The Old Navy

by Daniel P. Mannix

  Once a week Mrs. Perkins, accompanied by Polly and a maid, went shopping at Wanamakers. I was allowed to accompany them on some of these trips. As there was no telephone, Bounds, the houseman, was dispatched to the stable to call the coachman. Once when Bounds was otherwise employed, I performed this task myself. The stable was two blocks away and smelt of leather, tobacco smoke, horses, and manure. A number of families kept their horses there. There were single stalls for the horses running down one side of the building and racks to hold the harness along the other. The grooms and coachmen sat around a table before the potbellied stove playing endless games of cards. When summoned, the old Irish coachman would make a careful note of his gains or losses, and with the help of a groom, tack up the team of big grays. In a little time, they would come trotting down DeLancey Place to stop before the house. The ladies, swathed in furs, would emerge and a maid would open the carriage door.

  Inside the coach, in addition to the main seat where the ladies sat, there were two small “jump” seats that folded up when not in use. The maid and I sat on these. I recall that there were cutglass vases held in brackets on the sides which always contained fresh flowers. By each lady’s seat were containers holding rectangular, cutglass jars with smelling salts, sal volatile, hyssop-and-water, and other remedies in case one of the ladies had an attack of the vapors or some other feminine disorder.

  It always seemed to be snowing on these expeditions. We would jog over the cobbles on Juniper Street flanked by cast iron tubes standing erect and filled with concrete intended to keep the carriages from running up on the narrow sidewalk. At the end of Juniper, the coachman turned into the covered carriage sweep before Wanamakers entrance. Here a doorman sprang forward to open the coach’s door while a footman held the horses’ heads. The coachman took advantage of this to jump down from his box and cover the horses with waterproof slickers. As soon as the ladies had entered Wanamakers he would drive across the street to City Hall where the team could be tied to a hitching post and he could chat with other coachmen until the doorman shouted through a megaphone that “Mrs. Perkins’ carriage is wanted.”

  Women’s shopping took hours. Afterward, we would have lunch on the balcony overlooking Wanamakers main hall while a huge organ played classical selections, and we could look down on the teeming crowd below us in the center part of the store, where stood a gigantic black eagle. Always the ladies met friends at lunch, also come to shop. They all went to the Assembly (the great midwinter ball that dates back before the Revolution), all lived in the same part of town, all had summer places in the country. Their husbands all belonged to the Union League, the Racquet Club, and were or had been members of the City Troop, America’s oldest cavalry unit.

  It was a pleasant way of life that I had never seen before. It is all gone now; part of another age.

  When spring came, the Perkins family moved to their summer home in Rosemont, on the Philadelphia Main Line. Most Philadelphia families maintained two establishments: one in the city for winter so they could be near the theaters, the balls, and parties, and one in the country for summer where it was cool and they could enjoy strolling in the gardens, taking tea on the terraces, and playing tennis or croquet under the great shade trees. The Perkins’ country place was called The Hedges as the various gardens, arbors, and lawns were surrounded by tall privet hedges, carefully clipped and maintained by the head gardener and his staff. The Hedges was one of the show places of the Main Line. It was featured on the cover of House Beautiful and in Distinctive Homes, the most important house-and-garden book; a picture of the estate was used to advertise the volume.

  The Hedges, Rosemont, Pennsylvania. This was the picture Distinctive Homes used on its cover to illustrate the perfect country estate.

  In order to see Polly and take her out, I purchased one of the new automobiles, a Peerless, and learned to drive. My diary shows that I at first came to grief in a collision with a lamp post but after a few weeks I learned to navigate the car reasonably well. The Perkins, being conservative, had no car. There was a newly installed train line called the Paoli Local, but as far as I could see, none of the old families used it.

