Part 23
The wedding morn of thirteen years ago! And we are in Mexico, in full intervention! The troops can’t get up from Vera Cruz by rail, as the Mexicans got away with all the locomotives when the town was taken. That beautiful plan of Butler’s ... I understand that he is in Tampico, with his marines, and the other marines are only due to-day in Vera Cruz. It will take three weeks, even without resistance, for them to march up with their heavy equipment.
At 12.30 last night N., who had gone to bed and to sleep, after a more than strenuous day, was called to the telephone by the excited consul-general, who had had the United States shield torn off the Consulate, and other indignities offered the sacred building, including window-breaking by the mob. N. wonders if Huerta will try to keep him here as a hostage. Huerta told N. that he intends to take our arms away, and, of course, there is no way of keeping them if he decides to do so. We have certainly trampled on the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo after 1848, providing that all disputes should be submitted first for arbitration. So sing me no songs of treaty rights!
We heard last night that the Zapatistas were to unite with Huerta. It would be interesting and curious to see a “Mexico united” on any point. If those bandits come out of their _barrancas_ and mountains and do to the Americans half the evil they work on one another, there will be many a desolate mother, wife, sister, and sweetheart north of the Rio Grande. N. says we may get off to-morrow morning. No night trips. Yesterday Carden and von Hintze tried to get Huerta to arrange for the despatching of a refugee train to leave not later than seven this morning, but why he should do that, or anything for any one, unless it falls in with his own plans, I don’t see. It is curious that the Americans did not get hold of a few locomotives. The railroad is indeed sounding brass and tinkling cymbals without them.
Every arm-chair, sofa, and bed in the house was occupied last night, and many of the inmates lay on the floor. Constantly, in the distance, sounds the beautiful Mexican bugle-call. The brass summons is clear and noble, and the drums beat to the nation’s pulse--a poor thing, according to us, but Mexico’s own. Where will it all end? With the taking of Vera Cruz, through whose customs a full fourth of the total imports come, Huerta is out a million pesos a month, more or less. We are certainly isolating and weakening him at a great rate. “Might is right.” We can begin to teach it in the schools.
We have heard nothing from Washington, and nothing from Vera Cruz. Alone on our plateau! Up to now, there are no great anti-American demonstrations. I put my faith in Huerta, in spite of the feeling which Burnside expressed, that he might show Nelson an Indian’s treachery. Aunt Laura is game. It is good fortune for her to have that comfortable home just across the way to go to.
Something is being prepared in town. To-morrow we may get away. N. begins to feel that he ought to be out of here, the Mexican _chargé_ at Washington having left yesterday, with the entire Embassy staff. This we learn from the Foreign Office here, _not_ from Washington.
The newspapers are rather fierce this morning. One head-line in the _Independiente_ is to the effect that “the Federal bullets will no longer spill brothers’ blood, but will perforate blond heads and white breasts swollen with vanity and cowardice.” “Like a horde of bandits the invaders assaulted the three-times heroic Vera Cruz. The brave _costeños_ made the foreign thieves bite the dust they had stained with their impure blood,” etc. The newspapers add that the Americans landed “without a declaration of war, feloniously and advantageously.” “Anathema to the cowardly mercantile projects of the President of the United States!” they shriek. They had a picture of Mr. Wilson sitting on heaped-up money-bags, Huerta standing before him, a basket of eggs on each arm. “The true forces of the opponents,” this was labeled. It is impossible to expect the Mexicans to seize the idea that the landing of our troops was a simple police measure. In face of the facts, such subtle distinctions will, I am sure, be overlooked. “_El suelo de la patria está conculcado por el invasor extranjero_,” is the _fact_ to them! I inclose here what the papers call “_el manifiesto laconico y elocuente del Señor Presidente de la Republica_.”
“_A LA REPUBLICA_
“_En el Puerto de Veracruz, estamos sosteniendo con las armas el honor Nacional._
“_El atentado que el Gobierno Yanqui comete contra un pueblo libre, como es, ha sido y será el de la Republica, pasará a la Historia, que pondrá a México y al Gobierno de los Estados Unidos, en el lugar que a cada cual corresponda._
“_V. Huerta._”
“TO THE REPUBLIC
“In the port of Vera Cruz we are sustaining with arms the national honor.
“The offense the Yankee government is committing against a free people, such as this Republic is, has always been, and will ever be, will pass into history--which will give to Mexico and to the government of the United States the place each merits.
“V. HUERTA.”
_12.30._
N. has just come in to say that perhaps we leave to-morrow for Guadalajara and Manzanillo. I am not crazy to see the Pacific coast under these conditions. How many uncertain hours, wild mountains, and deep _barrancas_ are between us and the United States men-of-war.
Mr. Cummings, chief of the cable-office, and all his men were dismissed this morning, to be replaced by Federals. A dramatic incident occurred when he went into the office to collect his money and private papers. Finding himself for a moment alone, he quickly went to the telegraph key and called up Vera Cruz. The operator there answered, “They are fighting at the roundhouse.” There was a snap, and he heard no more. Some one was listening and shut him off. That is the only authentic news we have heard from Vera Cruz, or anywhere, for two days. But the wild rumors around town are numberless and disquieting. Nothing is touched down-stairs. I don’t want to alarm people needlessly by stripping my rooms; and who knows if we can take out, if and when we go, more than the strict necessities. There will always be a fair amount of Embassy papers, codes, etc., that must go, whatever else is left.
_10.30_ P.M.
At five o’clock I went down-stairs to my drawing-room--the matchless 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.