whenever i think of san antonio and fort sam houston, the perfume of the wood violet which blossomed in mid-winter along the borders of our lawn, and the delicate odor of the cape jessamine, seem to be wafted about me.
fort sam houston is the headquarters of the department of texas, and all the staff officers live there, in comfortable stone houses, with broad lawns shaded by chinaberry trees. then at the top of the hill is a great quadrangle, with a clock tower and all the department offices. on the other side of this quadrangle is the post, where the line officers live.
general stanley commanded the department. a fine, dignified and able man, with a great record as an indian fighter. jack knew him well, as he had been with him in the first preliminary survey for the northern pacific railroad, when he drove old sitting bull back to the powder river.
he was now about to reach the age of retirement; and as the day approached, that day when a man has reached the limit of his usefulness (in the opinion of an ever-wise government), that day which sounds the knell of active service, that day so dreaded and yet so longed for, that day when an army officer is sixty-four years old and uncle sam lays him upon the shelf, as that day approached, the city of san antonio, in fact the entire state of texas poured forth to bid him godspeed; for if ever an army man was beloved, it was general stanley by the state of texas.
now on the other side of the great quadrangle lay the post, where were the soldiers' barracks and quarters of the line officers. this was commanded by colonel coppinger, a gallant officer, who had fought in many wars in many countries.
he had his famous regiment, the twenty-third infantry, and many were the pleasant dances and theatricals we had, with the music furnished by their band; for, as it was a time of peace, the troops were all in garrison.
major burbank was there also, with his well-drilled light battery of the 3rd artillery.
my husband, being a captain and quartermaster, served directly under general george h. weeks, who was chief quartermaster of the department, and i can never forget his kindness to us both. he was one of the best men i ever knew, in the army or out of it, and came to be one of my dearest friends. he possessed the sturdy qualities of his puritan ancestry, united with the charming manners of an aristocrat.
we belonged, of course, now, with the staff, and something, an intangible something, seemed to have gone out of the life. the officers were all older, and the staff uniforms were more sombre. i missed the white stripe of the infantry, and the yellow of the cavalry. the shoulder-straps all had gold eagles or leaves on them, instead of the captains' or lieutenants' bars. many of the staff officers wore civilians' clothes, which distressed me much, and i used to tell them that if i were secretary of war they would not be permitted to go about in black alpaca coats and cinnamon-brown trousers.
"what would you have us do?" said general weeks.
"wear white duck and brass buttons," i replied.
"fol-de-rol!" said the fine-looking and erect chief quartermaster; "you would have us be as vain as we were when we were lieutenants?"
"you can afford to be," i answered; for, even with his threescore years, he had retained the lines of youth, and was, in my opinion, the finest looking man in the staff of the army.
but all my reproaches and all my diplomacy were of no avail in reforming the staff. evidently comfort and not looks was their motto.
one day, i accidentally caught a side view of myself in a long mirror (long mirrors had not been very plentiful on the frontier), and was appalled by the fact that my own lines corresponded but too well, alas! with those of the staff. ah, me! were the days, then, of lieutenants forever past and gone? the days of suppleness and youth, the careless gay days, when there was no thought for the future, no anxiety about education, when the day began with a wild dash across country and ended with a dinner and dance—-were they over, then, for us all?
major burbank's battery of light artillery came over and enlivened the quiet of our post occasionally with their brilliant red color. at those times, we all went out and stood in the music pavilion to watch the drill; and when his horses and guns and caissons thundered down the hill and swept by us at a terrific gallop, our hearts stood still. even the dignified staff permitted themselves a thrill, and as for us women, our excitement knew no bounds.
the brilliant red of the artillery brought color to the rather grey aspect of the quiet headquarters post, and the magnificent drill supplied the martial element so dear to a woman's heart.
in san antonio, the new has almost obliterated the old, and little remains except its pretty green river, its picturesque bridges, and the historic alamo, to mark it from other cities in the southwest.
in the late afternoon, everybody drove to the plaza, where all the country people were selling their garden-stuff and poultry in the open square. this was charming, and we all bought live fowl and drove home again. one heard cackling and gobbling from the smart traps and victorias, and it seemed to be a survival of an old custom. the whole town took a drive after that, and supped at eight o'clock.
the san antonio people believe there is no climate to equal theirs, and talk much about the cool breezes from the gulf of mexico, which is some miles away. but i found seven months of the twelve too hot for comfort, and i could never detect much coolness in the summer breezes.
after i settled down to the sedateness which is supposed to belong to the staff, i began to enjoy life very much. there is compensation for every loss, and i found, with the new friends, many of whom had lived their lives, and had known sorrow and joy, a true companionship which enriched my life, and filled the days with gladness.
