Below Juarez lay an arid region of sand hills studded with manzanita trees blooming pink and white, greasewood, prickly pear and yucca, spiny ocotillo with vivid red flowers at the end of each branch. On their right hand, curving around to form a barrier in the south, the Sierra Madres presented themselves as hazy blue ramparts of rock with vegetation on the lower slopes. General Villa, an idol of the poor, had brought the war to this northern state, overrunning the great ranchos, looting the haciendas, investing towns and villages to drive out Federalistas. He then recruited men for his Division of the North, promising a triumphant march on the capital, where Huerta and his followers clung to their power and privilege and, not incidentally, the goodwill of American oil and mining interests that helped fund their side of the war.
The chaparral gave way to raw and brutal desert. The mountains seemed to recede continually ahead of them. Thirst and heat and sand fleas tortured them waking or sleeping. Twice they saw black smoke columns on the horizon from burning ranchos. At nightfall on the fourth day, they came within sight of a town a few miles west of the National Railroad line connecting Juarez with Torreón in the state of Durango, two hundred fifty miles south. Through field glasses Paul saw Federal flags flying above the town.
He and Sammy bedded down in the open, in the lee of their cart. In the distance a wild animal howled. Paul felt lost in the vast moonlit landscape. From his gear he took a small hinged case, opened it, tilted it to catch the brilliant light from above.
The left side of the case held a photograph of his four children, taken at New Year’s in an hour-long ordeal of squirming and fussing. Seven-year-old Betsy, pretty in her pinafore, sat on an ottoman with two-year-old Lottie beside her. Betsy held the baby, Theodore Roosevelt Crown, eight months. Like the man for whom he was named, Teddy was a sickly child. Little could be seen of him in his infant’s dress, just a pudgy, round face with shoe-button eyes. Shad, twelve now and visibly miserable in a stiff collar, stood behind the three, one hand on Betsy’s shoulder, one stuck into his coat Napoleon fashion.
The other oval held a portrait of his beloved Julie. The keepsake was no substitute for home, but a few moments spent with the sepia images relieved his loneliness. He settled down to sleep.
Twelve hours later, Villa’s army of horsemen, infantry, and female camp followers swept out of the desert and attacked the town.
A dozen horsemen stormed out of a cloud of tan dust. Orange fire streaked from Mauser rifles. A Gatling gun belonging to the Federals chattered in reply. The Gatling’s revolving barrels projected from the doorway of a church at the head of the street where Paul and Sammy crouched; the gun carriage was hidden in the vestibule. The senior officer commanding the gun had stepped out a while ago during a lull, sweeping the square and surrounding roofs with field glasses. His uniform reminded Paul of those worn by Prussian officers. His helmet was the familiar pickelhaube, polished metal with an upright spike. There was a strong German presence in Mexico.
The rebel horsemen charged along the street toward the gun emplacement. The horses kicked dust into Paul’s eyes as he and Sammy flattened against a yellow wall, beneath a bullet-torn slogan painted on it. VIVA VILLA! VIVA REVOLUCION! The rebels were advancing block by block, square by square; those at the rear were already celebrating the victory of the people by robbing and raping their fellow Mexicans.
Paul jammed the tripod into the dirt and started cranking, to catch the horsemen silhouetted against the sunlit square. The Gatling returned fire, slugs tearing a long trench in the yellow wall. Sammy put his arms over his head. “Gawd, I hope the old lady didn’t miss the last payment on the insurance.”
“I’m going forward. You stay back, out of the line of fire.”
“Not bloody likely,” Sammy growled. He was a loyal helper, brave and resourceful, one reason Paul had grown attached to him.
They crept forward. In the square raked by the Gatling, the rebels reined their horses and fired into the church. Paul tilted the tripod over his shoulder and ran through the dusky street to the glaring sunlight. At the edge of the square he passed a gut-shot rebel sitting against the wall with a bewildered look on his face and intestines peeping between his fingers. The Gatling stuttered, mowing down one of the horses. Spewing blackish blood, the horse collapsed under its rider. The Gatling killed the rider as he went down. His riddled corpse flopped against the dead animal.
Horses neighed and reared as the Gatling kept up its rat-tat. Paul darted beneath the awning of a cantina. He flung a table out of his way, saw that he still had one hundred seventy feet on the meter. Again he began to crank.
