Wisconsin in Story and Song:  GENERAL CHARLES KING

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Wisconsin in Story and Song
Selections from the Prose and Poetry of Badger State Writers.

Edited by Charles Ralph Rounds, Head of the Department of English of
the Milwaukee State Normal School and Henry Sherman Hippensteel, Head
of the Department of English and Director of High School Teacher
Training of the Stevens Point Normal School

Publishers:  The Parker Educational Company, Madison, Wisconsin

Copyright, 1916 by the Parker Educational Co., Madison, Wisconsin

Page(s):  40-63


GENERAL CHARLES KING.

General Charles King is no doubt Wisconsin's most voluminous writer.
He was born in Albany, New York, in 1844; was graduated from the
United States Military Academy in 1866; was made captain of a company
of cavalry engaged in Indian warfare in 1879, and was retired on
account of wounds in June of that year. He came to Wisconsin in 1882
as inspector and instructor of the Wisconsin National Guard.

Besides serving in Indian warfare, he has also seen action in the
Philippine Islands. His military life has been active enough to
consume the energies of most men, but not so with this soldier. He is
the author of more than fifty books, most of which deal with exciting
and dramatic episodes, which come from his pen with the conviction and
clarity that result only from actual knowledge and observation.

Perhaps the best known of all his many books are "The Colonel's
Daughter" and its sequel, "Marion's Faith." The first selection here
given is one frequently quoted from the latter book, but the second is
from one of his more recent volumes, entitled, "The Real Ulysses S.
Grant," and it is characterized by crisp, clear statement and by a
feeling of intense sincerity and conviction.

General King is a familiar figure both on the streets of Milwaukee and
in every town in Wisconsin that boasts a company in the National
Guard. His erect carriage and his whole bearing indicate youth and
strength. He is a delightful lecturer, and a talk with him is an
experience that one does not readily forget. He practically never
mentions his own exploits, though they were many; but his accurate
memory and his excellent powers of description are brought into play
when the deeds of others are concerned.

RAY'S RIDE FOR LIFE

From "MARION'S FAITH." Chap. 14. By Gen. Charles King, U.S.A.
Copyright, 1887, by J. B. Lippincott Co.

Darkness has settled down in the shadowy Wyoming valley. By the light
of a tiny fire under the bank some twenty forms can be seen stretched
upon the sand, - they are wounded soldiers. A little distance away are
nine others, shrouded in blankets: they are the dead. Huddled in
confused and cowering group are a few score horses, many of them
sprawled upon the sand motionless; others occasionally struggle to
rise or plunge about in their misery. Crouching among the timber,
vigilant but weary, dispersed in a big, irregular circle around the
beleaguered bivouac, some sixty soldiers are still on the active list.
All around them, vigilant and vengeful, lurk the Cheyennes. Every now
and then the bark as of a coyote is heard, - a yelping, querulous cry,-
and it is answered far across the valley or down the stream. There is
no moon; the darkness is intense, though the starlight is clear, and
the air so still that the galloping hoofs of the Cheyenne ponies far
out on the prairie sound close at hand.

"That's what makes it hard," says Ray, who is bending over the
prostrate form of Captain Wayne. "If it were storming or blowing, or
something to deaden the hoof-beats, I could make it easier; but it's
the only chance. "

The only chance of what?

When the sun went down upon Wayne's timber citadel, and the final
account of stock was taken for the day, it was found that with one-
fourth of the command, men and horses, killed and wounded, there were
left not more than three hundred cartridges, all told, to enable some
sixty men to hold out until relief could come against an enemy who
encircled them on every side, and who had only to send over to the
neighboring reservation-forty miles away-and get all the cartridges
they wanted. Mr. - would let their friends have them to kill
"buffalo," though Mr. - knew there wasn't a buffalo, left within four
hundred miles.

