where Senators amused one another with the gossip of the day, continued
to buzz with anecdotes about President Grant's curious notions of the
nature and functions of civil government. One of these anecdotes,
told by a Senator who was considered one of the best lawyers in that
body and one of the most jealous of the character of his profession,
was particularly significant. He heard a rumor that President Grant
was about to remove a Federal judge in one of the territories of the
United States. The Senator happened to know that judge as a lawyer
of excellent ability and uncommon fitness for the bench, and he went
to the President to remonstrate against so extreme a measure as the
removal of a judge unless there were cogent reasons for it connected
with the administration of the office. President Grant admitted that,
as far as he knew, there was no allegation of the unfitness of the
judge, as a judge, "but," he added, "the governor of the territory
writes me that he cannot get along with that judge at all, and is
very anxious to be rid of him; and I think the governor is entitled
to have control of his staff." The Senator closed his story by saying
that he found it to be a delicate as well as a difficult job to make
the great general in the chair of the President of the United States
understand how different the relations between a territorial governor
and a Federal judge were from those between a military commander and
his staff officers. The anecdote was received by the listeners with
a laugh, but the mirth was not far from apprehension. However, there
being sincere and perfect goodwill on both sides, things went on
pleasantly in the expectation that the military hero at the head of
the government would learn what he needed to know and that the men in
places of political power would treat him with due consideration and
fairness.
_Grant Presses for San Domingo Annexation_
It was a few days later when I met President Grant at an evening
reception given by Colonel Forney, the Secretary of the Senate. I was
somewhat surprised when I saw the President coming toward me from the
opposite side of the room, saying: "Senator, you have not called to
see me at the White House for some time, and I have been wanting to
speak to you." All I could say in response was that I was very sorry to
have missed a conversation I might have had with him, but that I knew
him to be a busy man who should not be robbed of his time by merely
conventional visits. He repeated that he wished very much to see me.
Would I not call upon him at my earliest convenience some evening? I
put myself at once at his service, and went to the White House the
next night. He received me in the library room and invited me to sit
with him on a sofa. He plunged forthwith into the subject he had at
heart. "I hear you are a member of the Senate committee that has the
San Domingo treaty under consideration," he said, "and I wish you
would support the treaty. Won't you do that?" I thought it would be
best not to resort to any circumlocution in answering so pointblank a
summons, but to be entirely frank. I said I should be sincerely happy
to act with his administration whenever and wherever I conscientiously
could, but in this case, I was sorry to confess, I was not able to
do as he wished, because I was profoundly convinced it would be
against the best interests of the republic. Then I gave him some of my
dominant reasons; in short, acquisition and possession of such tropical
countries with indigestible, unassimilable populations would be highly
obnoxious to the nature of our republican system of government; it
would greatly aggravate the racial problems we had already to contend
with; those tropical islands would, owing to their climatic conditions,
never be predominantly settled by people of Germanic blood; this
federative republic could not, without dangerously vitiating its vital
principles, undertake to govern them by force, while the populations
inhabitating them could not be trusted with a share in governing our
country; to the difficulties we had under existing circumstances to
struggle with in our Southern States, much greater and more enduring
difficulties would be added; and for all this the plan offered
absolutely no compensating advantages. Moreover, the conversations I
had had with Senators convinced me that the treaty had no chance of
receiving the two-thirds vote necessary for its confirmation, and I
sincerely regretted to see his administration expose itself to a defeat
which, as I thought, was inevitable.
_The Liveryman and the Foreign Mission_
I spoke with the verve of sincere conviction, and at first the
President listened to me with evident interest, looking at me as if
the objections to the treaty which I expressed were quite new to him
and made an impression on his mind. But after a little while I noticed
that his eyes wandered about the room, and I became doubtful whether he
listened to me at all. When I had stopped, he sat silent for a minute
or two. I, of course, sat silent too, waiting for him to speak. At last
he said in a perfectly calm tone, as if nothing had happened: "Well, I
hope you will at least vote for the confirmation of Mr. Jones, whom I
have selected for a foreign mission."
