THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.
SOON after my husband returned from Washington, he found that Ristori
was advertised in St. Louis, and as he had been delighted with her
acting when in the East, he insisted upon my going there, though it was
a journey of several hundred miles. The young officers urged, and the
pretty Diana looked volumes of entreaty at me, so at last I consented to
go, as we need be absent but a few days. At that time the dreaded
campaign looked far off, and I was trying to cheat myself into the
belief that there might possibly be none at all.
Ristori, heard under any circumstances, was an event in a life; but to
listen to her as we did, the only treat of the kind in our winter, and
feeling almost certain it was the last of such privileges for years to
come, was an occasion never to be forgotten.
I do not know whether Diana collected her senses enough to know, at any
one time, that she was listening to the most gifted woman in histrionic
art. A civilian lover had appeared on the scene, and between our young
officers, already far advanced in the dazed and enraptured state, and
the new addition to her retinue, she was never many moments without
"airy nothings" poured into her ear. The citizen and the officers
glowered on each other, and sought in vain to monopolize the inamorata.
Even when the thoughtless girl put a military cap on the head of a
civilian, and told him that an improvement in his appearance was
instantly visible, he still remained, and held his ground valiantly.
Finally the most desperate of them called me to one side, and implored
my championship. He complained bitterly that he never began to say what
trembled on his tongue but one of those interfering fellows appeared and
interrupted him, and now, as the time was passing, there remained but
one chance before he went home, where he would again be among a dozen
other men who were sure to get in his way. He said he had thought over
every plan, and if I would engage the interfering ones for a half hour,
he would take Diana to the hotel cupola, ostensibly to see the view, and
if, after they were up there, she saw anything but him, it would not be
his fault; for say his say he must. No one could resist such a piteous
appeal, so I engaged the supernumerary men in conversation as best I
could, talking against time and eyeing the door as anxiously as they
did. I knew, when the pair returned, that the pent-up avowal had found
utterance; but the coquetting lass had left him in such a state of
uncertainty that even "fleeing to the house-top" had not secured his
future. So it went on, suspense and agitation increasing in the
perturbed hearts, but the dallying of this coy and skillful strategist,
wise beyond her years in some ways, seemed to prove that she believed
what is often said, that a man is more blissful in uncertainty than in
possession.
Our table was rarely without guests at that time. A great many of the
strangers came with letters of introduction to us, and the General
superintended the arrangements for buffalo-hunts, if they were to be in
the vicinity of our post. Among the distinguished visitors was Prince
Ourosoff, nephew of the Emperor of Russia. He was but a lad, and only
knew that if he came west far enough, he was very likely to find what
the atlas put down as the "Great American Desert." None of us could tell
him much more of the Sahara of America than of his own steppes in
Russia. As the years have advanced, the maps have shifted that imaginary
desert from side to side. The pioneer does such wonders in cultivating
what was then supposed to be a barren waste, that we bid fair in time
not to have any Sahara at all. I hardly wonder now at the surprise this
royal scion expressed at finding himself among men and women who kept up
the amenities of refined life, even when living in that subterranean
home which our Government provided for its defenders--the dug-out. It
seems strange enough, that those of us who lived the rough life of
Kansas's early days, did not entirely adopt the careless, unconventional
existence of the pioneer, but military discipline is something not
easily set aside.
Almost our first excursionists were such a success that we wished they
might be duplicated in those who flocked out there in after years.
Several of the party were old travelers, willing to undergo hardships
and encounter dangers to see the country before it was overrun with
tourists. They were our guests, and the manner in which they beguiled
our time made their departure a real regret. They called themselves
"Gideon's Band." The youngest of the party, a McCook, from the fighting
Ohio family, was "Old Gid," while the oldest of all answered when they
called "Young Gid." As they were witty, clever, conversant by actual
experience with most things that we only read of in the papers, we found
them a godsend.
When such people thanked us for what simple hospitality we could offer,
it almost came as a surprise, for we felt ourselves their debtors. After
having written to this point in my narrative of our gay visit from
Gideon's Band, a letter in response to one that I had sent to Mr.
Charles G. Leland arrived from London. I asked him about his poem, and
after twenty years, in which we never saw him, he recalls with
enthusiasm his short stay with us. I have only eliminated some
descriptions that he gives in the extract of the private letter sent
then from Fort Riley--descriptions of the wife of the commanding officer
and the pretty Diana. Women being in the minority, it was natural that
we were never undervalued. Grateful as I am that he should so highly
appreciate officers' wives, and much as I prize what he says regarding
"the influences that made a man, and kept him what he was," I must
reserve for Mr. Leland's correspondent of twenty years back, and for
myself, his opinion of frontier women.
"LANGHAM HOTEL, PORTLAND PLACE,
"LONDON, W., June 14, 1887.
"DEAR MRS. CUSTER:--It is a thousand times more likely
that you should forget me than that I should ever
forget you, though it were at an interval of twice
twenty years; the more so since I have read your
admirable book, which has revived in me the memory of
one of the strangest incidents and some of the most
agreeable impressions of a somewhat varied and
eventful life. I was with a party of gentlemen who had
gone out to what was then the most advanced surveyor's
camp for the Pacific Railway, in western Kansas. On
returning, we found ourselves one evening about a mile
from Fort Riley, where we were to be the guests of
yourself and your husband. We had been all day in a
so-called ambulance or wagon. The one that I shared
with my friend, J. R. G. Hassard, of the New York
_Tribune_, was driven by a very intelligent and
amusing frontiersman, deeply experienced in Indian and
Mexican life, named Brigham. Brigham thought, by
mistake, that we had all gone to Fort Riley by some
other conveyance, and he was thirty or forty yards in
advance, driving on rapidly. We, encumbered with
blankets, packs and arms, had no mind to walk when we
could 'wagon.' One man whistled, and all roared aloud.
Then one discharged his rifle. But the wind was
blowing away from Brigham towards us, and he heard
nothing. The devil put an idea in my head, for which I
have had many a regret since then. _Infandum regina
jubes renovare dolorem._ ('Thou, my queen, dost
command me to revive a wretched sorrow.') For it
occurred that I could send a rifle-ball so near to
Brigham's head that he could hear the whistle, and
that this would very naturally cause him to stop. If I
could only know all, I would sooner have aimed between
my own eyes.