  Polly had a personal maid, as did most young ladies of the time, an Irish woman named Mary Clark, who had been Polly’s nurse when she was a child and continued to regard her as personal property. It was almost impossible to lose the old woman, but fortunately the Peerless was only a two-seater so when I took Polly out for a spin, there was no place for Miss Clark unless she chose to roost on the rear tire, which I sometimes thought she was capable of doing. Mary Clark did not approve of me as I was neither a Philadelphian nor wealthy. She seemed unable to realize that an officer in the United States Navy was at least the equal of anyone no matter what his position of wealth. Mary was to stay with us until my wife’s death, and I could never make up my mind whether she was more of a blessing or a curse.

  My diary shows that I proposed to Polly on April 5th, 1910. She accepted me. Although her family never said anything, I suspect they were rather put out. Her mother told me, “I am afraid Polly will have trouble adjusting to life as a naval officer’s wife. She has never been anywhere except Philadelphia and accustoming herself to such a different way of living will be hard on her.” I assured Mrs. Perkins that I foresaw no difficulty. A household should be run like a ship. I would be captain and my orders obeyed without question. My wife would be in the position of an executive officer, subject to me but in complete command over any others in the household. Mary Clark, who Polly insisted on taking with her, would be a chief petty officer.

  To my surprise, and somewhat to my alarm, Polly envisioned a household with a minimum of four servants: Mary Clark, a cook, a waitress, and a maid. It required two maids to lace up Polly’s corsets for her. I had had no idea how complicated women’s clothing is. When we had children there would also be a nurse. None of my married friends maintained such an elaborate household, and I doubted if on a lieutenant’s pay I could support so many people. The Perkins relieved my mind on this score by saying that, of course, Polly would continue to receive her regular allowance so all seemed smooth sailing.

  Polly and Pratt.

  We were married at Holy Trinity Church on Rittenhouse Square October 6, 1910. According to the Society Editor of the Evening Bulletin, it was the “wedding of the year”. For those interested in such matters — and to illustrate how things were done in those days — I will quote from the full page account that appeared in the papers at the time:

  The chancel was transformed into a flower bank with blossoms of pale yellow chrysanthemums shaded to deep red, with a row of soft white blossoms along the top. Inside the chancel the decorations were all of white. Bride roses, lilies of the valley, and numerous orchids massed about and above the altar. The only greens used as a background for the blossoms were dwarf bay trees, all about the chancel, and tiny ones in pots, marking the pews for members of the families.

  The bride’s gown was an imported one of heavy ivory satin, veiled with old family lace studded with brilliants. The bodice was of rare old Dutch lace. Her veil of tulle was held with a coronet of orange blossoms. Her only ornament among the great number of superb jewels she received as gifts was the bridegroom’s gift of a necklace of aquamarines and pearls.

  It was a military wedding and the couple left the church under a canopy of drawn swords, held by Lieutenant Mannix’s fellow officers. The breakfast and reception followed in the Perkins’ home on DeLancey Place. The bride and bridegroom stood under a canopy of white orchids while they received their Mends’ congratulations. The house was a mass of flowers and a marquee was erected in the garden behind the house where small tables were set.

  I had managed to obtain two months’ leave, and we sailed the next day for Europe. On board the vessel were another young couple, the lady being the daughter of a prominent bishop of the Episcopal Church. Her husband’s name, I recall, was
Harold.

  Polly had never been to sea before and hardly had the ship stuck her nose beyond Ambrose Channel than she and Harold collapsed as though struck by a sledgehammer. They were seasick and remained sick during the entire crossing. The bishop’s daughter and I were unaffected.

  One sunny morning, as my wife and Harold, extended in deck chairs, were hoping fervently that the ship would sink, the bishop’s daughter and I conversed over their prostrate remains:

  Me: “The last time I went abroad I wasn’t a mere tourist; I was PERSONAL AIDE to the ADMIRAL; we were GUESTS of the NATION and were PRESENTED to the KING and QUEEN and . . . .”

  The bishop’s daughter (breaking in at the first possible moment):

  “When I was abroad the last time I was with my FATHER, the BISHOP. We were HOUSE GUESTS of the ARCHBISHOP of CANTERBURY and . . . .”

  Harold had just enough strength to turn his head and gasp: “Oh God damn it!” Polly muttered, “Thank you! That’s just how I feel!” I had a suspicion that marriage was going to be a more complicated affair than I had envisioned.

