The Battle of Tomochic_The Battle of Tomochic Memoirs of a Second Lieutenant

by Heriberto Frías

  Tomochic presented the Mexican Republic with the rare spectacle of a small town gone mad. The sad truth was that the religious fanaticism of the Tomochic people had the potential to fire up other remote villages of the Sierra that suffered the same dark stirrings. They too were ready to throw themselves into outright rebellion.

  CHAPTER 9

  By Divine Miracle

  Cruz Chávez sent Bernardo to establish a household with his niece Julia and Mariana, the ex-wife of St. Joseph, in Guerrero. From there, Bernardo could freely spy on the government’s military installations in the little village nestled in the foothills—a vital base for any strategic operation in the Sierra.

  On the eve of their recruitment drive, Cruz arranged a pilgrimage. His men escorted the new “St. Joseph” through the surrounding villages while several “soldiers of God” welcomed last-minute enlistments into their ranks.

  Persuaded by brother Bernardo, “St. Joseph,” the old idiot, called in his wife Mariana and daughter Julia to pontificate about “God, his Son,” and the afterlife. “In the name of God,” he blustered, disavowing all ties to them, “you are no longer my family. My wife is the Virgin Mary. But you will obey my brother; you three will be married, so that I will be the Father of the Holy Trinity. You the Father,” and he pointed to Bernardo, “you the daughter, and you the Holy Spirit,” he said, pointing to the two women.

  That was the black night of the first savage attack, the girl child sacrificed on the altar of fanaticism—the night of the tragic nuptials of the ogre and the damsel. The next day Julia developed a fever. Tied to her mule for the two-day journey, faint and delirious, she arrived in Guerrero City. Bewildered, she was crushed under the weight of her disgrace.

  Julia was precocious for her age, her body a young woman’s, though she was only fourteen. She was a well-groomed, industrious girl and dutiful in her domestic chores, first in her father’s house and later in her uncle’s.

  She did the grinding, cleaned and patched her father’s coarse pants, brought water to the animals, and even chopped firewood on glacial winter nights in the Sierra. Then she would light and stoke the fire in the chimney where she cooked meat for the evening meal and boiled coffee so her father wouldn’t fall asleep when Cruz and prominent neighbors convened to recite the rosary, interspersed with strange prayers, fantastic litanies, cries of hate, and belligerent proclamations invoking the “almighty power of God.”

  Nearly all the women in the area carried out the same tasks, but they performed them passively, like beasts of burden. Julia had been something of a dreamer since tasting civilization while living in her godfather’s house in Chihuhua. She became good friends with his daughter, whose enchanting tales thrilled her. Once her friend told Julia, “You are so lovely. Girls like you are born to be queens.” She never forgot those words.

  On serenade nights in Chihuahua, when the 5th Regiment or the 11th Battalion played music in the garden of the Plaza de Armas, Julia tagged along with her godfather’s family. They were always sympathetic to her plight. Though still a child, Julia caught a glimpse of high-class Chihuahua society, with its haughty airs and trappings of luxury. She was dazzled by the beautifully dressed women and enchanted by waltz music, which she had never heard before. It awakened vague longings in her, and her childlike curiosity was aroused by the spectacle of modern, comfortable city life.

  She was introduced to her friend’s fiancée, a second captain in the 5th Regiment, a kind young man who wore his moustache curled like a musketeer’s and his hussar’s coat cinched tight. His uniform glinted with the martial splendor of its silver buttons, reflected in the steel of his saber and his shiny silver spurs. This was how princes looked in fairy tales! The dreamy girl of fourteen looked at herself in the mirror, wondering if she might be worthy of such a man.

  Later, in Tomochic, she wept and sighed for those happy hours that would never come again. She understood intuitively that the men around her were mad, but she resigned herself to her fate, enduring her woes with the heroism of a martyr. Eventually her face softened, her gaze grew serene, and the smile returned to her delicate lips.

  Then came the attack, sending a jolt through her body that sickened her. Then an immense, dark melancholy clouded her fevered brain, and after a while all her dreams and aspirations quietly faded.

