Part 9
The next day we encountered one of those great spongy mountain meadows, which we were forced to skirt on the rocky timber-strewn hill-sides, until finally we ventured into it. We curved and zigzagged through its treacherous mazes, fording and recrossing the stream in search of solid ground. Burgess’s little gray pony put his foot forward in a gingerly way, and when satisfied, plunged in and floundered through. The pony had a positive genius for morasses. We followed him into the mud, or plunged off the steep sides into the roaring river, and, to my intense satisfaction, at last struck a good pony trail. “Now Burgess is off the trail!” we cried, whereat the modest little scout grinned cheerfully. From here on it was “fair and easy,” until we came to the regular stage-road, to travel on which it seemed to us a luxury.
This expedition is typical of the manner of policing the Park, and it is generally monotonous, toilsome, and uneventful work; and the usefulness of such a _chevau-chée_ is that it leaves the track of the cavalry horse-shoe in the most remote parts of the preserve, where the poacher or interloper can see it, and become apprehensive in consequence of the dangers which attend his operations. That an old trapper might work quietly there for a long time I do not doubt, if he only visited his line of traps in the early morning or late evening and was careful of his trail, but such damage as he could do would be trivial. Two regiments could not entirely prevent poaching in the mountain wastes of the great reservation, but two troops are successful enough at the task. It is a great game-preserve and breeding-ground, and, if not disturbed, must always give an overflow into Montana, Wyoming, and Idaho, which will make big game shooting there for years to come. The unreasoning antipathy or malicious disregard of the American pioneer for game-laws and game-preservation is somewhat excusable, but the lines of the pioneer are now cast in new places, and his days of lawless _abandon_ are done. The regulation for the punishment of Park offenders is inadequate, and should be made more severe. The Park is also full of beasts of prey, the bear being very numerous. A fine grizzly was trapped by some of the superintendent’s men and shipped to the Smithsonian Institution while I was there. Near the Fountain Hotel one evening a young army surgeon and myself walked up to within one hundred and fifty yards of a big grizzly, who was not disposed to run off. Being unarmed, we concluded that our point of view was close enough, and as the bear seemed to feel the same way about it, we parted.
Americans have a national treasure in the Yellowstone Park, and they should guard it jealously. Nature has made her wildest patterns here, has brought the boiling waters from her greatest depths to the peaks which bear eternal snow, and set her masterpiece with pools like jewels. Let us respect her moods, and let the beasts she nurtures in her bosom live, and when the man from Oshkosh writes his name with a blue pencil on her sacred face, let him spend six months where the scenery is circumscribed and entirely artificial.
A MODEL SQUADRON
I am not quite sure that I should not say “The Model Colonel,” since every one knows men and horses are much alike when they have first passed under the eye of the recruiting officer and the remount board, and every one knows that colonels are very unlike, so that a model squadron or a model troop is certain to owe its superiority to its commander; but as we are observing the product in this instance, let the title stand as above stated.
The model squadron aforesaid is quartered across the Potomac from Washington in Fort Meyer, which is the only purely cavalry post in the country. Everywhere else the troops are mixed, and the commandant may be of any arm of the service. Here they are all cavalry, with cavalry officers and cavalry ideas, and are not hindered by dismounted theories, or pick-and-shovel work, or any of the hundreds of things which hamper equally good “yellow legs” in other posts. There are many passable misdemeanors in this post, but only one crime, and that is bad riding. There is little dismounted work, and any soldier can have his horse out on a pass, so long as he does not abuse the privilege; and when he does, it’s plenty of walking falls to his lot.
There is a large brick riding-hall of approved pattern, which enables the men to do their work in all weathers. The four troops now quartered there are from the First, Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth regiments, which creates a good-natured rivalry, very conducive to thorough work. It is the opinion of General Henry that one old troop should always be left at this post as a pace-setter for the newly transferred ones, which seems reasonable.
Now to tell what the preparatory discipline is to the magnificent riding which can be seen any morning by spectators who are “game for a journey” to the fort by ten o’clock, I must say that General Guy V. Henry is a flaming fire of cavalry enthusiasm. He has one idea--a great broad expanse of principle--ever so simple in itself, but it is basic, and nothing can become so complicated that he cannot revert to his simple idea and by it regulate the whole. It is the individual training of the horse and rider. One bad rider or one unbroken horse can disarrange the whole troop movement, and “woe to him” who is not up to concert pitch! “Who is the scoundrel, the lummux, humph?” and the colonel, who is a brevet-brigadier-general, strides up and down, and fire comes from his nostrils. “Prefer charges against him, captain!” and the worst befalls. The unfortunate trooper has committed the highest crime which the commandant of Fort Meyer knows--he cannot ride.