  We traveled to France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy before returning to Philadelphia. Polly was pregnant and stayed with her family while I resumed my naval duties. The child was a boy, and, of course, he was named Daniel Pratt Mannix 4th. We called him Dan, just as I had always been called Pratt to avoid confusion. His son, in turn, would be called Pratt. I hoped to see something of him before he entered the Naval Academy when he was sixteen, the earliest possible age for acceptance. After that, of course, he would be on his own.

  I had been assigned to the destroyer Warrington when trouble broke out in Mexico. President Madero, who had been elected by popular vote, was deposed by a military leader named Huerta before he had been two years in office. After keeping him in prison for awhile, Huerta had him shot for no particular reason. Madero had been a gentle man, called with a combination of affection and pity “the Christ fool” because of his trusting nature. Huerta seized the presidency but President Woodrow Wilson, an idealist who believed that he could force the rest of the world to live according to his own standards, refused to recognize him. Warships were sent to Vera Cruz, Mexico’s main port, on a “goodwill” mission. As usual, this goodwill mission was meant to remind Mexico of the power of the United States, as well as for diplomatic reasons.

  President Wilson decides to send warships to Vera Cruz.

  The Torpedo Flotilla, of which the Warrington was a part, was at anchor in Pensacola Harbor fitting out when we received a radio message to proceed to Vera Cruz immediately. We were underway within a few hours with no idea of what was happening but looking forward to any excitement.

  All that day we cruised and all the next without hearing anything, but early on the second evening the radio began to crackle and message after message was intercepted, most of them badly garbled. The most important and unfortunately the most unintelligible ran “dead, twenty wounded, fire from streets and housetops”. Evidently fighting had broken out.

  A few minutes before midnight the messenger came down from the bridge and reported, “Course has been changed forty-five degrees to the right without signal.” This meant that our destination had ceased to be Vera Cruz and had become Tampico. What was happening at Tampico? We were still wondering when a second message came from the flagship. “Increase speed to twenty-five knots.” This could only mean there was a major emergency. We began to draw ahead of the flag and just before getting out of signal distance came a third message, “Clear ships for action.” So it was war.

  Newspaper announcing attack on Tampico.

  All the stanchions were taken down, the awnings furled, guns cast loose, ammunition broken out from the magazines, and every possible preparation made. In the wardroom, rifles, pistols, and thousands of rounds of ammunition were laid ready to hand. The landing force shifted into improvised khaki (by boiling a suit of whites in coffee an excellent substitute for khaki may be made; we learned that in the Philippines) and wore their belts and bayonets, the belts filled with ball cartridges.

  About five o’clock we intercepted a radio: “Rush destroyers to Tampico; situation critical.” Nobody waited for special orders; the dense smoke incident to the lighting of cold boilers appeared almost simultaneously above each of the fourteen vessels, and we gained speed in such leaps and bounds that in ten minutes the engine room reported we were making the turns for twenty-eight knots and that the speed was constantly increasing.

  By six o’clock we could make out the Mexican coast ahead and the senior ship sent a radio asking if we should turn up the Panuco River to the town; to our disappointment we were told to anchor outside the bar.

  We arrived at seven and all that day witnessed a spectacle which was rare indeed in those days, although it has unfortunately become increasingly common. It seemed as though the migration of an entire people was underway; men, women and children, hundreds of them, some carrying large bundles, some smaller ones wrapped up in handkerchiefs, some nothing at all. It reminded me of the flight of the people from the provinces before Lars Porsena in “Lars of Ancient Rome”.

  What had happened was this. The USS Dolphin had arrived at Tampico and a work party of eight sailors under a paymaster had been sent ashore to purchase gasoline for the ship’s boats. They had been arrested by the local authorities who were suspicious of all foreigners and their boat confiscated. They were soon released but as the boat had been flying the American flag this was a breech of international law. Rd. Admiral Henry T. Mayo, in command of the American squadron, demanded an apology and also insisted that a salute be fired to our flag. President Huerta refused to do this, arguing that as we refused to acknowledge him as president, it was inconsistent for us to demand that he salute the flag.

