FOURTH OF JULY AT SACRAMENTO.
“In war take all the time for thinking that the circumstances allow,
but when the time for action comes, _stop thinking_.”
_Andrew Jackson._
Sacramento at last! Ah, boys, little did we think when our section
pulled in at Twenty-first street, that we were now on the future field
of the great and glorious, but bloodless battle of “The Depot.” The
battle of strategic “co-operations” and still existing “truces,” in
which we were destined to take such a prominent “standing” part.
Sacramento! The scene of our future troubles and joys (much of the
former but how very few of the latter). Our troubles began when the
order came to sling knapsacks and form in the street. That never to be
forgotten 4th of July was a banner day for heat, even in the annals of
sultry Sacramento; and as we stepped from our car, tired, hungry, and
oh, my! how hot, we were inhumanely confronted by a large sign on the
side of a brewery, “Ice Cold Buffalo 5cts.” The eye of many a brave
comrade grew watery and his mouth dry as we stood there in the burning
rays of the sun with our knapsacks and blankets on our backs facing
that sign like a little band of modern Spartans and waiting patiently
for the order to march. Soon the “glittering staff,” armed to the
teeth, passed “gorgeously” by; the order “forward” echoed along the
line, and the “army of occupation” was in motion.
We had arrived and formed at 8:00 and marched at about 8:30. The
train stopped at Twenty-first and R streets, and our line of march to
the armory was as follows: North along Twenty-first to P, along P to
Eleventh, along Eleventh to N, along N to Tenth, along Tenth to L and
along L to the armory on the corner of Sixth, in all fully three miles.
Never before did the Old City Guard participate in such a 4th of July
“parade.” After a long night of unrest, trudging along block after
block through the sweltering heat, without the enlivening sounds of
drums or fife, our heavy packs growing heavier at every step, the salt
perspiration blinding our eyes, and looking up only to see the heat
dancing along the road in front of us, we felt little inclination to
joke or notice the open-mouthed wonder of many of the onlookers. Still
we could hear the remarks of the bystanders, that they “guessed the
strikers felt sick this morning,” or of the apparently less impressed
small boy who “reckoned de strikers would pop off dat fatty fust.” The
betting was even as to whether he meant Kennedy or Sieberst, but the
rival claimants “co-operated” by rendering a decision.
Worn, weary, and hungry we arrived at the Armory at 9:15, and found the
Sacramento troops, Companies E and G of the Second Infantry, already
under arms. Stacking arms on L street, and a strong guard being left
at the stacks, we were marched in column of twos into the armory
drill-hall where the now world-renowned “ample breakfast” supplied by
Adjutant General Allen, late Second Lieutenant Commissary Department
Missouri State Volunteers, awaited us. This, according to General
Allen, “ample breakfast,” consisted of coffee strong enough “to run for
Congress,” and bread. Certainly a very “ample” breakfast for men who
had been awake and traveling all night, many without dinner the evening
before, and executed such a trying march that morning. Ample, too, when
it is considered that this was intended to serve both as breakfast and
lunch, and, it might be dinner.
Thus is a lesson in economy given by the military heads of this great
State to the civil heads who may wish to profit thereby.
Thus is the frugality of our forefathers, in their great battle for
home and freedom on the shores of the Atlantic, exemplified on the
distant shores of the calm Pacific by our ever to be remembered
Adjutant General, late Second Lieutenant Commissary Department Missouri
State Volunteers.
However, despite our foolish doubts as to the amplitude and quality of
our meal, the shade of the hall and the relaxation from the fatigue of
the march were very welcome.
While we were regaling ourselves a shot was heard fired in the street
in front of the armory; and the report quickly spread that the shot
had been fired by a striker in the crowd, wounding a soldier on guard
at the stacks. This, however, proved untrue, as it was found that a
private of the Sixth, in loading, accidentally discharged his piece,
the firing-pin of which seems to have been rusty, the cartridge
exploding when he tried to force it home. The bullet struck the front
rank man in the calf of the leg, wounding him severely. Passing through
the guardsman’s leg, it struck on a rock in the street and split,
both pieces glancing into the crowd of sightseers. In the crowd four
persons in all were injured, more or less severely; one of them, Mr.