A rebel soldier on a frightened horse crashed into the poles supporting the awning. As the canvas came down and the horse bellowed, the soldier jumped off. Gatling rounds chopped into his face, blowing out an eye, ripping his cheek, blasting teeth from his jaw. Blood splashed on Paul’s hair, in his eyes, on his serape, his hands, and the camera. In spite of it he kept cranking.
A portly soldier dismounted and led three other men in a rush up the steps of the church. One of the men carried a bayonet as a sword. The rebels charged both sides of the gun, vanishing in the vestibule. Paul heard a scream, then gunfire. A moment later the senior officer was hurled out the door, the bayonet jutting from his belly. He tumbled to the foot of the steps. His pickelhaube clattered on the stones. His hair was blond.
More pistol fire in the church signaled the end of the Gatling detachment. Two bodies were thrown out the door; then the smoking gun was carefully rolled into the sunlight and maneuvered down the steps. As the four yelled and celebrated, Paul’s footage meter ran down to zero.
The soldiers reclaimed their horses and galloped off, leaving the Gatling gun to be claimed later. Paul surveyed the empty square, left his camera, and ran to the dead officer, who was beginning to smell. Holding his breath, he searched the officer’s blouse for identification, found none. He did discover a small book in German.
Just then three armed men in sandals and ragged clothes, laden with bandoliers, came from the street he’d quitted earlier. In Spanish the leader shouted, “Here’s the other gringo.” A fourth man dragged Sammy from the dark street at gunpoint.
Paul started to reach for the holstered revolver hidden under his serape, but he checked himself when the three guerillas leveled their rifles. They walked toward him with eyes fixed on him over the rifle sights.
“Under arrest,” said the man in front.
Paul slowly raised his hands.
Dirty, bloody, and tired, Paul felt a numb sense of failure. The soldiers searched him, stripped off his gun belt and holster but returned the little book after a quick examination. Paul shoved it in his pocket and fell in beside Sammy. One of the soldiers picked up the camera and laid the tripod over his shoulder. Paul wanted to tell him not to handle the camera roughly, but that would show that he spoke Spanish; he’d hold that card facedown for a while. The soldier was careful with the camera, which surprised Paul—and puzzled him a little.
Over the roofs of the adobe buildings, columns of smoke stained the sky. Gunfire banged in other streets, but less steadily than before. The procession left the square, ascended a sloping street, reached another square, and crossed to an undamaged cantina occupied by a dozen soldiers made cheerful by the capture of the town. Or maybe they were cheerful all the time; Paul remembered that Villa’s men were volunteers, in the fight because they believed in his program of land reform and education. The Federalistas who fought and died in the front lines were mostly conscripts.
Well away from the men, a voluptuous soldadera sat with a Winchester across her knees. Though she was grimy, she was also attractive in a rough way. Nipples big as cherries stood out black in her blouse. Using a rag, she slowly removed specks from the metal. In her eyes Paul saw the passion that gave Villa his strength and his advantage.
The general was centrally seated on a stool with a respectful space around him. He was a stocky man, in his mid-thirties perhaps. His dark, flat face sugges
ted Indian ancestry. His full mustache resembled a black shaving brush. On the shaded table beside him rested a bottle of clear liquid. Paul saw the worm in the tequila.
Unlike his foot soldiers, the general wore a plain khaki uniform, dusty boots, military cap. His eyes, so dark brown they looked black, never seemed to blink.
“Speak Spanish, my friend?” he asked Paul in that language.
Paul replied in English, “I don’t understand.”
The general snapped his fingers. A wizened fellow with crooked teeth jumped forward. Spanish again: “Julio will translate. Do you know who I am, Yankee?”
“Know who he is—el comandante?” said Julio in barely understandable English.
“General Villa. I have seen his pictures.”
When Julio translated, Villa beamed. “Bring a stool for the gentleman.”
Sammy was shoved to a nearby table, the muzzle of a Mauser near his ear. Villa ticked his stubby brown fingers against the bottle. “Tequila?”
“Tell the general no, thank you, but could I have a cigar?” He patted his serape, stiff with drying blood.
A jabber of Spanish, then the translation: “The general says don’t reach for your gun.”
“I don’t have a gun, you took it. I said I want a smoke.” He pantomimed puffing. “Cigar.”
“Ah. Cigarro. Puro.” Julio conveyed this, listened to the reply. “The general says, okay, smoke, but if you try anything we show you the adobe wall.” Paul had heard the expression before; it meant the firing squad.
