by Matt Braun
From the garrison, Gordon walked to the hotel. In his room, he took a steamy bath, then stropped his straight razor and shaved a two-day growth of stubble. He changed into one of the lightweight tropical worsted suits he had bought shortly after his arrival in Brownsville. Since yesterday, he’d begun carrying his personal sidearm, a Colt Model 1911 automatic in .45 caliber. The pistol was snugged tight in a cross-draw holster cinched to his belt.
Maddox found him in the hotel dining room, finishing a late lunch. The dining room was almost empty, and after Maddox ordered coffee, he briefed Gordon on the arrangements for Matamoras. The key operative was Hector Martinez, a Mexican national who at various times had been a gunrunner for Villa and an informant for the Rangers. Martinez supported Villa and Zapata, and loathed both Huerta and Carranza. His political ideology, and his mercenary nature, made him the perfect undercover operative.
Martinez’s sister, Guadalupe Palaez, would act as the conduit for intelligence information. Her husband, a Villa soldado, had been killed when Carranza’s forces overran Matamoras last year. To protect her three-year-old son, Antonio, she had crossed the border and now lived in Brownsville. The third operative was Manuel Vargas, the younger cousin of Martinez and Guadalupe. The entire family opposed anyone who threatened Mexico, or the welfare of Tejanos in Texas. They had agreed to work for a flat rate of three hundred dollars a month.
“We could do lots worse,” Maddox concluded. “They’re family, so they won’t sell one another out. And they got real hot when I told ’em about the Germans. Saw right away it’d only hurt Mexico in the end.”
“It sounds good,” Gordon said, thoughtful a moment. “Are you sure we can trust them?”
“Dead certain,” Maddox said flatly. “They try to double-cross us and I’ll kill ’em. I made that clear before I explained the job.”
“I’d say that’s as good a basis for trust as any. When can I meet them?”
“We’re set for eight tonight. Ought to be dark by the time we get to Mextown.”
The southwest corner of Brownsville was known to Anglos as Mextown. There, near the river, Mexicans and Tejanos lived in a warren of adobe homes and unpaved streets. Guadalupe Palaez’s house was a four-room adobe, located hardly a stone’s throw from the banks of the Rio Grande. She greeted them at the door that evening, and Gordon could scarcely contain a look of surprise. She was in her early twenties, with lovely oval features, an olive complexion, and dark, lustrous hair. Her loose-fitting dress did nothing to hide her sumptuous figure.
Hector Martinez was stoutly built, alert and observant, with a sweeping handlebar mustache. The cousin, Manuel Vargas, was shorter and clean-shaven, with a quick smile and a deferential manner. There was no sign of Guadalupe’s son, and Gordon assumed she had already put the boy to bed. After everyone was introduced, they took seats around a small dining table lit by a kerosene lamp. Maddox, to set the right tone, once again explained that Gordon was in charge of the operation.
“We have much to discuss,” Gordon said, nodding around the table. “Sergeant Maddox tells me you speak English.”
“Oh, yes,” Martinez said with an affable smile. “Here or across the river, ever’body talk a little inglés. Just don’t use the big words, por favor.”
“All right, no big words.”
Gordon briefed them on what was needed. He wanted one of the men to maintain a watch on the German consulate at all times. The movements of Otto Mueller, as well as Augustin Garza, were of particular interest. The other man would have the more dangerous assignment, infiltrating the inner ranks of Garza’s rebel organization. To ensure the security of the operation, all routine matters would be channeled through Guadalupe. They would meet only when the men had something imperative to report.
“Bueno,” Martinez said when he finished. “Manuel will watch the Germans like a hawk. His is a face even the ugly chicas don’t remember. Me, I will find a way to get close to this Garza.”
“Garza is no fool,” Gordon said seriously. “You will have to be sly—uh, clever—to deceive him.”
“Aiiii caramba!” Martinez spread his hands with a toothy grin. “I am clever like the fox, señor. You will see.”
