Nine

It soon became clear that the attack on Chihuahua City was being led by Villa in person. The major thrust seemed to be along the Avenida Colon and it seemed very much as if the whole of the invading force was between Slattery and Magdalena’s house.

The attack couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time and he knew he mustn’t become involved. Horrocks would need him back in Mexico City where the biggest coup that had come out of the war still awaited their attention.

Making his way down a side street through the hurrying people seeking shelter, he found himself surrounded by a crowd which jammed the narrow alley to its walls. They were mostly youngsters itching to get into the fight, and there was the sound of glass being broken as windows were knocked in. But then a car drew up and the crowd scattered like mist in a wind. The man in the car was General Murguía, and behind him appeared a regiment of Federal troops. As he stepped to the pavement, he saw Slattery at once.

‘What are you doing here?’

It was obvious he suspected treachery but Slattery managed to explain.

‘So you are to marry La Graf?’ Murguía said, nodding. ‘You are a lucky man. But I’d advise you to stay off the streets or she might find herself widowed even before you have put the ring on her finger.’ He gestured to the north. ‘It’s Villa. Pancho the Pistol. I was warned. If you see him, tell him Pancho the Rope is coming.’

As he vanished, Slattery allowed himself to be borne along by the press of people. One of Murguía’s officers advanced, pistol in hand, accompanied by a couple of soldiers, and the crowd backed away silently, unwilling to give ground. Chihuahua was Villa’s state and always had been, and Chihuahua City had always been his capital. The two soldiers spotted Slattery among the shoving people and as they moved towards him, he stood still, raising his hands to indicate he wasn’t armed.

As he did so, the crowd surged forward and the officer started lashing out with his pistol. An infuriated workman hit back with a spade and, as the officer staggered back, Slattery brought his arms round to sweep the two soldiers together with a crash. Their heads clicked like billiard balls, and, as they sank at his feet, the crowd surged forward. The rifles were snatched up and he saw the officer’s képi fly into the air, then the shouting became the baying of wild dogs scenting a prey. As the officer’s body was dragged away, already half-stripped and covered with blood, the crowd surrounded Slattery and tried to hoist him to their shoulders. Shocked by the sudden bloody violence that had resulted from what had been no more than an attempt to escape, he pushed them away, and they started to chip with pickaxes at the cobbles, lifting them for brickbats. The bodies of the two soldiers already hung from a tree, one by its feet. The officer lay in the gutter and an old woman with a hole in her stocking ground her heel in the dead face, then ran off in a hurried scuttle, her expression full of shame and guilt and hatred.

The shouting had died now, and there was the sort of hush that comes before a tumult, so that the creak of a shutter above their heads seemed to have an extra significance. Then Slattery heard the tramp of disciplined feet and the crowd, which was beginning to gather again, started to panic. They all seemed to be pushing different ways at once, then a man stumbled and fell, a girl fell on top of him and, as they heard the clatter of musketry, the group began to splinter as men and women flung themselves down.

For a moment the noise died then Slattery heard a machine gun firing and saw plaster falling as bullets chinked against the walls. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw Murguía moving with his men up the Avenida Independencia. They tramped forward in silence and, in the distance, lit by flames, he saw sombreros and stetsons and guessed Villa had dug himself in.

Swinging into the Calle Jiménez, he headed for the railway station in an attempt to reach Magdalena’s house by a roundabout route. The din was tremendous now and the sky was red with flames. Engine sheds were on fire and boxcars standing in the sidings were blazing furiously. The Villistas were at the end of the Avenida Pacheca but he managed to slip between them, and Magdalena’s house appeared at last, lit up by the glare.

There was a motor car outside, its engine running, and as he hurried forward he heard a shout – ‘No! No! You can’t come in!’ He recognised Jesús’ voice at once and the sudden alarm in his mind set him running.

‘You snivelling Indian filth! Get out of the way!’

