We make Acapulco, a Mexican coast town of some importance, in a few
days, and all go ashore.
The pretty peasant girls peddle necklaces made of shells and
oranges, in the streets of Acapulco, on steamer days. They are
quite naive about it. Handing you a necklace they will say, "Me
give you pres-ENT, Senor," and then retire with a low curtsey.
Returning, however, in a few moments, they say quite sweetly, "You
give me pres-ENT, Senor, of quarter dollar!" which you at once do
unless you have a heart of stone.
Acapulco was shelled by the French a year or so before our arrival
there, and they effected a landing. But the gay and gallant
Mexicans peppered them so persisently and effectually from the
mountains near by that they concluded to sell out and leave.
Napoleon has no right in Mexico. Mexico may deserve a licking.
That is possible enough. Most people do. But nobody has any right
to lick Mexico except the United States. We have a right, I
flatter myself, to lick this entire continent, including ourselves,
any time we want to.
The signal gun is fired at 11, and we go off to the steamer in
small boats.
In our boat is an inebriated United States official, who flings his
spectacles overboard, and sings a flippant and absurd song about
his grandmother's spotted calf, with his ri-fol-lol-tiddery-i-do.
After which he crumbles, in an incomprehensible manner, into the
bottom of the boat, and howls dismally.
We reach Manzanillo, another coast place, twenty-four hours after
leaving Acapulco. Manzanillo is a little Mexican village, and
looked very wretched indeed, sweltering away there on the hot
sands. But it is a port of some importance, nevertheless, because
a great deal of merchandise finds its way to the interior from
there. The white and green flag of Mexico floats from a red
steam-tug (the navy of Mexico, by the way, consists of two tugs,
a disabled raft, and a basswood life-preserver), and the Captain
of the Port comes off to us in his small boat, climbs up the side
of the St. Louis, and folds the healthy form of Captain Hudson to
his breast. There is no wharf here, and we have to anchor off
the town.
There was a wharf, but the enterprising Mexican peasantry, who
subsist by poling merchandise ashore in dug-outs, indignantly tore
it up. We take on here some young Mexicans, from Colima, who are
going to California. They are of the better class, and one young
man (who was educated in Madrid) speaks English rather better than
I write it. Be careful not to admire any article of an educated
Mexican's dress, because if you do he will take it right off and
give it to you, and sometimes this might be awkward.