of _habeas corpus_ upon me, demanding the body of prisoner S. D.
Garlington. I had no experience with writs of _habeas corpus_, and was
at a loss what answer to make. To delay him until Carlin's arrival,
I questioned his authority as such commissioner. Courteously he
informed me that he had a commission at home with President Johnson's
signature. He left, and soon returned with the document. I invited
him to my room, from which I had a view of the Newberry highway, over
which Carlin's command would approach, and kept him there until I saw
Carlin's command. Then I told him it was an army regulation that an
officer, not in a permanent station, only commanded within a radius of
one mile, and that I had a senior in the person of Lieutenant Colonel
Carlin of the 16th Infantry, then approaching, the proper person on
whom to serve the writ. Kruse accepted the situation, and I introduced
him to Colonel Carlin, who, however, directed me to endorse upon the
writ "refused, by order of the Secretary of War."
A Mr. Hugh Farley (brother of Farley of the U. S. Ordnance Corps),
reputed to be at the head of the Ku Klux which gathered in numbers,
approached Colonel Carlin frequently with requests to see different
prisoners. As he gave no good reason, his requests were refused. He
followed Carlin's command to camp that night, strenuously insisting
upon another request; whereupon the marshal arrested him, his name on
one of the warrants having been omitted at my suggestion.
Sixteen were carried to Columbia, South Carolina, and imprisoned in
the State penitentiary, but I understood none of them were convicted.
Order being restored in Laurens, I was directed to take station with
my two companies at Columbia. There being no public quarters, the
quartermaster's agent took us to an old-fashioned southern building.
It was comfortable and commodious, with outside quarters for the
colored servants. This house had belonged to the late Dr. Gibbs,
father of a classmate of mine, Wade Hampton Gibbs, who went South,
joined the Confederates, and became a Colonel on the staff of General
Lee.
Major Van Voast, 18th Infantry, with his wife, arrived two days later,
assumed command of the post, and took quarters with us in the Gibbs
House.
Carpetbagging was in its prime about this period. The governor,
Chamberlain, had been appointed by the Federal authorities. Both
senate and house elected under Federal laws were almost entirely
colored. The president of the senate and the speaker of the house
(Moses) extended the privileges of the floors of those chambers to
Major Van Voast, myself, and our wives, and, partly to acquaint
ourselves with governmental affairs and partly through curiosity, we
often attended, the Major and I dressed in uniform.
The trouble at Laurens originated by the Ku Klux arming themselves and
arresting and murdering the county officers. Carpetbaggers and negro
supporters proposed a large army to protect them against the Ku Klux.
While we were at a session of the house, a bill to create a State
force of some thirty negro regiments and money to buy thirty thousand
Remington arms was introduced. Seeing the folly of placing so much
power in the hands of the colored people, some white man introduced
an amendment that the colonels of these regiments should be selected
from the regular army. A colored member denounced the amendment,
protesting that the two army officers were present to promote this
bill, and should be ejected from the floor. This placed us in a very
embarrassing position. To leave the hall in indignation would betray
weakness, so we sat it out for an hour, hearing many bitter and
insulting references.
Knowing I wished to transfer to the cavalry, Colonel Carlin, who was
going to Washington, offered me seven days' leave and to introduce me
to the Secretary of War. But, Captain Mack had already arranged my
transfer, and on January 1, 1871, I was transferred to the 3d Cavalry
and ordered to the headquarters of the regiment at Fort Halleck,
Nevada, and to proceed thence _via_ San Francisco and San Pedro to
Fort Whipple, Arizona.
NANNIE'S IMPRESSIONS OF THE WEST
In a letter to her parents from Washington, January 17th, Nannie
describes our good-bye to our company, as follows:
I can not tell you how sorry I was to leave Columbia. I really
had become very much attached to the place, and I believe like
it better than any city I was ever in. I suppose one never knows
how much one is thought of 'til they take their departure.
