[Illustration: ADMIRAL F. F. FLETCHER]
I went back to the Consulate to have a little talk with Mr. Lind, then
got into the Maass auto, which was waiting at the Consulate door, and
proceeded to pay my respects to Señora Maass. General Maass has a
breezy house at the barracks at the other end of the town, in front of
the rather dreary Alameda, with its dusty palms and dry fountain and
general wind-swept appearance. An endless time of parleying followed.
My Spanish, after a long day, gets tired like myself. However, I saw
them all--daughters, and nieces, and friends, and the parrot and the
dog; the beasts were most useful conversationally. Then the family sang
and played, and one of the daughters, pretty, with a clear soprano,
gave me a good deal of Tosti. Then more talk. I was getting desperate,
no move being made to a large, well-spread, absolutely unavoidable,
preordained table in the corner. I finally said that Captain Niblack,
who was leaving for the United States in the morning, was waiting for
me to go to the _Michigan_. That broke through the tea _impasse_, and,
after partaking of the collation, I finally got away, escorted on
General Maass’s arm to “my” automobile.
I arrived at the Consulate, hot and tired, and without the sustaining
feeling that “duty is a well-spring in the soul.” I was thankful to
find myself at last in the _Michigan’s_ boat with Captain Niblack and
Nelson, going out across a bay of wondrous sunset effects--“twilight
and evening hour and one last call for me.” It was a marvelous
“crossing the bar.” Looking back, the outline of the Pico de Orizaba
made a soft violet mass against the deepening sky, with a strange, red
lighting up of the top. The bay was filled with ships of destruction
from all over the world, but everything in nature for once was soft
and merciful and seemed to dissolve and harmonize discordant and
destructive meanings.
The _Michigan_ is a huge ship, one of the first dreadnaughts, and
Captain Niblack is both enthusiastic and earnest about his work. After
a glass of something--for a lady inclined to temperance I have drained
many pleasant cups to their cheerful lees these days--we all went over
to the _Chester_, a ship of the scout type, that had just returned
with Mr. Lind from the Pass Christian trip. There we picked up Captain
Moffett--who also insisted on decocting something sustaining--and
then turned shoreward, where Mr. Lind was giving another dinner for
us, under the _portales_ of the Diligencias. It was quite dark, but
a thousand lights from a hundred boats made the harbor one vast
jewel--not in the “Ethiop’s ear,” but in Mexico’s poor, battered, torn
ear. At half after nine, after another pleasant dinner, I began to
feel that my bed would be my best friend, and we went back to the car,
through the quiet, well-lighted streets. Women were leaning over the
little green balconies of the little pink houses in the classic Spanish
style, with here and there a note of guitar or mandolin. I thought of
the “Goyas” in the Louvre.
VERA CRUZ, _January 10th, 6.30_ P.M.
Home to rest a little before dressing for Admiral Fletcher’s dinner
to-night, for which we decided to stay over. We spent the morning on
the _Michigan_, Captain Niblack giving us an early luncheon, as he
expected till noon to start for New York at one o’clock. The officers
and crew were full of anticipations of home. Then the _Minnesota_,
which had arrived in the morning, expecting to replace the _Michigan_,
found orders awaiting her to coal immediately for a trip to Panama.
Captain Simpson, her commander, had rushed in for lunch with Captain
Niblack, and there got the wireless. Captain N. hated to tell the
officers and the crew that after all the months of waiting at Vera Cruz
they were not to leave, their hearts had been beating so high. The
crews are never allowed ashore for fear of complications, and it is no
light task to keep the thousands of sailors and marines in Vera Cruz
harbor well occupied and content within the compass of their ships.
They are, I can testify, magnificently fed. At lunch Captain Niblack
ordered for us some of the soup the men were having, a delicious bean
soup with pieces of sweet pork; also the meat served us was the same as
theirs--a juicy, tender steak such as I couldn’t get in Mexico City for
love or money. I also got the printed menu for the week, three full,
varied meals a day. Judging from that and the samples tasted they have
first-class fare, and all at an expense of thirty cents a day for each
man.
We had taken on board with us Wallace, the moving-picture man, who had
come with a letter to N. from John Bassett Moore. Captain Niblack had
the drill, salutes, etc., for N. on leaving the boat, so I suppose that
brief episode of our career will be duly chronicled in our native land.
