TUCSON TO PRESCOTT.
Tucson we found to be a sleepy old town, of a thousand or so
inhabitants, that appeared to be trying its best to take things
easy, and succeeds in doing so. It was formerly, and is now again,
the capital of Arizona, and the largest town in the territory. It
is reputed to be some two hundred years old, and its appearance
certainly justifies its reputation. It sort of half awoke from its
lethargy one day, when news arrived that our party were _en route_,
at Point of the Mountains, and would reach Tucson next morning.
Arrangements were hastily made to organize a procession, and give
their distinguished visitors a grand reception, with music, speeches,
etc. No doubt it would have been a curious performance, all things
considered. But while its projectors were agitating, and discussing,
and deciding what hour to start, lo! our dusty and jaded teams
trotted into town, and Tucson missed one of its biggest sensations.
No doubt the honorable Committee and their selected orator were much
put out; but others, it is certain, secretly rejoiced.
The town itself is built wholly of adobe, in thorough Mexican or
Spanish style, and its population fluctuated. During the rule of
Maximilian in Mexico, there was a considerable influx of Liberals here
from Sonora, so that the town at one time numbered perhaps fifteen
hundred souls. But with his "taking off," and the rise again of Juarez,
many had returned thither; so that the population was then only about a
thousand or so, as above stated, of whom fully two-thirds or more were
Mexicans, originally or by descent. Its streets are unpaved, and all
slope to the middle as a common sewer, as in Spain. It boasted several
saloons, one rather imposing, and some good stores; but had no bank,
newspaper, school-house, or church, except a rude adobe structure,
where a Mexican padre officiated on Sunday to a small audience, with
much array of lights, images, drums and violins, and afterwards
presided at the customary cock-fight. As specimens of ruling prices,
grain (barley and wheat) sold at $3 per bushel, hay at $40 per ton,
lumber at $250 per thousand, all coin, and other things in proportion.
The lumber came from the Santa Rita Mountains, fifty miles away, and
was poor and scarce at that.
The basis of Tucson's existence, it appears, is the little Santa
Cruz river, which flows along just at the edge of the town, and
irrigates some hundreds of surrounding acres, green just then
(March 13th-18th), with wheat, barley, oats, etc. There is a good
breadth of fine land here, and near here, and the river ought to be
made to irrigate the whole valley. No doubt with proper husbanding
and utilizing of the little stream, thousands of acres might be
cultivated, and the whole region, both above and below Tucson, be
made to produce largely. Peach-trees were in bloom down by the
river side when we were there; the grape, the orange, and the olive
appeared in many gardens; and both climate and soil seemed all the
most fastidious could wish. But Tucson lacks energy and capital, and
besides, it seemed, the Apaches claim original, and pretty much
undisputed, jurisdiction over most of the country there. Merchants
complained that the Apaches raided on their teams and trains _en
route_, and ranchmen that the wily rascals levied contributions
regularly on their live stock, as soon as it was worth anything, and
did not hesitate to scalp and kill, as well as steal, if it came in
their way. Farming or grazing under such circumstances, it must be
conceded, could hardly be called very lucrative or enticing, and the
Tucsonians are entitled to the benefit of this explanation.
The livest and most energetic things, however, that we saw about
Tucson were its innumerable blackbirds, that thronged the few
trees about the streets, and awoke us every morning with their
multitudinous twittering and chattering. How those birds did chatter
and sing, from daylight well on into the morning; and what a relief
they were to the dull and prosy old town! The men and women, wrapped
in their serapes or blankets, sunned themselves by the hour in
the doorways. The dogs and cats, the goats and pigs, slept on in
the streets, or strolled lazily about at will. But these plucky
birds sung on and on, with all the heartiness and abandon of the
robin or mocking-bird in the East; and Tucson should emulate their
intrepidity, and zeal. She should shake off somewhat of the spirit of
Rip Van Winkle, and remember she is under Yankee Government now, and
in the latter half of the nineteenth century.
