So Far From God

by John Harris

  The station meal was indifferent and the place was empty except for one other man, who sat slumped over his plate.

  ‘George Wiley, of the Post,’ he introduced himself. ‘I met you in Nogales in 1913 when we were all interviewing Carranza.’

  He was also staying at the hotel and when Slattery had finished eating they persuaded the woman who ran the restaurant to send for a taxi to take them there. When it arrived, they piled inside but Wiley had been drinking whisky and was slow moving and slurred of speech and had difficulty climbing into his seat. The driver also seemed to have been drinking because the vehicle moved only slowly and uncertainly along the dark streets. As it neared the hotel, Wiley was slumped half-asleep in his seat.

  Slattery was just wondering once more what Graf was doing in the town when suddenly he heard the roar of an engine and the interior of the taxi was flooded with a yellow glow as the headlights of a car swung on to it. Turning, he saw a big black Dodge roaring towards them. As it drew nearer, he heard the crash of guns and the rear window fell in. Immediately, the taxi driver heaved on the brake and dived out of the door.

  ‘Murder,’ he screamed.

  ‘Get out!’ Slattery yelled at Wiley, and dived after the driver into the darkness of an alley. But Wiley was slow with the drink he had taken. He had just sat bolt upright when a flung grenade exploded and the taxi’s petrol tank went up in a flare of flame. Horrified, Slattery heard the screams from the centre of the holocaust and he saw Wiley’s clothes and hair were on fire. He struggled to open the door on Wiley’s side to drag him out but the explosion had jammed it shut and as Wiley collapsed a policeman came pounding up in his shabby uniform, spats and képi.

  ‘There’s a man in there,’ Slattery yelled.

  Though they tried to reach the reporter, the door remained jammed and the heat forced them back, their faces and clothes scorched, their hands blistered. By the time the fire brigade arrived it was too late. Burning tyres were sending up thick columns of black smoke and the interior of the vehicle was only a red glow in the centre of which they could see Wiley’s shrivelled body.

  Slattery had assumed the attack had been over some private dispute involving the taxi driver, something to do with the poaching of fares, but as he watched from the darkness of a doorway he became aware of a group of men who had appeared in the roadway. He recognised them at once as Germans.

  ‘Who was he?’ the policeman asked, indicating the shrunken shape in the rear seat of the burning vehicle.

  One of the men stepped forward. ‘His name was Slattery,’ he said. ‘An English agent and a murderer. He was stirring up trouble in Mexico. He won’t be much missed.’

  Throughout the night, Slattery was occupied with wondering what Graf had been up to in Torreón and why he had been so thorough in his attempt to have him murdered. He made sure his door was locked and with daylight sent for a cab to take him to the police station where he sorted out the identification of the victim of the fire.

  ‘It would be easy to make the mistake,’ the police sergeant said with a shrug. ‘There’s not much left of him.’

  Taking the taxi to the station, Slattery kept well to the back of the dusty waiting room as he waited for the train north, sitting where he could see everyone who appeared.

  There was a strong wind blowing when he reached Chihuahua city, sweeping clouds of red dust from the slopes of the Sierra Madre. Murguía had arrived just ahead of him and the station staff had it that Villa was close by.

  Despite Carranza’s claim to have the country under control, he had never completely tamed Morelos and Chihuahua. In Morelos the fierce attempts to quell Zapata had always resulted in him striking back with equal ferocity. There had been no more success with Villa, who was steadily building up his strength yet again. He had an incredible ability to conjure armies out of the earth, and an attack on Ojinaga had once more driven the government garrison across the border into Texas in a panic-stricken flight. Now it seemed that, newly reinforced and newly armed, he was about to show Carranza just how little tamed he was.

  The station forecourt was full of Murguía’s soldiers and the last of their wagons were just leaving the station. Magdalena was surprised to see him but overjoyed at his appearance. She was just on the point of going to the Cathedral.

  ‘To kneel for a few minutes to pray for our happiness,’ she said. ‘I’m going to tell Hermann to call off New York. There are more important things in life than success as a singer.’

