17

By early October of 1915 the sheer stubbornness of First Chief Carranza paid off, and he won his hard-fought battle for recognition. To clench the deal, a few days ahead he made magnanimous guarantees for amnesty to his political enemies, freedom of religion, and protection of foreigners and their properties, none of which Emory trusted him to honor. And apparently few people in Mexico believed in him either because he no sooner issued his statement than new revolutions began breaking out, one of the largest headed by Pancho Villa.

Emory immediately threw his clothes into a suitcase, headed for Mexico, afraid Barrista might want to back out. “But he says things are settling down now, the Plan is getting well known,” I argued. “Maybe by the time the next election rolls around—”

“Once Carranza gets a grip on Mexico, he isn’t about to let an election stand in his way.”

I just shook my head. I couldn’t blame Barrista for his willingness to compromise at this point. As Emory buckled his suitcase I marveled as I had many times over how hard it was to separate Emory’s idealistic side from his selfish one. I could not ever pin him down on how much he did for himself alone as opposed to how much it meant to him to see Barrista save Mexico. There was one thing that became more and more evident, however, and I told him:

“You’re the iron in Barrista’s soul.”

It proved to be a most prophetic statement over the next year.

Emory had more than one reason for going to Mexico at that time. Ralph Jones was in need of money and a number of supplies that only Emory could get to him. He needed to have a look at the properties working and confer with Ralph on preparing to get others started. Now that the transportation situation had eased up in some places, he wanted to get machinery moved in where possible. He also had to get some idea of money needed for repairs to damage and replacement for looting suffered in some of the mines over the past few months. When he told me of this, I was reminded of what a small concept I had of the turmoil he was enduring daily, how many loose ends were dangling in his financial empire. Surely he was pouring more money down into those mines than their natural wealth could yield up for a long time to come. Of course I could only speculate on this because he confided so little in me. I received information like a yard dog receives table scraps.

With Emory gone for what he expected to be at least a month, time soon hung about like moss on an ancient tree. I decided to buy two season tickets to the San Antonio Philharmonic concerts—I’d put it off earlier because I thought Emory would be in town—and coaxed Woody into going to the evening performances. To his protests that he did not see well at night, I countered, “Nathan will drive us to Beethoven Hall, and you certainly don’t have to be able to see to appreciate the music.”

A few days after Emory left, I went down to pick up the tickets, and made a side trip by the post office on my way home. So many months had gone past without further threats from Mark that I was becoming convinced I’d heard the last from him. Yet I didn’t know for certain so I had no choice but to continue my little side trips, and I was always nervous about being seen. While the postal station was blocks from Emory’s office, I always found myself hurrying along, looking both ways in case Nathan might be afield running an errand, or Emory himself might pop up. I had a couple of excuses made up for going there should I be found out—I was picking up a package for Woody, or buying some postage stamps. Thankfully I never had to use my made-to-order escape tactics, because as far as I know I was never discovered.

On this particular afternoon I mounted the steps with my usual caution and circled the postal lobby with my eyes before checking the box. It was empty. I strolled away, thinking maybe Mark had really found himself a “rich lady” who could at least temporarily keep him busy. Yet, surely there were sections of New Orleans that could be dangerous, even for a man like Mark.

One late November day, Woody came to my door around noontime and invited me for a stroll. This departure from his regimented three o’clock walk with Scoop was so unusual that I took off my apron and followed him without question.

Soon he said, hoarsely, “I have a letter from Johnny. He has decided to enlist after all.”

“Oh, no …”

“They’re having quite a bit of trouble over there you know, with Lord Derby’s efforts at getting up enough force, although he has raised thousands and thousands of volunteers. Asquith’s conscription bill is being fought tooth and nail in the House of Commons … it’s a very bad situation.”

“Well, I’m sure—”

“It’s a matter of pride in Britain, you know,” he interrupted, raising his shoulders and setting his jaw. “Johnny wouldn’t be called a shirker, no sir, not he, even if it means sacrificing his studies for a while. I only wish it would be over soon.”

I didn’t know what to say. I walked along, looking at the ground. In a few moments he continued, “It’s such a horrible thing, all those young lads … doesn’t matter whose side they’re on … so many down in the trenches in the cold and the rain, with no food, bullets whizzing by and shrapnel showering—”

“Woody, maybe you oughtn’t to speculate on—”

“Have you read Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage?”

“No.”

“When the novel was first published I used my own money to get enough copies so that my students could read it. It is about war, about the fact the common soldier can’t even tell which way he is going and whether he is making progress … he is lost in an abyss of destruction and death all round … and none of it makes sense to him, you see?”

Then he stopped and turned toward me. “It is a novel of the War Between the States, but it is more than that—a universal story of war and its criminal waste.… Mrs. Cabot, do you ever go to church?”

“No.”

“Neither do I, anymore, but I still pray. Will you pray, too, for Johnny?”