CHAPTER XXI.
Exactly ten years from the day we had left New York I returned. My heart was so bound up in frontier life I had hoped until the last moment that the spring rains, which had been unusually severe, would keep us storm-bound in Texas. The town of Brackett had been flooded just before our departure, and the post, from its high and dry hill, looked down upon a scene of devastation and misery. Every house on the low lands was undermined, and many were washed away; the people sought refuge in trees, where they were obliged to remain for hours, until assistance in the shape of boats reached them.
Of course, as in all scenes where the colored race is conspicuous, several ludicrous incidents occurred. One old mammy, who weighed at least two hundred pounds, in her joy at being rescued, fell into the arms of an unusually small white soldier, and swamped herself, the soldier, and the boat.
Days passed before the water subsided, and in consequence our journey was delayed a month; as with four days of ambulance travel to San Antonio we did not dare start until the roads were dry. I was wicked enough to hope they never would be in condition for travel; but when the mail again reached us regularly there was no farther excuse for delay, and with tearful eyes I bade adieu to dearly loved Fort Clark.
Many of the ladies thought my unwillingness to leave Texas could not be really sincere, a change seemed to them so desirable. But my fears that I should not feel at home in civil life, where everything was so different, were verified.
Four days’ travel by ambulance through deep mud was required to reach San Antonio. We did not tarry to explore that curious old town, but stepped immediately on board a train for Galveston, where we arrived in twenty-four hours. At that place I parted from my husband, and took a steamer for New York. Seven days’ passage over Southern and into Northern seas brought us to the city, where our children saw civilization for the first time within their recollections.
It is needless to recount our experiences in New York, or rather Coney Island, where we remained through the summer, and which was just the place for little barbarians to see strange sights and become familiarized with strange scenes.
After all the frontier travel and its dangers through which we had passed, it seemed odd that this land of safety should hardly have been reached before we narrowly escaped serious harm. I chose the boat as a means of transit to Coney Island; and when we reached the pier found that our trunks had not arrived, and so waited hours for the expressman, who did not come until very late in the day.
I was overwhelmed with our belongings, which consisted of two large trunks, the same number of hand-bags, an immense valise, and a violin. After we had boarded the boat and fairly started on our way, I was dismayed to find night rapidly approaching, and most ominous-looking clouds arising. They proved precursors of a furious storm, the violence of which reminded me of those experienced while at the West. Much damage was done in and around New York Harbor.
When we neared the island after a terrifying trip, I saw to my horror that the boat, instead of landing at the first and completed iron pier, passed it, and made for the uncompleted pier, which jutted much farther out into the ocean, and at that time was simply an uncovered walk about a quarter of a mile in length.
Nothing, however, could be done except land—with three children—and stand in the maddest rush of rain to which I had ever been exposed, watching our trunks and bags tumbled out into the storm. Aware that a few moments’ exposure to such a torrent would ruin their contents, I looked, but in vain, for a means of conveyance to the hotel. No one was in sight, the few passengers who had landed having immediately hastened away; and as we were being completely drenched, I decided to leave the baggage to its fate.
Carrying as much as possible in my hands, I sent our little girl in advance with her small brothers. Judge of my horror when suddenly I saw the piles of boards that were stacked in readiness for roofing the pier, moving and actually filling the air on all sides. The children were directly in the path of that furious hurricane, and I could only helplessly watch them. Fortunately it did not last long; and my little daughter was wise enough to race ahead with her brothers, so no damage was done except the loss of both the boys’ hats, which blew into the ocean. Then the rain descended with redoubled force; but some one compassionately let us into a little house built for the workmen, where, terrified beyond measure, we were shut in with darkness.
I was all the while worrying about our trunks, and finally induced a workman to promise that he would have them taken to the hotel. But the man soon returned, and reported that they had disappeared. That was a severe blow; and in the darkness I wandered all over the pier until finally a kind policeman was found, who assured me the trunks could not have been stolen. Our search was at last rewarded by their discovery, when the policeman called a coach and bade me take the children to a hotel. I did so, and then sent the coachman back for our trunks.
