Part 7 (2/2)

”Camp Faith” was thereupon selected as the name of cavalry headquarters.

Somebody wanted a name for the Fifth Cavalry camp, and, in recognition of our present blissful and undisturbed existence, as compared with recent vicissitudes, and mindful of the martial palace of Sans Souci at Potsdam, a wildly imprudent subaltern suggested _Sans Sioux Ici_, but it was greeted with merited contempt.

Of course all were eager for intimation of our next move. Occasional despatches reached General Merritt, but not a hint could be extracted from him. Rumors of a winter campaign were distressingly prevalent, and the Fifth were beginning to look upon a prolonged stay in the Hills as a certainty, when one day an aide-de-camp of the chief's came to me with the request that I would make a map for him of the country between the South Cheyenne and Red Cloud Agency, and let no one know what I was doing. A week after he wanted another sketch of the same thing, and it became evident, to me at least, that before very long we would be down along the White River, looking after ”Machpealota.”

The campaign itself being virtually over, the recruits authorized by special act of Congress to be enlisted for the cavalry regiments actively engaged began to be heard of at the front, and one evening in early October we learned that some four hundred heroes were on the march from Fort Laramie to join the Fifth, and that the Third was to be similarly reinforced. A hint as to the probable character of the new levies was also in circulation. Twenty-five hundred men having been suddenly and urgently needed, the recruiting officers were less particular in their selections than would otherwise have been the case, and from the purlieus of Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New York the sc.u.m of the country was eagerly grasping this method of getting to the Black Hills at Uncle Sam's expense. They were marching up to join us, under the command of Captain Monahan, of the Third Cavalry, a.s.sisted by Lieutenants Ward, Cherry, and Swift, ”of Ours;” and on the 11th of October General Merritt struck camp, the ”B., H., and Y.,” horse, foot, and dragoon, bade farewell to French Creek, and, after an exhilarating ride through a wildly beautiful and picturesque tract of the Hills, we unsaddled, pitched our tents along Amphibious Creek, and that evening the new levies arrived. n.o.body cared particularly to see the recruits, but the Fifth Cavalry turned out to a man to see the new horses; and having called upon and extended a welcoming hand to the comrades joining us for the first time, we made a dash for the quadrupeds. Before tattoo that evening there was not one that had not been closely inspected and squabbled over by the company commanders and their men, and the first thing the next morning General Merritt ordered the distribution of horses, ”according to color,” to companies.

It was revealed that an expedition somewhere was intended by his directing the regimental adjutant to pick out the old soldiers among the recruits, a.s.sign them to companies at once, and then issue orders to the regiment to be in readiness to move at daybreak.

Never in my life have I seen such an array of vagabonds as that battalion of four hundred ”una.s.signed” when I got them into line on the morning of the 12th of October and proceeded to ”pick out the old soldiers” as directed. That was a matter of no difficulty; they were already acting as non-commissioned officers of the recruit companies, but were not sixty all told, and more were needed. Stopping before a st.u.r.dily built little fellow with a grizzled moustache and an unmistakably soldierly carriage, the only promising-looking man left in the three hundred who had ”stood fast” when the order was given ”men who have served previous enlistments step to front,” the adjutant questioned:

”Haven't you served before?”

”Not in the regulars, sir.”

”That man is lame, sir,” interposed a sergeant.

”It is an old wound,” says the man eagerly, ”and it's only so once in while. I can ride first-rate.”

”What was your regiment?”

”Seventh Wisconsin, sir.”

”What! Were you at Gainesville?”

”Yes, sir. Wounded there.”

A knot of officers--Merritt, Mason, Sumner, and Montgomery--who fought through the war with the Army of the Potomac, are standing there as the adjutant turns.

”Sergeant, take this man to Company 'K' and fit him out--and--stop a moment. Bring him to my tent to-night after supper. Gentlemen, that's an Iron Brigade man.”

That evening a Company ”K” sergeant scratches the flap of the adjutant's tent--you cannot knock when there is no door--and presents himself with the recruit-veteran. The latter looks puzzled, but perfectly self-possessed; answers without hesitation two or three rapidly propounded questions as to names of his regimental officers in '62, and then seems completely bewildered as the adjutant takes him cordially by the hand and bids him welcome. However, it did not require many words to explain the matter.

To return to those recruits. If the police force of our large Eastern cities were at a loss to account for the disappearance of a thousand or more of their ”regular boarders,” a flying trip to the Black Hills on this 12th day of October, '76, would have satisfied them as to their whereabouts. Where there were ten ”good men and true” among the new-comers, there were forty who came simply with the intention of deserting when they got fairly into the Hills and within striking distance of the mines, an intention most successfully carried out by a large proportion of their number.

And then the names under which they enlisted! ”What's your name?” said the adjutant to the most unmistakable case of ”Bowery Boy” in the front rank.

”My name's Jackson Bewregard,” is the reply, with the accompaniment of hunching shoulders, projecting chin, overlapping under-lip, and sneering nostril characteristic of Chatham Square in the palmy days of Mose.

”And yours?” to Mr. Bewregard's left file, a big rough of Hibernian extraction.

”My name's Jooles Vern.”

The adjutant glances at the muster-roll: ”'No. 173--Jules Verne.' Ha!

yes. The party that wrote 'Around the World in Eighty Days.' Have we many more of these eminent Frenchmen, sergeant?”

The sergeant grins under his great moustache. Possibly he is recalling a fact which the adjutant has by no means forgotten, that ten years before, when they were both in General Billy Graham's famous light battery of the First Artillery, of which the adjutant was then second lieutenant, the sergeant was then, too, a sergeant, but with a very different name.

<script>