Centennial

by James A. Michener

  “Goody he congratulated the farmers. “Now bring on the last man and two of the women.”

  When the trio was moved into position against the wall, Tranquilino saw with relief that his group would be responsible for the man. He could not fire at a woman, and apparently some of the other farmers felt the same way, for their bullets went high, very high, leaving pockmarks in the wall and one defiant woman standing. In her anguish her bandage had slipped loose, and she started cursing Salcedo and the engineers, and in the end Salcedo had to shoot her in the face.

  Grimly he returned to the farmers. “This last one is Frijoles’ wife. She was worse than he was. If there is one bullet high on that wall, I’ll bring in soldiers and shoot the lot of you. Now get ready.”

  The woman stood with her feet apart, her back pressed against the wall. She was mute, but her fiery eyes blazed curses at her executioners, reminding them of empty bellies and years lost in the mines. Before Captain Salcedo could give the order to fire, Tranquilino Marquez threw down his gun, uttering just one word, “No,” and like falling stalks of wheat the other rifles fell into the dust.

  In a rage Captain Salcedo rushed across the open space and executed Frijoles’ wife. Then he stormed back and would have shot Tranquilino, but the thin-faced farmer was saved by Father Grávez, who stepped before him in intercession, saying, “He’s a good man, this one. Spare him.”

  As the twenty-two corpses were hauled away, Tranquilino Marquez walked down the valley like a ghost. The echo of his rifle still sounded in his ears, the staccato fire of Captain Salcedo’s fierce revolver. He heard the woman screaming, and the saving voice of Father Grávez. But most of all he heard those terrible words which sentenced him to a life underground: “He can start in the mines right after the executions.” They would be coming for him soon and he hurried his steps.

  He started running, and when he reached his adobe at the far end of Santa Ynez, he burst into the room, threw his arms about his young wife and cried, “They’re coming after me.”

  Serafina Marquez had watched the executions from the crest of a small hill and had seen her husband throw down his rifle, and then after Father Grávez saved his life, she had seen Captain Salcedo talking agitatedly with the new captain of rurales, and it was clear to her that the captain was ordering the policemen to arrest Tranquilino as a troublemaker and shoot him as he tried to escape. She had already decided what must be done.

  “You must go north, Tranquilino.”

  “Where?”

  “Go over the fields and catch the train at Guerrero. This instant !”

  “Go where?”

  “Cross the Río Bravo. There’s always work across the river.”

  “The children?”

  “We’ll stay here. We’ll do.”

  “But—Serafina!”

  “Go!” she screamed. And in three minutes she had packed him a parcel of food and given him all the money they had saved. “You can send us some when you find work. The way Hernandez does with his wife.” And she shoved him out the door.

  It was not a minute too soon, for down the Vale of Temchic came the rurales, asking directions to the home of Tranquilino Marquez, troublemaker.

  One of the notable features of northern Mexico was the network of plodding railroads which crisscrossed the area. (See Map 12 - The Travels of Tranquilino Marques 1903-1914) In Chihuahua one improbable line called the Kansas City, Mexico and Orient entered from southern Texas to peter out at a railhead hundreds of miles short of its announced destination at the Pacific Ocean.

  The main line ran north from Chihuahua to the border city of Ciudad Juarez, where a bridge carried it into El Paso. A third line was the most interesting, and the one destined to be a focus of history in this period. It, too, ran from Chihuahua to Ciudad Juarez, but along a route well to the west, through such picturesque towns as Cuauhtémoc, Guerrero and Casas Grandes, which had been an important center a thousand years ago, with ancient pyramids and ruined streets still proving how great the pre-Columbian Indians had been.

  It was for this Northwest Line that Tranquilino Marquez headed, traveling mostly at night. He came at last to the vicinity of Guerrero, where he hid for two days, finally slipping into town at dusk to buy much-needed food. That night he traveled north to where the railroad stopped to take on wood for its furnaces and water for its boilers, and there, where no guards watched, he climbed beneath one of the freight cars and fastened himself to the iron rods that ran the length of the car. In this precarious way he rode to Casas Grandes, where some farmers headed for the United States detected him.

  “Come on!” they whispered, kneeling to see how he had kept himself from the wheels.

  “We ride inside!” one of the men said in a low voice, and they dragged him out and showed him how to force open doors on the freight train.

  “At Ciudad Juarez we climb down before the police catch us, and an hour later we’re across the border.”

  In those days no papers were required to move from Mexico into Texas, but as the men prepared to cross the river the leader warned them, “If they ask you, say we’re on our way to Arizona.” Tranquilino asked why, and the man said, “In Texas they hate Mexicans, and if they think we’re staying there ... trouble. So we always say Arizona. In Arizona they don’t give a damn what happens.”

  At the northern end of the bridge a jaded customs official asked the men, “You bringin’ any guns?” They were obviously bringing nothing but their clothes, so he let them through, for at that time the United States needed field workers.

  Some of the immigrants headed northeast to the prosperous parts of Texas, and a few went directly west to Arizona, en route to California, but one who had been north before took Tranquilino aside and whispered, “The good jobs are in New Mexico. You stay with me.”

