My View from 1958

Please note, two major historical resources for this story are:

 “Life of a Soldier on the Western Frontier”, 2008, Jermey Agnew, Mountain Press Publishing Company, Missoula, Montana.

“40 Miles a Day on Beans and Hay,  The Enlisted Soldier Fighting the Indian Wars”, 1963, Don Rickey, Junior; University of Oklahoma Press, Norman OK.

The men formed ranks on the parade ground by company. Boots crunched on frozen dirt. Some soldiers still looked half asleep. Others stood rigid, knowing exactly how Sgt Cooper liked a line dressed.

“Company… FALL IN!”, bellowed Cooper.

Uriah fell into his usual spot between Private James Hunter and Corporal Eli Scott. Private Hunter was about the same age as Uriah. He hailed from the hills of Virginia and spoke with a slow Southern drawl so thick it sometimes sounded as though he had a sock stuffed in his mouth. More often than not, however, it was packed full of foul-smelling chewing tobacco which stained his teeth brown. Hunter also smoked a pipe. There was nothing unusual about that on the frontier, but every time he drew deep on the thing, he coughed and hacked so violently it sounded as though his lungs were trying to crawl up out of his chest. More than once Uriah swore the man would cough himself clean out of his boots. Yet after wiping his mouth and catching his breath, Hunter would calmly stuff the stem right back between his teeth and light it again as though nothing had happened.

Hunter had served in the Confederate Army until the bitter end of the war. He often spoke of Spotsylvania and Cold Harbor and took particular pride in having ridden under “the famous Jubal Early.” Like many former Confederate soldiers, he carried the war with him still, though he rarely spoke of the worst parts outright.

When James finally returned home after the surrender, little remained of the life he once knew. Union troops had taken most of the livestock, the crops had been burned or trampled, and the family farm stood in near ruin. His Ma and Papa were still alive but barely holding on. With few opportunities left in Virginia and no real way to rebuild, James enlisted in the frontier army. The pay was poor, but it meant regular meals, clothing, and a few dollars each month that he faithfully sent home in hopes his parents might survive until better times returned.

Uriah liked James well enough. He was a dependable soldier who could ride hard, shoot straight, and generally carried his share of the work without complaint. Still, like many men serving on the frontier, Hunter had his weaknesses. He possessed a powerful thirst for whiskey and an unfortunate fondness for the so-called “soiled doves” who drifted from camp to camp.  He also had a bad habit of not knowing when to shut his mouth. He just talked and talked and talked about shit nobody cared about. Someday, somebody was going to close his mouth for him.  Like an old mutt that wandered into camp and somehow became part of the outfit, Uriah tolerated him despite his many bad habits. James could be foul-mouthed, stubborn, and too fond of whiskey whenever payday arrived, but beneath it all he was dependable when things mattered. He rode hard, stood his watch without complaint, and never backed away from trouble.

Corporal Eli Scott was a veteran of the late war as well, though unlike many of the men at the fort, he never spoke of where he had served or what he had seen. Most soldiers carried the war around with them like an old scar, retelling battles and hardships over whiskey or coffee around the evening fires. Scott never joined such conversations. If someone pressed him too hard with questions, he usually answered with a quiet nod or changed the subject altogether. Before long, most men learned not to ask.

He was a tall, lean man somewhere in his middle thirties, older than many of the enlisted troopers. His dark blue uniform was always brushed clean as circumstances allowed, his boots polished when possible, and his weapons maintained with near obsessive care. Even after long patrols through blowing dust and prairie mud, Scott somehow managed to appear more orderly than the rest of the company. The younger soldiers often joked that he looked more like an officer than an enlisted man.

Unlike many frontier soldiers, Scott displayed none of the usual vices. He did not drink, gamble, or chase after the soiled doves. He rarely cursed and carried himself with a calm restraint that made some men uneasy. There was something guarded about him, as though he kept part of himself locked far away where no one else could reach it.

