Part 20

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.

We hear that the Bishop of Chilapa is held by Zapata for a big ransom. As all the well-to-do families have either fled from that part of the country or been robbed of all they had, the ransom may not be paid. There is a threat to crucify him on Good Friday, if it is not forthcoming, but I hardly think he is in danger, as such an act would certainly be thought to bring a curse upon the people and the place. This is the second time he has been made prisoner. He was rescued by Federal soldiers only a few weeks ago.

_Monday Evening._

We had a pleasant luncheon at Chapultepec restaurant, on the veranda--von Hintze, Kanya de Kanya, Stalewski, the Bonillas, Courts, Strawbensie (the young naval officer up from the _Essex_, who is supposed to be training the British colony volunteers), Lady C., von Papen, and ourselves; de Bertier, the French military _attaché_, did not materialize. They think, apropos of Torreon (“the key of the _south_,” for the rebels; “the key of the _north_,” for the Federals), that the Federals may have been obliged to evacuate it and are now fighting to get it back. Any one seems able to take Torreon, and no one seems able to hold it.

_Tuesday Evening._

At two o’clock Dr. Ryan left for the front, von Papen with him. Ryan has learned to travel light, but von Papen took a lot of impedimenta--eating-utensils, uniform, blanket, pungaree hat, etc. He will drop his possessions, one by one, as--after Saltillo, which they should reach to-morrow night--they may be on horseback, or afoot. I was deeply touched to see Dr. Ryan go off. I made the sign of the cross on his shoulder[13] and commended him to Heaven as we stood at the gate under the brilliant sky. He is so pleased to be taking all those stores with him--enough for two hundred and fifty or three hundred dressings, not including the other materials.

I received calls all afternoon. At four the two handsome Garcia Pimentel sisters came--Lola Riba and Rafaela Bernal. At five the Japanese minister brought his wife for her first formal call. They are cultivated people, with the quality that makes one feel they are used to the best at home. I _made_ conversation till six, when Clarence Hay saved my life. At seven, just as I had gone up-stairs, a Frenchman--a banker--appeared. At eight I was too tired for dinner, which N. and I ignored. The “doves of peace” are beginning to settle in the Embassy dove-cote to-night--about a _ton_ of them already here.

_Wednesday Morning. April 8th._

A Federal officer, Colonel Arce, got in from Torreon last night. He says that on Friday, the third, it was still in the hands of the Federals. Chieftain Urbina, a notorious rebel, had been captured and forced, with other Revolutionists, to parade the streets of Torreon, between a detachment of Federal troops. Then he was summarily executed in the presence of an immense crowd. The railway lines are open between San Pedro and Saltillo, and on to Mexico City. Unless they are again blown up, Dr. Ryan and von Papen will be able to get to San Pedro, where Generals de Maure, Hidalgo, Corral (the one I saw off), are stationed, with large reinforcements. We’ll take the report for what it is worth. One thing we know: the carnage is going on.

The story just now is that General Velasco, the very competent Federal in command of Torreon, voluntarily evacuated, took his army and his field-guns to the hills above Torreon, with non-combatants and women and children, cut the water-supply, and is now waiting orders from Huerta to bombard the town. He, of course, has plenty of water where he is; but Torreon dry must be a thing of horror. This story agrees with a good deal we have been hearing. If true, it will really be a great _coup_ on the part of the Federals.

_April 9th. Holy Thursday._

The churches are full to overflowing, these holy days. Men, women, and children, of all strata of society, are faithful in the discharge of their duties. In this city of peace, how contrasting the tales of sacrilege in the rebel territory! Five priests were killed and three held for ransom in Tamaulipas, last month; a convent was sacked and burned and the nuns were outraged; a cathedral was looted, the rebels getting off with the old Spanish gold and silver utensils. What kind of adults will develop out of the children to whom the desecration of churches and the outraging of women are ordinary sights; who, in tender years, see the streets red with blood, and property arbitrarily passing into the hands of those momentarily in power? The children seem the pity of it, and it is a bitter fruit the next generation will bear. Let him who can, take; and him who can, hold; is the device the Constitutionalists really fly.

