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Vanished Arizona: Recollections of the Army Life by a New England Woman

by Martha Summerhayes · English · Gutenberg #1049 · 415,529 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Vanished Arizona: Recollections of the Army Life by a New England Woman


Author: Martha Summerhayes

Release date: September 1, 1997 [eBook #1049]
                Most recently updated: April 8, 2012

Language: English



*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VANISHED ARIZONA: RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARMY LIFE BY A NEW ENGLAND WOMAN ***



Produced by A Team of Arizona women





VANISHED ARIZONA

Recollections of the Army Life by a New England Woman


by Martha Summerhayes




TO MY SON HARRY SUMMERHAYES WHO SHARED THE VICISSITUDES OF MY LIFE IN
ARIZONA, THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED





Preface

I have written this story of my army life at the urgent and ceaseless
request of my children.

For whenever I allude to those early days, and tell to them the tales
they have so often heard, they always say: "Now, mother, will you write
these stories for us? Please, mother, do; we must never forget them."

Then, after an interval, "Mother, have you written those stories of
Arizona yet?" until finally, with the aid of some old letters written
from those very places (the letters having been preserved, with other
papers of mine, by an uncle in New England long since dead), I have been
able to give a fairly connected story.

I have not attempted to commemorate my husband's brave career in the
Civil War, as I was not married until some years after the close of that
war, nor to describe the many Indian campaigns in which he took part,
nor to write about the achievements of the old Eighth Infantry. I leave
all that to the historian. I have given simply the impressions made upon
the mind of a young New England woman who left her comfortable home
in the early seventies, to follow a second lieutenant into the wildest
encampments of the American army.

Hoping the story may possess some interest for the younger women of the
army, and possibly for some of our old friends, both in the army and in
civil life, I venture to send it forth.

POSTCRIPT (second edition).

The appendix to this, the second edition of my book, will tell something
of the kind manner in which the first edition was received by my friends
and the public at large.

But as several people had expressed a wish that I should tell more of my
army experiences I have gone carefully over the entire book, adding some
detail and a few incidents which had come to my mind later.

I have also been able, with some difficulty and much patient effort,
to secure several photographs of exceptional interest, which have been
added to the illustrations.

January, 1911.



CONTENTS

     PREFACE

     CHAPTER
     I.      GERMANY AND THE ARMY
     II.     I JOINED THE ARMY
     III.    ARMY HOUSE-KEEPING
     IV.     DOWN THE PACIFIC COAST
     V.      THE SLUE
     VI.     UP THE RIO COLORADO
     VII.    THE MOJAVE DESERT
     VIII.   LEARNING HOW TO SOLDIER
     IX.     ACROSS THE MOGOLLONS
     X.      A PERILOUS ADVENTURE
     XI.     CAMP APACHE
     XII.    LIFE AMONGST THE APACHES
     XIII.   A NEW RECRUIT
     XIV.    A MEMORABLE JOURNEY
     XV.     FORDING THE LITTLE COLORADO
     XVI.    STONEMAN'S LAKE
     XVII.   THE COLORADO DESERT
     XVIII.  EHRENBERG ON THE COLORADO
     XIX.    SUMMER AT EHRENBERG
     XX.     MY DELIVERER
     XXI.    WINTER IN EHRENBERG
     XXII.   RETURN TO THE STATES
     XXIII.  BACK TO ARIZONA
     XXIV.   UP THE VALLEY OF THE GILA
     XXV.    OLD CAMP MACDOWELL
     XXVI.   A SUDDEN ORDER
     XXVII.  THE EIGHTH FOOT LEAVES ARIZONA
     XXVIII. CALIFORNIA AND NEVADA
     XXIX.   CHANGING STATION
     XXX.    FORT NIOBRARA
     XXXI.   SANTA FE
     XXXII.  TEXAS
     XXXIII. DAVID'S ISLAND

     APPENDIX




VANISHED ARIZONA




CHAPTER I. GERMANY AND THE ARMY

The stalwart men of the Prussian army, the Lancers, the Dragoons, the
Hussars, the clank of their sabres on the pavements, their brilliant
uniforms, all made an impression upon my romantic mind, and I listened
eagerly, in the quiet evenings, to tales of Hanover under King George,
to stories of battles lost, and the entry of the Prussians into the old
Residenz-stadt; the flight of the King, and the sorrow and chagrin which
prevailed.

For I was living in the family of General Weste, the former
stadt-commandant of Hanover, who had served fifty years in the army and
had accompanied King George on his exit from the city. He was a gallant
veteran, with the rank of General-Lieutenant, ausser Dienst. A charming
and dignified man, accepting philosophically the fact that Hanover had
become Prussian, but loyal in his heart to his King and to old Hanover;
pretending great wrath when, on the King's birthday, he found yellow
and white sand strewn before his door, but unable to conceal the joyful
gleam in his eye when he spoke of it.

The General's wife was the daughter of a burgomaster and had been
brought up in a neighboring town. She was a dear, kind soul.

The house-keeping was simple, but stately and precise, as befitted
the rank of this officer. The General was addressed by the servants as
Excellenz and his wife as Frau Excellenz. A charming unmarried daughter
lived at home, making, with myself, a family of four.

Life was spent quietly, and every evening, after our coffee (served in
the living-room in winter, and in the garden in summer), Frau Generalin
would amuse me with descriptions of life in her old home, and of how
girls were brought up in her day; how industry was esteemed by her
mother the greatest virtue, and idleness was punished as the most
beguiling sin. She was never allowed, she said, to read, even on Sunday,
without her knitting-work in her hands; and she would often sigh, and
say to me, in German (for dear Frau Generalin spoke no other tongue),
"Ach, Martha, you American girls are so differently brought up"; and I
would say, "But, Frau Generalin, which way do you think is the better?"
She would then look puzzled, shrug her shoulders, and often say, "Ach!
times are different I suppose, but my ideas can never change."

Now the dear Frau Generalin did not speak a word of English, and as I
had had only a few lessons in German before I left America, I had the
utmost difficulty at first in comprehending what she said. She spoke
rapidly and I would listen with the closest attention, only to give up
in despair, and to say, "Gute Nacht," evening after evening, with my
head buzzing and my mind a blank.

After a few weeks, however, I began to understand everything she said,
altho' I could not yet write or read the language, and I listened with
the greatest interest to the story of her marriage with young Lieutenant
Weste, of the bringing up of her four children, and of the old days in
Hanover, before the Prussians took possession.

She described to me the brilliant Hanoverian Court, the endless
festivities and balls, the stately elegance of the old city, and the
cruel misfortunes of the King. And how, a few days after the King's
flight, the end of all things came to her; for she was politely
informed one evening, by a big Prussian major, that she must seek other
lodgings--he needed her quarters. At this point she always wept, and I
sympathized.

Thus I came to know military life in Germany, and I fell in love with
the army, with its brilliancy and its glitter, with its struggles
and its romance, with its sharp contrasts, its deprivations, and its
chivalry.

I came to know, as their guest, the best of old military society. They
were very old-fashioned and precise, and Frau Generalin often told me
that American girls were too ausgelassen in their manners. She often
reproved me for seating myself upon the sofa (which was only for old
people) and also for looking about too much when walking on the streets.
Young girls must keep their eyes more cast down, looking up only
occasionally. (I thought this dreadfully prim, as I was eager to see
everything). I was expected to stop and drop a little courtesy on
meeting an older woman, and then to inquire after the health of each
member of the family. It seemed to take a lot of time, but all the other
girls did it, and there seemed to be no hurry about anything, ever,
in that elegant old Residenz-stadt. Surely a contrast to our bustling
American towns.

A sentiment seemed to underlie everything they did. The Emperor meant
so much to them, and they adored the Empress. A personal feeling, an
affection, such as I had never heard of in a republic, caused me to stop
and wonder if an empire were not the best, after all. And one day,
when the Emperor, passing through Hanover en route, drove down the
Georgen-strasse in an open barouche and raised his hat as he glanced at
the sidewalk where I happened to be standing, my heart seemed to stop
beating, and I was overcome by a most wonderful feeling--a feeling that
in a man would have meant chivalry and loyalty unto death.

In this beautiful old city, life could not be taken any other than
leisurely. Theatres with early hours, the maid coming for me with a
lantern at nine o'clock, the frequent Kaffee-klatsch, the delightful
afternoon coffee at the Georgen-garten, the visits to the Zoological
gardens, where we always took our fresh rolls along with our
knitting-work in a basket, and then sat at a little table in the open,
and were served with coffee, sweet cream, and butter, by a strapping
Hessian peasant woman--all so simple, yet so elegant, so peaceful.

We heard the best music at the theatre, which was managed with the same
precision, and maintained by the Government with the same generosity,
as in the days of King George. No one was allowed to enter after the
overture had begun, and an absolute hush prevailed.

The orchestra consisted of sixty or more pieces, and the audience was
critical. The parquet was filled with officers in the gayest uniforms;
there were few ladies amongst them; the latter sat mostly in the boxes,
of which there were several tiers, and as soon as the curtain fell,
between the acts, the officers would rise, turn around, and level their
glasses at the boxes. Sometimes they came and visited in the boxes.

As I had been brought up in a town half Quaker, half Puritan, the custom
of going to the theatre Sunday evenings was rather a questionable one
in my mind. But I soon fell in with their ways, and found that on Sunday
evenings there was always the most brilliant audience and the best plays
were selected. With this break-down of the wall of narrow prejudice, I
gave up others equally as narrow, and adopted the German customs with my
whole heart.

I studied the language with unflinching perseverance, for this was the
opportunity I had dreamed about and longed for in the barren winter
evenings at Nantucket when I sat poring over Coleridge's translations of
Schiller's plays and Bayard Taylor's version of Goethe's Faust.

Should I ever read these intelligently in the original?

And when my father consented for me to go over and spend a year and live
in General Weste's family, there never was a happier or more grateful
young woman. Appreciative and eager, I did not waste a moment, and my
keen enjoyment of the German classics repaid me a hundred fold for all
my industry.

Neither time nor misfortune, nor illness can take from me the memory of
that year of privileges such as is given few American girls to enjoy,
when they are at an age to fully appreciate them.

And so completely separated was I from the American and English colony
that I rarely heard my own language spoken, and thus I lived, ate,
listened, talked, and even dreamed in German.

There seemed to be time enough to do everything we wished; and, as the
Franco-Prussian war was just over (it was the year of 1871), and many
troops were in garrison at Hanover, the officers could always join us at
the various gardens for after-dinner coffee, which, by the way, was not
taken in the demi-tasse, but in good generous coffee-cups, with plenty
of rich cream. Every one drank at least two cups, the officers smoked,
the women knitted or embroidered, and those were among the pleasantest
hours I spent in Germany.

The intrusion of unwelcome visitors was never to be feared, as, by
common consent, the various classes in Hanover kept by themselves, thus
enjoying life much better than in a country where everybody is striving
after the pleasures and luxuries enjoyed by those whom circumstances
have placed above them.

The gay uniforms lent a brilliancy to every affair, however simple.
Officers were not allowed to appear en civile, unless on leave of
absence.

I used to say, "Oh, Frau General, how fascinating it all is!" "Hush,
Martha," she would say; "life in the army is not always so brilliant as
it looks; in fact, we often call it, over here, 'glaenzendes Elend.'"

These bitter words made a great impression upon my mind, and in after
years, on the American frontier, I seemed to hear them over and over
again.

When I bade good-bye to the General and his family, I felt a tightening
about my throat and my heart, and I could not speak. Life in Germany had
become dear to me, and I had not known how dear until I was leaving it
forever.




CHAPTER II. I JOINED THE ARMY

I was put in charge of the captain of the North German Lloyd S. S.
"Donau," and after a most terrific cyclone in mid-ocean, in which we
nearly foundered, I landed in Hoboken, sixteen days from Bremen.

My brother, Harry Dunham, met me on the pier, saying, as he took me in
his arms, "You do not need to tell me what sort of a trip you have had;
it is enough to look at the ship--that tells the story."

As the vessel had been about given up for lost, her arrival was somewhat
of an agreeable surprise to all our friends, and to none more so than
my old friend Jack, a second lieutenant of the United States army, who
seemed so glad to have me back in America, that I concluded the only
thing to do was to join the army myself.

A quiet wedding in the country soon followed my decision, and we set
out early in April of the year 1874 to join his regiment, which was
stationed at Fort Russell, Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory.

I had never been west of New York, and Cheyenne seemed to me, in
contrast with the finished civilization of Europe, which I had so
recently left, the wildest sort of a place.

Arriving in the morning, and alighting from the train, two gallant
officers, in the uniform of the United States infantry, approached
and gave us welcome; and to me, the bride, a special "welcome to the
regiment" was given by each of them with outstretched hands.

Major Wilhelm said, "The ambulance is right here; you must come to our
house and stay until you get your quarters."

Such was my introduction to the army--and to the army ambulance, in
which I was destined to travel so many miles.

Four lively mules and a soldier driver brought us soon to the post,
and Mrs. Wilhelm welcomed us to her pleasant and comfortable-looking
quarters.

I had never seen an army post in America. I had always lived in places
which needed no garrison, and the army, except in Germany, was an
unknown quantity to me.

Fort Russell was a large post, and the garrison consisted of many
companies of cavalry and infantry. It was all new and strange to me.

Soon after luncheon, Jack said to Major Wilhelm, "Well, now, I must go
and look for quarters: what's the prospect?"

"You will have to turn some one out," said the Major, as they left the
house together.

About an hour afterwards they returned, and Jack said, "Well, I have
turned out Lynch; but," he added, "as his wife and child are away, I do
not believe he'll care very much."

"Oh," said I, "I'm so sorry to have to turn anybody out!"

The Major and his wife smiled, and the former remarked, "You must not
have too much sympathy: it's the custom of the service--it's always
done--by virtue of rank. They'll hate you for doing it, but if you
don't do it they'll not respect you. After you've been turned out once
yourself, you will not mind turning others out."

The following morning I drove over to Cheyenne with Mrs. Wilhelm, and
as I passed Lieutenant Lynch's quarters and saw soldiers removing
Mrs. Lynch's lares and penates, in the shape of a sewing machine,
lamp-shades, and other home-like things, I turned away in pity that such
customs could exist in our service.

To me, who had lived my life in the house in which I was born, moving
was a thing to be dreaded.

But Mrs. Wilhelm comforted me, and assured me it was not such a serious
matter after all. Army women were accustomed to it, she said.




CHAPTER III. ARMY HOUSE-KEEPING

Not knowing before I left home just what was needed for house-keeping in
the army, and being able to gather only vague ideas on the subject from
Jack, who declared that his quarters were furnished admirably, I
had taken out with me but few articles in addition to the silver and
linen-chests.

I began to have serious doubts on the subject of my menage, after
inspecting the bachelor furnishings which had seemed so ample to my
husband. But there was so much to be seen in the way of guard mount,
cavalry drill, and various military functions, besides the drives to
town and the concerts of the string orchestra, that I had little time to
think of the practical side of life.

Added to this, we were enjoying the delightful hospitality of the
Wilhelms, and the Major insisted upon making me acquainted with the
"real old-fashioned army toddy" several times a day,--a new beverage
to me, brought up in a blue-ribbon community, where wine-bibbing and
whiskey drinking were rated as belonging to only the lowest classes.
To be sure, my father always drank two fingers of fine cognac before
dinner, but I had always considered that a sort of medicine for a man
advanced in years.

Taken all in all, it is not to be wondered at if I saw not much in those
few days besides bright buttons, blue uniforms, and shining swords.

Everything was military and gay and brilliant, and I forgot the very
existence of practical things, in listening to the dreamy strains of
Italian and German music, rendered by our excellent and painstaking
orchestra. For the Eighth Infantry loved good music, and had imported
its musicians direct from Italy.

This came to an end, however, after a few days, and I was obliged to
descend from those heights to the dead level of domestic economy.

My husband informed me that the quarters were ready for our occupancy
and that we could begin house-keeping at once. He had engaged a soldier
named Adams for a striker; he did not know whether Adams was much of
a cook, he said, but he was the only available man just then, as the
companies were up north at the Agency.

Our quarters consisted of three rooms and a kitchen, which formed
one-half of a double house.

I asked Jack why we could not have a whole house. I did not think I
could possibly live in three rooms and a kitchen.

"Why, Martha," said he, "did you not know that women are not reckoned
in at all at the War Department? A lieutenant's allowance of quarters,
according to the Army Regulations, is one room and a kitchen, a
captain's allowance is two rooms and a kitchen, and so on up, until a
colonel has a fairly good house." I told him I thought it an outrage;
that lieutenants' wives needed quite as much as colonels' wives.

He laughed and said, "You see we have already two rooms over our proper
allowance; there are so many married officers, that the Government has
had to stretch a point."

After indulging in some rather harsh comments upon a government which
could treat lieutenants' wives so shabbily, I began to investigate my
surroundings.

Jack had placed his furnishings (some lace curtains, camp chairs, and a
carpet) in the living-room, and there was a forlorn-looking bedstead in
the bedroom. A pine table in the dining-room and a range in the kitchen
completed the outfit. A soldier had scrubbed the rough floors with a
straw broom: it was absolutely forlorn, and my heart sank within me.

But then I thought of Mrs. Wilhelm's quarters, and resolved to try my
best to make ours look as cheerful and pretty as hers. A chaplain was
about leaving the post and wished to dispose of his things, so we
bought a carpet of him, a few more camp chairs of various designs, and a
cheerful-looking table-cover. We were obliged to be very economical, as
Jack was a second lieutenant, the pay was small and a little in arrears,
after the wedding trip and long journey out. We bought white Holland
shades for the windows, and made the three rooms fairly comfortable and
then I turned my attention to the kitchen.

Jack said I should not have to buy anything at all; the Quartermaster
Department furnished everything in the line of kitchen utensils; and, as
his word was law, I went over to the quartermaster store-house to select
the needed articles.

After what I had been told, I was surprised to find nothing smaller than
two-gallon tea-kettles, meat-forks a yard long, and mess-kettles deep
enough to cook rations for fifty men! I rebelled, and said I would not
use such gigantic things.

My husband said: "Now, Mattie, be reasonable; all the army women keep
house with these utensils; the regiment will move soon, and then what
should we do with a lot of tin pans and such stuff? You know a second
lieutenant is allowed only a thousand pounds of baggage when he changes
station." This was a hard lesson, which I learned later.

Having been brought up in an old-time community, where women deferred to
their husbands in everything, I yielded, and the huge things were sent
over. I had told Mrs. Wilhelm that we were to have luncheon in our own
quarters.

So Adams made a fire large enough to roast beef for a company of
soldiers, and he and I attempted to boil a few eggs in the deep
mess-kettle and to make the water boil in the huge tea-kettle.

But Adams, as it turned out, was not a cook, and I must confess that my
own attention had been more engrossed by the study of German auxiliary
verbs, during the few previous years, than with the art of cooking.

Of course, like all New England girls of that period, I knew how to make
quince jelly and floating islands, but of the actual, practical side of
cooking, and the management of a range, I knew nothing.

Here was a dilemma, indeed!

The eggs appeared to boil, but they did not seem to be done when we took
them off, by the minute-hand of the clock.

I declared the kettle was too large; Adams said he did not understand it
at all.

I could have wept with chagrin! Our first meal a deux!

I appealed to Jack. He said, "Why, of course, Martha, you ought to know
that things do not cook as quickly at this altitude as they do down at
the sea level. We are thousands of feet above the sea here in Wyoming."
(I am not sure it was thousands, but it was hundreds at least.)

So that was the trouble, and I had not thought of it!

My head was giddy with the glamour, the uniform, the guard-mount, the
military music, the rarefied air, the new conditions, the new interests
of my life. Heine's songs, Goethe's plays, history and romance were
floating through my mind. Is it to be wondered at that I and Adams
together prepared the most atrocious meals that ever a new husband had
to eat? I related my difficulties to Jack, and told him I thought
we should never be able to manage with such kitchen utensils as were
furnished by the Q. M. D.

"Oh, pshaw! You are pampered and spoiled with your New England
kitchens," said he; "you will have to learn to do as other army women
do--cook in cans and such things, be inventive, and learn to do with
nothing." This was my first lesson in army house-keeping.

After my unpractical teacher had gone out on some official business, I
ran over to Mrs. Wilhelm's quarters and said, "Will you let me see your
kitchen closet?"

She assented, and I saw the most beautiful array of tin-ware, shining
and neat, placed in rows upon the shelves and hanging from hooks on the
wall.

"So!" I said; "my military husband does not know anything about these
things;" and I availed myself of the first trip of the ambulance over
to Cheyenne, bought a stock of tin-ware and had it charged, and made
no mention of it--because I feared that tin-ware was to be our bone of
contention, and I put off the evil day.

The cooking went on better after that, but I did not have much
assistance from Adams.

