Compliments of the Author to

Anson Mills

Hannah Cassel Mills

MY STORY

BY

ANSON MILLS

Brigadier General, U. S. A.

Edited by C. H. Claudy

PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR
1918

PRESS OF BYRON S. ADAMS
WASHINGTON, D. C.

COPYRIGHT 1918
BY ANSON MILLS, BRIG.-GEN. U. S. A.

CONTENTS

INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS

To General Anson Mills
from his friend
Nelson A. Miles

Lieut-General U. S. Army

PREFACE

Washington, D. C., December 12, 1917.

The record of important events in human affairs as they are placed upon the pages of history and drift into the shadows of the past, should be recorded with sacred fidelity. The historian who places accurate and important knowledge at the disposal of the present and future students and writers is a public benefactor for those not only of his own time, but for the generations that shall follow.

The achievements and failures, the evils and blessings, the benevolence and the injustice, the rights and wrongs, the ambitions, wisdom and intelligence, the happiness and nobility, as well as the distress and sacrifice of a race or people rightly recorded, forms an invaluable guide and chart for the innumerable throng that occupy the field of activities and in their turn pass on to be replaced by others.

Doubly fortunate is the one who takes an important and distinguished part in the important events of his time, and then can write an account of those events for the instruction and benefit of others. It is doubtful if any epoch in history was more important or freighted with more difficult or greater problems to be solved than those presented during the time just preceding, during and subsequent to our great Civil War.

The great Republic formed after seven years of valor and sacrifice from thirteen weak and scattered colonies, had, through several decades of unprecedented development and prosperity, become a most powerful homogeneous nation. In its creation and progress, there was left one element of discord; one vexed question remained unsettled that threatened to dismember the government, destroy the federation and seriously embarrass our advance toward a higher civilization. When reason became dethroned, logic and argument failed, the problem had to be settled by the dread arbitrament of war.

The young men, the very flower of our national manhood, were required to decide that great problem. For the very important duties of citizenship and soldier, the distinguished author of this volume was well equipped for the important duties of that time and to render important service for his government and the people of our country.

Descending from the best of ancestral stock, born and reared in what was known as the Great Middle West, in an atmosphere of national independence, a region of our country where we find the highest type of our American civilization, he grew to manhood under the most favored auspices. Educated at excellent schools and institutions of learning, his mind became well stored with useful knowledge concerning his own country and the world. He then went to that famous military academy, West Point, where he acquired a thorough military training and those manly attributes for which the institution is noted. His mind naturally sought wider fields of usefulness, and when he resigned, he became identified with that marvelous civil development that has transformed a vast wilderness and mountain waste into productive communities and States.

As a civil engineer, he was most useful and successful. When the great crisis came, he was found true and steadfast in his allegiance to the national welfare amid chaos, doubt and uncertainty. His loyalty was invaluable, his patriotism sublime; among the first to volunteer, his record was most commendable and praiseworthy, ever present in every campaign and battle in which his company or regiment was engaged. Four times breveted for distinguished conduct in battle, he fought for a principle, and had the satisfaction of witnessing its final triumph, and its universal approval by the civilized world.

In that "war for civilization" on our western frontier, he again rendered distinguished service, not only by his conspicuous gallantry in action against Indians, but by his skill and genius as a commander in achieving success and victory where there was little prospect of winning either. In a campaign where success depends entirely upon the ability of the commander, there he succeeded.

During a long life of civil and military achievements, he was blessed by the companionship of one of the most estimable, accomplished and noblest of women, whose gentle influence was refining, whose presence was inspiring, and whose counsel was most encouraging and beneficial.

A successful life, rich with noble designs and good deeds, General Mills has contributed a favor in giving to the readers, the result of his experiences and observations.

These pages are commended to the public with the full knowledge of the fact that they are written for no selfish purpose, but for the highest and best of motives.

Nelson A. Miles

Lieut-General U. S. Army

Bayberry Ledge,

East Gloucester, Mass.,

August 31, 1917.

My Dear Daughter Constance:

After retiring from the line of the army, some twenty years ago, I had no further military duty before me save that of Commissioner on the Boundary Commission between the United States and Mexico, which I believed would occupy but a short time. Your mother and I had permanently located in Washington. We believed our lives had been so varied—mingling with so many races during so many vicissitudes and trials—that it would be interesting to you and your children for me, assisted by her, to write of our careers. Of this intention we told you in a letter dated January 1, 1898, that you might help us in such parts of the story as you were old enough to remember, although this was but a small part of our long career, you coming to us when we were middle-aged.

But the duties of the Boundary Commission became so arduous, and my business increased so as to keep me strenuously occupied until two years ago. And now, just as I find time for these reminiscences, the greatest sorrow of my life has come upon you and me—the loss of your mother. This shock has been so appalling that it shook my resolution to attempt the task without her, who had been the inspiration and chief factor in my life. Before giving up the plan, however, I submitted it to friends who had been nearest to us during our married life, and asked their advice. They all think I should not abandon my first intention of writing my life and career, in which my wife took so large a part. I record here my letter to Mrs. Albert S. Burleson and her answer, which is typical of the rest. I have selected her letter for publication because of its womanly sentiment, and because the marital life of General Burleson, my friend for a generation, has been not unlike my own. These letters are as follows:

Eastern Point,

Gloucester, Mass.,

May 31, 1917.

My Dear Mrs. Burleson:

We, Constance and I, want to thank you and General Burleson for your card of sympathy.

Twenty years ago, after retirement, I had in mind to write a reminiscence of my career, but the boundary duties and my Worcester business so occupied my time that I was unable even to begin it. Now that Nannie has gone, I reflect that she has been the inspiration of whatever success I have had in life for nearly forty-nine years, so that it seems to me that whatever I do in that line should be devoted to her more than to me. I have, therefore, about concluded to write something in memory of her, and I am considering just how to do this. She was so serene, so unassuming, and so devoutly thankful to the Great Creator and her forebears for her rich endowments that she had no incentive to display them, but was always, before all, the same radiantly beautiful, graceful, modest woman, whose sparkling eyes and responsive facial expression foretold her charity for all and malice toward none, that I can not do her too much honor. From my viewpoint, women have as much right to be remembered for their work in this world as men. Certainly she had.

It is difficult to write on such a subject, especially so soon after my great loss, but, as I have but a brief period in which to accomplish what I think I ought to do, I want to ask your judgment as to how I should proceed.

Yours very truly,

Anson Mills.

Mrs. Albert S. Burleson,

1901 F Street, Washington, D. C.

1901 F Street,

June 5, 1917.

Dear General Mills:

I believe it would grieve your wife—could she know—to have you put aside something you had planned through so many years to do. Doubtless you frequently discussed the undertaking with her—perhaps her interest in it was even greater than yours. And any reminiscence of your life would necessarily include her life—your life together. In the preparation of such a book she would continue to be your inspiration, and that thought alone would give color and strength to all you wrote. From the viewpoint of a devoted, understanding wife myself, I feel deeply that her husband's life history would be the most pleasing of all memorials to her; for surely her memory is perpetuated in your life.

I should be glad to have you write to me again, and if it is not painful to you, to come sometime to see us. You must know that all that concerns you and your wife, whom we too knew as a "radiantly beautiful, graceful and modest woman," concerns us.

With high regard and good wishes that time will bring peace to your wounded heart, believe me,

Faithfully yours,

Adele S. Burleson.

I have two objects in undertaking this work:

First. That I may leave to you, your children, and their descendants, some evidence of who and what their forebears were.

Second. To give our collateral relatives something that may interest and possibly encourage them.

As far as practicable, I shall tell the story chronologically, dividing the narrative into three periods: first, my childhood, and up to the time of the Civil War, when I was commissioned in the army; second, the period of the Civil War up to my marriage; and, third—by far the most important—our history as man and wife for nearly forty-nine years.

It may be my narrative runs too much to sentiment—but there is sentiment in our Flag; in the Declaration of Independence; in the Constitution—but we can not make them commercial assets. It was sentiment that caused the armies of the "Blue and the Gray" to amaze the world with the most sanguinary and chivalrous war ever waged during all the tide of time; and it was sentiment that in a few years brought these foes together as one harmonious people. The want of sentiment caused the Goths and Vandals to degenerate into what their name now implies. The same may be said of the Hessians of our War for Independence. The want of sentiment required 300,000 British soldiers, and half as many American mules, three years to overcome 40,000 Boers imbued with sentiment, which brought peace without vainglorious victory.

Anson Mills.

I am appending at the end of this book three papers which Mrs. Mills assisted me in preparing, as follows:

"Organization and Administration of the Army;" "Address to the Society of the Army of the Cumberland;" "Address to the Order of Indian Wars."

FOREWORD

I am eighty-three years old, having lived two-thirds of the constitutional life of this great Republic, which I believe the greatest institution for self-government ever devised.

Counting service as a cadet, in the line of the army proper, and as a Boundary Commissioner, I have served fifty-four years, nine months and four days in the United States Army; longer, I believe, than any other officer.

Mrs. Mills and I often congratulated ourselves that we lived in this nation and generation. In no other could we have seen and enjoyed so much, conducive to the belief that mankind was rapidly advancing to the greatest possible perfection.

Of the four greatest scourges, war, pestilence, famine and flood, we have seen the three latter almost entirely eradicated.

Only the scourge of war, the most cruel, barbarous and destructive of all, is left uncontrolled and unhampered, although there is hope this may soon be so restrained that it will be no longer a menace.

We have seen the nation develop from twenty millions to over one hundred millions of the most civilized, righteous and just people. We have seen it become foremost in the sciences, arts and industries. We have seen sixty per cent of hand labor transferred to machinery; we have watched railroad and steamboat transportation develop from their infancy; we watched the birth of electric light and power; we have seen the bicycle, motorcycle, automobile, sewing machine, knitting machine, typewriter, telegraph and its wireless associate, telephone, dirigible balloon, aeroplane, undersea boat, washing machine, power printing press, linotype, and hundreds of other inventions developed to their present perfection.

We have had a part in the pride that most of these betterments were brought about by the study, energy and ability of Americans, who, by reason of their superior inventive genius, excelled the rest of the world in manufacture.

We, too, tried to invent and discover. If we constantly combated what we believed to be error, ignorance, inertia, and non-progressiveness, it was because we tried to lead those believing, as we did, that their souls should lend the best in them to pave the way for those coming after.

As the spirit, impulse and efforts of the two characters portrayed in these reminiscences have been those of reformers striving for the advancement of their fellow men, it is probable that a free criticism of errors and wrongs will incite a suspicion that they are relating grievances. Therefore, I ask the reader to distinguish between vindictiveness and vindication. What I here record is not a relation of grievances, but an endeavor to explain to those who have the courage to follow our line of life, the antagonisms we met. For those who are willing to live a commonplace life, it is perhaps better to observe the opinions and customs of neighbors and those in authority, but for others it is sometimes wise courageously to defy and disobey injurious and useless commands. Such actions often injure the reputation of the reformer for a time, but eventually they will distinguish him above the large number of his fellows:

"... who yearly creep

Into the world to eat and sleep,

And know no reason why they are born,

Save to consume the wine and corn,

Devour the cattle, fowl and fish,

And leave behind an empty dish."

FIRST PERIOD

My Ancestors

I was born near Thorntown, Indiana, August 21, 1834.

My father, James P. Mills, third child of James Mills 2nd and Marian Mills, was born in York, Pennsylvania, August 22, 1808. His father, James Mills 2nd, was born October 1, 1770, and died December 3, 1808.

My father's mother died in 1816, leaving him an orphan at the age of eight. He lived with his Aunt Margery Mills Hayes for about two years, when he was "bound out" as an apprentice to a tanner by the name of Greenwalt, at Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Here he was to serve until twenty-one, when he was to receive one hundred dollars and a suit of clothes. All the knowledge that he had of books was derived from night school, Greenwalt not permitting him to attend during the day. His apprenticeship was so hard he ran away when twenty, forfeiting the hundred dollars and the clothes.

His only patrimony was from his grandfather, James Mills I, who, as father told me, sent for him on his deathbed and, patting him on the head, said: "I want Jimmy to have fifty pounds."

After running away, my father went to Geneva, New York, and served as a journeyman until twenty-two. With his inheritance of $250, he and his brother Frank started West in a Dearborn wagon, crossing the Alleghenies. He traveled to Crawfordsville, Indiana, and here, about 1830, entered eighty acres of the farm on which I was born. The land was covered with walnut, oak and ash, many of the trees being one hundred feet high and three or four feet in diameter. Felling and burning the trees, he built his house with his own hands, neighbors aiding in raising the walls.

My father had little knowledge of his ancestors, other than that they were Quakers, but, by correspondence with officials of counties where his ancestors lived, I have learned that the first of his family came over with William Penn and settled in Philadelphia.

My father married Sarah Kenworthy, on November 22, 1832. My mother was born December 30, 1810, at Coshocton, Coshocton County, Ohio, and died on the farm September 4, 1849 (before the daguerreotype, hence I have no picture of her). The Kenworthy family had only recently emerged from Quakerdom, and were known as "Hickory Quakers," so I am of Quaker descent through both my parents. My mother's father, William Kenworthy, born January 22, 1780 (presumably in Guilford County, North Carolina), lived about a mile and a half from our place, and died at Thorntown, August 31, 1854. In North Carolina he married Lucretia, the third child of my great grandmother, whose maiden name was Lydia Stroud, and who was born in 1765, near Guilford Court House, Guilford County, N. C. She married Jacob Skeen, and had eight children: Abraham, Mary, Lucretia, Jacob, Clarissa, John, Sarah and Lydia.

Her second child, my mother's Aunt Mary (Polly), married Benjamin Hopkins, whose death left her with four children in indigent circumstances. With her two daughters, Betty and Lydia, she lived in a small cabin almost in sight of my mother's house. Later these two girls came to live with my mother, picking, carding, spinning and weaving wool into Kentucky jeans and linsey-woolsey, which they made into garments for the family.

My first useful labor, when I was perhaps seven or eight years old, was to "hand in" the warp, thread by thread, to these girls as they passed it through the reed and harness of the loom. The knowledge I thus acquired of warp and woof laid the foundation of my future financial success.

About 1844 my great grandmother Stroud came to live with us. I remember well the stories she told me of the outrages of Lord Rawdon's troops when he invaded North Carolina with the Hessians and destroyed her father's property. Her father was once arrested for secreting a neighbor rebel in a sack of wool under the bed, discovered by the Hessians sticking their bayonets into the wool and wounding the rebel. They placed a rope around her father's neck and were taking him out to hang him, when he was rescued by the sudden arrival of some of Generals Lee and Sumter's soldiers. She described, too, her visit to the battle-field of the Cowpens near her father's plantation, to care for the wounded, and told of her three brothers who served in the Revolutionary Army, one of them being killed. She was so vehement in her denunciation of the English and Hessian soldiers that, all my life, I have been intensely prejudiced against the English.

Later she left our house to live with her youngest daughter, Lydia (Mrs. John Frazier), and died there in 1847, aged eighty-two.

Like my father, my mother had small patrimony, only two hundred dollars, which her father gave her in lieu of the one hundred and sixty acres he gave each of her brothers. Like him, she never attended school. In Coshocton, Ohio, by an unwritten law, no girls were permitted to enter the school house during sessions, so her knowledge of letters was gained through instruction by her parents and brothers. But, if lacking in schooling, both my parents had the greatest of all endowments—strong hands, clear heads and brave hearts, with which to enter their life struggle for existence.

They had nine children: Anson, William W., Marietta, Eliza Jane, Emmett, Allen, John, Caroline and Thomas Edwin, seven of whom grew to maturity. (Cuts, 28, 29.)

Thorntown had been a partially civilized Pottawottomi village under French Jesuit control, the seat of their reservation, where corn and other products were cultivated. When their reservation was opened to settlement, the Indians moved to Kansas. The birds carried the hawthorn seed and deposited it on the freshly plowed furrows of the farm land the Indians abandoned, which resulted in a beautiful orchard of hawthorn. Hence the name, Thorntown.

Grandfather Kenworthy purchased a good portion of these fields, including the old Indian burying-ground. He built a store and employed two six-mule teams to carry supplies from Cincinnati. One day, when Grandfather was plowing near this graveyard, a number of chiefs in war-paint came to his house.

After the Indians had smoked awhile, one of them drew a long knife, faced Grandfather and, pointing toward the graveyard, said:

"Kinwot, bimeby you gee-haw; gee-haw cut my brudder!"

Grandfather replied: "No, I will never plow the land under which your dead are buried," and it is today preserved as a graveyard.

Subsequent experiences with Indians led me to realize more than before the seriousness of this interview.

Anson Mills.

W. W. Mills.

Emmett Mills.

Allen Mills.

Myself with Brothers. (Text, 27.)

James P. Mills.

Marietta Burckhalter.

Eliza Jane Smiley.

Caroline Mills Martin.

My Father and His Daughters. (Text, 27.)

Privations of the Early Pioneers

My early life was primitive. For instance, there were no machine-made nails in this country. All nails were made by the village blacksmith from nail rods, and I often watched him while he wrought those I was sent to buy. All pins and needles were imported from England, and none of the pins had solid heads. They had wire-wound heads brazed upon the stems.

There were no shoe factories in the country, and no shoe stores in the villages. We were shod by itinerant cobblers, who made their lasts and pegs from maple wood from our wood pile. There were no rights or lefts, but each child had his own last. We children were so curious to handle the cobbler's tools that father authorized him to draw a chalk line around the corner where he worked, and use the knee strap, with which he held the shoe while pegging, to chastise us if we crossed it!

Farmers made their own brooms and axe helves from young hickory trees. We raised the wool and flax required for our clothing, all of which my mother spun, wove and fashioned, as did all other housewives. Stockings and mittens were all knit by hand; there were no knitting machines, sewing machines or cooking stoves. Practically everything necessary for existence was raised or made on the farms, save coffee, spices, tableware, hardware, glass and cutlery, which came from abroad and up the Mississippi by boat. Our nearest market was Cincinnati—two hundred miles away over rough and at times impassable roads.

There was then no Federal currency. Commerce was carried on with Spanish coin, and legal contracts were liquidated in "Spanish milled dollars." There were no postage stamps. Postmasters collected from writer or recipient ten cents for letters east of the Rocky Mountains and twenty-five cents for letters sent elsewhere. There were no envelopes. Letter paper had the fourth page unruled and was folded into an envelope, leaving the unruled page for the address. They were sealed with wax wafers.

There were no matches in general use. A Kentucky flint-lock rifle hung over the mantel, and this, with powder in the pan, was used to start fires by flashing the powder against tow or fine shavings. All farmers' boys became experts with these Kentucky rifles. Squirrels were so numerous that when the corn was maturing they would ruin three or four rows of corn next the fence. Partly to procure fresh meat and partly to protect the corn, it was our business to destroy these squirrels. I remember one Saturday I killed over sixty squirrels.

Carpenters learned their trade by five years' unpaid apprenticeship. A carpenter's chest of tools cost one hundred and twenty-five dollars, and contained approximately one hundred implements.

My father provided me with a carpenter's bench and tools and, without serving an apprenticeship, I became an expert carpenter, repairing farm tools and making furniture, as well as toys for the children. I was put to work "dropping corn" when not over eight years old and, later, hoeing and cultivating, as were all the children of my time. We were healthy and strong. Few children wore glasses and few had bad teeth.

I first went to school about 1840, when I was six. The school was a log house with a puncheon floor. Benches for the smaller scholars were saw-mill slabs, with four legs, without backs. The older boys had their bench facing the wall, with a broad plank on which to write fastened on pins in the logs.

School teachers, employed by the farmers, "boarded around" for a week or two at a time with the parents. These schoolmasters were almost invariably Irish, and governed entirely by fear, punishing cruelly. Of course, the children became stupid, uninterested, and learned slowly. We were made to sit on the bench eight hours a day, holding a book in our hands, whether studying or not. Hearing of the New England method of "moral suasion," my father interested his neighbors and succeeded in engaging as teacher a young man from New Hampshire.

He, Charlie Naylor, told us that he had come from afar, where the teachers tried to avoid corporal punishment, and that, unless it was absolutely forced upon him, he would never whip us. He was brilliant, active and industrious, and soon won the love of his sixty scholars.

Many settlers were from Kentucky, where they compelled the teacher to "treat" on Christmas. If he refused, they tied him hand and foot, took him to the river and immersed him under the ice until he consented to supply them with apples, candy and cider. Naylor's predecessor had been treated this way.

When Christmas came nine boys over fifteen years old determined to demand the treat. The day before Christmas these nine boys took the loose benches and barred the double doors. My cousin, Lee Kenworthy, passed a note through the transom to the teacher, demanding the usual Christmas treat.

Naylor read the paper, stamped it under his feet, went to the wood pile and got the axe. Smashing the door panels, he boldly entered, axe in hand, walking to the center of the room ringing his bell violently. Every scholar proceeded to his seat. For some minutes the teacher walked back and forth. Then he asked the larger boys in turn: "Had you any hand in this?"

Each answered clearly that he had. They were brave boys. To each of the nine boys Naylor said: "Take your place out in the middle of the room near the stove." Then he gave his knife to the boy on the right and said: "Go out to that beech tree and cut nine good switches."

Naylor deliberately drew each switch through his hand, laid it on the hot stove, where it began to pop and frizzle, then slowly drew it through his hand again, bending it back and forth. Finally he walked out before the boy on the right and called on him to step forward and give him his left hand. Then, raising the switch with a frightful effort, he brought it down mildly on the boy's shoulder, and told the boy to return to his seat. He repeated this with each of the nine, none making any resistance. He then threw the switches in the fire and resumed teaching.

This moderation established Charlie Naylor as the most popular teacher that community had ever known, ended the Christmas treat, and almost entirely ended corporal punishment in our public schools.

My father enlarged his farm. When I was twelve he was raising corn and wheat for shipment, and I remember driving a two-horse wagon loaded with thirty bushels a distance of twenty-five miles to Lafayette. There I saw Perdue's Block, the first brick building I had ever seen. It was celebrated throughout that part of Indiana, yet it was but two stories high and had only three stores!

Father had three permanent farm hands, Matt and John McAleer, refined and fairly educated Irishmen, and Bill Smith, a partially degenerated and cruel American. When the Mexican War broke out, all three wanted to enlist. The nearest recruiting office was Crawfordsville, and I went with them. The recruiting officer had stacked in front of his office many old-fashioned flint-lock muskets, which so excited me that I begged the recruiting officer to take me as a drummer, although I was but thirteen! He replied that he would, provided I could get my parents' consent.

Father met us when we returned and asked the men if they had enlisted. Matt and John said "yes." Then father asked Bill, "did you enlist?" "No, Jim," he replied, "I did not. You should see those big guns. They carry a ball as big as your thumb and three buckshots, and have spears on the end of them that long, and just as keen——!"

Matt and John served through the war, but John died of yellow fever coming home. Matt remained with father many years. All this war experience so inspired me that I persuaded father to apply to our Congressman, Dan Mace, for an appointment to West Point. He replied that he would have given it to me, but that he had already nominated another.

My father was an ardent Democrat of the Jackson type, and when Jackson died he felt for a long time that the country was lost. Although self-educated, he was a great reader, and a very progressive man. Our first corn we shelled by hand, but later my father bought the first corn sheller in the county. He got the first traveling traction threshing machine, which threshed the wheat from the shocks in the field. Formerly we threshed it from the sheafs on the barn floor with a "flail"—two sticks tied together, with which the thresher beat the kernels from the straw. Father also purchased the first reaper in that part of the country. He prospered above his neighbors because he was indefatigable in industry, ambition and economy, but he met with a great sorrow, as I did, in the loss of his wife, my mother, when I was fifteen. Before he was very happy and cheerful, singing and whistling much; but I never heard him do either after my mother's death.

Being the oldest child, I was called on more than the rest to care for the younger ones. Shortly after my mother's death my father asked us to make a great sacrifice to keep the family together. He would not marry again, and it would be impossible to have a woman come to care for us. If I would not assume the duties of a mother with Mary, thirteen, and Jane, eleven, to do the housework, he would be obliged to bind the children out to relatives and neighbors. We promised to make this sacrifice, and while I thought then and for a long time after that it was a great wrong, I now know it was the best thing that ever happened to me. The responsibility, together with the instruction and admonitions that I had received, principally from my mother's knee, prepared me for future responsibilities. My father gave me much advice as to the obligations resting on all to do for those coming after him what those who had gone before had done for him. Once, traveling a good road, well prepared to keep vehicles out of the mud, he said, "Now, Anson, somebody built this road for you; you must build some for those who are to come after you."

In 1851 my father had opened his farm to one hundred and fifty acres. Fertilizing it with the ashes of the consumed forest, he raised a most extraordinary crop, three thousand bushels of wheat and thirty-five hundred bushels of corn. He sold the wheat for one dollar and the corn for sixty cents per bushel, which made him a rich man for those days. Then he told my sister Mary and me that he was going to prepare us to fight the battle of life by giving us an education, which he and our mother had not had.

So in September, 1852, he sent us by rail, a five or six days' journey, to Charlotteville Academy, in Schoharie County, New York.

We made seven changes in the five or six days' journey to Canajoharie, New York. The legal rights of railroads were so involved that the projectors had not devised a means to construct interstate or through-city railroads. In none of the towns was there a joint depot; in most we hired a country wagon to carry our trunks from one depot to the other. At Erie there were two depots, because the road to the east was of a different gauge from the road to the west!

I mention all this in detail that those who are so dissatisfied with the beautiful and efficient methods of railroad transportation in these days may realize what they would be up against if the Rockefellers, Carnegies and other benefactors like them had not made these great improvements possible.

At Canajoharie we took the stage to Charlotteville, thirty miles distant, where we arrived in a snowstorm.

My father had entrusted to me a large amount of Indiana money to deposit with the treasurer of the academy. On presenting it to Mr. Archer, he exclaimed: "Why, what does your father mean by sending us this 'wild cat money!' You could not buy a breakfast anywhere in New York with it! However, since you have come so far, I will send it to New York and see what can be done." He finally exchanged it and put it to my father's credit.

Charlotteville Academy

At the academy were eight hundred students, male and female, occupying separate buildings, the chapel and dining room being between the boys' and girls' buildings, and the only place where they met. In the town, the girls were allowed to walk only on certain streets and the boys on others.

My father equipped me with what he considered suitable clothing for my new environment, but what was fashionable in the West was a matter of ridicule in New York, particularly my hat, a tall, square-crowned beaver. I wore a large moustache, had black hair and rather dark complexion, and I was a curiosity to the students, my dialect and vocabulary being different from the Yankee pupils. I was soon nicknamed the "Russian Ambassador from the Woolly West," and my good nature was somewhat tried by the ridicule. However, I made the best of it, had plenty of company always, and my room was visited perhaps as much as that of any other student.

I had made myself a small box with a lock, in which I kept some personal things, among them some correspondence with a girl cousin of mine in Ohio, whose letters were very sentimental.

One evening, I found the son of the professor of mathematics, Ferguson, about my own age and size, sitting in my room. He began to quote some of the silly expressions of this young lady. I asked him if he had read my letters. When he said he had, I invited him into the hall and blackened both his eyes. He called for help, but the watchman came very slowly! Ferguson was unpopular with the employees and the watchman told me afterward he wished he had let me alone a little longer. The boy reported the incident to his father and the elder Ferguson, the second officer of the academy, sent for me in the absence of President Alonso Flack. He threatened to dismiss me because I should have reported to him, but said instead he would report the case to the president when he returned. I replied, to use a present day expression, that it was a non-justiciable case.

Later Mr. Flack sent for me and I told him what had happened. Mr. Flack pondered and then said: "Mr. Mills, I am very sorry that you got into this trouble, but, had I been in your situation I would probably have done as you did. That will do—but don't let it occur again."

At Charlotteville I met two young revolutionary refugees from Cuba, Miguel Castillanos and Juan Govin. Castillanos had been captured and imprisoned in a fortress in Ciuta, Africa, but escaped. By mutual arrangement, we taught each other our respective languages and I thus had an early acquaintance with Spanish.

After a year, during which both my sister and myself got along very well, Father sent me a letter from Mr. Mace, the Congressman, saying that his appointee had failed and that he would nominate me for West Point. The nomination came and Father had me come home until the opening of the academy in June.

Prior to leaving Charlotteville, I obtained from Secretary of State, William L. Marcy, a passport with the view of going to Cuba when I had finished my course, but my appointment to West Point changed that.

My Abandoned Birthplace

West Point Military Academy

I reported at West Point on June 1, 1855. I knew nothing of military discipline or ways and was received, as were others at that time, in a most cruel manner by the older cadets.

I was told to report to two older cadets for examination and assignment to quarters. I expected at least serious treatment, but they asked me the most ingeniously foolish questions. I smiled, but with great sternness they demanded I observe proper respect for the officers of the United States Army.

They questioned me on my political and moral principles, adding that they must observe great caution in assigning room-mates, lest injury might happen. Finally, they assigned me to a room with Cadet Martin (J. P.) from Kentucky, hoping that I would find no difficulty in getting along in peace with him.

After being bedeviled for a week or two, I became despondent and homesick, especially as no cadets would recognize me in any friendly manner or speak to me on any but official subjects, except to jeer and deride me.

One day, I was accosted by an old cadet (whom I afterwards learned to be George H. Crosman), the first friendly salutation I had since my entrance. Learning I was from Indiana, he said he was glad to hear it, as it was his State (which was not true) and began asking me if I knew certain persons from that State, some of whom I did. Crosman seemed glad to make my acquaintance and asked me to call on him.

In camp I was assigned to A Company and Crosman belonged to D. Hoping for some relief from extreme despondency and homesickness by making one friend among the higher class, I proceeded to his tent. I found him lying down in his underclothes smoking a meerschaum pipe.

He greeted me cheerfully, invited me to a seat and asked me if I smoked. He expressed astonishment at my reply and stated I would never graduate, that no man ever had graduated who did not smoke, and that I had better begin at once.

I did not wish to smoke and said so.

"Well, that's all right," he replied, "but examine that pipe. That is a fine pipe—a first class meerschaum pipe."

I took the pipe and began to examine it, when, placing his own pipe on the side of his body opposite the sentry walking his beat outside, he called "Number seven, do you see this plebe smoking?"

Immediately the sentry cried, "Corporal of the guard, number seven."

I said, "Mr. Crosman, you are not going to report me for smoking, are you?"

"Well," said he, "if I should, are you going to deny it? What's the use? Didn't that sentry see you with a pipe in your hand and this tent full of smoke? How could you deny it?"

I moved, my impulse being to return to my tent. "But," said he, "don't be a coward, plebe, face the music. Don't run away."

So I sat still waiting results. Shortly I saw a corporal with two men armed with muskets approaching. They marched up facing me, one on each side. Then the corporal sternly ordered me to take my place between them.

When I refused to move each member of the patrol placed an arm under mine, lifting me from my seat. They dragged me along, the corporal placing his bayonet against my back. I was placed in the prisoners' tent. This was in June and the weather was very warm. The walls of the tent were lowered and a sentinel placed over me and I was ordered to take what was then known as the Shanghai step. The tactics had just been changed from Scott's to Hardie's, Hardie's step being quicker and longer than the step formerly used. The exercise I was ordered to take was marking time by raising the feet as high as possible, bringing the knee up against the stomach.

I did this until wet with perspiration and so exhausted that I almost fell. Presently the sentinel called, "Turn out the guard, Officer of the Day," when they hustled me with other prisoners to form on the left of the guard.

The officer of the day was Cadet Lieutenant Porter, whom I had met. My hopes brightened, thinking I would be released as soon as the circumstances became known. When he came to me, he remarked, "Why, plebe, what are you confined for?"

"I don't know," I replied.

"Well," said he, "if you don't know, I think I will keep you in confinement until you find out."

I remained a prisoner until late in the evening, exercised frequently, when the guard was again turned out. This time, as the officer of the day said, "Well, plebe, have you found out yet what you are confined for?" I replied, "Yes, sir."

"Well, what is it?"

"For smoking," said I.