After leaving the _Michigan_ we went again to the _Chester_, and sat on
deck for an hour or so with Captain Moffett, who had many interesting
things to tell about the Tampico fight. A heavenly breeze was blowing.
Salutes were fired as usual when we left. Some one made the little joke
that they could “hear us walking all over the harbor.” Going from one
ship to another, as we have been doing for three days, I have received
a tremendous impression of the might and glory of our navy, and of the
noble, clean, and wise lives which must be led by the men who command
the ships.
AT ORIZABA, _(the Next Morning), January 11th, 10.30_.
Well, traveling in Mexico in revolutionary times is _all_ that it is
supposed to be! The rebels have destroyed the track at Maltrata ahead
of us, sacked and burned fourteen provision-cars, damaged a bridge,
and, officials say, we are held up until to-morrow. It is the first
time anything has happened on this road, though all the other lines in
Mexico have been cut times without number. Maltrata, above which the
damage has been done, is the site of the most delicate and difficult
engineering-work on the line and a tempting spot for havoc.
I am staying in my state-room, worn out with the comings and goings of
the last three days. A drizzling rain is falling, the results of the
norther at Vera Cruz. Orizaba is known politely as the watering-pot of
Mexico. I say “politely,” as against a somewhat similar name which you
will remember is applied to Rouen. N. is disgusted at not getting back
to Mexico City, and I dare say the town is full of all sorts of rumors
about us. He has just been to see the train-master, who has simply had
orders to await instructions; no tickets are to be sold further than
Orizaba.
I am glad of these moments for a little word with my precious mother.
Last night the admiral’s dinner was most agreeable. The Military
Commander Maass and his wife were there, Admiral Cradock with two of
his officers, Mr. Lind, the Consul, Yates Stirling, and others of the
admiral’s staff. I sat on Admiral Fletcher’s left, with Maass next to
me. The conversation was in Spanish, and I worked hard; I told the
admiral that I deserved a trip to Panama as a recompense. The _norte_
which had been announced from Tampico began creakingly and ominously
to make itself felt and heard about half after nine. The admiral gave
us an amusing picture of the life at Tampico with a hundred refugees,
mostly women and children, on board. He said it was a sweet and
touching sight to see certain baby garments hung out to dry on the
cannon, and officers lulling the little innocents to sleep, or engaged
in other and often unsuccessful attempts to keep the refugees pleased
and happy.
At about ten o’clock, after sitting on deck awhile, the _norte_ began
to blow stronger. Señora Maass, stout, elderly, and placid, did not
seem to like her own _nortes_, so we proceeded to do what was about my
seventeenth gangway that day. The northers of Vera Cruz are a great
feature of the climate. They have all sorts and degrees--the _nortes
fuertes_ that nearly blow the town away; the _nortes chocolateros_ that
are milder, last a long time, and keep the place healthy and bearable,
and various others. I don’t know what kind was developing last night,
but after an uncertain trip we were dashed up against the Sanidad pier,
where the large Maass auto was waiting. We said good-by to Mr. Lind and
Mr. Canada at the Consulate door, and in an instant they were blotted
out in the thick darkness of the gathering _norte_. The Maasses took us
on to the station, where we parted with all expressions of regard and
compliments. I must say they have been more than polite.
I went to bed immediately. Jesus, who is a gem, had everything in
order. I don’t think I would have been able to don my filmy black gown
for the dinner had it not been for his deftness and general efficiency.
At six o’clock they hitched our car onto the morning train, with
indescribable groanings and joltings, and this is our history up to the
present moment.
Through the window I see only bits of a dreary station and crowds of
Indians huddled under their _serapes_ and _rebozos_. The poor wretches
do so hate to get wet. It means hours of chill until the garments dry
on them. Worried train employees are running about. I understand that
Orizaba, in spite of the “watering-pot” effect, is a delightful resort.
Many people from Yucatan come up to recuperate--rich _henequén_ and
sisal planters; there are all the beauties and marvels of the tropics
in the way of flowers and fruits, orchids, convolvuli, ahuacate pears,
pineapples, pomegranates, and a wonderfully tonic, even temperature.
