"And Mohammed is his prophet," rejoined the Sultan.
"Allah protect you! And make your face shine," said
Toomuch.
"Allah lengthen your beard," said the Sultan, and he added aside to me in English, which Toomuch Koffi evidently did not understand, "I'm all eagerness to know what it is--it's something big, for sure." The little man was quite quivering with excitement as he spoke. "Do you know what I think it is? I think it must be the American Intervention. The United States is going to intervene. Eh? What? Don't you think so?"
"Then hurry him up," I urged.
"I can't," said Abdul. "It is impossible in Turkey to do business like that. He must have some coffee first and then he must pray and then there must be an interchange of presents."
I groaned, for I was getting as impatient as Abdul himself.
"Do you not do public business like that in Canada?" the
Sultan continued.
"We used to. But we have got over it," I said.
Meanwhile a slippered attendant had entered and placed a cushion for the secretary, and in front of it a little Persian stool on which he put a quaint cup filled with coffee black as ink.
A similar cup was placed before the Sultan.
"Drink!" said Abdul.
"Not first, until the lips of the Commander of the
Faithful--"
"He means 'after you,'" I said. "Hurry up, Abdul."
Abdul took a sip.
"Allah is good," he said.
"And all things are of Allah," rejoined Toomuch.
Abdul unpinned a glittering jewel from his robe and threw it to the feet of Toomuch.
"Take this poor bauble," he said.
Toomuch Koffi in return took from his wrist a solid bangle of beaten gold.
"Accept this mean gift from your humble servant," he said.
"Right!" said Abdul, speaking in a changed voice as the ceremonies ended. "Now, then, Toomuch, what is it? Hurry up. Be quick. What is the matter?"
Toomuch rose to his feet, lifted his hands high in the air with the palms facing the Sultan.
"One is without," he said.
"Without what?" I asked eagerly of the Sultan.
"Without--outside. Don't you understand Turkish? What you call in English--a gentleman to see me."
"And did he make all that fuss and delay over that?" I asked in disgust. "Why with us in Canada, at one of the public departments of Ottawa, all that one would have to do would be simply to send in a card, get it certified, then simply wait in an anteroom, simply read a newspaper, send in another card, wait a little, then simply send in a third card, and then simply--"
"Pshaw!" said Abdul. "The cards might be poisoned. Our system is best. Speak on, Toomuch. Who is without? Is it perchance a messenger from Smith Pasha, Minister under Heaven of the United States?"
"Alas, no!" said Toomuch. "It is HE. It is THE LARGE ONE!"
As he spoke he rolled his eyes upward with a gesture of despair.
"HE!" cried Abdul, and a look of terror convulsed his face. "The Large One! Shut him out! Call the Chief Eunuch and the Major Domo of the Harem! Let him not in!"
"Alas," said Toomuch, "he threw them out of the window.
Lo! he is here, he enters."
As the secretary spoke, a double door at the end of the hall swung noisily open, at the blow of an imperious fist, and with a rattle of arms and accoutrements a man of gigantic stature, wearing full military uniform and a spiked helmet, strode into the room.
As he entered, an attendant who accompanied him, also in a uniform and a spiked helmet, called in a loud strident voice that resounded to the arches of the hall:
"His High Excellenz Feld Marechal von der Doppelbauch,
Spezial Representant of His Majestat William II, Deutscher
Kaiser and King of England!"
Abdul collapsed into a little heap. His fez fell over his face. Toomuch Koffi had slunk into a corner.
Von der Doppelbauch strode noisily forward and came to a stand in front of Abdul with a click and rattle after the Prussian fashion.
"Majestat," he said in a deep, thunderous voice, "I greet you. I bow low before you. Salaam! I kiss the floor at your feet."
But in reality he did nothing of the sort. He stood to the full height of his six feet six and glowered about him.
"Salaam!" said Abdul, in a feeble voice.
"But who is this?" added the Field-Marshal, looking angrily at me.
My costume, or rather my disguise, for, as I have said, I was wearing a poke bonnet with a plain black dress, seemed to puzzle him.
"My new governess," said Abdul. "She came this morning.
She is a professor--"
"Bah!" said the Field-Marshal, "a woman a professor! Bah!"
"No, no," said Abdul in protest, and it seemed decent of the little creature to stick up for me. "She's all right, she is interesting and knows a great deal. She's from Canada!"
"What!" exclaimed Von der Doppelbauch. "From Canada! But stop! It seems to me that Canada is a country that we are at war with. Let me think, Canada? I must look at my list"--he pulled out a little set of tablets as he spoke--"let me see, Britain, Great Britain, British North America, British Guiana, British Nigeria--ha! of course, under K--Kandahar, Korfu. No, I don't seem to see it --Fritz," he called to the aide-de-camp who had announced him, "telegraph at once to the Topographical Staff at Berlin and find out if we are at war with Canada. If we are"--he pointed at me--"throw her into the Bosphorus. If we are not, treat her with every consideration, with every distinguished consideration. But see that she doesn't get away. Keep her tight, till we are at war with Canada, as no doubt we shall be, wherever it is, and then throw her into the Bosphorus."
The aide clicked his heels and withdrew.
"And now, your majesty," continued the Field-Marshal, turning abruptly to the Sultan, "I bring you good news."
"More good news," groaned Abdul miserably, winding his clasped fingers to and fro. "Alas, good news again!"
"First," said Von der Doppelbauch, "the Kaiser has raised you to the order of the Black Dock. Here is your feather."
"Another feather," moaned Abdul. "Here, Toomuch, take it and put it among the feathers!"
"Secondly," went on the Field-Marshal, checking off his items as he spoke, "your contribution, your personal contribution to His Majesty's Twenty-third Imperial Loan, is accepted."
"I didn't make any!" sobbed Abdul.
"No difference," said Von der Doppelbauch. "It is accepted anyway. The telegram has just arrived accepting all your money. My assistants are packing it up outside."
Abdul collapsed still further into his cushions.
"Third, and this will rejoice your Majesty's heart: Your troops are again victorious!"
"Victorious!" moaned Abdul. "Victorious again! I knew they would be! I suppose they are all dead as usual?"
