At Orizaba, (the Next Morning), January 11th, 10.30
Well, traveling in Mexico in revolutionary times is all that it is supposed to be! The rebels have destroyed the track at Maltrata ahead of us, sacked and burned fourteen provision-cars, damaged a bridge, and, officials say, we are held up until to-morrow. It is the first time anything has happened on this road, though all the other lines in Mexico have been cut times without number. Maltrata, above which the damage has been done, is the site of the most delicate and difficult engineering-work on the line and a tempting spot for havoc.
I am staying in my state-room, worn out with the comings and goings of the last three days. A drizzling rain is falling, the results of the norther at Vera Cruz. Orizaba is known politely as the watering-pot of Mexico. I say “politely,” as against a somewhat similar name which you will remember is applied to Rouen. N. is disgusted at not getting back to Mexico City, and I dare say the town is full of all sorts of rumors about us. He has just been to see the train-master, who has simply had orders to await instructions; no tickets are to be sold further than Orizaba.
I am glad of these moments for a little word with my precious mother. Last night the admiral’s dinner was most agreeable. The Military Commander Maass and his wife were there, Admiral Cradock with two of his officers, Mr. Lind, the Consul, Yates Stirling, and others of the admiral’s staff. I sat on Admiral Fletcher’s left, with Maass next to me. The conversation was in Spanish, and I worked hard; I told the admiral that I deserved a trip to Panama as a recompense. The norte which had been announced from Tampico began creakingly and ominously to make itself felt and heard about half after nine. The admiral gave us an amusing picture of the life at Tampico with a hundred refugees, mostly women and children, on board. He said it was a sweet and touching sight to see certain baby garments hung out to dry on the cannon, and officers lulling the little innocents to sleep, or engaged in other and often unsuccessful attempts to keep the refugees pleased and happy.
At about ten o’clock, after sitting on deck awhile, the norte began to blow stronger. Señora Maass, stout, elderly, and placid, did not seem to like her own nortes, so we proceeded to do what was about my seventeenth gangway that day. The northers of Vera Cruz are a great feature of the climate. They have all sorts and degrees—the nortes fuertes that nearly blow the town away; the nortes chocolateros that are milder, last a long time, and keep the place healthy and bearable, and various others. I don’t know what kind was developing last night, but after an uncertain trip we were dashed up against the Sanidad pier, where the large Maass auto was waiting. We said good-by to Mr. Lind and Mr. Canada at the Consulate door, and in an instant they were blotted out in the thick darkness of the gathering norte. The Maasses took us on to the station, where we parted with all expressions of regard and compliments. I must say they have been more than polite.
I went to bed immediately. Jesus, who is a gem, had everything in order. I don’t think I would have been able to don my filmy black gown for the dinner had it not been for his deftness and general efficiency. At six o’clock they hitched our car onto the morning train, with indescribable groanings and joltings, and this is our history up to the present moment.
Through the window I see only bits of a dreary station and crowds of Indians huddled under their serapes and rebozos. The poor wretches do so hate to get wet. It means hours of chill until the garments dry on them. Worried train employees are running about. I understand that Orizaba, in spite of the “watering-pot” effect, is a delightful resort. Many people from Yucatan come up to recuperate—rich henequén and sisal planters; there are all the beauties and marvels of the tropics in the way of flowers and fruits, orchids, convolvuli, ahuacate pears, pineapples, pomegranates, and a wonderfully tonic, even temperature. If it weren’t for the downpour I would venture out for antiques. This is an old Spanish city and there are lovely things to be picked up in the way of ivory and wood inlaid-work if one is lucky. However, I don’t feel like being watered. I haven’t had the desire, since hearing of the hold-up, to tell you of the beauty of the scenery from Vera Cruz, but look at those first enchanting pages of Prescott’s Conquest. He who never saw it, describes its beauties as if they were spread before him. Though, for really up-to-date reading on Mexico give me Humboldt, 1807. He still seems to have said the last and latest word about Mexico and Mexicans as we know them to-day.
Two train-loads of Federal soldiers, well armed, have just pulled out of the station, where women were weeping and holding up baskets of food to them as they hung out of the windows. They were laughing and joking as befits warriors. Poor wretches! I couldn’t help my eyes filling with tears. They go to reconnoiter the track for us. I suppose it is known everywhere by now that the American chargé and his wife are held up on that usually safe stretch between Orizaba and Mexico City. A group of armed men are standing in front of my window. They have black water-proof covers for their large hats, like chair covers; the hats underneath are doubtless gray felt, heavily trimmed with silver. One soldier, apparently as an incidental effect, has a poor, red-blanketed Indian attached to him by a lasso tightened around the waist. Nobody pays any attention to them; not even the women, with their babes completely concealed and tightly bound to their backs or breasts by the inevitable rebozo. One feels hopelessly sad at the thought of the world of chaos those little heads will, in their time, peep out upon.
A thick and heartbreaking book could be written upon the soldadera—the heroic woman who accompanies the army, carrying, in addition to her baby, any other mortal possession, such as a kettle, basket, goat, blanket, parrot, fruit, and the like. These women are the only visible commissariat for the soldiers; they accompany them in their marches; they forage for them and they cook for them; they nurse them, bury them; they receive their money when it is paid. All this they do and keep up with the march of the army, besides rendering any other service the male may happen to require. It is appalling what self-abnegation is involved in this life. And they keep it up until, like poor beasts, they uncomplainingly drop in their tracks—to arise, I hope, in Heaven.