I had great trouble at first with the titles and the rank: but I soon
learned that many of the officers were addressed by the brevet title
bestowed upon them for gallant service in the Civil War, and I began
to understand about the ways and customs of the army of Uncle Sam. In
contrast to the Germans, the American lieutenants were not addressed by
their title (except officially); I learned to "Mr." all the lieutenants
who had no brevet.

One morning I suggested to Adams that he should wash the front windows;
after being gone a half hour, to borrow a step-ladder, he entered the
room, mounted the ladder and began. I sat writing. Suddenly, he
faced around, and addressing me, said, "Madam, do you believe in
spiritualism?"

"Good gracious! Adams, no; why do you ask me such a question?"

This was enough; he proceeded to give a lecture on the subject worthy of
a man higher up on the ladder of this life. I bade him come to an end
as soon as I dared (for I was not accustomed to soldiers), and suggested
that he was forgetting his work.

It was early in April, and the snow drifted through the crevices of the
old dried-out house, in banks upon our bed; but that was soon mended,
and things began to go smoothly enough, when Jack was ordered to join
his company, which was up at the Spotted Tail Agency. It was expected
that the Sioux under this chief would break out at any minute. They had
become disaffected about some treaty. I did not like to be left alone
with the Spiritualist, so Jack asked one of the laundresses, whose
husband was out with the company, to come and stay and take care of
me. Mrs. Patten was an old campaigner; she understood everything about
officers and their ways, and she made me absolutely comfortable for
those two lonely months. I always felt grateful to her; she was a dear
old Irish woman.

All the families and a few officers were left at the post, and, with the
daily drive to Cheyenne, some small dances and theatricals, my time was
pleasantly occupied.

Cheyenne in those early days was an amusing but unattractive frontier
town; it presented a great contrast to the old civilization I had
so recently left. We often saw women in cotton wrappers, high-heeled
slippers, and sun-bonnets, walking in the main streets. Cows, pigs, and
saloons seemed to be a feature of the place.

In about six weeks, the affairs of the Sioux were settled, and the
troops returned to the post. The weather began to be uncomfortably hot
in those low wooden houses. I missed the comforts of home and the fresh
sea air of the coast, but I tried to make the best of it.

Our sleeping-room was very small, and its one window looked out over the
boundless prairie at the back of the post. On account of the great heat,
we were obliged to have this window wide open at night. I heard the
cries and wails of various animals, but Jack said that was nothing--they
always heard them.

Once, at midnight, the wails seemed to be nearer, and I was terrified;
but he told me 'twas only the half-wild cats and coyotes which prowled
around the post. I asked him if they ever came in. "Gracious, no!" he
said; "they are too wild."

I calmed myself for sleep--when like lightning, one of the huge
creatures gave a flying leap in at our window, across the bed, and
through into the living-room.

"Jerusalem!" cried the lieutenant, and flew after her, snatching his
sword, which stood in the corner, and poking vigorously under the divan.

I rolled myself under the bed-covers, in the most abject terror lest
she might come back the same way; and, true enough, she did, with a most
piercing cry. I never had much rest after that occurrence, as we had no
protection against these wild-cats.

The regiment, however, in June was ordered to Arizona, that dreaded and
then unknown land, and the uncertain future was before me. I saw the
other women packing china and their various belongings. I seemed to be
helpless. Jack was busy with things outside. He had three large army
chests, which were brought in and placed before me. "Now," he said, "all
our things must go into those chests"--and I supposed they must.

I was pitifully ignorant of the details of moving, and I stood
despairingly gazing into the depths of those boxes, when the jolly
and stout wife of Major von Hermann passed my window. She glanced in,
comprehended the situation, and entered, saying, "You do not understand
how to pack? Let me help you: give me a cushion to kneel upon--now bring
everything that is to be packed, and I can soon show you how to do it."
With her kind assistance the chests were packed, and I found that we had
a great deal of surplus stuff which had to be put into rough cases, or
rolled into packages and covered with burlap. Jack fumed when he saw it,
and declared we could not take it all, as it exceeded our allowance of
weight. I declared we must take it, or we could not exist.

With some concessions on both sides we were finally packed up, and
left Fort Russell about the middle of June, with the first detachment,
consisting of head-quarters and band, for San Francisco, over the Union
Pacific Railroad.

For it must be remembered, that in 1874 there were no railroads in
Arizona, and all troops which were sent to that distant territory either
marched over-land through New Mexico, or were transported by steamer
from San Francisco down the coast, and up the Gulf of California to Fort
Yuma, from which point they marched up the valley of the Gila to the
southern posts, or continued up the Colorado River by steamer, to
other points of disembarkation, whence they marched to the posts in the
interior, or the northern part of the territory.

Much to my delight, we were allowed to remain over in San Francisco, and
go down with the second detachment. We made the most of the time, which
was about a fortnight, and on the sixth of August we embarked with six
companies of soldiers, Lieutenant Colonel Wilkins in command, on the old
steamship "Newbern," Captain Metzger, for Arizona.




CHAPTER IV. DOWN THE PACIFIC COAST

Now the "Newbern" was famous for being a good roller, and she lived
up to her reputation. For seven days I saw only the inside of our
stateroom. At the end of that time we arrived off Cape St. Lucas (the
extreme southern point of Lower California), and I went on deck.

We anchored and took cattle aboard. I watched the natives tow them off,
the cattle swimming behind their small boats, and then saw the poor
beasts hoisted up by their horns to the deck of our ship.

I thought it most dreadfully cruel, but was informed that it had been
done from time immemorial, so I ceased to talk about it, knowing that
I could not reform those aged countries, and realizing, faintly perhaps
(for I had never seen much of the rough side of life), that just as
cruel things were done to the cattle we consume in the North.

Now that Mr. Sinclair, in his great book "The Jungle," has brought the
multiplied horrors of the great packing-houses before our very eyes, we
might witness the hoisting of the cattle over the ship's side without
feeling such intense pity, admitting that everything is relative, even
cruelty.

It was now the middle of August, and the weather had become insufferably
hot, but we were out of the long swell of the Pacific Ocean; we had
rounded Cape St. Lucas, and were steaming up the Gulf of California,
towards the mouth of the Great Colorado, whose red and turbulent waters
empty themselves into this gulf, at its head.

I now had time to become acquainted with the officers of the regiment,
whom I had not before met; they had come in from other posts and joined
the command at San Francisco.

The daughter of the lieutenant-colonel was on board, the beautiful and
graceful Caroline Wilkins, the belle of the regiment; and Major Worth,
to whose company my husband belonged. I took a special interest in the
latter, as I knew we must face life together in the wilds of Arizona. I
had time to learn something about the regiment and its history; and that
Major Worth's father, whose monument I had so often seen in New York,
was the first colonel of the Eighth Infantry, when it was organized in
the State of New York in 1838.

The party on board was merry enough, and even gay. There was Captain
Ogilby, a great, genial Scotchman, and Captain Porter, a graduate of
Dublin, and so charmingly witty. He seemed very devoted to Miss Wilkins,
but Miss Wilkins was accustomed to the devotion of all the officers of
the Eighth Infantry. In fact, it was said that every young lieutenant
who joined the regiment had proposed to her. She was most attractive,
and as she had too kind a heart to be a coquette, she was a universal
favorite with the women as well as with the men.

There was Ella Bailey, too, Miss Wilkins' sister, with her young and
handsome husband and their young baby.

Then, dear Mrs. Wilkins, who had been so many years in the army that she
remembered crossing the plains in a real ox-team. She represented the
best type of the older army woman--and it was so lovely to see her
with her two daughters, all in the same regiment. A mother of grown-up
daughters was not often met with in the army.

And Lieutenant-Colonel Wilkins, a gentleman in the truest sense of
the word--a man of rather quiet tastes, never happier than when he
had leisure for indulging his musical taste in strumming all sorts of
Spanish fandangos on the guitar, or his somewhat marked talent with the
pencil and brush.

The heat of the staterooms compelled us all to sleep on deck, so our
mattresses were brought up by the soldiers at night, and spread about.
The situation, however, was so novel and altogether ludicrous, and our
fear of rats which ran about on deck so great, that sleep was well-nigh
out of the question.

Before dawn, we fled to our staterooms, but by sunrise we were glad to
dress and escape from their suffocating heat and go on deck again.
Black coffee and hard-tack were sent up, and this sustained us until the
nine-o'clock breakfast, which was elaborate, but not good. There was no
milk, of course, except the heavily sweetened sort, which I could not
use: it was the old-time condensed and canned milk; the meats were
beyond everything, except the poor, tough, fresh beef we had seen
hoisted over the side, at Cape St. Lucas. The butter, poor at the
best, began to pour like oil. Black coffee and bread, and a baked sweet
potato, seemed the only things that I could swallow.

The heat in the Gulf of California was intense. Our trunks were brought
up from the vessel's hold, and we took out summer clothing. But how
inadequate and inappropriate it was for that climate! Our faces burned
and blistered; even the parting on the head burned, under the awnings
which were kept spread. The ice-supply decreased alarmingly, the meats
turned green, and when the steward went down into the refrigerator,
which was somewhere below the quarter-deck, to get provisions for the
day, every woman held a bottle of salts to her nose, and the officers
fled to the forward part of the ship. The odor which ascended from
that refrigerator was indescribable: it lingered and would not go. It
followed us to the table, and when we tasted the food we tasted the
odor. We bribed the steward for ice. Finally, I could not go below at
all, but had a baked sweet potato brought on deck, and lived several
days upon that diet.

On the 14th of August we anchored off Mazatlan, a picturesque and
ancient adobe town in old Mexico. The approach to this port was
strikingly beautiful. Great rocks, cut by the surf into arches and
caverns, guarded the entrance to the harbor. We anchored two miles out.
A customs and a Wells-Fargo boat boarded us, and many natives came along
side, bringing fresh cocoanuts, bananas, and limes. Some Mexicans bound
for Guaymas came on board, and a troupe of Japanese jugglers.

While we were unloading cargo, some officers and their wives went on
shore in one of the ship's boats, and found it a most interesting place.
It was garrisoned by Mexican troops, uniformed in white cotton shirts
and trousers. They visited the old hotel, the amphitheatre where the
bull-fights were held, and the old fort. They told also about the
cock-pits--and about the refreshing drinks they had.

My thirst began to be abnormal. We bought a dozen cocoanuts, and I drank
the milk from them, and made up my mind to go ashore at the next port;
for after nine days with only thick black coffee and bad warm water to
drink, I was longing for a cup of good tea or a glass of fresh, sweet
milk.

A day or so more brought us to Guaymas, another Mexican port. Mrs.
Wilkins said she had heard something about an old Spaniard there,
who used to cook meals for stray travellers. This was enough. I was
desperately hungry and thirsty, and we decided to try and find him. Mrs.
Wilkins spoke a little Spanish, and by dint of inquiries we found the
man's house, a little old, forlorn, deserted-looking adobe casa.

We rapped vigorously upon the old door, and after some minutes a small,
withered old man appeared.

Mrs. Wilkins told him what we wanted, but this ancient Delmonico
declined to serve us, and said, in Spanish, the country was "a desert";
he had "nothing in the house"; he had "not cooked a meal in years"; he
could not; and, finally, he would not; and he gently pushed the door to
in our faces. But we did not give it up, and Mrs. Wilkins continued to
persuade. I mustered what Spanish I knew, and told him I would pay him
any price for a cup of coffee with fresh milk. He finally yielded, and
told us to return in one hour.

So we walked around the little deserted town. I could think only of the
breakfast we were to have in the old man's casa. And it met and exceeded
our wildest anticipations, for, just fancy! We were served with a
delicious boullion, then chicken, perfectly cooked, accompanied by some
dish flavored with chile verde, creamy biscuit, fresh butter, and golden
coffee with milk. There were three or four women and several officers in
the party, and we had a merry breakfast. We paid the old man generously,
thanked him warmly, and returned to the ship, fortified to endure the
sight of all the green ducks that came out of the lower hold.

You must remember that the "Newbern" was a small and old propeller,
not fitted up for passengers, and in those days the great refrigerating
plants were unheard of. The women who go to the Philippines on our great
transports of to-day cannot realize and will scarcely believe what we
endured for lack of ice and of good food on that never-to-be-forgotten
voyage down the Pacific coast and up the Gulf of California in the
summer of 1874.




CHAPTER V. THE SLUE

At last, after a voyage of thirteen days, we came to anchor a mile or so
off Port Isabel, at the mouth of the Colorado River. A narrow but deep
slue runs up into the desert land, on the east side of the river's
mouth, and provides a harbor of refuge for the flat-bottomed
stern-wheelers which meet the ocean steamers at this point. Hurricanes
are prevalent at this season in the Gulf of California, but we had been
fortunate in not meeting with any on the voyage. The wind now freshened,
however, and beat the waves into angry foam, and there we lay for three
days on the "Newbern," off Port Isabel, before the sea was calm enough
for the transfer of troops and baggage to the lighters.

This was excessively disagreeable. The wind was like a breath from a
furnace; it seemed as though the days would never end, and the wind
never stop blowing. Jack's official diary says: "One soldier died
to-day."

Finally, on the fourth day, the wind abated, and the transfer was begun.
We boarded the river steamboat "Cocopah," towing a barge loaded with
soldiers, and steamed away for the slue. I must say that we welcomed the
change with delight. Towards the end of the afternoon the "Cocopah" put
her nose to the shore and tied up. It seemed strange not to see pier
sand docks, nor even piles to tie to. Anchors were taken ashore and the
boat secured in that manner: there being no trees of sufficient size to
make fast to.

The soldiers went into camp on shore. The heat down in that low, flat
place was intense. Another man died that night.

What was our chagrin, the next morning, to learn that we must go back to
the "Newbern," to carry some freight from up-river. There was nothing
to do but stay on board and tow that dreary barge, filled with hot, red,
baked-looking ore, out to the ship, unload, and go back up the slue.
Jack's diary records: "Aug. 23rd. Heat awful. Pringle died to-day." He
was the third soldier to succumb. It seemed to me their fate was a hard
one. To die, down in that wretched place, to be rolled in a blanket and
buried on those desert shores, with nothing but a heap of stones to mark
their graves.

The adjutant of the battalion read the burial service, and the
trumpeters stepped to the edge of the graves and sounded "Taps," which
echoed sad and melancholy far over those parched and arid lands. My eyes
filled with tears, for one of the soldiers was from our own company, and
had been kind to me.

Jack said: "You mustn't cry, Mattie; it's a soldier's life, and when a
man enlists he must take his chances."

"Yes, but," I said, "somewhere there must be a mother or sister, or some
one who cares for these poor men, and it's all so sad to think of."

"Well, I know it is sad," he replied, soothingly, "but listen! It is all
over, and the burial party is returning."

I listened and heard the gay strains of "The girl I left behind me,"
which the trumpeters were playing with all their might. "You see," said
Jack, "it would not do for the soldiers to be sad when one of them
dies. Why, it would demoralize the whole command. So they play these gay
things to cheer them up."

And I began to feel that tears must be out of place at a soldier's
funeral. I attended many a one after that, but I had too much
imagination, and in spite of all my brave efforts, visions of the poor
boy's mother on some little farm in Missouri or Kansas perhaps, or in
some New England town, or possibly in the old country, would come before
me, and my heart was filled with sadness.

The Post Hospital seemed to me a lonesome place to die in, although the
surgeon and soldier attendants were kind to the sick men. There were no
women nurses in the army in those days.

The next day, the "Cocopah" started again and towed a barge out to the
ship. But the hot wind sprang up and blew fiercely, and we lay off and
on all day, until it was calm enough to tow her back to the slue. By
that time I had about given up all hope of getting any farther, and if
the weather had only been cooler I could have endured with equanimity
the idle life and knocking about from the ship to the slue, and from
the slue to the ship. But the heat was unbearable. We had to unpack our
trunks again and get out heavy-soled shoes, for the zinc which covered
the decks of these river-steamers burned through the thin slippers we
had worn on the ship.

That day we had a little diversion, for we saw the "Gila" come down the
river and up the slue, and tie up directly alongside of us. She had on
board and in barges four companies of the Twenty-third Infantry, who
were going into the States. We exchanged greetings and visits, and from
the great joy manifested by them all, I drew my conclusions as to what
lay before us, in the dry and desolate country we were about to enter.

The women's clothes looked ridiculously old-fashioned, and I wondered if
I should look that way when my time came to leave Arizona.

Little cared they, those women of the Twenty-third, for, joy upon joys!
They saw the "Newbern" out there in the offing, waiting to take them
back to green hills, and to cool days and nights, and to those they had
left behind, three years before.

On account of the wind, which blew again with great violence, the
"Cocopah" could not leave the slue that day. The officers and soldiers
were desperate for something to do. So they tried fishing, and caught
some "croakers," which tasted very fresh and good, after all the curried
and doctored-up messes we had been obliged to eat on board ship.

We spent seven days in and out of that slue. Finally, on August the
26th, the wind subsided and we started up river. Towards sunset we
arrived at a place called "Old Soldier's Camp." There the "Gila" joined
us, and the command was divided between the two river-boats. We were
assigned to the "Gila," and I settled myself down with my belongings,
for the remainder of the journey up river.

We resigned ourselves to the dreadful heat, and at the end of two more
days the river had begun to narrow, and we arrived at Fort Yuma, which
was at that time the post best known to, and most talked about by army
officers of any in Arizona. No one except old campaigners knew much
about any other post in the Territory.

It was said to be the very hottest place that ever existed, and from the
time we left San Francisco we had heard the story, oft repeated, of the
poor soldier who died at Fort Yuma, and after awhile returned to beg for
his blankets, having found the regions of Pluto so much cooler than the
place he had left. But the fort looked pleasant to us, as we approached.
It lay on a high mesa to the left of us and there was a little green
grass where the post was built.

None of the officers knew as yet their destination, and I found myself
wishing it might be our good fortune to stay at Fort Yuma. It seemed
such a friendly place.

Lieutenant Haskell, Twelfth Infantry, who was stationed there, came down
to the boat to greet us, and brought us our letters from home. He then
extended his gracious hospitality to us all, arranging for us to come to
his quarters the next day for a meal, and dividing the party as best he
could accommodate us. It fell to our lot to go to breakfast with Major
and Mrs. Wells and Miss Wilkins.

An ambulance was sent the next morning, at nine o'clock, to bring us up
the steep and winding road, white with heat, which led to the fort.

I can never forget the taste of the oatmeal with fresh milk, the eggs
and butter, and delicious tomatoes, which were served to us in his
latticed dining-room.

After twenty-three days of heat and glare, and scorching winds,
and stale food, Fort Yuma and Mr. Haskell's dining-room seemed like
Paradise.

Of course it was hot; it was August, and we expected it. But the heat
of those places can be much alleviated by the surroundings. There were
shower baths, and latticed piazzas, and large ollas hanging in the
shade of them, containing cool water. Yuma was only twenty days from San
Francisco, and they were able to get many things direct by steamer. Of
course there was no ice, and butter was kept only by ingenious devices
of the Chinese servants; there were but few vegetables, but what was to
be had at all in that country, was to be had at Fort Yuma.

We staid one more day, and left two companies of the regiment there.
When we departed, I felt, somehow, as though we were saying good-bye to
the world and civilization, and as our boat clattered and tugged away
up river with its great wheel astern, I could not help looking back
longingly to old Fort Yuma.




CHAPTER VI. UP THE RIO COLORADO

And now began our real journey up the Colorado River, that river unknown
to me except in my early geography lessons--that mighty and untamed
river, which is to-day unknown except to the explorer, or the few people
who have navigated its turbulent waters. Back in memory was the picture
of it on the map; here was the reality, then, and here we were, on the
steamer "Gila," Captain Mellon, with the barge full of soldiers towing
on after us, starting for Fort Mojave, some two hundred miles above.

The vague and shadowy foreboding that had fluttered through my mind
before I left Fort Russell had now also become a reality and crowded out
every other thought. The river, the scenery, seemed, after all, but an
illusion, and interested me but in a dreamy sort of way.

We had staterooms, but could not remain in them long at a time, on
account of the intense heat. I had never felt such heat, and no one else
ever had or has since. The days were interminable. We wandered around
the boat, first forward, then aft, to find a cool spot. We hung up our
canteens (covered with flannel and dipped in water), where they would
swing in the shade, thereby obtaining water which was a trifle cooler
than the air. There was no ice, and consequently no fresh provisions. A
Chinaman served as steward and cook, and at the ringing of a bell we all
went into a small saloon back of the pilothouse, where the meals were
served. Our party at table on the "Gila" consisted of several unmarried
officers, and several officers with their wives, about eight or nine in
all, and we could have had a merry time enough but for the awful heat,
which destroyed both our good looks and our tempers. The fare was
meagre, of course; fresh biscuit without butter, very salt boiled beef,
and some canned vegetables, which were poor enough in those days. Pies
made from preserved peaches or plums generally followed this delectable
course. Chinamen, as we all know, can make pies under conditions that
would stagger most chefs. They may have no marble pastry-slab, and the
lard may run like oil, still they can make pies that taste good to the
hungry traveller.

