Part 13
Before going to Paris my commission as major in the 10th Cavalry arrived. A military tailor made me a uniform, which, with the gay attire Nannie bought in both London and Paris, satisfied Mrs. Langworthy on our second visit, made after returning from Paris, that we Americans could do right after all! We enjoyed our visits in their beautiful house, a fine English estate, and always recalled our acquaintance with our delightful English relatives with much pleasure.
We were in Paris at the opening of the exposition, where we met the other attachés. Among the Americans we met Lucien Young, a very interesting naval officer, in whose carriage Nannie and I rode to the opening. Our uniforms conformed much with the Prussian style, especially my helmet. Leaving the exposition immediately behind the Prince of Wales' entourage, the French took us for Germans, and looked upon us very coldly. Some bright Frenchman, discovering on my helmet the words, "E Pluribus Unum," called out to his countrymen that we were Americans, when we received almost as many cheers as the Prince of Wales himself.
Invited by President McMahon to a review of thirty thousand cavalry, I was informed that a French captain would have a mount for me in the Bois de Boulogne. There were eight American officers in Paris, most of them in official capacity, and when I arrived they were all there. As the senior, they insisted I approach the French officer. Speaking little French, I was somewhat embarrassed. But with the assurance of an American, I called out to the dapper young French artillery officer, "Good morning, captain; do you speak English?" "No, I do not," he replied, "but I speak American, which is much better. I spent four years as military attaché in Washington, the most beautiful city in the world."
It is needless to say that his diplomacy made us all his friends.
As Nannie had anticipated, this year's service at the Paris Exposition was the greatest practical and instructive education of my life. A practical skilled mechanic, I understood the intricacies of mechanics, and here in one building was assembled all the latest and most novel machinery of the world. The sewing machine was then in the height of its progressive construction. England, hitherto the foremost nation in machinery construction, was fast losing its place to America and France. The English machine was distinguished by its clumsy, angular and heavy parts and the difficulty of keeping it in order. The French machines were better, but the American machine stood first in all that made it handy, graceful, symmetrical and useful. And so it was with all the other machinery. Electric light and power was in its infancy, but here, as in all else, the best appliances for its use were American.
I started out in the hope of learning a great deal from the foreign nations in my conceived invention and construction of a woven cartridge belt and other web equipment, which I felt sure could be made as strong and of as firm consistency as leather, and much better than leather because it was lighter, more flexible, did not require oiling, and was less likely to break in the process of wetting and drying when exposed to the weather. However, after visiting factories in France, England and Germany, I found that they knew less about weaving such fabrics than we did in America.
Nannie and I traveled much during our stay abroad.
France had been humiliated by Germany's conquest and exaction of the then unheard of indemnity, but she was not despondent. In the dining room of our boarding house, 44 Rue de Clichy, were two female figures on pedestals representing Alsace and Lorraine, tears streaming down their cheeks; and when the proprietress, Madame Thierry, would speak of them the tears would roll down her cheeks, too. The sympathy of Americans was generally with France.
In Germany we found a remarkable condition. In one sense unspoiled by her great victories, so cheaply bought, and the acquisition of so much wealth in indemnity, the nation was just starting two propagandas. One was to organize productive industry and encourage the sciences and arts, with the object of making their nation foremost as a commercial producer. At the same time, Germany planned to carry her products to the four corners of the earth, in which, for forty years, she was entirely successful.
The second, as unholy and unrighteous as the first, was praiseworthy, was militarism, in which the rulers of the nation sought to make the profession of the soldier universal, with the deliberate and cold-blooded purpose of conquering the rest of the world, as Alexander, Hannibal, Cæsar and Napoleon had planned before. Germany had in view also the creation of a navy which could overcome England's, so she might rule the world on both land and sea. But for the heroism and self-sacrifice of the little kingdom of Belgium, with only eight millions of people, they would have succeeded.
We saw many idle soldiers lying on the grassy parapets of their forts smoking, while near them women dressed in rags carried dirt in wheelbarrows to form additional parapets. Nannie instinctively foresaw the future. She even then denounced those people as barbarous and inhuman, and for the rest of her life she hated bitterly German militarism.
In England we found the people divided into numerous classes, royalty, nobility, gentlemen, tradespeople, and common people. Many of these latter, for want of the ambition and self-reliance necessary to bring about success, had become sordid and drunken.