A soldier becomes a rider by being bucketed about on a bareback horse, or he dies. The process is simple, the tanbark soft, and none have died up to date, but all have attained the other alternative. This is unimportant; but the horse--it is to his education that the oceans of patience and the mountains of intelligence are brought to bear. It is all in the books if any one cares to go into it. It is the gathering of the horse; it is the legs carried to the rear of the girths; it is the perfect hand and the instant compliance of the horse with the signs as indicated by the rider; it is the backing, the passaging, the leading with either foot, and the pivoting on the front legs; it is the throwing of horses, the acquisition of gaits, and the nice bitting; it is one hundred little struggles with the brute until he comes to understand and to know that he must do his duty. It all looks beautifully simple, but in practice we know that while it is not difficult to teach a horse, it is quite another matter to unteach him, so in these horses at least no mistakes have been made. After all this, one fine sunny Friday morning the people drove out from Washington in their traps and filed into the galleries and sat down--fair women and brave men; of the former we are sure, and of the latter we trust. The colonel blew a whistle--ye gods, what a sacrilege against all the traditions of this dear old United States army!--and in rode Captain Bomus’s troop of the First Plungers, which I cannot but love, since I am an honorary member of their officers’ mess, and fondly remember the fellows who are now sniffing alkali dust down in Arizona. They were riding with blankets and surcingles, and did their part of a drill, the sequence of which I have forgotten, since it was divided with the three other troops--Captain Bell’s, of the Seventh, Captain Hughes’s, of the Ninth, and Captain Fountain’s, of the Eighth. I felt a strong personal interest in some of these men, for memory took me back to a night’s ride in Dakota with a patrol of the Ninth, when they were all wrapped in buffalo-skin overcoats, with white frost on their lapels; the horses’ noses wore icicles, and the dry snow creaked under the tread of the hoofs as we rode over the starlit plain and through the black shadows of the _coulees_. I had pounded along also through the dust in the wake of this troop of the Eighth when it wasn’t so cold, but was equally uncomfortable.
The sharp commands of the captain soon put the troop in motion, and they trotted along with a cadenced tread, every man a part of his horse; they broke into fours and wheeled to the right about, then into line and wound themselves up in the “spiral,” and unwound again, and soon brought order out of a mess, and the regular canter was ever the same. Then low hurdles were strung across the hall, and by column of fours the troop went over, never breaking the formation; to the rear they turned and back again; finally they took the obstacle in line, and every horse rose as though impelled by the same mechanism. As if this was not enough, every second man was dismounted and put on double with a comrade, not with his breast to his comrade’s back, but back to back, and then in line the odd cavalcade charged the hurdles, and took them every one. It was not an individual bucketing of one horse after another, but all in line and all together. After this what could there be more to test the “glue” in these troopers’ seats? There was more, however, and in this wise: The saddles were put on, but without any girths, and all the movements were gone through with again, ending up with a charge down the hall, and bringing up against the wall of the spectators’ stand at a sharp “halt,” which would have unseated a monkey from a trick-mule.
The horses were all thrown by pulling their heads about, and one cavalryman amused himself by jumping over his prostrate mount. They rode “at will,” and stood upon their knees on their horses’ backs. One big animal resented carrying double, and did something which in Texas would be called “pitching,” but it was scarcely a genuine sample, since the grinning soldiers made little of it.
The troop of the Ninth executed a “left backward turn” with beautiful precision, and this difficult undertaking will serve to give one an idea of the training of the mounts.
Gymnastics of all sorts were indulged in, even to the extent of turning summersaults over four horses from a spring-board. A citizen near me, whose mind had probably wandered back to Barnum and Bailey, said:
“But what’s this got to do with soldiers; is it not highly flavored with circus?”
I could offer no excuse except the tradition that cavalrymen are supposed to ride well. All the men were young and in first-rate physical fix, and seemed to enjoy the thing--all except one old first sergeant, who had been time-expired these half-dozen times, whose skin was so full of bullet-holes that it wouldn’t hold blood, and who had entered this new régime with many protests:
“O’me nau circus ape; I can’t be leppin’ around afther the likes av thim!” whereat the powers arranged it so that the old veteran got a job looking after plug tobacco, tomato-cans, tinned beef, and other “commissaries,” upon which he viewed the situation more cheerfully.
The drill was tremendously entertaining to the ladies and gentlemen in the gallery, and they clapped their hands and went bustling into their traps and off down the road to the general’s house, where Madam the General gave a breakfast, and the women no doubt asked the second lieutenants deliciously foolish questions about their art. The gentlemen, some of whom are Congressmen and other exalted governmental functionaries, felt proud of the cavalry, and went home with a determination to combat any one hostile to cavalry legislation, if a bold front and firm purpose could stay the desecrating hand.
