number of clerks, all men,--I have seen no woman clerks anywhere--were
standing behind long tables, while the public moved up and down
between. I repeated the word _mantilla_, and was shown to where were
many shelves filled with flat pasteboard boxes. Several of these were
taken down and the beautiful pieces of lace shown me. As I stood
there, in a quandary what to select, a pleasant-faced, short, stout
man with a dark-haired woman approached me. As they neared the table,
she turned to him and said in good United States, “O, here are the
_mantillas_ we are looking for.” Her appearance attracted me, and so,
turning to her and lifting my hat, I bowed and begged her aid. He and
I then exchanged cards. He was a Dr. S., of Washington, for many years
physician to Mrs. T., whose wedding I attended two years ago, making
geological studies in Mexico, and soon going to Central America. We
were at once friends. He was gathering information for the Smithsonian
Institution. The lady was his wife. She aided me in selecting two
lovely _mantillas_ of black silk. Later, they accompanied me in my
search for opals, and helped me choose several fine stones. Afterward,
at their hotel, the Jardin, they showed me their collection of
photographs, and many of the mementoes and curios they were
collecting. In the afternoon we dined together at my Creole
restaurant. At last, we parted, with mutual regret.
The train which bore me from the city left the station of the Mexican
Railway (“The Queen’s Own”), about nine o’clock P. M. It is a
standard gauge railroad. I had a comfortable lower berth in the
Pullman. The car was crowded. Several young officers in their smartest
uniforms were saying _adios_ to a number of black-eyed _señoritas_ and
their mammas. The young men at parting, wrapped wide scarfs about
their mouths, almost hiding their faces up to their eyes, a common
practice used against pneumonia. The night air was cold. I wore my
overcoat, and shivered where I stood upon the rear platform of the car
watching through many miles the city’s receding lights. We traversed
the valley toward the east, and then began to climb the lower slopes
of the mountain range we must cross before we should finally descend
to Vera Cruz.
[Illustration: VOLCANO DE ORIZABA]
When I awoke in the morning we were yet three hours from the Gulf. We
had crossed the mountains in the night; we had ascended three thousand
feet, and come down eleven thousand feet, through wild and beautiful
scenery; a journey never to be taken by night, unless necessity
demands. We were more than two hours late, having been detained at
Orizaba, while we slept. This was fortunate for me, for it gave me the
daylight hours to view the lowlands through which the road passes from
the mountains to the sea.
Back of us, high, high into the cloudless blue sky, glittered the
snowy peak of Mexico’s greatest volcano, the lofty, mighty Orizaba,
now known to be higher than Popocatepetl, and much like it in the
contour of its cone; a most imposing sight as it shone in the light of
the rising sun. Wherever we turned, wherever we went, mighty Orizaba
followed us. We never lost sight of it, we could not escape its
stupendous bulk. I am fortunate to have seen four of the chief
snow-capped volcanoes of Mexico, and to have fine photographs of them
all--Popocatepetl, Ixtaccihautl, Nevada de Toluca, and Orizaba.
The lowlands we were traversing are wholly tropical; we were among
extensive plantations of bananas, palms of many sorts, coffee
orchards, and impenetrable jungles. The sun was as hot as upon the
_llanos_ along the river Balsas in Michoacan.
It was half-past nine when the train pulled into the station at Vera
Cruz. A big negro, black as night, dressed in immaculate white duck,
collared me the very instant my feet touched the ground. He spoke in
soft, smooth English, with marked British accent. He introduced
himself as “Mr. Sam.” “I am a British subject from Jamaica,” he said,
“and representative of the Hotel Metropolitán.” He offered to conduct
me to that institution. He assured me it was “the finest establishment
upon the coast.” As that was my predetermined destination, I
permitted him to precede me there, carrying my bags. The sun was
fierce, the atmosphere dull and heavy. We walked through filthy
streets, streets never yet cleaned in all the four-centuries’ life of
Vera Cruz. The ill-paved and stinking gutters were filled with slime.
The streets were bordered with low-built stucco houses. We entered an
ill-kept plaza where grew lank bananas and cocoanut palms, a low
government building with a graceful tower bounding its eastern side.