"'Give me a gun,' I said to Colonel Lambourn.
"'You won't shoot at him!' said the Colonel.
"'If you'll insure the mules,' I replied, 'I will
insure the driver.'
"I took aim and fired. The ambulance was covered, and
I did not know that Mr. Hassard, the best fellow in
the world--_nemini secundus_--was sitting inside and
talking to Brigham. The bullet passed between their
faces, which were a foot apart--less rather than
more.
"'What is that?' cried Hassard.
"'_Injuns!_' replied Brigham, who knew by many an
experience how wagons were Apached, Comanchied, or
otherwise aboriginated.
"'Lay down flat!'
"He drove desperately till he thought he was out of
shot, and then put out his head to give the Indians a
taunting war-whoop. I shall never forget the
appearance of that sunburned face, with gold ear-rings
and a vast sombrero! What was his amazement at seeing
only friends! I did not know what Brigham's state of
mind might be toward me, but I remembered that he
gloried in his familiarity with Spanish, so I said to
him in the Castile-soap dialect, 'I fired that shot;
is it to be hand or knife between us?' It is to his
credit that he at once shook my hand, and said, '_La
mano!_' He drove on in grim silence, and then said,
'I've driven for twelve years on this frontier, but I
never heard, before, of anybody trying to stop one by
shooting the driver.'
"Another silence, broken by the following remark: 'I
wish to God there was a gulch any where between here
and the fort! I'd upset this party into it d----n
quick.'
"But I had a great fear. It was of General Custer and
what he would have to say to me, for recklessly
imperiling the life of one of his drivers, to say
nothing of what might have happened to a valuable team
of mules and the wagon. It was with perturbed
feelings--and, _ay de mi!_ with an evil
conscience--that I approached him. He had been
informed of the incident, but was neither angry nor
vindictive. All he did was to utter a hearty laugh and
say, 'I never heard before of such an original way of
ringing a bell to call a man.'
"In a letter written about this time to a friend, I
find the following:
"'We had not for many days seen a lady. Indeed, the
only woman I had met for more than a week was a poor,
sad soul, who, with her two child-daughters, had just
been brought in by Lieutenant Hesselberger from a
six-months' captivity of outrage and torture among the
Apaches. You may imagine how I was impressed with Mrs.
General Custer and her friend, Miss ----. . . .
"'General Custer is an ideal--the ideal of frank
chivalry, unaffected, genial humor, and that
earnestness allied to originality which is so
characteristic of the best kind of Western army man. I
have not, in all my life, met with so many interesting
types of character, as during this, my first journey
to Kansas, but first among all, I place this trio.
"'In the evening a great musical treat awaited me. I
had once passed six months in Bavaria, where I had
learned to love the zither. This instrument was about
as well known twenty years ago in America, as a harp
of a thousand strings. But there was at the fort a
Bavarian soldier, who played charmingly on it, and he
was brought in. I remember asking him for many of his
best-loved airs. The General and his wife impressed me
as two of the best entertainers of guests whom I ever
met. The perfection of this rare talent is, to enjoy
yourself while making others at their ease and merry,
and the proof lies in this, that seldom, indeed, have
I ever spent so pleasant an evening as that in the
fort.'
"My personal experience of General Custer does not
abound in anecdotes, but is extremely rich in my
impressions of him, as a type and a character, both as
man and gentleman. There is many a man whom I have met
a thousand times, whom I hardly recollect at all,
while I could never forget him. He was not only an
admirable but an impressive man. One would credit
anything to his credit, because he was so frank and
earnest. One meets with a somewhat similar character
sometimes among the Hungarians, but just such a man is
as rare as the want of them in the world is great.
"With sincere regards, yours truly,
"CHARLES G. LELAND."
As Mr. Leland's poem, "Breitmann in Kansas," was inspired partly by the
buffalo-hunt and visit at our quarters, I quote a few stanzas:[G]
"Vonce oopen a dimes, der Herr Breitmann vent oud
West. Von efenings he was drafel mit some ladies und
shendlemans, und he shtaid incognitus. Und dey singed
songs dill py and py one of de ladies say: 'Ish any
podies here ash know de crate pallad of "Hans
Breitmann's Barty?"' Den Hans said, 'I am dat
rooster!' Den der Hans took a drink und a let pencil
und a biece of baper, und goes indo himself a little
dimes, and den coomes out again mit dis boem:
"Hans Breitmann vent to Kansas;
He drafel fast und far.
He rided shoost drei dousand miles
All in one railroot car.
He knowed foost rate how far he goed--
He gounted all de vile.
Dar vash shoost one bottle of champagne,
Dat bopped at efery mile.
"Hans Breitmann vent to Kansas;
He went in on de loud.
At Ellsvort in de prairie land,
He found a pully croud.
He looked for bleeding Kansas,
But dat's 'blayed out,' dey say;
De whiskey keg's de only dings
Dat's bleedin' dere to-day.
"Hans Breitmann vent to Kansas;
Py shings! I dell you vot,
Von day he met a crisly bear
Dat rooshed him down, bei Gott!
Boot der Breitmann took und bind der bear,
Und bleased him fery much--
For efry vordt der crisly growled
Vas goot Bavarian Dutch!
"Hans Breitmann vent to Kansas!
By donder, dat is so!
He ridit out upon de plains
To chase de boofalo.
He fired his rifle at de bools,
Und gallop troo de shmoke
Und shoomp de canyons shoost as if
Der tyfel vas a choke!"
Not only were a large number of officers brought together that winter
from varied walks in life and of different nationalities, but the men
that enlisted ranged from the highest type of soldier to the lowest
specimens of humanity recruited in the crowded cities. It often happened
that enlisted men had served an honorable record as officers in the
volunteer service. Some had entered the regular army because their life
was broken up by the war and they knew not how to begin a new career;
others had hopes of promotion, on the strength of their war record, or
from the promises of influential friends. My heart is moved anew as I
recall one man, who sank his name and individuality, his very self, it
seemed, by enlistment, and as effectually disappeared as if he had flung
himself into the river that rushed by our post. One night there knocked
at the door of one of our officer's quarters a man who, though in
citizen's dress, was at once recognized as an old comrade in the war. He
had been a brigadier-general of volunteers. After he had been made
welcome, he gave some slight account of himself, and then said he had
about made up his mind to enlist. Our Seventh Cavalry officer implored
him not to think of such a thing, pictured the existence of a man of
education and refinement in such surroundings, and offered him financial
help, should that be needed. He finally found the subject was adroitly
withdrawn, and the conversation went back to old times. They talked on
in this friendly manner until midnight, and then parted. The next day a
soldier in fresh, bright blue uniform, passed the officer, formally
saluting as he went by, and to his consternation he discovered in this
enlisted man his friend of the night before. They never met again; the
good-by of the midnight hour was in reality the farewell that one of
them had intended it to be.