But all this work is primary and elementary. The second degree is administered in field-work, comprising experimental marches, and those who know General Henry by reputation will not forget his hundred-mile march with the Ninth Cavalry at Pine Ridge, and those who know him personally will become acquainted with his theory that a cavalry command in good condition, with proper feeds, should make fifty miles a day, with a maximum on the road of ten hours a day, moving at the rate of five miles an hour in cavalry halts, the gaits being walk, trot, and leading, with a day’s rest each week, to be continued indefinitely. And knowing all this, they will be sure that the model squadron wears out a good many horseshoes in a season.
The “Cossack outposts” are another feature much insisted on, and, strange to say, this arrangement was first invented in America, despite its name (see Wagner’s _Outposts_), and is an improvement on picket posts in a ratio of 240 to 324. Another movement is the “form square,” which is an adaptation of the “Indian circle,” it being a movement from a centre to a circle, and useful when escorting wagons or when surprised. The non-commissioned officers are sent on reconnoissance, on patrols, and are required to make maps, which are submitted to an inspector.
Another scheme which I have never seen was the linking of a troop of horses, formed in a circle, to one another, by hooking the regular cavalry links from one horse’s bridle to the next one’s halter ring, and then leaving them in charge of one man. I also saw the new cavalry bit for the first time. It is commended by all who use it, and I saw no horses boring on it or in the least uppish about going against it, and I never remember a horse who would not do either the one or the other to the old trap which was formerly worn.
Two other curious movements indulged in by this squadron are the firing over horses while they are lying down; and, riding double--the man faced to the rear draws his pistol, and while moving to the rear keeps shooting. It might be useful during a slow retreat, and could be done with the carbine equally well.
This whole enterprise at Fort Meyer is vastly encouraging. As one officer said, “We take no credit for it, since others could do the same if they had riding-halls and cavalry officers in command.” But there are cavalry officers and there are cavalry officers, and it is not every day one is born. For thirty-five years has the old general sat in a McClellan saddle, and the tremendous enthusiasm of newly joined “sub” still remains. The very thought of a wagon arouses his indignation, and every day the mules are brought into the riding-hall, and the men initiated into the intricacies of the “diamond hitch.” It takes a past-master to pack a mule in twenty-two seconds, however, and I saw that feat accomplished in General Henry’s command.
It is a grand thing for the young men to have this practical training by these old veterans of the civil war and the alkali plains before they go on the retired list. It is well for a young man to know enough not to unsaddle a sweating troop of horses in a broiling sun, and to learn that it makes sore backs; and it is quite important if men can cook rations, and not go up to the sky-line of a hill when scouting, and rival the statue of “Liberty Enlightening the World,” when it is clearly their business to throw what light they have behind them and not before. It takes experience to put the sole of a boot back on the upper, when it has fetched loose, with four horseshoe nails, and it is not every man that knows that the place to intrench is on the edge of a cut bank, near water, if one expects ever to get out of a round-up. No one can figure that a recruit will know how many people passed over the road before him, or which way they were going, and it takes a long head and good nerves not to pull a trigger unless the sight is dark on the object when the fight may last all day and probably all night; but all these things are not taught in school. If a horse under him is weakening on a long march in an enemy’s country, it is an ignorant fool who uses a spur instead of good sense. That’s the time to unload a few dollars’ worth of government property. But who can understand the value of a rubber blanket, fifty rounds of ammunition, and a pocket full of grub, with a feed of grain in the bag, but one who has tried it? There are lots of dead soldiers who would have learned these lessons if they had been older. In my opinion, the tremendous box of tricks which Uncle Sam’s horses are supposed to carry has put more men afoot than will ever be admitted; but at least the old boot has gone, though there is yet room for an intelligent hand with a jack-plane to shave off that cavalry pack. I am inclined to take what every one tells me is a “cranky” view on this subject, but let it stand until the next hard campaign, and I hope to be able to be more lucid. Horses are horses, and horses are not made of wood, iron, or by rule of thumb.
To revert to Fort Meyer: it is altogether refreshing; it is worth any one’s while to go there and see four troops of cavalry which cannot be beaten, and it is positively exhilarating to meet their creator, a thoroughly typical United States cavalry officer, and I’m bound to say his successor in command has had a hard pace set for him.
THE AFFAIR OF THE --TH OF JULY
The following is a letter from a young military aide-de-camp who was in position to see a great deal of the great riots in Chicago.
