Part 16
I thought of the 1911 anniversary of the _Grito de Dolores_--that night of the 16th of September when I stood on the middle balcony of the _Palacio_, with de la Barra and Madero, when the former was still President _ad interim_, and the latter was hoping all things. There we looked down on fifty or sixty thousand upturned faces, while the celebrated _Campana de la Independencia_ (Independence bell) rang above our heads, followed by the great bells from the illuminated towers of the cathedral. The present is nearer the past in Mexico than anywhere else.[10] As we came home we were snapshotted a dozen times by the disconsolate correspondents who had not been invited to the Palace to “assist” at the parade. Coming up “Plateros,” Nelson saw Huerta’s automobile outside of “El Globo” restaurant, and left me, to go in to speak to him.
This morning the big banana-tree in the front garden was released from its winter wrappings, if one can call these cloudless days winter. The most wonderful banners of purest, palest yellow are gently waving against the perfect sky. I am now waiting for Hohler to come to lunch. Sir Lionel went off (during a tremendous _norte_), in the battle-ship _Essex_, which is taking him to Galveston. His country is treating him almost to the honors we give fleeing Maderistas.
Villa has not yet given up the body of Benton. If there is much more delay it will not be able to bear testimony to the truth. Unfortunately, a Federal officer, it is rumored, has hanged an American citizen, Vergara, at Piedras Negras. His pardon, sent from headquarters, came too late. Huerta will probably make an example of the hasty officer, if the deed has really been committed. We heard this morning that Carranza is going to make short work of O’Shaughnessy when _he_ gets here. When!
I had a very interesting conversation with Hohler, who is thoroughly sincere and trustworthy, and able to look at things as they are. We sat long over our coffee, talking of the international web, of which Mexico is now so uncertain and frail a mesh. He intends to do what he can for _his_ nationals. He is without fear, in a practical, unnervous way.
The reverse of the medal is that he is a tireless collector and connoisseur of beautiful things, and what he doesn’t get, the Belgian minister does. Between them, there is very little left for anybody else.
_February 27th._
Villa is still refusing to deliver up the body of Benton, even at the risk of offending the United States. Huerta expects Villa to hang himself with his own rope. He says he is a _tonto_, violent, undisciplined, and _can’t_ do what he ought. The rumors that he is refusing to receive orders from Carranza are taking more explicit shape. He says that Carranza has never once put himself in danger; that he (Villa) has done all; that he receives commands from no one. He has repeatedly and vainly been asked to go to confer with Carranza, and we now hear that the mountain of all constitutional virtues is going to Mohammed. The deadly wine of success is mounting to Villa’s head. He now has wealth to the extent of some millions of pesos. The Torreon and Chihuahua confiscations were enormous, not counting what he and his followers have taken in all the small towns looted. He has not the sense to perceive in what difficulties his killing of Benton has placed the people who are anxious to be his friends. He evidently thinks that a man who cannot write or read must “make his mark” in other ways.
Our Gatling-guns, with ammunition, are arriving to-day in Vera Cruz, by the Ward Line steamer. They are to be got up here under the head of Embassy supplies--stationery, and the like. Huerta knows they are, but wants the thing done in a manner that he can wink at. The “stationery” will weigh tons.
_February 28th._
Elim had his curls shockingly cut this morning, but his bang has been left. He is as proud as a puppy with two tails. The “crime” was committed by a soft-speaking Haitian barber, who won’t get another chance at my only child. Elim knows nothing of death and dissolution; has been calling “_Mima_,” all over the house, and has just dashed into the drawing-room, where I am writing, to ask for a trumpet. He is so clever about music that I am almost tempted to sacrifice every one in the house and get him one. He will soon be playing the national air.
