Soon after, the inherent good sense I knew him to possess when I selected him, led him to abandon both cane and shoes, and he has become a prominent and successful citizen of El Paso.
After President McKinley's election, General Miles asked me if I intended to apply for promotion. I replied that I never applied for anything unless I thought I had more than an even chance of getting it, but that, if anyone high in authority would give me that assurance, I would. "I believe you have more than an even chance," he answered. "There is but one colonel I will recommend before you, and that is Shafter."
I made the application the next morning. Adjutant General Ruggles made a detailed statement of my official services which I took to my friend, General Flagler, telling what General Miles had said. He promised me his help. In his office I met my classmate, General Merritt, then commanding the Department of the East in New York, who stated, "Mills, there is but one thing for me to do. When I return to my office I will also recommend you." I was soon promoted, but, according to the resolution of Congress appointing me Boundary Commissioner with the pay and allowances of colonel of cavalry, I had no additional pay for the nineteen years I served on that duty, holding the rank of brigadier general and receiving only colonel's pay.
Nannie and I, with our two children, stopped at the Richmond Hotel, in Washington, while we looked for the home we intended to rent or purchase. Senator White, now Chief Justice, also lived at the Richmond. Standing in the office one day, when Nannie entered and asked the clerk for her key, I saw Senator White was near her. She turned in her usual dignified manner to enter the elevator. Not knowing my relation to her, Senator White asked the clerk, "Who is that lady?" When he replied, "Mrs. Mills," Senator White said, "She is the most beautiful woman I ever saw."
While in El Paso on boundary business I received a telegram stating that Anson was seriously ill with appendicitis and was being operated on. I took the first train for Washington and arrived Sunday morning, but too late. Anson died during the night, February 25, 1894. He had been taken suddenly sick the Sunday previous, but, not knowing as much about the disease as they do now, the doctors deferred the operation until too late. It was the great sorrow of our life, and we could not help resenting all the rest of our lives the sad fate of one so young and promising.
Nannie.
