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A man with a rude cross led the procession. Then came some
Mexicans with violins and guitars. After the musicians, came the
body of the deceased, wrapped in a white cloth, borne on a bier
by friends, and followed by the little band of weeping women,
with black ribosos folded about their heads. They did not use
coffins at Ehrenberg, because they had none, I suppose.

The next day I asked Jack to walk to the grave-yard with me. He
postponed it from day to day, but I insisted upon going. At last,
he took me to see it.

There was no enclosure, but the bare, sloping, sandy place was
sprinkled with graves, marked by heaps of stones, and in some
instances by rude crosses of wood, some of which had been
wrenched from their upright position by the fierce sand-storms.
There was not a blade of grass, a tree, or a flower. I walked
about among these graves, and close beside some of them I saw
deep holes and whitnened bones. I was quite ignorant or
unthinking, and asked what the holes were.

"It is where the coyotes and wolves come in the nights," said
Jack.

My heart sickened as I thought of these horrors, and I wondered
if Ehrenberg held anything in store for me worse than what I had
already seen. We turned away from this unhallowed grave-yard and
walked to our quarters. I had never known much about "nerves,"
but I began to see spectres in the night, and those ghastly
graves with their coyote-holes were ever before me. The place was
but a stone's throw from us, and the uneasy spirits from these
desecrated graves began to haunt me. I could not sit alone on the
porch at night, for they peered through the lattice, and mocked
at me, and beckoned. Some had no heads, some no arms, but they
pointed or nodded towards the grewsome burying-ground: "You'll be
with us soon, you'll be with us soon."




CHAPTER XXII

RETURN TO THE STATES

I dream of the east wind's tonic, Of the breakers' stormy roar,
And the peace of the inner harbor With the long low Shimmo
shore.

* * * *

I long for the buoy-bell's tolling When the north wind brings
from afar The smooth, green, shining billows, To be churned
into foam on the bar.

Oh! for the sea-gulls' screaming As they swoop so bold and
free! Oh! for the fragrant commons, And the glorious open
sea!--

For the restful great contentment, For the joy that is never
known Till past the jetty and Brant Point Light The Islander
comes to his own!

--MARY E. STARBUCK.


"I must send you out. I see that you cannot stand it here another
month,'' said Jack one day; and so he bundled us onto the boat in
the early spring, and took us down the river to meet the ocean
steamer.

There was no question about it this time, and I well knew it.

I left my sister and her son in Ehrenberg, and I never saw my
nephew again. A month later, his state of health became so
alarming that my sister took him to San Francisco. He survived
the long voyage, but died there a few weeks later at the home of
my cousin.

At Fort Yuma we telegraphed all over the country for a nurse, but
no money would tempt those Mexican women to face an ocean voyage.
Jack put me on board the old "Newbern" in charge of the Captain,
waited to see our vessel under way, then waved good-bye from the
deck of the "Gila," and turned his face towards his post and
duty. I met the situation as best I could, and as I have already
described a voyage on this old craft, I shall not again enter
into details. There was no stewardess on board, and all
arrangements were of the crudest description. Both my child and I
were seasick all the way, and the voyage lasted sixteen days. Our
misery was very great.

The passengers were few in number, only a couple of Mexican
miners who had been prospecting, an irritable old Mexican woman,
and a German doctor, who was agreeable but elusive.

The old Mexican woman sat on the deck all day, with her back
against the stateroom door; she was a picturesque and indolent
figure.

There was no diversion, no variety; my little boy required
constant care and watching. The days seemed endless. Everbody
bought great bunches of green bananas at the ports in Mexico,
where we stopped for passengers.

The old woman was irritable, and one day when she saw the
agreeable German doctor pulling bananas from the bunch which she
had hung in the sun to ripen, she got up muttering "Carramba,"
and shaking her fist in his face. He appeased her wrath by
offering her, in the most fluent Spanish, some from his own bunch
when they should be ripe.

Such were my surroundings on the old "Newbern." The German
doctor was interesting, and I loved to talk with him, on days
when I was not seasick, and to read the letters which he had
received from his family, who were living on their Rittergut (or
landed estates) in Prussia.

He amused me by tales of his life at a wretched little mining
village somewhere about fifty miles from Ehrenberg, and I was
always wondering how he came to have lived there.

