



Produced by Dianne Bean








ARMY LETTERS FROM AN OFFICER'S WIFE


By Frances M. A. Roe




PREFACE

PERHAPS it is not necessary to say that the events mentioned in the
letters are not imaginary--perhaps the letters themselves tell that!
They are truthful accounts of experiences that came into my own
life with the Army in the far West, whether they be about Indians,
desperadoes, or hunting--not one little thing has been stolen. They
are of a life that has passed--as has passed the buffalo and the
antelope--yes, and the log and adobe quarters for the Army. All flowery
descriptions have been omitted, as it seemed that a simple, concise
narration of events as they actually occurred, was more in keeping with
the life, and that which came into it. FRANCES M. A. ROE.





ARMY LETTERS FROM AN OFFICER'S WIFE


KIT CARSON, COLORADO TERRITORY, October, 1871.

IT is late, so this can be only a note--to tell you that we arrived here
safely, and will take the stage for Fort Lyon to-morrow morning at six
o'clock. I am thankful enough that our stay is short at this terrible
place, where one feels there is danger of being murdered any minute.
Not one woman have I seen here, but there are men--any number of
dreadful-looking men--each one armed with big pistols, and leather belts
full of cartridges. But the houses we saw as we came from the station
were worse even than the men. They looked, in the moonlight, like huge
cakes of clay, where spooks and creepy things might be found. The hotel
is much like the houses, and appears to have been made of dirt, and a
few drygoods boxes. Even the low roof is of dirt. The whole place is
horrible, and dismal beyond description, and just why anyone lives here
I cannot understand.

I am all upset! Faye has just been in to say that only one of my trunks
can be taken on the stage with us, and of course I had to select one
that has all sorts of things in it, and consequently leave my pretty
dresses here, to be sent for--all but the Japanese silk which happens to
be in that trunk. But imagine my mortification in having to go with
Faye to his regiment, with only two dresses. And then, to make my
shortcomings the more vexatious, Faye will be simply fine all the time,
in his brand new uniform!

Perhaps I can send a long letter soon--if I live to reach that army post
that still seems so far away.

FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY, October, 1871.

AFTER months of anticipation and days of weary travel we have at last
got to our army home! As you know, Fort Lyon is fifty miles from Kit
Carson, and we came all that distance in a funny looking stage coach
called a "jerkey," and a good name for it, too, for at times it seesawed
back and forth and then sideways, in an awful breakneck way. The day was
glorious, and the atmosphere so clear, we could see miles and miles in
every direction. But there was not one object to be seen on the vast
rolling plains--not a tree nor a house, except the wretched ranch and
stockade where we got fresh horses and a perfectly uneatable dinner.

It was dark when we reached the post, so of course we could see
nothing that night. General and Mrs. Phillips gave us a most cordial
welcome--just as though they had known us always. Dinner was served soon
after we arrived, and the cheerful dining room, and the table with its
dainty china and bright silver, was such a surprise--so much nicer than
anything we had expected to find here, and all so different from the
terrible places we had seen since reaching the plains. It was apparent
at once that this was not a place for spooks! General Phillips is not a
real general--only so by brevet, for gallant service during the war. I
was so disappointed when I was told this, but Faye says that he is very
much afraid that I will have cause, sooner or later, to think that
the grade of captain is quite high enough. He thinks this way because,
having graduated at West Point this year, he is only a second lieutenant
just now, and General Phillips is his captain and company commander.

It seems that in the Army, lieutenants are called "Mister" always, but
all other officers must be addressed by their rank. At least that is
what they tell me. But in Faye's company, the captain is called general,
and the first lieutenant is called major, and as this is most confusing,
I get things mixed sometimes. Most girls would. A soldier in uniform
waited upon us at dinner, and that seemed so funny. I wanted to watch
him all the time, which distracted me, I suppose, for once I called
General Phillips "Mister!" It so happened, too, that just that instant
there was not a sound in the room, so everyone heard the blunder.
General Phillips straightened back in his chair, and his little son gave
a smothered giggle--for which he should have been sent to bed at once.
But that was not all! That soldier, who had been so dignified and stiff,
put his hand over his mouth and fairly rushed from the room so he could
laugh outright. And how I longed to run some place, too--but not to
laugh, oh, no!

