by Matt Braun
The International Bridge, spanning the Rio Grande and connecting Matamoras to Brownsville, had been built in 1910. A mile or so from the bridge was the town’s main plaza, a sprawling square with shops and vendors, the municipal hall, and a stately cathedral crowned with a bell tower. The town had fallen to various revolutionary factions over the past five years, but commerce and trade went on uninterrupted, regardless of who occupied the dictator’s throne in Mexico City. The latest El Presidente was Venustiano Carranza and Matamoras continued to thrive, attending to business, ever a town of merchants.
The German Consulate was located on Calle Morelos, a block east of the main plaza. A large two-story stone and masonry building, the consulate served northern Mexico under the auspices of the German Embassy in Mexico City. Erwin Reinhardt, the Consular in Matamoras, was a weedy man with pince-nez glasses and precise hand gestures. His studious expression was like that of a cat chewing wax, for yesterday, with the arrival of the new attaché, his life of uncomplicated routine and leisurely pursuits had been altered forever. He was seated in his office with Captain Otto Mueller.
Mueller, attired in civilian clothes, was ostensibly posted as the new agricultural attaché. He had arrived late yesterday, June 14, the sole passenger on a tramp steamer from Lisbon. He carried papers from the German General Staff which effectively placed Reinhardt and the Consulate staff under his command. Reinhardt, purposely kept in the dark, had previously been ordered by encrypted cablegram to arrange a meeting with two of Huerta’s loyalists. Until last night, when Mueller briefed him, Reinhardt hadn’t realized that he was host to an espionage operation. He was still in a state of shock.
A decorated officer, and a member of the dreaded Abwehr, Mueller found it vaguely amusing. He was a handsome man, tall and clean-shaven with short-trimmed blond hair and an air of bluff assurance. Yet he had cultivated a deliberate manner, with a stolid expression that shielded every emotion and left others to wonder what he was thinking. Erwin Reinhardt was wondering that very thing when an aide knocked on the door and stepped inside. The aide avoided eye contact with Mueller and looked at Reinhardt.
“Your guests have arrived, Herr Consular.”
“Yes, yes,” Reinhardt said with an agitated little wave. “Show them in, Hans.”
Augustin Garza came through the door, followed by Basilio Ramos. Reinhardt, who was fluent in Spanish, introduced himself and then Mueller. He asked the men to be seated, inquiring if they spoke English, almost apologetic that Mueller was not conversant in their native language. Garza replied in English.
“There is no need for formality,” he said. “We received a letter from General Huerta on the day your message arrived. He is now in New York and has instructed that we cooperate fully. How may we assist you?”
Mueller abruptly took charge. “I am an officer of the German General Staff. I had the privilege of meeting General Huerta in Madrid. Did his letter explain the mission we are here to discuss?”
“No, it did not,” Garza said. “Secrecy is required in case our enemies intercept our mail. The general simply ordered that we cooperate in whatever is asked.”
“And are you prepared to follow those orders?”
“We are soldiers,” Garza said stiffly. “Do not concern yourself about our ability to follow orders.”
Mueller actually wasn’t concerned. In Madrid, Huerta had briefed him about the men here today. Garza was the former commander of a cavalry squadron during the Huerta regime. His face looked as though it had been hewn from rough walnut, with an angular nose, a shaggy mustache, and cold brooding eyes. He was a serious man, deadly when aroused.
Ramos was smaller, with gold-capped teeth, his wizened face the shade of old leather. His hair was shiny with pomade and, above a curled mustache, his black eyes sparkled with cunning. He had served as the adjutant of Garza’s cavalry squadron, and was always to be found in the thick of the fighting. His ferocity in battle was legend.
Garza and Ramos had been captured when Carranza’s Constitutionalist forces overran the border in 1914. Yet in Matamoras, the town of merchants, anything was for sale, and a substantial bribe secured their pardon from the local comandante. Exile being the wiser option, they crossed the river and settled in the small Texas community of San Diego, where most of the inhabitants were of Mexican origin and bitterly resentful of Anglos. Garza and Ramos were welcomed, even idolized, for their hatred of Texans was equaled only by their love of Mexico.
