Further Foolishness: Ch. 13 - In Merry Mexico

Ch. 13 - In Merry Mexico

I stood upon the platform of the little deserted railway
station of the frontier and looked around at the wide
prospect. "So this," I said to myself, "is Mexico!"

About me was the great plain rolling away to the Sierras
in the background. The railroad track traversed it in a
thin line. There were no trees--only here and there a
clump of cactus or chaparral, a tuft of dog-grass or a
few patches of dogwood. At intervals in the distance one
could see a hacienda standing in majestic solitude in a
cup of the hills. In the blue sky floated little banderillos
of white cloud, while a graceful hidalgo appeared poised
on a crag on one leg with folded wings, or floated lazily
in the sky on one wing with folded legs.

There was a drowsy buzzing of cicadas half asleep in the
cactus cups, and, from some hidden depth of the hills
far in the distance, the tinkling of a mule bell.

I had seen it all so often in moving pictures that I
recognised the scene at once.

"So this is Mexico?" I repeated.

The station building beside me was little more than a
wooden shack. Its door was closed. There was a sort of
ticket wicket opening at the side, but it too was closed.

But as I spoke thus aloud, the wicket opened. There
appeared in it the head and shoulders of a little wizened
man, swarthy and with bright eyes and pearly teeth.

He wore a black velvet suit with yellow facings, and a
tall straw hat running to a point. I seemed to have seen
him a hundred times in comic opera.

"Can you tell me when the next train--?" I began.

The little man made a gesture of Spanish politeness.

"Welcome to Mexico!" he said.

"Could you tell me--?" I continued.

"Welcome to our sunny Mexico!" he repeated--"our beautiful,
glorious Mexico. Her heart throbs at the sight of you."

"Would you mind--?" I began again.

"Our beautiful Mexico, torn and distracted as she is,
greets you. In the name of the _de facto_ government,
thrice welcome. _Su casa!_" he added with a graceful
gesture indicating the interior of his little shack.
"Come in and smoke cigarettes and sleep. _Su casa!_ You
are capable of Spanish, is it not?"

"No," I said, "it is not. But I wanted to know when the
next train for the interior--"

"Ah!" he rejoined more briskly. "You address me as a
servant of the _de facto_ government. _Momentino!_ One
moment!"

He shut the wicket and was gone a long time. I thought
he had fallen asleep.

But he reappeared. He had a bundle of what looked like
railway time tables, very ancient and worn, in his hand.

"Did you say," he questioned, "the _in_terior or the
_ex_terior?"

"The interior, please."

"Ah, good, excellent--for the interior." The little
Mexican retreated into his shack and I could hear him
murmuring, "For the interior, excellent," as he moved to
and fro.

Presently he reappeared, a look of deep sorrow on his
face.

"Alas," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "I am _desolado!_
It has gone! The next train has gone!"

"Gone! When?"

"Alas, who can tell? Yesterday, last month? But it has
gone."

"And when will there be another one?" I asked.

"Ha!" he said, resuming a brisk official manner. "I
understand. Having missed the next, you propose to take
another one. Excellent! What business enterprise you
foreigners have! You miss your train! What do you do? Do
you abandon your journey? No. Do you sit down--do you
weep? No. Do you lose time? You do not."

"Excuse me," I said, "but when is there another train?"

"That must depend," said the little official, and as he
spoke he emerged from his house and stood beside me on
the platform fumbling among his railway guides. "The
first question is, do you propose to take a _de facto_
train or a _de jure_ train?"

"When do they go?" I asked.

"There is a _de jure_ train," continued the stationmaster,
peering into his papers, "at two p.m. A very good
train--sleepers and diners--one at four, a through
train--sleepers, observation car, dining car, corridor
compartments--that also is a _de jure_ train--"

"But what is the difference between the _de jure_ and
the _de facto?_"

"It's a distinction we generally make in Mexico. The _de
jure_ trains are those that ought to go; that is, in
theory, they go. The _de facto_ trains are those that
actually do go. It is a distinction clearly established
in our correspondence with Huedro Huilson."

"Do you mean Woodrow Wilson?"

"Yes, Huedro Huilson, president--_de jure_--of the United
States."

"Oh," I said. "Now I understand. And when will there be
a _de facto_ train?"

"At any moment you like," said the little official with
a bow.

"But I don't see--"

"Pardon me, I have one here behind the shed on that side
track. Excuse me one moment and I will bring it."

He disappeared and I presently saw him energetically
pushing out from behind the shed a little railroad lorry
or hand truck.

"Now then," he said as he shoved his little car on to
the main track, "this is the train. Seat yourself. I
myself will take you."