The day before we left, Anson received a note requesting his
presence at his company quarters. He went over, and saw a table
nicely covered with a red cloth, and on it _something_ which was
covered up. The first sergeant then made him a little speech
in behalf of the company and then, with a majestic wave of his
hand, uncovered the article and presented him with a splendid
pair of epaulets and a case containing two very handsome
pistols, the whole costing nearly eighty dollars. On a paper
inside was written "The compliments of Company H, 18th Infantry,
to their beloved Captain, Anson Mills, 3d Cavalry." I went with
Anson when he bade his old company good-bye, and it really was
very sad. I cried, and Anson almost did. He went along shaking
hands with each one. It is something to be _very_ proud of
when sixty men without one exception like their commander, and
one of them told Anson that there was not a man in the company
but regretted his going away. I do not believe there are many
company commanders who have won the affections of their men so
completely.
We could take but little baggage, so in Washington I asked a delay
of thirty days to leave our belongings with Nannie's parents in
Zanesville. General Sherman had, a few days before, ordered that there
should be no more delays. When I applied, he said, "Well, Captain
Mills, I can not revoke my order; but in your case I don't object to
your taking a 'French,' and I don't think your colonel will make
any trouble with you if you arrive thirty days late. Should he do
so, refer him to me and I'll see that you get into no trouble in the
matter."
The headquarters and band at Halleck were ordered to Fort Whipple
_via_ San Francisco, where I purchased an ambulance for the land
journey.
We sailed February 2d on the Government transport Orizaba. We had
never been to sea, and as it was a beautiful day and the waters of the
bay were smooth as glass, we congratulated ourselves that we could
hardly have a bad time. But when we struck the bar outside, the ship
seemed to rise at least fifty feet, and otherwise moved and rolled
in every possible manner. Nannie proved to be a poor sailor, which
affliction she retained through life. I fared better, but was not
immune and never have been.
Among the many military passengers was Captain I. M. Hoag, who
occupied a stateroom next ours. As we passed down the smooth bay he
claimed never to be seasick. I soon recovered sufficiently to take
lunch, after which I took a chair by our stateroom to be near Nannie.
The stewardess, passing, asked if she could not bring Nannie some
"nice jelly cake," when Hoag's coarse voice broke out, "Jelly cake!
jelly cake! Oh, my God, why does that woman want to come around
talking about jelly cake! Give me my bucket. Give me my bucket!"
We arrived at San Pedro (Drum Barracks) near Wilmington, March 4th.
Nannie described the eventful march from San Pedro to Whipple Barracks
in letters to her parents, better than I could describe it now, as
follows:
March 5th.
MY DEAR MOTHER:
As you may imagine, we are very busy making arrangements for our wagon
trip. Anson is having our vehicle fixed up 'til a queen might be proud
to ride in it. He is having it covered with white canvas, and he
bought an elegant green blanket to line the top to keep off the heat
and protect the eyes. It has curtains all 'round to roll up to let
the air in, and at night we can take out the seats, make up a bed in
the bottom, and there is a large front curtain which shuts everything
in and keeps out the damp. He is going to have pockets inside to put
little articles in, and altogether it is as convenient and elegant a
thing as one could imagine, and I am very proud of it, especially as
he got it on purpose for me. We expect to have a very nice time on
the route. There are quite a number of officers going, but no other
ladies. I am very glad we are going with this party, as we would not
have had as good a chance probably for a long time, and very likely
would have had to go by stage, which would have been very unpleasant.
Anson is ordered on a court martial at Date Creek, which is on our
road, so we will have to stop there. We received a letter from Lieut.
Ebstein (you remember his picture in the group), who is at Date Greek,
asking us to stop there.
I do not expect to get really settled this year, for there does
seem to be some truth in the old saying about the first of January
determining the rest of the year.
If possible I will write to you while we are on the march, but if I do
not you need not be surprised, although I think I shall, but you know
it is very hard to write after riding so far and getting so tired, but
I shall try to write to you if it is only a few lines, so as to keep
you from being anxious.
This place (Drum Barracks) is on the coast and twenty-five miles from
Los Angeles, which latter place is said to be the paradise of the
whole United States. A woman came here today from there, and she was
carrying in her hand a branch broken from an orange tree, just _full_
of large oranges, just as we at home might have a branch full of
apples.