I was very much taken aback by this turn of the conversation. Who was
Mr. Jones? If the President had sent his nomination to the Senate,
it had escaped me. I had not heard of a Mr. Jones as a nominee for
a foreign mission. What could I say? The President's request that I
should vote for Mr. Jones sounded so child-like and guileless, at
the same time implying an apprehension that I might not vote for the
confirmation of Mr. Jones, which he had evidently much at heart, that
I was sincerely sorry that I could not promptly answer "Yes." I should
have been happy to please the President. But I had to tell him the
truth. So I gathered myself together and replied that I knew nothing
of Mr. Jones, either by personal acquaintance or by report; that it
was the duty of the Committee on Foreign Relations to inquire into the
qualifications for diplomatic service of the persons nominated for
foreign missions and to report accordingly to the Senate, and that if
Mr. Jones was found to possess those qualifications, it would give me
the most genuine pleasure to vote for him. This closed the conference.
A few days later there was a meeting of the Committee on Foreign
Relations. After having disposed of some other business, Charles
Sumner, its chairman, said in his usual grave tone: "Here is the
President's nomination of Mr. Jones for the mission to Brussels. Can
any member of the committee give us any information concerning Mr.
Jones?" There was a moment's silence. Then Senator Morton of Indiana,
a sarcastic smile flickering over his face--I see him now before
me--replied: "Well, Mr. Jones is about the most elegant gentleman that
ever presided over a livery stable." The whole committee, except Mr.
Sumner, broke out in a laugh. Sumner, with unbroken gravity, asked
whether any other member of the committee could give any further
information. There was none. Whereupon Mr. Sumner suggested that the
nomination be laid over for further inquiry, which was done.
At a subsequent meeting the committee took up the case of Mr. Jones
again. It was a matter of real embarrassment to every one of us. We
all wished to avoid hurting the feelings of President Grant. There had
been no malice in Senator Morton's remark about the elegant gentleman
presiding over a livery stable. Morton was one of the staunchest
administration men, but he simply could not resist the humor of the
occasion. I do not recollect what the result of the "further inquiry"
was. I have a vague impression that Mr. Jones turned out to be in some
way connected with the street-car lines in Chicago, and to have had
much to do with horses, which was supposed to be the link of sympathy
between him and President Grant. However reluctant the committee was
to wound the President's feelings in so personal a matter, yet it did
not think it consistent with its sense of duty and dignity positively
to recommend to the Senate to confirm the nomination of Mr. Jones.
It therefore, if I remember rightly, reported it back to the Senate
without any recommendation, whereupon the Senate indulgently ratified
it.
THE FOREGOING ARTICLE WILL BE THE LAST OF THE CARL SCHURZ
REMINISCENCES TO APPEAR IN MCCLURE'S MAGAZINE. THE WRITING OF THE
MEMOIRS WAS BROKEN OFF AT THIS POINT BY MR. SCHURZ' DEATH, WHICH
OCCURRED IN 1906. A CONCLUSION TO THE SERIES, COMPILED BY MR. FREDERIC
BANCROFT FROM CARL SCHURZ' NOTES AND LETTERS, WILL APPEAR IN VOLUME III
OF THE BOOK, WHICH WILL BE ISSUED IN THE FALL.
A CAVALRY PEGASUS
BY
WILL ADAMS
ILLUSTRATIONS BY DAN SAYRE GROESBECK
The orderly-room was quiet; only the clicking of the Troop Clerk's
type-writer broke the stillness in sharp taps. Captain Campbell and
Sergeant Stone were at their desks, absorbed in papers. Presently Stone
pushed his work aside, and, hunting in a pigeonhole, brought forth a
grimy bundle.
"Are you interested in poetry, sir?" he said. Captain Campbell, _alias_
Shorty, sat up, with a snort, and peered over the piled-up findings of
a court-martial case. "Am I a love-sick puppy? Do I _look_ as if I were
interested in poetry?" Shorty's hair was mussed and matted, his flannel
shirt (he never wore a coat, if he could help it) was open at the
throat, and the dust of the early-morning drill still adhered to his
countenance, giving it a curiously gray-veiled appearance--he said he
hadn't had time to wash. Stone was forced to admit that his appearance
was not poetic.
