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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
assault on time. I rode with Colonel Shepherd all night, and
everything seemed to be fairly understood, but General Bragg was
informed, massed his troops on the left and assaulted our whole
right wing, commanded by General McCook, capturing most of the
batteries before the horses were harnessed. Rousseau's reserve
division and the regular brigade reserve of his division were the first
in our army seriously in action. I was with Colonel Shepherd and
General Rousseau when our right was crushed. General Thomas
excitedly ordered Rousseau to "put the regulars in the cedars and
drive those devils back." We thrust in our battery under the
protection of the cedar trees and rocks in time to check the
victorious Confederates, giving Rosecrans time to reform his routed
right and establish a new line.
That night Doctor Webster Lindsly and I, with the permission of
the Confederates, visited the field to care for the wounded, where I
carried Captain Mack to the hospital. I found a young man, mortally
wounded, a cannon ball having struck his abdomen. He said, "I
know I am going to die. Write my mother that you saw me here." I
wrote down his name and address, but I lost it. I have regretted it
ever since, especially as I could not remember the name.
During the first day our forces were worsted, our supply trains cut
off, and, the men carrying no rations, were hungry. Our entire right
wing was doubled back on the left, the enemy were in front and
rear, and the night was exceedingly cold. It was midnight before the
excitement and confusion abated sufficiently to allow the men a little
rest.
When I lay down, I rolled up in my saddle blanket near Captain R.
L. Morris, a personal and intimate friend. But I was not to sleep yet.
Colonel Shepherd sent me several miles to the rear with orders to
seize some unguarded wagons which were filled with hard bread and
bacon for the daybreak breakfast.
I folded my blanket, laid it on the ground and carried out the
instructions, bringing the wagons back with me. When I returned,
my blanket was missing.
 The loss was discouraging, and I was cold, but as Morris said he
knew nothing of it, there was nothing to do but pass the night as
best I could. The next morning I noticed Morris had not only his
saddle blanket, but another, tied in a roll behind. I asked where he
got it and he retorted it was no concern of mine. I thought the
circumstances sufficient to warrant an explanation, and he became
angry, exclaiming, "Do you suppose I would steal your blanket,
Mills?"
"No," I said, "I don't, but I would like you to untie your blanket
and let me examine it."
He untied it, and I showed him my initials worked in one corner
with yarn.
Laughing, he said, "Well, Mills, I give it up. That is your blanket.
Take it. I stole it, knowing government blankets were as alike as two
peas. I wouldn't steal under ordinary circumstances, but such a
night as last night would justify a man in doing anything to keep
warm."
Bragg assembled half his army on our extreme left during the
night, intending to destroy our left as he had our right. General
Breckinridge crossed the river opposite our extreme left, expecting
to surprise us, but Rosecrans fortunately received notice and
concentrated five hundred pieces of artillery on our left, unknown to
Breckinridge.
The Confederates were literally cut to pieces with our artillery. On
the right we could see nothing, but heard the roar of cannon for at
least an hour, not knowing the result. Suddenly the firing ceased, we
heard a cheer and, crossing a ridge to our left a sergeant galloped
between the lines, carrying an inverted Confederate flag. Although
this sergeant was in easy gunshot of the Confederates, not a single
shot was fired at him.
The third day of the battle resulted decisively. Bragg retired
toward Chattanooga.
 On September 19 and 20, Chickamauga, the most sanguinary
battle of the war, was fought. Here the regular brigade (one
battalion each of the 15th, 16th and 19th, and two battalions of the
18th, with Battery H of the 5th Artillery) lost over thirty-three per
cent of their strength in killed, wounded and missing, and during the
fight, the battery was taken by the Confederates, all the horses
killed, but the guns recaptured later on.
At the close of this battle, my company, the largest in the brigade,
was selected for picket duty to cover the brigade front. Lieutenant
Freeman, the adjutant, posted me close to the rebel lines. He rode
out a couple of hundred yards and was taken prisoner by rebel
pickets springing from behind trees, and sent to Libby Prison, from
which he escaped through a tunnel in time to join Sherman's army
near the sea. During the entire night our picket line was compelled
to listen to the shrieks and cries for water and help from the
wounded and dying, who lay immediately in front, but whom we
were unable to assist, although they were only a few hundred yards
from us. Some time after midnight an order came for a change in
the position of the army, which moved our brigade a mile and a half
to another position. As Freeman was absent, the regimental
commander was unaware of the exact location of my company; and,
in the morning, hearing no noise from the location of the regiment, I
sent a sergeant to find out the cause. The sergeant returned,
reporting that the regiment and the troops adjoining had abandoned
the field, so I relieved my company and marched, following the trails
of the different regiments, and finally arrived at their line of battle. I
did not see Freeman again until on recruiting duty at St. Louis.
Rosecrans was practically defeated at Chickamauga and retired to
Chattanooga, where Thomas concentrated his army for defense.
Bragg besieged the city with so large an army it was found
necessary to reinforce the Army of the Cumberland by the Army of
the Tennessee, under Grant and Sherman, and two divisions of the
Army of the Potomac, under Hooker.
