<p style="text-align:center"><strong>GEORGE CROOK</strong></p><p style="text-align:center"><strong>No. 1573 · Class of 1852</strong></p><p style="text-align:center"><strong>Died March 21, 1890, at Chicago, Illinois, aged 62 years.</strong></p><p>Our Alma Mater, it seems to me, may well be called another Niobe, whom envious gods have bereft of her brightest children to place them in the most exalted niches of Fame's Pantheon-Grant, McClellan, Thomas, Sheridan, Hancock, Sykes, Warren-the roll is lengthening, as one by one the prominent figures and directing minds of our Civil War are answering to their last muster.</p><p>And now we have finished the sad duty of lowering into the grave the mortal remains of George Crook, who in record of service, in faithful performance of duty, in valor, in intelligent knowledge of his profession, in modest worth, in gentle consideration for friend and foe; in all that makes men manly and places the profession of arms on an exalted plane-was the equal, as he was the friend and companion of those great names.</p><p>Perhaps, it is just as well that our country has no Bossuet to voice the panegyric of its dead heroes: the work they have wrought in perpetuating and solidifying this wonderful nation has been so stupendous that the task of adequately and appropriately describing it for future generations can be confided to no human pen, assumed by no human tongue.</p><p>Not one additional leaflet would be added to their laurel crowns,-not one ray of glory-from the subsidized sycophancy of a court chaplain, but each in dressing up on the alignment on the day of Final Inspection, responds bravely and proudly to the mandate-"By their works shall ye know them."</p><p>And after all, what more perfect obituary can be presented of any man than a complete and satisfactory response to the query: "What has been the lesson of this man's life?"</p><p>This is the question that you and I and all men must answer. The world is becoming too wise to believe that ordinarily, Success is the Criterion of Ability. Rather, it perceives, dimly perhaps as yet, but still with sufficient clearness to accept as a beacon, that not alone the position to which a man attains, but the obstacles conquered on the way, the adequacy or insufficiency of the means allowed him, the nobleness or the ignominy of his aspirations,-are all to be cast in the scales before judgment can be passed upon his character.</p><p>No man that ever wore a shoulder-strap could face this ordeal with more equanimity than could General George Crook.</p><p>Gentle, modest, retiring,-shy almost as a girl,-he rose through every grade of rank, lineal and brevet-from Second Lieutenant to Major-General,-each advancement marking a battle or campaign-until the Army of West Virginia hailed and respected him as its commander.</p><p>And then when the colossal struggle was ended and the thousands and millions who had lately joined in bloody fratricidal strife were going back each to his place in the body politic, Crook quietly resumed his duties as an Infantry Captain; but, in the reorganization of the Army which promptly followed, he was appointed Lieutenant-Colonel of the Twenty-third Infantry, and assigned to the command of all the troops in the field against the hostile Indians of Idaho and Nevada.</p><p>It is not my intention to recapitulate his important services at all times and in all places during the more than forty-two years of his connection with the military establishment. All soldiers know them-all frontiersmen remember them-so long as valor forms the theme of poet's song, they will be honored and renowned in our country's history.</p><p>It is not going one inch beyond the official records to say that General Crook's experience with Indians, either in Peace or in War, has never been equaled by that of any other officer. So well understood is this fact that his brilliant services in the most trying hours of the War are almost forgotten, and he stands, and will always stand in the eyes of our people-red or white, as the soldier who in the hour of battle was "Fierce as ten furies, terrible as Hell," but when smiling Peace had spread her wings over the field of conflict, was the tender, commiserate, intelligent, earnest friend of the conquered.</p><p>Rogue River, Klamath, Shasta, Modoc, Pit River, Pi-Ute, Bannock, Nez Perce, Apache, Hualpai, Navajo, Sioux, Shoshonee, Ute, Cheyenne, Arapahoe, Crow, and Pawnee, have known, have feared and have loved him.</p><p>When he assumed command in Arizona, in 1871, that territory was a veritable hell. He whipped thousands of the Apaches into submission, and for the first time since the days of Cortez made all that fierce tribe respect and obey the law. He set them to work upon farms on the Rio Verde and elsewhere, and soon had them in a most prosperous and hopeful condition. The story of his administration of Indian affairs in that, as in every other department in which he had control, is the brightest and most honorable chapter in the history of our relations with the American aborigines. The secret of his success was his integrity-George Crook never lied to mortal man. The Indians soon learned this trait and believed in his word as they believed in the stars.</p><p>His instructions to his officers were always:</p><blockquote><p>"Make them no promises you cannot fulfil"-and his endeavor was to secure "an exact and even-handed justice to red men and to white alike."</p></blockquote><p>The Indian was compelled to work, but not to work without remuneration; a prompt, cash market was found for all he could produce, and every encouragement was extended to keep him in the path of well-doing.</p><p>Another striking peculiarity of Crook's character was his aversion to issuing orders. To quote his own words,-"Example was the best general order,"-and to the men and officers who followed him through the burning deserts and across the rugged mountain ranges of Arizona-faced the chill blizzards of Montana and Nebraska, or trudged along the weary miles of rain-soaked "Bad Lands" in Dakota, exposed to heat, cold, snow, rain and disease no less deadly than the ambuscade or sudden stampede, there was no more inspiring shibboleth than the magical word "Crook!"-which meant the Commander who shared their fatigues, their troubles and their perils, by day and by night.</p><p>No soldiers loved him so deeply as those who had been with him longest-no man ever had friends more devoted or loyal; he bound them to him with hooks of steel. Well might they be proud of his friendship:-to have shared his campaigns was glory enough and to have been honored with his appreciation grand distinction.</p><p>The frontier has gone. The exigencies which called General Crook into existence have passed away, and we shall never see his like again; yet the lesson of his life remains to animate us to all that is noble, honorable and manly-to such a course of conduct that when our last summons comes, kind friends may say of us, as I here say of him: Peace to his ashes.</p><p style="text-align:right">� John G. Bourke</p><p style="text-align:center"><a href="https://usmalibrary.contentdm.oclc.org/digital/collection/aogreunion/id/11128">Annual Report, June 12, 1890, pp. 40�43 · U.S. Military Academy Library</a></p>