But that dining-room was hot! The metal handles of the knives were
uncomfortably warm to the touch; and even the wooden arms of the chairs
felt as if they were slowly igniting. After a hasty meal, and a few
remarks upon the salt beef, and the general misery of our lot, we would
seek some spot which might be a trifle cooler. A siesta was out of the
question, as the staterooms were insufferable; and so we dragged out the
weary days.

At sundown the boat put her nose up to the bank and tied up for the
night. The soldiers left the barges and went into camp on shore, to
cook their suppers and to sleep. The banks of the river offered no very
attractive spot upon which to make a camp; they were low, flat, and
covered with underbrush and arrow-weed, which grew thick to the water's
edge. I always found it interesting to watch the barge unload the men at
sundown.

At twilight some of the soldiers came on board and laid our mattresses
side by side on the after deck. Pajamas and loose gowns were soon en
evidence, but nothing mattered, as they were no electric lights to
disturb us with their glare. Rank also mattered not; Lieutenant-Colonel
Wilkins and his wife lay down to rest, with the captains and lieutenants
and their wives, wherever their respective strikers had placed their
mattresses (for this was the good old time when the soldiers were
allowed to wait upon officers 'families).

Under these circumstances, much sleep was not to be thought of; the
sultry heat by the river bank, and the pungent smell of the arrow-weed
which lined the shores thickly, contributed more to stimulate than to
soothe the weary nerves. But the glare of the sun was gone, and after
awhile a stillness settled down upon this company of Uncle Sam's
servants and their followers. (In the Army Regulations, wives are not
rated except as "camp followers.")

But even this short respite from the glare of the sun was soon to end;
for before the crack of dawn, or, as it seemed to us, shortly after
midnight, came such a clatter with the fires and the high-pressure
engine and the sparks, and what all they did in that wild and reckless
land, that further rest was impossible, and we betook ourselves with
our mattresses to the staterooms, for another attempt at sleep, which,
however, meant only failure, as the sun rose incredibly early on that
river, and we were glad to take a hasty sponge from a basin of rather
thick looking river-water, and go again out on deck, where we could
always get a cup of black coffee from the Chinaman.

And thus began another day of intolerable glare and heat. Conversation
lagged; no topic seemed to have any interest except the thermometer,
which hung in the coolest place on the boat; and one day when Major
Worth looked at it and pronounced it one hundred and twenty-two in the
shade, a grim despair seized upon me, and I wondered how much more heat
human beings could endure. There was nothing to relieve the monotony of
the scenery. On each side of us, low river banks, and nothing between
those and the horizon line. On our left was Lower [*] California, and on
our right, Arizona. Both appeared to be deserts.

     * This term is here used (as we used it at Ehrenberg) to
     designate the low, flat lands west of the river, without any
     reference to Lower California proper,--the long peninsula
     belonging to Mexico.

As the river narrowed, however, the trip began to be enlivened by the
constant danger of getting aground on the shifting sand-bars which are
so numerous in this mighty river. Jack Mellon was then the most famous
pilot on the Colorado, and he was very skilful in steering clear of the
sand-bars, skimming over them, or working his boat off, when once fast
upon them. The deck-hands, men of a mixed Indian and Mexican race, stood
ready with long poles, in the bow, to jump overboard, when we struck
a bar, and by dint of pushing, and reversing the engine, the boat would
swing off.

On approaching a shallow place, they would sound with their poles, and
in a sing-song high-pitched tone drawl out the number of feet. Sometimes
their sleepy drawling tones would suddenly cease, and crying loudly, "No
alli agua!" they would swing themselves over the side of the boat into
the river, and begin their strange and intricate manipulations with the
poles. Then, again, they would carry the anchor away off and by means of
great spars, and some method too complicated for me to describe, Captain
Mellon would fairly lift the boat over the bar.

But our progress was naturally much retarded, and sometimes we were
aground an hour, sometimes a half day or more. Captain Mellon was
always cheerful. River steamboating was his life, and sand-bars were his
excitement. On one occasion, I said, "Oh! Captain, do you think we
shall get off this bar to-day?" "Well, you can't tell," he said, with a
twinkle in his eye; "one trip, I lay fifty-two days on a bar," and then,
after a short pause, "but that don't happen very often; we sometimes lay
a week, though; there is no telling; the bars change all the time."

Sometimes the low trees and brushwood on the banks parted, and a young
squaw would peer out at us. This was a little diversion, and picturesque
besides. They wore very short skirts made of stripped bark, and as
they held back the branches of the low willows, and looked at us with
curiosity, they made pictures so pretty that I have never forgotten
them. We had no kodaks then, but even if we had had them, they could not
have reproduced the fine copper color of those bare shoulders and arms,
the soft wood colors of the short bark skirts, the gleam of the sun upon
their blue-black hair, and the turquoise color of the wide bead-bands
which encircled their arms.

One morning, as I was trying to finish out a nap in my stateroom,
Jack came excitedly in and said: "Get up, Martha, we are coming to
Ehrenberg!" Visions of castles on the Rhine, and stories of the
middle ages floated through my mind, as I sprang up, in pleasurable
anticipation of seeing an interesting and beautiful place. Alas! for my
ignorance. I saw but a row of low thatched hovels, perched on the edge
of the ragged looking river-bank; a road ran lengthwise along, and
opposite the hovels I saw a store and some more mean-looking huts of
adobe.

"Oh! Jack!" I cried, "and is that Ehrenberg? Who on earth gave such a
name to the wretched place?"

"Oh, some old German prospector, I suppose; but never mind, the place
is all right enough. Come! Hurry up! We are going to stop here and land
freight. There is an officer stationed here. See those low white walls?
That is where he lives. Captain Bernard of the Fifth Cavalry. It's quite
a place; come out and see it."

But I did not go ashore. Of all dreary, miserable-looking settlements
that one could possibly imagine, that was the worst. An unfriendly,
dirty, and Heaven-forsaken place, inhabited by a poor class of Mexicans
and half-breeds. It was, however, an important shipping station for
freight which was to be sent overland to the interior, and there was
always one army officer stationed there.

Captain Bernard came on board to see us. I did not ask him how he liked
his station; it seemed to me too satirical; like asking the Prisoner of
Chillon, for instance, how he liked his dungeon.

I looked over towards those low white walls, which enclosed the
Government corral and the habitation of this officer, and thanked my
stars that no such dreadful detail had come to my husband. I did not
dream that in less than a year this exceptionally hard fate was to be my
own.

We left Ehrenberg with no regrets, and pushed on up river.

On the third of September the boilers "foamed" so that we had to tie up
for nearly a day. This was caused by the water being so very muddy. The
Rio Colorado deserves its name, for its swift-flowing current sweeps by
like a mass of seething red liquid, turbulent and thick and treacherous.
It was said on the river, that those who sank beneath its surface were
never seen again, and in looking over into those whirlpools and swirling
eddies, one might well believe this to be true.

From there on, up the river, we passed through great canons and the
scenery was grand enough; but one cannot enjoy scenery with the mercury
ranging from 107 to 122 in the shade. The grandeur was quite lost upon
us all, and we were suffocated by the scorching heat radiating from
those massive walls of rocks between which we puffed and clattered
along.

I must confess that the history of this great river was quite unknown to
me then. I had never read of the early attempts made to explore it, both
from above and from its mouth, and the wonders of the "Grand Canon" were
as yet unknown to the world. I did not realize that, as we steamed along
between those high perpendicular walls of rock, we were really seeing
the lower end of that great chasm which now, thirty years later, has
become one of the most famous resorts of this country and, in fact, of
the world.

There was some mention made of Major Powell, that daring adventurer,
who, a few years previously, had accomplished the marvellous feat of
going down the Colorado and through the Grand Canon, in a small boat, he
being the first man who had at that time ever accomplished it, many men
having lost their lives in the attempt.

At last, on the 8th of September, we arrived at Camp Mojave, on the
right bank of the river; a low, square enclosure, on the low level of
the flat land near the river. It seemed an age since we had left Yuma
and twice an age since we had left the mouth of the river. But it was
only eighteen days in all, and Captain Mellon remarked: "A quick trip!"
and congratulated us on the good luck we had had in not being detained
on the sandbars. "Great Heavens," I thought, "if that is what they call
a quick trip!" But I do not know just what I thought, for those eighteen
days on the Great Colorado in midsummer, had burned themselves into my
memory, and I made an inward vow that nothing would ever force me into
such a situation again. I did not stop to really think; I only felt, and
my only feeling was a desire to get cool and to get out of the Territory
in some other way and at some cooler season. How futile a wish, and how
futile a vow!

     Dellenbaugh, who was with Powell in 1869 in his second
     expedition down the river in small boats, has given to the
     world a most interesting account of this wonderful river and
     the canons through which it cuts its tempestuous way to the
     Gulf of California, in two volumes entitled "The Romance of
     the Great Colorado" and "A Canon Voyage".

We bade good-bye to our gallant river captain and watched the great
stern-wheeler as she swung out into the stream, and, heading up river,
disappeared around a bend; for even at that time this venturesome pilot
had pushed his boat farther up than any other steam-craft had ever
gone, and we heard that there were terrific rapids and falls and unknown
mysteries above. The superstition of centuries hovered over the "great
cut," and but few civilized beings had looked down into its awful
depths. Brave, dashing, handsome Jack Mellon! What would I give and
what would we all give, to see thee once more, thou Wizard of the Great
Colorado!

We turned our faces towards the Mojave desert, and I wondered, what
next?

The Post Surgeon kindly took care of us for two days and nights, and we
slept upon the broad piazzas of his quarters.

We heard no more the crackling and fizzing of the stern-wheeler's
high-pressure engines at daylight, and our eyes, tired with gazing at
the red whirlpools of the river, found relief in looking out upon the
grey-white flat expanse which surrounded Fort Mojave, and merged itself
into the desert beyond.




CHAPTER VII. THE MOJAVE DESERT

Thou white and dried-up sea! so old! So strewn with wealth, so sown
with gold! Yes, thou art old and hoary white With time and ruin of
all things, And on thy lonesome borders Night Sits brooding o'er with
drooping wings.--JOAQUIN MILLER.


The country had grown steadily more unfriendly ever since leaving Fort
Yuma, and the surroundings of Camp Mojave were dreary enough.

But we took time to sort out our belongings, and the officers arranged
for transportation across the Territory. Some had bought, in San
Francisco, comfortable travelling-carriages for their families. They
were old campaigners; they knew a thing or two about Arizona; we
lieutenants did not know, we had never heard much about this part of our
country. But a comfortable large carriage, known as a Dougherty wagon,
or, in common army parlance, an ambulance, was secured for me to travel
in. This vehicle had a large body, with two seats facing each other, and
a seat outside for the driver. The inside of the wagon could be closed
if desired by canvas sides and back which rolled up and down, and by a
curtain which dropped behind the driver's seat. So I was enabled to have
some degree of privacy, if I wished.

We repacked our mess-chest, and bought from the Commissary at Mojave the
provisions necessary for the long journey to Fort Whipple, which was the
destination of one of the companies and the headquarters officers.

On the morning of September 10th everything in the post was astir with
preparations for the first march. It was now thirty-five days since we
left San Francisco, but the change from boat to land travelling offered
an agreeable diversion after the monotony of the river. I watched with
interest the loading of the great prairie-schooners, into which went the
soldiers' boxes and the camp equipage. Outside was lashed a good deal of
the lighter stuff; I noticed a barrel of china, which looked much like
our own, lashed directly over one wheel. Then there were the massive
blue army wagons, which were also heavily loaded; the laundresses with
their children and belongings were placed in these.

At last the command moved out. It was to me a novel sight. The wagons
and schooners were each drawn by teams of six heavy mules, while a team
of six lighter mules was put to each ambulance and carriage. These
were quite different from the draught animals I had always seen in the
Eastern States; these Government mules being sleek, well-fed and trained
to trot as fast as the average carriage-horse. The harnesses were quite
smart, being trimmed off with white ivory rings. Each mule was "Lize"
or "Fanny" or "Kate", and the soldiers who handled the lines were
accustomed to the work; for work, and arduous work, it proved to be, as
we advanced into the then unknown Territory of Arizona.

The main body of the troops marched in advance; then came the ambulances
and carriages, followed by the baggage-wagons and a small rear-guard.
When the troops were halted once an hour for rest, the officers, who
marched with the soldiers, would come to the ambulances and chat awhile,
until the bugle call for "Assembly" sounded, when they would join their
commands again, the men would fall in, the call "Forward" was sounded,
and the small-sized army train moved on.

The first day's march was over a dreary country; a hot wind blew, and
everything was filled with dust. I had long ago discarded my hat, as an
unnecessary and troublesome article; consequently my head wa snow a mass
of fine white dust, which stuck fast, of course. I was covered from head
to foot with it, and it would not shake off, so, although our steamboat
troubles were over, our land troubles had begun.

We reached, after a few hours' travel, the desolate place where we were
to camp.

In the mean time, it had been arranged for Major Worth, who had no
family, to share our mess, and we had secured the services of a soldier
belonging to his company whose ability as a camp cook was known to both
officers.

I cannot say that life in the army, as far as I had gone, presented any
very great attractions. This, our first camp, was on the river, a little
above Hardyville. Good water was there, and that was all; I had not yet
learned to appreciate that. There was not a tree nor a shrub to give
shade. The only thing I could see, except sky and sand, was a ruined
adobe enclosure, with no roof. I sat in the ambulance until our tent was
pitched, and then Jack came to me, followed by a six-foot soldier, and
said: "Mattie, this is Bowen, our striker; now I want you to tell him
what he shall cook for our supper; and--don't you think it would be
nice if you could show him how to make some of those good New England
doughnuts? I think Major Worth might like them; and after all the
awful stuff we have had, you know," et caetera, et caetera. I met the
situation, after an inward struggle, and said, weakly, "Where are the
eggs?" "Oh," said he, "you don't need eggs; you're on the frontier now;
you must learn to do without eggs."

Everything in me rebelled, but still I yielded. You see I had been
married only six months; the women at home, and in Germany also, had
always shown great deference to their husbands' wishes. But at that
moment I almost wished Major Worth and Jack and Bowen and the mess-chest
at the bottom of the Rio Colorado. However, I nerved myself for the
effort, and when Bowen had his camp-fire made, he came and called me.

At the best, I never had much confidence in my ability as a cook, but
as a camp cook! Ah, me! Everything seemed to swim before my eyes, and I
fancied that the other women were looking at me from their tents. Bowen
was very civil, turned back the cover of the mess-chest and propped it
up. That was the table. Then he brought me a tin basin, and some flour,
some condensed milk, some sugar, and a rolling-pin, and then he hung a
camp-kettle with lard in it over the fire. I stirred up a mixture in
the basin, but the humiliation of failure was spared me, for just then,
without warning, came one of those terrific sandstorms which prevail
on the deserts of Arizona, blowing us all before it in its fury, and
filling everything with sand.

We all scurried to the tents; some of them had blown down. There was not
much shelter, but the storm was soon over, and we stood collecting
our scattered senses. I saw Mrs. Wilkins at the door of her tent. She
beckoned to me; I went over there, and she said: "Now, my dear, I am
going to give you some advice. You must not take it unkindly. I am an
old army woman and I have made many campaigns with the Colonel; you have
but just joined the army. You must never try to do any cooking at the
camp-fire. The soldiers are there for that work, and they know lots more
about it than any of us do."

"But, Jack," I began--

"Never mind Jack," said she; "he does not know as much as I do about it;
and when you reach your post," she added, "you can show him what you can
do in that line."

Bowen cleared away the sandy remains of the doubtful dough, and prepared
for us a very fair supper. Soldiers' bacon, and coffee, and biscuits
baked in a Dutch oven.

While waiting for the sun to set, we took a short stroll over to the
adobe ruins. Inside the enclosure lay an enormous rattlesnake, coiled.
It was the first one I had ever seen except in a cage, and I was
fascinated by the horror of the round, grayish-looking heap, so near the
color of the sand on which it lay. Some soldiers came and killed it.
But I noticed that Bowen took extra pains that night, to spread buffalo
robes under our mattresses, and to place around them a hair lariat.
"Snakes won't cross over that," he said, with a grin.

Bowen was a character. Originally from some farm in Vermont, he had
served some years with the Eighth Infantry, and for a long time in the
same company under Major Worth, and had cooked for the bachelors' mess.
He was very tall, and had a good-natured face, but he did not have much
opinion of what is known as etiquette, either military or civil; he
seemed to consider himself a sort of protector to the officers of
Company K, and now, as well, to the woman who had joined the company.
He took us all under his wing, as it were, and although he had to be
sharply reprimanded sometimes, in a kind of language which he seemed to
expect, he was allowed more latitude than most soldiers.

This was my first night under canvas in the army. I did not like those
desert places, and they grew to have a horror for me.

At four o'clock in the morning the cook's call sounded, the mules were
fed, and the crunching and the braying were something to awaken the
heaviest sleepers. Bowen called us. I was much upset by the dreadful
dust, which was thick upon everything I touched. We had to hasten our
toilet, as they were striking tents and breaking camp early, in order
to reach before noon the next place where there was water. Sitting on
camp-stools, around the mess-tables, in the open, before the break of
day, we swallowed some black coffee and ate some rather thick slices
of bacon and dry bread. The Wilkins' tent was near ours, and I said to
them, rather peevishly: "Isn't this dust something awful?"

Miss Wilkins looked up with her sweet smile and gentle manner and
replied: "Why, yes, Mrs. Summerhayes, it is pretty bad, but you must not
worry about such a little thing as dust."

"How can I help it?" I said; "my hair, my clothes, everything full of
it, and no chance for a bath or a change: a miserable little basin of
water and--"

I suppose I was running on with all my grievances, but she stopped me
and said again: "Soon, now, you will not mind it at all. Ella and I are
army girls, you know, and we do not mind anything. There's no use in
fretting about little things."

Miss Wilkins' remarks made a tremendous impression upon my mind and I
began to study her philosophy.

At break of day the command marched out, their rifles on their
shoulders, swaying along ahead of us, in the sunlight and the heat,
which continued still to be almost unendurable. The dry white dust of
this desert country boiled and surged up and around us in suffocating
clouds.

I had my own canteen hung up in the ambulance, but the water in it got
very warm and I learned to take but a swallow at a time, as it could not
be refilled until we reached the next spring--and there is always some
uncertainty in Arizona as to whether the spring or basin has gone dry.
So water was precious, and we could not afford to waste a drop.

At about noon we reached a forlorn mud hut, known as Packwood's ranch.
But the place had a bar, which was cheerful for some of the poor men,
as the two days' marches had been rather hard upon them, being so "soft"
from the long voyage. I could never begrudge a soldier a bit of cheer
after the hard marches in Arizona, through miles of dust and burning
heat, their canteens long emptied and their lips parched and dry. I
watched them often as they marched along with their blanket-rolls, their
haversacks, and their rifles, and I used to wonder that they did not
complain.

About that time the greatest luxury in the entire world seemed to me
to be a glass of fresh sweet milk, and I shall always remember Mr.
Packwood's ranch, because we had milk to drink with our supper, and some
delicious quail to eat.

Ranches in that part of Arizona meant only low adobe dwellings occupied
by prospectors or men who kept the relays of animals for stage routes.
Wretched, forbidding-looking places they were! Never a tree or a bush to
give shade, never a sign of comfort or home.

Our tents were pitched near Packwood's, out in the broiling sun. They
were like ovens; there was no shade, no coolness anywhere; we would have
gladly slept, after the day's march, but instead we sat broiling in the
ambulances, and waited for the long afternoon to wear away.

The next day dragged along in the same manner; the command marching
bravely along through dust and heat and thirst, as Kipling's soldier
sings:


"With its best foot first And the road a-sliding past, An' every
bloomin' campin'-ground Exactly like the last".


Beal's Springs did not differ from the other ranch, except that possibly
it was even more desolate. But a German lived there, who must have had
some knowledge of cooking, for I remember that we bought a peach pie
from him and ate it with a relish. I remember, too, that we gave him a
good silver dollar for it.

The only other incident of that day's march was the suicide of Major
Worth's pet dog "Pete." Having exhausted his ability to endure, this
beautiful red setter fixed his eye upon a distant range of mountains,
and ran without turning, or heeding any call, straight as the crow
flies, towards them and death. We never saw him again; a ranchman told
us he had known of several other instances where a well-bred dog had
given up in this manner, and attempted to run for the hills. We had a
large greyhound with us, but he did not desert.