"They are," said the Marshal. "Their souls," he added reverently, with a military salute, "are in Heaven!"
"No, no," gasped Abdul, "not in Heaven! don't say that! Not in Heaven! Say that they are in Nishvana, our Turkish paradise."
"I am sorry," said the Field-Marshal gravely. "This is a Christian war. The Kaiser has insisted on their going to Heaven."
The Sultan bowed his head.
"Ishmillah!" he murmured. "It is the will of Allah."
"But they did not die without glory," went on the Field-Marshal. "Their victory was complete. Set it out to yourself," and here his eyes glittered with soldierly passion. "There stood your troops--ten thousand! In front of them the Russians--a hundred thousand. What did your men do? Did they pause? No, they charged!"
"They charged!" cried the Sultan in misery. "Don't say that! Have they charged again! Just Allah!" he added, turning to Toomuch. "They have charged again! And we must pay, we shall have to pay--we always do when they charge. Alas, alas, they have charged again. Everything is charged!"
"But how nobly," rejoined the Prussian. "Imagine it to yourself! Here, beside this stool, let us say, were your men. There, across the cushion, were the Russians. All the ground between was mined. We knew it. Our soldiers knew it. Even our staff knew it. Even Prinz Tattelwitz Halfstuff, our commander, knew it. But your soldiers did not. What did our Prinz do? The Prinz called for volunteers to charge over the ground. There was a great shout--from our men, our German regiments. He called again. There was another shout. He called still again. There was a third shout. Think of it! And again Prinz Halfstuff called and again they shouted."
"Who shouted?" asked the Sultan gloomily.
"Our men, our Germans."
"Did my Turks shout?" asked Abdul.
"They did not. They were too busy tightening their belts and fixing their bayonets. But our generous fellows shouted for them. Then Prinz Halfstuff called out, 'The place of honour is for our Turkish brothers. Let them charge!' And all our men shouted again."
"And they charged?"
"They did--and were all gloriously blown up. A magnificent victory. The blowing up of the mines blocked all the ground, checked the Russians and enabled our men, by a prearranged rush, to advance backwards, taking up a new strategic--"
"Yes, yes," said Abdul, "I know--I have read of it, alas, only too often! And they are dead! Toomuch," he added quietly, drawing a little pouch from his girdle, "take this pouch of rubies and give them to the wives of the dead general of our division--one to each. He had, I think, but seventeen. His walk was quiet. Allah give him peace."
"Stop," said Von der Doppelbauch. "I will take the rubies. I myself will charge myself with the task and will myself see that I do it myself. Give me them."
"Be it so, Toomuch," assented the Sultan humbly. "Give them to him."
"And now," continued the Field-Marshal, "there is yet one other thing further still more." He drew a roll of paper from his pocket. "Toomuch," he said, "bring me yonder little table, with ink, quills and sand. I have here a manifesto for His Majesty to sign."
"No, no," cried Abdul in renewed alarm. "Not another manifesto. Not that! I signed one only last week."
"This is a new one," said the Field-Marshal, as he lifted the table that Toomuch had brought into place in front of the Sultan, and spread out the papers on it. "This is a better one. This is the best one yet."
"What does it say?" said Abdul, peering at it miserably,
"I can't read it. It's not in Turkish."
"It is your last word of proud defiance to all your enemies," said the Marshal.
"No, no," whined Abdul. "Not defiance; they might not understand."
"Here you declare," went on the Field-Marshal, with his big finger on the text, "your irrevocable purpose. You swear that rather than submit you will hurl yourself into the Bosphorus."
"Where does it say that?" screamed Abdul.
"Here beside my thumb."
"I can't do it, I can't do it," moaned the little Sultan.
"More than that further," went on the Prussian quite undisturbed, "you state hereby your fixed resolve, rather than give in, to cast yourself from the highest pinnacle of the topmost minaret of this palace."
"Oh, not the highest; don't make it the highest," moaned
Abdul.
"Your purpose is fixed. Nothing can alter it. Unless the Allied Powers withdraw from their advance on Constantinople you swear that within one hour you will fill your mouth with mud and burn yourself alive."
"Just Allah!" cried the Sultan. "Does it say all that?"
"All that," said Von der Doppelbauch. "All that within an hour. It is a splendid defiance. The Kaiser himself has seen it and admired it. 'These,' he said, 'are the words of a man!'"
"Did he say that?" said Abdul, evidently flattered. "And is he too about to hurl himself off his minaret?"
"For the moment, no," replied Von der Doppelbauch sternly.
"Well, well," said Abdul, and to my surprise he began picking up the pen and making ready. "I suppose if I must sign it, I must." Then he marked the paper and sprinkled it with sand. "For one hour? Well, well," he murmured. "Von der Doppelbauch Pasha," he added with dignity, "you are permitted to withdraw. Commend me to your Imperial Master, my brother. Tell him that, when I am gone, he may have Constantinople, provided only"--and a certain slyness appeared in the Sultan's eye--"that he can get it. Farewell."
The Field-Marshal, majestic as ever, gathered up the manifesto, clicked his heels together and withdrew.
As the door closed behind him, I had expected the little
Sultan to fall into hopeless collapse.
Not at all. On the contrary, a look of peculiar cheerfulness spread over his features.
He refilled his narghileh and began quietly smoking at it.
"Toomuch," he said, quite cheerfully, "I see there is no hope."
"Alas!" said the secretary.
"I have now," went on the Sultan, "apparently but sixty minutes in front of me. I had hoped that the intervention of the United States might have saved me. It has not. Instead of it, I meet my fate. Well, well, it is Kismet. I bow to it."
He smoked away quite cheerfully.
Presently he paused.
"Toomuch," he said, "kindly go and fetch me a sharp knife, double-edged if possible, but sharp, and a stout bowstring."
Up to this time I had remained a mere spectator of what had happened. But now I feared that I was on the brink of witnessing an awful tragedy.
"Good heavens, Abdul," I said, "what are you going to do?"