They could cut through, of course, and race up the valley to find the
---th, but they would have to leave the wounded and the dismounted
behind, - to death by torture, - so that ended the matter. Only one thing
remained. In some way-by some means-word must be carried to the
regiment. The chances were ten to one against the couriers slipping
out. Up and down the valley, out on the prairie on both sides of the
stream, the Cheyennes kept vigilant watch. They had their hated
enemies in a death-grip, and only waited the coming of other warriors
and more ammunition to finish them-as the Sioux had finished Custer.
They knew, though the besieged did not, that, the very evening before,
the ---th had marched away. westward, and were far from their comrades.
All they had to do was to prevent any one's escaping to give warning
of the condition of things in Wayne's command. All, therefore, were on
the alert, and of this there was constant indication. The man or men
who made the attempt would have to run the gauntlet. The one remaining
scout who had been employed for such work refused the attempt as
simply madness. He had lived too long among the Indians to dare it,
yet Wayne and Ray and Dana and Hunter, and the whole command, for that
matter, knew that some one must try it. Who was it to be?

There was no long discussion. Wayne called the sulking scout a
damned coward, which consoled him somewhat, but didn't help matters.
Ray had been around the rifle-pits taking observations. Presently be
returned, leading Dandy up near the fire,  - the one, sheltered light
that was permitted.

"Looks fine as silk, don't be?" he said, smoothing his pet's glossy
neck and shoulder, for Ray's groom had no article of religion which
took precedence over the duty he owed the lieutenant's horse, and no
sooner was the sun down than he bad been grooming him as though still
in garrison. "Give him all the oats you can steal, Hogan; some of the
men must have a hatful left."

Wayne looked up startled.

"Ray, I can't let you go!"

"There's no helping it. Some one must go, and who can you send?"

Even there the captain noted the grammatical eccentricity. What -was
surprising was that even there he made no comment thereon. He was
silent. Ray had spoken truth. There was no one whom he could order to
risk death in breaking his way out since the scout had said 'twas
useless. There were brave men there who would gladly try it had they
any skill in such matters, but that was lacking. "If any man in the
company could 'make it,' that man was Ray." He was cool, daring, keen;
he was their best and lightest rider, and no one so well knew the
country or better knew the Cheyennes. Wayne even wished that Ray might
volunteer. There was only this about it, - the men would lose much of
their grit with him away. They swore by him, and felt safe when he was
there to lead or encourage. But the matter was settled by Ray himself.
He was already stripping for the race.

"Get those shoes off," he said to the farrier, who came at his
bidding, and Dandy wonderingly looked up from the gunny-sack of oats
in which he had buried his nozzle. "What on earth could that
blacksmith mean by tugging out his shoe-nails?" was his reflection,
though, like the philosopher he was, he gave more thought to his
oats, an unaccustomed luxury just then.

There seemed nothing to be said by anybody. Wayne rose painfully to
his feet. Hunter stood in silence by, and a few men grouped themselves
around the little knot of officers. Ray had taken off his belt and was
poking out the carbine cartridges, from the loops, - there were not over
ten. Then he drew the revolver, carefully examined the chambers to see
that all were filled; motioned with his hand to those on the ground,
saying, quietly, "Pick those up. Y'all may need every one of 'em. "
The Blue Grass dialect seemed cropping out the stronger for his
preoccupation. "Got any spare Colts?" he continued, turning to Wayne.
"I only want another round." These he stowed as he got them in the
smaller loops on the right side of his belt. Then he bent forward to
examine Dandy's hoofs again. "Smooth them off as well as you can. Get
me a little of that sticky mud there, one of you men. There! ran that
into every hole and smooth off the surface. Make it look just as much
like a pony's as you know how. They can't tell Dandy's tracks from
their own then, don't you see?"

Three or four pairs of hands worked assiduously to do his bidding.
Still, there was no talking. No one had anything he felt like saying
just then.

"Who's got the time?" he asked.

Wayne looked at his watch, bending down over the fire.

"Just nine fifteen."

"All right. I must be off in ten minutes. The moon will be up at
eleven."

Dandy had finished the last of his oats by this time, and was gazing
contentedly about him. Ever since quite early in the day he bad been
in hiding down there under the bank. He had received only one trifling
clip, though for half an hour at least he had been springing around
where the bullets flew thickest. He was even pining for his customary
gallop over the springy turf, and wondering why it bad been denied him
that day. "Only a blanket. and surcingle," said Ray, to his orderly,
who was coming up with the heavy saddle and bags. "We're riding to win
tonight, Dandy and 1, and must travel light."

He flung aside his scouting hat, knotted the silk handkerchief he took
from his throat so as to confine the dark hair that came tumbling
almost into his eyes, buckled the holster-belt tightly round his
waist, looked doubtfully an instant at his spurs, but decided to keep
them on. Then he turned to Wayne. "A word with you, captain."

