Frontier Charity

Army life on the frontier with all its privations was made cheery and happy for the majority of people by the unselfishness in which social intercourse and the common effort to please which characterized it. The isolated posts being hundreds of miles from our old homes, entirely cut off from familiar faces and scenes, and we were absolutely dependent upone ach other, for amusement and companionship. The situation developed talents and agreeable qualities that otherwise might have remained latent. Any sort of entertainment at those old frontier posts was so rare that a musicale or an amateur theatrical performance was fraught with universal interest. Nothing short of a sudden call to arms constituted a rival. When the officers and ladies would give an entertainment the soldiers were always welcomed and the enthusiasm they displayed was an inspiration to the players. In the course of the Winter the enlisted men, too, generally prepared a “show” which caused a pleasantly interested stir along the officers’ line, for under such occasions the soldiers were given a good deal of latitude to play upon the peculiarities of their officers. This gave particular spice to their performances for they frequently hit close and hard. That element of personal interest in the soldier at play bound the men closer to their officers than they are now, and accounts for the splendid manner in which they worked together.

One performance given by the soldiers at Camp Poplar River we have always remembered on account of the household saying to which it gave rise. The men had arranged the entire program among themselves and the whole as to be a surprise to the officers’ families. The first number was rendered by an improved orchestra. That the members had had little practice together was quite evident from the first note. The soldiers in the audience began immediately to laugh, and made so much fun in a jolly, good-natured way it became difficult for the “musicians” to finish their selection; there was no encore and the second number was hurried on. It was a song by one of the teamster, a great big Irishman, Tumberty by name. He was quite a character in the post and a general favorite.

When he came on the stage he advanced to the footlights with a conciliatory gesture and addressed the assemblage in his attractive Virginia drawl something as follows:

“Ladies and Gentlemen – I am sing to sing ‘In the Old Varginia Lowlands’ for you, and the o’chestra will accompany me. Befor beginning I am going to make a request. I see ou’ o’chestra is not ve’y well received to-night, and I want to explain. The instruments a’int the very best, though they are the best to be had; not being able to get the Band from [Fort] Buford we have struck out for ourselves and made up an ‘ochestra all ou’ own. It is new, it ha’nt practiced much, but ‘way out here we cain’t expect very much.

“Please remember where we are. Ol’ Varginia is mo’ n two thousand miles away. Now ladies and gentlemen don’t shoot at the musicians, they’re doin’ the best they can.”

That speech, which was received with applause and a hearty laugh, gained for the orchestra a good humored acceptance and Tumblty’s words passed into the local lingo of the post. Afterwards when things went awry, or there arose causes for faultfinding, the members of the garrison would laughingly exhort one another: “Don’t shoot at the musicians.” Amusement, however, was not always the sole object of our frontier entertainment for one concert was given with a totally other idea in view.

One evening some wood-choppers came in from a trip to the North, bringing an injured man. He was a Canadian half-breed, who had been found fifty or sixty miles from Poplar River, alone and badly injured. He was a hunter, and meeting with an accident by shooting himself through the knee a week before, had been unable to remount his pony and seek assistance.

The leg was frightfully swollen and the doctors at the hospital found it necessary to amputate just above the knee. The man suffered terribly, and the long interval after the injury and the rough trip to the post had greatly weakened him. The sympathies of the ladies were instantly aroused, and as soon as the operation was over we began to send him jellies and delicacies which the hospital did not provide. The man seemed very grateful and sent us his warmest thanks by the surgeon.

After a couple of weeks it became necessary to operate again; this time taking a stump of the leg off near the hip joint. When I asked solicitously, the doctor told me that it was the only possible way of arresting gangrene; but he feared that the poor fellow could not survive a second operation. The men of his class had great vitality and this fellow was game, and sent me by the surgeon to request to come and see him.

I lost no time. The sufferer was very appreciative of the kindnesses that had been shown him, and begged to ask one great favor. He understood the necessity of the second operation and its seriousness, but was almost child like in the thought that if he were sure of getting a cork leg in the case of recovery, it would enable him to survive. He besought me to get up a subscription among the soldiers to buy him one.