"That's not a very serious offense. Will you promise not to let it occur again if I release you?"

"Certainly," I replied, and was released.

I resolved to punish Crosman physically, but at the January examination he was deficient and discharged. Before he left he came to see me. "Plebe," he said cheerfully, "I am going away. Here's a set of text books for your next course. If you will accept them, I will give them to you." My impulse was to refuse and force him from my room, but, on better thought, I accepted the books and thanked him.

He afterwards became a captain in the Tenth Infantry.

This was an extreme case of hazing of the kind that eventually brought it into disrepute. I believe hazing held within bounds is of benefit to the academy, in teaching the bumptious and presumptuous how little they are prepared to enter a life of absolute discipline, and how little imaginary personal, social, or political superiority has to do with their future training.

Long experience as a commanding officer has borne out my belief that the graduate (by reason of the cadet being placed upon honor in all communications with his superiors) is generally superior to other commissioned officers. But I am willing to admit that Crosman's apparent cruelties and other similar vicissitudes better qualified me to fight successfully my long battle of life.

One of the things that impressed me most during my stay at the academy was the painting above the chancel, "Peace and War" by Professor Robert Wier. Underneath it was written, "Righteousness exalteth a nation but sin is a reproach to any people." The painting was so beautiful and the sentiments so inspiring that it impressed me all my life.

Among the two hundred and fifty cadets was more diversity in dialect, pronunciation, and ways of thought than there had been at Charlotteville. One could soon tell, after a brief conversation, what part of the country one's companion was from. There was so little traveling from State to State that almost every State had its own dialect, as well as peculiar theories of morals, politics and government. The Kansas troubles were then at their height and there were many encounters between the extremists of the North and the extremists of the South, but, after a year or two at the academy, each became reconciled to the other's ways so that the corps, as a body, was more homogeneous than the people at large.

Cadet life then was much simpler than now. Our dining table was without covering, our tableware heavy Delft, and the diet very simple. Years afterward my classmate Samuel Cushing and I were guests in the barracks at the centennial commencement. To our astonishment the adjutant read an order: "Cadets of the first class (graduating) will turn in their napkin rings immediately after guard mount." Cushing jokingly drew his sleeve across his mouth indicative of the absence of napkins in our day.

My experience with the Kentucky rifle had made me one of the best shots in the corps. After marching off guard, it was the custom for each member to go to the target range and fire at a target, the man making the best shot being excused from his next tour of guard duty. I frequently got excused for this excellence.

In camp, I drew a beautiful musket, new, clean, undented, with a curled walnut stock, and my mechanical experience enabled me to make it the handsomest gun in the corps. At guard mount it was the adjutant's duty to select three cadets having the cleanest uniforms and rifles for the "color guard." When the corps stacked muskets at dress parade in the morning, these three color guards walked post in front of these rifles for two hours only, after which they were given freedom for the day. I frequently was detailed on this guard.

We were not allowed to go off the reservation without permission, but on one occasion I was seized with a desire to "run it." Getting a ferryman to take me across the Hudson to Cold Springs, I procured a bottle of brandy. As it was contraband, I placed it under my tent floor.

We were required to keep our brasses and other trimmings bright, but were prohibited from using oxalic acid. Nevertheless, many of the cadets used acid for cleaning brasses, keeping the bottle well hidden.

Unfortunately, I placed my brandy near my oxalic acid bottle. At my suggestion my tentmate, Andrews, drew out what he supposed was the brandy, pouring out a drink. It burned his mouth, so he spit it out, saying, "That's not brandy."

"Of course it is. Give it to me," I said, impetuously taking a big swallow. Immediately it began to burn. Lighting a candle, Andrews cried, "Mills, you have taken acid." Someone called out I was poisoned, and older cadets begged me to run to the hospital. I ran through the sentinel's post without permission or my cap to the surgeon's office. The German steward produced a ball of chalk about the size of a small orange and told me to eat! It was an unsavory meal, but I swallowed it; and the steward told me I would be all right, which I was.

The story spread through the whole corps, even to the instructing officers, and I never heard the last of it.

It was then the custom for cadets to settle private quarrels by personal combat. Cadet Wesley Merritt, of my company and class, and I, each weighed about one hundred and sixty pounds, were five feet ten and a half inches in height, as near physically equal as any two men could be. A question of veracity arising between us, our friends decided we should go down by Dade's monument and settle the matter. Merritt selected his tentmate, Alfred T. Smith, and I mine, John N. Andrews, to act as seconds.

Although our hearts were not in it, and we were always the best of friends afterward, we had one of the hardest fights that took place while I was at the academy. We were finally separated by our seconds, covered with blood, and started back to camp, when, like Roderick's Clan Alpines in the Lady of the Lake, nearly a hundred cadets, secretly assembled as spectators, arose from the surrounding foliage.

General Scott was a great friend of the academy and of the cadets, and often visited us. Once when a plebe in camp, I was on post No. 1 at the guard house. As was his habit when walking out, General Scott wore all the gaudy uniform to which he was entitled. The corporal of the guard called out to me: "Be careful; General Scott is approaching."

As he arrived at the proper distance, I called out, "Turn out the guard; Commander-in-Chief of the United States forces."

General Scott halted, faced me, threw his right hand to his military chapeau with its flaming plume, raised it high in his hand, and called out in a very stern military manner: "Never mind the guard, sir."

He was the most formidable, handsome, and finest-looking man I have ever seen, and carried himself with all the pomp of his high position. Every military man admired him.

Congress had passed a law making the course at West Point five, instead of four years, which necessitated dividing the class ahead of mine in two parts, so that our class was more than twice as large as either of the two classes preceding it. It may be that there was more or less disposition to equalize the classes. However that may be, in the February examination, I was found deficient in mathematics and resigned. Although realizing that I had no just complaint, I was so greatly humiliated, I was ashamed to go home.

I therefore wrote my father that, as he had favored me above the rest of his children, I wished him to leave me out of any consideration in the distribution of his property, but to give it exclusively to my brothers and sisters, and that I would show the world I could make a living for myself.

Although not a graduate, I have always had the greatest respect for the teachings and discipline of the academy. I believe the U. S. Military Academy has turned out the best officers known to the world's history. Schaff says, in "The Spirit of old West Point," that my class was not only the largest, but the most distinguished during that period. Of this class nine became general officers, and nine were killed in battle.

Early Days in Texas

I went to Texas, then a small State, via the Ohio and Mississippi rivers from Cincinnati to New Orleans, thence up the Red River to Shreveport, and from there to McKinney, Colin County, on foot, arriving in April, 1857.

Here I made the acquaintance of Judge R. L. Waddell, the judge of that district, formerly a member of Congress from Kentucky. He offered to get me a school, stating that he had five children who ought to be taught, and gave me the privilege of studying law with him. As I had nothing else to do, I commenced teaching a class of sixty scholars, studying and reciting law to him meanwhile.

Judge Waddell had a plantation near the town and, in his absence on the circuit, placed me in charge of his affairs, including the management of the plantation and his thirty slaves. A strong Union man and earnestly opposed to slavery, Judge Waddell often told me that if his slaves could make a living for themselves he would freely manumit them. But they could not, and he was justified in holding them for their own sakes as long as he could. It was here that I became acquainted with the negro character, its childish simplicity and numerous admirable traits.

The judge was a remarkable man and a most worthy character, unselfish and law abiding. I have often heard him refuse cases because he could not defend clients believing them guilty. He treated me as a son, giving me much good advice. He never entered a saloon and advised me not to, which advice I practically have followed all my life.

At McKinney I met Sam Houston, a personal friend of Judge Waddell. Although then an old man and I a very young one, he took quite an interest in me, and we took many walks together in Trinity Bottom, where, one day, he cut a stick of osage orange (bois d'arc) which he fashioned into a cane and presented to me, and which I have to this day.

In teaching school at McKinney, I adopted Charlie Naylor's methods of avoiding corporal punishment, but there was a surly rowdy about eighteen years old, as large as I was, who often made trouble with the other scholars, even after I threatened to punish him if he did not change. One afternoon, a little boy ran up to me, saying: "Master, you better look out for Tom Shane; he's got a pistol, and he's going to shoot you."

Tom, as usual, was late. When I saw him coming, I placed myself just inside the door. As he entered I seized him by the collar, saying, "Tom, give me that pistol!" He was so overcome by surprise that he handed it to me without a word.

I took it to Tom's father, a blacksmith. Young Shane probably received a more severe punishment that night than I could have given him. After that, I had no more trouble.

At this time there was great excitement between North and South, caused principally by the troubles resulting from the settlement of Kansas and the many conflicts between those who were taking slaves there and those who were determined it should be a free State. The negroes became so excited the legislature passed a law making it a felony for any person to teach a negro how to read or write. The new statute also prohibited free negroes from living in the State, and set a date on which all free negroes who had failed to choose a master would be sold into slavery.

One Sunday, a large free negro blacksmith about twenty-eight or thirty years old came into Judge Waddell's office and asked me if it were true that he would have to choose a master or be sold into slavery. I told him it was. He then asked me to be his master, that he might avoid being sold to another. For many reasons I declined, though I could have sold him for a thousand dollars. As he had means, I advised him to go where he would not be sold. I never knew what became of him.

During the winter there were four or five times as many fires in adjacent counties as there had ever been before. It was generally believed that Northern abolition influence had been communicated to the negroes, and that they were trying to terrorize their masters. Consequently, a law was passed forbidding negroes to remain out at night, and authorizing anyone to arrest and take to jail more than two negroes found together.

I remained in McKinney about a year, when the Butterfield Overland Mail was chartered from St. Louis to San Francisco, an eighteen-day journey, with daily service each way. El Paso was a promising Mexican settlement, and would probably be the half-way house, and eventually a place of some importance. I therefore bid Judge Waddell good-bye and started for El Paso. Before going, however, I visited my father, going with a Mr. Ditto of Kentucky through the Cherokee Nation, where we bought a small drove of very beautiful little Indian ponies, and drove them to St. Louis and sold them. I remained a month or so with my father and, upon returning to Texas, on my father's advice, took my brother Will to McKinney, and he took up school teaching where I left off.

El Paso Experiences

The journey to El Paso, where I arrived on the eighth of May, 1858, was through the most desolate country, with Indians on all sides, some hostile and some friendly. Coyotes and other wild animals abounded, but most interesting were the numerous buffalo east of the Pecos. There were literally millions. I have seen the plains black with them and, when moving, which they did at a kind of lope or gallop, I have felt the earth tremble under the impress of their heavy shoulders. When we encountered one of these moving herds, so impetuous in its advance no obstacle could resist it, we would turn the coach horses in the direction of its flight and the passengers would dismount and fire their guns to scare the buffalo away.

At a station, near the Pecos River, that had been robbed by the Indians, we had to remain two or three days, until we received fresh horses. The Indians had carried off all the eatables, except some corn and sugar, and we parched and ground the corn into meal with the coffee mill and boiled it with sugar to keep us alive until relief came.

Save for this one delay, we made this distressing journey without stopping night or day except for meals. If I gave up my seat at a station there was no certainty that I would get a place in the next coach, so we all stuck to our seats, although passengers sometimes became crazed for want of sleep, and one or two had dashed into the desert and been lost.

After seven days' and nights' travel, when I arrived at the bluffs overlooking the valley of the Rio Grande, I thought it was the most pleasant sight I had ever seen. When we drove into the town, which consisted of a ranch of some hundred and fifty acres in cultivation in beautiful grape, apple, apricot, pear, and peach orchards, watermelons, grain, wheat and corn, it seemed still more beautiful, especially when, under the shade of the large cottonwood trees along the acequias (canals for irrigation), we saw Mexican girls selling fruits of all kinds grown on the opposite side of the river at what was known as Paso del Norte, a city of thirteen thousand people, controlled by well-to-do and educated Spaniards.

The town on the American side was simply a ranch owned by "Uncle Billy" Smith, an illiterate Kentuckian. One Franklin Coontz asked to be made postmaster, and when the Post Office Department informed him he would first have to name the office, he named it after himself, "Franklin."

Mr. Smith was generous, but unbusiness-like. He had given or sold small parcels of land to many who built without any survey having been made. Two or three hundred people lived here, mostly Mexicans and their families, engaged in cultivating the ranch. There were three wholesale stores which sold goods brought up by mule trains from Kansas City via Santa Fe to supply the needs of Paso del Norte, Chihuahua City and other towns in Chihuahua. The Butterfield Overland Mail established a headquarters with many employees and made Franklin somewhat of a money center. The Mexican disposition to gamble and the wild and lawless character of the times brought perhaps twenty professional gamblers to Franklin.

The Texan war with Mexico for independence, in 1836, and the war between the United States and Mexico, in 1847, together with the hostile Indians on the north of the Rio Grande during the early Spanish settlement, forced most of the population and wealth to the Mexican side of the Rio Grande. Few towns on the American side were of any importance. The county seat of El Paso County was then San Elisario, twenty miles below Franklin, with about twelve hundred inhabitants. When I arrived in El Paso it was dangerous to go far from the village. Mesquite root gatherers were attacked, the men killed and the animals driven off within a half-mile from the village.

But on the Mexican side were large, wealthy towns, with good society and well ordered governments. After the Doniphan expedition to Chihuahua, our government had established Fort Bliss, a mile and a half below El Paso, with seven companies of infantry and mounted rifles. I made the acquaintance of the officers, finding several who had been cadets with me at the academy, among them a classmate, Will Jones, the adjutant. Through them I got an earlier standing among the people than would otherwise have been possible for me to do.

The act of annexation of Texas to the United States provided that Texas retain her public lands. The El Paso and Presidio land district included all territory west of the Pecos River (El Paso and Presidio Counties), an area larger than New Jersey.

With the recommendation of the army officers and Judge Crosby of that judicial district, I was appointed surveyor for that district by the State government. Immediately I had plenty of work on pending locations for two hundred miles below Franklin, many tracts embracing five thousand acres each, and also the reservations leased by the War Department for the posts of Quitman, Davis, Stockton, and Fort Bliss. All of them I surveyed within the next year.

The Overland Mail Company also employed me to build a station covering almost an entire block.

At my suggestion, Judge J. F. Crosby, J. S. and H. S. Gillett, W. J. Morton, and V. St. Vrain formed a company with Mr. Smith, the owner of the Ponce grant, on which Franklin was located, employing me to lay out a town, as Freemont's projected Memphis, El Paso & Pacific Railroad, the advent of the Overland Mail and westward immigration made it necessary to enlarge the village.

I made a survey and a plan of the town. As the houses had been built at random, without a survey, on plots given by Mr. Smith, the few streets were neither parallel nor at right angles. I had difficulty in making a plan agreeable to the then owners. I made several different sketches before I produced one that all six proprietors adopted and signed. All these original sketches, together with a copy of the first map, are still preserved in the El Paso Public Library. (Cut, 56, 57.)

The work, which I was glad to get, occupied me two months. My pay was one hundred dollars and four lots—Nos. 116, 117, 134 and 137—valued at fifty dollars each.

Franklin Coontz turned out an undesirable citizen, and it was suggested that I rename the city. As this was not only the north and south pass of the Rio Grande through the Rocky Mountains but also the only feasible route from east to west crossing that river, for hundreds of miles, I suggested that El Paso would indicate the importance of the location. It was decided to so name it.

According to an act of Congress, approved June 5, 1858, a commission to establish the boundary between Texas and the Territory of New Mexico was organized. John H. Clark was appointed United States Commissioner and Major William R. Scurry, Texas Commissioner. After they established the initial point near what is now called Anthony, there was a disagreement, and the Texas Commission surveyor resigned. Major Scurry appointed me in his place.

The commission, with its escort of two companies of the Seventh Infantry, Lieutenant Lazelle commanding, was a very pleasant organization aside from the quarrel between the commissioners. Major Scurry was a most genial companion. Mr. Clark was ambitious in his assumption of highly scientific attainments and overbearing to those he deemed not his equal in such acquirements.

Major Scurry, like Judge Waddell, took quite an interest in me. The three army officers and one or two members of the commission often played poker for stakes. The bets were not large, but Major Scurry, observing that I generally lost, said to me one day: "Mr. Mills, you ought never to play poker. You are not qualified for it. A poker player has to be a cold-blooded man. I can look into your face every time you draw a hand and tell just about what you have drawn. I advise you never to play another game, for you will never succeed in it." And I never did.

The disagreements between the United States and Texas commissioners became acute. As I thought Mr. Clark was mostly to blame, when Major Scurry finally resigned, I did also.

I never saw Major Scurry again, but learned that he raised a Confederate regiment and was killed at the head of his troops in a battle with Banks' Expedition on the upper Red River.

On returning to El Paso, I wrote to my brother, W. W., whose school term had expired, that I had secured him a position as clerk in the sutler's store at Fort Fillmore. He held this position a year, and then joined me in El Paso. He had enough money to buy a lot, on which I built him a house, costing about a thousand dollars.

W. W. and I then sent for our brother Emmett, and we three built a ranch eighteen miles above El Paso, called "Los Tres Hermanos." Emmett occupied this ranch, which was made into a Santa Fe mail station.

Previously I lived on lot No. 116 in a tent, doing my own cooking. I built myself a nice adobe house, doing much of the work myself. Mexican peons made the bricks from a mixture of adobe soil and straw. They were two feet by one foot, four inches thick, and dried in the sun. These were very substantial, withstood the rain and made a house cool in the daytime and warm at night. The house was on the bank of a ditch supplying running water to the farm and under many cottonwood trees. In summer I often slept on the adobe earth roof. Strange to say, even in the hardest rains the water would seldom go through the roof, which was about eight inches thick.

At the same time I built my house, I superintended building houses for many others.

PLAT
OF THE
TOWN OF ELPASO.
DIMENSIONS
BLOCKS 160 FEET SQUARE.
LOTS 86 FEET 8 INCHES BY 120 FEET.
STREETS 70 FEET WIDE.
ALLEYS 20.
PROPRIETORS.
J.S. GILLETT, H.S. GILLETT,
J.F. CROSBY, W.J. MORTON,
V. ST. VRAIN, W.T. SMITH,
ANSON MILLS,
FEB. 28, 1859. SURVEYOR.

EXPLANATION
SCALE 200 FEET TO THE INCH
PROPERTY SOLD AND IMPROVED BEFORE THE TOWN WAS LAID OFF INDICATED BY BROKEN LINES
J. McKITTRICK & CO. LITH. 36 M. MAIN ST.

I early learned the ways of the roaming Indians, and in my surveying expeditions took only a burro for my pack and two Mexicans for chain carriers. I wore a buckskin suit made by myself, and carried a single change of underclothing. We moved from tract to tract, camping without a tent under the mesquite trees, our provisions consisting only of coffee, hard bread and bacon, and occasionally some fresh meat we could kill. Although Indians undoubtedly saw us, they never attacked us during the three years in which I did surveying. The risk of being killed to secure only one animal and a small amount of provisions was not worth while.

My principal employer was Mr. Samuel A. Maverick, of San Antonio, formerly from South Carolina. A run-away boy, he had joined an expedition of about twenty men, which invaded Mexico at the town of Mier prior to the Mexican war. The party was captured. The Mexicans put ten white beans in a bag with ten black ones, ordering them to draw a bean each. Those who got the black beans were immediately shot. Maverick began locating land soon after the war and became the largest land-holder in Texas, if not in the United States.

He owned more cattle on the free public range than any other man in Texas. In 1861 nearly all the people went into the war. Maverick's cattle ran wild on the range, and, when the war closed there were tens of thousands of cattle bred during the four years. Maverick was the greatest claimant to these wild cattle, and marked them with his brand wherever caught. Other owners, and even men who had never owned cattle, would brand with their own marks such cattle as they caught unbranded. It thus became the custom among cattle owners using the free range to stamp as their own any unbranded cattle they found during the "round up," and to this day these stray cattle are known as "Mavericks."

Maverick accompanied me on every surveying expedition I made, following my tracings and examining my notes. He expressed the greatest patriotism as a Unionist, was bitterly opposed to the then proposed secession, as were most Texans, including Governor Houston.

When placer and quartz gold was discovered in the Penos Altos range of mountains in Arizona, near the present Silver City, Maverick requested me to find how valuable these mines were. With a gambler (Conklin) I bought a good two-horse team and traveled the hundred and fifty miles to reach these mines.

At Penos Altos I met James R. Sipes, a clerk for Postmaster Dowell. I said, "Hello, Sipes, how is it; is there plenty of gold here?"

He laughed and answered, "Mills, there is the greatest quantity of gold here, but there is too damned much dirt mixed with it!" which I found to be true.

Locating a claim, I worked a month, 8,000 feet above sea level, where in the day it was scorching hot and at night freezing cold, and discovered that by hard work I could make about three dollars a day. Fortunately, I had brought my surveying instruments, so I abandoned mining and laid out the town of Penos Altos. I also surveyed many claims, about which there were constant disputes. But I soon returned to El Paso, reporting to Maverick that the mines were not of sufficient importance to interest him.

At this time slavery agitation became very violent, creating unrest in Texas, especially among the New England emigrants, who became the most rabid secessionists of all. Some of my friends in the North wrote me what would today be called treasonable literature, sending me the New York Tribune with the most violent abolition articles marked. Postmaster Ben Dowell was induced to open my mail, and later refused to deliver any to me, forming a committee to burn it publicly!

When my term as district surveyor expired, I was the only candidate for election, being the only person in the county competent to survey land. But several political enemies publicly stated that I was an abolitionist, and that it would be unpatriotic to vote for me. As I had always been a Democrat, voting for Sam Houston and Stephen A. Douglas, and never sympathized at all with the abolition movement, I posted the following notice on a tree:

Notice

I have just been informed that J. S. Gillett, W. J. Morton, and J. R. Sipes stated last night to R. Doane and F. Remy that I was an abolitionist, for the purpose of injuring my character. As I never cast any other than a Democratic vote or expressed other than Democratic sentiments, I denounce these three above-named persons as wilful and malicious lying scoundrels. Sipes and Morton owe me borrowed money for the last two years. I would like to have a settlement. I never asked any one to vote for me as surveyor and I now withdraw my name as a candidate, and will not serve if elected.

A. Mills.

El Paso, Texas.

2 O'Clock, P.M., August 6, 1860.

The men I denounced tacked their reply on the same tree, as follows:

Notice

A certain contemptible "pup," signing himself A. Mills, having publicly published the undersigned as scoundrels, we have only to say that he is so notoriously known throughout the entire county as a damned black Republican scoundrel, we deem him unworthy of further notice.

However, we hereby notify this fellow that his insignificance shall not protect him in future.

W. J. Morton,
J. R. Sipes,
John S. Gillett.

Then, I received this letter:

El Paso, Texas

August 7, 1860.

Mr. Mills:

Sir: I have noticed my name in connection with two others denouncing us publicly as malicious, lying scoundrels.

For my part, I now ask of you an immediate retraction of the same, and as publicly as your accusation.

John S. Gillett.

Gillett, a wealthy wholesale merchant, had fought a duel with an army officer. As I paid no attention to his implied challenge, he sent word he would attack me on sight. I always went armed, and though we often met, he never carried out his threat. After the war he became a common drunkard, very poor, living with a Mexican woman. I often met him, and he frequently asked me for a quarter (which I gave him), stating that he was hungry. What horrible miseries war brings about. He wanted to be an honorable man.

In my address before the Society of the Army of the Cumberland (Appendix 390) will be found a statement of some of the reasons which led to political unrest in Texas, and particularly why vigilance committees were formed in many counties. Many people were lynched; principally Germans—especially at New Braunfels and vicinity—who voted against secession or denounced the principle.

I was ordered before the vigilance committee of El Paso County by the sheriff, John Watts. I told him no one man could take me, and I knew that he was not coward enough to bring a posse. He said: "Mills, I'll never come for you." And he never did.

I was notified by this same committee that the vote of the county must be unanimous for secession, and that I would imperil my life if I voted against it.

Phil Herbert, a violent secessionist and a personal friend of mine, came to my house on election day and said, "Mills, are you going to vote?" I said that I was. "Well," he said, "I know how you are going to vote. I am going to vote for secession, but I would like to go with you. If there is trouble, I will defend you." He had a pistol and advised me to carry one, and we went together to the polling place. This was in a large gambling house, in which was Ben Dowell's post office. The judge of the election was Judge Gillock, recently from Connecticut, a violent secessionist.

Herbert and I entered, arm in arm, and Herbert first presented his ballot, which Gillock received and cast into the ballot box near the door. I drew from my pocket a sheet of foolscap paper on which was written, "No separation—Anson Mills," in large letters, and, unfolding it, I held it up to the sight of half a dozen army officers and others playing billiards, faro and other gambling games, saying, "Gentlemen, some of you may be curious to know how I am going to vote. This is my ballot." Gillock refused to receive it, but Herbert said, peremptorily, "That is a legal vote. Place it in the box." And Gillock did so. We left the room unmolested.

My vote was one of the two cast against secession in El Paso County, when there were over nine hundred cast for secession. Some were legal, but the majority, cast by Mexican citizens from the other side of the river, were not.

My friends, particularly Herbert, felt it would be foolhardy to remain longer. Herbert went to Richmond, joined the Confederacy, and was killed in the Battle of Mansfield, La., at the head of his regiment.

I decided to go to Washington and join the Federal forces. The evening before I left, Colonel Reeve, commanding Fort Bliss, invited me to dinner with his adjutant, my classmate, Will Jones. During the dinner, Colonel Reeve remarked that he did not want to obey Twiggs' order to surrender to the Texans (text, 71) because he had large government stores, which would be of great value in case of war to either the government or the Confederates. Therefore, he wanted me to see the Secretary of War, and explain the circumstances, and get him verbal or written authority to take his command and this property into New Mexico.

When I finally arrived in Washington, I explained the situation to Judge Watts, who went with me to Secretary Cameron and delivered Reeves's message. I agreed to take back to El Paso any verbal message that the Secretary would entrust to me, but Mr. Cameron was so uncertain as to what might happen that he refused, saying that Colonel Reeve must act on his own judgment.

I had been prosperous and was well-to-do. But now men who owed me refused to pay, and all I owed demanded immediate payment. It was all I could do to raise money enough to take me to Washington. The baggage allowance was but forty pounds, so I left everything I had to the mercy of my political enemies. I did not dream that it would be twenty years before I again saw El Paso.

In Washington

We left in the coach on the 9th of March, 1861. I was one of eight passengers. Some were going to Richmond and some to Washington, but we agreed, as this was expected to be the last coach to go through, to stand by each other and declare we were all going on business.

The secessionists had organized several companies of State troops commanded by the McCullough brothers and others, with instructions from the bogus legislature commission to take over the military posts and property according to General Twiggs' treaty (text, 71). We met part of this force, under the younger McCullough, near Fort Chadbourne, and we were all excitement to know what they would do, as it was rumored they would seize the mail company horses for cavalry. Marching in columns of two, they separated, one column to the right and the other to the left of the stage coach.

We told the driver to drive fast and to say he was carrying United States mail. The soldiers laughed at this, and four of them, taking hold of the right-hand wheels and four of the left, the driver could not, with the greatest whipping, induce the horses to proceed. They laughed again, and called out: "Is Horace Greeley aboard?"

Horace Greeley had been lecturing in California, and had announced his return by the Butterfield route. The soldiers were familiar with his picture and, after examining us, allowed us to proceed.

When we reached Denton, the county seat of Denton County, my old friend Judge Waddell was holding court, and while the rest of the party ate breakfast, I went to the courthouse. Judge Waddell recognized me, adjourned the court and, taking my arm, walked out in the courtyard. We were in full sympathy. He was a thorough Union man and knew I would be glad to know the flag was still flying over the McKinney courthouse. This was about the 13th of March. He was proud that I was to join the Union Army, and said that if he was without a family he would also go.

We arrived at the town of California, terminus of the Missouri & Pacific Railroad, in a snowstorm. We had had but little sleep and little to eat for several days. While waiting for the train for St. Louis, I went to sleep in a chair so soundly my companions could not waken me in time to catch the train. The hotel proprietor had me put to bed. I did not waken until the next morning. I arrived at St. Louis Sunday, found that there was no train out and, having a classmate stationed at the arsenal, Lieutenant Borland, I decided to visit him.

I did not know that General Lyon had just captured General Frost and the Missouri troops forming for the Confederacy in a camp outside the city. There was a great crowd standing around the arsenal with a sentinel outside the gate. I pressed my way through the crowd and told the sentinel I desired to visit Lieutenant Borland. The sentinel would not let me pass, but called the sergeant. The sergeant asked me where I was from. When I answered, "From Texas," he said I could not enter. Just then Captain Lyon, later General Lyon, came out. In a rough manner he asked me where I was from and what I wanted. When I told him I was simply passing through the city, he said, "Well, you had better go back to your hotel, or I will put you in the guard house." I took his advice.

Monday, I left for Washington via Thorntown and Cincinnati. Telling my father of my purpose, he called a neighbor, Harvey G. Hazelrigg. "Well, Anson," said Hazelrigg, "my brother-in-law, Caleb B. Smith, is Secretary of the Interior. I will give you a letter to him."

At Cincinnati I saw Lieutenant Jones' father and mother and gave them the messages he did not want to pass through the mail; in effect, that he would be loyal to his country, and that if ordered to fire on Cincinnati by the Federal Government, under his oath he would execute the order.

In Washington I found two captains in the Adjutant General's office, Fry and Baird, one of whom had been adjutant at the military academy, and the other my instructor when I was a cadet. I told them of my desire for a commission, and asked them from what State I should apply. They advised me not to apply from Texas, nor from Pennsylvania, which would have several times its quota, as the Secretary of War was from that State. Eventually, I applied from New Mexico.

Charlie Hazlett, of my class, from Zanesville, Ohio, later killed while commanding a battery at Gettysburg, had been turned back to the class below. I wrote him, asking if he could help me. Calling a meeting of the class, he read my letter, and every member signed the following recommendation, except four, who were to join the Confederacy, and who sent an apology to me, stating that they did not think it would be proper for them to sign:

United States Military Academy,

West Point, N. Y.,

April 30, 1861.

Lorenzo Thomas, Adjutant General,

Washington, D. C.

Dear Sir: We, the undersigned, members of the First Class at the United States Military Academy, respectfully recommend to your favorable consideration the claims of Mr. Anson Mills, an applicant for a commission as Second Lieutenant in the United States Army.

Mr. Mills was formerly a member, for nearly two years, of the class preceding ours, when he resigned.

During that time his habits and character conformed to the strictest military propriety and discipline, and we feel assured that he would be an honor to the service and that its interests would be promoted by his appointment.

Respectfully submitted.

Hazlett suggested I see General Scott and prevent the four cadets above mentioned from getting their diplomas. Captain Townsend introduced me to the General. When he read Hazlett's letter, he said those four cadets should not receive their diplomas until they had taken the oath. They never did graduate, and all four joined the rebellion.

Captain Charles E. Hazlett.

A few days afterward, this class was prematurely graduated and ordered to report to General Scott. They started in their cadet uniforms, wearing their swords. In New York the police took them for Confederates, and in Philadelphia the whole class was arrested and detained all night, until the police got authority from Washington to let them proceed.

Upon arrival at Washington, they reported to General Scott, who asked them if they had all recently taken the oath. They replied that they had and he, in the vernacular of the bibulous, said, "Well, gentlemen, it is a good thing to take. I don't mind taking it every morning before breakfast." He invited one of them to administer it to him, and then, asking them in a body to raise their right hands, he administered the oath to the whole class.

My Brothers in Texas

One of my first acts in Washington was to call on Secretary of the Interior Smith. There were three or four gentlemen present, two being members of the Cabinet, one of whom was Montgomery Blair, a graduate of the academy.

I presented my letter. Mr. Smith read it, and in a violent rage, said: "Well, so you are from Texas? Do you know what I wish? I wish the Indians would come down on the people of Texas and murder the men, women and children. They have received more consideration from this government than any other State in the Union, and now they have betrayed it."

I left the room, indignant, after addressing some plain remarks to Mr. Smith.

The next day I met Mr. Blair, while walking.

