, at the moment of
passing sentence, a ray of light should penetrate those thickly
mingled branches and fall upon the face of the criminal, one-half of
the sentence should be remitted.
The trial was as great as the occasion. Eagle Face, the oldest
medicine-man of the tribe, was master of ceremonies. Flowing Hair,
the favorite wife of Weeping Weasel, who had at one time, during five
days of starvation, fed her first-born boy with blood drawn from her
breast, was there, but silent, in her great fear, as became an Indian
woman. Circumstances were against the pilgrim. Those wild savages
could by no argument be brought to believe that there were such
uncivilized people upon the face of the earth. If it were true, how
could they live together? It was decided that sentence of death must
be passed.
The chief, proud and defiant, took his stand against the half-circle
of trees. Below, the pool was lashing itself into anger from a rising
river. Flowing Hair had thrown herself at his feet as if to interpose
her womanly strength against the dread sentence of an undeviating
Indian code. At that moment a broad, imprisoned ray of light that
had been entangled among the pines escaped and fell, in all its
trembling warmth and pitying tenderness, upon the face of the wild
Indian who had told the truth. In its soft caress it embraced the
form of his fainting squaw.
Weeping Weasel escaped capital punishment, but was deposed from civil
authority over the Kiowas, and was only obeyed as their supreme
war-chief. His sentence further banished him, when stricken by death,
from his tribe and from burial with his brethren. This was why I
found him while dying, surrounded only by his family, on the banks of
the Red River.
On the night of his death, to comfort a poor, dying soul, whose
future seemed bright enough—although his religion was not mine—I told
him, in the sign language, which his glazed and closing eyes could
but dimly see, that, in my opinion, his tribe was nearer civilization
than he dreamed, since to advanced ideas his sentence seemed just,
and that he had only suffered the fate of all reformers.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added,
when a predominant preference was found in the original book.
Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
Pg 21, 23: Three occurrences of ‘General Cullom’ replaced by
‘General Cullum’.
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