my son had completed the high school course in san antonio, under an able german master, and had been sent east to prepare for the stevens institute of technology, and in the following spring i took my daughter katharine and fled from the dreaded heat of a texas summer. never can i forget the child's grief on parting from her texas pony. she extorted a solemn promise from her father, who was obliged to stay in texas, that he would never part with him.
my brother, then unmarried, and my sister harriet were living together in new rochelle and to them we went. harry's vacation enabled him to be with us, and we had a delightful summer. it was good to be on the shores of long island sound.
in the autumn, not knowing what next was in store for us, i placed my dear little katharine at the convent of the sacred heart at kenwood on the hudson, that she might be able to complete her education in one place, and in the care of those lovely, gentle and refined ladies of that order.
shortly after that, captain jack was ordered to david's island, new york harbor (now called fort slocum), where we spent four happy and uninterrupted years, in the most constant intercourse with my dear brother and sister.
old friends were coming and going all the time, and it seemed so good to us to be living in a place where this was possible.
captain summerhayes was constructing officer and had a busy life, with all the various sorts of building to be done there.
david's island was then an artillery post, and there were several batteries stationed there. (afterwards it became a recruiting station.) the garrison was often entirely changed. at one time, general henry c. cook was in command. he and his charming southern wife added so much to the enjoyment of the post. then came our old friends the van vliets of santa fe days; and dr. and mrs. valery havard, who are so well known in the army, and then colonel carl woodruff and mrs. woodruff, whom we all liked so much, and dear doctor julian cabell, and others, who completed a delightful garrison.
and we had a series of informal dances and invited the distinguished members of the artist colony from new rochelle, and it was at one of these dances that i first met frederic remington. i had long admired his work and had been most anxious to meet him. as a rule, frederic did not attend any social functions, but he loved the army, and as mrs. remington was fond of social life, they were both present at our first little invitation dance.
about the middle of the evening i noticed mr. remington sitting alone and i crossed the hall and sat down beside him. i then told him how much i had loved his work and how it appealed to all army folks, and how glad i was to know him, and i suppose i said many other things such as literary men and painters and players often have to hear from enthusiastic women like myself. however, frederic seemed pleased, and made some modest little speech and then fell into an abstracted silence, gazing on the great flag which was stretched across the hall at one end, and from behind which some few soldiers who were going to assist in serving the supper were passing in and out. i fell in with his mood immediately, as he was a person with whom formality was impossible, and said: "what are you looking at, mr. remington?" he replied, turning upon me his round boyish face and his blue eyes gladdening, "i was just thinking i wished i was behind in there where those blue jackets are—you know—behind that flag with the soldiers—those are the men i like to study, you know, i don't like all this fuss and feathers of society"—then, blushing at his lack of gallantry, he added: "it's all right, of course, pretty women and all that, and i suppose you think i'm dreadful and—do you want me to dance with you—that's the proper thing here isn't it?" whereupon, he seized me in his great arms and whirled me around at a pace i never dreamed of, and, once around, he said, "that's enough of this thing, isn't it, let's sit down, i believe i'm going to like you, though i'm not much for women." i said "you must come over here often;" and he replied, "you've got a lot of jolly good fellows over here and i will do it."
afterwards, the remingtons and ourselves became the closest friends. mrs. remington's maiden name was eva caton, and after the first few meetings, she became "little eva" to me—and if ever there was an embodiment of that gentle lovely name and what it implies, it is this woman, the wife of the great artist, who has stood by him through all the reverses of his early life and been, in every sense, his guiding star.
and now began visits to the studio, a great room he had built on to his house at new rochelle. it had an enormous fire place where great logs were burned, and the walls were hung with the most rare and wonderful indian curios. there he did all the painting which has made him famous in the last twenty years, and all the modelling which has already become so well known and would have eventually made him a name as a great sculptor. he always worked steadily until three o'clock and then there was a walk or game of tennis or a ride. after dinner, delightful evenings in the studio.
frederic was a student and a deep thinker. he liked to solve all questions for himself and did not accept readily other men's theories. he thought much on religious subjects and the future life, and liked to compare the christian religion with the religions of eastern countries, weighing them one against the other with fairness and clear logic.
and so we sat, many evenings into the night, frederic and jack stretched in their big leather chairs puffing away at their pipes, eva with her needlework, and myself a rapt listener: wondering at this man of genius, who could work with his creative brush all day long and talk with the eloquence of a learned doctor of divinity half the night.
during the time we were stationed at davids island, mr. remington and jack made a trip to the southwest, where they shot the peccary (wild hog) in texas and afterwards blue quail and other game in mexico. artist and soldier, they got on famously together notwithstanding the difference in their ages.
and now he was going to try his hand at a novel, a real romance. we talked a good deal about the little indian boy, and i got to love white weasel long before he appeared in print as john ermine. the book came out after we had left new rochelle—but i received a copy from him, and wrote him my opinion of it, which was one of unstinted praise. but it did not surprise me to learn that he did not consider it a success from a financial point of view.
