Part 27
General Funston said he had a little daughter, Elizabeth, born to him the day he arrived in Vera Cruz. He also told us he had been routed out of bed, one night, by extras, saying “O’Shaughnessy Assassinated! _Prairie_ Sunk!” and he felt that the moment of departure might, indeed, be near. He gave N. an historic pass to go between the lines at any time, and we left soon afterward, as it was nearing the hour for the officers to go to the function on the Sanidad pier--“a little Funston,” as Captain Huse called it. I shook hands with them all and wished the general “Godspeed to the heights.” Whatever is necessary, he and his strong, faithful men will do. We walked through the hot, white streets to the Plaza, and were soon overtaken by General Funston and his chief of staff, riding in a disreputable _coche_ drawn by a pair of meager gray nags. I believe the navy arrived on the scene in our smart auto. A few minutes later I saw the general, in his khaki, standing by Admiral Fletcher, who was in immaculate white on the Sanidad pier.
Then began the wonderful march of six thousand blue-jackets and marines back to their ships. The men had had their precious baptism of fire. As ship’s battalion after battalion passed, there was cheering, lifting of hats to the colors, and many eyes were wet. The men marched magnificently, with a great, ringing tread, and made a splendid showing. If the old Indian on the hill could have seen them he would have recognized all the might and majesty of our land and the bootlessness of any struggle. The passing of the troops and their embarkment took exactly thirty-seven minutes. They seemed to vanish away, to be dissolved into the sea, their natural element. For a moment only the harbor looked like some old print of Nelsonian embarkings--Trafalgar, the Nile, Copenhagen, I know not what! The navy flowed out and the army flowed in. There were untold cinematograph and photograph men, and the world will know the gallant sight. N. stood with Admiral Fletcher and General Funston.
Sometimes, alone in Mexico City, with the whole responsibility of the Embassy on his Shoulders, N. would be discouraged, and I, too, fearful of the ultimate end. Had I realized the might and magnificence of the navy represented in the nearest harbor, ready and able to back up our international undertakings and our national dignity, I think I would never have had a moment’s despondency. I said something of this to Captain Simpson, and he answered, “Yes, but remember you were in the woods.”
Admiral Busch took us back to the _Minnesota_, where we arrived in time to see the returned men drawn up on the decks to be inspected by Captain Simpson, who gave them a few warm, understanding words of commendation. Some were missing. Peace to them!
_Later._
We went again on shore, leaving Nelson at the _Carlos V._, to return the call of the Spanish captain in Mexico City. I was so tired out with the sun and the long day that I stayed in the small boat. I simply had not the nervous energy to climb the gangway and go on board, though I would have liked to see the ship. After the visit we went and sat under the _portales_ of the Diligencias for an hour or so, to watch the busy scene. The ice-plant of the Diligencias was not yet in working order, so the usual dirty, lukewarm drinks were being served to disgusted patrons. In the Palacio Municipal, the Second Infantry regiment was quartered, and under its _portales_ they had put up their cook-stoves and were preparing their early evening meal, before going to their night-work on the outposts. Several dozen fat, sleek, well-dressed Mexicans were being shoved off at the point of three or four bayonets. I asked Ensign McNeir why it was, and he said:
“Oh, that is the bread-line. They can’t be bothered with it now.” The “bread-line,” which at times probably includes one-third of the population of Vera Cruz, had evidently had good success at other points, and had been enjoying a workless, well-fed day; for its members had disposed themselves comfortably on bench or curb of the Plaza, and listened to the strains of the “Star-spangled Banner,” “Dixie,” and “The Dollar Princess”--provided for their entertainment by the thoughtful, lavish invaders. Even the little flower-girls seemed to have on freshly starched petticoats; the bright-eyed newsboys had clean shirts, and the swarming bootblacks looked as spruce as their avocation permitted. A sort of millennium has come to the city; and money, too, will flow like water when pay-day comes for the troops.
Richard Harding Davis came up to our table. His quick eye misses nothing. _If_ there is anything dull to record of Vera Cruz, it won’t be dull when it gets to the world through that vivid, beautiful prose of his. We teased him about his hat, telling him there had been many loud bands in town that day, marine bands, army bands, and navy bands, but nothing quite as loud as his blue-and-white polka-dot hat-band. We said he could be spotted at any distance.
He answered, quite unabashed: “But isn’t recognition what is wanted in Mexico?”