Yesterday I had tea with Madame B. She was looking very handsome, lying among her costly blue-ribboned laces. The baby, born ten days ago, looks like a miniature “conqueror,” with its severe Spanish features and glossy black hair. Madame B.’s father, who is one of the wealthiest _hacendados_, spoke with Huerta for the first time several weeks ago at the Jockey Club. The President asked him, “How are matters in Morelos?” (The Zapatista country where they have immense sugar haciendas.) Don. L. answered, “You are killing us with your demands for contributions.” Huerta grew rather excited. “You do nothing for the country,” he declared, “neither you nor your sons.” Don L. answered, “I have lost one and a half millions in the past year.” “Lucky man to have it to lose,” commented Huerta, grimly. “Great sugar crops are now ready for harvesting, but I can get no men,” Don L. went on; “they are all in the army. Give me men and I will give you contributions.”
Huerta immediately sent the men needed, the sugar is being harvested, and Don L. feels convinced that Huerta is doing what he can; but his daughter, who told me all this, added, with a smile and flash of white teeth, “Pardon me; but what _can_ we do with your Mr. Wilson on our backs?”
_Evening._
We have had such a day of agitation. Telegrams from New York tell us that Nelson’s father has received the last sacraments. We have telegraphed to Vera Cruz to know if one of the smaller fast ships is in the harbor. I might go in it to New Orleans and thence by rail to New York--in all seventy-eight or eighty hours from Vera Cruz. Berthe has been packing my things. I know lives must end, but my heart is very sad.
I kept my engagement to take the Russian and Austrian ministers out to Tozzer’s Aztec diggings. Their governments have subscribed money for archæological work in Mexico (I have never _quite_ understood why), and Tozzer was most anxious to have them see what he had done. We had tea, and _regalitos_ of heads of idols, dug up on the spot--spontaneously offered, this time. There was a dust-storm blowing--the volcanoes were invisible--and things were generally gritty. All the time my thoughts were turning toward the life-and-death issue, and I was so anxious to get home.
The Lefaivres leave definitely on the 12th. The Legation is dismantled, and Madame Lefaivre is still lying with her knee in plaster. Their secretary and his wife naturally see them leave with mixed feelings. We all know how _that_ is, for what greater benefit can a chief bestow than absence? Madame Lefaivre said to the secretary: “What if the ship doesn’t sail on the 12th?” He made the most polite of disclaimers, but she answered, smilingly, “Oh, I know the hearts of secretaries!”
_March 1st._
I have just come from Mass, wondering how it is with the soul and body of Nelson’s father....
This morning Washington must be thinking “how sharper than a serpent’s tooth”! Carranza and Villa are defying the supreme powers. They even deny our rights to ask information regarding Benton, who, they say, is a British subject--adding that they will listen to only such representations as are made to them by Great Britain herself “through the proper diplomatic channels.” No one knew any such channels existed. They add, further, that this ruling applies to other nations desiring redress for their people. The Frankenstein monster is certainly growing. Carranza also says that he has already investigated the Benton affair, but only for use in case Great Britain desires to take up the matter with him as head of the revolution. The matter of Gustav Bauch, American citizen, he will be kind enough to discuss with Mr. Bryan, stating that he “greatly laments his death.” This turn is most unexpected, though Villa and Carranza were very uppish several months ago when William Bayard Hale was sent to treat with them. Now that the embargo is lifted, their arrogance knows no bounds.
Vergara, the _supposed_ American citizen, _supposed_ to have been put to death at Piedras Negras by a Federal officer, and whose death so greatly outraged Washington, has simply escaped and rejoined the rebel forces. It appears, on investigation, that he was the chief of a gang of eighteen bandits, and his occupation was the getting in of arms and ammunition across the border for the rebels, or the driving of large herds of stolen cattle over to the American side. The Federals would have had a perfect right to shoot him.
Yours of January 31st, understanding all so deeply, says nothing of my typewritten letter about the Vera Cruz trip. It must be a relief to you to get a legible letter. McKenna, N.’s new young secretary, discreet and competent, copied it for me.
Your report of having seen a statement in the newspapers about “rushing the troops up to Mexico” reminds me of a correspondent of one of the big New York newspapers. He appeared here the other day, saying he had been sent hurriedly to Vera Cruz on inside information from Washington to be ready to go up to Mexico City with the troops.
