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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.

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