Though quiet by nature, Scott possessed an authority that needed no shouting. When he spoke, men listened. His voice was steady, measured, and confident, carrying the tone of a man accustomed to responsibility. Even the rougher troopers who ignored most noncommissioned officers tended to obey Scott without argument.

Uriah suspected the corporal had been more than an ordinary soldier during the war. Scott spoke and wrote with the ease of an educated man, uncommon among enlisted troopers on the frontier. He read newspapers when they arrived at the fort, kept a small worn Bible and several books among his belongings, and occasionally made notes in a leather journal he never allowed others to examine.

What impressed the men most, however, was Scott’s knowledge of the country. He could study the plains, bluffs, and river valleys as though reading a familiar map. He knew where water could be found during dry stretches, how storms moved across the prairie, and which trails remained passable after heavy rain. During scouting patrols he navigated almost instinctively, often guiding detachments through rough country without hesitation.

Some believed he had been a surveyor or teacher before the war. Others whispered he might once have served with scouts or engineers. A few thought he had seen terrible things during the fighting back east and simply wished to bury that life beneath the wide emptiness of the frontier.

Whatever the truth may have been, Corporal Scott remained a mystery even to the men who served beside him every day.

Sergeant Cooper moved down the ranks checking uniforms, carbines, and cartridge belts. Any missing button or dirty weapon might earn a man extra duty. As he leaned in close to each soldier, the smell of whiskey was unmistakable. Nobody said a word.

Then came roll call.

Cooper held the company roster and called each name loudly into the cool morning air.

“Private Hunter”

“Here,”

“Private Porter!”

“Here,”

“Corporal Wilkes!”

“Here!”

The replies echoed across the quiet fort one by one. Men absent without explanation were immediately noticed. A soldier missing from formation could mean drunkenness, desertion, sickness, or perhaps even trouble during the night watch.

The troops were a wide cross section of humanity. Civil War veterans, recent immigrants, farm boys, laborers, criminals or men looking for steady pay and food after the war. Most men viewed the army as a job rather than draw by any patriotic fever. More importantly, few were particularly motivated to fight Native Americans.

Their surnames reflected the mixture of backgrounds common in the postwar U.S. Army: Schneider, Bauer, Schmidt, O’Brien, Murphy, Doyle, Hatcher, Grady, Mercer, Pike and Crowley. Irish and German immigrants.  Farm kids from Ohio, Pennsylvania, Illinois and Iowa. Most soldiers were barely literate. Others could read and write well enough to send letters home but had little formal education. Gambling, drinking, and desertion were persistent problems partly because many men felt trapped by harsh conditions and isolation. That is part of what makes the frontier army historically interesting. It was not a polished heroic force like later Hollywood versions. It was a tired, underpaid, often lonely rag tag army stationed far from civilization, trying to maintain order across enormous stretches of the American West. It was whiskey, dust, boredom and on occasion fear of what laid outside the walls of the fort. Much different that any John Wayne Western. If you ever saw the movie, “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon”, you would know what I mean.  Soldiers were clean, uniforms crisp, joyful, and full of fun.   Definitely not reality.

After roll call Sergeant Cooper read the morning orders. Assignments for guard duty, scouting patrols, wood cutting, stable work, and other details were announced. Punishments were also sometimes read aloud as a warning to the rest of the company:

“Private Jenkins confined to quarters for drunken conduct.”

Nobody enjoyed hearing his own name during that part.

“Private Porter, Private Hunter, Corporal Scott, wood detail”…..….and on it went.

Porter was relieved to be on wood detail. At least we didn’t have to gather buffalo chips. It had been a dry winter, so Sgt. Cooper decided it was time to gather and stockpile wood. Most men hated this detail, but Uriah enjoyed getting out of the smelly fort and exploring the land. He especially liked riding his horse, Smokey.

The entire ceremony was orderly but never elegant. When assembly finally ended, the companies were dismissed.

“DISMISS” yelled Cooper as he marched back toward his barracks…..probably for another snort of rot gut many thought.