Major Worth was much affected by the loss of his dog, and did not join
us at supper that night. We kept a nice fat quail for him, however, and
at about nine o'clock, when all was still and dark, Jack entered the
Major's tent and said: "Come now, Major, my wife has sent you this nice
quail; don't give up so about Pete, you know."

The Major lay upon his camp-bed, with his face turned to the wall of his
tent; he gave a deep sigh, rolled himself over and said: "Well, put it
on the table, and light the candle; I'll try to eat it. Thank your wife
for me."

So the Lieutenant made a light, and lo! and behold, the plate was there,
but the quail was gone! In the darkness, our great kangaroo hound had
stolen noiselessly upon his master's heels, and quietly removed the
bird. The two officers were dumbfounded. Major Worth said: "D--n my
luck;" and turned his face again to the wall of his tent.

Now Major Worth was just the dearest and gentlest sort of a man, but he
had been born and brought up in the old army, and everyone knows that
times and customs were different then.

Men drank more and swore a good deal, and while I do not wish my story
to seem profane, yet I would not describe army life or the officers as
I knew them, if I did not allow the latter to use an occasional strong
expression.

The incident, however, served to cheer up the Major, though he continued
to deplore the loss of his beautiful dog.

For the next two days our route lay over the dreariest and most desolate
country. It was not only dreary, it was positively hostile in its
attitude towards every living thing except snakes, centipedes and
spiders. They seemed to flourish in those surroundings.

Sometimes either Major Worth or Jack would come and drive along a few
miles in the ambulance with me to cheer me up, and they allowed me to
abuse the country to my heart's content. It seemed to do me much good.
The desert was new to me then. I had not read Pierre Loti's wonderful
book, "Le Desert," and I did not see much to admire in the desolate
waste lands through which we were travelling. I did not dream of the
power of the desert, nor that I should ever long to see it again. But
as I write, the longing possesses me, and the pictures then indelibly
printed upon my mind, long forgotten amidst the scenes and events of
half a lifetime, unfold themselves like a panorama before my vision and
call me to come back, to look upon them once more.




CHAPTER VIII. LEARNING HOW TO SOLDIER

"The grasses failed, and then a mass Of dry red cactus ruled the land:
The sun rose right above and fell, As falling molten from the skies, And
no winged thing was seen to pass." Joaquin Miller.


We made fourteen miles the next day, and went into camp at a place
called Freeze-wash, near some old silver mines. A bare and lonesome
spot, where there was only sand to be seen, and some black,
burnt-looking rocks. From under these rocks, crept great tarantulas, not
forgetting lizards, snakes, and not forgetting the scorpion, which ran
along with its tail turned up ready to sting anything that came in its
way. The place furnished good water, however, and that was now the most
important thing.

The next day's march was a long one. The guides said: "Twenty-eight
miles to Willow Grove Springs."

The command halted ten minutes every hour for rest, but the sun poured
down upon us, and I was glad to stay in the ambulance. It was at these
times that my thoughts turned back to the East and to the blue sea and
the green fields of God's country. I looked out at the men, who were
getting pretty well fagged, and at the young officers whose uniforms
were white with dust, and Frau Weste's words about glaenzendes Elend
came to my mind. I fell to thinking: was the army life, then, only
"glittering misery," and had I come to participate in it?

Some of the old soldiers had given out, and had to be put on the army
wagons. I was getting to look rather fagged and seedy, and was much
annoyed at my appearance. Not being acquainted with the vicissitudes of
the desert, I had not brought in my travelling-case a sufficient number
of thin washbodices. The few I had soon became black beyond recognition,
as the dust boiled (literally) up and into the ambulance and covered
me from head to foot. But there was no help for it, and no one was much
better off.

It was about that time that we began to see the outlines of a great
mountain away to the left and north of us. It seemed to grow nearer and
nearer, and fascinated our gaze.

Willow Grove Springs was reached at four o'clock and the small cluster
of willow trees was most refreshing to our tired eyes. The next day's
march was over a rolling country. We began to see grass, and to feel
that, at last, we were out of the desert. The wonderful mountain still
loomed up large and clear on our left. I thought of the old Spanish
explorers and wondered if they came so far as this, when they journeyed
through that part of our country three hundred years before. I wondered
what beautiful and high-sounding name they might have given it. I
wondered a good deal about that bare and isolated mountain, rising out
of what seemed an endless waste of sand. I asked the driver if he knew
the name of it: "That is Bill Williams' mountain, ma'am," he replied,
and relapsed into his customary silence, which was unbroken except by an
occasional remark to the wheelers or the leaders.

I thought of the Harz Mountains, which I had so recently tramped over,
and the romantic names and legends connected with them, and I sighed to
think such an imposing landmark as this should have such a prosaic name.
I realized that Arizona was not a land of romance; and when Jack came
to the ambulance, I said, "Don't you think it a pity that such monstrous
things are allowed in America, as to call that great fine mountain 'Bill
Williams' mountain'?"

"Why no," he said; "I suppose he discovered it, and I dare say he had a
hard enough time before he got to it."

We camped at Fort Rock, and Lieutenant Bailey shot an antelope. It was
the first game we had seen; our spirits revived a bit; the sight of
green grass and trees brought new life to us.

Anvil Rock and old Camp Hualapais were our next two stopping places.
We drove through groves of oaks, cedars and pines, and the days began
hopefully and ended pleasantly. To be sure, the roads were very rough
and our bones ached after a long day's travelling. But our tents were
now pitched under tall pine trees and looked inviting. Soldiers have a
knack of making a tent attractive.

"Madame, the Lieutenant's compliments, and your tent is ready."

I then alighted and found my little home awaiting me. The tent-flaps
tied open, the mattresses laid, the blankets turned back, the camp-table
with candle-stick upon it, and a couple of camp-chairs at the door of
the tent. Surely it is good to be in the army I then thought; and after
a supper consisting of soldiers' hot biscuit, antelope steak broiled
over the coals, and a large cup of black coffee, I went to rest,
listening to the soughing of the pines.

My mattress was spread always upon the ground, with a buffalo robe under
it and a hair lariat around it, to keep off the snakes; as it is said
they do not like to cross them. I found the ground more comfortable than
the camp cots which were used by some of the officers, and most of the
women.

The only Indians we had seen up to that time were the peaceful tribes
of the Yumas, Cocopahs and Mojaves, who lived along the Colorado. We had
not yet entered the land of the dread Apache.

The nights were now cool enough, and I never knew sweeter rest than came
to me in the midst of those pine groves.

Our road was gradually turning southward, but for some days Bill
Williams was the predominating feature of the landscape; turn whichever
way we might, still this purple mountain was before us. It seemed to
pervade the entire country, and took on such wonderful pink colors at
sunset. Bill Williams held me in thrall, until the hills and valleys in
the vicinity of Fort Whipple shut him out from my sight. But he seemed
to have come into my life somehow, and in spite of his name, I loved him
for the companionship he had given me during those long, hot, weary and
interminable days.

About the middle of September, we arrived at American ranch, some ten
miles from Fort Whipple, which was the headquarters station. Colonel
Wilkins and his family left us, and drove on to their destination. Some
officers of the Fifth Cavalry rode out to greet us, and Lieutenant Earl
Thomas asked me to come into the post and rest a day or two at their
house, as we then had learned that K Company was to march on to Camp
Apache, in the far eastern part of the Territory.

We were now enabled to get some fresh clothing from our trunks, which
were in the depths of the prairie-schooners, and all the officers' wives
were glad to go into the post, where we were most kindly entertained.
Fort Whipple was a very gay and hospitable post, near the town of
Prescott, which was the capital city of Arizona. The country being
mountainous and fertile, the place was very attractive, and I felt sorry
that we were not to remain there. But I soon learned that in the army,
regrets were vain. I soon ceased to ask myself whether I was sorry or
glad at any change in our stations.

On the next day the troops marched in, and camped outside the post. The
married officers were able to join their wives, and the three days we
spent there were delightful. There was a dance given, several informal
dinners, drives into the town of Prescott, and festivities of various
kinds. General Crook commanded the Department of Arizona then; he was
out on some expedition, but Mrs. Crook gave a pleasant dinner for us.
After dinner, Mrs. Crook came and sat beside me, asked kindly about our
long journey, and added: "I am truly sorry the General is away; I should
like for him to meet you; you are just the sort of woman he likes." A
few years afterwards I met the General, and remembering this remark,
I was conscious of making a special effort to please. The indifferent
courtesy with which he treated me, however, led me to think that women
are often mistaken judges of their husband's tastes.

The officers' quarters at Fort Whipple were quite commodious, and after
seven weeks' continuous travelling, the comforts which surrounded me at
Mrs. Thomas' home seemed like the veriest luxuries. I was much affected
by the kindness shown me by people I had never met before, and I
kept wondering if I should ever have an opportunity to return their
courtesies. "Don't worry about that, Martha," said Jack, "your turn will
come."

He proved a true prophet, for sooner or later, I saw them all again,
and was able to extend to them the hospitality of an army home.
Nevertheless, my heart grows warm whenever I think of the people who
first welcomed me to Arizona, me a stranger in the army, and in the
great southwest as well.

At Fort Whipple we met also some people we had known at Fort Russell,
who had gone down with the first detachment, among them Major and Mrs.
Wilhelm, who were to remain at headquarters. We bade good-bye to the
Colonel and his family, to the officers of F, who were to stay behind,
and to our kind friends of the Fifth Cavalry.

We now made a fresh start, with Captain Ogilby in command. Two days took
us into Camp Verde, which lies on a mesa above the river from which it
takes its name.

Captain Brayton, of the Eight Infantry, and his wife, who were already
settled at Camp Verde, received us and took the best care of us. Mrs.
Brayton gave me a few more lessons in army house-keeping, and I could
not have had a better teacher. I told her about Jack and the tinware;
her bright eyes snapped, and she said: "Men think they know everything,
but the truth is, they don't know anything; you go right ahead and have
all the tinware and other things; all you can get, in fact; and when the
time comes to move, send Jack out of the house, get a soldier to come in
and pack you up, and say nothing about it."

"But the weight--"

"Fiddlesticks! They all say that; now you just not mind their talk, but
take all you need, and it will get carried along, somehow."

Still another company left our ranks, and remained at Camp Verde. The
command was now getting deplorably small, I thought, to enter an Indian
country, for we were now to start for Camp Apache. Several routes were
discussed, but, it being quite early in the autumn, and the Apache
Indians being just then comparatively quiet, they decided to march the
troops over Crook's Trail, which crossed the Mogollon range and was
considered to be shorter than any other. It was all the same to me. I
had never seen a map of Arizona, and never heard of Crook's Trail.
Maps never interested me, and I had not read much about life in the
Territories. At that time, the history of our savage races was a blank
page to me. I had been listening to the stories of an old civilization,
and my mind did not adjust itself readily to the new surroundings.




CHAPTER IX. ACROSS THE MOGOLLONS

It was a fine afternoon in the latter part of September, when our small
detachment, with Captain Ogilby in command, marched out of Camp Verde.
There were two companies of soldiers, numbering about a hundred men
in all, five or six officers, Mrs. Bailey and myself, and a couple
of laundresses. I cannot say that we were gay. Mrs. Bailey had said
good-bye to her father and mother and sister at Fort Whipple, and
although she was an army girl, she did not seem to bear the parting very
philosophically. Her young child, nine months old, was with her, and
her husband, as stalwart and handsome an officer as ever wore
shoulder-straps. But we were facing unknown dangers, in a far country,
away from mother, father, sister and brother--a country infested with
roving bands of the most cruel tribe ever known, who tortured before
they killed. We could not even pretend to be gay.

The travelling was very difficult and rough, and both men and animals
were worn out by night. But we were now in the mountains, the air was
cool and pleasant, and the nights so cold that we were glad to have a
small stove in our tents to dress by in the mornings. The scenery was
wild and grand; in fact, beyond all that I had ever dreamed of; more
than that, it seemed so untrod, so fresh, somehow, and I do not suppose
that even now, in the day of railroads and tourists, many people have
had the view of the Tonto Basin which we had one day from the top of the
Mogollon range.

I remember thinking, as we alighted from our ambulances and stood
looking over into the Basin, "Surely I have never seen anything to
compare with this--but oh! would any sane human being voluntarily go
through with what I have endured on this journey, in order to look upon
this wonderful scene?"

The roads had now become so difficult that our wagon-train could not
move as fast as the lighter vehicles or the troops. Sometimes at a
critical place in the road, where the ascent was not only dangerous, but
doubtful, or there was, perhaps, a sharp turn, the ambulances waited to
see the wagons safely over the pass. Each wagon had its six mules; each
ambulance had also its quota of six.

At the foot of one of these steep places, the wagons would halt, the
teamsters would inspect the road, and calculate the possibilities of
reaching the top; then, furiously cracking their whips, and pouring
forth volley upon volley of oaths, they would start the team. Each mule
got its share of dreadful curses. I had never heard or conceived of
any oaths like those. They made my blood fairly curdle, and I am not
speaking figuratively. The shivers ran up and down my back, and I half
expected to see those teamsters struck down by the hand of the Almighty.

For although the anathemas hurled at my innocent head, during
the impressionable years of girlhood, by the pale and determined
Congregational ministers with gold-bowed spectacles, who held forth
in the meeting-house of my maternal ancestry (all honor to their
sincerity), had taken little hold upon my mind, still, the vital drop
of the Puritan was in my blood, and the fear of a personal God and His
wrath still existed, away back in the hidden recesses of my heart.

This swearing and lashing went on until the heavily-loaded
prairie-schooner, swaying, swinging, and swerving to the edge of the
cut, and back again to the perpendicular wall of the mountain, would
finally reach the top, and pass on around the bend; then another would
do the same. Each teamster had his own particular variety of oaths, each
mule had a feminine name, and this brought the swearing down to a sort
of personal basis. I remonstrated with Jack, but he said: teamsters
always swore; "the mules wouldn't even stir to go up a hill, if they
weren't sworn at like that."

By the time we had crossed the great Mogollon mesa, I had become
accustomed to those dreadful oaths, and learned to admire the skill,
persistency and endurance shown by those rough teamsters. I actually
got so far as to believe what Jack had told me about the swearing being
necessary, for I saw impossible feats performed by the combination.

When near camp, and over the difficult places, we drove on ahead and
waited for the wagons to come in. It was sometimes late evening before
tents could be pitched and supper cooked. And oh! to see the poor jaded
animals when the wagons reached camp! I could forget my own discomfort
and even hunger, when I looked at their sad faces.

One night the teamsters reported that a six-mule team had rolled down
the steep side of a mountain. I did not ask what became of the poor
faithful mules; I do not know, to this day. In my pity and real distress
over the fate of these patient brutes, I forgot to inquire what boxes
were on the unfortunate wagon.

We began to have some shooting. Lieutenant Bailey shot a young deer,
and some wild turkeys, and we could not complain any more of the lack of
fresh food.

It did not surprise us to learn that ours was the first wagon-train
to pass over Crook's Trail. For miles and miles the so-called road was
nothing but a clearing, and we were pitched and jerked from side to side
of the ambulance, as we struck large rocks or tree-stumps; in some steep
places, logs were chained to the rear of the ambulance, to keep it from
pitching forward onto the backs of the mules. At such places I got out
and picked my way down the rocky declivity.

We now began to hear of the Apache Indians, who were always out, in
either large or small bands, doing their murderous work.

One day a party of horseman tore past us at a gallop. Some of them
raised their hats to us as they rushed past, and our officers recognized
General Crook, but we could not, in the cloud of dust, distinguish
officers from scouts. All wore the flannel shirt, handkerchief tied
about the neck, and broad campaign hat.

After supper that evening, the conversation turned upon Indians in
general, and Apaches in particular. We camped always at a basin, or a
tank, or a hole, or a spring, or in some canon, by a creek. Always from
water to water we marched. Our camp that night was in the midst of a
primeval grove of tall pine trees; verily, an untrodden land. We had a
big camp-fire, and sat around it until very late. There were only five
or six officers, and Mrs. Bailey and myself.

The darkness and blackness of the place were uncanny. We all sat looking
into the fire. Somebody said, "Injuns would not have such a big fire as
that."

"No; you bet they wouldn't," was the quick reply of one of the officers.

Then followed a long pause; we all sat thinking, and gazing into the
fire, which crackled and leaped into fitful blazes.

"Our figures must make a mighty good outline against that fire,"
remarked one of officers, nonchalantly; "I dare say those stealthy sons
of Satan know exactly where we are at this minute," he added.

"Yes, you bet your life they do!" answered one of the younger men,
lapsing into the frontiersman's language, from the force of his
convictions.

"Look behind you at those trees, Jack," said Major Worth. "Can you see
anything? No! And if there were an Apache behind each one of them, we
should never know it."

We all turned and peered into the black darkness which surrounded us.

Another pause followed; the silence was weird--only the cracking of the
fire was heard, and the mournful soughing of the wind in the pines.

Suddenly, a crash! We started to our feet and faced around.

"A dead branch," said some one.

Major Worth shrugged his shoulders, and turning to Jack, said, in a low
tone, "D---- d if I don't believe I'm getting nervous," and saying "good
night," he walked towards his tent.

No element of doubt pervaded my mind as to my own state. The weird
feeling of being up in those remote mountain passes, with but a handful
of soldiers against the wary Apaches, the mysterious look of those black
tree-trunks, upon which flickered the uncertain light of the camp-fire
now dying, and from behind each one of which I imagined a red devil
might be at that moment taking aim with his deadly arrow, all inspired
me with fear such as I had never before known.

In the cyclone which had overtaken our good ship in mid-Atlantic, where
we lay tossing about at the mercy of the waves for thirty-six long
hours, I had expected to yield my body to the dark and grewsome depths
of the ocean. I had almost felt the cold arms of Death about me; but
compared to the sickening dread of the cruel Apache, my fears then had
been as naught. Facing the inevitable at sea, I had closed my eyes and
said good-bye to Life. But in this mysterious darkness, every nerve,
every sense, was keenly alive with terror.

Several of that small party around the camp-fire have gone from amongst
us, but I venture to say that, of the few who are left, not one will deny
that he shared in the vague apprehension which seized upon us.

Midnight found us still lingering around the dead ashes of the fire.
After going to our tent, Jack saw that I was frightened. He said: "Don't
worry, Martha, an Apache never was known to attack in the night," and
after hearing many repetitions of this assertion, upon which I made him
take his oath, I threw myself upon the bed. After our candle was out, I
said: "When do they attack?" Jack who, with the soldiers' indifference
to danger, was already half asleep, replied: "Just before daylight,
usually, but do not worry, I say; there aren't any Injuns in this
neighborhood. Why! Didn't you meet General Crook to-day? You ought to
have some sense. If there'd been an Injun around here he would have
cleaned him out. Now go to sleep and don't be foolish." But I was taking
my first lessons in campaigning, and sleep was not so easy.

Just before dawn, as I had fallen into a light slumber, the flaps of the
tent burst open, and began shaking violently to and fro. I sprang to my
feet, prepared for the worst. Jack started up: "What is it?" he cried.

"It must have been the wind, I think, but it frightened me," I murmured.
The Lieutenant fastened the tent-flaps together, and lay down to sleep
again; but my heart beat fast, and I listened for every sound.

The day gradually dawned, and with it my fears of the night were
allayed. But ever after that, Jack's fatal answer, "Just before
daylight," kept my eyes wide open for hours before the dawn.





CHAPTER X. A PERILOUS ADVENTURE

One fine afternoon, after a march of twenty-two miles over a rocky road,
and finding our provisions low, Mr. Bailey and Jack went out to shoot
wild turkeys. As they shouldered their guns and walked away. Captain
Ogilby called out to them, "Do not go too far from camp."

Jack returned at sundown with a pair of fine turkeys! but Bailey failed
to come in. However, as they all knew him to be an experienced woodsman,
no one showed much anxiety until darkness had settled over the camp.
Then they began to signal, by discharging their rifles; the officers
went out in various directions, giving "halloos," and firing at
intervals, but there came no sound of the missing man.

The camp was now thoroughly alarmed. This was too dangerous a place
for a man to be wandering around in all night, and search-parties
of soldiers were formed. Trees were burned, and the din of rifles,
constantly discharged, added to the excitement. One party after another
came in. They had scoured the country--and not a trace of Bailey.

The young wife sat in her tent, soothing her little child; everybody
except her, gave up hope; the time dragged on; our hearts grew heavy;
the sky was alight with blazing trees.

I went into Mrs. Bailey's tent. She was calm and altogether lovely, and
said: "Charley can't get lost, and unless something has happened to him,
he will come in."

Ella Bailey was a brave young army woman; she was an inspiration to the
entire camp.