He had the keenest sense of humor, and as I listened to the tales
of his adventures and miraculous escapes from death at the hands
of these desperate folk, I looked in his large laughing blue eyes
and tried to solve the mystery.

For that he was of noble birth and of ancient family there was no
doubt. There were the letters, there was the crest, and here was
the offshoot of the family. I made up my mind that he was a
ne'er-do-weel and a rolling stone. He was elusive, and, beyond
his adventures, told me nothing of himself. It was some time
after my arrival in San Francisco that I learned more about him.

Now, after we rounded Cape St. Lucas, we were caught in the long
heavy swell of the Pacific Ocean, and it was only at intervals
that my little boy and I could leave our stateroom. The doctor
often held him while I ran below to get something to eat, and I
can never forget his kindness; and if, as I afterward heard in
San Francisco, he really had entered the "Gate of a hundred
sorrows," it would perhaps best explain his elusiveness, his
general condition, and his sometimes dazed expression.

A gentle and kindly spirit, met by chance, known through the
propinquity of a sixteen days' voyage, and never forgotten.

Everything comes to an end, however interminable it may seem, and
at last the sharp and jagged outlines of the coast began to grow
softer and we approached the Golden Gate.

The old "Newbern," with nothing in her but ballast, rolled and
lurched along, through the bright green waters of the outer bar.
I stood leaning against the great mast, steadying myself as best
I could, and the tears rolled down my face; for I saw the
friendly green hills, and before me lay the glorious bay of San
Francisco. I had left behind me the deserts, the black rocks, the
burning sun, the snakes, the scorpions, the centipedes, the
Indians and the Ehrenberg graveyard; and so the tears flowed, and
I did not try to stop them; they were tears of joy.

The custom officers wanted to confiscate the great bundles of
Mexican cigarettes they found in my trunk, but "No," I told
them, "they were for my own use. "They raised their eyebrows,
gave me one look, and put them back into the trunk.

My beloved California relatives met us, and took care of us for a
fortnight, and when I entered a Pullman car for a nine days'
journey to my old home, it seemed like the most luxurious
comfort, although I had a fourteen-months-old child in my arms,
and no nurse. So does everything in this life go by comparison.

Arriving in Boston, my sister Harriet met me at the train, and as
she took little Harry from my arms she cried: "Where did you get
that sunbonnet? Now the baby can't wear that in Boston!"

Of course we were both thinking hard of all that had happened to
me since we parted, on the morning after my wedding, two years
before, and we were so overcome with the joy of meeting, that if
it had not been for the baby's white sunbonnet, I do not know
what kind of a scene we might have made. That saved the
situation, and after a few days of rest and necessary shopping,
we started for our old home in Nantucket. Such a welcome as the
baby and I had from my mother and father and all old friends!

But I saw sadness in their faces, and I heard it in their voices,
for no one thought I could possibly live. I felt, however, sure
it was not too late. I knew the East wind's tonic would not fail
me, its own child.

Stories of our experiences and misfortunes were eagerly listened
to, by the family, and betwixt sighs and laughter they declared
they were going to fill some boxes which should contain
everything necessary for comfort in those distant places. So one
room in our old house was set apart for this; great boxes were
brought, and day by day various articles, useful, ornamental, and
comfortable, and precious heirlooms of silver and glass, were
packed away in them. It was the year of 1876, the year of the
great Centennial, at Philadelphia. Everybody went, but it had no
attractions for me. I was happy enough, enjoying the
health-giving air and the comforts of an Eastern home. I wondered
that I had ever complained about anything there, or wished to
leave that blissful spot.

The poorest person in that place by the sea had more to be
thankful for, in my opinion, than the richest people in Arizona.
I felt as if I must cry it out from the house-tops. My heart was
thankful every minute of the day and night, for every breath of
soft air that I breathed, for every bit of fresh fish that I ate,
for fresh vegetables, and for butter--for gardens, for trees, for
flowers, for the good firm earth beneath my feet. I wrote the man
on detached service that I should never return to Ehrenberg.

After eight months, in which my health was wholly restored, I
heard the good news that Captain Corliss had applied for his
first lieutenant, and I decided to join him at once at Camp
MacDowell.

