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

by Heriberto Frías

  From their hiding place behind the rocks and trees, a few men saw the young captain raise his rifle and try to lift himself up to fire. But he collapsed face down, his gaping, foam-flecked mouth biting the pebbles of the Sierra beneath him, which he seemed to embrace with arms spread wide.

  Macabre coincidence: Domingo Alcérreca, second captain of the first column, swept up in the storm of chaos that now ravaged his column as well, had just reached the spot where Servín had fallen when he was blasted by three bullets to the head and fell next to his ill-fated comrade.

  Lieutenant colonels Gallardo and Villedas were wounded at almost the same time but at different spots, the former attacked at dangerously close range and brought to safety by his adjutant, while the latter was shot in the head.

  The rout was inevitable then, even in the second column. Each man ran off helter-skelter with no destination or direction in mind, jumping over corpses and abandoning the wounded where they lay in their piteous postures, flailing their arms and trying to rise.

  Between enormous boulders and tall pines, the mountainside was strewn with weapons, corpses, wounded men, and gear. A red banner lying near the corporal who had been carrying it appeared to be a great pool of scarlet blood, in contrast to the pale face of the corpse. The man’s mouth gaped, eyes staring fixedly at a splendid morning sky from which all the smoke had evaporated.

  The tumultuous sound of gunfire had died away. Only isolated shots were heard now and then echoing off the sides of the mountains, or the intermittent report of the cannon, which continued to spit projectiles into the town.

  The combat was over.

  CHAPTER 21

  Tomochic Prepares Itself

  When Miguel left Julia on the night of October 16, giving her one last kiss, he promised that they would see each other in Tomochic. After he left, she flung herself down on the broad bed, covered herself from head to toe and lay trembling with fear as she waited for Bernardo to arrive.

  She could still feel the burning imprint of Miguel’s embraces. It had all been a delicious dream, an hour of high delight that awakened her senses. For Julia, these were the first inklings of love. Even the anticipation of her departure for the city of her sufferings couldn’t dull the ecstatic memory of those moments of paradise. Now she shifted about in bed feverishly, nervously springing up at the distant sounds of barking dogs. Auguries of doom.

  Afterward, when the girl tried to think about all the problems in her life, being of an unschooled though resourceful mind, she alternately fantasized a future based on pleasant images of love and happiness and then plunged into panoramas painted with the bleakest of colors, tragic scenes, and pictures of death. With all her young and virginal heart, Julia loved the young man who had spoken to her of love and tenderness. Indeed, he was nothing short of her life’s greatest dream come true, nothing less than a splendid ray of hope in the night of her misfortune.

  Of course … that was why she was so afraid of following her father, Bernardo, and Cruz to Tomochic. They would fight against him. Surely, she thought, they would kill him; perhaps she would see his bloody corpse on the threshold of the door to her house. His eyes would be slightly open as though his last wish was to glimpse his adored Julia, whom he had promised to wed in church in the name of the great power of God.

  In vain she tried to sleep. Feverish thoughts assailed her. The same whirl of images that were either delicious, heavenly, protected by the archangels of glory or the Virgin herself, or hellish kept turning over and over in her mind. The evil specters showed her nothing but corpses. Satan appeared holding her beloved in his terrible claws condemning him to burn in the flames of hell.

  At two o’clock in the morning, Bernardo roughly pushed the door open. His earlier drunkenness had dissipated and he was ready to prepare for the trip home. Tomochic had to be warned of the troops’ arrival a day ahead; Bernardo knew that they wouldn’t be leaving until afternoon. “Wake up, little friend. Just when do you think we’re leaving?”

  “Right away, sir. At your orders.”

  Julia sat up immediately. Shivering in the bitter cold, she pulled on her slip and dress. Then she helped pack up the clothing while the old man went to the corral for the animals and tied up the hens and roosters, which were beginning to show signs of nervousness.

  The taciturn Mariana took care of the most difficult tasks. Candle in hand, she came and went, lugging boxes and gunny sacks.