Finally, after hours of the keenest anxiety, a noise of gladsome shouts
rang through the trees, and in came a party of men with the young
officer on their shoulders. His friend Craig had been untiring in the
search, and at last had heard a faint "halloo" in the distance, and one
shot (the only cartridge poor Bailey had left).

After going over almost impassable places, they finally found him, lying
at the bottom of a ravine. In the black darkness of the evening, he had
walked directly over the edge of the chasm and fallen to the bottom,
dislocating his ankle.

He was some miles from camp, and had used up all his ammunition except
the one cartridge. He had tried in vain to walk or even crawl out of
the ravine, but had finally been overcome by exhaustion and lay there
helpless, in the wild vastnesses of the mountains.

A desperate situation, indeed! Some time afterwards, he told me how he
felt, when he realized how poor his chances were, when he saw he had
only one cartridge left and found that he had scarce strength to answer
a "halloo," should he hear one. But soldiers never like to talk much
about such things.




CHAPTER XI. CAMP APACHE

By the fourth of October we had crossed the range, and began to see
something which looked like roads. Our animals were fagged to a state
of exhaustion, but the travelling was now much easier and there was good
grazing, and after three more long day's marches, we arrived at Camp
Apache. We were now at our journey's end, after two months' continuous
travelling, and I felt reasonably sure of shelter and a fireside for the
winter at least. I knew that my husband's promotion was expected, but
the immediate present was filled with an interest so absorbing, that a
consideration of the future was out of the question.

At that time (it was the year of 1874) the officers' quarters at Camp
Apache were log cabins, built near the edge of the deep canon through
which the White Mountain River flows, before its junction with Black
River.

We were welcomed by the officers of the Fifth Cavalry, who were
stationed there. It was altogether picturesque and attractive. In
addition to the row of log cabins, there were enormous stables and
Government buildings, and a cutler's store. We were entertained for
a day or two, and then quarters were assigned to us. The second
lieutenants had rather a poor choice, as the quarters were scarce. We
were assigned a half of a log cabin, which gave us one room, a small
square hall, and a bare shed, the latter detached from the house, to be
used for a kitchen. The room on the other side of the hall was occupied
by the Post Surgeon, who was temporarily absent.

Our things were unloaded and brought to this cabin. I missed the barrel
of china, and learned that it had been on the unfortunate wagon which
rolled down the mountain-side. I had not attained that state of mind
which came to me later in my army life. I cared then a good deal about
my belongings, and the annoyance caused by the loss of our china was
quite considerable. I knew there was none to be obtained at Camp Apache,
as most of the merchandise came in by pack-train to that isolated place.

Mrs. Dodge, of the Twenty-third Infantry, who was about to leave the
post, heard of my predicament, and offered me some china plates and
cups, which she thought not worth the trouble of packing (so she said),
and I was glad to accept them, and thanked her, almost with tears in my
eyes.

Bowen nailed down our one carpet over the poor board floor (after having
first sprinkled down a thick layer of clean straw, which he brought from
the quartermaster stables). Two iron cots from the hospital were brought
over, and two bed-sacks filled with fresh, sweet straw, were laid upon
them; over these were laid our mattresses. Woven-wire springs were then
unheard of in that country.

We untied our folding chairs, built a fire on the hearth, captured an
old broken-legged wash-stand and a round table from somewhere, and that
was our living-room. A pine table was found for the small hall, which
was to be our dinning-room, and some chairs with raw-hide seats were
brought from the barracks, some shelves knocked up against one wall, to
serve as sideboard. Now for the kitchen!

A cooking-stove and various things were sent over from the Q. M.
store-house, and Bowen (the wonder of it!) drove in nails, and hung up
my Fort Russell tin-ware, and put up shelves and stood my pans in rows,
and polished the stove, and went out and stole a table somewhere (Bowen
was invaluable in that way), polished the zinc under the stove, and lo!
and behold, my army kitchen! Bowen was indeed a treasure; he said he
would like to cook for us, for ten dollars a month. We readily accepted
this offer. There were no persons to be obtained, in these distant
places, who could do the cooking in the families of officers, so it
was customary to employ a soldier; and the soldier often displayed
remarkable ability in the way of cooking, in some cases, in fact, more
than in the way of soldiering. They liked the little addition to their
pay, if they were of frugal mind; they had also their own quiet room
to sleep in, and I often thought the family life, offering as it did a
contrast to the bareness and desolation of the noisy barracks, appealed
to the domestic instinct, so strong in some men's natures. At all
events, it was always easy in those days to get a man from the company,
and they sometimes remained for years with an officer's family; in some
cases attending drills and roll-calls besides.

Now came the unpacking of the chests and trunks. In our one diminutive
room, and small hall, was no closet, there were no hooks on the bare
walls, no place to hang things or lay things, and what to do I did not
know. I was in despair; Jack came in, to find me sitting on the edge of
a chest, which was half unpacked, the contents on the floor. I was very
mournful, and he did not see why.

"Oh! Jack! I've nowhere to put things!"

"What things?" said this impossible man.

"Why, all our things," said I, losing my temper; "can't you see them?''

"Put them back in the chests,--and get them out as you need them,"
said this son of Mars, and buckled on his sword. "Do the best you can,
Martha, I have to go to the barracks; be back again soon." I looked
around me, and tried to solve the problem. There was no bureau, nothing;
not a nook or corner where a thing might be stowed. I gazed at the
motley collection of bed-linen, dust-pans, silver bottles, boot
jacks, saddles, old uniforms, full dress military hats, sword-belts,
riding-boots, cut glass, window-shades, lamps, work-baskets, and books,
and I gave it up in despair. You see, I was not an army girl, and I did
not know how to manage.

There was nothing to be done, however, but to follow Jack's advice, so
I threw the boots, saddles and equipments under the bed, and laid the
other things back in the chests, closed the lids and went out to take a
look at the post. Towards evening, a soldier came for orders for beef,
and I learned how to manage that. I was told that we bought our meats
direct from the contractor; I had to state how much and what cuts I
wished. Another soldier came to bring us milk, and I asked Jack who was
the milkman, and he said, blessed if he knew; I learned, afterwards,
that the soldiers roped some of the wild Texas cows that were kept in
one of the Government corrals, and tied them securely to keep them
from kicking; then milked them, and the milk was divided up among the
officers' families, according to rank. We received about a pint every
night. I declared it was not enough; but I soon discovered that however
much education, position and money might count in civil life, rank
seemed to be the one and only thing in the army, and Jack had not much
of that just then.

The question of getting settled comfortably still worried me, and
after a day of two, I went over to see what Mrs. Bailey had done. To my
surprise, I found her out playing tennis, her little boy asleep in the
baby-carriage, which they had brought all the way from San Francisco,
near the court. I joined the group, and afterwards asked her advice
about the matter. She laughed kindly, and said: "Oh! you'll get used to
it, and things will settle themselves. Of course it is troublesome,
but you can have shelves and such things--you'll soon learn," and still
smiling, she gave her ball a neat left-hander.

I concluded that my New England bringing up had been too serious, and
wondered if I had made a dreadful mistake in marrying into the army, or
at least in following my husband to Arizona. I debated the question with
myself from all sides, and decided then and there that young army wives
should stay at home with their mothers and fathers, and not go into such
wild and uncouth places. I thought my decision irrevocable.

Before the two small deep windows in our room we hung some Turkey red
cotton, Jack built in his spare moments a couch for me, and gradually
our small quarters assumed an appearance of comfort. I turned my
attention a little to social matters. We dined at Captain Montgomery's
(the commanding officer's) house; his wife was a famous Washington
beauty. He had more rank, consequently more rooms, than we had, and
their quarters were very comfortable and attractive.

There was much that was new and interesting at the post. The Indians who
lived on this reservation were the White Mountain Apaches, a fierce and
cruel tribe, whose depredations and atrocities had been carried on for
years, in and around, and, indeed, far away from their mountain homes.
But this tribe was now under surveillance of the Government, and guarded
by a strong garrison of cavalry and infantry at Camp Apache. They were
divided into bands, under Chiefs Pedro, Diablo, Patone and Cibiano;
they came into the post twice a week to be counted, and to receive their
rations of beef, sugar, beans, and other staples, which Uncle Sam's
commissary officer issued to them.

In the absence of other amusement, the officers' wives walked over to
witness this rather solemn ceremony. At least, the serious expression on
the faces of the Indians, as they received their rations, gave an air of
solemnity to the proceeding.

Large stakes were driven into the ground; at each stake, sat or stood
the leader of a band; a sort of father to his people; then the rest
of them stretched out in several long lines, young bucks and old ones,
squaws and pappooses, the families together, about seventeen hundred
souls in all. I used to walk up and down between the lines, with the
other women, and the squaws looked at our clothes and chuckled, and
made some of their inarticulate remarks to each other. The bucks looked
admiringly at the white women, especially at the cavalry beauty, Mrs.
Montgomery, although I thought that Chief Diablo cast a special eye at
our young Mrs. Bailey, of the infantry.

Diablo was a handsome fellow. I was especially impressed by his
extraordinary good looks.

This tribe was quiet at that time, only a few renegades escaping into
the hills on their wild adventures: but I never felt any confidence in
them and was, on the whole, rather afraid of them. The squaws were shy,
and seldom came near the officers' quarters. Some of the younger girls
were extremely pretty; they had delicate hands, and small feet encased
in well-shaped moccasins. They wore short skirts made of stripped bark,
which hung gracefully about their bare knees and supple limbs, and
usually a sort of low-necked camisa, made neatly of coarse, unbleached
muslin, with a band around the neck and arms, and, in cold weather a
pretty blanket was wrapped around their shoulders and fastened at the
breast in front. In summer the blanket was replaced by a square of
bright calico. Their coarse, black hair hung in long braids in front
over each shoulder, and nearly all of them wore an even bang or fringe
over the forehead. Of course hats were unheard of. The Apaches, both men
and women, had not then departed from the customs of their ancestors,
and still retained the extraordinary beauty and picturesqueness of their
aboriginal dress. They wore sometimes a fine buckskin upper garment, and
if of high standing in the tribe, necklaces of elks teeth.

The young lieutenants sometimes tried to make up to the prettiest
ones, and offered them trinkets, pretty boxes of soap, beads, and small
mirrors (so dear to the heart of the Indian girl), but the young maids
were coy enough; it seemed to me they cared more for men of their own
race.

Once or twice, I saw older squaws with horribly disfigured faces. I
supposed it was the result of some ravaging disease, but I learned that
it was the custom of this tribe, to cut off the noses of those women who
were unfaithful to their lords. Poor creatures, they had my pity, for
they were only children of Nature, after all, living close to the earth,
close to the pulse of their mother. But this sort of punishment seemed
to be the expression of the cruel and revengeful nature of the Apache.




CHAPTER XII. LIFE AMONGST THE APACHES

Bowen proved to be a fairly good cook, and I ventured to ask people to
dinner in our little hall dining-room, a veritable box of a place. One
day, feeling particularly ambitious to have my dinner a success, I
made a bold attempt at oyster patties. With the confidence of youth and
inexperience, I made the pastry, and it was a success; I took a can of
Baltimore oysters, and did them up in a fashion that astonished myself,
and when, after the soup, each guest was served with a hot oyster patty,
one of the cavalry officers fairly gasped. "Oyster patty, if I'm alive!
Where on earth--Bless my stars! And this at Camp Apache!"

"And by Holy Jerusalem! they are good, too," claimed Captain Reilly, and
turning to Bowen, he said: "Bowen, did you make these?"

Bowen straightened himself up to his six foot two, clapped his heels
together, and came to "attention," looked straight to the front, and
replied: "Yes, sir."

I thought I heard Captain Reilly say in an undertone to his neighbor,
"The hell he did," but I was not sure.

At that season, we got excellent wild turkeys there, and good Southdown
mutton, and one could not complain of such living.

But I could never get accustomed to the wretched small space of one room
and a hall; for the kitchen, being detached, could scarcely be counted
in. I had been born and brought up in a spacious house, with plenty
of bedrooms, closets, and an immense old-time garret. The forlorn
makeshifts for closets, and the absence of all conveniences, annoyed
me and added much to the difficulties of my situation. Added to this, I
soon discovered that my husband had a penchant for buying and collecting
things which seemed utterly worthless to me, and only added to the
number of articles to be handled and packed away. I begged him to
refrain, and to remember that he was married, and that we had not the
money to spend in such ways. He really did try to improve, and denied
himself the taking of many an alluring share in raffles for old saddles,
pistols, guns, and cow-boy's stuff, which were always being held at the
sutler's store.

But an auction of condemned hospital stores was too much for him, and
he came in triumphantly one day, bringing a box of antiquated dentist's
instruments in his hand.

"Good gracious!" I cried, "what can you ever do with those forceps?"

"Oh! they are splendid," he said, "and they will come in mighty handy
some time."

I saw that he loved tools and instruments, and I reflected, why not?
There are lots of things I have a passion for, and love, just as he
loves those things and I shall never say any more about it. "Only," I
added, aloud, "do not expect me to pack up such trash when we come to
move; you will have to look out for it yourself."

So with that spiteful remark from me, the episode of the forceps was
ended, for the time at least.

As the winter came on, the isolation of the place had a rather
depressing effect upon us all. The officers were engaged in their
various duties: drill, courts-martial, instruction, and other military
occupations. They found some diversion at "the store," where the
ranchmen assembled and told frontier stories and played exciting games
of poker. Jack's duties as commissary officer kept him much away from
me, and I was very lonely.

The mail was brought in twice a week by a soldier on horseback. When he
failed to come in at the usual time, much anxiety was manifested, and I
learned that only a short time before, one of the mail-carriers had
been killed by Indians and the mail destroyed. I did not wonder that on
mail-day everybody came out in front of the quarters and asked: "Is the
mail-carrier in?" And nothing much was done or thought of on that day,
until we saw him come jogging in, the mail-bag tied behind his saddle.
Our letters were from two to three weeks old. The eastern mail came
via Santa Fe to the terminus of the railroad, and then by stage; for
in 1874, the railroads did not extend very far into the Southwest. At
a certain point on the old New Mexico road, our man met the San Carlos
carrier, and received the mail for Apache.

"I do not understand," I said, "how any soldier can be found to take
such a dangerous detail."

"Why so?" said Jack. "They like it."

"I should think that when they got into those canons and narrow defiles,
they would think of the horrible fate of their predecessor," said I.

"Perhaps they do," he answered; "but a soldier is always glad to get a
detail that gives him a change from the routine of post life."

I was getting to learn about the indomitable pluck of our soldiers. They
did not seem to be afraid of anything. At Camp Apache my opinion of the
American soldier was formed, and it has never changed. In the long
march across the Territory, they had cared for my wants and performed
uncomplainingly for me services usually rendered by women. Those were
before the days of lineal promotion. Officers remained with their
regiments for many years. A feeling of regimental prestige held officers
and men together. I began to share that feeling. I knew the names of the
men in the company, and not one but was ready to do a service for the
"Lieutenant's wife." "K" had long been a bachelor company; and now a
young woman had joined it. I was a person to be pampered and cared for,
and they knew besides that I was not long in the army.

During that winter I received many a wild turkey and other nice things
for the table, from the men of the company. I learned to know and to
thoroughly respect the enlisted man of the American army.

And now into the varied kaleidoscope of my army life stepped the Indian
Agent. And of all unkempt, unshorn, disagreeable-looking personages who
had ever stepped foot into our quarters, this was the worst.

"Heaven save us from a Government which appoints such men as that to
watch over and deal with Indians," cried I, as he left the house. "Is it
possible that his position here demands social recognition?" I added.

"Hush!" said the second lieutenant of K company. "It's the Interior
Department that appoints the Indian Agents, and besides," he added,
"it's not good taste on your part, Martha, to abuse the Government which
gives us our bread and butter."

"Well, you can say what you like, and preach policy all you wish, no
Government on earth can compel me to associate with such men as those!"
With that assertion, I left the room, to prevent farther argument.

And I will here add that in my experience on the frontier, which
extended over a long period, it was never my good fortune to meet with
an Indian Agent who impressed me as being the right sort of a man to
deal with those children of nature, for Indians are like children, and
their intuitions are keen. They know and appreciate honesty and fair
dealing, and they know a gentleman when they meet one.

The winter came on apace, but the weather was mild and pleasant. One
day some officers came in and said we must go over to the "Ravine" that
evening, where the Indians were going to have a rare sort of a dance.

There was no one to say to me: "Do not go," and, as we welcomed any
little excitement which would relieve the monotony of our lives, we cast
aside all doubts of the advisability of my going. So, after dinner, we
joined the others, and sallied forth into the darkness of an Arizona
night. We crossed the large parade-ground, and picked our way over a
rough and pathless country, lighted only by the stars above.

Arriving at the edge of the ravine, what a scene was before us! We
looked down into a natural amphitheatre, in which blazed great fires;
hordes of wild Apaches darted about, while others sat on logs beating
their tomtoms.

I was afraid, and held back, but the rest of the party descended into
the ravine, and, leaning on a good strong arm, I followed. We all sat
down on the great trunk of a fallen tree, and soon the dancers came into
the arena.

They were entirely naked, except for the loin-cloth; their bodies were
painted, and from their elbows and knees stood out bunches of feathers,
giving them the appearance of huge flying creatures; jingling things
were attached to their necks and arms. Upon their heads were large
frames, made to resemble the branching horns of an elk, and as they
danced, and bowed their heads, the horns lent them the appearance of
some unknown animal, and added greatly to their height. Their feathers
waved, their jingles shook, and their painted bodies twisted and turned
in the light of the great fire, which roared and leaped on high. At
one moment they were birds, at another animals, at the next they were
demons.

The noise of the tomtoms and the harsh shouts of the Indians grew wilder
and wilder. It was weird and terrifying. Then came a pause; the arena
was cleared, and with much solemnity two wicked-looking creatures came
out and performed a sort of shadow dance, brandishing knives as they
glided through the intricate figures.

It was a fascinating but unearthly scene, and the setting completed the
illusion. Fright deprived me of the power of thought, but in a sort of
subconscious way I felt that Orpheus must have witnessed just such
mad revels when he went down into Pluto's regions. Suddenly the shouts
became war whoops, the demons brandished their knives madly, and nodded
their branching horns; the tomtoms were beaten with a dreadful din, and
terror seized my heart. What if they be treacherous, and had lured our
small party down into this ravine for an ambush! The thing could well
be, I thought. I saw uneasiness in the faces of the other women, and
by mutual consent we got up and slowly took our departure. I barely had
strength to climb up the steep side of the hollow. I was thankful to
escape from its horrors.

Scarce three months after that some of the same band of Indians fired
into the garrison and fled to the mountains. I remarked to Jack, that I
thought we were very imprudent to go to see that dance, and he said he
supposed we were. But I had never regarded life in such a light way as
he seemed to.

Women usually like to talk over their trials and their wonderful
adventures, and that is why I am writing this, I suppose. Men simply
will not talk about such things.

The cavalry beauty seemed to look at this frontier life
philosophically--what she really thought about it, I never knew. Mrs.
Bailey was so much occupied by the care of her young child and various
out-door amusements, that she did not, apparently, think much about
things that happened around us. At all events, she never seemed inclined
to talk about them. There was no one else to talk to; the soil was
strange, and the atmosphere a foreign one to me; life did not seem to
be taken seriously out there, as it was back in New England, where they
always loved to sit down and talk things over. I was downright lonesome
for my mother and sisters.

I could not go out very much at that time, so I occupied myself a good
deal with needle-work.

One evening we heard firing across the canon. Jack caught up his sword,
buckling on his belt as he went out. "Injuns fighting on the other side
of the river," some soldier reported. Finding that it did not concern
us, Jack said, "Come out into the back yard, Martha, and look over the
stockade, and I think you can see across the river." So I hurried out to
the stockade, but Jack, seeing that I was not tall enough, picked up
an empty box that stood under the window of the room belonging to the
Doctor, when, thud! fell something out onto the ground, and rolled away.
I started involuntarily. It was dark in the yard. I stood stock still.
"What was that?" I whispered.

"Nothing but an old Edam cheese," said this true-hearted soldier of
mine. I knew it was not a cheese, but said no more. I stood up on the
box, watched the firing like a man, and went quietly back into the
quarters. After retiring, I said, "You might just a swell tell me now,
you will have to sooner or later, what was in the box--it had a dreadful
sound, as it rolled away on the ground."

"Well," said he, "if you must know, it was an Injun's head that the
Doctor had saved, to take to Washington with him. It had a sort of a
malformed skull or jaw-bone or something. But he left it behind--I guess
it got a leetle to old for him to carry," he laughed. "Somebody told me
there was a head in the yard, but I forgot all about it. Lucky thing you
didn't see it, wasn't it? I suppose you'd been scared--well, I must tell
the fatigue party to-morrow to take it away. Now don't let me forget
it," and this soldier of many battles fell into the peaceful slumber
which comes to those who know not fear.

