Chapter 6

Once again, for the fourth time in less than four years, the peasant mind thought of the Revolution as coming to the end of the beginning.

To the peasant, Mexico City was the government. Whoever controlled Mexico City was the government.

Emiliano Zapata was now the government, and he was desperately trying to hand it over to someone else.

He was sad and tired and he did not want to be President.

Who would he be fooling? If he was a General it was because he believed deeply that his people's wrongs should be righted. If he ordered a thousand men to die, he needed no education to do so. All he needed was conviction and a strong heart. And when he communicated with his men, he barked directions mixed with obscenities. What did he know of good manners and of speaking so refined as to offend no one?

Besides-he really did feel more comfortable around horses. The only beautiful memories he had of his boyhood and early manhood were centered around horses. He had been happy as a stableman. But then the Army of Don Porfirio Diaz had forced him to join its ranks. And his rebellion had started.

No, his job was done. Mexico City was under his control. He had kicked Obregon out of the Capitol.

"Are you sure that thing works?" Zapata asked the telegraph operator.

"Si, mi General." The young man waved his hand requesting a moment's silence. A message was coming in.

Yes. His job was done. And he hoped this was for the last time. The burden of war was too heavy. All his being was yearning to break chains, to be free as the wind.

He looked out the glass window. A young couple walked by, the woman holding a small baby in her arms. His weary eyes followed them until they disappeared around the corner.

Lucky people! The world belongs to them.

I have a wife, too, he thought. Poor woman! Poor wife! Some bargain she had received. She was married but to a name. How she must wish for flesh, blood, and bones to share her bed!

The operator turned to Zapata. "General Villa wants to know if you still refuse the Presidency."

Not only was Villa a bandit, he was crazy too! "No! I don't want to be President! I don't want to be anything! I have a wife! I want to go home!"

The young man's eyes opened wide in disbelief. He turned around and started tapping on the key.

"Ask him, why not him?" ordered Zapata. "He would be a good president."

The door to the telegraph office opened and a small bell rang. The heavy-bearded captain came in and approached Zapata.

"You were right, General," the small, powerfully built man said. "The so-called delegates who refused to recognize Gutierrez, they were nothing but Obregon's puppets."

Zapata frowned. "Carranza and Obregon want power so badly they can taste it."

"If you have no other duties for me, I think I'll go to bed. I could sleep for a week."

"No, go ahead, Captain," Zapata said. "There's nothing to do now but wait."

"Gracias, mi General," yawned the small soldier and walked out.

The operator was writing furiously on a piece of paper. It was hard to believe. Could words really travel hundreds of miles? And in such a short time! All he could hear was a tic-tac sound.

The operator stopped writing and turned to Zapata. "General Villa says that old habits are hard to break. His one big love had been to steal from the government. What joy would there be in stealing from his own government?"

"Does he suggest anybody?" Zapata asked anxiously, his hands gripping the rail that divided the room in two.

"Yes," the operator said. "He wants to know what you think of General Roque Gonzalez Garza? Would he be agreeable to you?"

Zapata walked back and forth across the small office.

God! He wanted to go home so badly the pit of his stomach ached.

But could Garza be trusted? Would he serve the cause of the Revolution? Or would the power go to his head?

How does one know! How can one ever possibly know? A man never reveals his true colors until he feels the devil's temptation!

Garza was a good man. He believed in the cause. But even the mountains could change overnight!

He thought of the couple he had seen a few minutes before.

His own wife was young and beautiful. How long would a woman wait to realize her womanhood? How long?

He thought of the many people he had seen die, of the many people he had killed himself. How long can a man live with death and still be a man? How long?

He remembered the illusions and the disillusions, the dreams and the shortcomings, the ideals and the realities.

No! His job was done. He had done a soldier's job. Let others now carry the burden. This was a politician's job. Let them carry the weight. Let them play with the mud of life. Let them shape that mud into the kind of statue the people want.

Garza had fought with the people, for the people. He was as good a man as any, if he didn't change.

"I agree!" Zapata finally said. "When can I expect him?"

The operator relayed the message and waited pencil in hand.

But God help him! If Garza ever betrayed the Revolution, God help him!

Ah! It would be nice to live a man's life again. No more hate! No more shooting! No more death!

Only he and his wife and their love, and the land! Yes! It would be nice!

The operator wrote down the reply. It was short and to the point.

"General Garza will be in Mexico City in a few days, a week at the most."

While these arrangements were being made, General Obregon was going ahead with his campaign, but not without a great deal of difficulty. Once he reached Veracruz he had explained his campaign to Carranza. But Carranza was raving mad. "You have caused us a political disaster," he accused Obregon. "You should have consulted with me," he went on and on, "before abandoning the capitol to those ravaging dogs."

