Twelve

As the reply they had been waiting for arrived, the rest of the prisoners moved down the dusty street towards the train in a stumbling, weary column. The driver was only too eager to start and they moved off at dusk, rattling through the night, Slattery with Magdalena asleep against his shoulder, her face suddenly drawn with tiredness.

As they approached Tampico there was another hold-up. The officer in command at Tejeria had the train backed into a siding, but Atty saved the situation with a few bottles of beer. The next stop was for the gap where the rails had been torn up by the dynamiting and they all had to climb down and walk past the wreckage of the train. There were wails of protest.

‘Think they’ll shoot at us?’ Amaryllis asked cheerfully.

Stumbling along the torn-up track, they passed bodies lying among the foliage, but it was impossible to tell whether they were Federals or rebels. The heat was appalling and a woman collapsed and had to be carried in a blanket by four struggling men. Then, with the end of the ruined track in sight, shooting started again and Slattery, who was carrying a child, grabbed Magdalena’s arm and dragged her to the safe side of the raised roadbed where they crouched together among the huddle of frightened people, their arms round the screaming infant.

After a while the firing stopped and Tweedie began to wave his white flag. Nobody shot at it so they could only assume that the riflemen had been driven off and slowly, warily, they climbed to their feet and set off again, keeping to the sheltered side of the roadbed. Eventually they came to undamaged rails and finally, rounding a bend, saw a small engine with what looked like a coffee pot on the funnel waiting with a string of battered coaches. One after the other, the weary people began to hurry, finally breaking into a run, until they were nothing but a mob. A Federal officer waiting with a squad of soldiers jerked his hand at the carriages and they began to push the old and the young and the women aboard. Half an hour later, they were passing American-held positions, and a newsreel man standing on a flat car began taking pictures of them as they walked along the station platform.

Horrocks was there, too, waiting with Jesús. He had news of an impending attack and that the Ypiranga, the German arms ship, forbidden to enter Veracruz, had arrived in Puerto Mexico, further south, and was unloading there.

‘Seems a lot of people have been killed in Veracruz for nothing,’ he remarked dryly.

 

The tide was running strongly against Huerta now. Monterrey had fallen and Saltillo was on the point of capture. ‘If Huerta don’t go soon,’ Horrocks said, ‘there’ll be nowhere for him to go to. At the moment, the only place available’s Puerto Mexico. The German cruiser Dresden’s down there waitin’ for him to make up his mind.’

Despite their successes, however, the Constitutionalists were already falling out among themselves. In a fury at the lack of supplies Villa had resigned command of the Divisione del Norte and, eager to eliminate his most dangerous rival, Carranza had been quick to accept it, only to find that Villa had had second thoughts and, to show what he was capable of, had captured Zacatecas. But the break had come. Villa’s troops were immobilised for lack of coal and Carranza had directed all reinforcements and supplies to Obregón.

The attack on Tampico came two nights later when shells started to fall in the town. Another oil tank was hit and a great column of black smoke lifted into the darkening sky. American ships were evacuating their nationals and the British were sending up a steamer to remove everybody who was left. The refugees were gathered in a single hotel, British and American together, listening to the crashes as the Federal gunboats pumped shells into the rebel positions on the eastern bank of the river. It was obvious the government troops were pulling out and four trains full of soldiers disappeared southwards. Watching from the window, Slattery saw files of men tramping past suddenly fling down their rifles and scatter. Then a group of mounted Rurales galloped up, picked up as many as they could and rode off with them pillion-fashion.

Eventually British sailors, wearing wide straw hats and sweating under gaiters, equipment, rifles and ammunition, appeared; and an officer went down the street waving a white flag to stop the shooting. As it died, they all picked up their belongings and climbed to their feet, sailors carrying the younger children. The steamer they’d been expecting was waiting at the wharf, bulletproof plates screwed to its sides. As everybody began to file on board the First Mate appeared and told them to go below.

‘In this heat?’ It was the same fat woman who had done all the complaining in Soledad.

It was then for the first time that Slattery became aware of the weight of the air. It seemed clamped to the earth by the heavy clouds that had built up.

As the last refugee filed aboard, the wind started – hot and humid and breathtaking. Mexican dock workers dropped the mooring ropes into the water and, as the clanking winches hauled them aboard, the ship edged into the river. As they began to move, it was possible to see the last of the Federal gunboats slipping away ahead of them.

