4 | P.M.
I have been sitting on deck, watching this busy port. Innumerable small boats, flying our flag are rapidly passing to and fro over the burning waters. Behind the Condé, which has effectually blocked the view of the outer harbor, is the Solace. She contains the wounded, the dead, and, mayhap, the dying ones. The Minnesota is so near the Sanidad pier that one can almost recognize individuals. Squads of our men are constantly marching along with prisoners between double files, men who have been caught sniping, bearing arms, or doing some overt act or deed of violence. Last night, while dining, the echo of shots came from the shore, and during the night, from time to time, desultory ghostly sounds of sniping were heard.
I have just looked through the glass to distinguish about a dozen of our men standing at the head of a street with fixed bayonets, facing a pink house, evidently ready to protect some one coming out of it, or to do justice. The lone torpedo-tube from San Juan Ulua is trained toward the Minnesota, but it is believed to be inoffensive. I am sure I hope it is, cuddled under our bows, so to speak. Yesterday two Mexican officers came out of that historic fortress, begging to be allowed to get food. They said they and all the inmates were starving. I saw the conditions in days of relative plenty. What must they be now in those damp, deep, vermin-infested holes? Pale specters of men, too weak to move, or wild with hunger and all the ensuing horrors—and all this so near that I could almost hit it with a stone.
Ships of refugees are passing in and out. A Dutch ship, Andrijk, has just left, and a French one, the Texas, passed by us, leaving for Tampico to gather up refugees. Think of all the comfortable homes, with the precious accumulations of lifetimes of thrift and work, that are deserted in the disorder of flight, to be left later to the complete devastation of looters. All over the country this is taking place. An officer who saw a group of thirty or forty refugees at Tampico told me he thought at first it was a band of gypsies; it proved, however, to be half-clad, starving women and children who but a few days before had been prosperous American citizens.
The sun is under a cloud, but a hot, damp atmosphere has enveloped the port, and an opalescent light plays over the town. From where I sit I can see the old white fortress of Sant’ Iago which we shelled, and the yellow Naval Academy where the Mexican youths made their gallant stand. The chartered boats of the Ward Line, Mexico, Monterey, and Esperanza, also the now historic Ypiranga, are lying close to the various piers, ready to receive refugees and take them to New Orleans or Galveston. There they will be, in many cases, a three days’ source of interest—and then they can starve!
Helen, the deer, a great pet of the sailors, and got in Tampico, keeps trying to nibble my long, white veil; the spotless decks are rather poor for browsing, and she looks a bit disconsolate at times. A snappy green parrot is being taught to say, “Look out for the snipers.”