by 1864-1898 Indian War Veterans: Memories of Army Life;Campaigns in the West
Wm. J. Murphy, St. Paul, Minn.
Typical army discharge of the Indian wars period. This one is to Corporal Patrick Prendergast, Company A, Second Infantry, at Fort Omaha, Nebraska, 1893. Prendergast’s unit joined the army command at Pine Ridge Agency in 1890 and served against the Sioux Indians, but he was unsuccessful in seeking a pension for that duty. Editor’s Collection
Finding the Right Drum Major, 1872 (By John Cox, formerly of Company K, First U. S. Infantry. From Winners of the West, January 30, 1928)
The old Drum Major had died and a new one was to be chosen. This was a very important matter, and seemingly every man, woman, and child at the Recruiting Depot [at Newport Barracks, Kentucky] was interested in this affair excepting the recruits. All of the officers and their families and the two permanent companies were all agitated and anxious to know who would wear the big fur hat and twirl the big silver-headed staff. I excepted the rookies, 150 in number. One reason why they were not much interested was because no one ever seemed to be interested in them. Then they expected to be sent away soon, where they did not know or care. But there were two or three candidates from the permanent companies and the time came when these were to be tried out. Each had their friends who were trying to create sentiment favorable to their man. They were to act as Drum Major at “Retreat,” one each day for three days.
At the first tryout the entire depot population was present to see the show. The permanent people were plainly agitated while the 150 recruits looked on listlessly. The band took its place, as did the two permanent companies. The adjutant called Private Brown, of one of the permanent companies. As Brown advanced to the adjutant to get the Drum Major’s staff, his friends applauded, but none of these were among the official class. Brown was plainly agitated and ill at ease. He managed to start the band off properly enough, but handled the staff clumsily. He looked like he was glad when the agony was over.
The next morning Private Jones was called on to wield the big stick. He had self confidence and assurance and started off promisingly, but committed the unpardonable military sin of strutting past the officers out of step. Even his backers did not have heart to applaud. The next evening the depot people were present in full force. The official ladies were enthusiastic. Even the recruits seemed to have roused some enthusiasm. It was felt that both of the men who had been tried out had failed. Now it was up to the third man to carry off the honors. But one thing sure, he must do much better than the other two or the commander would never appoint him. When Corporal Black of a permanent company was called, a roar went up from the permanent companies and there was much handclapping among the official class. It was plain that Corporal Black was a favorite with the officials, especially with the ladies.
The corporal looked as if the had just stepped from a band box. He was every inch the perfect regular soldier. But he was deficient in size and in height; he was actually undersized. But it was evident though that the corporal felt that he was about the biggest man on the parade ground. His friends tried to forget his size and tried to create sentiment in his favor. The recruits eyed him critically and gave expression to opinions. “He’s a little whippet,” growled one. “The big bearskin hat would extinguish him,” was the opinion of another. Some way the recruits were not favorable to the corporal’s candidacy.
The corporal took his place at the head of the band. At the command, the review began. The corporal was doing nicely. He handled the big staff fairly well. He kept perfect step. If he had gone on through as he began, it would have been creditable, perhaps passable. But he thought to give the commanding officer a salute that would crown his efforts with glory. He tossed the staff high in the air, intending it to fall horizontal, and he would catch it in the middle and twirl some didoes. But he was too self confident to be careful. He glanced upwards and caught a glimpse of the staff coming down point first. He jumped to one side and made a grab at the staff and missed catching it. It banged on the ground at his feet.. The corporal was a passionate lad. He flew into a rage. In that awful instant, he knew that his name was Dennis, that he would never be Drum Major. In his disappointment and rage, he kicked the staff to one side and strode direct to his quarters. The only comments by anyone was made by the recruits, and they were not complimentary. The permanent companies felt humiliated, the officers were angry, and the ladies looked like they could cry.
