As soon as Huerta heard that N. was going to Vera Cruz he sent one of his colonels to ask if we wanted a special train, or a private car attached to the night express. We take the private car, only, of course; everybody in these days prefers traveling in numbers. The President is always most courteous about everything. If he cannot please Washington he does what seems to him the next best thing—he shows courtesy to its representative. He said to d’Antin, who went to thank him, in N.’s name, for the car: “Mexico es como una serpiente; toda la vida está en la cabeza” (“Mexico is like a snake; all its life is in its head.”) Then he banged his head with his small fist and said, “Yo soy la cabeza de Mexico!” (“I am the head of Mexico!”) “And until I am crushed,” he added, “she will survive!” D’Antin, who is a Frenchman with a Latin-American past, probably gave him words of consolation that would fit neither the letter nor the spirit of watchful waiting. Huerta is magnetic. There is no disputing that fact.
Vera Cruz, January 8th.
I am writing this hasty line in Mr. Lind’s dim room at the Consulate, to let you know that we slipped quietly down those wondrous slopes last night without hindrance.
I am decked out in a white skirt, purple hat and veil, and purple jersey. We have struck the tail end of the norther and the temperature is delightful. The moving-picture man, who followed us down last night, is now trying to persuade Mr. Lind and N. to let him “get them” in conversation, but Mr. Lind refuses on the plea that he is not in politics. I asked him how about his noble Lincoln head, and he answered, “Nothing doing; that unrepeatable head is long in its grave.”... The admiral is announced.
XI
Dramatic values at Vera Cruz—Visits to the battle-ships—Our superb hospital-ship, the Solace—Admiral Cradock’s flag-ship—An American sailor’s menu—Three “square meals” a day—Travel in revolutionary Mexico.
“La Siempre Heroica,”
Vera Cruz, January 9th.
I am writing in my state-room before getting up. Yesterday I sent off the merest scrap by the Monterey. We had a long and interesting day. We went with Admiral Fletcher and Commander Stirling to the Dolphin for lunch. Fortunately the admiral’s flag is flying from her instead of from the Rhode Island, which is anchored, while waiting for a good berth inside the breakwater, in the rough sea beyond the Isla de los Sacrificios.
Captain Earl is in command of the Dolphin, the despatch-boat that successive Secretaries of the Navy have used for their journeyings and which has just come from “watching” the elections in Santo Domingo. The admiral offered to put us up, but I thought it was unnecessary to trouble him, as we were already unpacked on the car. Admiral Fletcher, besides being an agreeable man of the world, is an open-minded, shrewd, experienced seaman, versed in international usage, knowing just what the law allows in difficult decisions, where to curtail his own initiative and fall in with established codes, or where to go ahead. The splendid order and efficiency of the men and matters under his command are apparent even to my lay eyes.
We sat on deck for an hour or so after lunch. The harbor is like a busy town—a sort of new Venice. Launches and barges are constantly going from one war-ship to another. It is a very different scene from the one my eyes first rested on nearly three years ago, when the Ward Line boat bringing us, and the Kronprinzessin Cecilie bringing von Hintze, were the only boats in the harbor. I sent a wireless to Admiral Cradock to let him know that we are in town, or rather in harbor, and he wired back an invitation for lunch to-day.