The Battle of Tomochic_The Battle of Tomochic Memoirs of a Second Lieutenant

by Heriberto Frías

  The Beast’s Due

  Hoping to slake his unbearable thirst, Mercado approached a native as he was dismounting to water his horse. “Friend, do you know where I can get a cup of hot coffee?” Without looking up, the man pointed to a squalid little shack next to the river.

  Shivering with cold, Miguel asked Captain Tagle for permission to leave his position temporarily. Then, wrapped in his full cape, his hood pulled down over his forehead, Miguel approached the hut and peered through the doorway into the darkness.

  Standing at the threshold, he asked a shabby old woman who was grinding corn on a metate1 and patting out thick tortillas by the hearth to prepare him a large coffee—at any price. A thick, raspy drunkard’s voice answered back. “Come in! Let’s see here. Julia! A jug of coffee, lots of it, nice and hot, and be quick about it, quick as the devil!” The order ended abruptly with a curse.

  In the dim light Miguel made out a figure swathed in thick serapes on a broad wooden bed: a boorish face with glassy, red-rimmed eyes and a hooked nose surrounded by matted locks and a long gray beard. At the same moment, the neat, graceful figure of a beautiful girl emerged from the opposite corner.

  She walked across the room, passing by him with a rhythmic stride and downcast eyes. Taking a pitcher from the hearth, she filled it with water and placed it on the fire. Violent flames leaped up and illuminated the dark girl’s profile. Stunned, wide-eyed, Miguel stared.

  The old man sat up and motioned him toward a stool. “Sit down, chief,” he said to the officer. “And while the coffee is on, hand this over to her for some sotol.”

  The unrefined rotgut from Chihuahua was not to his taste and Miguel responded, “Tequila, please. I don’t care for sotol.” Julia approached, trembling and subservient, and he gave her a twenty-five-centavo note.

  As Miguel watched the graceful young woman, he became more captivated by the minute. Who was she? Where had he seen this loveliness before? He could imagine the atrocities committed in the dark lair, which reeked of tobacco and excrement. Could the bandit be the father of this lovely child?

  With surprised delight he recalled her from the inn; she was the same young woman who had caught his attention the night before. One and the same! Once again he spontaneously murmured his praise, “Lovely!” Then, to himself, he added, “It’s the same girl, the very same!”

  He took another look at the bearded brute in the semidarkness.

  The witless old woman, grinding away with the regularity of a machine, asked, “Are you getting up now, Don Bernardo? Shall I bring your boots?

  Without waiting for his reply, the old woman rose stiffly and approached his cot, her head bowed. Then she knelt before the ogre, who stretched his legs out to her. She dutifully fitted his dark, hairy feet into his rawhide boots. Humble as a slave, the crone slowly adjusted the boots, pinching and patting to be sure she accomplished her servile task to perfection.

  Dumbstruck, Miguel continued to observe the scene from his chair. Julia approached with the bottle of tequila and offered him his coffee in a pewter cup, then handed him the sugar.

  Trembling, Miguel poured the foul liquor into the blackish water that steamed up from the earthenware cup. He experienced a moment of nausea and then, shaking off a dark thought, brought the brew to his mouth with both hands and avidly drank it down.

  Such sweet poison, as Castorena says, he thought to himself, and felt the first tonic caress of the alcohol coursing through his body. It was a miracle. The desolate fog that weighed on his spirit like a shroud began to dissolve into warm, crystalline clarity. Through this rosy lens the enticing figure of the beautiful, gracious girl in the miserable hovel was revealed.

  And now she seemed to flame up before the officer’s astounded eyes, displaying yet more charms, new wonders. He watched her walk about, so fresh and lively in comparison to the haggard corpse doing her mechanical chores, and the hairy ogre stewing in his own foul juices, amid the worn and dirty objects.

  Nimble and pure, she passed the nauseating rags, and when she lifted her head with birdlike grace, she turned on him the full magnificence of her shy black eyes.

  “Lovely! My god, how lovely!” he sang inwardly, transported to a poetic reverie. And in his poor enchanted soul, the officer blended ecstatic contemplation of the young woman before him with the sacred memory of his absent mother.

