by 1864-1898 Indian War Veterans: Memories of Army Life;Campaigns in the West
Signal Corps Private R. L. Sutton, in ca. 1885. The soldiers who operated heliographs during the Geronimo Campaign were attired similarly. Editor’s collection
Notwithstanding the dangerous character of the prospective service, nearly every member at the school was anxious to be one of the squad soon to start for field service in Arizona. The result of the examination was eagerly watched, and the following winners were ordered to prepare for the journey: Charles C. Capwell, Henry Goucher, William W. Neifert (the writer), William A. Whitney, and James I. Wildmeyer, while Richard O’Dowd was subsequently selected and followed. In those days, privates did not ride in Pullman cars, and there was no “Y. M.[C. A.]” representative at the station to give us a supply of fresh fruit and chewing gum. The outstanding bright spot was a check signed by Wells Willard, Captain and C. S. [Commissary of Subsistence] in the amount of $9.00 for commutation of rations, six days, at $1.50 per day. We started from the old Baltimore & Ohio Washington depot on June 12 and six days railroad travel brought us to Bowie Station on the Southern Pacific [about fifteen miles north of Fort Bowie] during the forenoon of the 18th. On the surrounding prairie we found a lively scene with much noise and loud profanity from the troops, packers, mechanics, with their horses, mules, and all sorts of impediments, making up supply trains for the various military posts in the section. The stage agent got out a special coach to take our party to Fort Bowie, while the hazardous undertaking upon which we had embarked became more and more apparent, though we were “game” as we were in quest of laurels growing along Indian trails. The driver, of course, saw that we were “Tenderfeet, Oh! So Tender,” and some of the bloodcurdling yarns that he related for our benefit added to our gloom. He particularly emphasized his remarks as we were passing the post cemetery that nestles on the mountainside in the canyon a short distance below the post, pointing out that at least half of the headstones gave a single line, “Unknown, killed by Apache Indians.”
We reported at headquarters and were at once turned over to First Lieutenant Alfred M. Fuller, Second Cavalry, the signal officer for the Districts of Bowie and Huachuca, for general instructions and station assignments. We remained several days, when we separated for specially designated permanent stations in the line of communication that had just been established. In this arrangement, Fort Bowie was Station No. 1, and Bowie Peak (or sometimes called “Helen’s Dome”) was No. 2. The writer was ordered to station No. 8 on Mount Baldy, in the Santa Rita Mountains. This station was reputed to be one of the hardest of the system, not altogether because of the great amount of signaling, but because of its elevation above sea level (approximately 7000 feet) and the arduous climb several times each day from our camp in the canyon to the station on the peak. Six other Signal Corps men selected from western city weather stations were already in the field, though mostly in the New Mexico District, under First Lieutenant Edward E. Dravo, Sixth Cavalry.
My start for Mount Baldy was made without delay, going on the first lap of the journey to Fort Huachuca, where I was to pick up Private Landolen Bluste of Troop K, Fourth Cavalry, who had been detailed as an extra signalist. Here I was also to receive my “weapons of war,” grub, and further details as to the duty on the mountain station. Lieutenant Fuller had been at the mountain during the previous week setting up the posts for the signaling apparatus, arranging camping details, etc. He was accompanied by Corporal Joseph Crowley of Troop K, Fourth Cavalry (who had been a telegrapher in his native Ireland prior to coming to America), and three men of the Eighth Infantry. In the chain, Fort Huachuca was No. 7, where Private Charles F. Von Hermann, Signal Corps, was already on duty. Anticipating my arrival, he was on hand to greet me when the mail stage rolled in from the railroad. He was an old frontiersman, so besides instructions in the work before us, he was in a position to assist me in other ways.