  There followed one of the quietest periods of Tranquilino’s life. From October 1903 till March 1904 he wandered north through the majestic state of New Mexico, seeing roads and valleys of a beauty he could not have imagined, with fields leading gently up the sides of mountains until snow-covered crests were reached. Always he was in the companionship of men who spoke Spanish, and although the only jobs he could find were menial, they did pay cash, and he learned the sweet secret of Mexicans who worked in the United States:

  “In any town, Tranquilino, you can go to the post office and tell the man ‘Giro postal,’ and you give him your money and he gives you a piece of paper which you send to your wife. He’ll write her name on the envelope and she’ll get the money.”

  For six months he went from one post office to the next, asking for the giro postal, and without once knowing whether she received the money or not, he sent Serafina and the children every penny he earned, taking out only what he needed for the most meager necessities. Las Cruces, Alamogordo, Carrizozo of the beautiful hills, Encino, Santa Fe, Taos, Costilla—in each town the postmasters sold him the “giros” and addressed his letters, as they did for hundreds of other workers.

  New Mexico was so elegant a state, and so congenial to Mexicans, that he thought of living there permanently—bringing his wife and children north to build a home somewhere in the Santa Fe area if he could get a job on one of the ranches, but in March 1904 this dream was postponed when a man came to the area around Costilla, asking, “Any Mexicans here want a real fine job growing vegetables at Alamosa ... up in Colorado?” And he offered such phenomenal wages—four dollars a week besides food and lodging—that Tranquilino and several others jumped at the chance.

  They were taken by wagon north to where Blanca Peak guarded the road, then west to the irrigated lands around Alamosa, where Tranquilino saw that magnificent valley reaching off to the north, with the Sangre de Cristo mountains to the east and the Saguache peaks to the west. He felt privileged to work in Alamosa, where numerous storekeepers spoke Spanish, and he began to think that Colorado was an even better place than New Mexico, until he became aware that many citizens of the small city cursed Mexicans, and accused them
of all sorts of evil.

  Certain Americans in western states, having lost their Indians and with few blacks at hand, naturally turned to hating Mexicans, and they devised many tricks to torment the dark-skinned strangers. The sheriff in Alamosa arrested Mexicans for even the most trivial offenses, and judges sentenced them harshly and without the semblance of a trial. Storekeepers charged them higher prices than they charged white customers, and there were many places like barbershops and restaurants into which a Mexican could not go. Their money was welcome, but they were not.

  But even after three ugly brushes with the law over charges he could not understand, Tranquilino, a quiet man seeking to avoid trouble, told his Mexican jailmates, “It could be worse. If I wasn’t here, I’d be down in the silver mines at Temchic, or more likely dead.” And he gained a reputation in Alamosa as a reliable man. He was the first at work, the last to leave, and he never lost his good humor.

  “Hello, Mr. Adams! Yes, Mr. Adams! Right away, Mr. Adams.” He did not behave in this manner because he was subservient. He did so because he was glad to have a job, because he was grateful for the raise to five dollars a week, which enabled him to send even more money to his wife in Santa Ynez.

  Some of his fiery companions chided him with being afraid to stand up for his rights, but he told them, “I have all the rights I need. I stay away from the sheriff and I haven’t been in jail for eight months.”

  He was now in this third year of sending money back to Mexico, and he still had not learned whether his wife was getting it or not, so in October, when the crops were in, he told Mr. Adams, “I’m going down to Chihuahua,” and Mr. Adams, not unhappy to have one less hand to worry about through the workless winter, told him, “A fine idea, Tranquilino, and next spring your job will be waiting.”

  There was a train to El Paso, and for a small fare he was able to ride to the border. There he walked over the bridge and was greeted amiably by the Mexican officials. “Santa Ynez,” he told them, and a lieutenant said in reply, “Watch yourself, my friend, and stay clear of the revolutionaries who are pestering that region.”

  “I just want to see my wife,” Tranquilino said. “I haven’t heard from her in three years.” He went out to the yards of the Northwest Line, where scores of other men coming home from the United States were waiting to catch a boxcar heading south.

  On the way to Guerrero, Tranquilino learned for the first time of the serious troubles erupting throughout Mexico, and he heard first-hand reports of how Colonel Salcedo, the hero of Temchic, was dominating the area, a cruel man in leather puttees who shot field workers if they uttered a word against General Tarrazas or President Díaz.

  But he also heard romantic tales of Capitan Frijoles, who was hiding somewhere in the Sierra Madre, tormenting the government troops with audacious sorties, and he felt a sense of elation to think that the rebel, whom he had never seen, was still alive.

  Then, when the train was well south of Casas Grandes, Tranquilino had his first experience with real revolution. Someone had mined the tracks of the Northwest Line, and although the engine passed over the dynamite safely, along with the car that carried the wood for the furnace, the following cars were ripped apart, killing the men riding within, leaving Tranquilino’s car edging the fiery spot.

