Forty-Six Years in the Army

by John McAllister Schofield

The department headquarters were removed to St. Louis during the winter of 1869-70 to make room at Fort Leavenworth for the cavalry who had been on the plains during the summer. I then had the pleasure of renewing the intimate friendships which had been formed between 1860 and 1863 in that most hospitable city. Even those ties which had been so rudely severed by war in the spring of 1861 were restored and became as strong as ever. I found that the memory of a little humanity displayed in mitigating somewhat the horrors of war had sufficed to obliterate in those few years the recollection of a bitter sectional enmity; while, on the other hand, a record of some faithful service far enough from their eyes to enable them to see it without the aid of a microscope, and the cooler judgment of a few years of peace, had so far obscured the partizan contests of a period of war that none were more cordial friends in 1869 than those who had seemed bitterest enemies six years before. Human nature is not half so bad as it sometimes pretends to be. As a rule, it would be pretty good all the time if men could only keep cool. Among all the enjoyments of that season in St. Louis, that which left the deepest impression on my memory, as has always been the case with me, was the sport at Hat Island, under the management of that most genial of companions, Ben Stickney. We hunted with hounds before breakfast every morning, and shot water-fowl from breakfast till supper. What was done after supper has never been told. What conclusive evidence of the "reversionary" tendency in civilized man to a humbler state! He never feels so happy as when he throws off a large part of his civilization and reverts to the life of a semi-savage. The only thing that saves him from total relapse is the fact that he takes with him those little comforts, both liquid and solid, which cannot be found in the woods. He thus keeps up the taste that finally draws him back again to a civilized, or, more accurately, semi-civilized life. If any sportsman knows any better reason than that for not living like a savage when in his hunting-camp, I would like him to give that reason to me!

We returned to Fort Leavenworth in the spring, and expected to make that our permanent home. Some necessary improvements had been made in the quarters during the winter, and no one could have desired a more comfortable residence, more congenial companionship, or more agreeable occupation than that of guarding and protecting the infant settlements of industrious but unarmed and confiding people rapidly spreading far out upon the plains. With my cavalry and carbined artillery encamped in front, I wanted no other occupation in life than to ward off the savage and kill off his food until there should no longer be an Indian frontier in our beautiful country.

FUNERAL OF GENERAL GEORGE H. THOMAS

But soon after my pickets were put out on the plains, there came the sad news of the sudden death, in San Francisco, of my old commander, General George H. Thomas. His body was brought east to Troy, New York, for interment. All his old companions, including President Grant, assembled to pay the last tribute of respect and honor to that noble old soldier, whose untimely death was deeply mourned by all. It was a most impressive scene, All the high commanders of the vast army which had been disbanded five years before assembled around the grave of one of their number. The hero was buried, as he had lived, honored by all who knew him, and mourned by the nation he had so faithfully served.

Immediately after the funeral of General Thomas there was, if I recollect rightly, a large assembly, in Philadelphia, of the Society of the Army of the Potomac. General Grant and General Sherman were there, and we met at an early dinner at the house of General Meade, who had been designated by General Sherman to succeed General Thomas in command of the Division of the Pacific. After dinner General Meade took me to drive through Fairmount Park, in which he was greatly interested as president of the commission having it in charge. He explained to me the great sacrifice he would make in giving up command of the Division of the Atlantic, and his congenial occupation and pleasant home in Philadelphia, where he was best known and most highly respected, and where, as I could see in driving along, almost everybody recognized and saluted him. I thought he had indeed better reason to feel satisfied with his home than any other man I had known. But he, too, great and brave soldier, was given but little longer to enjoy the high honors he had so nobly won in command of the Army of the Potomac. When I had so far recovered from a severe attack of pneumonia as to be permitted to look for the first time at a morning paper, one of the first things that attracted by attention was the death of General Meade, from the same disease, the day before.

Of course the President did not hesitate to accede to General Meade's desire, for he had given him, only a year before, the division of his choice. As is well known, the relations between General Meade and General Hancock were not at that time quite satisfactory. As I knew the exact truth at the time, I think it my duty to state that General Grant believed that General Hancock had not at one time shown that degree of subordination which a soldier ought always to feel. But to the honor of both be it said that their difference was ere long removed, and General Hancock was assigned to command the Division of the Atlantic, according to his rank. In the meantime, it fell my lot to take the Division of the Pacific, which I had a year before gladly relinquished in favor of General Thomas.

Soon after my arrival in San Francisco, General Sherman met me there, and we went together, by sea, to Oregon, where we met General Canby, then commanding the Department of the Columbia. We ascended the Columbia River to Umatilla, and rode by stage from that place to Kelton, on the Central Pacific Railroad, seven hundred and fifty miles. After a visit to Salt Lake City, we returned to St. Louis, where I had some work to complete as president of a board on tactics and small arms, upon the completion of which I returned to San Francisco.

In the summer of 1871, after the great earthquake of that year, I made a trip across the Sierra to Camp Independence, which had been destroyed, to consider the question of rebuilding that post. Of the buildings, brick or adobe, not one remained in condition to be occupied. Very fortunately, all in the garrison had received timely warning from the first shock, so that none were injured by the second and third shocks, which tumbled everything to the ground. Some thirty people living in small adobe houses in Owens River valley were killed. Sounds like heavy artillery in the distance were still heard at intervals after our arrival. For many miles along the length of the valley a great crevasse had been formed by the upheaval, which must have been many feet in height. In the subsidence one side had fallen several feet lower than the other, and at a place where the crack crossed the wagon-tracks a horizontal motion of several feet had taken place, the road marking its permanent effect.

ASSIGNED TO THE DIVISION OF THE PACIFIC

We ascended Owens River valley to the source of that stream, recrossed the mountains by the "bloody" cañon, and descended through the great Yosemite valley, which from the higher altitude looked like a little "hole in the ground." That was the least interesting of all my four visits to that wonderful work of nature. Our round trip occupied about seven weeks.