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changed man. Solitude, self-examination, and study did their work. He was assigned to a regiment, married, and took his young wife to a far western station, where the story followed him, and the few West Pointers at first would not speak to him. But he became a model duty officer, reserved, dignified, studious. He lived to win the respect of his fellow-men, and to die a devout Christian.

It is believed also that shortly before his death he was made aware that two or three West Pointers actually knew the real villain in the tragic story. Strangely enough, he was the only other cadet with whom I had a lasting difference. From the summer of 1865 I had refused to speak to him. He was secretly married, it seems, and the woman blackmailed him. He was driven nearly mad by her threatening to announce their marriage unless he kept her supplied with money. This would at once have ended his career as a cadet and his future as an officer. He had to steal to meet her demands. He went stark mad one wintry night, a year after the drumming-out affair; he had given indications of insanity twice before. He wandered off cadet limits, and was brought back exhausted, and while in hospital, under pledge of secrecy, told his miserable story to a fellow cadet, and killed himself a year after his graduation.

An odd sequel to that distressing affair came in June. There was a great shortage of young graduates of West Point, so many had been killed or crippled for life in the war, so many promoted, that the superintendent found it necessary to ask of the War Department that he might select two of the graduating class for duty as instructors in tactics during the summer encampment. It was granted, and the two cadets selected to reappear as officers and instructors within a fortnight of their graduation were the man who took my place as adjutant and my dethroned self. I hardly knew how to thank the superintendent and commandant, for it was the latter who made the choice.


It was a beautiful detail and a very delightful duty, but it might have been better had I spent that summer on leave, as I had planned, in Wisconsin, for I had not seen my home since 1860 and longed to be there again. Father, mother, sister, and grandfather and his family were all in Italy, father being still minister to Rome, but there were a few of my kith and kin, and many a dear old chum, living in Milwaukee, and I wanted to see the "graceless, Godless gang" again before going in the autumn to join the light battery, to which, as second lieutenant I had been assigned. Matters had become turbulent in New Orleans. There had been a "massacre" of negro legislators at the Mechanics Institute, on Dryades Street, where the Gruenewald Hotel now stands, and the battery commander urged my joining without delay. The trouble was over, but he was short of officers. I spent only a week in Milwaukee that fall; but in the fall of '67, while the great epidemic of yellow fever was in full blast, I was on sick leave in the North, forbidden by the War Department's orders to return until frost set in. Living at Alexander Mitchell's commodious home, where the Wisconsin Club now stands, I had a most enjoyable visit until near Thanksgiving, when ordered to New York to accompany by sea a big batch of recruits going to Louisiana and Texas to help fill the gaps made by the fever.

Then came a rather lively year in New Orleans, the political campaign of '68 and a series of riots in the Crescent City between the whites and blacks. It was that fall of '68 that Gatling guns, though invented during the Civil War, were first mounted and put in use in the Army, two of them, with their carriages, caissons, harness, etc., and complete equipment being sent to our battery, where they were duly horsed and manned, and the command fell to me, the junior lieutenant on duty. It got to be great fun

after a while, when we had learned the use of these "bullet squirters," as they were called. We were moved into the city and stationed in a big, abandoned cotton press out on Canal Street, when the election drew near and the rioting became frequent, our orders were to hitch every evening and stand to horse, ready for business. It wouldn't be long before somewhere in the downtown districts, the sudden crackle of revolver and shotgun would announce that a riot had broken out, and send us at swift trot, rattling away over the block pavement, for all the world like four fine fire companies acting as one, bound for the scene of disturbance. Never once had we to fire, though often it was "Front into battery" at the gallop. The rioters, black and white, had an idea those guns would belch lead that would sweep the streets from curb to curb, and the crowds scattered like sheep at the sound of our bugle, and the cry "Here come the Gatlings!" All the same we were glad when it was over, and early the following spring I was ordered to Fort Hamilton, New York harbor, acting as post adjutant for a while, and in August being for a second time detailed in the department of tactics at West Point-duties that I rejoiced in and that kept me actively employed drilling, drilling, riding and afoot, day after day, and rowing between times on the Hudson, developing health, strength, and physique that stood me in good stead in trying years that were before