March 9th.
We actually did leave this morning, and made twenty-five miles, which
is a pretty long trip for a first day's march. The day was lovely,
and the road a nice, level one, nothing particularly interesting,
however, 'til we neared Los Angeles, which has been called the garden
of the United States, and then we came to the orange groves with the
ripe fruit hanging on the boughs, peach trees in bloom, lemon trees,
and we saw in one place some men harvesting barley. Rank green weeds
grew all along the roadside, in some cases as high as your head, while
pretty little red and yellow wild flowers covered the meadows, and the
meadow larks sang so gaily that it inspired Anson to repeat a piece of
poetry on the lark, not that I mean to say that my hubby dear mounted
the little songster to spout forth the flow of poetic words, but the
subject of the piece was "The Lark." My first day's experience in this
line has been very pleasant. We are camped in a beautiful spot before
getting to which we had to cross one of my much dreaded streams,
which was nothing at all and wouldn't scare a chippy. Los Angeles is
quite a town, and if any angels take a notion to visit this mundane
sphere and namesake, I advise them to put up at the Pico House, where
we went in to dinner. The house is a clean, nice place, Brussels
carpet, lace curtains, mirrors, piano, etc., in the parlor, and a very
nice dinner--fresh peas, cauliflower, etc.; but that which struck my
fancy most was an open court in the center of the building in which a
fountain was playing, and in a gallery running all 'round the second
story, looking down on this fountain, were fastened numerous plants in
pots and bird cages. As we left the house three Mexicans were playing
on a harp, violin and flageolet, which completed a very romantic
picture.
We invested eighteen dollars in apples, lemons and oranges, and Anson
also found some fresh _tomatoes_, all, of course, grown in the open
air, for it never frosts here. It looks strange to see the tropical
fruit growing while snow-capped mountains look down on them.
Our tent is pitched, our bed made down, and everything is very easy;
our only regret is that dear Lizzie did not come with us. Anson
repeatedly expresses his regret that she did not.
Our carriage is perfectly splendid; in fact I _don't_ see how people
can possibly _exist_ without a carriage.
I was made very happy last night by receiving a letter from home,
the first one since we left. It was addressed to Drum Barracks. We
have not as yet received those directed to Halleck, but they will be
forwarded to us. We also got two newspapers, and one the day before,
which were devoured.
March 12th.
We are camped in the loveliest spot you ever saw. A little mountain
stream runs rapidly down on one side of us, the mountains on another,
the wagon road on another, and on the other the valley stretches
miles and miles away in the direction where lies our road. The ground
(Cocomonga Ranch) belongs to a Mexican who owns a tract of land nine
miles square, over fifty thousand acres. One hundred and seventy of
it is planted in a vineyard. All of this work is done by Indians,
civilized, of course. Anson brought one boy down to see me, or
rather for me to see him. They jabbered away in Mexican together at
a great rate. Anson can speak a good deal of Spanish, carried on a
conversation very well, and is fast relearning what he had forgotten
of it.
I forgot to tell you that we saw flying fish and porpoises while we
were coming down on the steamship.
Last night Anson and I climbed a mountain, and a mighty steep one
it was, but we were rewarded when we reached the summit by a most
lovely view on all sides. I think the mountain is probably an
extinct volcano, as something like lava was all over it. It also had
quantities of wild flowers on it.
The nearer you get to the Indians the less you hear of them. There are
no wild Indians this side of the Colorado River, and very few tame
ones. It is perfectly safe to travel alone as far as the Colorado
River, which is almost half of our journey; after that, an escort is
necessary, although the mail coach travels almost all the way with no
escort at all. You need have no fears for us, as even if they do not
furnish a regular escort in the Indian country, there are enough of
us to do without, as there are thirty men in the party. By the time
you get this we will probably be at Date Creek, where we stop for a
while on that court.
March 21.