Tucson already drove a considerable trade with Sonora, and expected
to increase this much, now that Maximilian had subsided. Its main
importance, however, just then, arose from its being the headquarters
of the Military District there, and the chief depot for the several
posts comprising said District. The stores for Camps Lovell, Cameron,
Wallen, Bowie, Goodwin, and Grant, were all received here from Fort
Yuma by contractors' trains, and then re-distributed by army teams
to these posts, respectively, as needed. This made considerable
business, first and last, and rendered the Quartermaster at Tucson
quite an important personage. The route was by sailing-vessels,
semi-occasionally, down the Pacific Coast and up the stormy Gulf
of California to the mouth of the Colorado; thence by cockle-shell
steamers up the aggravating Colorado River to Fort Yuma; and thence
by contractors' teams to Tucson--at a total cost, from San Francisco,
of about _twenty cents per pound, in coin_, for every load of
Government freight thus put down at Tucson. The time consumed was
anywhere from two to four months, depending on the head-winds and
"borers"[22] in the uncertain Gulf, the amount of water or sand
in the Colorado River, and the condition of the roads and Indians
generally up the valley of the Gila. Private freight, of course,
largely followed the same route, _ex necessitate_, and the rates were
simply ruinous to Tucson. Merchants and freighters there claimed,
that the same work could be done, _via_ either Libertad or Guaymas,
instead of Yuma, at a cost of not exceeding seven or eight cents per
pound, coin, and in not more than from twenty to thirty days, from
San Francisco, at the farthest. This, of course, meant steamers from
San Francisco to the Gulf; but a coast-wise line already touched
semi-monthly at Guaymas, and it was thought would also put in at
Libertad, if inducement offered. Libertad lies two hundred miles off,
to the southwest of Tucson, on the Gulf of California, and is a port
not equal to San Francisco or San Diego, indeed; but yet it is not
much behind San Pedro or Santa Barbara, and it seems is of sufficient
advantages most of the year round. It is an open roadstead like the
latter, but is well sheltered from all but southwest winds, and when
these come, there is the broad Gulf for an offing. Guaymas, farther
south, and a hundred miles farther away, is one of the best ports
on the Pacific Coast; and the roads to both are excellent natural
highways, unsurpassed as such in America.
True, both of these ports are in Mexican territory, which was one
of the blunders of our treaty of cession there; but the Mexican
authorities, it was said, were willing and anxious to have us make
use of them, and now that the Imperialists had left Sonora, there
was no difficulty in traversing the country, except from occasional
Indians. Individuals, it was said, already travelled everywhere
alone there, camping out at night with safety; and a train of teams,
with armed teamsters, it was believed, would be invincible against
any aborigines, that would be likely to turn up. At least, this was
Tucson's oft-told story, and the burden of her griefs, when we were
there. What she wanted was to get "inside," or secure access to
civilization, cheap and quick. She had rich copper mines and fair
silver ones, as we ourselves witnessed, only a few miles off; but
these were now all lying idle, because of Apaches, and the excessive
cost and slowness of transportation. This last item, of course,
was the chief one. For cheap and quick transportation would bring
population, stimulate enterprise, develop the country, re-open her
mines, "pacify" or extirpate the Apaches, and release the military
for duty elsewhere. What she specially wanted, just then, was to
get the Government contractors' teams to select either the Libertad
or Guaymas route, instead of _via_ Fort Yuma and the Gila--she did
not care much, which. The wagons returning thither would take her
ores, and surplus grain and wool, down to the coast "and a market"
cheap, rather than go back empty; and thus solve the problem of
her prosperity and growth. Of course, she looked forward to a
transcontinental railroad in time; but, as yet, this was in the dim
future. The chief object of my trip thither was to look well into
these facts, and they were duly reported to the proper Department at
Washington, for its information and action. This change of routes,
it really seemed, would result in a saving of at least _two hundred
thousand dollars, in coin_, to the Government annually; but it may
not have been thought advisable, notwithstanding that, to trust our
line of supplies thus to foreign soil.