An hour passed without his return, when I made inquiries, only to be consoled by being told that the coachman was unknown in the hotel, and had probably stolen our possessions.
I started again, in spite of the continued storm, for that pier, where to my joy I spied the policeman, who said he had refused to deliver the trunks without a written order. Although deeply grateful for his caution, I would gladly have been back in Texas, where, whatever happened, there was some one to share hardships with me.
The storm was unusually severe. After its cessation sign-boards were found scattered all over the island, and some buildings had been unroofed.
It is not my intention to dwell at length on our sojourn in the East, which lasted four years. This is a tale of army life, and one accustomed to it is amazed when living among civilians to find how little they know of such an institution as the army.
My husband had long been entitled, by reason of rank and length of service, to the one detail—that of recruiting—which brings a cavalry officer East. He had always intended to reserve this for the time when an education would be demanded for our children, and that time had come; so Mr. Boyd applied for and received the detail in the fall of 1882.
On reaching St. Louis, where the choice of several cities was given him, he selected Boston because of its excellent schools. We spent there a winter, which seemed to us, fresh from sunny climes, one long succession of rain, fogs, and east winds. Still, the many advantages of that well-regulated city were appreciated, and had I been well we should have enjoyed its intellectual atmosphere. As it was, we were glad when summer arrived, and a little cottage on one of the delightful beaches near by could be taken. It was a great treat, and we were most thoroughly enjoying our surroundings, when, in the month of August, a thunder-clap fell on our ears in the shape of an order for that Eastern cavalry recruiting station to be discontinued.
Boston had kept the station for so many years I could not at first believe the bad news was true. But it proved to be; and Captain Boyd, who had just received his promotion, was ordered to open a recruiting office in Davenport, Iowa. After having served faithfully as lieutenant for twenty-one years, he had at last been advanced to the rank of captain.
It was not deemed advisable for the entire family to be continually changing from East to West, and vice versâ, so Captain Boyd went alone to his new station. Time showed that our decision had been judicious; for before his two years of recruiting service were over he had been assigned to four different stations, going from Davenport, Iowa, to Rochester, New York, and finally spending three months at Jefferson Barracks, Missouri.
Our long planned Eastern tour had proved an utter failure, and was one more added to the list of many disappointments. After giving up our country home near Boston, I went to New York with our children, and placing them in excellent schools entered a hospital, where I remained for one long year, a sufferer from illness entailed by early army hardships. Our little boy was sent to his grandparents in the country, and my husband returned to Texas.
After Captain Boyd had been alone there a year, he asked for and obtained leave of absence, which permitted us to spend four pleasant months at Cooperstown, on Otsego Lake, where we had a glorious time. My husband endeared himself to every one, for he was constantly helping others.
While he was stationed at Davenport, Iowa, a gentleman from there called on me in New York, who described Captain Boyd as the most popular man in the city. He said that every white man, woman, and child in the town knew and loved my husband, while every old darky idolized him.
The ladies connected with one of Davenport’s principal churches were greatly in need of money for charitable purposes, and Captain Boyd wrote and delivered a lecture in their behalf which netted nearly three hundred dollars. It was a humorous view of the Indian question, and elicited shouts of applause. He was subsequently invited to give the same address in other cities.
On Captain Boyd’s return to the frontier his services as a lecturer were in great demand, and he was in that way able to raise large sums of money for charitable purposes. My husband became the best-known army officer at the West on account of his frequent appearances on the lecture platform.
In the early spring of 1885, four years after having left Texas, I returned. In all that time not one moment had passed in which I would not gladly have been there; so I seized the first plausible excuse afforded—a greatly needed change for our daughter—and leaving the eldest boy at school in New York, again sailed for husband and frontier life.
The sea voyage to Galveston was the most soothing and delightful trip of the kind possible. The water never appears rough immediately after leaving New York; and for three days, while off the coast of Florida, the vessel seemed gently—almost imperceptibly so far as motion was concerned—gliding along. On arriving at San Antonio, instead of a tedious ambulance-ride awaiting us, we went by rail to Fort Clark, which was reached in a few hours.