  She was in a strange mood and he sensed that as usual she was talking to hide some anxiety. He said nothing of his meeting with her brother and stood beside her in the Cathedral, in an atmosphere of ancient stone and decaying incense. As she prayed, her hand reached out to his and pulled him to his knees beside her.

  A cab took them back to the house. Victoria, the housekeeper, eyed Slattery nervously. Magdalena still seemed uneasy and worried and eventually he pulled her to him.

  ‘Magdalena,’ he said sharply. ‘What is it? Something’s troubling you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve known you long enough to know that’s not the truth. What is it?’

  It took her a long time to tell him.

  ‘Fausto came.’

  Slattery was alert at once. ‘To this house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was out. Victoria was alone at the time.’

  Slattery was suspicious at once. With Villa at nearby Carrizal and Graf in Chihuahua, something was brewing and if Graf was prepared to go as far as murder it was probably important.

  ‘He tried to kill me, Magdalena,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘Again?’

  He showed her his bandaged hands and explained what had happened. Her face showed her shock and horror.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No. But I suspect he thinks I’m dead. What did he want here? He’s not in this part of the country for nothing. Get Victoria in.’

  The housekeeper cringed as Slattery questioned her but she swore she didn’t know what Graf had wanted. ‘He asked for Doña Magdalena,’ she wailed. ‘When I said she wasn’t here, he left.’

  ‘Jesús.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’m going to the telegraph office. Take care of Doña Magdalena.’

  It was just growing dark as he found a cab. Graf’s appearance close to the border at a time when Villa was expected could only mean trouble and, in view of what they had learned of German plans, he knew Horrocks would want to be warned of any movement of German agents.

  He had just finished sending the wire when he heard the crack of a small cannon, a burst of musketry and wild yells. Then a car full of men in wide sombreros and festooned with cartridge belts roared past outside. They were shooting wildly and a bullet struck the window alongside him, knocking out the glass.

  ‘Qué viva Villa!’ they were yelling as they disappeared.

  ‘Oh, God’ – Slattery spoke out loud – ‘not him!’

  Nine

  It soon became clear that the attack on Chihuahua City was being led by Villa in person. The major thrust seemed to be along the Avenida Colon and it seemed very much as if the whole of the invading force was between Slattery and Magdalena’s house.

  The attack couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time and he knew he mustn’t become involved. Horrocks would need him back in Mexico City where the biggest coup that had come out of the war still awaited their attention.

  Making his way down a side street through the hurrying people seeking shelter, he found himself surrounded by a crowd which jammed the narrow alley to its walls. They were mostly youngsters itching to get into the fight, and there was the sound of glass being broken as windows were knocked in. But then a car drew up and the crowd scattered like mist in a wind. The man in the car was General Murguía, and behind him appeared a regiment of Federal troops. As he stepped to the pavement, he saw Slattery at once.

  ‘What are you doing
here?’

  It was obvious he suspected treachery but Slattery managed to explain.

  ‘So you are to marry La Graf?’ Murguía said, nodding. ‘You are a lucky man. But I’d advise you to stay off the streets or she might find herself widowed even before you have put the ring on her finger.’ He gestured to the north. ‘It’s Villa. Pancho the Pistol. I was warned. If you see him, tell him Pancho the Rope is coming.’

  As he vanished, Slattery allowed himself to be borne along by the press of people. One of Murguía’s officers advanced, pistol in hand, accompanied by a couple of soldiers, and the crowd backed away silently, unwilling to give ground. Chihuahua was Villa’s state and always had been, and Chihuahua City had always been his capital. The two soldiers spotted Slattery among the shoving people and as they moved towards him, he stood still, raising his hands to indicate he wasn’t armed.