South of Tucson, some ten miles, on the road to Tubac and Mexico, on
the banks of the Santa Cruz still, is the famous church of San Xavier
Del Bac, a venerable relic of the former Spanish rule in Arizona. The
road thither leads through dense mesquite and palo verde bottoms,
with water enough in the Santa Cruz to irrigate them all; but, as
yet, they were unbroken by the husbandman. The church itself seems
to have been built about a hundred years ago, and, though abandoned,
is still in a good state of preservation. It is not of adobe, but of
large, red, kiln-burnt brick, rough-coated with a yellowish cement,
that seems well-nigh indestructible. It is cruciform in style,
with thick and solid walls, and its antique front and towers have
originally been profusely decorated with saints, angels, griffins,
etc., in niche or bas-relief, though many of these are now mutilated
or destroyed. Inside it is handsomely frescoed, and was no doubt
once rich in paintings, ornaments, relics, etc., though these have
now mostly disappeared. Its roof seems to be a sort of asphaltum or
concrete, and appears as tight and firm, as when first laid. In one
of the towers, there is still a fine chime of bells, that came no
doubt originally from Castile or Arragon. The age of this church
is variously reported, but from a cursory examination it appeared
to have been erected about the year 1797, although we were shown a
mutilated register of marriages, births, deaths, etc., that began in
1752. This last, however, seemed to antedate the church, as if it had
been in use by the Spanish settlement here in early times, before
they were able to achieve such an edifice. This church was no doubt a
link in the chain of Spanish Missions, that the Jesuits a century or
more ago established, from the City of Mexico to Northern California,
and was abandoned like the rest of them, with the subsequent collapse
of their priestly power. No doubt, in its time, it was the centre of
a considerable community there; but now, only a squalid village of
Papago Indians crouches at its feet, who regard the aged structure
with a superstitious reverence, and will not permit its fine chime of
bells to be removed to Tucson, for fear of Our Lady's displeasure.
The padre at Tucson comes down and says mass occasionally, and
baptizes their young children; but he cannot cajole them out of
their bells, and doubtless they would fight, rather than lose
them. Altogether, this church is now the best and oldest civilized
structure to be found in Arizona. Very slight repairs would fit it
for occupancy and worship again; but, unfortunately, there are no
inhabitants there now to occupy and worship in it, except the Papagos
aforesaid--and as specimens of good clean Christians, they don't
amount to much now-a-days, whatever they were once.
From Tucson, we retraced our steps to Maricopa Wells, reaching
there again March 21st, _en route_ to Prescott; and here had every
prospect of being detained a month or more, by the spring freshets
in the Gila and Salado. While down at Tucson, there had been heavy
rains, and a great melting of snows, on the mountains to the east;
and the usually sluggish, half-dry rivers were now all alive, and
booming. The Gila, especially, had overflowed its banks, and its
whole valley below in many places was inundated. Ranch after ranch
had been swept away, and in several instances the scant inhabitants
had barely escaped with their lives, from its treacherous waters. The
fine mesquite bottom at Gila Bend was reported four feet under water,
and Mr. James' house, corral, etc. there--the finest we saw coming
up the Gila--were all gone. The freshet was said to be the highest
known there for years, and inflicted a loss on the Gila valley alone,
it was alleged, of many thousands of dollars. The road was submerged
or washed out in many places, and all travel to and from Yuma was
interrupted for weeks, except such as could make its way around over
the hills and mesas, by the old Indian trails. Col. Crittenden, with
a column of three hundred men, _en route_ to Tucson and Southern
Arizona, succeeded in getting through to Maricopa Wells in fifteen
days, though we had made it in five. He was accompanied by his wife,
a brave lady and true-hearted Kentuckian, who deserved and received
much praise, for the long and arduous trip she was thus making,
rather than separate from her gallant husband.
These two rivers, the Gila and Salado, lay directly across our path
to Fort Whipple and Prescott, for which we were now bound--Gov.
McCormick and wife to return to their home there, and T. and I to
look after U. S. post-office and military affairs there generally.