  Suddenly he heard her rhythmic voice, resonant with the enchanting accent of the daughters of Chihuahua: “Auntie, have you seen my kerchief around? I always put it under the pillow when I go to bed. I can’t seem to find it today. How silly I am!”

  Swift and agile, she walked over to the unmade bed from which the hairy old beast had just risen, and there, flinging serapes and bedclothes, she turned around to complain prettily, “But I put it here last night. How very silly!” Incredibly, she was lifting the same pillow that had supported the old rascal’s filthy hair.

  There could be no doubt. He could discern the young woman’s graceful curves outlined in the mattress. Once again, reality grabbed him by the throat.

  First he sadly contemplated Julia, then turned to look at Don Bernardo, who was loudly slurping his strong, tequila-spiked coffee. Julia widened her big, dark eyes. Like Miguel’s, her gaze expressed melancholy and resignation.

  Being of a despondent nature, Mercado was not much of a Don Juan. But his arrogant youthfulness, the nervous movements of his body, the way he raised his fair, noble forehead—all had appeal. This mute suffering creature, the resigned and adorable Julia, was more than susceptible to his charms.

  She couldn’t hide it, either. In the presence of the officer who came from so far away, spoke such kind words, and looked at her so tenderly—the way no one in the world had ever looked at her—she fell into a confused dream of unimagined pleasures. She was incapable of concealing her feelings.

  The boorish Don Bernardo stepped outside the hut to warm himself in the sun. Contemptuous but also curious, he watched the troops wash their clothes on the far side of the river.

  “Do you want more coffee?” said Julia. She brought the officer another cup, which he took from her strong, beautiful hands.

  “Is that your mother, the woman grinding over there?” asked Miguel.

  She shook her head sadly and said, with lowered eyes, “My stepmother, sir.”

  “Well, then, is Don Bernardo your father?”

  “He’s my uncle,” she sighed. And the girl’s face blazed an intense red.

  “Well, that is,” she stammered, “we’re not married or anything … because she is his wife.” And she could say no more. Her soft voice choked at the mention of such abominations.

  How could it be! This gracious, lively adolescent was the ogre’s own? He could do what he wanted with her? This sweet, humble creature was his mistress, this fresh rose in full bloom. Appalled, Miguel turned pale.

  What foul web is this? he wondered. Silently enduring her misfortune, she gives herself hopelessly and joylessly, as a passive victim would, to a master who abuses her with the despotism of a Moorish pirate. Can it be true? That decrepit corpse the wife, this fresh girl the beloved!

  He inhaled her strong yet shy youthfulness. Though disgraced, it was still healthy and firm. The generous heart of the officer overflowed with boundless compassion.

  Julia leaned toward Miguel as she offered him the cup. Almost touching, the two mingled their breath and exchanged tender looks.

  Poor girl! He saw purplish marks on her sleek bare arms and lovely dark neck and said, “He beats you, doesn’t he? Does he? Do you love him? No? Then leave him, denounce him. Speak with the political head of Guerrero.”

  Terrified at the indignation that flared in Miguel’s eyes, the girl exclaimed, “No, sir … I can’t. My father has ordered it, and my father is a saint. Teresita sanctified him. They shot him down and he came back to life as Our Lord. Imagine! That’s why you mustn’t go to Tomochic … don’t go. They’ll kill you if you do. Cruz will finish off every one of you. Offer prayers
… Don’t go to Tomochic!”

  CHAPTER 8

  Apparent Causes

  This is what Second Lieutenant Mercado later discovered about the roots of the strange rebellion in Tomochic.

  The tiny villages of the Sierra Madre west of Chihuahua were in constant fear of the marauding Apache Indians; warfare broke out from the mountains to remote jungle areas. Everyone in the area carried guns and used them in raids to win back cattle stolen by the Indians, who were gradually retreating toward their northern stronghold.

  The famous mountain dwellers of Tomochic, a hamlet of some three hundred inhabitants situated in a valley, had distinguished themselves again and again in bravery and daring. When they had neutralized the danger, they returned to cultivating their land, tending their livestock, and sitting like lords in the doorways of their huts, sunning themselves and cleaning their rifles.

