Advices have come that the rebels are again attacking Tampico. They evidently got what they wanted at the last attack—four cartloads of dynamite and lots of rolling stock, and are in a position to give a tidy bit of testimony as to the value of the Constitutionalist principles.
Zapata had a narrow escape the day before yesterday. He was surprised by Federals at Nenapepa, as he and his followers were sitting around their camp-fire. He barely escaped in the skirmish, leaving behind him his precious hat, a big, black, Charro hat, wide-brimmed and pointed crown, loaded with silver trimmings. It was brought to town by Colonel Gutierrez, greatly chagrined because he could not also bring what had been under the hat. The image of Zapata on his charger, dashing through fields of maguey, up and down barrancas, is very characteristic of the brigand life so much the thing in Mexico just now.
The new loan of 20,000,000 pesos has been underwritten by a lot of foreign bankers, principally French, I think, though some in New York are supposed to be “involved.” It will keep things going for another couple of months or so, and then the “sorrows of Huerta” will begin again. As it is, he can continue for that length of time to play with the kindergarten class at Washington. A nice cable came from Mr. Bryan saying that the State Department was much gratified at N.’s being able to procure the release of the American prisoners I mentioned.
December 24th.
The banks here have been given legal holidays from the 22d of this month to the 2d of January. That is one way of solving the banking problem. It is supposed to be for the safeguarding of the depositors, who, however, are crowding the streets leading to the closed banks, wild to get out what they put in, to confide it to the more trust-inspiring stocking.
To-day is Huerta’s saint’s day, Sanctus Victorianus. There was a reception of the gentlemen of the Diplomatic Corps at the Palace. The doyen made an address dealing in safe but pleasant generalities, and Huerta replied, protesting that he had but one idea, the pacification of Mexico. The German minister is away to investigate the murder of one of his nationals.
I again visited the tuberculosis hospital this morning and was interested to see patients risen from the dead, so to speak, and walking once more with the living. The climate here is ideal for cures. I took some Christmas packages to the Red Cross, then went to the Alameda. On three sides of the Park the Christmas booths are set out—puestos, they are called. The Indians bring their beautiful and fragile potteries from long distances, and endless varieties of baskets and toys, and last, but not least, their relatives, so that family life in all its details can be studied. They are selling, cooking, dressing, saying rosaries, examining little black heads for the ever-present visitants—a familiar Mexican occupation at all seasons. The smell of Christmas trees and greens, banked along the street, mingles with odors of peanuts and peppers, enchiladas, and all sorts of pungent foods.
The cohetes are going off as I write. They are noisy crackers, making sounds like rifle-fire. Their use is an old custom that is observed for the nine days before Christmas; but in these troublous days one is led to think rather of pistols than of the advent of the “Son of Peace.”
A very nice letter came from Admiral Cradock, saying that he has just got back to Vera Cruz from the Tampico fray, the sojourn enlivened by some “good tarpon-fishing.” He will not be able to return here for Christmas, as he intended, but hopes we will soon run down to Vera Cruz and be dined and saluted by him on the Suffolk.
There are a thousand things to do about Christmas. We trimmed the tree last night and it is locked away in the big salon, presumably safe from infant eyes.