They were both, swollen and turbid; nobody had forded them, for a
month; and they were still at freshet height, and rising--without
bridge or ferry. As nothing better could be done, we decided to halt
at Maricopa Wells for a few days, as we could neither get forward to
Prescott nor backward to Yuma, though the delay was most vexatious at
such an out-of-the-world place, where the mail was so intermittent,
and their freshest newspaper more than a month old. We spent the
time in writing up our note-books, and in studying the Pimas and
Maricopas; but the days wore heavily on, with small prospect of the
waters subsiding. Finally, after waiting nearly a week, chafing at
the delay, we heard of a little row-boat owned by a German, down
at the McDowell crossing of the Gila, which it was reported would
suffice to ferry us over, if we took our ambulances well to pieces.
We would then have to mount the boat on a wagon and transport it
thirty miles or so, overland to the Salado, and there repeat the
operation; but this was better, than halting indefinitely at the
Wells. We had been told, there was no boat, available for such a
purpose; but I determined to see what we could do, with this one. Of
course, it would be slow work, and perhaps dangerous, ferrying over
two swollen rivers, by piecemeal thus. But it seemed better, than
being embargoed and flood-stayed here--practically five hundred miles
away from everywhere--and with no news from "inside" or civilization,
for over a month now. As to whether we would succeed, we could only
say _nous verrons_, or _quien sabe_; but meant to try, anyhow.
Accordingly, early March 25th, we said "adios" to our good friends
at the Wells, and, with many thanks for their hospitality and kind
wishes, drove down to the Gila, some six miles away. We found it at
freshet height, perhaps a hundred yards wide, by ten or twelve feet
deep, and running like a mill-race--its tawny waters tossing and
whirling, hither and yon, and overflowing its thither bank for a
long distance. Now and then, as if to enliven the scene further, a
floating mesquite or an uprooted cottonwood would come rushing by,
sweeping all before it. Altogether, I confess, the Gila was not a
very inviting stream, just then, to navigate. But Louis Heller was
there, with his little boat; Prescott was before, and the Wells
behind us; and we resolved to venture over, if possible. His boat
was a mere cockle-shell affair at best, a rude canoe, ten feet long
by three wide, and clumsy at that; but Louis, nevertheless, with
true German grit and skill, managed to make it ferry both us and
our "outfit" safely across, in the course of the day. First, went
our baggage and forage, with the Governor and his lady; then the
vehicles, after being taken well to pieces; then, with much hallooing
and shouting, we forced the mules into the stream, and made them swim
for it. Only two or three got across at first, though the boat led
with a mule swimming behind it, held by a lariat; but these served
as decoys, and the next trip the rest ventured over. There was a
great struggling and whee-haw-ing in the water for awhile, and now
and then a donkey would whirl over or go under, and some landed far
down stream; nevertheless, we lost none, and soon after we ourselves
got safely across. The little tub of a canoe tossed and tumbled very
shakily, when she got out into the current, and for a few minutes
shot wildly down stream; but the strong arm of our sturdy Teuton
mastered the wild waters, and at last brought us safely ashore.
It was nightfall, before we got over, and our ambulances together
again. The next morning early, we put Louis and his boat on a wagon,
and started for the McDowell Crossing of the Salado, some thirty-five
miles away. The Prescott Crossing, several miles below, was reported
impracticable, even with the boat, because of the wide overflow of
the banks there; but we hoped to get over at the McDowell Crossing,
and then follow down the north bank of the Salado, until we struck
the Prescott road again. It was late in the afternoon when we reached
the McDowell Crossing, and the condition of the Salado there was
anything but encouraging. We found it at least three times the size
of the Gila, and with its waters even more swollen and turbulent.
Nevertheless, it was perceptibly falling, and Louis predicted a much
better state of things next morning. This proved to be true; so,
early on the 27th, we began to ferry over again, as at the Gila. But
it was a tedious and delicate operation. The river, as I have said,
was three or four times as wide, and the swollen flood so swift,
that the boat usually landed a quarter of a mile or more below where
it went in. Then we had to drag and pole it back along the opposite
bank, half a mile or so above, whence we could row it diagonally
across to the place of starting again.
