Vera Cruz is a fortified city. Round and round it is girt by a wall,
with regular batteries placed at intervals. You enter it from the land
side by three gates (_garitas_), and from the sea by a beautiful pier or
mole that projects some distance into the water. The latter is a modern
construction; and when the sun is descending behind the Mexican
Cordilleras to the west, and the breeze blows in from the Gulf, this
mole--the seat of but little commercial activity--becomes the favourite
promenade of the dark-eyed Vera-Cruzanas and their pallid lovers.
The city stands on the very beach. The sea at full tide washes its
battlements, and many of the houses overlook the water. On almost every
side a plain of sand extends to a mile's distance from the walls, where
it terminates in those lofty white sand-ridges that form a feature of
the shores of the Mexican Gulf. During high tides and "northers" the
sea washes over the surrounding sand-plain, and Vera Cruz appears almost
isolated amid the waves. On one side, however, towards the south, there
is variety in the aspect. Here appear traces of vegetation--some low
trees and bushes, a view of the forest inward into the country, a few
buildings outside the walls, a railway-station, a cemetery, an aqueduct,
a small sluggish stream, marshes and stagnant pools.
In front of the city, built upon the coral reef, stands the celebrated
fortress-castle of San Juan de Ulloa. It is about one thousand yards
out from the mole, and over one of its angles towers a lighthouse. Its
walls, with the reef on which it stands (Gallega), shelter the harbour
of Vera Cruz--which, in fact, is only a roadstead--from the north winds.
Under the lee of San Juan the ships of commerce lie at anchor. There
are but few of them at any time.
Another large fort (Concepcion) stands upon the beach at the northern
angle of the city, and a third (Santiago) defends it towards the south.
A circular bastion, with heavy pieces of ordnance, sweeps the plain to
the rear, commanding it as far as the sand-ridges.
Vera Cruz is a pretty picture to look at, either from the sea or from
the sand-hills in the interior. Its massive domes--its tall steeples
and turreted roofs--its architecture, half Moorish, half modern--the
absence of scattered suburbs or other salient objects to distract the
eye--all combine to render the City of the True Cross an unique and
striking picture. In fact, its numerous architectural varieties, bound
as they are into compact unity by a wall of dark lava-stone, impress you
with the idea that some artist had arranged them for the sake of effect.
The _coup d'oeil_ often reminded me of the engravings of cities in
_Goldsmith's Epitome_, that used to be considered the bright spots in my
lessons of school geography.
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At break of day, on the 10th, the army took up its line of march through
hills of sand-drift. Division lapped upon division, regiment upon
regiment, extending the circle of investment by an irregular echelon.
Foot rifles and light infantry drove the enemy from ridge to ridge, and
through the dark mazes of the chaparral gorge. The column continued its
tortuous track, winding through deep denies, and over hot white hills,
like a bristling snake. It moved within range of the guns of the city,
screened by intervening heights. Now and then the loud cannon of
Santiago opened upon it, as some regiment displayed itself, crossing a
defile or pushing over the spur of a sand-hill. The constant rattling
of rifles and musketry told that our skirmishers were busy in the
advance. The arsenal was carried by a brilliant charge, and the
American flag waved over the ruins of the Convent Malibran. On the 11th
the Orizava road was crossed, and the light troops of the enemy were
brushed from the neighbouring hills. They retired sullenly under
shelter of their heavy guns, and within the walls of the city.
On the morning of the 12th the investment was complete. Vera Cruz lay
within a semicircle, around its centre. The half circumference was a
chain of hostile regiments that embraced the city in their concave arc.
The right of this chain pitched its tents opposite the isle of
Sacrificios; while five miles off to the north, its left rested upon the
hamlet Vergara. The sea covered the complement of this circle, guarded
by a fleet of dark and warlike ships.
The diameter hourly grew shorter. The lines of circum-vallation lapped
closer and closer around the devoted city, until the American pickets
appeared along the ridges of the nearest hills, and within range of the
guns of Santiago, Concepcion, and Xjuoa.
A smooth sand-plain, only a mile in width, lay between the besiegers and
the walls of the besieged.
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After tattoo-beat on the night of the 12th, with a party of my brother
officers, I ascended the high hill around which winds the road leading
to Orizava.
This hill overlooks the city of Vera Cruz.
After dragging ourselves wearily through the soft, yielding sand, we
reached the summit, and halted on a projecting ridge.
With the exception of a variety of exclamations expressing surprise and
delight, not a word for awhile was uttered by any of our party, each
individual being wrapped up in the contemplation of a scene of
surpassing interest. It was moonlight, and sufficiently clear to
distinguish the minutest objects on the picture that lay rolled out
before us like a map.
Below our position, and seeming almost within reach of the hand, lay the
City of the True Cross, rising out of the white plain, and outlined upon
the blue background of the sea.
The dark grey towers and painted domes, the Gothic turret and Moorish
minaret, impressed us with the idea of the antique; while here and there
the tamarind, nourished on some azotea, or the fringed fronds of the
palm-tree, drooping over the notched parapet, lent to the city an aspect
at once southern and picturesque.
Domes, spires, and cupolas rose over the old grey walls, crowned with
floating banners--the consular flags of France, and Spain, and Britain,
waving alongside the eagle of the Aztecs.