  Survivors climbed down to survey the wreckage, and soldiers moved in from a headquarters to the south. Everyone was placed under arrest, and later in the day Colonel Salcedo, now in full control of his district, stormed onto the scene and began questioning suspects. Man after man told the same story: “I am coming home from work in Texas, Mi Coronel,” and it was obvious that they were telling the truth.

  Salcedo grabbed Tranquilino roughly, stared at him without recognizing him and snapped, “You? What’s your story?”

  “I’m coming home from Colorado.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “North of Texas.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Tranquilino was on the verge of saying “Santa Ynez,” but he judged correctly that this might arouse suspicions or even a recollection of the insurrection which had occurred there. “I’m getting off at Guerrero,” he said, and Salcedo passed on.

  The colonel’s men, however, identified three revolutionaries, who were lined up against a wall and shot. “Let that be a lesson to you men coming back to Mexico.” And after a while the track was mended and the train resumed its way to Guerrero, where Tranquilino left it, heading overland on foot for the beautiful Vale of Temchic.

  As he passed the four guardian peaks and entered the southern end of Santa Ynez, children began to yell, “Tranquilino Marquez is coming home!” And a crowd surrounded him and boys yelled, “Victoriano! It’s your father!” And a shy, small child whom Tranquilino did not recognize stepped forward, wearing good clothes that his father had paid for with the giros postales, and the two stared at each other like strangers.

  It was a prolonged, gentle visit. The children looked healthy; Serafina had spent her money wisely. In a box she had each of the envelopes from the strange towns: Alamogordo, Carrizozo, Taos, Alamosa. A neighbor who could read had deciphered the names for her, and she had said, They sound like towns in Mexico.”

  Father Grávez was pleased to see Tranquilino and told him, “You are a man of some nobility—alguna nobleza—because for three years you have never once failed to send money to your family. There are others ...”

  Tranquilino discovered that he enjoyed talking with the padre. “Is it true,” Grávez asked, “that in Estados Unidos you work only six days a week and have part of Saturday off?” When Tranquilino explained the working conditions and the availability of medical services for everyone ... “You have to walk four miles to the doctor and if you have the money you must pay,” he explained, “but when Guttierez lost a leg, nobody charged him anything and an Anglo woman in Alamosa gave him crutches.”

  “It should be that way,” Father Grávez said.

  Tranquilino asked the priest whether it would be a good idea to take Serafina and the children to Colorado, and Grávez said, “No, women and children should stay close to their church,” and Tranquilino argued, “They don’t blow up trains in Colorado,” and Father Grávez admitted with some sadness, “Perhaps the time may come when you will have to take your family north. But not yet.”

  As the weeks passed, with only vague echoes of the trouble in the north, Tranquilino discovered anew what a jewel he had in Serafina Gómez. She had a disposition like the clotted milk he ate in Alamosa, gentle, lambent, always the same. In her youth she had worked in the fields like a burro, and now, even though Tranquilino supported her well, she continued to work as hard, but for different and larger purposes. She tended the sick and cared for children whose fathers were killed in the mines. She helped at the church and was called upon by Father Grávez in any emergency. Mexico had millions like her, if it ever discovered a way to release their energies, but for the present, they slaved in mining towns like Temchic or tended gardens in small villages like Santa Ynez.

  She was embarrassed when she told Tranquilino that she was pregnant. “You won’t be here to see the baby,” she said, and in the intimate conversation which followed she whispered a secret to her husband: “When you were gone and no money had arrived and we were near to starvation, for everyone was afraid to befriend us, a man crept to the door at night bringing us food and a few pesos. Who do you think it was?”

  Tranquilino named three of his friends, but it had not been they. “It was Frijoles,” she said. “He came to bless you for refusing to shoot his wife. I hid him for three days.” Nothing more was said, but now the revolution seemed very close to the Marquez family.

  It was an easy trip back. He crossed the border in the last week of 1905, worked in Carrizozo a few days, then drifted up to Taos, then on to Alamosa, but when he reached there, he found that Mr. Adams had already hired a full complement, so he wandered north to Salida, where he tried to find work on a lettuce farm, but they didn’t need anyo
ne, so he went over the mountains to Buena Vista, where he lodged with a Mexican family and worked on the road for a couple of weeks. After this he went on to the high town of Fairplay, where he tried to find odd jobs.

  There he met a fellow Mexican who was living in Denver—Dember the man called it—“best city in the world,” and in the wake of this man’s enthusiasm he continued his way east across the great mountains and came at last to that final ridge from which the traveler could look down on the city of the high plains.

  Denver! What a mecca for the Mexican worker! Here, in the winter months when work in the fields had ended, men gathered from all parts of Colorado, and when the snow fell deep in the streets and avenues, the Mexicans huddled together with good songs and beer and dances and toasted tortillas and talk of home.

  Denver! It was a city perched a mile high, loved by ranchers who brought their cattle to the winter show, loved by lonely men out on the drylands who came in for a good steak dinner, but loved especially by the Mexicans, who could lose themselves in the small streets where Spanish was spoken.