Overland Tales

by Josephine Clifford

"If it is not a smoke that the Indians are raising for a signal, it must be the major with his party," was Captain Manson's opinion.

To Mr. Grumpet's infinite disgust he could not find time to argue this question with his superior officer, for the arbitrary tones of the bugle called him to the parade-ground, and when he next found time to contemplate the landscape, the major's outfit was already in sight and slowly nearing the camp.

There is nothing martial in the appearance and progress of a military "outfit," unless accompanied by a command: the rough, gaunt mules drawing the dust-covered ambulance or carriage, followed, as the case may be, by one, two, or three heavy army-wagons; the jaded, worn horses of the escort, and the tired-looking, travel-stained men forming the escort, make a decidedly demoralized and demoralizing impression toward the close of a long journey.

The two occupants of the elegant travelling-carriage accompanying this train were in a state of involuntary déshabillé, owing to the sand-storm through which they had passed early that morning, during which the major's hat and a number of Mrs. Stanford's veils and wraps had taken to flight. Marcelita alone, seated beside the driver in the front of the carriage, had sustained no losses; as her rebozo, the only outside garment she possessed, had been so tightly wrapped around her that the storm had vented its fury in vain on her belongings.

Marcelita was one of those moon-faced, good-natured Mexican women we meet with in New Mexico and Arizona. She had probably decided in her own mind—though it was not very deep—that it was just as easy to smoke her cigarritos lounging on the floor of the adobe quarters of Camp Andrew Jackson, earning thereby dos reales per day, and a never-failing supply of frijoles con carne, as it was to perform the same amount of labor in Tucson, where nothing could be earned by it, and the supplies of the dainties just mentioned were by no means certain or unfailing. So Marcelita became Mrs. Stanford's maid. "Tiring-maid," I should have said; only I am very certain Marcelita would have drawn Mrs. Stanford's stockings on her arms, and one of the richly embroidered petticoats over the plainer-made dresses, had the attiring been left to the taste and judgment of this dusky child of the soil.

Captain Manson alone greeted the major and his wife when the train drew up at the commanding officer's quarters, the younger officers discreetly awaiting the morrow to pay their respects. In accordance with true "army spirit," Major Stanford's quarters had been furnished with the best Camp Andrew Jackson could boast of, in the way of household goods and furniture, when it had become known that he was to bring a young wife to camp. Not the officers of the army alone possess this knightly spirit; every soldier in the command is always ready and willing to part with the best and dearest in his possession, to contribute to the comfort or pleasure of "the lady in camp." Major Stanford had not been with his company since the close of the war; still, when the captain courteously inquired whether there was any particular individual in the company whom he would prefer to take into his personal service, the major requested that Holly—who had already been an old soldier, while the major was cadet at West Point—might be sent him.

Holly demonstrated his joy at being thus distinguished by his "old lieutenant;" and on returning to the men's quarters had so much to say about the beauty, grace, and goodness of the major's wife, that the men immediately grew enthusiastic, and before tattoo obtained the sergeant-major's permission to serenade this first lady in Camp Andrew Jackson, providing a sufficient number of instruments could be found. And Mrs. Stanford was awakened from her early slumbers by "music," the first night she spent in this camp.

There are always a number of tolerable musicians to be found among almost any body of soldiers. The One Hundred and First had always been celebrated for the musical talent in the rank and file of its members; and though the Graces and the Muses had been somewhat neglected of late years, they threatened now to take possession of every individual man, with truly alarming fervor. Indeed, Mrs. Stanford's life was made very pleasant at this dreaded outpost in Arizona—albeit in a little, cheerless room, with mud walls and mud floor, carpeted half with soldier blankets half with old tent-cloth. A washstand of painted pine-wood, and a table of the same material in its native color; a bench to match; one or two camp-chairs, and a camp-cot with red blanket—representing a sofa—made up and completed the ameublement of Mrs. Stanford's best room. But there were red calico curtains at the little windows, and a bright rug upon the table; and books, and the thousand little souvenirs and pretty trifles always to be found in a lady's possession, were drawn out of trunks and boxes, and other hiding-places, to give the room a civilized aspect.

Still, it was not pleasant in this close-built room, with the door shut; and open, the sand and reptiles drifted in promiscuously. It became one of Marcelita's chief duties, in time, to examine the nooks and corners of the apartment before closing the door for the night, to make sure that no intrusive rattlesnake had sought admittance, and to shake up pillows and blankets before her mistress retired, to see that neither centipede nor tarantula shared her couch. Otherwise it was tolerable; even young Grumpet was agreeable, though he had not been made post-adjutant, but he was Mrs. Stanford's most favored escort in her rides, and that made up for all other losses and disappointments.