"Do? Why kill myself, of course," the Sultan answered, pausing for a moment in an interval of his cheerful smoking. "What else should I do? What else is there to do? I shall first stab myself in the stomach and then throttle myself with the bowstring. In half an hour I shall be in paradise. Toomuch, summon hither from the inner harem Fatima and Falloola; they shall sit beside me and sing to me at the last hour, for I love them well, and later they too shall voyage with me to paradise. See to it that they are both thrown a little later into the Bosphorus, for my heart yearns towards the two of them," and he added thoughtfully, "especially perhaps towards Fatima, but I have never quite made up my mind."
The Sultan sat back with a little gurgle of contentment, the rose water bubbling soothingly in the bowl of his pipe.
Then he turned to his secretary again.
"Toomuch," he said, "you will at the same time send a bowstring to Codfish Pasha, my Chief of War. It is our sign, you know," he added in explanation to me--"it gives Codfish leave to kill himself. And, Toomuch, send a bowstring also to Beefhash Pasha, my Vizier--good fellow, he will expect it--and to Macpherson Effendi, my financial adviser. Let them all have bowstrings."
"Stop, stop," I pleaded. "I don't understand."
"Why surely," said the little man, in evident astonishment, "it is plain enough. What would you do in Canada? When your ministers--as I think you call them--fail and no longer enjoy your support, do you not send them bowstrings?"
"Never," I said. "They go out of office, but--"
"And they do not disembowel themselves on their retirement? Have they not that privilege?"
"Never!" I said. "What an idea!"
"The ways of the infidel." said the little Sultan, calmly resuming his pipe, "are beyond the compass of the true intelligence of the Faithful. Yet I thought it was so even as here. I had read in your newspapers that after your last election your ministers were buried alive--buried under a landslide, was it not? We thought it--here in Turkey--a noble fate for them."
"They crawled out," I said.
"Ishmillah!" ejaculated Abdul. "But go, Toomuch. And listen, thou also--for in spite of all thou hast served me well--shalt have a bowstring."
"Oh, master, master," cried Toomuch, falling on his knees in gratitude and clutching the sole of Abdul's slipper. "It is too kind!"
"Nay, nay," said the Sultan. "Thou hast deserved it. And I will go further. This stranger, too, my governess, this professor, bring also for the professor a bowstring, and a two-bladed knife! All Canada shall rejoice to hear of it. The students shall leap up like young lambs at the honour that will be done. Bring the knife, Toomuch; bring the knife!"
"Abdul," I said, "Abdul, this is too much. I refuse. I am not fit. The honour is too great."
"Not so," said Abdul. "I am still Sultan. I insist upon it. For, listen, I have long penetrated your disguise and your kind design. I saw it from the first. You knew all and came to die with me. It was kindly meant. But you shall die no common death; yours shall be the honour of the double knife--let it be extra sharp, Toomuch--and the bowstring."
"Abdul," I urged, "it cannot be. You forget. I have an appointment to be thrown into the Bosphorus."
"The death of a dog! Never!" cried Abdul. "My will is still law. Toomuch, kill him on the spot. Hit him with the stool, throw the coffee at him--"
But at this moment there were heard loud cries and shouting as in tones of great gladness, in the outer hall of the palace, doors swinging to and fro and the sound of many running feet. One heard above all the call, "It has come! It has come!"
The Sultan looked up quickly.
"Toomuch," he said eagerly and anxiously, "quick, see what it is. Hurry! hurry! Haste! Do not stay on ceremony. Drink a cup of coffee, give me five cents--fifty cents, anything--and take leave and see what it is."
But before Toomuch could reply, a turbaned attendant had already burst in through the door unannounced and thrown himself at Abdul's feet.
"Master! Master!" he cried. "It is here. It has come." As he spoke he held out in one hand a huge envelope, heavy with seals. I could detect in great letters stamped across it the words, WASHINGTON and OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF STATE.
Abdul seized and opened the envelope with trembling hands.
"It is it!" he cried. "It is sent by Smith Pasha, Minister under the Peace of Heaven of the United States. It is the Intervention. I am saved."
Then there was silence among us, breathless and anxious.
Abdul glanced down the missive, reading it in silence to himself.
"Oh noble," he murmured. "Oh generous! It is too much.
Too splendid a lot!"
"What does it say?"
"Look," said the Sultan. "The United States has used its good offices. It has intervened! All is settled. My fate is secure."
"Yes, yes," I said, "but what is it?"
"Is it believable?" exclaimed Abdul. "It appears that none of the belligerents cared about me at all. None had designs upon me. The war was not made, as we understood, Toomuch, as an attempt to seize my person. All they wanted was Constantinople. Not me at all!"
"Powerful Allah!" murmured Toomuch. "Why was it not so said?"
"For me," said the Sultan, still consulting the letter, "great honours are prepared! I am to leave Constantinople --that is the sole condition. It shall then belong to whoever can get it. Nothing could be fairer. It always has. I am to have a safe conduct--is it not noble?--to the United States. No one is to attempt to poison me--is it not generosity itself?--neither on land nor even--mark this especially, Toomuch--on board ship. Nor is anyone to throw me overboard or otherwise transport me to paradise."
"It passes belief!" murmured Toomuch Koffi. "Allah is indeed good."
"In the United States itself," went on Abdul, "or, I should say, themselves, Toomuch, for are they not innumerable? I am to have a position of the highest trust, power and responsibility."
"Is it really possible?" I said, greatly surprised.
"It is so written," said the Sultan. "I am to be placed at the head, as the sole head or sovereign of--how is it written?--a Turkish Bath Establishment in New York. There I am to enjoy the same freedom and to exercise just as much--it is so written--exactly as much political power as I do here. Is it not glorious?"
"Allah! Illallah!" cried the secretary.
"You, Toomuch, shall come with me, for there is a post of great importance placed at my disposal--so it is written--under the title of Rubber Down. Toomuch, let our preparations be made at once. Notify Fatima and Falloola. Those two alone shall go, for it is a Christian country and I bow to its prejudices. Two, I understand, is the limit. But we must leave at once."
The Sultan paused a moment and then looked at me.
