Part 25

When Rowan and I got to the Plaza we found the band of the _Florida_ playing in the band-stand--nothing like so well as the Mexican Policia Band, by the way--and hundreds of people, foreigners, Americans, Mexicans, sitting about, taking their lukewarm drinks under the _portales_ of the Hotel Diligencias, whose ice-plant had been destroyed by a shell from the _Chester_. The place swarms with our men, and the buildings looking on the Plaza are all occupied as quarters for our officers. From the bullet-defaced belfry of the newly painted cathedral blue-jackets looked down upon us, and from every roof and every window faces of our own soldiers and officers were to be seen. We walked across to the Municipal Palace, which is also used by us as a barracks. The men of the _Utah_ were answering the bugle-call to muster for night duty. They were of the battalion landing in small boats under heavy fire that first day; they were saved by the cannon-fire from the ships. There were many casualties among their ranks. The men look happy, proud, and pleased, and in all the novel excitement and pride of conquest. I went into the church, where I also found some of our men stationed. Some one had been shot and killed from behind the high altar, two days ago. I fell on my knees, in the dimness, and besought the God of armies.

As we walked along in the older part of the town, _en route_ to the Naval Academy, there were piles of once peaceful, love-fostering, green balconies heaped in the streets. They will be used for camp-fires by our men. Doors were broken in, houses empty. There was a great deal of sniping done from the _azoteas_ (roofs) those first days, and it was necessary, in many cases, to batter down the doors and go up and arrest the people caught _in flagrante_, in that last retreat of the Latin-American.

_Pulque_[17]-shops and _cantinas_ of all descriptions were barricaded, and, looking through the doors, we could see heaps of broken glass, overturned tables and chairs. A sour, acrid smell of various kinds of tropical “enliveners” hung in the still, heavy air--mute witnesses of what had been. We passed through several sinister-looking streets, and I thought of “Mr. Dooley’s” expression, “The trouble we would have if we would try to chase the Monroe doctrine up every dark alley of Latin America.” The big, once-handsome Naval Academy was patrolled by our men, its façade telling the tale of the taking of the town only too well; windows destroyed by the _Chester’s_ guns, balconies hanging limply from their fastenings. We looked through the big door facing the sea, but the patrol said we could not enter without a permit. Every conceivable disorder was evident--cadets’ uniforms lay with sheets, pillows, books, broken furniture, heaps of mortar, plaster. The boys made a heroic stand, and many of them gave up their lives; but what could they do when every window was a target for the unerring mark of the _Chester’s_ guns? Many a mother’s hope and pride died that day for his country, before he had had a chance to live for it. This is history at close range.

I had finally to hurry back, stopping, hot and tired, for a few minutes at the Diligencias, where we had some lukewarm ginger-ale; my sticky glass had a couple of reminiscent lemon-seeds in it. It was getting dusk and Rowan was afraid the sniping might begin. I got into the _Minnesota’s_ waiting boat, feeling unspeakably sad, and was put out across the jeweled harbor--but what jewels! Every one could deal a thousand deaths.

Nelson had a long talk with Admiral Fletcher.... On receipt of orders to prevent the delivery by the _Ypiranga_ of the arms and ammunition she was carrying to the Mexican government and to seize the customs, his duty was solely to carry out the commands of the President in a manner as effective as possible, with as little damage to ourselves as possible. This he did.

I think we have done a great wrong to these people; instead of cutting out the sores with a clean, strong knife of war and occupation, we have only put our fingers in each festering wound and inflamed it further. In Washington there is a word they don’t like, though it has been written all over this port by every movement of every war-ship and been thundered out by every cannon--WAR. What we are doing is war accompanied by all the iniquitous results of half-measures, and in Washington they call it “peaceful occupation.”

Now I must sleep. The horrors of San Juan Ulua (on which our search-lights play continually) will haunt me, I know. The stench of those manholes is rising to an unanswering, starlit sky. May we soon deliver it from itself!

