WHILE THE ARMY of Pancho Villa moved slowly, awkwardly towards Mexico City, halting every now and then to take on diminishing groups of federal troops and receive the cheers of the pacificos who would support him without taking up arms themselves, other forces were heading for the same goal. The center of wealth and the center of government. The peon leader Zapata drove upwards from the south, leaving men in his wake to till the soil and burnish the harvest; Villa’s so-called ally, Carranza, fought his way down from the north east, by now openly broken from Villa and doing his best to ensure that the bandit leader’s path was blocked.
Tierra y Libertad was the slogan flying from their banners, the words of revolution chalked onto walls—but with the great prize in sight, which of the leaders did not feel a drive that was selfish rather than altruistic?
Land and Freedom, yes, but what of Wealth and Power?
After all, there was wealth and someone had to wield the power. Why should it be the other man, the man who cannot be trusted? Surely the only person to trust is oneself?
And while President Gutierrez paced the high decorated rooms of the palace and never left one room for another without armed guards at his front and back, the last remaining government troops either fought or changed sides or ran.
Soon Gutierrez himself would run.
Soon everything would crumble.
The President himself did not attend the meeting. In part this was because he was afraid that if he left the comparative safety of his palace, he would be putting himself within the range of an assassin’s bullet. Partly, he was suspicious of the men who had invited him; he thought they would use him as long as it suited them and then have no compunction about turning on him mercilessly.
So in his place President Gutierrez sent one of his aides. A young man with a stammer and a tendency for his face to form deep rashes which discolored it with purple and reddish blotches from the hair line to the turn of the jaw. But Gutierrez had taken him from the anonymity of a secretary’s post and given him something of wealth and position. For this the young man would be loyal to him, Gutierrez was sure.
Well—not positive, for the loyalty of a man who is staring death in the face is never certain. But Victorio was almost the only close colleague for whom the President had any trust left. So Victorio went to the meeting, sat in a padded chair at the side of a large, dimly lit room, the cigar smoke thickening below the vaulted ceiling and the sweet smell of brandy and liqueurs. Sat and listened. Remembered as much as he could. He had been forbidden to take written notes, even for the President. Amongst such company, presidents were not thought of over-highly. If presidents only did their jobs properly, strongly, such meetings would be unnecessary.
The decanter was passed towards Victorio, who shook his head and mouthed a no. It was moved out of his reach. The talk went on.
Hiram Bender leaned back in the leather armchair and drew down on his cigar. Originally a New Englander, he had spent more than fifteen of his forty odd years living in Mexico. He was sandy-haired, had been at least; the strength of the sun had bleached the color of his hair until it was almost white. In the subdued lighting of that room it appeared white. White hair above a face which had stubbornly resisted tanning deeply; white hair above lips that were thin and mean. The dark glasses which he usually wore had been returned to their leather case and pushed down into the breast pocket of his white suit.
Bender’s official capacity had been that of a cipher expert in the United States embassy. But that government had more than once used Bender as a spy and espionage had grown pleasant in Bender’s mind. He enjoyed the double-dealing and the sleight of hand; he enjoyed wielding a strength that few people who knew him suspected. He savored it all the more for its secrecy.
For five years now Bender had been the eyes and ears of a consortium of American money interests, whose investments in Mexico were responsible for a large proportion of their vast profits. Oil, crops, railroads. All such investments were put at risk by the continuance of the war, even though the supply of arms was a bourgeoning business—especially since the United States government had been persuaded to raise the embargo on selling arms to the rebels.
But instability put profits down and the words of the revolutionary leaders frightened Wall Street. Especially Zapata with his cries of Mexico for the Mexicans and his insane ideas about nationalization. Not that it would ever come to anything—whoever took power, they would soon learn that the realities had to be faced. That their country could not survive without foreign investment. And who will make such investments without the certainty of high returns?
No, the money men, the financiers, they were increasingly certain that it would be possible to do a deal with Carranza, if he took power. After all, he was a politician. He was no two-cent desperado, no five-and-dime cut-throat with ideas above his station. But the other two—Villa and Zapata—what were they? Rabble from the hills, drunken killers with no intelligence and nothing but greed and a few half-baked ideas driving them on. Allow men like that to share in the power and everything was at risk. The stability of government; the stability of the dollar.
Steps had to be taken.
Quick, decisive steps.
Taken by men of character and judgement.
Hiram Bender glanced around the smoke-laden room.
Marcus Bewley was ratchet-faced, dressing with the arrogance of a coxcomb from some former time, always a flower in his button-hole and his linen smelling of toilet water. A mind like honed steel. He was a highly placed official in the Hearst organization, said to be one of the few men that Randolph Hearst listened to for more than fifteen seconds without interrupting and flattening. The Hearst people probably owned more of Mexico than anyone else—those parts of Mexico which were worth owning, that is.
Clay O’Neill was handsome where Bewley was not, he dressed slackly if not slovenly, his breath smelled of garlic more often than not and there was a three-day stubble disgracing his good-looking face. But his mind was steel also. He was a special, secret representative from Washington, sent down by those members of the Senate who felt strongly enough about what was happening down in Mexico to do something about it.
James Doniphan, though out of uniform, was one of General Pershing’s ablest officers. He cradled his brandy glass in both hands, one boot resting negligently on an upholstered footstool as he nodded and listened.
There were others: anonymous men whose pens drew blood more effectively than many a sword. Grey faces that grew more and more anxious as the evening wore on.
‘If it appears that President Gutierrez’ position is no longer tenable ...’
Victorio’s face jerked forward at this, the imperfect skin clear for a moment in the light that one of the others held to his cigar.