The adjutant announced that there would be another trial the next evening by an unknown candidate. Then tongues wagged for twenty-four hours. Who was the unknown? It seemed that only the adjutant and the commander knew who he was and they would not talk. Just here let me describe one of our recruits. He was an Austrian of heroic build, tall and well proportioned. He was perhaps the most perfect man, physically, at the depot. He could talk but little English, but was always good tempered and accommodating, so that he was a favorite with the recruits. At the next “Retreat” we were all in place ready to see who the mystery man was. Even the recruits had awakened and were crowding close the side lines. Every eye caught a glimpse of a big recruit walking up to the adjutant, receive the staff, and take his stand at head of the band. “Who is he?” was the whispered query among the men of the companies and the official class.
Trumpeter George Lutz, of Troop C, Fifth Cavalry, ca. 1876. Lutz posed wearing his musicians uniform and holding his sword. His pistol and dress helmet sit on the stand next to him. Editor’s collection
All of us recruits recognized the stranger as our big Austrian. But not a word was spoken. We were too much surprised to even whisper. Some seemed to almost cease to breathe. But we watched our man critically and anxiously. We saw him take his place as if he were an old hand at the business. We caught our breath when we saw him take a professional attitude, and then stand like a piece of statuary. At the command, “Forward March,” our man with his staff started the march as gracefully as any man ever did it. On the march, he counter-marched his men, swung them at corners, beat perfect time, and never once “broke step.” When he came to the commanding officer, [there] came the supreme test. So far he had acquitted himself perfectly. Without pausing, he tossed the staff horizontally fifteen feet into the air. Without a glance upward, or the slightest pause, the staff dropped into his right hand, was twirled wheel fashion and reversed under his right arm. He glanced respectfully at the commanding officer, at same time giving the officer a soldier’s salute with his left hand. It was perfectly done, and everybody knew it.
The parade was dismissed and bedlam broke loose. The recruits then had their inning. They cheered and when the Austrian came back to his old quarters the recruits escorted him to our quarters. And be it said for the permanent men that they were game. They came to congratulate him on his promotion. These joyous exercises were interrupted by the appearance of the commanding officer’s orderly with orders for our man to move his effects to the band quarters and then go to the tailor to be measured for his Drum Major’s uniform. That evening our man visited us and told us some inside facts. He was a trained musician and a Drum Major of a military band of the Austrian army for years. He came to America and enlisted in the army and came to the depot as a recruit. During the contest, he told some of his experience to a friend, who at once notified the commanding officer. At once it was decided that if the corporal failed, the recruit would be given a chance. That is one time the recruits put it over on the permanent people.
But our joy was short lived. We proposed, when our man appeared in his dazzling uniform, finer than Solomon in all his glory ever wore, that we would celebrate appropriately. But within two days we were ordered to our regiments and companies, and so we never had the privilege of seeing him again. But we heard of him often, and it always pleased us to hear that he “made good.” But we will never forget the victory the rookies won over the lordly permanent lads.
Ten Years a Buffalo Soldier (By Perry A. Hayman, formerly a sergeant in Troop M, Tenth U. S. Cavalry. From Winners of the West, March, 1925)
I enlisted on the 6th day
of January, 1874, in Philadelphia, and was sent to the St. Louis barracks, and in February, 1874, was assigned to the Tenth Cavalry, arriving at Fort Sill, Indian Territory, on the 22nd day of February, and was assigned to Troop M under Captain Stephen T. Norvelle, Colonel Benjamin H. Grierson commanding the Tenth Cavalry. I was drilled from the 22nd day of February until the 8th of March. Troop M was then detailed on summer campaign, and went into camp at Camp Beaver, Texas, where we remained until about the middle of May, 1874. Prior to this time I did not use tobacco. During this time the supply train came in with rations. Of course we had to accept that which was issued. Well, about the middle of the month the boys ran out of their supply of tobacco, but as I did not use it, I still retained mine. Some of you old timers will agree with me when I say that a man was out of luck in those days when he was shy on tobacco. To make a long story short, I sold my tobacco at auction. I cut the plug in half, receiving $4.50 for one piece, and $4.00 for the other piece. This incident was the beginning of good times, as I thought, not knowing that reverse times were just around the corner, so to speak.