  The rich folk of the area were buried in the church courtyard. Next to the church was a convent founded by Jesuit missionaries in the era when colonizers exploited the area’s rich mineral resources.

  Both the government and clergy of Chihuahua had abandoned these aloof, inscrutable people. It was as though they had vanished within the vast republic. Although these institutions supplied no instruction, taxes rose with each passing day. Suddenly religious fanaticism spread through the land. With an almost medieval exaggeration, devotees invoked the Saint of Cabora. The miracles the girl worked were described in infinite ways.

  Passing through Tomochic, travelers from Sonora spoke of miracles. Journeying to the state on their pack animals, the natives returned as though from Mecca.

  The child whose paroxysms brought about cures in many suffering from nervous prostration protested in vain that she was not a saint. She only offered up thanks to God for the powers he occasionally bestowed on her. But sly political ambition and commercial savvy were fashioning the poor girl into a symbol.

  When the repressed energy of the Tomochic people was channeled into religious fervor, what gushed forth erupted with volcanic force. One particular incident tipped the latent rage against the local government into outright fury. Governor Lauro Carillo visited the church on his way through Tomochic. Enchanted by the artistry of several paintings, he tried to take them back to Chihuahua with him. But when those proud, ferocious people got wind of his designs, their indignation caused the official to leave the paintings behind.

  Forever afterward, Tomochics considered the government and its agents staunch enemies and referred to them as “ungodly sons of Lucifer.” To add insult to injury, another government official, arriving in Tomochic to carry out a judicial inquiry, took advantage of an innocent local girl and left her pregnant. Later an official from the Pinos Altos mine accused the Tomochics of being insubordinate thieves, alarming not only the minerals consortium based in London but the interim governor as well. The powder keg was packed, the fuse in place, and the spark was not long in coming.

  Word spread throughout the surrounding villages that Tomochic native José Carranza had been declared a saint. He decided to share his joy with the natives of the town by returning to Tomochic to live. Spirits were high as everyone awaited the arrival of “San José.”

  The Chávez clan was the town’s most distinguished family. They had prevailed for many years through a combination of talent, character, and ambition. On a Saturday, in an elaborate ceremony, the three Chávezes formally received St. Joseph.

  The old man arrived with his wife Mariana and his brother Bernardo, who followed behind with his rifle on his shoulder, proclaiming that he was a “soldier of Jesus Christ.”

  The following Sunday was a happy day. Mass was held and St. Joseph was ushered into the church amid a devout procession. The priest had been instructed to throw the “saint” out of the church after mass and forbid the people from practicing their unorthodox ideas and practices. He exhorted his parishioners to abandon their fanaticism and then belittled their ludicrous beliefs.

  The inborn pride of that small town was dealt a heavy blow, and a scandalous protest ensued. The popular Cruz Chávez, who until then had opposed mystical shenanigans, made a rush for the pulpit and screamed at the priest, “In the name of the almighty power of God, as his divine majesty’s police, I am telling you to leave!”

  “Death to the priest!” seconded an old woman.

  “Yes, yes … throw him out!” exclaimed one and all as the contagion spread, inflamed by the priest’s ruthless admonitions. The priest took to his heels, declaring them all possessed by the devil.

  Mayor Reyes Domínguez imposed a hefty fine on the Chávezes, who refused to pay. The employee in charge of military conscription in Pinos Altos threatened to have the rebels “sent off as soldiers.”

  They replied that the valley of Tomochic would be flooded with blood before that day came. By the time the news reached the capital of Chihuahua, it had been blown out of all proportion, as though the mountain men were involved in an armed rebellion.

  Then the high command dispatched an impressive contingent from the 11th Battalion, which was wiped out by gunfire. Some thirty Tomochic fighters headed toward Sonora, working their way down the mountain and defeating more than eighty horsemen dispatched by Colonel Torres. Now, with the booty they collected, the Chávez and Mendías fighters were better equipped and returned to Tomochic ready to stir up the entire Sierra Madre and initiate a major campaign against the government.

