by Michael Nava
Sarmiento slipped into the chamber just as the president of the Senate had begun to speak. “We are informed by the government that Señor Félix Díaz, nephew of the former dictator, has landed at the port of Veracruz at the head of a rebel army and declares himself the provisional president of the Republic.”
Cheers from the opposition were immediately drowned out by cries of “Treason!” from Madero’s partisans. On the dais the president slammed his gavel ineffectively as the clamor grew, accusations and counteraccusations filling the air. A hand clasped Sarmiento’s shoulder. He spun around and faced his cousin.
“Come,” Luis said. “There’s a meeting. Madero asks you to attend.”
He followed his cousin out of the chamber and through the labyrinthine corridor of the National Palace to the president’s offices. Luis walked briskly and said nothing. His hair, Sarmiento observed, was threaded with gray and his suit draped a thinner body. He had left the Ministry of Government and been assigned to the Ministry of War, where he operated what was called the counterrebellion division. It kept him busier than ever, snuffing out rebellions large and small against the first democratically elected president of México in almost fifty years. As for Sarmiento, he had hoped to enter the Senate inconspicuously, serve Madero quietly until his term expired in 1914, and return to private life. His suspicious election, however, had immediately made him a target of Madero’s Senate enemies and the opposition press. Moreover, as Madero’s fair-weather supporters abandoned him, he clung all the more closely to those, including Sarmiento, who had been with him in the desert. Inevitably, Sarmiento had been tugged into Madero’s inner circle.
He followed Luis into the yellow room where Madero, his brother Gustavo, a few other civilians, and a battery of uniformed army officers stood around the conference table covered with maps. Sarmiento recognized the minister of war and the leader of Madero’s faction in the Chamber of Deputies, but of the generals, he knew only Huerta, who glared at him briefly from behind his blue-tinted glasses. He felt out of place among the soldiers whom he instinctively distrusted, even as Madero’s government was increasingly reliant on the military for its survival. The maps, he observed, showed the topography of the city of Veracruz and its environs.
One of the generals, pointing to a spot above the city, said, “We could move our artillery here, fire on the barracks, and then send in a force.”
“And turn the streets of Veracruz into a battlefield,” Gustavo Madero said sharply. “Political suicide.”
“An invasion by sea, then?” another general offered.
“Don Félix commands the coastal defenses,” the minister of war said. “We couldn’t get close enough to land without exposing ourselves to his guns.”
“Then we have no choice but to surround the city and lay siege,” Gustavo Madero said. “How long can they last?”
The minister of war replied, “They have enough food for weeks, but if we cut the water supply, days.”
Sarmiento said, “If you cut the water supply, you will be inviting a cholera epidemic.”
All eyes were upon him. Gustavo Madero said, “We can’t take the city without some casualties. Microbes are cleaner than bullets.”
Huerta cleared his voice and growled, “A government incapable of taking one of its own cities except by siege looks weak.”
No one spoke until the president said, “I would rather look weak than soak the streets of Veracruz in the blood of its residents, General.”
The generals exchanged hooded looks before returning their attention to the maps.
“A siege by land, then,” the president said, “and a blockade of the port. Don’t cut the water except on my instructions.”
“And Félix Díaz?” Huerta asked. “When he surrenders, do we shoot him on the spot?”
“No, General,” Madero said, “you bring him here for trial.”
His minister of war said, “Don Francisco, I urge you to reconsider. We don’t need a trial to establish that Félix Díaz is a traitor who should be stood against a wall and shot. You bring him here and he will become a magnet for other would-be rebels.”
Gustavo Madero chimed in, “Like Bernardo Reyes. Reyes sits in his very comfortable prison cell writing long letters to his partisans justifying his treason. You can read them in the opposition papers. You should have executed him, Francisco. Shoot Díaz and show the world you have some balls!”
