by John Harris
He left shortly afterwards and almost immediately Slattery heard Magdalena Graf singing. She was sitting at a piano, and her voice was a lyric soprano which she used with consummate skill, even now when she appeared not to be concentrating. It was much richer, much fuller than he had ever imagined, and he began to realise why she had such confidence in herself, why lesser singers were a little awed by her, why even troubadours like the old man at the station recognised her.
‘Practice,’ she said. ‘Always one must practice. It is like drawing, or playing a game – even shooting. As soon as you stop, you lose your skill.’
He suspected she was using it as an excuse to prevent him asking questions, but she was a beautiful woman and he enjoyed watching her and listening to her voice.
Towards midday, a big blue Studebaker slid to a stop in the road outside with locked wheels and a cloud of drifting dust. It had thick spokes like the wheels of a dray and huge brass headlamps, a folding hood and a grid at the rear for carrying luggage. Attached to the driver’s door, alongside the brake, was a spare wheel. The man who climbed out conceded nothing to Mexican fashion. He was short and square with a red face and he wore an enormous flat cap, a high celluloid collar and a clip-on bow tie. As Slattery appeared he introduced himself in a strong West Country accent.
‘Atty Purkiss,’ he said. ‘I heard about ’ee, me dear.’
‘Where did you hear about me?’
Purkiss gestured, his face blank. ‘Havin’ a drink near the station. Told you were around. Enquiry or two. Found ’ee. Dead easy. I’m Cornish. From Redruth way. I hear you’re looking for Pancho Villa. So’m I.’
‘Why are you looking for him?’
‘Same as you, I expect. I’m an expert.’
‘What at?’
‘Machinery. You’ll have seen my motor. Nobby, ennit? Can’t miss it even if you try. Villa could use a good mechanic. Only thing the Mexes know to do with a motor that won’t go, ’tes kick it.’
‘Do you know where Villa is?’
‘Sure. Sixty miles from here. In the hills near Adama. Raisin’ men.’
‘How many has he got?’
‘Not a lot. But they keep comin’ in.’
Atty Purkiss, it appeared, had arrived in Mexico years before with other men from a tin-mining area in Cornwall to help the Mexicans dig for gold. Unfortunately the gold had not been there in sufficient quantity to keep them busy and he had discovered that a knowledge of motor cars, acquired by working in his spare time on vehicles owned by the local gentry back in England, was standing him in far greater stead than his ability as a miner.
‘Some fellers say Villa’s nobbut a gunman,’ he argued. ‘Others say he’s a patriot.’
‘Which is right?’
‘Take your pick, me dear. Both probably.’
Villa’s name was one to be conjured with. He had been forced into outlawry and liked to indulge in savage reprisals against those he considered had enslaved his class.
‘All the same,’ Purkiss said, ‘he’s one of the best leaders of troops Mexico’s ever thrown up.’
Villa had never forgotten his humble origins, it seemed, and had never been slow to hand over a few centavos to help with a wedding feast or to celebrate a birth. Men who had never tasted meat since their wedding day had eaten it again with his help, and now they were responding to the magic of his name, coming in from the villages, stealing away from the haciendas, leaving the mining camps, sometimes on a horse or a mule but mostly on foot, sometimes armed, sometimes not.
‘Mostly the poor,’ Atty Purkiss said. ‘Los de abajo – the underdogs, with nothin’ to lose and everythin’ to gain. The State Governor offered him two hundred thousand pesos and the rank of divisional general if he’d join Huerta. He wrote back that he could keep his money because he was already the supreme commander of free men.’ Atty grinned. ‘Eight he had at the time.’
Atty appeared to be intelligent and knowledgeable and it seemed a good opportunity to learn a few facts. ‘What about the others? Venustiano Carranza, for instance.’
Atty grinned. ‘Don Venus. Old Moses down from the mountain. Head of the Constitutionalist Party. There’s Zapata, of course, but he’s south of Mexico City and he never moves north. And Orozco. Villa loathes him because he betrayed Madero. Up here it’s all Villa.’
‘Fine,’ Slattery said. ‘We’ll find him tomorrow.’