This is but one of many instances where superior men, for one reason or
another, get into the ranks of our army. If they are fortunate enough to
fall into the hands of considerate officers, their lot is endurable; but
to be assigned to one who is unjust and overbearing is a miserable
existence. One of our finest men was so constantly looking, in his
soldiers, for the same qualities that he possessed, and insisted so upon
the superiority of his men that the officers were wont to exclaim in
good-natured irony, "Oh, yes, we all know that Hamilton's company is
made up of dukes and earls in disguise."
[Illustration: GUN-STAND IN GENERAL CUSTER'S LIBRARY.]
There were some clever rogues among the enlisted men, and the officers
were as yet scarcely able to cope with the cunning of those who
doubtless had intimate acquaintance with courts of justice and prisons
in the Eastern States. The recruiting officer in the cities is not
compelled, as in other occupations, to ask a character from a former
employer. The Government demands able-bodied men, and the recruiting
sergeant casts his critical eye over the anatomical outlines, as he
would over the good points of a horse destined for the same service. The
awful hereafter is, when the officer that receives this physical
perfection on the frontier aims to discover whether it contains a soul.
Our guard-house at Fort Riley was outside the garrison a short distance,
and held a goodly number of violators of the regulations. For several
nights, at one time, strange sounds for such a place issued from the
walls. Religion in the noisiest form seemed to have taken up its
permanent abode there, and for three hours at a time singing, shouting
and loud praying went on. There was every appearance of a revival among
those trespassers. The officer of the day, in making his rounds, had no
comment to pass upon this remarkable transition from card-playing and
wrangling; he was doubtless relieved to hear the voice of the exhorters
as he visited the guard, and indulged in the belief that the prisoners
were out of mischief. On the contrary, this vehement attack of religion
covered up the worst sort of roguery. Night after night they had been
digging tunnels under the stone foundation-walls, removing boards and
cutting beams in the floor, and to deaden the sound of the pounding and
digging some of their number were told off to sing, pray and shout. One
morning the guard opened the door of the rooms in which the prisoners
had been confined, and they were empty! Even two that wore ball and
chains for serious offences had in some manner managed to knock them
off, as all had swum the Smoky Hill River, and they were never again
heard from.
As with the history of all prisons, so it was of our little one. The
greatest rogues were not incarcerated; they were too cunning to be
caught. It often happened that some excellent soldiers became innocently
involved in a fracas and were marched off to the guard-house, while the
archvillain slipped into his place in the ranks and answered to his name
at roll-call, apparently the most exemplary of soldiers. Several
instances of what I thought to be unjust imprisonment came directly
under my notice, and I may have been greatly influenced by Eliza's
pleas in their behalf. We made the effort, and succeeded in extricating
one man from his imprisonment. Whether he was in reality wronged, or had
only worked upon our sympathies, will never be known, but he certainly
made an excellent soldier from that time until the end of his
enlistment. Eliza, in her own quaint way, is saying to me now: "Do you
mind, Miss Libbie, how me and you got J---- his parole? He used to come
to our house with the rest of the prisoners, to police the yard and cut
the wood, and they used to hang round my door; the guard could hardly
get 'em away. Well, I reckon he didn't try very hard, for he didn't like
hard-tack no better than they did. One of them would speak up the minute
they saw me, and say, 'Eliza, you hain't got no hot biscuit, have you?'
Hot biscuits for prisoners! do you hear _that_, Miss Libbie? The Ginnel
would be standin' at the back window, just to catch a chance to laugh at
me if I gave the prisoners anythin' to eat. He'd stand at that window,
movin' from one foot to the other, craning of his neck, and when I did
give any cold scraps, he just bided his time, and when he saw me he
would say, 'Well, been issuin' your rations again, Eliza? How many
apple-dumplin's and biscuit did they get this time?' Apple-dumplin's,
Miss Libbie! He jest said that 'cause he liked 'em better than anythin'
else, and s'posed I'd been givin' away some of his. But as soon as he
had teased me about it, that was the end; he would go along about his
way and pick up his book, when he had done his laugh. But, Miss Libbie,
he used to kinder mistrust, if me and you was talkin' one side. He would
say, 'What you two conspirin' up now? Tryin' to get some one out of
jail, I s'pose.' I remember how we worked for J----. He came to me and
told me I must 'try to get Mrs. Custer to work for him; two words from
her would do him more good than all the rest,' and he would come along
sideways by your window, carrying his ball over his arm with the chain
adanglin', and look so pitiful like, so you would see him and beg him
off." This affair ended entirely to Eliza's satisfaction. I saw the
captain of his company; for though it was against my husband's wish
that I should have anything to do with official matters, he did not
object to this intervention; he only laughed at my credulity. The
captain politely heard my statement of what Eliza had told me were
J----'s wrongs, and gave him parole. His sentence was rescinded
eventually, as he kept his promises and was a most faithful soldier. The
next morning after J---- was returned to duty and began life anew, one
of the young officers sauntered into our quarters and, waving his hand
with a little flourish, said, "I want to congratulate you on having
obtained the pardon of the greatest scamp in the regiment; he wouldn't
steal a red-hot stove, but would wait a mighty long time for it to
cool." Later in my story is my husband's mention, in his letters, of the
very man as bearing so good a record that he sent for him and had him
detailed at headquarters, for nothing in the world, he confessed, but
because I had once interceded for him.
