“Nothing, my man. Don’t worry. Everything’s over; they’ve just executed them … an act of mercy … to put them out of their misery!”
“But who?”
“Who do you think? The last of the Tomochic fighters.”
And so it was. They were gunned down while drawing their last breath, their bleeding bodies and ragged clothes still smoking. “Blessed God!” murmured one of the soldiers, sinking to his knees and making the sign of the cross.
With the death of the last Tomochic fighter, the Tomochic campaign came to an end.
That afternoon work crews were designated to incinerate the dead lying in the valley and the foothills of the mountains. They were piled one on top of the other and then set afire. The burning mounds spewed thick, foul-smelling smoke that invaded the entire valley of Tomochic. When the supply of kindling was exhausted, human oils kept the evil piles burning, scattering parts, transforming the incinerated bodies, blackening the naked skulls with their empty eye sockets and open mouths. Out of the dripping guts rose little violet-colored tongues of flame. The air smelled of rags and burned hair, fried skin, nauseating rot and human excrement. And instead of buzzards, pigs.
That afternoon, sickened and despondent, with his mind on Julia, Miguel was about to interrogate some female prisoners who were taking water to the sick women. But just then the forces of the Ninth were commanded to regroup in a house at the foot of the mountainside, outside the nucleus of ruins, at the far end of the valley.
The Eleventh, Twelfth, and Twenty-fourth and the general staff set up camp in spacious corrals near Cerro de Medrano hill. The Sonoran Nationals, the dragoons of public security, and the squad of men remaining in the 5th Regiment camped nearby. Meanwhile, the Fifth became responsible for rounding up the horses, mules, asses, cattle, and sheep recovered from the abandoned fields.
The women went into the houses destroyed by gunfire and bloodshed and fearlessly looted them, taking whatever they could get their hands on, even exposing themselves to the risk that a ceiling might come tumbling down on their heads. They had never been so happy! Predatory instincts set free, claws out and mouths agape, the heroines were transformed into harpies again.
Having been supplied with a horse and field saddle, Second Lieutenant Mercado was posted near the general. His mission was to deliver his orders that night to the new headquarters of the Ninth, located about a mile and a half from general headquarters.
To deliver the orders from the general, he had to pass straight through the ruins and smoldering fires of the destroyed city. Eyes wild, and with agitated abandon, Miguel contemplated the macabre scene, straight out of Dante’s inferno, as he galloped along avoiding the piles of burning bodies. From time to time, from somewhere deep within, he felt a dark thrill at the sight of such desolation, such carnage.
Before setting out, Mercado had downed a half liter of sotol in two gulps. Mounted on a frisky horse that was raring to go at his slightest touch, he felt almost like a high-flying bird of prey cruising over the site of such catastrophe.
Half delirious on sotol and his quixotic nature, Mercado vividly remembered the Apache scalps hanging down from the lances of the Chihuahua horsemen. In a flash, he was riding in a nightmare.
The cold gusts of wind ripping by sang in Mercado’s ears, and, as if infected with the madness of Tomochic, he ripped off his kepi. Inebriated, feeling himself to be the luckiest of men, the second lieutenant dug his spurs hard into the horse’s flanks and flung his savage war cry into the lonely silence: “Sotol and kerosene! Hurrah! Long live death!”
CHAPTER 38
The Saint of Cabora
Ace of spades in the hole,” the captain of the national troops said gravely. With my cards I’ll finish ’em off.”
Castorena shrieked, tapping out an obscene jingle while Mercado, seated in the middle of a tightly packed circle of officers, handed over a fistful of small bills.
“The luck of that hack poet,” a lieutenant fumed.
“If that clown doesn’t get out of here, we won’t continue,” growled the captain. “Out with the poet. Throw him out.”
“Get out! Get out!” yelled several impatient officers in unison: the second lieutenant’s histrionics were imperiling the game.
A smattering of officers, representing all divisions, had gathered to play monte. A gray blanket rolled out in the center of the large, dusty stable—the “senior officers’ pavilion”—served as carpet. The eminent captain sat cross-legged on the carpet, guzzling sotol, one shot after another, and dealing monte to amuse the boys.
