by 1864-1898 Indian War Veterans: Memories of Army Life;Campaigns in the West
Anyone now passing over the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe Railroad from Las Animas, Colorado, to San Marcial, New Mexico, probably would not appreciate what a God-forsaken country that hike took us through back in the fall of 1870. The first place we struck that told us we were still in the United States was the flag at Fort Lyon, then in command of Lieutenant Colonel John R. Brooke, Third Infantry. I have no recollection of Las Animas. Trinidad was just one street with a few scattering adobe shanties down near the river. We crossed the Raton Mountains at Dick Hooten’s ranch, and found the Red River of the South, west of the foot of the mountains, only about ten feet wide. One place where we camped for a night there was a rancher living. It was said that at this house they had soda biscuits three times a day, 365 days in the year. I had a good many meals there and I never found any other kind of bread, so it must be so. At this place we saw our first Indians. They were Utes, and one of them had on a major general’s dress uniform—coat, epaulettes, and all, which had been given him by General William T. Sherman. The old chief also had a letter from the general which he prized very highly. The letter advised the reader to watch the old fellow very close, that he would carry away anything he could get his hands on.
Cimmarron was about the only place we found that would lead one to believe that there had ever been anything but a Mexican in that country. Fort Union was the headquarters of the Eighth Cavalry. I was fortunate enough to be assigned to Troop B, with Captain William McCleave in command. He is long since dead, but I want to go on record as believing that there were very few officers that were his equal. At Fort Union we lost the men who were assigned to troops at that station, and also those for Fort Garland. After a few days’ rest we again took up the weary march, and two days after we camped at Las Vegas, an old Mexican town. What is now East Las Vegas was not at that time even a hole in the ground. At Albuquerque we first saw the Rio Grande, and lost our comrades that were en route for Fort Wingate. At Fort Craig the fellows for Fort Selden and Fort Bayard kept on down the river, and we that were going to Fort Stanton crossed the river and hiked east through the sandy desert. The first of November we reached our long-looked-for “happy home.”
We were not long in taking up the duties of soldiers, with foot and mounted drill nearly every day. We had a splendid drill master in Sergeant Patrick Golden, an old soldier of several years’ service. A short time before we reached the post, the Apaches killed a member of our troop and also a member of Company I of the Fifteenth Infantry, within a few miles of the post. A scout was at once started after the murderers, who were followed so closely that in order to let the bucks get away the squaws got in the way of the charge going up a narrow canyon, knowing, as they did, that in order to get around them it would delay the charge. Several prisoners were taken, and we found them still in confinement at the post with a guard over them. That post was not very desirable. We enlisted at $16 a month, but Congress got funny and reduced our pay to $13. Of course, that did not set very good, and the result was the army lost many men by refusal to reenlist and by desertion. One of the latter was my bunky.
It would be hard for anyone who has not passed through the experience to realize the irksome sameness, or want of variety of a soldier’s life in New Mexico, and especially at Fort Stanton, in the early 70s. The nearest point of anything that might be called civilization being Las Vegas, more than 150 miles away. Not a book or anything to read. Mail once a week and taking from four to five weeks for a letter from as far east as Ohio. Where one was fortunate enough to have a friend who sent them the home paper, it was read by every man in the troop until entirely worn out. There was nothing to attract one’s attention except the same old round of soldier duty, an unending sequence of guard, stable police, kitchen police, and fatigue, and then back over the same thing. We cavalrymen had a little the best of the infantrymen. We got all the escort duty, scouting, and other things of that kind. For a few days we had a chance to lose sight of the old stone buildings of the post. We looked forward with delight to the afternoon that we were the old guard, as we then had the splendid duty of herding the horses for grazing. It certainly was fun to get the horses all excited in the corral (when there were no commissioned officers around), and then turn them loose and run them until they got their play out. We all felt as though we had lost our best friend when mounted drill was taken off.