Gordon thought there was a fine line between confidence and overconfidence. He started to say something more, then decided to let it go. Hector Martinez looked like he had nerve enough for a dozen men.
Soon enough, they would find out if he was clever as well.
Garza crossed the International Bridge shortly after eight o’clock. Matamoras was quiet and dark except for the main plaza, where bars and nightspots attracted a crowd every evening. His mind was elsewhere and he ignored the people, the melodic strain of guitars.
On Calle Guerrero, he left his horse stabled at a livery. Then he recrossed the plaza and walked east to the German Consulate. His knock was answered by a servant, who recognized him from his previous visits. He was shown to an office along the central corridor.
Otto Mueller was seated at a desk. He was writing in his daily log, portions of which would later be transcribed into codetext and forwarded to Colonel von Kleist at the embassy in New York. He looked up at the interruption.
“Herr Garza,” he said, rising from his chair. “I hadn’t expected you back so soon.”
“I have things to report,” Garza said. “I thought it best that you hear it in person.”
“Ja, your reports should always be in person. Please have a chair.”
Garza seated himself before the desk. “I regret to say—” he made a sharp, angry gesture—“Ramos has been captured by the Texas Rangers. They have him locked in the jail in Brownsville.”
“Gott im Himmel!” Mueller looked thunderstruck. “How could such a thing happen?”
“Ramos was betrayed by one of our countrymen in the town of McAllen. I received the news when I returned to Brownsville this afternoon.”
“Will Ramos betray you?”
“There is nothing to tell,” Garza said without expression. “He was carrying papers complete with details about the Plan of San Diego. The Rangers know everything.”
“Not everything,” Mueller reminded him. “Do you think Ramos will betray me—and Germany?”
“You and your superiors have nothing to fear. Basilio Ramos is a soldier, and he knows his duty. Even under threat of death, he will never talk.”
“Let us hope you are correct. But in any event, they now know your name. You were listed in those papers as the military commander.”
“I am not concerned,” Garza said. “Once we begin operations, my name would have become known. What does concern me is that we have lost the element of surprise.”
“Do not be discouraged,” Mueller said expansively. “Karl von Clausewitz, the father of all German strategy, postulated that surprise is but one of many variables in battle. Leadership, in his words, overshadows all else.”
“Revolution breeds its own leaders.”
“Even so, how will you replace Ramos?”
“Consider it done,” Garza said. “I have recruited a man who will become my new second-in-command. His name is Luis Vasquez and he burns with a hatred of gringos. He will serve us well.”
Mueller looked at him. “I am pleased you have found a good man. But we will need many leaders for what lies ahead.”
“How do you think I heard of Ramos’ capture? I enlisted two such men only this afternoon.”
Garza went on to explain. That afternoon he had called on Miguel Barragan, a Huerta loyalist and former cavalryman who had taken refuge in Brownsville. He had secured not only Barragan, but also Barragan’s son-in-law, Juan Cross, a man of mixed blood, Negro and Mexican. Cross was widely respected throughout the Negro community in the Rio Grande valley.
“Barragan is a veteran fighter,” Garza continued, “and Cross will be a great value in recruiting Negroes to our cause. It is important for people to see that we welcome all men of color to the rebellion.”
“Yes, of course,” Mueller said w
ith an indulgent air. “But we both know that Negroes and Indians will be of secondary importance. Mexicans will comprise the bulk of our army.”
“I have never said otherwise.”
“So where are they? You tell me of Vasquez and Barragan—and what was the name?—Cross. We require not three men but thousands!”
“I am not a magician,” Garza said curtly. “We have accomplished a great deal in two days. The army you speak of will take time.”
“Time is a commodity in short supply. The German Reich provides the arms and you are to provide the men. General Huerta assured us this would be done.”
“And it will be done.”
“When?”
“I expect to have at least a hundred men by the end of the month.”
“A hundred!” Mueller repeated harshly. “We were told there are thousands of Huerta loyalists. Where are they?”
