A Day in the Presidio
A Day in the Presidio
by Kevin Boerup
In 1775, El Presidio de San Agustín del Tucsón was brand new — a frontier outpost of the Spanish Empire, planted in the northernmost reaches of New Spain. It was a military settlement, not yet a town, and life here was harsh, isolated, and uncertain. Adobe walls and wooden palisades offered the only protection against the wild — Apache raids, desert heat, and the unknown beyond the Santa Cruz River.
Corporal Diego Ortega, a 28-year-old soldier, stationed at the Presidio, was recently transferred from Tubac with his wife and infant daughter. Let’s take a peak at his life then.
4:30 AM – Watch Change
The air is cold before dawn, even in the desert. Inside the thick-walled barracks, Diego wakes on a straw mat laid over packed dirt. He pulls on his uniform and straps on his sword. It’s his turn to relieve the night watch. His wife, Inés, barely stirs. Their daughter is wrapped in a rebozo near the hearth, asleep.
He steps out into the chill. The stars are still out. Tucson is silent except for the rustle of wind and the occasional snort from the corral. The Presidio compound is compact: low adobe walls, a central plaza, officers’ quarters, and a small chapel under construction.
He meets the soldier from the night shift and takes his post along the eastern wall, rifle slung across his chest. Beyond the wall: mesquite thickets, bare hills, and danger.
6:00 AM – Roll Call
At sunrise, the trumpet call sounds. The garrison assembles in the plaza. A Franciscan friar leads a short prayer in Latin, then Mass for those not on immediate duty. Attendance is mandatory — not out of devotion necessarily, but discipline.
Breakfast follows: stale bread, dried meat, maybe atole if there’s maize to spare. Rations are limited. Supply lines are long and slow, and much depends on what they can grow, hunt, or barter from local O’odham villages.
7:30 AM – Patrol Duty
Diego is assigned to a mounted patrol along the Santa Cruz River. His horse is lean and dust-covered, his musket old but reliable. The patrol is small — just four men — and tasked with scouting for Apache movement. Raids are frequent. The Presidio isn’t just a base; it’s a line in the sand.
They ride out under a growing sun, scanning the landscape. On their return, they stop by an acequia — an irrigation ditch dug by soldiers and locals — to check for damage. The Presidio needs every drop of water it can divert to the small fields being carved out near the river.
12:00 PM – Lunch Time
Back at the compound, the heat is brutal. Diego returns his mount to the crude stable, then heads home. Inés has prepared a simple meal: beans, squash, and tortillas made from what little flour they have left. She traded soap for some chile from a Pima woman at the river the day before.
They eat in the shade of their small adobe hut. There’s little privacy, but they’re lucky to have a separate space at all. Most families share quarters with other soldiers. Life here is communal, tight, and practical.
1:00 PM – Labor and Drills
Afternoons are for construction and training. Diego joins a crew rebuilding the palisade on the western side. Adobe bricks are made by hand — mud, straw, and water poured into molds and left to dry in the sun. There’s no shortage of labor, only time.
Other soldiers practice formation drills in the plaza. Spanish command wants a show of force, but this is not Europe. Warfare here is quick, brutal, and usually over before muskets can be reloaded.
5:00 PM – Evening Reports
As the sun lowers, life slows. Soldiers report back to their commanding officer — Captain Hugo O’Conor, an Irish-born Spaniard tasked with organizing the northern frontier. He’s a strict leader, but respected. Reports are brief: no sightings today, fields intact, water flowing.
The friar rings a bell for evening prayer. The chapel is unfinished, just four walls and a wooden cross, but the ritual matters. It gives structure to a life that’s otherwise raw and unpredictable.
6:30 PM – Supper
Supper is quiet. Inés hums a lullaby while rocking their baby. Diego scrapes a pot of stew cooked over mesquite.
They eat by firelight. There’s no glass in the windows, only wooden shutters. Coyotes howl in the distance. The baby cries. Someone’s dog barks from another hut. Diego steps out for a moment, staring across the desert. The stars here are bright — overwhelming. Tucson feels like the edge of the known world.
8:00 PM – Night Watch
Before bed, Diego checks the eastern wall again. The guard detail is small, tired, and nervous. Every soldier here knows the stories — patrols ambushed, settlers gone missing, missions burned. Every night could bring trouble.
Back inside, he lies beside his wife and daughter. There’s no comfort here, only closeness. The future is unclear.
But the Presidio is a foothold. It’s survival. And survival, here in 1775, is its own kind of victory.