The "City Guard": A History of Company "B" First Regiment Infantry, N. G. C. During the Sacremento Campaign, July 3 to 26, 1894 / Including a Brief History of the Company Since Its Organization March 31, 1854, to July 3, 1894

by California. Infantry. First Regiment. Company B; Irving B. Cook; George Filmer; W. J. Hayes; A. McCulloch; William D. O'Brien

CHAPTER X.

OFF FOR TRUCKEE.

“No matter what the journey be,

Adventurous, dangerous, far;

To the wild deep, or black frontier;

To solitude, or war—

Still something cheers the heart that dares

In all of human kind,

And they who go are happier

Than those they leave behind.”

Edward Pollock.

AS the train started off, our thoughts reverted to those left behind. There were two, private William Tooker, and Doc. O’Malley. Tooker was absent from camp on a furlough, and was expected to return the following day; while the doctor, in response to a call for medical assistance, had been sent that morning to the guard stationed at the American river bridge.

Concerning Tooker, we felt sorry at the thought of the disappointment and suffering our absence would cause him; for who would care for William now? It pained us to think that he would be ordered about by rude and thoughtless officers, and made to do that which is so distasteful to his gentle nature—work. We anticipated the effect that our departure would have upon O’Malley. As the train rushed over the bridge and past the station where the guard was posted, we saw him sitting listlessly upon a camp-stool, dreaming his life away, and living, perhaps, only in the hopes that the night was drawing nigh, when once again he would be united to his dear comrades. But, alas! So perfect was his listlessness that even the rattling of the train over the bridge failed to produce the slightest signs of life. He sat, like a lifeless mass; and it was only when our cries of “O’Malley, O’Malley, good-bye; we’re off to Truckee!” echoed through the air, that he sprang to his feet and gazed around in a bewildered manner, as if doubtful what he heard or saw was real or fanciful. His face “grew sad by fits, by starts—was wild.” Then, realizing only that he was being left behind, he started after the train at his topmost speed, crying, frantically: “Stop that train! Sto—p!” The last thing the company saw of O’Malley, on its upward journey, was a small, indistinct figure, waving its arms madly, as if it were trying to fly.

Tooker came back the next day and joined O’Malley in his grief and lamentations. They tried to console each other, not by making the best of a bad job, but by cursing and denouncing every one for miles around. Tooker couldn’t see why the Colonel wouldn’t send him up to Truckee to join his company, and took every opportunity of arguing with those he came in contact with, why he should be sent, and how foolish it was to keep him at Sacramento. He convinced every one, to his own satisfaction, that such was the case. O’Malley made life unbearable at the hospital, refusing to do any thing but nurse his own grief.

These two unhappy mortals met one day on the deserted and tentless street of the company, and, with clasped hands and bowed heads, silently contemplated the deserted spot, and, as they thought of their dear comrades far away, great tears rolled down their cheeks. “Billy,” sobbed Doc., “we’re the only ones left.” Then they threw their arms around each other, and with their heads resting on each other’s shoulders, their whole frames vibrating with convulsive sobs, stood for hours. It was while in one of these attitudes that Dr. Galwey came along, and, with his Kodak, took the picture which adorns the head of the chapter.

During our ride to Truckee, a guard was kept continually on the platform of the cars, with orders to drop off at each stop and prevent any one from interfering with the air-brakes. A guard also rode on the engine. We found, as we proceeded, that each bridge and trestle was guarded by United States soldiers, and it was then that the nature of the work intended for us became apparent.

As we advanced into the Sierras, we were entranced with the beautiful scenery that surrounded us. Nature was in all its summer glory—not a cloud in the sky to diminish the radiance of the sun. On all sides the mighty and everlasting mountains reared themselves, height upon height, until their snow-topped summits seemed to join the earth and sky; and far beyond we caught glimpses of glistening, snow-clad tops, which looked like the foaming crests of mighty waves. Deep in the wooded canyons, seen through a maze of green, streams, like silver threads, pursued their tortuous and winding course.

The mighty effects of water caused in hydraulic mining were everywhere discernible, huge mountains having been worked away to get at the gold. The water used for this purpose was carried to the miner through miles of sluices. These sluices now, on account of the cessation of hydraulic mining, are neglected. Where they bridge a gully the water leaks out and falls in rainbow-tinted sheets into the depths below.

We arrived at Blue Canyon, where we had supper, about dusk. Here a great number of the “boys” were taken in by their curiosity to see the red bat (brick-bat) that this mountain town has on public exhibition.

Night brought with it a glorious moon and the snowsheds. Oh! how we did anathematize those snowsheds! What panorama of mountain, vale, and lake, bathed in moonlight, their rough boards shut out from our view! The little glimpses caught here and there at breaks in the sheds were only an aggravation.

Shortly before our arrival at Truckee, Major Burdick stepped into the car and made a little speech, the substance of which was as follows: He said he had been given to understand that the situation in Truckee had assumed a very serious aspect; that he would expect us to meet this condition bravely and with becoming gravity, and, by showing a serious and determined front to the strikers, impress them with the fact that we meant business. Furthermore, we would be under the eye of Col. Gunther of the regular army; and he hoped that, by our soldierly conduct, we would favorably impress the colonel with the worth of the National Guard in general and the First Regiment in particular.

This speech had its desired effect, for, during our stay in Truckee, not a striker approached the camp. No doubt, when they saw our fierce and warlike appearance, they fled to their mountain fastnesses, not to return “till the flying of the snow.”

COMPANY B’S KITCHEN AT TRUCKEE, CAL., JULY, 1894.

We arrived in Truckee at 10:15 P. M. Our cars, with two freight-cars, were side-tracked and became our home while there. The cars were tourist cars, and we were therefore able to make ourselves very comfortable. It was a luxury to sleep on a mattress once more.

Thursday morning, July 19th, was ushered in with the regular camp routine, roll-call, Captain’s speech, and breakfast. Clifford, with the aid of our head cook, Paul Rupp, had a breakfast prepared for us, consisting of fried ham and bacon, bread and butter, and coffee. We dined standing. Each man, before leaving Sacramento, was provided with a tin cup, knife, fork, spoon, and plate, and, of course, was supposed to see to the cleaning thereof himself, the result being that the dishwashing detail was done away with altogether—a great improvement indeed. The cleaning of pots and pans was looked after by the culinary department.

It may be just as well here to preface the history of our week at Truckee with a short account of the trials and tribulations of those who presided over the culinary department, together with the trials and tribulations of those who looked to it for three meals a day. For the first three days, Thursday, Friday,and Saturday, all meals were cooked at camp. A kitchen was improvised in the road by the side of the cars, a wind-break erected, and a fireplace built. Sergeant Sturdivant was appointed commissary for the company, and in a short time was able to quote prices on canned goods and other kinds of provisions. He tried to do his best, poor man, but overlooked the fact that life was a howling wilderness to the dudes of the company without milk and sugar for their coffee and butter for their bread. There always seemed to be a great shortage in these articles. The tall sergeant explained this matter by stating that the lack of railroad communication was the cause in one case, and a scarcity of cows the cause in the other.

Sergeant Clifford, Musician Paul Rupp, and an able assistant developed in the person of Gus Ungerman, an old-time cook, who went about the pots and pans in a very professional way, presided over the kitchen. The great waves of disgust caused by internal strife and outward “kicking” occasioned the tendering of daily, or we might say “mealy,” resignations of some one of the cooks. It is needless to say that the resignations were not accepted. Heated arguments with any of our cooks was out of the question; they were all able-bodied men, and were invariably armed with a stout ladle or long cooking-fork, which they flourished in a most threatening manner.

At meal hours, or at times when the cooks started to prepare the meal, the adjustable tables in the cars were lowered, tin cups, tin plates, knives, forks, and spoons were put in place, and each man jack sat with a wolfish appetite and impatiently waited for an hour or more the arrival of the food. The waiters’ lives were not happy ones; fortunately they were relieved every day, or the chances are we would have developed a number of raving maniacs.

The following is a pretty fair illustration of the service that prevailed: A man with a pot of mush dashes into the car yelling, “Who wants mush?” and, with a flourish of his ladle, goes down the aisle filling the outstretched plates. Close on his heels comes another man with a pot of potatoes bawling, “Who wants murphies?” Another meanders through with fried meats of some kind.

All this time the men are shrieking for milk and sugar for their mush. The coffee now makes its appearance, and men, whose cups had mysteriously disappeared, have been known to offer their plates as a receptacle for this dark colored fluid. The bread puts in its appearance now, but no butter. Meanwhile, from the car windows, the hungry soldiery are hurling anathemas at the bewildered waiters, or beseeching them for an extra allowance of stew or a little more hash, a conglomeration that would give an ostrich the dyspepsia. Finally, after the men in despair have waded through their mush, potatoes, coffee, and meat, the sugar and butter, with a very limited allowance of milk, put in their appearance. Men with foresight and taking ways committed the wholesale larceny of butter and sugar and took their chances as to the milk. Much butter and sugar seemed to stick to the long slender fingers of the learned McCulloch, who only let the replenishment of the inner man interfere with his study and discussion of recondite subjects. The strong military instinct of Burtis and Hayes impelled them to keep a good reserve of these dainties always on hand. Frequent battles took place upon the platforms, between rival waiters of each car, for the possession of some coveted pot of beans or stew, while the onlookers held their breath expecting every moment to see the contents of the pot dashed to the ground.

By Sunday the officers came to the conclusion that it would be more economical and convenient to eat in town, and were successful in making arrangements for board at the Truckee hotel for the balance of our stay. This was a change that was hailed with joy by all, particularly Beseman, who developed a fearful and wonderful appetite while at this place. He was the first to sit down and the last to reluctantly leave the table.