Garza bristled, his eyes dark as slate. “You do not understand my people, señor. They must see a thing happen before they believe it is possible. On July fourth, they will believe gringos can be killed.”
“Yes, but how many will you kill? You say you will have only a hundred men.”
“How could I give you a number? We will kill all we can find.”
Mueller sighed heavily. He had expected Garza to mobilize a minimum of a thousand men in the remaining two weeks of June. Whether or not Huerta had misled them about the number of loyalist forces in Mexico was a moot point. Colonel von Kleist had charged him—Otto Mueller—with the mission of bringing death and chaos to the Rio Grande border. He dared not fail.
“Let me be frank,” he said bluntly. “General Huerta will not continue to receive our support unless there is decisive action. Sufficient to draw the attention of America to the border.”
“I understand,” Garza said. “What do you suggest?”
“On July fourth, I think it would be wise to disrupt communications and destroy transport. Telephone and telegraph lines, railroad bridges, and, of course, a great number of civilian casualties. Actions that will cause the U.S. military to be placed on alert!”
“I see no problem with what you ask.”
“Good,” Mueller said. “How soon can you prepare a formal plan of attack?”
“Do you mean specific targets?”
“Targets. Time of attack. Line of march. A plan, Herr Garza.”
Garza thought the German approach to war was too rigid, almost a scholarly exercise. His time of attack would be in the dark of night. His targets would be those that offered light resistance and weak defenses. His line of march would be across the river. He could have presented Mueller with a plan tonight; yet he cautioned himself not to offend or antagonize. He nodded with what he hoped was a sage look.
“I will have a formal plan for you on Monday.”
“Excellent,” Mueller said importantly. “We will make a good German of you yet, eh, Herr Garza?”
Garza didn’t trust himself to reply.
The Bezar Hotel overlooked the main plaza. The accommodations were the finest in Matamoras, and the guest list included businessmen, government officials from Mexico City, and world travelers. There was an air of faded opulence that appealed to a highbred clientele.
Mueller was having a late supper in the nightclub, where people of culture and taste gathered for an evening’s entertainment. He had moved into the hotel after two nights at the consulate, and a numbing antipathy for the tiresome manner of Consular Erwin Reinhardt. The company to be found at the hotel was, by comparison, almost cosmopolitan.
There was, in addition, Maria Dominguez. She was the star attraction of the nightclub, a singer of sultry voice, warm sensuality, and revealing gowns. She was tall, with rounded breasts, lissome legs, and hair dark as a raven’s wing. Her mouth was at times pouty and suggestive, and her teasing eyes forever held the promise of wanton abandon. Mueller thought she was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.
For the past two nights, he had sent boxes of roses to her dressing room. Included with the flowers was a personal note, elegantly phrased, inviting her to join him for champagne. She acknowledged neither the note nor the roses, but tonight, accompanied by guitars and a violin, she watched him as she sang a torchy ballad. Mueller couldn’t understand the lyrics, but somehow knew she was singing words of love, raw with emotion. He sensed, perhaps more hope than truth, that she was singing to him.
After the show, she disappeared backstage. Mueller chided himself for thinking he’d impressed her with roses and flattering notes. He was no ladies’ man, though he had occasionally enjoyed an affair with women attracted by his rugged good looks and stolid manner. His mistress was the army, the soldier’s life, and he again admonished himself for believing he might win the attention of a Latin beauty. Then, magically, she was standing beside his table.
“Buenas noches,” she said in a husky voice. “May I join you?”
“Yes, of course,” Mueller stumbled to his feet and held her chair. “I had lost hope you would accept my invitation.”
“How could I ignore a man who sends me roses? You are very thoughtful.”
“Please consider it a token of my admiration. A beautiful woman deserves no less.”
“How gallant.” She gave him a bright, theatrical smile. “Are you in Matamoras on business?”
Mueller shrugged. “Only in a manner of speaking. I am the agricultural attaché at the German Consulate.”
