There was no religious service of any kind,
as Uncle Sam did not seem to think that the souls of us people in
the outposts needed looking after. It would have afforded much
comfort to the Roman Catholics had there been a priest stationed
there.
The only sermon I ever heard in old Camp MacDowell was delivered
by a Mormon Bishop and was of a rather preposterous nature,
neither instructive nor edifying. But the good Catholics read
their prayer-books at home, and the rest of us almost forgot that
such organizations as churches existed.
Another bright winter found us still gazing at the Four Peaks of
the MacDowell Mountains, the only landmark on the horizon. I was
glad, in those days, that I had not staid back East, for the life
of an officer without his family, in those drear places, is
indeed a blank and empty one.
"Four years I have sat here and looked at the Four Peaks," said
Captain Corliss, one day, "and I'm getting almighty tired of
it."
CHAPTER XXVI
A SUDDEN ORDER
In June, 1878, Jack was ordered to report to the commanding
officer at Fort Lowell (near the ancient city of Tucson), to act
as Quartermaster and Commissary at that post. This was a sudden
and totally unexpected order. It was indeed hard, and it seemed
to me cruel. For our regiment had been four years in the
Territory, and we were reasonably sure of being ordered out
before long. Tucson lay far to the south of us, and was even
hotter than this place. But there was nothing to be done; we
packed up, I with a heavy heart, Jack with his customary
stoicism.
With the grief which comes only at that time in one's life, and
which sees no end and no limit, I parted from my friends at Camp
MacDowell. Two years together, in the most intimate
companionship, cut off from the outside world, and away from all
early ties, had united us with indissoluble bonds, - and now we
were to part, - forever as I thought.
We all wept; I embraced them all, and Jack lifted me into the
ambulance; Mrs. Kendall gave a last kiss to our little boy;
Donahue, our soldier-driver, loosened up his brakes, cracked his
long whip, and away we went, down over the flat, through the
dark MacDowell canon, with the chollas nodding to us as we
passed, across the Salt River, and on across an open desert to
Florence, forty miles or so to the southeast of us.
At Florence we sent our military transportation back and staid
over a day at a tavern to rest. We met there a very agreeable and
cultivated gentleman, Mr. Charles Poston, who was en route to his
home, somewhere in the mountains nearby. We took the Tucson stage
at sundown, and travelled all night. I heard afterwards more
about Mr. Poston: he had attained some reputation in the literary
world by writing about the Sun-worshippers of Asia. He had been a
great traveller in his early life, but now had built himself some
sort of a house in one of the desolate mountains which rose out
of these vast plains of Arizona, hoisted his sun-flag on the top,
there to pass the rest of his days. People out there said he was
a sun-worshipper. I do not know. "But when I am tired of life and
people," I thought, "this will not be the place I shall choose."
Arriving at Tucson, after a hot and tiresome night in the stage,
we went to an old hostelry. Tucson looked attractive. Ancient
civilization is always interesting to me.
Leaving me at the tavern, my husband drove out to Fort Lowell, to
see about quarters and things in general. In a few hours he
returned with the overwhelming news that he found a dispatch
awaiting him at that post, ordering him to return immediately to
his company at Camp MacDowell, as the Eighth Infantry was ordered
to the Department of California.
Ordered "out" at last! I felt like jumping up onto the table,
climbing onto the roof, dancing and singing and shouting for joy!
Tired as we were (and I thought I had reached the limit), we were
not too tired to take the first stage back for Florence, which
left that evening. Those two nights on the Tucson stage are a
blank in my memory. I got through them somehow.
In the morning, as we approached the town of Florence, the great
blue army wagon containing our household goods, hove in
sight - its white canvas cover stretched over hoops, its six
sturdy mules coming along at a good trot, and Sergeant Stone
cracking his long whip, to keep up a proper pace in the eyes of
the Tucson stage-driver.
Jack called him to halt, and down went the Sergeant's big brakes.
Both teams came to a stand-still, and we told the Sergeant the
news. Bewilderment, surprise, joy, followed each other on the old
Sergeant's countenance. He turned his heavy team about, and
promised to reach Camp MacDowell as soon as the animals could
make it. At Florence, we left the stage, and went to the little
tavern once more; the stage route did not lie in our direction, so
we must hire a private conveyance to bring us to Camp MacDowell.
Jack found a man who had a good pair of ponies and an open
buckboard. Towards night we set forth to cross the plain which
lies between Florence and the Salt River, due northwest by the
map.
When I saw the driver I did not care much for his appearance.