If it weren’t for the downpour I would venture out for antiques. This
is an old Spanish city and there are lovely things to be picked up in
the way of ivory and wood inlaid-work if one is lucky. However, I don’t
feel like being watered. I haven’t had the desire, since hearing of the
hold-up, to tell you of the beauty of the scenery from Vera Cruz, but
look at those first enchanting pages of Prescott’s _Conquest_. He who
never saw it, describes its beauties as if they were spread before
him. Though, for really up-to-date reading on Mexico give me Humboldt,
1807. He still seems to have said the last and latest word about Mexico
and Mexicans as we know them to-day.
Two train-loads of Federal soldiers, well armed, have just pulled out
of the station, where women were weeping and holding up baskets of food
to them as they hung out of the windows. They were laughing and joking
as befits warriors. Poor wretches! I couldn’t help my eyes filling
with tears. They go to reconnoiter the track for us. I suppose it is
known everywhere by now that the American _chargé_ and his wife are
held up on that usually safe stretch between Orizaba and Mexico City. A
group of armed men are standing in front of my window. They have black
water-proof covers for their large hats, like chair covers; the hats
underneath are doubtless gray felt, heavily trimmed with silver. One
soldier, apparently as an incidental effect, has a poor, red-blanketed
Indian attached to him by a lasso tightened around the waist. Nobody
pays any attention to them; not even the women, with their babes
completely concealed and tightly bound to their backs or breasts by the
inevitable _rebozo_. One feels hopelessly sad at the thought of the
world of chaos those little heads will, in their time, peep out upon.
A thick and heartbreaking book could be written upon the
_soldadera_--the heroic woman who accompanies the army, carrying, in
addition to her baby, any other mortal possession, such as a kettle,
basket, goat, blanket, parrot, fruit, and the like. These women are
the only visible commissariat for the soldiers; they accompany them in
their marches; they forage for them and they cook for them; they nurse
them, bury them; they receive their money _when_ it is paid. All this
they do and keep up with the march of the army, besides rendering any
other service the male may happen to require. It is appalling what
self-abnegation is involved in this life. And they keep it up until,
like poor beasts, they uncomplainingly drop in their tracks--to arise,
I hope, in Heaven.
_3 o’clock._
There is some idea that we may start. Men with ropes and hatchets and
picks are getting on our train.
_Later._
We arrived at Maltrata to be met by dozens of wet Indian women selling
lemons, _tortillas_, and _enchiladas_. Each wore the eternal blue
_rebozo_ and a pre-Spanish cut of skirt--a straight piece of cloth
bound around the hips, held somewhat fuller in front. They are called
_enredadas_, from the fashion of folding the stuff about them. Each, of
course, had a baby on her back.
Long lines of rurales came into sight on horseback. With full black
capes or brilliant red blankets thrown about their shoulders, their
big-brimmed, high-peaked hats, with their black rain-proof covers,
these men made a startling and gaudy picture with the underthrill of
death and destruction. We have been moving along at a snail’s pace. In
a narrow defile we came on one of the train-loads of Federals we had
seen leave Orizaba, their guns pointed, ready to fire.
Well, so far, so good. We hear that it was a band of several hundred
revolutionaries who attacked the train. The train officials managed to
escape under cover of the darkness.
_5.30._
We have just passed the scene of pillage. Dozens of Indians--men,
women, and children--are digging out hot bottles of beer, boxes of
sardines and other conserves from the smoking wreck. Cars, engine, and
everything in them were destroyed after the brigands had selected what
they could carry away.
A white mist has settled over the mountain. Many of the Indians are
wearing a sort of circular cape made of a thatch of bamboo or grass
hanging from their shoulders--a kind of garment often seen in wet
weather in this altitude. It is marvelous that in so few hours a new
track could be laid by the old one. We are passing gingerly over it,
and if nothing else happens we shall be in Mexico City after midnight.
I am too tired to feel adventurous to-day and shall be glad to find
myself with my babe in the comfortable Embassy, instead of witnessing
Zapatista ravages at first hand in a cold, gray mist which tones down
not only the local color, but one’s enthusiasm.
MEXICO CITY, _January 12th_.