  Everything was ready. The two donkeys had been laden with clothes, pots, packages of roasted coffee, a few bottles of sotol, hens tied by the feet, and a few other odds and ends. Then Bernardo ordered Mariana to build a fire using an old plank, and the three of them downed their boiling coffee with a few slugs of sotol.

  At four o’clock in the morning they set out. Bernardo took the mule, and the two women rode on strong donkeys. Julia was anxious and worried but remained silent because it was her nature to be submissive, a resigned victim to fate.

  Bernardo, a veteran of the Sierra’s twisting roads, boldly set out to cross the mountains. Taking barely navigable shortcuts that bordered the precipices, he rode along silently on his mule. Openly mocking the military surveillance in the area, he sat back every fifteen minutes or so to tip his bottle of sotol to his mouth. Not once did he look back at the women who followed him on donkeys, majestically clicking along on their hooves of steel through those wild mountain ranges.

  Sitting easily in her saddle, the unhappy Julia was wrapped in a thick American poncho for protection from the glacial winds of the Sierras. She sighed from time to time, and fat tears sprang from her wide, unfocused black eyes. Julia, with her natural vigor and her exquisite sensibility, her fine intelligence! How could she have been born among these barely civilized people engaging in their mad conflicts? The only traits she shared with them were her unequaled heroism and uncanny bravery for nobly bearing up under adversity. But for all their sad heroism, all they knew how to do was die.

  The three arrived in Tomochic on October 19 at three o’clock in the afternoon, a day ahead of the forces that would mount an attack the following day. The town was prepared to defend itself. The houses at each end, as well as the ancient tower, had been outfitted with openings for rifles. At the foot of Cerro de Cueva hill, which loomed over the whole valley, the old tower rose into the sky.

  Tomochic, although sparsely populated, covered a fairly large area. The scattered dwellings were linked by footpaths, which twisted and turned through the cornfields and cattle pastures. A few days before, fifteen to twenty families headed for other mountain towns along with the few men who refused to take up arms. Cruz Chávez’s house was an impenetrable fortress. Fully barricaded, it was outfitted like a blockhouse with its three rows of rifle openings.

  Cruz’s brothers José and Manuel also lived in the house with their wives and four children. A circle of wood posts reinforced with barbed wire enclosed two large, solid adobe sheds. An oven stood in the center, and nearby on a bleached pedestal stood a tall wooden cross adorned with white ribbons dangling from both arms.

  One of the sheds housed fifty-one prisoners taken in combat on September 2. The other—larger and more solid than the first—consisted of the living quarters, or three linked rooms. A single door opened to the central room, which gave access to the other rooms.

  The families of the three brothers lived in the main room; one served as a warehouse and storeroom for munitions, and the other was the chapel and inner sanctum of the new pontiff of the desert. Only a select few were granted admission. It served as the commander’s camp and the bedroom for the head of household.

  Bernardo told Cruz all he knew about the attack on the town scheduled to occur the following morning: the troops would come down the road by the cemetery or attempt to take Cerro de Cueva hill, which dominated the valley. Sitting by the fireplace in front of a large pot of boiling coffee, Cruz bent his hairy head to think about what had just been said. When he looked up again, his mouth curled in a half smile as he said, �
�Who cares? The soldiers of Jesus Christ never lose. We’ll beat them again. Look here, six more came in from Yopomare; counting the boys, that’s 103. I’ve put five guerrilla forces together and I’ve ordered Reyes Domínguez to kill his only cow … the women are already cooking up the chickens and corn. God protect us and grant us his blessing!”

  Then the two started down the path that led to the church, whose walled courtyard was filled with men waiting for Cruz. All rifles were prepared and cartridge belts full.

  The men sitting on the steps that led to the great cross in the center rose respectfully when the chief arrived. More than ninety mountain fighters were waiting in the courtyard paved with funeral slabs and a few small crosses. They were decked out in white or blue shirts, cotton or leather pants, and knee-high boots. Belts loaded with cartridges were crossed on their stocky chests, while others circled their waists. Kerchiefs against the sun were attached to the tied-up brims of their palm hats covering the mops of hair and shading hirsute faces, out of which dark, gleaming eyes peered.