Almost instantly discipline relaxed. Men headed toward breakfast kettles with tin cups and plates in hand. Coffee became the most important thing in the world. Conversations started up again. Horses needed to be taken care of, and above it all, the prairie wind kept blowing against the walls of the fort as another long frontier day began.

The wood detail usually began shortly after breakfast, but first the horse had to be taken care of. The horse was absolutely essential to the frontier army in 1866. For cavalry units on the Great Plains, a soldier’s horse was as important as his rifle — sometimes more important. At remote western posts such as Fort Mitchell, the army depended on horses for nearly everything: The western territories covered vast stretches of open land with few roads and little infrastructure. Infantry on foot simply could not move fast enough across the plains. Cavalry units became the army’s eyes and mobility.

A cavalry trooper spent enormous amounts of time caring for his mount. In many cases he spent more time tending his horse than himself. Horses had to be watered, fed, inspected shoes and brushed. A horse was a combination of your car, pickup truck, ATV, and sometimes your lifeline. If you neglected your horse, you could become stranded, miss an assignment, fail to deliver a message, or even die. In many ways, the relationship was more important than most people’s relationship with a car today.

“Most green recruits think the army issued them a horse,” Scott said as he worked a currycomb through the gelding’s dusty coat. “Truth is, the army issued the horse a soldier.”

Uriah laughed.

“I’m serious,” Scott continued. “That animal carries you, your gear, your rifle, and sometimes your hide. If he goes lame ten miles from the fort, you’ll learn mighty quick who’s really doing the work.”

He paused and checked a hoof for stones.

“A horse is like a man’s livelihood. Take care of it every day and it’ll serve you for years. Neglect it and sooner or later it’ll leave you walking.”

A good cavalryman developed a close bond with his horse such as Uriah did with Smokey. Many soldiers trusted their mounts more than some of the men beside them. Horses sensed danger, bad weather, exhaustion, and unfamiliar scents long before humans did.

Wood gathering was one of the most dreaded duties at a frontier fort in 1866, especially on the open plains where timber was scarce and unknows dangers lurked. At isolated posts such as Fort Mitchell, firewood meant survival. Without it there was no cooking, no heat in winter, and no way to warm barracks during bitter prairie nights. Buffalo chips only went so far and could sometimes be as scarce as wood.

Troops stationed at Fort Mitchell would most likely have gathered wood from the river bottoms and creek areas along the nearby North Platte River, especially in the cottonwood groves that grew near the water. The country around Fort Mitchell was largely open prairie and bluff land with very limited timber. Cottonwood trees, willow, box elder, and scattered cedar were often the only available fuel and construction material near army posts. Historical accounts from nearby frontier forts repeatedly mention cottonwood groves along the Platte River as the primary source of timber and firewood. The National Park Service notes the actual Fort Mitchell site lies along the Platte River itself. That river bottom would have been the natural destination for wood-cutting details.

Private Randell gathered axes, crosscut saws, ropes, and rifles before the detail headed outside the fort. He also ensured the wagons and teams were prepared.

The three friends talked less as the excitement and anxiety mounted for the trip. Uriah had not seen any hostiles so far, but he heard plenty. He knew they were  out  there. He sometime saw the smoke from their campfires in the distance. He also knew about the (1854) Battle of Blue Water Creek (Nebraska Territory).  Lieutenant John Grattan and 29 soldiers were killed after a dispute over a stray cow escalated into a confrontation with a large Lakota camp. The destruction of Grattan’s command shocked the Army and led directly to Harney’s campaign at the Battle of Blue Water Creek (Ash Hollow, Nebraska Territory), 1855. General William S. Harney led about 600 troops against a Brulé Lakota village under Little Thunder. The battle was fought as retaliation for the Grattan incident the year before. The Army won, but many Lakota women and children were killed or captured, leading some contemporaries and later historians to describe it as a massacre.  Although it had occurred roughly a decade earlier, the men still spoke of it as if it were recent history. On the frontier, time did not soften such events, among soldiers and Native groups alike, it was widely understood that its memory remained very alive. Uriah often wondered when the Brulé might seek revenge.