"you see," he said a year afterwards, "that sort of thing does not interest the public. what they want,"—here he began to mimic some funny old east side person, and both hands gesticulating—"is a back yard and a cabbage patch and a cook stove and babies' clothes drying beside it, you see, mattie," he said. "they don't want to know anything about the indian or the half-breed, or what he thinks or believes." and then he went off into one of his irresistible tirades combining ridicule and abuse of the reading public, in language such as only frederic remington could use before women and still retain his dignity. "well, frederic," i said, "i will try to recollect that, when i write my experiences of army life."
in writing him my opinion of his book the year before, i had said, "in fact, i am in love with john ermine." the following christmas he sent me the accompanying card.
now the book was dramatized and produced, with hackett as john ermine, at the globe theatre in september of 1902—the hottest weather ever on record in boston at that season. of course seats were reserved for us; we were living at nantucket that year, and we set sail at noon to see the great production. we snatched a bite of supper at a near-by hotel in boston and hurried to the theatre, but being late, had some difficulty in getting our seats.
the curtain was up and there sat hackett, not with long yellow hair (which was the salient point in the half-breed scout) but rather well-groomed, looking more like a parlor indian than a real live half-breed, such as all we army people knew. i thought "this will never do."
the house was full, hackett did the part well, and the audience murmured on going out: "a very artistic success." but the play was too mystical, too sad. it would have suited the "new theatre" patrons better. i wrote him from nantucket and criticized one or two minor points, such as the 1850 riding habits of the women, which were slouchy and unbecoming and made the army people look like poor emigrants and i received this letter in reply:
webster avenue, new rochelle, n. y.
my dear mrs. s.,
much obliged for your talk—it is just what we want—proper impressions.
i fought for that long hair but the management said the audience has got to, have some hackett—why i could not see—but he is a matinee idol and that long with the box office.
we'll dress katherine up better.
the long rehearsals at night nearly killed me—i was completely done up and came home on train monday in that terrific heat and now i am in the hands of a doctor. imagine me a week without sleep.
hope that fight took jack back to his youth. for the stage i don't think it was bad. we'll get grey shirts on their men later.
the old lady arrives to-day—she has been in gloversville.
i think the play will go—but, we may have to save ermine. the public is a funny old cat and won't stand for the mustard.
well, glad you had a good time and of course you can't charge me up with the heat.
yours, frederick r.
remington made a trip to the yellowstone park and this is what he wrote to jack. his letters were never dated.
my dear summerhayes:
say if you could get a few puffs of this cold air out here you would think you were full of champagne water. i feel like a d—- kid—
i thought i should never be young again—but here i am only 14 years old—my whiskers are falling out.
capt. brown of the 1st cav. wishes to be remembered to you both. he is park superintendent. says if you will come out here he will take care of you and he would.
am painting and doing some good work. made a "govt. six" yesterday.
in the course of time, he bought an island in the st. lawrence and they spent several summers there.
on the occasion of my husband accepting a detail in active service in washington at the soldiers' home, after his retirement, he received the following letter.
ingleneuk, chippewa bay, n. y.
my dear jack—
so there you are—and i'm d—- glad you are so nicely fixed. it's the least they could do for you and you ought to be able to enjoy it for ten years before they find any spavins on you if you will behave yourself, but i guess you will drift into that army and navy club and round up with a lot of those old alkalied prairie-dogs whom neither indians nor whiskey could kill and mr. gout will take you over his route to arlington.
i'm on the water wagon and i feel like a young mule. i am never going to get down again to try the walking. if i lose my whip i am going to drive right on and leave it.
we are having a fine summer and i may run over to washington this winter and throw my eye over you to see how you go. we made a trip down to new foundland but saw nothing worth while. i guess i am getting to be an old swat—i can't see anything that didn't happen twenty years ago,
y— frederick r.
at the close of the year just gone, this great soul passed from the earth leaving a blank in our lives that nothing can ever fill. passed into the great beyond whose mysteries were always troubling his mind. suddenly and swiftly the call came—the hand was stilled and the restless spirit took its flight.
