commanders in the various fields of operation, and were promptly obeyed.[1] Even before the last formalities occurred, in fact, Butler called in his outposts, and as the sun rose on the twelfth of June it shone upon the arms of his rejoicing troops, drawn up facing the palace in the grand plaza of the capital. Housetops, balconies and the near streets were full, but perfect order and stillness prevailed except for the sharp commands of our officers. Thirty guns saluted the American banner on the palace, and then it was lowered. The Mexican flag took its place on the staff and received the same honors. An American band struck up gaily. The unconquered ranks wheeled, marched and left the city. Herrera, the new President, returned to the chair from which Paredes had ejected him, and the proud capital rejoiced to be free once more. But it rejoiced soberly. "I question," said U. S. Grant, "whether the great majority of the Mexican people did not regret our departure as much as they had regretted our coming."[2]
The plan of evacuation was to let the troops wait near Jalapa until transports could be provided and their baggage go aboard, and then march to the unhealthy coast and sail away as quickly as possible. For some time General Smith had now been making preparations at Vera Cruz with his characteristic efficiency; and soon the army, the sick, the wounded and the many who attended to their needs, took ship rapidly for New Orleans. By the twelfth of July more than 25,000 embarked, and on the last day of the month all the fortifications of Vera Cruz and frowning Ulúa, the symbol of Mexican pride, were given up. Stirred by feelings deep and strong, the departing soldiers looked round them with a farewell gaze — at the low white walls, at the exotic vegetation that had now come to be familiar, and at the gleaming, snowy peak of Orizaba, towering above its belt of dark evergreens. They had trodden the soil of that wonderful country with the stern, proud foot of the conqueror, but they now left it full of sympathy and good wishes; and one of. the number put his feelings into terse and soldierlike rhymes:
"The stranger parting from the shore,
Thy glories to behold no more,
Bids thee farewell with swelling heart
As his swift bark leaps o'er the sea,
And, as the truant tear-drops start,
Prays God that thou mayst yet be free."[3]
