Book: Vanished Arizona,

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Was there ever such an emerald green as adorned those hills which
sloped down to the bay? Could anything equal the fields of golden
escholzchia which lay there in the sunshine? Or the blue masses
of "baby-eye," which opened in the mornings and held up their
pretty cups to catch the dew?

Was this a real Paradise?

It surely seemed so to us; and, as if Nature had not done enough,
the Fates stepped in and sent all the agreeable young officers of
the regiment there, to help us enjoy the heavenly spot.

There was Terrett, the handsome and aristocratic young
Baltimorean, one of the finest men I ever saw in uniform; and
Richardson, the stalwart Texan, and many others, with whom we
danced and played tennis, and altogether there was so much to do
and to enjoy that Time rushed by and we knew only that we were
happy, and enchanted with Life.

Did any uniform ever equal that of the infantry in those days?
The dark blue, heavily braided "blouse," the white stripe on the
light blue trousers, the jaunty cap? And then, the straight backs
and the slim lines of those youthful figures! It seems to me any
woman who was not an Egyptian mummy would feel her heart thrill
and her blood tingle at the sight of them.

Indians and deserts and Ehrenberg did not exist for me any more.
My girlhood seemed to have returned, and I enjoyed everything
with the keenest zest.

My old friend Charley Bailey, who had married for his second wife
a most accomplished young San Francisco girl, lived next door to
us.

General and Mrs. Kautz entertained so hospitably,and were so
beloved by all. Together Mrs. Kautz and I read the German
classics, and went to the German theatre; and by and by a very
celebrated player, Friedrich Haase, from the Royal Theatre of
Berlin, came to San Francisco. We never missed a performance, and
when his tour was over, Mrs. Kautz gave a lawn party at Angel
Island for him and a few of the members of his company. It was
charming. I well remember how the sun shone that day, and, as we
strolled up from the boat with them, Frau Haase stopped, looked
at the blue sky, the lovely clouds, the green slopes of the
Island and said: "Mein Gott! Frau Summerhayes, was ist das fur
ein Paradies! Warum haben Sie uns nicht gesagt, Sie wohnten im
Paradies!"

So, with music and German speech, and strolls to the North and to
the South Batteries, that wonderful and never to-be-forgotten day
with the great Friedrich Haase came to an end.

The months flew by, and the second winter found us still there;
we heard rumors of Indian troubles in Arizona, and at last the
orders came. The officers packed away their evening clothes in
camphor and had their campaign clothes put out to air, and got
their mess-chests in order, and the post was alive with
preparations for the field. All the families were to stay behind.
The most famous Indian renegade was to be hunted down, and
serious fighting was looked for.

At last all was ready, and the day was fixed for the departure of
the troops.

The winter rains had set in, and the skies were grey, as the
command marched down to the boat.

The officers and soldiers were in their campaign clothes; the
latter had their blanket-rolls and haversacks slung over their
shoulders, and their tin cups, which hung from the haversacks,
rattled and jingled as they marched down in even columns of four,
over the wet and grassy slopes of the parade ground, where so
short a time before all had been glitter and sunshine.

I realized then perhaps for the first time what the uniform
really stood for; that every man who wore it, was going out to
fight--that they held their lives as nothing. The glitter was all
gone; nothing but sad reality remained.

The officers' wives and the soldiers' wives followed the troops
to the dock. The soldiers marched single file over the gang-plank
of the boat, the officers said good-bye, the shrill whistle of
the "General McPherson" sounded--and they were off. We leaned
back against the coal-sheds, and soldiers' and officers' wives
alike all wept together.

And now a season of gloom came upon us. The skies were dull and
murky and the rain poured down.

Our old friend Bailey, who was left behind on account of illness,
grew worse and finally his case was pronounced hopeless. His
death added to the deep gloom and sadness which enveloped us all.

A few of the soldiers who had staid on the Island to take care of
the post, carried poor Bailey to the boat, his casket wrapped in
the flag and followed by a little procession of women. I thought
I had never seen anything so sad.

The campaign lengthened out into months, but the California
winters are never very long, and before the troops came back the
hills looked their brightest green again. The campaign had ended
with no very serious losses to our troops and all was joyous
again, until another order took us from the sea-coast to the
interior once more.




