PREFACE.
I take pleasure in directing attention to the kind and affectionate tribute paid my husband, Captain Orsemus Bronson Boyd, and contained in the Appendix of this volume. It is from the pen of a former classmate, the gifted writer, Colonel Richard Henry Savage.
I trust my readers will not think this introduction too lengthy. The perusal of it seems necessary to a proper understanding of my reasons for describing, in the following pages, the pains, perils, and pleasures experienced by land and sea in the various peregrinations of a cavalry officer’s wife. With Colonel Savage’s testimonial it furnishes a completeness to the narrative that would otherwise be lacking.
In 1861, when every heart, both North and South, was fired by military ardor, two brothers, named Amos and Orsemus Boyd, lived in the small town of Croton, Delaware County, New York State. Immediately on the declaration of civil war they experienced but one desire—to join the Northern Army. The brothers had lost their mother when very young, but the stepmother their father had given them always endeavored to faithfully fill her place.
Additions to the family circle of a tiny boy and girl had only cemented its happy relations. Amos and his brother were, however, at the ages when boys welcome any escape from a life of wearisome monotony. Farm life, with its endless routine of seed-time and harvest, stretched before them a barren horizon. But neither was old enough to enlist without his father’s sanction. Amos was less than eighteen years of age, and his brother but sixteen. Months passed before the father could be persuaded to give even a reluctant consent to the fervid desire of his sons to join the army. Finally it was gained, though he afterward sorely repented, and begged his wife to also spare him from her side, that he might accompany his boys. He could not endure the thought of his youthful sons departing for the scenes of such dangers without his sheltering presence.
By what means Mrs. Boyd was induced to consent to her husband’s enlistment can only be understood by those who recall the loyal sentiments expressed by women in 1861. Our country was then aglow with patriotism. As in the South women gave their nearest and dearest to the cause, so in the North they were bereft of fathers, husbands, sons and brothers. In the little town of Croton every family sent at least one representative to the army, and many waved adieu to all its male members. This left to women the severe tasks of cultivating farms and rearing families.
The young stepmother of the lads in question not only lent her husband to his country, but during the entire three years of his absence tilled and tended the farm, and so well, that on his return it had not only improved in appearance, but also increased in value.
It requires little imagination to picture the sad parting when father and sons, after having enlisted in the Eighty-ninth Regiment New York Volunteers, left the quiet little village to join the army.
The younger son was not at first permitted to act as a soldier on account of his youth. Allowed to carry the flag at the head of the command, his bravery and boldness caused his father incessant anxiety. At the battle of Camden, when the second color bearer fell, our young hero seized his flag and carried that also until the close of battle. For such an act of bravery General Burnside summoned him to headquarters, and sent him home on recruiting service.
Prior to this young Boyd had been with Burnside’s expedition off Cape Hatteras, where for twenty-six days the soldiers had lain outside, shipwrecked, and obliged to subsist on raw rice alone, as no fires could be built. When they finally landed on Roanoke Island our young lads were jubilant.
Orsemus took an active part in raising the One Hundred and Forty-fourth New York Volunteers, and for numberless acts of bravery was commissioned second lieutenant of Company D, September, 1862. By reason of the senior officers’ absence he was for months, though but eighteen years of age, in command of a company of soldiers in which his father and elder brother were enlisted men. Perhaps no incident, even in those stirring war times, was more unusual.
The young lieutenant’s father spent much time and effort in endeavoring to restrain his young son’s ardor and ambition, which if unchecked would no doubt have resulted either in rapid promotion or an early grave. The lad knew no fear, and was always in the front of battle. His name was again and again mentioned in “General Orders” for “meritorious conduct.”
Sadder than their home leaving was the return, two years later, of father and youngest boy, who went back to lay the remains of their eldest son and brother in the grave beside his mother. Amos had served his country well, and met the fate of many other brave soldiers.