"Well," he said, "I guess this isn't really poetry--just a stab at it.
Shall I read----"
"Sergeant Stone," interrupted his captain vehemently, "if you've been
such an ass as to try to write poetry, I'll be condemned if I keep you
as Top of _my_ troop. No, don't attempt to explain; I know it all!
There's a girl at the bottom of it: there always is. Poetry leads to
everything and anything. Soon you'll be neglecting your duties, and
then, I warn you,--_I warn you_,--you're busted! 'Member Sergeant
Johnson? Good soldier, but very foolish man. Went and got married--what
a fool! No good any more. Poetry will do the same for you."
Stone had been trying to stem the torrent. "For the Lord's sake,
Captain, what do you take me for? I haven't been writin' any poetry."
"What do you mean, then, insinuating that you have? There's only one
man living now who _can_ write poetry, but be hanged if I'd want him in
my troop."
"Still," said Stone, with his boyish, dimpling grin, "you've a poet in
the troop, in spite of you. It's Teddy Ryan."
"Ryan! That freckled kid? Why, he's a pretty fair soldier. Reckon his
poetry must be right rotten. Don't believe he knows enough to spell
'cat,' even. What you got there? Hand 'em over, only hurry up. I got to
go to headquarters soon. Oh, this is goin' to be a picnic!" Shorty was
chuckling over the soiled scraps.
The first one was ominously entitled "Destinny, by Prvt. T. Ryan 5th
Mont. Inf. U. S. V. 1898," and set forth:
I do not like my tacks and bacon,
They allus sets my belly aken.
I do not like to tote a gun,
It seems like I was son of one.
And lots of other things they done
to me I do not like at all.
I wish I never had inlisted
My feet is allus gettin' blistered
It's allus drillin drillin drillin
And eating grub that isent fillin.
And that is why I do not wanter stay.
And O By jimminy dont i wish my time
was up and i could get away.
"You bet he did," laughed Shorty. "You read these?" turning to Stone.
"Sure. Aren't they rich? Read 'Soljer and Moskeeter' an' 'To My Hoss.'
There's a horse on you in that last."
"Soldier and Mosquito" proved to be a dialogue.
SOLJER AND MOSKEETER
Soljer says:
"When we do go to bed
We do try to sleep instead
Of lyeing awake.
But we cannot for you kno
The pesky moskeeto
Our blood does take."
Moskeeter says:
"When that feller goes to bed
he covers up his head
In the dark,
i cannot cannot eat her
so I starve says poor moskeeter,
Grim and stark."
"Soldier seems to be a he an' a she too. An' he is sure impartial,"
remarked Captain Campbell. "Even a mosquito must have a point of
view--darn little nuisances!"
[Illustration: "'ARE YOU INTERESTED IN POETRY, SIR?' HE SAID"]
"'Life is one long gorgeous sunset if your head-net works as planned,'"
agreed Stone, quoting from the American Mandalay. "Go on an' read 'To
My Hoss,' You'll appreciate that."
TO MY HOSS
My hoss is gentle has no fears,
And is slow if you dont ticcle his years.
He has fore long legs and a drawn out hed,
And so is cald a quadruped.
Saturday morning enspection time
i groom my hoss up clene and fine,
But if his saddel aint packed wel,
You bet Shorty gives me hel.
My hoss must be fed before the men,
Wen i dont do it I get hel agen,
My hosses tale is very long
the end of him and the end of my song.
"I know," chuckled Shorty, "what was the inspiration for that second
verse. I jumped all over him one Saturday for havin' his canteen on the
near side an' his picket-pin upside-down where it would blame well spit
him if he should fall on it. He's right he got all that was coming to
him. I only got time for one more now--a short one. What shall it be?"
"Try 'Fiting Joe And Dewey'; that's a bit different--might be classed
under 'Poems of Ambition'."
