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.
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