 General Thomas, who succeeded Rosecrans, was besieged and on
half rations for months, the Confederate cavalry cutting off supplies.
Finally there came the wonderful battle of Missionary Ridge, with
Grant commanding the whole army; Hooker, the right (Lookout
Mountain); Thomas, the center; and Sherman, the left. Hooker took
Lookout during the night, but neither army knew it until daylight. As
the sun rose, a bugle was sounded and a sergeant and three men
presented to the breeze a large American flag from the point of
Lookout Mountain, announcing the defeat of the Confederate Army.
The whole Federal Army took up the cheer that swept from right to
left.
By ten o'clock, Thomas' army, numbering perhaps twenty
thousand men, was in battle line at the foot of Missionary Ridge, five
hundred feet high, well designed for defense. Three guns from
Thomas' headquarters was the signal for the whole line to charge.
Thomas' army stood for hours, with fixed bayonets, reflecting
dazzling sun rays to the Ridge.
At last we heard the signal and cheered as we charged. The
Confederates reserved their fire until we had passed up one-third of
the ridge, when they opened fire. Their guns were so depressed,
however, that the recoil destroyed their accuracy, and the shells
went over our heads. Finally my company arrived so close I heard
one of their gunners call out, "Half-second fuse," which meant that
the shell would explode one-half second after it left the gun. It
seemed difficult to believe that we could mount that rough mountain
ridge and drive the Confederates away from their five hundred
pieces of cannon, but no part of the line was ever halted. In half an
hour the whole Confederate line was in our possession.
After this defeat, Bragg retired towards Atlanta, to which we also
went.
At the battle of Jonesboro, near Atlanta, Captain Andy Burt and I
had many men wounded. Visiting these men in a large tent
containing perhaps seventy-five men, we found that certain Union
Christian Societies had pinned upon its white walls large placards
reading, "Are you prepared to die?" "Prepare to meet your God." As
soon as Burt saw these senseless signs, he tore them down,
stamping them under his feet, crying out, "Never say die, men!
Never say die!" A badly wounded sergeant of my regiment
answered, "If more officers like this visited us, there wouldn't be so
many of us die!"
One of the most distinguished field batteries in the army was
raised by the Chicago Board of Trade. Commanded by a fine-looking
young German, Captain Dilger, this battery was given carte blanche
to proceed where it pleased to do the most destruction, and his men
seemed to be inspired with his own spirit and ambition. In his
buckskin suit he would ride about, seeking a place to set up his
battery to advantage. Dashing even beyond the skirmish lines, he
would go into action and do all the destruction he could before the
enemy could get his range, and as suddenly disappear.
At New Hope Church, Lieutenant Bisbee (now Brigadier General,
retired) and I, with our two companies, were on picket duty when
Dilger's battery passed through our lines and into action. Knowing
the Confederates would soon get his range, our men protected
themselves behind rocks and trees. Bisbee and I were behind a pine
tree twenty inches in diameter, when a solid shot cut the tree in two,
throwing us to the ground with splinters in our bodies. Neither of us
was seriously wounded, and we returned to duty in a few days.
The regular brigade was so depleted with losses, discharges and
failure to enlist that it was determined to send it while waiting
recruits to camp on Lookout Mountain, overlooking Chattanooga. As
the senior officer of the 18th Infantry, I marched it to the mountain
for indefinite encampment.
At this time General Steedman, with ten thousand men, was
ordered to defend Chattanooga in the apprehended march of Hood
to Nashville. Learning I was out of active service while my regiment
recuperated, Steedman called me to his staff as inspector general of
his provisional corps. When Hood avoided Chattanooga, we moved
the whole ten thousand men, reaching Nashville and joining Thomas
just in time to escape being cut off by Hood's army.
Hood, relieving Bragg, invested Nashville and, on December 16,
1864, the Battle of Nashville took place. Hood's retreat toward the
Cumberland River was disastrous, but floods saved his army. We
were unable to cross streams over which he had destroyed the
bridges. Thomas ordered Steedman to Murfreesboro to entrain ten
thousand men for Decatur, Alabama, to prevent Hood's crossing.
We halted Sunday morning at Huntsville to repair some small
bridges. While waiting, a bell began to ring for church services, and
the General suggested that we all attend. A dignified, gray-haired old
man mounted the pulpit, and began the services, bringing in with
more than necessary vehemence the prayer for Jeff Davis and all
those in authority. General Steedman, a man of intense passion
combined with the tenderest affection, was bitterly insulted, but he
remained until the services were completed. Retiring from the
church, he arrested the preacher and placed him under guard. He
was the Reverend Dr. Ross of Knoxville, Tennessee, who some years
before had canvassed the Northern States with Parson Bronlow in a
political-religious discussion of slavery. In that canvass Parson
Bronlow took the side of slavery and Dr. Ross the opposite. They had
now each honestly changed their views completely.
When the Doctor was brought in, the General exclaimed,
passionately, "Dr. Ross, have you no more respect for the authorities
of the Federal Government than to pray for Jeff Davis in their
presence? If you have no more respect, have you no more sense?"