  As he did so, the crowd surged forward and the officer started lashing out with his pistol. An infuriated workman hit back with a spade and, as the officer staggered back, Slattery brought his arms round to sweep the two soldiers together with a crash. Their heads clicked like billiard balls, and, as they sank at his feet, the crowd surged forward. The rifles were snatched up and he saw the officer’s képi fly into the air, then the shouting became the baying of wild dogs scenting a prey. As the officer’s body was dragged away, already half-stripped and covered with blood, the crowd surrounded Slattery and tried to hoist him to their shoulders. Shocked by the sudden bloody violence that had resulted from what had been no more than an attempt to escape, he pushed them away, and they started to chip with pickaxes at the cobbles, lifting them for brickbats. The bodies of the two soldiers already hung from a tree, one by its feet. The officer lay in the gutter and an old woman with a hole in her stocking ground her heel in the dead face, then ran off in a hurried scuttle, her expression full of shame and guilt and hatred.

  The shouting had died now, and there was the sort of hush that comes before a tumult, so that the creak of a shutter above their heads seemed to have an extra significance. Then Slattery heard the tramp of disciplined feet and the crowd, which was beginning to gather again, started to panic. They all seemed to be pushing different ways at once, then a man stumbled and fell, a girl fell on top of him and, as they heard the clatter of musketry, the group began to splinter as men and women flung themselves down.

  For a moment the noise died then Slattery heard a machine gun firing and saw plaster falling as bullets chinked against the walls. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw Murguía moving with his men up the Avenida Independencia. They tramped forward in silence and, in the distance, lit by flames, he saw sombreros and stetsons and guessed Villa had dug himself in.

  Swinging into the Calle Jiménez, he headed for the railway station in an attempt to reach Magdalena’s house by a roundabout route. The din was tremendous now and the sky was red with flames. Engine sheds were on fire and boxcars standing in the sidings were blazing furiously. The Villistas were at the end of the Avenida Pacheca but he managed to slip between them, and Magdalena’s house appeared at last, lit up by the glare.

  There was a motor car outside, its engine running, and as he hurried forward he heard a shout – ‘No! No! You can’t come in!’ He recognised Jesús’ voice at once and the sudden alarm in his mind set him running.

  ‘You snivelling Indian filth! Get out of the way!’

  The door was wide open and Jesús, holding his gun, was standing in front of the stairs, Magdalena behind him, her face shocked and horrified. At first Slattery thought the Villistas had invaded the house but, as he burst inside, he saw the intruder was Fausto Graf and he was also holding a gun. As he saw Slattery, he whirled on his heel and fired blindly, without thought, without aiming. The bullet struck the fleshy part of the calf of Slattery’s injured leg, knocking it from under him and spinning him round to fling him to the ground. As he fell, he heard another shot and a cry, then Magdalena’s shriek as she flung herself between them.

  Then the shooting at the end of the street swelled up and there were shouts and, as he struggled to sit up, Slattery just managed to catch a glimpse of Graf by the door before he vanished. Finding he wasn’t badly hurt, he tried to get to his feet and, as he did so, he saw Victoria with her hands to her face, her eyes wide with horror. Turning, he saw Jesús stretched on the floor. His chest was covered with blood and he realised where Graf’s second shot had gone.

  Struggling across to the boy, Slattery bent over him. As he did so, his eyes opened.

  ‘I tried, sir,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, you did, Jesús.’

  ‘I tried to stop him.’

  ‘You did stop him, Jesús. He’s gone. Doña Magdalena is safe.’

  As Slattery looked up, Magdalena, her face chalk white, was just pushing Victoria out of the door.

  ‘I’ve sent for the doctor,’ she said.

  Slattery reached out two fingers to close the boy’s eyelids.

  ‘There’s no need for a doctor, Magdalena,’ he said quietly, ‘Jesús is dead.’

  When the doctor arrived, Magdalena, hardly able to see for tears, had succeeded in staunching the bleeding in Slattery’s leg. They had carried Jesús into the salon and laid him on a chaise-longue but the doctor wasted no time over him before turning to Slattery’s injury.

  ‘You’re alive,’ he said bluntly. ‘He isn’t. This is nothing serious. You’ll live, and there’ll be plenty worse than this today.’ He straightened up and glanced at Jesús. ‘I’ll write a certificate. But you’ll not need it. There’ll be many more.’

  As he left, Slattery rose to his feet, his trouser leg slit to the knee. It was possible to stand, even to walk. Magdalena lifted her eyes to him, her expression agonised. Though she allowed him to put his arms round her, she remained fiercely in control.