These soldiers are not nearly as nice as one would suppose them to be,
when one sees them dressed up in their blue uniforms with bright brass
buttons. And they can make mistakes, too, for yesterday, when I asked
that same man a question, he answered, "Yes, sorr!" Then I smiled, of
course, but he did not seem to have enough sense to see why. When I
told Faye about it, he looked vexed and said I must never laugh at an
enlisted man--that it was not dignified in the wife of an officer to do
so. And then I told him that an officer should teach an enlisted man
not to snicker at his wife, and not to call her "Sorr," which was
disrespectful. I wanted to say more, but Faye suddenly left the room.

The post is not at all as you and I had imagined it to be. There is no
high wall around it as there is at Fort Trumbull. It reminds one of a
prim little village built around a square, in the center of which is a
high flagstaff and a big cannon. The buildings are very low and broad
and are made of adobe--a kind of clay and mud mixed together--and the
walls are very thick. At every window are heavy wooden shutters, that
can be closed during severe sand and wind storms. A little ditch--they
call it acequia--runs all around the post, and brings water to the trees
and lawns, but water for use in the houses is brought up in wagons from
the Arkansas River, and is kept in barrels.

Yesterday morning--our first here--we were awakened by the sounds of
fife and drum that became louder and louder, until finally I thought the
whole Army must be marching to the house. I stumbled over everything
in the room in my haste to get to one of the little dormer windows, but
there was nothing to be seen, as it was still quite dark. The drumming
became less loud, and then ceased altogether, when a big gun was fired
that must have wasted any amount of powder, for it shook the house and
made all the windows rattle. Then three or four bugles played a little
air, which it was impossible to hear because of the horrible howling
and crying of dogs--such howls of misery you never heard--they made
me shiver. This all suddenly ceased, and immediately there were lights
flashing some distance away, and dozens of men seemed to be talking
all at the same time, some of them shouting, "Here!" "Here!" I began
to think that perhaps Indians had come upon us, and called to Faye, who
informed me in a sleepy voice that it was only reveille roll-call, and
that each man was answering to his name. There was the same performance
this morning, and at breakfast I asked General Phillips why soldiers
required such a beating of drums, and deafening racket generally, to
awaken them in the morning. But he did not tell me--said it was an
old army custom to have the drums beaten along the officers' walk at
reveille.

Yesterday morning, directly after guard-mounting, Faye put on his
full-dress uniform--epaulets, beautiful scarlet sash, and sword--and
went over to the office of the commanding officer to report officially.
The officer in command of the post is lieutenant colonel of the
regiment, but he, also, is a general by brevet, and one can see by
his very walk that he expects this to be remembered always. So it
is apparent to me that the safest thing to do is to call everyone
general--there seem to be so many here. If I make a mistake, it will be
on the right side, at least.

Much of the furniture in this house was made by soldier carpenters here
at the post, and is not only very nice, but cost General Phillips
almost nothing, and, as we have to buy everything, I said at dinner last
evening that we must have some precisely like it, supposing, of course,
that General Phillips would feel highly gratified because his taste
was admired. But instead of the smile and gracious acquiescence I had
expected, there was another straightening back in the chair, and a
silence that was ominous and chilling. Finally, he recovered sufficient
breath to tell me that at present, there were no good carpenters in the
company. Later on, however, I learned that only captains and officers of
higher rank can have such things. The captains seem to have the best of
everything, and the lieutenants are expected to get along with smaller
houses, much less pay, and much less everything else, and at the same
time perform all of the disagreeable duties.

Faye is wonderfully amiable about it, and assures me that when he gets
to be a captain I will see that it is just and fair. But I happen
to remember that he told me not long ago that he might not get his
captaincy for twenty years. Just think of it--a whole long lifetime--and
always a Mister, too--and perhaps by that time it will be "just and
fair" for the lieutenants to have everything!

