Mexico City, January 12th
We finally arrived about one o’clock in the morning, to be met by many newspaper men and the staff of the Embassy, who received us as from the wars. About fifty soldiers got out of the train when we did; and really, in the unsparing station light they had the appearance of assailants rather than of protectors. In a fight it would have been so easy to confuse the rôles. I thought they had long since given up putting forces on passenger-trains; it usually invites attack on account of the guns and ammunition.
However, all’s well that ends well, and I have just had my breakfast in my comfortable bed with my precious boy. They tell me he has been “good” while his mother was away. Mrs. Parker says he insisted on having the lights put out before saying his prayers at night. He was so dead with sleep when I got in that he didn’t open his eyes; only cuddled up to me when he felt me near.
The newspaper gives details of the Maltrata wrecking. The attacking band placed a huge pile of stones on the rails at the entrance to the tunnel, fired on the train, robbed the employees, took what they could of the provisions (they were all mounted and provided with ammunition), and disappeared into the night. Hundreds of workmen have been sent to repair the damage, and a thousand rurales to guard and pursue. The “Mexican” is the big artery between this city and Vera Cruz, and if that line is destroyed we would be entirely cut off. Nothing gets to us from anywhere now except from Vera Cruz. The other line to Vera Cruz—the Interoceanic—has often been held up and is not in favor with levanting families. It is about time for one of the periodical scares, when they leave their comfortable homes with their children and other valuables, for the expensive discomforts of the “Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz.”