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.