"And how much shall I pay? What is the fare to the
interior?" I questioned.

The little man waved the idea aside with a polite gesture.

"The fare," he said, "let us not speak of it. Let us
forget it How much money have you?"

"I have here," I said, taking out a roll of bills, "fifty
dollars--"

"And that is _all_ you have?"

"Yes."

"Then let _that_ be your fare! Why should I ask more?
Were I an American, I might; but in our Mexico, no. What
you have we take; beyond that we ask nothing. Let us
forget it. Good! And, now, would you prefer to travel
first, second, or third class?"

"First class please," I said.

"Very good. Let it be so." Here the little man took from
his pocket a red label marked FIRST CLASS and tied it on
the edge of the hand car. "It is more comfortable," he
said. "Now seat yourself, seize hold of these two handles
in front of you. Move them back and forward, thus. Beyond
that you need do nothing. The working of the car, other
than the mere shoving of the handles, shall be my task.
Consider yourself, in fact, _senor_, as my guest."

We took our places. I applied myself, as directed, to
the handles and the little car moved forward across the
plain.

"A glorious prospect," I said, as I gazed at the broad
panorama.

"_Magnifico!_ Is it not?" said my companion. "Alas, my
poor Mexico! She want nothing but water to make her the
most fertile country of the globe! Water and soil, those
only, and she would excel all others. Give her but water,
soil, light, heat, capital and labour, and what could
she not be! And what do we see? Distraction, revolution,
destruction--pardon me, will you please stop the car a
moment? I wish to tear up a little of the track behind us."

I did as directed. My companion descended, and with a
little bar that he took from beneath the car unloosed a
few of the rails of the light track and laid them beside
the road.

"It is our custom," he explained, as he climbed on board
again. "We Mexicans, when we move to and fro, always
tear up the track behind us. But what was I saying? Ah,
yes--destruction, desolation, alas, our Mexico!"

He looked sadly up at the sky.

"You speak," I said, "like a patriot. May I ask your
name?"

"My name is Raymon," he answered, with a bow, "Raymon
Domenico y Miraflores de las Gracias."

"And may I call you simply Raymon?"

"I shall be delirious with pleasure if you will do so,"
he answered, "and dare I ask you, in return, your business
in our beautiful country?"

The car, as we were speaking, had entered upon a long
gentle down-grade across the plain, so that it ran without
great effort on my part.

"Certainly," I said. "I'm going into the interior to see
General Villa!"

At the shock of the name, Raymon nearly fell off the car.

"Villa! General Francesco Villa! It is not possible!"

The little man was shivering with evident fear.

"See him! See Villa! Not possible. Let me show you a
picture of him instead? But approach him--it is not
possible. He shoots everybody at sight!"

"That's all right," I said. "I have a written safe conduct
that protects me."

"From whom?"

"Here," I said, "look at them--I have two."

Raymon took the documents I gave him and read aloud:

"'The bearer is on an important mission connected with
American rights in Mexico. If anyone shoots him he will
be held to a strict accountability. W. W.' Ah! Excellent!
He will be compelled to send in an itemised account.
Excellent! And this other, let me see. 'If anybody
interferes with the bearer, I will knock his face in. T.
R.' Admirable. This is, if anything, better than the
other for use in our country. It appeals to our quick
Mexican natures. It is, as we say, _simpatico_. It touches
us."

"It is meant to," I said.

"And may I ask," said Raymon, "the nature of your business
with Villa?"

"We are old friends," I answered. "I used to know him
years ago when he kept a Mexican cigar store in Buffalo.
It occurred to me that I might be able to help the cause
of peaceful intervention. I have already had a certain
experience in Turkey. I am commissioned to make General
Villa an offer."

"I see," said Raymon. "In that case, if we are to find
Villa let us make all haste forward. And first we must
direct ourselves yonder"--he pointed in a vague way
towards the mountains--"where we must presently leave
our car and go on foot, to the camp of General Carranza."

"Carranza!" I exclaimed. "But he is fighting Villa!"

"Exactly. It is _possible_--not certain--but possible,
that he knows where Villa is. In our Mexico when two of
our generalistas are fighting in the mountains, they keep
coming across one another. It is hard to avoid it."

"Good," I said. "Let us go forward."

It was two days later that we reached Carranza's camp in
the mountains.

We found him just at dusk seated at a little table beneath
a tree.

His followers were all about, picketing their horses and
lighting fires.

The General, buried in a book before him, noticed neither
the movements of his own men nor our approach.

I must say that I was surprised beyond measure at his
appearance.

The popular idea of General Carranza as a rude bandit
chief is entirely erroneous.

