Then, too, aside from the story, Mr. Reade was a very
good-looking and chivalrous young army officer. He was returning
to his station in San Diego, and we had this pleasant opportunity
to renew what had been a very slight acquaintance.
The calm waters of the Pacific, with their long and gentle swell,
the pale light of the full moon, our steamer gliding so quietly
along, the soft air of the California coast, the absence of noisy
travellers, these made a fit setting for the story of his early
love and marriage, and the tragic mystery which surrounded the
death of his young bride.
All the romance which lived and will ever live in me was awake to
the story, and the hours passed all too quickly.
But a cry from my little boy in the near-by deck stateroom
recalled me to the realities of life and I said good-night,
having spent one of the most delightful evenings I ever remember.
Mr. Reade wears now a star on his shoulder, and well earned it
is, too. I wonder if he has forgotten how he helped to bind up my
little boy's finger which had been broken in an accident on the
train from San Francisco to Los Angeles? or how he procured a
surgeon for me on our arrival there, and got a comfortable room
for us at the hotel? or how he took us to drive (with an older
lady for a chaperon), or how he kindly cared for us until we were
safely on the boat that evening? If I had ever thought chivalry
dead, I learned then that I had been mistaken.
San Diego charmed me, as we steamed, the next morning, into its
shining bay. But as our boat was two hours late and the
stage-coach was waiting, I had to decline Mr. Reade's enchanting
offers to drive us around the beautiful place, to show me the
fine beaches, and his quarters, and all other points of interest
in this old town of Southern California.
Arizona, not San Diego, was my destination, so we took a hasty
breakfast at the hotel and boarded the stage, which, filled with
passengers, was waiting before the door.
The driver waited for no ceremonies, muttered something about
being late, cracked his whip, and away we went. I tried to stow
myself and my little boy and my belongings away comfortably, but
the road was rough and the coach swayed, and I gave it up.There
were passengers on top of the coach, and passengers inside the
coach. One woman who was totally deaf, and some miners and
blacksmiths, and a few other men, the flotsam and jetsam of the
Western countries, who come from no one knoweth whence, and who
go, no one knoweth whither, who have no trade or profession and
are sometimes even without a name.
They seemed to want to be kind to me. Harry got very stage-sick
and gave us much trouble, and they all helped me to hold him.
Night came. I do not remember that we made any stops at all; if
we did, I have forgotten them. The night on that stage-coach can
be better imagined than described. I do not know of any
adjectives that I could apply to it. Just before dawn, we stopped
to change horses and driver, and as the day began to break, we
felt ourselves going down somewhere at a terrific speed.
The great Concord coach slipped and slid and swayed on its huge
springs as we rounded the curves.
The road was narrow and appeared to be cut out of solid rock,
which seemed to be as smooth as soapstone; the four horses were
put to their speed, and down and around and away we went. I drew
in my breath as I looked out and over into the abyss on my left.
Death and destruction seemed to be the end awaiting us all.
Everybody was limp, when we reached the bottom - that is, I was
limp, and I suppose the others were. The stage-driver knew I was
frightened, because I sat still and looked white and he came and
lifted me out. He lived in a small cabin at the bottom of the
mountain; I talked with him some. "The fact is," he said, "we are
an hour late this morning; we always make it a point to 'do it'
before dawn, so the passengers can't see anything; they are
almost sure to get stampeded if we come down by daylight."
I mentioned this road afterwards in San Francisco, and learned
that it was a famous road, cut out of the side of a solid
mountain of rock; long talked of, long desired, and finally
built, at great expense, by the state and the county together;
that they always had the same man to drive over it, and that they
never did it by daylight. I did not inquire if there had ever
been any accidents. I seemed to have learned all I wanted to know
about it.
After a little rest and a breakfast at a sort of roadhouse, a
relay of horses was taken, and we travelled one more day over a
flat country, to the end of the stage-route. Jack was to meet me.
Already from the stage I had espied the post ambulance and two
blue uniforms. Out jumped Major Ernest and Jack. I remember
thinking how straight and how well they looked. I had forgotten
really how army men did look, I had been so long away.
And now we were to go to Fort Yuma and stay with the Wells' until
my boxes, which had been sent around by water on the steamer
"Montana," should arrive.
