sip a sherbet at noonday — all the curtains drooping over the balconies, the blue sky gray with excess of light, the blackbirds panting with beaks wide open and wings partly spread, the lépero drunk with sleep in the shadow of a wall, a hush over the docks, a stillness in the market — had an exotic fascination; and an evening stroll round the plaza or along the beach at Vergara, where the principal camp lay, with the soft, languid, lingering breeze of the Gulf on one's face and every star asking to be counted, was a delight one could not soon forget.[1]
This region, however, was a favorite hunting-ground, not only of the yellow fever, but of diseases even more fatal.[2] A few slices of the fragrant Córdoba pineapple, washed down with a glass of the almost irresistible brandy, left one hardly time to make a will. Through the long day a huge ball of fire called the sun poured down an intense heat, and at night the mosquitos were numberless. The story of the invalids was long and sad; and sadder yet the tale of many a gallant soldierboy, full of thoughts of the loved ones, who breathed his last sigh in the crowded wards of a hospital — alone.[3]
At Córdoba, where the lanes blazed with small red roses, the sentiment was intensely Mexican, and the authorities ordered that on the approach of the American forces as many of the inhabitants as possible should leave town with everything belonging to the state that could be of service. But the people were mostly satisfied with shutting themselves up during the brief stay of General Bankhead, and the merchants did not go so far as that. The legitimate rights of the conqueror were asserted, but the American commander perhaps made full compensation for this by requiring the city council to reduce the expenses of administration. Care was taken to provide for the punishment of all disorders, and in particular for all interference with religious observances. After Bankhead left, hearing that some of the garrison were plundering, he threatened to send an entire battalion, if necessary, to apprehend the culprits.[4]
On higher ground farther west lay Orizaba, sombre yet beautiful amidst its orchards, gardens, palm groves, orange trees and rich fields of tobacco and sugar-cane, like a proud Spanish dowager surrounded by her grandchildren. Here the
