The steamer stops, and we are lying off Vera Cruz, in the Gulf of Mexico. Half a mile off, the long, low shore stretches north and south, with the white town upon it, flat roofs making level lines on the houses glaring in the morning sunlight, domes and church towers rising above the rest; glimpses of bright green tree-tops are to be seen, but outside the city all is barren and waste. The plain behind rolls up, however, and the background is the peak of snow-capped Orizaba, silent, lofty, 17,356 feet above our level.
This is what we see to-day, leaning over the bulwark of our large luxurious steamer which has brought us, easily, from Havana in a few days, over the smooth, green waters of the Gulf. Our only anxiety has been the possible chance of a "Norther," which may break loose at any time in that region, sweeping over the waters with fury and driving the Stoutest vessels away from the coast they would approach. Our only exertion has been to keep cool upon the pleasant deck, and to take enough exercise to be able to enjoy the frequent food provided by the admirable chef of the steamer.
The scenery is the same that Fernando Cortés looked upon, some three hundred years ago, when he, too, cast anchor about half a mile from the coast, and scanned the shore with an anxious eye, to find a suitable landing. Orizaba rose before him, as now we see it, stately, majestic, cold and forbidding, under its mantle of snow.
We must envy the adventurer, in spite of our advantages in the way of ease and comfort. He stood upon the cramped deck of his little vessel, surrounded by a handful of men, with a limited amount of provisions, and great uncertainty about the next supply. No town stretched out its sheltering walls before him; there was scarcely harborage for his ships. Yet he had the advantage of absolute novelty in his undertaking from the moment he himself, with his little band, led the way up the steep slope to Anahuac.
Every true traveller has some of the instincts of the explorer in him, and these instincts must make us envy the prospect which lay before Cortés as he approached in the Bay of Vera Cruz the real beginning of his enterprise. There was the shore of the new country, where he might plant his "rich city of the true cross." There was the cold mountain which might contain in its depths the treasure he was seeking, and beyond it was the rumored Empire he longed to conquer. At that moment, no fear, no discouragement, held back the eager steps with which he sprang into his boat, and beckoned his companions to follow him.
Cortés fulfilled his ambition, achieved his task, with what difficulties, through what straits and failures, we shall have later to see. He scaled the sides of Orizaba, reached the lofty plateau, and seized the ancient citadel of the Montezumas. Civilization has trodden smooth the rough path he first opened, and railroads now make it easy to climb the pass so arduous for him. If our journey lacks the element of constant discovery which belonged to his, we have gained that of wonder and amazement at the difficulties he surmounted. Moreover, he came in ignorance of what he was to find, with a blind desire for conquest, investing the region he approached with imaginary attractions. We know beforehand, as we begin to explore the country, that its legends and romances are as fascinating as its mines are deep; that its story is as picturesque as the lofty ranges and deep rolling valleys which make the charm of its scenery.
An inhospitable coast borders the treacherous, though beautiful, Gulf of Mexico. Its waters look smiling and placid, but at any season the furious "Norther" may break loose, sweeping with fearful suddenness over its surface, lashing its lately smiling waves into fury, threatening every vessel with destruction. Low sand-bars offer little shelter from the blast. Ships must stand off the coast until the tempest shall be past.
The country offers nothing better to its landed guests. Vomito lurks in the streets of Vera Cruz to seize upon strangers and hurry them off to a wretched grave. All the pests of a tropical region infest the low lands running back from the sea. Splendid vegetation hides unpleasant animals, and snakes are lurking among the beautiful blue morning-glories that festoon the tangled forests. Let us hasten away from these dangers, and climb the slope that leads to a purer air.
We have escaped the terrors of the custom-house at Vera Cruz, from which, by the way, Cortés was exempt, and after a doubtful night in the hotel, serenaded by swarms of Vera Cruz mosquitoes, at early dawn we creep stealthily from our chambers, not to disturb the few misguided guests who mean to stay a little longer, and follow the dusky cargadores, bearing our baggage on their backs, down into the silent street. In Mexico there is no effort on the part of an hotel proprietor to speed the parting guest. He signs the bill overnight and betakes himself to repose, undisturbed by the exodus in early morning. The cargadores who have agreed to attend to the luggage rouse their sleeping prey and lead them through a wide, straight street to the railroad station. There is no sign of breakfast at the hotel. Nobody is stirring but one sleepy innkeeper. Hard by the station, as in every Mexican town, is a café, where excellent hot coffee is furnished, with plenty of boiled milk and good bread in many and various forms. Here we may sit and refresh ourselves with cup after cup, if we like, until the short, sharp whistle of the steam-engine warns us to take the train. Heavy baggage was, or should have been, weighed and registered overnight.
It is but six o'clock as we move out of the station. A big sun is slowly rising over the dry, hot chapparral outside the city. Although it is early April, all is parched like midsummer. Soon, however, we begin to climb, and, as we ascend, pass through forests of wonderful growth. Sugar-cane and coffee plantations now appear; and the trees are hung with orchids, tangled with vines bright with blossoms, many of them fruit-trees now in flower, one mass of white or pink. The road crosses water-falls, winds round ravines, under mountains, through tunnels, climbing ever higher and higher, until Córdoba is reached at an elevation of over 2,000 feet. This town is surrounded and invaded by coffee plantations and orange groves. At the station baskets of delicious fruits are offered us—oranges, bananas, grenaditas, mangoes. Here we bid farewell to the tropics, and forget the snakes and the fear of vomito.