The door was wide open and Jesús, holding his gun, was standing in front of the stairs, Magdalena behind him, her face shocked and horrified. At first Slattery thought the Villistas had invaded the house but, as he burst inside, he saw the intruder was Fausto Graf and he was also holding a gun. As he saw Slattery, he whirled on his heel and fired blindly, without thought, without aiming. The bullet struck the fleshy part of the calf of Slattery’s injured leg, knocking it from under him and spinning him round to fling him to the ground. As he fell, he heard another shot and a cry, then Magdalena’s shriek as she flung herself between them.

Then the shooting at the end of the street swelled up and there were shouts and, as he struggled to sit up, Slattery just managed to catch a glimpse of Graf by the door before he vanished. Finding he wasn’t badly hurt, he tried to get to his feet and, as he did so, he saw Victoria with her hands to her face, her eyes wide with horror. Turning, he saw Jesús stretched on the floor. His chest was covered with blood and he realised where Graf’s second shot had gone.

Struggling across to the boy, Slattery bent over him. As he did so, his eyes opened.

‘I tried, sir,’ he whispered.

‘Yes, you did, Jesús.’

‘I tried to stop him.’

‘You did stop him, Jesús. He’s gone. Doña Magdalena is safe.’

As Slattery looked up, Magdalena, her face chalk white, was just pushing Victoria out of the door.

‘I’ve sent for the doctor,’ she said.

Slattery reached out two fingers to close the boy’s eyelids.

‘There’s no need for a doctor, Magdalena,’ he said quietly, ‘Jesús is dead.’

 

When the doctor arrived, Magdalena, hardly able to see for tears, had succeeded in staunching the bleeding in Slattery’s leg. They had carried Jesús into the salon and laid him on a chaise-longue but the doctor wasted no time over him before turning to Slattery’s injury.

‘You’re alive,’ he said bluntly. ‘He isn’t. This is nothing serious. You’ll live, and there’ll be plenty worse than this today.’ He straightened up and glanced at Jesús. ‘I’ll write a certificate. But you’ll not need it. There’ll be many more.’

As he left, Slattery rose to his feet, his trouser leg slit to the knee. It was possible to stand, even to walk. Magdalena lifted her eyes to him, her expression agonised. Though she allowed him to put his arms round her, she remained fiercely in control.

‘He was like a son,’ she whispered. ‘And he was so proud that he had made something of himself.’

As he held her, Slattery’s eyes were moving about the room. Through his grief for the boy, he felt something was wrong. There were things that needed explaining. ‘Where’s Victoria?’ he asked abruptly.

Grey-faced, her eyes rolling, the housekeeper was found hiding in the pantry. As Slattery dragged her out, she collapsed into a paroxysm of wailing and he had to slap her to bring her to her senses. Watched by a shocked and silent Magdalena, he began to question her.

‘Don Fausto! Why did he come here?’

‘To see Doña Magdalena, your honour.’

‘I don’t believe it. He was in too much of a hurry. There has to be a better reason than that. Why?’

It required another slap to make her go on.

‘It was the suitcase, your honour.’

‘Which suitcase?’

‘He left it here when Doña Magdalena went to Carrizal. I was alone and he made me take it. He said he was being followed by an American agent and had to get rid of it for a while. I put it in the cupboard in my room.’

‘Where’s this suitcase now?’

‘It’s still there, your honour. Jesús wouldn’t let him in the house for it.’

‘Fetch it,’

It was an old and battered suitcase, with straps round it and a plethora of labels, as though Graf had enjoyed boasting about his travels. As Slattery forced it open, he saw it was full of files and papers, and immediately realised it contained the secrets of the German diplomatic campaign in Mexico. Everything seemed to be there – the involvement at Veracruz, at Santa Ysabela, at Columbus, at Cartizal, all set out and listed for Eckhardt, the German Minister in Mexico City.

He pushed the case aside and turned to find Magdalena sitting silently in a chair, her brows down, her eyes far away. He had no idea what she was thinking.

‘We must arrange for Jesús to be buried,’ she said in a flat voice.

‘I can attend to that.’

‘He was murdered. They can hang Fausto for this.’

‘He’s been asking for it for a long time.’

He poured her a brandy and handed it to her.

‘Let me think,’ she said. ‘I need to be alone for a little while. I’ll go to my room.’