With the Studebaker garaged in Chihuahua, they left on horses Atty Purkiss had bought. Neither was much to write home about and Slattery’s had a tendency to rear up and try to flick him over its tail at the slightest excuse. Magdalena Graf watched them leave. She looked lonely and curiously vulnerable.
Winding upwards into the sierra along a stony trail, they rode slouched in the saddle. At noon, with the sun high in the heavens, they came to a patch of green with a spring in the middle, shining under the heavy shade of a few black-barked trees. They watered the horses and allowed them to nibble at the grass.
‘Nasty country here, me dear,’ Atty advised. ‘Y’ought to wear a gun.’
‘Don’t believe in ’em,’ Slattery said. ‘Except when it’s official. If I start pulling one of those things out, so will the other chaps and then we’ll all be at it, like ticks on a mad dog.’
As they pressed on through the cactus, the Spanish bayonet and the mesquite, the narrow track spiralled round a canyon and coiled round buttresses of rock. There was no sign of humanity, only the bones of horses and mules lying starkly in the arroyos where they’d fallen.
The sun was sinking at the end of a long ride when they were halted by a cry.
‘Alto!’
The voice echoed and re-echoed among the crags. Immediately Atty dragged his mount to a stop and flung up his arms.
‘Don’t fancy getting shot, me dear,’ he explained calmly.
For a long time nothing happened and Slattery sat quietly, waiting in the immense silence. Overhead a vulture wheeled. Then there was a rattle of stones behind them and, turning their heads, they saw a horse emerge from among the rocks. It was ungroomed, shaggy and scarred by cactus. The man in the saddle was small, dark, large-moustached, his face almost hidden by a sombrero whose brim sagged over his features. He wore striped city trousers and a ragged sarape. In his hands he held a rifle.
For a while he sat grinning at them, then he gestured at them to ride on. Kicking the horses’ flanks, they moved forward, hooves scattering the stones. As the path descended, another man appeared, this time on foot but similarly dressed and armed. He pointed and they moved between two huge buttresses of sand-coloured rocks into a narrow valley which gradually opened out into a wide bowl. Cattle were huddled in a group under trees, fires were burning and the smell of woodsmoke was in the air. Men rose to their feet and came towards them, all of them armed and grinning murderously. One of them, obviously the leader, reached for the money-belt Slattery wore.
‘Leave it where it is!’ Slattery spoke in Spanish. He had spoken it all his life and it was brisk, exact and authoritative. Immediately the Mexican heaved out a revolver that looked as big as a cannon. ‘Since you speak Spanish,’ he snapped, ‘you’ll understand what I’m saying. Your money.’
Slattery smiled. ‘Leave my money alone.’ From the corner of his eye he could see Atty’s pale eyes flickering about them. ‘Who are you?’
‘What’s it to you? You’re a gachupín and you’ll soon be dead. Under the circumstances, there’s no harm in knowing that I am Orácio Cerofilas and these are my friends, while those’ – he jerked a hand in the direction of the cattle – ‘are gachupín steers.’
‘I thought they might be.’ Slattery’s smile was as fixed as if it were wired to his back teeth. ‘So where is General Villa?’
The snout of the revolver, like a blank eye staring at him, moved slightly. An expression of suspicion crossed Cerofilas’ face. ‘What do you know of General Villa?’ he asked slowly.
‘I’m a friend of General Villa. My country admires General Villa and I
’ve come to join him. I’ve been looking for him and I think I’ve found him. If those are gachupín cattle, you’re probably rounding them up for him to exchange over the border for guns.’
Cerofilas’ face changed. The grin became friendly and the revolver was lowered. ‘The General doesn’t like to be interrupted. He won’t welcome strangers.’
Slattery’s smile remained set. ‘He’ll welcome me,’ he said.
Cerofilas gestured to one of the other men. ‘Take him to the General.’ He looked at Slattery. ‘You will be safe,’ he said. ‘Vaya con Dios.’
‘Sure,’ Slattery agreed. ‘Have a banana.’
San Andres was hard to get at and easy to defend and it was full of Villa’s men. They stood in groups in the street, a few of them cleaning weapons, a few arguing over a horse, a few in a circle round a cockfight. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, coffee and gun oil.