O. H. Wing, a citizen of Sacramento, being struck in the abdomen and
killed. His death was deeply regretted by the soldiers; especially so
as Mrs. Wing, his gentle, high-minded widow, wrote to the soldier, the
unfortunate cause of her bereavement, exonerating him from all blame
and assuring him of her deepest sympathy.
Having finished our ample breakfast the City Guard was marched from the
armory in column of twos, and allowed to rest in the shade of an awning
on the corner of Sixth and M streets.
Now and all during the campaign which followed the absurdly childish
way in which the press and many of the people looked on the citizen
soldiery, and on the work which they were doing at the call of their
country, was both surprising and irritating to the men who had left
their homes and business to protect the lives and property of their
fellow-citizens. It is true this was no wild unled mob. It was worse;
as was proven later by the most cold-blooded train wreck and murder
ever perpetrated in the West, that of the 12th of July. A murder far
beyond the abilities of our ignorant Eastern mobs, planned by the
leaders and executed by some of the most important members of the A. R.
U.
The absurd position of antagonism to the soldiers taken by the people
was instanced on this first morning in what now seems a rather amusing
incident, though it needed but little more to make it very serious at
the time.
When arms were stacked in the street in front of the armory guards
were posted round the building; L street at its crossing with Sixth
and for a short distance towards Fifth and Seventh streets being most
heavily guarded. This of course stopped the passage of all teams over
this street for about the distance of a block. As “B” was leaving the
armory to make room for the less fortunate companies which had not yet
been introduced to General Allen’s breakfast, by this time reduced to
bread and water, we saw an infuriated fool driving a wagon in which
were seated two women and a child, lashing his horse at a furious
pace through the line of sentries. He had passed several, but just at
the crossing of Sixth street met men of sterner stuff. Two sentries,
members of a Sacramento company, who happened to be close together
and in the center of the street, decided to stop his mad career. One
brought his piece to the “charge bayonets” while the other prepared to
grasp the horse by the bridle. This he did, and did well, just as the
horse reared at the pointed bayonet, carrying the soldier with him. Had
he missed his leap for the bridle the horse would most undoubtedly have
been impaled on the bayonet. The beast in the wagon became laughably
furious when the beast in the shafts was stopped. He wasted his breath
shouting out the usual jargon about “being a taxpayer,” etc., but it
was of no avail; he was led ignominiously back over the route over
which he had made his glorious charge for principle, greeted by the
laughing jeers of the crowd that cheered him but a moment before as he
made his mad rush to get through. Such is the uncertainty of public
favor.
Here in the shade we waited, amusing ourselves as best we could, our
guards at the company stacks being relieved every half hour until at
11:15 A. M., we received the order to fall in, preparatory, it seemed
to the unconsulted enlisted man, to moving on the depot. This was
confirmed in our minds when, having formed at the stacks, we were
relieved of the heavy burden of our knapsacks; these being placed on
wagons impressed for the purpose.
The division formation was made on Sixth street, the boys of “B”
feeling greatly chagrined when they saw Brigadier General Sheehan’s
four companies, “E” and “G,” of the Second Infantry, and “A” and “B,”
of the Sixth Infantry of Stockton take the van; and surprise, too,
thinking, as we did, that the lack of faith in the Sacramento companies
at least was the real cause of our call for service. Later on that
trying day our misgivings were justified.
The First Regiment under Colonel W. P. Sullivan fell in behind General
Sheehan’s command. The First Battalion, under Major Geo. R. Burdick,
consisting of companies “A,” Captain Marshall, “H,” Captain Eisen,
“G,” Captain Sutliff, and “B,” Captain Cook; and the Second Battalion
under Major Jansen, consisting of companies “F,” Captain Margo, “D,”
Captain Baker, and “C” under Lieutenant Ruddick. The Third Regiment of
Infantry, Colonel Barry commanding, brought up the rear, and acted as
guard to the baggage. General Dimond and staff, and the Second Brigade
Signal Corps, Captain Hanks, marched in rear of the First Regiment.
The movement toward the depot commenced at about 11:45 A. M., the
companies of General Sheehan’s command marching in close column of
company, and the San Francisco regiments falling almost immediately
into street column formation; the Gatling gun section of Light Battery
“A,” under 1st Lieutenant Holcombe, taking position in the hollow of
the First Battalion of the First Regiment.