_Saturday Morning._

Captain Simpson came back from shore duty late last night. He is so kind and solicitous for our comfort, that I only hope we are not too greatly interfering with his. He has had his men lodged in a theater, commandeered for the purpose. He went to some barracks first, but fortunately learned in time that there had been meningitis there, and decamped even quicker than he went in. Captain Niblack has taken his place.

The _Minnesota_, on which Admiral Fletcher was when he went into Vera Cruz, is a ship not belonging to any division down here, and is only temporarily in harbor. So she is used for all sorts of disjointed, but important work--distributing of supplies, communications of all kinds. She is more than busy--a sort of clearing-house--during what they call here “the hesitation war, one step forward, one step back, hesitate, and then--side-step.”

The rescue-train goes out through our lines every day under Lieutenant Fletcher, to meet any train possibly arriving from the interior. And, oh, the odds and ends of exasperated and ruined American humanity it brings in!

FOOTNOTE:

[17] One of the most amusing things ever stated about Carranza is that he intends to have the too-popular _pulque_ replaced by light French wines! One can only hope that, while he is about it, he will arrange to replace corn by permanent manna!

XXIV

Dinner on the _Essex_--The last fight of Mexico’s naval cadets--American heroes--End of the Tampico incident--Relief for the starving at San Juan Ulua--Admiral Fletcher’s greatest work.

_“Minnesota,” April 26th._

When Nelson left, as you know, he turned our affairs over to the British, an English-speaking, friendly, great Power, which could and would help our nationals in their desperate plight. Behold the result! Last night we dined on the _Essex_, in our refugee clothes. Sir Christopher, looking very handsome in cool, spotless linen, met us at the gangway with real cordiality and interest.

His first words after his welcome were, “I have good news for you.”

“What is it?” we asked, eagerly. “We have heard nothing.”

“Carden is going to arrange to get out a refugee-train of several hundred Americans on Monday or Tuesday, and I have this afternoon sent off Tweedie [commander of the _Essex_] with two seven-foot marines and a native guide to accompany the convoy down. He is to get up by hook or crook. He will go by train, if there is a train, by horse if there isn’t, and on foot, if he can’t get horses.”

You can imagine the love feast that followed as we went down to dinner. We were proceeding with a very nice piece of mutton (Admiral Badger had sent a fine, juicy saddle over to Sir Christopher that morning) when a telegram came--I think from Spring-Rice. Anyway, the four Englishmen read it and looked rather grave. After a pause Sir Christopher said, “They might as well learn it from us.” What do you think that telegram contained? The news that American interests had been transferred from Sir Lionel’s hands into those of Cardoza, the Brazilian minister! Of course I said to Sir Christopher, “Our government very naturally wants to compliment and sustain good relations with South America, and this is an opportunity to emphasize the fact,” but it was rather a damper to our love feast.

Well, we have taken our affairs and the lives of many citizens out of the hands of a willing, powerful, and resourceful nation and put them into the hands of a man who, whatever Power he represents, has not the practical means to carry out his kind desires or friendly intentions. I doubt if Huerta knows him more than by sight. Washington has made up its mind about Carden and the English rôle in Mexico, and no deeds of valor on the part of Carden will make any difference. Washington won’t have him. Sir Christopher Cradock, here in a big battle-ship in the harbor, is willing and able to co-operate with Sir Lionel, the head of a powerful legation in Mexico City, for the relief of our nationals in sore plight and danger of life; but apparently that has nothing to do with the case. Washington is relentless.

The _Essex_ shows between eighty and ninety “wounds,” the results of the fire from the Naval Academy on Wednesday. Paymaster Kimber, whom they took me in to see after dinner, was in bed, shot through both feet and crippled for life. The ship was an “innocent bystander,” with a vengeance. In Sir Christopher’s saloon, or rather, Captain Watson’s saloon, were hung two slippers (one of pink satin and the other of white) which had been found at the Naval Academy after the fight--dumb witnesses of other things than war. The officers said the Academy was a horrid sight. Those boys had taken their mattresses from their beds, put them up at the windows, and fired over the top; but when the fire from the ships began these flimsy defenses were as nothing. There were gallant deaths that day. May their brave young souls rest in peace. I don’t want to make invidious distinctions, but in Mexico the youngest are often the brightest and noblest. Later there is apt to be a discouraging amount of dross in the gold.

