"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.
