Recollections of a Virginian in the Mexican, Indian, and Civil Wars/11
As soon as the news of Virginia's secession from the Union reached me, I sent in my resignation, and prepared to follow it to the States. No one ever doubted that such would be my course, and all my friends regarded it as the only one for me to pursue.
The Navajos had become hostile, committing many depredations that fall, and we had fitted out a formidable expedition to invade their country during the winter. It was placed under command of Colonel Canby, who pressed it with severity. While the troops suffered much from the great cold and deep snows, the Indians perished in numbers. They are less savage and more thrifty than any other wild tribe, having permanent homes, flocks and herds, and some manufactureds, and therefore are more assailable. They paid a heavy reckoning that winter, for their homes were destroyed and their herds taken from them, and it was said that they dared not stay long in any one place, and that all the children born to them during that campaign perished. They soon and earnestly sued for peace, and kept it too, until recently hostilities have been renewed in their region.
Canby did his work effectually, and returned to Santa Fe just as I was about to leave it for Richmond. He, with his wife, was our guest there, and I carefully explained to him how and where I had distributed the troops of the department, of which he showed his approval, and I then transferred to him my office and my house. Just four years afterward, I left him my office in Mobile, he and I having closed the great war after the long-contested battle of Mobile, with mutual respect for each other.
During the fighting with the Oregon Indians, in which Jamie Stuart was killed, Walker's command captured a young Indian little more than a lad. The Rifles had scattered a band which took to the river, and as our men were examining the banks in search of fugitives, one of them saw a pair of bright eyes shining through the rots of an overhanging tree, and stooping, caught an Indian boy by his legs, and hauled him out. They took him along for some time, until near where he could make his way to his people, and then set him free. It would have been better for all if the young reptile had been shot then and there. Years afterward, Canby was murdered by the celebrated Modoc chief, Captain Jack. He was the Indian boy caught by Walker thirty years before, and set free, and in relating the history of his life just before his execution, Jack recited the incidents of his capture and of his liberation. The Post chaplain who ministered to him in his last moments felt it was his duty to prepare him for his fate, and to reconcile him to it by descanting to him upon the good company who would greet him in the eternal home, to which Jack replied: "I don't know none them peoples. They your friends. I give you ten ponies you tak' my place to-morrer!"
I sold out my household goods of every sort in Santa Fe, and hired a wagon of the first train to cross the plains, and the quartermaster furnished me with an ambulance and team. At Fort Union, where we halted to make our party, every consideration and respect was shown to us. Lieutenant Enos, a big-hearted young fellow from New York, had been much with me and my family, and showed deep emotion on parting from us. Lieutenant Gay, another manly young officer, took me to one side and said: "You may need a good horse before you get through. I present you with that Navajo mare of mine. I picked her out of a drove of five hundred we captured. She is yours." Webb, the sutler, pressed upon me as much money as I would accept. I assured him I was well supplied, but told him of another of our Southern officers who needed the money, and he gave him as much as he could be induced to take.
At every Post upon our route the same kindly feeling met us, and at parting we were told: "I hate to lose you, old fellow, but you are perfectly right. If I were in your place, I would do the same thing."
The season was late, and the grass for half our journey very bad, and we were forty five days in our wagons, a wearisome time of suspense and anxiety to us. Our escort consisted of about seventy men, who had just served the term of their enlistment, and were on furlough. With two exceptions, they all intended on reaching the States to join Northern regiments for the approaching war.
As we proceeded, rumors of the coming struggle flew thick and fast towards us, and each day the danger of arrest and detention seemed more imminent, and our anxiety for the helpless women and children of our party increased. When within two or three miles of Council Grove, we met three rough looking men in an open wagon, who called out as they passed: "You had better look out for Council Grove! They are going to give you hell!"
Captain John G. Walker was in command of the party, and he and I took counsel, finally deciding that he should close his command well up on the rising ground above the village, while I would ride on into it and report if there were any hostile demonstration or purpose to hurt or hinder us. We knew that Jim Lane and the Kansas roughs had been notified of our coming and of our position towards the government of the United States, and that we were now entering the most advanced outposts of the "Jay Hawkers." I rode up to our carriage, and asked my wife to let me have the children's old shoes, telling her that I would ride on ahead and buy some new ones, as we should not halt in that place. As she gave them to me, she also let me understand that she knew my real object. I rode forward, and stopping at the largest store, where some horses were hitched, went in and got the shoes. A group of men standing there greeted me sociably, and were inclined to be chatty, and I rode back and told Walker to come on, as there was no danger. We marched rapidly through the town to our camp, four miles beyond, and felt relief at having escaped any trouble. One of our objects in going beyond the village was to prevent the men from obtaining liquor if we could, for it was the Fourth of July, and after their long enforced sobriety upon the march they would be more apt to indulge themselves too freely now.