Before proceeding further, we feel it our duty to gratefully recognize the efforts of our patriotic cook, Paul Rupp. His was a thankless job; and only a man of an extremely good natured disposition could have put up with the trials he was subjected to. Cooking for 50 or 60 men three times a day with the most primitive appliances, good Lord deliver us! Paul, a crown of glory awaits thee in heaven, for nothing mortal man could do would, in our estimation, sufficiently reward you for all you put up with while holding the position of head cook to the City Guard.

After breakfast the bedding was spread out on the road to air, with orders that it should be taken in at 12 o’clock; the boys cleaned out the cars, and got every thing in readiness for inspection of quarters. During the forenoon, as no restrictions had been placed on the men as yet, a number of them went into Truckee to make needed purchases, and incidentally to inspect the town. This last did not take up much time, as Truckee, though a railway center of some importance, is a very small place. The Truckee river runs through the town, its banks lined with the humble homes of the native American. As it is considered the finest trout stream in the state, it yearly attracts a large number of sportsmen. It is indeed an ideal stream, full of depths and shallows; dashing, whirling, foaming over rocks, to find rest in quiet stilly pools, or to move along with grandly irresistible force. Long stretches of its banks are devoid of brush, giving the angler ample opportunity to utilize his skill in casting. The fish caught is the gamest of the game, and any one who has ever had the pleasure of dining on Truckee trout will attest to its eating qualities.

Truckee is a great lumber district. A number of sawmills, driven both by water and steam power, border the river’s banks. Apart from its lumber interests, Truckee derives a great deal of its importance from the handling of ice. Above Truckee there are a number of large ponds of smooth water which produce annually two or three crops of ice from twenty to forty feet thick. These two industries give employment to large numbers of men.

Some of the boys, anticipating an opportunity to try their luck fishing in the river, bought fish-hooks and lines. They met with very little success, however. The noble game in these waters are not to be caught by the primitive hook and line of the farmer boy.

Early in the afternoon five details were formed to guard bridges. The commissary issued provisions for each detail, sufficient for twenty-four hours, taking as a guide as to quantity the following list, furnished by a regular army officer.

For seven men—one day—three meals.

7 lbs. of fresh meat or 5 lbs. of salt meat; 10 qts. of coffee; 7 lbs. of potatoes; 3½ lbs. of beans; 11 lbs. of bread.

For four men—1 day—three meals.

4 lbs. fresh meat or 2¾ lbs. of salt meat; 6 qts. of coffee; 4 lbs. of potatoes; 2 lbs. of beans; 6 lbs. of bread.

Thus supplied we were soon speeding to our destinations. On the way it was discovered that one of the bridges to be guarded was beyond the state line, therefore no detail was posted there, as it is against the law to take the militia outside of the state for active duty. As we arrived at each post, Major Burdick and a few of his officers left the train to see what arrangements could be made for boarding the men; the desire being, if possible, to do away with the necessity of having the men do their own cooking. Their efforts were crowned with success at Prosser Creek, Boca, and Cuba, but the last station, No. 24, a bridge about three miles from the state line, was too isolated for any arrangement of the kind. The men at this post, therefore, had to do their own cooking. At the first station, Prosser Creek, a detail consisting of a corporal and three privates of Company A, were posted. They slept in the bridge-tender’s house, and had their meals at an eating-house about half a mile up the cañon. The rose-colored reports brought back by these men about the goodly table set at this place made every man anxious to go there. It was the duty of the guard to watch the bridge vigilantly night and day, and allow no one to loiter on it, or in its vicinity; to challenge all persons approaching the bridge after dark, escort them across, and make sure that they continued on their way. Private Sullivan of ours, a few nights later, had the pleasure of doing the honors for a “Wandering Willie,” bent on crossing the bridge. This character informed Mr. Sullivan that if he had known he was to receive such distinguished consideration at the hands of so courtly a gentleman (Mr. Sullivan was at one time the Ward McAllister of Los Angeles society), he would have had a magnificent load aboard, many opportunities having presented themselves to him during that day for absorbing liquids that not only stimulate but intoxicate. The dread, however, of crossing the bridge in an inebriated condition had prevented him from embracing them. And as “Willie” shambled off, he heaved a heart-breaking sigh for the delights that might have been, resolving in his mind that should the tide of affairs ever be so favorable to him again he would take advantage of them, despite the dangers of a bridge or flood.

Prosser creek bridge is located almost nine miles east of Truckee. The Union Ice Co. has made this one of its largest supply stations. The company has built a dam across the cañon, imprisoning the waters of Prosser creek so successfully that the average crop of ice each season is sixty thousand tons. This immense crop necessitates the employment of a large force of men. Substantial quarters have been built on the lake shore for their accommodation. It was at this place the guard did its most effective work, punishing good food three times a day.

Boca was the next post. Here Major Burdick made arrangements with the Boca Hotel to provide the men with food. They bivouacked in a box-car. The duties and instructions were the same as those in force at Prosser Creek. Corporal J. N. Wilson, privates Frech, Fetz, and Gehret of our company were dropped off here. From this place, also, the men returned with expanded girths, in evidence of their sumptuous fare.

The next post proved to be a place called Cuba, distant about fifteen miles west of the Nevada state line. The detail posted here were men from our company, and consisted of Sergeant Walter Kelly, privates Adams, Bowne, Bannan, Baumgartner, Beseman and Claussenius. The property at Cuba to be guarded consisted of two trestle-bridges, one of them of considerable length and covered, a culvert, switches, and an ice-house. The men were quite comfortably situated. The superintendent of the National Ice Company placed a small store-house near the track at their disposal, and furnished them with large, thick, strong mattresses. They had their meals at the superintendent’s house; but after the second day he refused to feed the men any longer, giving as his reason that he feared the strikers would wreak vengeance on him for harboring them, by destroying the property under his charge when the troops were removed. It is believed, however, that the appetites of the men had more to do with his change of heart than any fear of the strikers. He had not calculated to satisfy the cravings of men who had for two weeks been living on bacon, ham, canned corn-beef, and leather steaks, and whose appetites were sharpened by the bracing air of the mountains.

THE COVERED BRIDGE AT CUBA.

Negotiations were then opened with the superintendent of the People’s Ice Co., and very satisfactory arrangements made for boarding the men.

The guard duty here was not arduous. The day watches were of one hour each, and only one sentinel was necessary. The night watches were two hours in duration, and during that period two sentinels were constantly on guard, one being posted at the west end of the long bridge, and the other patrolling the balance of the line, alternating hourly with his comrade.

During that night two men presented themselves, claiming to be section-hands sent there for the purpose of guarding the bridges. The sergeant informed them that he and his men were there for that purpose, and did not need their assistance. It was with difficulty that the sergeant restrained the belligerent Bowne and Adams from falling on these men and doing them great bodily harm. With a baleful gleam in his bloodshot eye Bowne watched them until they disappeared in the darkness to return no more.

The antiquated bridge-tender indulged in a fairy tale at the expense of our “boys.” He told them that two wildcats came down to the clearing on the mountain side every morning at 6 o’clock to bask in the sunlight. The “boys” bit with avidity, and the bridge-tender had the pleasure of seeing them take positions commanding a view of the spot, and with loaded rifles watch and wait for the cats that never came.

The train containing the last detail continued in an easterly direction, following the course of the Truckee, the scenery becoming wilder and grander as we progressed. The mountains seemed to be closing in around us; the waters of the stream, in keeping with its surroundings, raced with maddening speed through narrowing channels, foaming, whirling, tumbling over miniature falls, until, gliding into broader space, it swept along with stately silent dignity, to be again transformed into a roaring torrent between confining walls of rock. Now and then the sides of the gamey trout flashed in the sunlight, as if the exultant spirit of life and strength within it, disdaining the confines of its watery home, longed to soar in the bright sunshine. At last the train stopped at what seemed to be the most delightful spot of all, the last railway bridge in the state of California, and within three miles of its boundary lines. This is a solidly constructed steel bridge, and spans the Truckee. To the left of the railroad, a short distance from the bridge, was a small cabin; it was beautifully situated, overhanging the stream, with a flight of steps leading down to its waters. The most fastidious disciple of Isaac Walton could not desire a more perfect spot for a camp. Corporal Burtis, privates Hayes, Heizman, and Keane, with their rations, were put off here. A more delighted quartet could not be found; the surroundings suited their sensitive, æsthetic natures. They did not care if they were stationed there for a month. Major Burdick, with Colonel Gunther, United States Army, standing by his side, gave his instructions, to the effect that stranded theatrical companies, “hobos,” etc., crossing the bridge should be watched closely until they were out of sight. He cautioned the men to be very careful about using their weapons, delivering himself of a sentiment that should go down in history as a shining illustration of the gallant major’s humanity, a sentiment that no doubt will be found written in letters of gold upon the great judgment book, “that he would rather have them not shoot at all, than kill an innocent person.” Think of it, ye beetle-browed sons of Mars, in whose breast the desire for martial strife is rampant, and whose fiercest delight is found in the shedding of human ber-lud! Think of the example set you by our dashing major; profit thereby, and let not your thirst for gore steel your hearts to the cry of the innocent. “And, corporal,” he continued, “I do not think it advisable to let your men go in swimming.” As the men gazed down into the raging waters, they wondered if the major thought them lunatics. No sane man surely would risk his life by attempting to bathe in that swiftly flowing current. From the burden and tenor of his closing remarks, it was quite plain that the major felt sorry at leaving the men in this lonely spot, and would no doubt have continued for some time longer with cautions and fear-allaying words, had he not been interrupted by Corporal Burtis, who respectfully saluted and told him “he need not be in any hurry to relieve them.” This was too much for Colonel Gunther, who placed his plump little hand over his face and chuckled audibly. “Oh! you’re in no hurry to get back then, eh?” replied the major; then bidding them good-bye, he clambered back into the car, the engine whistled, the train rolled away and left them alone in their glory. The opening of the cabin door revealed a very clean interior, and the men were therefore nothing loth to drop their blankets and equipments on the floor. One man was immediately detailed for guard duty, and the rest placed their arms where they could instantly put their hands on them and went out doors to inspect their surroundings. While wandering up a small canyon to the right, one of them called the attention of the others to a grave that he discovered; it was rudely fenced in and had a gate that was padlocked. The loneliness of this last resting place touched them deeply. Upon the humble mound were branches of withered flowers in various stages of decay, showing that some one, to whom the departed one was dear, had at different times made a pilgrimage to offer sweet flowers on memory’s altar. After vain conjecture as to the identity of the occupant of this isolated grave, they returned to camp.