Here we came to the hotel, an old stone edifice two stories high, with
a loggia overspreading the sidewalk, and a curtain hung between the
pillars and the street to keep the hot sun from the footway which ran
beneath. “Mr. Sam” instructed me in what I should have to do. First, I
must follow him to the American doctor, and in the presence of the
American Consul, procure a certificate of health. Then he would take
me to the “Fumigation Office” of the Mexican government to have my
baggage examined and certified as free from yellow fever and
contagious disease. Then he would take me to the office of the Ward
Line Steamship Company to have my ticket, which I had bought the day
before in the office of the company in Mexico City, examined and
certified, and then he would arrange that “The Express Company,” for a
stiff fee, should convey my through baggage from the station of the
railway to the steamer _Monterey_, lying at anchor out in the open
Gulf, although the day previous it had all been checked through from
Mexico City to Havana. Later, he himself would row me out to the
vessel and put me in my stateroom, free from further molestation of
red tape. “Mr. Sam” proved himself true, extracting from me, however,
sundry _centavos_ along the way. He did not intend me at any time to
escape. Nevertheless, I did shake myself free from his superintendence
for one short hour, and strolled alone about the ancient town. It is a
city of filth, stinks, and squalor--just the home for the perpetual
breeding of pestilence. It is no wonder that the plague of yellow
fever has for centuries stalked remorselessly in its midst. But the
Mexican Government, stimulated by the example of the scientific
cleanliness of Cuba, is now laying a modern sewer system, and has
employed English engineers to construct extensive dock facilities, and
is transforming Vera Cruz into a clean and modern city. There is thus
hope for both the health and the commerce of Vera Cruz.
[Illustration: THE MUNICIPAL PALACE--VERA CRUZ]
I visited the famous cocoanut palm grove in the Alameda Park, and
seating myself upon one of the stone benches, watched the flocks of
tame vultures which abound in Vera Cruz, and are the regular street
scavengers of the town. Protected as they are by city ordinance,
they run about like flocks of chickens. They scarcely move aside for
the passer-by. There is not much of interest in Vera Cruz, although
the city contains several ancient churches, Spanish towers, and one
mediæval fortress, built in the early period of the Conquest.
[Illustration: THE TAME VULTURES OF VERA CRUZ]
After lunch at the hotel, where I was sadly overcharged, “Mr. Sam”
rowed me a quarter of a mile to the steamship _Monterey_. My baggage
was brought out by the “express company” in a lighter along with that
of other fellow-travelers of my train, and although we were through
passengers from Mexico City to Cuba and New York, yet extra charges
were made for this necessary service, an evident extortion.
I had reached my ship about half-past three in the afternoon; we were
scheduled to leave at four; we did not sail until long after the
appointed hour, so slow is the “lighterage” process of taking on
cargo. The largest vessels can lie at the new piers, but either to
save port charges, or, as they claim, “to avoid the possibility of
yellow fever,” these boats anchor far out in the harbor and compel all
passengers and freight to be brought on board.
Our motley cargo included sheep and cattle for Havana; a menagerie,
lions, tigers, monkeys, and an elephant carefully hoisted and standing
in a specially constructed crate in the forward hold, uneasy and
swaying his body in great terror; and also many and divers crates and
bales of merchandise.
We carry a large company of cabin passengers for Progresso, the chief
port of Merida, in Yucatan. Among them I have noticed a group of
gentlemen who upon the train seemed to be suffering greatly from the
cold. I learned that they are rich planters from Merida. One is a
senator in the Mexican National Congress. He is a large, thick-set
man, with high cheek bones, blue eyes, light-brown hair, a white man
much burned and browned by tropical suns. I thought he might possibly
be a German or Scandinavian. Imagine my astonishment when I am advised
that he is a full-blooded “Yucataka Indian!” He is one of that strange
tribe of blue-eyed, light-haired people, whom the Spaniards never
conquered, and whom the Mexican government have never yet been able to
subdue, and in recent years have only been won over through Diaz’s
subtle diplomacy. Whence came this tribe is one of the unsolved
riddles of history. Possibly some Viking crew, drifted far out of
their northern waters, may have been the forefathers of this
blue-eyed, unconquerable race.
We are weighing anchor. The propeller blade begins to turn. On our
port side rise the white walls of San Juan de Ulloa, the
famous fortress and now state prison of Mexico,--an island of
itself,--within the cells and dungeons of which yellow fever
perpetually removes the imprisoned wretches sent there to die.