It took us two days, to cross the Salado thus, and I need scarcely
say, they were long and anxious ones. We were now in a region infested
by Apaches, and we had to be constantly on the alert to guard against
surprise. Late in the afternoon of the second day, leaving our
teamsters and little escort to get the ambulances together and repack
them, we proceeded up the Salado to Fort McDowell--the commandant there
having heard of our approach, and sent an ambulance to bring us. It was
some fifteen miles, part of the way through a dreaded Apache cañon;
but we passed safely on, though we did not reach the post until after
nightfall. We found the post--the largest and finest in Arizona--short
of rations, and wholly out of forage, as it had been for several weeks,
because of the spring freshets, as it was alleged, though there was
plenty at Maricopa Wells, which it would seem might have been got
there, if we could. This was suggested to the officer in charge, and
no doubt was well heeded. We remained there until the next afternoon,
inspecting the post and its bearings (it seemed admirably located
for its work, well into the Apache country, protecting the valley of
the Salado and the Gila), and then returned to our ambulances at the
Crossing. The next morning, by sunrise, we were up and off, for the
Prescott road--if we could find it. At Fort McDowell, they told us, we
could never reach it. Some said it was thirty miles off--others claimed
it was fifty or sixty, with an impassable country between. The only
thing known definitely was, that there was no road at all down the
north bank of the Salado, though we were sure to strike the regular
Prescott road, if we kept along down that bank of the river far enough,
and could get through. We might meet Apaches anywhere, they said, for
it was one of their favorite tramping grounds, or we might go through
unmolested, depending on circumstances. We had expected to get an
escort of a dozen cavalry-men here, to accompany us to Prescott; but
six cavalry-men, and six mounted infantry-men, were all the post could
spare. The horses of these, though the best on hand, were so broken
down for want of forage, that part were sent back before we got three
miles out; and of the balance, only five went through to Prescott with
us, by extra care and regular feeding with the grain, which we had
taken the precaution to bring along from Maricopa Wells. An army wagon,
with a six-mule team, also from Fort McDowell, furnished transportation
for our escort, as the cavalry-horses successively gave out.
For the first fifteen miles or so, after leaving the Crossing, we
found a well-broken road, used the year before as a hay-road from
the river-bottoms to Fort McDowell. But, ultimately, this ended in a
bend of the Salado, and from there on all was wild and unbroken--a
veritable _terra incognita_. We found the Salado crookeder than a
ram's horn, or a mesquite tree, or anything else that is most crooked
and involved. Laying our course partly by the compass, and partly by
the Salado's fringe of cottonwoods, we struck across from bend to
bend of the river, sure only of one thing, and that was--keeping near
to water. We found the river bottoms, as a rule, thick with chemisal,
relieved here and there by dense mesquite groves, looking in the
distance like old orchards, through which it was almost impossible
to penetrate with ambulance or wagon. Now and then we had to flank a
slough, or flounder through a quicksand, and sundown still found us
pushing along through these bottoms, though we had made fully thirty
miles since morning. We went into camp by the riverside just at dusk,
thoroughly worn out, and not without a degree of anxiety, as we had
crossed a number of Indian trails during the day, though none seemed
fresh. Our animals were well blown, especially the cavalry horses,
and the best we could do for them was a bite of corn, as we had no
hay along, of course, and it was too late to graze them.
The night passed wearily away, but without cause for alarm, and
early next morning we were again on the move. A drive, or rather
struggle, of three miles or so through the mesquite and chemisal,
brought us out to an ill-defined track, bearing away in the supposed
direction of Wickenburg (and so to Prescott), and we resolved to
take that, though certain it was not the regular road. We had heard
of a "cut-off," or by-road somewhere there, made by a Lt. Du Bois
some months before, and we concluded this must be his road. At all
events, we were desperately tired of struggling through the mesquite
and chemisal, and concluded we would follow this track up for a while
anyhow. It was lucky we did; for, after rather too much easting for
the first few miles, it finally struck directly across the Agua Frio,
and came into the true Prescott road near White Tanks. This Agua
Frio, usually one of Arizona's "dry rivers," we found with three
feet of water in it, and bad quicksands beneath that. However, we
discovered a practicable crossing, and soon after nightfall reached
the vicinity of White Tanks, some thirty miles, since morning.