To reach Mount Baldy, we went by train to Crittenden, where a troop of the Tenth Cavalry was encamped. The commandant, Captain Alexander S. B. Keyes, had been instructed to furnish an escort, mounts, and pack train to take us to the station with our food, clothing, and camp equipment. In addition, he furnished three men from his force for our camp guard, cooks, etc. The detail was Corporal Edward Scott, Privates James H. Belden and Joseph Johnston. The guide to lead us was Mike Grace, an old timer reputed to be a member of the prominent New York family of the name. We started early the next morning on the twenty-mile trip—especially long to a tenderfoot unaccustomed to horseback riding. We went up and up over a trail that at many points was hard to follow, and as we ascended breathing became more difficult, requiring frequent stops for rest. We cleared the summit late in the afternoon and settled down to its occupation. After a meal, the escort and pack train started their return trip, taking with them the three infantrymen, who were to go to another state. We at once began our actual work, both on the station routine and [in] making the camp as comfortable as possible. We made “dugouts” between the rocks that furnished protection against attack and used Sibley tents for coverings—roofs so to speak. We were above the timber line, the crest being entirely of rocks, while at the camp there were a few straggling pine trees and some bunches of tough mountain grass. Otherwise, it was rock, and nothing but rocks, in which abounded chameleons, a few squirrels, some small birds, and short stuffy rattlesnakes. For our water we went to a spring a short distance from the camp down into Josephine Canyon. We used the mule (“Balaam” by name) with an aparejo for bringing it to camp over a circuitous trail of more than a mile. We also used the mule as transportation to make weekly trips to Crittenden for mail and such few supplies that we would bring in the saddlebags.
From the peak in that clear atmosphere we had an interesting view that covered many miles, even beyond the international border. Nogales, fifty miles away, was plainly visible, and away to the eastward one could see a surprisingly long distance. The heliograph, or “sun telegraph,” as it was often spoken of on the frontier, is an instrument for signaling by sunlight reflected from a mirror. Metallic mirrors were originally used, but in service they were hard to keep bright and hard to replace if broken in the field. Consequently, glass mirrors were adopted and much successful work was accomplished by using this method of signaling in the armies of different nations, and at that time it was the most valuable instrument for field signaling. We used two 5-inch mirrors mounted on heavy wooden posts that were firmly set between the rocks. Vertical and horizontal tangent screws are attached to the mirrors by which they can be turned to face any desired direction and keep the mirrors in correct position with the sun’s movement. As the flash increases about forty-five times to a mile, it could be read with the naked eye for at least fifty miles.
Equipped with a powerful telescope and field glasses, we made frequent observations of the surrounding country so that any moving body of troops or other men, as well as any unusual smoke or dust, might be detected and at once reported by flashing to headquarters. Troops in the field carried portable heliograph sets that were operated by specially trained and detailed soldiers, by this means communicating through the mountain stations with headquarters.
From our station we worked occasionally with Nogales, fifty miles [away, ] and regularly with Fort Huachuca, thirty-seven miles distant. Then troops located at Calabassas and Tubac required some attention, and in addition, a station, No. 18, was later established at Crittenden with an infantryman named John V. Lovejoy in charge. We alternated in the weekly trips to Crittenden, going down usually on a Saturday and returning on Sunday. This gave each one an opportunity to procure several square meals at a dining room table. Furthermore, there was usually a Mexican baile [ball?] each Saturday evening. These were nice dances with plenty [of] refreshments, though the ladies did not smoke. Each man was required to “park his personal artillery” during the dancing. Considering the situation, we lived well. Joe Johnston was an excellent cook and furnished “well-balanced menus.” We had a goodly supply of dried fruits and canned vegetables, besides the regular ration of flour, bacon,
and other staples, all from the Huachuca commissary, and occasionally some game that our hunting parties brought in from the lower levels.
For the regular daily station work, but two men were required, so by this arrangement each operator could take advantage of every third day for rest or recreation. On such days, we usually made hunting trips in which I selected Scott for my associate. He joined the army shortly after the Civil War and he had the faculty of imparting the knowledge gained by his long service. He frequently related experiences of the early service in western Arkansas and eastern Indian Territory. We did not encounter any of the hostiles during the summer, though we had evidences that some parties crossed from one valley to the other over the hogback below our camp. We managed to keep well occupied—yet it was a long and tedious season—relieved by an occasional Crittenden journey or by scouting trips on the days that we were not on regular station duty.
The department commander carried on a vigorous campaign, and the troops gave the Indians no rest, pursuing them for nearly 2000 miles from New Mexico to Arizona, then to Old Mexico, and thence back into New Mexico again, over the most sterile districts of the Rocky and Sierra Madre mountains, beneath the burning heat of summer, until worn down and discouraged they found no peace in either country and were finally glad to lay down their arms and ask for mercy from the gallant officers and men who despite every hardship had achieved the success their endurance and fortitude so richly deserved.