  ‘He was like a son,’ she whispered. ‘And he was so proud that he had made something of himself.’

  As he held her, Slattery’s eyes were moving about the room. Through his grief for the boy, he felt something was wrong. There were things that needed explaining. ‘Where’s Victoria?’ he asked abruptly.

  Grey-faced, her eyes rolling, the housekeeper was found hiding in the pantry. As Slattery dragged her out, she collapsed into a paroxysm of wailing and he had to slap her to bring her to her senses. Watched by a shocked and silent Magdalena, he began to question her.

  ‘Don Fausto! Why did he come here?’

  ‘To see Doña Magdalena, your honour.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. He was in too much of a hurry. There has to be a better reason than that. Why?’

  It required another slap to make her go on.

  ‘It was the suitcase, your honour.’

  ‘Which suitcase?’

  ‘He left it here when Doña Magdalena went to Carrizal. I was alone and he made me take it. He said he was being followed by an American agent and had to get rid of it for a while. I put it in the cupboard in my room.’

  ‘Where’s this suitcase now?’

  ‘It’s still there, your honour. Jesús wouldn’t let him in the house for it.’

  ‘Fetch it,’

  It was an old and battered suitcase, with straps round it and a plethora of labels, as though Graf had enjoyed boasting about his travels. As Slattery forced it open, he saw it was full of files and papers, and immediately realised it contained the secrets of the German diplomatic campaign in Mexico. Everything seemed to be there – the involvement at Veracruz, at Santa Ysabela, at Columbus, at Cartizal, all set out and listed for Eckhardt, the German Minister in Mexico City.

  He pushed the case aside and turned to find Magdalena sitting silently in a chair, her brows down, her eyes far away. He had no idea what she was thinking.

  ‘We must arrange for Jesús to be buried,’ she said in a flat voice.

  ‘I can attend to that.’

  ‘He was murdered. They can hang Fausto for this.’

  ‘He’s been asking for it for a long time.’


  He poured her a brandy and handed it to her.

  ‘Let me think,’ she said. ‘I need to be alone for a little while. I’ll go to my room.’

  Still rigidly in control, she disappeared and he turned again to the suitcase. Horrocks would need some sort of summary of its contents. But everything was there, clear and undeniable, for everyone to see. It all seemed to be contained in two large files headed Deutschland, Carranza Und Die Mexikanische Revolution and Die Deutsche Politik in Mexiko. It was all set out, even the German attempts to involve the Japanese, in a third, smaller file entitled Die Gelbe Gefahr. There were documents of the Iron Cross Society and the Union of German Citizens in Mexico, and a list of funds passed to them from Berlin. It contained names, memos, and copies of instructions to German officers in Nuevo Laredo to organise Mexican raids into US territory, of supplies bought for the Mexicans by the German consul in Chihuahua who had crossed and recrossed the border between El Paso and Ciudad Juárez about his business. From San Salvador there were reports of German ex-officers and details of exactly where they were, of the hotels where they stayed in Mexico City, Torreón and Monterrey, of the Carrancista officers with whom they associated.

  There were reports of attempts to persuade the Mexicans that Wilson was anti-Catholic, of Germans buying ships’ coal on the west coast, of the Germans behind Carranza’s call for an embargo on all war supplies to the allies in Europe. There were details of the German-inspired revolt in Cuba which had bothered Slattery; of the influx of German reservists from North and South America into Mexico. There were even notes that revealed that Graf’s patriotism hadn’t been sufficient on its own for what he’d been involved in. He had been cheating Berlin of cash. Finally, there was a blue notebook which seemed to be some sort of signal log because it itemised every telegram Graf had handled – instructions concerning Columbus and Santa Ysabel, even the train disaster that had so worried Villa. And there, at the end, was an item that leapt out at Slattery as he read. ‘Telegram seen and noted. Passed to Werta for action and returned to Minister Eckhardt.’ Following was a gleeful note. ‘Enough to start a war on this side of the Atlantic.’