GENERAL GRANT WAS DRINKING coffee at a trestle table set up on the lawn in front of Dr. Epps’s house. He had evidently been alerted to the arrival of a Mexican emissary. When Diego appeared, the general was already on his feet. He invited his guest to join him for coffee, unless he preferred something stronger.
“Coffee would do well,” said Diego.
Grant smiled amiably and got up. He was broad of face, with prominent, almost rock-like features, and he wore a full beard and moustache. He removed the pot from its place by the fire, filling two tin mugs. He returned to the table. “I have many fond memories of your land and your people,” he said. Nonetheless, he wished he had never participated in the Mexican war, as unjust a contest as had ever been waged by one country against another. But it was done now, and its outcome would not be altered by any act of man.
“No,” said Diego. “Unfortunately for us.”
“Most unfortunately for you.”
For a time, they continued to discuss the many injustices and sorry consequences of that long-ago war, until Grant shrugged and nodded toward Diego’s mug. “Will you have more coffee?”
“No, thank you. But I believe you mentioned something stronger?”
“Then bourbon is the answer.” Grant waved at an orderly, who promptly attended to the serving of drinks. The general raised his glass. “You would think this war would have blocked the supply of two commodities before all others—tobacco and bourbon. And yet it is not so.” He raised his glass, settled into his chair, and took a first swallow. He glanced at Diego’s left arm. “I take it you have known something of soldiering yourself.”
Diego nodded and spoke without thinking. “But all that is in the past now.”
“Is it? I have always found that the past has a disagreeable tendency to overstay its welcome. We would fight many fewer wars if it were not so.”
“I stand corrected. What you say is true, in my country more than most. In Mexico, the past endures forever.”
“So I have heard. But I do not think that you have come to speak of philosophy.”
“No.” Diego swallowed a mouthful of bourbon. “No, I have not. I have come to speak of the future.”
“I thought as much.” The American general thrust out his legs and crossed his arms behind his head. He told the orderly to leave the bottle of bourbon. It was in safe hands. “Very well,” he said. “Speak to me of the future.”
Diego spent the night in a tent set up for his use. When he left in the morning, he possessed a fair understanding of what might be expected from the United States once its terrible war was concluded. He understood as well that the conflict’s end was closer than he had imagined, and its outcome was as plain as the lines upon the palm of his hand.
In their long conversation on the subject, Grant had left no doubt that the U.S. government would take an extremely dim view of the presence of French troops in Mexico. In time of war, he explained, a government does not like to antagonize another power unnecessarily, and so Washington had been reluctant to court the displeasure of Paris. But, once his country’s own internal conflict was ended, he believed that President Lincoln would declare its firm support for Benito Juárez, the rightful president of the Mexican republic.
But no, he said—anticipating Diego’s next question—this policy would not extend to authorizing the provision of arms or other military equipment to the republican side. He paused, and his expression changed, if only for an instant, into what might have been a smile.
“I refer to policy,” he said. On the other hand, there is practice.”
“I believe I understand you,” said Diego. “It is to discuss the practical aspects that I have come to your country.”
“And sought me out,” said Grant, “as a friend of Mexico.”
“Yes. As a friend of Mexico.”
It was now that the two men began to converse in serious terms. Diego learned, for example, that there was a most talented, resourceful, and innovative young man to be found in a Texas town called Franklin. His name was J.S. Bartlett, and he was the correspondent in that region for the Boston Journal, a reputable publication.
“‘A reputable publication,’” said Diego. “In my country, many would call that a contradiction in terms.”
“Yes, well …” said Grant. He laughed. “In this country, the press is invariably above reproach of any kind. But regarding Bartlett, I believe his sympathies correspond closely to those of President Lincoln, at least as regards Mexico. Moreover, he is employed as the United States customs agent in that region, which makes him a useful man to know. I would urge you, if you should ever find yourself in Franklin, Texas, to look the man up.”
Grant continued speaking, and so Diego found himself becoming increasingly familiar with a variety of American weaponry called the Spencer carbine, a breech-loading rifle that had been introduced into service in 1863 and had proved itself in battle, especially when augmented by the Blakeslee quick-loading cartridge box. Some ninety-five thousand of these rifles had so far been purchased by the U.S. government for its troops, and it was more than likely that some portion of these firearms would become supernumerary once hostilities had ceased. It was difficult to say how many weapons would fall into this category but, in round numbers, one could certainly speak in terms of tens of thousands.
“I see,” said Diego.
“You must speak with Mr. Bartlett,” said Grant as the two men shook hands before parting. “If you are ever in the fine town of Franklin, Texas, Mr. Bartlett is certainly the man to see.”
On his return to Washington, D.C., Diego conducted meetings with diverse individuals, all of whom had been recommended to him by Ulysses S. Grant. Later, he travelled by train to New York City, where he retained the services of a local portraitist, a man named Hoskins who was adept in the reproduction of images according to a process known as ambrotype. Hoskins accompanied him in a hired coach that transported them both to New Rochelle, a rather dismal suburb of the city, where Diego sought out a Mexican woman by the name of Margarita Maza de Juárez, a gracious matriarch who was living there with her three daughters and three sons. She was the wife of the Mexican president, and she had been dispatched to New York City some months earlier for her safety and that of her family. Baldemar Peralta had given him the woman’s address during their last conversation. Diego’s meeting with the woman lasted an hour or so. During its course, the man named Hoskins prepared two ambrotype images of the entire family, whose members included an infant son just a few months old. The portraitist said the image needed only to be mounted under glass upon a dark background—a bolt of black velvet, for example—to be complete.
Diego thanked him. He believed this modest acquisition, a likeness of Benito Juárez’s exiled family, might stand him in good stead at some future time. Baldemar had assured him that it would. He left the second image with the woman.
Once these missions were completed, Diego returned to his hotel in Manhattan. At the services desk, he booked passage aboard a mail packet that was bound for Havana three days hence. That done, he rode the elevator to the sixth floor, watched the cage door slide open, and trudged alone to his room, where a bottle of contraband bourbon waited. With any luck, he would be back in Mexico City within a matter of weeks.