Eliza kept my sympathies constantly aroused, with her piteous tales of
the wrongs of the prisoners. They daily had her ear, and she appointed
herself judge, jury and attorney for the defense. On the coldest days,
when we could not ride and the wind blew so furiously that we were not
able to walk, I saw from our windows how poorly clad they were, for they
came daily, under the care of the guard, to cut the wood and fill the
water-barrels. The General quietly endured the expressions of sympathy,
and sometimes my indignant protests against unjust treatment. He knew
the wrathful spirit of the kitchen had obeyed the natural law that heat
must rise, and treated our combined rages over the prisoners' wrongs
with aggravating calmness. Knowing more about the guard-house occupants
than I did, he was fortified by facts that saved him from expending his
sympathies in the wrong direction. He only smiled at the plausible
stories by which Eliza was first taken in at the kitchen door. They lost
nothing by transmission, as she had quite an imagination and decidedly a
dramatic delivery; and finally, when I told the tale, trying to perform
the monstrously hard feat of telling it as it was told to me, youth,
inexperience and an emotional temperament made a narrative so absolutely
distressing that the General was likely to come over bodily to our side,
had he not recalled the details of the court-martial that had tried the
soldier. We were routed, yet not completely, for we fell back upon his
clothes, and pleaded that, though he was thought to be wicked, he might
be permitted to be warm. But the colored and white troops had to leave
the field, "horse, foot and dragoons," when, on investigation, we found
that the man for whom we pleaded had gambled away his very shirt.
The unmoved manner in which my husband listened to different accounts of
supposed cruelty--dropping his beloved newspaper with the injured air
that men assume, while I sat by him, half crying, gesticulating,
thoroughly roused in my defense of the injured one--was exasperating, to
say the least; and then, at last, to have this bubble of assumed
championship burst, and see him launch into such uproarious conduct when
he found that the man for whom I pleaded was the archrogue of all--oh,
women alone can picture to themselves what the situation must have been
to poor me!
After one of these seasons of good-natured scoffing over the frequency
with which I was taken in, I mentally resolved that, though the proof I
heard of the soldier's depravity was too strong for me to ignore, there
was no contesting the fact that the criminal was cold, and if I had
failed in freeing him I might at least provide against his freezing. He
was at that time buttoning a ragged blouse up to his chin, not only for
warmth, but because in his evening game of poker, his comrade had won
the undergarment, quite superfluous, he thought, while warmed by the
guard-house fire. I proceeded to shut myself in our room, and go through
the General's trunk for something warm. The selection that I made was
unfortunate. There were some navy shirts of blue flannel that had been
procured with considerable trouble from a gunboat in the James River the
last year of the war, the like of which, in quality and durability,
could not be found in any shop. The material was so good that they
neither shrunk nor pulled out of shape. The broad collar had a star
embroidered in solid silk in either corner. The General had bought these
for their durability, but they proved to be a picturesque addition to
his gay dress; and the red necktie adopted by his entire Third Division
of Cavalry gave a dash of vivid color, while the yellow hair contrasted
with the dark blue of the flannel. The gunboats were overwhelmed with
applications to buy, as his Division wished to adopt this feature of his
dress also, and military tailors had many orders to reproduce what the
General had "lighted upon," as the officers expressed it, by accident.
Really, there was no color so good for campaigning, as it was hard to
harmonize any gray tint with the different blues of the uniform. Men
have a way of saying that we women never seize their things, for barter
or other malevolent purposes, without selecting what they especially
prize. But the General really had reason to dote upon these shirts.
The rest of the story scarcely needs telling. Many injured husbands,
whose wardrobes have been confiscated for eleemosynary purposes, will
join in a general wail. The men that wear one overcoat in early spring,
and carry another over their arm to their offices, uncertain, if they
did not observe this precaution, that the coming winter would not find
these garments mysteriously metamorphosed into lace on a gown, or mantel
ornaments, may fill in all that my story fails to tell. In the General's
case, it was perhaps more than ordinarily exasperating. It was not that
a creature who bargains for "gentlemen's cast-offs" had possession of
something that a tailor could not readily replace, but we were then too
far out on the Plains to buy even ordinary blue flannel.
As I remember myself half buried in the trunk of the commanding officer,
and suddenly lifted into the air with a shirt in one hand, my own escape
from the guard-house seems miraculous. As it was, I was let off very
lightly, ignoring some remarks about its being "a pretty high-handed
state of affairs, that compels a man to lock his trunk in his own
family; and that, between Tom's pilfering and his wife's, the commanding
officer would soon be obliged to receive official reports in bed."
There was very little hunting about Fort Riley in the winter. The
General had shot a great many prairie chickens in the autumn, and hung
them in the wood-house, and while they lasted we were not entirely
dependent on Government beef. As the season advanced, we had only
ox-tail soup and beef. Although the officers were allowed to buy the
best cuts, the cattle that supplied the post with meat were far from
being in good condition. One day our table was crowded with officers,
some of whom had just reported for duty. The usual great tureen of soup
was disposed of, and the servant brought in an immense platter, on which
generally reposed a large roast. But when the dish was placed before the
General, to my dismay there appeared in the centre of its wide
circumference a steak hardly larger than a man's hand. It was a painful
situation, and I blushed, gazed uneasily at the new-comers, but
hesitated about apologies as they were my husband's detestation. He
relieved us from the awful silence that fell upon all, by a peal of
laughter that shook the table and disturbed the poor little steak in its
lonesome bed. Eliza thrust her head in at the door, and explained that
the cattle had stampeded, and the commissary could not get them back in
time to kill, as they did daily at the post. The General was perfectly
unmoved, calling those peculiar staccato "all right!" "all right!" to
poor Eliza, setting affairs at ease again, and asking the guests to do
the best they could with the vegetables, bread and butter, coffee and
dessert.