The others fell back a short distance, and for a moment the two stood
alone speaking in low tones. All else was silent except the feverish
moan of some poor fellow lying sorely wounded in the hollow, or the
occasional pawing and stir among the horses. In the dim light of the
little -fire the others stood watching them. They saw that Wayne was
talking earnestly, and presently extended his hand, and they heard
Ray, somewhat impatiently, say, "Never mind that now," and noted that
at first he did not take the hand; but finally they came back to the
group and Ray spoke:

"Now, fellows, just listen a minute. I've got to break out on the
south side. I know it better. Of course there are no end of Indians
out there, but most of the crowd are in the timber above and below.
There will be plenty on the watch, and it isn't possible that I can
gallop out through them without being heard. Dandy and I have got
to sneak for it until we're spotted, or clear of them, then away we
go. I hope to work well out towards the bluffs before they catch a
glimpse of me, then lie flat and go. for all I'm worth to where we
left the regiment. Then you bet it won't be long before the old crowd
will becoming down just a humping. I'll have 'em here by six O'clock,
if, indeed, I don't find them coming ahead tonight.   Just keep up
your grit, and we'll do our level best, Dandy and I; won't we, old
boy? Now, I want to see Dana a minute and the other wounded fellows,"
and he went and bent down over them, saying a cheery word to each; and
rough, suffering men held out feeble hands to take a parting grip, and
looked up into his brave young eyes. He had long known how the rank
and file regarded him, but had been disposed to laugh it off. Tonight
as he stopped to say a cheering word to the wounded, and looked down
at some pale, bearded face that had stood at his shoulder in more than
one tight place in the old Apache days in Arizona, and caught the same
look of faith and trust in him, something like a quiver hovered for a
minute about his lips, and his own brave eyes grew moist. They knew he
was daring death to save them, but that was a view of the case that
did not seem to occur to him at all. At last he came to Dana lying
there a little apart. The news that Ray was going to "ride for them"
had been whispered all through the bivouac by this time, and Dana
turned and took Ray's hand in both his own.

"God speed you, old boy! If you make it all safe, get word to mother
that I didn't do so badly in my first square tussle, will you?"

"If I make it, you'll be writing it yourself this time tomorrow night.
Even if I don't make it, don't you worry, lad. The Colonel and
Stannard ain't the fellows to let us shift for ourselves with the
country full of Cheyennes. They'll be down here in two days, anyhow.
Goodby, Dana; keep your grip and we'll larrup 'em yet."

Then he turned back to Wayne, Hunter, and the doctor.

"One thing occurs to me, Hunter. You and six or eight men take your
carbines and go up-stream with a dozen horses until you come to the
rifle-pits. Be all ready.  I get clear through you won't hear any row,
but if the sight or hear me before I get through, then, of course,
there will be the biggest kind of an excitement, and you'll ear the
shooting. The moment it begins, give a yell; fire your guns, go
whooping up the stream with the horses as though the whole crowd were
trying to cut out that way, but get right back. The excitement will
distract them and help me. Now, good-by, and good luck to you, crowd,"

"Ray, will you have a nip before you try it? You must be nearly used
up after this day's work." And he held out his flask to him.

"No. I had some hot coffee just ten minutes ago, and I feel like a
four-year-old. I'm riding new colors; didn't you know it? By jove!" he
added, suddenly, "this is my first run under the Preakness blue. "
Even then and there he thought too quickly to speak her name. "Now
then, some of you crawl out to the south edge of the timber with me,
and lie flat in the prairie and keep me in sight as long as you can."
He took one more look at his revolver. " I'm drawing to a bob-tail. If
I fail, I'll bluff; if I fill, I'll knock spots out of, any threes in
the Cheyenne outfit."

Three minutes more and the watchers at the edge of the timber have
seen him, leading Dandy by the bridle, slowly, stealthily, creeping
out into the darkness; a moment the forms of man and horse are
outlined against the stars: then are swallowed up in the night. Hunter
and the sergeants with him grasp their carbines and lie prone upon the
turf, watching, waiting.