The Doctor stood calmly and said, "I have more respect for my
conscientious convictions as a minister, my creed in religion, and my
God than I have for the authorities of the United States Government.
If I have committed any crime in your eyes, you have the power to
punish me; but I shall cheerfully accept any punishment you choose
to give me, even to death."
 The General made no reply for some time, but finally said, "Very
well, sir; I will carry you along with the command as a prisoner." The
Doctor replied, "General, I am perfectly willing to go with your
command, but I am too old to march. I will do the best I can." He
appeared to be about sixty-five or seventy years old, quite gray and
rather feeble.
The General replied, "Very well, sir, I will give you transportation—
I will give you an ambulance, and" with some oaths, "I will give you
an escort of your own color." We had three brigades of colored
troops in the command, and the Doctor was of so dark a complexion
as almost to suggest a mixture of blood.
Dr. Ross was carried on the cars and, later, on an ambulance with
a colored escort. But General Steedman realized he had made a
mistake. When General Roddy (commanding the Confederates on
our front) requested an exchange of prisoners, General Steedman
gave me instructions to give Dr. Ross any military rank that would
secure his exchange. We had no difficulty in making the exchange,
together with many others.
When my regiment was withdrawn from active service to Lookout
Mountain, Tennessee, for reorganization, Lieutenant William H.
Bisbee was my adjutant.
The beauty and symmetry of his reports was marked, but some
apparently irrelevant figures excited my curiosity. Written in rather
large figures in bright red ink was, "S-T-1860-X." Asked why he had
made use of these particular letters and figures, he said he had
copied them from a manufacturer's trade-mark for "Hostetter's
Bitters," which, translated, read, "Started trade in 1860 with
$10.00." He had noticed papers from Washington with red ink
figures which he could not understand, and so interspersed the
notations throughout his own reports, knowing that no one would
understand them, but believing it would be assumed to be the result
of much study and care!
 Sure enough, in due time Bisbee received a personal letter from
the Adjutant General of the Army, complimenting him on the most
perfect monthly returns ever submitted by any regular regiment.
The Confederates had a fort at Decatur, and we had some
gunboats on the river. General Steedman sent me at night to get
such information as the naval commander could give about Decatur
and the Confederate supplies supposed to be there. Employing a
boatman to carry me to the gunboat Burnsides, commanded by
Lieutenant Moneau Forrest, I reported myself staff officer from
General Steedman, and asked the commander whether he could
assist us in crossing the river with the Federal transports to take
Decatur and its supplies. Learning he could protect Steedman's
crossing and could assemble enough transports to carry the ten
thousand men across in a short time, and would assault Decatur
with his gunboats, I reported to Steedman. He and his staff officers
crossed with his army in the early part of the day, leaving me on the
gunboat. He assaulted Decatur from the rear, while the gunboats
assaulted from the river.
This was my only naval engagement. Several men were lost, and
the missiles from the Confederate guns tore up the planks of the
deck. Decatur surrendered, and we had the supplies which Hood
was unable to take.
We pursued Hood's straggling army, the rear guard of which was
commanded by General Roddy, and on the 21st day of December,
1864, after a lively chase in a drenching rain, arrived at "Swope's
House," a plantation six miles from Courtland.
The general camped midway between the road and the house. We
were wet, and the General sent me to ask if the occupants of
Swope's residence, a large, typical Southern home, would permit us
to enter.
When I knocked at the door a lady appeared, but she slammed
the door in my face! Reporting to the General, he excitedly called his
staff to follow, and rapped violently at the door. The same lady
appearing, he said to her, very sternly, "Madam, is there a man in
this house?" She replied quietly, "Yes."
"Tell him General Steedman wants to see him." In a few minutes a
gray-haired man, about seventy, asked us what was desired.
The General replied, "I sent one of my staff officers here to
request a simple courtesy, usually accorded foe as well as friend—
simply to warm by your fire. This officer was insulted by one of the
ladies in your house. You can prepare the fire yourself or I will have
it prepared for us."
Mr. Swope replied he would have it prepared as quickly as
possible.
We visited some of the camps, and on our return found a cheerful
fire in the parlor. The room was bare of everything but chairs,
everything in the way of ornaments that could be stolen having been
removed. But the fire was comfortable, and we stayed until the
orderly announced our camp supper was ready.
A young man on our staff, Davis by name, was something of a
ladies' man. While we enjoyed the fire, he encountered a young lady
in the hall. Strange to say, the lady greeted him cordially—an
unaccountable thing to those men who approach the feminine sex
with difficulty. They laughed and joked, another lady appeared, and
there was quite a gay scene.
One of the ladies was Captain Swope's daughter, and the other a
cousin from Nashville. We had been there for some time, and as she
had heard nothing since the battle she was anxious for news from
Nashville.
Returning to the house after supper, all the ornaments had been
returned to the parlor, curtains were hung, rugs and carpets down,
the center table had regained its cover, and was piled with books.
Davis introduced the ladies to the whole party.
Picking up an autograph album, I saw the signatures of Jeff Davis,
Beauregard, Bragg, and many prominent officers of the Confederacy.