Our camp had been pitched, I was stretched out on my cot resting after a hard, hot ride, when I was aroused by a disturbance near the guard tent. As I looked out an old Rifleman, named Kearns, knocked the sergeant of the guard down. I have never seen a man knocked as he was. He went tumbling fifteen feet before he rested on his back. Kearns stood, pistol in hand, defying arrest. He was six feet two inches in height, and was known as the bully of he regiment. When he was sober, he was an excellent soldier, but now he was maddened by whiskey. He laid his loaded rifle at his feet, and swore he would kill anybody who attempted to arrest him, and holding his revolver in his hand with his thumb on the hammer, he was ready to make good his word.
Walker, at about forty paces' distance from Kearns, was attempting to cap his Colt's rifle and shoot him down where he stood; for he thought it was the signal for a general uprising; that it meant violence to us and to our wives and children. I snatched up my six-shooter, and ran to Walker, urging him not to shoot Kearns, adding that I could disarm him. Mrs. Walker at the same time clung to her husband, imploring him not to shoot, while I, holding my cocked pistol behind me, advanced rapidly towards my man, striving to keep the while between Walker and him. As I approached him, I held out my left hand for his revolver, and said a few earnest words to him about the helpless women and children he was endangering, ending by ordering him to go at once to the guard tent. He handed me his pistol, saying, "Captain Maury, I've always uphilt ye fer a gintleman, and if ye are a Southern man, and I'll do just as ye bid me," and turning he went to the guard tent and lay down.
Next morning when I came out of my tent I saw Kearns sitting in front of the guard tent, looking a picture of woe. I beckoned him to me, and gave him his arms, and begged him not to drink again upon this march. With very deep feeling he said, "Sure, I'll never forgit your treatment of me as long as I live, and ed iver ye need a friend, ye'll find him in me." He showed sincere emotion, and he kept his word, for he never drank again, and he seemed always on the lookout for an opportunity to help me or to serve me in any possible way. Nor did the insubordordinate characters who had encouraged Kearns to his riotous outbreak ever transgress further, though they would have gone to any length had he not yielded.
Two of them were on my tent detail, and the morning I rode away from camp into Leavenworth they stole my revolvers. I was greatly concerned when I heard it, and, after I had reported to the commanding officer, set out for the encampment of our escort with a vague hope of recovering them. I saw a man approaching me, whom I recognized as the rascal I suspected. When he saw me he changed his course, and, as I still approached him, broke into a run. I did likewise, and as he stepped into a little ditch and fell, I sprang on top of him, demanding my pistol, which he relinquished. By that time the sergeant of the guard had come hastily up, and, taking out my memorandum book, I called the number of the pistol. The sergeant said, "It's yours, Captain," and handed it to me. I then ordered him to take the man to the guard tent and hand him over to the officer with my compliments, which was done forthwith. One of the officers had already recovered the other pistol for me, and I thus received another of the many evidences proffered us of the good feeling of our brother officers towards us, who were so soon to be widely separated from them.
At Topeka, Kansas, the morning papers contained the order announcing that "Captain Carter L. Stevenson, Captain Dabney H. Maury, and Lieutenant Edward Dillon are hereby stricken from the rolls of the army for entertaining treasonable designs against the government of the United States." From that time we naturally doubted if we would be permitted to proceed on our journey southward.
On our homeward march, we crossed the Arkansas at Bent's old ford, and followed the river down its course for many days. Walker had brought with him a huge and savage dog, half mastiff, half bloodhound, of whom everybody was afraid. He was more tolerant of me than of any one, because I used to take him with me on my hunts. But on this particular evening old Cy was very cross, and as in passing I patted him on the head he tossed up his mouth and seized me by the arm with a savage growl. I knew it was war to the death, and I kicked him heavily in the ribs, drawing my knife as I did so. The brute crouched and sprang at my throat, and I caught him in the breast with my knife. He drew back, casting a reproachful look at me, and, staggered to the river, rolled over dead. I called out to Walker that I had killed his dog, expressing my regret as having been forced to do so; to which he replied that he was glad I had done it, and that I had no other course, as he certainly would have killed me if I hadn't him.
Our camp was near Fort Atkinson, about which we found some two thousand Indians assembled. They were Arapahos and Cheyennes, who were awaiting the annual distribution by Indian agents of presents, etc. About ten minutes after old Cy's death, I observed a number of Indians gathered about his body, and finally an old squaw emerged from the crowd, exultantly holding aloft one of old Cy's hind quarters, as she went to her teepee shouting in wild Indian fashion. As the group dispersed I went down to the river. They had left nothing of the dog save a little blood upon the grass. They had had no fresh meat for some time, and dog is an Indian's dainty dish.
On our last night out we camped within eight miles of Fort Leavenworth, and very early next morning I rode into the Post, expecting possible arrest, and intending to pass on to Louisville and await my family there, if I found there was no intention to stop me. I rode to the sutler's store just as the morning flag was running up, and found there old Colonel Rich, one of the most respected of the old time sutler's. His son was already in the First Missouri Regiment and in the field on the Southern side. Poor lad! He fell gallantly fighting at Shiloh.
