MEXICAN SOLDIERS AND THE RURALES.
El Mexicano thinks it would be one of the pleasantest, as well as one
of the easiest, things in the world to whip the "Gringoes," while the
latter, with their heads a little swelled, perhaps, imagine otherwise,
and scoff at the idea of the "Greasers" winning even one battle in the
event of war. Be that as it may, solid, unvarnished facts will prove to
the most headstrong that the advantage is mostly on the other side.
The standing army in Mexico is said to number forty thousand men, but
is believed to be more. Every little village of a few hundred people
has its army, and every day that army is being increased; the officers
range from those who have gained experience and fame on the battlefield
to the young ones reared and trained in military colleges; they are
mostly all of what is considered the highest class of people in Mexico.
The rank and file are mostly half-breeds or Indians, who are not by any
means volunteers. They are nearly all convicts. When a man is convicted
of some misdemeanor he is enlisted in the regular army, separated from
his home, and to serve the rest of his natural life. This life is not a
bed of roses--there is no bed at all, and out of a medio (6 1/4 cents)
a day, he has to furnish his food and comforts. The dress uniform is
made of coarse woolen goods, with yellow stripes on the sleeves; and
the undress uniform, which is worn constantly except on review days, is
but white muslin, pants, waist and cap.
Some of the Indians are stolen and put in the army, and they
immediately resign themselves to their fate, for there is no more
escape for them than there is from death.
The wives of these poor fellows are very faithful, and very often
follow the regiment from one place to another; they live on what nature
grows for them and what they can beg or steal; the men are called
in Spanish "soldados," and the women, because they cling to their
husbands, "soldadas." It looks very pitiful to see a poor Indian woman
with a babe tied to her back and one clinging to her skirts, dusty,
hungry and footsore, traveling for miles through the hot sun with the
regiments.
These soldados are wonderfully hardy; they can travel for a week
through the hot sun, with nothing to drink and but a spoonful of
boiled beans and one tortillia--a small flat cake--for two days'
rations, sleep on the ground at night, and be us fresh for service as a
well-kept mule. Fight! well those who imagine it such an easy thing to
whip them should stand off and witness some of their feats first; they
love their country, and consider life well lost in defense of it; they
are ignorant, it is true, but seem the more courageous for it. When
told to fight, they go at it with as much vigor as a bull dog after
a cat; they don't know why they are fighting, or for what, but it is
their rule and custom to obey, not to reason why. If you would stop one
soldier in the midst of his fighting and ask: "Why are you fighting?"
he would answer in the characteristic words of his people, "Quien sabe?"
If a man is silly enough to try to escape from this bondage he is
immediately shot, or if he disobeys orders they have time but to punish
him with death. A short time before leaving Mexico some guards at the
prison tried to desert, and immediately every regiment was notified
to be on the lookout, and others were sent out to recapture them,
and as soon as found they were shot. The soldiers have an herb named
marijuana, which they roll into small cigaros and smoke. It produces
intoxication which lasts for five days, and for that period they are
in paradise. It has no ill after-effects, yet the use is forbidden by
law. It is commonly used among prisoners. One cigaro is made, and the
prisoners all sitting in a ring partake of it. The smoker takes a draw
and blows the smoke into the mouth of the nearest man, he likewise
gives it to another, and so on around the circle. One cigaro will
intoxicate the whole lot for the length of five days.
The Mexican officers are unpleasantly sarcastic, or rather they have a
custom that is the extreme of irony. It is known as la ley fuga (the
law of escape). They will tell you they are going to take a prisoner,
or soldier, as the case may be, out to the suburbs to give him a
chance to escape. It sounds very pleasant to the stranger. They will,
for example, politely ask the railway conductor to stop the train in
some quiet place, as they want to let a prisoner escape. The American
conductor finds his heart warming within him for these generous
officers, and quickly and gladly obeys. The train is stopped, they all
get off, and the officers form in a single line, with guns raised to
the shoulders. The prisoner is placed before them and told to _Vamos._
He gives one glance into their unchanging faces, the surrounding land,
and then starts. That moment he falls to the earth riddled with a dozen
bullets, and the executioners re-enter the train and are speeding fast
away, almost before the echo of this fatal volley died away. They
cannot waste time putting his body beneath the ground, but before long
some Indians, traveling that way, find it. He is one of them, and their
turn may be next, so they lay him in a hastily-dug hole, erect a wooden
cross at the end, murmur a prayer, and leave him to return to that from
which he sprung. This is the merciful "law of escape" practiced daily
in Mexico.
Once every year to commemorate the victory over the French on the 5th
of May, 1862, the president reviews all the troops. They flock to the
city from mountain, valley, town, and city, clad in holiday attire.
Then only one realizes their strength, as they march before the palace
where the president is seated on the balcony. The finest looking men in
the whole 40,000 are the rurales. They number 6000 and are larger men
than Mexicans usually are.
These rurales are a band of outlaws who came forward with their chief
and aided Diaz during the war. When it was over Diaz recognized their
power, and was so afraid of them that he offered them a place in the
army, with their chief as general, and they are to-day not only the
best paid, but--speaking of their fighting ability--the best men in
Mexico. In the first place they are large and powerful and known over
the entire country, mountain, town, and valley, as thoroughly as we
know our A, B, C. They fear nothing on earth, or out of it, and will
fight on the least provocation. They would rather fight than eat, and
have a great aversion to exhibiting themselves, as they demonstrated on
the 5th of May last, when only 800 could be persuaded to participate.
They have their own bands and a number of buglers. Every man owns his
horse, which must in color match that of the rest of the regiment.
Their uniform is yellow buckskin, elaborately embroidered with silver
and gold, upon the pants and on the back, front and sleeves of the
short cutaway jacket. Their wide sombrero is the same color, finished
with the same embroidery and a silver cord and tassel. Their saddles
also match their suits in color and silver finish. How they ride! It is
simply perfection. The horse and rider seem to be one.
I don't think they could carry any more weapons if they tried. Each man
has a good carbine, a sword, two revolvers, the same number of daggers
and two lassos, and they fight with any or all of these weapons. They
fight very cleverly with the lasso. If they wish to take a prisoner--a
very unusual proceeding on their part--they, with the rope, can either
lasso man and horse together or two or more men. The other lasso is of
wire, which not only catches the fugitive, but knocks him senseless or
cuts his head off, as the case may be.
These rurales guide tourists through the interior and also attend all
public places to keep order; they receive one dollar a day, which is
enormous compared with the other soldiers' pay of six and one-quarter
cents. They have their horses in perfect control, and can make them
execute all kinds of movements in a body, while the tricks performed by
individual horses are numberless.
The Mexicans have a good deal of suppressed wrath bothering them at
the present day; they know that Diaz is a tyrannical czar, and want
to overthrow him. It may be readily believed that Diaz knows they are
bound to get rid of this superfluous feeling, and he would much rather
have them vent its strength on the Americans than on himself; thus he
stands on the war question. He is a good general, and has many good,
tough old soldiers, the best of whom is ex-President Gonzales, to aid
him, besides the convict soldiers and the rurales.