[I learned that] when General Miles on the evening of September 3 met the troops with the renegades at the mouth of Skeleton Canyon—a fitting spot for the closing event of this extensive manhunt, Geronimo noticed the heliograph apparatus and, interested in the “sun telegraph,” he asked the general to explain just how it worked. He was amazed when the operator on Bowie Peak threw a strong flash on the party while the surrender parley was in progress. He was astonished when told that each mountaintop was equipped with a similar instrument and the men were constantly on the lookout for him. On the evening of September 4th the Indians surrendered as agreed, and early the next morning the general started for Fort Bowie, taking with him Geronimo, Naiche, and four other Indians. The same day the troops started for the post with the main part of the Indians, and by making slow marches reached there several days later. The condition of their stock and their clothing showed that they had been relentlessly pursued, and the signal stations on the mountaintops played an important part at beating the Indian at his own game and in his own stronghold with everything in his own favor.
About the end of September we were ordered to close the station and report to Lieut. Colonel George A. Forsyth at Fort Huachuca. The order from district headquarters prescribing this movement was the first official intimation that we had received of the close of the campaign, although we were not unprepared for it, having heard of the occurrences at Skeleton Canyon. The guard was at once ordered in by Captain Keyes, though the three operators remained several days longer to salvage the property. Our rations were practically exhausted, though we had some flour and water was plentiful. We killed and ate some squirrels, and the small birds that we had fed all summer, until finally we waved “adios” to Mount Baldy and started on our last trek down the mountain and to civilization. Crowley and myself went by rail to Fort Huachuca, and Bluste rode “Balaam” back to the post.
At Station No. 8 we handled many hundreds of messages containing many thousands of words, and, in a final personal communication, Lieutenant Fuller wrote, “I was perfectly satisfied with your work, and considered that you had one of the hardest stations on the line on account of the cold weather (owing to its altitude) and the difficult ascent to the station from the camp each morning.” In his report on the campaign, General Miles made the following reference to the system: “It was the most interesting and valuable heliograph system that has ever been established. These officers (Lts. Fuller and Dravo) and the intelligent men under them, have made good use of the modern scientific appliance, and are entitled to much credit for their important service.” Awaiting assignments to permanent Signal Service stations, Von Herrmann, Whitney, and Neifert were at Fort Huachuca for several weeks enjoying a real rest after their arduous summer. On the day for final “goodbyes,” Whitney started for Pensacola, Florida, Von Hermann for LaCrosse, Wisconsin, and Neifert for Fort Reno, Indian Territory.
What to do with Geronimo and his tribe was the last question. He pled to be left in the Arizona mountains, but General Miles said “no,” knowing full well that they must be removed from those scenes which would at a time of anger rouse them to the warpath again. He urged that the children of suitable age be placed in the various industrial schools in order that the rising generation would not suffer from the acts of their fathers and that their present degraded condition might be materially improved. After an extended argument and discussion (mostly by wire) that seemed uncalled for, the renegades were placed in wagons and sent under heavy guard to Bowie Station, thence by rail to San Antonio, Texas, and soon thereafter to Old Fort Marion, Saint Augustine, Florida, thus ridding the territory of a foe that for three centuries had been a menace to prosperity….