By this time the wind was whipping the tops of the trees, and suddenly a tremendous squall slammed against the ship and the palm trees began to bend like bows. A flash of purple lightning split the sky, to be followed at once by a violent clap of thunder. A second followed and, as the thunder roared once more, the rain came. It was like being inside a big drum with the water falling in torrents.

All the voices aboard the ship, the complaints, the exhortations, the calls of the sailors asking people to hurry, the appeals, the cheers at being safe, the whole solid murmur of sound, changed to a howl of misery. Then, spitting the rain from his lips as he stood with the sailors trying to push everybody below, Slattery became aware that above the crash of the thunder he could hear the sound of firing and realised the rebels had taken advantage of the storm to creep to the river’s edge, and the Huertistas were firing back at them across the ship.

Hurrying along the deck, he found a line of people rushing children to safety. Magdalena was there among the sailors, passing them to Jesús; Amaryllis, in charge as usual, was pushing their mothers after them. Magdalena still wore the blue stage costume. It was stained now and dirty but somehow Slattery couldn’t imagine her in anything else.

He could hear bullets cracking against the upperworks of the ship and, as he reached out to push her to safety, he heard her cry out. She staggered and almost fell but, because of the child she was carrying, she struggled upright again, one hand against the bulkhead to support herself. As he took her arm, she turned to him and he saw she was making an attempt to smile.

The child was wailing with fright and he snatched it from her and handed it to Amaryllis, then as Magdalena sagged to the deck, he swept her up and began to carry her below, her cheek against his, her wet hair across her face.

The saloon was full of people. They seemed to occupy every inch of space and filled all the banquettes.

‘Move over,’ Slattery said.

The fat woman’s angry face lifted to him. ‘I was here first!’

Amaryllis gave her a shove so that she landed on the deck with a thump. As Slattery laid Magdalena down her eyes opened. ‘What’s all the noise?’ she asked.

‘A little shooting, that’s all.’

‘Have I been hit?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, du liebe Gott! There are too many bullets in Mexico these days.’ Her voice was slow and tired.

As he searched for a doctor Slattery saw they were passing the Federal gunboats, which were pumping shells into the river bank as fast as they could load. It was impossible to see more than a few yards and all he could make out were bulky shapes and the flashes of the guns.

There was no doctor on board but the First Mate had some skill at first aid. The refugees, diverted from their fear by this new event, had made a circle round Magdalena and Atty was pushing them away angrily.

‘Move back,’ he was saying. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit.’

Cutting Magdalena’s dress away, they saw the bullet had entered her side. There was surprisingly little blood, just a small bruised hole in the white flesh. For a moment, Slattery thought she was dead but then the Mate looked up. ‘It hit a rib and ran along her back. It’s still there. It must have been near the end of its trajectory or it would have done more damage. We’ll plug it and keep her quiet until we reach the navy. Hermione’s just down the river. Is she your wife?’

Slattery shook his head, wondering why not.

 

Veracruz was quiet when they arrived and the Americans were in complete control. They had half expected to march on Mexico City, but President Wilson was not prepared to go that far and they had settled down to make themselves comfortable.

The city looked battered, the cornices chipped, the electric street globes smashed, the pink-painted façades spotted with white where shell splinters had removed plaster.

Magdalena was in considerable pain. The naval surgeon removed the bullet from where it lay just beneath the skin in her back and held it out to Slattery.

‘Mauser,’ he said. ‘I took quite a few of these out of our chaps in the South African War. The Boers had ’em. The Germans supplied ’em.’

He was quite unmoved. To him Magdalena was just another casualty among the hundreds of innocent people who were being injured in Mexico. To Slattery it was different. When he himself had been hurt at Torreón it had not seemed to matter much and he had felt no resentment, but that Magdalena had been wounded seemed an outrage.

Her agent, Parra, had prepared her house for her and, with Jesús to run errands, his wife offered to act as nurse.

‘I’m going to be all right now,’ Magdalena said faintly. ‘After all, it was only a tiny bullet.’

‘A German bullet, Magdalena,’ Slattery pointed out quietly.

She gave him a quick look and turned her head away in silence.

It didn’t take the press long to discover what had happened and Atty arrived with the newspapers. Diva Shot, they announced. Many Months Before She Can Sing Again.