The next day beef returned to our table, but, alas! the potatoes gave
out, and I began to be disturbed about my housewifely duties. My husband
begged me not to give it a thought, saying that Eliza would pull us
through the temporary famine satisfactorily, and adding, that what was
good enough for us was good enough for our guests. But an attack of
domestic responsibility was upon me, and I insisted upon going to the
little town near us. Under any circumstances the General opposed my
entering its precincts, as it was largely inhabited by outlaws and
desperadoes, and to go for so small a consideration as marketing was
entirely against his wishes. I paid dearly for my persistence; for when,
after buying what I could at the stores, I set out to return, the chain
bridge on which I had crossed the river in the morning had been swept
away, and the roaring torrent, that had risen above the high banks, was
plunging along its furious way, bearing earth and trees in its turbid
flood. I spent several dreary hours on the bank, growing more uneasy and
remorseful all the time. The potatoes and eggs that so short a time
since I had triumphantly secured, seemed more and more hateful to me, as
I looked at them lying in the basket in the bottom of the ambulance. I
made innumerable resolves that, so long as my husband did not wish me to
concern myself about providing for our table, I never would attempt it
again; but all these resolutions could not bring back the bridge, and I
had to take the advice of one of our officers, who was also waiting to
cross, and go back to the house of one of the merchants who sold
supplies to the post. His wife was very hospitable, as frontier men and
women invariably are, and next morning I was down on the bank of the
river early, more impatient than ever to cross. What made the detention
more exasperating was that the buildings of the garrison on the plateau
were plainly visible from where we waited. Then ensued the most
foolhardy conduct on my part, and so terrified the General when I told
him afterward, that I came near never being trusted alone again. The
most vexing part of it all was that I involved the officer, who was in
town by accident, in imminent danger, for when he heard what I was
determined to do, he had no alternative but to second my scheme, as no
persuasion was of any avail. I induced a sergeant in charge of a small
boat to take me over. I was frantic to get home, as for some time
preparations had been going on for a summer campaign, and I had kept it
out of our day as much as I could.
The General never anticipated trouble, reasoning that it was bad enough
when it came, and we both felt that every hour must hold what it could
of enjoyment, and not be darkened a moment if we could help it. The
hours of delay on the bank were almost insupportable, as each one was
shortening precious time. I could not help telling the sergeant this,
and he yielded to my entreaties--for what soldier ever refused our
appeals? The wind drove through the trees on the bank, lashing the limbs
to and fro and breaking off huge branches, and it required almost
superhuman strength to hold the frail boat to the slippery landing long
enough to lift me in. The soldier at the prow held in his muscular hands
a pole with an iron pin at the end, with which he used all his energy to
push away the floating logs that threatened to swamp us. It was almost
useless to attempt to steer, as the river had a current that it was
impossible to stem. The only plan was to push out into the stream filled
with debris, and let the current shoot the boat far down the river,
aiming for a bend in its shores on the opposite side. I closed my eyes
to the wild rush of water on all sides, shuddering at the shouts of the
soldiers, who tried to make themselves heard above the deafening clamor
of the tempest. I could not face our danger and retain my self-control,
and I was tortured by the thought of having brought peril to others. I
owed my life to the strong and supple arms of the sergeant and the
stalwart soldier who assisted him, for with a spring they caught the
limbs of an overhanging tree, just at the important moment when our
little craft swung near the bank at the river bend, and, clutching at
branches and rocks, we were pulled to the shore and safely landed. Why
the brave sergeant even listened to such a wild proposition I do not
know. It was the maddest sort of recklessness to attempt such a
crossing, and the man had nothing to gain. With the strange, impassable
gulf that separates a soldier from his officers and their families, my
imploring to be taken over the river, and my overwhelming thanks
afterward, were the only words he would ever hear me speak. With the
officer who shared the peril, it was different. When we sat around the
fireside again, he was the hero of the hour. The gratitude of the
officers, the thanks of the women putting themselves in my place and
giving him praise for encountering danger for another, were some sort of
compensation. The poor sergeant had nothing; he went back to the
barracks, and sank his individuality in the ranks, where the men look so
alike in their uniform it is almost impossible to distinguish the
soldier that has acted the hero from one who is never aught but a
poltroon. After the excitement of the peril I had passed was over, I no
longer wondered that there was such violent opposition to women
traveling with troops. The lesson lasted me a long time, as I was well
aware what planning and preparation it cost to take us women along, in
any case, when the regiment was on the move, and to make these efforts
more difficult by my own heedlessness was too serious a mistake to be
repeated.
In spite of the drawbacks to a perfectly successful garrison, which was
natural in the early career of a regiment, the winter had been full of
pleasure to me; but it came to a sad ending when the preparations for
the departure of the troops began. The stitches that I put in the
repairs to the blue flannel shirts were set with tears. I eagerly sought
every opportunity to prepare the camping outfit. The mess-chest was
filled with a few strong dishes, sacks were made and filled with coffee,
sugar, flour, rice, etc., and a few cans of fruit and vegetables were
packed away in the bottom of the chest. The means of transportation were
so limited that every pound of baggage was a matter of consideration,
and my husband took some of the space that I thought ought to be devoted
to comforts, for a few books that admitted of reading and rereading.
Eliza was the untiring one in preparing the outfit for the summer. She
knew just when to administer comforting words, as I sighed over the
preparations, and reminded me that "the Ginnel always did send for you
every chance he got, and war times on the Plains wa'n't no wuss than in
Virginia."
[Illustration: TROPHIES OF THE CHASE IN GENERAL CUSTER'S LIBRARY.]
There was one joke that came up at every move we ever made, over which
the General was always merry. The officers, in and out of our quarters
daily, were wont to observe the unusual alacrity that I displayed when
orders came to move. As I had but little care or anxiety about household
affairs, the contrast with my extreme interest in the arrangements of
the mess-chest, bedding and campaigning clothes was certainly marked. I
longed for activity, to prevent me from showing my heavy heart, and
really did learn to be somewhat successful in crowding a good deal into
a small space, and choosing the things that were most necessary. As the
officers came in unannounced, they found me flying hither and thither,
intent on my duties, and immediately saw an opportunity to tease the
General, condoling with him because, having exhausted himself in arduous
packing for the campaign, he would be obliged to set out totally
unfitted for the summer's hardships. After their departure, he was sure
to turn to me, with roguery in his voice, and asked if I had noticed how
sorry all those young fellows were for a man who was obliged to work so
hard to get his traps ready to move.
It was amusing to notice the indifferent manner in which some of the
officers saw the careful and frugal preparing for the campaign. That
first spring's experience was repeated in every after preparation. There
were always those who took little or nothing themselves, but became
experts at casual droppings in to luncheon or dinner with some
painstaking provider, who endeavored vainly to get himself out of sight
when the halt came for eating. This little scheme was occasionally
persisted in merely to annoy one who, having shown some signs of
parsimony, needed discipline in the eyes of those who really did a great
deal of good by their ridicule. Among one group of officers, who had
planned to mess together, the only provision was a barrel of eggs. It is
only necessary to follow a cavalry column over the crossing of one
creek, to know the exact condition that such perishable food would be in
at the end of the first day. There were two of the "plebes," as the
youngest of the officers were called--as I recall them, bright, boyish,
charming fellows--who openly rebelled against the rebuffs they claimed
were given them, when they attempted to practice the dropping-in plan at
another's meals.