The afternoon was now drawing to a close, and they began to make preparations for the evening meal. A fireplace was built, and George Heizman elected cook. Corporal Burtis took a can and went down the road to get some milk. A hatchet was part of their allowance, and with it Hayes chopped the wood; Keane was on guard. The flight of steps before mentioned placed a large supply of water conveniently at their disposal. By some men this convenience would not meet with the appreciation it deserves; water might be useful to float ships or bathe in once in a while, but for drinking purposes it failed to meet the requirements. Rather would they be camped in the shade cast by some brewery of vast proportions, and be lulled to rest with the hum of its machinery, than rest beneath the overhanging cliffs of giant mountains, and have their slumbers disturbed, their dreams of revelry by night broken in upon, by the varied sounds of water—water—water.

In due course of time Burtis returned with butter and milk. He and Hayes then went to their haversacks and each drew forth a can of oysters. Now some foolish people will wonder how they came to have these oysters. In accounting for their possession we will have to take our readers back to the day when camp was broken at the Capitol grounds. As related, Hayes took part in the raid made on the commissary’s stores on that occasion. The spoils of this raid were placed in the safe-keeping of Quartermaster Clifford. Hayes heard nothing further of them. Not a cracker, not even a spoonful of deviled ham, something he dotes on, no, not even an empty oyster can did he get as a reward for his dash and daring. This ingratitude on the part of Clifford caused Hayes much inward grief and loss of sleep, and when, a few evenings later, through the flaps of Number One tent, he caught a glimpse of Clifford and a small coterie of his friends banqueting on the proceeds of his iniquity, a moan of anguish escaped his lips, and in that night of sleepless sorrow he resolved to be revenged. Into the ear of Corporal Burtis he poured his tale of woe, and enlisted his sympathies. Next day with unwearying eyes they watched the movements of the wary Clifford. Towards evening, in an unguarded moment, he left his chest wide open in his tent, in answer to a call from the kitchen at the end of the street. Like eagles Hayes and Burtis swooped down upon this chest, and, with the aid of Doc. Sieberst, got away with a goodly store of dainties. The wailing of “the widows of Ashur” was nothing compared to the howl that went up from Clifford on discovering his loss. His suspicions fixed on poor Al Ramm, who vainly pleaded his innocence. When ordered to Truckee, four cans of oysters were left; they were divided between Burtis, Frech, Shula, and Hayes for transportation. Two of them helped to garnish the meal about to be described. Shula, tired of carrying his around, returned it to Hayes while at Truckee, but Frech retained his, and while he was away on train guard, Hayes took it from his haversack; these two remaining cans of oysters were carried all the way back to San Francisco.

The repast now prepared by Geo. Heizman at this secluded spot was the best cooked and the most enjoyable had by the boys since they left the city. George certainly missed his vocation; the stew he made with those two cans of oysters, milk, butter, and the rest, would have tickled the palate of the most blasé gourmand. Then they had some nice chops that in some mysterious manner got mixed in with their rations, a little fried bacon, bread and butter, and coffee. They feasted until they were black in the face. About dusk they received a visit from the section boss, who was accompanied by several of his men. In the course of conversation he was questioned as to the occupant of the grave on the side of the mountain. He informed them that it was a woman who had died a couple of winters back, and who, with her husband, had lived in the humble cabin in which they were bivouacked.

At the departure of the section hands the first watch of the night was posted. Beneath the careless and reckless demeanor of this little band was a stern realization of the responsibilities of their position, and they were prepared to protect and defend the property under their charge to the bitter end. With this idea in view, beside the sentinel on duty, the corporal remained awake and on the alert the greater part of the night, and those who slept had their loaded weapons lying by their sides. The queen of night now rose with regal splendor above the mountain tops and sailed slowly and serenely through the starry realms of heaven, shedding her beauteous and mysterious rays on mountain and cañon, stream and bridge, and on waving trees, giving life to shadows that ever and anon startled the sleepy guardsman. The beauty of the scene and the mysterious influences of the night throw a subtle spell around him; dreamily his thoughts turn with a sweet pleasure to the dear ones at home.

Who has not felt how sadly sweet,

The dream of home, the dream of home,

Steals o’er the heart, too soon to fleet,

When far o’er sea or land we roam?

He recalls them all, one by one. Never before did they seem so dear to him. In fond contemplation he lingers on each little characteristic; the sweet voice and the merry laugh rings in his ears; and he wonders if, at this hour, while bound in slumber’s chain, some loving spirit, winging its flight across the land, mounts higher and higher, and looks down on him with dreamful eye, as he paces his lonely beat.

Ha! What’s that? He cocks his piece—it has gone. No, there it is again, moving around yonder rock; it disappears. There it is again, and then the straining look relaxes; a feeling of relief comes over him. It is but a shadow cast by a tree whose boughs are tossing in the wind that sweeps up the cañon with the river, chilling him to the bone. He shakes himself, increases his pace, and wonders what time it is. Surely, his two hours are up. The relief at last comes, and he gladly surrenders his lonely beat for a comfortable blanket.

After a hearty breakfast next morning, Hayes shouldered his gun and started for a walk. The others staid around camp, and tried a little fishing, with no success. In the course of a couple of hours Hayes returned and reported interviewing a number of tramps in the course of his peregrinations and, further, that he had extended his walk into the confines of the state of Nevada. He seemed to be greatly put out that the governor of the state and a brass band were not there to receive him.

“This life is made up of disappointments,” soothingly said Joe Keane.

While the noon meal was in course of preparation, the relief train rolled in upon the sylvan scene. The detail was relieved by acting Corporal Pariser and privates Heeth, Powleson, and Stealy.

The ride back to Truckee was a long and wearisome one, not so much as to distance, but as to time. Endless stopping, bumping, and jerking, the result of making up a long train of cars containing ice, tortured the weary men beyond endurance. Almost worn out, but thankful, they finally arrived at Truckee at about dark.

Every morning the relief train went out with its quota of men, dropping them off at the different posts and on the return picking up those relieved, while at 8 o’clock every morning the camp guard was relieved. This morning Corporal Burdick, Privates Flanagan, Crowley, Gille, Wise, Overstreet, and Sullivan were relieved from camp guard.

The trains (both passenger and freight) now began to go through. We supplied guards for every west-bound train. These guards ate at Blue Cañon and at Colfax, and were relieved at the latter place by soldiers of the regular army. They returned to Truckee guarding east-bound trains. For the first two or three days part of the guard had to ride on the tender and engine. This was any thing but pleasant. From exposure to the heat of the sun, the flying cinders and smoke, the men, on their arrival at Colfax, looked like blackamoors. Finding there was no necessity for this, the practice was discontinued, the men riding in the cars, and dropping off at stations, to prevent any interference with the air-brakes or the running of the train.

The men were now kept constantly on the go; very few, if any, could boast of a continuous night’s sleep. Those who were not away on post duty, or on camp guard, were liable to be awakened at any hour of the night, and ordered out as train guards. A list of the men who from this time on did various guard duties will illustrate the manner in which they were shuffled about. Friday, July 20th, privates Heeth, Powleson, Pariser, and Stealy went to post 24, Pariser acting as corporal. On the same day private Perry went to Boca, private Van Sieberst to Prosser Creek, and private Monahan on camp guard. Lieutenant Filmer was officer of the day. Sergeant H. B. Taylor, Corporal McCulloch, privates Flanagan, Frech, Gille, McKaig, O’Brien, and Radke went west with trains. Saturday, July 21st, Sergeant Sieberst, privates Crowley, Casebolt, Wise, Radke, Snell, and Unger went to Cuba. Privates Bannan, Beseman, Baumgartner, and G. Claussenius were on camp guard, and Captain Cook was officer of the day. Sergeant A. H. Clifford, who had thrown up his job in the kitchen, privates Adams, Bowne, and Gilkyson went out with trains. Sunday, July 22d, privates R. E. Wilson and Williams went to Prosser; Corporal Burdick, privates McKaig, Monahan, and O’Brien to Boca; Corporal McCulloch, privates Fetz, Gehret, and Sindler, to Post 24; Corporal Burtis, privates Hayes, Heeth, and Keane were on camp guard, and Sergeant Kelly, Corporal Wilson, privates Pariser and Perry went out with trains. Monday, July 23, privates Bannan, Claussenius, Flanagan, and Gille went to Prosser Creek, Claussenius acting as corporal. Sergeant H. B. Taylor, privates F. Shula, Gilkyson, Frech, Heizman, R. Radke, and our late cook, musician Rupp, whose occupation gone, now shouldered a gun, and who, while pacing his beat during the witching hours of the night, communed with the moon on the smallness of human greatness, went to Cuba. 1st Lieutenant E. C. Lundquist was officer of the day, and privates Bowne, Beseman, Baumgartner, and Overstreet were on camp guard, while privates Casebolt, Crowley, Powleson, Stealy, and Van Sieberst took a trip to Colfax. Tuesday, July 24th, the last day at Truckee, privates G. Radke, Sullivan, and Ungerman went to Prosser Creek, Sullivan acting as corporal, Sergeant Clifford, privates Heeth, Keane, Wise, Wear, and Zimmerman went to Cuba. Privates Adams, Monahan, McKaig, and Snell were on camp guard, and privates Fetz, Gehret, Hayes, and Sindler guarded an early morning train to Colfax.