  Cruz was strikingly tall with broad shoulders and a thick, curling black beard. Despite the hair falling over his broad forehead, he had a regal bearing, imposing and wild. As he went by, groups of men made way for him to pass. He entered the old church without removing his hat and walked directly to the altar. Turning his back to the imposing crucifix on the altar, he waited for his faithful to enter. Once everyone was assembled, rifle butts resting on the stone floor, Chávez began to speak in a clear, resonant voice: “Brothers, children of Jesus Christ and of Our Holy Mother. Prepare yourselves for tomorrow. Give your infinite trust to the almighty power of God. He will destroy and send those impious sons of Satan to hell. Those who seek to govern us according to their laws deprive us of our liberty!

  “They treat us like animals. They take away our saints. They take our money and their government sends soldiers to kill us. But we are fighting for the kingdom of God … Blessed Mary protect and keep us.

  “We will not die because the bearers of the cross cannot die. If we are hurt in battle and seem dead, we will rise up again on the third day just as our Lord Jesus Christ did, to finish with His enemies once and for all. With our sovereign cry, Long live the great power of God, we will prevail.”

  Then Cruz took a packet of yellowed papers from his shirt pocket. Unfolding them, he continued in a confidential tone of voice. “I have put together five guerrilla columns. The first will be in my charge and will remain here in the church. The second will be in Manuel’s hands. Here is the list,” he said, giving a piece of paper to his brother standing to his left. “They’ll go to the cemetery with the third and fourth units, which will be commanded by you two.” He pointed to Carlos and Victor Medrano, and handed them the lists. “Pedro Chaparro will take charge of the fifth, and you,” he pointed at Bernardo, “will proceed to Cerro de Cueva hill. And now, down on your knees.”

  All knelt and lowered their heads while Cruz stood tall, with his left hand on his hip. With a slight shrug of the shoulders his red-and-black plaid poncho slipped from his back to fall around his feet. He looked out over the crowd with the piercing, steely gaze that characterized so many of history’s great military men.

  How imposing he was! His demeanor suggested both conqueror and pontiff as he inspired his people to fight in the name of God and his saints. His splendor dazzled them. What heroic fanaticism his people would display, their Winchester rifles blazing as terrible instruments of war!

  Meanwhile, Bernardo remained standing, a sly smile on his face. Cruz stared at Bernardo with a steely gaze until at last, visibly paler, Bernardo kneeled with bowed head. Then the caudillo1 raised his right arm to bless them in the name of God and the Holy Trinity.

  The crowd dispersed to carry out final preparations. Cruz stayed behind with his top officers to explain his strategy and give them their orders. The plan made skillful use of tactics, which were informed by an intuition as keen as a mountain hunter’s.

  The terrain dictated that they divide into guerrilla cells. Cruz knew that the enemy, in an attempt to vanquish them at the cemetery, would enter Tomochic by way of Cordon de Lino hill. The other alternative was to take the key positions of Cerro de Cueva hill, from which they would dominate the church and the main cluster of houses that surrounded Cruz’s residence, which served as armory and warehouse as well. In the event of a disaster, these last would allow them to hold out.

  The Tomochic chief decided to protect the cemetery with three guerrilla units. A few alert men would be deployed toward the hill to be on the lookout for the enemy, whose long line of combat-ready men would come down the mountain through thick underbrush. The fifth guerrilla column, commanded by Pedro Chaparro on Cerro de Cueva hill, left of Cordon de Lino hill, would attack the aggressors on one flank while they were engaged in battle at the front.

  The first guerrilla column, composed of twenty-four men, was split into two divisions. One took up quarters in the Cruz house and the other in the tower, where Cruz could observe the fighting and communicate his orders to a general staff of fifteen or twenty men who were as astute as they were valiant and agile, qualities needed for running and clambering through the mountains.

  Cruz, intuitively grasping the art of modern warfare, planned to take the offensive as the enemy descended the treacherous slopes of Cordon de Lino hill. He could annihilate the enemy forces as they picked their way through the bushes and rocks of the mountainside. Cruz reiterated the need to eliminate the officers and commanders; they could be identified by their pale skin and dominant attitude.