I was clad in an old corduroy hunting suit, and had not been shaven or shorn since I left Santa Fe, and the old gentleman peered curiously into my face as we walked out of hearing before he said,
"Why, it's Maury, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'd never have taken you for a gentleman. What are you doing here so early?"
"I am here to learn if they intend to arrest me."
"No, indeed; they will treat you more kindly than you ever you were treated in Fort Leavenworth." And so, indeed, they did.
I hastened back to meet the column and come in with the other officers and report to the commander of the Post, Colonel Prince. After cordially welcoming us, he said, "Maury, here's an order interesting to you and Stevenson," and gave us the order we had seen a few days before at Topeka. I then turned to the paymaster and asked if a month's pay was not due me. He said, "Yes; and I would like to pay it to you, but here is an order just received requiring that it shall be paid to you only in Washington." It has been paid me since.
Our stay in Leavenworth was brief, and when we came away a young kinsman of mine from Virginia, who was employed in the paymaster's department, joined us. His name was Francis Berkeley. He entered a Virginia regiment, shouldered his musket, and played his part like a man, and now lives, highly respected, as Captain Berkeley of Staunton. One of our Virginia regiments was known as "the Berkeley regiment," because the colonel, the lieutenant colonel, the major, and the adjutant were all Berkeleys, akin to each other.
The record of the Virginians everywhere, when their State seceded, is full of pride and honor. Many were in distant parts of the army, or in remote stations in the Navy, or otherwise enjoying positions of credit and emolument. Yet, with a promptness and devotion never surpassed, they surrendered every benefit which long and distinguished service had earned them, and made their way home through dangers and difficulties, from a noble sense of duty to their State and to their people.
Of those who finally decided to bear arms against the South, George H. Thomas easily leads in point of ability and attainments as a soldier. He was born in Southampton County, Virginia, was greatly distinguished in the Mexican War, and was voted a sword by his native State. No man was ever more devoted to his own people, and they greatly loved and honored him. In the Virginia Convention, which was greatly opposed to secession until Lincoln declared his purpose to march an army across the State of Virginia to coerce South Carolina, Thomas was thought of as the commander-in-chief of the Virginia forces. Neither Lee nor Johnston had yet declared his purpose in case his State should secede, while Thomas had proclaimed that he would retire from the Federal Army and enter the service of Virginia in event of her secession.
He had active friends to support his claims, and he applied early for an appointment in the Virginia forces, and Governor Letcher held an important office awaiting his resignation from the United States army. With this in his pocket, as it were, he went to New York to sever his connection with the service of the United States, and bring his wife back to Virginia with him. She was a woman of fine character. Her kindred and her property were all in New York, and through her influence he delayed his action until he had received from General Scott orders to an important post; and like other great soldiers of history and good men everywhere and in all times past, he was conquered by a woman.
When General Fitz Lee, en route to Virginia, after his own resignation, called to see Thomas, he said at parting, "Well, Major, I suppose we shall meet in Richmond in a few days?"
"Yes," replied Thomas. His wife -- a handsome woman she was -- remarked, "He thinks he will."
Thomas' purposes were as well understood as those of any other man whatever in his position. He made them a matter of record by his official applications for service, which were published and well known before his death. Had he followed his natural inclinations and allegiance, and accepted the commission which Governor Letcher held in reserve for him, his native State would have been the better off by one more able and brave commander.
We reached St. Louis with great anxiety, for party-feeling ran high there, General Lyon being especially vigorous in his course against the secession party. Camp Jackson had been captured and some citizens had been shot. We regretted the fact that we were compelled to remain all night in the city, and could not cross over into Illinois until next morning. Some of our late escort had traveled along with us thus far, and among them a corporal who said he intended to have me attested. He was an Englishman, and was one of those who had instigated Kearns to his violent outbreak. I had decided to avoid the fashionable hotels in St. Louis, where I might be met and recognized, and went to a quiet house, where such was not so apt to be the case. While registering my name, a man came up beside me to register his, and turning I found myself face to face with the corporal. I gave him a nod of recognition, which he received with an insolent and triumphant air, as I fancied, at having me at last in his power. It was already midnight, and no arrests could be made then, and we were to cross the river before sunrise in the morning, so I said to myself, "If that fellow does not go into Illinois with us, we are safe." As we stepped on the ferry boat, one of the very first men we saw was this rascal. I had not been so alarmed since leaving Fort Union. Two trains were waiting the arrival of the ferry boat, one bound for Chicago, and the other for Louisville, and to our great satisfaction the man took the former, and we saw him no more.
The conductor of our train was a remarkably gentlemanly man, and said, pointing to our servants who had gone with us to New Mexico: "I presume these are your slaves, and I wish to tell you not to be anxious about them. I have carried more than four thousand slaves over this line, and have never lost one." I was not uneasy on that score, for ours were more afraid of losing us than we were of losing them; but it was with a feeling of general relief that I gathered my little party safely around me in the Galt House in Louisville, and took a julep.