In spite of our activity life became very monotonous towards the last of our stay in Truckee, so much so that it occasioned a very apt scriptural quotation from Corporal Burtis:—“Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.”

The men now began to shave right and left, particularly the older ones, privates Wear and Unger. Their beards grew out in patches of gray and black, giving them an old and grizzled appearance. A supreme disgust overcame private Hayes when he heard some one call him Red Mike, and his razor separated him from his whiskers forever. No man would blame Corporal Burdick for shaving, but he clung to the very end to an atrocious whisker of vermillion hue that adorned his face in patches, the hair bristling forth like copper wires. His brother, the major, would look at him with wonder and amaze, and say: “Well! if your mother could only see you now.” (A tidy sum will be realized from that list of fines when the men get their money from the state.)

While around camp the men put in their time throwing quoits and reading. Horseshoes were used as quoits, while the reading matter consisted of a large number of magazines and papers, which were presented to the companies by kindly disposed people in the vicinity.

About three-quarters of a mile from camp, we located a very good place for bathing, which, despite the icy coldness of the water, received a number of visitors daily. The orders were that no one was to leave camp without permission, but the man who asked permission made a fatal mistake. To ask permission to do any thing was a great mistake, for one invariably met with a refusal. Now, when a sensible man discovers that he has made a mistake, he is not likely to repeat it. The result was, that a number of luminous minds, when they yearned to go into town, or explore the surroundings, or breathe the purer air from some hilly height, and view Donner lake from afar, naturally took French leave.

An object of particular interest to us all since our arrival at Truckee, and the subject of much conjecture when we saw it for the first time, on the night of our arrival, ablaze with electric lights, was a small, circular building, on the crest of the hill to our left. We soon found it was a museum, containing a large number of interesting curios, relics of the Donner party, and the famous rocking stone. Admission on Saturday to the museum being free, a number of us were piloted up there by Lieutenant Filmer. The center of interest, situated in the center of the building, and resting exactly in the center of a huge, flat-topped boulder, was the rocking stone. This stone weighs in the neighborhood of sixteen tons, and is so balanced that with a very slight pressure of the hand it can be rocked to and fro. Our attention was drawn by the exhibitor to its peculiar shape and significant position, and, in order that these peculiarities might be more easily discerned, we mounted a ladder that led to a little gallery that overlooked the rocking stone. From this position the stone appeared heart-shaped and pointed north. The exhibitor told us the boulder upon which the stone and building rested was in shape a fac simile of the smaller stone, only that it was flat on the top. Before this building was put up, and while the stones were exposed to the elements, it was the subject of much comment why the snow which falls to a great depth in these parts, never collected on the top of these stones. This was due to their situation. The wind had a constant sweep over them, and carried off the snow before it collected.

The peculiar position of these rocks is attributed by scientists to the action of glaciers, or floods.

After giving some time to an examination of the numerous interesting curios with which this little building was stocked, we proceeded up the mountain side, until we came to a circular fence, that aroused our curiosity, and, on looking over it, we found a froggery in full operation. Myriads of frogs. More frogs than the boys, collectively, had seen in all their lives. It was a frog Elysium. In the center of the inclosure was a small pond fed with fresh mountain water that was borne to the spot by a miniature V-shaped flume made of two planks. In the center of the pond a little fountain gently murmured, soothing, no doubt, the poetic soul of Mr. Frog who sat on a convenient plank, blinking at the sun and all creation. A stone cast among them created a small panic; frogs hopped in all directions.

Still further up the side of the hill we climbed until, reaching its crest, there, far away in the distance, we beheld Donner lake. A desire to go to the lake filled the breast of every man present. The lieutenant was also of the same mind, but in a moment of weakness, as we were making for the road that led to the lake, he dispatched private O’Brien with his compliments to Major Burdick, asking permission to go to Donner lake. We waited on the road for O’Brien’s return. Though William has no wings attached to his feet, his shoulders, or his cap, he is very speedy, and soon returned bearing to Lieut. Filmer the compliments of Major Burdick, and a message to the effect that he did not think it advisable to take the men such a great distance from camp, as they might be called upon at any time for train guard or other duties. We then reluctantly retraced our steps along the road towards camp. No further compliments were sent to Major Burdick that day, though under the guidance of our gallant lieutenant we cut across the country and visited the sawmill on the banks of the Truckee, and wound up the trip with a swim.

Shortly after our return to camp, the redoubtable Bowne and Adams were seen coming from the direction of town. They had just arrived from Colfax, as train guards, where they had been sent the day previous on a similar mission. A peculiar characteristic of these two gentlemen is, that once they don the uniform of a soldier their whole nature seems to change, and a more desperate looking, or bloodthirsty pair it would be hard to find. On this occasion, when they returned begrimed with soot and dirt, glaring at us through bloodshot eyes, with sunburnt, perspiring unshaven faces, their ferocious appearance was enough to strike terror into the heart of any one. Private Adams, when asked to explain the reason of this wondrous transformation, answered with the following lines from the immortal Shakespeare:

“In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man

As mild behavior and humility;

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Let us be tigers in our fierce deportment.”

The train they took out the day previous consisted of about twenty ice cars. The trip was uneventful until they reached Blue Cañon, where they satisfied the yearnings of the inner man, Bowne scaring the female who waited on the table half to death by asking her for a cup of hot blood. At this place five prisoners were placed in their charge by the sergeant of the guard located there, with instructions to carry them safely through to Colfax. It is needless to remark that the duty, having been committed to members of the City Guard, was duly performed. Without deviating from the strict rule of military discipline, they were considerate, and accommodated their prisoners with berths in a refrigerator car, bringing them into Colfax literally on ice. They were subsequently passed through to Sacramento.

The guard at Blue Cañon were very anxious to have these individuals, whom they regarded with great suspicion, well out of their district, which included miles of snowsheds. The great danger feared was incendiary fires; so all characters who could not give a satisfactory account of themselves were promptly transported to other regions.

While the train stopped at Alta station, strains of music, mingled with happy laughter, were wafted to their ears from a school-house near by, where a dance was in progress. They longed to trip the light fantastic too for a few blissful moments with the comely country lasses. But “some must work, while others play”; so from afar, with envious eyes, they viewed the merry throng, seeking doubtful consolation in the thought that it was just possible that distance lent enchantment to the scene. They arrived at Colfax about 10:30 P. M., and at 1 P. M. the following day boarded the train that bore them back to Truckee.

The marvelous way in which such articles as soap, towels, and washing laid out to dry disappeared was astonishing. George Claussenius late one night was heard bemoaning to his bunkmate Adams the loss of a pair of socks, expressing it as his opinion, that it was a shame that a man could not put out a pair of socks to dry without some one taking them. (It will no doubt be noticed that we always used the word take during that three weeks campaign; the harsh word steal was dropped from our vocabulary altogether.) Hayes, hearing the sad little tale of woe, whispered in the ear of Corporal Burtis the question, “Did he have those socks”? a chuckle, and “I don’t know,” was the answer received.

As trophies of the war, Rupp bore away with him from Sacramento a nice pair of russet shoes which had found their way into his tent, and Corporal Burtis, a navy blue flannel shirt. Shortly after his arrival at Truckee the handsome little corporal bought a dark blue cotton handkerchief with white polka dots for ten cents, and thus added ten dollars’ worth of improvement to his appearance, by the coquettish manner in which he arranged it about his neck.

Our gallant major also seemed to give more attention to his personal appearance than usual, blossoming forth in a very becoming light blue and white striped negligee shirt, with a very deep collar which he wore turned over on the collar of his blouse, producing a charming effect, and giving him a most debonair and youthful appearance. So much so in fact, that one of the wags of the company dubbed him “Little Lord Fauntleroy Burdick.”

The example, set by our handsome Major, stirred up a spirit of emulation among the rest of our officers, all of whom have more than the average share of good looks. Captain Dr. O’Brien, the scientist and bonesetter of the expedition, is tall, and of athletic build, and a handsome man under all conditions, and so is Adjutant Hosmer, photographer-in-chief; but when these two valiant warriors returned from town, after a seance with the village barber, with a few cents worth of handkerchief arranged with studied negligence about their shapely throats, they were a vision of loveliness. What lent their personality an additional charm was their utterly utter seeming unconsciousness of their good looks; they appeared to be totally oblivious of the unfeigned admiration of us poor privates, who felt like tramps in the splendor of their presence.

Our handsome captain, who disdains the petty details of the toilet, was most of the time wrapt in meditation, or lost in the contemplation of his astral form. Not so our first lieutenant (easy), Lundquist; he slicked up perceptibly; the hair of his head, from constant brushing, rose in all the glory of the bristling pompadour from off his classic forehead, like the feathers of an Indian chief. While the graceful form of our second Lieutenant, with sloping waist and curving hips, seemed to take on added charms daily. Time or space will not permit any further digression or dilation on the personal attributes of the officers connected with the Truckee contingent. Suffice it is to say that the proximity of the young and beautiful femininity, for which this town is noted, caused these gallant men to spend much time before the small looking-glass that hung in the toilet compartment of the car.