Between the leaves was an order reading as follows:
"Headquarters, District of the Etowah, In the Field, Swope's House,
Northern Alabama, December 21, 1864. Special Order No.———.
"Immediately upon receipt of this order, Doctor———, in charge of Post
Hospital at Courtland, will deliver to Captain Swope the basket of champagne
seized in the express office by him on yesterday. By order of General P. D.
Roddy.
...............................................
"Adjutant General."

The Generals of both armies commanded districts of the same

name, "Etowah." I turned the sheet over and wrote as follows:
"Headquarters, District of the Etowah, In the Field, Swope's House,
Northern Alabama, December 22, 1864. Special Order No.———.
"Immediately upon receipt of this order, Captain Swope, Quartermaster in
the Confederate Army, will turn over to Major General Steedman and staff the
basket of champagne recovered from Doctor———, in charge of the Post
Hospital at Courtland, and mentioned on the opposite side of this paper.
"By order of Major General Steedman.
Anson Mills,
"Captain, 18th Infantry, Inspector General,
District of the Etowah."

Both the ladies eyed me intently. I laid the book on the table, and
one of the ladies picked it up and read the paper. She passed it to
her cousin, who also read it, and, after a short conference, they
went upstairs. Soon Mr. Swope entered, asking, "Can I speak with
Captain Mills?"
I announced myself and he said, "My dear sir: your order is good.
I would obey it with pleasure were it possible, but, unfortunately, I
was unable to recover the champagne. It was used in the hospital
before this order was presented to the doctor. I regret exceedingly
that I am unable to do so, for I realize the propriety, in case it were
possible."
 By this time we were well established in good relations with the
family. Our evening passed as pleasantly there as anywhere during
the war, and we flattered ourselves the family was as reluctant to
part with us as we with them.
On the 23d of December we established headquarters at
Courtland, abandoning a vigorous pursuit of Hood. The next day in
Steedman's office, Oakly Bynam came in and greeted him as a fellow
Mason, and asked for help. He had bought several thousand bales of
cotton, which the Federal troops were destroying. He wanted a
permit to ship it to Louisville by the government vessels then in the
river. Steedman angrily told him that neither former friendship nor
Masonic brotherhood should influence him to aid one willing to play
"Good Lord, good devil" to either the Confederates or the Federals
who might be in control.
That night Mr. Bynam told me he had several thousand bales of
cotton worth a dollar and a half a pound in Louisville; and that, if the
soldiers burned it, it would ruin him; but that if I had sufficient
influence with General Thomas to allow it to be shipped north, he
would make a fortune and would divide it equally with me! Of
course, I declined, and most of the cotton was burned by
Steedman's army.
Major General James B. Steedman.
Brigadier General O. L.
Shepherd.
Brigadier General H. B. Freeman.
Brigadier General Wm. H.
Bisbee.
 After the War
In February, 1865, the War Department detailed three officers from
each of the new regiments for recruiting service, selecting those who
had served longest during the war. I headed the list of my regiment, and
was sent successively to Toledo, Zanesville and St. Louis, where I again
met the former adjutant, Freeman. (He died recently, a brigadier
general.) He was also on recruiting duty, and we were both ordered to
Jefferson Barracks to reorganize our companies from the men we had
enlisted. Almost all of these were volunteers discharged in St. Louis.
I was ordered with my own and Company A, commanded by
Lieutenant Carpenter, to Fort Aubrey, Kansas, via Leavenworth, to
relieve two companies of one-year Ohio volunteers, whose time had
expired, and who were near mutiny. I left St. Louis December 5, 1865.
The weather was so cold, and the supply train furnished me at Fort
Leavenworth so inadequate, that I seized and exchanged wagons and
teams with a quartermaster's train returning from Santa Fe. One of my
men froze to death on the journey, and several were severely frost-
bitten.
I found the Walnut Fork of the Arkansas River impassable from floods,
and traveled without a trail from Fort Larned for three days, until I could
cross, thence moving south toward Fort Aubrey, as I supposed.
During the march a hostile band of Cheyenne Indians (called "dog
soldiers") under young Bent, a half-breed, attempted to surprise us.
Frustrated, they followed us into the Arkansas River, four miles above
Fort Dodge. The Indians asked for parley, during which I discovered a
captive American girl, who attempted to talk to me, but was silenced by
the chief. I was later instrumental, through the Indian agent, Major
Wyncoop, in securing the ransom of this girl, Mary Fletcher.
Leaving A Company at Fort Dodge, I took my own to Aubrey, where I
relieved the Ohio volunteers. I remained until April, relieving the
monotony by killing some of the buffalo which covered the whole
country, riding a spirited horse which could overtake any buffalo.
 My company clerk was Henry Garrells, an excellent penman and
accountant, but so near-sighted I had to get special permission to enlist
him. He was not only the most unprepossessing man I ever saw, but
one of the most troublesome drunkards in the army. He got drunk
periodically, generally selecting a time when urgency in the preparation
of company papers was most desired. When under the influence of
liquor, he was absolutely uncontrollable, requiring two or three men to
keep him from violence. When sober, he was one of the mildest
mannered men I ever saw.