The next day I overheard him telling Major Worth what had happened,
and adding that he would roast that Doctor if he ever came back. I
was seeing the rugged side of life, indeed, and getting accustomed to
shocks.

Now the cavalry beauty gave a dinner. It was lovely; but in the midst of
it, we perceived a sort of confusion of moccasined footsteps outside
the dining-room. My nerves were, by this time, always on the alert.
I glanced through the large door opening out into the hall, and saw
a group of Indian scouts; they laid a coffee-sack down by the corner
fire-place, near the front door. The commanding officer left the table
hastily; the portiere was drawn.

I had heard tales of atrocious cruelties committed by a band of Indians
who had escaped from the reservation and were ravaging the country
around. I had heard how they maimed poor sheep and cut off the legs of
cattle at the first joint, leaving them to die; how they tortured women,
and burned their husbands and children before their eyes; I had heard
also that the Indian scouts were out after them, with orders to bring
them in, dead or alive.

The next day I learned that the ringleader's head was in the bag that I
had seen, and that the others had surrendered and returned. The scouts
were Apaches in the pay of the Government, and I always heard that, as
long as they were serving as scouts, they showed themselves loyal and
would hunt down their nearest relative.

Major Worth got tired of the monotony of a bachelor's life at Camp
Apache and decided to give a dance in his quarters, and invite the
chiefs. I think the other officers did not wholly approve of it,
although they felt friendly enough towards them, as long as they were
not causing disturbances. But to meet the savage Apache on a basis of
social equality, in an officer's quarters, and to dance in a quadrille
with him! Well, the limit of all things had been reached!

However, Major Worth, who was actually suffering from the ennui of
frontier life in winter, and in time of peace, determined to carry out
his project, so he had his quarters, which were quite spacious, cleared
and decorated with evergreen boughs. From his company, he secured some
men who could play the banjo and guitar, and all the officers and their
wives, and the chiefs with their harems, came to this novel fete. A
quadrille was formed, in which the chiefs danced opposite the officers.
The squaws sat around, as they were too shy to dance. These chiefs were
painted, and wore only their necklaces and the customary loin-cloth,
throwing their blankets about their shoulders when they had finished
dancing. I noticed again Chief Diablo's great good looks.

Conversation was carried on principally by signs and nods, and through
the interpreter (a white man named Cooley). Besides, the officers had
picked up many short phrases of the harsh and gutteral Apache tongue.

Diablo was charmed with the young, handsome wife of one of the officers,
and asked her husband how many ponies he would take for her, and Pedro
asked Major Worth, if all those white squaws belonged to him.

The party passed off pleasantly enough, and was not especially
subversive to discipline, although I believe it was not repeated.

Afterwards, long afterwards, when we were stationed at David's Island,
New York Harbor, and Major Worth was no longer a bachelor, but a
dignified married man and had gained his star in the Spanish War,
we used to meet occasionally down by the barge office or taking a
Fenster-promenade on Broadway, and we would always stand awhile and chat
over the old days at Camp Apache in '74. Never mind how pressing our
mutual engagements were, we could never forego the pleasure of talking
over those wild days and contrasting them with our then present
surroundings. "Shall you ever forget my party?" he said, the last time
we met.




CHAPTER XIII. A NEW RECRUIT

In January our little boy arrived, to share our fate and to gladden our
hearts. As he was the first child born to an officer's family in Camp
Apache, there was the greatest excitement. All the sheep-ranchers and
cattlemen for miles around came into the post. The beneficent canteen,
with its soldiers' and officers' clubrooms did not exist then. So they
all gathered at the sutler's store, to celebrate events with a round of
drinks. They wanted to shake hands with and congratulate the new father,
after their fashion, upon the advent of the blond-haired baby. Their
great hearts went out to him, and they vied with each other in doing the
handsome thing by him, in a manner according to their lights, and their
ideas of wishing well to a man; a manner, sometimes, alas! disastrous in
its results to the man! However, by this time, I was getting used to all
sides of frontier life.

I had no time to be lonely now, for I had no nurse, and the only person
who was able to render me service was a laundress of the Fifth Cavalry,
who came for about two hours each day, to give the baby his bath and
to arrange things about the bed. I begged her to stay with me, but, of
course, I knew it was impossible.

So here I was, inexperienced and helpless, alone in bed, with an infant
a few days old. Dr. Loring, our excellent Post Surgeon, was both kind
and skillful, but he was in poor health and expecting each day to
be ordered to another station. My husband was obliged to be at the
Commissary Office all day, issuing rations to troops and scouts, and
attending to the duties of his position.

But, realizing in a measure the utter helplessness of my situation, he
sent a soldier up to lead a wire cord through the thick wall at the head
of my bed and out through the small yard into the kitchen. To this they
attached a big cow-bell, so, by making some considerable effort to reach
up and pull this wire, I could summon Bowen, that is, if Bowen happened
to be there. But Bowen seemed always to be out at drill or over at the
company quarters, and frequently my bell brought no response. When he
did come, however, he was just as kind and just as awkward as it was
possible for a great big six-foot farmer-soldier to be.

But I grew weaker and weaker with trying to be strong, and one day
when Jack came in and found both the baby and myself crying, he said,
man-like, "What's the matter?" I said, "I must have some one to take
care of me, or we shall both die."

He seemed to realize that the situation was desperate, and mounted men
were sent out immediately in all directions to find a woman.

At last, a Mexican girl was found in a wood-chopper's camp, and was
brought to me. She was quite young and very ignorant and stupid, and
spoke nothing but a sort of Mexican "lingo," and did not understand a
word of English. But I felt that my life was saved; and Bowen fixed up
a place on the couch for her to sleep, and Jack went over to the
unoccupied room on the other side of the cabin and took possession of
the absent doctor's bed.

I begged Jack to hunt up a Spanish dictionary, and fortunately one
was found at the sutler's store, which, doubtless the sutler or his
predecessor had brought into the country years before.

The girl did not know anything. I do not think she had ever been inside
a casa before. She had washed herself in mountain streams, and did not
know what basins and sponges were for. So it was of no use to point to
the objects I wanted.

I propped myself up in bed and studied the dictionary, and, having some
idea of the pronunciation of Latin languages, I essayed to call for warm
water and various other necessary articles needed around a sick bed.
Sometimes I succeeded in getting an idea through her impervious brain,
but more often she would stand dazed and immovable and I would let the
dictionary drop from my tired hands and fall back upon the pillow in a
sweat of exhaustion. Then Bowen would be called in, and with the help of
some perfunctory language and gestures on his part, this silent creature
of the mountains would seem to wake up and try to understand.

And so I worried through those dreadful days--and the nights! Ah! we had
better not describe them. The poor wild thing slept the sleep of death
and could not hear my loudest calls nor desperate shouts.

So Jack attached a cord to her pillow, and I would tug and tug at that
and pull the pillow from under her head. It was of no avail. She slept
peacefully on, and it seemed to me, as I lay there staring at her, that
not even Gabriel's trump would ever arouse her.

In desperation I would creep out of bed and wait upon myself and then
confess to Jack and the Doctor next day.

Well, we had to let the creature go, for she was of no use, and the
Spanish dictionary was laid aside.

I struggled along, fighting against odds; how I ever got well at all is
a wonder, when I think of all the sanitary precautions taken now-a-days
with young mothers and babies. The Doctor was ordered away and another
one came. I had no advice or help from any one. Calomel or quinine are
the only medicines I remember taking myself or giving to my child.

But to go back a little. The seventh day after the birth of the baby, a
delegation of several squaws, wives of chiefs, came to pay me a formal
visit. They brought me some finely woven baskets, and a beautiful
pappoose-basket or cradle, such as they carry their own babies in. This
was made of the lightest wood, and covered with the finest skin of
fawn, tanned with birch bark by their own hands, and embroidered in blue
beads; it was their best work. I admired it, and tried to express to
them my thanks. These squaws took my baby (he was lying beside me on the
bed), then, cooing and chuckling, they looked about the room, until they
found a small pillow, which they laid into the basket-cradle, then put
my baby in, drew the flaps together, and laced him into it; then stood
it up, and laid it down, and laughed again in their gentle manner, and
finally soothed him to sleep. I was quite touched by the friendliness of
it all. They laid the cradle on the table and departed. Jack went out
to bring Major Worth in, to see the pretty sight, and as the two entered
the room, Jack pointed to the pappoose-basket.

Major Worth tip-toed forward, and gazed into the cradle; he did not
speak for some time; then, in his inimitable way, and half under his
breath, he said, slowly, "Well, I'll be d--d!" This was all, but when he
turned towards the bedside, and came and shook my hand, his eyes shone
with a gentle and tender look.

And so was the new recruit introduced to the Captain of Company K.

And now there must be a bath-tub for the baby. The sutler rummaged his
entire place, to find something that might do. At last, he sent me a
freshly scoured tub, that looked as if it might, at no very remote date,
have contained salt mackerel marked "A One." So then, every morning at
nine o'clock, our little half-window was black with the heads of the
curious squaws and bucks, trying to get a glimpse of the fair baby's
bath. A wonderful performance, it appeared to them.

Once a week this room, which was now a nursery combined with bedroom and
living-room, was overhauled by the stalwart Bowen. The baby was put to
sleep and laced securely into the pappoose-basket. He was then carried
into the kitchen, laid on the dresser, and I sat by with a book or
needle-work watching him, until Bowen had finished the room. On one of
these occasions, I noticed a ledger lying upon one of the shelves. I
looked into it, and imagine my astonishment, when I read: "Aunt Hepsey's
Muffins," "Sarah's Indian Pudding," and on another page, "Hasty's Lemon
Tarts," "Aunt Susan's Method of Cooking a Leg of Mutton," and "Josie
Well's Pressed Calf Liver." Here were my own, my very own family
recipes, copied into Bowen's ledger, in large illiterate characters;
and on the fly-leaf, "Charles Bowen's Receipt Book." I burst into a good
hearty laugh, almost the first one I had enjoyed since I arrived at Camp
Apache.

The long-expected promotion to a first lieutenancy came at about
this time. Jack was assigned to a company which was stationed at Camp
MacDowell, but his departure for the new post was delayed until the
spring should be more advanced and I should be able to undertake the
long, rough trip with our young child.

The second week in April, my baby just nine weeks old, we began to pack
up. I had gained a little in experience, to be sure, but I had lost my
health and strength. I knew nothing of the care of a young infant, and
depended entirely upon the advice of the Post Surgeon, who happened at
that time to be a young man, much better versed in the sawing off of
soldiers' legs than in the treatment of young mothers and babies.

The packing up was done under difficulties, and with much help from our
faithful Bowen. It was arranged for Mrs. Bailey, who was to spend the
summer with her parents at Fort Whipple, to make the trip at the same
time, as our road to Camp MacDowell took us through Fort Whipple. There
were provided two ambulances with six mules each, two baggage-wagons, an
escort of six calvarymen fully armed, and a guide. Lieutenant Bailey was
to accompany his wife on the trip.

I was genuinely sorry to part with Major Worth, but in the excitement
and fatigue of breaking up our home, I had little time to think of my
feelings. My young child absorbed all my time. Alas! for the ignorance
of young women, thrust by circumstances into such a situation! I had
miscalculated my strength, for I had never known illness in my life,
and there was no one to tell me any better. I reckoned upon my superbly
healthy nature to bring me through. In fact, I did not think much about
it; I simply got ready and went, as soldiers do.

I heard them say that we were not to cross the Mogollon range, but were
to go to the north of it, ford the Colorado Chiquito at Sunset Crossing,
and so on to Camp Verde and Whipple Barracks by the Stoneman's Lake
road. It sounded poetic and pretty. Colorado Chiquito, Sunset Crossing,
and Stoneman's Lake road! I thought to myself, they were prettier than
any of the names I had heard in Arizona.




CHAPTER XIV. A MEMORABLE JOURNEY

How broken plunged the steep descent! How barren! Desolate and rent By
earthquake shock, the land lay dead, Like some proud king in old-time
slain. An ugly skeleton, it gleamed In burning sands. The fiery rain
Of fierce volcanoes here had sown Its ashes. Burnt and black and seamed
With thunder-strokes and strewn With cinders. Yea, so overthrown, That
wilder men than we had said, On seeing this, with gathered breath, "We
come on the confines of death!"--JOAQUIN MILLER.


Six good cavalrymen galloped along by our side, on the morning of April
24th, 1875, as with two ambulances, two army wagons, and a Mexican
guide, we drove out of Camp Apache at a brisk trot.

The drivers were all armed, and spare rifles hung inside the ambulances.
I wore a small derringer, with a narrow belt filled with cartridges. An
incongruous sight, methinks now, it must have been. A young mother, pale
and thin, a child of scarce three months in her arms, and a pistol belt
around her waist!

I scarcely looked back at Camp Apache. We had a long day's march before
us, and we looked ahead. Towards night we made camp at Cooley's ranch,
and slept inside, on the floor. Cooley was interpreter and scout, and
although he was a white man, he had married a young Indian girl, the
daughter of one of the chiefs and was known as a squaw man. There
seemed to be two Indian girls at his ranch; they were both tidy and
good-looking, and they prepared us a most appetizing supper.

The ranch had spaces for windows, covered with thin unbleached muslin
(or manta, as it is always called out there), glass windows being then
too great a luxury in that remote place. There were some partitions
inside the ranch, but no doors; and, of course, no floors except adobe.
Several half-breed children, nearly naked, stood and gazed at us as
we prepared for rest. This was interesting and picturesque from many
standpoints perhaps, but it did not tend to make me sleepy. I lay gazing
into the fire which was smouldering in the corner, and finally I said,
in a whisper, "Jack, which girl do you think is Cooley's wife?"

"I don't know," answered this cross and tired man; and then added, "both
of 'em, I guess."

Now this was too awful, but I knew he did not intend for me to ask any
more questions. I had a difficult time, in those days, reconciling what
I saw with what I had been taught was right, and I had to sort over my
ideas and deep-rooted prejudices a good many times.

The two pretty squaws prepared a nice breakfast for us, and we set out,
quite refreshed, to travel over the malapais (as the great lava-beds in
that part of the country are called). There was no trace of a road. A
few hours of this grinding and crunching over crushed lava wearied us
all, and the animals found it hard pulling, although the country was
level.

We crossed Silver Creek without difficulty, and arrived at Stinson's
ranch, after traveling twenty-five miles, mostly malapais. Do not for a
moment think of these ranches as farms. Some of them were deserted sheep
ranches, and had only adobe walls standing in ruins. But the camp must
have a name, and on the old maps of Arizona these names are still to be
found. Of course, on the new railroad maps, they are absent. They were
generally near a spring or a creek, consequently were chosen as camps.

Mrs. Bailey had her year-old boy, Howard, with her. We began to
experience the utmost inconvenience from the lack of warm water and
other things so necessary to the health and comfort of children. But we
tried to make light of it all, and the two Lieutenants tried, in a man's
way, to help us out. We declared we must have some clean towels for the
next day, so we tried to rinse out, in the cold, hard water of the well,
those which we had with us, and, as it was now nightfall and there was
no fire inside this apparently deserted ranch, the two Lieutenants stood
and held the wet towels before the camp-fire until they were dry.

Mrs. Bailey and I, too tired to move, sat and watched them and had each
our own thoughts. She was an army girl and perhaps had seen such things
before, but it was a situation that did not seem quite in keeping with
my ideas of the fitness of things in general, and with the uniform in
particular. The uniform, associated in my mind with brilliant functions,
guard-mount, parades and full-dress weddings--the uniform, in fact,
that I adored. As I sat, gazing at them, they both turned around,
and, realizing how almost ludicrous they looked, they began to laugh.
Whereupon we all four laughed and Jack said: "Nice work for United
States officers! hey, Bailey?"

"It might be worse," sighed the handsome, blond-haired Bailey.

Thirty miles the next day, over a good road, brought us to Walker's
ranch, on the site of old Camp Supply. This ranch was habitable in a
way, and the owner said we might use the bedrooms; but the wild-cats
about the place were so numerous and so troublesome in the night, that
we could not sleep. I have mentioned the absence of windows in these
ranches; we were now to experience the great inconvenience resulting
therefrom, for the low open spaces furnished great opportunity for the
cats. In at one opening, and out at another they flew, first across the
Bailey's bed, then over ours. The dogs caught the spirit of the chase,
and added their noise to that of the cats. Both babies began to cry, and
then up got Bailey and threw his heavy campaign boots at the cats, with
some fitting remarks. A momentary silence reigned, and we tried again
to sleep. Back came the cats, and then came Jack's turn with boots and
travelling satchels. It was all of no avail, and we resigned ourselves.
Cruelly tired, here we were, we two women, compelled to sit on hard
boxes or the edge of a bed, to quiet our poor babies, all through that
night, at that old sheep-ranch. Like the wretched emigrant, differing
only from her inasmuch as she, never having known comfort perhaps,
cannot realize her misery.

The two Lieutenants slipped on their blouses, and sat looking helplessly
at us, waging war on the cats at intervals. And so the dawn found us,
our nerves at a tension, and our strength gone--a poor preparation for
the trying day which was to follow.

We were able to buy a couple of sheep there, to take with us for
supplies, and some antelope meat. We could not indulge, in foolish
scruples, but I tried not to look when they tied the live sheep and
threw them into one of the wagons.

Quite early in the day, we met a man who said he had been fired upon by
some Indians at Sanford's Pass. We thought perhaps he had been scared by
some stray shot, and we did not pay much attention to his story.

Soon after, however, we passed a sort of old adobe ruin, out of which
crept two bare-headed Mexicans, so badly frightened that their dark
faces were pallid; their hair seemed standing on end, and they looked
stark mad with fear. They talked wildly to the guide, and gesticulated,
pointing in the direction of the Pass. They had been fired at, and their
ponies taken by some roving Apaches. They had been in hiding for over
a day, and were hungry and miserable. We gave them food and drink. They
implored us, by the Holy Virgin, not to go through the Pass.

What was to be done? The officers took counsel; the men looked to their
arms. It was decided to go through. Jack examined his revolver, and saw
that my pistol was loaded. I was instructed minutely what to do, in case
we were attacked.

For miles we strained our eyes, looking in the direction whence these
men had come.

At last, in mid-afternoon, we approached the Pass, a narrow defile
winding down between high hills from this table-land to the plain below.
To say that we feared an ambush, would not perhaps convey a very clear
idea of how I felt on entering the Pass.

There was not a word spoken. I obeyed orders, and lay down in the bottom
of the ambulance; I took my derringer out of the holster and cocked it.
I looked at my little boy lying helpless there beside me, and at his
delicate temples, lined with thin blue veins, and wondered if I could
follow out the instructions I had received: for Jack had said, after the
decision was made, to go through the Pass, "Now, Mattie, I don't think
for a minute that there are any Injuns in that Pass, and you must not be
afraid. We have got to go through it any way; but"--he hesitated,--"we
may be mistaken; there may be a few of them in there, and they'll have a
mighty good chance to get in a shot or two. And now listen: if I'm hit,
you'll know what to do. You have your derringer; and when you see that
there is no help for it, if they get away with the whole outfit, why,
there's only one thing to be done. Don't let them get the baby, for they
will carry you both off and--well, you know the squaws are much more
cruel than the bucks. Don't let them get either of you alive. Now"--to
the driver--"go on."

Jack was a man of few words, and seldom spoke much in times like that.

So I lay very quiet in the bottom of the ambulance. I realized that we
were in great danger. My thoughts flew back to the East, and I saw, as
in a flash, my father and mother, sisters and brother; I think I tried
to say a short prayer for them, and that they might never know the
worst. I fixed my eyes upon my husband's face. There he sat, rifle in
hand, his features motionless, his eyes keenly watching out from one
side of the ambulance, while a stalwart cavalry-man, carbine in hand,
watched the other side of the narrow defile. The minutes seemed like
hours.

The driver kept his animals steady, and we rattled along.

At last, as I perceived the steep slope of the road, I looked out, and
saw that the Pass was widening out, and we must be nearing the end of
it. "Keep still," said Jack, without moving a feature. My heart seemed
then to stop beating, and I dared not move again, until I heard him say,
"Thank God, we're out of it! Get up, Mattie! See the river yonder? We'll
cross that to-night, and then we'll be out of their God d----d country!"

This was Jack's way of working off his excitement, and I did not mind
it. I knew he was not afraid of Apaches for himself, but for his wife
and child. And if I had been a man, I should have said just as much and
perhaps more.

We were now down in a flat country, and low alkali plains lay between us
and the river. My nerves gradually recovered from the tension in which
they had been held; the driver stopped his team for a moment, the other
ambulance drove up alongside of us, and Ella Bailey and I looked at each
other; we did not talk any, but I believe we cried just a little. Then
Mr. Bailey and Jack (thinking we were giving way, I suppose) pulled out
their big flasks, and we had to take a cup of good whiskey, weakened up
with a little water from our canteens, which had been filled at Walker's
ranch in the morning. Great Heavens! I thought, was it this morning
that we left Walker's ranch, or was it a year ago? So much had I lived
through in a few hours.