"And our good friend here," he added, "we must leave to get out of this Yildiz Kiosk by whatsoever magic means he came into it."
Which I did.
And I am assured, by those who know, that the intervention was made good and that Abdul and Toomuch may be seen to this day, or to any other day, moving to and fro in their slippers and turbans in their Turkish Bath Emporium at the corner of Broadway and--
But stop; that would be saying too much, especially as
Fatima and Falloola occupy the upstairs.
And it is said that Abdul has developed a very special talent for heating up the temperature for his Christian customers.
Moreover, it is the general opinion that, whether or not the Kaiser and such people will get their deserts, Abdul Aziz has his.
XIII. In Merry Mexico
I stood upon the platform of the little deserted railway station of the frontier and looked around at the wide prospect. "So this," I said to myself, "is Mexico!"
About me was the great plain rolling away to the Sierras in the background. The railroad track traversed it in a thin line. There were no trees--only here and there a clump of cactus or chaparral, a tuft of dog-grass or a few patches of dogwood. At intervals in the distance one could see a hacienda standing in majestic solitude in a cup of the hills. In the blue sky floated little banderillos of white cloud, while a graceful hidalgo appeared poised on a crag on one leg with folded wings, or floated lazily in the sky on one wing with folded legs.
There was a drowsy buzzing of cicadas half asleep in the cactus cups, and, from some hidden depth of the hills far in the distance, the tinkling of a mule bell.
I had seen it all so often in moving pictures that I recognised the scene at once.
"So this is Mexico?" I repeated.
The station building beside me was little more than a wooden shack. Its door was closed. There was a sort of ticket wicket opening at the side, but it too was closed.
But as I spoke thus aloud, the wicket opened. There appeared in it the head and shoulders of a little wizened man, swarthy and with bright eyes and pearly teeth.
He wore a black velvet suit with yellow facings, and a tall straw hat running to a point. I seemed to have seen him a hundred times in comic opera.
"Can you tell me when the next train--?" I began.
The little man made a gesture of Spanish politeness.
"Welcome to Mexico!" he said.
"Could you tell me--?" I continued.
"Welcome to our sunny Mexico!" he repeated--"our beautiful, glorious Mexico. Her heart throbs at the sight of you."
"Would you mind--?" I began again.
"Our beautiful Mexico, torn and distracted as she is, greets you. In the name of the de facto government, thrice welcome. Su casa!" he added with a graceful gesture indicating the interior of his little shack. "Come in and smoke cigarettes and sleep. Su casa! You are capable of Spanish, is it not?"
"No," I said, "it is not. But I wanted to know when the next train for the interior--"
"Ah!" he rejoined more briskly. "You address me as a servant of the de facto government. Momentino! One moment!"
He shut the wicket and was gone a long time. I thought he had fallen asleep.
But he reappeared. He had a bundle of what looked like railway time tables, very ancient and worn, in his hand.
"Did you say," he questioned, "the interior or the exterior?"
"The interior, please."
"Ah, good, excellent--for the interior." The little Mexican retreated into his shack and I could hear him murmuring, "For the interior, excellent," as he moved to and fro.
Presently he reappeared, a look of deep sorrow on his face.
"Alas," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "I am desolado!
It has gone! The next train has gone!"
"Gone! When?"
"Alas, who can tell? Yesterday, last month? But it has gone."
"And when will there be another one?" I asked.
"Ha!" he said, resuming a brisk official manner. "I understand. Having missed the next, you propose to take another one. Excellent! What business enterprise you foreigners have! You miss your train! What do you do? Do you abandon your journey? No. Do you sit down--do you weep? No. Do you lose time? You do not."
"Excuse me," I said, "but when is there another train?"
"That must depend," said the little official, and as he spoke he emerged from his house and stood beside me on the platform fumbling among his railway guides. "The first question is, do you propose to take a de facto train or a de jure train?"
"When do they go?" I asked.
"There is a de jure train," continued the stationmaster, peering into his papers, "at two p.m. A very good train--sleepers and diners--one at four, a through train--sleepers, observation car, dining car, corridor compartments--that also is a de jure train--"
"But what is the difference between the de jure and the de facto?"
"It's a distinction we generally make in Mexico. The de jure trains are those that ought to go; that is, in theory, they go. The de facto trains are those that actually do go. It is a distinction clearly established in our correspondence with Huedro Huilson."
"Do you mean Woodrow Wilson?"
"Yes, Huedro Huilson, president--de jure--of the United
States."
"Oh," I said. "Now I understand. And when will there be a de facto train?"
"At any moment you like," said the little official with a bow.
"But I don't see--"
"Pardon me, I have one here behind the shed on that side track. Excuse me one moment and I will bring it."
He disappeared and I presently saw him energetically pushing out from behind the shed a little railroad lorry or hand truck.
"Now then," he said as he shoved his little car on to the main track, "this is the train. Seat yourself. I myself will take you."
"And how much shall I pay? What is the fare to the interior?" I questioned.
The little man waved the idea aside with a polite gesture.
"The fare," he said, "let us not speak of it. Let us forget it How much money have you?"
"I have here," I said, taking out a roll of bills, "fifty dollars--"
"And that is all you have?"
"Yes."
"Then let that be your fare! Why should I ask more? Were I an American, I might; but in our Mexico, no. What you have we take; beyond that we ask nothing. Let us forget it. Good! And, now, would you prefer to travel first, second, or third class?"
"First class please," I said.
"Very good. Let it be so." Here the little man took from his pocket a red label marked FIRST CLASS and tied it on the edge of the hand car. "It is more comfortable," he said. "Now seat yourself, seize hold of these two handles in front of you. Move them back and forward, thus. Beyond that you need do nothing. The working of the car, other than the mere shoving of the handles, shall be my task. Consider yourself, in fact, senor, as my guest."
We took our places. I applied myself, as directed, to the handles and the little car moved forward across the plain.
"A glorious prospect," I said, as I gazed at the broad panorama.
