Jumps for his rifle and every
officer buckles on his sword, and a woman's heart stands still.
Then at night, "tattoo," when the company officers go out to
receive the report of "all present and accounted for" - and
shortly after that, the mournful "taps," a signal for the barrack
lights to be put out.
The bugle call of "taps" is mournful also through association, as
it is always blown over the grave of a soldier or an officer,
after the coffin has been lowered into the earth. The
soldier-musicians who blow the calls, seem to love the call of
"taps," (strangely enough) and I remember well that there at Camp
MacDowell, we all used to go out and listen when "taps went," as
the soldier who blew it, seemed to put a whole world of sorrow
into it, turning to the four points of the compass and letting
its clear tones tremble through the air, away off across the
Maricopa desert and then toward the East, our home so faraway. We
never spoke, we just listened, and who can tell the thoughts that
each one had in his mind? Church nor ministers nor priests had we
there in those distant lands, but can we say that our lives were
wholly without religion?
The Sunday inspection of men and barracks, which was performed
with much precision and formality,and often in full dress
uniform, gave us something by which we could mark the weeks, as
they slipped along. There was no religious service of any kind,
as Uncle Sam did not seem to think that the souls of us people in
the outposts needed looking after. It would have afforded much
comfort to the Roman Catholics had there been a priest stationed
there.
The only sermon I ever heard in old Camp MacDowell was delivered
by a Mormon Bishop and was of a rather preposterous nature,
neither instructive nor edifying. But the good Catholics read
their prayer-books at home, and the rest of us almost forgot that
such organizations as churches existed.
Another bright winter found us still gazing at the Four Peaks of
the MacDowell Mountains, the only landmark on the horizon. I was
glad, in those days, that I had not staid back East, for the life
of an officer without his family, in those drear places, is
indeed a blank and empty one.
"Four years I have sat here and looked at the Four Peaks," said
Captain Corliss, one day, "and I'm getting almighty tired of
it."
CHAPTER XXVI
A SUDDEN ORDER
In June, 1878, Jack was ordered to report to the commanding
officer at Fort Lowell (near the ancient city of Tucson), to act
as Quartermaster and Commissary at that post. This was a sudden
and totally unexpected order.
