On the fourth day at noon we camped amid sand and prickly-pear, to brush up and make ourselves presentable to appear before strangers. An hour afterward we drove into the scattering town of Laredo, amid the plaudits of numberless little, half-naked muchachos who never had seen an ambulance, never had seen anything but themselves and the muddy river, and at long intervals a lonely wagon. So they hung on to the traces, ran by the wheels, and caught on behind, at the imminent risk of bodily injury. If they had ever heard of Queen Victoria, they might have thought she was coming to town, for I was the first white woman and my attendant the first black one the generation had seen.
I often think of the days we spent in quaint Laredo—of the old priest who three times a day solemnly issued from his adobe hut and tolled off the hours from the big, harsh-sounding bell that surmounted a tall staff beside the little mud-covered church—of the courtesy and kindness of the women who brought me almost daily presents of little loaves of bread, alas! full of caraway-seed, but sweet and warm from the adobe ovens that were scattered at convenient distances through the village—of the men, wrapped in blankets like Indians, standing aside and giving me a courteous, deep salaam, sombrero in hand, when necessity compelled me to take the quart-cup and go to the public pen for goat’s milk—of the dexterous manner with which said goats were milked, all herded in a crowded pen: the milker fastened his eye on a certain nanny, made a rapid dart, caught her by the left hind-foot, which he secured under his right arm, thereby lifting the struggling creature quite off her legs; with a quick stoop and a few lightning strokes the cup foamed over and Mrs. Goat was released. This trick was repeated with an accuracy and dexterity quite bewildering. All the animals looked alike to me, but the milker never seemed to make the mistake of catching the same one twice. I sometimes stood and watched the whole process, until the froth and foam of my cup settled down, revealing very little milk. Daily I went to the pen, both because I could ask for it in their mixture of Spanish and Indian, and because Delia with her ebony face was such a curiosity as to excite a commotion every time she stepped out of the house, and therefore she was reluctant to go. I need not tell of the hours I sat at the only window of our temporary home, and wrote letters that were never sent, or made entries in a diary that was subsequently lost, while a crowd of inquisitive urchins gathered about, until I was forced to retreat inside and put the writing away; nor of days that I wandered to the bluff, and met long processions of women returning from the river, with curiously shaped jars of water deftly balanced on their heads, or suspended by one hand over the shoulder, and watched other women washing clothes without soap or hot water, by spreading them on rocks over which the waters of the river lapped, and beating and turning and beating them again with queer wooden mallets, while the naked children paddled in and out, diving, ducking, floating, and splashing around as though water was their native element; nor of other days when I stood on the bank to see the long-expected cotton-wagons cross the ford to the Mexican side; nor of the startling rumor that the Federals, who seemed to be sweeping over the country like a swarm of locusts, were rapidly marching up the Rio Grande!
The alarm was premature, but we immediately crossed into Mexico. My husband’s first business venture, when still a youth, was the superintendence of a “stage line” in the West, for which he had a “mail contract.” In Laredo he found one of his old employés, who had drifted there after the war with Mexico, married an olive beauty, and settled down to a life of masterly inactivity. Through his kindly offices we had been able to obtain quite comfortable quarters, but when we crossed to “foreign parts” were not so well housed, albeit we found more life and animation. The frolicsome men of American Laredo, to avoid conscription had emigrated also. Here they amused themselves with feats of horseback-riding and lofty tumbling, some of which were quite astonishing. It was a frequent exploit for a rider to lean over and pick a silver dollar from the ground while his horse was in full gallop under whip and spur. During the annual festival of their patron saint, “Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe,” we walked through the plaza, filled with gaily decked booths, and saw both men and women win and lose bags of money at the gambling-tables with a sang-froid that indicated familiarity with the game.
The repeated rumors of Federal advance soon caused the order to be issued to close the custom-house at Laredo and open one at Piedras Negras, still farther up the Rio Grande, and on the Mexican side of the river, to which point all cotton-trains were now directed. Our Confederate official procured from the Governor of the State of Nuevo Leon an armed escort, and we eagerly embraced the opportunity of safe convoy through that wild and lawless region by joining his party. I presume there were valuables, perhaps specie, in his train, from the extraordinary precautions observed against attack. Away in front of our cortège, the striped serape of the Mexican captain was always visible, fluttering in the wind, as he rode rapidly forward reconnoitring the country, while we followed in single file, surrounded by his armed men. It was a four-days’ journey, if my memory serves me. Sometimes we halted in the middle of the day, scarcely having scored a dozen miles, and sometimes rode until quite dark, in order to avoid dangerous and exposed camping-places.
