by John Horst
Marta shared the cryptic notes from Z and reported on what they had learned from the investigation into Dan George’s disappearance. It was at least something and the detective continued on with his inquiries.
They slept together again and Marta was once again reminded of how much she enjoyed Rebecca’s company. She slept well after staying up long after midnight, regaling Rebecca with the story of her solo hunting trip and promised to take Rebecca to the ruins as soon as Pumpkin was recovered and fit for riding again.
Marta was up early, long before everyone else, and so as not to disturb their slumber, resolved to wash her own hair out in the clear cool of the veranda. She liked washing outside. Felt like she was camping, roughing it. She’d soaped up and was full of lather when she heard the thundering hooves of a significant army and worked diligently to rinse her hair when she felt the presence of a stranger beside her. She squinted enough to see dusty black boots and big Mexican spurs. They were big, the big feet, the big boots of a big man.
She felt about for a towel and could see the man was helping, but not helping, teasing her and other men were quietly laughing all around her. She was barely dressed, barefoot and, in her haste to rinse the soap, had wetted her petticoat quite thoroughly. Now she stood on the veranda and the audience of the little army could easily see all the gifts given to her by the almighty. She was losing patience very quickly.
“Pendejo, you might think this is funny, but I don’t like soap in my eyes. Hand me my towel, now!”
“Ah, but you must say please, Señorita.”
“Please, pendejo. Please!”
“That’s better.” The big man handed her the towel and she was now able to see. She looked down at her naked form pressing through the sheer wet fabric and blinked twice. She recognized him immediately.
“Emiliano Zapata, at your service.” He laughed and the army laughed and Marta gave him a coy smile.
“I am likely the only person to ever call el Tigre a pendejo and still be alive.” Everyone laughed again. Emiliano Zapata enjoyed a good joke and he bowed to Marta and took her hand. He looked her over, not leering, but also not trying to not look. He unashamedly looked on at her as he would a beautiful work of art. Emiliano Zapata appreciated stunning women and made it his policy to never try to hide it.
“Young lady, please get dressed. My men will not want to fight, they’ll want to go for their women, you’ve given them such ideas.”
She disappeared and ran to her bedroom. She shook Rebecca awake. “Get up, Zapata is here!” Rebecca had never seen Marta in such a state. She was star struck. Of all the people in the world, she’d always hoped to meet Emiliano Zapata. She dressed quickly and walked back to the General, before so, ordering a full breakfast for the man and his army.
“General, I am sorry for calling you pendejo. I didn’t know.”
He smiled, “oh, I was a pendejo, but I like my little joke, sin offender, Señorita.”
“And none taken. What brings your army so far north, Calpuleque?” She looked them over, they were a ragtag looking bunch, but deadly and serious. They were impressive in their wildness.
Many women were along, not as camp followers or comfort women, Zapata was well known for making women soldiers, fighting soldiers and several were officers in his army. They were lovely, every one. Like an army of Chicas, an army of perfect replicas of their mother, and Marta was especially impressed with them.
“We are looking for you, Señorita, and…my friend Pancho Villa is presently in jail, so we must come up to keep the Federales busy en el Norte. There is a good train coming with many things that will be interesting to our army.”
“My hacienda is yours, Jefe.” She waved a hand over the expanse of the land. “But I am confused, you said you came to see me?”
“I have. You are a good hacendada, madam. You are the kind of land owner we wish to have help us in the rebuilding of Mexico. Your uncle Alejandro del Toro was well known as a good man, a good Jefe, and a good provider for his people, and we know you have taken up this thing. We are here to ally with you, and to ask for your help.”
Marta was fairly giddy. The man knew her, knew Uncle Alejandro. It was more exciting, this visit, than she originally thought. He was not here by happenstance, he’d come to see her. She hunched her shoulders up and grinned broadly. “We are honored to help.”
The army prepared to set up camp on the ranch as Zapata and his staff settled down to breakfast on the veranda. Rebecca appeared and the men stood to attention. She looked radiant and El Tigre smiled as he smoothed back each of his long mustaches. He gently shook her by the hand.
“Ah, Señorita Walsh, the stories of your beauty do not do you justice. And your shooting prowess, muy bien, we understand you severed the reins of a certain dog captain.”
“Oh!” Rebecca blushed. He was a fine looking man, big, big for an Indian with piercing brown eyes. He was much more handsome than his pictures in all the newspapers. “Oh, you know this captain?”
“Oh, Sí. His brains now decorate the headboard of a certain bordello in Guadalajara.”
“I see.” Rebecca blushed and looked down at her hands.
Marta was less humble about the news, “I guess he won’t be taking my head any time soon.”
Zapata waited for them to take their seats before he took his own. An assistant took his tremendous hat as he brushed his moustaches smooth. “And how is your mother, the lovely Señora Walsh?”
“Oh, she is fine, general. She is presently working on taking over the Ottoman empire.”
He looked on a little confused, then shrugged. “Well, you tell her for me, please, that if she ever wants a career as a revolutionary soldier, I will make her a colonel in my little army.” He grinned and looked on at his entourage of soldaderas. “Señorita, if women were running this revolution, it would be over by now, and there’d be fewer of the poor dead.”