Although I had not wholly forgotten that Camp MacDowell had been
called by very bad names during our stay at Fort Whipple, at the
time that Jack decided on the Ehrenberg detail, I determined to
brave it, in all its unattractiveness, isolation and heat, for I
knew there was a garrison and a Doctor there, and a few officers'
families, I knew supplies were to be obtained and the ordinary
comforts of a far-off post. Then too, in my summer in the East I
had discovered that I was really a soldier's wife and I must go
back to it all. To the army with its glitter and its misery, to
the post with its discomforts, to the soldiers, to the drills, to
the bugle-calls, to the monotony, to the heat of Southern
Arizona, to the uniform and the stalwart Captains and gay
Lieutenants who wore it, I felt the call and I must go.




CHAPTER XXIII

BACK TO ARIZONA

The last nails were driven in the precious boxes, and I started
overland in November with my little son, now nearly two years
old.

"Overland" in those days meant nine days from New York to San
Francisco. Arriving in Chicago, I found it impossible to secure a
section on the Pullman car so was obliged to content myself with
a lower berth. I did not allow myself to be disappointed.

On entering the section, I saw an enormous pair of queer cow hide
shoes, the very queerest shoes I had ever seen, lying on the
floor, with a much used travelling bag. I speculated a good deal
on the shoes, but did not see the owner of them until several
hours later, when a short thick-set German with sandy close-cut
beard entered and saluted me politely. "You are noticing my shoes
perhaps Madame?"

"Yes" I said, involuntarily answering him in German.

His face shone with pleasure and he explained to me that they
were made in Russia and he always wore them when travelling.
"What have we," I thought, "an anarchist?"

But with the inexperience and fearlessness of youth, I entered
into a most delightful conversation in German with him. I found
him rather an extraordinarily well educated gentleman and he said
he lived in Nevada, but had been over to Vienna to place his
little boy at a military school, "as," he said, "there is nothing
like a uniform to give a boy self-respect." He said his wife had
died several months before. I congratulated myself that the
occupant of the upper berth was at least a gentleman.

The next day, as we sat opposite each other chatting, always in
German, he paused, and fixing his eyes rather steadily upon me he
remarked: "Do you think I put on mourning when my wife died? no
indeed, I put on white kid gloves and had a fiddler and danced at
the grave. All this mourning that people have is utter nonsense."

I was amazed at the turn his conversation had taken and sat quite
still, not knowing just what to say or to do.

After awhile, he looked at me steadily, and said, very
deferentially, "Madame, the spirit of my dead wife is looking at
me from out your eyes."

By this time I realized that the man was a maniac, and I had
always heard that one must agree with crazy people, so I nodded,
and that seemed to satisfy him, and bye and bye after some
minutes which seemed like hours to me, he went off to the smoking
room.

The tension was broken and I appealed to a very nice looking
woman who happened to be going to some place in Nevada near which
this Doctor lived, and she said, when I told her his name, "Why,
yes, I heard of him before I left home, he lives in Silver City,
and at the death of his wife, he went hopelessly insane, but,"
she added, "he is harmless, I believe."

This was a nice fix, to be sure, and I staid over in her section
all day, and late that night the Doctor arrived at the junction
where he was to take another train. So I slept in peace, after a
considerable agitation.

There is nothing like experience to teach a young woman how to
travel alone.

In San Francisco I learned that I could now go as far as Los
Angeles by rail, thence by steamer to San Diego, and so on by
stage to Fort Yuma, where my husband was to meet me with an
ambulance and a wagon.

I was enchanted with the idea of avoiding the long sea-trip down
the Pacific coast, but sent my boxes down by the Steamer
"Montana," sister ship of the old "Newbern," and after a few
days' rest in San Francisco, set forth by rail for Los Angeles.
At San Pedro, the port of Los Angeles, we embarked for San Diego.
It was a heavenly night. I sat on deck enjoying the calm sea, and
listening to the romantic story of Lieutenant Philip Reade, then
stationed at San Diego. He was telling the story himself, and I
had never read or heard of anything so mysterious or so tragic.

Then, too, aside from the story, Mr. Reade was a very
good-looking and chivalrous young army officer. He was returning
to his station in San Diego, and we had this pleasant opportunity
to renew what had been a very slight acquaintance.

The calm waters of the Pacific, with their long and gentle swell,
the pale light of the full moon, our steamer gliding so quietly
along, the soft air of the California coast, the absence of noisy
travellers, these made a fit setting for the story of his early
love and marriage, and the tragic mystery which surrounded the
death of his young bride.