Still rigidly in control, she disappeared and he turned again to the suitcase. Horrocks would need some sort of summary of its contents. But everything was there, clear and undeniable, for everyone to see. It all seemed to be contained in two large files headed Deutschland, Carranza Und Die Mexikanische Revolution and Die Deutsche Politik in Mexiko. It was all set out, even the German attempts to involve the Japanese, in a third, smaller file entitled Die Gelbe Gefahr. There were documents of the Iron Cross Society and the Union of German Citizens in Mexico, and a list of funds passed to them from Berlin. It contained names, memos, and copies of instructions to German officers in Nuevo Laredo to organise Mexican raids into US territory, of supplies bought for the Mexicans by the German consul in Chihuahua who had crossed and recrossed the border between El Paso and Ciudad Juárez about his business. From San Salvador there were reports of German ex-officers and details of exactly where they were, of the hotels where they stayed in Mexico City, Torreón and Monterrey, of the Carrancista officers with whom they associated.

There were reports of attempts to persuade the Mexicans that Wilson was anti-Catholic, of Germans buying ships’ coal on the west coast, of the Germans behind Carranza’s call for an embargo on all war supplies to the allies in Europe. There were details of the German-inspired revolt in Cuba which had bothered Slattery; of the influx of German reservists from North and South America into Mexico. There were even notes that revealed that Graf’s patriotism hadn’t been sufficient on its own for what he’d been involved in. He had been cheating Berlin of cash. Finally, there was a blue notebook which seemed to be some sort of signal log because it itemised every telegram Graf had handled – instructions concerning Columbus and Santa Ysabel, even the train disaster that had so worried Villa. And there, at the end, was an item that leapt out at Slattery as he read. ‘Telegram seen and noted. Passed to Werta for action and returned to Minister Eckhardt.’ Following was a gleeful note. ‘Enough to start a war on this side of the Atlantic.’

The contents of the case were dynamite. It was obvious that it should be taken at once to Horrocks and shown by Horrocks to Midwinter. Slattery sat back, frowning, aware that he had to return to Mexico City as soon as possible. By this time Atty ought to have pushed Turner’s brother into action. What Slattery had found would add indisputable confirmation.

As he shovelled the documents back into the case and locked it, he became aware that the house had become silent. He could hear Victoria in the kitchen, sniffing back her tears, but from Magdalena there was no sound and, suddenly alarmed, he ran up the stairs to her room. It was empty.

Tumbling down the stairs again to the kitchen, he snatched at Victoria’s wrist. ‘Where is she?’

The housekeeper began to wail again and this time he sent her reeling with the ferocity of the slap he gave her.

‘She went out, your honour.’

‘Where to?’

‘She said she was going to find Don Fausto.’

Frustrated and angry, feeling he was being betrayed all along the line – now even by Magdalena – he thrust the woman aside. As she disappeared he went to where Jesús lay to take his gun. But it had disappeared. The holster was empty and he could only assume Victoria had stolen it.

Locking the suitcase in one of the bedrooms, he slipped the key into his pocket and left the house. It was empty now apart from Jesús. Poor Jesús, he thought. With all his promise, with all his pride in himself, it had been his misfortune to come face to face with someone as tough and bigoted and fanatic as Fausto Graf who, for all he knew, had been pushed just over the top by Slattery’s taunts in Torreón.

He went to the room where the boy lay. For a moment he stared down at the still figure then, leaving the house and closing the door behind him, he headed into the street. Walking was difficult. His leg was always painful at the end of the day and the wound, slight as it was, added to his problems. At least, he thought, it was the same leg.

He could think of no reason for Magdalena’s disappearance beyond a hope of smuggling her brother away. Why in the name of God couldn’t she realise he was beyond saving? He was a swindler, a killer, a traitor to his adopted country. Christ, he thought, with Jesús dead and himself wounded, wasn’t it enough to convince her Fausto was a dangerous lunatic?

The night sky was crimson with flames. The shooting all seemed to be along the Avenida Colon and round the neighbouring park but there was no sign of Murguía’s men in this area, only the tall hats of Villa’s desperadoes.