In addition to this sorrow the father constantly feared lest his second son should also experience a soldier’s death; and while the father’s heart glowed with pride at the encomiums lavished upon his boy’s bravery, and the merited rewards it had already received, yet the fear of losing him was strongest, and at that home coming a compromise was effected.
The member of Congress from their district, desirous of finding an acceptable appointee to West Point, chose the gallant young lieutenant, who unwillingly accepted. Two years of active service had proved his essential fitness for the profession of arms.
With a heart burdened with sorrow, and yet not entirely hopeless, the father of two brave sons returned alone to his regiment, and finished three years of service with our noble Army of the Potomac.
Orsemus Boyd entered West Point in June, 1863, after having spent a short time in preparation. No doubt his years of service at the front had given the lad ideas at variance with the whims of those young men who had already passed their first year at the academy.
Any one who has been at West Point knows that a newly appointed cadet, or “plebe” as he is called, is expected not only to bow before his superior officers in the line of duty, but is compelled to endure all slights and snubs that any cadet chooses to impose. In 1863 the discipline in that respect was excessive.
The result, in the case of Mr. Boyd, was that he became unpopular for refusing to submit to many annoyances. The climax was reached when, after having fought with one cadet and come out the victor, he refused—having demonstrated his courage and ability—to fight with another, a man who had criticised the language used in the heat of battle, and was consequently dubbed a coward. This, though exceedingly trying to a person of his sensitive nature, was endured with the same patience as were subsequent trials.
After the furlough year, which comes when the first long two years of cadet life have passed, Mr. Boyd returned to West Point from that most desired leave of absence, with renewed hope and courage. Two months spent in his boyhood’s home, cheered and strengthened by the love of many friends, enabled him to go back animated by fullest intentions to ignore all disagreeables and calmly prepare for a life of usefulness. But it was not to be.
Shortly after Mr. Boyd’s return he missed sums of money brought from home, but said nothing about it, as he had few confidants and was naturally reticent.
In the same class with Mr. Boyd was a man who had entered West Point at the avowed age of twenty-five, though undoubtedly much older, as his appearance indicated. During war time the extreme of age for admission there, which before and since was and is limited to twenty-two years, had been extended to twenty-five. This was done in order to permit young men who had achieved distinction in real warfare the opportunity of acquiring a military education. So this man, named Casey, had entered at the acknowledged age of twenty-five.
He was absolutely impecunious, and belonged to an Irish family in very humble circumstances. Mr. Boyd’s parents, whose ancestors had fought in the Revolutionary War, were of pure and unadulterated American origin. Yet the superior age and cunning of the elder man unfitted the younger to cope with him. Always open and above board, Mr. Boyd neither knew nor expected tricks of any kind, and hence was not prepared to meet them.
Mr. Casey was compelled to procure money at all hazards. Before entering West Point he had married. That fact, if known, would have dismissed him at once from the academy, in accordance with the laws governing that institution, which permit no cadet to marry. It therefore became the object of Casey’s life to conceal all knowledge of that which, if known, would have proved a potent factor in his downfall. Consumed with ambition and the desire to reach distinction in every social way, he assiduously cultivated the acquaintance of all cadets who could in any manner help him upward.
In the academy at that time were several cadets, sons of very wealthy parents, who, contrary to West Point rules, kept in their rooms at barracks large sums of money. That was Casey’s opportunity, for he had constant need of it with which to silence the wife who had threatened his exposure. So great was the confidence of the academy classmates in each other that the money was simply placed in a trunk, to which all the clique had free access, and used as a general fund.
Government supplies cadets with all necessary articles, therefore only luxuries need be purchased, and the limit of these is much reduced by the absence of stores. So even to those generous young men the disappearance of money in large sums became puzzling, and led to inquiries which developed into suspicions, and a plan was formed to mark some of the bills, and thus discover the evil-doer. Mr. Boyd, by reason of his unpopularity, was unaware of these movements, and he had told no one of his own losses.