"Magnifico! Is it not?" said my companion. "Alas, my poor Mexico! She want nothing but water to make her the most fertile country of the globe! Water and soil, those only, and she would excel all others. Give her but water, soil, light, heat, capital and labour, and what could she not be! And what do we see? Distraction, revolution, destruction--pardon me, will you please stop the car a moment? I wish to tear up a little of the track behind us."
I did as directed. My companion descended, and with a little bar that he took from beneath the car unloosed a few of the rails of the light track and laid them beside the road.
"It is our custom," he explained, as he climbed on board again. "We Mexicans, when we move to and fro, always tear up the track behind us. But what was I saying? Ah, yes--destruction, desolation, alas, our Mexico!"
He looked sadly up at the sky.
"You speak," I said, "like a patriot. May I ask your name?"
"My name is Raymon," he answered, with a bow, "Raymon
Domenico y Miraflores de las Gracias."
"And may I call you simply Raymon?"
"I shall be delirious with pleasure if you will do so," he answered, "and dare I ask you, in return, your business in our beautiful country?"
The car, as we were speaking, had entered upon a long gentle down-grade across the plain, so that it ran without great effort on my part.
"Certainly," I said. "I'm going into the interior to see
General Villa!"
At the shock of the name, Raymon nearly fell off the car.
"Villa! General Francesco Villa! It is not possible!"
The little man was shivering with evident fear.
"See him! See Villa! Not possible. Let me show you a picture of him instead? But approach him--it is not possible. He shoots everybody at sight!"
"That's all right," I said. "I have a written safe conduct that protects me."
"From whom?"
"Here," I said, "look at them--I have two."
Raymon took the documents I gave him and read aloud:
"'The bearer is on an important mission connected with American rights in Mexico. If anyone shoots him he will be held to a strict accountability. W. W.' Ah! Excellent! He will be compelled to send in an itemised account. Excellent! And this other, let me see. 'If anybody interferes with the bearer, I will knock his face in. T. R.' Admirable. This is, if anything, better than the other for use in our country. It appeals to our quick Mexican natures. It is, as we say, simpatico. It touches us."
"It is meant to," I said.
"And may I ask," said Raymon, "the nature of your business with Villa?"
"We are old friends," I answered. "I used to know him years ago when he kept a Mexican cigar store in Buffalo. It occurred to me that I might be able to help the cause of peaceful intervention. I have already had a certain experience in Turkey. I am commissioned to make General Villa an offer."
"I see," said Raymon. "In that case, if we are to find Villa let us make all haste forward. And first we must direct ourselves yonder"--he pointed in a vague way towards the mountains--"where we must presently leave our car and go on foot, to the camp of General Carranza."
"Carranza!" I exclaimed. "But he is fighting Villa!"
"Exactly. It is possible--not certain--but possible, that he knows where Villa is. In our Mexico when two of our generalistas are fighting in the mountains, they keep coming across one another. It is hard to avoid it."
"Good," I said. "Let us go forward."
It was two days later that we reached Carranza's camp in the mountains.
We found him just at dusk seated at a little table beneath a tree.
His followers were all about, picketing their horses and lighting fires.
The General, buried in a book before him, noticed neither the movements of his own men nor our approach.
I must say that I was surprised beyond measure at his appearance.
The popular idea of General Carranza as a rude bandit chief is entirely erroneous.
I saw before me a quiet, scholarly-looking man, bearing every mark of culture and refinement. His head was bowed over the book in front of him, which I noticed with astonishment and admiration was Todhunter's Algebra. Close at his hand I observed a work on Decimal Fractions, while, from time to time, I saw the General lift his eyes and glance keenly at a multiplication table that hung on a bough beside him.
"You must wait a few moments," said an aide-de-camp, who stood beside us. "The General is at work on a simultaneous equation!"
"Is it possible?" I said in astonishment.
The aide-de-camp smiled.
"Soldiering to-day, my dear Senor," he said, "is an exact science. On this equation will depend our entire food supply for the next week."
"When will he get it done?" I asked anxiously.
"Simultaneously," said the aide-de-camp.
The General looked up at this moment and saw us.
"Well?" he asked.
"Your Excellency," said the aide-de-camp, "there is a stranger here on a visit of investigation to Mexico."
"Shoot him!" said the General, and turned quickly to his work.
The aide-de-camp saluted.
"When?" he asked.
"As soon as he likes," said the General.
"You are fortunate, indeed," said the aide-de-camp, in a tone of animation, as he led me away, still accompanied by Raymon. "You might have been kept waiting round for days. Let us get ready at once. You would like to be shot, would you not, smoking a cigarette, and standing beside your grave? Luckily, we have one ready. Now, if you will wait a moment, I will bring the photographer and his machine. There is still light enough, I think. What would you like it called? The Fate of a Spy? That's good, isn't it? Our syndicate can always work up that into a two-reel film. All the rest of it--the camp, the mountains, the general, the funeral and so on--we can do to-morrow without you."
He was all eagerness as he spoke.
"One moment," I interrupted. "I am sure there is some mistake. I only wished to present certain papers and get a safe conduct from the General to go and see Villa."
The aide-de-camp stopped abruptly.
"Ah!" he said. "You are not here for a picture. A thousand pardons. Give me your papers. One moment--I will return to the General and explain."
He vanished, and Raymon and I waited in the growing dusk.
"No doubt the General supposed," explained Raymon, as he lighted a cigarette, "that you were here for las machinas, the moving pictures."
In a few minutes the aide-de-camp returned.
"Come," he said, "the General will see you now."
We returned to where we had left Carranza.
The General rose to meet me with outstretched hand and with a gesture of simple cordiality.
"You must pardon my error," he said.
"Not at all," I said.
"It appears you do not desire to be shot."
"Not at present."
"Later, perhaps," said the General. "On your return, no doubt, provided," he added with grave courtesy that sat well on him, "that you do return. My aide-de-camp shall make a note of it. But at present you wish to be guided to Francesco Villa?"
"If it is possible."
