XXVI
Homeward bound—Dead to the world in Sarah Bernhardt’s luxurious cabin—Admiral Badger’s farewell—“The Father of Waters”—Mr. Bryan’s earnest message—Arrival at Washington—Adelante!
Sunday, May 3d.
I am writing in the depths of my cabin on the yacht Yankton, which is carrying us to New Orleans as the crow flies—a special trip for the purpose. In another walk of life the Yankton was known as La Cléopâtre, and belonged to Sarah Bernhardt. Now I, much the worse for wear, occupy her cabin. She has never brought a representative of the United States from the scene of war before, but she is Admiral Badger’s special ship, carries mails, special travelers, etc., and went around the world with the fleet. The fleet met a typhoon, and all were alarmed for the safety of the Yankton, which emerged from the experience the least damaged of any ship. I can testify that she rides the waves and that she even jumps them. Admiral B. says that in harbor he uses her chiefly for court-martials. Now I am here. Life is a jumble, is it not?
At five o’clock, on Friday, May 1st, we said good-by to dear Captain Simpson and all the luxurious hospitality of the Minnesota, Commander Moody and the officers of the day wishing us “Godspeed.” Just as we were leaving Captain Simpson told us that he had been signaled to send five hundred rations to San Juan Ulua. As we pushed off across the water, accompanied by Ensign Crisp, the boat officer of the day, great patches of khaki colored the shores of the town. They were squads of our men, their tents and paraphernalia, the color coming out strong against Vera Cruz, which had an unwonted grayish tone that afternoon. The Yankton was lying in the outer harbor, surrounded by battle-ships, dreadnoughts, and torpedo-boats—a mighty showing, a circle of iron around that artery of beautiful, gasping Mexico. It was about quarter before six when we reached the Yankton. As I looked about I seemed to be in a strange, gray city of battle-ships. Shortly afterward Admiral Badger put out from his flag-ship, the Arkansas, to say good-by to us. He came on board, greeting us in his quick, masterful way. Such power has rarely been seen under one man as that huge fleet represented in Vera Cruz harbor, and the man commanding it is fully equal to the task; he is alert, with piercing blue eyes, very light hair gone white, and a clean, fresh complexion—the typical mariner in a high place. I think he feels entirely capable of going up and down the coast and taking all and everything, even the dreaded Tampico, with its manifest dangers of oil, fire, disease, and all catastrophes that water can bring. He spoke of the thirty thousand Americans who have already appeared at our ports, driven from their comfortable homes, now destitute, and who can’t return to Mexico until we have made it possible.... I imagine he strains at the leash. He loves it all, too, and it was with a deep sigh that he said, “Unfortunately, in little more than a month my time is up.” But all endings are sad. Great bands of sunset red were suddenly stamped across the sky as he went away, waving us more good wishes.
Captain Joyce, who had gone into town to get us some special kind of health certificate to obviate any quarantine difficulties, came on board a little later, and soon after his return we were under way. The quick, tropical night began to fall. What had been a circle of iron by day was a huge girdle of light pressing against Mexico, as potent under the stars as under the sun. My heart was very sad.... I had witnessed a people’s agony and I had said an irrevocable farewell to a fascinating phase of my own life, and to a country whose charm I have felt profoundly. Since then I have been dead to the world, scribbling these words with limp fingers on a damp bit of paper. This jaunty yacht is like a cockle-shell on the shining waters. Admiral Fletcher and Admiral Cradock sent wireless messages, which are lying in a corner, crumpled up, like everything else.
I said to Elim, lying near by in his own little sackcloth and ashes, “Yacht me no yachts,” and he answered, “No yachts for me.” Later, recovered enough to make a little joke, he said he was going to give me one for a Christmas present.
I said, “I will sell it.”
He answered, “No, sink it. If we sell it dey’ll invite us—dey always do.” He looked up later, with a moan, to say, faintly, “I would rather have a big cramp dan dis horriblest feeling in de world.”
This is, indeed, noblesse oblige! I have suffered somewhat, perhaps gloriously, for la patria, and I suppose I ought to be willing to enact this final scene without bewailings; but I have been buried to the world, and the divine Sarah’s cabin is my coffin. If such discomfort can exist where there is every modern convenience of limitless ice, electric fans, the freshest and best of food, what must have been the sufferings of people in sailing-ships, delayed by northers or calms, with never a cold drink? I envelop them all in boundless sympathy, from Cortés to Madame Calderon de la Barca.