Beyond, the blue waters of the Gulf rippled lightly against the
sea-washed battlements of San Juan, whose brilliant lights glistened
along the combing of the surf.
To the south we could distinguish the isle of Sacrificios, and the dark
hulls that slept silently under the shelter of its coral reef.
Outside the fortified wall, which girt the city with its cincture of
grey rock, a smooth plain stretched rearward to the foot of the hill on
which we stood, and right and left along the crest of the ridge from
Punta Hornos to Vergara, ranged a line of dark forms--the picket
sentries of the American outposts, as they stood knee-deep in the soft,
yielding sand-drift.
It was a picture of surprising interest; and, as we stood gazing upon
it, the moon suddenly disappeared behind a bank of clouds; and the lamps
of the city, heretofore eclipsed by her brighter beam, now burned up and
glistened along the walls.
Bells rang merrily from church-towers, and bugles sounded through the
echoing streets. At intervals we could hear the shrill cries of the
guard, "_Centinela! alerte_!" (Sentinel, look out), and the sharp
challenge, "_Quien viva_?" (Who goes there?)
Then the sound of sweet music, mingled with the soft voices of women,
was wafted to our ears, and with beating hearts we fancied we could hear
the light tread of silken feet, as they brushed over the polished floor
of the ball-room.
It was a tantalising moment, and wistful glances were cast on the
beleaguered town; while more than one of our party was heard impatiently
muttering a wish that it might be carried by assault.
As we continued gazing, a bright jet of flame shot out horizontally from
the parapet over Puerto Nuevo.
"Look out!" cried Twing, at the same instant flinging his wiry little
carcase squat under the brow of a sand-wreath.
Several of the party followed his example; but, before all had housed
themselves, a shot came singing past, along with the loud report of a
twenty-four.
The shot struck the comb of the ridge, within several yards of the
group, and ricocheted off into the distant hills.
"Try it again!" cried one.
"That fellow has lost a champagne supper," said Twing.
"More likely he has had it, or his aim would be more steady," suggested
an officer.
"Oysters, too--only think of it!" said Clayley.
"Howld your tongue, Clayley, or by my sowl I'll charge down upon the
town!"
This came from Hennessy, upon whose imagination the contrast between
champagne and oysters and the gritty pork and biscuit he had been
feeding upon for several days past acted like a shock.
"There again!" cried Twing, whose quick eye caught the blaze upon the
parapet.
"A shell, by the powers!" exclaimed Hennessy. "Let it dhrop first, or
it may dhrop on ye," he continued, as several officers were about to
fling themselves on their faces.
The bomb shot up with a hissing, hurtling sound. A little spark could
be seen as it traced its graceful curves through the dark heavens.
The report echoed from the walls, and at the same instant was heard a
dull sound, as the shell buried itself in the sand-drift.
It fell close to one of the picket sentinels, who was standing upon his
post within a few paces of the group. The man appeared to be either
asleep or stupefied, as he remained stock-still. Perhaps he had
mistaken it for the ricochet of a round shot.
"It's big shooting for them to hit the hill!" exclaimed a young officer.
The words had scarcely passed when a loud crash, like the bursting of a
cannon, was heard under our feet; the ground opened like an earthquake,
and, amidst the whistling of the fragments, the sand was dashed into our
faces.
A cloud of dust hung for a moment above the spot. The moon at this
instant reappeared, and as the dust slowly settled away, the mutilated
body of the soldier was seen upon the brow of the hill, at the distance
of twenty paces from his post.
A low cheer reached us from Concepcion, the fort whence the shell had
been projected.
Chagrined at the occurrence, and mortified that it had been caused by
our imprudence, we were turning to leave the hill, when the "whish" of a
rocket attracted our attention.
It rose from the chaparral, about a quarter of a mile in rear of the
camp, and, before it had reached its culminating point, an answering
signal shot up from the Puerto Nuevo.
At the same instant a horseman dashed out of the thicket, and headed his
horse at the steep sand-hills. After three or four desperate plunges,
the fiery mustang gained the crest of the ridge upon which lay the
remains of the dead soldier.
Here the rider, seeing our party, suddenly reined up and balanced for a
moment in the stirrup, as if uncertain whether to advance or retreat.
We, on the other hand, taking him for some officer of our own, and
wondering who it could be galloping about at such an hour, stood silent
and waiting.
"By heavens, that's a Mexican!" muttered Twing, as the ranchero dress
became apparent under a brighter beam of the moon.
Before anyone could reply, the strange horseman wheeled sharply to the
left, and drawing a pistol, fired it into our midst. Then spurring his
wild horse, he galloped past us into a deep defile of the hills.
"You're a set of Yankee fools!" he shouted back, as he reached the
bottom of the dell.
Half a dozen shots replied to the taunting speech; but the retreating
object was beyond pistol range before our astonished party had recovered
from their surprise at such an act of daring audacity.
In a few minutes we could see both horse and rider near the walls of the
city--a speck on the white plain; and shortly after we heard the grating
hinges of the Puerto Nuevo, as the huge gate swung open to receive him.
No one was hit by the shot of his pistol. Several could be heard
gritting their teeth with mortification as we commenced descending the
hill.
"Did you know that voice, Captain?" whispered Clayley to me, as we
returned to camp.
"Yes."
"You think it was--"
"Dubrosc."