The sun is under a cloud, but a hot, damp atmosphere has enveloped the port, and an opalescent light plays over the town. From where I sit I can see the old white fortress of Sant’ Iago which we shelled, and the yellow Naval Academy where the Mexican youths made their gallant stand. The chartered boats of the Ward Line, Mexico, Monterey, and Esperanza, also the now historic Ypiranga, are lying close to the various piers, ready to receive refugees and take them to New Orleans or Galveston. There they will be, in many cases, a three days’ source of interest—and then they can starve!
Helen, the deer, a great pet of the sailors, and got in Tampico, keeps trying to nibble my long, white veil; the spotless decks are rather poor for browsing, and she looks a bit disconsolate at times. A snappy green parrot is being taught to say, “Look out for the snipers.”
April 25th. 10.30.
I spent yesterday quietly on board, getting my breath. N. was at the Consulate all day, where he had been sending off his mail. About five o’clock, when he went to return Admiral Badger’s call, I went into town, first to the headquarters of Admiral Fletcher, at the fly-infested Hotel Terminal. In the past the proprietor has encouraged in many ingenious ways the propagation of the fly. He owns the other hotel, the Diligencias, where he has his cuisine. In order to save himself the expense and bother of keeping two cooking-places going, he allowed the Terminal to become so disgustingly infested with flies that the “guests” are obliged to tramp through the hot streets to the Diligencias whenever the pangs of hunger or thirst assail them. We have cleaned out more things than flies in the tropics, however.
I saw at the headquarters, for a moment, Captain Huse, Sir Christopher, and le capitaine de vaisseau Graux, commanding the Condé, and many others. Afterward Admiral Fletcher sent Rowan with me to see the town.
Everything is closely watched and controlled by our five thousand or more blue-jackets and marines. Everywhere are the marks of bullets along the once-peaceful streets—the clean perforations of the steel-jacketed bullets of the American rifles; quaint cornices chipped; electric street globes destroyed; pink façades looking as if there was a design in white where the shots had taken off the color. We walked over to the Plaza, meeting acquaintances at every step, harassed and discomfited refugees. Several hundreds had just got into the city of the “Truly” Cross from Mexico City in the last train, having been nearly twenty hours en route and having left most of what they possessed for the mobs of Mexico City. It is difficult to get any exact information from them. According to their stories, many of the bankers were in jail; American shops were looted; some Americans were killed; and all Mexican servants had been warned to leave American homes. As they left only seven hours later than we did, I don’t know that their information is worth much. The telegraph lines are down. What we do know is that dreadful things can happen in that beautiful city at any moment. When the Embassy was closed, the whole thing collapsed, from the point of view of Americans.
When Rowan and I got to the Plaza we found the band of the Florida playing in the band-stand—nothing like so well as the Mexican Policia Band, by the way—and hundreds of people, foreigners, Americans, Mexicans, sitting about, taking their lukewarm drinks under the portales of the Hotel Diligencias, whose ice-plant had been destroyed by a shell from the Chester. The place swarms with our men, and the buildings looking on the Plaza are all occupied as quarters for our officers. From the bullet-defaced belfry of the newly painted cathedral blue-jackets looked down upon us, and from every roof and every window faces of our own soldiers and officers were to be seen. We walked across to the Municipal Palace, which is also used by us as a barracks. The men of the Utah were answering the bugle-call to muster for night duty. They were of the battalion landing in small boats under heavy fire that first day; they were saved by the cannon-fire from the ships. There were many casualties among their ranks. The men look happy, proud, and pleased, and in all the novel excitement and pride of conquest. I went into the church, where I also found some of our men stationed. Some one had been shot and killed from behind the high altar, two days ago. I fell on my knees, in the dimness, and besought the God of armies.
As we walked along in the older part of the town, en route to the Naval Academy, there were piles of once peaceful, love-fostering, green balconies heaped in the streets. They will be used for camp-fires by our men. Doors were broken in, houses empty. There was a great deal of sniping done from the azoteas (roofs) those first days, and it was necessary, in many cases, to batter down the doors and go up and arrest the people caught in flagrante, in that last retreat of the Latin-American.
Pulque[17]-shops and cantinas of all descriptions were barricaded, and, looking through the doors, we could see heaps of broken glass, overturned tables and chairs. A sour, acrid smell of various kinds of tropical “enliveners” hung in the still, heavy air—mute witnesses of what had been. We passed through several sinister-looking streets, and I thought of “Mr. Dooley’s” expression, “The trouble we would have if we would try to chase the Monroe doctrine up every dark alley of Latin America.” The big, once-handsome Naval Academy was patrolled by our men, its façade telling the tale of the taking of the town only too well; windows destroyed by the Chester’s guns, balconies hanging limply from their fastenings. We looked through the big door facing the sea, but the patrol said we could not enter without a permit. Every conceivable disorder was evident—cadets’ uniforms lay with sheets, pillows, books, broken furniture, heaps of mortar, plaster. The boys made a heroic stand, and many of them gave up their lives; but what could they do when every window was a target for the unerring mark of the Chester’s guns? Many a mother’s hope and pride died that day for his country, before he had had a chance to live for it. This is history at close range.
I had finally to hurry back, stopping, hot and tired, for a few minutes at the Diligencias, where we had some lukewarm ginger-ale; my sticky glass had a couple of reminiscent lemon-seeds in it. It was getting dusk and Rowan was afraid the sniping might begin. I got into the Minnesota’s waiting boat, feeling unspeakably sad, and was put out across the jeweled harbor—but what jewels! Every one could deal a thousand deaths.