Our post near the river was composed of rude huts and dug-outs. It
was far from any settlement, and we had no liquor, so Garrells got along
very well until, one Sunday morning, he obtained two bottles of bay rum
from the post trader, with which he got gloriously drunk, smashing
things right and left in the quarters. The sergeant detailed several men
to restrain him (there being no guard house), reported the damage and
asked what to do with him. I told him to get a cavalry lariat, about one
hundred feet long, and with two strong men carry Garrells to the river
bank. They were to divest him of clothing and throw him into the stream
until the chill (it was January) should sober him.
I followed Garrells and his party on the opposite side of the stream.
Arrived at the bank, about ten feet high, Garrells exclaimed, "Sergeant,
here's a river! 'Twill require some engineering skill to pass this river!"
"Never mind," said the sergeant, "we'll cross it, Garrells." The men
took off his hat and coat, and one of them reached into his pocket for
his money, when Garrells became alarmed and began to shout, "Murder!
Robbers! Help!"
By this time they had the rope around his body, and one man seizing
his head, another his heels, they tossed him far out into the stream.
When Garrells rose he spouted like a whale, and swam for the
opposite shore. Every few yards of progress he was checked by the
rope, which threw his head under water. When he came near the bank
on which I stood, he exclaimed, "Major, damn you, do you think I'm a
goldfish or a dolphin?"
I signaled to the sergeant to pull him back, and by the time he
returned he was thoroughly sobered.
 I had heard very little from my brother. The stage line was irregular
on account of hostile Indians. One evening when it drove up, it brought
my brother, W. W., and Judge Watts, neither of whom I had seen for
four years. They could only remain the night with me, but shortly after I
procured leave and joined them in Washington.
Judge Watts and my brother had an interview with President Johnson
in regard to Federal appointments in New Mexico and Texas. The
President had a Texas vacancy on the board of visitors to West Point,
and proposed to appoint W. W. Both Judge Watts and my brother
preferred I be given the place, as I was a military man; and I was
appointed.
Adjutant General Townsend protested to the President that my
appointment was illegal because the regulations of the academy
provided that no one who had failed at West Point should be made a
member of the board for ten years after such failure.
Learning this failure was nine years past, the President sent for
Colonel Townsend and asked if there was any other objection to me
except my failure at the academy, and what my standing was. Townsend
had no other objection, and said my standing was good, when the
President said, "Well, if the faculty discharged a man who nine years
after has become a captain in good standing in the regular army, I think
it best that Captain Mills should be sent there to see what's the matter
with the academy!"
General Grant was anxious to have the superintendency of the military
academy (by law confined to officers of the engineer corps) opened to
the line of the army, and Senator Nesmith, a member of the board,
promised to try to secure a recommendation from the board to this
effect. I felt the engineer corps conducted the academy too much as a
purely scientific institution. While they made every effort to produce
high-grade engineers, less attention was given the absolute
requirements of officers of the line, so I was glad to promise General
Grant my assistance. At his suggestion, I made the acquaintance of
Senator Nesmith, who set about the accomplishment of his task
immediately upon the organization of the board of sixteen members. An
animated and somewhat bitter discussion continued during our whole
session, finally resulting in a vote of eight to eight, so the resolution was
lost. General Grant later submitted the matter to Congress, which
changed the law so that any line officer could be made superintendent.
While the board was at the academy, General Scott died there, and
the board as a body were his pall-bearers.
At the expiration of my leave, I was ordered to the command of Fort
Bridger, Utah, where my company had arrived in my absence.
The volunteers, under General P. Edward Connor, were being relieved.
The posts and the territory were both in a chaotic condition, the soldiers
harassing the Mormons and encouraging the Gentiles in unlawful
persecutions.
Among the volunteers at Fort Bridger was Patrick Tully, who had come
over from Ireland with General Connor. These friends served their first
enlistment together. Connor took up the study of law, became
prominent, and, when the war broke out, was colonel of a volunteer
regiment from California, afterwards brigadier general of volunteers, and
assigned to the command of the District of Salt Lake.
Tully left the regular service and joined a volunteer regiment. He was
one of those soldiers who, either by misfortune or bad conduct, was
constantly in the guard house. At inspections, the general generally
found Tully confined, and Tully never failed to plead the ground of their
former friendship for release, Connor as constantly granting it.
Somewhat ostentatious, General Connor, when leaving one post for
another, invariably telegraphed, "I leave for your post today. Have
quarters prepared for me on my arrival," being always careful to sign
himself "P. Edward Connor," leaving out the Pat or Patrick, by which both
he and Tully were known.
All the volunteers at Bridger were ordered to Salt Lake to be mustered
out—Tully among the rest.
When Tully was ordered to make preparations for the march, he sent
a request from the guard house asking to send a telegram. Arrived at
the telegraph office, he dictated the following:
"To General P. Edward Connor, Commanding District of Salt Lake:
 "Sir: I leave here for your post today. Have quarters prepared for me on my
arrival.
P. Edward Tully."

It is needless to say that Connor honored the requisition and had

secure (if not ample) quarters, prepared for "P. Edward Tully."
