The purpose of these
arrangements could have only been to inflict pain, humiliation and
possibly to take his life. He had never been robust since the breakdown
of his health on the Western plains. Worn by privation and exposure,
approaching sixty years of age, he was in no condition physically to
resist disease.
The damp walls, the coarse food, the loss of sleep caused by the tramp
of sentinels inside his room, outside and on the roof over his head and
the steady blaze of a lamp in his eyes at night within forty-eight hours
had completed his prostration.
But his jailers were not content.
On May twenty-third, Captain Titlow entered his cell with two
blacksmiths bearing a pair of heavy leg irons coupled together by a
ponderous chain.
"I am sorry to inform you, sir," the polite young officer began, "that I
have been ordered to put you in irons."
"Has General Miles given that order?"
"He has."
"I wish to see him at once, please."
"General Miles has just left the fort, sir."
"You can postpone the execution of your order until I see him?"
"I have been warned against delay."
"No soldier ever gave such an order," was the stern reply; "no soldier
should receive or execute it--"
"His orders are from Washington--mine are from him.
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