At Vera Cruz we found a norther blowing, and I was glad to have my tailor-made suits. Mr. Lind seemed not quite so well as before. I think eight months of Vera Cruz food and monotony have told on him, besides the evident failure of his policy. He feels dreadfully about the Creelman article. He cast one look of supreme chagrin at me when I mentioned Shanklin’s disgust at being quoted as having found Huerta in the coulisses of a theater, with an actress on each knee, and with another hanging around his neck, feeding him brandy. The truth being that Shanklin went to pay his respects to him in his box at some charity representation, and found Huerta, mightily bored, sitting alone with two aides. The Lind thing is not so easy to refute. He did write the letter to the rebel, Medina, and he has dreamed dreams, and sent them on to Washington. His policy is a dead failure, and I think its ghost walks with him at night.
We lunched on the Chester with Captain Moffett, who is most discriminating about the whole situation, and, after an hour on the wind-swept deck, came back to the car, where we found delightful, spontaneous Captain McDougall, of the Mayflower, come to ask us if we wouldn’t transfer our bags and ourselves and servant over to his ship. The annoying part of the whole trip is that Admiral Fletcher is in Mexico City. We did not tell any one of our coming down to Vera Cruz, nor did he announce that he was coming up, with Mrs. Fletcher and his two daughters. However, it is simply one of those annoying contretemps for which there is no help. They went up by the “Interoceanic” route as we came down by the “Mexican.” I would have returned myself, leaving N. on the Mayflower; but he feels that he must carry out the plan of returning to-morrow night, as he has correspondence that he wants to show the admiral.
Sunday.
Last night we dined on the Essex, to which Admiral Cradock has transferred his flag, the Suffolk having gone to Bermuda for a new coat of paint and other furbishings. Admiral Cradock is always the same delightful friend and companion. I played bridge till a late hour, with the admiral, Hohler, and Captain Watson. Watson has just come from Berlin, where for three years he was naval attaché. I saw many photographs of old friends—the Granvilles, Sir Edward Goschen, the Grews, the Kaiser. After a rather uncertain trip back to the shore, Hohler, Nelson, and myself threaded our way along the dark interstices of the Vera Cruz wharves and terminal tracks to the car—I, in long dress and thin slippers, bowed to the norte.
We can’t get out to the Florida, Captain Rush in command, on account of the high sea. I went to Mass with Ryan in the cathedral, which they have painted a hideous, cold gray, with white trimmings, since I saw it last. Then it had its belle patiné of pinkish-brown, that shone like bronze in the setting sun, and it was beautiful at all hours. However, the winds and the storms and the hot sun will again beautify man’s hideous work.
In the Car. Sunday Evening.
We had lunch for Admiral Cradock and several of his staff in the car, to which we had also asked Captain Moffett and Captain McDougall—a rather “close,” but merry company of nine officers and myself, in the little dining-room. After dinner we started out to San Juan Ulua.
Monday, 10.30 A.M.
I am comfortably writing in my state-room. We are not yet near Mexico City. My beloved volcanoes are a little unradiant, a dusty veil hangs over everything. It is often that way a month before the rains begin.
When we got to the station at seven, last night, we found that the train, which, according to schedule, was to leave at 7.20, had departed, with our private car and the servants, at 6.55. The servants had begged at least to have our car uncoupled, but no! You can imagine the faces of the chargés who had to be in Mexico City Monday morning. The upshot of it all was that a locomotive was finally got ready, sent to catch the train and to bring back our car. After the telegraph and telephone, the whole station, and the town, for that matter, were up on end, we got off at ten o’clock. If the car had not come back, we intended to board a locomotive and to chase the train through the tropical night. The locomotive we finally secured broke down later on. On one of the steep, dark, flower-scented inclines, strange, dusky silhouettes gathered silently to watch the repairing, which was finally accomplished in the uncertain light of torch and lantern. Now we are due at the city at 12.30, the locomotive, our car, the car containing the fifty soldiers, and the poor officer who hasn’t had even a drop of water since he left Mexico City, Friday night. We sent pillows and blankets out to him and tried to make him comfortable, but of the good cheer, wine and viands he could take none.