Call Down The Hawk

by Richard Folmar

  “So, Doctor Oliver, you wish to see the prisoner Comfort. No?” He asked while examining their passes.

  “Yes, without delay. We also demand to know why Mr. Comfort, a citizen of the United States and a special representative of the American Secretary of State, is being unjustly held here as a prisoner?”

  Under the forcefulness of Dr. Oliver’s demands, the lieutenant looked uncertainly toward a closed interoffice door. “Excuse me.” He said. “I think this is a matter for my superior.” With an abrupt nod, he disappeared through that office door.

  Dr. Oliver looked at Seth and grinned.

  Seth looked at him questioningly. “What made him so nervous?”

  “You have a lot to learn about this current officialdom here. No one, not even in the higher echelons, feels comfortable about making decisions. Instead, they will drag their feet and frustrate you with a lot of uneasy head shaking. That is why I had to be demanding and tough in order to get him to go directly to his superior. Even so, they may make us wait.”

  Twenty-five minutes did pass before the lieutenant returned with his superior. Dr.Oliver murmured to Seth as they approached, “Want to bet that his superior was not using the time to call his boss for instructions?”

  The superior was a short stocky officer in his late fifties with watery eyes and a magnificent head of white hair. He introduced himself as Colonel Roque Guillardo and listened politely to Dr. Oliver’s repetition of the demands made on the lieutenant. At the conclusion he pulled a large red handkerchief from a pocket and blew his nose. He apologized in cultured English that he was suffering from a pernicious cold. He sat on a corner of the lieutenant’s desk and with hands wide spread, as an assist to his explanation, said in English, “Dr. Oliver, I am most aggrieved that I am unable to honor your request.”

  “Would you care to be more specific, Colonel?” Seth demanded.

  The Colonel appeared to notice Seth for the first time and raised an eyebrow. “And just who are you, Senor?”

  “Colonel Guillardo,” Dr. Oliver intervened. “This is Mr. Seth Cane, a representative of the American Secretary of State, an associate, and a close personal friend of the prisoner Mr. Comfort.”

  He examined Seth with a sad expression, “Mr. Cane, I am most sorry but the reason I cannot comply with your requests is that the prisoner Comfort is no longer in my custody.”

  Seth glanced at Oliver then stepped toward the Colonel, “No longer in your custody? What exactly does that mean?”

  Colonel Guillardo responded coolly, “It means what I said. The prisoner is no longer here.”

  “He has been released?”

  “No Senor, he has been transferred.”

  Seth leaned toward the Colonel and the Lieutenant unsnapped the top of his pistol holster. Dr. Oliver moved quickly alongside Seth. “You must forgive Mr. Cane for his passion. He is most distressed about what has been happening to his friend.”

  Colonel Guillardo, his eyes red and watery and his nose beginning to drip, replied, “Mr. Cane, can you be so kind to remove yourself from my face. I should not want you to catch my cold?”

  Seth, still tense, stepped back a few steps.

  “Bueno, now let us proceed more calmly,” the Colonel said, and wiped his nose again with the handkerchief.

  “Can you tell us Colonel, to where and why has Mr. Comfort been transferred?” Dr. Oliver asked.

  “I sincerely wish I could help but I simply do not know. I was not told by Major Dominguez last night the purpose or place of the transfer.”

  “Did you say Dominguez took him?” Seth asked.

  “Yes, Major Dominguez, head of El Presidentes Policia Secreta”

  Alarmed, Seth glanced at Dr. Oliver and turned back to the Colonel, “We know who that one is. What’s going on here?”

  “Colonel, we are very perplexed and distressed by this information.” Dr. Oliver said. “We were told by the Minister de Gobernacion that Mr. Comfort would be here. Now, you say he’s been taken away by the secret police. Surely, you must have some idea where they might have taken him?”

  Colonel Gaillardo looked embarrassed. “Please believe me. I do not know—but I suggest you find out quickly.”

  “Why do you say that?” Seth demanded.