In the old days, before the Laws of Reform, there used to be the most gorgeous religious processions; but even now, with all that splendor in abeyance, there remains something that is unsuppressed and unsuppressable. To-day the population has streamed in and out of the churches and visited the repositories (with their blaze of light and bankings of orange-trees, roses, and lilies, and countless varieties of beautiful palms), with all the ardor of the old days. No restrictions can prevent the Indian from being supremely picturesque at the slightest opportunity.

I went, as usual, to San Felipe, named after the Mexican saint who, in the sixteenth century, found martyrdom in Japan. It is just opposite the Jockey Club. Outside the _zaguan_, on the chairs generally placed on the pavement for the members, were sitting various males of the smart set. All, without exception (I _think_ I could put my hand in the fire for them), had been to Mass; which, however, didn’t prevent their usual close scrutiny of the small, beautiful feet of the passing Mexican women; two and one-half C is the usual size of a Mexicana’s shoes.

This Casa de los Azujelos, where the Jockey Club has had its being for generations, is a most lovely old house. It is covered with beautiful blue-and-white Puebla tiles, appliquéd by an extravagant and æsthetic Mexican in the seventeenth century, and is perfectly preserved, in spite of the many kinds of _revolucionarios_ who have surged up the Avenida San Francisco, which, with the _Paseo_, forms the thoroughfare between the _Palacio_ and Chapultepec. The men of the club play high and there are stories of fabulous losses, as well as of occasional shootings to death. It is the _chic_, aristocratic club of Mexico, the last and inviolable retreat of husbands. Anybody who _is_ any one belongs to it.[14]

A telegram from Dr. Ryan this morning reports: “The Federals have lost Torreon. Velasco, retreating, met Maure, Maass, and Hidalgo, at San Pedro; army reorganized, and it is now attacking Torreon, and will surely take it back.” He and von Papen got as far as Saltillo by rail. There, communications had been cut. There had been a big encounter at San Pedro de las Colonias, and I hope that even as I write faithful Ryan is proceeding with his work of mercy among the wounded.

There was a meeting at the Embassy to-day, to discuss ways and means of defense among the Americans if anything happens in the city. Von Hintze and von Papen have tried to do some organizing among their colony. The Japanese have long since had _carte blanche_ from the government in the way of ammunition and marines from their ships at Manzanillo. Sir Christopher, some time ago, sent Lieutenant Strawbensie up from Vera Cruz, to teach the English colony a few rudiments--and the French have also had a naval officer here for several weeks.

Last night, it appears, the boat taking 480,000 pesos to the north coast to pay the troops was captured by rebels. “Juan and José” always come out at the little end of the horn. There are immense geographical difficulties in the way of transporting money to the army in the north, over mountain chains and deserts, besides the strategic difficulty of getting it to the proper place without the rebels or bandits seizing it. After that, there is the further possibility of the officers putting it in their own pockets. What wonder that “Juan and José” sell their rifles and ammunition or go over to the rebels, where looting is permitted and encouraged? _They_ are always hungry, no matter what are the intentions and desires of the central government.

Telegrams from the north are very contradictory, and generally unfavorable to the government. The foreign correspondents were warned this morning, by a note from the Foreign Office (and it was to be the last warning), that they were not to send out false reports favorable to the rebels and redounding to the injury of both foreigners and Federals. They will get the famous “33” applied to them, if they don’t “walk Spanish.” No joking here now; much depends, psychologically, if not actually, on the issues at Torreon.

The clever editor of the _Mexican Herald_ remarks, apropos of the Presidential message of last week: “Our idea of a smart thing for Carranza to do would be to read President Huerta’s message to Villa. The array of things a President has to worry about, besides war and confiscation, are enough to remove the glamour.”

All Villa knows about revenue is embodied in the word loot. Even in this fertile land, where every mountain is oozing with gold, silver, and copper, and every seed committed to the earth is ready to spring up a hundredfold, he who neglects to plant and dig can’t reap or garner. The whole north is one vast devastation and invitation to the specters of famine.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] When we saw Dr. Ryan off to Serbia he suggested laughingly that I omit the cross, as he was in jail twice, and once led out to be shot, between that Mexican parting and our meeting in Washington six weeks later!--E. O’S.

[14] Now the club is stripped of its sumptuous fittings and historic pictures and library, and is a working-man’s home (_casa de obreros_) under the philanthropic and broad-minded _Constitucionalistas_. The beautiful old _patio_ is used for stabling horses.