Even the generals seemed startled by Gustavo’s audacity in expressing what they were surely thinking themselves, but Gustavo was the president’s brother. Unlike them, he could speak his mind without fearing the loss of his command or a transfer to a backwater post in the jungles of the Yucatán.
Madero looked at this brother and said, “An eye for an eye ends in blindness. I will not countenance extrajudicial murder. Reyes and Díaz will be tried, convicted, and punished according to the laws I have sworn to protect and preserve. That’s all, gentlemen.”
Two weeks later, Félix Díaz surrendered and was brought to the capital, where he was comfortably lodged in the new penitentiary to await trial for treason.
José’s school had been founded as a military academy three hundred years earlier by Spanish Jesuits who in the tradition of their founder, San Ignacio de Loyola, conceived of themselves as God’s infantry. Now it was operated by French Jesuits more interested in civilizing their charges than in preparing them for holy warfare. All that remained of the school’s martial traditions were the cadet’s uniforms its students wore and twenty minutes of drilling each morning in the courtyard. Shouldering wooden rifles, the boys marched to the beat of a drum and fife under the gentle gaze of Frère Reynaud.
On the morning of February 2, 1913, José was treading the ancient cobblestones of the courtyard with his classmates in a disheveled formation not remotely military. The boys laughed and chattered, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, wooden rifles dragging on the ground behind them. Fatty Marquez thought it was funny to use his rifle to poke José in the butt. José turned, glared at him, and hissed, “Stop it, Fatty!”
“Would you rather I poke you with my pinga, Josélito,” the older boy chortled.
José made a vulgar gesture and heard Frère Reynaud’s high, soft voice admonish him, “José Ramon, would you want your mother to see you do that?”
“Fatty started it,” he complained. “He—”
A sharp whistling noise shrieked in the air above them, and a tall stone urn, overflowing with red and white geraniums, exploded, spraying the boys with dirt, rocks, and petals. The boys ran screaming to the classrooms just as another shell gouged a crater in the center of the courtyard. José took refuge in the classroom where Frère Martin taught geography with beautiful colored maps that fueled José’s daydreams when he should have been learning about the chief exports of Bolivia and French Indochina. Frère Martin ordered the boys to duck beneath desks and tables. Another shell struck the courtyard, blowing the door off the classroom. Fatty Marquez, crouching beside José, whimpered and a puddle of urine spread beneath him. José felt his heart pounding in his throat. The sound of gunfire and screaming penetrated the room from the streets just beyond the walls of the school. After what seemed to José to be an eternity, the violent noises stopped. Frère Georges, the white-haired principal of the school, entered the room. He spoke to Frère Martin in rapid French and then told the boys to stand. They got out of their hiding places, some of them wiping away tears.
Frère Georges said, “Boys, circumstances beyond my control compel me to close the school until further notice. Your families have been notified of this fact, and when they come for you, you will be allowed to leave. Until then, you must remain as you are.”
“What is happening, Frère Georges?”
“There has been an attack on the National Palace against President Madero.”
Some of the students, sons of rich anti-Madero families, cheered.
“Is he dead?” one of them asked.
“The situation is
unclear,” the principal replied. “The rebels have retreated from the Zócalo to the Ciudadela, where they remain at this moment. No more questions. I leave you to Frère Martin.”
When he had left, Frère Martin said, “It is wrong to cheer a revolt against President Madero. He is a true Christian. One who has regard for the poor. Now, let us pray for him and for the safety of all. Come on boys, ‘Our Father …’”
José tried to say the familiar words but kept losing his place in his anxiety for Don Panchito and for his father, who had gone to the National Palace that morning for a meeting of the Senate. The hours passed slowly. One by one, the boys were released into the custody of their families. José was among the last left and fear gnawed at his belly. Had something happened to his father? But then his father arrived, looking old and tired.
“Papá!” José exclaimed, running to him. He threw himself into his father’s arms and only then saw that his coat was damp with blood. José recoiled. “You’re bleeding! Are you hurt?”