The sight of dear old familiar landmarks was inexpressibly pleasant; and when we were ushered into one of those well-remembered little houses, with all the old furniture about, it really seemed too good to be true. Everything was more than satisfactory; and the gratification afforded by the change can be understood only by those who have been away from loved scenes for years, and on returning found all expectations realized. Old friends were there to greet us, and we were supremely happy in the renewal of our former life.
My content and joy lasted four months, when rumors of Indian outbreaks in far away New Mexico reached our ears, and were soon followed by an order for all cavalry troops to hold themselves in immediate marching readiness.
Captain Boyd had just returned from a trip to San Antonio, having gone there in compliance with a request to deliver the oration at the National Cemetery on Decoration Day. In that address my husband distinguished himself in a way to be long remembered by his family and friends. It was the most touching and felicitous tribute to our dead soldiers ever written; touching because of the truest sentiments; felicitous because in a place where sectional feeling had for years run riot, not one word was uttered to which the veterans on either side could object.
The address was very lengthy, occupying four columns of the San Antonio Express, in which it was published next day; but every word was listened to with eager interest by the immense audience. Long before its conclusion the fervent tears that fell from old soldiers’ eyes attested Captain Boyd’s eloquence; and when he ceased speaking the veterans, mainly of the Southern army, crowded about him with words of earnest praise, and begged that he honor them with a visit. The Texas papers were unanimous in the declaration that no such masterly address had ever before been heard on a similar occasion.
Captain Boyd was obliged to hasten his return because feeling very ill; he had been scarcely able to stand in the heat of that day, May 30, 1885, when, as usual at that season of the year in Texas, the temperature was extreme and the atmosphere torrid. After reaching home he was confined to his room for a week, and then came word for the troops to start for New Mexico.
The order was received in a telegraphic dispatch from Washington, and was immediately complied with. Before we could realize it, every troop of cavalry had left Fort Clark for an indefinite period. A long series of Apache outrages headed by Geronimo had resulted in the determination to capture him and his band, if it took the whole army to do it. Accordingly, from every post in New Mexico and Texas all troops that could be spared were sent.
A cordon of outposts was established, so that the Indians who had gone into Mexico could not return without being captured. The devastations they had wrought were terrible. The little corner of south-western New Mexico, in the neighborhood of Fort Bayard, had become a veritable charnel house. Every interest of the country had been ruined by their constant raids.
The President’s attention was directly drawn to the state of affairs by my brother, who was in Washington at the time. He had edited a paper in Silver City, New Mexico, for several years, and had kept an account of the number of murders committed by Indians—five hundred in eight years. In such a sparsely settled country the loss of so many precious lives was not only sad beyond expression, but if continued must result in hopeless ruin to that region, which, as I have before stated, is the garden spot of the West. Sheltered by numerous hills, cattle always thrive and increase there, because of the perfectly equable climate and a constant supply of nutritive food.
For those very reasons, probably, it was a paradise for the Indians, who could steal in and out more readily on account of the numerous mountain hiding-places.
It was very unusual for troops stationed in Texas to be sent out of their district; but in that case everything possible was done to enhance the safety of the long-suffering people. I shall not try to give an account of that long-protracted warfare, which lasted eighteen months before Geronimo was captured. During that time our troops marched over ground that was well-nigh impassable, and endured every species of hardships. The cavalry worked night and day to secure those wily Indians, and finally succeeded; but a volume would be required if their hardships and sufferings were to be recounted.
It is simply impossible for any one who has not seen the unsettled portions of this country to imagine its character and the difficulties which beset troops that follow on the trails of Indians. Our cavalry has been criticised freely; but I would say to the critic: “Go thou and do likewise.” More than they have done, it would be impossible to do, and no country could be less grateful than ours. If soldiers were rewarded according to their deserts, each cavalryman would wear the choicest prize within the nation’s gift. The service is very trying. I can scarcely recall an officer who is not a martyr to severe sufferings caused by constant exposure, and who in middle life is not an old man both in feeling and experience.