Last night Huerta, in view of the safety of his crown jewel--_i. e._, Nelson--said he was going to send a guard to the Embassy. There was an _equivocación_ (there always _is_ some mistake in Mexico) and an armed guard of eight was sent to the American Club, a place Nelson rarely goes to. About half past nine we had excited telephone calls that the Club was guarded by these soldiers, as riots were evidently feared by the authorities. The newspaper men sent telegrams about it to New York, but it was simply a case of going to the wrong place. This morning four soldiers with rifles appeared as permanent “guests,” but we don’t need them. We have nice old Francisco and the new young _gendarme_, Manuel, who was added some months ago. Each legation here has one guard. I am glad to have Francisco and Manuel, on Elim’s account. They always seem to know just what he is doing in the garden.
We were so thankful to see, in one of the newspapers, the head-line, “Huerta snubs O’Shaughnessy.” Of course it isn’t true, but it will make an excellent impression at home; and it may even give N.’s first-hand, accurate information about matters some weight. The same newspaper also shows a picture of Huerta at some charity performance with his wife and daughters and Naranjo, Minister of Public Instruction. He looks (and doubtless felt) the personification of boredom. The head-lines are, “Huerta enjoying social life while riots rage in capital.”
_March 2d._
Your letter of the 5th, sent after the raising of the embargo, is received. I can well understand your worrying about our remaining in Mexico. We worried for a few minutes, but by now you will have received my letter telling all about it. It will take something gigantic, something outside of Huerta, to cause him to give Nelson his passports, no matter how often fiery, enraged Cabinet Ministers may urge it.
Last night, on returning home, we found that Huerta had sent us six more soldiers with a sergeant. It made me feel as if the house were the setting for an act from some _opéra bouffe_. We gave the soldiers packages of cigarettes and a drink apiece, and I suppose they rested on the sofas or floors of the parterre. N. never leaves the house without his secret-service man, a decent fellow, but dressed to the rôle in a loud, tight, bright-blue suit with white stripes, and pistols--the last articles outlined against his person every time he makes a motion. We have a beautiful new motor--low, smooth-running, painted black, with a smart dark-gray band about it. He occupies the seat beside Jesus, gets out when N. gets out, and waits around ostentatiously while N. attends to whatever he has on hand. He is an awful bore, and quite unnecessary, but Huerta answered, when N. protested, “_Es mejor_” (“It is better so”).
FOOTNOTE:
[10] This is the famous bell the priest Hidalgo rang from his church in the village of Dolores, in the State of Guanajauto, in the early morning of September 16th, 1810, sounding the appeal known as the “Grito de Dolores” (cry from Dolores)--the first cry of Mexican independence, to be continued through more than a century of blood and disaster.
XVII
The torture of Terrazas--Mexico’s banking eccentricities--Departure of the Lefaivres--Zapatista methods--Gustavo Madero’s death--First experience of Latin-American revolutions--Huerta’s witty speech.
_March 4th. Afternoon._
Last night we received the news that Nelson’s father was indeed approaching his mortal end. This morning, at seven o’clock, after a sleepless night of “vanishings and finalities,” I went down-stairs in answer to a telephone call from Mr. Jennings, of the Hearst newspapers--who is always very nice about everything--to say that he had passed away peacefully at half past six. You know the days of death--how strained, how busy, how exhausting. The first thing I did was to go to Father Reis, at San Lorenzo, the San Sylvester of Mexico, and arrange for a requiem Mass on Saturday next, the 7th, to which we will invite the Cabinet, the _Corps Diplomatique_, and friends. Now I am at home again, in the mourning garments I wore for my precious brother.
_March 4th. Evening._
The house seems very quiet to-night. No more looking for telegrams. He is lying on his death-bed, looking very handsome, I know. The fatigue of the busy, aching day is on me. Many people have been here to-day to tender their sympathies. Hohler, the last, came in for tea after seeing Nelson, and has just gone.
