The story was photographic, even to the sounds and
smells.
The last I saw of him in Vera Cruz was when, on the Utah, he
steamed past the flagship Wyoming, upon which I was
quartered, and started for New York. The Battenberg cup race
had just been rowed, and the Utah and Florida crews had
tied. As the Utah was sailing immediately after the race,
there was no time in which to row off the tie. So it was
decided that the names of both ships should be engraved on the
cup, and that the Florida crew should defend the title
against a challenging crew from the British Admiral Craddock's
flagship.
By the end of June, the public interest in Vera Cruz had
waned, and the corps of correspondents dwindled until there
were only a few left.
Frederick Palmer and I went up to join Carranza and Villa, and
on the 26th of July we were in Monterey waiting to start with
the triumphal march of Carranza's army toward Mexico City.
There was no sign of serious trouble, abroad. That night
ominous telegrams came, and at ten o'clock on the following
morning we were on a train headed for the States.
Palmer and Davis caught the Lusitania, sailing August 4 from
New York, and I followed on the Saint Paul, leaving three
days later. On the 17th of August I reached Brussels, and it
seemed the most natural thing in the world to find Davis
already there.
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