Colonel Cardenas, the best shot in Mexico. He is supposed to know
just how Madero’s mortal coil was hustled off. He was in command of
the squad transporting him and Pino Suarez from the Palacio to the
_Penitenciaría_ when they were shot. We then went to the third side
of the Palacio Nacional, where the zapadores barracks is, to see how
the officer of the Twenty-ninth, who went down with us to Vera Cruz,
is getting on. It was very interesting, at twelve o’clock, to watch
the various persons who bring food into the barracks. The guards
search them all--men, women, and children--by passing their hands down
their sides. The prettier young women get pinches or pokes anywhere
the guard happens to fancy bestowing them, and they all give little
squeals and jumps, sometimes annoyed, sometimes pleased. They bring in
great baskets of _tortillas_, _enchiladas_, _frijoles_, fruits, etc.
The men in the barracks are absolutely dependent on them for food, as
there is no other army supply. Another guard kept off troublesome, too
solicitous small boys with a bit of twisted twine, flicking them, with
a stinging sound, about the legs. I found it most amusing. Finally
the young captain himself came out to thank us and to tell us he was
almost well--with an expectant look on his pale face. He wants N. to
have him made a major. Why not, when every officer seems to have been
promoted--a clever trick of Huerta’s. He has made several extra grades
at the top to give himself room. He will need space for manœuvers
of an army largely composed of higher officers. He is going to get
the interior loan of fifty millions, with the guarantee of the Paris
loan.... The Austro-Hungarian minister has just come to ask me to go
out to San Angel with him, so adieu.
_March 25th._
We have just had a beautiful motor-drive out to San Angel Inn, talking
politics and scenery. The volcanoes had great lengths of clouds, thrown
like twisted scarfs, about their dazzling heads.
Kanya de Kanya was with Count Aerenthal during his four years in
Vienna, as Minister for Foreign Affairs, and during that time made
copious notes relating to the burning questions of the Near East, which
will, of course, throw light on the big international issues of that
period. He is hoping for a quiet time out here, to get them in order,
though he can’t publish them until a lot more water has flowed under
the Austro-Hungarian mill.
I got home in time to sit with Aunt Laura awhile before dressing
for dinner, for which I was expecting Hohler. The meal was somewhat
unquiet. One of the newspaper men called up to say that Torreon had
fallen, and gave a few convincing details, such as that of Velasco’s
life being spared. The fifty-million-dollar loan receded into the dim
distance. We immediately pictured to ourselves the pillaging, ravishing
hordes of Villa--the “human tiger,” as some of our newspapers mildly
put it--falling down upon Mexico City, the peaceful. Nelson ordered the
motor, and he and Hohler went out, as soon as dinner was over, to get
some news at the War Department. A big fight, we know, is going on. As
I write, brother is killing and mutilating brother, in the fertile
_laguna_ district, and horrors unspeakable are taking place. Velasco is
said to be honest and capable, and he has money and ammunition.
General Maure, who left for the front a few days ago, wouldn’t start
until he had money enough for two months for his men. He also is
supposed to be honest, and if he _does_ feed his men, instead of
putting the money in some bank in the States (if they would _all_
feed their men, instead of asking worn, empty-stomached men to do the
work), he may, perhaps, proceed toward victory. The corruption of the
officers is what nullifies the work of the army, and Huerta says he is
powerless against it. Any man he might court-martial is sure of the
support of the United States. In order to remain faithful the troops
only ask enough food to keep life in their bodies during the campaign.
The picture of starving troops, locked in box-cars during the night, to
prevent their deserting, and then being called on to fight when they
are let out in the morning, makes one fairly sick. A free hand at loot
and a full stomach on food belonging to somebody else are naturally
irresistible when the chance comes.
Such an appreciative letter has come from Archbishop Riordan, thanking
Nelson for his Pius Fund achievement.
Mexico has declined, upon good international law, to take upon herself
the board bill (now amounting to hundreds of thousands in gold) for the
interned refugees at Fort Bliss. We wonder how long Uncle Sam will feel
like playing host? This situation, among many tragic ones growing out
of our policy, is the only thing that calls an unrestrained grin to the
face--a grin at Uncle Sam’s expense.
_March 27th. Morning._
I am sitting in the motor in Chapultepec Park, under the shade of a
great cypress, while N. converses with the Dictator in his motor
down the avenue. All sorts of birds are singing, and a wonderful
little humming-bird (_chupamirtos_, the Indians call them) is so near
I can hear it “hum.” Elim is running over the green grass with his
butterfly-net. I am thinking, “Sweet day, so soft, so cool, so bright.”