  The women were given the rigorous work of punching and digging the rifle holes in the adobe walls, hammering posts, digging trenches, stringing up barbed wire, grinding the corn, drying strips of meat, and preparing bandages for the wounded. In addition, in the hour of combat they were to pray for their men.

  At six o’clock in the afternoon the Tomochic rebels gathered in the courtyard of Cruz Chávez’s fenced-in house, where the chief called roll with grave decorum. He made sure that everyone was ready, well supplied with arms and provisions of pinole,2 or ground corn, thick tortillas, and jerky. With equal precision, he noted the number of scapulars and images of the Saint of Cabora and then reviewed the ammunition and rifles. Afterward, the guerrilla commanders took up their positions with their respective columns.

  Then the women, a few children, and seven sickly elders entered the church where they were to spend the night in prayer. Only the immediate family members and half of a guerrilla column remained in headquarters—once Cruz’s home.

  Following the briefing, Cruz visited the federal soldiers who had been taken prisoner and chose five of them who expressed a wish to take up arms to defend “the cause of the great power of God.” The rest were supplied with meat, flour, and water.

  Finally Cruz returned home and took his seat near the fireplace, where his wife sat silently stoking the blazing fire. She was thoughtful and never once looked directly at the keen, worried face of her husband, Tomochic’s high chief.

  Sitting on the edge of their bed, her sisters-in-law looked at her sadly.

  “It’s three minutes to eight,” said Cruz suddenly, removing the old silver watch from his shirt pocket and staring at it. “Let’s say a rosary.” They knelt before a dirty paper image tacked to the wall and then murmured the strange prayer Cruz had composed.

  When it was over, the taciturn Cruz retired to his room, closing the door behind him, leaving the inert, pensive women blankly contemplating the crackling fire. Outside, the black valley of Tomochic was muffled in a silent, funereal cold—that seemed to fall from the heavens above.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Sad Retreat

  After spending a day on the rough roads of the Sierras, Julia sat down on an improvised seat covered in hide near the fire in Cruz’s house. She reflected on her experiences of the past few days.

  Thinner and paler than ever, her long dark face and beautiful black eyes reflecting the tawny brillianc
e of the fire, Julia slumped abjectly and frowned, hands hanging limply by her sides. Mariana dozed, curled up in a corner on a deerskin, while the other four women—the Chávez brothers’ wives and Cruz’s daughter—sat two to a bed, bravely attempting to fight back their anguished sobs.

  A profound silence reigned, one of those silences that precedes great catastrophes and prepares the way for tragedy. Not even the dogs were barking; all nocturnal movement had ceased. The silence of the tomb.

  “You’re tired, daughter, lie down and sleep,” Cruz’s wife said to Julia, moved to compassion by the girl’s obvious pain.

  But Julia answered energetically, “No, Señora, we have to stay awake, as the Good Lord wishes.” After a long sigh, she added, “I have so much to pray to the Virgin for.” Her full eyes gazed upward as though pleading for compassion from the heavens. Once again the silence weighed heavily, black and cold, over the bitter truths gathered in that room.

  Suddenly they heard murmurings, ferocious barking and other garbled sounds, along with detonations, echoing through the mountains. Then it all ceased, and after a few minutes someone knocked at the door. Assuming her usual servile attitude, Julia opened it to a man wrapped in a heavy red blanket. “The power of God be with us! Is Cruz here?” the man asked, removing his outer layer of clothing. The polished barrel of his rifle flickered in the shadows cast by the fire.

  Then Cruz looked out of his bedroom and greeted his newly arrived guest: “Come on in, Pablo.” Pablo Calderón had just arrived from Pinos Altos, where he had been reviewing a division of the 11th Battalion garrisoned near the Sonoran border, and he was here to communicate somber news.

  A column of more than five hundred men commanded by Colonel Torres was on its way to Tomochic. The division included more than two hundred men from Guaymas and Navojoas, joined by many brutal Tarahumara Indians, and more from the daring and feared Opata tribes. Additionally, there was a section from the 12th Battalion, another from the 24th, and a detachment from the 11th garrisoned at the Pinos Altos mine.