"Mr. Mills," he said, "for heaven's sake don't repeat what happened at Mr. Smith's last night, lest it get into the papers. Don't be discouraged. Your experience at West Point will doubtless enable you to get into the army."

I had heard nothing from my brothers, W. W. in El Paso, and Emmett on the ranch, but some time after I received my commission and had left Washington I saw in a New Orleans paper that W. W. had been taken prisoner at Lynde's surrender, and that Emmett, in trying to escape to California, had been murdered by the Indians, July 21st, at Cook Springs, Arizona. All the passengers and the stage driver were killed after a two days' siege in the rocks above the springs, and their bodies had been found by the California column of troops going to El Paso. Immediately I wrote to Mr. Smith, as follows:

Toledo, Ohio,

Oct. 7, 1861.

Caleb B. Smith,

Secretary Interior.

Sir: I am sorry to acknowledge that your "hope and prayer," as expressed to me at your residence in April last—"that the Mexicans and Indians would come down on the Texans and murder the men and children and ravish the women," has been partially heard. One of my two brothers (whom I left in Texas last March and who, not being able to procure means to carry them to the States, were compelled to go to Southern New Mexico for Union sentiments, where they joined the 1st Regt. N. M. Vols.), was brutally murdered by the Apache Indians, on the 21st of July at Cook Springs. The other was taken prisoner at Lynde's surrender. I think too much of our cause to speak publicly of these matters at present, and only write you this note to remind you that I shall one day hold you personally responsible for the above language.

Very respectfully,

Anson Mills, 1st Lt., 18th Inf.

To this I received the following answer:

Washington, D. C.,

October 14, 1861.

Lt. Anson Mills,

Sir: I am in receipt of your letter of the 7th inst., referring to a conversation which you allege occurred at my house in April last. I have no distinct recollection of the conversation to which you refer, but I know that I felt much indignation toward the rebels and traitors of Texas, who not only repudiated the authority of the Federal Government, but expelled from the State the friends of the Union. I thought there was less excuse for them than the rebels of the other States, because they were indebted to the Federal Government for protection against the Mexicans and Indians. In expressing my indignation against their conduct I may have expressed the hope that the Mexicans and Indians would attack them. I intended to express only the wish that they might be made to feel the value of the protection they had forfeited. I certainly did not suppose that my language could be construed to imply a wish that the Union men who had been expelled from their homes by these rebels should suffer from such agencies.

I regret very much to hear of the misfortunes which have befallen your brothers and which add to the long catalogue of evils which have resulted from this most unnatural rebellion. For the last five months I have been urging the War Department to send troops to New Mexico to protect the loyal people of that territory and keep the Indians in proper subjugation. If my urgent request upon this subject had been complied with, the disaster which has befallen your brothers would not have occurred.

Very respectfully,

Caleb B. Smith.

I learned later that the newspaper was incorrect and that my brother W. W. was unlawfully seized by the Texans in Mexico as a spy.

Smith soon afterward left the Cabinet.

I learned later of the events which led to my brother's death. The Texan Rangers, under the McCulloughs and Colonel Baylor, were rapidly receiving the surrenders stipulated in the treaty between Twiggs and the Texas commissioners. My brother, W. W., much persecuted and threatened, wrote to Judge Watts of the disloyalty of Captain Lane and several other officers at Forts Bliss and Fillmore. Then he went to Santa Fe to confer with Colonel Canby, in command of the Department of New Mexico, to explain the large quantities of government stores at Fort Bliss, and the danger that they might fall into the hands of the rebels. Colonel Canby had already sent Major Lynde with reinforcements aggregating seven hundred and fifty men to Fort Fillmore, directing Lynde to relieve Lane. Canby sent my brother to Fort Fillmore to report to Major Lynde with dispatches.

Lynde was reluctant to believe many of his officers either disloyal or in sympathy with those who were. My brother found that his letter addressed to Judge Watts had been made public and both the loyal and disloyal officers were angry, and treated him with much discourtesy.

Baylor had arrived in El Paso and received the surrender of Colonel Reeve's command, with all his stores and property, and Reeve and his troops had started on their march to San Antonio as prisoners. My brother urged Lynde to retake Fort Bliss and the government property with his seven hundred and fifty men, as Baylor was reported to have only three hundred men, poorly armed and equipped. Lynde hesitated, fearing Baylor's force was too large, but promised my brother if he would go down to Paso del Norte on the Mexican side of the river and ascertain positively that the strength of Baylor's command was no larger than three hundred men, he would retake the place.

My brother traveled forty miles to Paso del Norte in Mexico at night, where a mounted force from Baylor's command arrested him in this neutral territory. Charged with being a spy, he was placed in irons in the Bliss guard house and a court was being organized for his trial and execution. Hearing of his arrest, Canby arrested General Pelham, U. S. Surveyor General of New Mexico, who had resigned and was proceeding to join the rebels. Canby then sent a flag of truce to Baylor, stating that he would execute Pelham on the execution of my brother. Baylor removed the irons from my brother, gave him the liberty of the post, and he finally escaped and joined Canby, who was marching with troops from New Mexico toward El Paso. He was made lieutenant in the New Mexican Volunteers, and appointed on Colonel Roberts' staff.

Meanwhile, Baylor, with less than three hundred poorly equipped Texans, had moved on Lynde's seven hundred and fifty regulars, but such was their demoralization that these Texans captured bodily every man and all the supplies during Lynde's attempt to escape into New Mexico.

General Sibley organized a force of about thirty-five hundred Texans, to take the Territory of New Mexico, and reinforced Baylor, to march on Fort Craig. Canby organized two New Mexican regiments, one under Kit Carson, and moved to support Colonel Roberts, arriving just before the Confederates. Canby had one thousand regulars and about twenty-five hundred New Mexican volunteers, so the commands were nearly equal. Crossing the almost impassible mountains, Sibley appeared at Val Verde, six miles above Fort Craig, to engage in what was, perhaps, the bloodiest battle for the numbers engaged, in the whole war. Neither side was victorious, but Canby was compelled to retire to Fort Craig, and Sibley passed on and overran the whole Territory of New Mexico, even taking Santa Fe, but he was cut off from any Confederate supplies.

Colorado raised two regiments of volunteers, which moved on Sibley and drove him south, where Canby met him. Of the four thousand Confederate troops that had entered New Mexico, only about fifteen hundred reached Texas. El Paso was reoccupied, and my brother made collector of customs. Another brother, Allen, eighteen years old, anxious to participate in the allurements of the Western country, asked me to send him to my brother, W. W., who had promised to make him deputy collector, which I did by a supply train from Kansas City for Santa Fe.

Meanwhile, my brother Emmett, hearing of W. W.'s arrest and proposed trial as a spy, endeavored to escape to California by taking passage on the Overland Mail, where he met his death.

On February 8, 1869, while in Austin as a member of the constitutional convention for reconstruction from El Paso, W. W. married Mary, daughter of Governor A. J. Hamilton. In his El Paso home she shared as loyally as any wife ever did in all his misfortunes and successes, his joys and sorrows.

In 1897 W. W. was appointed United States Consul at Chihuahua, Mexico, where we often visited. He worked there ten years, relieving unfortunate Americans who, by reason of ignorance of conditions in Mexico, got themselves into difficulties. The City of Chihuahua was unfortunately the rendezvous and refuge for felonious, law-breaking Americans, who could no longer live in their native land, and sought Mexico, believing they could defy the laws of that country. Popular report stamped Mexicans as lawless, with a government not stable enough to punish them. Such conditions made my brother's position a difficult one, as the following will show:

Three New Yorkers, including a physician and an insurance agent, entered into a conspiracy to establish themselves in Chihuahua to insure unsuspecting Americans for $20,000 each, murder them and collect the money. The plan, which was practically carried out, was this: The insurance agent approached eligible Americans residing in Chihuahua, solicited insurance, offering very low terms, and stating that the proposed victim, living in a lawless country where he was likely to be killed and where whatever he had would be absorbed by Mexican officials, should insure for the benefit of those dependent upon him. Having written the insurance, he would tell his victim, "Now my company is interested in your life. They direct me to admonish you not to patronize Mexican physicians, as they are unskilled. They authorized me to recommend to you Dr.——." The doctor then recommended the victim to appoint an American administrator to see that his estate would be kept out of the hands of Mexican officials. He would recommend the third member of the gang.

In three cases the victim took the whole of the advice, appointed the gang member his administrator, and called upon the criminal doctor when ill. The doctor promptly killed him with poison, the administrator took possession of his body, collected the money from the company, and divided it among the three conspirators.

They had collected $20,000 each, for two victims, when the insurance company sent a detective to investigate. He fixed the murder on the doctor and discovered the other criminals. They were arrested by the Mexican authorities, fairly tried—W. W. being present at the trial—and sentenced to be shot.

A great clamor was raised in the American newspapers about the cruel and barbarous conviction of innocent men by Mexican law. A member of Congress, the lawyer employed by the men, and the relatives of each of the condemned came to my brother with tears and pleadings, demanding that he intercede with the State Department for their relief. W. W. also received instructions from the State Department to make a thorough examination and report. He was unable to find any palliating circumstances, and reported through Ambassador Clayton his belief that the Mexican judgment was just. The Secretary of State sustained my brother, but the member of Congress, the lawyer, friends and relatives of the condemned, besieged the great President Diaz with pathetic appeals and tears, and, in the goodness of his heart, Diaz commuted the sentence to imprisonment for life.

When General Villa captured Chihuahua, the convicts were released from the penitentiary. The murderers were among the number, and Villa appointed the doctor as a commissioned medical officer on his staff.

W. W. filled his position honorably and well for ten years, when ill health compelled him to retire. In accepting his resignation, the State Department gave him a very complimentary letter. He returned to Austin, where his wife still lives, and, after a lingering illness, died there on February 10, 1913.

W. W. lived in El Paso two score of years, and in 1901 published a book entitled "Forty Years in El Paso."

AFTERTHOUGHT:—Last page in W. W.'s book.

"ENEMIES AND PHILOSOPHY

"In the summer of 1900 my brother, General Mills, and a sister paid Mrs. Mills and myself a visit at the United States Consulate at Chihuahua. One evening he, being in a reflective mood, said, 'Will, you and I have had many difficulties, and quarrels and fights with our personal enemies, and it is very gratifying to know, as I am growing old, that these are all over with me. My enemies are all reconciled to me, and I wish you could say as much.'

"I replied: 'I do not know that my enemies are all reconciled to me, but they are all dead, and that is better, or at least safer.' And it is the literal truth. All my bitterest foes have been taken hence, most of them by violence, and I neither rejoice at nor regret their taking off. I do not claim that I was always right and they always wrong, for I tried to return blow for blow, but it is certain that they often resorted to means which I would, under no circumstances, employ. Alas, most of my friends are gone also. Why I have been spared through it all is a mystery which I do not attempt to explain.

ADIOS."

SECOND PERIOD

Four Years of Civil War

Before any Federal troops arrived in Washington, Cassius M. Clay, of Kentucky, organized the "Clay Guards," composed of 150 Southern Union men who, like myself, were in Washington awaiting appointments. I joined this organization, became a sergeant, and was discharged as such. The government furnished us an armory, arms and ammunition, in Willard's Hall, where the New Willard Hotel now stands. Detachments slept at the Navy Yard, where attacks were expected from Alexandria, Virginia, and in the White House, as it was feared the President might be assassinated.

My commission was dated May 14, 1861, but confusion in the War Department prevented early delivery of all appointments. I had little money and, although I lived in a cheap room in a mechanics' boarding house in the poorer part of the city, and economized in every way, my clothing was shabby and I was indebted to the landlord. Every morning I went to the War Department, hoping for my appointment, but without success.

One morning, in the Assistant Adjutant General's office, I saw my appointment lying with hundreds of others on a big table. I pointed it out to Captain Garesche, and asked him for it. He said the Secretary had ordered all appointments to be sent to the appointee's post office address, and added that he had been severely reprimanded because he had delivered to one man an appointment intended for another of the same name. As I knew I would never receive the appointment if it was mailed to El Paso, I was discouraged. But when I told Public Printer Sol Meredith, who was from Indiana and knew my father, the situation, he explained the circumstances to Mr. Cameron, and on June 22 I received my appointment as first lieutenant of the 18th Infantry, one of the nine new regiments of twenty-four companies each then being formed. I was directed to report to its Colonel, Henry B. Carrington, at headquarters, Columbus, Ohio.

Still without money, I went to the paymaster, hoping to receive the money necessary to pay traveling expenses and get a uniform. The paymaster refused to pay me until the end of the month and, finally, in my dilemma, I went to a friend and borrowed enough to carry me to Columbus and buy a uniform.

Before leaving, Judge John S. Watts, delegate from New Mexico, and I recommended my brother W. W. to the Secretary of the Treasury for collector of customs at El Paso, and to the Adjutant General my brother Emmett for the appointment to West Point from New Mexico.

I reported to Colonel Carrington in Columbus on June 25th. Although adjutant general of Ohio under Governor Chase, he knew less about army matters than I. But he assumed a great deal, and told me he was going to have the best regiment in the army, and that no man who drank could remain in it.

A mile and a half from the city was a camp of instruction, "Camp Thomas." Most officers reporting were instructed under Captain Kellogg, a former artillery officer; but I was detailed on recruiting service at Toledo, Ohio. On July 19th I opened an office there, where I became one of the most successful recruiting officers in the regiment. On August 12th, telegraphic instructions came from Washington to muster in Colonel Gibson's 49th regiment of Ohio Volunteers at Tiffin, Ohio. For perhaps a month, I kept both offices open, traveling back and forth.

I used the fair grounds at Tiffin for the organizing of the regiment. Generally the man who brought the men to camp was made captain, although orders required that men sufficient to form a company be locked in a room to elect their own officers. When elected, I swore in the officers.

When four companies were sworn in they elected a major; eight companies elected a lieutenant colonel; and ten were authorized to elect a colonel, adjutant and quartermaster.

The regiment was formed, equipped with arms, uniforms, tents and other paraphernalia, and aboard trains which started from the fairgrounds in less than thirty days. Twenty thousand relatives and friends watched the regiment depart and heard Colonel Gibson address the multitude. A Democrat, and former treasurer of his State, he was well known as a most eloquent speaker. His audience was in tears before the signal to start, but cheered with excitement and enthusiasm when he threw his hat high in the air over the crowd. His was one of the first regiments to go in the Western army under General Grant, and did able service, Gibson becoming a general.

Of the new regular regiments the 18th Infantry was one of the first organized. It had three battalions of eight companies each under Majors Townsend, Stokes and Caldwell.

President Lincoln had directed the issuance of General Order No. 101, as follows:

"War Department, Adjutant General's Office,

Washington, November 20, 1861.

General Orders No. 101.

"The intention of the Government, in reserving the original vacancies of Second Lieutenants for the most deserving among the non-commissioned officers of the new regular regiments, was twofold: to secure the services of brave, intelligent and energetic officers, by appointing only those who had fully proved themselves to be such, after a fair competition with all who chose to enter the lists against them, and to give to the young men of the country—those especially who were poor, unknown, and without any social or political influence—an equal opportunity with the most favored. In General Orders No. 16 of May 4, 1861, this intention was publicly announced. It is now reaffirmed, and commanding officers of the new regiments will see that it is carried out in good faith.

By order,

L. Thomas, Adjutant-General."

This enabled Colonel Carrington, an able recruiting officer, to enlist as privates many college students and other young men of high standing and education. Probably fifty of these were eventually commissioned.

With sixteen companies equipped, Lieutenant Colonel Oliver L. Shepherd reported to Colonel Carrington for duty in the field. Because of my success in securing enlistments, I was kept on recruiting service, but on February 23, 1862, I was ordered to proceed to Louisville, Kentucky, with thirty men, to join the regiment then en route from West Virginia to the Army of the Cumberland at Nashville.

I was too late to join Shepherd's sixteen companies, and was assigned to a river vessel filled with various troops, largely volunteers, including Captain Mack of the regular infantry, temporarily commanding a regular battery. A drunken man reported to me he had been left by Shepherd's command, and asked to join mine. He reported to my sergeant, D'Isay, and asked for food, but boasted that all he wanted was something to eat and that he was going to leave. When he started down the gang plank, one of the men and I caught him, had a fight in which I hurt my hand so I had to wear it in a sling, tore practically all the clothing off the deserter, but we brought him aboard. Soon afterward, the first sergeant of Mack's artillery told me that Captain Mack wished to see me. I reported to Captain Mack, who asked me if I knew who was in command of the vessel. I said I did not, and he said, "No more do I, but, as I am a captain in the regular army and you are a lieutenant, suppose we consider that I am in command. I saw your encounter with that drunken soldier and, as we are probably going to have a great deal of disorder in this mixed command on this trip to Nashville, I think you are a proper person to act as officer of the day for today. There is no time for a regular guard mount, but you assume the duties and, as you are having some considerable trouble with that drunken man, my sergeant will report to you and take care of the disorderly." The sergeant tied his hands, and trussed his knees with a stick, gagged him with a bayonet and sat him in a state room, satisfied he would stop swearing and abusing the officers! The man soon begged for relief, but was tried by court martial and sentenced to be shot for striking an officer, which sentence was later commuted by General Thomas.

Subsequently I carried Captain Mack off the battle-field of Stone River, desperately wounded. I saw him next at the War Department in Washington in 1870, assistant to the Secretary of War, and he arranged my transfer from infantry to cavalry.

I reported to Colonel Fry, adjutant to Colonel Buell, at Louisville, and was directed to take my thirty men to Major Stokes, commanding the 3d battalion of three companies, 18th Infantry, near Nashville. Major Stokes made me adjutant. He was a military novice, too old to learn, and soon failed of confirmation by the Senate.

The three companies were temporarily consolidated with the other two battalions and Colonel Shepherd made me adjutant of the regiment in the field.

When "Parson" William G. Bronlow, the courageous and persistent leader of the Union men of East Tennessee, arrived at the St. Cloud Hotel, under flag of truce from Knoxville, escorted by an officer of the Confederate army, many of our officers wished to pay their respects. Twenty officers requested me, as adjutant, to introduce them. Admitted to his hotel, I greeted him and introduced my companions. He introduced the young Confederate officer with the remark, "This young man is my nephew, a man with good intentions, but sadly misguided."

Each spoke a few words with the Parson, a nervous, sympathetic and passionate man. Just before we left he exclaimed: "Gentlemen, you are right. Fight 'em, fight 'em, fight 'em till hell freezes over, and then fight 'em on the ice!" A strange speech for a parson, perhaps, but illustrating the intense bitterness the war instilled in all.

Buell's command was ordered to proceed by forced marches to Shiloh to reinforce Grant, about to give battle to the Confederate General Johnson, and on April 6, 1862, my regiment, the 18th U. S. Infantry (two battalions, nineteen companies), as a part of the Third Brigade, First Division, Army of the Ohio, marched all day in the rain toward the sound of the cannon at the battle then raging at Shiloh Church.

We arrived at Savannah late at night, eighteen miles above the battle-ground. The rain made the roads on the left bank of the river almost impassable, and it was decided to send us on by steamer. It was, however, nine or ten o'clock in the morning before a boat could be furnished, so we did not arrive at Pittsburg Landing until about two p.m. of that day, when the battle was almost over.

As we approached the landing, Colonel Shepherd ordered Lieutenant D. W. Benham, the quartermaster, and me, to proceed inland to find someone authorized to place us in proper position. A few hundred yards away we found most of the generals in consultation. General Buell designated our position and we returned to deliver General Buell's instructions.

Here the regiment saw its first horrors of war. Many wounded were carried to the numerous hospital boats tied up at the landing. In a cave under the Bluffs Benham and I saw a large number of ghastly corpses, stained with blood, laid on the leaves. Suddenly Benham exclaimed, "My God, Mills, there's a man who's not dead! See, his face is red, and I can see his chest heave. What a cruel thing to turn him out for dead!"

Feeling his pulse, Benham exclaimed, "This man is alive!" raised his head to help him, when he smelled the fumes of whiskey. Evidently the man had drunk during the battle, been overcome, and, seeing what he supposed were fellow soldiers asleep, had concluded to turn in.

It is needless to say that both Benham and I lost our interest in the "poor fellow" and left him to sleep off his drunk.

In the meantime, Shepherd placed his men in the front line, but we saw little fighting, as the Confederates abandoned the field after Johnson was killed. Later we confronted them at Corinth, and Beauregard, who had succeeded Johnson, retired without giving battle in the direction of Nashville, which the Federals had practically abandoned. It then became a race between Buell and Beauregard as to who should first assemble an army at Nashville.

Iuka, with many public buildings, was selected as the hospital base for the wounded and sick. The 18th Infantry, as the largest regiment of regulars, was ordered to guard the hospital.

Shepherd selected a camp site in a dense forest, which added to our comfort in the heat of May. It was here I became known as the best shot in the regiment. One day, when we were all trying to rest and sleep, somebody called out, "See that squirrel!" pointing to where the little animal was eating buds in the top of an oak tree. He was perhaps one hundred and fifty feet from me, but I was satisfied I could kill him. Many soldiers and officers looking on, I raised my pistol, fired, the squirrel fell to the ground, shot through the head; a better shot than I had intended. This, together with the fact that I was from Texas, gave me a better reputation as a crack shot than I deserved.

We remained in camp several weeks, but as soon as most of the invalids recovered, we were ordered to join the Army of the Cumberland.

En route, we came one day near a little town in Tennessee. As usual, the soldiers were given to pillage, and here they raided a Masonic lodge, which enraged Shepherd, who was a Mason. One soldier brought a letter, written by a doctor, advising the neighbors to poison wells and kill the Yankee invaders. Shepherd ordered me to arrest this doctor and bring him to camp. We readily found his house, and, calling him out, found he had a wooden leg. He admitted writing the letter. Colonel Shepherd ordered him before a sentinel and made him march, in the extreme hot weather, during the sentinel's tour. Shepherd reported the case to General Thomas, but the man was liberated without trial.

Colonel, afterwards General Bob McCook, was in command of our brigade, consisting of the 2d Minnesota, the 9th Ohio, almost exclusively German (McCook's regiment), and our own. McCook was a most excellent officer and, although seriously ill, insisted on retaining command, traveling in an ambulance, and caring for his brigade. On August 4, 1862, he rode forward, as was his custom, with a small guard, to select camps for each of the regiments. Near Decherd, Tennessee, a guerrilla band of thirty or forty men, commanded by Frank B. Gurley, ordered McCook to surrender. Upon his refusal, they shot him in the stomach, and he died in great agony that night. The guerrillas carried off two of his staff officers. He had a father and three brothers killed in battle during the war.

The 9th Ohio became infuriated and burned all the houses in the vicinity and killed many citizens. Gurley, the leader of the guerrilla band, was afterwards arrested, identified by the staff officers who had escaped, tried by court martial, and hanged near Nashville.

After McCook's death, the regiment joined the army under Buell at Nashville, which the Confederates failed to reach before it was too strong to capture. Then began the race between Buell and Bragg, in command of the Confederates, from Nashville to Louisville. I am not writing a history of the war, so I shall say nothing of this extraordinary march which ended with our reaching Louisville twenty-four hours ahead of the enemy, with the exception of a little incident at Franklin, Kentucky.

My regiment was rear guard to this great army, taking care that the sick and exhausted should not fall into the hands of the enemy. Colonel Shepherd was instructed to impress transportation sufficient to care for all helpless men. I was ordered, with Quartermaster Benham, to seize such transportation as was necessary. The Confederate cavalry were harassing us flank and rear and, on arriving at Franklin, we were so hard pressed we feared we would lose a great many of our sick.

A friend reported an excellent ambulance and four mules on the outskirts of the town in possession of the wife of a Confederate. Going with two soldiers to seize it, we found the house doors locked, the blinds down, and got no response to our knocks. We directed the two men to search the barn and, if they found the conveyance, to wheel it out and attach the mules. They found the vehicle, wheeled it into the road, and returned to harness the mules, only to find that someone had cut the traces. While we were deliberating how to get the vehicle away with the ruined harness, the blinds flew open, an infuriated woman thrust her head through the open window and angrily exclaimed, "You miserable Yankees; get out of this! Don't you hear those guns?"

We did hear them, for our rear guard was engaged with the Confederate cavalry. Seeing the hopelessness of the situation, I called to an old colored man chopping wood in the yard, "Boy, throw me your axe!" He tossed the axe over the fence; I took it and smashed the spokes in the rear wheels, and Benham smashed those in front. We then bid good-day to the lady, who was as angry as Petruchio's Kate, and the last we saw of her she was still upbraiding us.

General Buell, although a loyal and efficient commander, was not popular with the volunteer army. Although generally chivalrous, it was disposed to interpret orders to its own liking, and became enraged at Buell's severity. He ordered that the commanding officers should not needlessly destroy private property; that he had noticed a disposition to burn valuable cedar fence rails unnecessarily, and that officers would see that only a sufficient number of rails were used to cook the food. A division commander issued an order in derision directing that thereafter none but the top rail should be taken by his troops. The troops understood this insubordination, and it soon developed that there were no more top rails.

This discontent with Buell made its way to Washington. When we arrived in Louisville, General Thomas sent for Colonel Shepherd, showing him a telegram from Washington announcing that General Buell was relieved and that he, Thomas, should take command of the Army of the Cumberland. Thomas said, "Now, Colonel Shepherd, I don't see how I can in honor obey that order unless it is forced upon me, because General Buell has consulted me in every movement he has made since we have been serving together, and I approve of everything he has done. In your opinion, should I not, before taking command, communicate these facts to the government?" Shepherd, loyal to Buell, agreed. Thomas telegraphed to Washington, and Buell was retained for some time. Later he was relieved by Rosecrans.

Bragg, failing to get possession of Louisville, and fearing to proceed further north, fell back to Perryville, Kentucky, where the important battle of Perryville took place on October 8th. General Bragg then abandoned further aggressive movements and began his retirement toward Nashville, Buell following him closely and arriving at Nashville in time to hold that city.

When the Civil War broke out, army regulations provided brass mountings for the soldier, retaining many useless and cumbersome impediments for the soldier's person because at one time they were useful. When fighting was done with arrows and spears and short infantry swords, men wore coats of mail, to ward off the strokes of the enemy. When firearms appeared these became ineffective and were gradually but laboriously abandoned. The soldier's "scale" represented the last remnant of the coat of mail, and theoretically was useful in warding off strokes of the saber on the shoulder. While many intelligent men knew its uselessness, no one had the courage to advocate its abandonment.

In November, '63, while my regiment was guarding Belotte's Ford, on the Cumberland River, eight miles from Gallatin, Tennessee, we received midnight orders to proceed within two hours to an expected battle-field. We were to take four days' rations, to be carried by one four-mule team. My company, the largest in the regiment, found it impossible to pack all the necessary articles in one wagon. Coming upon a chest weighing over three hundred pounds, I asked the sergeant what it contained. He replied, "The scales, sir." I told him to throw it into the latrine, which he did, and the box is there now.

Scales and Armor.

1. Helmet.
2. Gorget.
3. Cuirass.
4. Epaulières.
5. Brassards.
6. Gauntlet.
7. Tassets.
8. Cuishes.
9. Genouillères.
10. Greaves.

Finding no battle-field, we turned out for Sunday morning inspection in a beautiful camp in the woods. All the other companies appeared with their shining "scales" and other brass ornaments. My scaleless company presented anything but the so-called military appearance.

Approaching my company, the Major, a martinet, remarked, "Captain, where are your scales?" I replied, "I abandoned them for want of transportation." He said, "You are out of uniform, and I shall have to report you. Have you made requisition for more?" I replied that I had not and did not intend to; that they were a very detrimental encumbrance. Although he ordered me peremptorily to do so, I never did. Whenever my company was inspected by others I was similarly reprimanded, and I dare say the files of the War Department are today full of reports condemning me as a captain for being out of uniform.

Later, out on the plains, where we were less harassed by bureaucracy, one captain after another began to shed, and finally, after ten years' defiance of regulations and orders by courageous and sensible captains, the army shed its scales as a snake sheds its skin. No order was ever issued by any authority for their abandonment. It is the only way in which the army can be redeemed from some of its follies, such as continue to this day in wearing the present swords and sabers, as useless for all military purposes as the scales.

When General W. S. Rosecrans was assigned to the command of the Army of the Cumberland, relieving General Buell, my regiment was detached from Steedman's Brigade of the 35th Ohio, 2d Minnesota and 4th Michigan, and all our officers bade the officers of Steedman's Brigade an affectionate goodbye. On Christmas day we joined the 15th, 16th and 19th regular infantry, with Battery H, 5th Artillery, on the height near Nashville, where we were brigaded with them as the "Regular Brigade, Army of the Cumberland," Col. O. L. Shepherd, commanding.

Bragg's army at Murfreesboro, thirty miles south of Nashville, received reinforcements from Virginia, principally under Breckinridge. Rosecrans, hastily assembling as large a command as possible, determined to attack. On the last day of December, 1862, and the first and second of January, 1863, these armies fought one of the bloodiest battles of the war about two miles north of Murfreesboro along Stone River.

General Rosecrans issued a confidential order for a general attack by the whole army at eight o'clock, December 31st. Colonel Shepherd, officer of the day for the whole army, rode the lines to see the leading commanders were prepared to make the common assault on time. I rode with Colonel Shepherd all night, and everything seemed to be fairly understood, but General Bragg was informed, massed his troops on the left and assaulted our whole right wing, commanded by General McCook, capturing most of the batteries before the horses were harnessed. Rousseau's reserve division and the regular brigade reserve of his division were the first in our army seriously in action. I was with Colonel Shepherd and General Rousseau when our right was crushed. General Thomas excitedly ordered Rousseau to "put the regulars in the cedars and drive those devils back." We thrust in our battery under the protection of the cedar trees and rocks in time to check the victorious Confederates, giving Rosecrans time to reform his routed right and establish a new line.

That night Doctor Webster Lindsly and I, with the permission of the Confederates, visited the field to care for the wounded, where I carried Captain Mack to the hospital. I found a young man, mortally wounded, a cannon ball having struck his abdomen. He said, "I know I am going to die. Write my mother that you saw me here." I wrote down his name and address, but I lost it. I have regretted it ever since, especially as I could not remember the name.

During the first day our forces were worsted, our supply trains cut off, and, the men carrying no rations, were hungry. Our entire right wing was doubled back on the left, the enemy were in front and rear, and the night was exceedingly cold. It was midnight before the excitement and confusion abated sufficiently to allow the men a little rest.

When I lay down, I rolled up in my saddle blanket near Captain R. L. Morris, a personal and intimate friend. But I was not to sleep yet. Colonel Shepherd sent me several miles to the rear with orders to seize some unguarded wagons which were filled with hard bread and bacon for the daybreak breakfast.

I folded my blanket, laid it on the ground and carried out the instructions, bringing the wagons back with me. When I returned, my blanket was missing.

The loss was discouraging, and I was cold, but as Morris said he knew nothing of it, there was nothing to do but pass the night as best I could. The next morning I noticed Morris had not only his saddle blanket, but another, tied in a roll behind. I asked where he got it and he retorted it was no concern of mine. I thought the circumstances sufficient to warrant an explanation, and he became angry, exclaiming, "Do you suppose I would steal your blanket, Mills?"

"No," I said, "I don't, but I would like you to untie your blanket and let me examine it."

He untied it, and I showed him my initials worked in one corner with yarn.

Laughing, he said, "Well, Mills, I give it up. That is your blanket. Take it. I stole it, knowing government blankets were as alike as two peas. I wouldn't steal under ordinary circumstances, but such a night as last night would justify a man in doing anything to keep warm."

Bragg assembled half his army on our extreme left during the night, intending to destroy our left as he had our right. General Breckinridge crossed the river opposite our extreme left, expecting to surprise us, but Rosecrans fortunately received notice and concentrated five hundred pieces of artillery on our left, unknown to Breckinridge.

