Book: Vanished Arizona,

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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 fine "perambulator" sent down from San Francisco. It
was an incongruous sight, to be sure, and one must laugh to think
of it. The Ehrenberg babies did not have carriages, and the
village flocked to see it. There sat the fair-haired,
six-months-old boy, with but one linen garment on, no cap, no
stockings--and this wild man of the desert, his knife gleaming at
his waist, and his gee-string floating out behind, wheeling and
pushing the carriage along the sandy roads.

But this came to an end; for one day Fisher rushed in,
breathless, and said: "Well! here is your baby! I was just in
time, for that Injun of yours left the carriage in the middle of
the street, to look in at the store window, and a herd of wild
cattle came tearing down! I grabbed the carriage to the sidewalk,
cussed the Injun out, and here's the child! It's no use," he
added, "you can't trust those Injuns out of sight."

The heat was terrific. Our cots were placed in the open part of
the corral (as our courtyard was always called). It was a
desolate-looking place; on one side, the high adobe wall; on
another, the freight-house; and on the other two, our apartments.
Our kitchen and the two other rooms were now completed. The
kitchen had no windows, only open spaces to admit the air and
light, and we were often startled in the night by the noise of
thieves in the house, rummaging for food.

At such times, our soldier-cook would rush into the corral with
his rifle, the Lieutenant would jump up and seize his shotgun,
which always stood near by, and together they would roam through
the house. But the thieving Indians could jump out of the
windows as easily as they jumped in, and the excitement would
soon be over. The violent sand-storms which prevail in those
deserts, sometimes came up in the night, without warning; then we
rushed half suffocated and blinded into the house, and as soon as
we had closed the windows it had passed on, leaving a deep layer
of sand on everything in the room, and on our perspiring bodies.

Then came the work, next day, for the Indian had to carry
everything out of doors; and one storm was so bad that he had to
use a shovel to remove the sand from the floors. The desert
literally blew into the house.

And now we saw a singular phenomenon. In the late afternoon of
each day, a hot steam would collect over the face of the river,
then slowly rise, and floating over the length and breadth of
this wretched hamlet of Ehrenberg, descend upon and envelop us.
Thus we wilted and perspired, and had one part of the vapor bath
without its bracing concomitant of the cool shower. In a half
hour it was gone, but always left me prostrate; then Jack gave me
milk punch, if milk was at hand, or sherry and egg, or something
to bring me up to normal again. We got to dread the steam so; it
was the climax of the long hot day and was peculiar to that part
of the river. The paraphernalia by the side of our cots at night
consisted of a pitcher of cold tea, a lantern, matches, a
revolver, and a shotgun. Enormous yellow cats, which lived in and
around the freight-house, darted to and fro inside and outside
the house, along the ceiling-beams, emitting loud cries, and that
alone was enough to prevent sleep. In the old part of the house,
some of the partitions did not run up to the roof, but were left
open (for ventilation, I suppose), thus making a fine play-ground
for cats and rats, which darted along, squeaking, meowing and
clattering all the night through. An uncanny feeling of
insecurity was ever with me. What with the accumulated effect of
the day's heat, what with the thieving Indians, the sand-storms
and the cats, our nights by no means gave us the refreshment
needed by our worn-out systems. By the latter part of the summer,
I was so exhausted by the heat and the various difficulties of
living, that I had become a mere shadow of my former self.

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