After one of these sallies on the enemy, they met the repulse with the
announcement that if "those stingy old mollycoddles thought they had
nothing to eat in their own outfit, they would show them," and took the
occasion of one of their birthdays to prove that their resources were
unlimited. Though the two endeavored to conceal the hour and place of
this fête, a persistent watcher discovered that the birthday breakfast
consisted of a bottle of native champagne and corn bread. The
hospitality of officers is too well known to make it necessary to
explain that those with any tendency to penuriousness were exceptions.
An army legend is in existence of an officer who would not allow his
hospitality to be set aside, even though he was very short of supplies.
Being an officer of the old army, he was as formal over his repast as if
it were abundant, and, with all ceremony, had his servant pass the rice.
The guest, thinking it the first course, declined, whereupon the host,
rather offended, replied, "Well, if you don't like the rice, help
yourself to the mustard." This being the only other article on the bill
of fare, there need be no doubt as to his final choice. When several
officers decide to mess together on a campaign, each one promises to
provide some one necessary supply. On one of these occasions, after the
first day's march was ended, and orders for dinner were given to the
servant, it was discovered that all but one had exercised his own
judgment regarding what was the most necessary provision for comfort,
and the one that had brought a loaf of bread instead of a demijohn of
whiskey was berated for his choice.
In the first days of frontier life, our people knew but little about
preparations for the field, and it took some time to realize that they
were in a land where they could not live upon the country. It was a
severe and lasting lesson to those using tobacco, when they found
themselves without it, and so far from civilization that there was no
opportunity of replenishing their supply. On the return from the
expedition, the injuries as well as the enjoyments are narrated.
Sometimes we women, full of sympathy for the privations that had been
endured, found that these _were_ injuries; sometimes we discovered that
imagination had created them. We enjoyed, maliciously I am afraid, the
growling of one man who never erred in any way, and consequently had no
margin for any one that did; calculating and far-seeing in his life, he
felt no patience for those who, being young, were yet to learn those
lessons of frugality that were born in him. He was still wrathful when
he gave us an account of one we knew to be delightfully impudent when he
was bent on teasing. When the provident man untied the strings of his
tobacco-pouch, and settled himself for a smoke, the saucy young
lieutenant was sure to stroll that way, and in tones loud enough for
those near to hear him, drawl out, "I've got a match; if any other
fellow's got a pipe and tobacco, I'll have a smoke."
The expedition that was to leave Fort Riley was commanded by General
Hancock, then at the head of the Department of the Missouri. He arrived
at our post from Fort Leavenworth with seven companies of infantry and a
battery of artillery. His letters to the Indian agents of the various
tribes give the objects of the march into the Indian country. He wrote:
"I have the honor to state, for your information, that I am at present
preparing an expedition to the Plains, which will soon be ready to move.
My object in doing so at this time is, to convince the Indians within
the limits of this Department that we are able to punish any of them who
may molest travelers across the Plains, or who may commit other
hostilities against the whites. We desire to avoid, if possible, any
troubles with the Indians, and to treat them with justice, and according
to the requirements of our treaties with them; and I wish especially, in
my dealings with them, to act through the agents of the Indian
Department as far as it is possible to do so. If you, as their agent,
can arrange these matters satisfactorily with them, we shall be pleased
to defer the whole subject to you. In case of your inability to do so,
I would be pleased to have you accompany me when I visit the country of
your tribes, to show that the officers of the Government are acting in
harmony. I shall be pleased to talk with any of the chiefs whom we may
meet. I do not expect to make war against any of the Indians of your
agency, unless they commence war against us."
In General Custer's account, he says that "the Indians had been guilty
of numerous thefts and murders during the preceding summer and autumn,
for none of which had they been called to account. They had attacked the
stations of the overland mail-route, killed the employees, burned the
stations and captured the stock. Citizens had been murdered in their
homes on the frontier of Kansas; and murders had been committed on the
Arkansas route. The principal perpetrators of these acts were the
Cheyennes and Sioux. The agent of the former, if not a party to the
murder on the Arkansas, knew who the guilty persons were, yet took no
steps to bring the murderers to punishment. Such a course would have
interfered with his trade and profits. It was not to punish for these
sins of the past that the expedition was set on foot, but, rather, by
its imposing appearance and its early presence in the Indian country, to
check or intimidate the Indians from a repetition of their late conduct.
During the winter the leading chiefs and warriors had threatened that,
as soon as the grass was up, the tribes would combine in a united
outbreak along the entire frontier."
There had been little opportunity to put the expedition out of our minds
for some time previous to its departure. The sound from the blacksmith's
shop, of the shoeing of horses, the drilling on the level ground outside
of the post, and the loading of wagons about the quartermaster and
commissary storehouses, went on all day long. At that time the sabre was
more in use than it was later, and it seemed to me that I could never
again shut my ears to the sound of the grindstone, when I found that the
sabres were being sharpened. The troopers, when mounted, were
curiosities, and a decided disappointment to me. The horse, when
prepared for the march, barely showed head and tail. My ideas of the
dashing trooper going out to war, clad in gay uniform and curbing a
curveting steed, faded into nothingness before the reality. Though the
wrapping together of the blanket, overcoat and shelter-tent is made a
study of the tactics, it could not be reduced to anything but a
good-sized roll at the back of the saddle. The carbine rattled on one
side of the soldier, slung from the broad strap over his shoulder, while
a frying-pan, a tin-cup, a canteen, and a haversack of hardtack
clattered and knocked about on his other side. There were possibly a
hundred rounds of ammunition in his cartridge-belt, which took away all
the symmetry that his waist might otherwise have had. If the company
commander was not too strict, a short butcher-knife, thrust into a
home-made leather case, kept company with the pistol. It was not a
murderous weapon, but was used to cut up game or slice off the bacon,
which, sputtering in the skillet at evening camp-fire, was the main
feature of the soldier's supper. The tin utensils, the carbine and the
sabre, kept up a continual din, as the horses seemingly crept over the
trail at the rate of three to four miles an hour. In addition to the
cumbersome load, there were sometimes lariats and iron pichet-pins slung
on one side of the saddle, to tether the animals when they grazed at
night. There was nothing picturesque about this lumbering cavalryman,
and, besides, our men did not then sit their horses with the serenity
that they eventually attained. If the beast shied or kicked--for the
poor thing was itself learning to do soldiering, and occasionally flung
out his heels, or snatched the bit in his mouth in protest--it was a
question whether the newly made Mars would land on the crupper or hang
helplessly among the domestic utensils suspended to his saddle. How
sorry I was for them, they were so bruised and lamed by their first
lessons in horsemanship. Every one laughed at every one else, and this
made it seem doubly trying to me. I remembered my own first lessons
among fearless cavalrymen--a picture of a trembling figure, about as
uncertain in the saddle as if it were a wave of the sea, the hands cold
and nerveless, and, I regret to add, the tears streaming down my cheeks!