The Confederates were literally cut to pieces with our artillery. On the right we could see nothing, but heard the roar of cannon for at least an hour, not knowing the result. Suddenly the firing ceased, we heard a cheer and, crossing a ridge to our left a sergeant galloped between the lines, carrying an inverted Confederate flag. Although this sergeant was in easy gunshot of the Confederates, not a single shot was fired at him.

The third day of the battle resulted decisively. Bragg retired toward Chattanooga.

On September 19 and 20, Chickamauga, the most sanguinary battle of the war, was fought. Here the regular brigade (one battalion each of the 15th, 16th and 19th, and two battalions of the 18th, with Battery H of the 5th Artillery) lost over thirty-three per cent of their strength in killed, wounded and missing, and during the fight, the battery was taken by the Confederates, all the horses killed, but the guns recaptured later on.

At the close of this battle, my company, the largest in the brigade, was selected for picket duty to cover the brigade front. Lieutenant Freeman, the adjutant, posted me close to the rebel lines. He rode out a couple of hundred yards and was taken prisoner by rebel pickets springing from behind trees, and sent to Libby Prison, from which he escaped through a tunnel in time to join Sherman's army near the sea. During the entire night our picket line was compelled to listen to the shrieks and cries for water and help from the wounded and dying, who lay immediately in front, but whom we were unable to assist, although they were only a few hundred yards from us. Some time after midnight an order came for a change in the position of the army, which moved our brigade a mile and a half to another position. As Freeman was absent, the regimental commander was unaware of the exact location of my company; and, in the morning, hearing no noise from the location of the regiment, I sent a sergeant to find out the cause. The sergeant returned, reporting that the regiment and the troops adjoining had abandoned the field, so I relieved my company and marched, following the trails of the different regiments, and finally arrived at their line of battle. I did not see Freeman again until on recruiting duty at St. Louis.

Rosecrans was practically defeated at Chickamauga and retired to Chattanooga, where Thomas concentrated his army for defense. Bragg besieged the city with so large an army it was found necessary to reinforce the Army of the Cumberland by the Army of the Tennessee, under Grant and Sherman, and two divisions of the Army of the Potomac, under Hooker.

General Thomas, who succeeded Rosecrans, was besieged and on half rations for months, the Confederate cavalry cutting off supplies. Finally there came the wonderful battle of Missionary Ridge, with Grant commanding the whole army; Hooker, the right (Lookout Mountain); Thomas, the center; and Sherman, the left. Hooker took Lookout during the night, but neither army knew it until daylight. As the sun rose, a bugle was sounded and a sergeant and three men presented to the breeze a large American flag from the point of Lookout Mountain, announcing the defeat of the Confederate Army. The whole Federal Army took up the cheer that swept from right to left.

By ten o'clock, Thomas' army, numbering perhaps twenty thousand men, was in battle line at the foot of Missionary Ridge, five hundred feet high, well designed for defense. Three guns from Thomas' headquarters was the signal for the whole line to charge.

Thomas' army stood for hours, with fixed bayonets, reflecting dazzling sun rays to the Ridge.

At last we heard the signal and cheered as we charged. The Confederates reserved their fire until we had passed up one-third of the ridge, when they opened fire. Their guns were so depressed, however, that the recoil destroyed their accuracy, and the shells went over our heads. Finally my company arrived so close I heard one of their gunners call out, "Half-second fuse," which meant that the shell would explode one-half second after it left the gun. It seemed difficult to believe that we could mount that rough mountain ridge and drive the Confederates away from their five hundred pieces of cannon, but no part of the line was ever halted. In half an hour the whole Confederate line was in our possession.

After this defeat, Bragg retired towards Atlanta, to which we also went.

At the battle of Jonesboro, near Atlanta, Captain Andy Burt and I had many men wounded. Visiting these men in a large tent containing perhaps seventy-five men, we found that certain Union Christian Societies had pinned upon its white walls large placards reading, "Are you prepared to die?" "Prepare to meet your God." As soon as Burt saw these senseless signs, he tore them down, stamping them under his feet, crying out, "Never say die, men! Never say die!" A badly wounded sergeant of my regiment answered, "If more officers like this visited us, there wouldn't be so many of us die!"

One of the most distinguished field batteries in the army was raised by the Chicago Board of Trade. Commanded by a fine-looking young German, Captain Dilger, this battery was given carte blanche to proceed where it pleased to do the most destruction, and his men seemed to be inspired with his own spirit and ambition. In his buckskin suit he would ride about, seeking a place to set up his battery to advantage. Dashing even beyond the skirmish lines, he would go into action and do all the destruction he could before the enemy could get his range, and as suddenly disappear.

At New Hope Church, Lieutenant Bisbee (now Brigadier General, retired) and I, with our two companies, were on picket duty when Dilger's battery passed through our lines and into action. Knowing the Confederates would soon get his range, our men protected themselves behind rocks and trees. Bisbee and I were behind a pine tree twenty inches in diameter, when a solid shot cut the tree in two, throwing us to the ground with splinters in our bodies. Neither of us was seriously wounded, and we returned to duty in a few days.

The regular brigade was so depleted with losses, discharges and failure to enlist that it was determined to send it while waiting recruits to camp on Lookout Mountain, overlooking Chattanooga. As the senior officer of the 18th Infantry, I marched it to the mountain for indefinite encampment.

At this time General Steedman, with ten thousand men, was ordered to defend Chattanooga in the apprehended march of Hood to Nashville. Learning I was out of active service while my regiment recuperated, Steedman called me to his staff as inspector general of his provisional corps. When Hood avoided Chattanooga, we moved the whole ten thousand men, reaching Nashville and joining Thomas just in time to escape being cut off by Hood's army.

Hood, relieving Bragg, invested Nashville and, on December 16, 1864, the Battle of Nashville took place. Hood's retreat toward the Cumberland River was disastrous, but floods saved his army. We were unable to cross streams over which he had destroyed the bridges. Thomas ordered Steedman to Murfreesboro to entrain ten thousand men for Decatur, Alabama, to prevent Hood's crossing.

We halted Sunday morning at Huntsville to repair some small bridges. While waiting, a bell began to ring for church services, and the General suggested that we all attend. A dignified, gray-haired old man mounted the pulpit, and began the services, bringing in with more than necessary vehemence the prayer for Jeff Davis and all those in authority. General Steedman, a man of intense passion combined with the tenderest affection, was bitterly insulted, but he remained until the services were completed. Retiring from the church, he arrested the preacher and placed him under guard. He was the Reverend Dr. Ross of Knoxville, Tennessee, who some years before had canvassed the Northern States with Parson Bronlow in a political-religious discussion of slavery. In that canvass Parson Bronlow took the side of slavery and Dr. Ross the opposite. They had now each honestly changed their views completely.

When the Doctor was brought in, the General exclaimed, passionately, "Dr. Ross, have you no more respect for the authorities of the Federal Government than to pray for Jeff Davis in their presence? If you have no more respect, have you no more sense?"

The Doctor stood calmly and said, "I have more respect for my conscientious convictions as a minister, my creed in religion, and my God than I have for the authorities of the United States Government. If I have committed any crime in your eyes, you have the power to punish me; but I shall cheerfully accept any punishment you choose to give me, even to death."

The General made no reply for some time, but finally said, "Very well, sir; I will carry you along with the command as a prisoner." The Doctor replied, "General, I am perfectly willing to go with your command, but I am too old to march. I will do the best I can." He appeared to be about sixty-five or seventy years old, quite gray and rather feeble.

The General replied, "Very well, sir, I will give you transportation—I will give you an ambulance, and" with some oaths, "I will give you an escort of your own color." We had three brigades of colored troops in the command, and the Doctor was of so dark a complexion as almost to suggest a mixture of blood.

Dr. Ross was carried on the cars and, later, on an ambulance with a colored escort. But General Steedman realized he had made a mistake. When General Roddy (commanding the Confederates on our front) requested an exchange of prisoners, General Steedman gave me instructions to give Dr. Ross any military rank that would secure his exchange. We had no difficulty in making the exchange, together with many others.

When my regiment was withdrawn from active service to Lookout Mountain, Tennessee, for reorganization, Lieutenant William H. Bisbee was my adjutant.

The beauty and symmetry of his reports was marked, but some apparently irrelevant figures excited my curiosity. Written in rather large figures in bright red ink was, "S-T-1860-X." Asked why he had made use of these particular letters and figures, he said he had copied them from a manufacturer's trade-mark for "Hostetter's Bitters," which, translated, read, "Started trade in 1860 with $10.00." He had noticed papers from Washington with red ink figures which he could not understand, and so interspersed the notations throughout his own reports, knowing that no one would understand them, but believing it would be assumed to be the result of much study and care!

Sure enough, in due time Bisbee received a personal letter from the Adjutant General of the Army, complimenting him on the most perfect monthly returns ever submitted by any regular regiment.

The Confederates had a fort at Decatur, and we had some gunboats on the river. General Steedman sent me at night to get such information as the naval commander could give about Decatur and the Confederate supplies supposed to be there. Employing a boatman to carry me to the gunboat Burnsides, commanded by Lieutenant Moneau Forrest, I reported myself staff officer from General Steedman, and asked the commander whether he could assist us in crossing the river with the Federal transports to take Decatur and its supplies. Learning he could protect Steedman's crossing and could assemble enough transports to carry the ten thousand men across in a short time, and would assault Decatur with his gunboats, I reported to Steedman. He and his staff officers crossed with his army in the early part of the day, leaving me on the gunboat. He assaulted Decatur from the rear, while the gunboats assaulted from the river.

This was my only naval engagement. Several men were lost, and the missiles from the Confederate guns tore up the planks of the deck. Decatur surrendered, and we had the supplies which Hood was unable to take.

We pursued Hood's straggling army, the rear guard of which was commanded by General Roddy, and on the 21st day of December, 1864, after a lively chase in a drenching rain, arrived at "Swope's House," a plantation six miles from Courtland.

The general camped midway between the road and the house. We were wet, and the General sent me to ask if the occupants of Swope's residence, a large, typical Southern home, would permit us to enter.

When I knocked at the door a lady appeared, but she slammed the door in my face! Reporting to the General, he excitedly called his staff to follow, and rapped violently at the door. The same lady appearing, he said to her, very sternly, "Madam, is there a man in this house?" She replied quietly, "Yes."

"Tell him General Steedman wants to see him." In a few minutes a gray-haired man, about seventy, asked us what was desired.

The General replied, "I sent one of my staff officers here to request a simple courtesy, usually accorded foe as well as friend—simply to warm by your fire. This officer was insulted by one of the ladies in your house. You can prepare the fire yourself or I will have it prepared for us."

Mr. Swope replied he would have it prepared as quickly as possible.

We visited some of the camps, and on our return found a cheerful fire in the parlor. The room was bare of everything but chairs, everything in the way of ornaments that could be stolen having been removed. But the fire was comfortable, and we stayed until the orderly announced our camp supper was ready.

A young man on our staff, Davis by name, was something of a ladies' man. While we enjoyed the fire, he encountered a young lady in the hall. Strange to say, the lady greeted him cordially—an unaccountable thing to those men who approach the feminine sex with difficulty. They laughed and joked, another lady appeared, and there was quite a gay scene.

One of the ladies was Captain Swope's daughter, and the other a cousin from Nashville. We had been there for some time, and as she had heard nothing since the battle she was anxious for news from Nashville.

Returning to the house after supper, all the ornaments had been returned to the parlor, curtains were hung, rugs and carpets down, the center table had regained its cover, and was piled with books. Davis introduced the ladies to the whole party.

Picking up an autograph album, I saw the signatures of Jeff Davis, Beauregard, Bragg, and many prominent officers of the Confederacy. Between the leaves was an order reading as follows:

"Headquarters, District of the Etowah, In the Field, Swope's House, Northern Alabama, December 21, 1864. Special Order No.———.

"Immediately upon receipt of this order, Doctor———, in charge of Post Hospital at Courtland, will deliver to Captain Swope the basket of champagne seized in the express office by him on yesterday. By order of General P. D. Roddy.

...............................................

"Adjutant General."

The Generals of both armies commanded districts of the same name, "Etowah." I turned the sheet over and wrote as follows:

"Headquarters, District of the Etowah, In the Field, Swope's House, Northern Alabama, December 22, 1864. Special Order No.———.

"Immediately upon receipt of this order, Captain Swope, Quartermaster in the Confederate Army, will turn over to Major General Steedman and staff the basket of champagne recovered from Doctor———, in charge of the Post Hospital at Courtland, and mentioned on the opposite side of this paper.

"By order of Major General Steedman.

Anson Mills,

"Captain, 18th Infantry, Inspector General,

District of the Etowah."

Both the ladies eyed me intently. I laid the book on the table, and one of the ladies picked it up and read the paper. She passed it to her cousin, who also read it, and, after a short conference, they went upstairs. Soon Mr. Swope entered, asking, "Can I speak with Captain Mills?"

I announced myself and he said, "My dear sir: your order is good. I would obey it with pleasure were it possible, but, unfortunately, I was unable to recover the champagne. It was used in the hospital before this order was presented to the doctor. I regret exceedingly that I am unable to do so, for I realize the propriety, in case it were possible."

By this time we were well established in good relations with the family. Our evening passed as pleasantly there as anywhere during the war, and we flattered ourselves the family was as reluctant to part with us as we with them.

On the 23d of December we established headquarters at Courtland, abandoning a vigorous pursuit of Hood. The next day in Steedman's office, Oakly Bynam came in and greeted him as a fellow Mason, and asked for help. He had bought several thousand bales of cotton, which the Federal troops were destroying. He wanted a permit to ship it to Louisville by the government vessels then in the river. Steedman angrily told him that neither former friendship nor Masonic brotherhood should influence him to aid one willing to play "Good Lord, good devil" to either the Confederates or the Federals who might be in control.

That night Mr. Bynam told me he had several thousand bales of cotton worth a dollar and a half a pound in Louisville; and that, if the soldiers burned it, it would ruin him; but that if I had sufficient influence with General Thomas to allow it to be shipped north, he would make a fortune and would divide it equally with me! Of course, I declined, and most of the cotton was burned by Steedman's army.

Major General James B. Steedman.

Brigadier General O. L. Shepherd.

Brigadier General H. B. Freeman.

Brigadier General Wm. H. Bisbee.

After the War

In February, 1865, the War Department detailed three officers from each of the new regiments for recruiting service, selecting those who had served longest during the war. I headed the list of my regiment, and was sent successively to Toledo, Zanesville and St. Louis, where I again met the former adjutant, Freeman. (He died recently, a brigadier general.) He was also on recruiting duty, and we were both ordered to Jefferson Barracks to reorganize our companies from the men we had enlisted. Almost all of these were volunteers discharged in St. Louis.

I was ordered with my own and Company A, commanded by Lieutenant Carpenter, to Fort Aubrey, Kansas, via Leavenworth, to relieve two companies of one-year Ohio volunteers, whose time had expired, and who were near mutiny. I left St. Louis December 5, 1865. The weather was so cold, and the supply train furnished me at Fort Leavenworth so inadequate, that I seized and exchanged wagons and teams with a quartermaster's train returning from Santa Fe. One of my men froze to death on the journey, and several were severely frost-bitten.

I found the Walnut Fork of the Arkansas River impassable from floods, and traveled without a trail from Fort Larned for three days, until I could cross, thence moving south toward Fort Aubrey, as I supposed.

During the march a hostile band of Cheyenne Indians (called "dog soldiers") under young Bent, a half-breed, attempted to surprise us. Frustrated, they followed us into the Arkansas River, four miles above Fort Dodge. The Indians asked for parley, during which I discovered a captive American girl, who attempted to talk to me, but was silenced by the chief. I was later instrumental, through the Indian agent, Major Wyncoop, in securing the ransom of this girl, Mary Fletcher.

Leaving A Company at Fort Dodge, I took my own to Aubrey, where I relieved the Ohio volunteers. I remained until April, relieving the monotony by killing some of the buffalo which covered the whole country, riding a spirited horse which could overtake any buffalo.

My company clerk was Henry Garrells, an excellent penman and accountant, but so near-sighted I had to get special permission to enlist him. He was not only the most unprepossessing man I ever saw, but one of the most troublesome drunkards in the army. He got drunk periodically, generally selecting a time when urgency in the preparation of company papers was most desired. When under the influence of liquor, he was absolutely uncontrollable, requiring two or three men to keep him from violence. When sober, he was one of the mildest mannered men I ever saw.

Our post near the river was composed of rude huts and dug-outs. It was far from any settlement, and we had no liquor, so Garrells got along very well until, one Sunday morning, he obtained two bottles of bay rum from the post trader, with which he got gloriously drunk, smashing things right and left in the quarters. The sergeant detailed several men to restrain him (there being no guard house), reported the damage and asked what to do with him. I told him to get a cavalry lariat, about one hundred feet long, and with two strong men carry Garrells to the river bank. They were to divest him of clothing and throw him into the stream until the chill (it was January) should sober him.

I followed Garrells and his party on the opposite side of the stream. Arrived at the bank, about ten feet high, Garrells exclaimed, "Sergeant, here's a river! 'Twill require some engineering skill to pass this river!"

"Never mind," said the sergeant, "we'll cross it, Garrells." The men took off his hat and coat, and one of them reached into his pocket for his money, when Garrells became alarmed and began to shout, "Murder! Robbers! Help!"

By this time they had the rope around his body, and one man seizing his head, another his heels, they tossed him far out into the stream.

When Garrells rose he spouted like a whale, and swam for the opposite shore. Every few yards of progress he was checked by the rope, which threw his head under water. When he came near the bank on which I stood, he exclaimed, "Major, damn you, do you think I'm a goldfish or a dolphin?"

I signaled to the sergeant to pull him back, and by the time he returned he was thoroughly sobered.

I had heard very little from my brother. The stage line was irregular on account of hostile Indians. One evening when it drove up, it brought my brother, W. W., and Judge Watts, neither of whom I had seen for four years. They could only remain the night with me, but shortly after I procured leave and joined them in Washington.

Judge Watts and my brother had an interview with President Johnson in regard to Federal appointments in New Mexico and Texas. The President had a Texas vacancy on the board of visitors to West Point, and proposed to appoint W. W. Both Judge Watts and my brother preferred I be given the place, as I was a military man; and I was appointed.

Adjutant General Townsend protested to the President that my appointment was illegal because the regulations of the academy provided that no one who had failed at West Point should be made a member of the board for ten years after such failure.

Learning this failure was nine years past, the President sent for Colonel Townsend and asked if there was any other objection to me except my failure at the academy, and what my standing was. Townsend had no other objection, and said my standing was good, when the President said, "Well, if the faculty discharged a man who nine years after has become a captain in good standing in the regular army, I think it best that Captain Mills should be sent there to see what's the matter with the academy!"

General Grant was anxious to have the superintendency of the military academy (by law confined to officers of the engineer corps) opened to the line of the army, and Senator Nesmith, a member of the board, promised to try to secure a recommendation from the board to this effect. I felt the engineer corps conducted the academy too much as a purely scientific institution. While they made every effort to produce high-grade engineers, less attention was given the absolute requirements of officers of the line, so I was glad to promise General Grant my assistance. At his suggestion, I made the acquaintance of Senator Nesmith, who set about the accomplishment of his task immediately upon the organization of the board of sixteen members. An animated and somewhat bitter discussion continued during our whole session, finally resulting in a vote of eight to eight, so the resolution was lost. General Grant later submitted the matter to Congress, which changed the law so that any line officer could be made superintendent.

While the board was at the academy, General Scott died there, and the board as a body were his pall-bearers.

At the expiration of my leave, I was ordered to the command of Fort Bridger, Utah, where my company had arrived in my absence.

The volunteers, under General P. Edward Connor, were being relieved. The posts and the territory were both in a chaotic condition, the soldiers harassing the Mormons and encouraging the Gentiles in unlawful persecutions.

Among the volunteers at Fort Bridger was Patrick Tully, who had come over from Ireland with General Connor. These friends served their first enlistment together. Connor took up the study of law, became prominent, and, when the war broke out, was colonel of a volunteer regiment from California, afterwards brigadier general of volunteers, and assigned to the command of the District of Salt Lake.

Tully left the regular service and joined a volunteer regiment. He was one of those soldiers who, either by misfortune or bad conduct, was constantly in the guard house. At inspections, the general generally found Tully confined, and Tully never failed to plead the ground of their former friendship for release, Connor as constantly granting it.

Somewhat ostentatious, General Connor, when leaving one post for another, invariably telegraphed, "I leave for your post today. Have quarters prepared for me on my arrival," being always careful to sign himself "P. Edward Connor," leaving out the Pat or Patrick, by which both he and Tully were known.

All the volunteers at Bridger were ordered to Salt Lake to be mustered out—Tully among the rest.

When Tully was ordered to make preparations for the march, he sent a request from the guard house asking to send a telegram. Arrived at the telegraph office, he dictated the following:

"To General P. Edward Connor, Commanding District of Salt Lake:

"Sir: I leave here for your post today. Have quarters prepared for me on my arrival.

P. Edward Tully."

It is needless to say that Connor honored the requisition and had secure (if not ample) quarters, prepared for "P. Edward Tully."

I was prejudiced against the Mormons, but found they were the best people in the country, and the only ones who would fill contracts fairly. The Gentiles practiced every device to beat the government, but the word of a Mormon was his bond. With Major Lewis commanding Fort Douglas at Salt Lake, I called upon Brigham Young. He looked like General Grant, and was an earnest and, I believe, a sincere and conscientious man. He said he was glad to meet a regular officer, because the regular army always treated them well, but that the volunteers under Connor had been demoralizing to those of the Mormon faith. Discussing my prejudice against his people, about which he asked and I answered frankly, he said, "You have doubtless heard we are disloyal to the Union." Pointing to the flag flying over his Tabernacle, he said it had waved every day since the war began. Upon his invitation I attended his church and heard him preach the next Sunday. I visited the Tabernacle in company with his son-in-law and saw open on the pulpit the inspired volumes from which they preached—the Old Testament, the New Testament, and the Book of Mormon. He presented a copy of the latter to me, inscribed with his name, which I still have. My experiences changed my mind regarding the Mormon people. I believe their church the equal of any in the inculcation of those qualities which make the Mormons law-abiding, industrious, economical and faithful to all their agreements.

Christmas Eve, Judge Carter, the sutler, gave a dancing party. While the officers and ladies were dancing, I received a dispatch announcing the massacre of Fetterman and his command, part of my regiment, at Fort Philip Kearny. We were all of the same regiment. I stopped the band and read the despatch, which cast the garrison into gloom, and presaged a general war with the Sioux.

Jim Bridger, a well-known frontiersman, who had been with the Indians since he was fourteen years old, was the post guide. He was reticent and hard to know, but a genius in many ways.

One day the Overland stage from Omaha arrived, and an English-looking gentleman stepped out and inquired in the "sutler's store" for both the post trader and for me. He delivered letters of introduction from General Sheridan, stating that he was a captain in the British Army on a journey around the world for the purpose of writing a book, and that he wished to see Jim Bridger. (Cut, 154.)

We took him to call on Bridger, who lived alone in one of the officers' quarters. We found the old man looking grave and solemn. Our English friend plied him with questions, stating he had been told by General Sheridan that he, of all others on the Western plains, could give him the most thrilling reminiscences regarding the exciting scenes of the settlement of the frontier.

Bridger made no advances, appearing like a child, reluctant to "show off." The captain continued his conversation in his most winning way and earnestly requested the old scout to tell them something interesting. Finally, Bridger told the following story:

"Well, I think the most thrilling adventure I ever had on the frontier was in the winter of 1855, when Jack Robinson and I went trapping, about two hundred miles down the Green River in the Ute country. We knew the Utes were unfriendly, but we did not think they were war-like, so we got two horses and a pack outfit, and in December went into camp on the Green River. We had spent two months trapping, and were about ready to return, when early one morning we saw a large party of warriors coming up the stream. We had only time to saddle our horses, gather our rifles and ammunition and mount. We estimated their party at about one hundred, and started up the river at full speed, abandoning everything we had in camp.

"As we became hard pressed, one of us would dismount and fire, then mount and pass the other, and he would dismount and fire, and so continuing, checking our pursuers until we gained some ground. Their horses were not only fresh, but they had lead horses with them, which gave them great advantage over us, who had but one horse each.

"We continued this method of defense all day, and by night had killed thirty of the Indians. But our horses were so tired we feared the enemy would take us.

"At the foot of a mountain, where there was dense timber, we took shelter about dusk, knowing the Indians would not follow in the dark. We spent the night in great fear as to what would become of us the next day. Knowing that at dawn they would be after us, we started to lead our horses out of the valley, but had no sooner started than we heard the Indians behind us.

"We continued our defense until about two o'clock, when we had killed thirty more of the Indians. This left only about forty to continue the pursuit, but they did not seem at all discouraged. If anything, they were more active than ever.

"By this time, our broken horses began to give way at the knees. Observing a narrow canyon, we concluded to follow it as it gave us a better chance of defense than the open. This canyon was narrow, with a swift stream running down it, and we made our way as fast as we could for two or three miles, when, looking around, we saw immediately in our rear the whole force of Indians.

"Matters were desperate. The canyon walls were perpendicular, three hundred feet high, and growing narrower every mile. Suddenly, around a bend in the canyon, we saw a waterfall, two hundred feet high, completely blocking our exit."

Here Mr. Bridger paused. The captain, all aglow with interest, cried anxiously, "Go on, Mr. Bridger; go on! How did you get out?"

"Oh, bless your soul, Captain," answered Bridger, "we never did get out. The Indians killed us right there."

This closed the interview. Though I have never heard of his book, I dare say the captain did not include this story in it.

While I was at Fort Bridger, the regular army was increased from thirty to sixty thousand men, making each of the three battalions of the nine new regiments a full regiment. The vacancies thus created were filled by meritorious volunteers, so that many regular officers were set back many years in prospective promotions. The first battalion of my regiment remained the 18th, the second battalion the 27th, and the third battalion the 36th, which resulted in many changes of stations and locations, but I retained my company, H, of the 18th.

In my administration and discipline of the garrison at Fort Bridger I adopted as far as I could the moral suasion ideas of Charlie Naylor. Instead of punishing the men by confining them in the guard house for trial, I had the post carpenter construct a very unprepossessing wooden horse and a wooden sword about six feet long, with its business end painted a bloody red. Any man reported for any disorderly conduct had to ride this horse for a certain period, dismounting occasionally to curry and water it with currycomb and water bucket. This method of punishment proved most efficient, as the men soon came to dread "riding the horse" a great deal more than they did spending a month in the guard house.

Moral Suasion Horse at Fort Bridger.

Sioux Tepee Captured at Slim Buttes, with Keogh's Guidon and Capturing Officers.
(Text, 171.)

While at Fort Bridger, about a thousand Shoshone Indians came in, camping near the post for a couple of months. Having a telegraph line and a military operator, I sent for the most intelligent of the Indians, and told them we would talk over the wire. They were much mystified, and could not understand when I told them I sent the words over the wire. Finally I gave one the wire to hold so he could feel the message going through him. While the Indians are stoics and their outdoor life prevented the shock from affecting them as it would a white man, they threw their hands up when the current passed through, understanding for the first time there really was something that went over the wire. Later they used this knowledge in cutting down and burning the poles and destroying the wire to keep the whites from telling where they had been in mischief, and to prevent the soldiers from following.

When I first arrived at Fort Bridger, the volunteer garrison was equipped with Spencer breech-loading carbines. I turned in my muzzle-loading Springfields and equipped my two companies with the Spencers which, of course, had heavy metallic cartridges, Cal. .50. Our equipment consisted of the regular old-fashioned cartridge box for paper cartridges to be carried in tin cases inside the leather boxes, and were wholly unsuited for metallic cartridges. I furnished mounted guards and patrols to the daily Overland Mail, and the metallic ammunition carried in these tin boxes rattled loudly, and were even noisy when carried by men afoot.

So I devised a belt, which the post saddler manufactured out of leather, with a loop for each of the fifty cartridges. The men wore these belts around their waists, and they proved much more comfortable and efficient than any other method of carrying cartridges.

W. A. Carter, the sutler, was going to Washington, and suggested that he procure me a patent. This patent was the foundation of my various subsequent patents, which enabled me to change the method of carrying cartridges, not only in our own army, but in the armies throughout the world, and by which I eventually made an independent fortune.

I remained in command of Bridger until the spring of 1867, when I was ordered to escort Gen. G. M. Dodge, chief engineer of the Union Pacific Railroad, on a recognizance to find a route from the vicinity of Salt Lake, via the Snake River, to some point in Oregon or Washington State for a branch road to the Pacific. We were two months going west of the Rocky Mountain Range via Snake River, and returning through the south pass at the head waters of the North Platte River. We finally abandoned the expedition when we reached Fort Sanders, Wyoming.

General John A. Rawlins accompanied the expedition, on the advice of his physician, he being afflicted with tuberculosis, and was a very interesting companion.

From Sanders I reported to Fort Fetterman, where my regiment established headquarters, after the return of Colonel Carrington's expedition, abandoning the posts of Reno, Philip Kearny, and F. C. Smith. The regular route to Fort Fetterman via Fort Laramie was twice the distance across the mountains, so I took no wagon transportation, but only the men carrying rations. We had a very difficult march, but succeeded in arriving long before the wagons carrying our baggage via Laramie.

I remained at Fetterman during the winter of '67, but in the spring went to Fort Sedgwick, where Colonel Carrington had a large post of seven companies, most of them of his own regiment. These isolated posts were thoroughly cut off from civilization.

I remember a humorous incident that occurred there one day. There being no chaplain or civil authorities for hundreds of miles in any direction, their functions were necessarily sometimes performed by the adjutants of the military posts. One day the adjutant, Lieutenant Carroll Potter, invited Captain Morris and me to go with him across the Platte River to Julesburg, where he said he was going to perform a marriage.

When the ambulance drove up to Potter's porch, Morris and I heard him call "Lizzie, Lizzie, bring me the prayer book." His wife brought the prayer book, and he put it in his coat, asking, "Have you turned down a leaf?"

"Yes, Carroll, I have."

Arriving at the town, we were escorted to a small building where we found about twenty persons congregated to witness the ceremony. Drawing the prayer book from his pocket and opening it at a turned-down page, Potter started out on the service in a vigorous, solemn and authoritative tone, as follows:

"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die."

By this time his voice began to fall, and he said: "Hold on. I think I've got the wrong place!" Remembering his wife had turned down a leaf for him to read the burial service a short time before, he turned quickly to the proper service and finished the ceremony, with many apologies.

Marriage

Up to this date I had had no thought of marriage and, consequently, had made nothing of what little opportunity there was to associate with female society. Now, realizing that I was to settle down in a quiet way as a captain of infantry, I began to think that it was time to marry, if I ever intended to do so. I resolved to take a leave for the purpose of looking for a "household mate."

Recruiting at Zanesville, I had made the acquaintance of the best men, but paid little attention to young ladies, though, from my office window on Main Street, I had observed a quartet known as the "Cassel girls." Their father was the handsomest man in the city, and one of the most respected, and the girls were in a class by themselves. They knew everybody, were accosted by everybody, and were respected and admired by all. They were all fine musicians, and sang in the church choir. They were carefully reared, but their position was such that they felt free to do many things other girls would hesitate to do for fear of criticism.

Everywhere I sought the acquaintance of girls I thought might fill my requisition for a wife. I have always believed that women should have as many rights as men, and that a man and his wife should be equal partners in all that relates to human affairs. From my first recollection, I have been a "Woman's Rights" man, although at that time there were very few, even women, who believed in such rights. There were a few women at this time who dared advocate such things as equal rights in schools and colleges, but they were usually maltreated, insulted, and even made the target for rotten eggs. But that did not change my opinion as to the kind of woman I wished for a partner in life.

I had not been long on leave when I visited Zanesville and sought the acquaintance of the Cassel girls. A friend, Charlie Converse, took me to call, and I met all four. I was greatly attracted by the brilliancy of conversation, beauty of features and bright expression of the second daughter, and asked Miss Hannah Cassel's permission to call again. I have since learned that while discussing my visit with her sisters that night, she remarked, "I am going to have some fun with that fellow."