XX

Good Friday--Mexican toys with symbolic sounds--“The Tampico incident”--Sabado de Gloria and Easter--An international photograph--The last reception at Chapultepec.

_Viernes Santo Afternoon._

As I came home from church this morning the sacred day seemed to be a day of noise. The Indians were busy in their booths along the Alameda. Thousands of small, wooden carts are bought by thousands of small boys and girls; _metracas_, they are called, and so constructed that, in addition to the usual noise, every revolution of the wheels makes a sound like the breaking of wood. This noise is supposed to typify the breaking of the bones of Judas. There are also appalling tin objects, like nutmeg-graters, that revolve on sticks, with the same symbolic sound. Little boys and girls outside the churches sell pious leaflets, crying in their shrill voices, “_Las siete palabras de nuestro Señor Jesus Christo_,” or “_El pesame de nuestra Señora Madre de Dios_.”

Something is brewing here, and it was with a heart somewhat perturbed by earthly happenings that I again went to the cathedral, at three o’clock. At the doors the little venders of the holy words were as insistent as ever. Thousands were filing in and out, going up with whatever burden of babe or bundle they happened to be carrying, to kiss the great cross laid on the steps of the high altar. I bethought me of last Good Friday in Rome, and of hearing Father Benson preach the “Three Hours” at San Sylvestro.

_April 10th. Good Friday Night._

Events succeed each other in kaleidoscopic fashion in Latin America, but I have, at last, a moment in which to tell you of the especial turn to-day.

This morning N. was informed, through the Foreign Office, of something referred to as “the Tampico incident.” The Foreign Office was decidedly in the air about it. On returning home, at one o’clock, however, N. found a very definite telegram from Admiral Fletcher, and there is sure to be trouble....

N. took the penciled reading and dashed off to find Huerta. Potential war lies in any incident here. He was away all the afternoon, hunting Huerta, but only found him at six o’clock. Huerta’s written answer was in the usual clever, Latin-American manner; his verbal remarks on the subject to a foreigner were beyond editing. The newspaper men were coming in, all the afternoon, and were disappointed not to find the “source of light and heat.”

...

The final touch was put on the nerves of everybody by Elim’s dragging his _metraca_ about the halls. With howls of protestation he was separated from it.

...

N. said he might possibly have arranged the matter except for the little Sub-Secretary, who had never met the President before, and who wanted, all during the interview, to prove he was very much of a man. Portillo y Rojas is away for the Easter holidays. At the President’s door a big, sullen Indian told N. he could not see the President, who was taking a _siesta_. As N. could not entirely follow the injunction about sleeping dogs, he compromised on a little tour, returning to find the President about to get into his motor. He asked N. to come with him, which N. did, sitting by his side, the secretary facing them on the _strapontin_. N. told the President he had something “very delicate” (“_un asunto muy delicado_”) to speak to him about. The President made one of his waving gestures, and the ball opened. Huerta said he would apologize for “the Tampico incident.” N. indicated that his government would not consider that sufficient. Huerta asked, squarely: “What do you want?” N. answered, “The salutes,” saying he might arrange the matter quietly, giving the salutes some morning at sunrise, for instance. The President began to ponder the matter; whereupon the secretary, thinking his chance had come, broke in upon the silence with the remark that it would be derogatory to the national honor to salute, and that there was no guarantee that the salutes would be returned, that Mexico’s sovereignty was in question, and the like. The President immediately stiffened up.--So can a nobody turn a nation’s destinies!

...

There is talk of providing a neutral zone in Tampico during the fighting. Every time an oil-tank is damaged, not only are several hundred thousand dollars gone, but there is immense danger of the oil flowing down the river and being set fire to. You can imagine the result to the shipping in the harbor, as well as to the town.

[Illustration: THE SIESTA]

It is now ten o’clock; the answer of Huerta has been sent off to the State Department and to Admiral Fletcher. Many newspaper men have interviewed Nelson, and he has gone up-stairs. These days of delicate negotiations--when a word too much or a word too little would make trouble--are wearying, to say the least. But so is fame made.... It seemed to me the only thing I _didn’t_ do to-day was to buy an imitation devil, also representing Judas, of which thousands in clay, in cardboard, in every conceivable form, are offered on every street corner.