Now the pouch is closed and everybody and everything has departed. Elim is lying on the floor in front of my little electric stove. The chords so strongly moved by the passing of my beloved brother are vibrating again, not alone because of death and parting, but because of life and the imperfections of its relationships. Nelson has accepted his father’s death, has pulled himself together, and is going on with his work, of which there is more than sufficient.
How true it is that men follow their destinies rather than their interests; a something innate and unalterable drives each one along. _Genio y figura hasta la sepultura_--a Spanish saying to the effect that mind, temperament, inclination, are unchanged by the circumstances of life, even to the grave.
_March 5th._
As I was reading last night, waiting for dinner to be served, a visitant, rather than a visitor, appeared in my drawing-room _incognito_--a simple “Mr. Johnson,” eager, intrepid, dynamic, efficient, unshaven!...
Young Terrazas, the son of the former great man of Chihuahua, of whom I wrote you when first he was captured by Villa at the taking of Chihuahua, several months ago, has not yet been released, and Villa threatens to execute him to-morrow if the half-million of ransom money is not forthcoming. The father has raised, half the sum, with the greatest difficulty, but, fearing some trick (and he has every reason for distrust), he won’t give the money till he receives his son. It appears the son has been horribly treated, several times hung up until he was nearly dead, then taken down and beaten. Young Hyde, of the _Mexican Herald_, said yesterday, apropos of like matters, that he had seen a man brought last night to Mexico City who had been tortured by the rebels; the soles of his feet were sliced off, his ears and tongue were gone, and there were other and nameless mutilations, but the victim was still living. The only difference between the rebels and the Federals is that the former have _carte blanche_ to torture, loot, and kill, and the Federals _must_ behave, to a certain extent, whether they want to or not. It is their existence that is at stake. Huerta, though he may not be troubled with scruples or morals other than those that expediency dictates, has his prestige before the world to uphold, and is sagacious enough to realize its value. The rebels go to pieces as soon as there is any question of government or order. Villa is without doubt a wonderful bandit, if bandits are what the United States are after. I see by the newspapers that Mr. Bryan is begging the Foreign Relations Committee to keep the Mexican situation off the floor of Congress....
One by one, the Mexicans to whom we have given asylum and safe-conducts to Vera Cruz, upon receiving their word of honor not to intrigue against the government, break that word and go over to the rebels. We have just seen the name of Dr. Silva (formerly governor of Michoacan, whom we had convoyed to Vera Cruz) as one of the somewhat tardy commission appointed by Carranza to investigate the murder of Benton.
We are aghast at the resignation of Mr. John Bassett Moore as counselor to the State Department. He is learned, perfectly understanding, and very experienced in a practical way about Latin-American affairs.
Yesterday the Minister for Foreign Affairs came to present his condolences to Nelson, and also to protest against the bringing up to the Embassy of our Gatling-guns and ammunition, which are still in the customs at Vera Cruz. There are seventy cases--and _not_ featherweights. He fell over the threshold, as he entered, and was picked up by Nelson and the butler. (It was his first visit. I don’t know if he is superstitious.) Huerta, as you may remember, in the famous bedchamber conversation at Chapultepec, had told Nelson he could get in all the guns he wanted, but to do it quietly. It is now all over the country and is making a row among Mexicans. In these days of grief and agitation, N. has happened to have an unusual amount of official work.
I have been busy all day with the list for to-morrow’s requiem Mass, and it is almost finished. My little Shorn Locks has gone up-stairs, and I am resting myself by writing these lines to you.
_March 7th._
We are waiting to start for the church. You will know all the thoughts and memories that fill my heart--that descent from fog-enveloped hills into the cold, gray town to lay away my precious brother. Now I am about to start through this shimmering, wondrous morning to the black-hung church. In the end it is all the same.
_March 9th._
I have not written since Saturday morning, before starting to the requiem Mass. I have been so busy seeing people and attending to hundreds of cards, telegrams, and notes. Huerta did not appear at the church, as people thought he might do. Instead, Portillo y Rojas, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, sat by us. All was beautiful and sad. Afterward we went into the sacristy to receive the condolences of our friends, as is the custom here. Though _he_ had never trod the threshold of our Mexican dwelling, it still seemed inexpressibly empty as we returned to it. I was glad of the heaped-up desk and the living decisions awaiting N.