There were hundreds of street cars in Paris and its environs broad-mindedly labeled "American Railway," but hardly one in England.
In Manchester (then a larger city than New York), an apparently intelligent Scotch policeman, recognizing me as an American, proudly pointed to a brand new street car with one horse, and remarked, "I suppose you don't have anything like that in America?" When I replied that every city in the United States having twenty thousand population had a street car system, he evidently regarded me as a sort of American Baron Munchausen.
The upper classes relied upon their control of the sea by the largest navy in the world, indirectly to extort taxes from their millions of subjects in their vast possessions, governed without their consent. Suppressing ambition for democracy and restraining maritime commerce of other nations, is perhaps not as cruel and barbarous as the intended control of the world by Germany, but is quite as unrighteous and has been and still is detrimental to the progress and advancement of weaker peoples.
Of all countries we visited, Switzerland seemed to possess the best free democratic government and the people were the happiest. They looked you in the face with a cheerful smile wherever you met them and were content with their condition, as they have been for over three hundred years.
The difference between Europeans and Americans we found to be marked. For instance, on one of the Lake Geneva passenger steamers from Vevey to Geneva we found a thousand passengers, composed about equally of Americans, English, French, Germans, Spaniards, and Italians. While talking to a well-dressed American of perhaps twenty-five years of age, a band of about thirty Italians appeared on the upper deck, where most of the passengers were assembled.
Most of the passengers, especially the English, would not speak to each other without a formal introduction, so social greetings were few. When the band had played a few minutes, this American took off his hat and placed a handkerchief over it and carried it through the crowd, remarking, "Something for the band, please." He approached every passenger on deck. Europeans stared, astonished at the action of this man from the "Woolly West," but Americans smiled encouragement. He obtained probably the largest contribution the leader had ever received. He proceeded to the band and every man and woman was gazing at him in perfect silence when he turned over the handkerchief to the leader, until some American clapped and every American joined in. We were all proud of our countryman.
At 44 Rue de Clichy our son, Anson Cassel, was born on November 19, 1878. He was our joy for the next fifteen years. His birth delayed our return until March, 1879, when we took passage on a Cunarder. In Washington I received orders to proceed to the headquarters of the 10th Cavalry.
OUT WEST AGAIN
We traveled to Fort Concho, Texas, an uncomfortable and unprepossessing post, by ambulance from San Antonio, arriving April 11, 1879, and I served with the 10th Cavalry (colored) for twelve years, and was executive officer for Colonel B. H. Grierson, commanding the post, regiment and district under General Ord, department commander.
A big-hearted man, the only experience Grierson had in military affairs was as a general of volunteers, with which he was successful. With no experience in the regular army, even the best intentions did not fit him for the required discipline. He left the details of the post and regiment entirely to me, signing only papers which went to his superiors. He was too prone to forgive offenses and trust to promises for reform, which rendered the discipline and reputation of the regiment poor.
In May, 1881, Indian troubles took me with a squadron of four companies to Fort Sill. Nannie accompanied me the 225 miles, and there, on October 22d, our daughter, Constance Lydia, a joy and comfort to us both, was born. She was only eight days old when we were ordered back to Concho, making that trip, as we had the previous one, by wagon transportation, Nannie with her baby and little Anson riding in the ambulance.
In July, '82, the headquarters of the regiment was transferred to Fort Davis, when we again made a 225 miles journey with wagon and ambulance transportation.
Fort Davis was dry and cool, a most pleasant climate, but as hostile Indians occasionally made raids on the citizens, as at Fort Concho, we were kept busy. Fort Davis is near El Paso. My interests took us frequently to that city. Among other activities, jointly with Judge Crosby I built the largest hotel then in Texas.
April 1, 1885, the regiment exchanged stations with the Third Cavalry in Arizona. We made that long and distressing march also with wagon and ambulance transportation. Arriving at El Paso in a terrible sand-storm, we found the Rio Grande unfordable. The only bridge crossed into Mexico three miles below the New Mexican line. According to international law, we could not pass over Mexican territory without the consent of the two governments, so we were delayed a week most uncomfortably, awaiting the tedious international interchanges to enable us to cross. We finally arrived at Deming (in a terrible sand-storm), meeting most of the troops of the 3d Cavalry there.
