RELIGIOUS SERVICES.--LEAVE OF ABSENCE.
We had clergymen and missionaries of different denominations as our
guests during the summer months. Among them was a man from the East,
who was full of zeal and indifferent to the opinion of others as
long as he felt that he was right. He began to brave public opinion
on his way to Fort Lincoln. The cars had stopped for some time at a
station where there was a town; the missionary, wishing to improve
every opportunity for doing good, went out on the platform and began
a sermon. Before long he had a crowd of people around him, listening
with curiosity. There were laughter and sneers when the quavering voice
of the old man started a hymn that was familiar throughout the length
and breadth of the land. No one joined. Our brother Tom and a friend,
sitting in the car, but knowing nothing of the mission of the man,
realized his unsupported position, and quickly went to him. Standing
on either side of him, they joined their fresh young voices in the
hymn. Before long one after the other of the crowd joined in the music,
inspired by the independence of the example. The missionary returned
then with the officers, and came to our house, where my husband asked
him to remain indefinitely. We found him almost a monomaniac on the
subject of converting the Indians, and had not the general prevented
him from risking his life, he would have gone out alone among the
warlike tribes.
While he was waiting for an opportunity to go farther west, he begged
to begin meetings among the soldiers, and said that in order to do
more good and get at the hearts of those he would help, he must live
among them. For this purpose he left us, and went down to share the
rations of the enlisted men. The general had a room in a vacant barrack
put in order, and there the old man began his work. Every night the
garrison echoed with the voices of hundreds of soldiers singing hymns.
The simple, unaffected goodness of the missionary caused them to
believe in him, and he found his way to many a heart that beat under
the army blue. My husband felt thankful to have some work go on among
the enlisted men. We often talked of their condition, and he felt that
some of the energies of good people in behalf of foreign missions
might well be expended upon our army on the frontier. Among his plans
was the building of an assembly-room at the post, especially for the
soldiers: a place where they could have their own entertainments, and
where the papers, magazines, and general library might be kept. He
regretted constantly that there was no regular place where there could
be services for the men when the itinerant clergyman came. The service
was usually held in our parlor, but it was only large enough for the
officers and their families. In the following letter he touches upon
the subject of bettering the condition of the enlisted men, and bears
tribute to the good man who forgot himself in his love for mankind.
“FORT LINCOLN, DAKOTA, _September 17, 1875_.
“_Dr. Newman_:
“DEAR SIR,--I take the liberty of addressing you a few lines in
regard to the Christian work in which Mr. Matchett has been engaged
at this post. He came here under the auspices of the Indian Bureau,
intending to labor among the tribes of the Upper Missouri River,
but owing to some obstacles encountered at points above this
on the river, he returned here some weeks ago to await further
instructions from those under whom he is acting.
“In the mean time he has devoted himself to missionary work among
the soldiers--a class, by-the-way, whose moral welfare, at least
on the frontier, is as sadly neglected as that of any of our
aboriginal tribes. Mr. Matchett enters into his work with great
earnestness and zeal. He has impressed all with whom he has been
associated with his unselfishness, his honesty of purpose, and his
great desire to do good.
“It is but due to him and the holy cause he represents, and a
pleasure to me, to testify to the success which has crowned his
labors, particularly among the soldiers of this command. If our
large posts on the remote frontier, which are situated far from
church and Church influences, had chaplains who were as faithful
Christians as I believe Mr. Matchett to be, and who, like him,
are willing to labor faithfully among the enlisted men, the moral
standard, now necessarily so low among that neglected class, would
be elevated far above its present level, and great results would
follow.
“Hoping you will receive these lines in the spirit which prompts me
to send them, I am truly yours,
“G. A. CUSTER, Brevet Major-General U. S. A.”
In the autumn we went into the States, and spent most of the winter
delightfully in New York. We went out a great deal. Of course we were
compelled to dress very plainly, and my husband made great sport of
his only citizen overcoat--an ulster. He declared that it belonged so
to the past that he was the only man beside the car-drivers that wore
one. It did not disturb him in the least; neither did going in the
horse-cars to receptions and dinners. He used laughingly to say, “Our
coachman wears our livery, Libbie,” when the car-driver had on an army
overcoat. No one so perfectly independent as he was could fail to enjoy
everything.
Colonel Tom and one of the oldest friends we had in the 7th were with
us part of the time, and we had many enjoyable hours together. The
theatre was our unfailing delight. They were all desirous that I should
see the military play of “Ours,” which was then so admirably put on the
stage at Wallack’s, but dreaded the effect it would have on me. At last
one of them said that it was too finely represented for me to miss, and
I heard them say to each other, “We must take ‘the old lady,’ though it
will break her heart and she will cry.” It ended in my going. When we
reached the part in the play where the farewell comes, and the sword is
buckled on the warrior by the trembling hands of the wife, I could not
endure it. Too often had the reality of such suffering been my own. The
three men were crying like children, and only too willing to take me
out into the fresh air.
My husband spent many hours with Mr. Barrett in his dressing-room at
the theatre, during the long wait of _Cassius_ in the play of “Julius
Cæsar.” There were forty nights that these friends sat side by side,
until the call-boy summoned the actor to the footlights. The general
listened every evening with unflagging interest to the acting of his
friend.
Every one seemed to vie with every one else in showing appreciation of
my husband during that winter. He dined often with men who learned to
draw him out in talk of his Plains life. While in the midst of some
story, the butler would pass him a dish that he especially liked. The
host at once directed the man to pass on, and told my husband that he
could not spare time for him to take a second helping while they were
impatient for the rest of the tale. After going hungry once or twice,
the general learned to dine with me before he left the hotel, so that
he might be free to give himself up to others.
He repeated a story to me about Ole Bull, who was asked to dinner and
requested to bring his violin. He accepted for himself, but sent word
that his violin did not dine. My husband made a personal application
of the story, and threatened, playfully, to send word that his Indian
stories did not dine, hoping thereby to secure to himself the privilege
of satisfying his hunger unmolested. At the Century Club he received
from distinguished men the most cordial congratulations on his essay
into the literary field. They urged him with many an encouraging word
to continue the work. Some of the authors he met there were double
his age, and he received each word they said with deep gratitude. My
husband knew how I valued every expression of appreciation of him, and
he used to awaken me, when he returned, to tell me what was said. He
never failed to preface every such hesitating and reluctant repetition
by exacting promises of secrecy. He feared that in my wifely pride I
might repeat what he told me, and it would look like conceit on his
part. I knew that he did not tell me the half, for when the tears of
delight dropped from my eyes at the acknowledgment and commendation
of others his voice ceased. I felt that nine years was a long time
out of a young life to live in the wilderness, away from the sound
of approving voices, and the association of men whose very presence
incites to new effort. In February we had to say good-bye to all this
pleasurable life. Our friends asked us why we went so soon. In army
life it is perfectly natural to speak of one’s financial condition,
and it did not occur to us that civilians do not do the same. I do not
wonder now that they opened their eyes with well-bred astonishment when
we said we were obliged to go because we had used all the money we had
saved for leave of absence.