When I last wrote to you we had gone ten miles on the desert; we have
now gone one hundred and twenty-three miles over the same desert, only
some was worse, and I suppose it is the same thing until we reach the
Rio Colorado, which is now only forty-nine miles. To fully describe
the trip since my letter would be impossible, for one can have but
a faint idea of it unless they were to go over the same country. I
had no idea that such a forlorn district was comprised within the
limits of the United States. To begin at the beginning, after leaving
the Sulphur Springs of which I told you, we traveled eighteen miles
through deep sand, which is the hardest thing imaginable on the poor
mules, for their feet being very small sink deep in, the last few
miles being through choking dust. We reached Indian Wells, a large
station consisting of one house, or, more properly speaking, hovel,
where they _sell_ water. There are some poor Indians here whom one can
not help but pity. They had heard that the government intended moving
them away onto a reservation, and when they found our train was coming
said they wanted to see an officer. The chief and the interpreter (who
spoke Indian and Spanish) came down, and Anson went over to talk to
them. The poor old chief said he did not want to harm any one, but he
was born in that place, and he wanted to die there, which assertion
you would wonder at, could you but see the place and know that they
have not even tents or huts to live in, but lie down in the sand.
Anson brought them over to our tent to give them something to eat. The
old chief was, I suppose, gotten up for the occasion, and was attired
in a clean white shirt and a hat, that's all, which was at the same
time unique and cool. They both shook hands with Anson on leaving, and
trudged off, barefooted, through the sand and cactus to their home
(?). It made me feel badly to see them, the descendants of Montezuma,
reduced to such a state of humiliation. They have a strange custom
in regard to their dead. They burn the body, and then break over the
ashes all the oyas or earthen jars which once belonged to him. The
next day we went eighteen miles through a dreadful sand-storm, which
blinded and choked men and mules. After reaching Martinez, however,
the sand stopped blowing over us, or we might have been compelled to
eat for dinner the same kind of pies which we used to make when we
were children--mud pies.
The next day we traveled 26 miles to "Dos Palmas," which means two
palms; but someone burnt up one of them, so the name is hardly proper
now. Anson told me to be sure to tell you that we have seen a real
palm tree, and he went bathing under its foliage. It was indeed an
oasis in the desert to see this beautiful tree standing alone in
its glory. I wish you could have seen it, for it was most lovely.
Something else there was not quite so lovely; we had some rolls baked
by the man who keeps the station house, and for ten large rolls he
charged three dollars in coin. The next day at half past five we
were on our way again, traveled sixteen miles, where they rested and
watered the mules, and then on again to a dry camp, which explains
itself, there being no water for the mules. We could carry with us
enough to drink, but in the morning we rubbed off our faces with a wet
towel, for we could not spare water for a greater ablution. We were
off very early next morning, for the mules could get no water 'til we
had traveled twenty-four miles. There is a stretch here of thirty-five
miles where they always have to make a dry camp. Three more days and
we reach the river, where we rest a few days, and then only six more
days. At Martinez, one of the mules had a great big piece taken out of
its breast by a bull dog, and Anson actually turned Vet. and sewed it
up, and did it well, too. A horse died at this place last night, and
today the Indians are making merry over its carcass, eating it. I was
interrupted while writing this letter by the tent blowing down.
March 28.
We camped at Ehrenberg four days, during that time had two dreadful
wind-storms. Anson had great big stones piled on all the tent pins,
as the ground was not very hard, but the tent shook and flapped until
it would have been almost a relief to have had it go over. We went
to bed, however, and in about fifteen minutes after, a terrific gust
brought the whole thing down with a crash. The worst feature of it
was that it tore a piece out of the tent so that it could not be put
up again, so we very coolly slept under the ruins all night. This is
Tuesday, and we expect to be at Date Creek on Saturday. They say they
are making great preparations there, and are going to have a dance,
and expect some ladies down from Fort Whipple.
March 29th.
We came twenty-eight miles today. Wind-storm part of the way, which
is heavy enough to make us fear another blow-down, so we are going
to sleep in the ambulance. Anson has taken out the seats and we will
have the bed right on the floor, which is large enough to be very
comfortable. I am in it now and feel perfectly satisfied, as I have
none of that nervous, uncomfortable feeling, which the flapping of a
tent in the wind is sure to give one.