We saw our house yesterday--quarters I must learn to say--and it is
ever so much nicer than we had expected it to be. All of the officers'
quarters are new, and this set has never been occupied. It has a hall
with a pretty stairway, three rooms and a large shed downstairs, and
two rooms and a very large hall closet on the second floor. A soldier is
cleaning the windows and floors, and making things tidy generally. Many
of the men like to cook, and do things for officers of their company,
thereby adding to their pay, and these men are called strikers.

There are four companies here--three of infantry and one troop of
cavalry. You must always remember that Faye is in the infantry. With
the cavalry he has a classmate, and a friend, also, which will make
it pleasant for both of us. In my letters to you I will disregard army
etiquette, and call the lieutenants by their rank, otherwise you would
not know of whom I was writing--an officer or civilian. Lieutenant
Baldwin has been on the frontier many years, and is an experienced
hunter of buffalo and antelope. He says that I must commence riding
horseback at once, and has generously offered me the use of one of his
horses. Mrs. Phillips insists upon my using her saddle until I can get
one from the East, so I can ride as soon as our trunks come. And I am to
learn to shoot pistols and guns, and do all sorts of things.

We are to remain with General and Mrs. Phillips several days, while our
own house is being made habitable, and in the meantime our trunks and
boxes will come, also the <DW52> cook. I have not missed my dresses
very much--there has been so much else to think about. There is a little
store just outside the post that is named "Post Trader's," where many
useful things are kept, and we have just been there to purchase some
really nice furniture that an officer left to be sold when he was
retired last spring. We got only enough to make ourselves comfortable
during the winter, for it seems to be the general belief here that these
companies of infantry will be ordered to Camp Supply, Indian Territory,
in the spring. It must be a most dreadful place--with old log houses
built in the hot sand hills, and surrounded by almost every tribe of
hostile Indians.

It may not be possible for me to write again for several days, as I will
be very busy getting settled in the house. I must get things arranged
just as soon as I can, so I will be able to go out on horseback with
Faye and Lieutenant Baldwin.

FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY, October, 1871.

WHEN a very small girl, I was told many wonderful tales about a grand
Indian chief called Red Jacket, by my great-grandmother, who, you will
remember, saw him a number of times when she, also, was a small girl.
And since then--almost all my life--I have wanted to see with my very
own eyes an Indian--a real noble red man--dressed in beautiful skins
embroidered with beads, and on his head long, waving feathers.

Well, I have seen an Indian--a number of Indians--but they were not Red
Jackets, neither were they noble red men. They were simply, and only,
painted, dirty, and nauseous-smelling savages! Mrs. Phillips says that
Indians are all alike--that when you have seen one you have seen all.
And she must know, for she has lived on the frontier a long time, and
has seen many Indians of many tribes.

We went to Las Animas yesterday, Mrs. Phillips, Mrs. Cole, and I, to do
a little shopping. There are several small stores in the half-Mexican
village, where curious little things from Mexico can often be found,
if one does not mind poking about underneath the trash and dirt that is
everywhere. While we were in the largest of these shops, ten or twelve
Indians dashed up to the door on their ponies, and four of them,
slipping down, came in the store and passed on quickly to the counter
farthest back, where the ammunition is kept. As they came toward us in
their imperious way, never once looking to the right or to the left,
they seemed like giants, and to increase in size and numbers with every
step.

Their coming was so sudden we did not have a chance to get out of their
way, and it so happened that Mrs. Phillips and I were in their line of
march, and when the one in the lead got to us, we were pushed aside with
such impatient force that we both fell over on the counter. The others
passed on just the same, however, and if we had fallen to the floor, I
presume they would have stepped over us, and otherwise been oblivious to
our existence. This was my introduction to an Indian--the noble red man!

As soon as they got to the counter they demanded powder, balls, and
percussion caps, and as these things were given them, they were stuffed
down their muzzle-loading rifles, and what could not be rammed down the
barrels was put in greasy skin bags and hidden under their blankets. I
saw one test the sharp edge of a long, wicked-looking knife, and then
it, also, disappeared under his blanket. All this time the other Indians
were on their ponies in front, watching every move that was being made
around them.