CHAPTER XXIX

CHANGING STATION

It was the custom to change the stations of the different
companies of a regiment about every two years. So the autumn of
'82 found us on the way to Fort Halleck, a post in Nevada, but
differing vastly from the desolate MacDermit station. Fort
Halleck was only thirteen miles south of the Overland Railroad,
and lay near a spur of the Humboldt range. There were miles of
sage-brush between the railroad and the post, but the mountains
which rose abruptly five thousand feet on the far side, made a
magnificent background for the officers' quarters, which lay
nestled at the bottom of the foot-hills.

"Oh! what a lovely post!" I cried, as we drove in.

Major Sanford of the First Cavalry, with Captain Carr and
Lieutenant Oscar Brown, received us. "Dear me," I thought, "if
the First Cavalry is made up of such gallant men as these, the
old Eighth Infantry will have to look out for its laurels."

Mrs. Sanford and Mrs. Carr gave us a great welcome and vied with
each other in providing for our comfort, and we were soon
established.

It was so good to see the gay yellow of the cavalry again! Now I
rode, to my heart's content, and it was good to be alive; to see
the cavalry drill, and to ride through the canons, gorgeous in
their flaming autumn tints; then again to gallop through the
sage-brush, jumping where we could not turn, starting up rabbits
by the score.

That little old post, now long since abandoned, marked a pleasant
epoch in our life. From the ranches scattered around we could
procure butter and squabs and young vegetables, and the soldiers
cultivated great garden patches, and our small dinners and
breakfasts live in delightful memory.

At the end of two years spent so pleasantly with the people of
the First Cavalry, our company was again ordered to Angel Island.
But a second very active campaign in Arizona and Mexico, against
Geronimo, took our soldiers away from us, and we passed through a
period of considerable anxiety. June of '86 saw the entire
regiment ordered to take station in Arizona once more.

We travelled to Tucson in a Pullman car. It was hot and
uninteresting. I had been at Tucson nine years before, for a few
hours, but the place seemed unfamiliar. I looked for the old
tavern; I saw only the railroad restaurant. We went in to take
breakfast, before driving out to the post of Fort Lowell, seven
miles away. Everything seemed changed. Iced cantaloupe was served
by a spick-span alert waiter; then, quail on toast. "Ice in
Arizona?" It was like a dream, and I remarked to Jack, "This
isn't the same Arizona we knew in '74," and then, "I don't
believe I like it as well, either; all this luxury doesn't seem
to belong to the place."

After a drive behind some smart mules, over a flat stretch of
seven miles, we arrived at Fort Lowell, a rather attractive post,
with a long line of officers' quarters, before which ran a level
road shaded by beautiful great trees. We were assigned a half of
one of these sets of quarters, and as our half had no
conveniences for house-keeping, it was arranged that we should
join a mess with General and Mrs. Kautz and their family. We soon
got settled down to our life there, and we had various
recreations; among them, driving over to Tucson and riding on
horseback are those which I remember best. We made a few
acquaintances in Tucson, and they sometimes drove out in the
evenings, or more frequently rode out on horseback. Then we would
gather together on the Kautz piazza and everybody sang to the
accompaniment of Mrs. Kautz's guitar. It was very hot, of
course; we had all expected that, but the luxuries obtainable
through the coming of the railroad, such as ice, and various
summer drinks, and lemons, and butter, helped out to make the
summer there more comfortable.

We slept on the piazzas, which ran around the houses on a level
with the ground. At that time the fad for sleeping out of doors,
at least amongst civilized people, did not exist, and our
arrangements were entirely primitive.

Our quarters were surrounded by a small yard and a fence; the
latter was dilapidated, and the gate swung on one hinge. We were
seven miles from anywhere, and surrounded by a desolate country.
I did not experience the feeling of terror that I had had at Camp
Apache, for instance, nor the grewsome fear of the Ehrenberg
grave-yard, nor the appalling fright I had known in crossing the
Mogollon range or in driving through Sanford's Pass. But still
there was a haunting feeling of insecurity which hung around me
especially at night. I was awfully afraid of snakes, and no
sooner had we lain ourselves down on our cots to sleep, than I
would hear a rustling among the dry leaves that had blown in
under our beds. Then all would be still again; then a crackling
and a rustling--in a flash I would be sitting up in bed. "Jack,
do you hear that?" Of course I did not dare to move or jump out
of bed, so I would sit, rigid, scared. "Jack ! what is it?"
"Nonsense, Mattie, go to sleep; it's the toads jumping about in
the leaves. "But my sleep was fitful and disturbed, and I never
knew what a good night's rest was.

