The Hotel Terminus is the same old horror of flies, fleas, and general shiftlessness, though the broad, high corridor up-stairs, giving on to the sleeping-rooms, was fairly clean. We were finally shown into a large room, where Mrs. Lind was waiting. After our greetings I sank into a rocking-chair, and a big electric fan, in conjunction with the breeze from the window looking toward the sea, somewhat restored my energy.
In a few minutes Mr. Lind appeared, in shirt-sleeves and a panama fan. (I suppose he wore other articles, but these are what I remember.) I was greatly struck by him. He is evidently a man of many natural abilities and much magnetism—tall, gaunt, sandy-haired, unmistakably Scandinavian, with the blue, blue eyes of the Norsemen set under level brows. I imagine fire behind that northern façade. The conversation opened with conciliatory and smiling remarks, after the manner of experts in any situation, meeting for the first time. I found him very agreeable. There was even something Lincolnesque in his look and bearing, but his entry on the Mexican stage was certainly abrupt, and the setting completely unfamiliar, so some very natural barking of the shins has been the result. Looking at him, I couldn’t help thinking of “the pouring of new wine into old bottles” and all the rest of the scriptural text.
The Linds, who have a handsome house in Minneapolis and another “on the lake,” are accepting things as they find them, with an air of “all for the good of the United States and the chastising of Mexico.” But all the same, it is a hardship to inhabit the Terminus and then to tramp three times a day through the broiling streets to another hotel for very questionable food.
The Hotel Diligencias, where we lunched, is deeper in the town, has fewer flies, is a little cleaner, and is very much hotter. Once away from the sea breeze you might as well be in Hades as in Vera Cruz on a day like yesterday. The Diligencias is the hotel whereon De Chambrun hangs the famous story of his wife’s maid going back for something that had been forgotten, and finding that the servants had whisked the sheets off the beds and were ironing them out on the floor for the next comers—sans autre forme de procès! We had a pleasant lunch, with the familiar menu of Huachinango, pollo y arroz, alligator pears and tepid ice-cream, consumed to the accompaniment of suppositions regarding Mexican politics. Then we plunged into the deserted, burning street (all decent folk were at the business of the siesta) and back to the Hotel Terminus, feeling much the worse for wear.
At four o’clock Lieutenant Courts came to conduct us to the flag-ship Louisiana, and we asked Hohler, the British chargé who was in Vera Cruz awaiting the arrival of Sir Lionel and Lady Carden, to go with us. Admiral Fletcher and his officers were waiting for Nelson at the gangway and the band was playing the beloved air as we went up. We were there about an hour, which seemed all too short, sitting on the spotless deck, where a delightful breeze was blowing. The time passed in eager conversation about the situation with Admiral Fletcher, a charming and clever man, with dark, earnest eyes and serious, intent expression, all set off by the most immaculate white attire. Champagne was poured, healths were drunk, and Elim was taken over the ship, departing with one of the junior officers, after a glance at me betokening the magnitude of the adventure. We left, after warm handshakings and good wishes, N. receiving his eleven salutes as we went away. The tears came to my eyes. “Oh, land of mine!” I thought. “Oh, brotherhood!” But Elim asked, in a frightened tone, “Why are they shooting at papa?”
We then went over to the New Hampshire to call on Captain Oliver. More health-drinking and stirring of friendly feelings. Pictures of the Holy Father and prelates I have known gave a familiar note to Captain Oliver’s quarters. Then, in the wondrous tropical dusk, the little launch steamed quickly back to town, where we had just time to gather up our belongings and maid at the Terminus and descend to the station beneath. Mr. Lind stood waving farewell as we steamed out, and I must say I am quite taken by him!
Our train, preceded by a military train, was most luxurious. None of “the comforts of home” was lacking, from the full American bill of fare to the white-coated colored porters—all at poor, bankrupt Huerta’s expense. It made me eat abstemiously and sit lightly!
We had a quiet night, rising swiftly up those enchanting slopes, a warm, perfumed, exotic air coming in at the window. At dawn, with a catching of the breath, I looked out and saw once again those two matchless, rose-colored peaks—Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl, looking tranquilly down on the beauteous plateau, indifferent to man’s disorders.
A VIEW OF POPOCATEPETL AND IZTACCIHUATL