  A virgin spirit continued to shine through the concubine’s spoiled flesh, handled by the old brigand night after night. Life passed sadly in the old adobe hut by the riverside where she was beaten down by her uncle’s brutality. Julia endured the daily torment with unwavering resignation. At night when the drunken beast returned to his lair, he would lay next to her adolescent body and poke his stinking beard into the melancholy face of his lovely slave, grasping her to him in the same incestuous bed where once he had slept with Mariana.

  And yet—happy consolation of her bewitched state—the monstrous transgression barely touched the ineffable transparency of the girl’s spirit. The daily assault left her youthful spirit intact. The grinding of her flesh did not sully the high mirror where her clear, sad spirit resided or cloud her eyes, swell her hips, or age her firm round breasts. Once the first fever passed, the acts of violence and the rapes no longer gnawed at her thoughts or feelings. Her unshakable faith in the Virgin Mary and her constant activity kept Julia’s body fresh and healthy.

  The lovely Julia, daughter of “St. Joseph” and indentured wench to the old drunkard, was, by some miracle, a sainted child.

  CHAPTER 10

  Cruz of Tomochic, High Chief

  In Guerrero City, far from Cruz’s sobering influence, Bernardo fully indulged his predilection for drink. He sold off his livestock one by one to get by while spying on the infantry that the federal government had sent into Guerrero in August to attack Tomochic.

  The forces were composed of a twenty-five-man squad from the state security troops under Captain Antonio Vergara, thirty men from the 5th Regiment under the command of Captain Lino Camacho, and sixty-five men culled from the 11th Battalion.

  Sixty men from the outlying towns were recruited as volunteers into the auxiliary forces, all experts in the local topography and afraid of nothing. Santa Ana Pérez, a courageous adventurer who was popular throughout the state of Chihuahua, was named commander. General José Rangel served as commander in chief of the entire force, bringing three officers with him from general staff and one Francisco Arellano, a major in the military medical corps. All together, there were 130 men.

  Bernardo communicated this information to Cruz, and an emissary was sent to discuss matters with Bernardo. The two of them went to see Santa Ana Pérez, head of the local forces, who signed them up and equipped them with arms and a negligible rank. Did he suspect them of being spies?

  On August 15 one attack column set off into the mountains, catching sight of Tomochic by September 2. With maybe sixty-eight men at his side, Cruz directed the defense. Most of the men, posted in five houses along the town’s eastern boundary, were armed with excellent rifles. Cruz ordered them to carve openings in the thick walls so that they could direct their fire onto the narrow, pitted road that wound down into the valley from the Cordon de Lino hill. When they heard a piercing whistle, the right flank would make for the rear of the slope and climb to the summit, cutting off the enemy’s only retreat. Then they were to descend on them to wipe them out or scatter remaining survivors.

  All rifles were solemnly blessed.

  It was rumored that Cruz drew his tall, rangy body to its full height—his chest massively armored by two crisscrossed belts of metal cartridges—and raised his arms above the men of Tomochic, who prostrated themselves before him and offered their rifles for his blessing. Then, it was said, he spoke the following words:

  “My children! I, Cruz of Tomochic, high chief of all Chihuahua and Sonora, in the name of the power of almighty God, order you to slay only the commanders of these soldiers, sons of Satan. Blessed be the weapons that go into battle with the soldiers of hell. In the name of t
he Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, may the great power of God be with us!”

  General Rangel divided his force into two contingents. One would go down the Cordon de Lino hill to attack the church; the other would descend the adjoining hill that formed a right angle to the first, its peak looming over the cemetery. This contingent would occupy the cemetery and then take the Medrano house situated at the edge of the main road.

  While a few of the soldiers stood lookout, the rebels prayed with abject devotion. They were certain of victory since they were fighting in the name of “the great power of God.”

  The columns descended through the hills covered with pine trees and underbrush, and the soldiers divided into separate attack squadrons. At the foot of the mountains they encountered shots that hit their mark. A ferocious exchange of fire took place, and the battle had begun.