These recollections made me writhe when I saw a soldier describing an
arc in the air, and his self-freed horse galloping off to the music of
tin and steel in concert, for no such compulsory landing was ever met
save by a roar of derision from the column. Just in proportion as I had
suffered for their misfortunes, did I enjoy the men when, after the
campaign, they returned, perfect horsemen and with such physiques as
might serve for a sculptor's model.
At the time the expedition formed at Fort Riley, I had little
realization what a serious affair an Indian campaign was. We had heard
of the outrages committed on the settlers, the attacking of the overland
supply-trains, and the burning of the stage-stations; but the rumors
seemed to come from so far away that the reality was never brought home
to me until I saw for myself what horror attends Indian depredations.
Even a disaster to one that seemed to be of our own family, failed to
implant in me that terror of Indians which, a month or two later, I
realized to its fullest extent by personal danger. I must tell my
reader, by going back to the days of the war, something of the one that
first showed us what Indian warfare really was. It was a sad preparation
for the campaign that followed.
After General Custer had been promoted from a captain to a
brigadier-general, in 1863, his brigade lay quietly in camp for a few
days, to recruit before setting out on another raid. This gave the
unusual privilege of lying in bed a little later in the morning, instead
of springing out before dawn. For several mornings in succession, my
husband told me, he saw a little boy steal through a small opening in
the tent, take out his clothes and boots, and after a while creep back
with them, brushed and folded. At last he asked Eliza where on earth
that cadaverous little image came from, and she explained that it was "a
poor little picked sparrow of a chile, who had come hangin' aroun' the
camp-fire, mos' starved," and added, "Now, Ginnel, you mustn't go and
turn him off, for he's got nowhar to go, and 'pears like he's crazy to
wait on you." The General questioned him, and found that the boy, being
unhappy at home, had run away. Enough of his sad life was revealed to
convince the General that it was useless to attempt to return him to his
Eastern home, for he was a determined little fellow, and there was no
question that he would have fled again. His parents were rich, and my
husband evidently knew who they were; but the story was confidential, so
I never knew anything of him, except that he was always showing signs of
good-breeding, even though he lived about the camp-fire. A letter that
my husband wrote to his own home at that time, spoke of a hound puppy
that one of his soldiers had given to him, and then of a little waif,
called Johnnie, whom he had taken as his servant. "The boy," he wrote,
"is so fond of the pup he takes him to bed with him." Evidently the
child began his service with devotion, for the General adds; "I think he
would rather starve than to see me go hungry. I have dressed him in
soldier's clothes, and he rides one of my horses on the march. Returning
from the march one day, I found Johnnie with his sleeves rolled up. He
had washed all my soiled clothes and hung them on the bushes to dry.
Small as he is, they were very well done."
Soon after Johnnie became my husband's servant, we were married, and I
was taken down to the Virginia farm-house, that was used as brigade
headquarters. By this time, Eliza had initiated the boy into all kinds
of work. She, in turn, fed him, mended his clothes, and managed him,
lording it over the child in a lofty but never unkind manner. She had
tried to drill him to wait on the table, as she had seen the duty
performed on the old plantation. At our first dinner he was so bashful I
thought he would drop everything. My husband did not believe in having a
head and foot to the table when we were alone, so poor little Johnnie
was asked to put my plate beside the General's. Though he was so
embarrassed in this new phase of his life, he was never so intimidated
by the responsibility Eliza had pressed upon him that he was
absent-minded or confused regarding one point: he invariably passed
each dish to the General first. Possibly my husband noticed it. I
certainly did not. There was a pair of watchful eyes at a crack in the
kitchen-door, which took in this little incident. One day the General
came into our room laughing, his eyes sparkling with fun over Eliza's
description of how she had noticed Johnnie always serving the General
first, and had labored with him in secret, to teach him to wait on the
lady first. "It's manners," she said, believing that was a crushing
argument. But Johnnie, usually obedient, persistently refused, always
replying that the General was the one of us two that ranked, and he
ought to be served first.
At the time of General Kilpatrick's famous raid, when he went to take
Richmond, General Custer was ordered to make a détour in an opposite
direction, in order to deceive the Confederate army as to the real
object to be accomplished. This ruse worked so successfully, that
General Custer and his command were put in so close and dangerous a
situation it was with difficulty that any of them escaped. The General
told me that when the pursuit of the enemy was hottest, and everyone
doing his utmost to escape, he saw Johnnie driving a light covered wagon
at a gallop, which was loaded with turkeys and chickens. He had received
his orders from Eliza, before setting out, to bring back something for
the mess, and the boy had carried out her directions with a vengeance.
He impressed into his service the establishment that he drove, and
filled it with poultry. Even in the mêlée and excitement of retreat, the
General was wonderfully amused, and amazed too, at the little fellow's
fearlessness. He was too fond of him to leave him in danger, so he
galloped in his direction and called to him, as he stood up lashing his
horse, to abandon his capture or he would be himself a prisoner. The boy
obeyed, but hesitatingly, cut the harness, sprang upon the horse's
unsaddled back, and was soon with the main column. The General, by his
delay, was obliged to take to an open field to avoid capture, and leap a
high fence in order to overtake the retreating troops.