I was prejudiced against the Mormons, but found they were the best
people in the country, and the only ones who would fill contracts fairly.
The Gentiles practiced every device to beat the government, but the
word of a Mormon was his bond. With Major Lewis commanding Fort
Douglas at Salt Lake, I called upon Brigham Young. He looked like
General Grant, and was an earnest and, I believe, a sincere and
conscientious man. He said he was glad to meet a regular officer,
because the regular army always treated them well, but that the
volunteers under Connor had been demoralizing to those of the Mormon
faith. Discussing my prejudice against his people, about which he asked
and I answered frankly, he said, "You have doubtless heard we are
disloyal to the Union." Pointing to the flag flying over his Tabernacle, he
said it had waved every day since the war began. Upon his invitation I
attended his church and heard him preach the next Sunday. I visited the
Tabernacle in company with his son-in-law and saw open on the pulpit
the inspired volumes from which they preached—the Old Testament, the
New Testament, and the Book of Mormon. He presented a copy of the
latter to me, inscribed with his name, which I still have. My experiences
changed my mind regarding the Mormon people. I believe their church
the equal of any in the inculcation of those qualities which make the
Mormons law-abiding, industrious, economical and faithful to all their
agreements.
Christmas Eve, Judge Carter, the sutler, gave a dancing party. While
the officers and ladies were dancing, I received a dispatch announcing
the massacre of Fetterman and his command, part of my regiment, at
Fort Philip Kearny. We were all of the same regiment. I stopped the
band and read the despatch, which cast the garrison into gloom, and
presaged a general war with the Sioux.
Jim Bridger, a well-known frontiersman, who had been with the
Indians since he was fourteen years old, was the post guide. He was
reticent and hard to know, but a genius in many ways.
 One day the Overland stage from Omaha arrived, and an English-
looking gentleman stepped out and inquired in the "sutler's store" for
both the post trader and for me. He delivered letters of introduction
from General Sheridan, stating that he was a captain in the British Army
on a journey around the world for the purpose of writing a book, and
that he wished to see Jim Bridger. (Cut, 154.)
We took him to call on Bridger, who lived alone in one of the officers'
quarters. We found the old man looking grave and solemn. Our English
friend plied him with questions, stating he had been told by General
Sheridan that he, of all others on the Western plains, could give him the
most thrilling reminiscences regarding the exciting scenes of the
settlement of the frontier.
Bridger made no advances, appearing like a child, reluctant to "show
off." The captain continued his conversation in his most winning way
and earnestly requested the old scout to tell them something
interesting. Finally, Bridger told the following story:
"Well, I think the most thrilling adventure I ever had on the frontier
was in the winter of 1855, when Jack Robinson and I went trapping,
about two hundred miles down the Green River in the Ute country. We
knew the Utes were unfriendly, but we did not think they were war-like,
so we got two horses and a pack outfit, and in December went into
camp on the Green River. We had spent two months trapping, and were
about ready to return, when early one morning we saw a large party of
warriors coming up the stream. We had only time to saddle our horses,
gather our rifles and ammunition and mount. We estimated their party
at about one hundred, and started up the river at full speed, abandoning
everything we had in camp.
"As we became hard pressed, one of us would dismount and fire, then
mount and pass the other, and he would dismount and fire, and so
continuing, checking our pursuers until we gained some ground. Their
horses were not only fresh, but they had lead horses with them, which
gave them great advantage over us, who had but one horse each.
"We continued this method of defense all day, and by night had killed
thirty of the Indians. But our horses were so tired we feared the enemy
would take us.
 "At the foot of a mountain, where there was dense timber, we took
shelter about dusk, knowing the Indians would not follow in the dark.
We spent the night in great fear as to what would become of us the
next day. Knowing that at dawn they would be after us, we started to
lead our horses out of the valley, but had no sooner started than we
heard the Indians behind us.
"We continued our defense until about two o'clock, when we had
killed thirty more of the Indians. This left only about forty to continue
the pursuit, but they did not seem at all discouraged. If anything, they
were more active than ever.
"By this time, our broken horses began to give way at the knees.
Observing a narrow canyon, we concluded to follow it as it gave us a
better chance of defense than the open. This canyon was narrow, with a
swift stream running down it, and we made our way as fast as we could
for two or three miles, when, looking around, we saw immediately in our
rear the whole force of Indians.
"Matters were desperate. The canyon walls were perpendicular, three
hundred feet high, and growing narrower every mile. Suddenly, around
a bend in the canyon, we saw a waterfall, two hundred feet high,
completely blocking our exit."
Here Mr. Bridger paused. The captain, all aglow with interest, cried
anxiously, "Go on, Mr. Bridger; go on! How did you get out?"
"Oh, bless your soul, Captain," answered Bridger, "we never did get
out. The Indians killed us right there."
This closed the interview. Though I have never heard of his book, I
dare say the captain did not include this story in it.