Although deeply impressed with her beauty and charms, I felt it only fair to explain my views to her and find out whether she possessed the qualities I hoped to secure in a wife before asking her to marry me.

We took many rides and walks together, during which I gradually told her my sole purpose in securing leave of absence was to select a household mate; I told her my story fully, that I was thirty-four, born and raised on a poor man's farm until eighteen, and about my failing at West Point and, ashamed to return to my father, making a living for myself. I described the subsequent sixteen years of struggles and the experience which made me a captain in good standing in the army. I was plain about having no prospective patrimony or no expectations, save the patent cartridge equipment which, with persistent work and improvement, I hoped would finally be adopted by the army to my ultimate profit. I told her, too, of my only other source of financial expectation, my lots and a house in the town of El Paso. Although the town had been practically destroyed by the war and the Mexican War against Maximilian, I believed even then it would some day become a city and my property become valuable.

It was easy to tell her she had impressed me beyond all others by her beauty, vivacity, and her apparent courage to fight the battle of life. In these sixteen years I had satisfied myself I had been endowed with sufficient physical and moral strength and ambition to acquire an independence and the respect of the world, provided I could find a woman endowed with the courage to assist me as an equal partner in life. I had always believed that women should possess the same rights as men; that their needs were equal to those of men; that their aspirations should be in the same direction as those of men; but I knew that imperious custom had forced woman into an inferior position in life, so that the best hopes of many mothers were for their daughters to marry someone who could support them, without other exertion on their part than to adorn themselves. In spite of this prevailing idea I was looking for a woman who would disregard the tyranny of society and undertake to do whatever was necessary in mental and physical labor to acquire such means and reputation as would enable us to leave the world better than we found it; all of this I discussed with her fully and plainly.

She was at this time twenty-two years old. She had had a private school education, including a year at the Catholic convent in the city, but, beyond that, she had improved her mind by books and reading far beyond what was taught at the schools. More, she was liberal minded, had few prejudices and, like myself, was ambitious to play some part in the world. She had many suitors, but, luckily for me, she was heart whole and fancy free. Her parents were in good circumstances, and she and her sisters had always been provided with more luxuries than most, so she realized that if she married, she would have to sacrifice much to become a successful homemaker. Her views of life came not only from her parents, but from her great aunt, Hannah Martin, a cultured English woman, for whom she was named, and with whom she had been associated since childhood. She had the reverence for her aunt that I had for my great grandmother.

I was wedded to my profession, and my salary was a hundred and fifty dollars a month. It would, of course, increase by promotions and length of service pay, but as my stations would probably be among the Indians in the far West, where there was no desirable civilian society, and perhaps but a half dozen ladies at the post, the woman who was willing to become my mate would have to sacrifice all the allurements of Eastern society and content herself with the drumly incidents of military life on the plains. Be sure I showed her I had sufficient sentiment to make a good lover, and so I told her she was the one I wanted for a lifelong partner, asking her to deliberate on it for some days before answering. Shortly she told me she was given to rebel against many of the conventionalities of society, that she believed she could make all the sacrifices necessary, and was willing to undertake it.

Anson Mills and Nannie Cassel. Day Before Marriage.

Anson Mills, Day Before Marriage, with "Big Four" Cassel Girls.

During one of our picnics where there were some half-dozen girls and boys (among the girls I remember best were Lucy and Mame Abbott and Julia Blandy), we took our refreshments to a stream in the woods near the town. After eating, the girls sought the water to wash their fingers, soiled with cakes and jellies. I induced Miss Cassel to come a little way from the rest up the stream, to show her a good place to wash her hands. Then, not knowing others were within hearing, I said, "Miss Cassel, how tall are you?"

She replied, "Five feet, three."

"Just tall enough to enter the army," I answered.

Immediately the girls below began to giggle, and during the rest of the day and the journey home one would occasionally cry out, "Just tall enough to enter the army." I did not hear the last of the incident for some time.

Shortly after, our engagement was announced, and the date of the ceremony set for October 13th.

My leave being about to expire, I returned to Fort Sedgwick, but applied for another leave the first of October, expressing my purpose of getting married.

I had accumulated three thousand dollars in the bank, which I took with me. Miss Cassel and I spent this money together in the stores for such household equipment as we concluded would be necessary. We had our photographs taken the day before we were married.

On the 13th of October we were duly united. We had a very simple wedding, with only relatives and close personal friends of the family present. I remember the venerable Mr. Cushing, a friend of the family, who was then in his eighties. When he came to bid the bride good-bye, he remarked, "Hannah, I am going to kiss you, for this is perhaps the last time I shall ever see you," and it was.

As Miss Cassel in her family and among her intimate friends was always "Nannie," and as I always spoke of her and addressed her by that name after we were married, I shall hereafter refer to her so, thinking it unsuitable in so intimate a reminiscence as this to be too formal.

Earlier I have referred at length to my forebears and the history of my family. Nannie's family is equally as well rooted in American history as mine.

Her father, William Culbertson Cassel, was born in Franklin County, Pennsylvania, in 1817, and was the son of Jacob Cassel, who was born in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, in 1775. His father was born off the coast of Ireland on a vessel which was wrecked there, and on which his parents (Nannie's great-great-grandparents) were coming from Germany to this country.

Mr. Cassel's mother was Elizabeth Culbertson, born in Franklin County, Pennsylvania, in 1779, and married there to Jacob Cassel, in 1796. The Culbertsons were a Scotch-Irish family, who settled in Pennsylvania before the Revolution, in which many of them took an active part. This family is very completely described in "The Culbertson Genealogy," by Lewis R. Culbertson.

Nannie's mother was Lydia Martin, born in Morgan County, Ohio, in 1822, and married there in 1840. Her family were English and, as one old record states, were largely composed of "jolly, fox-hunting parsons." Her father, Samuel Martin, one of nine children, was born in Trowbridge, England, in 1796. He received an excellent education, studying medicine in London. In 1819 Dr. Martin, after his father's death, started to Liverpool with his older brother, Alfred, to come to America. They were overtaken by a message telling them of their mother's death. They waited over one vessel, so their sisters could join them, and all come together to the new country. One of these sisters was Hannah Hippisly Martin, Nannie's great aunt, who lived with Nannie's parents for many years, and who was affectionately called "Auntie" by all. Nannie received a great part of her training from her, as did the other Cassel children—Elizabeth, Leila, Kate, and the one son Samuel, who died in 1865 at the age of 22.

W. C. Cassel. "Auntie." Mrs. W. C. Cassel.

THIRD PERIOD

Travels West and East

We arrived at Fort Sedgwick on October 16th.

My quarters were half a knock-down double house, made in Chicago, the other half occupied by the adjutant, Lieutenant Potter.

When Nannie first heard the drums beat for guard mount, she called, "Anson, where in the world did all these officers come from?" referring to the gaily decked soldiers assembling for guard, showing how little she knew of the army. There were only half a dozen officers in the post.

The day we arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Potter asked us to luncheon. Potter sat at the head of the table facing a door opening into the yard.

While we were seating ourselves, a large yellow cat came in, jumped on a chair, and looked over the table. Potter excitedly raised his hands above his head, exclaiming, "Lizzie! Lizzie! Look at that cat. I hate a cat, but damn a yellow cat!"

Nannie as yet knew nothing of the army or the West, and I could see that she was about ready to run, impressed with the idea that Potter had gone stark mad. But my former classmate, though eccentric, was an excellent man and officer, and Nannie grew to like him as her acquaintance with him and the army progressed.

Potter's five-year-old boy often came to our dining room and invited himself to meals. He asked numberless unanswerable questions, one of which—while helping himself to the sugar, was "Why does a sugar bowl have two handles?"

The South Platte country around Fort Sedgwick is supposed to be that visited by Coronado in his far northward explorations from Mexico (see my address to the Society of Indian Wars).

It is also claimed by the Book of Mormon that here were the final battles between the descendants of the two lost tribes of Israel, supposed to have made their way to North America. Legend has it that one of the tribes developed into a highly civilized white race, the other into a dark-skinned race of roving habits, ancestors of our Indians. The two became enemies and the white race was exterminated; more than a million men, women and children being killed. The book claims this contest between the Indians and the civilized whites, who had built cities and made great advancement in civilization, continued for many hundreds of years throughout the continent with varying defeats and victories, but the final disappearance of the white race occurred in this part of the West.

We purchased a one-horse buggy, with which Nannie and I explored many miles in every direction through the roadless prairie country. The only road followed the North Platte toward Denver. The Indians were comparatively peaceable, and we went where we would, with an escort of two or three cavalrymen.

For household help, Nannie had a woman cook, and her soldier husband, Lenon, did many chores about the house, but otherwise Nannie managed the household; made my shirts, underwear and stockings, doing all the mending and keeping me neat. We apportioned certain allowances from my salary for necessities, cutting everything to the lowest possible cost. Table supplies purchased from the commissary were to cost no more than thirty dollars per month. It was Nannie's work to keep within the allowances, so that we might lay by money each month for a rainy day. She kept this rule throughout our equal partnership.

Although her education in household economy and management was incomplete, she was quick to learn. But her time was not all spent in housekeeping. The garrison of five companies of the 18th Infantry and two of the 2d Cavalry had an occasional dance or ball, which she greatly enjoyed and became prominent as a dancer and in the social life of the post.

There were no settlements for a hundred miles in any direction. Julesburg, three miles across the river, was one of the largest stations because of its proximity to the post. The river was a torrential stream, half a mile wide, and its quicksands made it almost impassable. In the winter, when ice crowded the channels, it was difficult to cross with any kind of vehicle. The nearest posts were Fort Omaha, Nebraska, three hundred and fifty miles east, and Fort D. A. Russell, at Cheyenne, two hundred and fifty miles west. These distant points were the only ones with a sufficient degree of civilization to entice visits. The Union Pacific, just completed to these points, with the capable assistance of the army, adopted the generous policy of giving passes to officers and their families desiring to visit these remote posts, so that during our six months' stay at Sedgwick we attended a regimental ball of the 9th Infantry at Omaha, and a regimental ball of the 30th Infantry at Fort D. A. Russell. These were about the only diversions we had from the monotonous life of the garrison at Sedgwick.

Nannie knew the expense of visiting home would be so great she probably would not see her family again for two years, and she did not; but she was sometimes homesick, and more than once I saw her with dampened eyes.

Feeling the necessity for a large army obviated by the nearly accomplished reconstruction, Congress passed a law decreasing the army from sixty to thirty thousand, in 1870. The law stopped promotions pending that event to absorb as many surplus officers as possible. In April, 1869, my regiment was ordered to Atlanta, Georgia, with five others, to be consolidated into three regiments of infantry. Half the officers of these regiments were on sick leave or detached service, but when it was announced that the officers retained would be those best suited for service, nearly every ill officer in each regiment immediately recovered! No one wanted to be ordered home for discharge, with even a year's pay and allowances.

We left by rail to Omaha, took steamboat to Memphis, and finished the journey to Atlanta by rail.

The influx of these six regiments, with almost a full complement of officers, rendered even the quarters of a complete regimental post insufficient. The unmarried officers lived in tents, the married ones crowding the houses. It often happened that eight captains with their wives would be quartered in eight rooms. This discomfort, added to summer heat, rendered life almost unbearable, but deciding who was to remain and who to be sent on waiting orders occupied time. Meanwhile, concentration of too many people caused various contagious diseases, especially typhoid, to become epidemic.

However, the consolidation was finally accomplished, the 16th merging with the 18th, retaining that designation, and I retaining my captaincy in Company H.

General Ruger was mustered out as General of Volunteers and assigned to the colonelcy of the 18th. A most excellent executive officer, he soon had us organized and assigned to comfortable quarters with nearly all the officers present. General Upton was assigned as lieutenant colonel. He was then developing his tactics and selected Captain Christopher and myself to review with him every Saturday the progress he had made, and to apply during the week his new principles of tactics in drilling our companies, and occasionally a battalion.

Nannie and I had now lived long enough together to discover our appraisement of each other was correct. We each had sufficient sentiment to make us permanent lovers and, better still, we each had such perfect digestions and such an intense sense of the humorous as to make us content with our surroundings wherever and whatever they might be. Best of all, we were each blessed with enough courage, self-denial and ambition.

I purchased foot-power lathes, drills, etc., to develop models of my various patents in belts and equipment. I installed them in one of her best rooms in each succeeding one of perhaps twenty posts, soiling the carpets with grease, filings and shavings, which would have driven most wives mad. Nannie not only endured patiently, but encouraged and assisted in the work. She was also my amanuensis for sixteen years, until I became proficient on the typewriter, I believe the first army officer to do so.

The Secretary of War ordered that any officers of the newly organized regiments of infantry and artillery who so desired could apply for transfer to the cavalry, to fill the vacancies caused by the stoppage of promotions. I was so restive and likely to be contentious that duty in the infantry, where I would have little to do, I feared might lead me into controversies. I thought the better opening for success would be in the cavalry, but as I knew the cavalry would be among the hostile Indians and farthest away from civilization, I left it to Nannie to decide whether our mutual success would be enhanced by the transfer and whether she was willing to make it. She decided that my prospects would be bettered by participation in the hazardous and more serious duties of the cavalry, so I applied for transfer.

After recovering from a severe case of typhoid that summer, Nannie, by her lively character and natural accomplishments, assumed a prominent place in the regiment, and was one of the chief organizers of the many dances, balls, and other social gatherings which we had during our stay at this post.

A large regimental ball was scheduled for December 29th, and Nannie invited her sisters, Lulie and Katie, to visit her in time for this event. In those days it was unusual for young ladies to travel long distances alone, and their parents were uneasy about the journey. They should have arrived at Christmas, but floods intervened, and they reached Atlanta on the 28th at four o'clock in the morning.

I wrote my parents-in-law immediately, handing the letter to Captain Ogden, who promised to mail it. Some days after, I received a telegram inquiring what had become of the two girls. On questioning Captain Ogden, I found he still had the letter in his pocket!

Lulie and Katie were beautiful, and in the prime of their girlhood, and were much sought after at dances and other social gatherings.

Among their admirers was Captain Kline of the regiment, an efficient but reserved young officer, who took a fancy to Lulie, and early asked if I would permit his attentions to my sister-in-law, to which, of course, I found no objection. On account of his reserve, he had more difficulty in speaking than I had in similar circumstances, and another embarrassment intervened when he was ordered with his company to Barnett, South Carolina, a full day's journey away. However, a court martial was being organized, and knowing how agreeable duty at Atlanta would be for him, friends procured his assignment to the court.

Still he was not entirely happy. We had only four rooms and a kitchen, and were therefore pretty crowded; and the hall was our dining room. Nannie, Katie, Lulie and I occupied the sitting room in the evenings, so his chances alone with Lulie were few.

The court, of which I was president, often had officers absent for a few days at a time. Regulations prescribed that a returning absentee retire until the case being tried was finished; the formula of the presiding officer being, "Those members of the court who have not participated in previous proceedings will please retire." One evening, when Captain Kline appeared rather early, and we were engaged in conversation in which Lulie and the Captain did not appear to be interested, I called out, "The members of this court who have not participated in previous proceedings will please now retire," whereupon Nannie, Katie and I sprang to our feet and retired to our room upstairs.

In one of her letters to her mother, Nannie wrote, "Doesn't the mother of Pauline say, in the 'Lady of Lyons,' something about 'losing a daughter, but gaining a prince.' Well, if being a mighty good, honest fellow is any claim to royalty, you will gain a prince surely when Major Kline becomes a son-in-law."

No two girls ever had a gayer time for the four months they were with us. They had a large mirror with a dressing table under it, and when they left we discovered they had worn out the carpet for a space of five feet in diameter in front of it, primping before the glass.

They left us reluctantly the first of May, much to the disappointment of the numerous unmarried youngsters. Lulie shortly after married Captain Kline. Katie married Mr. George H. Stewart, of Zanesville, where they still live.

Next autumn, with two months' leave, we went to visit my wife's parents, whom she had not seen for two years. Nannie was delighted when a passenger, surmising from our conduct that we were bride and groom, asked if we were on our honeymoon.

Mr. and Mrs. Cassel were happy to have us with them again. In these two months I made a most intimate acquaintance with my father-in-law. He took me everywhere, to his office in the daytime and to his clubs at night. An expert driver and an admirer of horses and horse racing, he often drove me behind fast trotting animals, sometimes to the races. Neither he nor Mrs. Cassel, like my own parents, attended church. All four greatly respected all religious denominations, but saw none they honestly believed was the only true church.

Mrs. Cassel was very affectionate, and her children were very near to her, so she was much distressed at Nannie's long absence. Mr. Cassel asked me if it would not be better for me to resign, offering to start me in his occupation, the milling business. He proposed to give me sufficient means and go with me to Kansas to establish the enterprise. I had seen enough of the world to understand the uncertainty and vicissitudes of business life compared to a commission in the regular army. So I thanked him, but said that, notwithstanding I knew it would be a great gratification to Mrs. Cassel, I was certain of my present calling for life, and although my compensation was slight, Nannie was satisfied, and loved the profession as much as I did. In this point of view he finally concurred, and Mrs. Cassel also became reconciled.

Returning to my regiment at Atlanta, I found my company with E Company had been ordered to Laurens Court House, South Carolina, because South Carolina was then in the throes of reconstruction, with carpetbaggers and Ku Klux Klan in full swing.

We had rail transportation to Newberry, but from Newberry the railroad had been denuded of rolling stock, so that our journey to Laurens was made on a handcar, propelled by two soldiers.

The two companies were quartered in abandoned Confederate residences. Nannie and I stayed at Mr. George F. Mosely's hotel. He was a kind and generous host, who took particular care to meet our wants. During the few weeks Nannie remained we made many acquaintances, being invited out to dine by the best people in the town.

One dinner was given by Col. Wm. D. Simpson (later Governor and still later Chief Justice of his State), previously in affluent circumstances, but now poor. In the dining room he remarked that as his servants had all left him he had devised a round center table which turned on its support to take their place. All the courses were arranged so, as a guest wanted anything, he could turn this table until the contents arrived opposite his plate!

We had been guests at the hotel for several weeks when a young man in the uniform of a captain of cavalry arrived at the hotel to see me privately. In my room he told me he was not an army officer, but a United States marshal, direct from the Secretary of War, with warrants for the arrest of about sixty prominent persons of Laurens County. He did not wish to arrest all for whom he had warrants, but only those most guilty of participation in the riots and murders. Under instructions from the Secretary he read me the names on the warrants and asked suggestions as to whom he should eliminate. Among these names was that of my host. As I had heard nothing to lead me to think him guilty, I suggested that his name be stricken from the list, which was done.

I immediately sent Nannie to Newberry on the handcar. At one place on the way the Ku Klux obstructed the rails with ties presumably to rescue prisoners that we might attempt to spirit away. At another place, where the highway was near the rails, she met General Carlin at the head of the 16th Infantry marching toward Laurens with the band playing martial airs. More than a thousand hilarious and frenzied negroes of all kinds, from the aged to babes in arms, followed the band. Nannie stopped the car to enjoy the amusing spectacle, and finally burst out in a laugh, when her servant, Maria, who had gone with her, exclaimed, in disgust, "Mrs. Mills, niggers ain't got no sense nohow!"

That night I arranged a room in the abandoned railroad depot for the prisoners, disposing my men behind cotton bales piled upon the platform to resist any efforts at rescue by the Ku Klux organizations. The marshal informed me that Lieutenant Colonel Carlin would arrive at about twelve o'clock with sixteen companies of infantry, and convey the prisoners to Columbia.

Two small detachments, under the command of Lieutenants Adams and Bates, made the arrests, while Lieutenant Hinton, officer of the day, took charge of the prisoners as they arrived. The marshal went first with one, then with another, detachment. Colonel Jones, the sheriff, was one of the first arrested, and by ten o'clock we had some fifteen of the sixty mentioned. My host, Mr. Mosely, appeared and said excitedly, "Why, Colonel, what does all this mean? Is it true that you have arrested Colonel Jones?"

"Yes," I said, "he is in the building."

"Well, Colonel, I want to see him."

Fearing some complication, I said, "Mr. Mosely, if you will take my advice you will go back to your hotel and remain quiet."

"But, Colonel, Jones is my brother-in-law. We are in business together. Are you going to take him away? I must see him if you take him away—no one will be here to attend to his business. I must see him. Does his family know he has been arrested?"

I replied, "I don't know," and advised him to go quietly to the hotel and remain there until the excitement subsided.

He became offended and said, "Colonel Mills, after all the kindness I have shown you and Mrs. Mills, I think it is as little as you can do in return to allow me the poor privilege of seeing my friend in his distress."

"Very well," said I, "you can see him," and calling the officer of the day, Lieutenant Hinton, I gave the necessary instructions. Upon Mosely's entrance, Colonel Jones called his name and proclaimed his pleasure in seeing him. The marshal pulled out his list and said, "Excuse me, is your name George F. Mosely?" Informed that it was, the marshal served the warrant and made him a prisoner. When I entered he burst into tears, declaring he was the biggest fool in South Carolina; that I had given him the best advice he had ever had, and he had not known enough to take it. He begged me to tell his family his condition, which I did.

Later, a Mr. A. Kruse, a United States commissioner, served a writ of habeas corpus upon me, demanding the body of prisoner S. D. Garlington. I had no experience with writs of habeas corpus, and was at a loss what answer to make. To delay him until Carlin's arrival, I questioned his authority as such commissioner. Courteously he informed me that he had a commission at home with President Johnson's signature. He left, and soon returned with the document. I invited him to my room, from which I had a view of the Newberry highway, over which Carlin's command would approach, and kept him there until I saw Carlin's command. Then I told him it was an army regulation that an officer, not in a permanent station, only commanded within a radius of one mile, and that I had a senior in the person of Lieutenant Colonel Carlin of the 16th Infantry, then approaching, the proper person on whom to serve the writ. Kruse accepted the situation, and I introduced him to Colonel Carlin, who, however, directed me to endorse upon the writ "refused, by order of the Secretary of War."

A Mr. Hugh Farley (brother of Farley of the U. S. Ordnance Corps), reputed to be at the head of the Ku Klux which gathered in numbers, approached Colonel Carlin frequently with requests to see different prisoners. As he gave no good reason, his requests were refused. He followed Carlin's command to camp that night, strenuously insisting upon another request; whereupon the marshal arrested him, his name on one of the warrants having been omitted at my suggestion.

Sixteen were carried to Columbia, South Carolina, and imprisoned in the State penitentiary, but I understood none of them were convicted.

Order being restored in Laurens, I was directed to take station with my two companies at Columbia. There being no public quarters, the quartermaster's agent took us to an old-fashioned southern building. It was comfortable and commodious, with outside quarters for the colored servants. This house had belonged to the late Dr. Gibbs, father of a classmate of mine, Wade Hampton Gibbs, who went South, joined the Confederates, and became a Colonel on the staff of General Lee.

Major Van Voast, 18th Infantry, with his wife, arrived two days later, assumed command of the post, and took quarters with us in the Gibbs House.

Carpetbagging was in its prime about this period. The governor, Chamberlain, had been appointed by the Federal authorities. Both senate and house elected under Federal laws were almost entirely colored. The president of the senate and the speaker of the house (Moses) extended the privileges of the floors of those chambers to Major Van Voast, myself, and our wives, and, partly to acquaint ourselves with governmental affairs and partly through curiosity, we often attended, the Major and I dressed in uniform.

The trouble at Laurens originated by the Ku Klux arming themselves and arresting and murdering the county officers. Carpetbaggers and negro supporters proposed a large army to protect them against the Ku Klux. While we were at a session of the house, a bill to create a State force of some thirty negro regiments and money to buy thirty thousand Remington arms was introduced. Seeing the folly of placing so much power in the hands of the colored people, some white man introduced an amendment that the colonels of these regiments should be selected from the regular army. A colored member denounced the amendment, protesting that the two army officers were present to promote this bill, and should be ejected from the floor. This placed us in a very embarrassing position. To leave the hall in indignation would betray weakness, so we sat it out for an hour, hearing many bitter and insulting references.

Knowing I wished to transfer to the cavalry, Colonel Carlin, who was going to Washington, offered me seven days' leave and to introduce me to the Secretary of War. But, Captain Mack had already arranged my transfer, and on January 1, 1871, I was transferred to the 3d Cavalry and ordered to the headquarters of the regiment at Fort Halleck, Nevada, and to proceed thence via San Francisco and San Pedro to Fort Whipple, Arizona.

Nannie's Impressions of the West

In a letter to her parents from Washington, January 17th, Nannie describes our good-bye to our company, as follows:

I can not tell you how sorry I was to leave Columbia. I really had become very much attached to the place, and I believe like it better than any city I was ever in. I suppose one never knows how much one is thought of 'til they take their departure. The day before we left, Anson received a note requesting his presence at his company quarters. He went over, and saw a table nicely covered with a red cloth, and on it something which was covered up. The first sergeant then made him a little speech in behalf of the company and then, with a majestic wave of his hand, uncovered the article and presented him with a splendid pair of epaulets and a case containing two very handsome pistols, the whole costing nearly eighty dollars. On a paper inside was written "The compliments of Company H, 18th Infantry, to their beloved Captain, Anson Mills, 3d Cavalry." I went with Anson when he bade his old company good-bye, and it really was very sad. I cried, and Anson almost did. He went along shaking hands with each one. It is something to be very proud of when sixty men without one exception like their commander, and one of them told Anson that there was not a man in the company but regretted his going away. I do not believe there are many company commanders who have won the affections of their men so completely.

We could take but little baggage, so in Washington I asked a delay of thirty days to leave our belongings with Nannie's parents in Zanesville. General Sherman had, a few days before, ordered that there should be no more delays. When I applied, he said, "Well, Captain Mills, I can not revoke my order; but in your case I don't object to your taking a 'French,' and I don't think your colonel will make any trouble with you if you arrive thirty days late. Should he do so, refer him to me and I'll see that you get into no trouble in the matter."

The headquarters and band at Halleck were ordered to Fort Whipple via San Francisco, where I purchased an ambulance for the land journey.

We sailed February 2d on the Government transport Orizaba. We had never been to sea, and as it was a beautiful day and the waters of the bay were smooth as glass, we congratulated ourselves that we could hardly have a bad time. But when we struck the bar outside, the ship seemed to rise at least fifty feet, and otherwise moved and rolled in every possible manner. Nannie proved to be a poor sailor, which affliction she retained through life. I fared better, but was not immune and never have been.

Among the many military passengers was Captain I. M. Hoag, who occupied a stateroom next ours. As we passed down the smooth bay he claimed never to be seasick. I soon recovered sufficiently to take lunch, after which I took a chair by our stateroom to be near Nannie. The stewardess, passing, asked if she could not bring Nannie some "nice jelly cake," when Hoag's coarse voice broke out, "Jelly cake! jelly cake! Oh, my God, why does that woman want to come around talking about jelly cake! Give me my bucket. Give me my bucket!"

We arrived at San Pedro (Drum Barracks) near Wilmington, March 4th.

Nannie described the eventful march from San Pedro to Whipple Barracks in letters to her parents, better than I could describe it now, as follows:

March 5th.

My Dear Mother:

As you may imagine, we are very busy making arrangements for our wagon trip. Anson is having our vehicle fixed up 'til a queen might be proud to ride in it. He is having it covered with white canvas, and he bought an elegant green blanket to line the top to keep off the heat and protect the eyes. It has curtains all 'round to roll up to let the air in, and at night we can take out the seats, make up a bed in the bottom, and there is a large front curtain which shuts everything in and keeps out the damp. He is going to have pockets inside to put little articles in, and altogether it is as convenient and elegant a thing as one could imagine, and I am very proud of it, especially as he got it on purpose for me. We expect to have a very nice time on the route. There are quite a number of officers going, but no other ladies. I am very glad we are going with this party, as we would not have had as good a chance probably for a long time, and very likely would have had to go by stage, which would have been very unpleasant.

Anson is ordered on a court martial at Date Creek, which is on our road, so we will have to stop there. We received a letter from Lieut. Ebstein (you remember his picture in the group), who is at Date Greek, asking us to stop there.

I do not expect to get really settled this year, for there does seem to be some truth in the old saying about the first of January determining the rest of the year.

If possible I will write to you while we are on the march, but if I do not you need not be surprised, although I think I shall, but you know it is very hard to write after riding so far and getting so tired, but I shall try to write to you if it is only a few lines, so as to keep you from being anxious.

This place (Drum Barracks) is on the coast and twenty-five miles from Los Angeles, which latter place is said to be the paradise of the whole United States. A woman came here today from there, and she was carrying in her hand a branch broken from an orange tree, just full of large oranges, just as we at home might have a branch full of apples.

March 9th.

We actually did leave this morning, and made twenty-five miles, which is a pretty long trip for a first day's march. The day was lovely, and the road a nice, level one, nothing particularly interesting, however, 'til we neared Los Angeles, which has been called the garden of the United States, and then we came to the orange groves with the ripe fruit hanging on the boughs, peach trees in bloom, lemon trees, and we saw in one place some men harvesting barley. Rank green weeds grew all along the roadside, in some cases as high as your head, while pretty little red and yellow wild flowers covered the meadows, and the meadow larks sang so gaily that it inspired Anson to repeat a piece of poetry on the lark, not that I mean to say that my hubby dear mounted the little songster to spout forth the flow of poetic words, but the subject of the piece was "The Lark." My first day's experience in this line has been very pleasant. We are camped in a beautiful spot before getting to which we had to cross one of my much dreaded streams, which was nothing at all and wouldn't scare a chippy. Los Angeles is quite a town, and if any angels take a notion to visit this mundane sphere and namesake, I advise them to put up at the Pico House, where we went in to dinner. The house is a clean, nice place, Brussels carpet, lace curtains, mirrors, piano, etc., in the parlor, and a very nice dinner—fresh peas, cauliflower, etc.; but that which struck my fancy most was an open court in the center of the building in which a fountain was playing, and in a gallery running all 'round the second story, looking down on this fountain, were fastened numerous plants in pots and bird cages. As we left the house three Mexicans were playing on a harp, violin and flageolet, which completed a very romantic picture.

We invested eighteen dollars in apples, lemons and oranges, and Anson also found some fresh tomatoes, all, of course, grown in the open air, for it never frosts here. It looks strange to see the tropical fruit growing while snow-capped mountains look down on them.

Our tent is pitched, our bed made down, and everything is very easy; our only regret is that dear Lizzie did not come with us. Anson repeatedly expresses his regret that she did not.

Our carriage is perfectly splendid; in fact I don't see how people can possibly exist without a carriage.

I was made very happy last night by receiving a letter from home, the first one since we left. It was addressed to Drum Barracks. We have not as yet received those directed to Halleck, but they will be forwarded to us. We also got two newspapers, and one the day before, which were devoured.

March 12th.

We are camped in the loveliest spot you ever saw. A little mountain stream runs rapidly down on one side of us, the mountains on another, the wagon road on another, and on the other the valley stretches miles and miles away in the direction where lies our road. The ground (Cocomonga Ranch) belongs to a Mexican who owns a tract of land nine miles square, over fifty thousand acres. One hundred and seventy of it is planted in a vineyard. All of this work is done by Indians, civilized, of course. Anson brought one boy down to see me, or rather for me to see him. They jabbered away in Mexican together at a great rate. Anson can speak a good deal of Spanish, carried on a conversation very well, and is fast relearning what he had forgotten of it.

I forgot to tell you that we saw flying fish and porpoises while we were coming down on the steamship.

Last night Anson and I climbed a mountain, and a mighty steep one it was, but we were rewarded when we reached the summit by a most lovely view on all sides. I think the mountain is probably an extinct volcano, as something like lava was all over it. It also had quantities of wild flowers on it.

The nearer you get to the Indians the less you hear of them. There are no wild Indians this side of the Colorado River, and very few tame ones. It is perfectly safe to travel alone as far as the Colorado River, which is almost half of our journey; after that, an escort is necessary, although the mail coach travels almost all the way with no escort at all. You need have no fears for us, as even if they do not furnish a regular escort in the Indian country, there are enough of us to do without, as there are thirty men in the party. By the time you get this we will probably be at Date Creek, where we stop for a while on that court.