“General Huerta,” Mueller said in a measured tone, “has authorized the raising of a new army in his name. The German government will provide the necessary funds for arms and munitions.”
Garza fixed him with a speculative gaze. “What interest does Germany have in our revolution?”
“We do not want the United States involved in the European war. Our mission is to draw their military forces to the border.”
“And how do we accomplish that?”
“By killing Texans,” Mueller said with a tight smile. “The more the better—and soon.”
“Madre de Dios!” Garza’s eyes took on a cold, tinsel glitter. “I like the idea of killing Texans.”
“Si, mi Coronel,” Ramos said with a guttural accent. “We have long wanted the blood of the gringos. Verdad?”
Garza nodded slowly, deliberately, silent a moment. His gaze was still fixed on Mueller. “I understand your purpose in killing Texans. How does it help our revolution?”
“General Huerta needs an army,” Mueller said matter-of-factly. “You will recruit it for him in the name of a war on Texans. Then, at the opportune moment, General Huerta will return—” he paused with a baroque sweep of his arms—“and you will lead your forces in the overthrow of Carranza. Your revolution will at last be won.”
“Mil Cristos,” Garza said, his mouth set in an ugly grin. “You are a clever one, my friend. Very clever.”
“General Huerta and my superiors devised the strategy. Like you, I am a soldier who follows orders.”
“How do we go forward? What is it you wish me to do?”
“Draft a plan of action,” Mueller said urgently. “Determine how you will recruit a force of men. Decide how quickly you can strike.”
Garza’s thoughts leaped ahead. The Rio Grande valley was largely populated by Mexicans and Tejanos, people of Mexican ancestry. With the coming of the railroad in 1904, thousands of white settlers were drawn to the border, and the economic lifeblood of the valley changed from ranching to farming. Developers bought grazeland cheaply and resold it dearly as farmland to settlers.
In ten years, hundreds of thousands of acres were irrigated to grow cotton, corn, and sugarcane. The farmers drained the stream flow of the Rio Grande valley, seventy percent of the water having originated from tributaries in Mexico. The economic division widened the ethnic division, and racial tensions grew progressively worse on both sides of the river. Anglo settlers saw Mexicans and Tejanos as racial inferiors, nothing more than common laborers. Peons.
Garza knew where he would recruit his army. “I will sound a call to arms,” he said, evangelical fire burning in his eyes. “When do you wish to see my plan?”
“In two days,” Mueller said. “We must move with dispatch.”
“Sin falta.” Garza grinned ferociously. “Consider it done.”
Otto Mueller thought he’d never seen a man more eager to kill.
Early that evening, Sergeant Hoyt Maddox and Captain Bob Ransom entered the Miller Hotel. They checked in the dining room for Gordon and then took the stairs to the second floor. Maddox rapped on the door of a room overlooking Elizabeth Street.
Gordon opened the door and motioned them inside. The room was spacious, with a comfortable bed, a wardrobe and dresser, and a private bathroom. A listless breeze ruffled the window curtains.
“Glad we found you,” Maddox said. “We went by the post, but you’d already left. Had your supper?”
“Ate downstairs,” Gordon said. “Why, what’s up?”
“The ca
ptain’s boys just gave us an earful.”
Captain R.L. “Bob” Ransom was commander of Ranger Company A. His unit, along with Company B, commanded by Captain Jack Fox, patrolled the border upriver to the town of Del Rio. Company A was responsible for the lower Rio Grande, and Ransom was headquartered in Brownsville. His informants had been poking around Matamoras for the last ten days.
Ransom was a thickset, hardfaced man in his late thirties with dark hair and a wiry mustache. His eyes were curiously impersonal, not so much cold as stoic, somehow detached. Gordon had bided his time day by day, his patience growing thin, waiting for Ransom’s informants to uncover a lead. He found the Ranger captain abrasive, a little too impressed with himself.