  But at the Cordon de Lino hill, Santa Ana Pérez and his auxiliaries from Chihuahua did not open fire and were not fired on. Looking on from above, the general indignantly observed confusion and panic in the right wing of the second column, which eventually sought refuge in the cemetery.

  Then, from behind, Cruz and his rear guard leaped like tigers, taking all men occupying the site prisoner. Lieutenant Colonel José M. Ramírez, who had been wounded in the arm, was among the captives.

  Captain Vergara, Major Prieto, and Lieutenant Manzano fell dead, and Lieutenant Vespasiano Guerrero from the general staff was thrown from his horse as he was heading down the slope to deliver a message.

  The defeat was massive, the catastrophe irremediable. The vanquished general retreated, weeping convulsively, and then in a bold move took refuge in one of the enemy’s abandoned houses. Under cover of night and accompanied by only a few soldiers, he crossed the silent wilderness.

  The victors, meanwhile, collected considerable booty but only used the horses, weapons, and munitions. The rest, including a small barrel of tequila and a few barrels of flour, was stashed away.

  That same day the nurse Francisco Arellano, whose first duty was to his calling, entered Tomochic unarmed. Carrying only his first aid kit, he set about his humanitarian mission of ministering to the wounded, townsfolk and invaders alike.

  Santa Ana Pérez had disappeared. Bernardo alone went to General Rangel in Guerrero, reporting that Pérez had been wounded in his leg and was fleeing toward the northern part of the state.

  Later the federal government ordered a second expedition to Tomochic, commanded by General Felipe Cruz, and what occurred was almost beyond belief.

  Shortly before arriving in Guerrero, the forces of the 5th Regiment, under the general’s orders, fell upon a cornfield with sabers drawn. The destruction was fantastic. The slender stalks of corn were hacked to bits by the cutlass blades, covering the ground with waste.

  In Guerrero a lieutenant from the 22nd Battalion was ordered to take another hill, the Cerro de la Generala, fifty-three miles from Tomochic, which he accomplished with no resistance.

  The mountaintop was deserted and the commander, a leftover from a less disciplined time, telegraphed Mexico City that he had attacked the town and triumphed after a bloody battle, taking twenty-five prisoners.

  The Tomochic hysteria, suppurating like an open sore, would be excised at last. Thus it happened that the capable hand of General Díaz, a veteran in these operations, found it was holding a dirty instrument, dull from lack of use. This complicated matters.

  The army was overhauled with new chiefs and a worthy officer corps culled from the graduates of the Chapultepec military academy.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Dawn of the Idyll

  Tentatively, the two lonely, ill-starred young people drew closer. Miguel was tenderly attracted to Julia. Her misfortune only enhanced his image of her, and he seriously contemplated abducting her from the ogre who held her hostage.

  The aura of painful, almost fantastical mystery that smoldered in the dark eyes of the unusual girl from Tomochic was so compelling that Miguel contemplated setting her free.

  Heroically, he would boldly drag her from the lair of the beast. Why not? She would accompany him from adventure to adventure. They would live out their passionate love affair alongside the 9th Battalion. The poet’s soul lying dormant within Miguel Mercado seemed to revive.

  The second lieutenant told Julia that he would come back, and he left money with her for his meal on the night of his return. He explained to her that in the town inn he received meager portions, and the servers frequently ignored him in favor of higher-ranking officers.

  Bernardo welcomed the arrangement with evident pleasure and imperiously ordered a chicken killed in honor of his “chief.” He asked Mercado to take him to see the cannon he had heard so much about, since the officer obviously had access to it. Bernardo was curious about it because, he declared to Miguel, he was on the verge of signing up, thereby cutting all connection with those fanatics.

  Innocently Miguel instructed him to be at the Alameda at eleven o’clock in the morning, saying that he would take him to see it, albeit from a distance. The second lieutenant did not suspect that he was dealing with a Tomochic spy.

  Silently he returned to his spot by the river, thinking about the accident of fortune that had thrown him so far off course, into terrible tumult. A day blessed with grace and love that could be the eve of his death.