For the most part, the rascals arranged themselves in a circle on the carpet, sitting on sheepskins or on their own capes, while a few remained standing and placed bets. Among the latter, Miguel stood and sought out new thrills in the excitement of the betting.
A tipsy Castorena sprinted here and there, drinking, singing, and dancing all at once. Using Mercado to play for him, he was enjoying a streak of luck, which exasperated the old captain no end. Trimmed in gold braid, the captain’s huge brimmed hat struck an exotic, colorful note amid the dusty flaps of the officers’ kepis.
“One of my pesos is missing! One of my pesos is missing!” the poet shouted suddenly, leaving off his mad antics to count his bills again. “Hey, old philosopher, did you pocket it? Sir, one of my pesos is missing!”
“I’d say you have a screw loose somewhere!”
“Throw that sad hanger-on out of here!”
“King and a jack … Put your money out in the open, sirs. Please sit back from the table … money talks.”
“The jack! The beautiful little jack.” Enthusiastically, Castorena began to improvise:
Sotol puts me right out of whack
In the midst of my dancing and pleasure
Good sirs, since my hand has the jack
I’ll bet all of Cruz Chávez’s treasure.
Nobody laughed. The mention of the sad hero’s name fell heavily in the midst of the pandemonium. Nor was the silence followed by the usual displays of bravado and peals of laughter, as had occurred earlier when the poet had coarsely toasted the destruction of the town. Rather, there was a mute show of respect for the unfortunate Cruz Chávez.
Miguel began to feel his anger rise and his repugnance for Castorena return. The second lieutenant now viewed him as puny and vulgar, an unworthy clown whose face was a grotesque parody. The man couldn’t understand that the fleeting instant of death had transformed Cruz the rogue into Cruz the hero. “No one but a coward makes fun at the expense of a dead hero.” The second lieutenant spat the words in Castorena’s face.
“Brother, you may be right, but you know I’m tired of all the new work they’re thinking up for us, like digging up the treasure of Tomochic as though it were another Tenochtitlán!”
Miguel, angry, was on the verge of moving away. The extinction of the Tomochic race made him tremble. Then Castorena, with a hint of affection for this poor devil, stopped the sad, pensive officer in his tracks, asking impetuously, “Do you want a drink of cognac? I mean the real thing, brought in specially for the general?”
“Cognac?” Miguel conceded at once, vanquished by his vice.
Pulling Miguel aside, Castorena produced a mysterious flask. The two officers took turns quaffing its contents down. “Oh man … it is cognac!”
“You better believe it. You can’t get anything better, not even in Mexico City. Seriously, Mercado, I got me this fine poison in exchange for treasure from Tomochic that I found this morning on work detail at the church.”
“Treasure from Tomochic?
“I swear to it! The Saint of Cabora! Not in the flesh … that would have been even better! But a statuary! A Pima guard escorting the convoy from Guerrero offered me the cognac in exchange for the icon from his homeland. Both of us came out ahead!”
Miguel, now a submissive captive to the man he had moments before dismissed as a fool, turned pensive when he heard that reverential name, Santa Cabora. It was her image alone th
at had inspired the obstinate, gritty people from Tomochic. They had claimed the right to thrive and prosper, to inspire other hearty Mexicans.
Teresita of Cabora! Mercado asked himself if her visions were hallucinations. The vibrant and above all tenacious girl with her disturbing eyes, stimulating and wild as a mixture of whiskey and gunpowder at times, at others benevolent, calm, and sleep inducing as opium smoke.
The Saint of Cabora! Had her burning, eloquent eyes—whose radiance shone like a halo round her face, instilling miraculous faith in the poor pilgrims from faraway mountain villages—incited the mountain peoples of Sonora, Sinaloa, and Chihuahua to spark rebellions and disturbances that could only be quenched in flames and bloodshed?
Was she nothing but a delicately wrought instrument, a mirror, manipulated in the dark by hidden hands, through whose sparkling play of facets and edges those strong, unschooled men—heroic, ignorant rustics—could unleash from their mountain fortress a terrible war of Mexicans against Mexicans in the name of God Almighty?
