XVIII
Back to Vera Cruz—Luncheon on the Chester—San Juan’s prison horrors—Tea on the Mayflower—The ministry of war and the commissary methods—Torreon falls again?—Don Eduardo Iturbide.
Vera Cruz, March 21st
N.’s sciatica is so bad that Dr. Fichtner told him to get to sea-level immediately. So last night we left, Dr. Ryan coming with us. At the station we found a guard of fifty of the crack Twenty-ninth Regiment to “protect” us, and a car placed at our disposal by Huerta. We had already arranged to go with Hohler and Mr. Easton, who is the secretary of the National lines, in his private car, thinking we wouldn’t put the government to the expense of one specially for us—though, as the government already owes some millions to the railroads, a few hundreds more or less would make little difference. We were half an hour late, as we insisted upon having the government car put off; but the fifty soldiers, with a nice young captain, suffering from an acute attack of tonsilitis, we could not shake.
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.