  At that time, Cruz was about forty years old, a tall, burly man whose face was framed by a thick, black beard. His large eyes were also black, and gleamed with a fierce tenacity that matched his obstinate spirit. He imposed his will with a commanding voice that was as serene as it was clear and dynamic.

  At eighteen years of age, Bernardo Carranza had disappeared from the village after stealing a few pesos from the Medranos, a wealthy family of the region. He had returned on several occasions, but because he disdained all work in favor of his romance with sotol, he had never been accepted again.

  His brother José was an easygoing man who owned a bit of land. He always opened his hearth and home to Bernardo, who repaid him with acts of petty thievery. José’s daughter, Julia, had been sent to Chihuahua to live with her godfather, a man José had worked for as a laborer on his hacienda near Cusihuiriachic.

  Old José had caught the fever of religious exaltation in Cusihuiriachic. He abandoned his property and his wife and set out for Cabora, where Teresa cured him of a tumor and told him exultantly that he resembled St. Joseph.

  A servant in the house of Teresa Urrea overheard a few words and began telling everyone that he was St. Joseph himself. A few days later the old idiot convinced himself that he was indeed none other than the saint, brought back to life by God. He must now go out and preach, to bring happiness to the world. He embarked on a regimen of zealous prayer, penitence, and fasting. Then he sent for Bernardo and bequeathed him his properties in Tomochic, including his second wife.

  That fateful Sunday, Bernardo Carranza and Cruz Chávez decided that Tomochic would become the capital of the reform movement, a holy place that would draw flocks of pilgrims. Bernardo’s niece Julia would be held up as a virgin with miraculous powers, and they would raise a great white flag with the slogan inscribed in red: All power to God! Death to the children of Lucifer!

  They would be “living saints” and, rifles in hand, they would spread the word throughout Chihuahua, obeying no one but God, and no laws but those of his divine majesty!

  The days went by, and not one tranquil spirit rose to bring light to the chaos, not one enlightened teacher or missionary preached to the blind, duped masses, nor were the political authorities anywhere to be found.

  From Chihuahua, young Julia was sent back to her father while the Chávezes loaded up a fleet of mules and traveled through Sonora selling cargo and pack animals. When they reached the North American border, they bought Winchester repeating rifles that fired twelve to eighteen rounds at a clip.

  It so happened that the offic
ial in charge of transporting minerals from Pinos Altos to Chihuahua had to pass through Tomochic. Fearing for his safety, he communicated the warlike mood of the town to the government. In the meantime, he resolved to avoid passing through the community altogether, giving it a wide berth as he passed through the Sierras. But those haughty mountain men were not common criminals and told the driver he had nothing to fear from them.

  The cry of alarm spread and intensified.

  In the end, a detachment from the 11th Battalion was sent in as a preventive measure and, if necessary, to put down aggressive actions while efforts were made to calm the populace. But abuses meted out by government forces aggravated the situation, spawning a mute rage that continued to simmer after calm returned.

  So the Chávezes returned, bringing arms and clothing to the village. They appropriated the corn crop and cattle of a rich, widely detested landowner, stirring things up with their slogan, Religion and Independence. They radicalized the good people of Tomochic all over again and resolved “officially” to recognize no authority but God’s. Never had there been a darker mass blindness.

  A frenzied, mystical dementia possessed the fierce sons of the mountains. A fever made up of a confusing clamor for liberty and power swept through those ignorant souls, breathing barbarous impulses into the remote tribe, cut off from the life of the nation.

  Wild atavisms were bred. Adding to the dark accumulation of rage and poverty, aggravated by the insolence of political leaders, perverse incitement was orchestrated from as far away as Chihuahua and even Mexico City.

  A rebellion in the Sierra Madre mountains of Chihuahua would upset the hard-won peace of the nation. But what was that compared to the shady ambitions of men as impotent as they were cowardly?

  What did these remote hill people want? They had no notion of the fatherland or its government, the church or its clergy. And strangest of all, this was no uncivilized tribe. They were criollos.1 Spanish and Arab blood, cruel fanaticism, and knightly valor flowed in the veins of that superb race, part Tarahuma and part Andalusían.