"Quite easy. He is at present near here, in fact much nearer than he has any right to be." The General frowned. "We found this spot first. The light is excellent and the mountains, as you have seen, are wonderful for our pictures. This is, by every rule of decency, our scenery. Villa has no right to it. This is our Revolution"--the General spoke with rising animation--"not his. When you see the fellow, tell him from me--or tell his manager--that he must either move his revolution further away or, by heaven, I'll--I'll use force against him. But stop," he checked himself. "You wish to see Villa. Good. You have only to follow the straight track over the mountain there. He is just beyond, at the little village in the hollow, El Corazon de las Quertas."
The General shook hands and seated himself again at his work. The interview was at an end. We withdrew.
The next morning we followed without difficulty the path indicated. A few hours' walk over the mountain pass brought us to a little straggling village of adobe houses, sleeping drowsily in the sun.
There were but few signs of life in its one street--a mule here and there tethered in the sun, and one or two Mexicans drowsily smoking in the shade.
One building only, evidently newly made, and of lumber, had a decidedly American appearance. Its doorway bore the sign GENERAL OFFICES OF THE COMPANY, and under it the notice KEEP OUT, while on one of its windows was painted GENERAL MANAGER and below it the legend NO ADMISSION, and on the other, SECRETARY'S OFFICE: GO AWAY.
We therefore entered at once.
"General Francesco Villa?" said a clerk, evidently American. "Yes, he's here all right. At least, this is the office."
"And where is the General?" I asked.
The clerk turned to an assistant at a desk in a corner of the room.
"Where's Frank working this morning?" he asked.
"Over down in the gulch," said the other, turning round for a moment. "There's an attack on American cavalry this morning."
"Oh, yes, I forgot," said the chief clerk. "I thought it was the Indian Massacre, but I guess that's for to-morrow. Go straight to the end of the street and turn left about half a mile and you'll find the boys down there."
We thanked him and withdrew.
We passed across the open plaza, and went down a narrow side road, bordered here and there with adobe houses, and so out into the open country. Here the hills rose again and the road that we followed wound sharply round a turn into a deep gorge, bordered with rocks and sage brush. We had no sooner turned the curve of the road than we came upon a scene of great activity. Men in Mexican costume were running to and fro apparently arranging a sort of barricade at the side of the road. Others seemed to be climbing the rocks on the further side of the gorge, as if seeking points of advantage. I noticed that all were armed with rifles and machetes and presented a formidable appearance. Of Villa himself I could see nothing. But there was a grim reality about the glittering knives, the rifles and the maxim guns that I saw concealed in the sage brush beside the road.
"What is it?" I asked of a man who was standing idle, watching the scene from the same side of the road as ourselves.
"Attack of American cavalry," he said nonchalantly.
"Here!" I gasped.
"Yep, in about ten minutes: soon as they are ready."
"Where's Villa?"
"It's him they're attacking. They chase him here, see! This is an ambush. Villa rounds on them right here, and they fight to a finish!"
"Great heavens!" I exclaimed. "How do you know that?"
"Know it? Why because I seen it. Ain't they been trying it out for three days? Why, I'd be in it myself only I'm off work. Got a sore toe yesterday--horse stepped on it."
All this was, of course, quite unintelligible to me.
"But it's right here where they're going to fight?" I asked.
"Sure," said the American, as he moved carelessly aside,
"as soon as the boss gets it all ready."
I noticed for the first time a heavy-looking man in an American tweed suit and a white plug hat, moving to and fro and calling out directions with an air of authority.
"Here!" he shouted, "what in h--l are you doing with that machine gun? You've got it clean out of focus. Here, Jose, come in closer--that's right. Steady there now, and don't forget, at the second whistle you and Pete are dead. Here, you, Pete, how in thunder do you think you can die there? You're all out of the picture and hidden by that there sage brush. That's no place to die. And, boys, remember one thing, now, die slow. Ed"--he turned and called apparently to some one invisible behind the rocks--"when them two boys is killed, turn her round on them, slew her round good and get them centre focus. Now then, are you all set? Ready?"
At this moment the speaker turned and saw Raymon and myself.
"Here, youse," he shouted, "get further back, you're in the picture. Or, say, no, stay right where you are. You," he said, pointing to me, "stay right where you are and I'll give you a dollar to just hold that horror; you understand, just keep on registering it. Don't do another thing, just register that face."
His words were meaningless to me. I had never known before that it was possible to make money by merely registering my face.
"No, no," cried out Raymon, "my friend here is not wanting work. He has a message, a message of great importance for General Villa."
"Well," called back the boss, "he'll have to wait. We can't stop now. All ready, boys? One--two--now!"
And with that he put a whistle to his lips and blew a long shrill blast.
Then in a moment the whole scene was transformed. Rifle shots rang out from every crag and bush that bordered the gully.
A wild scamper of horses' hoofs was heard and in a moment there came tearing down the road a whole troop of mounted Mexicans, evidently in flight, for they turned and fired from their saddles as they rode. The horses that carried them were wild with excitement and flecked with foam. The Mexican cavalry men shouted and yelled, brandishing their machetes and firing their revolvers. Here and there a horse and rider fell to the ground in a great whirl of sand and dust. In the thick of the press, a leader of ferocious aspect, mounted upon a gigantic black horse, waved his sombrero about his head.
"Villa--it is Villa!" cried Raymon, tense with excitement.
"Is he not magnifico? But look! Look--the Americanos!
They are coming!"
It was a glorious sight to see them as they rode madly on the heels of the Mexicans--a whole company of American cavalry, their horses shoulder to shoulder, the men bent low in their saddles, their carbines gripped in their hands. They rode in squadrons and in line, not like the shouting, confused mass of the Mexicans--but steady, disciplined, irresistible.
On the right flank in front a grey-haired officer steadied the charging line. The excitement of it was maddening.
"Go to it," I shouted in uncontrollable emotion. "Your
Mexicans are licked, Raymon, they're no good!"
"But look!" said Raymon. "See--the ambush, the ambuscada!"
For as they reached the centre of the gorge in front of us the Mexicans suddenly checked their horses, bringing them plunging on their haunches in the dust, and then swung round upon their pursuers, while from every crag and bush at the side of the gorge the concealed riflemen sprang into view--and the sputtering of the machine guns swept the advancing column with a volley.