[Illustration: A NOBLE PALM]
To starboard lies at anchor the Mexican navy--a small-sized tug. Our
voyage to Cuba is begun.
XIX
Voyaging Across the Gulf of Mexico and Straits of Yucatan from Vera
Cruz to Progresso and Havana
STEAMSHIP MONTEREY, AT SEA,
_December 21st-24th_.
It was late in the day when we set sail from Vera Cruz. The shoreland
faded; the grove of cocoanut palms in the Alameda with their feathery
tops waving in the evening breeze, were the last green things I saw.
As the sun sank suddenly behind the great volcano, the western horizon
was filled with golden and scarlet and purple coloring, and Orizaba’s
summit was flooded with roseate splendor. The stars burst out, the
moon crept up from the dark waters. We were on the Mexican Gulf, and
the tropical heavens glowed and burned with a brilliance unknown to
the latitudes of the middle north. The waters, churning in our wake,
flashed and glowed with the phosphorescence characteristic of tropic
seas. The wind freshened and, by the middle of the night, the
knowing ones hinted that more than the usual commotion of the sea
might be expected before the dawn. In fact, a cablegram had been
received, sent from Galveston, warning us that a “Norther” was on its
way.
[Illustration: A STREET OF VERA CRUZ]
I sat up till late, enjoying the rising gale and drinking in the
delicious air.
After so long a sojourn upon high, dry, parched land, it was a delight
to be again upon the sea. The restless waters tossed our sturdy boat
as though it were a cork. I slept soundly, despite the rolling of the
ship and the hammering of the surging billows against the shell of my
cabin, and I was among the first to respond to the six o’clock bells
summoning the hungry to their _desayuno_. These vessels follow the
customs of the majority of their passengers and serve meals in Spanish
fashion--_desayuno_ from six to seven--coffee and rolls to whosoever
may care to partake of them--and, about ten o’clock the _almuerzo_,
the regular breakfast, a hearty meal; then the _comida_, the middle of
the afternoon; while later between seven and eight o’clock _cena_ is
served, a light repast, a cross betwixt the English tea and supper.
All day the wind blew steadily from the northwest, and the Mexican
travelers spent most of their time doubled above the rails like bended
hairpins. During the afternoon the gale increased. Great banks of
cloud, black and ominous, rolled down upon us, and, toward the close
of the day, torrents of rain descended. Few passengers, by this time,
remained upon the decks, and the group who gathered with the captain
at the evening meal could be counted on the hand. As night drew on the
winds boomed louder and terror took possession of the unseasoned
landsmen from Yucatan. But I felt no symptoms of seasickness, and the
splendid sea-strength of this vessel gave me a sense of safety and
repose. I wedged myself into my berth, so that I might not be thrown
out, and lulled by the roaring of the storm and the rolling and
plunging of the ship, fell peacefully asleep. When I at last awoke,
the sun was long up, and the clouds were mostly drifted to the south.
We were double-anchored in the open roadstead off Progresso, four
miles from the shore. South of us, all along the coast, we could see
the crests of the gigantic surf beating upon the sandy marge of
Yucatan. No boat of less strength than our own, might dare to ride out
such a storm; no vessels can venture to us from the shore until the
waters subside. There are no harbors along the entire coast of the
Yucatan peninsula. The only ports are Campeche and Progresso, and
ships must lie three or four miles out in the open sea and passengers
and freight must be taken on and off in lighters, greatly to the
disadvantage of commerce. Above the white lines of the foaming
breakers, we can see the tops of the waving cocoanut and royal palms,
and between them the white buildings of Progresso. Back of Progresso,
some thirty miles, lies the city of Merida, but a few feet above the
level of the sea, the commercial center of the world’s heniquen or
sisal grass trade. An enormous export business in this grass has
sprung up since the beginning of the Philippine war, when the Manila
hemp trade fell away. Natural conditions here favor the growth of the
fiber, it increasing with little cultivation and great crops being
raised. Millions of dollars have been accumulated in late years by the
fortunate planters of Merida, and no city in Mexico has so suddenly
advanced in wealth.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE BOYS LEAVING OUR SHIP]
During the afternoon we saw our first shore-boats, and we are promised
that to-morrow, even though it be Sunday, the cargo shall be taken
off. Two small boats have ventured out, and into one of them have been
thrown the mails which an awaiting train will quickly take to Merida,
but until morning no passengers will be permitted to go ashore, nor
will any freight be landed.