The cadets had informed their immediate commandant that money was constantly being stolen in the corps. Aghast at such a state of affairs, he had authorized and selected a committee of eight—two from among the eldest members of each company—to find and punish the thief. In an unguarded moment the commandant had said:
“If you find the offender, you can deal with him as you deem advisable.”
The most prominent member of the committee was Casey, himself the real culprit. After a perfunctory search through quarters occupied by other cadets, they reached Mr. Boyd’s, and found nothing to reward their efforts. At that juncture Casey glanced upward at a pile of books lying on some shelves, and said:
“Let us look in that large dictionary.”
None but a crowd of frantic boys could have failed to have observed how promptly he had selected the veritable book in which the money was found, where subsequent events, as well as his dying confession, proved he had himself placed it.
Casey’s room, shared with Cadet Hamilton, was directly opposite that occupied by Mr. Boyd, who roomed alone because of his unpopularity. Mr. Boyd’s room was so unguarded and accessible, that no doubt Casey had frequently entered it and taken money from the man whom he now accused. Casey had skillfully sought to direct suspicion in every way toward Mr. Boyd. Long had he wielded his baleful influence, to which, though no one had observed it, all had succumbed.
The search took place at noon, when the main body of the corps were at dinner. On Mr. Boyd’s return to his room he found it filled with cadets, who madly accused him of the crime. White with horror and shame unspeakable, he answered their charges in a way which would have convinced any judge of human nature that he was entirely innocent. Sinking to his knees, and raising his eyes to heaven, he said:
“By the memory of my dead mother I swear I know nothing whatever of this money!”
To any one who knew the young man’s tender, brave soul, and how hallowed was the memory of his mother, that avowal would have sufficed. But it was not an occasion for calm and deliberate judgment. The supposed culprit had at last been found, and he was in the hands of Philistines. No thought of mercy impelled any of those young men to hesitate in their cruelty. With brute force—eight men to one man—they placed Mr. Boyd in confinement until later in the day, when at dress parade they could publicly and brutally disgrace him.
I now quote, from a published account by an eye-witness, the scene which followed:
“It was a cold, sad, lusterless day. The air was full of snow and the cold was bitter. Orders were given to fall into ranks in the area of barracks for undress parade. The cadet adjutant commanded: ‘Parade Rest.’ After a pause he continued: ‘Cadet captains will place themselves opposite their respective company fronts, and arrest any man who leaves the ranks.’
“There was an interval of the most profound stillness. Then above the wind’s howling came the sound of tramping feet. Across the broad porch of the barracks and down the steps came four cadets, bearing between them a man’s form. They advanced along the battalion’s front. As they turned, the adjutant raised his right hand, and forthwith the drums and fifes beat and wailed out, in unmelodious and unearthly harmony, the terrible tune of the ‘Rogue’s March.’
“On they came; and now I saw affixed to that man’s breast a large white placard, and on it the words: ‘Coward!’ ‘Liar!’ ‘Thief!’ The face above the words was marble white as the face of the dead, but the wild, staring, blood-red eyes seemed to wail and shrink in their horrible misery.
“The four cadets passed along the full length of the battalion, and with their victim turned down the slope beyond the buildings and disappeared.”
On their way to the South Dock the persecuted man broke away from his accusers, but was warned to “beware” how he “ever set foot again upon West Point,” and threatened with yet worse treatment should he do so.
General Cullum was then in command at West Point. On that particular evening he was returning from the direction of the dock toward which those heartless cadets had driven Mr. Boyd, when he met the young man face to face. Amazed at the temerity of a cadet who could boldly face him in civilian’s attire, he halted and said:
“What do you mean, sir? Return at once to your quarters!”
The general’s first and most natural thought was that Mr. Boyd had dressed himself in civilian’s clothes, and was stealing off the post in search of amusement. But a second glance showed him a face full of grief and shame—a countenance on which utter woe was depicted. He took the young man at once to his own quarters, questioned him, and found to his dismay that the cadets had perpetrated a most unprecedented and cruel outrage.
