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the colors, and Sergeant Guitilias the standard, for the last time. The horses, the rifles, the rest of the regimental property had been turned in. Officers and men shook hands and said good-bye to one another, and then they scattered to their homes in the North and the South, the few going back to the great cities of the East, the many turning again to the plains, the mountains and the deserts of the West and the strange Southwest. This was on September 15, the day which marked the close of the four months’ life of a regiment of as gallant fighters as ever wore the United States uniform.” It was a scene mever to be forgotten when the men filed past Colonel Roosevelt, and took their loved commander by the hand. Although the subordinate of Colonel Wood, he had been with the Rough Riders all the time—every hour of every day and night. He had been with them in camp, on rations precisely as short as their own, as wet and miserable as were they; he had faced bullets with them, he had shared the danger of charges, and taken even more than an equal allotment of the chances of war. And he had brought them home in triumph from a glorious campaign. They shook his hand, but they said little. Generally they looked at him as they approached, but let their eyes drop as they touched his hand. And then the relation of commander and soldier was ended. The service had been a little different from that obtaining in the regular establishment. Colonel Roosevelt had been a good deal of a dictator, when necessary under unusual circumstances. He cared little indeed for red tape and formalities. Results were all he demanded. He had inflicted summary punishment when a case required severe discipline, and had remitted sentence when heroism won favor for the one-time delinquent. They were very sure that he had administered absolute justice, and had given them the benefit of every possible consideration They had been “resolute to do well,” and he had helped them. There is an admirable passage at the conclusion of his book, “The Rough Riders”; and it so fittingly closes this portion of the story that it should be read in full: “It is difficult for me to withstand the temptation to tell what has befallen some of my men since the regiment disbanded: how McGinty, after spending some weeks in Roosevelt hospital in New York with an

attack of fever, determined to call upon his captain, Woodbury Kane, when he got out, and procuring a horse rode until he found Kane's house, when he hitched his horse to a lamp-post and strolled in; how Cherokee Bill married a wife in Hoboken, and as that pleasant city ultimately proved an uncongenial field for his activities, how I had to send both himself and his wife out to the Territory; how Happy Jack, haunted by the social methods obtaining in the best saloons of Arizona, applied for the position of 'bouncerout' at the executive mansion when I was elected governor, and how I got him a job at railroading instead, and finally had to ship him back to his own territory as well; how a valued friend from a cow ranch in the remote West accepted a pressing invitation to spend a few days at the home of another ex-trooper, a New Yorker of fastidious instincts, and arrived with an umbrella as his only baggage; how poor Holderman and Pollock both died and were buried with military honors, all of Pollock's tribesmen coming to the burial; how Tom Isbell joined Buffalo Bill's show, and how on the other hand Rowland scornfully refused to remain in the East at all, writing to a gallant New Yorker

who had been his bunkie: “Well, old boy, I'm glad I didn’t go home with you for them people to look at, because I ain’t no buffalo nor a rinoceros nor a giraffe, and I don’t like to be Stared at, and you know we didn’t do no hard fighting down there. I have been in closer places than that right here in Yunited States, that is better men to fight than them dam Spaniards.” In another letter Rowland tells of the fate of Tom Darnell, the rider—he who rode the bucking sorrel of the Third cavalry: “There ain’t much news to write except that poor old Tom Darnell got killed about a month ago. Tom and another fellow had a fight, and he shot Tom through the heart and Tom was dead when he hit the floor. Tom was sure a good old boy, and I sure hated to hear of him going, and he had plenty of grit too. No man ever called on him for a fight that he didn’t get it.” “My men were children of the dragon's blood, and if they had no outland foe to fight and no outlet for their daring and vigorous energy, there was always the chance of their fighting one another. But the great majority, if given the chance of hard or dangerous work availed themselves of it with the utmost eagerness, and though fever sickened and weakened them so that many died from it during the few months following their return, yet as a whole they are now doing fairly well. A few have shot other men or been themselves shot; a few ran for office and got elected, as Llewellyn and Luna in New Mexico, or defeated like Wilcox and Brodie in Arizona. Some have been trying hard to get to the Philippines; some have returned to college or to the law, or to the factory, or the counting-room. Most of them have gone back to the mine, the ranch and the hunting camp; and the great majority have taken up the threads of their lives where they dropped them when the Maine was blown up, and the country called them to arms.”

Perhaps no better conclusion could be found for this part of the recital than an extract from Major-General Joseph Wheeler's letter to Colonel Roosevelt when the army was disbanded. After sketching in outline the record of the Rough Riders, General Wheeler adds: “The valor displayed by you was not without sacrifice. Eighteen per cent., or nearly one in five, of the cavalry division fell on the field either killed or wounded. We mourn the loss of these heroic dead, and a grateful country will always revere

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