March 21.

When I last wrote to you we had gone ten miles on the desert; we have now gone one hundred and twenty-three miles over the same desert, only some was worse, and I suppose it is the same thing until we reach the Rio Colorado, which is now only forty-nine miles. To fully describe the trip since my letter would be impossible, for one can have but a faint idea of it unless they were to go over the same country. I had no idea that such a forlorn district was comprised within the limits of the United States. To begin at the beginning, after leaving the Sulphur Springs of which I told you, we traveled eighteen miles through deep sand, which is the hardest thing imaginable on the poor mules, for their feet being very small sink deep in, the last few miles being through choking dust. We reached Indian Wells, a large station consisting of one house, or, more properly speaking, hovel, where they sell water. There are some poor Indians here whom one can not help but pity. They had heard that the government intended moving them away onto a reservation, and when they found our train was coming said they wanted to see an officer. The chief and the interpreter (who spoke Indian and Spanish) came down, and Anson went over to talk to them. The poor old chief said he did not want to harm any one, but he was born in that place, and he wanted to die there, which assertion you would wonder at, could you but see the place and know that they have not even tents or huts to live in, but lie down in the sand. Anson brought them over to our tent to give them something to eat. The old chief was, I suppose, gotten up for the occasion, and was attired in a clean white shirt and a hat, that's all, which was at the same time unique and cool. They both shook hands with Anson on leaving, and trudged off, barefooted, through the sand and cactus to their home (?). It made me feel badly to see them, the descendants of Montezuma, reduced to such a state of humiliation. They have a strange custom in regard to their dead. They burn the body, and then break over the ashes all the oyas or earthen jars which once belonged to him. The next day we went eighteen miles through a dreadful sand-storm, which blinded and choked men and mules. After reaching Martinez, however, the sand stopped blowing over us, or we might have been compelled to eat for dinner the same kind of pies which we used to make when we were children—mud pies.

The next day we traveled 26 miles to "Dos Palmas," which means two palms; but someone burnt up one of them, so the name is hardly proper now. Anson told me to be sure to tell you that we have seen a real palm tree, and he went bathing under its foliage. It was indeed an oasis in the desert to see this beautiful tree standing alone in its glory. I wish you could have seen it, for it was most lovely. Something else there was not quite so lovely; we had some rolls baked by the man who keeps the station house, and for ten large rolls he charged three dollars in coin. The next day at half past five we were on our way again, traveled sixteen miles, where they rested and watered the mules, and then on again to a dry camp, which explains itself, there being no water for the mules. We could carry with us enough to drink, but in the morning we rubbed off our faces with a wet towel, for we could not spare water for a greater ablution. We were off very early next morning, for the mules could get no water 'til we had traveled twenty-four miles. There is a stretch here of thirty-five miles where they always have to make a dry camp. Three more days and we reach the river, where we rest a few days, and then only six more days. At Martinez, one of the mules had a great big piece taken out of its breast by a bull dog, and Anson actually turned Vet. and sewed it up, and did it well, too. A horse died at this place last night, and today the Indians are making merry over its carcass, eating it. I was interrupted while writing this letter by the tent blowing down.

March 28.

We camped at Ehrenberg four days, during that time had two dreadful wind-storms. Anson had great big stones piled on all the tent pins, as the ground was not very hard, but the tent shook and flapped until it would have been almost a relief to have had it go over. We went to bed, however, and in about fifteen minutes after, a terrific gust brought the whole thing down with a crash. The worst feature of it was that it tore a piece out of the tent so that it could not be put up again, so we very coolly slept under the ruins all night. This is Tuesday, and we expect to be at Date Creek on Saturday. They say they are making great preparations there, and are going to have a dance, and expect some ladies down from Fort Whipple.

March 29th.

We came twenty-eight miles today. Wind-storm part of the way, which is heavy enough to make us fear another blow-down, so we are going to sleep in the ambulance. Anson has taken out the seats and we will have the bed right on the floor, which is large enough to be very comfortable. I am in it now and feel perfectly satisfied, as I have none of that nervous, uncomfortable feeling, which the flapping of a tent in the wind is sure to give one.

Date Creek, April 1st.

Although this is All Fools' Day, what I am going to tell you is no joke, but sober reality. Yesterday found us forty-five miles from the creek, and as Captain Meinhold, Mr. Kimball, one of the wagons and four mounted men were going to make it in one day while the rest of the party would have to be two days, we concluded to go on with the small escort, as everyone assured us there was not the least bit of danger. We rode gaily along, and were within eleven miles of the post, when Anson saw one of the horsemen ride up to something, stop and, taking out his carbine, cock it. He looked again, saw a lot of wagons, and said, "there is a train." We rode a few yards farther and found that a train of five wagons and forty-eight mules had been attacked by Indians (as we afterwards learned only a few hours before we got there). Three miles before we reached there I forgot to tell you that we heard a wailing sort of sound and saw a stray mule. This sound was undoubtedly a signal from an Indian sentinel to the party robbing the train, giving them warning that another party was coming, and for them to get off. The Indians were no doubt at work on the train when we heard this noise. Imagine the feelings of all. We did not know but that Indians were lurking behind every bush. They had cut the harness from all the mules and captured all of them excepting three. They had emptied out sack after sack of flour and carried off the sacks to make clothes, leaving the flour piled all around. Boxes were broken open, and it really was a dreadful sight, when the position of affairs which we were in was thought of, and my being there was the first thing that they all thought of. They concluded to turn 'round and go to meet the rest of the train to give them warning, as well as for the safety of ourselves. For one moment I wanted to cry, the next I laughed actually a little bit, and after that I was not in the least afraid. Anson directed me not to shoot until they got pretty close, if we came across them. I laid the pistol on the seat of the ambulance, and my hand on the pistol, ready to cock it at a moment's warning, and I feel sure if Mr. Lo had made his appearance I should have hurt at least one of them. They supposed by not seeing any bodies lying around that the men had escaped to the post and sent men out after the Indians. We met our train, and camped for the night. The next morning (today) we started for the post. When we came up to where the attack was made we found that soldiers had been sent and were guarding the place. I should have been glad that all this scare happened in order to teach everybody caution, but that it came too late to teach one poor fellow, and perhaps another, for one teamster was killed and another badly wounded, and they were both lying somewhere near when we came up, but the wounded one must have been unconscious or he would have heard us and let us know he was there. There were eight men with this captured train, plenty to have defended it had they been prepared, but in an Indian country, they were traveling with but two guns and three rounds of ammunition. It has taught me one good lesson. I shall never go outside of the post without a sufficient escort, and when we get to Whipple I never mean to go even to Prescott, which is only a mile distant, but mean to stay inside of the post 'til we change stations. Everybody has felt so safe all about here, and ladies from this post would ride with only one gentleman for miles and miles over the hills, but they are well scared now. This train was mostly filled with government stores, and I am very much afraid that the papers will make a big talk about it, and as it was so close to ours, you will think it was ours, and worry unnecessarily about it before you receive my letter. You need have no fears about our safety, as there is no danger of their attacking soldiers that travel in such numbers as we will hereafter.

We were very happy in getting a lot of letters today which had been sent down from Whipple. We got three of home written to Halleck, one from Texas, Washington, Kentucky, Columbia, London, Fort Shaw, Fort Laramie. Quite a variety, and as another mail comes in tonight, we expect some more in the morning.

I am sorry to hear of dear mother's being so sick after we left, but glad she is well again.

Mrs. Ebstein has her sister with her. They are very pleasant and very kind to us. They tell us that Whipple is one of the healthiest of places, and also has about the best quarters in the territory.

I forgot to tell you that one of the savages dropped a quiver full of arrows as he was hurrying off with his plunder, and one of the soldiers gave it to me. The quiver is an ugly thing, but I shall bring you one of the arrows when we come home next time as a memento of our first, and I hope last, Indian scare.

April 21. (Fort Whipple, Ariz.)

We have been here a week, and both of us like the post very well, although it is far from being a handsome post either on the outside or inside, but you know one's content is measured in a great degree by comparison with others that surround you, so we are more than contented with a log house, when we remember that Fort Whipple is one of the few posts in this territory where they have any quarters at all, almost all being quartered in tents, men, women and children. We have fixed up very comfortably, have the carpet on the parlor and gunny sacks on the dining room and bedroom. We have the damask and lace curtains up at the parlor windows, which are arranged so as to hang a good piece from the windows, making a sort of bow window (bowed the wrong way, however), and as it stands a good way into the room it helps fill up, which is a very good thing, as articles of furniture are very scarce at present; the company carpenter is busily at work. He has made us one table and a place to hang clothes. He was fixing the latter, and after he had finished I gave him some newspapers to read and some oranges, when he informed me that he could make anything I wanted, that he hadn't much to do and might as well do that as anything else. I suppose you would like to see how our house is arranged as to rooms, so I will make a plan of the ground floor, and if you can find any other floor you are smarter than I. I wish I could draw, and I would send you a sketch of the view from our window, which is very beautiful, mountains covered with pine. The wind roaring through the pines sounds just like the cars. Anson has laughed a great deal at me because I vowed that never would I leave Fort Whipple 'til we changed stations or went home, and actually I hadn't been in the post twenty-four hours before I was off for town with Mrs. King, and have been down town once since then. There is no danger between here and town, as it is only a short distance, and before one gets out of calling distance of the post the hospital is reached, and before you get out of sound of that the town is reached. There is not much in Prescott to tempt one, and well it is for our pockets that this is so, for the price of some things would make your hair stand on end, although other things are quite reasonable. Luckily for us we can get anything we want almost in the commissary, as it is excellently supplied. Everything has fallen in price even in Prescott, and flour there is now only thirty-six dollars a barrel; it was forty-two a short time ago. We only pay seven dollars in the commissary. Butter is two dollars, eggs the same. I saw some of the commonest kind of heavy Delft soup plates marked fifteen dollars a dozen. We bought a lamp in San Francisco for which we paid seventy-five cents. Mrs. King has two just like it which cost five dollars each, and a parlor lamp like that which cost us three dollars in San Francisco was sold here for twenty-five dollars, and kerosene oil is only five dollars a gallon. Mrs. King tells a good joke on the chaplain. She went with him to town one day to assist him in making some purchases. After buying some things and paying for them he spied some quart cans for filling lamps, empty, of course. He wanted one, so asked the price. He was told "seven dollars." The chaplain put down his bundles and money, raised his hands, heaved a deep groan and uttered his favorite ejaculation, "tre-men-jious." There is only one lady here besides myself, and fortunately she is a very pleasant one, Mrs. King. Tell Gussie Porter I met her friend Mrs. King at Camp Halleck, not the Mrs. King who is here, but another one. She met Gussie at Lancaster, and is now in our regiment. She was very pleasant.

Nannie describes this journey so completely I can add little to it.

Mr. Lummis, librarian of the Los Angeles Public Library, asked me, in 1908, as one having something to do with the development of the country, to write something descriptive of its wonderful growth, to be placed in an album for strangers visiting the library. I contributed the following:

In 1871, as Captain 3d Cavalry, with the headquarters and band, my wife in an ambulance, I traveled from San Pedro to Whipple Barracks, Prescott, Arizona. The route lay through Los Angeles, then a small adobe village, where we stopped March 9th at the Little Pico House, then by the now beautiful City of Redlands, at that time a waterless cactus desert, and through the Salton Sink.

In all the tide of time I think there has not been a more instructive example of the efforts of man to "replenish the earth" than shown by the brave men of Southern California in the intervening thirty-seven years.

To those who may look over this volume of autographs in the future, I think this simple statement of facts will be more interesting than any literary effort I could possibly render.

The desert over which we traveled, purchasing water at twenty-five cents a bucket, is now productive and beautiful. The Salton Sink, through which we passed, is a depression in the earth one hundred and fifty miles long by seventy-five wide, with its lowest point two hundred and fifty-six feet below sea level. It was formerly the northern end of the Gulf of California, but ages past was cut off by the sand and silt deposited by floods of the Colorado River, the water evaporating in the arid atmosphere and extreme heat. Immense deposits of salt from evaporated sea water were visible, and we saw on the foot of the adjacent mountains the water-mark of the sea level.

We arrived at Fort Whipple on April 14th, only to be ordered to Fort McDowell on the Verde River, one hundred and twenty-five miles distant, over an almost impassable road. Nannie tells the story of that journey:

May 12 (New River).

Our first three days' travel was very pleasant, as we had good roads, and it is much better to travel with one's own company. We have four mules in our ambulance, the back seat of which I occupy alone in my glory as Anson rides his horse. We have five six-mule wagons, a teamster, of course, to each, and over seventy men, so you see we have a very large escort. Our fourth day's travel was a little the worst of anything I have ever seen. Anson and Mr. Wessels have traveled a great deal and over very bad roads, but they both say that this was the worst one that they have ever seen. You may judge how bad it was when we were from seven o'clock in the morning 'til six at night going about fifteen miles, and the wagons were an hour later. The first nine miles was over rocks that jolted the ambulance so that I could hardly sit in the seat, and I was almost wearied out. The rest of the road was up hill and down hill, and the most terrible hills that I ever saw—they were almost perpendicular. I walked several miles, because the hills were so bad I was afraid to ride. Anyone living in the States would think it an utter impossibility to take vehicles up some places where we went. One wagon was upset, and that of course caused a delay. You would have been amused to see how they brought one wagon up a hill. The wagons were all lightly loaded and had six mules; they put an extra pair of mules in, one man rode one of the wheel mules, another walked on one side with a whip, and two boys were on the other with stones, pelting the mules, and with a volley of oaths and cracking of whips, up they came. One wagon was eased down a hill by twenty men taking hold of a rope behind, and another was helped up with the men's assistance. It was a wearisome day for men and mules. This morning, when we were about a mile out, the lead bar of our ambulance broke, which caused another delay to fix. Mr. Wessels' horse got lame, and a horse kicked one of the mules so badly that they couldn't use him. We have had a chapter of accidents for two days, and in addition, today we ran across a fresh moccasin track, evidently made today.

May 18th (Camp McDowell).

We reached here on the 15th, being just seven days on the road. The day before we got in we rested a day, as one of the men who had been over the road said there was a thirty-five miles march without water, and the weather being warm the men and animals can do with less water by traveling at night, so we left our last camp at about five o'clock in the evening and traveled 'til midnight, then rested for four hours, spreading our bedding in the sand and with the sky for a covering, then at four in the morning starting again, and got in the post at six, finding that the man had made a mistake in the distance, as it was only twenty-three miles. One of the mules strayed away and was not found again.

We lived very well on the road, as we had quails, fresh fish, and best of all, Anson shot a large deer with his revolver. It was a mighty good shot, as the deer was a hundred yards off. It weighed over a hundred pounds dressed. We had one hind quarter, kept the other one for Major Dudley, who is in command here, and the rest made a meal for all the men, teamsters and laundresses, so you see it was a pretty large one. I told Anson father would have enjoyed it. You know you thought it would be so unpleasant for us to be without vegetables, well today for dinner we had peas, lettuce, and young onions out of the government farm. Anyone can have a garden here if he chooses to take the trouble.

Our quarters are very comfortable; the houses are built of adobe and have three rooms and a kitchen. On first entering the quarters you would say, "It would be folly to put down carpets or attempt in any way to fix up here, for it would only serve to make the rest look worse," but you have no idea how much good a little fixing up does. The floors are mud, which is as hard and as dry as a bone. I have spread the curtains out to hide as much of the wall as possible, and as there is only one window I have arranged the remaining curtains in festoons over and around the front door, which is half of glass. The parlor is only twelve by twelve, so I ripped off one breadth of the carpet and turned it in over a yard on the length. The post is almost destitute of furniture, so we have a large barrel covered with a board, then a red blanket which, with Anson's desk on top, makes a respectable piece of furniture; then a chest with the ambulance cushions on top and covered with the carriage blanket, does duty as a divan, which, with two tables and three chairs furnishes (?) the parlor, the bedroom being luxuriously filled with a bedstead and a washstand, and the dining room being amply furnished with one table. The worst of it is there is no lumber in the post to make any of. I have sent by one of the wagons that went back to Whipple for a few articles of furniture I left in the house, as they have plenty of wood up there to make more. I do not know whether I will get it or not, as it is not customary to send furniture from one post to another. They have also sent there for lumber, so we will be able to have things made.

En route we stopped to examine an ancient fort of eight rooms with embrasures on all sides for defense probably for bows and arrows. The walls were twelve feet high, but the roof had been destroyed. Inside one of the rooms was a scrubby cedar tree, perhaps a hundred years old. While walking around on these walls, which were made of thin broad granite rocks, evidently once held in place by mortar, I displaced a stone which rolled down the mound, frightening a large deer, which I killed with my pistol. Tied to my horse's tail after the fashion of the Indians, I dragged it to the train. It is this deer of which Nannie writes.

At Cave Creek, where there were many cougars (Mexican lions), I found in a cave near the spring, which was some distance from our camp, the remains of many deer which had been caught by these lions, dragged into the cave and devoured, some of them being only partly eaten.

McDowell was the most unhappy post at which we ever served. Its commander was of an overbearing, tyrannical disposition, and much addicted to drink. The post traders abetted him and brought about many quarrels between the commander and the officers so that, in the garrison of five companies, there were few friendships.

At this unhappy station Nannie lost about twenty and I thirty pounds in weight.

One day she said to me, "Anson, I am going to Europe some day."

"Whom are you going with?" I asked. It was a joy for me to see her so much more cheerful than I.

"You," she replied.

I never had any such hope, but, as will be seen later, she actually accomplished it. (Text, 178.)

Nannie was for about a year the only lady in the post. On December 1, 1871, to our great relief, we received orders to exchange posts with the 2d Cavalry, at Fort McPherson, Nebraska, the regiments exchanging horses to save transportation.

Western Experiences

Just as we left Arizona a new second lieutenant, Schwatka, joined me. He served with me for eight years, one of the most interesting officers Nannie and I ever met. He afterwards gained a national reputation in his search for the remains of the Franklin Expedition.

Three companies and the band went by wagon train to Fort Yuma, where we sold our ambulance to Captain Taylor, 2d Cavalry. Here we embarked on a river vessel for Puerto Isabel at the mouth of the Colorado, where we took the government steamer Newbern for San Francisco.

So disgusted with our Arizona experience were all the officers that when the boat pulled out from Yuma, we took off our shoes and beat the dust of Arizona over the rail, at the same time cursing the land.

The bore created by the contraction of the north end of the Gulf of California forces tides, sometimes eighteen feet high, along the lower Colorado, and the river is so tortuous that the distance from Yuma is three times what it is in a straight line. On our trip down, there being a very high tide, the captain endeavored to make a cut-off over the sand bars to save twelve miles. But the tide stranded the boat several miles from the main channel, and when morning came we could see no water. We remained until high tide the next night.

After a long but eventful journey we arrived at McPherson January 17, 1872, General Reynolds, who had been serving as general of volunteers in the reconstruction of Texas, assuming command of the regiment.

May, 1872, I was assigned to the sub-post of North Platte, in the fork of the North and South Platte Rivers on the Union Pacific Railroad. Here we met Spotted Tail, chief of the Brulé Tribe. (Appendix, 397.)

In July, 1872, General Sheridan ordered two companies of my regiment to escort Professor Marsh, of Yale College, with thirty students of that institution, on a paleontological expedition in the Bad Lands along the Niobrara River (one hundred miles north of the North Platte). We spent two months on that very interesting and successful duty, recovering from the washing sands of the steep banks of the Niobrara several wagon loads of prehistoric bones.

On December 2, 1872, Nannie and I spent three months of leave with her parents in Zanesville, during which we purchased an elaborate and very fine ambulance, shipping it to North Platte.

Next year General Sheridan detailed me to escort Lord Dunraven and three friends on a hunting expedition on the Loop River. Accompanied by Buffalo Bill (Cut, 154), the party was very successful in killing many elk, deer and antelope, remaining out about six weeks. One night Lord Dunraven came to my tent and we talked until long after midnight. I have never forgotten his declaration that the possibilities of the development of the American Republic were greater than any ever known in history; adding, "the curse of my country is its nobility."

In 1873 the agent for the Ogallala and Brulé Sioux gave permission for a large party of those sub-tribes to hunt buffalo on the Republican River, southern Nebraska, near the Kansas line. Unfortunately, the agent of the Pawnees gave a large party of that tribe permission to hunt in the same direction. These tribes were traditional enemies. I warned both agents of possible trouble, but without avail. The Pawnees arrived first; placed their women and children in camp and started out for the buffalo. When the Sioux arrived, their scouts discovered the Pawnee families, attacked the camp and killed one hundred and twenty-five, all save one or two children and a squaw, found by Captain Meinhold of the 3d Cavalry, sent out from Fort McPherson the next day. These were so badly wounded that they died.

The Pawnees, inferior to the Sioux, were compelled to return in sorrow to their reservation; the Sioux continuing their hunt.

W. F. Cody (Buffalo Bill).
(Text, 153.)

Jim Bridger. (Text, 107.)

Jack Robertson.

In September, 1874, the Sioux entered the parade grounds at Forts Fetterman and Steele, and killed several soldiers (Appendix, 399). General Ord selected me to take five troops of cavalry, and two companies of infantry by rail to Rawlins, Wyoming, thence to Independence Rock, cross the Rig Horn Mountains, and destroy a camp of hostiles supposed to be near old Fort Reno. Unfortunately the Indians discovered our movements, and moved north beyond our reach.

April 14, 1875, General Crook ordered me to take command at Camp Sheridan, Nebraska. This march (Nannie accompanying me in her ambulance) was through a roadless, sandy country, with many streams and difficult crossings, practically unexplored.

Relieving Captain Sutorious of the command, I found Spotted Tail, chief of the Brulés, with about five thousand Indians at his agency, some of them Ogallalas. All were much excited at the encroachments of the whites on the reservation, and the scarcity of food. Spotted Tail declared the agent, Mr. Howard, deprived them of their governmental rations. The winter had been very severe and the snow very deep, driving the game out of the country.

Finding his statements true, I complained to the agent, who said he gave them all they were entitled to, and if they starved it wasn't his fault. There was no telegraphic communication, so without authority, I issued them several thousand dollars' worth of bacon and hard bread, telling the agent and reporting it to the War Department. Very shortly Jesse M. Lee, a first lieutenant of infantry, arrived with his appointment as Indian agent, dispossessing Howard.

Reef was issued by driving it in on the hoof, but flour, which was the principal ration, supplied by a contractor in Baltimore, was shipped to Cheyenne by rail, and there loaded onto wagons.

On the plea that so long a wagon journey would break single bags, and spill the contents, 100 pounds of flour was covered with three sacks. At Cheyenne a Federal inspector marked and weighed the bags.

The Baltimore contractor arranged with this inspector to stamp each sack "100 pounds." This trebled the weight, as the agent emptied the flour into vessels brought by the squaws and kept the sacks as evidence that he had delivered three times the actual weight. Lee, finding that flour was delivered unweighed, looked at the sacks, found they were certified to contain one hundred pounds by the inspector, reported the trick and the contractor was arrested, tried and convicted.

Many of Spotted Tail's young men were getting up war parties to drive back the miners and settlers who were organizing on the Missouri River to enter the Black Hills. It was a violation of our treaties with the Indians, and it was part of the duty of the army to see that the treaties were respected. Captain Fergus Walker, 1st Infantry, wrote me from a point eighty miles east of Wounded Knee, May 15, 1875, that he had captured one such invading party and sent it under guard to Fort Randall, but that his thus greatly weakened force was unable to cope with others, particularly Major Gordon's mining company. He asked me, accordingly, to co-operate with him in this work, and arranged for the Indian scout by whom he sent the letter to intercept him on the Niobrara River with my reply.

General Sheridan's General Order No. 2, of March 17th, directed commanding officers in Indian reservations adjacent to the Black Hills "to burn the wagon trains, destroy the outfits and arrest the leaders, confining them at the nearest military post," of trespassers found on a reservation. Accordingly, with two companies of cavalry and a battery of gatling guns, commanded by Lieutenant Rockefeller, I marched to relieve Captain Walker.

Arriving at Antelope Creek at night, I sent two men in citizens' clothes to Walker's camp to tell him I would at daylight surround Major Gordon's mining company. At daybreak I threw my companies into line, the battery in the center, and when Walker's force appeared, Gordon's men, wakened by the noise, found themselves utterly helpless. Gordon's camp was in a river bend, between precipitous bluffs, with only a few hundred yards' space for entrance or exit.

Seizing Gordon and putting him in a bull pen, I ordered his second in command, Mr. Brockert, to parade his men and surrender their arms. While doing this, one of their guns went off. I called out they might have the first shot, but we would have the last, when they submissively declared they would make no resistance.

The prisoners were sent back to Fort Randall under Captain Walker, except Gordon, whom I took to Sheridan, where he was put in the guard house.

Both the newspapers and the public at Sioux City made complaints about my "arbitrary and unlawful act," and the grand jury found true bills against me, but I never had service.

Gordon was a Mason, as was my post trader at Sheridan. They concocted a scheme for Gordon's release. One Sunday morning the post trader approached and read me his commission as United States Commissioner, serving a writ demanding the delivery of Major Gordon. I told him if he did not tear up his commission I would put him in the guard house with his friend Gordon, as there was not enough room in that post for a commanding officer and post trader who, as U. S. Commissioner, would attempt to dominate the action of the military authorities. He destroyed his commission. Later, Gordon was transferred to the guard house at Fort Omaha, Nebraska, and was there held under indictment for violating the Indian non-intercourse laws. What finally became of him I never knew.

The government contemplated building a permanent post (the one then occupied was temporarily constructed of logs) and furnished a saw mill, lathe, shingle machine, sash and doors, and thirty skilled artisans to take timber from the pine forests, and construct the post as rapidly as possible.

While absent on this expedition, General Crook, who had relieved General Ord, appeared at the post with some of his staff on inspection. He left an order for me to select a new location for a five-company post and construct it after my own plans, which I did.

Having an excellent quartermaster in Lieutenant Rockefeller, we accomplished the most expeditious post construction in the history of the army. Each captain constructed his own barracks and quarters, after plans I prepared, dividing the skilled artisans between them. As the men were anxious to get into their new homes, trees felled in the morning were often part of buildings before sundown, Lieutenant Lemly of the cavalry being particularly active, and all the officers strove hard to complete their quarters as soon as possible. We were comfortably housed before the first of October. All the buildings were constructed as a shell of upright inch boards around a framework, lined with the ordinary sized unburnt bricks, dried in the sun and plastered inside.

Meanwhile, Nannie formed an agreeable acquaintance with Spotted Tail, whom she liked from first sight. He was a fine-looking man, with engaging manners, perfectly loyal to the government, a lover of peace, knowing no good could come to his people from war with the army. He had the highest respect for and confidence in officers.

There was a sub-chief under Spotted Tail named No Flesh, a weakling, not thought much of by the head chiefs. Nannie frequently invited Spotted Tail to dinner, sometimes with other most respected chiefs, and No Flesh tried in every way to establish friendly relations with her. He proffered his services to paint her some pictures of his exploits as a warrior, for which she paid him. In one of these pictures he represents himself engaged in a great battle with U. S. Cavalry, killing a captain. I regret I can not reproduce his detailed description of his heroism.

Courtesy, Smithsonian Institution.

Brulé Chief Spotted Tail.

Courtesy, Smithsonian Institution.

Brulé Chief No Flesh.

No Flesh Battle Picture.

The shod horse tracks in the picture represent the cavalry, and the unshod pony tracks represent Indian ponies. The faces on the margin are the attacking cavalry. It will be seen that he killed a soldier before he killed the captain.

Engaged in this work, he would remain at the house for hours, hoping to gain favor with Nannie.

Observing Nannie had great influence with me and with Spotted Tail, and noticing she bought fruits and paid for them herself, he knew of course that she was no squaw, and that she had authority.

One day Captain McDougall and several officers of the 7th Cavalry arrived at the post, with a scouting command to rest for a few days and secure supplies.

Nannie invited the officers to dine with Spotted Tail, Standing Elk, and White Thunder, but, as usual, did not include No Flesh. No Flesh learned the news rather late, but, a few moments after we had taken our seats, announced himself at the door and was seated in the parlor by the orderly.

When dinner was over we returned to the parlor and shook hands with No Flesh. Having held his seat during the dinner in the hope that he might at least be invited to a second table, he was somewhat sullen. After a while he exclaimed, "Well, you must have had a great deal to eat."

"Why do you think so?" I asked.

"Because it took you so long to eat it," he rejoined.

Seeing he was not likely to receive an invitation, and convinced from Nannie's demeanor toward him that the fault lay with her, he shook hands in a very dignified manner with everyone in the room save Nannie. She was sitting near the door, and when he came near he drew himself up in a most scornful manner and passed quickly out.

This amused not only the officers, but the Indians.

Soon after, when strolling together through the Indian encampments, I remarked, "Suppose we call on No Flesh." "Very well," she said, "I would just as soon."

No Flesh appeared much astonished, but he invited us in his tent, asking us to be seated on the ground, which we did. Two squaws and several children were present. He looked sternly in my face for some moments, and then exclaimed:

"You—no chief!" pointing to me with his forefinger. Then pointing with his left forefinger to Nannie, he held it up vertically, thus,

as representing her; and pointing to me with his right forefinger, held it up thus,

as representing me. He then placed them vertically together, thus,

as representing our relative standing in authority.

All nomadic Indians have a common sign language and communicate with each other without the use of words.

No Flesh intended the most absolute insult one man could give another. We burst out together in laughter. This greatly puzzled No Flesh, who could not conceive how any man, much less a soldier, could brook such an insult. It was with great effort, stoical as the Indian is, that he preserved his equanimity.

One day while overlooking the construction of the post, Spotted Tail said through his interpreter, "Well, I have been wondering if you were going to stay; now I know you are." I asked him how he knew, and he replied, "I have been among white men long enough to know when they put rocks under their houses they are going to stay."

The old commanding officer's quarters, the best in the old post, was preserved intact, with all its furniture, cooking stove and utensils. When we moved to the new post I formally presented this house to Spotted Tail, in the name of the Great White Father, with General Crook's authority. He and his wives and children were very thankful in their hope for better comforts in the future. A short time thereafter, I saw the house was vacant and found Spotted Tail was again living in tepees under the cottonwood trees in the midst of his village. Asking him why, he replied his squaws found it impossible to keep the house clean. They threw the bones and refuse on the floor and could not learn to sweep out or wipe up, so that flies and maggots became so intolerable they were compelled to move. They could move tepees in a few minutes to fresh sward, as had been Indian habit for generations. With all my knowledge of the Indian habits, this surprised me as I suppose it will surprise the reader.

One day Spotted Tail brought Lone Horn, a Minneconjou chief, to my tent, asking me to show him some courtesy. He had never been in a military post or on an Indian reservation. The trader supplied a can of lemon sugar and I made some lemonade. Lone Horn had ridden far, on a very hot July day. He emptied his glass; then Spotted Tail exclaimed, "Have you drank all that? You had better lie down and hold on to the grass, for the whole world will begin to turn over in a few minutes."

Lone Horn, seeing the rest of us had drank only a portion, was really alarmed and imagined he felt the influence. I mention this to show Spotted Tail's humor, notwithstanding the popular opinion that Indians have none.

Efforts to enter the Black Hills had excited the entire Sioux confederation, and they began to talk of war. The leading chiefs of all the tribes except the Minneconjous and Ogallalas tried to restrain them, but it was difficult. In each reservation the young men organized war bands and went ostensibly to hunt but really in hope they would find opportunity to attack and destroy emigrants, prospectors or stock-men unawares, which they often did.

The great unrest among the Indians and the settlements adjoining their reservations alarmed the Indian Department. Before the winter had fairly set in, the President authorized the War Department to chastise some of the war-like tribes that were encamped not far from their reservations in the West, ostensibly for hunting purposes, but really to organize war parties for depredations in the spring. General Crook was therefore directed to begin a winter campaign. He organized a command at Fort D. A. Russell of ten companies of the 3d Cavalry, including mine, several of the 2d Cavalry and four of the 4th Cavalry. I was stationed at Fort D. A. Russell for the winter, Nannie accompanying me.

