In 1864 I was on a trip down the Gulf of California, in a small
sail boat and one of my companions was John Stanton. In Angel's
Bay a man whom we were giving a passage to, murdered my partner
and ran off with the boat and left Charley Ticen, John Stanton
and myself on the beach. We were seventeen days tramping to a
village with nothing to eat but cactus but I think I have told
you the story before and what I want to know, is this Stanton
alive. He belonged to New Bedford - his father had been master of
a whale-ship.
When we reached Guaymas, Stanton found a friend, the mate of a
steamer, the mate also belonged to New Bedford. When we parted,
Stanton told me he was going home and was going to stay there,
and as he was two years younger than me, he may still be in New
Bedford, and as you are on the ground, maybe you can help me to
find out.
All the people that I know praise your descriptive power and now
my dear Mrs. Summerhayes I suppose you will have a hard time
wading through my scrawl but I know you will be generous and
remember that I went to sea when a little over nine years of age
and had my pen been half as often in my hand as a marlin spike, I
would now be able to write a much clearer hand.
I have a little bungalow on Coronado Beach, across the bay from
San Diego, and if you ever come there, you or your husband, you
are welcome; while I have a bean you can have half. I would like
to see you and talk over old times. Yuma is quite a place now; no
more adobes built; it is brick and concrete, cement sidewalks and
flower gardens with electric light and a good water system.
My home is within five minutes walk of the Pacific Ocean. I was
born at Digby, Nova Scotia, and the first music I ever heard was
the surf of the Bay of Fundy, and when I close my eyes forever I
hope the surf of the Pacific will be the last sound that will
greet my ears.
I read Vanished Arizona last night until after midnight, and
thought what we both had gone through since you first came up the
Colorado with me. My acquaintance with the army was always
pleasant, and like Tom Moore I often say:
Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy Bright dreams of
the past which she cannot destroy! Which come in the night-time
of sorrow and care And bring back the features that joy used to
wear.