Marta smiled as she passed a plate of food. They dined and chatted through morning. She was beginning to be comfortable with the great man. There was something about him, something larger than life and he exuded a kind of power and confidence, as if it emanated from him, permeated the very air they all breathed. She found herself blurting out the question, “Tell me, General, are you an anarchist?”
He sat back and laughed. “Anarchist? No, Señorita. I know, the papers like to call me that, especially Hearst. He hates me! Oh well, I am not very fond of him either, so I guess we are even. No, I needed help with my plan of Ayala, and I had some assistance from my friend Otilio, and it is true, he is an idealist, he is an anarchist, but no, I am not, Señorita. I believe in your American democracy. I believe it is okay for a man to own land, to even own a lot of land, but not so much that people are starving around him. And I don’t believe land should be stolen from people just because they are a little dark of the skin.” He laughed and held the back of his hand next to Marta’s, “like us!”
She was animated now and Rebecca sat back and enjoyed it. It looked to be the first time that Marta was truly happy in a very long time. She was smitten with the great and famous man.
He told her that he needed money and her help in the US. He needed to counter the propaganda by the Hearst and other papers. He told her how initially he was happy with Madero, but later, the new president became bogged down, too irresolute, weak, timid and now Huerta was jockeying for the presidency. He would have nothing to do with Huerta as he was a cruel man, another Díaz, and would inevitably continue down that same path. Mexico could not continue down such a path.
“When is the attack on the train, General?”
“Tomorrow.”
“And I may come along?”
“If you wish.” He looked on at Rebecca. He did not like the look in her eyes. “But I am not certain your sister thinks this is a very good idea.”
“General,” Rebecca spoke up, “Isn’t it true that your men will not let you go into battle, that you are too valuable as a strategist and a leader to actually
do the fighting, that your example is too important to lose you to the frivolity of charging into a battle?”
“Yes, this is true.” He smiled at Rebecca Walsh. He understood her well. “This is all true, Señorita Walsh.”
“So, my sister, and I. We are crucial to your cause?”
“Oh, sí, very much so, Señorita.”
“Do you feel it would be imprudent for my sister to go fighting and attacking a train? If she ends up dead, what will happen to all the good she could have done for the cause, en el Norte, and on the ranch here? We are deriving a great fortune from the land now, in oil and gas, now there is talk of gold in the northern corner of my sister’s ranch, would it not be wise to keep her safe?”
Zapata nodded, concurred. “Oh, this is all true, Señorita Walsh, this is all absolutely true.”
Marta was furious. She looked on at the two in disbelief. “I’m sorry, but have I become invisible? Have I turned into a child and didn’t know it?” Her eyes flashed in anger at the two. “I will decide when I fight and with whom.” She sat back and smoked, pouted then thought better of it. She handed Zapata a good cigar. He took it and three of his assistants offered him a cigar cutter. He trimmed the end and Marta lit it for him. She was no less angry, however.
He grinned as he puffed on the cigar. “And I thought all the spirited women were from the south, Señorita!” He was beginning to really like Marta. “But please, your sister is correct. May I suggest a compromise?”
“Such as?” She looked at him, still pouting, not wanting to hear it, but nonetheless gave him her attention.
“You come with me, stay with me. I will be directing the battle, but as your sister has said, my officers will not let me into the fray. You can keep me company and we can do our best from afar, out of harm’s way.”
Rebecca sat back with a smug look. It was like declaring checkmate. This is what she did best, keeping Marta from killing herself. She caught Marta looking at her and put on her best poker face. There was no need to gloat now, and if Marta lost her temper, she might just go ahead into battle to spite her. Rebecca was always a gracious winner.
Marta thought on all this for a moment. Perhaps it would be best. She only regretted not having a chance at battle. She always wanted to be in a proper military campaign, charging through a hail of bullets, facing death head on, and this seemed to be the perfect chance. She looked on at Rebecca.
Rebecca was always the voice of reason and she loved her for it, much as a child ultimately loves a parent for not letting them do self-destructive or dangerous or stupid things. She sidled over to Marta who looked on, off in the distance. She would not look in her sister’s direction just now.
“I see you over there, laughing up your sleeve.” She managed a little smile despite the sting of being put out of commission. “You don’t fool me for one minute, Rebecca Walsh.”
Rebecca looked back and could not help a broad grin. “Sister, I have no idea what you could mean.”
By evening the ranch was alive with activity. The army was a festive one; they were eating well, thanks to Marta’s hospitality. They were respectful of her land and kept the inevitable destruction to a minimum. An army is like a hoard of locusts, they have an insatiable appetite and leave a mess, a path of ruin, even when not doing battle, wherever they would go.
Marta looked out over the veranda and saw the many fires, illuminating the countryside like giant lightning bugs rising up from the ground. The dozens of different campfires, each their own little microcosm, various dishes, family recipes, odors of cooking food filling the air, it smelled good of good food from the south. Here and there excited and happy conversations could be heard, people were singing and playing guitars and accordions, even a few fiddles and horns. No one fired guns or acted the fool the way she remembered in the days of Sombrero del Oro. This was a disciplined little army with a real purpose and a real intent. No one was getting drunk or out of order.