So many troops made Cheyenne a large and interesting post, Nannie becoming prominent in the garrison. One day she took me to a meeting of the officers and ladies at the post hospital to organize an amateur theatrical company. The call was issued by Major Dubois, who announced the object of the meeting, when, to my surprise, I was called as permanent chairman, the first time, I believe, I ever presided. Three young second lieutenants were appointed to devise a program and name the actors for the monthly meetings. Later a program was sent around in which I, who make no pretensions to theatricals, was designated to act Sir Toby Tittmouse, a leading part.

Nannie and these youngsters had entrapped me. I told her I could not in months commit to memory the long part I was given, but Nannie reminded me I had, as presiding officer, approved the proceedings and that I could not back out! She rehearsed me and taught me to play my part, sitting up many nights, conscious that Sir Toby's loud and turbulent language would impress the help in the kitchen that we were quarreling. Taking an interest in it I found it not so difficult after all, and Nannie rigged me up in a costume that would have surprised Sir Toby himself. She constructed a remarkable wig of angora wool, and made me knee breeches and large buttoned coat, which, with a cane, fitted the character so well that when the play was produced, my own colonel, Reynolds, declared that he did not know who was playing the part. This gave me courage, and I afterward acted a principal part as Mr. Potter in "Still Waters Run Deep."

Early in 1875, the campaign intended to subdue the rising war spirit of the Indians took definite shape, and our command left Fort D. A. Russell and proceeded towards old Fort Phil Kearny, where it was reported some outlying bands were located on Powder River.

We took thirty days' beef on the hoof, which was issued as rations. Two days from Fort Fetterman, crossing Cheyenne Creek, the command was surprised by some Indians; every head of cattle was driven off, one of the herders killed and one or two soldiers wounded, leaving the troops without any fresh meat. When we reached Phil Kearny, we abandoned every wheel, resorting to pack mules, and struck out for Powder River.

There had been a deep snow some weeks previous, and cold weather succeeding warm created a crust that would sometimes hold a horse. The night after we left Phil Kearny there came another severe snowstorm with high, intensely cold winds. The drifting snow and hard crusts rendered it difficult for our animals to travel.

We followed Otter Creek, which runs into the Yellowstone, parallel to Powder River, to an abandoned Sioux camp, thirty miles from Powder River, in which we found the remains of a captured and killed Blackfoot Indian.

Scouts reported a hunting party of Sioux in the direction of Powder River, in what in their opinion was a village. General Crook directed Reynolds to take eight troops with two days' rations (leaving him with the pack train and two troops to follow), and capture the village if he could find it.

At daybreak, on the banks of the river, the scouts reported the village. Preparations were made to attack.

Owing to the age and feebleness of Colonel Reynolds and the bitter feud that existed in the regiment (similar to that in the 7th Cavalry between Colonel Sturgis and his friends and Colonel Custer and his friends, that proved so disastrous at the Little Big Horn), this attack on the village on Powder River proved a lamentable failure. Reynolds disobeyed Crook's order to hold the village until his arrival, abandoning the field and retiring in the direction of Fetterman. It is perhaps better not to go into details here in regard to this humiliating failure, further than to say that several officers were tried for misconduct.

We were out of rations and other supplies, so there was nothing left but to return without successfully accomplishing the object for which we had been sent.

Through agents the Indian Department then took a hand and endeavored to quiet the Indians, but with little success. On June 18, 1875, Mr. Ed. P. Smith, the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, organized a commission to treat with the Sioux. It was composed of very distinguished men. Senator William B. Allison was the president, and General Terry among the thirteen members who met at Fort Robinson, September 20, 1875. I commanded the escort, consisting of my own and Captain Eagan's white horse company of the 2d Cavalry.

The majority of the Indians refused to enter the post, declaring they would make no treaty under duress. The commission agreed to meet in a grove on the White River, eight miles northeast of the post. Spotted Tail, who accompanied me from Fort Sheridan, warned me it was a mistake to meet outside the post, and kept his best friends around my ambulance.

The commission sat under a large tarpaulin, the chiefs sitting on the ground. Senator Allison was to make the introductory speech, and Red Cloud and Spotted Tail were scheduled to reply favorably to the surrender of the Black Hills for certain considerations.

There were present perhaps 20,000 Indians, representing probably 40,000 or 45,000 of various tribes. Probably three-fourths of the grown males of the consolidated tribes were present and might have subscribed to a new treaty in accordance with its provisions, that it be with the consent of three-fourths of the Indians, which supposedly meant the grown people, although the treaty did not so state. The Indians were given to understand that the whites must have the land, so that they became alarmed, and most of them threatened war.

Eagan's mounted company, drawn up in single line, I placed on the right of the commission, my own on the left. Allison began his address, during which hostile Indians, well armed, formed man for man in the rear of Eagan's men. "Young-Man-Afraid-of-His-Horses," a captain of a company of friendly Indians, asked permission to form his men in the rear of the hostile Indians, to which I consented.

When Red Cloud was about to speak, "Little Big Man," astride an American horse, two revolvers belted to his waist, but otherwise naked save for a breech clout, moccasins and war headgear, rode between the commission and the seated Indian chiefs and proclaimed, "I will kill the first Indian chief who speaks favorably to the selling of the Black Hills."

Spotted Tail, fearing a massacre, advised that the commission get back to the fort as quickly as possible. General Terry consulted with Allison, and then ordered the commission into the ambulances to make for the post. I placed Eagan's company on each flank and my own in the rear of the ambulances. At least half the men warriors pressed about us threatening to kill some member of the commission.

One young warrior in particular, riding furiously into our ranks, frenziedly declared that he would have the blood of a commissioner. Fortunately we reserved our fire.

A friendly Indian soldier showed him an innocent colt grazing about one hundred yards away and told him he could appease his anger by killing it. Strange to say, he consented, rode out and shot the colt dead, and the whole of the hostile Sioux retired to the main body at the place of our meeting. Thus ended the efforts of this commission to formulate a treaty.

Failure of both Crook's expedition and the efforts of the commission made it certain that hostilities would be resumed in the spring, so that General Terry, commanding the Department of Dakota, and General Crook, commanding the Department of the Platte, were instructed to organize large commands for the purpose of pursuing and punishing all Sioux found away from their reservations.

The Commissioner of Indian Affairs instructed his agents to warn the chiefs to call in all Indians away from the reservation, notifying that all found away would be punished. This only excited the war-like young bucks and caused them to move in the early spring as far west as they could go. At that time the buffalo were driven by encroaching settlements and the railroads from their southern grazing grounds into the country west and north of the Sioux reservation.

Crook first met the Indians in a slight engagement on Tongue River, Montana.

Terry, meanwhile, so separated from Crook by distance and hostile Indians as to prevent communication, had searched for the hostiles on the north. He discovered their trail on the Yellowstone at the mouth of the Rosebud, and organized an expedition under General Custer with the entire 7th Cavalry to pursue it.

General Crook's expedition is described in detail (Appendix, 400), save what occurred after his separation from General Terry's command.

The hostile Indians separated, some going to Canada and others turning eastward. General Crook determined to follow the latter, depending entirely on pack mules for transportation. With scanty rations, he undertook a long and distressing march through the dry and barren country, with little knowledge of its streams and trails. Both men and officers became restless and many of the horses were shot for want of sustenance.

When near the Missouri River, Crook turned southwest toward the Black Hills, crossing the North and South Cannonball rivers. Here many officers and men became dismounted, and it was feared they might perish for want of rations. There was no game, many ate horse flesh, and had no knowledge of woodcraft, course, or direction.

On the 8th of September, as I was bringing in the rear squadron of the command, having shot seventy horses that day, General Crook, in consultation with General Merritt, directed me to select one hundred and fifty of the best men and horses from my regiment, take Chief Packer Moore, with fifty pack mules, to Deadwood, in the Black Hills, and bring back supplies to the command. His last words were that should I encounter a village I should attack and hold it. It was nine o'clock before I could collect my command, and I left so hurriedly that no medical officer was sent with me. The night was very dark. I took with me Grouard, one of the best scouts we had, especially proficient in woodcraft.

Although there were no stars and insufficient light to see the surrounding land, somehow Grouard took us in the right direction. About midnight he lighted a match and showed me the fresh tracks of ponies on the banks of a little lake. We were close to the Indians. It began to rain as we lay down, holding the lariats of our horses, and it was with difficulty that we obtained a little sleep.

It was still raining at daylight, but we were early up and off, seeing by the mountain ranges we were going toward the Black Hills.

In the afternoon Grouard signaled a halt, saying we were near an Indian village. He had observed Indian hunters with their ponies packed with game. We were on the banks of a small stream, which Grouard said was near Slim Buttes. We hid under the banks and cottonwood trees, drenched with cold rain, until three in the morning, when I determined to attack. I did not know its strength, but was willing to take my chances in view of General Crook's positive orders.

Moving as close to the village as possible, I left the quartermaster, Lieutenant Bubb, with the pack mules and twenty-five soldiers. My plan was to dismount fifty men under Crawford and fifty under Von Luettwitz, retaining twenty-five mounted, under Schwatka, to charge through the village and drive the ponies away as soon as we were discovered, when Crawford would attack them on the right and Von Luettwitz on the left.

The Indian ponies near the village discovered us by smell and stampeded into the village. Schwatka charged through the village, driving the horses as far as he could, and Crawford and Von Luettwitz carried out their instructions and drove most of the Indians pell-mell from their tepees, which were laced on the side facing us. These lacings, being wet, were so hard to untie that the Indians cut their way through on the other side of the elkskin tepees and ran to the rocks on the opposite side of the stream, taking only their arms with them.

Von Luettwitz, standing near me on a slight elevation, was shot through the knee; I caught him as he fell. We found the village rich in fruit and game, and I despatched three couriers at intervals, to inform General Crook that we would hold the village until he came.

The Indian Chief, American Horse, was mortally wounded in the stomach. With some of his followers, mostly women and children, he took refuge in a cave in a ravine, where they entrenched themselves with the soft clay. There were fifty tepees in this village and probably two hundred and fifty Indians, mostly warriors. Grouard got into conversation with some and tried to persuade them to surrender, but they said that they had dispatched runners to the main body of the Sioux, less than eight miles distant, and would hold out until they were relieved.

The leading part of Crook's command, those with the best horses, arrived about 11.30. The rest of his command appeared soon after, at the same time the Indian forces arrived to relieve their distressed comrades. They came in great numbers, but when Crook deployed almost an equal number, the Indians retired and we held the village.

Some of my men, entering the village, discovered a little girl three or four years old, who sprang up and ran away like a young partridge. The soldiers caught her and brought her to me. She was in great distress until I assured her, by petting her and giving her food, that she was in no danger, when she became somewhat contented.

After General Crook's men had persuaded the Indians hidden in the cave to surrender, there being many killed and wounded among them, I and my orderly took this little girl down to see the captives and the dead. Among others, the soldiers had dragged out the bodies of two fine looking half-breed squaws, only partly dressed, bloody and mangled with many wounds. The little girl began to scream and fought the orderly until he placed her on the ground, when she ran and embraced one of these squaws, who was her mother.

On returning to my station on the hill, I told Adjutant Lemly I intended to adopt this little girl, as I had slain her mother.

The Indian chief was taken to one of the tepees and the surgeon told him he would die before midnight. He accepted his doom without a blanch or shudder, and soon died.

Crook told me to take the same command and at daylight proceed to the Black Hills and execute my mission. Before starting, Adjutant Lemly asked me if I really intended to take the little girl. I told him I did, when he remarked, "Well, how do you think Mrs. Mills will like it?" It was the first time I had given that side of the matter a thought, and I decided to leave the child where I found her.

We arrived at Deadwood at nine the next night. Everyone was in great excitement, because communication with the outer world was shut off by the surrounding Indians. All readily assisted me in collecting supplies sufficient to load the fifty pack mules. With fifty head of cattle, we met Crook's command, the second morning, forty miles distant. They were in practically a starving condition, having subsisted on the ponies I captured at Slim Buttes.

Some time in June, 1914, the historian of South Dakota, Mr. Doane Robinson, sent me a volume in which he published the reports of the Battle of Slim Buttes, and also a map of the battle-ground by the State engineer, which purported to give in detail the topography in Section 27, Township 17 north, Range 8 east. On examining it, I could not recognize it as representing the location.

Meanwhile, Mr. W. M. Camp, editor of the Railway Review, had called on me to get some details of this fight, stating that he was writing a history of the Indian War of 1876. Showing him Mr. Robinson's book, I told him that, having no faith that he had made the proper location, I had invited General Charles Morton, who was present at the fight, to go with me in July and try to find the true location, and asked him to go with us, which he readily consented to do.

We invited Mr. Robinson to accompany us to the battleground in order that the question of location might be definitely settled. He agreed to join us on the train at Pierre at midnight on July 14th. Mr. Robinson failed to keep his engagement, but, at Belle Fourche, his son, a boy of about twenty years old, reported to us, stating his father had asked him to go with us. He was of no assistance, however, as he knew nothing about the matter, and did not seem interested in it.

After several days' search, we found the location described in Mr. Robinson's history in the map before referred to, but neither General Morton nor I could reconcile the topography represented on the map with the location as we remembered it. There were no evidences of a fight, no rifle pits, which we remembered well to have made, and which could not have been obliterated. We spent several days trying to find the true location, but were eventually compelled to abandon the search, the conditions being exceedingly unfavorable to the investigation because of poor roads, rains, and excessively hot weather.

Mr. Camp and I both corresponded with General Charles King, also present at this battle, and who Mr. Robinson claimed had furnished him with the map from which he made the location. General King replied that he had never furnished Mr. Robinson with a map sufficient to make the location and, after examining the map in his book, said it was not the correct location.

I am now in receipt of a letter from Mr. Camp, dated June 21, 1917, in which he informs me that he went on another expedition and, after considerable search, found the true location on June 19th, in Section 10, Township 18 north, Range 8 east, which is on Gap Creek, one of the main branches of Rabbit Creek, about three miles from Reva Gap, three-quarters of a mile from Mr. W. W. Mitchell's house, and nine miles north of Robinson's location. Mr. Camp found the rifle pits and many other convincing evidences of the fight, including numerous empty shells, much broken pottery and other Indian utensils, all of which corresponded to my own and other reports of the battle.

Crook stayed in the Black Hills recuperating for several weeks, when, the campaign being closed, the whole command proceeded to Fort Robinson, where it was disbanded and the various organizations sent to their proper posts. I was transferred to Camp Sheridan, where Nannie joined me and where Chief "Touch the Clouds," of the Minneconjous, came in and surrendered (Appendix, 412).

During our second stay at Sheridan, many interesting incidents occurred. Spotted Tail gave a dog feast in Nannie's honor, which she gladly attended and danced freely with the squaws, to their great delight. They boiled many dogs in large kettles, but Nannie did not have the courage to partake of the feast, which she ever afterwards regretted.

One afternoon a Sister of Charity from a Kansas City convent drove to my quarters with a novice, stating that she had been sent to me by General Mackenzie, then commanding Fort Robinson. She was on a mission to procure subscriptions for the erection of a hospital at Kansas City.

Sister Mary remained with us for several days. A very intelligent and entertaining woman, she was a welcome guest to both Nannie and me. Expressing a desire to see Spotted Tail, we prepared a little entertainment and invited him to the house, together with a few ladies and officers, Lieutenant Schwatka, who afterwards became famous, being one. The refreshments consisted of cider, cakes and apples.

Spotted Tail appeared in full Indian dress, accompanied by one of his wives and his daughter, Shonkoo, an interesting girl of seventeen. Sister Mary, dressed in the conventional robes of her order, conversed with Spotted Tail through the interpreter for some time before we passed the refreshments.

After all present had been provided with a glass of cider, Sister Mary danced gaily to the center of the room and announced that she would like to clink glasses with the great chief Spotted Tail. Upon hearing her request, Spotted Tail, quite as gracefully and gaily, danced up to her. This wild country could hardly show a stranger spectacle than a Sister of Charity, in her peaceful robes, and a savage warrior, in his war-like paraphernalia, clinking glasses!

The conversation lasted for some hours, the squaw and her daughter saying little. Finally it occurred to me that it might be interesting to Sister Mary to take this young girl back with her to the convent, and I made the suggestion to her. Her eyes sparkled with delight as she said that it would be a feather in her cap. "Is it possible that we can arrange it?" she asked.

On making the suggestion to Spotted Tail, his face also beamed. He would like nothing better than that his daughter should live among the white people and learn their ways and customs, and he had great confidence in the Sisters of Charity. While the matter was thoroughly discussed by Sister Mary and Spotted Tail, I watched Shonkoo and her mother.

The mother appeared delighted, but Shonkoo was expressionless. I suggested to the interpreter that it might be well to see what the daughter had to say, but when this was communicated to Spotted Tail, he said, "That is all right. She will go."

I arranged to furnish the transportation to the railroad, a distance of about one hundred miles. They would be ready to depart in three days, Spotted Tail stating that he would bring his daughter then to my quarters and place her in charge of the sister.

The morning the start was to be made, everything was ready but Shonkoo. In her place came a message from Spotted Tail to Sister Mary and me to the effect that Shonkoo had eloped the night before with a young Indian by the name of Lone Elk, and Sister Mary returned to her convent despondent, empty handed, and minus the feather in her cap, so far as her efforts to civilize Shonkoo were concerned.

Detail to Paris Exposition

In 1876, being senior captain of cavalry and expecting promotion, I obtained six months' leave of absence, but, on organization of General Crook's expedition to the Powder River I surrendered my leave until the Sioux trouble should be ended. When I returned to Camp Sheridan, the six months' leave was renewed, and we started for Washington. I met General Crook at Fort Laramie. We stopped a day or two before proceeding in our ambulance toward the railroad at Cheyenne. We were twelve miles from Laramie when the Adjutant General, Nickerson, overtook us, with a message from General Crook, who had not known of our departure, stating his appreciation of my services during the campaign, adding that he felt under more obligations to me than to any other officer in the campaign, and that if there was any official favor possible for him to obtain, I had only to ask. Sure of my majority in a short time, I could see nothing to ask that he might procure for me, but, after Nickerson departed, Nannie assured me that she could find something, and jokingly referred to her remark while in Arizona that she was going to Europe with me some day. So, when we arrived in Washington, she said, "There is to be an international exposition in Paris next May, 1878. Why don't you ask the General to recommend you for a detail there?" I took her advice and made application to be so detailed, to the Secretary of War.

Colonel Reynolds, of my regiment, had been retired, and Colonel Devin, whom I had never met, joined the headquarters at Fort D. A. Russell.

I sent my application to the Secretary of War through the adjutant, Johnson, who knew my history, supposing that General Crook would endorse it favorably. But, in spite of the fact that everybody in the regiment knew I would be promoted before my leave expired, the papers were endorsed by the Colonel, "Respectfully forwarded disapproved. This officer's services are needed with his company." It was successively endorsed by General Crook at Omaha, General Sheridan at Chicago, and General Sherman at Washington, "Respectfully forwarded disapproved."

These advices to the Secretary seemed to me unfair. I was introduced to him, and told him I had been unfairly treated. He encouraged me to explain, which I did, adding that I had served in my proper command more constantly since I entered the service than any officer in the army. I knew little of the record of my colonel, but I asked to have our records examined, and that if he had not been absent from his command two days to my one I would withdraw my application; but that if I were correct I asked to have the colonel's unfavorable endorsement and those influenced by it ignored. A day or two afterward the Secretary sent for me. "I am more surprised at the result than by your statement," he said. "It is short of the facts, and I shall consider the endorsements valueless; but," he added, "why do you suppose the President will send an attaché to that exposition?"

"Mr. Secretary," I replied, "because he ought to. The President sent McClellan and other attachés to previous expositions, such as the Crystal Palace Exposition in London. Officers who have served in the Civil and Indian Wars are as much entitled to such benefits as General McClellan." The next day a note from him stated the President had decided to appoint three attachés, one from each arm of the service. This announcement in the press immediately prompted numerous applications, but Secretary McCrary assured me my appointment would issue shortly.

Nannie and I sat at a table at the Ebbitt House next to that of General Sherman. As we went in to dinner that day, General Sherman stretched out his hand to Nannie, saying, "Mrs. Mills, I want to congratulate you." Nannie diplomatically replied, "What for?" though she knew well. "Why, you are going to Paris. The President detailed your husband as military attaché to the Paris Exposition today." Nannie replied, "I thank you, General Sherman." General Sherman then stated in his frank and noble way, "Don't thank me, Mrs. Mills; I had nothing to do with it."

These details show Nannie was my inspiration. She approved of every move made in the matter and was more elated than I at the result.

We sailed in March, 1878, on a Cunard steamer. My insurance policy required that I obtain permission to visit a foreign country, but at the offices of the Knickerbocker I was told that the company would issue such a permit only if I agreed to forfeit my policy should I enter any city in which there was an epidemic. I told them to "go to," that I would live longer than their company, and surrendered my policy, on which I had paid eleven assessments.

Within three years their company went into bankruptcy, and I am still living!

We had an uneventful passage, although very distressing to Nannie on account of sea-sickness. During a two weeks' stop in London we visited Nannie's relatives, Mrs. Langworthy, at Guys House, Maidenhead, near Windsor Castle. The Langworthys were delightful people and our acquaintance a very agreeable experience, although it began in a rather embarrassing way.

Neither of us had much experience in "high society," or had the money to flourish in it. We carried to Guys House no other clothing than that in our traveling bags. At the depot, a great retinue of lackeys clad in knee breeches, and coach and baggage wagon apparently waited for some great personage. But Mr. Edward Langworthy, the son, introduced himself, and asked for our luggage, when we rather shamefacedly confessed that we had only our two valises.

We were dressed simply, like most Americans, but we had America's courage, and met the situation without much chagrin. The Langworthys dressed for dinner, but we had to make the best of what we had. We had a bedroom lit by candles and without fire, although it was March and the weather very cold.

In the ante-room the next morning I saw a large washtub in the middle of the bare floor, two-thirds full of water, and a chair containing some towels and soap. I remarked, "Nannie, look at that. Do they expect us to bathe in that cold room in that cold water? I will not do it."

Nannie replied, "Well, I am too proud to have them think we do not wash," and, seizing the soap, she made a lot of lather and sprinkled water on the floor to leave conclusive evidence that we really were civilized.

Mrs. Langworthy asked me, "How do you get about in London?" I replied that we used the omnibus, as Nannie thought the "Hansom cabs" unsafe, and refused to ride in them. Mrs. Langworthy said, "You shouldn't do that. Only tradespeople and banker's clerks ride in omnibuses."

Before going to Paris my commission as major in the 10th Cavalry arrived. A military tailor made me a uniform, which, with the gay attire Nannie bought in both London and Paris, satisfied Mrs. Langworthy on our second visit, made after returning from Paris, that we Americans could do right after all! We enjoyed our visits in their beautiful house, a fine English estate, and always recalled our acquaintance with our delightful English relatives with much pleasure.

We were in Paris at the opening of the exposition, where we met the other attachés. Among the Americans we met Lucien Young, a very interesting naval officer, in whose carriage Nannie and I rode to the opening. Our uniforms conformed much with the Prussian style, especially my helmet. Leaving the exposition immediately behind the Prince of Wales' entourage, the French took us for Germans, and looked upon us very coldly. Some bright Frenchman, discovering on my helmet the words, "E Pluribus Unum," called out to his countrymen that we were Americans, when we received almost as many cheers as the Prince of Wales himself.

Invited by President McMahon to a review of thirty thousand cavalry, I was informed that a French captain would have a mount for me in the Bois de Boulogne. There were eight American officers in Paris, most of them in official capacity, and when I arrived they were all there. As the senior, they insisted I approach the French officer. Speaking little French, I was somewhat embarrassed. But with the assurance of an American, I called out to the dapper young French artillery officer, "Good morning, captain; do you speak English?" "No, I do not," he replied, "but I speak American, which is much better. I spent four years as military attaché in Washington, the most beautiful city in the world."

It is needless to say that his diplomacy made us all his friends.

As Nannie had anticipated, this year's service at the Paris Exposition was the greatest practical and instructive education of my life. A practical skilled mechanic, I understood the intricacies of mechanics, and here in one building was assembled all the latest and most novel machinery of the world. The sewing machine was then in the height of its progressive construction. England, hitherto the foremost nation in machinery construction, was fast losing its place to America and France. The English machine was distinguished by its clumsy, angular and heavy parts and the difficulty of keeping it in order. The French machines were better, but the American machine stood first in all that made it handy, graceful, symmetrical and useful. And so it was with all the other machinery. Electric light and power was in its infancy, but here, as in all else, the best appliances for its use were American.

I started out in the hope of learning a great deal from the foreign nations in my conceived invention and construction of a woven cartridge belt and other web equipment, which I felt sure could be made as strong and of as firm consistency as leather, and much better than leather because it was lighter, more flexible, did not require oiling, and was less likely to break in the process of wetting and drying when exposed to the weather. However, after visiting factories in France, England and Germany, I found that they knew less about weaving such fabrics than we did in America.

Nannie and I traveled much during our stay abroad.

France had been humiliated by Germany's conquest and exaction of the then unheard of indemnity, but she was not despondent. In the dining room of our boarding house, 44 Rue de Clichy, were two female figures on pedestals representing Alsace and Lorraine, tears streaming down their cheeks; and when the proprietress, Madame Thierry, would speak of them the tears would roll down her cheeks, too. The sympathy of Americans was generally with France.

In Germany we found a remarkable condition. In one sense unspoiled by her great victories, so cheaply bought, and the acquisition of so much wealth in indemnity, the nation was just starting two propagandas. One was to organize productive industry and encourage the sciences and arts, with the object of making their nation foremost as a commercial producer. At the same time, Germany planned to carry her products to the four corners of the earth, in which, for forty years, she was entirely successful.

The second, as unholy and unrighteous as the first, was praiseworthy, was militarism, in which the rulers of the nation sought to make the profession of the soldier universal, with the deliberate and cold-blooded purpose of conquering the rest of the world, as Alexander, Hannibal, Cæsar and Napoleon had planned before. Germany had in view also the creation of a navy which could overcome England's, so she might rule the world on both land and sea. But for the heroism and self-sacrifice of the little kingdom of Belgium, with only eight millions of people, they would have succeeded.

We saw many idle soldiers lying on the grassy parapets of their forts smoking, while near them women dressed in rags carried dirt in wheelbarrows to form additional parapets. Nannie instinctively foresaw the future. She even then denounced those people as barbarous and inhuman, and for the rest of her life she hated bitterly German militarism.

In England we found the people divided into numerous classes, royalty, nobility, gentlemen, tradespeople, and common people. Many of these latter, for want of the ambition and self-reliance necessary to bring about success, had become sordid and drunken.

There were hundreds of street cars in Paris and its environs broad-mindedly labeled "American Railway," but hardly one in England.

In Manchester (then a larger city than New York), an apparently intelligent Scotch policeman, recognizing me as an American, proudly pointed to a brand new street car with one horse, and remarked, "I suppose you don't have anything like that in America?" When I replied that every city in the United States having twenty thousand population had a street car system, he evidently regarded me as a sort of American Baron Munchausen.

The upper classes relied upon their control of the sea by the largest navy in the world, indirectly to extort taxes from their millions of subjects in their vast possessions, governed without their consent. Suppressing ambition for democracy and restraining maritime commerce of other nations, is perhaps not as cruel and barbarous as the intended control of the world by Germany, but is quite as unrighteous and has been and still is detrimental to the progress and advancement of weaker peoples.

Of all countries we visited, Switzerland seemed to possess the best free democratic government and the people were the happiest. They looked you in the face with a cheerful smile wherever you met them and were content with their condition, as they have been for over three hundred years.

The difference between Europeans and Americans we found to be marked. For instance, on one of the Lake Geneva passenger steamers from Vevey to Geneva we found a thousand passengers, composed about equally of Americans, English, French, Germans, Spaniards, and Italians. While talking to a well-dressed American of perhaps twenty-five years of age, a band of about thirty Italians appeared on the upper deck, where most of the passengers were assembled.

Most of the passengers, especially the English, would not speak to each other without a formal introduction, so social greetings were few. When the band had played a few minutes, this American took off his hat and placed a handkerchief over it and carried it through the crowd, remarking, "Something for the band, please." He approached every passenger on deck. Europeans stared, astonished at the action of this man from the "Woolly West," but Americans smiled encouragement. He obtained probably the largest contribution the leader had ever received. He proceeded to the band and every man and woman was gazing at him in perfect silence when he turned over the handkerchief to the leader, until some American clapped and every American joined in. We were all proud of our countryman.

At 44 Rue de Clichy our son, Anson Cassel, was born on November 19, 1878. He was our joy for the next fifteen years. His birth delayed our return until March, 1879, when we took passage on a Cunarder. In Washington I received orders to proceed to the headquarters of the 10th Cavalry.

Inscription in Nannie's Family Bible, Dated 1614.

Inherited from Hannah Hippisly Martin.

Translated and in Modern Handwriting, It Reads as Below:

Ellis Crooker: his book; if
any man chance to find it;
let him restore it home again
and he shall be rewarded for his pains,
God Save the King!

Out West Again

We traveled to Fort Concho, Texas, an uncomfortable and unprepossessing post, by ambulance from San Antonio, arriving April 11, 1879, and I served with the 10th Cavalry (colored) for twelve years, and was executive officer for Colonel B. H. Grierson, commanding the post, regiment and district under General Ord, department commander.

A big-hearted man, the only experience Grierson had in military affairs was as a general of volunteers, with which he was successful. With no experience in the regular army, even the best intentions did not fit him for the required discipline. He left the details of the post and regiment entirely to me, signing only papers which went to his superiors. He was too prone to forgive offenses and trust to promises for reform, which rendered the discipline and reputation of the regiment poor.

In May, 1881, Indian troubles took me with a squadron of four companies to Fort Sill. Nannie accompanied me the 225 miles, and there, on October 22d, our daughter, Constance Lydia, a joy and comfort to us both, was born. She was only eight days old when we were ordered back to Concho, making that trip, as we had the previous one, by wagon transportation, Nannie with her baby and little Anson riding in the ambulance.

In July, '82, the headquarters of the regiment was transferred to Fort Davis, when we again made a 225 miles journey with wagon and ambulance transportation.

Fort Davis was dry and cool, a most pleasant climate, but as hostile Indians occasionally made raids on the citizens, as at Fort Concho, we were kept busy. Fort Davis is near El Paso. My interests took us frequently to that city. Among other activities, jointly with Judge Crosby I built the largest hotel then in Texas.

Little Anson at Five and One-Half Years.

Constance at Two and One-Half Years.

Street in El Paso in Its Deserted Days, About 1870.

April 1, 1885, the regiment exchanged stations with the Third Cavalry in Arizona. We made that long and distressing march also with wagon and ambulance transportation. Arriving at El Paso in a terrible sand-storm, we found the Rio Grande unfordable. The only bridge crossed into Mexico three miles below the New Mexican line. According to international law, we could not pass over Mexican territory without the consent of the two governments, so we were delayed a week most uncomfortably, awaiting the tedious international interchanges to enable us to cross. We finally arrived at Deming (in a terrible sand-storm), meeting most of the troops of the 3d Cavalry there.

I was ordered to Fort Thomas on the Gila River, next to Yuma, the hottest post in the republic and the most sickly, excepting none. It was one of the most desolate posts in which we ever served. The valley was very low and hot. The mountains on each side of the river were some six or seven thousand feet higher than the valley and only about six or eight miles apart, so what little rain there was fell on these mountains.

I have often seen a heavy storm pass across the river from mountain to mountain, and watched almost a cloudburst of rain falling from the immense height only to be absorbed by the arid atmosphere before it reached the valley. Here many of our soldiers died in an epidemic of a very malignant, burning fever, which the post surgeon, Dr. Edward Carter, was unable to check. Informed that if we had ice the doctor could save many lives, I made requisition for an ice machine to cost three thousand dollars. It was twice returned by the War Department disapproved, the principal reason being that the Quartermaster General and the Surgeon General could not agree which department should pay for the wood to run the engine!

