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.