All the romance which lived and will ever live in me was awake to
the story, and the hours passed all too quickly.

But a cry from my little boy in the near-by deck stateroom
recalled me to the realities of life and I said good-night,
having spent one of the most delightful evenings I ever remember.

Mr. Reade wears now a star on his shoulder, and well earned it
is, too. I wonder if he has forgotten how he helped to bind up my
little boy's finger which had been broken in an accident on the
train from San Francisco to Los Angeles? or how he procured a
surgeon for me on our arrival there, and got a comfortable room
for us at the hotel? or how he took us to drive (with an older
lady for a chaperon), or how he kindly cared for us until we were
safely on the boat that evening? If I had ever thought chivalry
dead, I learned then that I had been mistaken.

San Diego charmed me, as we steamed, the next morning, into its
shining bay. But as our boat was two hours late and the
stage-coach was waiting, I had to decline Mr. Reade's enchanting
offers to drive us around the beautiful place, to show me the
fine beaches, and his quarters, and all other points of interest
in this old town of Southern California.

Arizona, not San Diego, was my destination, so we took a hasty
breakfast at the hotel and boarded the stage, which, filled with
passengers, was waiting before the door.

The driver waited for no ceremonies, muttered something about
being late, cracked his whip, and away we went. I tried to stow
myself and my little boy and my belongings away comfortably, but
the road was rough and the coach swayed, and I gave it up.There
were passengers on top of the coach, and passengers inside the
coach. One woman who was totally deaf, and some miners and
blacksmiths, and a few other men, the flotsam and jetsam of the
Western countries, who come from no one knoweth whence, and who
go, no one knoweth whither, who have no trade or profession and
are sometimes even without a name.

They seemed to want to be kind to me. Harry got very stage-sick
and gave us much trouble, and they all helped me to hold him.
Night came. I do not remember that we made any stops at all; if
we did, I have forgotten them. The night on that stage-coach can
be better imagined than described. I do not know of any
adjectives that I could apply to it. Just before dawn, we stopped
to change horses and driver, and as the day began to break, we
felt ourselves going down somewhere at a terrific speed.

The great Concord coach slipped and slid and swayed on its huge
springs as we rounded the curves.

The road was narrow and appeared to be cut out of solid rock,
which seemed to be as smooth as soapstone; the four horses were
put to their speed, and down and around and away we went. I drew
in my breath as I looked out and over into the abyss on my left.
Death and destruction seemed to be the end awaiting us all.
Everybody was limp, when we reached the bottom--that is, I was
limp, and I suppose the others were. The stage-driver knew I was
frightened, because I sat still and looked white and he came and
lifted me out. He lived in a small cabin at the bottom of the
mountain; I talked with him some. "The fact is," he said, "we are
an hour late this morning; we always make it a point to 'do it'
before dawn, so the passengers can't see anything; they are
almost sure to get stampeded if we come down by daylight."

I mentioned this road afterwards in San Francisco, and learned
that it was a famous road, cut out of the side of a solid
mountain of rock; long talked of, long desired, and finally
built, at great expense, by the state and the county together;
that they always had the same man to drive over it, and that they
never did it by daylight. I did not inquire if there had ever
been any accidents. I seemed to have learned all I wanted to know
about it.

After a little rest and a breakfast at a sort of roadhouse, a
relay of horses was taken, and we travelled one more day over a
flat country, to the end of the stage-route. Jack was to meet me.
Already from the stage I had espied the post ambulance and two
blue uniforms. Out jumped Major Ernest and Jack. I remember
thinking how straight and how well they looked. I had forgotten
really how army men did look, I had been so long away.

And now we were to go to Fort Yuma and stay with the Wells' until
my boxes, which had been sent around by water on the steamer
"Montana," should arrive. I had only the usual thirty pounds
allowance of luggage with me on the stage, and it was made up
entirely of my boy's clothing, and an evening dress I had worn on
the last night of my stay in San Francisco.

Fort Yuma was delightful at this season (December), and after
four or five days spent most enjoyably, we crossed over one
morning on the old rope ferryboat to Yuma City, to inquire at the
big country store there of news from the Gulf. There was no
bridge then over the Colorado.

The merchant called Jack to one side and said something to him in
a low tone. I was sure it concerned the steamer, and I said:
"what it is?"