  Meanwhile, there had been more trouble at Vera Cruz, some 250 miles farther down the coast. Here a mail orderly who had gone ashore had been arrested and, more serious, a German cargo vessel named the Ypiranga loaded with arms for Huerta was due to arrive in the harbor. With such a supply of arms, Huerta would have been able to establish himself firmly. We had another squadron at Vera Cruz under Rear Admiral Frank F. Fletcher. Fletcher was ordered by President Woodrow Wilson to occupy the custom house buildings to prevent the landing of the arms. The Mexicans attacked the American shore parties and fighting had broken out.

  When word of this reached Tampico, mobs yelling “Death to Americans!” raged through the streets. The Americans in Tampico, mostly business men with their families, took refuge in the Southern Hotel which they fortified. A number of men risked their lives to ride to outlying districts to warn their fellow citizens of the danger and bring them to the hotel. The mob was armed and far outnumbered the Americans, who amounted to some two thousand people. They would almost certainly have all been killed had not the commanding officers of a German and English warship in the harbor come to their help. Landing their armed crews, these men rescued the Americans and brought them down to the docks where the ships’ guns could protect them.

  The evacuation of Tampico.

  All the small boats of the fleet were requisitioned to transport the fugitives to our vessels. Soon the decks became so crowded that it was necessary to spread nets to keep the people from falling overboard. Most of the men were typical South Westerners, many wore spurs and some carried their saddles. Of the women, some were in rags, some wore fashionable hats and gowns, many had small children. One carried a baby three hours old, born prematurely. She was carried up the ship’s gangway on a stretcher, clutching her baby. The sailors formed lines down the ladder and passed the children from hand to hand.

  Sir Christopher Craddock from the English Squadron and Count von Spec from the German had risked the lives not only of their men but of themselves to save the citizens of a foreign nation. Gallant gentlemen, they had worked side by side in perfect accord to protect the helpless. A few months later, in Wor
ld War I, these two fine men met in battle and Craddock and all his crew perished. Still later, von Spec, in turn, was cornered by battle cruisers and he, his sons, and every member of his ship’s company were either killed in battle or drowned.

  Rumors and counter rumors kept coming from the city culminating in a cheerful threat from somebody, presumably in authority, that if we didn’t go away and leave our fellow countrymen to be murdered, he would set fire to all the oil wells in the vicinity and send a sea of burning oil floating down the river that would consume us utterly.

  Meanwhile, another military gentleman named Carranza had decided to start a revolution against Huerta. The next morning the rebels made a general assault on the city. All that day, from daylight until dark, we could hear the booming of artillery and see great clouds of smoke rising from the burning buildings and oil tanks. God have mercy on any Americans left in Tampico then — or Mexicans either.

  That evening we received orders to take the refugees to Galveston, Texas, and return immediately. With every square foot of deck space jammed, we got underway. Halfway to Galveston we received a radio from the Board of Health that no one would be permitted to land unless everyone on board had been vaccinated. We thanked heaven that we had the necessary equipment on board and our chief pharmacist’s mate started the vaccination. He was progressing splendidly until he ran into a boy of about twenty who said it was against his religious principles to be vaccinated and refused to submit to it.

  Here was a poser. I couldn’t very well have him thrown down and vaccinated, although I’ll admit I was tempted. I am all for religious liberty — unless, of course, it interferes with the efficient working of a ship — but it did seem rather unreasonable to me that this young man’s scruples should be allowed to endanger the lives of several hundred people, many of whom were ill or wounded and desperately needed medical help in Galveston. Well, if I couldn’t vaccinate him I could lock him up which I promptly did, using as a brig a paint locker located in the bow of the ship where, incidentally, the pitching was the most pronounced. I then sent for the leader of the refugees. This man was a husky executive of one of the Tampico oil companies. I explained the situation to him and stressed that if the “objector” wasn’t vaccinated none of them would be allowed to land. He thought this over and then suggested, “Suppose you let me talk to this fellow.”