“No, José, it’s not my blood. There were wounded in the Zócalo; I stopped to help those whom I could. That’s why I’m so late. Are you all right?”
“There were explosions. Juanito Marquez wet his pants. Papá,” he said, grabbing his father’s arm urgently. “Is Don Panchito dead?”
“No, mijo, he’s fine. Come, let’s go home. Your mother and your grandmother must be sick with worry.”
They drove to the palace in his father’s buggy through deserted streets, skirting the edge of the Zócalo, where José saw people stretched out beneath the trees as if sleeping on the cobblestone. The National Palace was surrounded by soldiers. They were not the ceremonial soldiers who usually guarded the doors in the splendid dress uniforms that José loved for their gold buttons and spiked helmets. These soldiers were armed and in battle dress. He watched a line of artillery guns being wheeled by horse cart down the Avenida de Cinco de Mayo, just as they had during the Centenario parade. But this time there were no cheering crowds. In the resounding silence, he could hear the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the scraping of the wheels on the pavement. He looked again at the prone bodies scattered around the plaza.
In a trembling voice he asked, “Papá, are those people dead?”
“Yes, José,” his father replied, taking his hand. “They were killed in the fighting this morning.”
“Why did the soldiers attack Don Panchito?”
“They want someone else to be president,” his father replied.
“Why don’t they wait for the elections?”
His father sighed. “Don Pancho is the first freely elected president in almost fifty years. Before him, presidents have more often been installed by violence or by fraud. I thought, I hoped, that we had outgrown that history, but …” His voice trailed off. “Everything depends on the loyalty of the army,” he said, more to himself than José.
“I’m frightened,” José said, seeking reassurance.
His father, lost in his own thoughts, did not immediately reply but then, as if remembering José was present, said unconvincingly, “Don’t worry, mijo. Everything is fine.”
At the palace, he was greeted with kisses from his grandmother and his mother, but as soon as they had assured themselves of his well-being, they sent him to the kitchen so they could talk to his father. Chepa gave him a cup of chocolate and a concha, his favorite pan dulce, but it tasted like dust. The porter Andres opened the gates, and he heard his cousin Luis in the courtyard, asking for his father. The porter told Luis that the doctor was in the library. While Chepa was distracted, José stole away from her worried care. The library door was half-open. José stood outside, straining to hear. He knew it was wrong to listen uninvited to the conversation of the adults, but his fear overcame his scruples. He felt the urgent need to understand what had happened that morning, and he wanted the hard words the grown-ups spoke to each other, not the gentle evasions they addressed to him.
“It was Díaz and Reyes,” Luis was saying. “They conspired in their prison cells with some old Díaz generals, who sprang them from jail and provided the troops. Reyes was shot when he tried to charge the palace. Díaz has retreated to the Ciudadela.”
“I was leaving the Senate chamber when I heard the shooting,” his father said. “We lacked a quorum because almost none of the opposition senators showed up. I suppose they had been warned. Don Francisco had not yet arrived at his office.”
“He rode down the Reforma from Chapultepec on a white horse,” Luis said. “The poor grabbed at him, wailing and praying, as if he were the second coming of Jesus. When he reached Avenida Juárez, there was gunfire and a policeman standing next to him was hit in the head. Madero’s guards hustled him off into a shop until the shooting stopped. That’s where they told him Bernardo Reyes had been killed. He actually wept. Fool. He should have killed the son of a bitch when he had the chance.”
“That leaves Félix Díaz,” Sarmiento said. “Not a military man. Why would the army follow him?”
José peered into the room just as his father took the brandy bottle and filled his cousin’s empty glass. Luis looked like a man who had seen his own grave.
“The generals know Díaz is a fool, but his uncle’s name is a rallying point, for now. General Villar was seriously wounded repulsing the attack on the palace.”
“I know. As soon as the casualties started to arrive, I went to see how I could help. He had a head wound. Very bad.” Sarmiento sighed. “It was like Ciudad Juárez all over again.”