Jack London also came up to speak to us. Burnside, his hair closely cropped and his heart as warm as ever, sat with us during the many comings and goings of others. Captain Lansing, a very smart-looking officer, had recently been transferred from the pomp and circumstance of Madrid, where he had been military _attaché_, to the jumping-off place of the world, Texas City. He said that after a year in the dust or mud and general flatness and staleness of that place, Vera Cruz seemed a gay paradise. Lieutenant Newbold, from Washington, and many others, were also presented. They all looked so strong, so sound, so eager. I think eagerness is the quality I shall best remember of the men at Vera Cruz. Burnside walked back to the boat with us, the tropical night falling in that five minutes’ walk. General Funston’s first official orders were already up with the formal notification of his authority:
Headquarters United States Expeditionary Forces.
VERA CRUZ, _April 30th, 1914_.
GENERAL ORDER No. 1
The undersigned, pursuant to instructions from the President of the United States, hereby assumes command of all the United States forces in this city.
FREDERICK FUNSTON, Brig. Gen. U. S. Army Commanding.
Already in those short hours since the army “flowed” in, the soldiers had installed themselves as though they had been there forever. In the dusk we saw their tents stretched, their bake-ovens up, and the smell of fresh bread was mingled with the warm sea odors. It was “efficiency” indeed.
_May 3d._
This morning the news that Mr. Bryan will not permit any fighting during the period of armistice and mediation will dampen much of the eagerness I mentioned.
The full complement of the blue-jackets being again on board, there is a lively sound of ship-cleaning going on. Everything seemed immaculate before. We have been so comfortable, so cool, so well looked after in every way on this man-of-war. But I shall not soon forget the face of the young officer just home from outpost duty who discovered that my French maid was occupying his cabin!
Last night, as we sat talking on the deck, looking out over the jeweled harbor, the gentle, peaceful bugle-call to “taps” sounded suddenly from San Juan Ulua. A big light hung over the entrance to Captain Chamberlain’s quarters. It is balm on my soul that the pest-hole of centuries is open to the sun and light, the bolts hanging slack, and comparative peace and plenty everywhere. I say comparative peace, because those imprisoned for murder and foul crimes are still to be dealt with. When I first visited the prison under the Mexican flag Captain McDougall and I asked the sentry who showed us around if there had been many executions lately.
He answered, “Since _Thursday_” (this was Sunday) “_only_ by order of the colonel!” Whether this was true or not I don’t know; but the guard gave it out with the air of one making an ordinary statement. Captain McDougall asked because, from the _Mayflower_, anchored almost where we now are, he had heard many a shot at night and in the early morning.
Immediately after dinner we had gone up on deck. A delicious breeze was turning and twisting through the soft, thick, tropical night. Every night a large screen is put up on the after part of the ship, and the officers and crew gather to watch the “movies,” seating themselves without distinction of rank. The turrets are garlanded with men; even the tops of the mast had their human decorations. It was most refreshing, after the hot, historic day, to sit quietly on the cool, dim deck and watch the old tales of love, burglars, kidnapping, and kindred recitals unroll themselves from the films. But it was more beautiful later on, as we sat quietly on the deck in the darkness, watching the wondrous scene about us. A thousand lights were flashing across the water, catching each dark ripple. The “city of ships,” as I call Vera Cruz harbor, is constantly throwing its flash-lights, its semaphores, its signalings of all kinds, and water and sky reflect them a hundredfold.
Just after the peaceful sounding of “Taps” from the fortress, Admiral Fletcher and Captain Huse came on board to pay us a farewell visit. Admiral Fletcher’s courtesy is always of the most delicate kind, coming from the depths of his kind heart and his broad understanding of men and life. He and N. walked up and down the deck for a while, planning about our getting off. He intends that the _chargé_ shall depart from Mexican waters with all fitting dignity. After a warm handclasp he and Captain Huse went off over the summer sea. Standing at the rail, we watched the barge disappear into a wondrous marquetry design of darkness and light, and knew that some things would never be again.
Later we got the inclosed radio from the _Arkansas_, Admiral Badger’s flag-ship, to say the _Yankton_ would be put at our disposal on the morrow to take us to our native shores, and so will the story end. I am homesick for my beautiful plateau and the vibrant, multicolored life I have been leading. _Adelante!_ But I have little taste for dinners, teas, and the usual _train-train_, though a few expeditions to dress-makers and milliners will be profitable to me as well as to them. As you know, I had no time to have my personal things packed at the Embassy, and what I did bring with me reposed for twenty-four hours on the sand-dunes at Tejería, between the Mexican lines and ours. My big yellow trunk is reported at the Terminal station. What is left in it will be revealed later. They may not call it war in Washington, but when a woman loses her wardrobe she finds it difficult to call it peace. N.’s famous collection of boots, forty or fifty pairs, evidently left those sand-dunes on Aztec or mestizo feet. My silver foxes and other furs I don’t worry about. Under that blistering sky and on that hot, cutting sand they could offer no temptations.
