LETTER II.
VERA CRUZ
You left me in sight of land—on soundings—with the Peak of Orizaba in full view, and although we presumed it highly probable that we would make our harbor before evening, yet were we disappointed. The wind became baffling toward noon, and notwithstanding our captain was a brave man and stanch seaman, he determined, at nightfall, to avoid running close in with the shore, and therefore "lay to" until daylight. Nothing could be more provoking; the city was not more than ten miles distant, and the lights in the houses were distinctly visible over the level sea.
With the first streak of dawn, however, all was bustle on deck, and the topsails spread to the morning breeze. Day broke gloriously over the sea; our colors were run up; the ship headed for the harbor; and when within a mile or two of the castle, a pilot came on board. Our first inquiry was as to the yellow fever—our next, as to the revolution. Of the first disease there were no remains, and the latter had terminated in the political death of Bustamante.
At eight o'clock we moored under the walls of the Castle of St. Juan de Ulloa; and in an hour afterward, with umbrellas spread to protect us from the scorching November sun, we landed on the quay which has for so many years poured out the wealth of Mexico.
Vera Cruz lies on a low, sandy shore, extending for miles along the coast. I will not trouble you with the details of this city's history, famous as the spot where thousands have come to die of the vomito—or, to make their fortunes (if they survive the certain attack of that disease,) and return with shattered constitutions to colder climates, to ache in memory of the heat they endured in Mammon's service.
Landing at the Moletta, the first thing that struck me was a gang of more than a hundred galley-slaves, chained, and at work in the broiling sun, cutting and carrying stone to repair the broken pier. The second was the roofs of the churches, which seemed to be covered with mourning, as I supposed for some deceased prelate. The mourning turned out, however, to be nothing more than thousands of zopilotes or turkey-buzzards, the chief of which is usually perched on the peak of the cross of the loftiest church—a sentinel for prey! These two classes of folks, to wit: the galley-slaves and zopilotes, constitute a large part