This seems the city of peace. In the north the great combat continues.
The rebels use almost exclusively expansive bullets, which give no
chance to the wounded. Huerta, whom Nelson saw last night, is calm and
imperturbable. His loan of 50,000,000 pesos is an accomplished fact.
This won’t suit Washington.
Nelson was speaking this morning of the famous interview between Lind,
Gamboa (then Minister for Foreign Affairs), and himself--that interview
which has now become part of history. Lind has a characteristic
gesture--that of tapping with his right hand on his left wrist. With
this gesture to emphasize his words he said to Gamboa, “Three things we
can do if Huerta does not resign: First, use the financial boycott.”
(This has been done.) “Second, recognize the rebels.” (This has been
done to the fullest extent by raising the embargo, giving them full
moral support and being ready to give them financial aid with the
slightest co-operation and decency on their part). “Third, intervene.”
These propositions were set forth nearly eight months ago, and to-day
Huerta’s position is better, by far, than at that time. He has kept
law and order in his provinces. The big third thing--intervention--yet
remains, but on what decent grounds can we intervene?
If, by any remote chance, the rebels should get here, what
desecrations, what violations of Mexico City--the peaceful, the
beautiful!
_At Home. Afternoon._
I waited a long time for Nelson this morning. Gen. Rincon Gaillardo
came up to speak to me, looking very smart in his khaki riding-clothes
with a touch of gold braid. He is an erect, light-haired,
straight-featured Anglo-Saxon-looking man. He had just returned from
a tour of inspection in Hidalgo; had ridden through the state with a
couple of aides, and had found everything most peaceful. I asked, of
course, if there was any news from the north; but everywhere wire and
communication of any kind is cut, and no one knows. Eduardo Iturbide
(he is spoken of as governor of the Federal district to succeed
Corona), also came up to speak to me. A lot of people were waiting to
see Huerta, but he never hurries. After he had seen Rincon Gaillardo
and Nelson, he went away, ignoring discomfited occupants of half a
dozen motors.
Iturbide always says he has no political talents, but it was inevitable
that he be drawn into events here. He would give prestige and dignity
to any office. There is a description of the Emperor Augustin Iturbide,
“brave, active, handsome, in the prime of life,” that entirely applies
to him. I wonder, sometimes, if Don Eduardo’s fate may not be as tragic
as that of the man whose name he bears. The ingredients of tragedy are
never missing from any Mexican political situation. The only variation
lies in the way they are mixed. What I call Mexican magic has a way of
arresting judgment. One never thinks a thing will happen here until it
has happened--not though a thousand analogous situations have worked
themselves out to their inevitable, tragic end. It was Don Eduardo who
made to me the profound and tragedy-pointing remark, “We understand you
better than you understand us.”[12]
Huerta keeps very calm, these days, Nelson says; no nerves _there_
while waiting for news. I suppose he knows just how bad his men are,
and also the very indefinite quality of the rebels. He talked of two
years’ work being necessary for pacification, and then of going to live
in Washington, to prove that he is neither a wild Indian nor a brigand.
He is very pleased to get his loan; the money is here, and he has known
how to get hold of it.
At the outset Huerta was surrounded by experienced and responsible men,
but when it became generally understood that the United States would
not recognize his government, intrigues were started against him, and
he was forced to make changes in his Cabinet. Later on, when a friend
reproached him with this, he answered, quite frankly, “No one regrets
it more than I; for now, unfortunately, all my friends are thieves!”
Yesterday’s copy of _Mister Lind_ has, as a frontispiece, Mr. Wilson
and Villa, standing in a red pool, drinking each other’s health from
cups dripping with blood. It is awful to think such things can exist,
even in imagination. N. has protested to the Federal authorities.
_March 28th._
This morning the newspapers give the “sad” news that Carranza seems
to be lost in the desert--the mountain lost on its way to Mohammed!
General Aquevedo, who knows that country as he knows his pocket, is
supposed to be after him with 1,200 men. I don’t think Villa would weep
other than crocodile tears if anything happened to Carranza; but what
would Washington do without that noble old man to bear the banner of
Constitutionalism? “One year of Bryan makes the whole world grin!”
The idealization of a pettifogging old lawyer (_licenciado_), who had
already laid his plans to turn against Madero, and the sanctification
of a bloodthirsty bandit, might well make the whole world grin, if the
agony of a people were not involved.