Remembrance of the Apache Campaign (By Samuel D. Gilpin, formerly of Company A, Thirteenth U. S. Infantry. From Winners of the West, October, 1938)
I want to make some observations as to the last Apache war, known otherwise as the Geronimo Indian War of 1885-86…. We were on our way [via train from David’s Island, New York Harbor] to join our regiment, the Thirteenth Infantry, in New Mexico Territory, in September, 1885. In command was Lieutenant Moss [this officer remains unidentified], tall and gracious, and to him I reported every morning as he visited us from his parlor car on the trip of 2, 500 miles to Fort Bayard. I recall more vividly the baked beans in cans than any other incident of that five-day trip. The recruits wanted second helpings so often! I fed them beans three times daily throughout the five days on the train. We had an old soldier with us, a friendly German, who emphasized the novelty of canned baked beans, saying he had eaten them before from a Dutch oven in the field. He was impressive also with stories of shooting buffalo from the porch at Fort Bayard in 1872. September 10, 1885, we recruits were lined up on the parade ground at Fort Bayard for inspection and then distributed to Company A or B, Thirteenth Infantry. And a month later a squad of us was sent to the field, fifteen miles from Fort Bayard, for thirty days with First Lieutenant George R. Cecil in command. To the recruit portion of our detachment, away from David’s Island but a month, all was novelty. It was our first time in the field, and how novel it was to be cautioned to keep down the fire of heavy, hard mesquite at night! The loftiness of the mountains and the foe that might be lurking there filled the mind with awe. Between times it was novel to us recruits to dine on hardtack, bacon, beans, and a drink made by a decoction from Dutch-oven roasted coffee, pulverized with stones in a bag. Three times daily. A lonely old miner was a novelty with his self-imposed task of digging exactly $3 worth of gold from the side of the mountain fronting his shack before noon daily, together with his garden patch of tiny watermelons the size of a cannonball. It was a novelty also to sleep on the ground every night and to listen to Finnegan, my bunky, talk only in accordance with the strict rules of grammar. It was all sharply contrasted with our previous recruit life at David’s Island.
The second field service was four months later, also fifteen miles from Fort Bayard. Here Patrick Sullivan, tall, bronzed, and with seven years’ service, and I guarded the Southern Pacific Railroad station for thirty days, and I, for one, learned to cook, Sullivan knowing all about it. Biscuits I was taught to make by a Chinese cook at the laborers’ boarding house at White Water. He mixed my first batch of flour with my yeast powder and cut the dough into biscuit form, and then he baked the panful in his kitchen oven…. From Mr. Farmer, the station agent, I next learned the American telegraph code, which incidentally did me some service a couple of months later. The result of all these episodes was that when my full Company A arrived at White Water
in thirty days in pursuit of Geronimo, it found me a cook, a baker, and somewhat resembling a telegraph operator.
Next day, the march of my company was toward the Mexican line. Hachita and Almo Waco were our objective points. When we reached Separ in two days at fifteen miles per day, we had before us more than the usual fifteen-mile doughboy trek to Hachita. It was twenty-five miles from Separ to Hachita, and no water between. The twenty-five miles was made, however, in straggling formation in eight hours, but many of the boys turned up at Hachita plagued with soft corns. At daybreak the next morning, Captain John B. Guthrie selected a vanguard of twenty men, Second Lieutenant Charles S. Hall in command, to make camp at Almo Waco on the Mexican border. A ranch was there and our detachment from Company A relieved a troop of the Sixth Cavalry…. At Almo Waco we saw a white woman of refinement, a rare sight on this campaign, and we saw no other for six months. Among this lady’s cowboys was Dr. Thad Updegraff, a young physician from Elmira, New York, out for a roughhewn life for a year to regain his health and on terms of fellowship and equality with Lieutenant Hall. There was nothing doing beyond watching at Almo Waco. Occasionally a squad of Mexican cavalry passed through the Almo Waco camp, making no inquiries, but seeking the common enemy and the latest burned ranch and terrorized ranchman.
In two months, my bunkie, Max Goldman…persuaded me, in view of the watching and uneventful life at Almo Waco so far, to transfer with him to Company A’s headquarters at Hachita where the company was now mounted and had an auxiliary of mounted Indian scouts to guide it thru the mountain trails in an emergency. It was here at Hachita that Sergeant John Walton, a former medical student, and I were soon detailed as heliographers. Each morning thereafter we scaled the mountain to communicate with Fort Bayard, fifty miles distant, with Finnegan the grammarian at the Fort Bayard end. The first day on the mountain at Hachita, Finnegan heliographed an order to move a certain troop of the Sixth Cavalry out to a strategic point. I received this message. Sergeant Walton jotted down my reading on a pad. And soon the cavalry troop was off at a gallop. But alas! It was back in Hachita the next day saying the order must have been misinterpreted. Since I did the reading, it was up to me to don the dunce cap. But in addition, I lost all the prestige I had acquired from Mr. Farmer’s telegraph key at White Water two months before. All that summer of 1886, Walton and I climbed to the mountaintop at 8 a.m. and returned at 3 p.m. to our orthodox hardtack, bacon, beans, and coffee.