Now my first excitement as a soldier occurred in April, 1874, in this manner. A man and his son whose name we did not know came into camp with a wagon load of candies, cakes, and such things that would appeal to the taste of a soldier. There were two troops of us, C and M. A soldier by the name of Charles Holden of C Troop, thinking this peddler had whiskey, deliberately shot the son dead and mortally wounded the father in the attempt to rob them. We all heard the shots fired. Now, as a matter of fact, we were in a bad Indian country and naturally our captain, hearing a shot fired, at once started to investigate its origin. Finding no trace of hostile Indians, the captain at once reached the conclusion that the shot must have been fired by one of our men. On further investigation we discovered the dead and wounded men. Now the captain, after propping up the father against a stump, had the two troops formed in single file and marched past the wounded man for identification. Now right here, comrades, allow me to state that although I knew that I was innocent, I sure was a scared recruit, thinking he might mistake me for the guilty one. As each man marched by him, the injured man would shake his head in the negative until Holden confronted him. Though mortally wounded when he saw Holden, he tried to get up and get to him, thereby proving beyond a doubt that Charles Holden was the guilty one. Holden was arrested, placed in double irons, and turned over to the civil authorities at Fort Smith, Texas. I have never heard of Holden since. The injured man did not live thirty minutes longer, after he identified Holden.
Early in May the Indians attacked a ranch about six miles from Camp Beaver. The rancher had two men and this fact the Indians were aware of, and they took advantage of the situation. The rancher managed in some way to dispatch a courier to the camp for help and M troop responded. This occurred about 11 o’clock in the forenoon. We took out after those Indians, who in [the] meantime had sighted us, and we chased them from 11 o’clock until about the edge of dark. I want to note that the larger number of us were recruits and in the saddle for the first time. Darkness caused our commander to abandon the chase and the recruits when they dismounted were unable to stand erect. We made a dry camp that night, and the next day we started back to Camp Beaver, and it took us three days to return, while during the chase we covered the distance in about six or seven hours. Several of the recruits were forced to go on sick report as a sequel to the outcome of that ride.
In the latter part of May we were ordered to Fort Sill, Indian Territory, and in October ordered on a general cooperating campaign with Colonel Nelson A. Miles. The troops represented were C, D, H, L, K, and M. We camped at the base of Mt. Scott preparatory to being inspected by Lieutenant General Philip H. Sheridan, prior to entering the campaign. First Sergeant Levi Hainer of Troop M detailed me on the greatest detail that ever befell me in my ten years of army career. He detailed me to act as mounted orderly to General Sheridan. Let me add that I was still a recruit. Some of you readers will remember about this period, October, 1874, when the Indians were mad sure enough, and to add to the deal Second Lieutenant Silas Pepoon on the first day in camp committed suicide about eight miles from Fort Sill. The next day we scouted the plains, and did so until the last of October. Now Colonel Miles’s command had driven the Indians our way, and we ran into them at Goose Creek. We captured a band of 205 and 2, 000 ponies. After a general roundup, we started for Fort Sill. On the night of October 28th, along about 8 o’clock, the whole herd of horses stampeded. Every horse got away but one, the trumpeter’s horse [belonging to] Charles Hazzard. We recovered the horses the next day, and they gave me a log next day as a reward for my horse breaking his sidelines, and I carried that log two hours [as punishment]. I am still mad over the incident yet. This happened in 1874…. The next day we started for Fort Sill, arriving about the first week in November. The chief of the band we captured was Lone Wolf. He was sent to Atlanta, Georgia [sic—Fort Marion, Florida]. We came in off that campaign and remained until February, 1875. I had been in the army just three months when I was made a corporal.
My troop was detailed on detached service five days at Cheyenne Agency. We had no clothes with us except those we had on, and we stayed seventy-two days. The cooties had full possession of our backs, and that demanded the greater part of our attention for quite a while. Everything went all right until the 6th of April, 1875, when Chief Stone Calf’s Indians came into the Cheyenne Agency with two white girls. Stone Calf’s warriors had overtaken the family and after killing the father, mother, and son, made captives of the two girls. In the meantime, a courier had come in and told us that the Indians were there with the two girls. There were three troops of cavalry stationed at Cheyenne Agency at this time—D and M of the Tenth and M of the Sixth—and two companies of the Eleventh Infantry. We received orders to saddle up and rescue the girls, in which we were successful. While we were engaged in putting the brave that led the band in irons, a squaw ran out, waved a blanket, gave the war whoop, and “then the fun began.” The Indians broke for cover and, by the time M Troop of the Tenth got there, the Indians had crossed the North Fork of the Canadian River.
