Already in those short hours since the army “flowed” in, the soldiers had installed themselves as though they had been there forever. In the dusk we saw their tents stretched, their bake-ovens up, and the smell of fresh bread was mingled with the warm sea odors. It was “efficiency” indeed.
May 3d.
This morning the news that Mr. Bryan will not permit any fighting during the period of armistice and mediation will dampen much of the eagerness I mentioned.
The full complement of the blue-jackets being again on board, there is a lively sound of ship-cleaning going on. Everything seemed immaculate before. We have been so comfortable, so cool, so well looked after in every way on this man-of-war. But I shall not soon forget the face of the young officer just home from outpost duty who discovered that my French maid was occupying his cabin!
Last night, as we sat talking on the deck, looking out over the jeweled harbor, the gentle, peaceful bugle-call to “taps” sounded suddenly from San Juan Ulua. A big light hung over the entrance to Captain Chamberlain’s quarters. It is balm on my soul that the pest-hole of centuries is open to the sun and light, the bolts hanging slack, and comparative peace and plenty everywhere. I say comparative peace, because those imprisoned for murder and foul crimes are still to be dealt with. When I first visited the prison under the Mexican flag Captain McDougall and I asked the sentry who showed us around if there had been many executions lately.
He answered, “Since Thursday” (this was Sunday) “only by order of the colonel!” Whether this was true or not I don’t know; but the guard gave it out with the air of one making an ordinary statement. Captain McDougall asked because, from the Mayflower, anchored almost where we now are, he had heard many a shot at night and in the early morning.
Immediately after dinner we had gone up on deck. A delicious breeze was turning and twisting through the soft, thick, tropical night. Every night a large screen is put up on the after part of the ship, and the officers and crew gather to watch the “movies,” seating themselves without distinction of rank. The turrets are garlanded with men; even the tops of the mast had their human decorations. It was most refreshing, after the hot, historic day, to sit quietly on the cool, dim deck and watch the old tales of love, burglars, kidnapping, and kindred recitals unroll themselves from the films. But it was more beautiful later on, as we sat quietly on the deck in the darkness, watching the wondrous scene about us. A thousand lights were flashing across the water, catching each dark ripple. The “city of ships,” as I call Vera Cruz harbor, is constantly throwing its flash-lights, its semaphores, its signalings of all kinds, and water and sky reflect them a hundredfold.
Just after the peaceful sounding of “Taps” from the fortress, Admiral Fletcher and Captain Huse came on board to pay us a farewell visit. Admiral Fletcher’s courtesy is always of the most delicate kind, coming from the depths of his kind heart and his broad understanding of men and life. He and N. walked up and down the deck for a while, planning about our getting off. He intends that the chargé shall depart from Mexican waters with all fitting dignity. After a warm handclasp he and Captain Huse went off over the summer sea. Standing at the rail, we watched the barge disappear into a wondrous marquetry design of darkness and light, and knew that some things would never be again.
Later we got the inclosed radio from the Arkansas, Admiral Badger’s flag-ship, to say the Yankton would be put at our disposal on the morrow to take us to our native shores, and so will the story end. I am homesick for my beautiful plateau and the vibrant, multicolored life I have been leading. Adelante! But I have little taste for dinners, teas, and the usual train-train, though a few expeditions to dress-makers and milliners will be profitable to me as well as to them. As you know, I had no time to have my personal things packed at the Embassy, and what I did bring with me reposed for twenty-four hours on the sand-dunes at Tejería, between the Mexican lines and ours. My big yellow trunk is reported at the Terminal station. What is left in it will be revealed later. They may not call it war in Washington, but when a woman loses her wardrobe she finds it difficult to call it peace. N.’s famous collection of boots, forty or fifty pairs, evidently left those sand-dunes on Aztec or mestizo feet. My silver foxes and other furs I don’t worry about. Under that blistering sky and on that hot, cutting sand they could offer no temptations.
Joe Patterson has just been on board. He came down with the army on the transport Hancock, sui generis, as usual, his big body dressed in the loosest of tan coverings. He is always electric and interesting, running with a practised touch over many subjects. He said he wanted not an interview with N. for his newspaper (which would finish N. “dead”), but to make some account that would interest the public and not get him (N.) into trouble. I shall be interested to see what he does. The boresome news of the armistice has made him feel that he wants to get back, and I dare say there will be many a departure. Nelson will not allow himself to be interviewed by a soul. It is impossible to please everybody, but, oh, how easy it is to displease everybody!