Cruz is a pretty picture to look at, either from the sea or from the sand-hills in the interior. Its massive domes – its tall steeples and turreted roofs – its architecture, half Moorish, half modern – the absence of scattered suburbs or other salient objects to distract the eye – all combine to render the City of the True Cross an unique and striking picture. In fact, its numerous architectural varieties, bound as they are into compact unity by a wall of dark lava-stone, impress you with the idea that some artist had arranged them for the sake of effect. The coup d’oeil often reminded me of the engravings of cities in Goldsmith’s Epitome, that used to be considered the bright spots in my lessons of school geography.
At break of day, on the 10th, the army took up its line of march through hills of sand-drift. Division lapped upon division, regiment upon regiment, extending the circle of investment by an irregular echelon. Foot rifles and light infantry drove the enemy from ridge to ridge, and through the dark mazes of the chaparral gorge. The column continued its tortuous track, winding through deep denies, and over hot white hills, like a bristling snake. It moved within range of the guns of the city, screened by intervening heights. Now and then the loud cannon of Santiago opened upon it, as some regiment displayed itself, crossing a defile or pushing over the spur of a sand-hill. The constant rattling of rifles and musketry told that our skirmishers were busy in the advance. The arsenal was carried by a brilliant charge, and the American flag waved over the ruins of the Convent Malibran. On the 11th the Orizava road was crossed, and the light troops of the enemy were brushed from the neighbouring hills. They retired sullenly under shelter of their heavy guns, and within the walls of the city.
On the morning of the 12th the investment was complete. Vera Cruz lay within a semicircle, around its centre. The half circumference was a chain of hostile regiments that embraced the city in their concave arc. The right of this chain pitched its tents opposite the isle of Sacrificios; while five miles off to the north, its left rested upon the hamlet Vergara. The sea covered the complement of this circle, guarded by a fleet of dark and warlike ships.
The diameter hourly grew shorter. The lines of circum-vallation lapped closer and closer around the devoted city, until the American pickets appeared along the ridges of the nearest hills, and within range of the guns of Santiago, Concepcion, and Xjuoa.
A smooth sand-plain, only a mile in width, lay between the besiegers and the walls of the besieged.
After tattoo-beat on the night of the 12th, with a party of my brother officers, I ascended the high hill around which winds the road leading to Orizava.
This hill overlooks the city of Vera Cruz.
After dragging ourselves wearily through the soft, yielding sand, we reached the summit, and halted on a projecting ridge.
With the exception of a variety of exclamations expressing surprise and delight, not a word for awhile was uttered by any of our party, each individual being wrapped up in the contemplation of a scene of surpassing interest. It was moonlight, and sufficiently clear to distinguish the minutest objects on the picture that lay rolled out before us like a map.
Below our position, and seeming almost within reach of the hand, lay the City of the True Cross, rising out of the white plain, and outlined upon the blue background of the sea.
The dark grey towers and painted domes, the Gothic turret and Moorish minaret, impressed us with the idea of the antique; while here and there the tamarind, nourished on some azotea, or the fringed fronds of the palm-tree, drooping over the notched parapet, lent to the city an aspect at once southern and picturesque.
Domes, spires, and cupolas rose over the old grey walls, crowned with floating banners – the consular flags of France, and Spain, and Britain, waving alongside the eagle of the Aztecs.
Beyond, the blue waters of the Gulf rippled lightly against the sea-washed battlements of San Juan, whose brilliant lights glistened along the combing of the surf.
To the south we could distinguish the isle of Sacrificios, and the dark hulls that slept silently under the shelter of its coral reef.
Outside the fortified wall, which girt the city with its cincture of grey rock, a smooth plain stretched rearward to the foot of the hill on which we stood, and right and left along the crest of the ridge from Punta Hornos to Vergara, ranged a line of dark forms – the picket sentries of the American outposts, as they stood knee-deep in the soft, yielding sand-drift.
It was a picture of surprising interest; and, as we stood gazing upon it, the moon suddenly disappeared behind a bank of clouds; and the lamps of the city, heretofore eclipsed by her brighter beam, now burned up and glistened along the walls.
Bells rang merrily from church-towers, and bugles sounded through the echoing streets. At intervals we could hear the shrill cries of the guard, “Centinela! alerte!” (Sentinel, look out), and the sharp challenge, “Quien viva?” (Who goes there?)
Then the sound of sweet music, mingled with the soft voices of women, was wafted to our ears, and with beating hearts we fancied we could hear the light tread of silken feet, as they brushed over the polished floor of the ball-room.
It was a tantalising moment, and wistful glances were cast on the beleaguered town; while more than one of our party was heard impatiently muttering a wish that it might be carried by assault.
As we continued gazing, a bright jet of flame shot out horizontally from the parapet over Puerto Nuevo.
“Look out!” cried Twing, at the same instant flinging his wiry little carcase squat under the brow of a sand-wreath.
Several of the party followed his example; but, before all had housed themselves, a shot came singing past, along with the loud report of a twenty-four.
The shot struck the comb of the ridge, within several yards of the group, and ricocheted off into the distant hills.
“Try it again!” cried one.
“That fellow has lost a champagne supper,” said Twing.
“More likely he has had it, or his aim would be more steady,” suggested an officer.
“Oysters, too – only think of it!” said Clayley.
“Howld your tongue, Clayley, or by my sowl I’ll charge down upon the town!”
This came from Hennessy, upon whose imagination the contrast between champagne and oysters and the gritty pork and biscuit he had been feeding upon for several days past acted like a shock.
“There again!” cried Twing, whose quick eye caught the blaze upon the parapet.
“A shell, by the powers!” exclaimed Hennessy. “Let it dhrop first, or it may dhrop on ye,” he continued, as several officers were about to fling themselves on their faces.
The bomb shot up with a hissing, hurtling sound. A little spark could be seen as it traced its graceful curves through the dark heavens.
The report echoed from the walls, and at the same instant was heard a dull sound, as the shell buried itself in the sand-drift.
It fell close to one of the picket sentinels, who was standing upon his post within a few paces of the group. The man appeared to be either asleep or stupefied, as he remained stock-still. Perhaps he had mistaken it for the ricochet of a round shot.
“It’s big shooting for them to hit the hill!” exclaimed a young officer.
The words had scarcely passed when a loud crash, like the