I went with Dr. Ryan, this morning, to visit the General Hospital. It
is a magnificent establishment, modeled on the General Hospital in
Paris, with complete electrical, hydro-therapeutic, and mechanical
appliances, thirty-two large sun- and air-flooded pavilions,
operating-rooms, and special buildings for tuberculosis patients,
children, and contagious diseases. The sad part of it is that it is
only about a third full. The _leva_ (press-gang) always rakes in a lot
of men here. They hang about the handsome doors and grab the dismissed
patients, which makes the poor wretches prefer to suffer and die in
their nameless holes.
On returning, I went down to the Palacio Nacional with N., who was on a
still hunt for the President. The arms are not yet in the Embassy. As
I was sitting in the motor with Elim, the French _chargé_ got out of
his motor with Captain de Bertier, the French military _attaché_ just
arrived from Washington, and looking very smart in his spick-and-span
uniform, ready for his official presentation to Huerta. They had their
appointment for twelve, which had already struck, but the President
was not there, having departed to Popotla. Huerta works along his own
lines, and a missed appointment is little to him.
Just home. Mr. de Soto has called me up to tell me there is bad news
from the front; but I think even the bad news is a rumor, as every line
around Torreon has been cut for days.
_March 28th. 11.30_ P.M.
At last news is in from the north (by the Associated Press), from
Gomez Palacio and Ciudad Juarez. Two train-loads of rebel wounded had
arrived, and Villa had hastily telegraphed for more hospital supplies,
though he had taken with him an enormous quantity. At the end of five
days’ continuous fighting the rebels had failed to make any break in
the almost impregnable defenses of Torreon and Gomez Palacio. Wounded
troopers say that by order of Villa they charged into almost certain
death at Gomez Palacio, bringing upon themselves the heavy cannonading
from the Federal guns; that they were deliberately sacrificed in order
that other forces might be able to attack the town at other points
without encountering much resistance. And there are strange rumors of
Villa’s succumbing to temptation from the “movie” men, and holding the
attack back till daybreak! It is terrible to contemplate the slaughter
of unquestioning and innocent Pepes and Juans. I burn to go with the
hospital service. There will be terrible need on both sides, and a
wounded man is neither rebel nor Federal.
This is largely an agrarian revolution, and Huerta was the first to
realize it. He says that everybody has made promises to the people, and
nobody has kept them. I wonder, if the people ever get a chance to make
promises, will _they_ keep them? _Quién sabe?_ However, all this is not
a question of taking sides, but of stating facts.
The invitation of the United States to Huerta to attend the Hague
Conference has been solemnly accepted by him; now international
jurists are called on to decide if the very sending of the invitation
does not imply technical recognition. It is one of those slips which
occasionally happen, and Huerta is too astute to let that, or any other
opportunity, pass where he can score against the United States. Things
being equal, he could _rouler_ Washington as it has never been _rouléd_
before; but things aren’t equal, and he can only show immense courage,
sustained indifference, and indomitable will in whatever may come up.
Just now more and more troops are being rushed to the north.
We are delighted to hear that Warren Robbins and Jack White are to be
sent here as second and third secretaries. There is ample work for all,
and it will be pleasant to have friends and co-workers. It has been
a wearing time for N., single-handed in all official decisions and
representations.
News from the north is more encouraging, but a horrible struggle is
going on. Elim and I went with Nelson to Chapultepec. Though the park
is no longer crowded in the morning, as in the old days, the band
having disappeared, with a lot of other things, there is still much
strolling about the cypress-shaded alleys. A shining freshness filters
through the old trees, the birds sing, the children play. Its beauty
makes one’s heart both glad and sick. As we expected, we found the
President sitting in his motor, which was surrounded by half a dozen
others full of petitioners of all sorts. General Corral, in his khaki,
came up to salute me and to say good-by. He had just taken leave of the
President and was on his way to the station, whence he was starting to
the north with 2,000 men. I pressed his hand and wished him Godspeed;
but he may never again stand under those trees with a smile on his face
and hope in his heart.
The President got out of his auto and I out of ours, and we had a talk,
I presenting Elim. Huerta really is a _charming_ old fellow! I told
him I was anxious to go to Saltillo with the _Cruz Roja_. He said,
“There will be work to do here in town, and I will make you head of
the International League. You are very kind!” (“_Vd. es muy buena,
Señora._”) And he pressed my hand with those small, velvety paws of
his. He has discarded the slouch-hat and now wears with his long,
loose frock-coat a top-hat--(“_que da mas dignidad_”) “for the sake of
dignity,” he said, when Nelson told him he was “very stunning.”
Afterward we went down to the Buena Vista station, where General
Corral’s troops were being entrained. We found a very busy scene.
There were long lines of baggage-cars, with fresh straw covering the
floors; other baggage-cars containing army women, with their small
children, babes at the breast, and the bigger children, who may be of
service. Infants between two and ten are left behind. There is a good
deal of heterogeneous impedimenta. Having no homes, these women are
wont to take all their possessions with them--bird-cages, goats, old
oil-cans, filled with Heaven knows what. The soldiers were laughing and
joking, and the venders of fruits, highly colored bonbons, and still
more highly colored sweet drinks, were having a busy time. The sun was
terribly hot, so we came away, I with a prayer in my heart for the poor
devils. _Is_ “God in His heaven”? _Is_ “all well with the world”?
_Monday Morning._
I am advising Dr. Ryan to get off to Torreon. I myself telegraphed
to Admiral Fletcher, asking that a box of hospital stores, bandages,
cotton, iodine, adhesive tape, and bichloride tablets be sent up by
the officer who is coming up to stay with us. Dr. Ryan can get off
to-morrow afternoon. There is work, much work, to do, and I am sick
that “my position” prevents me from going with him. My hands are
trembling for work.
As to news, everybody in town is pleased, Huertistas and Villistas
alike. The former have had word of complete victory--and the latter
hears that the rebel forces had taken every gate in Torreon and that
the Federals were in full retreat!
FOOTNOTE:
[12] Later, under President Gutierrez, Don Eduardo made a most
hazardous exit from Mexico. With Zapata and Villa both threatening his
life, he lay concealed for some days in one of the foreign legations at
Mexico City. A safe-conduct from Gutierrez was finally procured, and he
left the city with Mr. Canova, one of our agents. Villa got news of his
departure and pursued him to Aguascalientes, Torreon, and Chihuahua,
finally coming up with him at Ortiz. Here, in the darkness, Don Eduardo
was able to escape from the train, wandering over that northern desert
for eight days before reaching the Rio Grande, which he swam, between
Mulato and Polvon.--E. O’S.
XIX
Congress meets without the United States representative--Huerta
makes his “profession of faith”--Exit Mr. Lind--Ryan leaves for the
front--French and German military _attachés_--The Jockey Club.
_April 1st. Morning._
Yesterday Lieutenant Courts (one of Admiral Fletcher’s flag
lieutenants) arrived for an indefinite time. He is a shrewd and
capable young officer, ready to study the situation intelligently and
dispassionately. The big house is again full.
Yesterday we lunched at the German Legation. The luncheon was given
for the French military _attaché_, Count de Bertier de Sauvigny, and
the German, Herr von Papen, both from Washington for a few weeks. The
Simons were there, the von Hillers, and various others, everybody
trying to enlighten the two new arrivals as to _la situación_. Both
find themselves in a position requiring some tact and agility to keep
their seats--_à cheval_ as they are between Washington and Mexico
City. Von Hintze has never cared for Huerta. Occasionally, very
occasionally, he has given him grudging praise; but a man of von
Hintze’s fastidiousness would always find himself _fluide contraire_ to
a man of just Huerta’s defects--defects which, I have sometimes argued
with von Hintze, become qualities in Mexico. All came to tea with me
later. De Bertier is a very handsome man, of the tall, distinguished,
fine-featured Gallic type; von Papen, with a pleasant and inquiring
smile, is the quintessence of the Teuton, his square head and every
face bone in relief against the Mexican amalgam type my eyes are
accustomed to.
The story about the loan, Simon says, is true. Huerta remarked to the
banking magnates that he had, outside the door, two soldiers apiece for
each gentleman; that there were plenty of trees in Chapultepec; that he
would give them ten minutes to decide what they would do. He got the
loan.
In the evening Hay and Courts and H. Walker and Ryan dined with us,
all staying late. Dr. Ryan fears he can’t get up to Torreon. The road
between Monterey and Saltillo was blown up the night before last, and
it is useless to try to get through that desert afoot or on horseback.
_Later._
I went out to Chapultepec with N. and Courts. I wanted to show Courts
the administrative tableau set in the morning beauty of the park, and
N. had urgent business with the President. There was the usual array
of autos there, the President in his own, talking with de la Lama,
Minister of Finance. Afterward Hohler, Manuel del Campo, and the two
García Pimentel men, black-clad, came up, having been to the _honras_
of Ignacio Algara, brother of the Mexican _chargé_ in Washington. They
were going to have a sandwich, and asked Courts and me to go into
the restaurant, which we did. N. appeared a few minutes later, the
President with him. The much-advertised _copitas_ were immediately
served, the President scarcely touching his glass. After much
badinage between Huerta and N. the _jeunesse dorée_ looking on rather
embarrassed, Huerta departed, with an obeisance to me, and a large,
circular gesture to the others. He had a telegram from Ciudad Porfirio
Diaz, telling of immense losses of the rebels and of the Federals still
holding their ground--which may or may not be true. The little story I
paste here is indicative of Mexicans in general, and of the situation
in particular:
The safest bet regarding the many stories about Torreon yesterday,
was the answer of a Mexican mozo to his master’s query as to whether
it would rain. After a careful survey of the heavens Juan replied:
“Puede que si, o puede que no, pero lo mas probable es, quién sabe?”
(Perhaps it will--perhaps it won’t; but the most probable is “_who
knows_?”)
_April 2d._
Congress reopened yesterday. Huerta showed some emotion when, in the
morning, Nelson informed him that he could not be present. In the same
room that saw its dissolution, the same old Indian, in a business-like
speech that would do credit to any ruler, briefly outlined to Congress
the work of government, pending detailed reports by the departments.
There is a tragic note in the fact that this persecuted government,
in the midst of all its anxieties, can discuss such matters as the
subterranean hydrology of the plateau, and the sending of delegates to
the electro-technic congress, in Berlin. Huerta wound up his speech
with these solemn and stirring words:
“Before I leave this hall I must engrave upon your hearts this, my
purpose, which on another occasion I communicated to the National
Assembly in the most explicit manner--the peace of the republic.
If, in order to secure it, the sacrifice of you and of me becomes
indispensable, know, once for all, that you and I shall know how to
sacrifice ourselves. This is my purpose, my profession of political
faith.”
There was immense applause. But his task seems superhuman. To fight
the rebels _and_ the United States is not simply difficult--it is
impossible.
_April 2d. Evening._
Villa talks freely about his plan when he triumphs: first and foremost,
it is to execute Huerta and his whole political family, on the
principle that the first duty of a “Mexican executive is to execute”;
then to set up a dictatorship for a year. The program drips with blood;
and these are the people we are bolstering up!
Lind leaves to-night for Washington, so exit from the tragic scene Don
Juan Lindo (I sometimes feel like calling him Don Juan Blindo), who
commenced life in a Scandinavian town as Jon Lind, and who has ended by
dreaming northern dreams in Vera Cruz, in the hour of Mexico’s agony.
My heart is unspeakably bewildered at this trick of fate; and, too, he
would have long since precipitated _us_ into war had it not been for
the shrewd common sense and trained knowledge of the gifted man at the
head of the fleet in Vera Cruz....
A hot indignation invades me as Mr. Lind drops out of the most
disastrous chapter of Mexican history and returns to Minnesota. (Oh,
what a far cry!) Upon his hands the blood of those killed with the
weapons of the raising of the embargo--those weapons that, in some day
and hour unknown to us, must inevitably be turned against their donors.
It is all as certain as death, though there are many who refuse to look
even _that_ fact in the face.
I am not keen about the confidential agent system, anyway. With more
standing in the community than spies, and much less information, they
are in an unrivaled position to mislead (wittingly or unwittingly is
a detail) any one who depends on them for information. Apropos of Mr.
Lind, one of the foreigners here said it was as if Washington kept
a Frenchman in San Francisco to inform them concerning our Japanese
relations. For some strange reason, any information delivered by
confidential agents, is generally swallowed, hook and all, but
unfortunately, the mere designating of them does not bestow upon them
any sacramental grace.
_April 5th._
_Domingo de Ramos_ (Palm Sunday), with soft wind and warm sun. The
palms were blessed at the nine-o’clock Mass in the cathedral. The great
pillars of the church were hung with purple; thousands of palms were
waving from devout hands, the hands of beggars and the rich alike,
and there was some good Gregorian music, instead of the generally
rather florid compositions. Near where I knelt was a paralyzed Indian
girl, crawling along on the most beautiful hands I have ever seen. Her
Calvary is constant.
Wonderful palm plaitings, of all shapes and patterns, are offered by
the Indians as one enters the church. I bought a beautiful sort of
Greek-cross design, with silvery grasses depending from it. It now
hangs over my bed.