CHAPTER XV. FORDING THE LITTLE COLORADO

At a bend in the road the Mexican guide galloped up near the ambulance,
and pointing off to the westward with a graceful gesture, said:
"Colorado Chiquito! Colorado Chiquito!" And, sure enough, there in the
afternoon sun lay the narrow winding river, its surface as smooth as
glass, and its banks as if covered with snow.

We drove straight for the ford, known as Sunset Crossing. The guide was
sure he knew the place. But the river was high, and I could not see how
anybody could cross it without a boat. The Mexican rode his pony in
once or twice; shook his head, and said in Spanish, "there was much
quicksand. The old ford had changed much since he saw it." He galloped
excitedly to and fro, along the bank of the river, always returning to
the same place, and declaring "it was the ford; there was no other; he
knew it well."

But the wagons not having yet arrived, it was decided not to attempt
crossing until morning, when we could get a fresh start.

The sun was gradually sinking in the west, but the heat down in that
alkali river-bottom even at that early season of the year was most
uncomfortable. I was worn out with fright and fatigue; my poor child
cried piteously and incessantly. Nothing was of any avail to soothe him.
After the tents were pitched and the camp-fires made, some warm water
was brought, and I tried to wash away some of the dust from him, but the
alkali water only irritated his delicate skin, and his head, where it
had lain on my arm, was inflamed by the constant rubbing. It began
to break out in ugly blisters; I was in despair. We were about as
wretchedly off as two human beings could be, and live, it seemed to me.
The disappointment at not getting across the river, combined with
the fear that the Indians were still in the neighborhood, added to my
nervousness and produced an exhaustion which, under other circumstances,
would have meant collapse.

The mournful and demoniacal cries of the coyotes filled the night; they
seemed to come close to the tent, and their number seemed to be legion.
I lay with eyes wide open, watching for the day to come, and resolving
each minute that if I ever escaped alive from that lonely river-bottom
with its burning alkali, and its millions of howling coyotes, I would
never, never risk being placed in such a situation again.

At dawn everybody got up and dressed. I looked in my small hand-mirror,
and it seemed to me my hair had turned a greyish color, and while it
was not exactly white, the warm chestnut tinge never came back into it,
after that day and night of terror. My eyes looked back at me large and
hollow from the small glass, and I was in that state when it is easy to
imagine the look of Death in one's own face. I think sometimes it comes,
after we have thought ourselves near the borders. And I surely had been
close to them the day before.


*****


If perchance any of my readers have followed this narrative so far, and
there be among them possibly any men, young or old, I would say to such
ones: "Desist!" For what I am going to tell about in this chapter, and
possibly another, concerns nobody but women, and my story will now, for
awhile, not concern itself with the Eighth Foot, nor the army, nor the
War Department, nor the Interior Department, nor the strategic value of
Sunset Crossing, which may now be a railroad station, for all I know. It
is simply a story of my journey from the far bank of the Little Colorado
to Fort Whipple, and then on, by a change of orders, over mountains
and valleys, cactus plains and desert lands, to the banks of the Great
Colorado.

My attitude towards the places I travelled through was naturally
influenced by the fact that I had a young baby in my arms the entire
way, and that I was not able to endure hardship at that time. For
usually, be it remembered, at that period of a child's life, both mother
and infant are not out of the hands of the doctor and trained nurse, to
say nothing of the assistance so gladly rendered by those near and dear.

The morning of the 28th of April dawned shortly after midnight, as
mornings in Arizona generally do at that season, and after a hasty
camp breakfast, and a good deal of reconnoitering on the part of the
officers, who did not seem to be exactly satisfied about the Mexican's
knowledge of the ford, they told him to push his pony in, and cross if
he could.

He managed to pick his way across and back, after a good deal of
floundering, and we decided to try the ford. First they hitched up ten
mules to one of the heavily loaded baggage-wagons, the teamster cracked
his whip, and in they went. But the quicksand frightened the leaders,
and they lost their courage. Now when a mule loses courage, in the
water, he puts his head down and is done for. The leaders disappeared
entirely, then the next two and finally the whole ten of them were gone,
irrevocably, as I thought. But like a flash, the officers shouted: "Cut
away those mules! Jump in there!" and amid other expletives the men
plunged in, and feeling around under the water cut the poor animals
loose and they began to crawl out on the other bank. I drew a long
breath, for I thought the ten mules were drowned.

The guide picked his way over again to the other side and caught them
up, and then I began to wonder how on earth we should ever get across.

There lay the heavy army wagon, deep mired in the middle of the stream,
and what did I see? Our army chests, floating away down the river. I
cried out: "Oh! do save our chests!" "They're all right, we'll get them
presently," said Jack. It seemed a long time to me, before the soldiers
could get them to the bank, which they did, with the aid of stout ropes.
All our worldly goods were in those chests, and I knew they were soaked
wet and probably ruined; but, after all, what did it matter, in the face
of the serious problem which confronted us?

In the meantime, some of the men had floated the other boxes and trunks
out of the wagon back to the shore, and were busy taking the huge
vehicle apart. Any one who knows the size of an army wagon will realize
that this was hard work, especially as the wagon was mired, and nearly
submerged. But the men worked desperately, and at last succeeded in
getting every part of it back onto the dry land.

Somebody stirred up the camp-fire and put the kettle on, and Mrs. Bailey
and I mixed up a smoking strong hot toddy for those brave fellows, who
were by this time well exhausted. Then they set to work to make a boat,
by drawing a large canvas under the body of the wagon, and fastening
it securely. For this Lieutenant of mine had been a sailor-man and knew
well how to meet emergencies.

One or two of the soldiers had now forded the stream on horseback, and
taken over a heavy rope, which was made fast to our improvised boat.
I was acquainted with all kinds of boats, from a catamaran to a
full-rigged ship, but never a craft like this had I seen. Over the
sides we clambered, however, and were ferried across the treacherous
and glassy waters of the Little Colorado. All the baggage and the two
ambulances were ferried over, and the other wagon was unloaded and drawn
over by means of ropes.

This proceeding took all day, and of course we could get no farther, and
were again obliged to camp in that most uncomfortable river-bottom. But
we felt safer on that side. I looked at the smooth surface of the river,
and its alkali shores, and the picture became indelibly impressed upon
my memory. The unpleasant reality destroyed any poetic associations
which might otherwise have clung to the name of Sunset Crossing in my
ever vivid imagination.

After the tents were pitched, and the camp snugged up, Mr. Bailey
produced some champagne and we wished each other joy, that we had made
the dangerous crossing and escaped the perils of Sanford's Pass. I am
afraid the champagne was not as cold as might have been desired, but the
bottle had been wrapped in a wet blanket, and cooled a little in that
way, and we drank it with zest, from a mess-cup.




CHAPTER XVI. STONEMAN'S LAKE

The road began now to ascend, and after twenty miles' travelling we
reached a place called Updyke's Tanks. It was a nice place, with plenty
of wood and grass. The next day we camped at Jay Coxe's Tanks. It was
a hard day's march, and I was tired out when we arrived there. The
ambulance was simply jerked over those miles of fearful rocks; one could
not say driven or dragged over, for we were pitched from rock to rock
the entire distance.

Stoneman's Lake Road was famous, as I afterwards heard. Perhaps it was
just as well for me that I did not know about it in advance.

The sure-footed mules picked their way over these sharp-edged rocks.
There was not a moment's respite. We asked a soldier to help with
holding the baby, for my arms gave out entirely, and were as if
paralyzed. The jolting threw us all by turns against the sides of
the ambulance (which was not padded), and we all got some rather bad
bruises. We finally bethought ourselves of the pappoose basket, which we
had brought along in the ambulance, having at the last moment no other
place to put it. So a halt was called, we placed the tired baby in this
semi-cradle, laced the sides snugly over him, and were thus enabled to
carry him over those dreadful roads without danger.

He did not cry much, but the dust made him thirsty. I could not give him
nourishment without stopping the entire train of wagons, on account
of the constant pitching of the ambulance; delay was not advisable or
expedient, so my poor little son had to endure with the rest of us. The
big Alsatian cavalryman held the cradle easily in his strong arms, and
so the long miles were travelled, one by one.

At noon of this day we made a refreshing halt, built a fire and took
some luncheon. We found a shady, grassy spot, upon which the blankets
were spread, and we stretched ourselves out upon them and rested. But
we were still some miles from water, so after a short respite we were
compelled to push on. We had been getting steadily higher since leaving
Sunset Crossing, and now it began to be cold and looked like snow. Mrs.
Bailey and I found it very trying to meet these changes of temperature.
A good place for the camp was found at Coxe's Tanks, trenches were dug
around the tents, and the earth banked up to keep us warm. The cool air,
our great fatigue, and the comparative absence of danger combined to
give us a heavenly night's rest.

Towards sunset of the next day, which was May Day, our cavalcade reached
Stoneman's Lake. We had had another rough march, and had reached the
limit of endurance, or thought we had, when we emerged from a mountain
pass and drew rein upon the high green mesa overlooking Stoneman's Lake,
a beautiful blue sheet of water lying there away below us. It was good
to our tired eyes, which had gazed upon nothing but burnt rocks
and alkali plains for so many days. Our camp was beautiful beyond
description, and lay near the edge of the mesa, whence we could look
down upon the lovely lake. It was a complete surprise to us, as points
of scenery were not much known or talked about then in Arizona. Ponds
and lakes were unheard of. They did not seem to exist in that drear land
of arid wastes. We never heard of water except that of the Colorado
or the Gila or the tanks and basins, and irrigation ditches of the
settlers. But here was a real Italian lake, a lake as blue as the skies
above us. We feasted our eyes and our very souls upon it.

Bailey and the guide shot some wild turkeys, and as we had already
eaten all the mutton we had along, the ragout of turkey made by the
soldier-cook for our supper tasted better to us tired and hungry
travellers, perhaps, than a canvasback at Delmonico's tastes to the
weary lounger or the over-worked financier.

In the course of the day, we had passed a sort of sign-board, with the
rudely written inscription, "Camp Starvation," and we had heard from
Mr. Bailey the story of the tragic misfortunes at this very place of
the well-known Hitchcock family of Arizona. The road was lined with dry
bones, and skulls of oxen, white and bleached in the sun, lying on the
bare rocks. Indeed, at every stage of the road we had seen evidences
of hard travel, exhausted cattle, anxious teamsters, hunger and thirst,
despair, starvation, and death.

However, Stoneman's Lake remains a joy in the memory, and far and away
the most beautiful spot I ever saw in Arizona. But unless the approaches
to it are made easier, tourists will never gaze upon it.

In the distance we saw the "divide," over which we must pass in order
to reach Camp Verde, which was to be our first stopping place, and we
looked joyfully towards the next day's march, which we expected would
bring us there.

We thought the worst was over and, before retiring to our tents for the
night, we walked over to the edge of the high mesa and, in the gathering
shadows of twilight, looked down into the depths of that beautiful lake,
knowing that probably we should never see it again.

And indeed, in all the years I spent in Arizona afterward, I never even
heard of the lake again.

I wonder now, did it really exist or was it an illusion, a dream, or the
mirage which appears to the desert traveller, to satisfy him and lure
him on, to quiet his imagination, and to save his senses from utter
extinction?

In the morning the camp was all astir for an early move. We had no
time to look back: we were starting for a long day's march, across the
"divide," and into Camp Verde.

But we soon found that the road (if road it could be called) was worse
than any we had encountered. The ambulance was pitched and jerked from
rock to rock and we were thumped against the iron framework in a most
dangerous manner. So we got out and picked our way over the great sharp
boulders.

The Alsatian soldier carried the baby, who lay securely in the pappoose
cradle.

One of the cavalry escort suggested my taking his horse, but I did
not feel strong enough to think of mounting a horse, so great was my
discouragement and so exhausted was my vitality. Oh! if girls only knew
about these things I thought! For just a little knowledge of the care
of an infant and its needs, its nourishment and its habits, might have
saved both mother and child from such utter collapse.

Little by little we gave up hope of reaching Verde that day. At four
o'clock we crossed the "divide," and clattered down a road so near the
edge of a precipice that I was frightened beyond everything: my senses
nearly left me. Down and around, this way and that, near the edge, then
back again, swaying, swerving, pitching, the gravel clattering over the
precipice, the six mules trotting their fastest, we reached the
bottom and the driver pulled up his team. "Beaver Springs!" said he,
impressively, loosening up the brakes.

As Jack lifted me out of the ambulance, I said: "Why didn't you tell
me?" pointing back to the steep road. "Oh," said he, "I thought it was
better for you not to know; people get scared about such things, when
they know about them before hand."

"But," I remarked, "such a break-neck pace!" Then, to the driver,
"Smith, how could you drive down that place at such a rate and frighten
me so?"

"Had to, ma'am, or we'd a'gone over the edge."

I had been brought up in a flat country down near the sea, and I did not
know the dangers of mountain travelling, nor the difficulties attending
the piloting of a six-mule team down a road like that. From this time
on, however, Smith rose in my estimation. I seemed also to be realizing
that the Southwest was a great country and that there was much to learn
about. Life out there was beginning to interest me.

Camp Verde lay sixteen miles farther on; no one knew if the road were
good or bad. I declared I could not travel another mile, even if
they all went on and left me to the wolves and the darkness of Beaver
Springs.

We looked to our provisions and took account of stock. There was not
enough for the two families. We had no flour and no bread; there was
only a small piece of bacon, six potatoes, some condensed milk, and some
chocolate. The Baileys decided to go on; for Mrs. Bailey was to meet her
sister at Verde and her parents at Whipple. We said good-bye, and their
ambulance rolled away. Our tent was pitched and the baby was laid on the
bed, asleep from pure exhaustion.

The dread darkness of night descended upon us, and the strange odors of
the bottom-lands arose, mingling with the delicious smoky smell of the
camp-fire.

By the light of the blazing mesquite wood, we now divided what
provisions we had, into two portions: one for supper, and one for
breakfast. A very light meal we had that evening, and I arose from the
mess-table unsatisfied and hungry.

Jack and I sat down by the camp-fire, musing over the hard times we were
having, when suddenly I heard a terrified cry from my little son. We
rushed to the tent, lighted a candle, and oh! horror upon horrors!
his head and face were covered with large black ants; he was wailing
helplessly, and beating the air with his tiny arms.

"My God!" cried Jack, "we're camped over an ant-hill!"

I seized the child, and brushing off the ants as I fled, brought him out
to the fire, where by its light I succeeded in getting rid of them all.
But the horror of it! Can any mother brought up in God's country with
kind nurses and loved ones to minister to her child, for a moment
imagine how I felt when I saw those hideous, three-bodied, long-legged
black ants crawling over my baby's face? After a lapse of years, I
cannot recall that moment without a shudder.

The soldiers at last found a place which seemed to be free from
ant-hills, and our tent was again pitched, but only to find that the
venomous things swarmed over us as soon as we lay down to rest.

And so, after the fashion of the Missouri emigrant, we climbed into the
ambulance and lay down upon our blankets in the bottom of it, and tried
to believe we were comfortable.

My long, hard journey of the preceding autumn, covering a period of
two months; my trying experiences during the winter at Camp Apache; the
sudden break-up and the packing; the lack of assistance from a nurse;
the terrors of the journey; the sympathy for my child, who suffered from
many ailments and principally from lack of nourishment, added to the
profound fatigue I felt, had reduced my strength to a minimum. I wonder
that I lived, but something sustained me, and when we reached Camp Verde
the next day, and drew up before Lieutenant O'Connell's quarters, and
saw Mrs. O'Connell's kind face beaming to welcome us, I felt that here
was relief at last.

The tall Alsatian handed the pappoose cradle to Mrs. O'Connell.

"Gracious goodness! what is this?" cried the bewildered woman; "surely
it cannot be your baby! You haven't turned entirely Indian, have you,
amongst those wild Apaches?"

I felt sorry I had not taken him out of the basket before we arrived. I
did not realize the impression it would make at Camp Verde. After
all, they did not know anything about our life at Apache, or our rough
travels to get back from there. Here were lace-curtained windows,
well-dressed women, smart uniforms, and, in fact, civilization, compared
with what we had left.

The women of the post gathered around the broad piazza, to see the
wonder. But when they saw the poor little wan face, the blue eyes which
looked sadly out at them from this rude cradle, the linen bandages
covering the back of the head, they did not laugh any more, but took him
and ministered to him, as only kind women can minister to a sick baby.

There was not much rest, however, for we had to sort and rearrange our
things, and dress ourselves properly. (Oh! the luxury of a room and a
tub, after that journey!) Jack put on his best uniform, and there was
no end of visiting, in spite of the heat, which was considerable even
at that early date in May. The day there would have been pleasant enough
but for my wretched condition.

The next morning we set out for Fort Whipple, making a long day's march,
and arriving late in the evening. The wife of the Quartermaster, a total
stranger to me, received us, and before we had time to exchange the
usual social platitudes, she gave one look at the baby, and put an end
to any such attempts. "You have a sick child; give him to me;" then I
told her some things, and she said: "I wonder he is alive." Then she
took him under her charge and declared we should not leave her house
until he was well again. She understood all about nursing, and day
by day, under her good care, and Doctor Henry Lippincott's skilful
treatment, I saw my baby brought back to life again. Can I ever forget
Mrs. Aldrich's blessed kindness?

Up to then, I had taken no interest in Camp MacDowell, where was
stationed the company into which my husband was promoted. I knew it
was somewhere in the southern part of the Territory, and isolated. The
present was enough. I was meeting my old Fort Russell friends, and under
Doctor Lippincott's good care I was getting back a measure of strength.
Camp MacDowell was not yet a reality to me.

We met again Colonel Wilkins and Mrs. Wilkins and Carrie, and Mrs.
Wilkins thanked me for bringing her daughter alive out of those wilds.
Poor girl; 'twas but a few months when we heard of her death, at the
birth of her second child. I have always thought her death was caused by
the long hard journey from Apache to Whipple, for Nature never intended
women to go through what we went through, on that memorable journey by
Stoneman's Lake.

There I met again Captain Porter, and I asked him if he had progressed
any in his courtship, and he, being very much embarrassed, said he did
not know, but if patient waiting was of any avail, he believed he might
win his bride.

After we had been at Whipple a few days, Jack came in and remarked
casually to Lieutenant Aldrich, "Well, I heard Bernard has asked to be
relieved from Ehrenberg.

"What!" I said, "the lonely man down there on the river--the prisoner
of Chillon--the silent one? Well, they are going to relieve him, of
course?"

"Why, yes," said Jack, falteringly, "if they can get anyone to take his
place."

"Can't they order some one?" I inquired.

"Of course they can," he replied, and then, turning towards the window,
he ventured: "The fact is Martha, I've been offered it, and am thinking
it over." (The real truth was, that he had applied for it, thinking it
possessed great advantages over Camp MacDowell. )

"What! do I hear aright? Have your senses left you? Are you crazy?
Are you going to take me to that awful place? Why, Jack, I should die
there!"

"Now, Martha, be reasonable; listen to me, and if you really decide
against it, I'll throw up the detail. But don't you see, we shall be
right on the river, the boat comes up every fortnight or so, you can
jump aboard and go up to San Francisco." (Oh, how alluring that sounded
to my ears!) "Why, it's no trouble to get out of Arizona from Ehrenberg.
Then, too, I shall be independent, and can do just as I like, and when
I like," et caetera, et caetera. "Oh, you'll be making the greatest
mistake, if you decide against it. As for MacDowell, it's a hell of a
place, down there in the South; and you never will be able to go back
East with the baby, if we once get settled down there. Why, it's a good
fifteen days from the river."

And so he piled up the arguments in favor of Ehrenberg, saying finally,
"You need not stop a day there. If the boat happens to be up, you can
jump right aboard and start at once down river."

All the discomforts of the voyage on the "Newbern," and the memory of
those long days spent on the river steamer in August had paled before my
recent experiences. I flew, in imagination, to the deck of the "Gila,"
and to good Captain Mellon, who would take me and my child out of that
wretched Territory.

"Yes, yes, let us go then," I cried; for here came in my inexperience. I
thought I was choosing the lesser evil, and I knew that Jack believed it
to be so, and also that he had set his heart upon Ehrenberg, for reasons
known only to the understanding of a military man.

So it was decided to take the Ehrenberg detail.




CHAPTER XVII. THE COLORADO DESERT

Some serpents slid from out the grass That grew in tufts by shattered
stone, Then hid below some broken mass Of ruins older than the East,
That Time had eaten, as a bone Is eaten by some savage beast.