I keep thinking of Captain Tweedie, _en route_ to Mexico City to help bring out American women and children. When he gets there he will find that rescue isn’t any of his business!

Yesterday afternoon the _North Dakota_ came in. We saw her smoke far out at sea, and she was a great sight as she dropped anchor outside the breakwater. I was looking through the powerful glass on Captain Simpson’s bridge. Her blue-jackets and marines were massed in orderly lines, doubtless with their hearts beating high at the idea of active service. Lieutenant Stevens, who was slightly wounded in the chest on Wednesday, came back to the ship yesterday. He is a young bridegroom of last autumn and has been here since January. The “cheerful, friendly” bullet is in his chest in a place where he can always carry it. I understand that when he was wounded he was on the outskirts of the town, and that he and another wounded man, themselves on the verge of collapse, carried an unconscious comrade several kilometers to the hospital. But who shall record _all_ the gallant deeds of the 21st and 22d of April?[18]

_“Minnesota,” April 26th. 3_ P.M.

I witnessed from the deck of our ship, an hour ago, the dramatic end of the Tampico incident, and, doubtless, the beginning of a much greater one--the raising of our flag over the town of Vera Cruz, which was to-day put under martial law. At 1.30 I went up on deck. The bay was like a hot mirror, reflecting everything. Through a glass I watched the preparations for the raising of the flag on the building by the railroad station--an English railway. “Who’s whose now,” came into my mind.

It was a busy scene on shore and land. Admiral Badger passed over the shining water in his barge, a beautiful little Herreschoff boat, shortly before two o’clock, wearing side-arms. His staff was with him. Battalions were landing from various ships and immense crowds stood near the railroad station. There was an electric something in the air. Captain Simpson and his officers, of course, were all on deck, looking through their glasses, and we were all breathing a little hard, wondering what the foreign war-ships would do. Would they acknowledge our salute? Exactly at two o’clock the flag was raised, and immediately afterward the _Minnesota_ gave the famous twenty-one salutes to our own flag, refused us at Tampico. The bay was ominously quiet after the thunder of our cannon. I suppose the foreign ships were all busy cabling home to their governments for instructions. No man could venture to settle that question on his own initiative. It was anti-climax with a vengeance!

Is this to be the end of all that triangular work of Nelson’s between Huerta, the Foreign Office, and Washington during the two weeks elapsing since Colonel Hinojosa’s taking of our blue-jackets out of their boat at Tampico and our leaving the Embassy in Mexico City?

...

This morning I went ashore, accompanied by a young officer, McNeir. We sauntered for an hour or so about the town, which has decidedly pulled itself together. Shops that were heaped with overturned furniture, broken glass, and strewn with dirty papers and débris of every description, visible through shattered windows and broken doors two days ago, had been swept out and were showing signs of normal occupation. New doors were being made, and the little green balconies of peace were being mended. Ensign McNeir suddenly found that he had been spat upon. His broad chest was lavishly embroidered in a design of tobacco-juice, doubtless from an innocent-looking green balcony. He had blood in his eye, and kept glancing about, hoping to find the man that did it.

The Naval Academy was a horrid sight as we went in from the sea-front. In the school-rooms books, maps, globes, and desks were overthrown among masses of mortar. One of the blackboards bore the now familiar words in chalk, _Mueran los Gringos_. Great holes were in floors, walls, and ceilings. When we went up-stairs the devastation was even greater. Our men had fought in the street, and the _Chester_ and _Prairie_ fired over their heads just into the windows of the second floor, where were the commandant’s quarters, and the large, airy dormitories. The dormitories had been rifled before we put a guard over the building, the lockers emptied of their boyish treasures--knives, books, photographs; occasionally a yellow or red artificial rose, a ribbon, or a bit of lace testified to other gods than Mars.