One night I was awakened by a tremendous snort right over my
face. I opened my eyes and looked into the wild eyes of a big
black bull. I think I must have screamed, for the bull ran
clattering off the piazza and out through the gate. By this time
Jack was up, and Harry and Katherine, who slept on the front
piazza, came running out, and I said: "Well, this is the limit of
all things, and if that gate isn't mended to-morrow, I will know
the reason why."

Now I heard a vague rumor that there was a creature of this sort
in or near the post, and that he had a habit of wandering around
at night, but as I had never seen him, it had made no great
impression on my mind. Jack had a great laugh at me, but I did
not think then, nor do I now, that it was anything to be laughed
at.

We had heard much of the old Mission of San Xavier del Bac, away
the other side of Tucson. Mrs. Kautz decided to go over there and
go into camp and paint a picture of San Xavier. It was about
sixteen miles from Fort Lowell.

So all the camp paraphernalia was gotten ready and several of the
officers joined the party, and we all went over to San Xavier and
camped for a few days under the shadow of those beautiful old
walls. This Mission is almost unknown to the American traveler.

Exquisite in color, form and architecture, it stands there a
silent reminder of the Past.

The curious carvings and paintings inside the church, and the
precious old vestments which were shown us by an ancient
custodian, filled my mind with wonder. The building is partly in
ruins, and the little squirrels were running about the galleries,
but the great dome is intact, and many of the wonderful figures
which ornament it. Of course we know the Spanish built it about
the middle or last of the sixteenth century, and that they tried
to christianize the tribes of Indians who lived around in the
vicinity. But there is no sign of priest or communicant now,
nothing but a desolate plain around it for miles. No one can
possibly understand how the building of this large and beautiful
mission was accomplished, and I believe history furnishes very
little information. In its archives was found quite recently the
charter given by Ferdinand and Isabella, to establish the
"pueblo" of Tucson about the beginning of the 16th century.

After a few delightful days, we broke camp and returned to Fort
Lowell.

And now the summer was drawing to a close, and we were
anticipating the delights of the winter climate at Tucson, when,
without a note of warning, came the orders for Fort Niobrara. We
looked, appalled, in each other's faces, the evening the telegram
came, for we did not even know where Fort Niobrara was.

We all rushed into Major Wilhelm's quarters, for he always knew
everything. We (Mrs. Kautz and several of the other ladies of the
post, and myself) were in a state of tremendous excitement. We
pounded on Major Wilhelm's door and we heard a faint voice from
his bedroom (for it was after ten o'clock); then we waited a few
moments and he said,"Come in."

We opened the door, but there being no light in his quarters we
could not see him. A voice said: "What in the name of--" but we
did not wait for him to finish; we all shouted: "Where is Fort
Niobrara?" "The Devil!" he said. "Are we ordered there?" "Yes,
yes," we cried; "where is it?" "Why, girls," he said, relapsing
into his customary moderate tones, "It's a hell of a freezing
cold place, away up north in Nebraska."

We turned our backs and went over to our quarters to have a
consultation, and we all retired with sad hearts.

Now, just think of it! To come to Fort Lowell in July, only to
move in November! What could it mean? It was hard to leave the
sunny South, to spend the winter in those congealed regions in
the North. We were but just settled, and now came another
break-up!

Our establishment now, with two children, several servants, two
saddle horses, and additional household furnishings, was not so
simple as in the beginning of our army life, when three chests
and a box or two contained our worldly goods. Each move we made
was more difficult than the last; our allowance of baggage did
not begin to cover what we had to take along, and this added
greatly to the expense of moving.

The enormous waste attending a move, and the heavy outlay
incurred in travelling and getting settled anew, kept us always
poor; these considerations increased our chagrin over this
unexpected change of station. There was nothing to be done,
however. Orders are relentless, even if they seem senseless,
which this one did, to the women, at least, of the Eighth
Infantry.




CHAPTER XXX

FORT NIOBRARA

The journey itself, however, was not to be dreaded, although it
was so undesired. It was entirely by rail across New Mexico and
Kansas, to St. Joseph, then up the Missouri River and then across
the state to the westward. Finally, after four or five days, we
reached the small frontier town of Valentine, in the very
northwest corner of the bleak and desolate state of Nebraska. The
post of Niobrara was four miles away, on the Niobrara (swift
water) River.

Some officers of the Ninth Cavalry met us at the station with the
post ambulances. There were six companies of our regiment, with
headquarters and band.