I saw before me a quiet, scholarly-looking man, bearing
every mark of culture and refinement. His head was bowed
over the book in front of him, which I noticed with
astonishment and admiration was _Todhunter's Algebra_.
Close at his hand I observed a work on _Decimal Fractions_,
while, from time to time, I saw the General lift his eyes
and glance keenly at a multiplication table that hung on
a bough beside him.

"You must wait a few moments," said an aide-de-camp, who
stood beside us. "The General is at work on a simultaneous
equation!"

"Is it possible?" I said in astonishment.

The aide-de-camp smiled.

"Soldiering to-day, my dear Senor," he said, "is an exact
science. On this equation will depend our entire food
supply for the next week."

"When will he get it done?" I asked anxiously.

"Simultaneously," said the aide-de-camp.

The General looked up at this moment and saw us.

"Well?" he asked.

"Your Excellency," said the aide-de-camp, "there is a
stranger here on a visit of investigation to Mexico."

"Shoot him!" said the General, and turned quickly to his
work.

The aide-de-camp saluted.

"When?" he asked.

"As soon as he likes," said the General.

"You are fortunate, indeed," said the aide-de-camp, in
a tone of animation, as he led me away, still accompanied
by Raymon. "You might have been kept waiting round for
days. Let us get ready at once. You would like to be
shot, would you not, smoking a cigarette, and standing
beside your grave? Luckily, we have one ready. Now, if
you will wait a moment, I will bring the photographer
and his machine. There is still light enough, I think.
What would you like it called? _The Fate of a Spy?_ That's
good, isn't it? Our syndicate can always work up that
into a two-reel film. All the rest of it--the camp, the
mountains, the general, the funeral and so on--we can do
to-morrow without you."

He was all eagerness as he spoke.

"One moment," I interrupted. "I am sure there is some
mistake. I only wished to present certain papers and
get a safe conduct from the General to go and see Villa."

The aide-de-camp stopped abruptly.

"Ah!" he said. "You are not here for a picture. A thousand
pardons. Give me your papers. One moment--I will return
to the General and explain."

He vanished, and Raymon and I waited in the growing dusk.

"No doubt the General supposed," explained Raymon, as he
lighted a cigarette, "that you were here for _las machinas_,
the moving pictures."

In a few minutes the aide-de-camp returned.

"Come," he said, "the General will see you now."

We returned to where we had left Carranza.

The General rose to meet me with outstretched hand and
with a gesture of simple cordiality.

"You must pardon my error," he said.

"Not at all," I said.

"It appears you do not desire to be shot."

"Not at present."

"Later, perhaps," said the General. "On your return, no
doubt, provided," he added with grave courtesy that sat
well on him, "that you do return. My aide-de-camp shall
make a note of it. But at present you wish to be guided
to Francesco Villa?"

"If it is possible."

"Quite easy. He is at present near here, in fact much
nearer than he has any right to be." The General frowned.
"We found this spot first. The light is excellent and
the mountains, as you have seen, are wonderful for our
pictures. This is, by every rule of decency, _our_ scenery.
Villa has no right to it. This is _our_ Revolution"--the
General spoke with rising animation--"not his. When you
see the fellow, tell him from me--or tell his manager--that
he must either move his revolution further away or, by
heaven, I'll--I'll use force against him. But stop," he
checked himself. "You wish to see Villa. Good. You have
only to follow the straight track over the mountain there.
He is just beyond, at the little village in the hollow,
El Corazon de las Quertas."

The General shook hands and seated himself again at his
work. The interview was at an end. We withdrew.

The next morning we followed without difficulty the path
indicated. A few hours' walk over the mountain pass
brought us to a little straggling village of adobe houses,
sleeping drowsily in the sun.

There were but few signs of life in its one street--a
mule here and there tethered in the sun, and one or two
Mexicans drowsily smoking in the shade.

One building only, evidently newly made, and of lumber,
had a decidedly American appearance. Its doorway bore
the sign GENERAL OFFICES OF THE COMPANY, and under it
the notice KEEP OUT, while on one of its windows was
painted GENERAL MANAGER and below it the legend NO
ADMISSION, and on the other, SECRETARY'S OFFICE: GO AWAY.

We therefore entered at once.

"General Francesco Villa?" said a clerk, evidently
American. "Yes, he's here all right. At least, this is
the office."

"And where is the General?" I asked.

The clerk turned to an assistant at a desk in a corner
of the room.

"Where's Frank working this morning?" he asked.

"Over down in the gulch," said the other, turning round
for a moment. "There's an attack on American cavalry this
morning."