The great floors were ankle-deep in a litter of uniforms, shirts, collars, gloves, letters, brushes, combs, and the like. They had been comfortable, airy quarters, and I suppose now will make good barracks, or headquarters, for _our_ officers. Photographers were busy as we passed through. In the two dormitories giving on the Plaza at the back, away from the ships’ fire, the dying and wounded had evidently been carried. Blood-soaked pillows, mattresses, and sheets bore witness to their agonies. Our men were busy everywhere in the building, sorting, packing, and putting things in order. A town under martial law seemed, this morning, an orderly affair indeed.

I inclose Admiral Fletcher’s “Proclamation to the Public of Vera Cruz,” also his order for martial law. This proclamation will facilitate the functions of government. Many difficulties were in the way of renewing the regular civil and business activities of the town. There is a clause in the Mexican constitution which makes it high treason for any Mexican to hold employment under a foreign flag during enemy occupation, and for once the Mexicans seem to be living up to the constitution.

It is wonderful how our blue-jackets and marines have been able to go into Vera Cruz and perform the complicated, skilled labor necessary to the well-being of a town. Everything, from the ice-plants and tramways to the harbor lighthouse and post-office, has been put in working order; they seem to step with equal facility into one and every position requiring skilled labor. They are a most resourceful set of men, these hatchet-faced, fair-haired youths, the type standing out so distinctly in that tropical setting. I was deeply impressed. Six thousand of them are on land. On the trip down our automobile clutch was damaged. Two blue-jackets looked at it and, though neither had ever been in an automobile before, they brought it back to the Terminal station, several hours later, in perfect order, able and longing to run it about town.

At noon yesterday thousands of arms were delivered to the authorities--a hybrid collection of Mauser guns, old duelling and muzzle-loading pistols. Relics of 1847 were also numerous. For several days there has been little or no “sniping.” One man remarked, “Take it from me, it’s a quiet old town. I walked ten blocks at midnight, last night, without seeing a human being.” I might also add that _I_ know two methods of clearing streets at night rivaling the curfew--snipers, _and_ the press-gang.

“PROCLAMATION TO THE PEOPLE OF VERA CRUZ

“As the aggressions against the soldiers under my command have continued, isolated shots being made from various edifices, and desiring that order and tranquillity be absolutely re-established, I demand that all who have in their possession arms and ammunition give them up at the Police inspection in the Municipal Palace within the shortest time possible. Those who have not done so before twelve o’clock of the 26th of this month will be punished with all severity, as also those continuing hostilities against the forces under my command. On the surrender of arms the corresponding receipt will be given.

“(Rear Admiral) F. F. FLETCHER.

“VERA CRUZ, _April 25, 1914_.”

Yesterday at five o’clock we sent one thousand rations into the starving fort of San Juan Ulua, and to-day our flag flies high above it. All the political prisoners were released. We could see from the deck of the _Minnesota_ two boat-loads of them coming across the shining water and being landed at the Sanidad pier. After that, I suppose, they swelled the ranks of the undesirable without money, occupation, homes, or hopes.

I saw Mr. Hudson, yesterday, looking rather worn. With groanings and travail unspeakable the _Mexican Herald_ is being published in Vera Cruz. He says they have the greenest of green hands to set the type, and the oftener it is corrected the worse the spelling gets, the nights being one long hell. But as most of his readers have a smattering of Spanish and English, with more than a smattering of personal knowledge of the situation, the _Herald_ still is most acceptable as a “breakfast food.”