To-day we have seen our first sea birds, and a very few flying fish,
while, since early dawn, there has traveled around the ship a
continuous procession of sharks, their sharp dorsal fins constantly
showing above the waters. Some of the passengers have been fishing for
them, but as yet none have been caught and, I am told, they are very
shy. While they will accompany a ship all the way to Havana, yet so
suspicious are they of the fisherman’s line that they are rarely
captured.
This morning I stood looking down upon the deck next below me,
watching a company of thirty or forty little boys aged from ten to
twelve and fourteen years, one little girl among them, seemingly
sister to one of the younger boys. They were mostly sitting in groups
of four and five tossing _centavos_ and shouting with delight. They
were gambling away the few coins in their possession. A couple of
sailors came up, seized two of the little boys and stood them up in
front of each other. The prisoners seemed to comprehend the intention
of their captors, and immediately fell to fighting desperately, until
one knocked out the other, just as a couple of game cocks will go to
fighting when placed in opposition. As soon as one of them had been
vanquished, his sailor patron shoved him to one side, as something now
quite useless, and grabbing another boy, set him in front of the
victor. Then, at it they went again, and many of the children stopped
their play to look on. The Mexicans about me were betting on the
fights and apparently enjoying the pastime. I inquired who were
these children, and learned them to be a company, who had mostly been
stolen from the streets of Mexico and neighboring towns, and was told
some had been bought from the state orphan asylums, at ten dollars a
head, upon the payment of the price no questions being asked as to
their destination. They are being taken into practical slavery to be
speedily worked to death by the heniquen planters of Yucatan. They are
delivered to the plantations and there perish rapidly from poor food,
harsh treatment, yellow fever, and the bites of insects which burrow
into their unprotected legs and arms. They are said to die off like
flies, the effort of the buyer being to get out of them his money’s
worth in work before they die. The children know nothing of their
fate, until they are delivered to their death. The little fellows
before me were in great glee through all the voyage; each had been
presented with a few silver coins, the first many of them had seen in
all their lives, and the joy of possession set them to gambling
merrily all the day through. This traffic in children is said to have
been long established and to be winked at by the Mexican authorities.
Later on, we watched them climb down the side of the ship and enter
the lighters, shouting with glee at the prospect of going to “the
lovely new homes in the country,” where their captors pretended,
would be their journey’s end.
[Illustration: OFF FOR PROGRESSO]
It was late Monday evening when we set sail from Progresso. All day
long we were discharging cargo into the lighters, which swarmed around
us, while after the passengers and cargo departed larger vessels
brought out bales of heniquen, which were quickly stowed below.
Among the passengers who left the ship, were several Americans. One, a
large, redheaded, heavy-set man, with genial face and friendly manner,
from Mississippi, was a timberman, out buying mahogany in the forests
of Yucatan. He told me that Americans are purchasing all the available
mahogany now standing in the accessible Mexican forests, and he seemed
to regard the mahogany of Yucatan as of especial value. Another of the
passengers leaving the ship was a man of small stature and clean
shaven. He early attracted our attention by his sanctimonious air, and
the frightfully fluent American oaths with which he spiced his games
of poker in the smoking room, where in company with a group of
flashily dressed and bediamonded Mexicans, he played apparently for
the highest stakes. The contrast between his smooth exterior and the
noisome contents of his mind, as well as the fact that the two or
three hard-faced Mexicans who seemed to have in charge the company of
little boys, constantly sought him out in consultation, led to the
suspicion that he was the chief trafficker in this death trade. In
response to our questioning as to his antecedents and business, he
became abusive, and upon my taking his picture with my kodak, he grew
angry and afterwards fought shy of all intercourse with his
fellow-countrymen. As to who he may really be we know not. When the
little boys departed from the ship, we noticed that he also sailed
away.
The sun was just sinking, like a ball of fire, into the margin of the
western sea, when we weighed anchor and steamed eastward to cross the
Strait of Yucatan. The surface of the waters lay calm and quiet as a
sheet of glass. We were two nights and a day in reaching Havana, and
the one day was spent in crossing the Strait.