General Cullum determined then and there that the matter should be sifted to the bottom. Mr. Boyd was to be tried, and proven either guilty or guiltless. His father was sent for, and the son allowed to return home pending the investigation.
What greater sorrow can be imagined than that which then fell upon this sorely stricken family? A young man who had faced the enemy’s fire again and again, who had already won his shoulder-straps in the very front of war’s alarms, to be charged with petty thievery, untruth, and cowardice! His stepmother said:
“Had our son been accused of fighting hastily, perhaps too readily, I could have believed him guilty. But for the sake of money Orsemus never could have done wrong.”
Mr. Boyd had been supplied by his father with all the money he wanted, and at his own request an account kept of it, which showed that before this episode he had spent three hundred dollars—a large sum in a place like West Point, where every need is supplied by government.
The court of inquiry instituted by General Cullum resulted in a verdict of “not guilty.” In the eyes of the cadets, whose insensate cruelty had warped their judgment, it was simply a Scotch verdict of “not proven;” and, though acquitted, the defendant was thenceforth a disgraced and dishonored man.
Mr. Boyd remained at the academy nearly two years longer, until his graduation in June, 1867. During all that time he was completely ostracized, and, with one, or possibly two exceptions, never exchanged one word with any cadet, all of whom regarded him as a coward. But none can contemplate such a life without marveling at its wonderful courage. Mr. Boyd had determined to graduate with honor, and thus show the world that he possessed such bravery as would not allow false charges to ruin his whole career.
I was introduced to him in 1866, and before our meeting had heard the whole story. The first look into his frank and manly countenance made me from that moment his stanch and true advocate. I was then attending school in New York, but finished in July, and we were married in October, three months after Mr. Boyd graduated.
Then began the hardships born of that West Point episode. Of course such bitter and terrible wrongs could not have been done a sensitive man without their affecting his whole life. To this may be attributed Mr. Boyd’s desire to go West, and there remain.
It engendered in him a great unwillingness to demand even his just dues; and when he was ordered to leave California at a day’s notice, and given no proper transportation, he submitted without a murmur. As I shared all those hardships, and shall always feel their effects, I have no hesitancy in saying that I attribute them all to the West Point wrong and injury.
Mr. Boyd could have entered the artillery branch of the service had he not longed to escape all reminders of that terrible experience, and so chose the Eighth Cavalry, which was stationed on the Pacific coast.
The subsequent hardships endured were due not only to the crude state of affairs at the West in those days, but also to the crushed spirit which so much injustice had engendered in my husband. He could not bear to ask favors, and be, perhaps, refused. Mr. Boyd even shrank at first from his fellow-officers. I know that no enlisted man’s wife was ever exposed to more or severer perils than was the young school-girl from New York City; and I consider them the direct result of those sad years at West Point.
Mr. Boyd was always selected in after-years to handle the funds at every post where we were stationed, which distinctly showed how his honor was regarded by men competent to judge. But it resulted in countless expeditions that were both hazardous and expensive. He was sent by General Pope to build Fort Bayard because of his incorruptible honesty; but to be so constantly changing stations added greatly to our hardships.
“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” A singular evidence of the truth and justice of this text is shown in the meting out to those eight misguided young men of sorrow, misery, and sudden death, which seems to me a return for their attempted sacrifice of the career and honor of a gallant and innocent man. The roll is a terrible one. Casey, after confessing his crime, concealed it, aided and abetted by Hamilton. In less than a year after his apparently honorable graduation, he was shot by one of his own soldiers. Of the remainder, two committed suicide, one was murdered, one butchered by Modoc Indians; while family sorrow, bankruptcy, and disappointment or untimely death have caused the rest to mournfully regret their early hastiness and error of judgment, and the acts of gross cruelty which sprang therefrom.
The Author.