“Goddamn greasers,” Ransom said brusquely. “Always mañana even when you tell ’em to get a rush on. Feel like kickin’ their butts half the time.”
“I understand,” Gordon said. “What do you have?”
“For openers, a new Kraut popped up at the German Consulate yesterday. My boys heard he’s an attaché, but he’s got a military look. Hair’s cropped short, marches around like he’s got a board up his ass, regular little soldier. His name’s Otto Mueller.”
Gordon nodded. “We thought the Germans might send a military advisor. What else?”
“Starts to get interestin’,” Ransom said with a dark smile. “This afternoon two Mexicans, Augustin Garza and Basilio Ramos, paid a call on the German Consulate. We know these jaybirds from way back and then some. They commanded a cavalry outfit for Huerta.”
“Offhand, I’d have to say it’s more than coincidence. We have to assume they were there to meet with Mueller.”
“That’d damn sure be my guess. Where do we go from here?”
“I’ll have to think about it,” Gordon said. “Good job all around, Captain. I appreciate your help.”
Ransom understood he’d been dismissed. “Don’t mention it,” he said, glancing at Maddox. “Let’s get ourselves some supper.”
“Thanks all the same, Cap’n,” Maddox begged off. “Maybe I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Suit yourself.”
Ransom abruptly turned and went out. When the door closed, Maddox looked at Gordon. “You treated him pretty short after he’d done you a favor. Any special reason?”
The two men had spent a great deal of time together over the last ten days. They were now on a first-name basis, and a measure of trust had formed from what seemed a joint mission, their personal mission. Gordon regarded him with a level gaze.
“Hoyt, like it or not, some things don’t go any further than you, me, and General Parker. Are we agreed on that?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Maddox said hesitantly. “What’re we talkin’ about, just exactly?”
Gordon handed him an envelope. The letter had been delivered only that afternoon by a Bureau courier to Fort Brown. Director Holbrook, in terse language, related the arrival of Huerta and Colonel von Kleist in New York. He went on to recount the meeting between von Kleist and Villa supporters, and his concern that Huerta and Villa might join forces. He closed by urging Gordon to redouble his efforts.
“Never happen,” Maddox said, handing back the letter. “Villa would shoot Huerta on sight. Ol’ Pancho’s not one to forgive and forget.”
“Never say never,” Gordon told him. “But even if you’re right, Villa’s still been added to the mix. The Germans are playing every angle.”
“So what’s that got to do with cutting Ransom off at the knees?”
“Captain Ransom will be told what he needs to know. Having to rely on his informants, I’ve felt things slipping out of my hands. We need our own agents in Matamoras.”
“Yeah, maybe so,” Maddox conceded. “You talkin’ about Mexican agents?”
“Yes, I am,” Gordon said. “Three, maybe four people who have no love for Huerta. Do you think you could find that many? I’ll see to it they’re paid well.”
“Frank, I’ll sure as hell try. So far, you’ve only mentioned Huerta. What about Villa?”
“Well, like they say, a bird in the hand. We’ve got what sounds like a German army officer working with Huerta’s loyalists. Let’s stick with them for the moment.”
Maddox suddenly chuckled. “Cap’n Ransom’s gonna be some pissed off. He’s been the big dog hereabouts.”
“A big dog, and if I read him right, a big talker. We can’t afford to compromise the mission.”
“You won’t get no argument out of me.”
Gordon went on with his plans for Matamoras.
Augustin Garza and Basilio Ramos returned to the German Consulate the following morning. The date was Wednesday, June 16, and Garza marked it as a turning point in the struggle for liberty. He carried with him a blueprint for the overthrow of Anglo rule in Texas and beyond.
They were shown into the consular’s office. After the amenities, Reinhardt excused himself and left the room. There was a clear sense that he’d been ordered to busy himself elsewhere. Otto Mueller, though cordial, wasted no time on ceremony. He went directly to the point.
“Have you devised a plan of action, Herr Garza?”
“Yes, we have,” Garza said with some pride. “We call it the Plan of San Diego.”
