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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.")

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