_Sabado de Gloria._

To-day the _papier-maché_ “Judases” were burned, on the street corners, to the great joy of children and adults, while cannon and torpedoes and firecrackers of all kinds made things rather noisy. I remembered again the old Roman days, and the quiet of Holy Saturday, “hidden in the tomb with Christ.”

There is going to be a lot of trouble about the Tampico incident. The “Old Man” is recalcitrant and feels that the public apology by General Zaragoza should be sufficient. What we will do can only be surmised. Recently, one of the newspapers had a cartoon of Mr. Bryan speaking to “Mexico.” Under the picture was this pleasing caption, “I may say, I am most annoyed; and if you do not immediately reform, I hesitate to say what I may not be inclined to decide, perhaps!”

_Easter Sunday Morning._

A heavenly sky looks down on the Resurrection morn, and it is, indeed, the resurrection of a good many Mexicans who, these last days, have spilled their life’s blood for reasons unknown to them. The Sub-Secretary for Foreign Affairs spent the night hour from two to three with Nelson. The Mexican government does not want to salute the flag, though, of course, it will have to yield to our demand. Fighting continues at Tampico. The American war-ships are crowded with unfortunate refugees, and there is increasing animosity against the Americans. General Zaragoza has expressed official regret at the arrest, but the salute to the flag has been postponed.

Nelson has already been twice to the Foreign Office. He told the sub-secretary to tell the President the salute must be given. He has looked up precedents in the international-law books at the Embassy, to soothe their feelings, their _cultura_ and _bizarría_. If the sub-secretary says that Huerta still persists in refusing, N. is going to try a personal appeal. It is a salute or intervention, I suppose.

It appears that Mr. Bryan has said he can see no reason why the Mexican government should not “cheerfully salute,” and “that doubtless the church holidays have interfered with the transaction of business.” Is it the end, or not? _Quién sabe?_

_April 12th. 5_ P.M.

A written reply, very clever indeed, was received at one o’clock, refusing categorically to give the desired, or rather, _demanded_, salute of twenty-one guns, at Tampico. The Mexicans say that the whaleboat landed at a part of the town then in the military zone, and without permission; that fighting was going on at the time; that the city was under martial law. The men had been sent in to get gasoline for the ship with the paymaster (usually it is only a petty officer who accompanies the men on such errands). The reply ends with an _acuerdo especial_ (especial message) from Huerta to the effect that he could not comply with the United States’ demands without wounding Mexico’s national honor and dignity and infringing on her sovereignty, which he is ready to defend at all times and in all ways. Now what are we going to do? The clerks have been working like mad all day, and endless cables have gone out of the Embassy. Nelson says he will not go to Huerta, though when we passed Chapultepec restaurant, coming from the Reforma Club near by, where we had been lunching, he saw the President’s motor, and got out of our car and strolled through the restaurant, to give Huerta a chance to speak, if he was so minded, without seeking him out. However, Huerta was dining with the officers of the _rural_ guard, and Nelson left immediately. Huerta had been at the automobile races all the morning, we, in our Anglo-Saxon preoccupation, having, of course, forgotten about them. The situation is again very tense; again war and destruction loom up--a specter to us, as well as to this strange Indian republic that we are trying to mold to our image and likeness.

Nelson has told all newspaper men that he gives no information to any one; that he is a “dry spring,” and that they must cable to their home offices for news. As, since nine-thirty, there has been the strictest censorship, they won’t get or give much. Even the Embassy cables were delayed until Nelson went to the office and made his arrangements.

The white pony and the Mexican saddle that the President has asked to present to Elim, fortunately, have not appeared. You can imagine the juicy dish of news that gift would make at home! Refusal or acceptance would be equally delicate.

_April 13th. Evening._

No news has come. I wonder what they did in Tampico at six o’clock. A very insistent note has come from the Foreign Office, recounting, I think for the first time, Mexico’s many grievances against us--troubles caused by the raising of the embargo and the consequent supplying of arms to the rebels; claiming the Federals’ right to conduct the fight at Tampico any way they see fit; saying that they will tolerate no interference in their national affairs, etc. We, having armed the rebels, can hardly take exception to the Federals’ defending themselves. They insist that the whaleboat of the _Dolphin_ _was_ on forbidden territory when the men were arrested, but the statement is not official. Washington is to-day either finding a way out of the affair or looking into the grim, cold eyes of intervention.