  The Colonel gave a quick warning glance to his lieutenant, then lowered his voice. “This Major Dominguez is not a very nice person. I’ve heard and seen some of the things he does to prisoners in this prison and elsewhere. They are not in any sense of the word, pleasant.”

  “Whom should we contact to find out where Mr. Comfort has been taken?” Dr. Oliver asked.

  Colonel Guillardo shrugged. “Only two persons, and you won’t like the choices. Major Dominguez is one but I strongly advise against it.”

  “And, the other?” Seth asked.

  “None other than El Presidente ,himself.”

  Seth turned to Dr. Oliver, “OK, let’s go see his highness”

  “Hold on, Seth,” Oliver replied. “Colonel, when Mr. Comfort was brought in here, what were the charges filed?”

  The two Mexican officers exchanged glances. “There were no charges brought against him, when he was brought in here.”

  “No charges!” Both Seth and Mason Oliver exclaimed.

  “None, but when Major Dominguez came to get him, he said that Mr. Comfort had killed the proprietor of a cantina and his young daughter.”

  58

  STILL FUMING, SETH HURRIED DOWN the long marble corridor of the Palacio alongside Ambassador Wilson. It had taken forcibly expressed arguments by him and Dr. Oliver with back up from Artimus, to get a seemingly reluctant Henry Lane Wilson to seek immediate audience with President Huerta.

  “Dominguez is a damn liar,” Seth repeated to the Ambassador. “Hand did not kill anybody. I don’t care who says he did. He didn’t even have his gun. Dominguez took it away from Colonel Cedillo before he garroted him. Maury told us that. Furthermore, that bartender and his prostitute daughter were alive when we left that cantina.” He carefully restrained from telling how he and Hand had found them shot when they came back to the cantina.

  This was on advice from Artimus. He said that, “If Dominguez knew that you returned right after the shooting, you must have been nearby and so were witnesses when his men committed the murders. In that event Hand Comfort’s life wouldn’t be worth a peso and chances are that you, Seth, could also be killed.”

  The Ambassador, gasping from the pace being set by Seth, looked grim. “Mr. Cane, do we have to run? President Huertapromised he would be in office and for heaven’s sake will you moderate your tone? There are ears all over this place.”

  Seth did slow his pace, somewhat. “Sorry, it makes my blood boil thinking what poor old Hand is enduring in one of their stinking jails.”

  The Ambassador stopped short and turned to confront Seth. His voice was low and urgent, “Listen to me, Cane, when we get in there, I’ll do the talking, understand?”

  “Well, just a minute.”

  “No, otherwise I will walk out and I don’t think you would be given five seconds of his time, if I left you alone in there.”

  “Fine, let’s get on with it,” Seth said. It all depends on how well you do, Mr. Ambassador.

  General Huerta left his desk and greeted Ambassador Wilson with a broad smile and a handshake. The Ambassador introduced Seth again, but there was no smile or a handshake, merely a frown and curt nod of acknowledgement. He resumed his seat behind the desk and motioned them into facing chairs.

  “Now, Henry, what is so urgent that you had to see me this afternoon?” He listened intently as the Ambassador explained the necessity of their visit and then, grim faced, he ordered the guard at the door to summon Major Dominguez and bring the file on Handsome Comfort.

  Major Dominguez must have been lurking nea
rby because he entered immediately, carrying a file that he laid on the desk in front of Huerta, and stood quietly at his side staring at Seth while the Dictator put on reading glasses and leafed through the document. Huerta after a few minutes closed the folder and removed his reading glasses, blew on the lenses and wiped them clean with a handkerchief, only then looking up at the Ambassador with a tired expression.

  “My friend, what can I say? What we apparently have here is a criminal matter. Surely, you will not expect me to interfere with the wheels of our national justice system?”

  “Certainly not, Mr. President,” the Ambassador replied.

  “However, is it not possible that in arresting Mr. Comfort, you have arrested the wrong man?”

  “Damn right you have.” Seth said, glaring at Major Dominguez.