I was ordered to Fort Thomas on the Gila River, next to Yuma, the hottest post in the republic and the most sickly, excepting none. It was one of the most desolate posts in which we ever served. The valley was very low and hot. The mountains on each side of the river were some six or seven thousand feet higher than the valley and only about six or eight miles apart, so what little rain there was fell on these mountains.
I have often seen a heavy storm pass across the river from mountain to mountain, and watched almost a cloudburst of rain falling from the immense height only to be absorbed by the arid atmosphere before it reached the valley. Here many of our soldiers died in an epidemic of a very malignant, burning fever, which the post surgeon, Dr. Edward Carter, was unable to check. Informed that if we had ice the doctor could save many lives, I made requisition for an ice machine to cost three thousand dollars. It was twice returned by the War Department disapproved, the principal reason being that the Quartermaster General and the Surgeon General could not agree which department should pay for the wood to run the engine!
Exasperated, I appealed to General Sheridan personally. General Sheridan gave the two chieftains his opinion of them in such strong language that the appropriation for the machine was soon furnished, the first authorized in the army.
Our little daughter Constance was taken with the disease, and Dr. Carter told us that she might not recover without ice. I wired Colonel Shafter, commanding Fort Grant, half way to the railroad seventy miles away, and he supplied me with two hundred pounds, rolled in blankets, within twelve hours. The day after the doctor reduced my daughter's temperature and she recovered.
While at Thomas the Northern Apaches went on the warpath, Geronimo and his wild followers devastating the settlements and killing many men, women and children, whom we buried in the post cemetery. This war lasted two years before our troops drove the Apaches into Mexico and, by agreement with the Mexican Government, followed them there, capturing Geronimo.
Contract Surgeon Dr. Leonard Wood, now the senior major general in the United States Army (who at one time attended my family), volunteered to act as surgeon in the expedition into Mexico, carrying his kit on his back while commanding a company of friendly Indians, which he did excellently. For this General Miles, commanding the department, became much attached to him.
To carry water into the post I had set the men to work building ditches, and also planted several hundred trees, which began to grow well. General Miles, visiting the camp on inspection, told me I deserved a better post. He relieved General Grierson from Fort Grant and placed me in command of that seven-company post. General Grierson recommended its abandonment for want of water, but General Miles said he knew I could get water from the mountains and make Grant one of the best posts. He supported me in requisitions for all the material and money I needed.
At a cost of sixteen thousand dollars I put in a most excellent water and sewage system, with a cement-walled lake in the middle of the parade ground, sixty by two hundred feet. Heretofore the parade ground and the officers' yards were bare of grass because of the extreme drought and the millions of ants which ate the grass. We put fountains all over the post, capable of throwing water one hundred feet high, as the reservoirs had four hundred feet pressure. I established a small water motor which sawed all the wood and ran all the machines in the carpenter shop.
General Miles visited the post after my work was completed and issued a very complimentary order which gave me a standing throughout the army as one capable of meeting unusual difficulties in my line.
Grant was in a most beautiful climate, about four thousand feet above the sea, with Mount Graham six thousand feet higher, three miles away. The climate, trees, foliage, flowers and rapid streams of this mountain were much like the Adirondacks, so we built a small log hut camp there for the ladies and children.
Nannie's description of a visit to this camp is better than any I can write.
IN CAMP, NEAR FORT GRANT, July 18, 1888. MY DEAR MOTHER:
We left the post at a little after two on Saturday afternoon. Anson had a big mule to ride, little Anson had a horse led by an orderly, I had a pony with Constance on behind me. I was astride. We soon had to ascend and of all the trails you could imagine! I could not have undertaken it if I had seen it. I would just as lief ride a pony upstairs, indeed _rather_, for if he fell I should not have so far to go, but on the trail if the pony had made a misstep in some places we should have gone helter-skelter down a long way. I thought it was quite dangerous, but Anson would not let me dismount for he said if I walked once I would not want to ride, and indeed I could not have walked far, for we began to rise so rapidly that one gets out of breath soon. We zigzagged up the steepest places and at last reached the top, where it is perfectly lovely, the ground is covered with grass and some of the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen, and such quantities. There are loads of trees, principally pines. When we go back we shall have to walk about three miles, for it is very dangerous to ride down such steep places. We are all good walkers, however, and can do it nicely. I would not have missed coming up for anything, for the ride was an _entirely_ new experience and one that I shall never have again. It is perfectly lovely in the camp, and though this is the rainy season and we have rains every day, it only lasts a short time and the sun soon dries things up. Yesterday it hailed.