There was only the one small door to the little adobe shop, and into
this an Indian had ridden his piebald pony; its forefeet were up a step
on the sill and its head and shoulders were in the room, which made it
quite impossible for us three frightened women to run out in the street.
So we got back of a counter, and, as Mrs. Phillips expressed it, "midway
between the devil and the deep sea." There certainly could be no mistake
about the "devil" side of it!

It was an awful situation to be in, and one to terrify anybody. We were
actually prisoners--penned in with all those savages, who were evidently
in an ugly mood, with quantities of ammunition within their reach, and
only two white men to protect us. Even the few small windows had iron
bars across. They could have killed every one of us, and ridden far away
before anyone in the sleepy town found it out.

Well, when those inside had been given, or had helped themselves to,
whatever they wanted, out they all marched again, quickly and silently,
just as they had come in. They instantly mounted their ponies, and all
rode down the street and out of sight at race speed, some leaning so far
over on their little beasts that one could hardly see the Indian at all.
The pony that was ridden into the store door was without a bridle, and
was guided by a long strip of buffalo skin which was fastened around his
lower jaw by a slipknot. It is amazing to see how tractable the Indians
can make their ponies with only that one rein.

The storekeeper told us that those Indians were Utes, and were greatly
excited because they had just heard there was a small party of Cheyennes
down the river two or three miles. The Utes and Cheyennes are bitter
enemies. He said that the Utes were very cross--ready for the blood of
Indian or white man--therefore he had permitted them to do about as they
pleased while in the store, particularly as we were there, and he
saw that we were frightened. That young man did not know that his own
swarthy face was a greenish white all the time those Indians were in the
store! Not one penny did they pay for the things they carried off. Only
two years ago the entire Ute nation was on the warpath, killing every
white person they came across, and one must have much faith in Indians
to believe that their "change of heart" has been so complete that these
Utes have learned to love the white man in so short a time.

No! There was hatred in their eyes as they approached us in that store,
and there was restrained murder in the hand that pushed Mrs. Phillips
and me over. They were all hideous--with streaks of red or green paint
on their faces that made them look like fiends. Their hair was roped
with strips of bright- stuff, and hung down on each side of their
shoulders in front, and on the crown of each black head was a small,
tightly plaited lock, ornamented at the top with a feather, a piece of
tin, or something fantastic. These were their scalp locks. They wore
blankets over dirty old shirts, and of course had on long, trouserlike
leggings of skin and moccasins. They were not tall, but rather short and
stocky. The odor of those skins, and of the Indians themselves, in that
stuffy little shop, I expect to smell the rest of my life!

We heard this morning that those very savages rode out on the plains in
a roundabout way, so as to get in advance of the Cheyennes, and then had
hidden themselves on the top of a bluff overlooking the trail they knew
the Cheyennes to be following, and had fired upon them as they passed
below, killing two and wounding a number of others. You can see how
treacherous these Indians are, and how very far from noble is their
method of warfare! They are so disappointing, too--so wholly unlike
Cooper's red men.

We were glad enough to get in the ambulance and start on our way to the
post, but alas! our troubles were not over. The mules must have felt
the excitement in the air, for as soon as their heads were turned toward
home they proceeded to run away with us. We had the four little mules
that are the special pets of the quartermaster, and are known throughout
the garrison as the "shaved-tails," because the hair on their tails is
kept closely cut down to the very tips, where it is left in a square
brush of three or four inches. They are perfectly matched--coal-black
all over, except their little noses, and are quite small. They are full
of mischief, and full of wisdom, too, even for government mules, and
when one says, "Let's take a sprint," the others always agree--about
that there is never the slightest hesitation.

Therefore, when we first heard the scraping of the brake, and saw that
the driver was pulling and sawing at the tough mouths with all his
strength, no one was surprised, but we said that we wished they had
waited until after we had crossed the Arkansas River. But we got over
the narrow bridge without meeting more than one man, who climbed over
the railing and seemed less anxious