In the bivouac is the stillness of death. Ten soldiers  -carbines in
hand-mounted on their unsaddled steeds are waiting in the darkness at
the upper rifle-pits for Hunter's signal. If he shouts, every man is
to yell and break for the front. Otherwise, all are to remain quiet.
Back at the watch-fire under the bank Wayne is squatting watch in one
hand, pistol in the other. Near by lie the wounded, still as their
comrades just beyond, - the dead All around among the trees and in the
sand pits up- and down-stream, fourscore men are listening to the
beating of their own hearts. In the distance, once in a while, is
heard the yelp of coyote or the neigh of Indian pony. In the distance,
too, are the gleams of Indian fires, but they are beyond the positions
occupied by the besieging warriors. Darkness shrouds them. Far aloft
the stars are twinkling through the cool and breezeless air. With
wind, or storm, or tempest, the gallant fellow whom all hearts are
following would have something to favor, something to aid; but in this
almost cruel stillness 'nothing under God can help him, - nothing but
darkness and his own brave spirit.

"If I get through this scrape in safety," mutters Wayne between his
set teeth, "the ---th shall never hear the last of this work of Ray's. "

"If I get through this night," mutters Ray to himself, far out on the
prairie now, where he can hear tramping hoofs and gutteral voices, "it
will be the best run ever made for the Sanford blue, though I do make
it."

Nearly five minutes have passed, and the silence has been unbroken by
shot or shout. The suspense is becoming unbearable in the bivouac,
where every man is listening, hardly daring to draw breath. At last
Hunter, rising to his knees, which are all a-tremble with excitement,
mutters to Sergeant Roach, who is still crouching beside him,-

"By Heaven! I believe he'll slip through without being seen."

Hardly had he spoken when far, far out to the southwest two bright
flashes leap through the darkness. Before the report can reach them
there comes another, not so brilliant. Then, the ringing bang, bang of
two rifles, the answering crack of a revolver.

"Quick, men. Go!" yells Hunter, and darts headlong through the timber
back to the stream. There is a sudden burst of shots and yells and
soldier cheers - a mighty crash and sputter and thunder of hoofs up
the stream-bed; a few of the men at the west end, yelling like demons,
dash in support of the mounted charge in the bed of the stream. For a
minute or two the welkin rings with shouts, shots (mainly those of the
startled Indians), then there is as sudden a rush back to cover,
without a man or horse hurt or missing. In the excitement and darkness
the Cheyennes could only fire wild, but now the night air resounds
with taunts and yells and triumphant war-whoops. For full five minutes
there is a jubilee over the belief that they have penned in the white
soldiers after their dash for liberty. Then, little by little, the
yells and taunts subside. Something has happened to create discussion
in the Cheyenne camps, for the crouching soldiers can hear the
liveliest kind of a pow-wow far up-stream. What does it mean q Has Ray
slipped through, or - have they caught him?

Despite pain and weakness, Wayne hobbles out to where Sergeant Roach
is still watching and asks for tidings.

"I can't be sure, captain; one thing's certain, the lieutenant rode
like a gale. I could follow the shots a full half-mile up the valley,
where they seemed to grow thicker, and then stop all of a sudden in
the midst of the row that was made down here. They've either given it
up and 'have a big party out in chase, or else they've got him. God
knows which. If they've got him,, there'll be a scalp-dance over there
in a few minutes, curse them!" And the sergeant choked.

Wayne watched some ten minutes without avail. Nothing further was seen
or heard that night to indicate what had happened to Ray except once.
Far up the valley he saw a couple of flashes among the bluffs; so did
Roach, and that gave him hope that Dandy had carried his master in
safety that far at least.

He crept back to the bank and cheered the wounded with the news of
what he had seen. Then another word came in ere long. An old sergeant
had crawled out to the front, and could hear something of the shouting
and talking of the Indians. He could understand a few words only,
though he had lived among the Cheyennes nearly five years. They can
barely understand one another in the dark, and use incessant
gesticulation to interpret their own speech; but the sergeant gathered
that they were upbraiding somebody for not guarding a coulee, and
inferred that someone had slipped past their pickets or they wouldn't
be making such a row.

That the Cheyennes did not propose to let the besieged derive much
comfort from their hopes was soon apparent. Out from the timber up the
stream came sonorous voices shouting taunt and challenge, intermingled
with the vilest expletives they had picked up from their cowboy
neighbors, and all the frontier slang in the Cheyenne vocabulary.

"Hullo! sogers; come out some more times. We no shoot. Stay there: we
come plenty quick. Hullo! white chief, come fight fair; soger heap
'fraid! Come, have scalp-dance plenty quick. Catch white soldier;
eat him heart bime by."

