MarcKirvg WitK the Soldiers 
A Cavalry Troop on the Road and in Camp- 
Amusements of the Men and their 
Commander 
By CAPTAIN WILLIAM F. FLYNN, U. S. A. 
r 
P b 
William F. Flynn left his home in Connecticut thirty years ago and entered the United States Military 
Academy. He graduated in 1883, joined the cavalry branch of the army, and has served therein continuously 
ever since. From that same Connecticut cottage his great-grandfather set 
forth for the battle of Lexington as a trumpeter in Old Put’s regiment of 
Windham County Minute Men; and later, in the War of 1812, his grandfather, 
as adjutant of the county militia regiment, set forth in haste on his horse 
to summon his regiment to its rendezvous, and upon its assembly marched 
with it to the relief of Stonington. 
Upon the breaking out of the Spanish-American War, the desire to lead 
Windham county troops to battle evidently running in his blood, Captain 
Flynn offered his services to the Governor of Connecticut with that end in 
view. “The Scriptures,” said the Captain, in speaking of the incident, 
“imply that a prophet does not amount to much among his own people, 
and I soon discovered that prophets and soldiers are not unlike in that 
respect. The Governor did not even take the trouble to decline my offer, 
1 but gave the desired vacancy to an alien to the land of nutmegs, and left 
me unknown to both fame and notoriety.” 
Captain Flynn’s roving existence has given him many opportunities to indulge 
his taste for shooting and fishing, and he says he has found this the most 
satisfactory feature of his army career. Owing to the increasing scarcity 
of game, he declared a truce some ten years ago with the birds and mam¬ 
mals, but says that the old feud with the fishes still exists, and will probably 
never be amicably adjusted so long as they persist in attempting to steal his 
flies and carry them away. 
The Captain has been a reader of Forest and Stream for about twenty-five years and a contributor to its 
columns during the past ten years. His favorite saddle mare, Brownie, who has carried him many miles over 
different parts of our country, is shown with him in the little picture reproduced herewith. 
CAPTAIN FLYNN AND BROWNIE. 
F ORT WASHAKIE is one of the few re¬ 
maining old-time military posts. Till 
quite recently it was one hundred and 
fifty miles or more from the railroad; now it 
is but sixteen. It was named in honor of old 
Chief Washakie, of the Shoshones, one of the 
remarkable Indians known to history. Washakie 
was sufficiently shrewd and far-sighted to re¬ 
alize the futility and ultimate disaster of oppos¬ 
ing the United States, and with his Shoshones 
was always found on the side of the troops. As 
a result of his wisdom his tribe has always 
prospered, and his people have never been re¬ 
duced to destitution as has been so often the 
case with those of other tribes. 
Situated at the head of the beautiful valley 
of the Little Wind River and nestled up close 
to the foothills of the Wind River Mountain, 
Fort Washakie has a delightful location for 
those who appreciate the grand and beautiful 
in nature, and many of those stationed there 
have become so attached to it that they have 
disliked to leave it for what are generally re¬ 
garded as more desirable posts. 
W illiam McCabe, the old scout, guide and in¬ 
terpreter of the post, now eighty-five years of 
age, feeble and decrepit and suffering constantly 
from the “rheumatiz,” could furnish from his 
life material for a book which would compare 
not unfavorably with that of old Bill Hamilton 
and his “Sixty Years on the Plains.” McCabe 
first enlisted in 1852, marched under Albert Sid¬ 
ney Johnston to the scene of the Mormon trouble 
and has been in the Indian country ever since. 
He was guide for Captain Bates when the latter 
went out with his troop from this same old post 
and performed the almost incredible feat of 
killing in a single battle more Indian warriors 
than he had soldiers—at least so runs the tradi¬ 
tion. But alas, poor McCabe can guide no one 
now, and all he can do now is to look longingly 
after us as we march away, while his mind runs 
back to the time when he led the way instead 
of remaining behind. The Rev. John Roberts 
has filled the Episcopal Mission near Fort Wash¬ 
akie for the past twenty-five years, more or less, 
and though his name may scarcely be known 
outside of Fremont county, yet within his sphere 
he elicits the respect and admiration of all. He 
conducts services in four different churches of 
his own building, has translated the Scriptures 
into both the Arapahoe and Shoshone tongues 
for the advancement of his native parishioners, 
and in every possible manner he has labored 
constantly for the welfare of those about him. 
A prominent general officer, who has made 
occasional short visits to this locality, sent me 
word he was coming in September last, with a 
small party of friends, to make the journey from 
Fort Washakie to Fort Yellowstone, escorted by 
my troop, M of the Eighth Cavalry. Soldiers 
are always glad to go anywhere. It breaks the 
routine of the garrison and gives them some¬ 
thing to think about, but to go on such a march 
as this was an opportunity that rarely comes to 
one. We had before us the prospect of Cross¬ 
ing the Continental Divide, of beholding the 
grand scenery of the Tetons and the beautiful 
Jackson’s Lake, of marching all about in the 
park and witnessing its wonders, and of being 
for a period practically away from the humdrum 
of civilization. All were eager to start. 
Sept. 5 I received notice that the party would 
arrive that night at Lander. The troop marched 
thither and went into camp. About 10 p. m. 
the party arrived and the following morning 
we escorted them to the fort. Tents had been 
pitched on the parade ground in readiness for 
their arrival and they were at once in camp. 
The following morning we set forth. The 
escort numbered forty-two enlisted men, two 
officers with the troop and Dr. S., the surgeon. 
All were mounted. We had two four-mule and 
one six-mule wagons for transportation and one 
Red Cross ambulance for the sick and injured 
—in case we had any. We made the customary 
march around the parade ground and then took 
the road to the Wind River. The general’s party 
wandered over the country wherever they chose, 
while the troop kept to the road and marched 
along at a constant and uniform gait of about 
four miles per hour. People unfamiliar with 
the marching of troops frequently have the im¬ 
pression that mounted troops usually travel at 
a trot or gallop while on a march. In the 
cavalry, however, the gait is usually a walk. 
There are reasons why it is not advisable for 
cavalry to trot or gallop on its road marches. 
The trooper is required to carry his three 
weapons—rifle, pistol and saber—over a hun¬ 
dred rounds of ball ammunition, his blanket, 
shelter tent, canteen, extra horseshoes and sun¬ 
dry other articles, all of which add considerable 
weight to that of the trooper. This weight is 
more or less concentrated at comparatively few 
points instead of being uniformly distributed 
over the horse’s back, so that at a trot, in spite 
of all that may be done to avoid it, the concus¬ 
sion at certain points is considerable, and if kept 
up tends to develop blisters and sores on the 
horse’s back, which may increase until the animal 
is no longer fit to use. As the supply depart¬ 
ment furnishes but one horse to each trooper— 
differing in this respect from the mounts of the 
cowboy who has as many as he wants—a con¬ 
stant vigilance is required on the part of the 