All of the officers of the regiment above second lieutenant had seen service during the Civil War. Several of them had reached the rank of brigadier general. With us as we were making our tramp were four second lieutenants that had graduated with the class of 1870. I think only one of them is now [1925] living, Brigadier General Samuel W. Fountain, retired. Second Lieutenant Richard A. Williams only lived long enough to get his captain’s commission. I have understood that Second Lieutenant Frederick E. Phelps lost a leg at Wounded Knee and was retired; Second Lieutenant Edward A. Godwin became a brigadier general, retired. Samuel B. M. Young was one of our original captains, appointed in 1866. He was, I think, the last one to die. Captain James F. Randlett was transferred to the regiment in 1870 and was a captain for sixteen [sic—nineteen] years.
This letter starts by saying “55 years ago I put on the blue.” Now I close it by saying that fifty years ago First Lieutenant John H. Mahnken, regimental adjutant, handed me my discharge at Santa Fe, New Mexico, for expiration of term of service, signed by Colonel Gregg, and the major was kind enough to write the word “Excellent” under the black line.
Wyoming Service in the 1870s (By George F. Tinkham, formerly of Troop G, Third U. S. Cavalry. From Winners of the West, April 30, 1926)
In January, 1872, I noted in a Boston, Massachusetts, newspaper, “Wanted for the U. S. Cavalry, 200 able-bodied men for frontier service,” giving the number of [the] recruiting office in Boston. I was then nineteen years, five months of age, and went to Boston, enlisting March 20, 1872. I was sent from Boston to New York City, and as they had smallpox at Carlisle [Pennsylvania], where the drilling was generally done before assigning to companies, I with other recruits was sent to Fort McPherson, Nebraska. From there I was sent to join Company G, Third U. S. Cavalry, stationed at Fort D. A. Russell, Wyoming [Territory]. In May, we were ordered to go into camp at Chugwater, near Fort Laramie, Wyoming, to watch and keep Indians on their reservation, escort wagon trains, and carry mail to and from Fort Laramie.
It was a busy summer of scouting and escorting, and following up Indian scares among the ranchmen, protecting the two cattle ranches of Cooney and Philip, which were located in that section of the territory. One night in September, I was put on picket duty, and the next day assigned to guard duty on a high bluff where I could see anyone or anything moving about the plains within my vision and could overlook the country. I also had to watch the movements of our horses, where they were grazing in the valley between my stand on the bluff and camp. About 2 p.m., there came up the river a hailstorm and wind and hit the horses so sudden that they stampeded and took a course up the valley toward Laramie Peak. Knowing that if I could reach the lead of that troop of horses I could lead them back to camp, I came down the pass and got into the race. I had almost reached the lead of the horses when my horse stepped into a prairie dog’s hole and threw me into a bunch of cactus. I was thrown so heavy that it completely knocked my breath from me and the thorns were sticking into my body like a porcupine. My horse stood guard over me and in that way kept the running horses from trampling the life out of me.
That night there was a rumor of an Indian uprising, and some shots were heard and a few yells. We were called to “Boots and Saddles,” and I was one of the first to respond. We rode fast until near morning, and when we reached Cooney’s ranch we found the shooting and yelling had been done by some drunken cowboys. This did not stop us from going on a scout looking for stray Indians, and it began to rain and that night we camped on wet ground. By sleeping on the wet ground, I contracted a cold, but still I did not give up. A short time after that occurred, we were ordered into
winter quarters and we returned to Fort Russell. We encountered heavy storms of wind and sand and a terrible march.
Soon after our return, our horses began to die off. They would apparently be well today, and tomorrow they would be dead. I was detailed to help the veterinary surgeon try to find the cause of the horses’ dying. It was bitterly cold, snow on the ground, and when I went to the barracks both of my feet were frozen. I was taken to the hospital and there I remained nearly four months. My feet had gotten well, except the loss of the ends of the big toes. But I did not recover my strength and health, which caused the surgeons to give me an examination. They found that my heart was diseased and in bad shape caused by the fall and exposure. I was discharged May 20, 1874….