Shorty shuffled the papers and read:
FITING JOE AND DEWEY
Theres heaps of places in the world men wud lik to been and see
But i tell you
And I tell you true,
That theres only 2 for me.
Ide like to have worn my Countrys blu
In the calvery riding or holding the tiller
With Fiting joe at San Wan Hill or with Dewey at Manilla.
And the old man says:
"Ive been in slews of battels and ime toting in my shin
A bullit from a johnny-rebils killer,
But I am hail and harty and i wish that I had been
With Fiting joe at San Wan Hill or Dewey at manilla."
"How in Tophet did you come by this stuff, Sergeant?" asked the
Captain, as he got up to put on his small coat, and, on tiptoe before
a little hanging mirror, tried, ineffectually, to calm his upstanding
hair with the ten-toothed comb of nature.
"Why, sir, Ryan gave 'em to me to read. He came into my room two or
three nights ago an' asked me if I wouldn't like to see them. Said
he'd written that 'Destinny' quite a time ago, but that all the others
were just recently finished; that he'd been writing a lot lately,
an' felt as if he just _had_ to show 'em to somebody, an' he thought
the other fellows would laugh at him. He said I might keep an' read
them to anybody I thought would appreciate them. _He_ thinks they're
Shaksperean."
"Well," said Shorty, grabbing his hat and preparing to bolt, "I have
sure appreciated 'em. But, you mark my words, there's a girl behind
this. A fellow like Ryan doesn't go squanderin' rhymes for nothin',
hombre. Adios." And off shot Shorty, with hands jammed deep in his
pockets.
"He's smart, all right," said Stone to himself; "the girl's there.
Where the deuce is that bloomin' ode, 'To my Lady-Frend'?" Finding it,
he read:
Heaven meant things to go in 2s Cora,
Thats why i am alone unhappy single.
There won't be a bird or animal refuse Cora
Each with other folks to mingle.
So why do you give me the cold sholder Cora
Is it becaws youre shi or love another?
If youd only speak to your deer soljer Cora,
Ide fite a feller if he was my brother.
The moone is shining britely in the ski my Cora deer
The nite is late the village clock strikes 2.
Yes everything says 2 my years can hear Cora,
And that is why i think of you.
"Poor kid, he seems to be up against it! Wonder where he got that about
the village clock? Must have been doin' some promiscious readin'.
He said that was the best 'piece' he'd written. I wonder if he--I
wonder if she----" Still wondering, Stone carefully put the precious
manuscript away and turned back to work, resolving to corral Private
T. Ryan at the first opportunity.
Private T. Ryan proved obliging, however, and came into Stone's room
after supper to get his verses and the first sergeant's opinion of them.
[Illustration: "'HE USED LANGUAGE TO ME, SIR, AND I AM HISS SERGEANT'"]
"What do I think about 'em, kid? Why, I think they're mighty
interestin'. Take a chair. I didn't know you had it in you. But that
one about your lady-friend, now; is that straight goods or is it a
poet's pipe-dream?"
"It's true, all right. You know who she is, too. Cora Sheean--father's
that retired chief trumpeter; lives over back o' the ridin'-hall."
"Cora Sheean! Why, yes, I know who _she_ is." Mrs. Sheean did Stone's
washing, and he had often seen red-haired Cora, and heard of her, too;
for she was the belle of the post in "enlisted" circles. "She's a
mighty pretty girl, Ted,--here's luck to you,--but she's so bloomin'
popular it's liable to be heavy goin'. You tell me all about it, an'
maybe I can help you some"; and Stone began a rapid-fire broadside of
questions, in the midst of which arrived John Whitney.
"Howdy," he remarked. "Say, yo' runnin' a pumpin'-station, Jerry?"
[Illustration]
"No, I'm not. Now, either you clear out or come in an' help. I showed
you Ryan's poetry--an' you remember that one about his lady-friend?
Well, it's true, an' he's tellin' me about it. Do you mind his comin'
in, kid? He can probably help you better than I can, as he's had so
much more experience with Eliz----"
"Shut up! Yo'-all are mighty fond of refe'in' to that lady. I notice
yo' get a letter every day yo'self!"