“Ummm, that sounds so very exciting. And your lovely note was signed Otto Mueller. May I call you Otto?”
“Yes, by all means, please do.”
A waiter, unbidden, appeared with a bottle of chilled champagne and fluted glasses. He poured, nodding to Mueller with a conspiratorial look, and whisked away from the table. Maria Dominguez lifted her glass, tiny bubbles popping over the rim, and leaned closer. Her eyes were mischievous, merrily wicked.
“I think we will be friends . . . Otto.”
Mueller felt dizzy. “Nothing would please me more. Nothing.”
“Oh, never fear, you will be pleased. I promise.”
Her throaty laughter left him intoxicated.
Chapter Seven
Thousands of handbills were circulated throughout the Rio Grande valley over the weekend. The language was inflammatory and the content was a strident call to arms. The heading was in bold print.
LOS MEXICANOS EN TEXAS
There followed a litany of racial and economic discrimination by Texans against Mexicans and Tejanos. In a fiery diatribe, the people were reminded that Texans had denied them and their children an education, and deliberately reduced them to poverty. The purpose, which was appallingly successful, was to force them to work at menial jobs for slave wages. Their average pay was but ten cents an hour.
The Plan of San Diego was outlined in brief statements that would strike home with all people of Mexican heritage. The points stressed were the liberation of Texas from gringos, the transformation of Nuevo Texas into an independent republic, and distribution of the land to the people in equal shares. The execution of all male gringos over the age of sixteen was presented as simple justice for generations of tyrants.
The handbill exhorted all Mexicans and Tejanos to heed the call for independence and join the rebellion in the fight for freedom. Augustin Garza was identified as Chief Military Commander of the Army of Liberation.
On Monday afternoon Hector Martinez crossed the International Bridge to Matamoras. In his pocket was a copy of the handbill, the ink smudged in places, clearly a rush job. He assumed it had been hastily printed over the weekend and thought it was a crafty move on the part of Garza and the Germans. With the capture of Basilio Ramos, the authorities were alerted to the Plan of San Diego and there was no longer any need for secrecy. The recruitment of men for the Army of Liberation could now be done openly.
Martinez had been searching for a way to approach Garza. Since Friday evening, after the meeting with Gordon and Maddox, he’d discarded various ploys for how he could h
ave learned of Garza and the Plan of San Diego. None of the ideas was really plausible, and all of them, subjected to scrutiny, would probably have gotten him killed. By circulating the handbill along the river, Garza had solved the problem for him. He could simply answer the call for volunteers.
There were dozens of small, working-class cantinas in Matamoras. The saloons radiated outward from the main plaza and was frequented by laborers and the unemployed, men who would openly endorse a rebellion against gringos. Martinez began on the plaza, pulling out the handbill and questioning bartenders as to where he might find Augustin Garza. Everyone had seen the handbill, but no one knew where Garza made his headquarters. Several men, some drunker than others, loudly announced their willingness to join the rebellion.
Undeterred, Martinez slowly worked his way onto streets bordering the plaza. Finally, in a cantina on Calle Morelos, a block east of the German Consulate, the bartender acknowledged he’d come to the right place. He was told to wait, and after ordering a beer, he took a seat at a table toward the rear. The bartender’s son was sent off as a messenger and a short while later a large man with a curly mustache entered the door. He walked directly to the table.
“Buenas tardes,” he said. “You are asking for Colonel Augustin Garza?”
“Si.” Martinez stared back at him with round, guileless eyes. “Who are you?”
“I am Capitán Luis Vasquez, executive officer to Colonel Garza.”
“Valgame Dios!” Martinez jumped to his feet, waving the handbill. “I am here to join the rebellion, mi capitán.”
“Not so loud, hombre.” Vasquez motioned him to be seated, than took a chair. “What is your name?”
“Hector Martinez.”
“Where do you live?”
“Brownsville for now,” Martinez said, flapping his arms. “I am Tejano and have suffered much at the hands of Texans. I take work wherever I can find it to earn my bread.”