They were fulsome in their praise, paying tribute to her courage and, since they knew little of what had happened, laying stress on her ability as a singer.

‘It’s the best press I’ve ever had,’ she murmured.

Stutzmann came, in a panic that his leading lady was hurt. ‘But it will be all right,’ he said. ‘We will abandon the farewell performance to get you well enough to go to New York. You can always say farewell later.’

Other members of the cast also appeared, dressed in new finery, all of them overacting and filling the house with the cadenzas of their splendid voices. Outside the house, the situation remained the same. Every day it was expected that Huerta would finally disappear, and the railway was being opened to Mexico City. But the split in the Constitutionalists’ ranks widened. Villa still needed coal and Carranza was blaming all his diplomatic troubles on him.

At the end of the month, Horrocks appeared. He had been recalled to Mexico City and was in a curious mood.

‘The heir to the Austro-Hungarian Empire’s been assassinated in Serbia,’ he said. ‘The Austrians have sent an ultimatum backed by the Kaiser, and all the German agents in Mexico are heading like iron filings to a magnet in the direction of Mexico City. It looks very tricky.’

Amaryllis arrived to say goodbye. They had seen little of her. She had called once or twice but had never remained long, as if she suspected she was in the way. Slattery guessed she had been staying somewhere in the city with Horrocks.

Soon afterwards they learned that Huerta’s regime of drunkenness, terror and disgrace had come to an end and he had left Mexico in the German cruiser for Spain. The efforts to keep him in power had come to nothing, but Slattery had a feeling the trouble hadn’t even started yet. Although Villa’s plans to arrive first in Mexico City had been thwarted by the lack of coal for his trains, Zapata in his turn had thwarted Carranza’s aims and, having opposed Díaz and Madero and Huerta, the sphinx-like southern leader was now preparing to oppose the First Chief.

By this time, Magdalena was moving about, slow, pale-faced but cheerful, with Jesús, splendid in new clothes, openly adoring her. ‘He’s worried my career has been ruined,’ Magdalena smiled.

‘He thinks the world of you,’ Slattery reminded her gently. ‘And he deserves more than just following the armies. He needs you. Perhaps you need him.’

Her fingers closed round his. ‘I’ll look after Jesús,’ she said.

With Europe exploding into war and armies finally on the march, Slattery was occupied for a few days trying to find out what his own position would be. Though he was no longer a British soldier, he was surely likely to be needed and he was involved with trying to get in touch with the Embassy in Mexico City. When he appeared at Magdalena’s house again, he found her surrounded by newspapers cadged for her by Atty from the American marines. She was in a curious mood and had lost all her gaiety.

She gestured at the newspapers. ‘The whole world’s at war,’ she said.

He nodded and she looked at him steadily. ‘What will happen to you?’ she asked.

He felt sure she was demanding that he lay his cards on the table. But fresh news had come from Europe, and Horrocks’ assessment of the situation was proving an under-estimation.

‘The only treaty Britain had,’ he explained quietly, ‘was one that everybody had forgotten. The Germans have gone into Belgium and we had guaranteed Belgian territory. We’re in, too.’

She said nothing for a long time then she sighed. ‘Fausto will be pleased,’ she said.

‘Magdalena, did he try to get information from you?’

She gave a nervous little laugh. ‘What would I be able to tell him? How Hermann missed a high C and the audience jeered. How Rosemary de Bosio likes to sleep with Arthur Miranda and Evangelina Oropesa likes to sleep with everybody. How two of the children from the chorus are going to get married. How Jorge de Barrio eats garlic when he’s going to sing with Oropesa because she hates it and he hates her.’

‘I’m serious, Magdalena. Has he ever asked what you’ve seen along the border when you’ve crossed it?’

She stared at him. ‘You are a British agent,’ she said slowly.

He shook his head. ‘No, Magdalena, I’m not. And I shall be leaving now, anyway.’

‘Where for?’

‘England for a start.’

‘And then?’

‘Wherever the fighting is, I suppose.’

She turned her head away, so that he shouldn’t see her unhappiness.

‘I’ll come back when it’s over, Magdalena.’

She sighed. ‘Perhaps it will be pointless,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

She pushed forward one of the newspapers Atty had brought. It was a New York daily and it covered the first moves of the war in Europe at some length. The headlines were unequivocal.

‘German Atrocities in Belgium. Liège under Hun Fire.’

‘I’m a Hun,’ she said.