“To what does the name refer?”
“The town in south Texas where Basilio and I have lived for the past year. By giving it this name, it will appear the revolt originated in Texas.”
“Revolt.” Mueller repeated it, clearly pleased by the choice of words. “How will this revolt be organized?”
Garza spread a sheaf of handwritten papers on the desk. The Plan of San Diego was drafted in Spanish, but he interpreted for Mueller’s benefit, explaining the points in English. The plan was subtitled “Manifesto to the Oppressed People of America” and called for the emancipation of people of all races in the United States. The opening verbiage condemned the exploitation of land by whites and damned their racist attitude toward people of color.
The cornerstone of the plan was an armed uprising against the government of the United States. Equality and independence was the clarion call, and people of color would reclaim from whites the lands comprising Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, and California. The army of liberation would be restricted to Mexicans, Negroes, and American Indians, with the covenant that all ancestral lands would be returned to the Indians. To cleanse any vestige of racial bigotry, every male Anglo over the age of sixteen would be put to death.
Power under the plan was vested in a Supreme Revolutionary Congress. Initially, the rebellion would be governed by a Provisional Directorate, which designated Garza as Chief of the Armed Forces, and alluded in vague terms to the support of Mexicans and Tejanos throughout Texas. Elections would be held as the revolt spread, and every racial group would have equal representation in the Supreme Revolutionary Congress. The Congress, if it chose to do so, could unite with Mexico for added protection against the United States.
Garza went on to explain that the rebellion would be widely publicized, particularly among Mexicans and Tejanos. There were over two hundred Spanish-language newspapers in the Southwest, and their editors would each receive a printed copy of the Plan of San Diego. A full-page advertisement would be run in Regeneración, the largest of the lot and anarchist in tone, published by the Magon brothers in California. The emphasis would be on solidarity and social revolution, vindication of the exploited masses against their Anglo oppressors. In South Texas alone, there were over a hundred Regeneración clubs, each of them filled with partisans awaiting a call to action.
Mueller was stunned by the enormity of the plan. He had expected something smaller in scope, guerrilla raids across the border, the devastation and pillaging of Texan ranches and farms. For a long moment, he sat staring at the sheaf of papers as though he might find revealed there the answer to life’s mystery. He finally looked up at Garza.
“I tell you frankly, I am most impressed by the military foresight of your plan. You must hate the Texans even
more than I suspected.”
“Far more, señor,” Garza said with a quick swipe at his mustache. “All Mexicans live to avenge their ancestors. Dead gringos are merely a start.”
“Do you actually intend to kill all Texans over sixteen?”
“Killing gringos will swell our ranks as much as reclaiming land stolen from our people.”
“And the Negroes, the Indian tribes? Will they too unite under your banner?”
“Who cares?” Ramos cut in, voice crackling. “Our banner will draw all Mexicans—even the worst enemies of the Revolución!—to join in the fight for justice. We will have three men for every rifle you supply.”
“That is good,” Mueller said with a vigorous nod. “General Huerta has already received the initial funding. His man Enrique Terrazas will contact you soon about smuggling arms across the river. Now, so that I understand fully, how will you proceed?”
“We will start by forming juntas across northern Mexico and southern Texas.”
“What are juntas?”
“A cadre of loyalists,” Garza informed him. “General Huerta’s followers and revolutionaries who lost faith awaiting a strong leader. They will recruit men by the hundreds to our cause.”
“Good, good,” Mueller replied succinctly. “How quickly can you conduct the first raid?”
Garza regarded him with an odd, steadfast look. “A series of raids will take place on the Fourth of July, what the Americanos call Independence Day. The irony of it will be lost on no one. Don’t you agree, señor?”
Mueller understood they were talking about nothing less than the conquest of Texas. He thought it was the delusion of a madman and a zealot, but it would unquestionably achieve the goal. The military power of the United States would shortly be drawn to the border, and he might yet provoke a war. He smiled at Garza and Ramos, as though struck by the wonder of it all.