The Inter-oceanic, the route to Mexico City over Puebla, is being fast destroyed. Mustin in his hydroplane can be seen flying over the bay, reconnoitering in that direction. Puebla is the key to the taking of Mexico City from Vera Cruz. It is always capitulating to somebody. It will doubtless do so to us. In 1821 Iturbide took it. In 1847 it was taken by Scott; in 1863 by the French soldiers of Napoleon. In the battle of Puebla, 1867, there was a furious engagement between Don Porfirio and the French. It is a beautiful old city--sometimes called the “Rome” of Mexico, founded by Padre Motolinía, situated about midway between the coast and the Aztec city. It is crowded with churches and convents, though many of these latter have been put to other uses; however, the point now is when and how our men will reach it. The blue skies and the deep _barrancas_ tell no tales.

_April 28th. Tuesday._

Yesterday afternoon Major Butler came to see us. He is in command at the “roundhouse” of Mr. Cummings’s telegraphic episode, and is decidedly downcast at the idea that some peaceful agreement of a makeshift order will be reached. He is like a hungry man who has been given thin bread and butter when he wants beefsteak and potatoes. He seemed, also, rather embarrassed to be calling on us peacefully, on the _Minnesota’s_ deck, instead of rescuing us after a successful storming of Chapultepec, or a siege at the Embassy.

Yesterday a notice was sent to hundreds of newspapers at home (without my knowledge, of course) that I was getting up a Red Cross nurse corps; but there is no need for it. The _Solace_ is not half full, the hospitals on shore have plenty of room, and the ships’ doctors are not too busy. I had said that if fighting continued I would return from New York with the first corps of nurses that came out. I have a feeling that instead of pushing on to Panama _via_ Mexico and Guatemala we are going to make some patchwork with the A. B. C. combination. It can be only a makeshift, at the best, and in any event will be a reprieve for Huerta, though that is the last thing our government intends. Its heart is given elsewhere.

Last night Admiral Cradock and Captain Watson came to dinner. No mention was made by them of the raising of the flag over Vera Cruz and of the salutes that had so thrilled _us_. I imagine each admiral and captain in port confined his activities during the afternoon to cabling to his home government. The only thing Sir Christopher said on the situation was to mildly inquire, “Do you know yet whether you are at war or not?” Captain Simpson had an excellent dinner, and we played bridge afterward, the starry night concealing the fateful flag above the English railroad terminal.

A belated _norte_ is predicted, but my land eyes see no sign of it. General Funston, of Aguinaldo and San Francisco earthquake fame, arrives this morning. The army, I understand, has more suitable equipment and paraphernalia for the work of occupation, or whatever they call it; but I am unforgettably thrilled by the majesty and might of our great navy.

_April 29th. Morning._

The _norte_ still threatens, but up to now, with falling glass, there has been only a slight stirring of heavy, lifeless air.

Yesterday morning we went on shore at ten, and found the auto before the door of the Terminal station (otherwise Admiral Fletcher’s headquarters). A French chauffeur, risen up from somewhere, was sitting in it. No use inquiring into the genesis of things these days. We took Captain Simpson down to his old headquarters on the _Paseo de los Cocos_. He wanted to see Captain Niblack, who had replaced him in command. Then we drove down through the town to the “roundhouse,” bowing to friends and acquaintances on every side, and feeling unwontedly comfortable and cool.

The roundhouse makes ideal quarters--a huge coolness, with plenty of room for all the avocations of camp life. After wading through a stretch of sand under a blazing sky, we found Major Butler in his “headquarters”--a freight-car--but with both opposite doors rolled back, making the car cool and airy. Two of his officers were with him. He is himself a man of exhaustless nervous energy, and the A. B. C. combination hangs like a sword over his head. He could go forward and wipe up the coast to Panama, if he had the chance, he and his set of dauntless men. A few disconsolate-looking mules and horses were browsing in the dry, sandy grass near by; they had been taken against payment.

“In the good old days in Nicaragua it was otherwise. You _took_ what you _needed_. This government running things is too pious and honest to suit me,” was his disgruntled observation when I asked if the steeds belonged to him.