Sunday afternoon, July 22d, another party, under the leadership of Lieutenant Lundquist, received permission to go and see the rocking stone. The party was composed of Sergeants Ramm and Clifford, privates George Claussenius, R. Radke, Frech, Baumgartner, Murphy, Gilkyson, Flanagan, McKaig, and Beseman. On arriving at the tower they found it closed, and, being unable to find the proprietor, concluded to take a tramp over the hills. The frog farm before mentioned first attracted their attention, and soon the curious city boys were deep in the study of the domestic life of frogdom. But just as the debate concerning the habits of frogs had reached its most interesting phase, the stone was thrown that caused an unfortunate remark by Al Ramm, that linked hops and beer together, causing the immediate desertion of King Flanagan, McKaig, and Gilkyson to some symposium where hops already brewed could be obtained. The rest, in line of skirmishers, continued the tramp, with eyes wide open and ears laid back, constantly on the alert for any thing that would be of interest, the fresh, bracing air making Lundquist, Ramm, and Clifford feel real young again. Suddenly they were startled by a yell from Dick Radke, and, on rushing to the rescue, found him in a great state of excitement: he had discovered a gold mine, and wanted every one to know it. George Claussenius, the mining expert of the party, after a cursory examination, declared it to be a worked-out claim, much to the disappointment of Dick, who thought he had struck a bonanza.

Hardly had Radke resumed his normal state, when Frech caused another sensation by announcing that he had found an ax. He placed it in evidence, and his active brain began immediately to cast a halo of romance about it. He asserted with much earnestness (and Frech can be very earnest) that it was his belief that the ax was a relic of the Donner party, who perished in the neighborhood many years ago. Noticing how serious he was, they all concluded, after a very grave and critical examination, that it was a real curio. He clung to the ax lovingly, saying he would take it back to Frisco, and have some razors made out of the blade. Becoming enthusiastic over his find, he at once developed into a confirmed curio fiend, and was constantly finding other articles which he declared were relics of the “days of ’49.” With right good will his comrades aided and abetted him in his search. Things that had long since been cast away as worn out or useless, and, having fulfilled their humble offices to mankind, lay upon the face of mother earth, calmly awaiting the end of all things, suddenly leaped into a new and transitory value, and soon Frech was laden with an assorted collection of oyster cans, old shoes, bottles, etc. As each new find was made he discarded one of the old ones, insisting that the last find was always the best. When he reached camp, all that he had left was his ax, and the skeleton of an old pack-saddle found on the banks of the Truckee.

Lieutenant Lundquist suggested that they continue their tramp till a view of Donner lake could be obtained; so, like a bevy of seminary girls out with their chaperone, the lieutenant and his men went merrily on their way. They were traveling through what was once, apparently, the pathless forest, for all around them were the charred stumps of trees. The strong and relentless hand of man had spread destruction and death among the giants of the forest. But even here, where the nymph of the wood might well weep for the leafy shades that were no more, contrasting with the gruesome spectacle of destruction, the eye was gladdened with the sight of new, lusty, glorious life. In the intervening spaces young trees were putting forth their slender branches, the green foliage rustling and waving in the gentle summer breezes.

George Claussenius remarked that the majority of the trees were firs, and that the balsam extracted was worth $20.00 a quart. At this Dick Radke pricked up his ears, and looked at the trees with renewed interest. Clifford took exception to the conclusions of Claussenius as to the identity of the trees, and insisted they were spruce. Every once in a while they would stop before some young sapling, and argue in a most learned manner as to its variety. One listening to them would imagine they were members of the State Board of Forestry. The others, not wishing to display their ignorance, never ventured an opinion till Lundquist, realizing that these gentry were as much at sea as to the identity of the trees as the rest were, put up a job on them. He got the others to promise they would coincide with him, and then, with all the confidence of one able to judge, he proclaimed them apple trees. True to their promise they all agreed with the lieutenant. Clifford and Claussenius wasted much breath in trying to show them that they erred in their conclusions.

Meanwhile Radke had wandered away by himself. As he progressed he gave every tree he met the closest scrutiny. “Twenty dollars a quart! twenty dollars a quart! if I could only run across a fir tree that was spouting balsam, why it would be better than a gold mine; my fortune would be made.” A yell of joy apprised the boys that Radke had surely struck a bonanza this time. When they reached his side they found him with his hands full of a sticky substance, and, with a look of triumph on his face, he invited all hands to help themselves to balsam. “Balsam!” said Clifford, “Balsam! why, what are you talking about? that’s pitch.” And so it proved to be.

They resumed their journey, and in due course of time reached an eminence, from which they beheld Donner lake. The scene was a beautiful one, and well repaid them for their journey. The lovely body of water lay calm and serene, reflecting the sun’s rays like a sheet of silver. Precipitous mountains rose on all sides of it; to the left, for miles along the sides of the mountains, the eye could trace the snowsheds. Considerable time was spent in contemplating the beauties of nature, and it was with reluctance that they finally turned their faces toward the camp. They descended the hill on the side leading down to the Truckee river, and, when they reached its banks, discovered Bob Williams making his way down the river on the logs that covered its surface to the sawmill about a mile away; this easy and direct way of reaching camp appealed to the eye of our easy lieutenant at once, and soon they were all hopping from log to log, and in a short time reached the mill without accident of any kind, then slowly retraced their steps to camp, all agreeing that they had a most enjoyable tramp.

The relieved squads that daily returned from the different posts brought with them moving tales of flood and field. The squad, composed of Corporal McCulloch, and privates A. Fetz, A. Gehret, and F. Sindler, had relieved a similar number of Company A’s men at Post 24. No sooner had the train left, than the learned corporal pounced upon the rations that were to keep the wolf from the door for the next twenty-four hours. A wail of anguish arose from him as the provender was exposed to view; no sugar, no milk, no butter, three “measly” steaks, a small quantity of beans, a smaller quantity of rice, about a pound of coffee, a small piece of bacon, and two loaves of bread. Ye gods! what had he done? He called upon all the great divinities of heaven to bear witness to his just and honorable career, a life spent in gathering a mass of learning, that, rarified by the fires of his poetic soul, was in the future to cast its electrical and beneficent rays upon the sons of men. How could they expect him to continue on the long and wearisome road to glory, the uncertain and treacherous pathways that lead to fame, to efficiently fill the exalted position for which he was ordained, if the springs of his young life were to be warped and dried up by the lack of sufficient nourishment.

While thus bewailing his sad fate, and comparing their unhappy lot with that of the men at the other posts, who were living on the fat of the land, they entered the lowly cabin that was to afford them shelter, when lo! and behold! there before his wondering eyes were sugar, pepper and salt, two potatoes, the gods be praised, one carrot, and a piece of bacon. Here, indeed, was a miracle; the gods were not unmindful; their faithful servant was not to be left to starve in the wilderness; these edibles were surely placed there by divine hands, for had not A’s men just left, and were they ever known to leave any thing behind them? Overcome by this revelation of the justice and goodness of an all-seeing Providence, the learned corporal reverently removed his cap, and with upraised eyes, that seemed, from the glad and holy light that shone from them, to be contemplating heavenly scenes, silently gave thanks to his Creator.

The men, like others stationed there before them, were enchanted with their surroundings. The corporal, however, did not enchant until he had inquired into the cooking abilities of his command. He, after a careful consideration of their qualifications, appointed Al Gehret cook. This momentous subject off his mind, he went forth into the sunshine and began to rave about the mountains that reared their solid bastions to the sky, declaring that a being must be indeed callous, who, when cut off from the rest of the world, and alone in nature’s mighty solitude, did not feel the omnipotence of the Creator.

In appointing Al Gehret cook, the learned Corporal had made no mistake, (how could he) for Al proved himself to be very capable; he so ably manipulated the provisions placed in his charge that one and all sang his praises. But the look of contentment and pleasure that came over the faces of his boarders as each delicious morsel disappeared through their lips into the cavernous depths below brought more joy to Al than all the encomiums which could be heaped upon him. So intent was he in watching their joyous emotions that he forgot to eat himself, and the others were so absorbed in the enjoyment of the fare, that they failed to take notice of his forgetfulness. No high salaried chef contemplated with more pride the results of his skill than Al the results of his labors. The potato soup he concocted made the corporal, whose weakness is soup, his lifelong friend.

McCulloch, Fetz, and Sindler now vied with each other to perform some special feat that would render them envied by the rest. McCulloch, while wandering along the bank of the river, with the intention of baiting the wary trout, on springing from one rock to another, lost his footing and was precipitated head first into the cold stream. Withdrawing himself hurriedly out of the water, he hastened back to the cabin, where the others were gathered, and, showing them his dripping clothes, dared them to do some thing that would rival his adventure. The wet clothes were discarded and laid out in the sun to dry, while the corporal, picturesquely draped in an army blanket, squatted all the afternoon in the sun, like a Digger Indian. Both Sindler and Fetz took up the challenge. Sindler started out with line and hook, determined to catch a string of trout, that would lie for itself, and forever make him famous. He fished and fished until the gathering twilight warned him it was time to return. He quietly stole back into camp, with but three fish to show for his efforts, a humbled and heartbroken man. Not so with Fetz, who after a long absence returned to camp, proclaimed his name to be Fetz, and that he was the only man in the crowd that had stood in Nevada. For this he claimed the honor of having performed the greatest feat. This was the subject of a prolonged and undecided argument between himself and McCulloch, which is renewed whenever they meet. The relations of the boys had become so harmonious, and their environment so pleasing to them, that Fetz, the following morning, declared that he would be satisfied to stop where they were another twenty-four hours; but McCulloch, casting a side glance at their depleted larder, said that, under the circumstances, he thought he would rather return. Not that he appreciated their company less, they were all good fellows, or their beautiful surroundings, but there were other claims more strong that made him yearn once more to return to Truckee, and the bosom of the company. So they packed their little belongings, and awaited the train which was to bear them back to camp.

