I could not seem to
take any interest in the post or in the life there. I could not
form new ties so quickly, after our life on the coast, and I did
not like the Mississippi Valley, and St. Louis was too far from
the post, and the trolley ride over there too disagreeable for
words. After seven months of just existing (on my part) at
Jefferson Barracks, Jack received an order for Fort Myer, the
end, the aim, the dream of all army people. Fort Myer is about
three miles from Washington, D. C.
We lost no time in getting there and were soon settled in our
pleasant quarters. There was some building to be done, but the
duty was comparatively light, and we entered with considerable
zest into the social life of the Capital. We expected to remain
there for two years, at the end of which time Captain Summerhayes
would be retired and Washington would be our permanent home.
But alas! our anticipation was never to be realized, for, as we
all know, in May of 1898, the Spanish War broke out, and my
husband was ordered to New York City to take charge of the Army
Transport Service, under Colonel Kimball.
No delay was permitted to him, so I was left behind, to pack up
the household goods and to dispose of our horses and carriages as
best I could.
The battle of Manila Bay had changed the current of our lives,
and we were once more adrift.
The young Cavalry officers came in to say good-bye to Captain
Jack: every one was busy packing up his belongings for an
indefinite period and preparing for the field. We all felt the
undercurrent of sadness and uncertainty, but "a good health" and
"happy return" was drunk all around, and Jack departed at
midnight for his new station and new duties.
The next morning at daybreak we were awakened by the tramp, tramp
of the Cavalry, marching out of the post, en route for Cuba.
We peered out of the windows and watched the troops we loved so
well, until every man and horse had vanished from our sight.
Fort Myer was deserted and our hearts were sad.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* *
My sister Harriet, who was visiting us at that time, returned
from her morning walk, and as she stepped upon the porch, she
said: "Well! of all lonesome places I ever saw, this is the worst
yet. I am going to pack my trunk and leave. I came to visit an
army post, but not an old women's home or an orphan asylum: that
is about all this place is now. I simply cannot stay!"
Whereupon, she proceeded immediately to carry out her resolution,
and I was left behind with my young daughter, to finish and close
up our life at Fort Myer.
To describe the year which followed, that strenuous year in New
York, is beyond my power.
That summer gave Jack his promotion to a Major, but the anxiety
and the terrible strain of official work broke down his health
entirely, and in the following winter the doctors sent him to
Florida, to recuperate.
After six weeks in St. Augustine, we returned to New York. The
stress of the war was over; the Major was ordered to Governor's
Island as Chief Quartermaster, Department of the East, and in the
following year he was retired, by operation of the law, at the
age limit.
I was glad to rest from the incessant changing of stations; the
life had become irksome to me, in its perpetual unrest. I was
glad to find a place to lay my head, and to feel that we were not
under orders; to find and to keep a roof-tree, under which we
could abide forever.
In 1903, by an act of Congress, the veterans of the Civil War,
who had served continuously for thirty years or more were given
an extra grade, so now my hero wears with complacency the silver
leaf of the Lieutenant-Colonel, and is enjoying the quiet life of
a civilian.
But that fatal spirit of unrest from which I thought to escape,
and which ruled my life for so many years, sometimes asserts its
power, and at those times my thoughts turn back to the days when
we were all Lieutenants together, marching across the deserts and
mountains of Arizona; back to my friends of the Eighth Infantry,
that historic regiment, whose officers and men fought before the
walls of Chapultepec and Mexico, back to my friends of the Sixth
Cavalry, to the days at Camp MacDowell, where we slept under the
stars, and watched the sun rise from behind the Four Peaks of the
MacDowell Mountains: where we rode the big cavalry horses over
the sands of the Maricopa desert, swung in our hammocks under the
ramadas; swam in the red waters of the Verde River, ate canned
peaches, pink butter and commissary hams, listened for the
scratching of the centipedes as they scampered around the edges
of our canvas-covered floors, found scorpions in our slippers,
and rattlesnakes under our beds.
The old post is long since abandoned, but the Four Peaks still
stand, wrapped in their black shadows by night, and their purple
colors by day, waiting for the passing of the Apache and the
coming of the white man, who shall dig his canals in those arid
plains, and build his cities upon the ruins of the ancient Aztec
dwellings.
The Sixth Cavalry, as well as the Eighth Infantry, has seen many
vicissitudes since those days. Some of our gallant Captains and
Lieutenants have won their stars, others have been slain in
battle.
Dear, gentle Major Worth received wounds in the Cuban campaign,
which caused his death, but he wore his stars before he obeyed
the "last call."
The gay young officers of Angel Island days hold dignified
commands in the Philippines, Cuba, and Alaska.