We finally arrived about one o’clock in the morning, to be met by
many newspaper men and the staff of the Embassy, who received us as
from the wars. About fifty soldiers got out of the train when we did;
and really, in the unsparing station light they had the appearance of
assailants rather than of protectors. In a fight it would have been
so easy to confuse the rôles. I thought they had long since given
up putting forces on passenger-trains; it usually invites attack on
account of the guns and ammunition.
However, all’s well that ends well, and I have just had my breakfast
in my comfortable bed with my precious boy. They tell me he has been
“good” while his mother was away. Mrs. Parker says he insisted on
having the lights put out before saying his prayers at night. He was
so dead with sleep when I got in that he didn’t open his eyes; only
cuddled up to me when he felt me near.
The newspaper gives details of the Maltrata wrecking. The attacking
band placed a huge pile of stones on the rails at the entrance to the
tunnel, fired on the train, robbed the employees, took what they could
of the provisions (they were all mounted and provided with ammunition),
and disappeared into the night. Hundreds of workmen have been sent to
repair the damage, and a thousand rurales to guard and pursue. The
“Mexican” is the big artery between this city and Vera Cruz, and if
that line is destroyed we would be entirely cut off. Nothing gets to
us from anywhere now except from Vera Cruz. The other line to Vera
Cruz--the Interoceanic--has often been held up and is not in favor with
levanting families. It is about time for one of the periodical scares,
when they leave their comfortable homes with their children and other
valuables, for the expensive discomforts of the “Villa Rica de la Vera
Cruz.”
XII
Ojinaga evacuated--Tepozotlan’s beautiful old church and
convent--Azcapotzalco--A Mexican christening--The release of Vera
Estañol--Necaxa--The friars--The wonderful Garcia Pimentel library.
_January 14th._
Yesterday Huerta decided to suspend payment on the interest on the
national debt for six months, which will free about three million pesos
a month for pacification purposes. He denies anything approaching
repudiation, but says this step was forced on him by the attitude of
the United States. It will make the European investors rather restive
under “watchful waiting,” though they can employ the time by making
large and frequent additions to the bill they intend to present to
Uncle Sam, _pobrecito_.
Ojinaga has been evacuated by General Mercado, who would better look
out for his head. Huerta says he is going to have him shot. Villa will
use Ojinaga for strategic purposes, and the refugees, four thousand
officers and soldiers and about two thousand five hundred women and
children, are eventually to be interned at Fort Bliss. Uncle Sam will
present the bill to Mexico later on. They have been started on a four
days’ march to Marfa, where they will at last get a train. Mercado
says he only surrendered and passed on to American soil when his
ammunition gave out. The soldiers and generals--six of these last were
in Ojinaga--will not be permitted to return to Mexico until _peace_ is
effected. From the head-lines in some _Heralds_ I am sending you, you
can see that that won’t be immediately.
Of course our delay on the journey made a sensation. Dr. Ryan heard
that we were held up in a tunnel and was planning to get to our relief
by hook or crook. He is “without fear and without reproach.” I am very
glad to be safe again in this big, comfortable, sun-bathed house.
N. went to see Huerta a day or two ago. The President was most relieved
to have him safely back. He asked him the results of his visit to
Vera Cruz and N. told him there was no change in the attitude of
his government. Huerta remained impassive, and there was no further
political conversation. He promised, however, that he would attend
to several matters of the United States, in regard to claims, etc.,
affecting rather large interests. There are some advantages in living
under a dictator, if you enjoy his favor, and Huerta would barter his
soul to please the United States to the point of recognition.
While not convinced of the necessity, or even advisability, of formal
recognition, N. does realize that everything for Mexico and the United
States could have been accomplished by diplomacy in the early stages
of Huerta’s incumbency. Now the bullying and collusive and secret
arrangements with his enemies, the revolutionaries, to overthrow him,
must eventually succeed, and in his fall we fear Huerta will take down
with him the entire fabric of state. How often he has said, “I don’t
ask your help; but don’t help my enemies!”
_Sunday Evening, January 18th._
To-day we had a long motor trip to the old church and convent of
Tepozotlan, with Seeger, Hay, the Tozzers, and Elim. There were pistols
under the seats, of course, though the road (the old post-road to
the north) is not a haunt of the Zapatistas. We drove two hours or
more through the dazzling air, the road running for miles between
picturesque fields planted with maguey, the Indian’s all, including
his perdition. Here and there are collections of adobe huts, with
bright-eyed, naked children playing by fences of _nopal_, and
sometimes a lovely candelabra cactus standing guard. We passed through
Cuauhtitlan--a most interesting place, with its deserted, picturesque
hostelries that used to do a lively relay trade in the old coaching
days. Each carved door, with glimpses of the big courtyard within,
seems to tell the tale of past activities.