Joe Patterson has just been on board. He came down with the army on the transport _Hancock_, _sui generis_, as usual, his big body dressed in the loosest of tan coverings. He is always electric and interesting, running with a practised touch over many subjects. He said he wanted not an interview with N. for his newspaper (which would finish N. “dead”), but to make some account that would interest the public and not get him (N.) into trouble. I shall be interested to see what he does. The boresome news of the armistice has made him feel that he wants to get back, and I dare say there will be many a departure. Nelson will not allow himself to be interviewed by a soul. It is impossible to please everybody, but, oh, how easy it is to _dis_please everybody!
XXVI
Homeward bound--Dead to the world in Sarah Bernhardt’s luxurious cabin--Admiral Badger’s farewell--“The Father of Waters”--Mr. Bryan’s earnest message--Arrival at Washington--_Adelante!_
_Sunday, May 3d._
I am writing in the depths of my cabin on the yacht _Yankton_, which is carrying us to New Orleans as the crow flies--a special trip for the purpose. In another walk of life the _Yankton_ was known as _La Cléopâtre_, and belonged to Sarah Bernhardt. Now I, much the worse for wear, occupy her cabin. She has never brought a representative of the United States from the scene of war before, but she is Admiral Badger’s special ship, carries mails, special travelers, etc., and went around the world with the fleet. The fleet met a typhoon, and all were alarmed for the safety of the _Yankton_, which emerged from the experience the least damaged of any ship. I can testify that she rides the waves and that she even jumps them. Admiral B. says that in harbor he uses her chiefly for court-martials. Now I am here. Life is a jumble, is it not?
At five o’clock, on Friday, May 1st, we said good-by to dear Captain Simpson and all the luxurious hospitality of the _Minnesota_, Commander Moody and the officers of the day wishing us “Godspeed.” Just as we were leaving Captain Simpson told us that he had been signaled to send five hundred rations to San Juan Ulua. As we pushed off across the water, accompanied by Ensign Crisp, the boat officer of the day, great patches of khaki colored the shores of the town. They were squads of our men, their tents and paraphernalia, the color coming out strong against Vera Cruz, which had an unwonted grayish tone that afternoon. The _Yankton_ was lying in the outer harbor, surrounded by battle-ships, dreadnoughts, and torpedo-boats--a mighty showing, a circle of iron around that artery of beautiful, gasping Mexico. It was about quarter before six when we reached the _Yankton_. As I looked about I seemed to be in a strange, gray city of battle-ships. Shortly afterward Admiral Badger put out from his flag-ship, the _Arkansas_, to say good-by to us. He came on board, greeting us in his quick, masterful way. Such power has rarely been seen under one man as that huge fleet represented in Vera Cruz harbor, and the man commanding it is fully equal to the task; he is alert, with piercing blue eyes, very light hair gone white, and a clean, fresh complexion--the typical mariner in a high place. I think he feels entirely capable of going up and down the coast and taking all and everything, even the dreaded Tampico, with its manifest dangers of oil, fire, disease, and all catastrophes that water can bring. He spoke of the thirty thousand Americans who have already appeared at our ports, driven from their comfortable homes, now destitute, and who can’t return to Mexico until we have made it possible.... I imagine he strains at the leash. He loves it all, too, and it was with a deep sigh that he said, “Unfortunately, in little more than a month my time is up.” But all endings are sad. Great bands of sunset red were suddenly stamped across the sky as he went away, waving us more good wishes.
Captain Joyce, who had gone into town to get us some special kind of health certificate to obviate any quarantine difficulties, came on board a little later, and soon after his return we were under way. The quick, tropical night began to fall. What had been a circle of iron by day was a huge girdle of light pressing against Mexico, as potent under the stars as under the sun. My heart was very sad.... I had witnessed a people’s agony and I had said an irrevocable farewell to a fascinating phase of my own life, and to a country whose charm I have felt profoundly. Since then I have been dead to the world, scribbling these words with limp fingers on a damp bit of paper. This jaunty yacht is like a cockle-shell on the shining waters. Admiral Fletcher and Admiral Cradock sent wireless messages, which are lying in a corner, crumpled up, like everything else.
I said to Elim, lying near by in his own little sackcloth and ashes, “Yacht me no yachts,” and he answered, “No yachts for me.” Later, recovered enough to make a little joke, he said he was going to give me one for a Christmas present.
I said, “I will sell it.”
He answered, “No, sink it. If we sell it dey’ll invite us--dey always do.” He looked up later, with a moan, to say, faintly, “I would rather have a big cramp dan dis horriblest feeling in de world.”
This is, indeed, _noblesse oblige_! I have suffered somewhat, perhaps gloriously, for _la patria_, and I suppose I ought to be willing to enact this final scene without bewailings; but I have been buried to the world, and the divine Sarah’s cabin is my coffin. If such discomfort can exist where there is every modern convenience of limitless ice, electric fans, the freshest and best of food, what must have been the sufferings of people in sailing-ships, delayed by northers or calms, with never a cold drink? I envelop them all in boundless sympathy, from Cortés to Madame Calderon de la Barca.