When Congress cut down the Army in '69, I grabbed at a chance to transfer into the Cavalry, the service I best loved. In the fall of '71 I joined the Fifth Regiment on the plains of the Platte Valley, had a glorious hunt or two with Buffalo Bill, our chief scout, then when our colonel was ordered to New Orleans to command the reëstablished Department of the Gulf, with his old volunteer rank of major general, he took me with him as aide-de-camp, possibly because he thought I knew more about affairs in Louisiana than any other of his subalterns.

Then came three very eventful years and duties that were far from agreeable. The "carpet-bag government," socalled, was in full control in Louisiana, and presently split into two factions-two legislatures and, almost, two governors.

It is too much like ancient history to go back to those troubled times. We are unlikely ever again to see states divided as was Louisiana, with the old residents, impaired in fortune in almost every case, disfranchised and holding aloof in dignified silence and retirement. We had riots between the factions, a few assassinations, and no end of excitement. My chief, Major-general Emory, was perpetually being applied to, first by one faction, then by the other, for protection against armed forces, which both maintained. All the while their clashings were going on in Louisiana, and others in Mississippi, there were social activities in which the general and his staff were able to take part, and which afforded him and them many opportunities of meeting people we were glad to know, including a very few of the old residents, some of whom had been Emory's friends in the old army. Perhaps the most unique experience that came to me was that of serving at one time as liaison officer, between my chief, General Emory, and no less a personage than the famous former Confederate, General Longstreet, by that time wearing the uniform of a major general of the United States Army and commanding the Louisiana militia. I always had a great admiration for him as a soldier, and this brought us into very close relations. He interested me more than any other man I met in those days in Louisiana and I was glad of the opportunity.

The old opera house with an excellent orchestra, led by Calabresi, with a very capable company and chorus, was a joy to me. Mardi Gras was celebrated in famous style, our Nineteenth Regular Infantry, on one occasion, furnish

ing all the oriental guard of the carnival king, just as in 1868 the horses and men of my old battery had appeared in the pageant of Lalla Rookh. Another great parade which annually took place in New Orleans was that of the firemen on the fourth of March, a spectacle never to be missed. Then, for a lover of baseball as I had been since we began playing it at Columbia in 1858, there were excellent nines in the Lone Star, the Robert E. Lee, and the Excelsior Club. I joined the last named, but found I could no longer bat and field as in '69, when being for some months on recruiting duty in Cincinnati, I had joined that famous club, the Red Stockings. It was that year, '69, that our team made the tour of the eastern states without losing a game, in spite of the fact that in Martin, of the Unions of Morrisania, New York, they were up against a curved pitcher, though he and they knew it not. Martin himself could not explain his strange power of baffling such batsmen as George Wright, Leonard, McVey, and George Gould. In '71, however, I had to take to wearing glasses and my baseball days were over.

But on the other hand, I was riding more than ever; it was the last year of the famous old Metairie Jockey Club, of which General Paul O. Hebert was president, and I saw the last four-mile heats ever run in the South, with Sanford's superb Monarchist as the champion. That spring of '72 was made rather interesting in New Orleans by the arrival of two young gentlemen riders, Captain George Rosenlecher of France, and the Count de Crenneville of Austria, who challenged any officers to an international race on Ladies' Day, April 9. A Mr. Stuart, formerly of the British Hussars, was eager to take up the challenge, a Mr. Ross, who had been in the Inniskilling Dragoons, was accepted to ride for Ireland, and Generals Hebert and Westmore of the Metairie Club, picked me to ride for America. I weighed 147 then, too heavy a weight for jockey work. Furthermore, the beautiful silken jockey dress, with white cord breeches,

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