Zapata watched her from a distance. He’d known of this family, heard stories about them for many years, knew of the famous Chica, the real mother of the fair one and the adopted one of their host. He sensed a certain pride in Marta’s countenance, the way she was looking out over his army and her land and could not help himself, had to engage her, had to interrupt her daydream. “Welcome home, Señorita Marta.” He touched her cheek as she turned to look him in the eye. “Welcome home.”
At full dark the girls walked arm in arm amongst the camping army. It was lovely and exciting. The army was a representation of every social stratum of Mexico. There were educated and wealthy men who dressed in tailored sack suits, even wore ties and collars, men in military uniforms, these were the deserters from the Federale army or Rurales, and then the White Cigars, the poorest of the poor. They wore the simple white peasant garb of the land, atop their heads gigantic straw sombreros. Some had crowns more than a foot high. They wore sandals, at least the lucky ones, most had nothing at all to protect their feet.
Everyone was armed, at a minimum with a Winchester and without fail, the poorest peasants had the machete, the most useful, virtually indispensable tool a peon from the south could own. The more well-to-do had a full complement of weaponry, powerful Mauser rifle, six shooters, big daga, and shotgun. They wore their cartridges on belts and bandoliers, some had as many as three, but they usually wore these only into battle, or if a camera was handy. They loved having their likenesses taken, either still or via the moving camera.
The women and children also dressed in kind. Many of the women were not warriors. Just as with the ancient armies of Europe, they were the camp followers. They took care of their husbands and children, kept everyone fed, tended to wounds, made life bearable. The children were the same. Those too young to pick up a gun were assigned the task of keeping the army alive. They foraged, hunted, cleaned, cooked, and even, on the rare occasion, played.
But it was the warrior women Marta liked and appreciated most. They were all, every one of them copies of her mother. A little army of Chicas. Many were beautiful, all were dangerous. They too came from all walks of life. Some wearing old skirts and blouses, tattered and torn, their rebozos pressed firmly against their bodies by the heavily laden cartridge belts. The single ones ran in little gangs. They were empowered by their Jefe, Emiliano Zapata. They were treated with autonomy, not the simple objects of desire, not there for the sole comfort or enjoyment or entertainment of the men.
They were taking an active role in the revolution and there was the promise, the hope that it would finally elevate the women of the country to a status equal to men. Some would make love, but on their terms, when they chose, and with whom they chose. They would never stand to be mistreated or molested, and if a man became a little too aggressive, he might find himself in significant danger. He might end up dead.
They were all gracious, welcoming, kind to Marta and Rebecca. They’d run up on them, grab them by the arm or even kiss them and call out, “welcome home, sisters. Welcome home!” It was overwhelming to Marta particularly. She’d never been so fully accepted by any group, particularly the fairer sex. The young women of Maryland, the wealthy and educated, regardless of how open-minded would invariably leave her out. It was hard-wired into them, they could not help themselves, they would always leave Marta out.
Rebecca watched her. Stood back and watched her sister glow, bask in the glory of being a woman, a Mexican woman, a powerful and influential member of this society and she knew what Marta was thinking, she knew that Marta was home and that she’d never, ever go back.
Marta caught Rebecca out of the corner of her eye. She looked over at her sister, misty-eyed and gave her a smile. “Just like Mamma.”
Rebecca responded in her best Mexican; “Sí, mi amor, al igual que mama.”
At each little campfire groups were engaged in singing their own corridos. The sisters wandered along, stopping here and there and eventually ended up at the largest gathering. This one boasted a musical band with strings, a couple
of horns, many guitars and three accordions. When they’d completed a particularly festive song Rebecca requested Adelita and they were soon playing with great enthusiasm. She looked on at Marta, grasped her by the hand and they began:
In the heights of a steep mountainous range
a regiment was encamped
and a bright woman bravely follows them
madly in love with the sergeant.
Popular among the troop was Adelita
the woman that the sergeant idolized
and besides of being pretty she was brave
that even the Colonel respected her.
And it was heard, that he, who loved her so much, said:
If Adelita would like to be my girlfriend
If Adelita would be my wife
I'd buy her a silk dress
to take her dance to the quarter.
If Adelita would leave with another man
I'd follow her by land and sea
by sea in a war ship
by land in a military train…
Others soon joined in and helped them with several stanzas they had not heard before. That was the way with corridos; they took on a life of their own. Some could go on for more than an hour and never repeat the same verse twice.
They finished to applause and cheers. Many of the men threw their heads back and gave the carcajada, the high piercing screaming laugh of the people of the south. The girls were celebrities now as it was one thing to be beautiful but all together another to be able to sing so sweetly.
Soon they were given great cups of pulque and the world was beginning to swim all around them. It was one of the grandest evenings they’d spent in a long time and Rebecca hated to tear herself away, but she had to get to Curtin.