"Set down," said Ryan. "No, I don't mind, but don't you ever let on.
There's Hansen, now. He'd devil me all over the place if he caught on."
And so he continued his recital. Yes, Cora had flirted outrageously
with him. "But she says she ain't ever goin' ter marry no private; I
got ter be a sergeant anyway, or she won't look at me." He was going
to hold her to that; he was going to work hard, and there was a good
chance, for there would be two non-coms to get their _dis_charge next
week. No, he hadn't always been fond of poetry; only this last winter.
Will Carleton was a fine poet. "'Member 'bout that feller who fell
through the ceilin' into the butter-tub?--or was it a churn he fell
in?" But Ella Wheeler Wilcox was the finest poet who ever wrote a line.
"So all-fired hot," she was. He had two books full of her things. He
always wrote verses when he felt sort of lonely or Cora had been making
him mad. "I write 'em about everything. To-day, at Retreat, now, I
thought they'd keep us standin' there till kingdom come; an' when them
bugles was blowin' the last part, that goes down an' up an' down again
twice, an' then has a little wiggle to it, yer know, why, the words to
it just popped into my head. Like this": And he sang:
The gun goes boom,
The flag goes flop
Here we're standin' stiffened at the knees
an' almost nigh ter drop
Rhymes came easy when he felt like it. Sometimes he could write 'em
when he felt extra _good_, too. It had to be one way or the other; he
couldn't write a bit when things were just common. And he was awfully
fond of Cora. He'd give up 'most anything he had if she'd only say
she'd marry him. But Hansen was a Q. M. sergeant an' put on dog, an'
had reenlisted pay an' all, an' it cut a big figger with her. He wasn't
worried about any of the other fellers; he could beat them out easy;
but Hansen had him buffaloed. "An' I say, Sergeant, don't you tell
Shorty I want ter get married or he won't do a blame thing for me."
"Sure thing," said Stone, "I won't tell him. But look here, kid; if I
can work a pull for you,--an' I'll do the best I can,--will the lady
have you, after all?"
"I think I can work it. I believe she's got a fondness for me, but
she's that proud she wouldn't never marry nothin' but a sergeant;
her father was chief trumpeter, yer know. Say, do please give me a
recommend ter Shorty, an' I'll try mer very best ter do the work well
an' be a good soldier."
"Glad to hear you say that; 'cause, I warn you, if you don't make a
good non-com, you get busted. We can't run this troop on sentiment.
Yes, I'll tell the captain I think you'll do for a corporal, if that'll
ease your mind any; as for your getting a sergeancy, that's your own
lookout later. It all depends on what sort you prove yourself to be. If
it isn't the right sort, back you go."
"'I was a corporal wanst; I was rejuiced aftherwards,'" murmured
Whitney. "Yes, Ted, I'll tell Shorty, too, that you'd make a good
non-com. Will yo' leave yo' vuhses? I want to read 'em again.
Goodnight. Next time I see Miss Cora, I'll make yo' ears bu'n." And, as
Ryan departed with abject thanks, visibly cheered, Whitney stretched
out his hand. "Speakin' of Kiplin', hand over that Lady-Friend
yonder--want to learn her; she's a gem. Say, do yo' think Hansen's in
earnest over that?"
"Ask me an' I say no. I know that Knudt down to the ground. He isn't
the marryin' kind."
"Soldier of fortune, pyo' an' simple, he is," said Whitney; "always on
the go; an' do yo' think he's goin' to pin himself down anywhere? Not
he. He's only in this for the fun of the thing, an' it's a heap better
fo' the little Cora girl if he stays out."
"I'm with you. He couldn't tie up to one girl, never in his bloomin'
life. Between you an' me an' the lamp-post, he's goin' to the bad in
more ways than one. 'Wine, women, an' song,' an' consequent mix-ups in
his accounts. He's gettin' too crooked to stay quartermaster. Shorty's
about decided to put him back in the line. Why, only yesterday he came
over to me an' said, 'Say, make me out a afferdavid, will you? I lost
my carbine.' I knew blame well he hadn't lost it, so I said right
quick, 'That so? How much you get for it?'