While I was at Fort Bridger, the regular army was increased from
thirty to sixty thousand men, making each of the three battalions of the
nine new regiments a full regiment. The vacancies thus created were
filled by meritorious volunteers, so that many regular officers were set
back many years in prospective promotions. The first battalion of my
regiment remained the 18th, the second battalion the 27th, and the
third battalion the 36th, which resulted in many changes of stations and
locations, but I retained my company, H, of the 18th.
 In my administration and discipline of the garrison at Fort Bridger I
adopted as far as I could the moral suasion ideas of Charlie Naylor.
Instead of punishing the men by confining them in the guard house for
trial, I had the post carpenter construct a very unprepossessing wooden
horse and a wooden sword about six feet long, with its business end
painted a bloody red. Any man reported for any disorderly conduct had
to ride this horse for a certain period, dismounting occasionally to curry
and water it with currycomb and water bucket. This method of
punishment proved most efficient, as the men soon came to dread
"riding the horse" a great deal more than they did spending a month in
the guard house.

Moral Suasion Horse at Fort Bridger.

 Sioux Tepee Captured at Slim Buttes, with Keogh's Guidon and Capturing
Officers.
(Text, 171.)

While at Fort Bridger, about a thousand Shoshone Indians came in,

camping near the post for a couple of months. Having a telegraph line
and a military operator, I sent for the most intelligent of the Indians, and
told them we would talk over the wire. They were much mystified, and
could not understand when I told them I sent the words over the wire.
Finally I gave one the wire to hold so he could feel the message going
through him. While the Indians are stoics and their outdoor life
prevented the shock from affecting them as it would a white man, they
threw their hands up when the current passed through, understanding
for the first time there really was something that went over the wire.
Later they used this knowledge in cutting down and burning the poles
and destroying the wire to keep the whites from telling where they had
been in mischief, and to prevent the soldiers from following.
When I first arrived at Fort Bridger, the volunteer garrison was
equipped with Spencer breech-loading carbines. I turned in my muzzle-
loading Springfields and equipped my two companies with the Spencers
which, of course, had heavy metallic cartridges, Cal. .50. Our equipment
consisted of the regular old-fashioned cartridge box for paper cartridges
to be carried in tin cases inside the leather boxes, and were wholly
unsuited for metallic cartridges. I furnished mounted guards and patrols
to the daily Overland Mail, and the metallic ammunition carried in these
tin boxes rattled loudly, and were even noisy when carried by men afoot.
So I devised a belt, which the post saddler manufactured out of
leather, with a loop for each of the fifty cartridges. The men wore these
belts around their waists, and they proved much more comfortable and
efficient than any other method of carrying cartridges.
W. A. Carter, the sutler, was going to Washington, and suggested that
he procure me a patent. This patent was the foundation of my various
subsequent patents, which enabled me to change the method of
carrying cartridges, not only in our own army, but in the armies
throughout the world, and by which I eventually made an independent
fortune.
I remained in command of Bridger until the spring of 1867, when I
was ordered to escort Gen. G. M. Dodge, chief engineer of the Union
Pacific Railroad, on a recognizance to find a route from the vicinity of
Salt Lake, via the Snake River, to some point in Oregon or Washington
State for a branch road to the Pacific. We were two months going west
of the Rocky Mountain Range via Snake River, and returning through the
south pass at the head waters of the North Platte River. We finally
abandoned the expedition when we reached Fort Sanders, Wyoming.
General John A. Rawlins accompanied the expedition, on the advice of
his physician, he being afflicted with tuberculosis, and was a very
interesting companion.
 From Sanders I reported to Fort Fetterman, where my regiment
established headquarters, after the return of Colonel Carrington's
expedition, abandoning the posts of Reno, Philip Kearny, and F. C.
Smith. The regular route to Fort Fetterman via Fort Laramie was twice
the distance across the mountains, so I took no wagon transportation,
but only the men carrying rations. We had a very difficult march, but
succeeded in arriving long before the wagons carrying our baggage via
Laramie.
I remained at Fetterman during the winter of '67, but in the spring
went to Fort Sedgwick, where Colonel Carrington had a large post of
seven companies, most of them of his own regiment. These isolated
posts were thoroughly cut off from civilization.
I remember a humorous incident that occurred there one day. There
being no chaplain or civil authorities for hundreds of miles in any
direction, their functions were necessarily sometimes performed by the
adjutants of the military posts. One day the adjutant, Lieutenant Carroll
Potter, invited Captain Morris and me to go with him across the Platte
River to Julesburg, where he said he was going to perform a marriage.
When the ambulance drove up to Potter's porch, Morris and I heard
him call "Lizzie, Lizzie, bring me the prayer book." His wife brought the
prayer book, and he put it in his coat, asking, "Have you turned down a
leaf?"
"Yes, Carroll, I have."
Arriving at the town, we were escorted to a small building where we
found about twenty persons congregated to witness the ceremony.
Drawing the prayer book from his pocket and opening it at a turned-
down page, Potter started out on the service in a vigorous, solemn and
authoritative tone, as follows:
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in
me though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and
believeth in me shall never die."
By this time his voice began to fall, and he said: "Hold on. I think I've
got the wrong place!" Remembering his wife had turned down a leaf for
him to read the burial service a short time before, he turned quickly to
the proper service and finished the ceremony, with many apologies.