When we reached the top of the steep road, we were about 8,000 feet above the sea, but we then began to descend in order to camp near water, so we are only about 7,000 feet or a little more above the sea. Graham peak, which is 10,600 feet elevation, is six miles from here and easily reached, that is, it is a perfectly good and safe road, but steep, and on account of the altitude the air of course is rarified and one so soon gets out of breath. We are going there in a few days, after we get used to the altitude. We all have immense appetites, and though our feet are wet sometimes for hours, take no cold.
I am so sorry Anson had to go down to Tucson, for it is extremely hot there. I think we shall soon know where we are going, and when. I forgot to say that Anson came up with us Saturday and went down Monday. Our camp is about six miles from the post, and it takes three or four hours to come, so you may know how steep it is. We are all in tents, as the log cabin that Anson had commenced is not yet finished. Our party consists of Mrs. Corbusier, her five boys, Mrs. Viele and her sister (a young lady), myself and two children and the chaplain. Across the pretty little brook which runs through the camp are four more tents occupied by several sergeants' families, and lower down the creek are the soldiers, who are felling trees and building the cabin. I forgot to say we have two cooks in our party, very necessary adjuncts when one considers the numerous and healthy appetites. Your loving daughter, NANNIE.
CAMP ON THE MOUNTAINS, July 22, 1888. MY DEAR MOTHER:
We have been here a week yesterday, and notwithstanding it has rained every day, we have had a good time. The rains do not last long and it soon dries up. There are the greatest quantity of beautiful flowers here. I have a large bouquet in my tent about fifteen inches in diameter and taller than it is wide. We have had bear meat, a young fawn and wild strawberries. The nights are if anything too cold. We have taken several tramps, one of them to an old hunter's camp. He comes over to see us often and enjoys the break in his loneliness. He is alone in his camp except for a dog, which is almost as dear to him as a child, and two or three ponies. He is going to show us the way to the top of the mountains. He came over to see us last night and sat by the big log camp fire, and while we popped corn regaled us with numerous tales, all of which I took with a grain of salt.
You would be surprised to see how comfortable we can be in camp with a very little. I have turned a box on one side for a book case, put another on top where I keep my writing materials, over it all I have thrown a large towel, and with the bunch of flowers I spoke of on top, it looks very well. I have another box for washstand, another for clothes, and with nails driven in the tent poles to hang clothes, medicine bag, little looking glass, canteen, etc., things are quite shipshape. Your loving daughter, NANNIE.
FORT GRANT, A. T., August 4, 1888. MY DEAR MOTHER:
We were up in the mountains when I last wrote you. Anson came back from the court he was on and he and the doctor came up on the mountain. We went the next day on horses and burros to the summit of Mt. Graham. It was about four miles from our camp, and is ten thousand six hundred feet above the level of the sea. We wrote our names and put them in the tin can left by the surveyors. Anson and Constance Lydia both wrote their own names. It was a very pleasant trip. I rode a burro, astride, of course, as I shall never ride any other way. Anson is going to take my picture as I appeared. Anson came up to the camp on Friday. On Saturday we went to the summit. That same evening, in a pouring rain, a courier came in bringing a copy of dispatches from San Carlos saying six Indians had gotten away and the troops were after them. Of course we could not tell but it was the beginning of another big outbreak. The commanding officer of Fort Grant said he had already sent out some pack mules and might have to send out all the rest, but if we wished to come down to the post next day he would send us what animals he could spare. We immediately decided to come down to the post, for in case of an outbreak, the Indians could easily take our camp. We left the camp about two o'clock Sunday afternoon. Anson was mounted on a horse with Constance behind him. I had a big white mule with little Anson behind me. We rode about a mile and reached the steep part of the trail where I was afraid to ride down. Indeed the whole party, about thirteen of us, dismounted and walked down the steepest part. We could in places look down on the post which looked so green, like an oasis in the desert. Mrs. Viele, Constance and I walked for about two miles, as we did not care to ride over places steeper than a pair of stairs, but the rest mounted before we did. We reached the post about six o'clock, pretty tired. The next day, Monday, I was stiff and tired, but everything in the house needed straightening up.