The Rifle Rangers. Reid Mayne

winding for a short distance through the defiles of the sand-hills, we halted for the night, our left wing resting upon the beach.

      The soldiers bivouacked without tents – sleeping upon their arms, with the soft sand for their couch and the cartridge-box for their pillow.

      Note. Cuartel is the quarter of the city.

      Chapter Seven.

      The City of the True Cross

      Vera Cruz is a fortified city. Round and round it is girt by a wall, with regular batteries placed at intervals. You enter it from the land side by three gates (garitas), and from the sea by a beautiful pier or mole that projects some distance into the water. The latter is a modern construction; and when the sun is descending behind the Mexican Cordilleras to the west, and the breeze blows in from the Gulf, this mole – the seat of but little commercial activity – becomes the favourite promenade of the dark-eyed Vera-Cruzanas and their pallid lovers.

      The city stands on the very beach. The sea at full tide washes its battlements, and many of the houses overlook the water. On almost every side a plain of sand extends to a mile’s distance from the walls, where it terminates in those lofty white sand-ridges that form a feature of the shores of the Mexican Gulf. During high tides and “northers” the sea washes over the surrounding sand-plain, and Vera Cruz appears almost isolated amid the waves. On one side, however, towards the south, there is variety in the aspect. Here appear traces of vegetation – some low trees and bushes, a view of the forest inward into the country, a few buildings outside the walls, a railway-station, a cemetery, an aqueduct, a small sluggish stream, marshes and stagnant pools.

      In front of the city, built upon the coral reef, stands the celebrated fortress-castle of San Juan de Ulloa. It is about one thousand yards out from the mole, and over one of its angles towers a lighthouse. Its walls, with the reef on which it stands (Gallega), shelter the harbour of Vera Cruz – which, in fact, is only a roadstead – from the north winds. Under the lee of San Juan the ships of commerce lie at anchor. There are but few of them at any time.

      Another large fort (Concepcion) stands upon the beach at the northern angle of the city, and a third (Santiago) defends it towards the south. A circular bastion, with heavy pieces of ordnance, sweeps the plain to the rear, commanding it as far as the sand-ridges.

      Vera 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