To those in the ranks it seemed as though the large crowds of gayly
dressed sightseers which followed us, looked upon our march as a
Fourth of July celebration. This, without doubt, was the cause of the
remarkable sight which greeted us, as the Sacramento and Stockton
companies fell away from our front later in the day, and exposed to our
view a motley crowd of men, women, and children. It seemed more like
a Saturday afternoon crowd on Market street than a mob resisting the
authority of a United States marshal. Still it took but a second glance
to tell us that the great majority were strikers.
What interesting studies were our comrades as we marched quietly along
toward the depot; how truly were the feelings of each depicted on his
face. Here and there fear was to be seen, plainly mingled however, with
a determination not to yield to the feelings. Some, too, seemed to
feel an elation at the approaching conflict, while by far the greater
number marched along with an indifference surprising in men who were
answering their first call for actual service, and that, too, against
men as well armed as they, angry and determined not to yield a foot.
The militia well knew that this was no beer-drinking, stone-throwing,
leaderless mob, to which the East is so well accustomed; but, on the
contrary, that it was a well-organized and coolly led mob, holding the
advantage of position and determined to fight rather than yield.
As the column debouched from Second street into the open ground before
the depot, men wearing the A. R. U. badge could be seen rushing in
from all directions, summoned, by furious blasts on a steam whistle, a
preconcerted signal used by the strikers as soon as the intention of
our officers became apparent.
When the head of our column had almost reached the open west end of the
depot the command was halted, our battalion still keeping its street
column formation. Then commenced a trial far more trying in the minds
of most of us than even the hot fight we had so surely expected, would
have been. It was now high noon and the sun had reached its zenith, the
heat being remarkable even for Sacramento; the road was covered with a
fine dust, which, stirred by the restless feet of the waiting soldiers,
hung in clouds in the warm air, making breathing almost impossible.
As the column halted, the crowd which had been following us and which
gathered at the blast of the steam whistle rushed in around the four
foremost companies, completely shutting them off from our view, except
for the line of bayonets which glistened above the heads of the mob.
Then commenced a scene of confusion almost indescribable. Shouts,
cheers and hoarse commands mingling in an uproar that at times was
deafening. The strain on the San Francisco troops now became intense;
the lack of sleep and food, combined with the terrific heat and the
excitement and anxiety of the occasion, began to have its effect; many
of the men tottered and fell. They were quickly borne off by their
comrades in the ranks or by men of the fife and drum corps, who did
efficient service on that trying day, to the hospital, established
temporarily in the pipe house of the water company, where the Hospital
Corps of the First did heroic work; gaining, as of course, no
recognition thereof by the press.
The uproar in front continued. Suddenly the glittering line of bayonets
fell and shouts from the mob of “Fall in there!” “Get in front!”
“Don’t give a step!” resounded over the tumult. Anxiously we waited
to hear the next order, which might ring the deathknell of many of
our comrades, when shout after shout pealed out from the excited mob.
A thrill ran along our ranks. “They had thrown down their arms.” We
gritted our teeth and waited breathlessly for the order to charge. But
that order was not to come during that whole trying day. Three times
did the report run along the line that the Sacramento men had thrown
down their arms and then taken them up again at the entreaty of their
officers. The men in our ranks began to feel disgusted. Was this to
be the performance gone through by each company in turn? Were they
to be cheered and argued with, coddled and cajoled out of the ranks?
Standing there in the dust, burning with thirst for water we dare not
touch, with the thermometer above one hundred and five degrees in the
shade, watching the farce in front, and looking off toward the vacant
unprotected south front of the depot, knowing well that a corporal’s
squad, if thrown in from the rear, could clear it, and yet powerless
to move, it would have been little wonder if the best trained regular
troops became disgusted. “Why do we not take the strikers in the rear
while they palaver with the men in front?” “Where are our Generals,
not a sign of whom have we seen since our arrival, and their staffs,
numbering enough in themselves to clear the depot?” However,
“Their’s not to reason why.”