The squad composed of Corporal Burdick, privates Monahan, McKaig, and O’Brien, relieved the guard at Boca, Sunday afternoon, July 22d, at 3 P. M. Not having had any thing to eat since breakfast, and being anxious to try the fare of the Boca Hotel, which their comrades had praised so enthusiastically, Monahan, McKaig, and O’Brien, not content to wait until 6 o’clock, decided to try and get some thing to eat, though of course the noonday meal at the hotel had long since passed into history.

Burdick stood guard, saying that he would save his appetite, and endeavor to do justice to his dinner at 6 o’clock. By dint of tales of starvation that would do credit to Baron Munchausen, our three worthies prevailed on the hotel clerk, whose face, O’Brien said, seemed very familiar, to give them what he could get in the kitchen. A very good lunch was improvised, and during the course of its disappearance it flashed across the mind of O’Brien that this same clerk so strangely met with in a small town high up in the rocky passes of the Sierra Nevada’s was none other than Jimmy Madden, an old schoolmate, and resident of the Mission. Mutual recognition was in order, and the future well feeding of this detail, at least, was assured. Even at midnight a fine meal of hot coffee, boiled eggs, tongue sandwiches, and (hold your breath) cream puffs! was furnished them by their kindly host. In regard to these same cream puffs “Kinky” Mac claimed, to use the common parlance, to “have a kick coming.” Monahan and Burdick had gone up to the hotel at twelve to get the midnight repast, leaving O’Brien on guard, and “Kinky” asleep on the lee side of a clump of sage brush with his hat for a pillow. On their return, the can holding the solids was quickly opened, and O’Brien, holding the lantern above it, saw before his wondering eyes three cream puffs. The sight of such luxuries made him gasp and press his hand to his palpitating heart. But three cream puffs for four men, what could it mean? He glanced quickly at lengthy Monahan and the little corporal who has read Gulliver’s Travels, and saw a guilty look flit across their faces, half shown by the feeble light of the lantern which he still held above the precious can. He discreetly held his peace, however, and busied himself disposing of his share, which, of course, included one cream puff. They did the same and then wakened Kinky. He was enchanted with his eggs, sandwiches, and coffee. All would still have been lovely, but Monahan, intoxicated with good fortune, asked Ben how he liked the cream puffs!

“Cream puffs!” shouted Kinky, “Where’s mine?”

Consternation in the enemy’s camp. Explanations were useless. He wanted his cream puff and on its nonproduction branded all three as land pirates and highwaymen. The punishment of the guilty had overtaken them. “Kinky” talked, and when he talks “stand from under,” for tho’ he says little and rambles much, he keeps it up incessantly. All that night were the hapless men punished for yielding to the temptation which had been too great; and in the morning promises to reform were eagerly made if “Kinky” would only drop the cream-puff subject.

On leaving the hotel after their impromptu repast our three boys saw that, this being Sunday, the veranda was crowded with mountaineers of all descriptions. They were passing down the steps, when they were accosted by one, who wanted to know “Who the fourteen-year-old kid was you had on there last night, and waked the town crying for his mamma?” Answering him, not sharply, but decidedly, that “they didn’t know who was on there last night, but they did know who would be on to-night, and would guarantee them,” they passed on down the steps feeling that such a performance last night must be offset by a very decided tone to-day. This was a Sunday crowd and liable to be all drunk by night. Later in the evening one drunken lumberman informed Corporal Burdick that he intended to go up on the bluff above the bridge and fire off blank cartridges at the sentry; but no notice was taken of him by the corporal, and he was finally persuaded by a very sensible friend that “he’d better not try it. This was not the same crowd that was on last night.”

Another approached private O’Brien while on guard, and wanted to know what four soldiers could do against all the men in town if they wanted to take the bridge and burn it. He was promptly answered that the four soldiers considered themselves enough to hold the bridge until relieved, and proposed to do it, too. All this questioning seemed to indicate, at least, a desire to try to take the bridge, and to provide against surprise, the guard vacated the empty box-car, which was used as a guard-house, and carried their blankets, etc., across the bridge and onto a bluff which overhung it and held a commanding view of its entire length and all the approaches to it. Here they felt well able to hold their ground until relieved next day. No disturbance occurred, however, the night passing quietly, with the exception of the noise created by McKaig’s tirade against criminals in general and cream-puff thieves in particular. The night was divided into watches of two hours each, one man standing guard on the edge of the bluff overhanging the bridge, while his comrades slept in the sage brush, rolled in their blankets, within reach of his hand.

The next morning, Monday, was spent by those off guard fishing in the Truckee or in Boca creek, half a dozen fish being secured, or in wandering over the ruins of the famous Boca Brewery, which had been burned the year previous. On account of the purity of the water used, this beer had the reputation of being the best made.

The belligerent spirits of the night before had all gone off to work, and no more excitement was furnished the squad.

At about 10 o’clock the relieving train passed through, dropping off the squad for the next day. Our squad did not have to wait for the return of the train, however, the details at Boca and Prosser being ordered to ride in on a freight train just arrived at Boca, and now, having taken on some extra ice-cars was ready to leave.

The ride in was uneventful, the two details arriving in Truckee at noon, just in time for dinner at the Truckee hotel.

The evenings, at the Truckee camp, were passed around a huge fire, singing songs and spinning yarns. One night Doc. Sieberst produced a huge roll of paper, and, with a voice containing as much music as the screech of a jackass, sang a parody on the song “Two little girls in blue,” entitled: “Few little boys in blue.” It contained thirty-two verses; but, ere he had waded through half of it, his audience had stolen away, and, deep in the seclusion of their bunks, with heads buried beneath blankets, tried to shut out the sounds of his voice, at last falling into a sleep, visited by frightful dreams and distorted visions.

The Doc. was the originator of our famous Truckee war cry, which commends itself for its brevity.

“Hoopla! Hooplo! Hooplee!

We were lucky,

We went to Truckee.

Not! what! A and B; don’t you see?”

The tide of travel east and west was daily becoming greater—huge freight trains slowly rolled in, and rolled away again. Their favorite stopping-place was the sidetrack adjoining the one on which our cars stood. They were a nuisance by night and by day—by night disturbing our slumbers, by the never-ending sounds of escaping steam and throbbing machinery; and by day a great annoyance to both officers and privates, particularly to the officers, who, on the approach of a passenger train, were compelled to climb through the vulgar freight train in order to see, and more especially to be seen, by the fair sex traveling in the Pullman cars.

We were now out nearly three weeks, and the majority of us were longing to get back to ’Frisco; particularly as now all danger seemed to be passed, the report that the strike was off being verified by the employees of the railroad company who had returned to work. The men began to worry about the security of their positions in town, and the business and professional men connected with the company, feeling that their business interests were receiving serious injury by their prolonged absence, were impatient to return.

Time hung heavily on the hands of all, and, as no one had yet been to Donner lake, Monday afternoon, of July 23d, Corporal Burtis and private Hayes decided to take to themselves the distinction of being the only members of the company to visit that beautiful sheet of water. Forgetting to ask permission, they quietly meandered out of camp unobserved, and made for the high road that led to the lake.

This lake, glimpses of which were caught from the many bends of the road, the beautiful little stretch of country approaching it, now green with luxuriant verdure, in which mild-eyed cattle cropped the plentiful fodder, and the hills to the right upon which sheep are now feeding, were, one winter many years ago, the natural theater of a sickening tragedy, the horror of which thrilled all the country at the time. It was here that, after many wanderings, a party of emigrants, who had left their eastern homes early in the spring of ’46, and, taking a new route which led through the Great Basin—lying between the Rocky mountains and the Sierra Nevadas—found themselves stalled in the impassable snows of these mountains which reared themselves like a white wall on all sides. Out of the party of eighty, thirty-six perished. A cross now marks the last resting-place of the unfortunate ones.

Squads of men were constantly going and coming. And now that so many trains were getting through at all hours of the night and day, the first sergeant was busy making up squads to accompany them. The novelty of post duty had not yet worn off, the men being so much changed about, that hardly one of them went to the same post twice; and, as each squad went out, the members of it felt like men going to an undiscovered country. The men detailed to Prosser Creek, Boca, and Cuba, went there with light hearts, because the men who returned from these posts were never tired of praising the food with which they were supplied. The men, when not on guard, divided the time between eating and fishing. Degeneration had already set in—they seemed not to have a soul above their stomachs—meal time was hungrily looked forward to, and the bill of fare considered the only subject worthy of discussion. So when the squad, composed of privates George Claussenius, Bannan, King Flanagan, and Gille—Claussenius acting as corporal—arrived at Prosser Creek near noontime, on Monday, July 23d, Gille wanted immediately to locate the rotisserie that had earned such a reputation for itself. This he was not long in doing, and soon returned reporting that dinner would be ready for them at 1 o’clock. As it was near that time Bannan and Flanagan, with many misgivings, watched Claussenius and Gille depart for the eating-place. Both of these young men are long and thin, and, as is usually the case with young people so constructed, have enormous appetites. For over an hour and a half they dallied with the good things placed before them, and, after casting a last fond, lingering look at the table, reluctantly tore themselves away, and with difficulty waddled back to their companions. They were received with all kinds of reproaches by the hungry and disgruntled Flanagan and Bannan. “Why didn’t they spend the afternoon?” or “Were they at a summer resort?” were some of the sarcastic questions that greeted them. The heel and toe pace that Flanagan and Bannan set, as they departed for their dinner, would have surprised the veteran pedestrian O’Leary.