"'Why,' he says, 'the man only gave me three-fif--Say, Stone, you're
darn smart! But help a feller out a bit, won't you? I had to have the
money.'
[Illustration]
"'No,' I said, 'I won't. You get out of here. I'm not goin' to perjure
my soul so's you can have any three-fifteen, or three-fifty, or
whatever it was.' The big yap! An', you can bet your life, if it had
come down to his carbine, he's been doin' some tall monkeyin' with the
accounts an' the troop fund. An' yet, with it all, I can't help liking
him; there's so many good things about him. If he's your friend once,
he's your friend for always--never knew such a man to stick. He's been
awfully good to me when there's no call to be, an' helped me in lots of
little ways."
"Yes," said Whitney; "an' the things he's seen, an' the places he's
been, an' the messes he's been mixed up in--an' he knows how to tell
it, too. That takes with the little Cora girl, of co'se. Better fo'
her, though, if he'd keep away. I like him all right fo' myself, but
he's liable to be crooked anywheres. Little Teddy Ryan's clean strain,
but he wouldn't show up to much advantage beside Knudt. Dixon goes out
to-mo'w; I s'pose that's what yo're thinkin' of fo' the kid. Who gets
the sergeancy? Decided?"
"Yep. Melody's jumped, an' Sullivan gets it, but I don't think Shorty's
thought of who'd be corporal. I'll try an' fix it in the mornin'."
Accordingly, next morning Stone nominated the poet to be Corporal Ryan.
"What the----!" said Shorty. "I've no use for a poet, I was thinkin' of
Terry--what?"
"Well, only that Terry drinks an' Ryan never does. I don't think his
verse-makin' will interfere with his duties; it hasn't hitherto, an' if
he doesn't make good, we can try some one else."
"Have it your own way, then. The way you run this troop is scandalous.
There's not another T. C. in the army who gets bossed by his Top the
way I do." And off went Shorty chuckling, having decided two days
before that Ryan was to be corporal, and well knowing that Stone would
defy even the colonel before he would run counter to an order given by
his adored captain.
* * * * *
Two nights later Stone and Whitney were again together.
"Well," said Whitney, "I've just seen the new co'poral goin', in all
his glory, to the little Cora girl's. He didn't take long to get his
stripes an' chevrons."
"To _get_! What you talkin' about? He had 'em all ready. Stevens saw
him take 'em out of his locker already fixed on a new suit."
"That's what I call befo'handed. But the little cuss is so blame happy
over it all."
"Yes," said Stone; "happy, an' wooin' the Muse again, too. Hope he
don't mix her up with his Cora. Will you look at this? And the length
of it? It's an ode to the troop, an' he hasn't left out anybody. Wonder
where he got the time to do it all! Read the first three verses an'
then the last; they're all you need to waste your time on."
So Whitney read:
OAD TO J TROOP
Come comrads come your carbeans load
While neer and far I sing my oad.
There never was a troop like owers
It does deserve all bueateous flowers.
Ower Captain in the army is the best
But he doesent give you any rest
And sergeants Stone and Whitny is very fine to,
The best sergeants who breth ever drew.
And now I come with unwiling pennence,
To tell you about ower 2 lootennence.
Lootenent Burns a Prints could be,
But Spurs isent neerly as educated as me.
* * * * *
So galopp on my gallent troop,
Let no one to a bob-tale stoop,
Its prayses sound from East to West
For all agree J troop is best.
Signed,
Corporal T. Ryan
Poet Lariat of J troop
18th U. S. Cav.
"Lariat! Gee! Wonder he didn't put 'an' picket-pin.' The second line of
that last verse is mighty ambiguous. Do you s'pose he means a hawse or
a dishono'able discharge?"
"Don't know," said Stone. "An' look at the last two lines:
Its prayses sound from East to West
For all agree J troop is best.