We must stand there and await developments. They were certainly
improving our tempers to fight, for we would have fought an European
host for the chance to get into that shady depot and escape the
burning heat of the dusty road. The men continued to fall on all sides
exhausted, and it seemed as if the laurels of victory would deck the
brow of a third party--Old Father Sol. The uproar of shouts, cheers,
and yells continued in front. Suddenly a wave of surprise, then of
satisfaction, passed over us. The Sacramento troops were marching off
the ground, followed by a frantic mob of men and boys. Our chance would
come soon. Speculation now became rife. Would the Stockton men do the
same, or would they press forward against the mob? A few minutes of
tumult, mingled yells and cheers for “Stock” settled the question for
us. We saw the flash of the bayonets as the pieces were brought to the
right shoulder; fours right, column right, and the Stockton companies
marched by, cheered to the echo by the strikers.
Our turn at last! A yell of “Three cheers for the San Francisco boys”
was answered lustily by the mob. But we had gone beyond that; we wanted
that depot, and meant to have it if the officers would only give the
order. We grasped our pieces ready for the order, “Forward,” those
who were growing sick and dizzy bracing themselves for a final rush.
But the order never came. Cries for quiet and of “Baldwin” came from
the mob nearest the Depot, and looking over the heads of the crowd
we could see Marshal Baldwin mounting to the roof of the cab of one
of a string of dead locomotives which stretched along the main line
west. He was quickly followed by three or four leaders of the mob, who
succeeded in quieting the crowd by assurances of “keep quiet”; “one at
a time”; “you’re next”; etc. Now began a novel scene indeed. Imagine a
United States marshal, with six hundred soldiers at his back, pleading
with a mob with, as it seemed to us, tears in his eyes, to disperse,
to surrender the Depot, to return to their homes. From that moment
the strikers knew that the day was won, that no troops, no matter how
willing, would enter that building while commanded by Marshal Baldwin,
without the strikers’ own kind permission. How that mob enjoyed our
humiliation and the scene of a United States marshal pleading with them
like a child. We had been called from our homes for active service, and
now stood, in all our useless bravery, the audience of a farce in real
life.
The farce proceeded. The men on the cab draped the marshal’s head with
small American flags, exchanged hats with him, and indulged in a few
other pleasantries for the edification of their friends below.
[Illustration: THE DEPOT AT SACRAMENTO, JULY 4TH, 1894.]
Failing in his first purpose the marshal now began to plead for time
that he might meet Mr. Knox or Mr. Compton and talk it over with them;
methods which were supposed to have been tried before the call for
military aid. He begged for a truce until 3 o’clock. Oh, the irony of
it! He, the aggressor, begging for a truce at the hands of a mob until
then plainly on the defensive. They refused the truce, the time was too
short, they said. “Then 5, 6 o’clock,” appealingly spoke the marshal.
Seeing plainly that the day was lost and that any greater delay
would now only be injurious to his own men, Col. Sullivan of the First,
who, by the way, appeared to be the ranking officer present, though
there had been at least four general officers with us in the morning,
stepped upon the cab and told the mob, not in tones of pleading, but
decidedly, that this truce must be entered into; that his men were
not used to such extreme heat, and that he intended to move them into
the shade. Suddenly Knox, the leader of the strikers, escorted by a
large American flag, emerged from the depot, cheered loudly by the
mob. Now, it appears a truce until 6 o’clock was quickly entered into,
and the men who had marched confidently through the town that morning
were, amid the hoots and jeers of the people, led away, sullen and
dispirited, to a vacant lot by the side of the depot. Here the men of
the First were allowed to rest and take advantage of such shade as
they could find. B and the section of Light Battery A took possession
of an old shed; C and G found another in rear of the first, which they
appropriated to their own use; D was stretched on the ground a short
distance farther on, and the other companies mingled together in the
shade of some trees some distance to the right of B’s position. It
could now be seen that, among the men, the disgust at the failure to
accomplish what we had come such a distance to do, was very great. In
B, at least, it was deep and genuine. All during that long sultry day
the unprotected front entrance of that cool, shady building had stared
us in the face, and yet, for some unaccountable reason, we did not get
the order to enter. We felt that the strikers would retire if a company
were thrown quietly in through that end, and were justified in our
opinion, when, some days later, a corporal’s squad of regulars cleared
the place in a few moments.