Tepozotlan is celebrated for its beautiful old church, with a fine
carved façade, built by the Jesuits at the end of the sixteenth
century. It was suppressed in 1857, under the Juarez laws of reform,
and is now neglected, solitary, and lovely. Cypresses guard the
entrance to its grass-grown _patio_, adorned by a few pepper-trees,
with here and there an occasional bit of maguey. It was all sun-baked
and radiant, receiving the many-colored light and seeming to give
it forth again in the magic way of the Mexican plateau. We wandered
through the church, which preserves its marvelous altarpieces in
the Churrigueresque style, and admired the gilded, high-relief wood
carvings, to which time has lent a marvelous red _patiné_. Some of the
old chapels are still most beautifully adorned with rich blue Puebla
tiles, now loosened and falling from neglected ceilings and walls. The
adjoining _seminario_, with its endless corridors and rooms, is dim and
deserted, except for spiders and millions of fleas; I thought at first,
in my innocence, that these were gnats, as they settled on my white
gloves. We lunched in the enchanting old _patio_ of the cloisters,
where orange-trees and a _Noche Buena_ tree, with its brilliant red
flowers, were growing around an old stone well in the middle. For those
hours, at least, we felt that all was well with the world. Afterward
we climbed the belfry and feasted our eyes on the beauty unfolded to
our sight. East, west, south, and north other pink belfries pressed
themselves against other blue hills, repeating the loveliness until one
could have wept for the beauty of it all. The almost deserted village,
straggling up to the _patio_ of the church, is where Madre Matiana was
born at the end of the seventeenth century. She made, on her death-bed,
the celebrated prophecies which have been so strangely confirmed by
subsequent events in Mexican history.
The Ojinaga refugees, garrison, and civilians are just arriving after
the four days’ march through the desert to Marfa and Fort Bliss.
This affair has cost $142,000 up to date, and $40,000 were spent for
new equipments for officers. I think every officer in Mexico will
contemplate, for a brief moment, the idea of crossing the frontier.
There will be a good deal of disillusionment and suffering in the
detention camp, however, if the soldiers are called on to comply with
the hygienic rules of the American army.
[Illustration:
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
HUERTA’S SOLDIERS WATCHING THE REBEL ADVANCE]
[Illustration:
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
A GROUP OF OJINAGA REFUGEES]
Jesus Flores Magon, whom we knew as Minister of Gobernación under
Madero, a strong and clever man of pronounced Zapoteca Indian type, is
going to Vera Cruz at N.’s suggestion, to see Mr. Lind. Flores Magon,
who knows his people, says there is no use in “trying out” another
government here. Though he was in Madero’s cabinet, he is now for the
sustaining of Huerta. He thinks another government would only mean
another set of traitors, who would, in turn, be betrayed. N. asked him
if he were convinced that Huerta had other aims in view than the graft
and personal aggrandizement his enemies credit him with. Though not
unreservedly enthusiastic, he answered that he thought he had within
him the elements necessary to control in Mexico, but that, like all
Indians, he was cruel. Lind is out-and-out for recognizing the northern
rebels, or, at least, raising the embargo on arms and ammunition. A
terrible policy, it seems to me. Taking from the possessors to give to
those desirous of possessing can hardly mend things--here or anywhere.
Nothing that Mr. Lind has seen or heard has modified in the slightest
the ideas with which he arrived.
_Delendus est Huerta_ is the _mot d’ordre_, and I find myself assisting
at the spectacle. I am dazed at this flying in the face of every
screaming fact in the situation. N. went to see Moheno yesterday, with
the usual bundle of claims against the government, and M. said, in a
wild, distraught way: “My God! When are you going to intervene? You are
strangling us by this policy.”
We hear from a railroad man (they are always informed) that there are
two thousand well-armed men in Oaxaca, doing nothing--simply awaiting
orders. They are Felicistas. Everybody is waiting to betray everybody
else.