Then they told me that news had just been received from below,
that the "Montana" had been burned to the water's edge in Guaymas
harbor, and everything on board destroyed; the passengers had
been saved with much difficulty, as the disaster occurred in the
night.

I had lost all the clothes I had in the world--and my precious
boxes were gone. I scarcely knew how to meet the calamity.

Jack said: "Don't mind, Mattie; I'm so thankful you and the boy
were not on board the ship; the things are nothing, no account at
all."

"But," said I, "you do not understand. I have no clothes except
what I have on, and a party dress. Oh! what shall I do?" I
cried.

The merchant was very sympathetic and kind, and Major Wells said,
"Let's go home and tell Fanny; maybe she can suggest something."

I turned toward the counter, and bought some sewing materials,
realizing that outside of my toilet articles and my party dress
all my personal belongings were swept away. I was in a country
where there were no dressmakers, and no shops; I was, for the
time being, a pauper, as far as clothing was concerned.

When I got back to Mrs. Wells I broke down entirely; she put her
arms around me and said: "I've heard all about it; I know just
how you must feel; now come in my room, and we'll see what can be
done."

She laid out enough clothing to last me until I could get some
things from the East, and gave me a grey and white percale dress
with a basque, and a border, and although it was all very much
too large for me, it sufficed to relieve my immediate distress.

Letters were dispatched to the East, in various directions, for
every sort and description of clothing, but it was at least two
months before any of it appeared, and I felt like an object of
charity for a long time. Then, too, I had anticipated the fitting
up of our quarters with all the pretty cretonnes and other
things I had brought from home. And now the contents of those
boxes were no more! The memory of the visit was all that was left
to me. It was very hard to bear.

Preparations for our journey to Camp MacDowell were at last
completed. The route to our new post lay along the valley of the
Gila River, following it up from its mouth, where it empties into
the Colorado, eastwards towards the southern middle portion of
Arizona.




CHAPTER XXIV

UP THE VALLEY OF THE GILA

The December sun was shining brightly down, as only the Arizona
sun can shine at high noon in winter, when we crossed the
Colorado on the primitive ferryboat drawn by ropes, clambered up
into the great thorough-brace wagon (or ambulance) with its dusty
white canvas covers all rolled up at the sides, said good-bye to
our kind hosts of Fort Yuma, and started, rattling along the
sandy main street of Yuma City, for old Camp MacDowell.

Our big blue army wagon, which had been provided for my boxes and
trunks, rumbling along behind us, empty except for the camp
equipage.

But it all seemed so good to me: I was happy to see the soldiers
again, the drivers and teamsters, and even the sleek Government
mules. The old blue uniforms made my heart glad. Every sound was
familiar, even the rattling of the harness with its ivory rings
and the harsh sound of the heavy brakes reinforced with old
leather soles.

Even the country looked attractive, smiling under the December
sun. I wondered if I had really grown to love the desert. I had
read somewhere that people did. But I was not paying much
attention in those days to the analysis of my feelings. I did not
stop to question the subtle fascination which I felt steal over
me as we rolled along the smooth hard roads that followed the
windings of the Gila River. I was back again in the army; I had
cast my lot with a soldier, and where he was, was home to me.

In Nantucket, no one thought much about the army. The uniform of
the regulars was never seen there. The profession of arms was
scarcely known or heard of. Few people manifested any interest in
the life of the Far West. I had, while there, felt out of touch
with my oldest friends. Only my darling old uncle, a brave old
whaling captain, had said: "Mattie, I am much interested in all
you have written us about Arizona; come right down below and show
me on the dining-room map just where you went."

Gladly I followed him down the stairs, and he took his pencil out
and began to trace. After he had crossed the Mississippi, there
did not seem to be anything but blank country, and I could not
find Arizona, and it was written in large letters across the
entire half of this antique map, "Unexplored."

"True enough," he laughed. "I must buy me a new map."

But he drew his pencil around Cape Horn and up the Pacific coast,
and I described to him the voyages I had made on the old
"Newbern," and his face was aglow with memories.

"Yes," he said, "in 1826, we put into San Francisco harbor and
sent our boats up to San Jose for water and we took goats from
some of those islands,too. Oh! I know the coast well enough. We
were on our way to the Ar'tic Ocean then, after right whales."

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