DATE CREEK, April 1st.
Although this is All Fools' Day, what I am going to tell you is no
joke, but sober reality. Yesterday found us forty-five miles from the
creek, and as Captain Meinhold, Mr. Kimball, one of the wagons and
four mounted men were going to make it in one day while the rest of
the party would have to be two days, we concluded to go on with the
small escort, as everyone assured us there was not the least bit of
danger. We rode gaily along, and were within eleven miles of the post,
when Anson saw one of the horsemen ride up to something, stop and,
taking out his carbine, cock it. He looked again, saw a lot of wagons,
and said, "there is a train." We rode a few yards farther and found
that a train of five wagons and forty-eight mules had been attacked
by Indians (as we afterwards learned only a few hours before we got
there). Three miles before we reached there I forgot to tell you that
we heard a wailing sort of sound and saw a stray mule. This sound was
undoubtedly a signal from an Indian sentinel to the party robbing the
train, giving them warning that another party was coming, and for
them to get off. The Indians were no doubt at work on the train when
we heard this noise. Imagine the feelings of all. We did not know but
that Indians were lurking behind every bush. They had cut the harness
from all the mules and captured all of them excepting three. They had
emptied out sack after sack of flour and carried off the sacks to make
clothes, leaving the flour piled all around. Boxes were broken open,
and it really was a dreadful sight, when the position of affairs which
we were in was thought of, and my being there was the first thing that
they all thought of. They concluded to turn 'round and go to meet the
rest of the train to give them warning, as well as for the safety of
ourselves. For one moment I wanted to cry, the next I laughed actually
a little bit, and after that I was not in the least afraid. Anson
directed me not to shoot until they got pretty close, if we came
across them. I laid the pistol on the seat of the ambulance, and my
hand on the pistol, ready to cock it at a moment's warning, and I feel
sure if Mr. Lo had made his appearance I should have hurt at least
one of them. They supposed by not seeing any bodies lying around that
the men had escaped to the post and sent men out after the Indians.
We met our train, and camped for the night. The next morning (today)
we started for the post. When we came up to where the attack was made
we found that soldiers had been sent and were guarding the place. I
should have been glad that all this scare happened in order to teach
everybody caution, but that it came too late to teach one poor fellow,
and perhaps another, for one teamster was killed and another badly
wounded, and they were both lying somewhere near when we came up, but
the wounded one must have been unconscious or he would have heard us
and let us know he was there. There were eight men with this captured
train, plenty to have defended it had they been prepared, but in
an Indian country, they were traveling with but two guns and three
rounds of ammunition. It has taught me one good lesson. I shall never
go outside of the post without a sufficient escort, and when we get
to Whipple I never mean to go even to Prescott, which is only a mile
distant, but mean to stay inside of the post 'til we change stations.
Everybody has felt so safe all about here, and ladies from this post
would ride with only one gentleman for miles and miles over the hills,
but they are well scared now. This train was mostly filled with
government stores, and I am very much afraid that the papers will make
a big talk about it, and as it was so close to ours, you will think
it was ours, and worry unnecessarily about it before you receive my
letter. You need have no fears about our safety, as there is no danger
of their attacking soldiers that travel in such numbers as we will
hereafter.
We were very happy in getting a lot of letters today which had been
sent down from Whipple. We got three of home written to Halleck, one
from Texas, Washington, Kentucky, Columbia, London, Fort Shaw, Fort
Laramie. Quite a variety, and as another mail comes in tonight, we
expect some more in the morning.
I am sorry to hear of dear mother's being so sick after we left, but
glad she is well again.
Mrs. Ebstein has her sister with her. They are very pleasant and very
kind to us. They tell us that Whipple is one of the healthiest of
places, and also has about the best quarters in the territory.
I forgot to tell you that one of the savages dropped a quiver full
of arrows as he was hurrying off with his plunder, and one of the
soldiers gave it to me. The quiver is an ugly thing, but I shall bring
you one of the arrows when we come home next time as a memento of our
first, and I hope last, Indian scare.