Santa Teresa of Cabora!
Little Teresita Urrea? Humble daughter of northern Sinaloa, born and raised in Sonora on the threshold of a dark theater of war with the hateful war cries of the rebellious Yaqui ringing in her ears. Was it she who later instilled mystic delirium in the naive, terrible soul of Tomochic, inspiring her people to pick up their Winchester rifles? Was it her madness that gave birth to that lunatic slogan, “In the name of the great power of God”?
What role had the poor hysterical girl played, her seizures instilling such warlike intoxication in the wild, solitary men of the mountains? In the primitive and mysterious Tomochic rebellion—a rebellion of epic proportions—what unconscious role had she played?
Teresita Urrea, Santa Cabora.
What twisted spirits had transformed that sweet, sick girl into a volcano spewing lightning flashes, cascades of blood, ice, tears, and venom, transfiguring her into a flag of hatred and massacre, a dangerous red banner signed with a black cross?
What unworthy Mexicans unleashed a civil war for purely selfish motives but weren’t brave enough to fight in it? Could they even claim to know how to die for their cause?
This was what Miguel was thinking, to the astonishment of Castorena, who thought he had gone mad.
CHAPTER 39
Julia Was Dead, Then
Serving as an auxiliary, Second Lieutenant Mercado was ordered to do security guard duty at six in the evening. Accordingly, he reported to the courtyard and reviewed the troops detailed for the duty. “Attention, lookouts,” yelled Mercado in a harsh voice. The order was repeated by a sergeant, his second in command. When the regulation review was complete, Miguel stopped at the gate.
October 30 was a splendid day. There had been heavy frost on the ground at dawn, but now the sun was shining in a pure blue sky—revealing the spectacle of disaster throughout the countryside. The second lieutenant felt sadder than ever as he looked out over the ruins. The desolate razed dwellings were abandoned to their fate, and the ruins of what had once been the church belched black plumes of smoke and silently burned away.
That same morning, after dining on a few pieces of beef with boiled potatoes and a meager cup of hot coffee (he bought the meals from the soldaderas), he led a contingent of twenty men to excavate the church in hopes of unearthing treasure among the church ruins. What they actually found, however, was mangled corpses, old bells, singed pieces of paper, portraits of the Saint of Cabora, and scraps of metal.
Another work crew was in charge of digging out the “little barracks.” They unearthed the corpses of men, women, and children, as well as guns, rifles, bayonets, pistols, uncounted burned cartridges, and a lieutenant colonel’s kepi. Without a doubt the kepi had belonged to Lieutenant Colonel Ramírez, taken prisoner at Tomochic. Later, in a brilliant move, the Tomochic chief had proudly set him free.
On the walls of the roofless dwellings the marks left by the lead bullets and the multiple pits left by the cannonballs were visible, showing that the projectiles from the little cannon were of scant use against thick adobe walls.
Considering the number of shells and boxes of grapeshot aimed at the town, the damage was relatively minor. Did the cannon have a corrosive effect on Cruz Chávez’s morale? Not in the slightest, or maybe it had the opposite effect. It was rumored that Cruz Chávez had referred to the little cannon as the “devil’s monocle.” And Pedro Chaparro used an equally randy term when he spoke of it.
The devastation caused by the fire was by far the most depressing sight. Only two dwellings were still standing in all Tomochic—per orders from on high.
The slow incineration of the corpses ended with the winds raising the ashes and fanning the flames of the funeral pyres. Hungry pigs circled round, grunting dully, and eagerly set upon any unburned human flesh. The sight of the feeding pigs was so repugnant to the soldaderas that they refused to fry with pork shortening or eat pig meat: the pigs had consumed human flesh!
The second lieutenant recalled the Oaxacan sergeant’s story. In his mind’s eye he witnessed it all over again: the pigs and dogs clashing over the corpses in Tomochic. Now the scrawny, whimpering dogs wandered from house to house fruitlessly seeking their masters. Howling piteously at the soldiers, they ran in the other direction when they saw them, their tails between their legs. Nor were they seduced by the pieces of meat the soldiers threw to them. No matter how hungry they were, they refused to eat it.