At Cuba Sergeant Taylor, musician Rupp, and private Frech opened the eyes of some of the residents with astonishment by some wonderfully accurate shooting, at 800, 400, and 200 yards. An old mountaineer, who was watching them, remarked: “Waal, they may say youse fellows ain’t much good; but, I be gol darned, if I’d like to have any of ye shooting at me.”

While at this place, Rupp, our ex-cook, assisted the cook of the eating-place to get up their meal. One of the principal features of the menu was pie. If there is one thing they can do better than another in the country, it is to make pie, and this place was no exception. It was looked forward to as a fitting climax, a delicious top-off to the meals that will ever be borne in mind with pleasant remembrance.

This guard found Frank Shula a very heavy sleeper—that beautiful and enlivening German song, entitled: “Oh! the little Augustine!” sung and danced by “the entire strength of the company,” with all the force of their lungs and power of their legs and feet, hardly aroused him. The only thing that will awaken Frank is the sound of his own snore. This sounds so blood-curdling at times that it even startles himself, and with a gasp and grunt he sits bolt upright in his blankets, and stares around, panting with affright.

Late Monday afternoon the rumor reached us that we were to be relieved, and that part of the regiment had been sent home already. This was, indeed, joyful news, uncertain as it was.

At 3 o’clock Tuesday morning July 24th, a squad consisting of privates Fetz, Gehret, and Hayes were ordered out, and together with a similar squad from Company A, formed the guard of a passenger train, that finally pulled out of Truckee between 5 and 6 A. M. While stopping at one of the stations, in the snowsheds, a train pulled in from the opposite direction laden with militia. The men soon found out that they were companies from Grass Valley, and that they had been ordered to relieve the Companies A and B stationed at Truckee. The country boys were as fresh as new mown hay, their uniforms were spotless, and even at that early hour in the morning, think of it, had on immaculate white gloves. It was with light hearts that our boys continued their journey. A sumptuous breakfast was served at Blue Cañon. Colfax was reached about 10 A. M. They found Casebolt, Crowley, Powleson, and Stealy there. They also were birds of passage, and were taking things very easy, as the new arrivals proceeded likewise to do.

It was rumored that morning in Colfax, that the night previous an armed body of strikers had captured the gatling guns from the regulars at Truckee. This made the boys smile, when they remembered that one of the last scenes their eyes rested on that morning before leaving Truckee was the peaceful camp of the regulars, the two gatling guns safely anchored on a flatcar, with the sleeping forms of soldiers on each side of them, and the alert sentinel pacing his beat by the side of the cars. So much for the rumors of war.

Captain O’Connor was the officer in command at Colfax. He is quite a martinet, and as exclusive as an “Indian king.” The captain is quite an elderly man, and for hours he would sit on the veranda of the hotel with chair tilted back, and feet elevated above his head, his chin resting on his chest and his clasped hands lying in his lap. In this position, he seemed to be thinking mighty thoughts, or gazing down the vale of untold years, contemplating his glorious military achievements. His first sergeant, a tall, red-haired, quick, intelligent fellow and thorough soldier, was his charge d’affaires, and the only man who dared approach him. Our friend Stealy had the temerity the night previous to ask him for permission to attend a dance or fandango that was to take place in the town that night. The frowns that gathered o’er his wrinkled visage portended dreadful things for the then trembling Stealy, but he was ordered back to where he belonged, and told to kick up his heels there if he must.

It was here that poor Al Gehret lost his heart forever and a day. She was not fair to look upon, this copper-colored mountain maid, who won him at first sight, neither would you care to press her cheek. Her once lissome form had long since developed and filled out until the extent of her broadness was equivalent to her height. Those ebon locks were strangers to both comb and curling tongs. Hands had she like feet, and feet like flatirons. We are not prepared to say but that she might be able to make up in affection what she lacked in appearance. Some men are won by a pair of witching eyes. A wave of golden hair has often captured the hearts of others. Some succumb to a shapely form, some go in raptures over the classic curve of some fair girl’s neck. A refined intellectuality often appeals to others. But Al loved her for her arm alone, her brawny arm, part of which was exposed to view.

During the afternoon Casebolt, Crowley, Powleson, and Stealy left on different trains for Truckee.

The news of the arrival in Truckee of the Grass Valley contingent was hailed with joy by the members of both companies, and the delights of “pitching horseshoes” were given over for the pleasure of discussing the chances of an early return home. The arrival of the two companies made no difference in the regular routine of our camp duties, and the relieving squads were taken out to the different posts as usual. Our high hopes were blasted later on that morning by the report, that Colonel Gunther was unable to issue any orders with regard to the new companies, as he had not received any concerning them himself. The boys, however, put their little belongings together, and in various ways made ready for an early departure. With sleeves tucked up to the elbows Corporal Burtis presided over the washtub, and after a few hours hard work spread his own clean clothes and those of his absent comrade Hayes out to dry, and then with loaded gun stood watch over them.

Early in the afternoon orders were received relieving A and B, with instructions to be prepared to leave town at 7 P. M. Now the men began to hustle in real earnest; knapsacks were packed and blankets strapped to them; all hands were ordered out to scour pots innumerable. Doc. Sieberst secured a corner on the water-carrying job, and then would only work when his life was threatened. Corporal McCulloch, who was deeply interested in a yellow-covered book entitled “All for Her,” treated the request of his comrades to join them in the wild hilarious occupation of scouring pots and pans, with fine scorn. Was he not a noncommissioned officer? How could they expect him to degrade the standard of his rank by mingling with rude uncouth privates? and as for scouring pots and pans, Ugh! every fiber of his æsthetic nature revolted at the idea. The boys in despair appealed to the captain. The wily McCulloch soon had him entangled in the meshes of an argument, the subtleties of which being too deep for the captain, he peremptorily put an end to it by ordering the corporal to join his comrades mid the pots and pans. This he did under protest, but showed by the dexterity with which he brought forth the shining qualities of tin and copper, through a mass of black, much familiarity with that branch of kitchen work.

Later on Adjutant Hosmer, Lieutenant Filmer, Doc. Sieberst, Gilkyson, and O’Brien went for their last swim in the cool waters of the Truckee. Jack Wilson, Pariser, and Gille’s boon companion, Wilson, left camp ostensibly for the same purpose, but slipped off to a dancehall from which they returned just in time to catch the train.

About 6 o’clock the men were ordered to remove their belongings from the cars, guns were stacked, and the knapsacks and blankets piled around them. Great was the dissatisfaction when it was found out that instead of going back in our tourist cars, to which we had become attached, and in which we had managed to make ourselves very comfortable, we were to return in ordinary day coaches. In consideration of the faithful way in which we had guarded the property of the railroad company, the least they might have done to show some degree of appreciation was to make our home-going as agreeable as possible; instead we were piled into ordinary coaches, the seats of which, with malicious intent, were locked, so that it was impossible to even derive the small comfort obtained by reversing them. But it will require the destruction of some millions of property before the upholders of law and order and protectors of life and property receive the recognition due them.

Lieutenant Lundquist, with a detail from the new arrivals, was sent out to relieve our boys at the various posts, and bring them back. His appearance at that time of day caused much surprise, and the object of his visit much satisfaction. The detail under Sergeant Clifford stationed at Cuba had settled down to the quiet and peaceful enjoyment of country life; the Sergeant had just started off in quest of a fishing-pole when the relief train arrived. He was hastily recalled, and the new detail turned over to him for instructions. Clifford found them “as green as they make ’em.” They were all big, strapping country boys, clad in brand new uniforms, and were a marked contrast to the smaller men from the city, whose service in the field had given them and their uniforms—to use a most expressive slang term—a “dead hard” appearance. The new sergeant of the guard posted three of his men at once, but on Clifford’s representation that only one was necessary during the daytime, withdrew two of them. As Clifford never lost an occasion to indulge in his little joke, he made the situation appear very serious, and showed the place to be a very dangerous locality. He told them that a band of desperate strikers were expected about 6 o’clock. On hearing this one of the new guards turned very pale, grabbed a fishing-pole, and, saying that he would try a little fishing, made tracks for the river. The sentry, slowly pacing his beat, was told to increase his gait, to prevent his being shot by strikers hiding in the brush. The poor fellow almost ran.

The returning relief train now rolled in, the boys climbed on board, and, as they moved away, waved a last adieu to the new guard, leaving them in a very unenviable frame of mind.

The train arrived in Truckee in time to give the boys a chance to hastily eat a half cold dinner, and join their comrades on the train that at 7 o’clock, started westward, amid much heartfelt rejoicing among the members of Company B. While on the way the different members of the company met with on trains bound for Truckee were taken off. All were now accounted for but Fetz, the lovelorn Gehret, and Hayes. As night had settled down upon them, and being fearful that they would pass the missing ones in the darkness, the long snowsheds echoed with the cries of “Michael Hayes come into court!” Each train and station passed was greeted with the same yell for the absent Hayes and his companions. The train finally pulled into Colfax, and the missing ones were found peacefully sleeping on the floor of the baggage-room. After getting “Michael Hayes into court,” together with Fetz and Gehret, our journey homeward was continued, amid continued rejoicing.

As the night advanced some sang songs, while the majority, tired and worn out with the hardships and trials of three weeks’ campaigning, had fallen into merciful sleep, a happy sleep, pervaded with the pleasant sensation of being borne swiftly home.