  He thought of his father, who had once been a liberal commander. After Tecoac, he worked as a humble scribe and spent the last years of his life making three of his clients rich, though each had abandoned him afterward. He thought of his beautiful widowed mother, who married a second time only to be vilely abused. Then came their scandalous separation and his departure from the military academy. He was destined to become nothing more than a second lieutenant, one who would shortly find himself in the hinterlands of the Chihuahua desert, 1,500 miles away from civilization and Mexico City.

  What a hand fate had dealt him! And what a magnificent dawn was breaking on it all of a sudden.

  He thought about his encounter, not with some idealized damsel out of a fairy tale nor a blond Margarita but with a despicably mistreated girl, the kept woman of an outlaw. She was a humble, candid creature who had gazed at him with her trusting black eyes as though pleading for his aid, offering him a love as genuine as her soul was pure. From the depths of his soul, Miguel pledged his protection—and even his love.

  But what could he do for her? Only bring her more misfortune? Expose her beauty to his lascivious comrades? Make her live out the phrase “thrown to the wolves”?

  And thus he pondered, seated on a large rock, while the scattered troops did their washing at the river’s edge. There was a happy clamor of laughter and shouting, jokes and swear words, beneath a sun that shone brilliantly in a clear blue sky. The white burlap strung out to dry among the brambles sparkled. Officers gathered in small groups to smoke and chat, and bend an elbow behind a boulder or a tree while keeping their bottles out of the captain’s sight.

  The cold river water, slow moving and stained with soap, flowed on under Miguel’s inward-looking gaze.

  When he got back to camp, Mercado took up his rifle and joined the other officers for target practice, a drill that the general had ordered to familiarize his men with their new weapons. At twelve o’clock roll call, just as he was brushing the dust from the cape he had slept in, Mercado was informed that he had a visitor.

  It was Bernardo. Miguel agreed to show him the cannon as promised, and they proceeded to the central hall of the house, which served as general headquarters. With a scornful, dim-witted gaze Don Bernardo contemplated the spanking new weapon of war, intended to raze Tomochic. Miguel took his leave of the old rascal as soon as he could but agreed to see him later at his house, where Bernardo had ordered a midday meal prepared “specially for the chief.”

  When Miguel was alone again he wondered whether he should go; it was stupid to eat some awful lunch in Don Bernardo’s shack. And as for Julia, wouldn’t it be better not to torment
himself cruelly with the sight of the unfortunate girl?

  Rescue her? he asked himself again. Romantic foolishness!

  And so he made his way languidly toward the plaza, intending to eat at the inn. He met up with Castorena on his way out, who warned him that the officers had already finished off everything; there wasn’t a scrap left. In revenge, he said, he intended to guzzle a half bottle of tequila and eat a pound of cheese—the only food he’d been able to find, other than thick flour tortillas.

  As there was nothing left in the tavern, Miguel decided to eat at Julia’s after all. He chatted a bit and drank a few tequilas with the poet, then took off in the direction of the river.

  Julia had set a cozy table for him. There were two benches and an old plank covered by a bright white tablecloth with clumsy green figures on its borders; the only setting was a single pewter plate. In the fireplace, the chicken boiled in a black pot over a raging fire while golden pieces of chorizo sizzled in a sea of oil in an earthenware crock.

  Julia was kneeling, head bent to her task, grinding the chili on the metate with the monotonous regularity and perfect unconsciousness of a beast of burden or a robot. Then, all of a sudden, she was up and bustling about, arranging, beautifying, illuminating all with her gracefulness and her lovely eyes.

  Two skinny, strutting cocks tied up in the corner of the room squawked in turn, while a gaunt, yellow mongrel slept in a square of sunlight created by the open door.

  When Miguel greeted Julia with a gentle squeeze of her hand, the blushing girl trembled. Her eyes moist, her throat constricted, she was, unable to utter a word. Finally she managed to control her feelings, saying that she was sorry the meal wasn’t prepared yet; staring straight into his eyes, she added that she hoped he wasn’t angry with her. “I’m such a ninny! But believe me, it won’t happen again,” she finished.