He became more and more interested in the boy, who was such a
combination of courage and fidelity, and finally arranged to have him
enlist as a soldier. The war was then drawing to its close, and he
secured to the lad a large bounty, which he placed at interest for him,
and after the surrender, persuaded Johnnie to go to school. It was
difficult to induce him to leave; but my husband realized what injustice
it was to keep him in the menial position to which he desired to return,
and finally left him, with the belief that he had instilled some
ambition into the boy.
A year and a half afterward, as we were standing on the steps of the
gallery of our quarters at Fort Riley, we noticed a stripling of a lad
walking toward us, with his head hanging on his breast, in the shy,
embarrassed manner of one who doubts his reception. With a glad cry, my
husband called out that it was Johnnie Cisco, and bounded down the steps
to meet him. After he was assured of his welcome, he told us that it had
been impossible for him to stay away, he longed so constantly to be
again with us, and added that if we would only let him remain, he would
not care what he did. Of course, the General regretted the giving up of
his school; but, now that he had made the long journey, there was no
help for it, and he decided that he should continue with us until he
could find him employment, for he was determined that he should not
reënlist. The boy's old and tried friend, Eliza, at once assumed her
position of "missus," and, kind-hearted tyrant! gave him every comfort
and made him her vassal, without a remonstrance from the half-grown man,
for he was only too glad to be in the sole home he knew, no matter on
what terms. Soon after his coming, the General obtained from one of the
managers of the Wells Fargo Express Company a place of messenger; and
the recommendation he gave the boy for honesty and fidelity was
confirmed over and over again by the officers of the express line. He
was known on the entire route from Ogden to Denver, and was entrusted
with immense amounts of gold in its transmission from the Colorado mines
to the States. Several times he came to our house for a vacation, and
my husband had always the unvarying and genuine welcome that no one
doubted when once given, and he did not fail to praise and encourage the
friendless fellow. Eliza, after learning what the lad had passed
through, in his dangers from Indians, treated him like a conquering
hero, but alternately bullied and petted him still. At last there came a
long interval between his visits, and my husband sent to the express
people to inquire. Poor Johnnie had gone like many another brave
employee of that venturesome firm. In a courageous defense of the
passengers and the company's gold, when the stage was attacked, he had
been killed by the Indians. Eliza kept the battered valise that her
favorite had left with us, and mourned over it as if it had been
something human. I found her cherishing the bag in a hidden corner, and
recalling to me, with tears, how warm-hearted Johnnie was, saying that
the night the news of her old mother's death came to her from Virginia,
he had sat up till daybreak to keep the fire going. "Miss Libbie, I tole
him to go to bed, but he said, 'No, Eliza, I can't do it, when you are
in trouble: when I had no friends, and couldn't help myself, you helped
me.'" After that, the lad was always "poor Johnnie," and many a boy with
kinsfolk of his own is not more sincerely mourned.
As the days drew nearer for the expedition to set out, my husband tried
to keep my spirits up by reminding me that the council to be held with
the chiefs of the warlike tribes, when they reached that part of the
country infested with the marauding Indians, was something he hoped
might result in our speedy reunion. He endeavored to induce me to think,
as he did, that the Indians would be so impressed with the magnitude of
the expedition, that, after the council, they would accept terms and
abandon the war-path. Eight companies of our own regiment were going
out, and these, with infantry and artillery, made a force of fourteen
hundred men. It was really a large expedition, for the Plains; but the
recollections of the thousands of men in the Third Cavalry Division,
which was the General's command during the war, made the expedition seem
too small, even for safety.
No one can enumerate the terrors, imaginary and real, that filled the
hearts of women on the border in those desperate days. The buoyancy of
my husband had only a momentary effect in the last hours of his stay.
That time seemed to fly fast; but no amount of excitement and bustle of
preparation closed my eyes, even momentarily, to the dragging hours that
awaited me. Such partings are such a torture that it is difficult even
to briefly mention them. My husband added another struggle to my lot by
imploring me not to let him see the tears that he knew, for his sake, I
could keep back until he was out of sight. Though the band played its
usual departing tune, "The Girl I Left Behind Me," if there was any
music in the notes, it was all in the minor key to the men who left
their wives behind them. No expedition goes out with shout and song, if
loving, weeping women are left behind. Those who have not assumed the
voluntary fetters that bind us for weal or for woe, and render it
impossible to escape suffering while those we love suffer, or rejoicing
while those to whom we are united are jubilant, felt too keenly for
their comrades when they watched them tear themselves from clinging arms
inside the threshold of their homes, even to keep up the stream of idle
chaffing that only such occasions can stop. There was silence as the
column left the garrison. Alas! the closed houses they left were as
still as if death had set its seal upon the door; no sound but the
sobbing and moans of women's breaking hearts.
Eliza stood guard at my door for hours and hours, until I had courage,
and some degree of peace, to take up life again. A loving, suffering
woman came to sleep with me for a night or two. The hours of those first
wakeful nights seemed endless. The anxious, unhappy creature beside me
said, gently, in the small hours, "Libbie, are you awake?" "Oh, yes," I
replied, "and have been for ever so long." "What are you doing?" "Saying
over hymns, snatches of poetry, the Lord's Prayer backward, counting,
etc., to try to put myself to sleep." "Oh, say some rhyme to me, in
mercy's name, for I am past all hope of sleep while I am so unhappy!"
Then I repeated, over and over again, a single verse, written, perhaps,
by some one who, like ourselves, knew little of the genius of poetry,
but, alas! much of what makes up the theme of all the sad verses of the
world:
"There's something in the parting hour
That chills the warmest heart;
But kindred, comrade, lover, friend,
Are fated all to part.
But this I've seen, and many a pang
Has pressed it on my mind--
The one that goes is happier
Than he who stays behind."
Perhaps after I had said this, and another similar verse, over and over
again, in a sing-song, droning voice, the regular breathing at my side
told me that the poor, tired heart had found temporary forgetfulness;
but when we came to the sad reality of our lonely life next day, every
object in our quarters reminded us what it is to "stay behind." There
are no lonely women who will not realize how the very chairs, or
anything in common use, take to themselves voices and call out reminders
of what has been and what now is. Fill up the time as we might, there
came each day, at twilight, an hour that should be left out of every
solitary life. It is meant only for the happy, who need make no
subterfuges to fill up hours that are already precious.
FOOTNOTE:
[G] From "Hans Breitmann's Ballads," by permission of Messrs. T. B.
Peterson & Brothers, publishers.