Mardi Gras week was ideal in every respect, all the personages of the characters of comedy blended in their primitive originality; “Columbine” flirted with “Harlequin,” while “Ajax” defied the lightning; “Vulcan” shaped harpoons for “Neptune,” and “Falstaff” drank to the health of “Bacchus.” Mountebanks, clowns, and buffoons all joined in the revelry of mirth. The street pageant was a magnificent spectacle; floats garlanded with flowers representing every State in the Union, trades and professions, were led by Rex, the king of the carnival, surmounting the “globe,” and the Queen, the most beautiful Creole lady in New Orleans, riding in a chariot drawn by sixteen cream-colored horses. The array of the Crescent City Jockey Club evoked tremendous
applause, all the famous jockeys of the track on favorite mounts participating; “Louisiana Tigers,” and the “Texas Rangers,” sailors from the United States cruiser New Orleans, and bands of music from all over the State, joined in completing this gigantic saturnalia, which had, for its gorgeous setting, the Creole “bal-masque,” where New Orleans’ most exclusive society, costumed in Parisian elegance, was seen at its best.
The entire week was one round of jollification, at the close of which my friends Gautrell and Clark left for their homes in Georgia. I remained in New Orleans for four months, when, cases of “yellow-fever” having been reported, I concluded to seek a more congenial clime. Boarding the Knickerbocker, of the Cromwell Line, I made a most delightful cruise through the gulf and along the coast to the city of New York.
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Three years having elapsed since my departure from the little railway station in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Pennsylvania,
for New Orleans, the vicissitudes of destiny found me enjoying the balmy zephyrs and moonlight evenings of the tropics. My career in the navy had taken me into every port of importance on the Asiatic station, and my ship, the New York, had recently slipped into the harbor of Manila, and lay anchored off the break-water. Having gone ashore this particular afternoon for the purpose of attending the races at Pasay, I had engaged a “victoria” and with some friends attended the scenes at the track, called at the “Hefting House” overlooking Manila Bay, had dined in the old walled city, and driven to the “Lopez” road-house at Caloocan. The sun had set back of the hills of Olongapo, ere I discharged the cochero on the Plaza de Goiti and entered the Hotel Metropole. “Hello, boys,” said old Maulini, the proprietor; “I am glad to see you, you’re just in time to sample some fresh ice-cold hoff-brau; it just arrived to-day on the Kronprince from Germany.” Drawing the rustic hardwood chairs around the square tables, we sat in the delightful breeze of the electric fans as large fantastic steins of cool hoff-brau were served.
Through the short swinging screen doors of the café could be seen the cosmopolitan procession wending its way on business and pleasure; army and naval officers in “victorias,” Red-Cross nurses natilly attired in pure white lawn, friars in black habit and broad-brimmed hats, mestizos of Chinese, Spanish, and French extraction, East Indian, Malay, and Japanese merchants, and American soldiers, all stalking along the plaza.
“Tell us a good Dutch story, Maulini,” asked one of the boys, as another put in, “Ah, Maulini ain’t Dutch; he’s a French carpet-bagger.” As Maulini was about to take up cudgels in his own defence, there entered the café a bunch of cavalrymen, among whom I instantly recognized my old friend Loomis the cowboy. “Great heavens!” I said, “is this Loomis?” “Well, for the love of the powers that be, Adams, is it possible this is you?” “Yep,” I replied, “this is the fellow you taught how to throw a lariat.” “Where have you been the last three years?” he asked; “the last I heard of you was through Clark and Gautrell; they
called to see me at Fort McPherson, and said they had left you in good company in New Orleans; never hearing from you, I had concluded you had cashed in. Come on, fellows, I want you to meet a friend.” Drawing their chairs around our table, it was an “O-be-joyful” gathering that swapped stories as the steins of hoff-brau were replenished. Loomis told the story of our meeting in Washington and the subsequent journey to Atlanta; of how the Third Cavalry had been ordered to the front in the Boxer campaign, where they had seen hard service, at the close of which they were ordered to the province of Ilocas Norte, in northern Luzon, where the duty was also very strenuous. Handing me his discharge, I read:
“Army of the United States.