Exasperated, I appealed to General Sheridan personally. General Sheridan gave the two chieftains his opinion of them in such strong language that the appropriation for the machine was soon furnished, the first authorized in the army.

Our little daughter Constance was taken with the disease, and Dr. Carter told us that she might not recover without ice. I wired Colonel Shafter, commanding Fort Grant, half way to the railroad seventy miles away, and he supplied me with two hundred pounds, rolled in blankets, within twelve hours. The day after the doctor reduced my daughter's temperature and she recovered.

While at Thomas the Northern Apaches went on the warpath, Geronimo and his wild followers devastating the settlements and killing many men, women and children, whom we buried in the post cemetery. This war lasted two years before our troops drove the Apaches into Mexico and, by agreement with the Mexican Government, followed them there, capturing Geronimo.

Contract Surgeon Dr. Leonard Wood, now the senior major general in the United States Army (who at one time attended my family), volunteered to act as surgeon in the expedition into Mexico, carrying his kit on his back while commanding a company of friendly Indians, which he did excellently. For this General Miles, commanding the department, became much attached to him.

To carry water into the post I had set the men to work building ditches, and also planted several hundred trees, which began to grow well. General Miles, visiting the camp on inspection, told me I deserved a better post. He relieved General Grierson from Fort Grant and placed me in command of that seven-company post. General Grierson recommended its abandonment for want of water, but General Miles said he knew I could get water from the mountains and make Grant one of the best posts. He supported me in requisitions for all the material and money I needed.

At a cost of sixteen thousand dollars I put in a most excellent water and sewage system, with a cement-walled lake in the middle of the parade ground, sixty by two hundred feet. Heretofore the parade ground and the officers' yards were bare of grass because of the extreme drought and the millions of ants which ate the grass. We put fountains all over the post, capable of throwing water one hundred feet high, as the reservoirs had four hundred feet pressure. I established a small water motor which sawed all the wood and ran all the machines in the carpenter shop.

My Family and Commanding Officer's Quarters, Fort Thomas, A. T.

Picnic Under Columnar Cactus Near Fort Thomas, A. T. Read, Mills, Mrs. Viele, Whipple, Nannie, Little Anson, Constance, Freeman.

General Miles visited the post after my work was completed and issued a very complimentary order which gave me a standing throughout the army as one capable of meeting unusual difficulties in my line.

Grant was in a most beautiful climate, about four thousand feet above the sea, with Mount Graham six thousand feet higher, three miles away. The climate, trees, foliage, flowers and rapid streams of this mountain were much like the Adirondacks, so we built a small log hut camp there for the ladies and children.

Nannie's description of a visit to this camp is better than any I can write.

In Camp, Near Fort Grant,

July 18, 1888.

My Dear Mother:

We left the post at a little after two on Saturday afternoon. Anson had a big mule to ride, little Anson had a horse led by an orderly, I had a pony with Constance on behind me. I was astride. We soon had to ascend and of all the trails you could imagine! I could not have undertaken it if I had seen it. I would just as lief ride a pony upstairs, indeed rather, for if he fell I should not have so far to go, but on the trail if the pony had made a misstep in some places we should have gone helter-skelter down a long way. I thought it was quite dangerous, but Anson would not let me dismount for he said if I walked once I would not want to ride, and indeed I could not have walked far, for we began to rise so rapidly that one gets out of breath soon. We zigzagged up the steepest places and at last reached the top, where it is perfectly lovely, the ground is covered with grass and some of the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen, and such quantities. There are loads of trees, principally pines. When we go back we shall have to walk about three miles, for it is very dangerous to ride down such steep places. We are all good walkers, however, and can do it nicely. I would not have missed coming up for anything, for the ride was an entirely new experience and one that I shall never have again. It is perfectly lovely in the camp, and though this is the rainy season and we have rains every day, it only lasts a short time and the sun soon dries things up. Yesterday it hailed.

When we reached the top of the steep road, we were about 8,000 feet above the sea, but we then began to descend in order to camp near water, so we are only about 7,000 feet or a little more above the sea. Graham peak, which is 10,600 feet elevation, is six miles from here and easily reached, that is, it is a perfectly good and safe road, but steep, and on account of the altitude the air of course is rarified and one so soon gets out of breath. We are going there in a few days, after we get used to the altitude. We all have immense appetites, and though our feet are wet sometimes for hours, take no cold.

I am so sorry Anson had to go down to Tucson, for it is extremely hot there. I think we shall soon know where we are going, and when. I forgot to say that Anson came up with us Saturday and went down Monday. Our camp is about six miles from the post, and it takes three or four hours to come, so you may know how steep it is. We are all in tents, as the log cabin that Anson had commenced is not yet finished. Our party consists of Mrs. Corbusier, her five boys, Mrs. Viele and her sister (a young lady), myself and two children and the chaplain. Across the pretty little brook which runs through the camp are four more tents occupied by several sergeants' families, and lower down the creek are the soldiers, who are felling trees and building the cabin. I forgot to say we have two cooks in our party, very necessary adjuncts when one considers the numerous and healthy appetites.

Your loving daughter,

Nannie.

Little Anson's Company at Fort Grant, Constance in Center.

Anson Constance Willie Corbusier

Commanding Officer's and Adjacent Quarters at Fort Grant.

Camp on the Mountains,

July 22, 1888.

My Dear Mother:

We have been here a week yesterday, and notwithstanding it has rained every day, we have had a good time. The rains do not last long and it soon dries up. There are the greatest quantity of beautiful flowers here. I have a large bouquet in my tent about fifteen inches in diameter and taller than it is wide. We have had bear meat, a young fawn and wild strawberries. The nights are if anything too cold. We have taken several tramps, one of them to an old hunter's camp. He comes over to see us often and enjoys the break in his loneliness. He is alone in his camp except for a dog, which is almost as dear to him as a child, and two or three ponies. He is going to show us the way to the top of the mountains. He came over to see us last night and sat by the big log camp fire, and while we popped corn regaled us with numerous tales, all of which I took with a grain of salt.

You would be surprised to see how comfortable we can be in camp with a very little. I have turned a box on one side for a book case, put another on top where I keep my writing materials, over it all I have thrown a large towel, and with the bunch of flowers I spoke of on top, it looks very well. I have another box for washstand, another for clothes, and with nails driven in the tent poles to hang clothes, medicine bag, little looking glass, canteen, etc., things are quite shipshape.

Your loving daughter,

Nannie.

Fort Grant, A. T.,

August 4, 1888.

My Dear Mother:

We were up in the mountains when I last wrote you. Anson came back from the court he was on and he and the doctor came up on the mountain. We went the next day on horses and burros to the summit of Mt. Graham. It was about four miles from our camp, and is ten thousand six hundred feet above the level of the sea. We wrote our names and put them in the tin can left by the surveyors. Anson and Constance Lydia both wrote their own names. It was a very pleasant trip. I rode a burro, astride, of course, as I shall never ride any other way. Anson is going to take my picture as I appeared. Anson came up to the camp on Friday. On Saturday we went to the summit. That same evening, in a pouring rain, a courier came in bringing a copy of dispatches from San Carlos saying six Indians had gotten away and the troops were after them. Of course we could not tell but it was the beginning of another big outbreak. The commanding officer of Fort Grant said he had already sent out some pack mules and might have to send out all the rest, but if we wished to come down to the post next day he would send us what animals he could spare. We immediately decided to come down to the post, for in case of an outbreak, the Indians could easily take our camp. We left the camp about two o'clock Sunday afternoon. Anson was mounted on a horse with Constance behind him. I had a big white mule with little Anson behind me. We rode about a mile and reached the steep part of the trail where I was afraid to ride down. Indeed the whole party, about thirteen of us, dismounted and walked down the steepest part. We could in places look down on the post which looked so green, like an oasis in the desert. Mrs. Viele, Constance and I walked for about two miles, as we did not care to ride over places steeper than a pair of stairs, but the rest mounted before we did. We reached the post about six o'clock, pretty tired. The next day, Monday, I was stiff and tired, but everything in the house needed straightening up.

Our Sitting Room at Fort Grant, A. T.

Tuesday Anson told me that General Miles would be here on Thursday. As the new commanding officer very kindly said we could keep this house till his wife came, thus saving us the trouble of a move, we had to entertain General Miles. We straightened up the house and expected him about eleven o'clock Thursday morning, when lo! he drove in at seven in the morning, before we were out of bed. We hurried to dress, and as he expected to go right on to San Carlos immediately after breakfast, I told Sallie to cook the chickens for breakfast that we had intended giving him for dinner. Breakfast was late, of course, as General Miles took a nap and a bath, and it was ten o'clock when we were through. I hurried to fix him a box of luncheon to take with him, and they would have started immediately but some telegram came which decided him to wait for further news. We sent to the butcher's for a roast of beef, as we had eaten up the chickens intended for dinner. He had no meat fit to roast, so Sallie chopped it up and made a meat roll. We had dinner at five o'clock, General Miles, Colonel Pearson and Mr. Jerome taking dinner with us. The latter is a cousin of Lady Randolph Churchill. We had soup, fish, claret, meat, vegetables, olives, champagne, pudding and coffee, a dish of flowers in the center of the table and flowers in the finger bowls. I should have had a salad, but there was no oil in the commissary. After dinner I rearranged the lunch, and they got off. I told General Miles he was like a flea, no one ever knew where to put one's finger on him.

He laughed and said, "About as disagreeable as one, also." He told lots of funny stories and was very pleasant. He praised the post which Anson has improved so much and which certainly looked at its best, all beautifully green, the lake full of clear water, the fine fountains playing and the sun shining through them. General Miles showed Anson an endorsement he had made on an official paper regarding him (Anson) which was extremely complimentary. In fact, he could not have said more, as he praised him to the skies.

I hope the Indian business will be settled soon. I was so sorry to leave the mountains. It was delightful up there, and we intended to stay three weeks longer. We were there only two weeks. It was so cool at nights we had to have a big fire and sleep under several blankets, indeed one or two nights I slept under four blankets and a buffalo robe.

Your loving daughter,

Nannie.

Summer Camp on Mt. Graham, Near Fort Grant.

Nannie and Constance at Fort Grant, Artificial Lake in Background.

At this time, anticipating promotion, I took leave and, selling most of our belongings, we went to Boston. Here we bought a carload of household goods, shipping it by the Santa Fe. The car was burned at Deming, but the railroad company had insured it and we recovered the full value of our new goods. But among the losses which could not be valued was Nannie's diary, which she had kept in detail for eighteen years and from which she expected to write a book. That was one of the discouragements we faced in planning mutually to write our reminiscences.

In May, 1889, I was assigned to duty at Fort Bliss, Texas, as supervising engineer under Colonel Nettleton of the Geological Survey. I remained until April, 1890, when as lieutenant colonel of the 4th Cavalry, with three companies of that regiment, I was stationed at the Presidio, San Francisco, as executive officer under Col. W. M. Graham of the 5th Artillery.

This large post, adjacent to a very large and interesting city, was the most enjoyable station we ever had. The children enjoyed it, Anson going to school and Constance having a good teacher at home.

Numerous balls, dances and other amusements in addition to strenuous duties, kept us all busy and healthy. Here, again, we had the good fortune to have Dr. Leonard Wood, then a regular army doctor, as our family physician.

Col. W. R. Shafter commanded Angel Island in San Francisco Harbor and he, Colonel Graham and I constituted the first board under the new law for examination of officers for promotion. It was a very lively, and, I think, an efficient board. We examined some thirty-three officers.

When some members of the 4th Cavalry murdered a citizen, at regimental headquarters, Walla Walla, I was sent to command the regiment, the colonel being suspended for neglect. We liked Presidio, so this move was a disappointment. To our surprise we found Walla Walla among the most pleasant, agreeable and efficient posts at which we had ever been stationed. The officers and ladies were unanimously harmonious and the regiment, notwithstanding the bad reputation it had for this murder, was in every way the best disciplined and efficient I had ever served in.

Nannie, as usual, was one of the leaders in all the entertainments, which were patronized not only by the ladies and officers of the post, but by an equal number of citizens from the beautiful city of Walla Walla, at that time the wealthiest town in proportion to its population in the country.

The command was an interesting one because of the great number of semi-civilized Indians in the vicinity who were trying hard to make an honest living under great disadvantages. The citizens did not credit them with good intentions because of their inability to make a living out of the soil. They were driven from pillar to post, but always came to the army for relief, trusting, as all our North American Indians have always trusted, in the officers.

In July, 1892, with our two children, we made a most enjoyable tour of Alaska, by way of Seattle and the steamship "Queen," through the inner deep water channels with their still water and surrounding mountains covered with inexhaustible cedar. We visited dense forests of timber near Sitka, where the warm Chinook winds carry sufficient moisture to keep them damp through the entire year, so that no forest fires ever occur. The moss accumulated over fallen trees, which did not decay. Huge trees several hundred years old grow upon others, as large and as ancient, though dead. Fallen logs preserve so well that many are as available as the standing trees for lumber. Cattle live the year around on this constantly growing moss.

Father and Son at 58 and 13. Taken at Fort Walla Walla.

We stopped at Wrangell and Juneau, and spent some time at Sitka, visiting Treadwell, the great silver mine. We stopped
a couple of days to see the wonderful Muir glacier, traveling several miles over the surface of the solid ice mass. Twenty-seven miles long and several miles wide, it moves gradually downward to the sea by force of gravity, averaging seventy feet per day. As it moves, this great mass tears from the solid granite below huge masses of rocks, and pedestrians can hear the crushing of the rocks. On reaching the salt water, which is very deep, the ice begins to soften and disintegrate, and periodically falls in great shales, sometimes two miles in length and nine hundred feet deep, into the water, only two hundred feet being above the water line.

The captain stood off two miles from the glacier for us to see a berg break off, which happened in the afternoon. We could plainly see this immense body of ice fall into the water. It careened, disappeared, broke into many parts and finally appeared on the surface as bergs moving out to sea. The waves caused by this immense movement of ice rocked the ship as if we were in a storm.

I was promoted colonel of cavalry, not assigned, while I held command of the 4th. On the colonel's restoration, in February, 1893, I was assigned as colonel of the 3d Cavalry at Fort McIntosh, and joined February 28, 1893, where I had as adjutant Thomas B. Dugan and as quartermaster John T. Knight, both efficient officers.

The Garza Mexican troubles on the Rio Grande were then in full force, and my regiment was assigned to duty along the lower Rio Grande, leaving two companies of infantry at McIntosh.

Numerous bands of Mexicans, half from Mexico and half from the United States, committed depredations, stole property and killed Americans all along the river to Brownsville. This so-called Garza war kept my troops busy marching, and in the difficult effort to punish them we lost a number of men.

Another disturbing element between the two countries was the formation of large islands in the river. The shifting stream produced these "bancos," as they were called, which, when two or three hundred acres in extent, were claimed by the more excitable and lawless of both sides. They were used as a refuge by smugglers and other criminals denying the jurisdiction of both countries.

One of the bancos, Banco de Vela, was used by an American as a pasturage for about three thousand sheep. The Mexican customs authorities put the herders in jail and took the sheep into Mexico, as confiscated under their revenue laws. In retaliation the sheriff of the Texan county put the Mexicans found on the banco in jail.

Colonel Minero, commanding the 4th Mexican Cavalry, at the city of Reynosa, was opposite Banco de Vela. My regiment, the 3d U. S. Cavalry, was drawn up on one side to prevent further arrests and probable conflicts between the contending parties. This situation caused the organization of the Boundary Commission, of which I was later a member. (Text, 281.)

Ordered to relieve the 2d Cavalry under Colonel Wade, my regiment arrived at Fort Reno, June 24, 1893. I had always stated that if I ever became colonel and the authorities gave me an insignificant command of but one or two companies, the band and the laundresses, I would apply for retirement. A few days after reaching Fort Reno, one company was detached, leaving me but two companies of my own regiment. I wrote General Miles, commanding the department, my official and personal friend, that as regulations held me responsible for the efficiency and discipline of my regiment, I would prefer to take advantage of my right to retire on thirty years, unless I could be furnished with at least half of the regiment. For that purpose I asked six months' leave.

The general replied that he would, if it were possible, furnish me the half or the whole of my regiment, but the conditions were such that he could not. When I applied, he recommended my leave. Nannie, with Constance, had preceded me to Worcester, where I went to make arrangements to retire and devote my attention to my cartridge belt factory there.

But General Gresham, who knew of my familiarity with the banco troubles, told me the President had decided to appoint a Boundary Commissioner, and offered me the post. Supposing that it would only last a year or two, and knowing that I was well acquainted with the people of both sides and the nature of the questions involved, I decided to accept. Then it was discovered that I could not lawfully do so, unless I resigned my army commission, as no one could hold two government positions. The Secretary told me he was so anxious I should take the place, he would procure a resolution from Congress authorizing me to accept it as a colonel of cavalry, with pay and allowances as such, which he did. I entered upon this duty, not expecting it to last long, or to become a general.

As I look back over my military career I am impressed with the changes which time has wrought in the size of the military establishment. When I was made a colonel, there were but seventy-two colonels in the line, although forty-five States, represented by ninety senators, were then in the Union.

When I was made a general officer there were but nine general officers in the line of the army; while at that time the President of the United States had eight cabinet officers.

Since leaving active service I have retained my interest in military affairs, and have been so intimately connected with military orders as to be an ex-commander of the Loyal Legion, an ex-commander of the Order of Indian Wars, and am an honorary member of the Indiana Society of Engineers.

BREVET COMMISSIONS IN THE ARMY

Prior to the Civil War the Government established a satisfactory system of brevets, conferred on officers who distinguished themselves in action, so regulated that rights to promotion of those commissioned in special corps might not be infringed, while allowing the beneficiary to exercise rank and command by authority of his brevet whenever placed on duty with a mixed command. Thus, when a company of artillery and one of infantry served together, a junior captain with the brevet rank of major might assume and exercise command. (When a Captain I so exercised the rank of brevet Lieutenant Colonel, over a real lieutenant colonel by priority of date.) During the Civil War, however, the conferring of brevets was so overdone by political and other influences that in one or two instances a captain in a non combative corps acquired the rank of major general. The situation was so absurd and confusing that Congress passed a law declaring that under no circumstances should a brevet be exercised for rank or command. This rendered brevets practically worthless. The army became dissatisfied and secured another method of rewarding distinguished service, medals of honor, but this, also overdone, is becoming unsatisfactory.

As time passed those modestly breveted outgrew all their brevets, while those immodestly breveted were generally of the non combative corps stationed about Washington. In 1892, a bill was introduced in Congress to allow the restoration of the brevet "uniform" and "address."

I wrote the following protest:

Headquarters, 4th Cavalry,

Fort Walla Walla, Washington,

April 12, 1892.

To the Adjutant General,

U. S. Army,

Washington, D. C.

Sir: In the matter of Senate Bill No. 2699, for the restoration of brevet "uniform" and "address," I beg to make the following suggestions, and request that they be referred to the Committee on Military Affairs in the United States Senate, for such consideration as in its judgment they may seem to merit.

That all officers holding brevet commissions, whether above or below their present grade, may wear the insignia of their highest brevet rank on each side of the coat collar. Those conferred for gallantry in specific actions, on a red ground and those for faithful or meritorious service, not in action, on a white ground.

The reasons that impel me to this action are as follows:

It is well known that about the close of the war, brevets in many cases, by reason perhaps of propinquity to power, were given in such extravagant profusion as to destroy in a great degree their value to those of the deserving, and it goes without saying that as a rule a greater proportion of these highest grades by the promotions of time have worn out by covering over with other commissions a greater proportion of the modestly breveted.

It is also true that an officer holding a brevet below his present grade, and conscious of equal merit with his comrade who holds one above his present rank, will take equal pride in wearing the evidences of its appreciation if he be permitted to do so, especially if he can show that it was won in battle.

The proposed bill, however, as I understand it, will not permit him to do either, and will, I fear, rather tend to confuse by putting on the shoulder rank without command, with no easy method of determining the actual rank or right to command.

To illustrate the effect that this bill, as proposed, would have on the Army, that is, on the officers on the active list, a reference to the last Army Register will show a total of 391 field officers in the entire Army, most of whom hold brevets below their present grade, and would be ignored by the present bill; all but 67 of the 391 hold brevet rank above their present grade, distributed in corps throughout the Army, as follows:

Adjutant General's Department	9
Inspector General's Department	0
Quartermaster's Department	10
Subsistence Department	8
Medical Department	7
Pay Department	3
Engineer Department	6
10 Regiments of Cavalry	8
5 Regiments of Artillery	7
25 Regiments of Infantry	9
	—
Total	67

It will be observed that of the 67 total, the Line of the Army have but 24, while the Staff have 43; and as a rule, even in the Staff, the noncombatant corps lead in honors.

Of this total of 67 field officers, in the entire active Army, holding brevets above their actual rank, 26 hold the brevet rank of General, and of these the Line of the Army has but six, while the Staff Corps have 20, and of these 20 Generals in the Staff Corps the Adjutant General's Department has 6, the Quartermaster's Department has 5, and the Subsistence Department has 6.

I have the honor to be

Very respectfully, your obedient servant,

Anson Mills,

Lieutenant Colonel 4th Cavalry,

Commanding Regiment.

As a result, Senator Sherman, chairman of the military committee of the Senate, advised me he had induced the Senate to withdraw the bill, which it had already passed.

In Washington Again

Asked to select the secretary to the Boundary Commission, on recommendation of Adjutant General Ruggles, I picked Mr. John A. Happer, a beardless youth of twenty, a minor clerk in the War Department. The Secretary doubled his pay to comport with the importance of the position, and Mr. Happer at once procured what he considered to be suitable personal attire, which included a fashionable cane and very sharp-toed buff shoes. Walking down the street with me, he remarked, "Colonel, why don't you wear a cane?"

I replied, "For the same reason that you wear one."

"How is that?" he asked, "I don't understand."

"Well," I replied, "you don't need a cane, and vanity impels you to wear one. I need a cane and vanity impels me not to wear it."

Later, on our first visit to El Paso, at La Coste, beyond San Antonio, he saw some Mexicans loading cotton. Calling to me from the car door, he said, "Colonel, do please come here. What induces those men to wear those foolish sharp-pointed hats?"

"Well," I replied, "I suppose they were moved by the same logic that induced you to buy sharp-pointed shoes."

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.

This graphic map illustrates how constantly Nannie followed me after marriage throughout my military service.

MAP
SHOWING
POST AND STATION ASSIGNMENTS
OF
ANSON MILLS, U.S.A.

SCALE OF MILES
(see chart above)

NOTES:—
ALONE, AT POST OR STATION—△
ACCOMPANIED, AT POST OR STATION, BY MRS. MILLS—◯
POSTS OR STATIONS OCCUPIED ON SECOND ASSIGNMENT ◬ OR ☉
NUMBER OF STATIONS OCCUPIED DURING 25 YEARS AFTER MARRIAGE
(1868 TO 1893) 26; DISTANCE TRAVELED (CHANGE OF STATION ONLY)
DURING SAME PERIOD, 25,808 MILES.

Little Anson at Seventeen Months.

Little Anson at Twelve Years.

Carefully preserved among his mother's papers is a letter from our son to me, and my reply to him. Shortly before she died, Nannie brought these to my attention, saying she thought them of sufficient worth to merit publication, considering that the boy was but fifteen when he wrote, but three weeks before he died. I append the two letters here:

Hotel Richmond,

Washington, D. C.,

February 4, 1894.

My Dear Father:

I received your letter of the 27th with the letter from Walla Walla, and am very glad to hear from you. I hope that the boundary work will not take as long as the Mexican commissioner thinks.

The newspaper gave a list of the West Point cadets who failed in the last examination, and I was glad to see that Carl was not in the list. I guess Carl will be able to pull through if he works hard.

I am getting along quite well in school, but I wish that the teacher would rush a little as I think that we are not progressing as rapidly as we might. I got excellent in the carpenter shop last month and as I couldn't have gotten any higher than excellent and there were only a few boys who received marks that high, I think that I have done pretty well. I am on good terms with the carpenter and always try to do what he says and he helps me along and is very nice to me.

The weather is very cloudy and rainy today and I hope that it will clear off soon. We went to see a play called "The Senator" last Saturday and enjoyed it very much. I saw Grover and Mrs. Cleveland in one of the boxes. Last night Mamma went to a reception at the White House and shook hands with Grover, it was the last card reception of the season and Mamma says that there was a very large crowd there.

This afternoon Mamma, Tootsie and I went out to Tacoma to see the Martins, they seem to think that Carl is all right, and I think Nellie expects to make a visit to West Point in the summer when Carl will be a 3d classman. I have made the acquaintance of two boys here in the hotel, but one of them went away yesterday so there is only one left. We generally play cards in the evening and have a good deal more fun than if we were by ourselves.

The other day I went to the dead letter office and saw the clerks sorting out the dead letters. They have show cases in which they put all the extra curious things that pass through their hands. They have live rattlesnakes and everything you can think of.

Mamma called on Mrs. Happer a few days ago and Mrs. Happer said that there has only been one meeting of the club since you left and I guess that is why they have not taken me there yet. Caldwell wrote me a letter the other day and said that you stopped to see him when you passed through San Antonio. Caldwell seemed greatly pleased with his new house and I hope that he will get along all right.

Nearly all the boys around here want to go in the Navy, but I am going to stick to the Army. I don't see how anybody could prefer the Navy to the Army, but each fellow has his choice and if they want to go to the Navy it will leave that much more room in the Army for me. I am still anxious to go on that big game hunting trip to Maine and I guess this fall I will have to go on a good hunt if nothing turns up to mar it.

Uncle Tom has made me a new belt for my rifle and it is a very good one. As it is time for me to go to bed I will close. We all send our love and hope that you will be back soon. I remain,

Your loving son,

Anson C. Mills.

El Paso, Texas,

February 11, 1894.

My Dear Boy:

I have just received your long letter so nicely typewritten and can not tell you in words how interesting it is to me to learn so many things of you and from you, for my hopes and fears are now more centered in you than in anyone else in the world; not that I love Mamma and Sister less or that they are deserving of less interest, but from the fact that (as you are now old enough to understand) as the world goes more is expected of boys and men, so that if I were to die suddenly the future of both Mamma and Sister would depend much upon you. So do not fail in every way possible to arm yourself for this responsibility should it come.

My mother died when I was about your age and left me the oldest of nine children, and while I did the best I could I had much care, but as Father lived to manage the business I did not have as much as you may have if I go.

I am glad you are getting along well at school for that is more important to you than all else just now, in fact, for the next five years. Don't be impatient for the teachers to go along faster. You do well enough if you keep up with the course, only strive to be thorough and understand all well that you go over so that if you go to West Point,—as I intend you shall when you are twenty, if you then still desire to,—that you may not be rattled.

I am glad you put the "C" in your name for if you had been fortunate enough to have seen and known your grandfather Cassel for whom it stands you would never fail to put it in. He was one of the best looking and most graceful men I ever saw, as straight as an arrow, with quick gait and quick speech, but few words, and liked by everybody and so correct in business that the cashiers in the banks would doubt themselves before doubting him. According to the laws of heredity you should inherit some of these qualities and I have thought sometimes I have already seen them in you, though it is hard to see the man in the boy, lest I had known him as a boy, which, of course, I did not.

Of course, you are as likely to inherit the traits of my father whom also you were unfortunate not to know at an age when you would appreciate, but he also had none that you need fear the development of in yourself, nor had either of your grandmothers.

I want you to read carefully the enclosed clipping on "Individuality," and mark the words underscored, for I think you can now understand the thoughts and ideas of our bright namesake. I think it is true, as he says, that heredity counts a great deal, perhaps not as much as surroundings and teachings, and I think, too, that he might have added that all three, heredity, surroundings, and teachings come mostly from the mother and there is where your great good fortune lies, if you improve it as you should and I think you will.

I want you to mark well what he says about individuality. Don't be restrained from doing things that seem sensible just because a lot of machine made boys say it is not the thing, nor do things not sensible because they say so. I have often regretted that I did not let you sit up all night at Fort Grant for fear it may in all your after life repress your individuality in thoughts and actions, for almost everything that man does or refrains from doing is from an instinct or teaching, like the parent talks, and not from brave independent and noble impulse of thought and reason like Paul Revere or Franklin, Cushing, Jefferson, Lincoln, Jackson, and Edison, who did new things useful to man.

I hear that Judge Maxey went hunting at Brownsville the other day and that the party killed three deer. We will look out for them when we get down there and tell you how it is.

Kiss both Mamma and Sister for me and tell them I will write to them both soon, though it is a great labor now that I am without my typewriter.

Your affectionate father,

Anson Mills.

The day before Anson's death, Nannie asked him what he wished she should say to me from him when I arrived, when he replied:

"Tell him I can't show how much I like him. I'm not strong enough. It will look as if I didn't like him. Tell him I love him very much." Of which she made a memorandum which I still have.

After eight months we purchased No. 2 Dupont Circle, on the most beautiful park and in the best social surroundings of the city. My position in the diplomatic service led us into the best society in Washington; we were invited everywhere we wanted to go, and were able to entertain all those who invited us, so that Nannie was able to exercise her abundant ability in making friends. We had at our house during the next twenty years several hundred interesting people of the army, navy, marine corps, senators and members of the different embassies, who were our guests.

One of Washington's greatest attractions was the opportunity it gave of renewing old friendships. We were always glad to welcome such guests as Gen. and Mrs. Freeman, Col. and Mrs. Corbusier, Col. and Mrs. Shunk, Miss Florence Cassel, and many others, old and new friends.

Early in 1894 Nannie joined the Washington Club, which she greatly enjoyed and of which she was a governor at the time of her death. She was also on the board of managers of several hospitals, and belonged to many charitable societies.

Washington was our permanent residence for the next twenty-three years, although Nannie and I, with Constance and our relatives, spent some time in Chihuahua, Santa Rosalia, Monterey, Zacatecas, Aguas Calientes, Guanajuato, Guadalajara, Mexico City, Jalapa, Puebla, Orizaba, and Queretaro, all in Mexico. (See graphic map U. S. and Mex., page 216.)

It was my professional duty to go to some of these places two or three times, the better to qualify myself by learning from the Mexicans views relating to the important boundary question. After she had heard of the simple character of the people and the interesting antiquities and customs of the country, Nannie always wanted to go with me.

Our Washington Residence.
(Text, 223.)

While at Aguas Calientes, bathing in the hot springs, Nannie, knowing the embarrassments of military courts in determining when an officer was drunk, brought me a copy of an inscription she had found on the wall of her room, probably left there by one seeking recovery from delirium tremens and at the same time preparing a test for the consideration of the members of the next court before which he might be brought.

"Not drunk is he who from the floor

Can rise again and still drink more,

But drunk is he who helpless lies

Without the power to drink or rise."

Spending most of our time in Washington, we found members of both Houses of Congress were much misunderstood by the people. They are constant hard workers with small salaries and almost universally honorable, honest men, and not, as many people believe, as they do of the army and navy, idle and uninterested in the government's welfare. Public sentiment has compelled many legislators to abandon the profession for another where they are better understood and better paid.

Among these noble men, I want to pay a tribute to a few of the finest statesmen the country has seen since the War of the Rebellion; men who trimmed their sails to no passing breeze but stood steadfastly for that public policy which would in their opinion bear best fruits for the great republic in the future. First among them, I put President Cleveland, Senator Hoar and Senator Root.

Cleveland, I consider the Washington of his time. When special classes of labor, having in their trust the railroads, the principal utilities of the whole people, declared their purpose to strike and by force and violence make their class the ruling class, the President issued his famous executive order that "if it took all the money in the treasury and all the soldiers in the army to carry a postal card from New York to San Francisco, the card would be delivered."

President Grover Cleveland.

Copyright, Parker.

President William Mckinley.

Copyright by Schervee.

Senator George F. Hoar.