It was November, and the drive across the rolling prairie-land
gave us a fair glimpse of the country around. We crossed the old
bridge over the Niobrara River, and entered the post. The snow
lay already on the brown and barren hills, and the place struck a
chill to my heart.

The Ninth Cavalry took care of all the officers' families until
we could get established. Lieutenant Bingham, a handsome and
distinguished-looking young bachelor, took us with our two
children to his quarters, and made us delightfully at home. His
quarters were luxuriously furnished, and he was altogether
adorable. This, to be sure, helped to soften my first harsh
impressions of the place.

Quarters were not very plentiful, and we were compelled to take a
house occupied by a young officer of the Ninth. What base
ingratitude it seemed, after the kindness we had accepted from
his regiment! But there was no help for it. We secured a colored
cook, who proved a very treasure, and on inquiring how she came
to be in those wilds, I learned that she had accompanied a young
heiress who eloped with a cavalry lieutenant, from her home in
New York some years before.

What a contrast was here, and what a cruel contrast! With blood
thinned down by the enervating summer at Tucson, here we were,
thrust into the polar regions! Ice and snow and blizzards,
blizzards and snow and ice! The mercury disappeared at the bottom
of the thermometer, and we had nothing to mark any degrees lower
than 40 below zero. Human calculations had evidently stopped
there. Enormous box stoves were in every room and in the halls;
the old-fashioned sort that we used to see in school-rooms and
meeting-houses in New England. Into these, the soldiers stuffed
great logs of mountain mahogany,and the fires were kept roaring
day and night.

A board walk ran in front of the officers' quarters, and,
desperate for fresh air and exercise, some of the ladies would
bundle up and go to walk. But frozen chins, ears and elbows soon
made this undesirable, and we gave up trying the fresh air,
unless the mercury rose to 18 below, when a few of us would take
our daily promenade.

We could not complain of our fare, however, for our larder hung
full of all sorts of delicate and delicious things, brought in by
the grangers, and which we were glad to buy. Prairie-chickens,
young pigs, venison, and ducks, all hanging, to be used when
desired.

To frappe a bottle of wine, we stood it on the porch; in a few
minutes it would pour crystals. House-keeping was easy, but
keeping warm was difficult.

It was about this time that the law was passed abolishing the
post-trader's store, and forbidding the selling of whiskey to
soldiers on a Government reservation. The pleasant canteen, or
Post Exchange, the soldiers' club-room, was established, where
the men could go to relieve the monotony of their lives.

With the abolition of whiskey, the tone of the post improved
greatly; the men were contented with a glass of beer or light
wine, the canteen was well managed, so the profits went back into
the company messes in the shape of luxuries heretofore unknown;
billiards and reading-rooms were established; and from that time
on, the canteen came to be regarded in the army as a most
excellent institution. The men gained in self-respect; the
canteen provided them with a place where they could go and take a
bite of lunch, read, chat, smoke, or play games with their own
chosen friends, and escape the lonesomeness of the barracks.

But, alas! this condition of things was not destined to endure,
for the women of the various Temperance societies, in their
mistaken zeal and woeful ignorance of the soldiers' life,
succeeded in influencing legislation to such an extent that the
canteen, in its turn, was abolished; with what dire results, we
of the army all know.

Those estimable women of the W. C. T. U. thought to do good to
the army, no doubt, but through their pitiful ignorance of the
soldiers' needs they have done him an incalculable harm.

Let them stay by their lectures and their clubs, I say, and their
other amusements; let them exercise their good influences nearer
home, with a class of people whose conditions are understood by
them, where they can, no doubt, do worlds of good.

They cannot know the drear monotony of the barracks life on the
frontier in times of peace. I have lived close by it, and I know
it well. A ceaseless round of drill and work and lessons, and
work and lessons and drill--no recreation, no excitement,no
change.

Far away from family and all home companionship, a man longs for
some pleasant place to go, after the day's work is done. Perhaps
these women think (if, in their blind enthusiasm, they think at
all) that a young soldier or an old soldier needs no recreation.
At all events, they have taken from him the only one he had, the
good old canteen, and given him nothing in return.

Now Fort Niobrara was a large post. There were ten companies,
cavalry and infantry, General August V. Kautz, the Colonel of the
Eighth Infantry, in command.

And here, amidst the sand-hills of Nebraska, we first began to
really know our Colonel. A man of strong convictions and abiding
honesty, a soldier who knew his profession thoroughly, having not
only achieved distinction in the Civil War, but having served
when little more than a boy, in the Mexican War of 1846. Genial
in his manners, brave and kind, he was beloved by all.