‘... then we have little alternative.’
‘I agree.’
‘Precisely.’
Bender raised a hand to stifle the objection he anticipated coming from the President’s aide. ‘Whatever happens,’ he said, ‘I’m sure we would all agree that it is of the utmost importance to ensure that President Gutierrez knows we shall do our utmost to ensure his personal safety.’
Liars, thought Victorio, you will sell him to the highest bidder to get what you want.
‘Once the President’s safety is assured, we have then to throw our support behind whichever leader is the most likely to bring stability back to this poor country.’
There was a muted chorus of agreement, the clinking of glass against glass.
‘The way I see it, gentlemen,’ said Bewley, fingering the lapel of his jacket, ‘that man has to be Carranza.’
‘Carranza.’
‘Carranza.’
The name was repeated around the room as if it were some magic spell.
‘And furthermore,’ Bewley was standing now, enjoying being the center of attention, ‘we have to speak with him as soon as possible. We must let him know how we feel, let him know that ...’
‘We intend to support him,’ broke in O’Neill.
‘On condition ...’ Bewley continued.
‘That he adopts a sensible policy towards investment,’ said O’Neill.
‘And restores,’ added Doniphon, ‘law and order as a first priority.’
Fists pounded on table tops and the arms of chairs. That was what was needed: law and order: stability. Bring the country back to its senses. Come down hard, the way it would have been north of the Rio Grande, where they knew how to deal with agitators.
‘Of course, gentlemen,’ Hiram Bender smiled and leaned forward in his chair, ‘we must also impress upon Carranza how imperative it is that he sever all connections with Zapata and Villa.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Absolutely.’
Agreement echoed round the walls.
Marcus Bewley stopped the sound with an uplifted hand. ‘You may be assured that the press will do its best to tell the people of the United States exactly what kind of men these bandits are.’
‘Sure,’ said O’Neill, ‘what did the headline call Zapata? The Attila of the South?’
‘That was it,’ agreed one of the others. ‘That’s the sort of stuff. Attila, that’s what men like Zapata are like.’
‘And Villa?’
‘Villa too.’
Bewley sat down, frowning. ‘I don’t like the closeness of that brigand to the capital. I don’t like it at all. I’m afraid that Carranza won’t be able to stop him. Then there’ll be all hell to pay.’
‘That’s right. We ought to think of a way of stopping that bandit before it’s too late.’
Hiram Bender leaned back in his chair and enjoyed his cigar. There was a smile in his eyes. He had already thought of a way. He savored it for a while, letting the others continue with the conversations. Then, when there was a natural pause, he leaned into the lull and started speaking.
‘We have said the government forces cannot stop this Pancho Villa,’ he said quietly, forcing his audience to remain quiet and listen attentively, ‘we have speculated that Carranza will not be able to stop him either.’ Bender flicked ash from the end of his cigar. ‘What we need then is someone of undoubted strength, a force that will act with dispatch and which has the means necessary to drive Villa back into the mountains where he belongs.’
Bender pressed his back against the soft leather of the chair and drank a little brandy. All faces were looking at him; smoke drifted upwards and lay across the ceiling in wreathes.
‘What we need,’ said Bender, ‘is the United States Army.’
Five, ten seconds silence. One man started to laugh but that laughter broke off into silence when nothing followed it.
Doniphon rubbed the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘Exactly how ...’
Bender raised an arm and the army man stopped his question and waited. Bender stood up slowly, the loose folds of his white coat rippling down the upper half of his body.
‘If the United States became convinced that the lives of its own citizens here in Mexico and living north of the border were at risk; if the government believed that Villa was responsible for continued atrocities against innocent women and children; if it became clear that Villa intended to raze every sign of civilization and progress to the ground—what then do you think she would do? What would she have to do?’
Doniphon hit his right fist hard into his left palm, the flat smack echoing around the room. ‘She would have no alternative but to send in troops to protect lives and property. The government would have a clear moral responsibility to do this.’
‘And,’ continued O’Neill, ‘the American people would not rest until this step were taken. Our people are jealous on behalf of others and their rights as citizens not to live in fear.’
Marcus Bewley lifted his lapel thoughtfully towards his inclined face and smelt the flower pinned there. ‘We have the potential to act with sufficient speed.’
It was hardly a question, more a reflection. No one bothered to assure him what everyone in the room knew to be true. After all, hadn’t the United States shown the world when she went into Cuba—Roosevelt’s Rough Riders had ridden to glory in the cause of American freedom and now Black Jack Pershing would do the same.
The president’s aide got to his feet unobtrusively. He had said little at the meeting and it was not in his nature to do so. He was awkward with words in large gatherings; embarrassed about his looks. He had to wait some time before anyone present realized that he wished to speak.
‘Well, Victorio,’ called Bender, ‘you got something to say? Let’s have it.’
‘Spit it out,’ a voice called.
‘It was ...’ he hesitated, fumbling for the correct order of words. He did not wish to make a fool of himself, or his president, only ...
‘Come on, feller, speak up. You’re among friends.’
‘It was the things you were saying about Villa’s men. The things they are doing to children. To women. The way they are destroying everything in their path. Killing American citizens for no reason.’
‘What about it?’ snapped Bender, his patience with the Mexican’s faltering manner close to breaking.
‘Pancho Villa, much as I fear him as an enemy, he has not done these things.’
Bender laughed and spread his hands. ‘He will,’ he said, laughing all the more. ‘He will.’
Bender rocked the brandy inside his glass, his body shaking with laughter now so that the tears were beginning to roll down his cheeks. Soon the entire room was laughing, the sound rising to a ragged crescendo.
Almost unnoticed, Victorio slipped away.