"Oh, yes, I forgot," said the chief clerk. "I thought it
was the Indian Massacre, but I guess that's for to-morrow.
Go straight to the end of the street and turn left about
half a mile and you'll find the boys down there."

We thanked him and withdrew.

We passed across the open plaza, and went down a narrow
side road, bordered here and there with adobe houses,
and so out into the open country. Here the hills rose
again and the road that we followed wound sharply round
a turn into a deep gorge, bordered with rocks and sage
brush. We had no sooner turned the curve of the road than
we came upon a scene of great activity. Men in Mexican
costume were running to and fro apparently arranging a
sort of barricade at the side of the road. Others seemed
to be climbing the rocks on the further side of the gorge,
as if seeking points of advantage. I noticed that all
were armed with rifles and machetes and presented a
formidable appearance. Of Villa himself I could see
nothing. But there was a grim reality about the glittering
knives, the rifles and the maxim guns that I saw concealed
in the sage brush beside the road.

"What is it?" I asked of a man who was standing idle,
watching the scene from the same side of the road as
ourselves.

"Attack of American cavalry," he said nonchalantly.

"Here!" I gasped.

"Yep, in about ten minutes: soon as they are ready."

"Where's Villa?"

"It's him they're attacking. They chase him here, see!
This is an ambush. Villa rounds on them right here, and
they fight to a finish!"

"Great heavens!" I exclaimed. "How do you know that?"

"Know it? Why because I _seen_ it. Ain't they been trying
it out for three days? Why, I'd be in it myself only I'm
off work. Got a sore toe yesterday--horse stepped on it."

All this was, of course, quite unintelligible to me.

"But it's right here where they're going to fight?" I
asked.

"Sure," said the American, as he moved carelessly aside,
"as soon as the boss gets it all ready."

I noticed for the first time a heavy-looking man in an
American tweed suit and a white plug hat, moving to and
fro and calling out directions with an air of authority.

"Here!" he shouted, "what in h--l are you doing with that
machine gun? You've got it clean out of focus. Here,
Jose, come in closer--that's right. Steady there now,
and don't forget, at the second whistle you and Pete are
dead. Here, you, Pete, how in thunder do you think you
can die there? You're all out of the picture and hidden
by that there sage brush. That's no place to die. And,
boys, remember one thing, now, _die slow_. Ed"--he turned
and called apparently to some one invisible behind the
rocks--"when them two boys is killed, turn her round on
them, slew her round good and get them centre focus. Now
then, are you all set? Ready?"

At this moment the speaker turned and saw Raymon and
myself.

"Here, youse," he shouted, "get further back, you're in
the picture. Or, say, no, stay right where you are.
You," he said, pointing to me, "stay right where you are
and I'll give you a dollar to just hold that horror; you
understand, just keep on registering it. Don't do another
thing, just register that face."

His words were meaningless to me. I had never known before
that it was possible to make money by merely registering
my face.

"No, no," cried out Raymon, "my friend here is not wanting
work. He has a message, a message of great importance
for General Villa."

"Well," called back the boss, "he'll have to wait. We
can't stop now. All ready, boys? One--two--now!"

And with that he put a whistle to his lips and blew a
long shrill blast.

Then in a moment the whole scene was transformed. Rifle
shots rang out from every crag and bush that bordered
the gully.

A wild scamper of horses' hoofs was heard and in a moment
there came tearing down the road a whole troop of mounted
Mexicans, evidently in flight, for they turned and fired
from their saddles as they rode. The horses that carried
them were wild with excitement and flecked with foam.
The Mexican cavalry men shouted and yelled, brandishing
their machetes and firing their revolvers. Here and there
a horse and rider fell to the ground in a great whirl of
sand and dust. In the thick of the press, a leader of
ferocious aspect, mounted upon a gigantic black horse,
waved his sombrero about his head.

"Villa--it is Villa!" cried Raymon, tense with excitement.
"Is he not _magnifico?_ But look! Look--the _Americanos!_
They are coming!"

It was a glorious sight to see them as they rode madly
on the heels of the Mexicans--a whole company of American
cavalry, their horses shoulder to shoulder, the men bent
low in their saddles, their carbines gripped in their
hands. They rode in squadrons and in line, not like the
shouting, confused mass of the Mexicans--but steady,
disciplined, irresistible.

On the right flank in front a grey-haired officer steadied
the charging line. The excitement of it was maddening.

"Go to it," I shouted in uncontrollable emotion. "Your
Mexicans are licked, Raymon, they're no good!"

"But look!" said Raymon. "See--the ambush, the ambuscada!"