 Marriage
Up to this date I had had no thought of marriage and,
consequently, had made nothing of what little opportunity there was
to associate with female society. Now, realizing that I was to settle
down in a quiet way as a captain of infantry, I began to think that it
was time to marry, if I ever intended to do so. I resolved to take a
leave for the purpose of looking for a "household mate."
Recruiting at Zanesville, I had made the acquaintance of the best
men, but paid little attention to young ladies, though, from my office
window on Main Street, I had observed a quartet known as the
"Cassel girls." Their father was the handsomest man in the city, and
one of the most respected, and the girls were in a class by
themselves. They knew everybody, were accosted by everybody, and
were respected and admired by all. They were all fine musicians,
and sang in the church choir. They were carefully reared, but their
position was such that they felt free to do many things other girls
would hesitate to do for fear of criticism.
Everywhere I sought the acquaintance of girls I thought might fill
my requisition for a wife. I have always believed that women should
have as many rights as men, and that a man and his wife should be
equal partners in all that relates to human affairs. From my first
recollection, I have been a "Woman's Rights" man, although at that
time there were very few, even women, who believed in such rights.
There were a few women at this time who dared advocate such
things as equal rights in schools and colleges, but they were usually
maltreated, insulted, and even made the target for rotten eggs. But
that did not change my opinion as to the kind of woman I wished for
a partner in life.
I had not been long on leave when I visited Zanesville and sought
the acquaintance of the Cassel girls. A friend, Charlie Converse, took
me to call, and I met all four. I was greatly attracted by the brilliancy
of conversation, beauty of features and bright expression of the
second daughter, and asked Miss Hannah Cassel's permission to call
again. I have since learned that while discussing my visit with her
sisters that night, she remarked, "I am going to have some fun with
that fellow."
Although deeply impressed with her beauty and charms, I felt it
only fair to explain my views to her and find out whether she
possessed the qualities I hoped to secure in a wife before asking her
to marry me.
We took many rides and walks together, during which I gradually
told her my sole purpose in securing leave of absence was to select
a household mate; I told her my story fully, that I was thirty-four,
born and raised on a poor man's farm until eighteen, and about my
failing at West Point and, ashamed to return to my father, making a
living for myself. I described the subsequent sixteen years of
struggles and the experience which made me a captain in good
standing in the army. I was plain about having no prospective
patrimony or no expectations, save the patent cartridge equipment
which, with persistent work and improvement, I hoped would finally
be adopted by the army to my ultimate profit. I told her, too, of my
only other source of financial expectation, my lots and a house in
the town of El Paso. Although the town had been practically
destroyed by the war and the Mexican War against Maximilian, I
believed even then it would some day become a city and my
property become valuable.
It was easy to tell her she had impressed me beyond all others by
her beauty, vivacity, and her apparent courage to fight the battle of
life. In these sixteen years I had satisfied myself I had been
endowed with sufficient physical and moral strength and ambition to
acquire an independence and the respect of the world, provided I
could find a woman endowed with the courage to assist me as an
equal partner in life. I had always believed that women should
possess the same rights as men; that their needs were equal to
those of men; that their aspirations should be in the same direction
as those of men; but I knew that imperious custom had forced
woman into an inferior position in life, so that the best hopes of
many mothers were for their daughters to marry someone who
could support them, without other exertion on their part than to
adorn themselves. In spite of this prevailing idea I was looking for a
woman who would disregard the tyranny of society and undertake to
do whatever was necessary in mental and physical labor to acquire
such means and reputation as would enable us to leave the world
better than we found it; all of this I discussed with her fully and
plainly.
She was at this time twenty-two years old. She had had a private
school education, including a year at the Catholic convent in the city,
but, beyond that, she had improved her mind by books and reading
far beyond what was taught at the schools. More, she was liberal
minded, had few prejudices and, like myself, was ambitious to play
some part in the world. She had many suitors, but, luckily for me,
she was heart whole and fancy free. Her parents were in good
circumstances, and she and her sisters had always been provided
with more luxuries than most, so she realized that if she married,
she would have to sacrifice much to become a successful
homemaker. Her views of life came not only from her parents, but
from her great aunt, Hannah Martin, a cultured English woman, for
whom she was named, and with whom she had been associated
since childhood. She had the reverence for her aunt that I had for
my great grandmother.
I was wedded to my profession, and my salary was a hundred and
fifty dollars a month. It would, of course, increase by promotions
and length of service pay, but as my stations would probably be
among the Indians in the far West, where there was no desirable
civilian society, and perhaps but a half dozen ladies at the post, the
woman who was willing to become my mate would have to sacrifice
all the allurements of Eastern society and content herself with the
drumly incidents of military life on the plains. Be sure I showed her I
had sufficient sentiment to make a good lover, and so I told her she
was the one I wanted for a lifelong partner, asking her to deliberate
on it for some days before answering. Shortly she told me she was
given to rebel against many of the conventionalities of society, that
she believed she could make all the sacrifices necessary, and was
willing to undertake it.

Anson Mills and Nannie Cassel. Day Before Marriage.

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