We could see the American line checked as with the buffet of a great wave, men and horses rolling in the road. Through the smoke one saw the grey-haired leader --dismounted, his uniform torn, his hat gone, but still brandishing his sword and calling his orders to his men, his face as one caught in a flash of sunlight, steady and fearless. His words I could not hear, but one saw the American cavalry, still unbroken, dismount, throw themselves behind their horses, and fire with steady aim into the mass of the Mexicans. We could see the Mexicans in front of where we stood falling thick and fast, in little huddled bundles of colour, kicking the sand. The man Pete had gone down right in the foreground and was breathing out his soul before our eyes.
"Well done," I shouted. "Go to it, boys! You can lick 'em yet! Hurrah for the United States. Look, Raymon, look! They've shot down the crew of the machine guns. See, see, the Mexicans are turning to run. At 'em, boys! They're waving the American flag! There it is in all the thick of the smoke! Hark! There's the bugle call to mount again! They're going to charge again! Here they come!"
As the American cavalry came tearing forward, the Mexicans leaped from their places with gestures of mingled rage and terror as if about to break and run.
The battle, had it continued, could have but one end.
But at this moment we heard from the town behind us the long sustained note of a steam whistle blowing the hour of noon.
In an instant the firing ceased.
The battle stopped. The Mexicans picked themselves up off the ground and began brushing off the dust from their black velvet jackets. The American cavalry reined in their horses. Dead Pete came to life. General Villa and the American leader and a number of others strolled over towards the boss, who stood beside the fence vociferating his comments.
"That won't do!" he was shouting. "That won't do! Where in blazes was that infernal Sister of Mercy? Miss Jenkinson!" and he called to a tall girl, whom I now noticed for the first time among the crowd, wearing a sort of khaki costume and a short skirt and carrying a water bottle in a strap. "You never got into the picture at all. I want you right in there among the horses, under their feet."
"Land sakes!" said the Sister of Mercy. "You ain't no right to ask me to go in there among them horses and be trampled."
"Ain't you paid to be trampled?" said the manager angrily. Then as he caught sight of Villa he broke off and said: "Frank, you boys done fine. It's going to be a good act, all right. But it ain't just got the right amount of ginger in it yet. We'll try her over once again, anyway."
"Now, boys," he continued, calling out to the crowd with a voice like a megaphone, "this afternoon at three-thirty --Hospital scene. I only want the wounded, the doctors and the Sisters of Mercy. All the rest of youse is free till ten to-morrow--for the Indian Massacre. Everybody up for that."
It was an hour or two later that I had my interview with Villa in a back room of the little posada, or inn, of the town. The General had removed his ferocious wig of straight black hair, and substituted a check suit for his warlike costume. He had washed the darker part of the paint off his face--in fact, he looked once again the same Frank Villa that I used to know when he kept his Mexican cigar store in Buffalo.
"Well, Frank," I said, "I'm afraid I came down here under a misunderstanding."
"Looks like it," said the General, as he rolled a cigarette.
"And you wouldn't care to go back even for the offer that
I am commissioned to make--your old job back again, and
half the profits on a new cigar to be called the Francesco
Villa?"
The General shook his head.
"It sounds good, all right," he said, "but this moving-picture business is better."
"I see," I said, "I hadn't understood. I thought there really was a revolution here in Mexico."
"No," said Villa, shaking his head, "been no revolution down here for years--not since Diaz. The picture companies came in and took the whole thing over; they made us a fair offer--so much a reel straight out, and a royalty, and let us divide up the territory as we liked. The first film we done was the bombardment of Vera Cruz. Say, that was a dandy; did you see it?"
"No," I said.
"They had us all in that," he continued. "I done an American Marine. Lots of people think it all real when they see it."
"Why," I said, "nearly everybody does. Even the President--"
"Oh, I guess he knows," said Villa, "but, you see, there's tons of money in it and it's good for business, and he's too decent a man to give It away. Say, I heard the boy saying there's a war in Europe. I wonder what company got that up, eh? But I don't believe it'll draw. There ain't the scenery for it that we have in Mexico."
"Alas!" murmured Raymon. "Our beautiful Mexico. To what is she fallen! Needing only water, air, light and soil to make her--"
"Come on, Raymon," I said, "let's go home."
XIV. Over the Grape Juice; or, The Peacemakers
Characters
MR. W. JENNINGS BRYAN.
DR. DAVID STARR JORDAN.
A PHILANTHROPIST.
MR. NORMAN ANGELL.
A LADY PACIFIST.
A NEGRO PRESIDENT.
AN EMINENT DIVINE.
THE MAN ON THE STREET.
THE GENERAL PUBLIC.
And many others.
"War," said the Negro President of Haiti, "is a sad spectacle. It shames our polite civilisation."
As he spoke, he looked about him at the assembled company around the huge dinner table, glittering with cut glass and white linen, and brilliant with hot-house flowers.
"A sad spectacle," he repeated, rolling his big eyes in his black and yellow face that was melancholy with the broken pathos of the African race.
The occasion was a notable one. It was the banquet of the Peacemakers' Conference of 1917 and the company gathered about the board was as notable as it was numerous.
At the head of the table the genial Mr. Jennings Bryan presided as host, his broad countenance beaming with amiability, and a tall flagon of grape juice standing beside his hand. A little further down the table one saw the benevolent head and placid physiognomy of Mr. Norman Angell, bowed forward as if in deep calculation. Within earshot of Mr. Bryan, but not listening to him, one recognised without the slightest difficulty Dr. David Starr Jordan, the distinguished ichthyologist and director in chief of the World's Peace Foundation, while the bland features of a gentleman from China, and the presence of a yellow delegate from the Mosquito Coast, gave ample evidence that the company had been gathered together without reference to colour, race, religion, education, or other prejudices whatsoever.