For as they reached the centre of the gorge in front of
us the Mexicans suddenly checked their horses, bringing
them plunging on their haunches in the dust, and then
swung round upon their pursuers, while from every crag
and bush at the side of the gorge the concealed riflemen
sprang into view--and the sputtering of the machine guns
swept the advancing column with a volley.

We could see the American line checked as with the buffet
of a great wave, men and horses rolling in the road.
Through the smoke one saw the grey-haired leader
--dismounted, his uniform torn, his hat gone, but still
brandishing his sword and calling his orders to his men,
his face as one caught in a flash of sunlight, steady
and fearless. His words I could not hear, but one saw
the American cavalry, still unbroken, dismount, throw
themselves behind their horses, and fire with steady aim
into the mass of the Mexicans. We could see the Mexicans
in front of where we stood falling thick and fast, in
little huddled bundles of colour, kicking the sand. The
man Pete had gone down right in the foreground and was
breathing out his soul before our eyes.

"Well done," I shouted. "Go to it, boys! You can lick
'em yet! Hurrah for the United States. Look, Raymon,
look! They've shot down the crew of the machine guns.
See, see, the Mexicans are turning to run. At 'em, boys!
They're waving the American flag! There it is in all the
thick of the smoke! Hark! There's the bugle call to
mount again! They're going to charge again! Here they
come!"

As the American cavalry came tearing forward, the Mexicans
leaped from their places with gestures of mingled rage
and terror as if about to break and run.

The battle, had it continued, could have but one end.

But at this moment we heard from the town behind us the
long sustained note of a steam whistle blowing the hour
of noon.

In an instant the firing ceased.

The battle stopped. The Mexicans picked themselves up
off the ground and began brushing off the dust from their
black velvet jackets. The American cavalry reined in
their horses. Dead Pete came to life. General Villa and
the American leader and a number of others strolled over
towards the boss, who stood beside the fence vociferating
his comments.

"That won't do!" he was shouting. "That won't do! Where
in blazes was that infernal Sister of Mercy? Miss
Jenkinson!" and he called to a tall girl, whom I now
noticed for the first time among the crowd, wearing a
sort of khaki costume and a short skirt and carrying a
water bottle in a strap. "You never got into the picture
at all. I want you right in there among the horses, under
their feet."

"Land sakes!" said the Sister of Mercy. "You ain't no
right to ask me to go in there among them horses and be
trampled."

"Ain't you _paid_ to be trampled?" said the manager
angrily. Then as he caught sight of Villa he broke off
and said: "Frank, you boys done fine. It's going to be
a good act, all right. But it ain't just got the right
amount of ginger in it yet. We'll try her over _once_
again, anyway."

"Now, boys," he continued, calling out to the crowd with
a voice like a megaphone, "this afternoon at three-thirty
--Hospital scene. I only want the wounded, the doctors
and the Sisters of Mercy. All the rest of youse is free
till ten to-morrow--for the Indian Massacre. Everybody
up for that."

It was an hour or two later that I had my interview with
Villa in a back room of the little _posada_, or inn, of
the town. The General had removed his ferocious wig of
straight black hair, and substituted a check suit for
his warlike costume. He had washed the darker part of
the paint off his face--in fact, he looked once again
the same Frank Villa that I used to know when he kept
his Mexican cigar store in Buffalo.

"Well, Frank," I said, "I'm afraid I came down here under
a misunderstanding."

"Looks like it," said the General, as he rolled a cigarette.

"And you wouldn't care to go back even for the offer that
I am commissioned to make--your old job back again, and
half the profits on a new cigar to be called the Francesco
Villa?"

The General shook his head.

"It sounds good, all right," he said, "but this
moving-picture business is better."

"I see," I said, "I hadn't understood. I thought there
really was a revolution here in Mexico."

"No," said Villa, shaking his head, "been no revolution
down here for years--not since Diaz. The picture companies
came in and took the whole thing over; they made us a
fair offer--so much a reel straight out, and a royalty,
and let us divide up the territory as we liked. The first
film we done was the bombardment of Vera Cruz. Say, that
was a dandy; did you see it?"

"No," I said.

"They had us all in that," he continued. "I done an
American Marine. Lots of people think it all real when
they see it."

"Why," I said, "nearly everybody does. Even the President--"

"Oh, I guess he knows," said Villa, "but, you see, there's
tons of money in it and it's good for business, and he's
too decent a man to give It away. Say, I heard the boy
saying there's a war in Europe. I wonder what company
got that up, eh? But I don't believe it'll draw. There
ain't the scenery for it that we have in Mexico."

"Alas!" murmured Raymon. "Our beautiful Mexico. To what
is she fallen! Needing only water, air, light and soil
to make her--"

"Come on, Raymon," I said, "let's go home."

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