  Victoriano Huerta’s face darkened and he tapped the file with his forefinger. “Not according to the evidence contained in here. It seems that Senor Comfort willfully, without just cause, shot the proprietor of the El Gallo Rojo, a cantina of this city, and his innocent young daughter, following the proprietor’s protest of his sexual advances toward the girl.”

  “Rubbish! I was with Hand every minute of that night and when we left that cantina, both the bartender and the girl, who by the way was a common prostitute, were very much alive. Hand never made any sexual advances toward the girl, quite the contrary. He was appalled that anyone that young would be a prostitute.” He stopped short of mentioning that they had returned shortly to find them murdered.

  Major Dominguez, his voice soft and silky, said, “Tell us Senor Cane, what were you and this man Comfort doing at El Gallo Rojo that night?”

  Huerta looked at Seth expectantly with half-lidded eyes. Even Ambassador Wilson turned toward him with undisguised curiosity.

  Seth had been ready for this one and had even discussed possible answers with Artimus. “My friend and I had decided to relax from the monotony of our labors that evening and see some of the famous night life of your Capital. Unfortunately, in the course of the evening, we fell into the clutches of this motor cab driver who falsely promised us a look at one of your more famous spots. It turned out to be that sorry cantina. We needed only a quick look inside to know we had been taken and we left. And, as I said, when we left, the girl and the bartender, who you say was her father, were alive.”

  It was clear to Seth that none of them believed him, but significantly, neither did they move to challenge his story.

  The Ambassador cleared his throat and then suggested that the Mexican President, in the interest of the friendship of their two countries, make a further more exhaustive inquiry into the matter to avoid a blatant injustice to a citizen of the United States.

  “But of course we will, Henry. We shall not leave any chance of an injustice here. You must realize, however, the seriousness of this matter. We do not take the murder of our citizens lightly.” Not much, how come your firing squads are busy every day shooting your citizens?

  “Mr. President,” the Ambassador said, “Mr. Cane and Dr. Oliver of my staff went to Belem prison this morning and were told by the superintendent that Mr. Comfort had been transferred. We would like to see him immediately to see if he’s all right.”

  Huerta motioned to Major Dominguez to lean down close and whispered in his ear. Dominguez whispered back. Huerta looked up at Seth and the Ambassador.

  “I am informed that the prisoner Comfort has been removed to Ciudad de Vera Cruz pending his trial.”

  “You mean San Juan de Ulua!” Seth exclaimed.

  “Of course,” Major Dominguez said. “It was necessary for his safety.”

  “Tell it to the Marines,” Seth replied. He turned to the Ambassador, “Sir, San Juan de Ulua has a reputation of being one of the worst hell holes in the western hemisphere.”

  For once Henry Lane Wilson looked distressed, “I quite agree, Mr. President. The transfer of Mr. Comfort to that place is most excessive.”

  Huerta spread his large brown hands. “I do not like to question my Minister’s judgment on this matter.”

  The Ambassador and Seth both suddenly stood up. Henry Wilson said in a firm tone of voice, “Mr. President, I am very much afraid that I will have to enter an official protest to your government on behalf of the United States unless Mr. Comfort is immediately placed in a more suitable environment pending the outcome of your further investigation into this case.”

  The audience ended with the Mexican dictator promising that he would see what could be done but that at the same time he could not promise immediate results.

  59

  THREE DAYS PASSED WITHOUT ANY word from Huerta on his promised review of Hand’s case. Ambassador Wilson’s efforts to get a decision from him met only with promises to complete the review as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, Seth was becoming more anxious. He could only imagine what Hand must be going through in that prison.

  Washington hadn’t been reassuring either. Bryan’s telegram to Huerta demanded a showing of evidence backing up the murder charges and assurance of a guarantee of due process in any proceeding in furtherance of those charges. Failure to produce satisfactory demonstration of the above would be viewed seriously by the United States.

  While officially portentous, the State Department action offered little immediate prospect of getting his Texas friend out of that place before something happened to him.