Meanwhile, the 9th Battalion occupied former mayor Reyes Domínguez’s place, which was located just outside the main hub. The dwelling had been left intact because Domínguez was one of the few who hadn’t joined the rebel chief, although he was Cruz Chávez’s brother-in-law.
Long before the conflagration, Reyes Domínguez had left for Guerrero City. Now he was living with his family and an old Frenchman who had once been schoolmaster in Tomochic. He too had fled a valley in the grip of frenzy and madness.
When Domínguez was apprised of the war’s outcome, he left for Tomochic immediately and reached his home in a day and a half. When he arrived, he found that his livestock had disappeared and his storehouse was empty. The general, however, generously repaid this exceptional citizen’s intelligence reports.
Meanwhile, the troops recouped in their tranquil quarters. No more tumultuous festivities, no further mourning the dead. The men chatted pleasantly and analyzed recent events, their women at their sides, as though they were in their barracks in Mexico City. Several were taking this opportunity to honeymoon with the widows of the 11th Battalion, who were no better—and no worse—than the women of the 9th.
At five in the afternoon all the women and children who had been taken prisoner were transported to Reyes Domínguez’s house. The sight of this procession stirred the men’s compassion. Miguel began to tremble with happiness when he learned that the sickly flock was to be lodged in the house occupied by the Ninth. There would be news of his Julia! He would see her, perhaps even kiss her chastely and purely, not with his lips but with his soul, as he would kiss an unhappy sister.
To be as close to the parade of female prisoners as possible, Miguel Mercado positioned himself in the old doorway. Observing them, he could hardly contain his emotion. The pathetic women dragged themselves along but held themselves erect. At least they had eaten, washed, and dressed. And the wounded had been attended to.
Now General Rangel became magnanimous; a veteran of war, he was not ashamed to cry openly for these innocent victims of his men’s madness. As general, he was implacable with the Tomochic fighters but as a man he was generous and solicitous of the war orphans and widows.
In the deepest recesses of his proud soul, Miguel expressed his gratitude to the general, for the sake of Julia. In his mind he substituted a sympathetic “Hurrah for General Rangel” for the “Hurrah for the 9th Battalion!”
As the captives passed silently by, a cold shock passed through him. Julia was not among them. He checked the women’s faces as they filed past, fully exp
osed. No, he didn’t recognize Julia. She had died, after all.
Bringing up the rear of the sad procession, two Pima Indians carried an improvised stretcher. “Who do you have there?” Miguel asked.
“One of their women. She’s dying,” they responded.
So Julia had died.
CHAPTER 40
Chapultepec, Chapultepec
At six o’clock that evening, Miguel relieved the guard on duty at Reyes Dominguez’s house, which had been converted into a combination barracks for the 9th Battalion and sanctuary and prison for the surviving families of Tomochic.
The officers’ correspondence had arrived from Concepción, Guerrero, an hour earlier; with the campaign at an end, normal life had resumed. In fact, an adjutant on guard duty delivered a letter to the second lieutenant. Who could be writing to him, he wondered? He had no friends, no creditors, no sweethearts.
By now night had fallen. In the dim glow of a lamp hanging from the high stone archway in the hall, he made out the writing on the envelope. “Mama, poor dear Mama,” he whispered. Feelings of tenderness overwhelmed him and he felt his dark, fatalistic mood lift. Reproaching himself, he mused … so there was someone who was thinking of him, who hadn’t abandoned him. He wasn’t all alone in the world. Pulling his kepi from his head to better see the writing in the dim yellow light, he tore open the envelope and read:
Tenth of October, 1892
My beloved son,
I hope the change of garrison has cheered you some and that your health is better. They say that Chihuahua has a very temperate climate. How is your health? Are you all right?
At first I thought I shouldn’t even write to you, only to make you feel more bitter, but sadly I have to confess that I owe allegiance to another. My husband Leandro has come back and he’s very repentant. He is taking me abroad, far away from Mexico, God only knows where. Be good, forgive your mother who loves you with all her heart. I’ll write to you.
The Battle of Tomochic_The Battle of Tomochic Memoirs of a Second Lieutenant Page 23