last, after a voyage of thirteen days, we came to anchor a mile or so
off Port Isabel, at the mouth of the Colorado River. A narrow but deep
slue runs up into the desert land, on the east side of the river's
mouth, and provides a harbor of refuge for the flat-bottomed
stern-wheelers which meet the ocean steamers at this point. Hurricanes
are prevalent at this season in the Gulf of California, but we had been
fortunate in not meeting with any on the voyage. The wind now freshened,
however, and beat the waves into angry foam, and there we lay for three
days on the "Newbern," off Port Isabel, before the sea was calm enough
for the transfer of troops and baggage to the lighters.

This was excessively disagreeable. The wind was like a breath from a
furnace; it seemed as though the days would never end, and the wind
never stop blowing. Jack's official diary says: "One soldier died
to-day."

Finally, on the fourth day, the wind abated, and the transfer was begun.
We boarded the river steamboat "Cocopah," towing a barge loaded with
soldiers, and steamed away for the slue. I must say that we welcomed the
change with delight. Towards the end of the afternoon the "Cocopah" put
her nose to the shore and tied up. It seemed strange not to see pier
sand docks, nor even piles to tie to. Anchors were taken ashore and the
boat secured in that manner: there being no trees of sufficient size to
make fast to.

The soldiers went into camp on shore. The heat down in that low, flat
place was intense. Another man died that night.

What was our chagrin, the next morning, to learn that we must go back to
the "Newbern," to carry some freight from up-river. There was nothing
to do but stay on board and tow that dreary barge, filled with hot, red,
baked-looking ore, out to the ship, unload, and go back up the slue.
Jack's diary records: "Aug. 23rd. Heat awful. Pringle died to-day." He
was the third soldier to succumb. It seemed to me their fate was a hard
one. To die, down in that wretched place, to be rolled in a blanket and
buried on those desert shores, with nothing but a heap of stones to mark
their graves.

The adjutant of the battalion read the burial service, and the
trumpeters stepped to the edge of the graves and sounded "Taps," which
echoed sad and melancholy far over those parched and arid lands. My eyes
filled with tears, for one of the soldiers was from our own company, and
had been kind to me.

Jack said: "You mustn't cry, Matt