The three Kautz children, Frankie, Austin, and Navarra, were the
inseparable companions of our own children. There was a small
school for the children of the post, and a soldier by the name of
Delany was schoolmaster. He tried hard to make our children
learn, but they did not wish to study, and spent all their spare
time in planning tricks to be played upon poor Delany. It was a
difficult situation for the soldier. Finally, the two oldest
Kautz children were sent East to boarding-school, and we also
began to realize that something must be done.

Our surroundings during the early winter, it is true, had been
dreary enough, but as the weather softened a bit and the spring
approached, the post began to wake up.

In the meantime, Cupid had not been idle. It was observed that
Mr. Bingham, our gracious host of the Ninth Cavalry, had fallen
in love with Antoinette, the pretty and attractive daughter of
Captain Lynch of our own regiment, and the post began to be on
the qui vive to see how the affair would end, for nobody expects
to see the course of true love run smooth. In their case,
however, the Fates were kind and in due time the happy engagement
was announced.

We had an excellent amusement hall, with a fine floor for
dancing. The chapel was at one end, and a fairly good stage was
at the other.

Being nearer civilization now, in the state of Nebraska, Uncle
Sam provided us with a chaplain, and a weekly service was held by
the Anglican clergyman--a tall, well-formed man, a scholar and,
as we say, a gentleman. He wore the uniform of the army chaplain,
and as far as looks went could hold his own with any of the
younger officers. And it was a great comfort to the church people
to have this weekly service.

During the rest of the time, the chapel was concealed by heavy
curtains, and the seats turned around facing the stage.

We had a good string orchestra of twenty or more pieces, and as
there were a number of active young bachelors at the post, a
series of weekly dances was inaugurated. Never did I enjoy
dancing more than at this time.

Then Mrs. Kautz, who was a thorough music lover and had a
cultivated taste as well as a trained and exquisite voice, gave
several musicales, for which much preparation was made, and which
were most delightful. These were given at the quarters of General
Kautz, a long, low, rambling one-story house, arranged with that
artistic taste for which Mrs. Kautz was distinguished.

Then came theatricals, all managed by Mrs. Kautz, whose talents
were versatile.

We charged admission, for we needed some more scenery, and the
neighboring frontier town of Valentine came riding and driving
over the prairie and across the old bridge of the Niobrara River,
to see our plays. We had a well-lighted stage. Our methods were
primitive, as there was no gas or electricity there in those
days, but the results were good, and the histrionic ability shown
by some of our young men and women seemed marvellous to us.

I remember especially Bob Emmet's acting, which moved me to
tears, in a most pathetic love scene. I thought, "What has the
stage lost, in this gifted man!"

But he is of a family whose talents are well known, and his
personality, no doubt, added much to his natural ability as an
actor.

Neither the army nor the stage can now claim this brilliant
cavalry officer, as he was induced, by urgent family reasons,
shortly after the period of which I am writing, to resign his
commission and retire to private life, at the very height of his
ambitious career.

And now the summer came on apace. A tennis-court was made, and
added greatly to our amusement. We were in the saddle every day,
and the country around proved very attractive at this season,
both for riding and driving.

But all this gayety did not content me, for the serious question
of education for our children now presented itself; the question
which, sooner or later, presents itself to the minds of all the
parents of army children. It is settled differently by different
people. It had taken a year for us to decide.

I made up my mind that the first thing to be done was to take the
children East and then decide on schools afterwards. So our plans
were completed and the day of departure fixed upon. Jack was to
remain at the Post.

About an hour before I was to leave I saw the members of the
string orchestra filing across the parade ground, coming directly
towards our quarters. My heart began to beat faster, as I
realized that Mrs. Kautz had planned a serenade for me. I felt it
was a great break in my army life, but I did not know I was
leaving the old regiment forever, the regiment with which I had
been associated for so many years. And as I listened to the
beautiful strains of the music I loved so well, my eyes were wet
with tears, and after all the goodbye's were said, to the
officers and their wives, my friends who had shared all our joys
and our sorrows in so many places and under so many conditions, I
ran out to the stable and pressed my cheek against the soft warm
noses of our two saddle horses. I felt that life was over for me,
and nothing but work and care remained. I say I felt all this. It
must have been premonition, for I had no idea that I was leaving
the line of the army forever.

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