"Ah, go to your grandmother, the ould witch in hell, ye musthard-
sthriped convict! " sings out some irrepressible Paddy in reply, and
Wayne, who is disposed to serious thoughts, would order silence, but
it occurs to him that Mulligan's crude sallies have a tendency to keep
the men lively.

"I can't believe they've got him," he whispers to the doctor. "If they
had they would soon recognize him as an officer and come bawling out
their triumph at bagging a chief. His watch, his shoes, his spurs, his
underclothing, would all betray that he was an officer, though he
hasn't a vestige of uniform. Pray God he is safe!"

Will you follow Ray and see? Curiosity is what lures the fleetest deer
to death, and a more dangerous path than that which Ray has taken one
rarely follows. Will you try it, reader-just you and I? Come on, then.
We'll see what our Kentucky boy "got in the draw," as he would put it.

Ray's footfall is soft as a kitten's as he creeps out upon the
prairie; Dandy stepping gingerly after him, wondering but obedient.
For over a hundred yards he goes, until both up- and down-stream he
can almost see the faint fires of the Indians in the timber. Farther
out he can hear hoof-beats and voices, so he edges along westward
until he comes suddenly to a depression, a little winding  "cooley"
across the prairie, through which in the early spring the snows are
carried off from some ravine among the bluffs. Into this be
noiselessly feels his way and Dandy follows. He creeps along to his
left and finds that its general course is from the southwest. He knows
well that the best way to watch for objects in the darkness is to lie
flat on low ground so that everything approaching may be thrown
against the sky. His plain-craft tells him that by keeping in the
water-course he will be less apt to be seen, but will surely come
across some lurking Indians. That be expects. The thing is to get as
far through them as possible before being seen or heard, then mount
and away. After another two minutes' creeping he peers over the
western bank. Now the fires up-stream can be seen in the timber, and
dim, shadowy forms pass and repass. Then close at hand come voices and
hoof-beats. Dandy pricks up his ears and wants to neigh, but Ray grips
his nostrils like a vise, and Dandy desists. At rapid lope, within
twenty yards, a party of half a dozen warriors go bounding past on
their way down the valley, and no sooner have they crossed the gulley
than he rises and rapidly pushes on up the dry sandy bed. Thank
heaven! there are no stones. A minute more and right in front of him,
not a stone's throw away, he hears the deep tones of Indian voices in
conversation. Whoever they may be they are in the "cooley" and
watching the prairie. They can see nothing of him, nor he of them.
Pass them in the ten-foot-wide ravine he cannot. He must go back a
short distance, make a sweep to the east so as not to go between those
watchers and the guiding fires, then trust to lack. Turning stealthily
he brings Dandy around, leads back down the ravine for some thirty
yards, then turns to his horse, pats him gently one minute; "Do your
prettiest for your colors, my boy," he whispers; springs lightly,
noiselessly to his back, and at cautious walk comes up on the level
prairie, with the timber behind him three hundred yards away.
Southward he can see the dim outline of the bluffs. Westward-once that
little arroyo is crossed-he knows the prairie to be level and
unimpeded, fit f or a race; but he -needs to make a detour to pass the
Indians guarding it, get away beyond them, cross it to the west far
behind them, and then look out for stray parties. Dandy ambles lightly
along, eager for fun and little appreciating the danger. Ray bends
down on his neck, intent with eye and ear. He feels that he has got
well out east of the Indian picket unchallenged, when suddenly voices
and hoofs come bounding up the valley from below. He must cross their
front, reach the ravine before them, and strike the prairie beyond.
"Go, Dandy!" he mutters with gentle presure of leg, and the sorrel
bounds lightly away, circling southwestward under the guiding rein.
Another minute and he is at the arroyo and cautiously descending, then
scrambling up the west bank, and then from the darkness comes savage
challenge, a sputter of pony hoofs. Ray bends low and gives Dandy one
vigorous prod with the spur, and with muttered prayer and clinched
teeth and fists he leaps into the wildest race for his life.