They didn’t look much like an army. Most of them were in work-worn clothes, even rags, with no uniform but the ubiquitous sarape. A few carried rifles and were swathed from head to waist in bandoliers of ammunition so that their dark eyes peered out of a narrow gap between the topmost bandolier and the sagging brim of a sombrero. But the rest seemed to be armed only with weapons of ancient vintage and carried their ammunition in their pockets. Some had no weapons at all and on the whole they looked more like the participants at a beggars’ festival than a fighting force. Slattery began to wonder if he’d picked the wrong man.
Among them were their women with their pots, pans and bedding, ready to forage for food and care for their men if they were wounded, following them through the heat of the day or the bitter chill of the night, gathering wood for fires, humping great loads, making camp, giving birth as the armies moved on, then getting to their feet and plodding after them. One or two of the younger unattached ones carried rifles and wore bandoliers of ammunition. Their skirts were dusty, their shoes broken, but the wild turkey feathers in their hats gave them a jaunty air of confidence.
Villa had taken over the only hotel, a bat-haunted derelict run by an old woman, and slept in a room at the back, well guarded by his men. It was lit by a solitary lamp. Saddles were piled outside and alongside the wall were ammunition boxes and rifles.
As Slattery entered, the rebel leader rose, his hair on end, blinking against the light, a bear-like figure with a barrel-chest, shuffling forward with the inturned toes of a man more used to a saddle than his own two feet. But his eyes were alert and there was an air of hostile vitality about him.
‘Who’re you?’ he demanded.
‘My name’s Slattery. I’m a soldier. The British army doesn’t want me any more. I thought you might.’
‘Why?’ Villa frowned. ‘Has your King been asking about me? How does the world regard us? We are the only people here who are fighting Huerta, you know. Carranza doesn’t. All he does is run away. Huerta’s soldiers call him Pocapena – not much trouble. You are a good soldier?’
‘I think so. I understand weapons. All weapons. I’m an expert horsemaster. I can handle men.’
‘My men?’
‘You’ll notice I speak Spanish.’
Villa was studying him with narrowed eyes. ‘Do you know anything about staff work?’
‘I’ve worked on the staff.’
‘Can you fight?’
‘I fought in South Africa and in the Balkans.’
It was obvious Villa had no knowledge of either place. He gestured. ‘Well, we’ll soon find out,’ he said. ‘We can try you against Huerta’s people.’
‘Where are Huerta’s people.’
‘Around.’
‘And Carranza?’
‘On the Sonora border.’ Villa peered under his eyebrows at Slattery. ‘Do you play cards, inglés?’
‘Yes.’
‘Piquet? The game the French brought over with Maximilian. Or skat like the Germans?’ Villa grinned and gestured. ‘This lot play as if they were fighting bulls. Pues, if you’re a soldier, I’ll give you a regiment. Your compañero can be your second-in-command. Or you can be my adviser. I meet important people these days – newspapermen and officials from over the border – and I need someone to tell me how to behave like the chocolatero officers who fight for Huerta. I’ll make you a staff colonel. You can keep your ears open in places where I can’t go.’
‘You want me to be a spy?’ It seemed everybody wanted Slattery to be a spy.
‘Does it offend your English fair play?’ The vigilant topaz eyes were amused. ‘The whole business of fighting a war is training and knowing what’s going on at the other side of the hill. You can be my telescope. You can also talk to the reporters. The Norteamericano newspapers have discovered we have enough excitement here to fill their pages every day, so you can make sure they get their facts right, and sometimes more than right. You can tell them about us. How brave we are, how gallant, how we show mercy to our enemies, how we’re winning the war. I expect you know how to do this.’
Slattery smiled. ‘I’m not a newspaperman, mi General.’
Villa smiled back. ‘You don’t have to be. But this is a new way of fighting a war. I think it’s called propaganda. You have to tell the world what fine fellows you are; and you’re just the man, with your education, to do it for me. You will be my envoy. You don’t have to know much about it. The newspapermen will sort things out. All you have to do is tell them the lies.’