But it would be out of the question to indicate by name the whole of the notable assemblage. Indeed, certain of the guests, while carrying in their faces and attitudes something strangely and elusively familiar, seemed in a sense to be nameless, and to represent rather types and abstractions than actual personalities. Such was the case, for instance, with a female member of the company, seated in a place of honour near the host, whose demure garb and gentle countenance seemed to indicate her as a Lady Pacifist, but denied all further identification. The mild, ecclesiastical features of a second guest, so entirely Christian in its expression as to be almost devoid of expression altogether, marked him at once as An Eminent Divine, but, while puzzlingly suggestive of an actual and well-known person, seemed to elude exact recognition. His accent, when he presently spoke, stamped him as British and his garb was that of the Established Church. Another guest appeared to answer to the general designation of Capitalist or Philanthropist, and seemed from his prehensile grasp upon his knife and fork to typify the Money Power. In front of this guest, doubtless with a view of indicating his extreme wealth and the consideration in which he stood, was placed a floral decoration representing a broken bank, with the figure of a ruined depositor entwined among the debris.
Of these nameless guests, two individuals alone, from the very significance of their appearance, from their plain dress, unsuited to the occasion, and from the puzzled expression of their faces, seemed out of harmony with the galaxy of distinction which surrounded them. They seemed to speak only to one another, and even that somewhat after the fashion of an appreciative chorus to what the rest of the company was saying; while the manner in which they rubbed their hands together and hung upon the words of the other speakers in humble expectancy seemed to imply that they were present in the hope of gathering rather than shedding light. To these two humble and obsequious guests no attention whatever was paid, though it was understood, by those who knew, that their names were The General Public and the Man on the Street.
"A sad spectacle," said the Negro President, and he sighed as he spoke. "One wonders if our civilisation, if our moral standards themselves, are slipping from us." Then half in reverie, or as if overcome by the melancholy of his own thought, he lifted a spoon from the table and slid it gently into the bosom of his faded uniform.
"Put back that spoon!" called The Lady Pacifist sharply.
"Pardon!" said the Negro President humbly, as he put it back. The humiliation of generations of servitude was in his voice.
"Come, come," exclaimed Mr. Jennings Bryan cheerfully,
"try a little more of the grape juice?"
"Does it intoxicate?" asked the President.
"Never," answered Mr. Bryan. "Rest assured of that. I can guarantee it. The grape is picked in the dark. It is then carried, still in the dark, to the testing room. There every particle of alcohol is removed. Try it."
"Thank you," said the President. "I am no longer thirsty."
"Will anybody have some more of the grape juice?" asked
Mr. Bryan, running his eye along the ranks of the guests.
No one spoke.
"Will anybody have some more ground peanuts?"
No one moved.
"Or does anybody want any more of the shredded tan bark? No? Or will somebody have another spoonful of sunflower seeds?"
There was still no sign of assent.
"Very well, then," said Mr. Bryan, "the banquet, as such, is over, and we now come to the more serious part of our business. I need hardly tell you that we are here for a serious purpose. We are here to do good. That I know is enough to enlist the ardent sympathy of everybody present."
There was a murmur of assent.
"Personally," said The Lady Pacifist, "I do nothing else."
"Neither do I," said the guest who has been designated The Philanthropist, "whether I am producing oil, or making steel, or building motor-cars."
"Does he build motor-cars?" whispered the humble person called The Man in the Street to his fellow, The General Public.
"All great philanthropists do things like that," answered his friend. "They do it as a social service so as to benefit humanity; any money they make is just an accident. They don't really care about it a bit. Listen to him. He's going to say so."
"Indeed, our business itself," The Philanthropist continued, while his face lighted up with unselfish enthusiasm, "our business itself--"
"Hush, hush!" said Mr. Bryan gently. "We know--"
"Our business itself," persisted The Philanthropist, "is one great piece of philanthropy."
Tears gathered in his eyes.
"Come, come," said Mr. Bryan firmly, "we must get to business. Our friend here," he continued, turning to the company at large and indicating the Negro President on his right, "has come to us in great distress. His beautiful island of Haiti is and has been for many years overwhelmed in civil war. Now he learns that not only Haiti, but also Europe is engulfed in conflict. He has heard that we are making proposals for ending the war --indeed, I may say are about to declare that the war in Europe must stop--I think I am right, am I not, my friends?"
There was a general chorus of assent.
"Naturally then," continued Mr. Bryan, "our friend the President of Haiti, who is overwhelmed with grief at what has been happening in his island, has come to us for help. That is correct, is it not?"
"That's it, gentlemen," said the Negro President, in a voice of some emotion, wiping the sleeve of his faded uniform across his eyes. "The situation is quite beyond my control. In fact," he added, shaking his head pathetically as he relapsed into more natural speech, "dis hyah chile, gen'l'n, is clean done beat with it. Dey ain't doin' nuffin' on the island but shootin', burnin', and killin' somethin' awful. Lawd a massy! it's just like a real civilised country, all right, now. Down in our island we coloured people is feeling just as bad as youse did when all them poor white folks was murdered on the Lusitania!"
But the Negro President had no sooner used the words "Murdered on the Lusitania," than a chorus of dissent and disapproval broke out all down the table.
"My dear sir, my dear sir," protested Mr. Bryan, "pray moderate your language a little, if you please. Murdered? Oh, dear, dear me, how can we hope to advance the cause of peace if you insist on using such terms?"
"Ain't it that? Wasn't it murder?" asked the President, perplexed.
"We are all agreed here," said The Lady Pacifist, "that it is far better to call it an incident. We speak of the 'Lusitania Incident,'" she added didactically, "just as one speaks of the Arabic Incident, and the Cavell Incident, and other episodes of the sort. It makes it so much easier to forget."
"True, quite true," murmured The Eminent Divine, "and then one must remember that there are always two sides to everything. There are two sides to murder. We must not let ourselves forget that there is always the murderer's point of view to consider."
But by this time the Negro President was obviously confused and out of his depth. The conversation had reached a plane of civilisation which was beyond his reach.
The genial Mr. Bryan saw fit to come to his rescue.
"Never mind," said Mr. Bryan soothingly. "Our friends here, will soon settle all your difficulties for you. I'm going to ask them, one after the other, to advise you. They will tell you the various means that they are about to apply to stop the war in Europe, and you may select any that you like for your use in Haiti. We charge you nothing for it, except of course your fair share of the price of this grape juice and the shredded nuts."