But Obregon was resolute. He was very much in doubt that any foreign government would ever recognize a government composed of ignorant peasants-and especially so, if the intent of that government was immediate confiscation of all foreign property.

Why, the American government had even refused to recognize the Huerta regime, and Huerta had been backed by all the conservative elements who wished to preserve the economic gains made by Don Porfirio Diaz.

"Yes, yes," answered Carranza, "but the only reason why Huerta wasn't ever recognized was because of his offensive personality and because of the cowardly way in which he assassinated Madero."

The argument between the two men went on. Carranza wanted Obregon to attack Mexico City immediately. Obregon would not comply. Mexico City did not interest him. The destruction of the rebel armies was what was important.

Even if Carranza's fears were to come true, he reasoned, the foreign governments would not pass recognition for several months to come. And by that time his own campaign would have been completed.

"As long as we control the modern harbors of Tampico and Veracruz," he assured Carranza, "I foresee no real dangers. With these two harbors under our wings we can receive weapons and supplies. And that's your job. We need more weapons and supplies."

Carranza was not at all convinced that Obregon's way was the right way, but he did know that Obregon commanded the loyalty of almost every officer in the army. He decided to let Obregon have his way.

But he made a mental notation to get rid of Obregon sometime in the near future.

In the days to come, weapons were accumulated and more men were recruited. Long months of planning and preparation came to an end, and Obregon launched his attack on the central regions of Mexico. In a few weeks Obregon was the master of central Mexico. But not everything had gone well. Pancho Villa had escaped with a few men to the Chihuahua mountains.

And Carranza had grown bitter and impatient. Time was running out and Obregon had neglected to take Mexico City.

The two men were again in conference and Obregon was in a good mood. Taking Mexico City now would be child's play.

Carranza, however, was in anything but a good mood. "This time," he said in a deadly serious voice, "we must completely crush the opposition."

"I quite agree," said General Obregon, seated across the desk from Carranza.

"Of course," said Obregon, "it will be no problem to run Garza out of Mexico City. He only has a few hundred peasants protecting the city."

"Yes," Carranza agreed, looking up at the ceiling, thoughtfully. "The problem as always will be Villa and Zapata."

Obregon inhaled deeply from his cigar. "Well," he said. "I don't know about Villa. But there is only one thing that will stop Zapata. And that is his own death."

"Do you suggest assassination?" asked Carranza looking closely at Obregon.

Obregon shrugged his shoulders. "I am not suggesting anything," he said. "All I know is that as soon as we run Garza out of the capital, Zapata will come down from his mountains and organize another peasant army. And then it will happen all over again."

"I know," said Carranza, tapping the desk with his fingers. "I know."

"Villa," continued Obregon. "I don't know about him. But I always felt he was a bandit above and beyond all else. Perhaps we could buy him off, so to speak. We could offer him money, a ranch, anything of value, just so he minds his own business."

"I think you are right." Carranza stood up. "Time has run out. We simply don't have any more time to deal with ignorant fanatics. We must destroy them, one way or the other."

Obregon also stood up and extended his right arm across the desk. "Well," he said, shaking hands with Carranza. "I'll leave the nasty little details to you. I'll see you in Mexico City. It should be ours in two days."

Carranza looked after Obregon suspiciously. The man was too damn smart for his own good. Somehow he must assassinate him, too.

Had Carranza known what Obregon had been thinking lately, he would have been more than suspicious.

As far as Obregon was concerned, Carranza was a man who was confused about what he really wanted. Carranza would have liked to think of himself as a man who wanted only what was best for Mexico. Obregon could believe this, but in its proper perspective. He had no doubt that Carranza loved Mexico. But he felt that Carranza was primarily interested in the power of being President.

And this worried Obregon. He, too, wanted to be President. He was willing to wait until Carranza served his six year term. But what if Carranza did not keep his promise? He had been elected on the platform of no reelection.

No, if he had assessed the man correctly, Carranza would attempt to find a way not to relinquish the presidency. He would have to keep a very careful eye on Carranza.

And why did he want to be president? Did he, too, want to become another Porfirio Diaz and rule the country for several decades ?

Yes and no. He was no fool. If the country was in a mood to tolerate another Porfirio Diaz, he would love to become another Diaz-though he would do things much differently than Diaz ever did. But Mexico was far from being in the mood of ever tolerating another dictator. So the next best thing was to be president for a decent term of time. Being president, number one, was one of the highest glories a man could achieve. What man, in his right mind, would walk away from it?

Yes, he wanted to be president. But he was also a businessman, and for the compensation of being president he would give Mexico's problems the best of his abilities. It was a fair trade in any businessman's language.