_U. S. S. “Yankton.” May 4th. 3.30._
Awhile ago I staggered up the hatchway, a pale creature in damp white linen, to once more behold the sky, after three cribbed and cabined days. A pilot’s boat was rapidly approaching us on the nastiest, yellowest, forlornest sea imaginable. I felt that I could no longer endure the various sensations animating my body, not even an instant longer. Then, suddenly, it seemed we were in the southwest passage of the great delta, out of that unspeakable roll, passing up the “Father of Waters”--the abomination of desolation. Even the gulls looked sad, and a bell-buoy was ringing a sort of death-knell. Uniformly built houses were scattered at intervals on the monotonous flat shores, where the only thing that grows is tall, rank grass--whether out of land or water it is impossible to say. These are the dwellings of those lonely ones who work on the levees, the wireless and coaling stations, dredging and “redeeming” this seemingly ungrateful land, stretching out through its flat, endless, desolate miles.
The water is yellower than the Tiber at its yellowest, and no mantle of high and ancient civilization lends it an enchantment. The pilot brought damp piles of papers on board, but I can’t bear to read of Mexican matters. Whether Carranza refuses flatly our request to discontinue fighting during the mediation proceedings, or a hasty New York editor calls Villa “the Stonewall Jackson of Mexico,” it is only more of the same. My heart and mind know it all too well.
I have a deep nostalgia for Mexico; even for its blood-red color. Everything else the world can offer will seem drab beside the memory of its strange magic.
A radio came from Mr. Bryan at six this morning requesting N. to observe silence until he has conferred in Washington. But N. had already made up his mind that _silentium_ would be his sign and symbol. Unless we get in at the merciful hour of dawn he will be besieged by reporters. A word too much just now could endlessly complicate matters for Washington.
We are slipping up broad, mournful, lake-like expanses of water. From time to time a great split comes, and it seems as if we had met another river, seeking another outlet. More white and gray houses show themselves against the tall, pale-green, persistent grasses and the yellow of the river. They are lonely, isolated homes, wherein each family earns its bread in the sweat of its brow by some kind of attendance on the exacting “Father of Waters”--mostly, trying to control him.
_6.45_ P.M.
We have just slipped through quarantine like a fish. Our own extraordinary orders and two or three telegrams from Washington, with orders not to hold us up, made it an easy matter. We saw the _Monterey_, which had arrived in the morning, with six hundred and twenty-three passengers aboard, moored at the dock. The women and children were to sleep in screened tents on land. Many of them were refugees from Mexico City itself, and they cheered and waved, as we passed by, and called “O’Shaughnessy! O’Shaughnessy!”
The refugees, according to the copy of the _Picayune_ the health officers left us, are loud in praise of Carden, saying their escape is due to him and not to the State Department, and giving incidental cheers for Roosevelt. Dr. Corput is a martinet; but though he was hot and decidedly wilted about the collar when his six-foot-two person came into the saloon where we were dining, he looked highly competent. It will be a bright microbe that gets by him. He, with his yellow flag, is lord and master of every craft and everything that breasts this river.
The whole question of guarding the health of the United States at this station is most interesting. It is one of the largest in the world, but is taxed to its utmost now by the thousands of refugees from Mexico, most of them cursing the administration, as far as I can gather, during the hundred and forty-five hours of travel since leaving Mexico. The quarantine station itself, under the red, late afternoon sun, looked a clean, attractive village, supplemented by rows of tents. There are immense sterilizers in which the whole equipment of a ship can be put, huge inspection-rooms, great bathing-houses, and a small herd of cattle. It is sufficient to itself. Nothing can get at the inmates, nor can the inmates, on the other hand, get at anything. I should say that the wear and tear of existence would be materially lessened during the one hundred and forty-five hours. The great ships that pass up now are laden with people who have been exposed to every imaginable disease in the Mexican _débâcle_. You remember the small-pox outbreak in Rome, and how _that_ microbe was encouraged! Well, _autre pays, autre mœurs_. The Indian, however, thinks very little more of having small-pox than we think of a bad cold in the head.
_10_ P.M.
We have been going up-stream very quietly, in this dark, soft night, zigzagging up its mighty length to avoid the current. Sometimes we were so near the shores we could almost touch the ghostly willow-trees; while mournful, suppressed night noises fell upon our ears. The mosquitoes are about the size of flies--not the singing variety, but the quiet, biteful kind. My energies are needed to keep them off, so good night; all is quiet along the Mississippi. We have ninety miles from quarantine to New Orleans.
_May 5th._ _In the train, going through Georgia and North Carolina._