Relocating with the Sixth U. S. Infantry (By William Fetter, formerly of Company M, Sixth U. S. Infantry. From Winners of the West, May, 1925)
In September, 1872, we were ordered to Camp Supply, I. T. The Junction City, Texas, and Galveston Railroad was ready then up to within seven miles of Fort Gibson, so we had a ride to Junction City, and then we went to Hays City, Kansas. From there we hoofed it 200 miles south to Camp Supply, I. T. From there, two companies of infantry and Troops L and M of the Tenth Cavalry went as escort with the surveyors of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, besides escorting emigrant trains and mail coaches. They had two relay stations between Camp Supply and Fort Dodge and seven men always had to stay a week….
While at Camp Supply, the clouds grew dark in the north and in May the whole regiment was ordered to Dakota Territory. There were four companies in Camp Supply, two in Fort Lyon, Colorado [Territory], two in Fort Dodge, Kansas, and two in Fort Hays, Kansas. Orders were to be in Sioux City, Iowa, by the first of June. We started about the 7th of May and as all the officers from first lieutenants up had families and two men in each company had their families along, it took quite a string of wagons to transport all our property and provisions. We had thirty-six six-mule teams and I think three ambulances. They were for the women and children and the sick. We got along fine until we got to the Cimmaron River. On the 12th of May we went into camp about 10 o’clock p.m. on the north side of the river. It was too far to the next watering place so the teamsters unhooked for the day and watered their outfits and took them across the river to graze. Seven men were sent along as guards to watch the stock. Scouts had seen no Indians around, but we had hardly got the tents pitched when the Indians swept around a hill and under cover of the river bank, [and] with a couple of yells and a few shots they had the mules stampeded and off they went. We opened fire right away and the men on the other side had to duck for cover from our own and the Indians’ bullets. A couple of Indians fell from their saddles, but were picked up and taken along. They got away with 136 head of mules and that sure left us stranded with our schooners. As the Indians fired in our camp from the rear, we could pay no attention to the mules, but had to turn and protect our own hides.
No matter how serious a situation is, something funny is sure to turn up. Our company cook was an old fellow named John Abbe who had been in the service over twenty-eight years. He paid not the slightest attention to the rumpus but had his soup kettles going until a bullet struck one of the kettles and the juice started running out on both sides. Then he got mad and with the exclamation, “Oh, the sons of _______,” grabbed a rifle and blazed away. So he would not hit anyone, he held the gun nearly straight up.
We were forty miles from Camp Supply and after dark two scouts went back for more moving power. Uncle Sam was short, but a Mexican bull train accidentally arrived so a lot of greasers with their horned mules pulled us to Fort Dodge. It was slow going, but those fellows were in no hurry. After three days, we got within twelve miles of Fort Dodge and the ambulance drivers received orders to start right after breakfast for Fort Dodge. They left as we were striking tents. They were not gone a half mile when we saw Indians coming from the east and west, and firing commenced. Those ambulances sure made a quick right about face and did not object to our company from there on. Well, we finally got to Fort Hays and found the rest of the regiment there waiting for us with three railroad trains to take us. We got to Sioux City on time, and the two days on the train was all we saw of civilization during the five years of service. When we arrived at Sioux City, there were three steamboats waiting to take us on board. We left the trains and marched right on the boats and in a couple of hours we were on our way to the Dakota Territory….
Battling in the Little Bighorn (By Alonzo Stringham, formerly of Troop I, Seventh U. S. Cavalry. From Winners of the West, June 30, 1934)
We of the Seventh U. S. Cavalry were ordered to take the field at Fort Abraham Lincoln, D. T., in May, 1877, and hit for the northwestern territory in Montana. We were soon encamped on the Musselshell, about eighty miles north of the Yellowstone and north[west] of the mouth of Tongue River. All of the field units were alert to discover any Indian trail or any sign that might lead to a contact with the hostiles.