Six
As a staff colonel, Slattery was provided with a servant. He turned out to be a boy called Jesús. He didn’t know his father, or even his surname, and had never been inside a church. He carried an ancient rifle taller than himself, wore incredibly ragged clothes and looked as if he had never taken a bath in his life. Despite his wails of protest, Atty stuffed him into the fountain in the town square and made him soap himself all over before finding him clean cut-down garments.
‘Now you’m fit to prepare our food, me dear,’ he said.
Every day more men came in, lean horsemen on gaunt, ill-shod, sore-backed mounts, sometimes with no other uniform than a cotton shirt and trousers and a straw sombrero, but usually carrying an old and battered carbine and a few cartridges.
The first of them were charros, cowboys used to fending for themselves, then came the miners from the lonely camps and villagers who had seen in the revolution a glimpse of a future for their children after generations of slavery under the hacendados. Finally there were men from the towns – labourers, shop assistants, teachers, a few boys who knew a little about politics and were determined their country should never go back to the old days of corrupt governors and greedy generals.
They came in ones and twos and groups, bringing in volunteers from the settlements they passed through, arriving in an aura of dust, leather, horse sweat and excitement. The revolution that had been halted during Madero’s year of power was moving again and, as the growing groups cantered up, they scooped in others who had waited by the roadside with their weapons and the cry of ‘Qué viva Villa!’
It was bitterly cold in the hills, with flurries of snow and the frost making stars of the puddles. The Villistas kept themselves warm with mock bullfights. As one of them dragged a plunging steer into the square on the end of a rope to be killed for food, fifty or sixty others, ragged and muffled to the eyes with sarapes and sombreros, started waving their blankets, shouting ‘Olé’ and ‘Hé, Toro!’ in the approved fashion. They were like excited children and, to get the infuriated animal into the right spirit, one twisted its tail, another beat it with the flat of his sword and, instead of banderillas, they jabbed at its shoulders with daggers until the blood spattered them as it charged. It was the same every time they collected their rations, because in every village street you could see some ragged urchin playing at being a bullfighter with a red square off a table or a shawl stolen from his mother.
The minstrel, Apolinario García Gomez, turned up again. How he had reached Asunción from Chihuahua on his own two feet it was impossible to tell, bu
t there he was, surprisingly articulate, beaming and bowing gracefully. To Slattery, he performed a slow veronica. ‘Olé, Torero,’ he said. ‘Soon, your honour, we shall be fighting more than bulls.’
‘You, too?’
‘Not I, your honour. Playing tunes for the warriors. All armies have their troubadours.’ He lifted his violin and played a catchy little jingle. ‘I’ve found a new one. It’s about a cockroach.’
He attached himself to the little group round Slattery as if he considered a staff colonel had need of a personal musician, and was always around when the mock bullfights started, performing clumsy veronicas with his ragged cloak, knocked over a dozen times either by the infuriated steer or a running man. It never seemed to worry him.
‘What a profession, your honour,’ he said. ‘What grace! All men drop on one knee to a bullfighter. When the British Minister was asked to leave Mexico City, he found the train surrounded by cheering people and he smiled and bowed and waved, thinking how popular he must be. But it wasn’t for him, señor. It was for a bullfighter in the next compartment.’
The training intensified as the peóns began to learn the trade of war.
‘From now on,’ Villa said, ‘we behave like night animals. Como gatitos. Like little cats. We see but we’re not seen. We catch but we’re not caught. We kill but we’re not killed. We help ourselves like the cat in the pantry.’
It was a policy of which Slattery thoroughly approved and two days later Atty, heading for the telegraph station at Chavarria, stumbled on unexpected information.
‘There’s a train due in,’ he told Slattery as he arrived back in camp. ‘It’s pulling a sealed military car. And it’s full of silver bars.’
When they passed the information on to Villa he looked at Slattery suspiciously. ‘Why didn’t you steal if for yourself?’ he asked.
‘That’s not why I’m here,’ Slattery said.
‘Nobody else knew about it. You would have been rich. You could have gone home, married a beautiful woman, had many children, bought yourself a rancho in London.’