It was so pitiful. The chance of his every rallying was very small, but the cork leg was the straw of hope which seemed to buoy his spirits. My heart went out to him. I had to tell him that the soldiers had so little money – that there were so many charities in the army to which they contributed. For that reason they would not be able to raise sufficient funds, for we had only a two-company post. His disappointment was so manifest that I boldly told him I would take it upon myself to see that he should get a cork leg if he withstood the operation and recovered. His faith in my word – the word of a strange woman – seemed boundless. With tears in his eyes he thanked me in his French patois and said he was ready for the knife.

The operation was performed, but the surgeon declined to express hope for his recovery. Many times a day inquiries were made about the poor man’s condition, and for several days the surgeon’s expression was far from sanguine. But the patient held his own and with time began to gain strength. The attendants reported that the man continually prayed for and talked of, the cork leg he expected as he would be able to leave his bed.

He was keeping is part of the bargain – to need the inanimate member; it was time I did something to keep my part – to provide it when needed. It was a real problem: for in those days artificial limbs were far more expensive than they are now. I thought and planned, scarcely knowing what to do. Finally, it occurred to me that as there had not been an entertainment recently, a “benefit” performance could e arranged and with the proceeds we might possibly purchase the cork leg.

Work was begun at once. The necessary talent was assembled, and rehearsing in private started. It was planned to give as ambitious musicale as our means would permit. Fortunately we had some very good talent. News of our intention was freely circulated through the post, as well as the Indian agency nearby, which formed a part of our community. It was an auspicious time to start the sale of tickets for pay-day had just passed; there was nothing for the soldier’s to buy, and things had been dull for several weeks. Everyone seemed ready for some pleasant excitement, and the coming entertainment was a subject of animated speculation almost as great as present-day international marriages.

As the event approached, I realized that my big square piano, the only one in the post, was greatly in need of tuning. Inquiries were made with a view to finding some one competent to put it in order. Finally a German, named Beigler, was founder among the soldiers who said he had worked in a piano factory, and that he could do the work.

One delay and another prevented he work from being done until the morning of the eventful day when at last Beigler came. My husband, who was quartermaster, had the post blacksmith make a tuning key. The key and my tuning fork were turned over to Beigler, and he began to prepare the instrument, while I went off contentedly to oversee last arrangements at the “hall.” The entertainment was to be given in one of the big warehouses at the Agency, as it was the largest room we had. Chairs had been borrowed from everybody, and placed for the audience; the improved stage was decorated with flowers, rugs, and parlor furniture – all borrowed.

All this attended to, about noon I went home weary, but pleased with the work and prospects and looking forward to a good rest until evening. Beigler had gone, leaving the key and tuning fork on the piano. The job was apparently finished and the instrument ready to be moved to the “hall.”

But mercy on me! What did I find? I sat down to the piano and tried to strike a few chords – but only a few; the result was indescribable! He had indeed changed every note – I ascertained that later, to my horror. The instrument was in such frightful condition that the most skilled pianist could not have extracted from it one harmonious chord. It was impossible to use it. What was I to do? The piano was worse than ever. Before Beigler had touched it a few of the notes were bad; now the entire gamut was shocking discord, resembling a load of tin pans falling down stairs!

As the situation fully seized me my nerves gave away. We simply could not get on without a piano, this was the only one within a hundred miles, and it was impossible to get on with it in its present condition. I wept. Then realizing the futility of tears, I raged. Finally, I pulled myself together and stood and thought. A postponement of the musicale was not practicable. Scarcely a number on the program could be rendered with the instrument. The only person whom we had found to tune the piano had wrought this havoc. There was but one thing left, I would try to tune the instrument myself!

I sent everyone from the room, shut myself up and ordered that on no account was I to be disturbed. Then I set to work with the only true note in my possession – the tuning fork – a middle A.

The history of the next two hours and a half will never be written for I am the “sole survivor” and the recollection of my anxiety is a nightmare. At the end of that time, however, I stepped from the room, chastened in spirit, but triumphant. The piano was in perfect tune and ready to be transported to the “hall.”

We played to a “crowded house,” not only clearing $60, but arousing such enthusiasm that in response to a petition drawn and signed, the performance was repeated the next evening to an even larger house. The net results were $127.

The poor half-breed for whom the benefit had been given not only received his cork leg, but when he finally was strong enough to leave the post he carried away with enough money to start him in a small fruit business in Fort Benton, Montana, where for all I know he may be yet.

So it was, that our small community was bound not alone by force of circumstances to seek our pleasures and amusements together; but the soul of human sympathy shone in the everyday interests of post life on the prairie.