Arrived at Piedras Negras, the party was directed to the only public building in the town, to which it had been assigned by the courtesy of the Mexican governor, and I believe, also, the only one that boasted a fireplace, a tiny grate in an inconvenient corner, that could hold about two chips and a handful of coals. The weather, though late in December, gave no indications, however, that even a small fire would be necessary for our comfort. The building consisted of one long, narrow room, with a small window, innocent of glass at one end, and two doors opening on opposite sides, one to the narrow, sandy lane that represented a street, and the other to an uninclosed yard, at the extreme end of which a dead dog lay swollen to the size of a calf, but so pure was the air, no odor from the disgusting object—which, of course, was now quickly removed—had invaded the premises. Our building was stucco, with some attempt at ornamentation, in the way of whitewashed walls, with daubs of blue here and there. The floor, of Mother Earth, well trodden and quite smooth, was tesselated with an ever-moving panorama of fleas; here we spread the wagon-cover, and upon some rough boxes, collected with no small cost of energy and money, was placed our still comfortable though long-used ambulance-mattress. Chairs were so scarce that none could be procured; fortunately, I had retained in all our wanderings a little splint-bottomed rocking-chair, brought from Arlington, and this was doubly appreciated as the “woman in the case” was comfortably provided for (when we left Mexico, for the last time, I gave that chair to a friend, and twenty years after, in New Orleans, sat in it again). The scarcity of furniture arose from the fact that the natives, even when in comfortable circumstances, slept on rawhides spread upon the floor, and squatted about in uncomfortable attitudes, oblivious of the luxury of chairs.
In these quarters we remained two months. The accommodating collector gave the room to us entirely at night, but during the day it was his office. There he had a table for his papers and a store-box to sit on, and there he dispatched his business as “collector of the customs for the Confederate States.” That high-sounding title meant a great deal to us then, empty as it is now. Here teamsters were paid for hauling Government cotton to the Rio Grande, and here permits were granted for various purposes. The collector made me feel very important at first, but I was fearfully burdened afterward by his appointing me custodian of the specie. There was no bank, of course, nor any other place of deposit for valuables in Piedras Negras, as the natives to the manor born could carry on their persons without effort everything they owned, clothes and all.
Mexican silver dollars arrived in stout coffee-sacks, consigned to the Confederate officer, to pay cartage. I opened and emptied my only trunk, and the money was rattled in like stones turned from a wheelbarrow, until the trunk was full to bursting; then I locked it, sat on it during the day, and slept on it at night, as it was dragged under the lower edge of our mattress at bed-time. I was almost afraid to wink, the responsibility of my charge so overwhelmed me. Rapidly those clumsy dollars were paid out to big-booted, red-shirted men, with pistols in their belts and fire in their eyes, who tied them in coarse handkerchiefs and heavy stockings, though mostly in bags made of pantaloon-legs. In very many instances the men, not yet ready to start on the home journey—though I was an entire stranger—begged me to keep their bags until called for.
Then traders on their own business intent, Jews, and that class of men of peace always found where there is a chance of money-making, came out of the Confederacy to Piedras Negras, with their precious bags of hoarded gold, en route for the interior of Mexico, to purchase goods.
These wary men quickly learned there was an American woman in town who could be persuaded to take care of their money till they were ready to start. So to the office they came, with courteous though cautious manner, casting keen glances at my face and around the room, asking occasional questions as to its being lonesome in there, if I never went out to walk, or left the place for any length of time. Then they would slyly bring out the inevitable bag from a deep pocket and ask me to keep it “till to-morrow,” adding they had to sleep in their wagons, where it was not safe to keep valuables. Two months I sat on money, slept on money, watched by money, not knowing the amount, the names, nor often the faces even of the trusting depositors.
It was not always spring-like and balmy on that sandy bank. One night we were roused by a knock at the back door, with news that Mr. W—— was frozen stiff in his wagon! There was a shuffling and a rush in the intense cold, the door hastily opened and as rapidly closed on the “good collector,” in a very dazed and half-frozen condition, his overcoat and blanket wrapped about him, yet so benumbed and helpless that he could only move by the aid of two men who supported him. Laying him on the floor, before the “two chips and a handful of coals,” we retired once more to bed. Then came a big bump at the front door. We thought it was a belated native, and that he might as well go home; but another bump and a sharp rattle gave positive indications that he was going no farther. To my husband’s call, “Who’s there?” came the chattering utterance: “Simmes, just arrived; let me in for Heaven’s sake! I’ve got lumbago, and can’t stay out here!” So poor Mr. Simmes was admitted, and, wrapped up like a mummy, he lay as close to the fire as he could. The next morning, when I awoke, our thawed guests had departed. I arose, shook out my skirts, and the toilet was complete.