There they lay, in all positions, on the floor, across seats, doubled up, some with their heads thrown back and mouths open, snoring lustily, some with their heads hung forward—not one in a comfortable position. But comfort by this time had become of secondary importance to the members of the City Guard. The habit of sleeping any and every where had inured them to all discomforts. And now the irrepressible Doc. Sieberst again broke out. Small pieces of paper were put into the hands or mouths of the insensible sleepers; a match was then applied to the paper. The awakening of the unfortunate victim was watched with fiendish glee by the onlookers. Some of the victims would toss the burning paper from them and fall back, dead to the world again; others would start up in a dazed sort of way, claw the air a bit, a piece of paper stuck in the victim’s open mouth making him look laughably ridiculous, and stare around at their tormentors with comical gravity. This is what sleep amounted to that night. To feel that before another twenty-four hours we could rest in a nice, warm, soft bed, was a comfort and a joy. Through the long night’s journey sentinels were posted on the platforms, allowing no one to go in or out.

About 7:30 in the morning we reached the Sacramento depot. Here a great disappointment awaited us. Instead of going through to the city as we expected, the cars containing the two companies were sidetracked, we were ordered out, and amid some of the most fearful, though low-toned, “kicking,” shouldered our knapsacks and blankets, and were marched back along the tracks to the camp of our regiment. As we approached the camp we made the echoes ring with our Truckee battle cry: “Hoop-la! Hoop-lo! Hoop-lee! We were lucky, we went to Truckee! Not! What! A and B; don’t you see?”—and were soon answering hundreds of questions all at once. We took possession of our tentless street and there piled our blankets and equipments. The weary ones spread their blankets and were soon asleep. The dreadful rumor then spread that we should not have left the train, and had not some mistake been made we would now be whirling on our way to the city. The question then arose, Who dared make such a mistake? The subject was quickly canvassed, and soon upon the luckless head of P. J. Conly, acting battalion sergeant-major, was poured the wrath of the whole company.

While in our tentless street, awaiting orders, the Irish crowd, headed by Flanagan, became involved in a little fracas with another crowd, composed of Jack Wilson, Gille, Wilson, and a few others. The neutral bystanders, in the heat of the battle, managed, unobserved, to occasionally get in an upper cut, and some one threw a brick. Through all the best of humor prevailed. About ten men were struggling for the possession of a barrel stave, with which Jack Wilson had been doing some great execution, when the appearance of Colonel Sullivan put an end to the enjoyable proceedings. The Colonel shook hands with the boys, and expressed himself as being glad to see them all back safe. From beneath the flap of an adjoining tent appeared the head of Brien, who had arrived in Sacramento while we were at Truckee. Tooker now put in his appearance, a sadder but wiser man, but with the aversion to work as strong within him as ever. Later on we were joined by Sergeant Sturdivant; he was compelled to leave us the Monday previous to attend to some important business in the city, and had just returned.

Lieutenant Filmer obtained permission to take the men down town to breakfast, and the majority went. On our return we were greeted with the good news that the regiment would leave for home that day at 3 P. M. We got our equipments and blankets together, and were ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Volunteers were called for to take down the officers’ tents, and the hardy and experienced men of Company B became at once very scarce. We were the lions of the hour, and swaggered around like heroes, giving exaggerated accounts of our wonderful adventures to a crowd of open-mouthed listeners.

The week spent at Truckee had enabled our boys to overcome the prostrating effects of their stay in Sacramento, and was of incalculable benefit to them physically. There were a few, however, on whom the malaria contracted in Sacramento had taken such a firm hold that it was not to be so easily shaken off, and who only reached home to take to a bed of sickness. Notably Al Gehret; nature supported him until he reached home and received the welcoming embraces of friends and relations; he then succumbed, and for two months was confined to bed, his life at times being despaired of. George Claussenius and Frank Monahan were both laid up with severe sick spells.

At noon we had a very sensible and appetizing lunch, ham sandwiches and beer. Clifford, as usual, with an eye to the future, managed to get away with half a ham, and a few other sundries which were duly appreciated during our long ride to the city. Thus did Clifford to the very end remain faithful to his charge, and in a blaze of glory bring his official career to a close.

Why we refer to the lunch of that day as a sensible one is because we were in the habit, when doing our own cooking, of preparing a hot lunch; this entails a lot of work, without satisfactory results. Cooking three meals a day is unnecessary. Men are satisfied with a light repast at the noon hour, when they have a good breakfast and supper. A lunch of sandwiches and beer (when you can get it), or coffee, answers every purpose, and is thoroughly enjoyed. During hot weather the man who abstains from cold drinks at meal time, and satisfies his thirst with warm tea or coffee, will find he is better able to stand the heat. Lengthy Monahan presided over the liquid refreshments on this occasion, and his administration was far from being satisfactory; it lacked the impartiality that characterized the regime of Jimmy Wear and Van Sieberst. William Flanagan sat at the right hand of Monahan, and his little tin cup was always kept full, with the result that William soon began to boast of his royal lineage, and to cast reflections on the “stuck-up, piano parlor Irish” at the same time looking very hard at their champion, Phil Bannan. On occasions of this kind the captain always had a big advantage over us, for he drank from a tin cup, which had the holding capacity of a dipper. This cup he became the proud possessor of in the early part of the campaign, and he clung to it to the last. It is believed by the members of the company that he bought it himself; others claim he had it made to order.

At last we received the order, “B Company fall in.” We were marched to the cars, and after considerable confusion, in which we were changed from one car to another while the train was in motion, thereby endangering life and limb, finally got settled, in an uncomfortable cushionless day coach. At the Sacramento depot the train was boarded by the Third Regiment, and amid howls and yells of joy the train pulled out for ’Frisco. It is with pleasure we can say that on this occasion the members of the company comported themselves with the dignity of tried soldiers, and preserved a silent passiveness that was a marked contrast to the demoniac yells that proceeded from the other companies. Passing over the bridge which was the scene of the wreck two weeks previous, we could not help but feel genuine regret for the brave fellows that met death beneath the cars, that still lay tossed about below the bridge. Such, indeed, might have been the fate of some of us, had events taken a different course. While the train was swiftly flying towards the city, Clifford doled out sandwiches for the last time; and a box of cakes and some bottles of wine that Fetz and Gehret found waiting for them at Sacramento were distributed among the boys with their compliments. At last the shores of the bay were reached, and across its shining waters we discerned the mansion-crowned hills of dear old ’Frisco. Long before it was necessary, the boys began to get their belongings together, and when we arrived at the end of the mole, every man was ready to step off the cars. On the other side of the bay we were received by a band, the Boys’ High School Cadets, and the members of our regiment who had returned home before us. Under their escort we marched up Market street. The appearance of these men formed such a contrast to our own, with their white gloves, white collars, jaunty caps, and clean-shaven faces, that we began to wonder if we ever looked like them, or would we ever look like them again. These, indeed, must be the tin soldiers we had heard people speak of. And yet not one of us would change places with any of them, though we were unshaven, begrimed with dust and dirt from our leggings to the crowns of our much-dented campaign hats, and laden with guns, knapsacks, haversacks, canteens, and blankets; we were proud of every grease spot, every stain, our bursted shoes, our worn leggings, our torn and dirty blouses, our campaign hats. Even our little tin cups had a new value for us. Around all these, dirty and worn, were clustered the memories and associations of our three weeks’ campaign. By the readiness with which we donned the uniforms that proclaimed us soldiers beneath the stars and stripes, and upholders of free institutions, did we prove ourselves not unworthy of the land we live in. And years hence, when the future members of this company are gathered around the festive board, the memory of the deeds of the City Guard during the Sacramento campaign will awake and fire the eloquence of the orator, and inspire the muse of the poet. Along San Francisco’s highways we marched to martial strains, the endless amount and variety of whiskers among the men affording much amusement to, and calling forth innumerable comments from, the small boy.

At length we reached the armory, where we were greeted by an immense crowd. After a short speech by Col. Sullivan, wherein he dwelt on the efficient services rendered by the First Regiment, we were dismissed, and were immediately surrounded by friends and relatives congratulating us on our safe return home. And thus ended the great Sacramento Campaign.

---

SONG OF THE SOLDIERS.

Comrades known in marches many,

Comrades tried in dangers many,

Comrades bound by memories many,

Brothers ever let us be.

Wounds or sickness may divide us,

Marching orders may divide us,

But whatever fate betide us,

Brothers of the heart are we.

Comrades known by faith the clearest,

Tried when death was near and nearest,

Bound we are by ties the dearest,

Brothers evermore to be;

And if spared and growing older,

Shoulder still in line with shoulder,

And with hearts no thrill the colder,

Brothers ever we shall be.

By communion of the banner,

Crimson, white, and starry banner,

By baptism of our banner

Children of one church are we.

Creed nor faction can divide us,

Race nor language can divide us,

Still whatever fate betide us,

Children of that flag we’ll be!

Chas. G. Halpine.

OFFICERS OF THE SECOND REGIMENT ARTILLERY AND NAVAL BATTALION, N. G. C.,
WHILE STATIONED AT OAKLAND, CAL. DURING THE STRIKE, JULY, 1894.

A HISTORY

OF THE

“CITY GUARD”

“B” Company, First Regiment Infantry
Second Brigade, N. G. C.

IN A CONCISE FORM

Embodying the Principal Features from its Original Organization
to the Railroad Strike of 1894

---

BY

CAPTAIN IRVING B. COOK

Commanding Company

---

“SALUS PATRIAE ME EXCITAT.”

PREFACE.

---

In the absence of any previously compiled history of the “City Guard” I am beholden to a host of ex-members, and to many other gentlemen as well, for data and scraps of history which helped materially in this work. To them I wish to express my most sincere thanks for all kindnesses rendered. I wish also to express my appreciation for favors received from public libraries, especially the Mercantile, for the free use of their valuable collections of papers and books for reference, many having been examined and consulted by me.

Irving B. Cook,

Capt. “City Guard,” B Co., 1st Infantry, N. G. C.

Armory, 1327 Market St., San Francisco, Cal.