There was no
bridge then over the Colorado.
The merchant called Jack to one side and said something to him in
a low tone. I was sure it concerned the steamer, and I said:
"what it is?"
Then they told me that news had just been received from below,
that the "Montana" had been burned to the water's edge in Guaymas
harbor, and everything on board destroyed; the passengers had
been saved with much difficulty, as the disaster occurred in the
night.
I had lost all the clothes I had in the world - and my precious
boxes were gone. I scarcely knew how to meet the calamity.
Jack said: "Don't mind, Mattie; I'm so thankful you and the boy
were not on board the ship; the things are nothing, no account at
all."
"But," said I, "you do not understand. I have no clothes except
what I have on, and a party dress. Oh! what shall I do?" I
cried.
The merchant was very sympathetic and kind, and Major Wells said,
"Let's go home and tell Fanny; maybe she can suggest something."
I turned toward the counter, and bought some sewing materials,
realizing that outside of my toilet articles and my party dress
all my personal belongings were swept away. I was in a country
where there were no dressmakers, and no shops; I was, for the
time being, a pauper, as far as clothing was concerned.
When I got back to Mrs. Wells I broke down entirely; she put her
arms around me and said: "I've heard all about it; I know just
how you must feel; now come in my room, and we'll see what can be
done."
She laid out enough clothing to last me until I could get some
things from the East, and gave me a grey and white percale dress
with a basque, and a border, and although it was all very much
too large for me, it sufficed to relieve my immediate distress.
Letters were dispatched to the East, in various directions, for
every sort and description of clothing, but it was at least two
months before any of it appeared, and I felt like an object of
charity for a long time. Then, too, I had anticipated the fitting
up of our quarters with all the pretty cretonnes and other
things I had brought from home. And now the contents of those
boxes were no more! The memory of the visit was all that was left
to me. It was very hard to bear.
Preparations for our journey to Camp MacDowell were at last
completed. The route to our new post lay along the valley of the
Gila River, following it up from its mouth, where it empties into
the Colorado, eastwards towards the southern middle portion of
Arizona.
CHAPTER XXIV
UP THE VALLEY OF THE GILA
The December sun was shining brightly down, as only the Arizona
sun can shine at high noon in winter, when we crossed the
Colorado on the primitive ferryboat drawn by ropes, clambered up
into the great thorough-brace wagon (or ambulance) with its dusty
white canvas covers all rolled up at the sides, said good-bye to
our kind hosts of Fort Yuma, and started, rattling along the
sandy main street of Yuma City, for old Camp MacDowell.
Our big blue army wagon, which had been provided for my boxes and
trunks, rumbling along behind us, empty except for the camp
equipage.
But it all seemed so good to me: I was happy to see the soldiers
again, the drivers and teamsters, and even the sleek Government
mules. The old blue uniforms made my heart glad. Every sound was
familiar, even the rattling of the harness with its ivory rings
and the harsh sound of the heavy brakes reinforced with old
leather soles.
Even the country looked attractive, smiling under the December
sun. I wondered if I had really grown to love the desert. I had
read somewhere that people did. But I was not paying much
attention in those days to the analysis of my feelings. I did not
stop to question the subtle fascination which I felt steal over
me as we rolled along the smooth hard roads that followed the
windings of the Gila River. I was back again in the army; I had
cast my lot with a soldier, and where he was, was home to me.
In Nantucket, no one thought much about the army. The uniform of
the regulars was never seen there. The profession of arms was
scarcely known or heard of. Few people manifested any interest in
the life of the Far West. I had, while there, felt out of touch
with my oldest friends. Only my darling old uncle, a brave old
whaling captain, had said: "Mattie, I am much interested in all
you have written us about Arizona; come right down below and show
me on the dining-room map just where you went."
Gladly I followed him down the stairs, and he took his pencil out
and began to trace. After he had crossed the Mississippi, there
did not seem to be anything but blank country, and I could not
find Arizona, and it was written in large letters across the
entire half of this antique map, "Unexplored."
"True enough," he laughed. "I must buy me a new map."
But he drew his pencil around Cape Horn and up the Pacific coast,
and I described to him the voyages I had made on the old
"Newbern," and his face was aglow with memories.