  On the following Saturday morning, Artimus grabbed Seth after breakfast.

  “Come along, old boy, we are going out.”

  “Out?” Seth replied. “Why are we going out?”

  “Because you are going crackers sitting around here waiting to hear from El Presidente. There is nothing you can do to help Hand right now. A little bit of Mexican culture might be diverting.”

  Seth protested that he had had just about enough of Mexican culture for the present, but Artimus was not to be denied. His idea about the kind of Mexican culture needed included, foremost, the bullfights.

  “One really can’t say that he has properly visited Mexico, without seeing at least one of these spectacles.”

  The Corrida de Toros was packed with spectators of every economic level. They erupted in applause and cheering when two splendidly clad horsemen with lances, whom Artimus called picadors, rode into the arena and took the greeting with bows.

  Artimus explained, “Their purpose is to get the bull riled up by jabbing those lances in its neck. This weakens the neck muscles.”

  “Mighty sporting of them,” Seth said. “Artimus, what in hell am I doing here, when I ought to go down to Vera Cruz and try to see Hand ?”

  Artimus leaned closer to Seth in order to be heard against an increase in volume of crowd noise, as a slender young matador entered in arena.

  “Without a pass from Huerta, your chances to see your friend do not exist. You know we wired Mr. Beamis, the Acting Consul, to try and check on him. He informs us that he has gone every day out to the prison, demanding to see Mr. Comfort, and has met with considerable obfuscation and denial by the prison authorities. He intends to keep the pressure up, however. So, try and relax right now and watch this event. This young matador is from Spain and is supposed to be very accomplished.”

  If the crowd’s cheers were any indication, he was pretty good. He toyed with the fighting bull with graceful ballet movements, allowing the vicious looking horns to pass dangerously close to his body.

  In spite of his mounting depression, Seth was fascinated,until that fateful moment when the matador swiftly killed the beautiful black animal with a deft thrust from his slender sword. Seth had grown up on a cattle ranch and was revolted by the unnecessary slaying of that magnificent beast for the sole purpose of entertaining the crowd.

  Afterwards they joined the rapturous crowd feeding the exit that led to the down ramps. The line moved smoothly until it came to a su
dden halt, caused by panic stricken people trying to fight their way back up the ramp. There was shouting, pushing and flailing of arms, to no avail, because the pressure from above was too much, gradually forcing them back down.

  The cause of the panic was soon evident.

  At the foot of every exit ramp was a squad of federal soldiers. Non-commissioned officers were scrutinizing the departing crowd, selectively pulling men and some women out of line and shoving them over to the soldiers armed with bayonets. Those not selected hurried past with downcast eyes.

  When Seth and Artimus came to the bottom of the ramp, they received narrow-eyed scrutiny from a Captain, who seemed to want to pull them from the line, until Artimus nodded pleasantly.

  “Good afternoon, Captain. Quite a good kill back there in the arena, don’t you think?” Whether the officer understood or not, he shook his head in disgust and waved the two gringos past.

  “What was going on back there, Artimus?”

  “General Victoriano Huerta’s version of the old English press gang. This one will probably net El Presidente two to three hundred new recruits for his federal army”

  “But they were pulling women out of the line, as well. Surely, he won’t put them into the army”

  “No, most of those unfortunate creatures are scheduled for forced labor in the powder mills or other armament factories. The younger pretty ones are in for something much worse.

  Quite a common sight, nowadays. The other day there was a great fire over on San Hipolito and the army showed up, not to help fight it, but to round up almost eight hundred draftees from among the crowd of spectators.”

  “They just hauled them off and put them in the army, without any consideration for their families or occupations?”

  “Yes, and with only minimal training. Within two weeks, that group back there at the bull ring will be on some train headed north to fight the experienced troops of Villa, or Obregon, or south to take on the troops of Zapata. Most will never make it back home.”

  Seth was appalled. “Now, I understand why Woodrow Wilson refuses to recognize Huerta. The more I see of this fellow, the more I think this country needs a Villa, Zapata, or Carranza.”