Bang! bang! go two shots close behind him. Crack! goes his pistol at a
dusky form closing in on his right.  Then come yells, shots, the
uproar of hoofs, the distant cheer and charge at camp, a breathless
dash for and close along under the bluffs where his form is best
concealed, a whirl to the left into the first ravine that shows
itself, and despite shots and shouts and nimble ponies and vengeful
foes, the Sanford colors are riding far to the front, and all the
racers of the reservations cannot overhaul them.

THE FINAL BLOW

From "THE TRUE ULYSSES S. GRANT Chapter XXXVIII. Copyright, 1914, by
J. B. Lippincott Co.

Long months before the melancholy failure of that ill-omened bank, the
General had told Badeau of the fabulous profits the firm was
realizing, and Badeau went to their old comrade of the war and White
House days-to Horace Porter-and asked that reticent but experienced
soldier citizen his opinion, and Porter solemnly shook his head. Such
profits, he said, were impossible in a business honestly conducted.
But Grant saw on every side men by the dozen who had started with less
than his modest capital and had gathered fortunes in Wall Street. He
was so confident in the sagacity and judgment of Ulysses, Jr., that he
invested his every dollar with the firm and reinvested every penny of
the profits which he did not lavish on his loved ones or on his
followers and friends. Like Thackeray's most lovable hero, Colonel
Newcome, he thought to share his good fortune with many of his kith
and kin and urged their sending their savings to be invested for them
by brilliant young "Buck" and his sagacious partner-that wonderful
wizard of finance, Mr. Ward. Aside from the chagrin of seeing some of
his recommendations disregarded, and certain of his opponents regarded
first by Mr. Garfield and later by Mr. Arthur, General Grant was
living in those years a life of ease, luxury, and freedom from care as
never before he had enjoyed. Julia Dent was as ever first and foremost
in his world, but the children were the source of pride and joy
unmistakable. Devoted, dutiful, and loyal they unquestionably were,
but Grant believed of his first born that he was destined to become
renowned as a general, and of "Buck" and Jesse that they were born
financiers and business men. As for Princess Nellie, the father's love
and yearning for that one daughter of his house and name was beyond
all measure. No man ever loved home, wife, and children more tenderly,
more absorbingly.

Although widely scattered at the time, this heart united household had
been anticipating a blithe and merry Christmas at the close of the
year 1883. When he was alighting from his carriage just before
midnight, with the welcoming chimes pealing on the frosty air, the
General's foot slipped on the icy pavement, be fell heavily, a muscle
snapped in the thigh, possibly one of those injured twenty years
earlier, the day of that fateful stumble at Carrollton, and he was
carried into the house, never thereafter to leave it in health or
strength.

Crutches again, and later a cane, long were necessary. In March, they
took him to Fortress Monroe so that he could hobble about in the soft
air and sunshine. In April he was back again in Gotham, able to drive
his favorite team, but not to walk. On Sunday, the 4th day of May, the
wizard partner, Ward, came into their home and quite casually
announced that the Marine Bank of New York, in which Grant & Ward had
large deposits, needed perhaps one hundred and fifty thousand
dollars to tide them over a temporary difficulty. If General Grant
could borrow that much over Monday, Grant & Ward would not have to
lose a cent; otherwise they stood to lose perhaps fifty or sixty
thousand. Of course the lender would lose nothing, said Ward, as there
was a million, at least, of securities in the vaults.

The world knows the rest -how unsuspiciously our General called on his
friend and fellow horseman, Mr. William H. Vanderbilt, said that he
needed one hundred and fifty thousand for a day or so, and came away
with a cheque for that amount. For no other man probably would Mr.
Vanderbilt have parted unsecured with such a sum. The cheque was
promptly endorsed and turned over to Mr. Ward, who took it
unconcernedly and then his leave.

Tuesday morning, May 6th, believing himself a millionaire and the
brief indebtedness to Vanderbilt already cancelled, Grant alighted at
the Wall Street office to find an ominous gathering. "Father, you had
better go home -the bank has failed," said Ulysses, Jr., with misery
in his eyes, but Grant stayed to investigate. Badeau, the faithful,
hastening in at noon, found the old chief seated in the rear office,
calm in the midst of stress and storm. "We are all ruined here," he
simply said. Ward had vanished, the key of the vaults with him, and
when they were finally opened, the boasted "securities" were found to
be but shadows. The ruin was complete.

