He had just come from the thick of the fray. We had sixty-three wounded, seventeen killed, and several hundred Mexicans were killed and wounded. The Cadet Academy made a fine defense. There would have been more casualties for us, but at the critical moment the San Francisco, the Chester, and the Prairie opened fire on the Academy, a few feet only above the heads of their own men, neatly piercing the windows of the broad, low façade, as they would bulls’-eyes. All the officers are agreed that the immense sums spent in target practice by the navy in the past five years were amply compensated by that moment.
As we neared Vera Cruz our men in khaki (or white clothes dyed in coffee, according to the hurry order) were seen in big detachments in classic poses—standing, leaning on their guns, or sitting in groups on the ground, drinking coffee and smoking. I must say it looked very cozy and safe. Admiral Fletcher met us at the station, and I was glad indeed to clasp that brave, friendly hand again. He has done splendid work along all lines, passive or active, ever since he came to Mexican waters. Shortly afterward I said good-by to him and to Captain Huse, who is his chief of staff, and we went out in the admiral’s barge over the glistening harbor, a thousand lights still lighting it, as when I last saw it, but all else changed. Captain Simpson, of the Minnesota, is on land duty, but the second in command, Commander Moody, met us at the gangway and we were shown into these most comfortable quarters. I have heard so much of the discomfort and heat of the men-of-war that I am most agreeably surprised. The electric fan is working ten thousand revolutions a moment; some one has called the new fan la Mexicana, for obvious reasons. Admiral Badger came to welcome us last night, a great, powerful, steam-engine of a man—a “dictator” (pardon the awful word)! It is a big thing to have complete charge of so powerful a combination as the North Atlantic fleet. He also said he didn’t know whether we were at war or not, but that armed, opposing forces with heavy casualties on both sides was generally considered to be war; that we now “enjoyed all the disadvantages of both peace and war.” He had heard we were arriving with eight hundred refugees, and had chartered the Mexico, of the Ward Line, to take them away.
He asked, “Where are all the others?”
We said, “We are all that were allowed to come.” Apropos of that, if it isn’t war, it is, as some one remarked, “sufficiently Shermanically synonymous” for those left in the interior!
11 o’clock.
Captain O’Keefe, of the Mexico, came to my state-room a while ago. I had not seen him since before the “peace at any price” régime was inaugurated. He is waiting for a full complement of refugees; they are expecting a boatful from Coatzacoalcos, this afternoon. Am sitting in the drawing-room of the admiral, cannon trained from the windows. The Condé got in early this morning. Lying in my berth I could see her manœuvering into hers. It is intensely hot in the harbor. Two hours ago Nelson went to the Consulate with his clerks. There is a mass of work to be done, besides negotiations for getting all Americans out of Mexico City. I wonder if that big, pleasant Embassy is now a mass of charred ruins? A heavenly breeze is blowing through the room as I write. I would be very interested in what is going on about us were it not for the preoccupation about those left behind. Elim has a toy pistol which he has been showing to the blue-jackets. He says it is strange how frightened they all are, and told me, with shining eyes, he already had four friends on the ship and would soon have six. It is a blessed age—where one can so definitely count one’s friends.
4 P.M.
I have been sitting on deck, watching this busy port. Innumerable small boats, flying our flag are rapidly passing to and fro over the burning waters. Behind the Condé, which has effectually blocked the view of the outer harbor, is the Solace. She contains the wounded, the dead, and, mayhap, the dying ones. The Minnesota is so near the Sanidad pier that one can almost recognize individuals. Squads of our men are constantly marching along with prisoners between double files, men who have been caught sniping, bearing arms, or doing some overt act or deed of violence. Last night, while dining, the echo of shots came from the shore, and during the night, from time to time, desultory ghostly sounds of sniping were heard.
I have just looked through the glass to distinguish about a dozen of our men standing at the head of a street with fixed bayonets, facing a pink house, evidently ready to protect some one coming out of it, or to do justice. The lone torpedo-tube from San Juan Ulua is trained toward the Minnesota, but it is believed to be inoffensive. I am sure I hope it is, cuddled under our bows, so to speak. Yesterday two Mexican officers came out of that historic fortress, begging to be allowed to get food. They said they and all the inmates were starving. I saw the conditions in days of relative plenty. What must they be now in those damp, deep, vermin-infested holes? Pale specters of men, too weak to move, or wild with hunger and all the ensuing horrors—and all this so near that I could almost hit it with a stone.
Ships of refugees are passing in and out. A Dutch ship, Andrijk, has just left, and a French one, the Texas, passed by us, leaving for Tampico to gather up refugees. Think of all the comfortable homes, with the precious accumulations of lifetimes of thrift and work, that are deserted in the disorder of flight, to be left later to the complete devastation of looters. All over the country this is taking place. An officer who saw a group of thirty or forty refugees at Tampico told me he thought at first it was a band of gypsies; it proved, however, to be half-clad, starving women and children who but a few days before had been prosperous American citizens.