Cushing was riding at the head of the party with three soldiers and a citizen or two near him, when Sergeant John Mott saw movements of some Apaches who were trying to get to the rear of the detachment. He sent word to the lieutenant, inducing him to fall back, although already engaged with an ambush of Cochise's followers in front. The latter had succeeded in entirely surrounding the little party, and Cushing, with four at his side, were all slain before they could get back to the rest of their party.
Sylvester Maury, a graduate of West Point—pioneer miner, and author of a classic of modern Arizona, entitled Arizona and Sonora—in a letter to the New York Herald shortly after Cushing's death, boldly charged the catastrophe to the foolish policy then prevailing, of dealing with the Indians of the Southwest. Under this policy, the ravages of the enemy were promoted by feeding them up well during any intervals when they might feel like taking a rest from assassination and plunder. He added:
Now we have the result. There is not a hostile tribe in Arizona or New Mexico, that will not celebrate the killing of Cushing as a great triumph. He was a beau sabreur, an unrelenting fighter; and although the Indians have got him at last, he sent before him a long procession of them to open his path to the undiscovered country. * * * He has left behind him in Arizona a name that will not die in this generation.
As a comment on the foregoing, I need only say that in response to my request, at an Arizona newspaper office a few weeks ago, for some special information regarding Howard Cushing, I was told that the writer had "never heard of the party inquired after." Sic transit gloria mundi, making very rapid time in the transit, in many of the modern instances. Nevertheless, Arizona has taken enough care of Cochise's name to attach it to one of her large counties.
Howard's death occurred more than three-and-a-half years before that of William; but I fancy that the acts and sayings of the latter at the time of his brother's demise were such as to indicate something in the nature of nervous affection. Mrs. Bouton informs me that it was difficult to dissuade him from a project that he had in mind, to go into the frontier service himself and there take vengeance on Howard's slayers. On first hearing of the fatality he had been unable to refrain from tears, even after reaching the office of a commercial bank. Before leaving the place, he wrote the following letter to his brother Milton:
THE BLACKSTONE NATIONAL BANK, BOSTON,
May 15th, 1871.
My only and very dear Brother: With a heart full of agony I write to you of our terrible misfortune. Dear, brave "Howie" is no more. I saw the news in the paper at 8 a. m. in the country this morning, and hastened in to break it to Mother. Poor, dear little Ma! Her heart is almost broken. Oh! dear old fellow—we are left alone now—the last of four; and let us swear to stand by each other and our noble Mother in all things. Let our old boyhood and vows come back with full force and meaning, and let us cling together in truest and most unselfish love and friendship. I long for you, dear brother—for a clasp of your true, honest hand, and the comfort of one glance into your eyes. How much it would comfort Mother to see you before you go! Tomorrow I take her with me into the Country where we are living. I am in delightful quarters, and shall take good care of little Ma. God bless her! Kate [the writer's wife] is like a real daughter to her; and I thank Heaven that she was not alone in Mary's absence. [Referring to the present Mrs. Bouton, whose name was Mary Isabel, the "Mary" having since been dropped by her.]
Dear old fellow—we must be doubly loving and attentive to little Ma now. Write often to her. One thing is certain of her Sons; they can not be beaten. You can kill but not conquer them. A beautiful tribute was paid to Lon by the General of his brigade at the great Army of the Potomac meeting here. He described his wonderful, superhuman bravery. How he demanded—white with loss of blood—to go again to the front. The General said, "You have done all that mortal can do; attend now to your wounds." Lon answered, "No, I will fall by my guns." He selected Allie as the only one to especially eulogize, God bless the brave boys! I can almost see their meeting—the handclasp of two who gave up life for duty; and Father, joined by his noble Sons, proudly and tenderly embracing them.
God bless you, dear brother! Don't lose love for me. We are alone now. My tears are falling so that I can scarcely see. Good bye.
With all his heart your loving brother
Will.
The story of these noble sons of Wisconsin might properly be concluded with the foregoing letter; but for the satisfaction of those who may wish to have a good idea of the personal appearance of the young cavalryman, I will add the description given by Captain Bourke:
He was about five feet seven in height, spare, sinewy, active as a cat; slightly stoop-shouldered, sandy complexioned, keen gray or bluish gray eyes, which looked you through when he spoke and gave a slight hint of the determination, coolness and energy which had made his name famous all over the southwestern border.
Kate is like a pal daughter to her and I thank Heaven that she was not alone in Macy's absence. Dear old fellow it must be doubly boring and attrition to little Ma now. Write often to her—One thing is certain of her Son—they can not be beaten. You care kill but not conquer them. A beautiful tribute was paid to Lon by the General of his brigade at the great Army of Potomac awaiting here. He described his wonderful, super human bravery. How he demanded—white with loss of blood—to go again to the front. The General said 'You have done all that mortal can do—attend now to your wounds.' Lon answered "No. I will fall by my guns." He selected Allie as the only one to especially eulogize. God bless the brave boys! I can almost see their meeting the hand clasp of two who gave up life for duty, and Father, joined by his noble Sons proudly and tenderly embracing them.
God bless you—dear brother! Don't lose love for me—We are alone now—My tears are falling so that I can scarcely see—Good bye.
With all his heart
Your loving Brother
Will.
Facsimile of part of letter from William B. Cushing to his brother Milton; dated May 15, 1871
So long as such men can be produced in the republic, there is little danger of its decline and fall. Without such, or men of stamina approximating to their standard, our country would be likely to meet the fate of its predecessors, and become the prey of stronger peoples. It would therefore be foolish indeed to withhold from our fighting men the honor and the more substantial rewards which tend to encourage bravery and, when necessary, the upholding of our national solidarity by force of arms. To a considerable degree this is accomplished by our national pension system; but that is faulty, in respect that it makes no distinction, as to the amount of his quarterly stipend, between a four-years' fighting soldier and a ninety-days' malingerer in or about hospitals.
That it was difficult to provide for advancement in the army, in accordance with desert, is evident from the fact that Howard Cushing served as a private soldier in the same battery for twenty months. That was, indeed, keeping talent hidden in a very inconspicuous napkin. It may be that such bad fortune was unavoidable on the whole, and that a just grading of pensions would be still more difficult to attain than logically-just promotions in the army. At all events, it is clear to me that whatever does tend most effectually to keep alive in our citizenship such devotion to the country as to make men willing to strive to the uttermost and to die for its sake, is what ought to be practised—and where possible, improved.