After reaching Deming, New Mexico, Captain Boyd’s troop was sent into the Black Range, where they encamped at a little place called Grafton, fifty miles from the mountains. I have my husband’s diary, which contains an account of the march and the country over which they traveled. He greatly disliked to settle quietly down in the camp selected as a permanent one, and was delighted when a letter summoning him away was received.
The letter was sent from a little Mexican town about one hundred miles distant, and informed him that ten Indian women had reached there, who, if captured, would perhaps prove valuable hostages. They were the wives of some members of the band that were on the war-path; and if they could be secured the probability of effecting a treaty seemed reasonable.
Captain Boyd lost no time in preparations, but started at once with twenty mounted men. The march occupied five days, and on reaching the town the Indian women were found in an almost starving condition.
The country was very rough, and a few lines received from my husband while there stated that he was suffering greatly from the effects of bad drinking-water. The man who had sent the letter begged him to remain a few days, and not risk the effects of the return to camp while so ill. But he refused to stay, fearing the Indian women might escape if not speedily taken to a permanent military station.
My husband returned to camp, having suffered intensely during the ten days of his absence, and when he reached his troop was dying, though still refusing to consider himself seriously ill. He at once ordered the only officer with him to proceed with the Indian women to the place where the main body of the regiment was encamped, one hundred and fifty miles distant.
The young officer was so anxious about Captain Boyd that he sent a courier for the nearest surgeon, who was at Hillsboro, eighty miles away. It was four days before the doctor could reach Grafton, and meantime Captain Boyd was without proper medical attendance. Everything his faithful soldiers could do was done; but, alas, to no purpose! The army doctor’s first glance showed him that Captain Boyd was doomed.
For five days the most unremitting care and attention were given him, both by the kind physician and by a captain of the regiment who had accompanied him. But all was useless. The fifth day ended the life of this noble and true man.
Captain Boyd’s last hard ride had developed violent inflammation which was simply incurable, as the disease had been increasing for years, having first developed when during the war the young soldier had been compelled to drink impure water and go without food for days. Subsequent years of cavalry hardships had increased its strength until that last exposure proved fatal.
Home in Texas we scarcely realized that he was ill when the terrible news of his death came in a telegram that had been two days en route.
Letters had been received from him so regularly that when they ceased I supposed he was still on the march. When the doctor and captain began to write, their communications were at first so encouraging that we could scarcely believe he was in any danger, and were totally unprepared for the terrible sequel. In fact, no one could at first accept the sad truth; for Captain Boyd had been the picture of health, and had impressed every one with his unusual vitality. When the young officer who had been sent forward with the Indian women returned to find his beloved captain dead and buried, the shock was so great he almost fell from his horse.
That Indian campaign resulted in some terrible deaths, but none was more shocking than this sad ending to a long and most faithful career.
Only a few months previously Captain Boyd had spoken very feelingly of the double loss army women sustained when death robbed them of their husbands—the loss of both husband and home. He realized how deeply attached to the life they became, and how sad it was that they must be cast adrift from all the associations of years. But such, though sorrowful in all its aspects, is the fate of army women.
My grief was intensified by the utter refusal of the Secretary of War to remove all that remained of so true and manly a soldier to a National Cemetery. After my first request had been denied I went to Washington, only to receive there a second from the same source; the reason given being that government could not afford to incur the expense.
Had I not made every effort possible, there would have been another lonely grave in the very heart of a remote mountain region, where none who loved him could ever have visited the spot.
Captain Boyd died on the same day as General Grant. A week later orders were received at Fort Clark from the War Department, directing that the nation’s great general should have every honor paid his memory. Guns were fired, flags displayed at half-mast, and the band played sad and solemn music, while troops paraded in honor of the dead general and his great achievements.
It seemed to me mournful and unjust, that while high and deserved honors were paid the memory of one, the other, as noble and true a soldier as ever walked this earth, and who had given twenty-four of his forty-one years of life in faithful service, had endured terrible hardships, and yielded at last even his life for his country, should be laid to rest far from home and friends, out on the lonely prairie, and except in the hearts of a few his memory should utterly fade.
Captain Boyd sleeps in the National Cemetery at San Antonio, where six weeks previously he had touched all hearts with his eloquence. Graven on his tomb are the last words of that memorable address: