Mexican sun streaming in at the windows--and poured tea. It was the
last time, though I didn’t know it. Many people came in: Kanya,
Stalewski, von Papen, Marie Simon, Cambiaggio, Rowan, de Soto, and
others; de Bertier had gone to Tampico. No one knew what was to
happen to us. Had we received our passports? Were we to stay on?
Could negotiations be reopened? Each came with another rumor, another
question. The Cardens came in late, Sir Lionel very agitated over the
rumors of the Zapatistas coming to town to-night. They are supposed to
have joined with the Federals. It was the first time I have seen Sir L.
since his return. He seemed whiter, paler, and older than when he went
away. Then von Hintze came. We talked of the hazy Vera Cruz incident
and its international bearing, _if_ the captain of the _Ypiranga_ had
been stopped on the high seas, before the blockading of the port, etc.
There was a gleam in von Hintze’s eye during the conversation, answered
by one in mine. We were both thinking that history has a way of
repeating itself. He was von Dietrich’s flag-lieutenant at Manila,
Rowan’s position with Fletcher at Vera Cruz. It was he who took the
famous message to Dewey and received the equally famous and emphatic
answer--so emphatic, history has it, that he almost backed down the
hatchway in his surprise. Thirteen years afterward he finds himself in
an American Embassy, discussing another marine incident concerning
Germany and the United States, another flag-lieutenant sitting by![15]
During all this time, the Embassy was closely surrounded by troops.
Hearing more than the usual noise, I asked Rowan to see what was going
on. It proved to be a large squad of soldiers come to take our arms
and ammunition away--our sacred doves of peace. All was done with the
greatest politeness--but it was done! Two hundred and fifty rifles,
two machine-guns, seventy-six thousand of one kind of ammunition, nine
thousand of another. It was a tea-party, indeed. At half after seven an
officer appeared in the drawing-room, as von Hintze and I were sitting
there alone, saying that the President was outside. Von Hintze departed
through the dining-room, after hastily helping me and McKenna to remove
the tea-table. There was no time to ring for servants. I went to the
door and waited on the honeysuckle and geranium-scented veranda while
the tearless old Indian, not in his top-hat (“_que da mas dignidad_”),
but in his gray sweater and soft hat, more suitable to events, came
quickly up the steps. It was his first and last visit to the Embassy
during our incumbency.
I led him into the drawing-room, where, to the accompaniment of
stamping hoofs outside, of changing arms, and footsteps coming and
going, we had a strange and moving conversation. I could not, for my
country’s sake, speak the endless regret that was in my heart for the
official part we had been obliged to play in the hateful drama enacted
by us to his country’s undoing. He greeted me calmly.
“Señora, how do you do? I fear you have had many annoyances.”
Then he sat back, quietly, in a big arm-chair, impersonal and
inscrutable. I answered as easily as I could that the times were
difficult for all, but that we were most appreciative of what he had
done for our personal safety and that of our nationals, and asked
him if there was nothing we could do for him. He gave me a long,
intraverted, and at the same time piercing look, and, after a pause,
answered:
“Nothing, señora. All that is done I must do myself. Here I remain. The
moment has not come for me to go. Nothing but death could remove me
now.”
I felt the tears come hot to my eyes, as I answered--taking refuge in
generalities in that difficult moment--“Death is not so terrible a
thing.”
He answered again, very quietly, “It is the natural law, to which we
must all submit. We were born into the world according to the natural
law, and must depart according to it--that is all.”
He has wavy, interlacing, but not disturbing gestures as he speaks. He
went on to say that he had come, in his name and that of his señora, to
ask N. and myself to attend the wedding of his son, Victor, the next
day. And notwithstanding much advice to the contrary by timid ones, we
think it expedient to go. The safety of all hangs on his good-will,
and it will be wise, as well as decent, to offer him this last public
attention. Just then Nelson came in. After greeting the President, he
said, rather hastily, “They have taken the arms away.”
Huerta answered with a gesture of indifference, “It must be,” adding,
“_no le hace_” (“it doesn’t matter”).
I told him with a smile, which he quite understood, that it wasn’t much
in the way of an exchange. (As we had taken seventeen million rounds
of ammunition, and God knows how many guns and rifles in Vera Cruz,
his haul at the Embassy did seem rather small!) He does not want us to
go out by Guadalajara and Manzanillo, and, unless compelled to cut the
line, he gives us his train to-morrow night to Vera Cruz, with a full
escort, including three officers of high rank.
“I would go myself,” he said, “but I cannot leave. I hope to send my
son in my place, if he returns from the north, as I expect.”
I was dreadfully keyed up, as you can imagine; I felt the tears gush to
my eyes. He seemed to think it was fear that moved me, for he told me
not to be anxious.
I said, “I am not weeping for myself, but for the tragedy of life.”
And, indeed, since seeing him I have been in a sea of sadness, personal
and impersonal--impersonal because of the crushing destiny that can
overtake a strong man and a country, and personal, because this
many-colored, vibrant Mexican experience of mine is drawing to a close.
Nothing can ever resemble it.
As we three stood there together he uttered, very quietly, his last
word:
“I hold no rancor toward the American people, nor toward _su Excelencia
el Señor Presidente Wilson_.” And, after a slight pause, he added, “_He
has not understood._”
It was the first and last time I ever heard him speak the President’s
name. I gave him my hand as he stood with his other hand on Nelson’s
shoulder, and knew that this was indeed the end. I think he realized
that my heart was warm and my sympathies outrushing to beautiful,
agonizing Mexico; for, as he stood at the door, he suddenly turned and
made me a deep reverence. Then, taking N.’s arm, he went out into the
starry, perfumed evening, and I turned back into the dwelling I was
so soon to leave, with the sadness of life, like a hot point, deep in
my heart. So is history written. So do circumstances and a man’s will
seem to raise him up to great ends, and so does destiny crush him....
And we, who arrogated to ourselves vengeance for unproven deeds in a
foreign land, was vengeance ours?
I left the Embassy staff alone at dinner and came up-stairs, to Aunt
Laura. Again I was sick at the thought of leaving her, old, ill, and
in troubles of many kinds. I will do what I can for her before I go;
but oh, I am sad, very sad, to-night. Whatever else life may have in
reserve for me, this last conversation with a strong man of another
psychology than mine will remain engraven on my heart--his calm, his
philosophy on the eve of a war he knows can only end in disaster
for himself and his people. His many faults, his crimes, even, his
desperate expedients to sustain himself, his non-fulfilments--all
vanish. I know his spirit possesses something which will see him safely
over the dark spaces and hours when they come.[16]
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Herr von Hintze began his career in the navy and before coming to
Mexico was for some years the German Emperor’s special naval _attaché_
to the Czar of Russia, after which he was made Minister to Mexico, with
the rank of Rear Admiral. On the outbreak of hostilities in Europe he
left Mexico, and is now Minister in Pekin. He crossed the Atlantic in
September, 1914, as steward on a small ship. When he was received by
the Emperor on his appointment to Pekin, report has it that he said,
“But, your Majesty, how am I to get there?” The Emperor replied, “As
you were able to get from Mexico to Berlin, you will doubtless be able
to get from Berlin to Pekin. Good-by, and good luck to you!” There
are fantastic and spectacular tales of his journey to China, in which
Zeppelins, submarines, and raiders figure--E. O’S.
[16] If I have idealized this Indian ruler, whom I knew only at the
flood-tide of his destiny, I have also, perhaps, given a clearer
testimony to facts. Let history deduce the truth--E. O’S.
XXIII
The wedding of President Huerta’s son--Departure from the
Embassy--Huerta’s royal accommodations--The journey down to Vera
Cruz--The white flag of truce--We reach the American lines.
_April 24th. 9_ A.M. (In the train, after our sudden departure last
night.)
We have just passed the famous Metlac Bridge. Far down these enchanting
curves I see the military train which precedes us, with troops to test
the line, and a flatcar for our three automobiles, to get us through
the Federal lines at Tejería. We passed slowly over the Metlac Bridge.
There, in the middle, was flying the great, white flag of peace! We
could proceed. It made our hearts beat fast. The splendors of this land
under this cloudless sky are indescribable; marvelous odors come in at
the windows, and great, blazing stars of red and vermilion decorate
every bush. The broad banana leaves take every possible glint, and the
bayonet palms are swords of light. Everything is gorgeous--everything a
splendid blaze.
At Orizaba orderly crowds cried “_Viva Mexico!_” “_Mueran los
Gringos!_” and bared their heads, as the troop-cars attached to our
train rolled out. I cannot keep my eyes from the beauties of this
natural world through which we are journeying, conducted so royally by
command of the “Grand Old Indian.” Nature is so generous here that she
neither needs nor asks the co-operation of man in her giving. Alas for
him!
At six o’clock this morning they awakened us at Esperanza, the highest
point, to get out for a good breakfast offered by Corona. The troops
accompanying us were also fed, which does not always happen. Rowan
jogged the general’s mind by offering them a breakfast from _us_, but
he said, “Oh no; we will provide for them.” He evidently had orders
from “on high” to spare no trouble or expense.
_10.45._
We have just passed Cordoba, finding the crowds distinctly more uneasy.
We bought piles of bananas and oranges that Rowan is taking into the
troop-car. He has just come back to say the soldiers are all smiles.
The difficulty with the army is that the officers never in any way look
after their men--and a soldier with an empty stomach and sore feet is
a sad proposition. It is getting very warm. We are in the heart of the
coffee zone and have only about eighteen hundred feet to travel before
reaching sea-level. Embosomed in trees or pressed against blue-green
hills are the pink belfries and domes my heart knows so well and my
eyes love, a Spanish heritage of the land. I was thankful to see,
higher up, that barley and corn were being planted for the hungry days
to come. Morning-glories twist about every stump and branch and the
hibiscus has a richer color. Beautiful, beautiful Mexico!...
I wonder if the Embassy was pillaged and burned last night? Oh, the
_waste_ there! No time to sort out things. My clothes still hanging in
the closets, my bric-à-brac left about, and I dare say a lot of trash
was packed that I don’t care for. Dear Mrs. Melick kissed me as I came
out on General Corona’s arm, in a dream, it seemed to me, Elim clinging
to my hand, to take the auto for the station. I had left Aunt Laura
in the _salon_ with various friends whose faces are one great blur in
my memory, and Mrs. Melick was going in to get her and take her to
her house. Since yesterday afternoon Americans can no longer leave
Mexico City. Huerta, having heard that no Mexicans could leave Vera
Cruz, posted this order. My heart is sad at leaving our people. Heaven
knows what will happen to them. The Mexicans have commandeered all arms
except those of foreign legations (and _they_ will probably have to
go), all horses, all automobiles, great reserves of gasoline, etc. The
Embassy was well provisioned.
Last night our train was supposed to go at nine o’clock, but we did not
leave until eleven-thirty. The _chers collègues_ and a very few others
who knew of our going were there to see us off, in the dimly lighted,
gray station. At ten I begged our friends to go, and said good-by to
von Hintze, Hohler, von Papen, les Ayguesparsse, Stalewski, Letellier,
Kanya, and the Simons. (Simon has forty-five millions in _gold_ in
the Banco Nacional; some day he must give it up at the point of the
pistol.) We have masses of letters and telegrams to deliver. The “Pius
Fund” (forty-three thousand dollars) and my jewels and money of our own
and other people’s I carried in the black hand-bag with the gilt clasps
which you gave me in Paris. McKenna guards the codes as if they were
infants. No sovereign of Europe could have planned and executed this
departure of ours more royally than Huerta did it. You remember Polo
de Bernabé’s account of his “escape” from the land of the Stars and
Stripes?
At Guadalupe, the first stop just outside the city, a painful incident
occurred. About twenty-five persons, _friends_, were waiting there to
board the train and continue the journey with us. But N. had given his
word of honor, when he received the safe-conduct, that no person or
persons other than the personnel of Embassy and Consulate should avail
themselves of this privilege. So rarely was faith kept with Huerta that
it seemed hard that it should be done in this crucial hour and at the
expense of our own people. We intended, however, to save even honor;
but as our train rolled out of the station I felt, to the full, “the
fell clutch of circumstance.”
My idea is to be immediately vaccinated and injected for all ills, and
to return from New York with the first Red Cross brigade. I look into
the deep _barrancas_ and up the high mountains, and know _my_ people
will be lying there, needing help, before long. Zapata is supposed to
have offered his services to Huerta, to place himself in the Sierras
between Puebla and the Tierra Caliente. He can do heartbreaking things.
I know I must go now, but afterward I can return to work. Shall we
ever again have an embassy in Mexico? This seems the death of Mexican
sovereignty, _la fin d’une nation_.
I saw Sir Lionel for a moment, alone, last night. I thanked him for all
the work, the great responsibility that he was about to undertake for
our people. He is very worried and anxious, and kept saying, “Oh, the
dreadful responsibility it will be!” I told him we would not fail to
let Washington know all that he would be doing for us. I fear a nervous
break for him. Tears were in his eyes and his lip trembled. Our press
has not handled him gently these past months. I felt both grateful and
ashamed.
We have just passed over a deep, vine-draped ravine--the Atoyac Gorge,
with a noisy river flowing through. Women and children are bathing and
washing clothes under the trees. Occasionally a blonde baby is seen in
his dark mother’s arms--so is life perpetuated. We have just passed
the village of Atoyac, with its little thatched shacks and adobe huts,
where the people are shouting “_Viva Mexico!_” and we are about to
make our last descent into the burning plain. There, after a while,
our outposts will be waiting for us--_our_ people waiting to receive
their own. This is the march of empire in which we literally join.
_Southward_ she takes her course. General Corona has had many offerings
of fruit and flowers, people whom he had never seen calling him
“_Ramoncito_” and “_Mi General_,” and throwing pineapples and oranges
into the train--the offerings of humble hearts.
But I must go back to Wednesday night--our last night in Mexico
City--when I was too tired for feeling or thought. In the morning
Nelson decided that, under the circumstances, he would not, _could_
not, go to the Huerta wedding. Then I decided to go alone. Rowan went
with me, in the automobile. I put on my best black things, long white
gloves, and pearls, got through the crowd in front of the Embassy, and
went to the President’s house in the Calle Alfonso Herrera, enfolded
and exhilarated by dazzling air. I got there to find myself the only
foreigner, of course, and only three or four other women, the wives of
Cabinet Ministers and generals. The men were mostly in full uniform.
Madame Huerta came in, looking very handsome and dignified in a
becoming dress of delicate pomegranate color veiled partly with black
lace--a _good_ dress. We gave each other the _abrazo_, and she placed
me at her side, on the sofa. The youngest son, Roberto, a fat but
_sympatico_ boy of fourteen, also in full uniform, came in and kissed
his _mamacita’s_ hand, and asked for some order. The dark, bright-eyed
bride, in a dress with a good deal of imitation lace, arrived nearly
three-quarters of an hour late. Immediately after her arrival the
President entered, in his slouch-hat and the celebrated gray sweater.
He quickly greeted the guests, called his wife, “Emilia,” and then
turned to me. “Mrs. O’Shaughnessy,” he said, and indicated a place
near the table where the marriage contract was to be signed. So I rose,
and stood with the family during the ceremony, which he had put through
at a lively pace. The contract, in referring to the parents of the
bridegroom, said “Victoriano Huerta, fifty-nine,” and “Emilia Huerta,
fifty-two.” His age may be lessened in this document a year or two,
but I doubt it. Madame Huerta can’t be much more than fifty-two. The
youngest girl, Valencita, is only seven.
After the ceremony, when we all went out to get into the automobiles,
Señora Blanquet was with us. She is short, stout, and elderly. I
wanted to give her her place as wife of the Minister of War, but the
President, who helped me in, insisted first upon giving me his wife’s
place. I said, firmly, “No”; but I was obliged to take the seat beside
her, while Señora Blanquet struggled with the narrow _strapontin_!
Imagine my feelings as we started off through the dazzling streets to
the somewhat distant “Buen Tono” church--built by Pugibet, of “Buen
Tono” cigarette fame, and put by him, most beautifully decorated, at
the disposition of the President for the wedding. On our arrival the
President, who had gone ahead, appeared to help us out of the motor;
then, saying to me, “_Tengo que hacer_” (“I have something to do”), he
disappeared. I never saw him again.
I went up the aisle after Madame Huerta, on Rincon Gaillardo’s arm. As
soon as we were in our seats the archbishop came out and the ceremony
began--dignified and beautiful. Afterward there was a low Mass with
fine music. The tears kept welling up in my eyes as I knelt before the
altar of the God of us all. After the ceremony was over we went out
into the sacristy. I congratulated the bride and groom, spoke to a few
of the colleagues who were near, and then, feeling that my day and
hour were over, I went up to Madame Huerta.
We embraced several times, with tears in our eyes, each of us knowing
it was the end and thinking of the horrors to come. Then I left the
sacristy on some officer’s arm--I don’t know who it was--and was put
into my motor, where Rowan was patiently waiting. There were huge
crowds before the church, but never a murmur against us. Tears were
raining down my cheeks, but Rowan said: “Don’t mind. The Mexicans will
understand the tribute, and all your sadness and regret.”
We passed by the round point, the “Glorieta,” where I had seen the
statue of George Washington so solemnly unveiled two years ago, on the
22d of February, 1912. It had been pulled down in the night. On the
defaced pedestal had been placed a small bust of Hidalgo. Flowers were
scattered about, and a Mexican flag covered the inscription on the
marble base. I learned afterward that the statue had been dragged in
the night by powerful automobiles, and placed at the feet of the statue
of Benito Juarez, in the Avenida Juarez, whence the authorities had had
the courtesy, and had taken the time, to withdraw it--through streets
whose windows were hung with flags of every nationality except ours:
German, French, English, Spanish.
At 12.50 I got home to find still larger crowds of Americans at the
Embassy--orderly and polite, but deep anxiety was on every face; all
realized the issue before them. At three o’clock I heard that we would
be leaving about seven. So many people were coming in that I had no
time to separate my things from the Embassy things, nor even to make
any selections. Berthe was occupied in throwing various articles into
open trunks and valises, some of value, some without. I don’t think
_she_ lost a pin. I didn’t get even to my big writing-desk, where I had
sat for seven months. You can imagine all the things that were left
there, the accumulations of these historic months. All my bibelots
were left about the _salon_, the _mantas_ and _serapes_, the signed
photographs that have accompanied me for years, my beautiful old
frames. But in the face of the national catastrophe, and the leaving of
our people to God knows what, I seemed to lose all sense of personal
possession or to feel that objects could have a value.
* * * * *
We have just passed Paso del Macho. Many people, motley groups, were
standing near the train, crying “_Viva la Independencia de Mexico!_”
Rowan says _he_ wants to hear more “_Mueran los Gringos!_” We are about
forty-five kilometers from Vera Cruz, and the heat, after the plateau,
seems intense; though it is not disagreeable to feel the dissolving
_détente_ of the skin and nerves after the dry tenseness of many months
at eight thousand feet.
SOLEDAD, _1.15._
A blaze of heat, merciless, white. We find Mexican rifles stacked at
intervals along the station platforms, and there are groups of young
_voluntarios_ looking proudly at their first guns or drawing long,
cruel knives from their belts. Some are eating small, green limes, not
nourishing at best, slashing at them with their _machetes_. The lack of
a commissariat is what prevents the Mexican army from being in any way
efficient. (Think of the full stomachs and comfortably shod feet of our
men.) Flatcars with cannon and automobiles are on the sidings. General
Gustavo Maass, whom I have not seen since our trip to Vera Cruz in
January, is here in command. He will not prove efficient--a blue-eyed
Mexican, wearing his sandy-gray hair in a German brush effect, _can’t_
be.
_4 o’clock._
We have passed Tejería, the last Mexican station; the sand-hills and
spires of Vera Cruz will soon be distinguishable. I have just looked
out the window, my eyes dim with tears. Far up the broken track the
blessed white flag of truce can be seen approaching--our people, our
men, coming for their own. Admiral Fletcher evidently got the telegram.
Am writing these words on the bottom of a little bonbon-box, which
afterward I will tuck into my hand-bag. Oh, the burning dreariness
of this land! The hot, dry inhospitality of it! The Mexican officers
of our escort are passing and repassing my door, with troubled,
anxious, hot faces. It is a bitter pill, but I see no use in trying to
sugar-coat it by conversation. They know my heart is heavy, too.
_Later, on the margin of a page of the “Mexican Herald.”_
Nelson has gone with the Mexican officers up the track to meet our men,
and all are getting out of the train, standing in the rank, stiff grass
by the track. God made the heaven and the earth....
_Vera Cruz, April 25th. Morning._
On board the _Minnesota_, in the very comfortable quarters of the
admiral. We were awakened by the band playing the “Star-spangled
Banner,” “God Save the King,” the beautiful Spanish national air, the
“Marseillaise”--all according to the order of the arrival of the ships
in the harbor. A delightful breeze is blowing and the electric fans are
at work.
The last word I scribbled yesterday afternoon was when I was waiting in
my state-room for Nelson to come back to our Mexican train, with our
officers, under the white flag. I was delighted and deeply moved when
suddenly big, agreeable, competent Captain Huse appeared at the door
and said, “Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, I am glad to see you safely arrived and
to welcome you to our lines.”