Huerta was very nice on seeing him to-day, called him “_hijo_” (“son”), gave him an affectionate _abrazo_, and all his sympathy. Subsequently, Nelson had a long talk with him in a little private room of the Café Colon, that Huerta approached from the back entrance. Huerta is broad in his ideas and very careful as to any remarks about the United States, in Nelson’s presence. He always speaks of President Wilson as _Su Excelencia, el Señor Presidente Wilson_; there are no diatribes of any kind. The thing that has really got on his nerves is our keeping his 4,000 soldiers at Fort Bliss and expecting him to pay for them. He says Mexico is not at war with the United States; that the rebels are allowed to go and come as they please, and even to organize on the frontier. Why this discrimination? He says that our government thinks he is a bandit, like Villa, but that if Washington would be just it would see that he keeps his mouth shut, does his work as well as he can in the face of the terrible injustice done him, and asks nothing of any one except to be let alone; that he could have had the power in Mexico long before he took it. He repeated that many a person of influence had urged him to put an end to the disastrous Madero administration; that he is not in politics for personal ends; that his wants are few, his habits those of an old soldier. He always insists that he did not kill Madero....
As for that, one can talk for hours and hours with all sorts of people without finding any direct evidence of any direct participation by Huerta in the death of Madero. I have come to think it an inexcusable and fatal negligence on his part, incidental to the excitement and preoccupation of those tragic days. He was astute enough to have realized that Madero dead would be even more embarrassing to him than living, and should have insisted on asylum for him where alone it was to be had. There is, however, at times a strange suspension of mental processes in Mexico; with everything possible and yet nothing appearing probable, nobody ever foresees any situation.
I had a long call yesterday from Rincon Gaillardo, Marqués de Guadalupe, the smart, youngish general. Besides his military work, he is doing something that all the members of the upper class should co-operate in--_i. e._, helping to amalgamate the classes. His father, Duca de Regla and “Grand d’Espagne,” was the first man in society here to receive Diaz when he came to power. In fact, in his house Diaz met Doña Carmen. He told me that Diaz wasn’t then, by any means, the kind of man he is now, after thirty years of power and knowledge.
Last night, at midnight, Nelson, who had gone to sleep early, was called down-stairs by urgent telephone messages, to hear that the Texas Rangers had dashed over the border to Sabinas Hidalgo to recover the body of the pseudo-American cattle-rustler, Vergara. Whether the report is true is not known, but of course it is an act that would be resented by all classes here, and every class really hates us.
Villa, not being able to get the full amount of the ransom out of Terrazas _père_, has decided not to execute the son, but to take him with him when he besieges Torreon, and to place him wherever the bullets are thickest. The mad dance of death goes on, and I feel as if we were the fiddlers. Mr. Lind has so idealized the rebels in the north that he has come to think them capable of all the civic virtues, and he is obsessed by the old tradition of north beating south whenever there is an issue. His deduction is not borne out by facts, as in Mexico it is the south that has produced the greatest number of great men--“the governmental minds”; the south has come nearer to loving peace; the south has shown the greatest degree of prosperity and advancement. Vera Cruz is the poorest possible vantage-ground for a study of conditions; it is a clearing-house for malcontents of all kinds, mostly rebels, fleeing from the consequences of _some_ act against _some_ authority. My heart is heavy at the grim fatality that has permitted our policy to be shaped _from there_.
A dust-storm this afternoon, with all the color gone out of the air, and a few thick drops of cold rain. I left cards for an hour or two, then came home. I am glad to be here in my comfortable home, though I can’t help a shiver as I think of the horrors sanctioned, even encouraged, by us on every side. B. said once that the policy of the United States in lifting the embargo was to really give Mexicans a taste of civil war! There were some chirpings from Carranza the other day, to the effect that “I understand Villa, and Villa understands me.” Doubtless this is true; but they say that after their rare meetings the old gentleman has to go to bed for several days.