In the midst of all of this activity came an order from Brigadier General Alfred H. Terry to [the] captain of I Troop to take his troop and repair to the Custer Battlefield and re-bury the remains of those who had fallen there with Custer. And to disinter the remains of Lieutenant Colonel George A. Custer, ten of his officers, and three civilians and prepare [them] for shipment, Colonel Custer having had a standing order that he should be buried at West Point. The battlefield was about as far south of the Yellowstone as we were north of it at the time the order came, about 160 miles.
When we came to the north bank of the Big Horn River and nearly opposite the mouth of the Little Horn, which was about eighteen miles north of the battlefield, we met our first real difficulty which was the crossing of the Big Horn, which was a tremendously swift and deep river and the water ice cold and about a half mile wide with a steep high bluff on the opposite side where we would have to make our landing. We had a bull boat made by stretching a green hide over a framework as nearly the shape of a small boat as possible, and our captain proposed placing five men in the boat, each man to lead a horse with a rope and other men detailed to row the boat. The boat was hauled upstream some distance above where the landing was desired to be made on the opposite bank, which was at the mouth of the Little Bighorn. If a horse or man missed this landing they would strike a stone wall twelve to fifteen feet high.
Our crossing had been about half completed when an accident occurred which turned five horses loose in the river, and as they could not make the land and struck the high stone wall, they turned and swam back up the river to an island. Captain Henry J. Nowlan was in command of the embarkation of the horses and men, and Second Lieutenant Hugh L. Scott was in command of the receiving end on the opposite bank. Seeing that my horse was one of the five that had become loose in the river and swam back to the island, I determined to swim out and get him and also Sergeant John Goggin’s horse and try to pilot them over to Lieutenant Scott’s landing, which I succeeded in doing, but fearing my horse would not safely make the landing, I dismounted and while he went safely to shore, I was swept below. Fearful of being unable to swim back to the island, I went pounding down that bluff until I at length caught hold of some overhanging vines and drew myself up until I could get one arm above the cliff and there I hung until a searching party sent out by Lieutenant Scott came along above the cliff on their way back and I heard one of the boys say, “Poor Stringham. I guess he is gone for keeps this time.” But I yelled at them, “No, he hasn’t, just please give me the right hand of fellowship and I’ll show you I am pretty much alive yet.” Sergeant John W. Burkett had not spoken to me for a year until now. He was the first to run to me and shout, “Here, Stringham, I’ll help you,” and he and one of the other boys had me safely on top in a jiffy. I was chilled to the bone, but the boys wrapped me in a blanket and laid me out in the sun to get warm, and in a few moments I was all right again.
Lieutenant Scott came to me and said, “Stringham, one of those horses on that island belongs to Privat
e William T. Higgins, and he has been asking me to let him swim over and get his horse, but I am afraid to let him try it. What do you think about letting him try it?” I raised my hand to salute and said, “Sir, don’t let Higgins try it. He can never make it.” The lieutenant replied, “That’s just what I thought.” He then said, “Do you think you can get those horses off of the island?” I looked him straight in the eye and replied, “Sir, I am not afraid to try it.” The lieutenant replied, “Well, Stringham, I want you to understand I am not ordering you to do this, but if you think you can, you have my permission.” With that I saluted, turned, and ran up stream about 200 yards where I found a cottonwood log extending straight out into the river. I ran out to the end of the log, leaped out into the stream as far as my strength would carry me. This was to give me as good a start on my long sweep as possible. But when opposite the landing, I found I was only about one-half the distance to the island. Then I swam. Oh, how I swam! I grew very tired and let down my feet to try to touch the bottom, but there was none within reach and I gave up trying that any more until I had made the very last stroke possible then I breathed a little prayer to God and let down my feet once more and found the water only hip deep.