Most of the afternoon I have sat or lain upon the forward deck
watching the waters and observing the sea life everywhere about me. We
have passed innumerable flocks of flying fish. Here and there a few
porpoises have tumbled and wheeled about us, but the sharks have
disappeared. Also, I have caught sight of my first nautilus, so
daintily sailing its convoluted shallop upon the sea. These exquisite
shell-fish I have never before seen alive, and I have watched them
with keenest interest. They appear only when perfect calm prevails.
At the least roughness of the sea, they instantly sink from view. We
have also all day been passing through extensive masses of yellow gulf
weed, such as I have noticed when traversing the Gulf Stream on
transatlantic voyages, only here the weed was in great masses, not yet
having been broken up by the tempestuous ocean tides. But we have been
accompanied by no birds.
As we drew further eastward the air grew more soft and balmy. We were
utterly alone, no craft other than our own appeared anywhere upon the
waters.
I fell asleep watching the big stars and dreaming of Spanish galleons
and British buccaneers, of Portuguese pirates and French marauders,
whose adventurous sails have in the centuries gone by whitened in
countless multitudes these now silent seas.
When morning broke, the shores of Cuba bounded the horizon on the
south, ten or fifteen miles away. Low sandy reaches stretched along
the sea; palms, tall and feathery, were waving in the morning breeze
behind the white ribbon of the strand, a faint blue line of mountains
lying yet beyond. As we approached the island there seemed to be no
break in the coast line, but farther on we discovered a narrow
channel, between the fortress of El Moro and the city of Havana and,
entering it, came into a harbor, landlocked and storm free, one of
the securest in the world. We cast anchor near the projecting rusted
wreck of the United States Steamship _Maine_. I had finished my
voyage. I was here to go ashore, while a few hours later the
_Monterey_ would turn northward and sail on to New York.
[Illustration: THE HARBOR OF HAVANA]
XX
The City of “Habana”--Incidents of a Day’s Sojourn in the Cuban
Capital
HABANA, CUBA,
_December 5th_.
“Habana,” says the Cuban and Spanish mouth, and the _b_ is so gently
uttered that you cannot tell it from a _v_.
Yesterday morning, Tuesday, we cast anchor beneath the ramparts of the
great fortress of La Cabaña (Cabanya) in the wide landlocked bay; many
other ships swung to their moorings in the quiet waters, among these
the battleship _Massachusetts_ and two cruisers, _Kentucky_ and
_Kearsarge_, of the navy of the United States.
The harbor of Habana, you will remember, is a mile or more wide and
nine or ten miles long, capable of accommodating an extensive
shipping. Now, since it has been dredged and cleaned of the
accumulated filth of centuries, the largest boats may come up to the
docks and sea wall along the city’s marge. The larger vessels,
however, just as at Vera Cruz, still prefer to anchor out in the bay,
and send passengers and freight ashore by means of tugs and lighters.
[Illustration: A SPANISH HOTEL--HAVANA]
We were scarcely moored, when a multitude of small boats surrounded
us, all apparently offering to ferry us to the city. We ignored their
clamor and clambered aboard the large steam tug to which our baggage
was also transferred, and were quickly landed at the customshouse.
My two steamer trunks and big basket of Mexican pottery I left in care
of the customs officers, and came up into the city with only a valise.
The customshouse is a long, low, stone building, with an iron fence
shutting it in and enclosing also an extensive paved storage yard. The
Cuban officers, who were very polite, are yet under the military
control of the United States and of General Wood, and they all spoke
English fluently.
Passing out through the great iron gates, we signalled for a
_cochero_, when half a dozen galloped up gesticulating and
vociferating eagerly. We choose the cleanest-looking _cocha_ of the
lot, a curious ancient vehicle, which seemed to be a cross between the
German _fiacre_ and a Parisian _voiture_. Into this three of us
climbed, when we set off on a gallop through narrow streets up into
the city, halting at last before the Spanish-kept Hotel Pasaje. It is
big and airy, and I have a room at the top where I can catch any
breeze which may be blowing. The floor of my chamber is tiled; it is
fitted with an iron bedstead with wire mattress, and neat American
cottage furniture. An electric incandescent lamp dangles from the
ceiling, and there are two large sashless windows with slatted
Venetian curtains which may be let down to shut out wind and light. My
first view of Habana was from one of these windows. I looked out over
a city of flat roofs, where much domestic labor was carried on, and
then beyond, across the palm-ornamented _plaza_ and along the
beautiful Prado to the sea.