Everything they had-all the beautiful, gifts, trophies, souvenirs,
even the little houses owned by Mrs. Grant in Washington, and the
repurchased Dent property about St. Louis-had to be sold. Grant
insisted, though it left them, for the time at least, absolutely
penniless. It had dragged down others with them; it involved his
honored name in a whirlpool of censure, criticism, and calumny that
well-nigh crushed him. Fallen from such supremely high estate, the
insults and indignities that beset him now far outweighed the slights
and sneers that had been his portion in the days of his earlier
humiliation. Over the depths of the misery that had come to him in his
old and recently honored age let us draw the curtain. No man on earth
could know the suffering it cost him. Only one woman could faintly
see. Helping hands there were outstretched to him instanter, and money
to meet the immediate need. Then, as the storm subsided and the extent
of Ward's villainy and Grant's innocence became known, 'new measures
were taken to provide against absolute want. A trust fund had already
been raised, A measure was speedily set on foot to restore to Grant
the rank and pay which he had surrendered on assuming the presidency,
and a modest competence would thus be insured him and those he loved.
There was a home in which to live. They could even spend the summers
at the seashore. There were offers of congenial occupation that might
have proved mildly lucrative. There was measurable return to hope and
possible health. There had never been complaint or repining. To all
about him he had been gentleness, consideration, kindliness itself.
There was just one cause of new, yet slight anxiety:

All through that summer of '84, while at Long Branch, his throat had
been giving him pain, and a Philadelphia physician, examining it for
the first time late in September, advised, even urged, says Badeau,
his consulting a specialist on returning to town. For a time he took
no heed. He was writing now, long hours each day, but at last he
called, as further urged by his own physician, upon that distinguished
expert, Dr. J. H. Douglas, and that evening calmly admitted that the
trouble in his throat was cancerous in tendency. And that this was
true, the fact that he suddenly dropped the luxury of all the days
that had followed Donelson - his cigar-and the sufferings that followed
in November and December proved beyond possibility of doubt. * * *

And meanwhile a nation stood with bated breath and watched and prayed.
Crowds gathered about the house and importuned the physicians for
tidings. Congress had passed amid scenes of emphatic popular approval
a bill restoring him again to the generalship of old-almost the last
act signed by Mr. Arthur before leaving, as it was almost the first
commission signed by Mr. Cleveland after entering, the White House.

Then presently, for quiet and for better air, as 'all remember, they
bore him to the Drexel cottage at Mount McGregor, near Saratoga
Springs, and here, his voice utterly gone, compelled to make his
wishes known by signs, compelled to complete the pages of his Memoirs
with pad and pencil, our stricken soldier indomitably held to his
self-appointed task, once more "fighting it out on this line if it
took all summer." Never even at Shiloh, in front of Vicksburg, or in
the fire-flashing Wilderness was he more tenacious, determined,
heroic, for now intense suffering accompanied almost every move and
moment. Physicians were constantly at hand; Fred, the devoted son,
ever at his side. Here there came to see him and to sympathize old
comrades-even old enemies-of the war days, all thought of rancor
buried now. Here, just as thirty years earlier he had hastened to
offer aid, came Buckner (and this time unprotesting) in unconditional
surrender; for beneath the shadow of that hovering wing the last
vestige of sectional pride gave way to fond memories of the old and
firm friendship. Here, almost as the twilight deepened into the gloom
of night eternal, they bore him the tribute of honor and respect from
men whom he had vehemently opposed --foreman-in-chief to the Union,
Jefferson Davis, and soldier-candidate and political foe, Winfield S.
Hancock. Here they read him letters, telegrams, editorials from every
corner of the Union he had striven to weld and secure, every line
telling of worldwide sympathy, honor, and affection. Here, almost at
the last, he penciled those farewell pages of those fruitful volumes,
which, whatever his earlier defects in style, have been declared
classic in modern literature. Here, ere the light went out forever, he
wrote the pathetic missive, his final words of love, longing, and
devotion to the wife whom he held peerless among women, to the
children whom he loved with infinite tenderness, and for whose future
comfort, even in the face of such persistent torment and impending
death, he had labored to the very last.

And then, as he completed the final paragraph-the story of his
soldier-life and services-and with faltering hand signed the final
letter, he closed his wearied eyes upon the group that hovered ever
about him, eager to garner every look and whisper, and so the long
fight ended, even as it had begun, almost without a sigh. Apparently
without consciousness of pain, certainly without struggle or
suffering, surrounded by that devoted household-wife, sons, and only
daughter-the greatest of our warriors passed onward into the valley of
shadows, and to immortality.