_Chicago, July -- 18--_
MY DEAR FRIEND,--In your last you ask me to give you my experiences in the affair of the other day here in Chicago, and although I played but a small part, yet I do not mind adding my little quota to the volumes of matter already written on the subject. To begin with, we at headquarters had known for sometime that the turbulent elements were organizing an opposition to Federal authority, and indeed after the demoralization of the police power in the affairs of Monday and Tuesday, the general issued his proclamation putting the city under martial law. The people were ordered to keep within their own doors, under penalty of shooting or drum-head court-martial, after seven o’clock in the evening, and it was also explained that any domicile harboring an active enemy was to be reduced by the sharpest means at command. The reinforcements arrived on Tuesday, and militia and police were embodied in our command. I had been out on a patrol with a troop of the Third Cavalry late in the afternoon, and I reported to the general that there was an ominous lull in the city, and that I feared the enemy were to take some active measures. We had tried, unsuccessfully, to locate the rifles looted from the gun-stores, and also to find anything like a rendezvous of insurgents. The better class of people had nearly all left the city, and what remained were guarding their business property. Chicago streets, usually so teeming with human life, were almost deserted. No smoke came from the big chimneys, and the shops were shuttered and boarded up. A great many honest people of small means were much put to it to obtain food, and I cannot but tell you how I saw some of the troopers divide their rations with the citizens. At the time we had no intimation of the serious turn affairs would take on, but the remark of the general’s, that “every soldier will die right in his tracks,” had gone the rounds of the camps, and nerved the men to face the music. I was eating my dinner in the Chicago Club when I thought I heard rifle-shots. This was about nine o’clock, and the moon was shining on the Lake Front, although the side streets were dark, since the lights were out all over the city. In a minute more a squad of cavalry swept up the street at full gallop. They were heading for the general’s tent, and I grabbed my cap and ran down-stairs three steps at a time. As I made my way along Michigan Avenue I could hear carbine-shots over in the city, and shortly all the bugles giving “The Assembly.”
I got to headquarters, and met old Hewer of the Seventh, and it was his troops which had come in; he told me they were then standing off a mob, which was returning the fire down in the city.
I got an order from the general to deliver to the lower section of the camp, and getting on my “wheel” (which is better for this work than a horse), I pulled out. I delivered my order to Colonel Loftowne, and then waited to observe things, as I was to report back to headquarters. Rawball’s battery went into “action front,” two sections to a street. They were loaded, and then down on the next corner came the order through the still night to fire. A terrific flash illuminated the black square, and then with a howl down the long street went the 2-3/4 inch, and far down in the darkness I could see her explode; then all was silent. The signal-rockets were going from the top of the Auditorium, and I saw the answering upward sweep of the balls of fire as they were replied to farther down the street. We were on the extreme right, which was below the Art Building, and were ordered to move for an attack on the streets of the city _en échelon_. The guns limbered up, and, escorted by two companies of infantry, we passed into the dim light. At the corner of Wabash Avenue we halted.
Four or five blocks down we could both hear and see rifle-firing, evidently directed on our camp, and also a great crowd. At this juncture we heard a most awful explosion, dull and not like a rifle-canon. “Dynamite!” we all exclaimed in a breath.
“Cut the fuse to zero! Fire!” And with a terrific crash the missile sped on its way. “I think that street will be clear for a spell,” drawled the captain, in his delicious old Georgia manner, as he got his guns in motion. We could hear the occasional boom of a 3-inch and the loud grinding of the Gatlings, and we knew it was enfilading our fire. The rifle-fire was silenced down the city, and the mob, as we judged by the noise, was running away. Over in the direction of the post-office we then heard rifle-shots.
“That’s that outpost of the Twenty-seventh guarding the building,” we said to each other. It fairly crackled now--“giving ’em hot stuff.”
“Halt!” came the command, and the men stopped. “We will wait here for orders.”
“What do you suppose that report was?” we asked each other as we stood on the curbing.
“It must have been dynamite. I know the sound of this ordnance too well to be mistaken,” commented the captain of artillery. “What’s that? Hark!” as a clatter sounded on the pavement in our rear. “It’s a horse coming at full speed. Spread out, men, and stop him.” And, sure enough, a frightened cavalry horse came charging into the midst of the infantry, and was only stopped after he had knocked down two men.
“He only has a halter on; he’s got away from the picket line; here, boys--here comes another.” This one in turn was stopped, and two more which followed directly. Detailed men were sent back with the horses, while I went also to make my report. As I sped on ahead I was startled by a shot, and with a sputter I heard the bullet go to pieces at my feet. I looked around, and from the dark of a window came a flash and another sputter.
“D---- him, he is firing at me,” I ejaculated, and I made the pedals fly. I had no idea of stopping, but I thought I could remember the building; and thinks I, “I am not after game, but whoever you are, I’ll hunt you up, my lad.”
At headquarters everything was bustle.
“Some one exploded a big dynamite bomb right in the street, in front of the Fifth Infantry camp,” said Captain Moss to me, “and killed four men and wounded a dozen more. Some of the cavalry horses broke away from the picket lines and stampeded,” he went on.
The hospital tents were ablaze with light, and I knew that the surgeons were at their grewsome work.