As the first set of fours crossed the river, the Indians opened up on us, and Corporal George Berry was wounded. After we had crossed the river, Captain Stevens T. Norvelle of M Troop formed the line and gave the command to dismount to fight on foot. Captain Norvelle gave me the command to inform Captain Alexander S. B. Keyes of D, who was 300 yards to the right of our command, to form his troop at right angles in order to make an attack on three sides. Being dismounted, I had to run for it, the Indians shooting at me all the time. Having delivered the dispatch, I started on the hot foot back and reached my troop okay. I can venture to say truthfully that I believe there were a hundred shots fired at me in carrying that dispatch. The next was the order to charge. We charged them and dislodged them, our captain now giving the command to take cover. While under cover a rain came up that only lasted about five or ten minutes, just enough to wet the sand. While [I was] rolling around on the ground my rifle got some sand in the stock breech. I had to get a stick to clean it out, and in doing so I got in full view of the Indians. It was here that I got shot in the right side. I laid down behind a stump, and again those Indians fired a number of shots, but none of them hit me. Some came so close to me that they threw sand in my face as they would hit the ground. Laying as if I was dead, the Indians gave up shooting at me, as they no doubt thought that I was dead. This was between 11 and 12 o’clock in the day when the scrap started. I stayed there until dark and then I managed to crawl away from my hiding place. After dark the Indians forded the river and got away. The next morning the soldiers saddled up and took the trail. There was only one man killed, Clarke Young. I crawled out of my tent and wanted to saddle my horse, but the captain made me go to the hospital.
The troops followed those Indians for one month, overtook them at Medicine Lodge, and wiped them out. I was not in the Custer Massacre, but was stationed at Fort Stockt
on[, Texas]. When the news reached the fort, which was the end of the telegraph line, Private Paine and I were detailed to carry the dispatch to Fort Davis, seventy-five miles distant. We covered that seventy-five miles from 11:45 a.m. to 4 a.m. the next day. Twelve miles of this distance was through mountain passes, and I have never seen it rain harder, and lightning and thunder more terrific than it did on that occasion. I served ten years on the frontier, five being in cavalry and five in infantry.
Cavalry Duty in the Southwest in the 1870s (By George S. Raper, formerly of Troop B, Eighth U. S. Cavalry. From Winners of the West, November, 1925)
Fifty-five years ago,…at Louisville[, Kentucky, ] I enlisted as a general mounted service recruit. First Lieutenant Lyster M. O’Brien was the officer in charge. After I put my name on the dotted line, the sergeant handed me a suit of blue that was made for a man twice my size, and the sergeant, being a good-natured sort of a cuss hating to put any unnecessary work on us, gathered up all of our citizen clothes and took them away and sold them. I have often wondered if it was just absent-mindedness that prevented him from “whacking up” with us. That evening we started for Fort Leavenworth, and after a month there we (about 150 of us) were fortunate enough to be assigned to the Eighth Cavalry, then in command of that splendid officer, Colonel John Irvin Gregg. We loaded into cars and started to New Mexico.
We got to Kit Carson, Colorado [Territory], and the first thing we saw the next morning were two fellows strung up under a railroad bridge where they had been hung the night before by a vigilance committee…. The monotony of the long trip across Kansas and part of Colorado was only broken by the thousands of buffalos. Six years afterward, when I was returning home, the buffalos were all gone and the country was almost a solid field of wheat across western Kansas. At Kit Carson we were given guns, and we picked up a bunch of “doughboys” headed for the Fifteenth Infantry. All of us were under command of Second Lieutenant Hampden S. Cottell, long since dead. There we started on our long march of nearly 1, 200 [sic] miles to New Mexico.