Under the influence of the rest and shade our excited feelings
gradually became relieved. Talk as we might we could not improve our
situation, so we soon resigned ourselves to circumstances, and waited
as quietly as possible for 6 o’clock. The men of the Hospital Corps,
under whose care 150 men had been placed during those three hours,
now gradually drew ahead with their work, and soon had all their
patients relieved. Out of the 150 soldiers prostrated we are glad to be
able to say that only three were from B, and even these, after a few
minutes’ rest, were able to lend their assistance to the Hospital Corps
themselves.
Delegates from the strikers now made their appearance, with the evident
intention of getting the soldiers drunk before six o’clock. Captain
Cook, however, ordered his men to accept no invitations to drink. Not
to be baffled, the strikers soon reappeared, carrying cases of bottled
beer, which the captain quickly refused to allow his men to receive.
Still persistent, a striker stepped into the shade of our shed carrying
two quart bottles of whiskey, which he proceeded to toss amongst the
men. The captain was still on the alert, however, and ordered the
bottles returned, telling the overgenerous striker that he would not
allow his men to receive liquor.
Lieutenant Filmer and Sergeant Kelly were then sent into town, with
orders to purchase two cases of soda water, which, on its arrival, was
quickly disposed of. Quartermaster Sergeant Clifford, ever watchful,
procured at a coffee house close by a supply of buns, which he quickly
manufactured into sandwiches, and distributed amongst his famished
comrades.
The scene had by this time become exceedingly picturesque. The tired,
wearied men had quieted down, some stretched on the ground sleeping
heavily, their heads pillowed on rolled blankets or on knapsacks;
others resting in the same way, though chatting quietly, and still
others were busily writing letters, using the head of a drum or the
back of a knapsack placed on the knees as they sat on the ground as a
desk.
It has been commonly reported that the soldiers became boisterously
drunk, and fraternized freely with the very men they had come there
to fight. If this be so, it was confined almost entirely to the other
commands, no man of the First, to our knowledge, and most decidedly
none of “B,” being even slightly intoxicated. The afternoon passed
slowly by, no apparent preparations being made to resume hostilities at
the expiration of the truce. Six o’clock came, but with it no change of
position. Now we began to wonder whether or not our “ample breakfast”
of the morning was intended to serve as supper, too. If that were so,
we decided that man’s nature had changed since General Allen was young,
for we certainly began to feel the pangs of hunger.
Our fears were allayed, however, when, at 6:30, the order “Fall in
for supper” was given. Taking our arms with us, we were marched,
under command of Lieutenant Filmer, to the State House Hotel, where
our display of gastronomic powers completely dismayed the scurrying
waiters.
Returning from supper our pace was an evidence of the good use we had
made of this chance to appease our appetites.
Returned to our shed near the depot, it was evident the position
remained unchanged. The different companies were either going to or
returning from supper at the various hotels.
The evening passed quietly; many of the men sleeping on the ground
where they had thrown their knapsacks.
At about 9:30 P. M. Captain Cook formed the company, and told us that
the First would be removed to the Horticultural Hall, on the main floor
of which we would be allowed to bivouac that night. The companies were
already moving, and “B,” getting possession of an electric car, was the
last company to leave. The car, as of course, proved to be the wrong
one, and carried us less than half the desired distance. The rest of
the way was covered on foot, the company arriving at the hall some
little time after the other companies had settled down for the night.
What a scene we would have presented to the eyes of a stranger! Every
available foot of floor was covered with sleeping forms. The band stand
and stage were utilized; even the steps, a very precarious bed indeed,
were in demand; and every corner that appeared to offer security from
draughts had its quota of men.
Thus ended that great and glorious Fourth of July, in the year of our
Lord, 1894. Glorious, indeed, in the annals of this great Empire State
of the West.
Thus, too, does history repeat itself. The Fourth of July! The
anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, and of that greatest
struggle of the Civil War of the Rebellion, the battle of Gettysburg;
and now, for all future ages, to be trebly honored as the anniversary
of the bloodless battle of the Sacramento Depot.
[Illustration: FIRST REGIMENT CAMP, CAPITOL GROUNDS.]