“It gets worse,” Luis said. “You know who Madero appointed to replace Villar as the new military commander of the city? Your old friend, Huerta.”
“No! Not Huerta!”
“Yes, the butcher,” Luis replied, draining his second glass. He reached for the bottle and poured another. “Huerta spread his arms and embraced the little man and told him he would give his life for the president of the Republic. That made Madero weep again.”
“Huerta cannot be trusted,” Sarmiento said adamantly.
“I know, I know. Army men are behind the coup and now that Reyes is dead, they’ll need a new leader. Díaz is a figurehead, useful for the time being, but ultimately the army will want one of its own. Someone like Huerta.”
“Did you warn Madero?”
Luis said, “Madero smiled and told me I was too mistrustful. He seemed, I don’t know, resigned. Almost peaceful.”
Sarmiento, remembering Krishna’s words to Arjuna on the eve of battle that Madero had quoted to him, said, “Don Pancho believes we have our destinies and they cannot be altered. What’s the situation now?”
“Díaz and his rebels have dug in at the Ciudadela and the surrounding streets,” he said. “There are about fifteen hundred of them. They are well equipped with artillery and guns and the Ciudadela has enough ammunition to keep them in business for weeks. Huerta is moving troops into the Zócalo. Madero has slipped away to Cuernavaca to gather reinforcements. The city is about to become a battleground. You might want to consider removing your wife and child.”
“What will you do?”
“Stay at my post, of course. What about you?”
“Stay. I have a feeling that doctors will be in short supply.” After a moment, he said, “What do you think will happen, Luis?”
His cousin shrugged. “Díaz’s force is small. A sustained attack on the Ciudadela would drive them out into the open, where they would be annihilated. But this is not a military situation, Miguel, it’s a political one. Madero’s support has been falling for months. His enemies have grown bolder. If they suborn Huerta and he goes over to their side, our little president is finished. As are we all.” He stood up. “I have work to do. I will see you again.” The two men embraced.
José hurried out of their path, back to his room. He lay on his bed and thought about what he had heard. The rebels had captured the Ciudadela. The ancient armory lay a mile and a half south of the Zócalo. José knew it well from weekend excursions with his classmates.
The long, low building lay behind thick walls with entrances at the four cardinal points. Outside its walls was a park that had some of the best skating paths in the city. Among the park’s fountains and flowers was a monument to José Morelos, one of the fathers of Mexican independence. Morelos had been imprisoned in the Ciudadela by the Spanish and executed against its walls, the bullet holes still visible a century later. Don Porfirio had turned the building into a military museum, where José and his friends had examined the massive cannons that had been used against the Spanish in the War of Independence.
José could not imagine that the quiet, musty corridors of the Ciudadela housed real soldiers or that its ancient guns could be fired. But Primo Luis had spoken of ammunition and artillery. It occurred to José that his Ciudadela, a playground where he raced his classmates on skates and ate ice cream while a military band played in an ivy-covered gazebo, was not the real Ciudadela. His thoughts wandered back to the dead bodies in the Zócalo, which was another of his playgrounds. The city itself had always been for him benign and familiar. Was it all an illusion? What was happening? And abruptly the images of the inferno rose in his mind, and he ran from his room in a panic to seek comfort in his mother’s arms.
In the evening, his aunts arrived at the palace to plead with La Niña to leave the city and retire to the family’s house in Coyoacán. José sat beside the old woman, who listened impatiently to her daughters.
“And you?” she asked, when they had finished. “Are all of you leaving the city?”
“Yes, of course,” Tía Nilda replied. “There are soldiers in the streets! There are dead bodies in the plaza. You cannot remain here. It is too dangerous.”
“Don’t speak to me of danger,” La Niña replied. “I have lived through worse. The French army bombarding its way into the city, the rabble that invaded my home after the French left and seized your father. I pled for his life at the point of their bayonets. You think I am afraid of a little fireworks? How ridiculous! This is my home and I intend to remain in it.”