Great dull-eyed rattlesnakes--they lay All loathsome, yellow-skinned,
and slept Coiled tight as pine knots in the sun, With flat heads through
the centre run; Then struck out sharp, then rattling crept Flat-bellied
down the dusty way.

--JOAQUIN MILLER.


At the end of a week, we started forth for Ehrenberg. Our escort was now
sent back to Camp Apache, and the Baileys remained at Fort Whipple, so
our outfit consisted of one ambulance and one army wagon. One or two
soldiers went along, to help with the teams and the camp.

We travelled two days over a semi-civilized country, and found quite
comfortable ranches where we spent the nights. The greatest luxury was
fresh milk, and we enjoyed that at these ranches in Skull Valley. They
kept American cows, and supplied Whipple Barracks with milk and butter.
We drank, and drank, and drank again, and carried a jugful to our
bedside. The third day brought us to Cullen's ranch, at the edge of
the desert. Mrs. Cullen was a Mexican woman and had a little boy named
Daniel; she cooked us a delicious supper of stewed chicken, and fried
eggs, and good bread, and then she put our boy to bed in Daniel's crib.
I felt so grateful to her; and with a return of physical comfort, I
began to think that life, after all, might be worth the living.

Hopefully and cheerfully the next morning we entered the vast Colorado
desert. This was verily the desert, more like the desert which our
imagination pictures, than the one we had crossed in September
from Mojave. It seemed so white, so bare, so endless, and so still;
irreclaimable, eternal, like Death itself. The stillness was appalling.
We saw great numbers of lizards darting about like lightning; they were
nearly as white as the sand itself, and sat up on their hind legs and
looked at us with their pretty, beady black eyes. It seemed very far off
from everywhere and everybody, this desert--but I knew there was a camp
somewhere awaiting us, and our mules trotted patiently on. Towards noon
they began to raise their heads and sniff the air; they knew that water
was near. They quickened their pace, and we soon drew up before a large
wooden structure. There were no trees nor grass around it. A Mexican
worked the machinery with the aid of a mule, and water was bought for
our twelve animals, at so much per head. The place was called Mesquite
Wells; the man dwelt alone in his desolation, with no living being
except his mule for company. How could he endure it! I was not able,
even faintly, to comprehend it; I had not lived long enough. He occupied
a small hut, and there he staid, year in and year out, selling water to
the passing traveller; and I fancy that travellers were not so frequent
at Mesquite Wells a quarter of a century ago.

The thought of that hermit and his dreary surroundings filled my mind
for a long time after we drove away, and it was only when we halted and
a soldier got down to kill a great rattlesnake near the ambulance, that
my thoughts were diverted. The man brought the rattles to us and the new
toy served to amuse my little son.

At night we arrived at Desert Station. There was a good ranch there,
kept by Hunt and Dudley, Englishmen, I believe. I did not see them, but
I wondered who they were and why they staid in such a place. They were
absent at the time; perhaps they had mines or something of the sort to
look after. One is always imagining things about people who live in such
extraordinary places. At all events, whatever Messrs. Hunt and Dudley
were doing down there, their ranch was clean and attractive, which was
more than could be said of the place where we stopped the next night, a
place called Tyson's Wells. We slept in our tent that night, for of
all places on the earth a poorly kept ranch in Arizona is the most
melancholy and uninviting. It reeks of everything unclean, morally and
physically. Owen Wister has described such a place in his delightful
story, where the young tenderfoot dances for the amusement of the old
habitues.

One more day's travel across the desert brought us to our El Dorado.




CHAPTER XVIII. EHRENBERG ON THE COLORADO

Under the burning mid-day sun of Arizona, on May 16th, our six good
mules, with the long whip cracking about their ears, and the ambulance
rattling merrily along, brought us into the village of Ehrenberg. There
was one street, so called, which ran along on the river bank, and then a
few cross streets straggling back into the desert, with here and there
a low adobe casa. The Government house stood not far from the river, and
as we drove up to the entrance the same blank white walls stared at me.
It did not look so much like a prison, after all, I thought. Captain
Bernard, the man whom I had pitied, stood at the doorway, to greet
us, and after we were inside the house he had some biscuits and wine
brought; and then the change of stations was talked of, and he said to
me, "Now, please make yourself at home. The house is yours; my things
are virtually packed up, and I leave in a day or two. There is a soldier
here who can stay with you; he has been able to attend to my simple
wants. I eat only twice a day; and here is Charley, my Indian, who
fetches the water from the river and does the chores. I dine generally
at sundown."

A shadow fell across the sunlight in the doorway; I looked around and
there stood "Charley," who had come in with the noiseless step of the
moccasined foot. I saw before me a handsome naked Cocopah Indian, who
wore a belt and a gee-string. He seemed to feel at home and began to
help with the bags and various paraphernalia of ambulance travellers.
He looked to be about twenty-four years old. His face was smiling and
friendly and I knew I should like him.

The house was a one-story adobe. It formed two sides of a hollow square;
the other two sides were a high wall, and the Government freight-house
respectively. The courtyard was partly shaded by a ramada and partly
open to the hot sun. There was a chicken-yard in one corner of the
inclosed square, and in the centre stood a rickety old pump, which
indicated some sort of a well. Not a green leaf or tree or blade of
grass in sight. Nothing but white sand, as far as one could see, in all
directions.

Inside the house there were bare white walls, ceilings covered with
manta, and sagging, as they always do; small windows set in deep
embrasures, and adobe floors. Small and inconvenient rooms, opening
one into another around two sides of the square. A sort of low veranda
protected by lattice screens, made from a species of slim cactus, called
ocotilla, woven together, and bound with raw-hide, ran around a part of
the house.

Our dinner was enlivened by some good Cocomonga wine. I tried to
ascertain something about the source of provisions, but evidently the
soldier had done the foraging, and Captain Bernard admitted that it was
difficult, adding always that he did not require much, "it was so warm,"
et caetera, et caetera. The next morning I took the reins, nominally,
but told the soldier to go ahead and do just as he had always done. I
selected a small room for the baby's bath, the all important function of
the day. The Indian brought me a large tub (the same sort of a half of a
vinegar barrel we had used at Apache for ourselves), set it down in the
middle of the floor, and brought water from a barrel which stood in
the corral. A low box was placed for me to sit on. This was a bachelor
establishment, and there was no place but the floor to lay things on;
but what with the splashing and the leaking and the dripping, the floor
turned to mud and the white clothes and towels were covered with it, and
I myself was a sight to behold. The Indian stood smiling at my plight.
He spoke only a pigeon English, but said, "too much-ee wet."

I was in despair; things began to look hopeless again to me. I thought
"surely these Mexicans must know how to manage with these floors."
Fisher, the steamboat agent, came in, and I asked him if he could not
find me a nurse. He said he would try, and went out to see what could be
done.

He finally brought in a rather forlorn looking Mexican woman leading a
little child (whose father was not known), and she said she would come
to us for quinze pesos a month. I consulted with Fisher, and he said
she was a pretty good sort, and that we could not afford to be too
particular down in that country. And so she came; and although she was
indolent, and forever smoking cigarettes, she did care for the baby, and
fanned him when he slept, and proved a blessing to me.

And now came the unpacking of our boxes, which had floated down the
Colorado Chiquito. The fine damask, brought from Germany for my linen
chest, was a mass of mildew; and when the books came to light, I could
have wept to see the pretty editions of Schiller, Goethe, and Lessing,
which I had bought in Hanover, fall out of their bindings; the latter,
warped out of all shape, and some of them unrecognizable. I did the best
I could, however, not to show too much concern, and gathered the pages
carefully together, to dry them in the sun.

They were my pride, my best beloved possessions, the links that bound me
to the happy days in old Hanover.

I went to Fisher for everything--a large, well-built American, and a
kind good man. Mrs. Fisher could not endure the life at Ehrenberg, so
she lived in San Francisco, he told me. There were several other white
men in the place, and two large stores where everything was kept that
people in such countries buy. These merchants made enormous profits, and
their families lived in luxury in San Francisco.

The rest of the population consisted of a very poor class of Mexicans,
Cocopah, Yuma and Mojave Indians, and half-breeds.

The duties of the army officer stationed here consisted principally in
receiving and shipping the enormous quantity of Government freight which
was landed by the river steamers. It was shipped by wagon trains across
the Territory, and at all times the work carried large responsibilities
with it.

I soon realized that however much the present incumbent might like the
situation, it was no fit place for a woman.

The station at Ehrenberg was what we call, in the army, "detached
service." I realized that we had left the army for the time being; that
we had cut loose from a garrison; that we were in a place where good
food could not be procured, and where there were practically no servants
to be had. That there was not a woman to speak to, or to go to for
advice or help, and, worst of all, that there was no doctor in the
place. Besides all this, my clothes were all ruined by lying wet for a
fortnight in the boxes, and I had practically nothing to wear. I did not
then know what useless things clothes were in Ehrenberg.

The situation appeared rather serious; the weather had grown intensely
hot, and it was decided that the only thing for me to do was to go to
San Francisco for the summer.

So one day we heard the whistle of the "Gila" going up; and when she
came down river, I was all ready to go on board, with Patrocina and
Jesusita, [*] and my own child, who was yet but five months old. I bade
farewell to the man on detached service, and we headed down river. We
seemed to go down very rapidly, although the trip lasted several days.
Patrocina took to her bed with neuralgia (or nostalgia); her little
devil of a child screamed the entire days and nights through, to the
utter discomfiture of the few other passengers. A young lieutenant and
his wife and an army surgeon, who had come from one of the posts in the
interior, were among the number, and they seemed to think that I could
help it (though they did not say so).

     * Diminutive of Jesus, a very common name amongst the
     Mexicans. Pronounced Hay-soo-se-ta.

Finally the doctor said that if I did not throw Jesusita overboard,
he would; why didn't I "wring the neck of its worthless Mexican of
a mother?" and so on, until I really grew very nervous and unhappy,
thinking what I should do after we got on board the ocean steamer. I,
a victim of seasickness, with this unlucky woman and her child on
my hands, in addition to my own! No; I made up my mind to go back to
Ehrenberg, but I said nothing.

I did not dare to let Doctor Clark know of my decision, for I knew he
would try to dissuade me; but when we reached the mouth of the river,
and they began to transfer the passengers to the ocean steamer which
lay in the offing, I quietly sat down upon my trunk and told them I
was going back to Ehrenberg. Captain Mellon grinned; the others were
speechless; they tried persuasion, but saw it was useless; and then they
said good-bye to me, and our stern-wheeler headed about and started for
up river.

Ehrenberg had become truly my old man of the sea; I could not get rid of
it. There I must go, and there I must stay, until circumstances and the
Fates were more propitious for my departure.




CHAPTER XIX. SUMMER AT EHRENBERG

The week we spent going up the Colorado in June was not as uncomfortable
as the time spent on the river in August of the previous year.
Everything is relative, I discovered, and I was happy in going back
to stay with the First Lieutenant of C Company, and share his fortunes
awhile longer.

Patrocina recovered, as soon as she found we were to return to
Ehrenberg. I wondered how anybody could be so homesick for such a
God-forsaken place. I asked her if she had ever seen a tree, or green
grass (for I could talk with her quite easily now). She shook her
mournful head. "But don't you want to see trees and grass and flowers?"

Another sad shake of the head was the only reply.

Such people, such natures, and such lives, were incomprehensible to me
then. I could not look at things except from my own standpoint.

She took her child upon her knee, and lighted a cigarette; I took mine
upon my knee, and gazed at the river banks: they were now old friends: I
had gazed at them many times before; how much I had experienced, and how
much had happened since I first saw them! Could it be that I should ever
come to love them, and the pungent smell of the arrow-weed which covered
them to the water's edge?

The huge mosquitoes swarmed over us in the nights from those thick
clumps of arrow-weed and willow, and the nets with which Captain Mellon
provided us did not afford much protection.

The June heat was bad enough, though not quite so stifling as the August
heat. I was becoming accustomed to climates, and had learned to endure
discomfort. The salt beef and the Chinaman's peach pies were no longer
offensive to me. Indeed, I had a good appetite for them, though they
were not exactly the sort of food prescribed by the modern doctor, for
a young mother. Of course, milk, eggs, and all fresh food were not to be
had on the river boats. Ice was still a thing unknown on the Colorado.

When, after a week, the "Gila" pushed her nose up to the bank at
Ehrenberg, there stood the Quartermaster. He jumped aboard, and did not
seem in the least surprised to see me. "I knew you'd come back," said
he. I laughed, of course, and we both laughed.

"I hadn't the courage to go on," I replied

"Oh, well, we can make things comfortable here and get through the
summer some way," he said. "I'll build some rooms on, and a kitchen,
and we can surely get along. It's the healthiest place in the world for
children, they tell me."

So after a hearty handshake with Captain Mellon, who had taken such
good care of me on my week's voyage up river, I being almost the only
passenger, I put my foot once more on the shores of old Ehrenberg, and
we wended our way towards the blank white walls of the Government house.
I was glad to be back, and content to wait.

So work was begun immediately on the kitchen. My first stipulation was,
that the new rooms were to have wooden floors; for, although the Cocopah
Charley kept the adobe floors in perfect condition, by sprinkling them
down and sweeping them out every morning, they were quite impossible,
especially where it concerned white dresses and children, and the little
sharp rocks in them seemed to be so tiring to the feet.

Life as we Americans live it was difficult in Ehrenberg. I often said:
"Oh! if we could only live as the Mexicans live, how easy it would be!"
For they had their fire built between some stones piled up in
their yard, a piece of sheet iron laid over the top: this was the
cooking-stove. A pot of coffee was made in the morning early, and the
family sat on the low porch and drank it, and ate a biscuit. Then a
kettle of frijoles [*] was put over to boil. These were boiled slowly
for some hours, then lard and salt were added, and they simmered down
until they were deliciously fit to eat, and had a thick red gravy.

     *Mexican brown bean.

Then the young matron, or daughter of the house, would mix the
peculiar paste of flour and salt and water, for tortillas, a species
of unleavened bread. These tortillas were patted out until they were
as large as a dinner plate, and very thin; then thrown onto the
hot sheet-iron, where they baked. Each one of the family then got a
tortilla, the spoonful of beans was laid upon it, and so they managed
without the paraphernalia of silver and china and napery.

How I envied them the simplicity of their lives! Besides, the tortillas
were delicious to eat, and as for the frijoles, they were beyond
anything I had ever eaten in the shape of beans. I took lessons in the
making of tortillas. A woman was paid to come and teach me; but I never
mastered the art. It is in the blood of the Mexican, and a girl begins
at a very early age to make the tortilla. It is the most graceful thing
to see a pretty Mexican toss the wafer-like disc over her bare arm, and
pat it out until transparent.

This was their supper; for, like nearly all people in the tropics, they
ate only twice a day. Their fare was varied sometimes by a little carni
seca, pounded up and stewed with chile verde or chile colorado.

Now if you could hear the soft, exquisite, affectionate drawl with which
the Mexican woman says chile verde you could perhaps come to realize
what an important part the delicious green pepper plays in the cookery
of these countries. They do not use it in its raw state, but generally
roast it whole, stripping off the thin skin and throwing away the seeds,
leaving only the pulp, which acquires a fine flavor by having been
roasted or toasted over the hot coals.

The women were scrupulously clean and modest, and always wore, when in
their casa, a low-necked and short-sleeved white linen camisa, fitting
neatly, with bands around neck and arms. Over this they wore a calico
skirt; always white stockings and black slippers. When they ventured
out, the younger women put on muslin gowns, and carried parasols. The
older women wore a linen towel thrown over their heads, or, in cool
weather, the black riboso. I often cried: "Oh! if I could only dress as
the Mexicans do! Their necks and arms do look so cool and clean."

I have always been sorry I did not adopt their fashion of house apparel.
Instead of that, I yielded to the prejudices of my conservative partner,
and sweltered during the day in high-necked and long-sleeved white
dresses, kept up the table in American fashion, ate American food in
so far as we could get it, and all at the expense of strength; for our
soldier cooks, who were loaned us by Captain Ernest from his company at
Fort Yuma, were constantly being changed, and I was often left with the
Indian and the indolent Patrocina. At those times, how I wished I had
no silver, no table linen, no china, and could revert to the primitive
customs of my neighbors!

There was no market, but occasionally a Mexican killed a steer, and we
bought enough for one meal; but having no ice, and no place away from
the terrific heat, the meat was hung out under the ramada with a piece
of netting over it, until the first heat had passed out of it, and then
it was cooked.

The Mexican, after selling what meat he could, cut the rest into thin
strips and hung it up on ropes to dry in the sun. It dried hard and
brittle, in its natural state, so pure is the air on that wonderful
river bank. They called this carni seca, and the Americans called it
"jerked beef."

Patrocina often prepared me a dish of this, when I was unable to taste
the fresh meat. She would pound it fine with a heavy pestle, and then
put it to simmer, seasoning it with the green or red pepper. It was most
savory. There was no butter at all during the hot months, but our hens
laid a few eggs, and the Quartermaster was allowed to keep a small lot
of commissary stores, from which we drew our supplies of flour, ham, and
canned things. We were often without milk for weeks at a time, for the
cows crossed the river to graze, and sometimes could not get back until
the river fell again, and they could pick their way back across the
shifting sand bars.

The Indian brought the water every morning in buckets from the river.
It looked like melted chocolate. He filled the barrels, and when it had
settled clear, the ollas were filled, and thus the drinking water was a
trifle cooler than the air. One day it seemed unusually cool, so I said:
"Let us see by the thermometer how cool the water really is." We found
the temperature of the water to be 86 degrees; but that, with the air at
122 in the shade, seemed quite refreshing to drink.

I did not see any white people at all except Fisher, Abe Frank (the
mail contractor), and one or two of the younger merchants. If I wanted
anything, I went to Fisher. He always could solve the difficulty. He
procured for me an excellent middle-aged laundress, who came and brought
the linen herself, and, bowing to the floor, said always, "Buenos dias,
Senorita!" dwelling on the latter word, as a gentle compliment to a
younger woman, and then, "Mucho calor este dia," in her low, drawling
voice.

Like the others, she was spotlessly clean, modest and gentle. I asked
her what on earth they did about bathing, for I had found the tub baths
with the muddy water so disagreeable. She told me the women bathed in
the river at daybreak, and asked me if I would like to go with them.

I was only too glad to avail myself of her invitation, and so, like
Pharoah's daughter of old, I went with my gentle handmaiden every
morning to the river bank, and, wading in about knee-deep in the thick
red waters, we sat down and let the swift current flow by us. We dared
not go deeper; we could feel the round stones grinding against each
other as they were carried down, and we were all afraid. It was
difficult to keep one's foothold, and Capt. Mellon's words were ever
ringing in my ears, "He who disappears below the surface of the Colorado
is never seen again." But we joined hands and ventured like children
and played like children in these red waters and after all, it was much
nicer than a tub of muddy water indoors.

A clump of low mesquite trees at the top of the bank afforded sufficient
protection at that hour; we rubbed dry, slipped on a loose gown, and
wended our way home. What a contrast to the limpid, bracing salt waters
of my own beloved shores!

When I thought of them, I was seized with a longing which consumed me
and made my heart sick; and I thought of these poor people, who had
never known anything in their lives but those desert places, and that
muddy red water, and wondered what they would do, how they would act,
if transported into some beautiful forest, or to the cool bright shores
where clear blue waters invite to a plunge.

Whenever the river-boat came up, we were sure to have guests, for
many officers went into the Territory via Ehrenberg. Sometimes the
"transportation" was awaiting them; at other times, they were obliged to
wait at Ehrenberg until it arrived. They usually lived on the boat, as
we had no extra rooms, but I generally asked them to luncheon or supper
(for anything that could be called a dinner was out of the question).

This caused me some anxiety, as there was nothing to be had; but I
remembered the hospitality I had received, and thought of what they had
been obliged to eat on the voyage, and I always asked them to share what
we could provide, however simple it might be.

At such times we heard all the news from Washington and the States, and
all about the fashions, and they, in their turn, asked me all sorts of
questions about Ehrenberg and how I managed to endure the life. They
were always astonished when the Cocopah Indian waited on them at table,
for he wore nothing but his gee-string, and although it was an every-day
matter to us, it rather took their breath away.

But "Charley" appealed to my aesthetic sense in every way. Tall, and
well-made, with clean-cut limbs and features, fine smooth copper-colored
skin, handsome face, heavy black hair done up in pompadour fashion and
plastered with Colorado mud, which was baked white by the sun, a small
feather at the crown of his head, wide turquoise bead bracelets upon his
upper arm, and a knife at his waist--this was my Charley, my half-tame
Cocopah, my man about the place, my butler in fact, for Charley
understood how to open a bottle of Cocomonga gracefully, and to keep the
glasses filled.

Charley also wheeled the baby out along the river banks, for we had
had a f

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