Thirty years have passed since that which struck from our muster rolls
the name of our first and foremost general-thirty years, as these
pages are given to the light, since that summer day on which, with the
highest honors and the greatest retinue ever accorded to American
citizen or soldier, the flag-enshrouded casket was borne almost the
length of all Manhattan; Hancock, the superb on many a battlefield,
heading the league-long procession of soldiery, the world-garnered
dignitaries from. every state and clime. Amidst the solemn thunder of
the guns of the warships moored along the Hudson, the farewell volleys
of the troops aligned along the heights, in the presence of the
President and cabinet, the supreme court and the diplomatic corps, the
governors of nearly every commonwealth, eminent soldiers, sailors,
veterans of the Civil War, the gray mingling with the blue, and all
en. gulfed in a vast multitude of mourners, the final prayers were
said, the last benediction spoken, and under the shadow of the beloved
flag he had served with such fidelity and to such eminent purpose,
they laid to rest the honored soldier whose valiant service had
secured to them and to their posterity the blessings of union,
progress, and tranquillity, and whose crowning message to the nation he
had restored was the simple admonition, "Let us have peace."

And in those thirty years the people of our land have had abundant
time to study and to reflect. Each succeeding year adds to their
reverence for their greatest friend, leader, and statesman, Abraham
Lincoln. Each succeeding year seems to increase their appreciation of
their greatest soldier, Ulysses Grant, and yet it sometimes seems as
though in the magnitude of the obstacles overcome, the immensity of
the military problems solved, the supreme soldiership of the man has
blinded us for the time to the other virtues, less heroic, perhaps,
yet not less marked and true, virtues as son, as husband, father, and
friend, not often equalled in other men, if ever excelled. * * *

And was not his a marvelous career? Cradled in the cottage, he spoke
for years from the seat of the mightiest. Chosen and trained for his
country's wars, he loved best the arts of peace. Schooled as a
regular, he to the fullest extent and from the very first believed in
the volunteer. Ignored by book and bureau soldiers at the start,
despite the fine record of the Mexican campaigns, indebted to a
Western governor for the opportunity refused him by the War
Department, he held his modest way, uncomplaining, asking only to be
made of use. One year had raised him from the twilight of a Western
town to the triumph of Donelson; two years made him the victor of
Vicksburg, the head of the armies of the West; three had set him in
supreme command, deferred to even by those who late as '62 had sought
to down him; four and the sword of the chivalric Lee was his to do
with as he would-the rebellion crushed, the war ended-and then, with
our martyred Lincoln lying in the grave ever watered by 4 nation's
tears, small wonder was it that twice the people held Grant long years
at their head, and when he had returned from that globe-circling
triumphal progress, in large numbers would again have called him to
the White House, an uncrowned monarch, the chosen of sovereign
citizens. Was he greater then than in the chain of ills that followed?
'Pricked by those he trusted, himself unskilled in guile, ruined
financially by those he had been taught to hold infallible, and
finally confronted by the dread conviction that, though barely beyond
the prime of life, his days were numbered-was he ever amid the thunder
of saluting cannon and the cheers of countless multitudes so great as
when, with the grim destroyer clutching at his' throat, he fought for
life that through those matchless Memoirs he might earn the means to
wipe out every possible obligation and provide in modest comfort, at
least, for those he loved and must soon leave to mourn him? In those
last heroic days at Mt. McGregor he stood revealed in his silent
suffering, the ideal of devotion, endurance, and determination, until,
his great work done, his toil and trials ended, his sword long since
sheathed, his pen now dropping from the wearied, nerveless hand, he
could turn to the Peace Ineffable and sink to rest-our greatest
soldier-our honored President-our foremost citizen. Aye, soldier,
statesman, loyal citizen he was; and yet more, for in purity of life,
in love of home and wife and children, in integrity unchallenged, in
truth and honor unblemished, in manner simplicity itself-thougb ever
coupled with that quiet dignity that made him peer among the princes
of the earth-in speech so clean that oath or execration never soiled
his lips, unswerving in his faith, a martyr to his friendships,
merciful to the fallen, magnanimous to the foe, magnificent in self-
discipline, was he not also, and in all that the grand old name
implies, Grant-the gentleman?