Here we camped by the roadside, glad to have struck the regular
Wickenburg or Prescott road at last, and went supperless to sleep--for
fear our fire, if made, might disclose us to the Indians. We could find
no water for our poor animals, and the next morning would have missed
our accustomed coffee even, had we not taken the precaution to keep
our water-kegs well filled. Of course, we broke camp early, and moved
wearily on to the Hassayampa, some ten or twelve miles, where we halted
to water up and lunch. This Hassayampa, ordinarily, is another "dry
river," like the Agua Frio, but we found three feet or more of water
in it, and bottomless quicksands nearly everywhere. Our road, then
the only road from Southern to Northern Arizona, ran directly up the
Hassayampa, for some twelve or fifteen miles here, using the river-bed
as a roadway, as the only practicable route through the mountains, and
nobody had ventured through for a month or more.
The Hassayampa itself flows through a wild and rocky cañon, with high
precipitous walls on either side; and it was soon apparent, that our
only alternative was either to flounder through its quicksands,
or retrace our steps to Maricopa Wells. The latter was out of the
question, as our rations and forage were both about exhausted, and,
besides, our improvised ferry-boat had returned to the Gila; so
that the only thing left for us was to try the Hassayampa, and get
through, somehow, at all hazards. We had heard of a trail, across
the ridge and over the mountains, by the Vulture Mine, and so into
Wickenburg, by a roundabout course; but a careful reconnoissance
revealed no trace of it. We called a "council of war," and discussed
the "situation," pro and con, with due gravity, and finally decided
that there was nothing for us to do, but to ascend the Hassayampa;
and so, into it we plunged. And, verily, it was a _plunge_. Nothing
but a prolonged flounder, and plunge, from ten A. M. to six P.
M.! Now into the stream; now out on a sand-bank; now deep into a
quicksand; crossing and recrossing, from side to side, to take
advantage of any land--not less than fifteen or twenty times in the
course of the twelve miles! Sometimes a cavalry-man on horseback,
"prospecting" the way for the ambulances, would go down, until
it seemed impossible to extricate him and his horse. Again, an
infantry-man, on foot, would suddenly sink in to his armpits, and
call out to his comrades to come and rescue him. Then an ambulance
would slip to one side, and half of it commence sinking, while the
other half remained on solid ground. Then our six-mule team would go
in, and half of the mules would flounder over the tongue, or turn
a summerset out of the harness, and, perhaps, come near drowning,
before they could be extricated, while the rest would be all right.
Now we would be all ashore, clambering along the rocky walls of
the cañon, to give the ambulances a better chance; and now, all
hands would be out into the water, to start a stalled team, and
then such a whooping and shouting, such a whipping and tugging at
the wheels, one seldom sees equalled. I campaigned with McClellan,
on the Peninsula; I was with Burnside in his Mud Campaign, after
Fredericksburg; we had bad roads down in Tennessee and Georgia, when
after Joe Johnston and Hood. But this tedious and toilsome drive,
through the cañon and quicksands of the Hassayampa, beat all these;
and we never would have got through, had we not had light loads, and
skilful, plucky, magnificent drivers.
As it was, we just managed by good luck to struggle through, and
got into Wickenburg about dusk, with our animals thoroughly blown,
and ourselves pretty well used up. It had taken us just a week,
to come through from Maricopa Wells, usually a drive of a day or
two--or three, at the farthest. But the Gila and Salado were still
unfordable, and we would have been detained at the Wells, probably,
for a fortnight or more yet, had it not been for Louis' boat. We
found we were the first party through in a month, and nobody was
expected to venture the Hassayampa either way, for a month or so to
come. Of course, with such rivers and roads--rivers without either
bridges or ferries, and roads that follow the beds of rivers--our
only conclusion was, that Arizona was in no hurry, for either
population or business; and, I judge, _this_ is about so. She must
bridge her streams, and construct good substantial roads--at least
between all chief points--before she can expect to grow and prosper.
This is fundamental in all civilized communities, and she would have
recognized it long since, had her population been more from the busy
North, than from the indolent, happy-go-lucky South.
FOOTNOTE:
[22] Huge tide-waves at the head of the Gulf.