The trees threw shadows over the streets that seemed to move in the flickering of the flames. There were a few men about carrying weapons but none of them showed any interest in Slattery. Eventually he came on a car and immediately recognised the figure standing alongside it as Villa. Hands went to guns and a man appeared from the shadows and stuck a rifle in Slattery’s back.

‘Do we shoot him, Don Pancho?’

Villa peered closely, then he gestured. ‘Put up your gun,’ he said. He stared at Slattery. ‘What are you doing in Chihuahua, inglés? Did you know the German has betrayed me?’

‘I know now, Panchito.’

‘He told Murguía I was coming. If I find him I shall kill him.’

The firing was still going on and Villa stared down the Avenida Colon with its low overhanging trees.

‘A lot of people have died, Panchito,’ Slattery said.

‘There’ll be a lot more before long. Thanks to the German, three hundred of my gente have been cut off down there. Monserrat’s with them and I shall have to abandon them.’ Villa’s voice was heavy and tired, his words like plodding footsteps. ‘I shall give up the fight now, inglés,’ he went on. ‘It’s time to stop. I want peace to educate my children. The revolution is finished. It’s time now for the law-makers. Yesterday’s heroes are out of date. Great visions were painted on my heart once, but there were too many ambitious men. I asked nothing from the revolution but others were different. I shall discharge my army. There is just this one last thing I have to do. If you see the German, tell him I want him and I shall find him.’

As he turned away, Slattery was at a loss where to head next. He had been on his feet a long time and his leg was painful. He had no idea where Graf had gone, and no idea where Magdalena might be in her search for him. The whole city seemed to be throbbing with the gunfire now and the park was lit by flames rising high in the sky and showering the place with sparks. For a long time he moved among the trees then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he saw Magdalena.

She was standing quite still, staring into the shadows. Beyond her, also standing quite still, was her brother. For a moment Slattery wondered what she intended, then he realised that in her hand she held Jesús’ gun, the gun the boy had carried to protect her, the gun Slattery had assumed had been taken by Victoria as she had bolted, and he finally understood why she was there, and what she intended.

Graf’s head was turned away to stare into the darkness and it dawned on Slattery that he was totally unaware of his sister’s presence and was staring in a different direction entirely. Magdalena’s hand lifted but, as Slattery waited for the report, a different gun went off. He saw the flash and saw Graf stagger, then Consuela Lidgett stepped out from among the trees. The gun she held, the one she had shown him in her bag at the station, was still smoking.

Graf was gazing at her, his mouth open, holding his right arm with his left hand. He tried to lift his weapon but his arm dangled as if it were broken, and his face twisted with pain and rage.

‘Hure!’ he said, the words quite plain ‘Matze!’

He stared at her with hatred and Consuela dropped her gun and put her hands to her face.

‘Bitch!’ Graf shouted. ‘Whore! Puta! You’ve shot me!’

Vaguely Slattery was conscious of movement near him and the throb of a car’s engine, then as Graf turned to stumble away, another gun roared out. Twice. It was of a much heavier calibre than Consuela’s and it sent Graf staggering several yards before he came up against a tree. He had dropped his gun and was sprawled against the trunk, his arms outstretched to support himself. Slowly he turned, his back to the tree, and he was searching for his new assailant as the gun roared twice more. Chips of wood flew and Slattery saw wisps of smoke come from Graf’s clothes. He was flung back against the tree this time as if he were crucified, his mouth open, his eyes wide, his arms extended, then he slid down to a sitting position. For a moment or two longer he stared across his feet into the shadows, then slowly rolled on to his side.

Slattery had his arms round Magdalena, but she was silent and dry-eyed. ‘Don’t cry,’ he whispered.

‘I’m not crying,’ she said firmly. ‘He isn’t worth the tears.’

As he led her back to the road, they passed Consuela, who was still standing with her hands to her face, and Magdalena put her arm round the distraught woman. As they reached the road, they saw the big black Dodge and behind it tall-hatted men with horses. Villa was among them, his face grim. He had his pistol in his hand and slowly he replaced it in its holster. ‘He stayed alive long enough, I think, inglés,’ he said, ‘to remember me.’