“Another time,” he muttered, pulling out a cigar. The backs of his hands were colored by a wash of blood. He could feel it caked in his hair and eyebrows. He patted his pants for his matchbox, but somehow he’d lost it. Villa tossed him a sulfur match which Paul struck on the table. The general fired a question which Julio translated.
“He wishes to know who you are.”
“My name is Paul Crown. I’m an American. I make news pictures for theaters.”
Julio squinted, momentarily thrown. “I think he said he wears a crown, General. Also he paints pictures.” Good God, the man didn’t understand English at all. This could be disaster. Paul clamped the cigar in his teeth, found the soldier with the camera, pointed, then pantomimed cranking and said in Spanish, “Cines noticias.” News pictures. Villa rocked back on his stool, laughed.
“Well, well. There are two of us playing tricks. I speak the language of you Yankees. I have been in the United States many times.” He waved a hand. “Julio, sit down, you’re an idiot.”
Shamed, the ratty man disappeared in the cantina. Villa swigged from the bottle and continued, “I do a lot of good business in Texas and New Mexico. For instance, I take the cattle of the whoresons who rob the people of their land and birthright. My boys run the herds up to Columbus, New Mexico, by night. An accommodating merchant sells them, thereby sanctifying them in God’s eyes before they go to the slaughter pen. You will understand that I can’t reveal the name of the gentleman who helps me fatten the revolutionary treasury, since you and I are not well acquainted. You look trustworthy, but that can be said of many a spy.”
He drank again. Villa might be an illiterate peasant, but he struck Paul as shrewd, and certainly he possessed innate military skills.
“You take the moving pictures?” Villa asked. Paul nodded. I like the pictures. I have seen them in El Paso many times, five centavos.”
“That’s why I came down here, General. To make pictures of your war. I have credentials to prove who I am.” He took hold of the thong that would pull out his passport pouch.
“Doesn’t matter, I don’t need to see them. I like you. On the other hand, you don’t look stupid. Surely you know you are breaking the law. President Huerta ordered all Americans out of Mexico. What you are doing is against the law, very dangerous.”
Paul tensed. He struggled to keep his face composed as he said, “I know, but it’s my job. I don’t quite understand your concern. You’re fighting Huerta and his regime. Why would you enforce his edicts?”
Villa scowled. “Too many Yankees have bled this country dry. How do I know you’re not secretly in their pay?”
“General, I’m not, but I have no proof except my word. So tell me. Are we under arrest or free to conduct our business?”
Responding with a thoughtful smile, Villa said, “Let us say you are in my custody until we see how our talk comes out.” He regarded Paul silently for several moments. Then his eyes showed mirth again. “I have been playing with you. Taking your measure. I heard someone was in town making pictures, my scouts reported it. I sent men to find you and capture you without harm.” Villa scratched his chin. “So, what do you think of the people’s revolution?”
“From what I’ve read, I’d say its goals are worthy. Mexico has a history of allowing all the land to fall in the hands of a few. Many are not your countrymen. Do you know the name William Randolph Hearst?”
“Yes. Very famous. He owns newspapers.”
“Hearst also has huge holdings in your country. For obvious reasons he doesn’t want land reform, or education for your people. So what you’re doing is laudable in that respect. But there’s a lot of blood being spilled. I don’t like killing. I don’t like war for any cause.”
Villa tilted the bottle to his mouth. Some of the liquid ran down his chin. His shrewd eyes stayed on Paul, focused through the flawed bottle.
“I might get a lot of money for you and your friend,” he said.
Paul shook his head. “It’s been tried. Last year my partner and I were in Serbia. Bandits caught us and demanded two thousand pounds sterling or they were going to hang us.”
“I see no rope marks.”
“We escaped. You see, our employer’s in London. He’s a rich man but no fool. We knew he wouldn’t pay. It wouldn’t work if you tried it either.”
Again Villa subjected him to a long, searching look. Then he waved. “Truly, I was not speaking seriously. I admire a man like you. Brave. Big balls.” He stroked his mustache. “Let us talk about the pictures you make. Pictures are modern. They reach many educated people.”
“All over the civilized world,” Paul agreed.
“How would you like to make fine pictures of my army?”
“With your cooperation? I would indeed, General.”
“I’m speaking of pictures which no one else would be permitted to make.”
“Even better.” What the hell’s going on?
Villa set the bottle on his knee, a small punctuation mark.
“Very well. Pay me twenty-five thousand dollars, and you will be permitted to accompany the army, photograph all my battles, and no one else will be granted the privilege.”
“You want money for being news coverage?” Paul said, to be sure he’d heard correctly.
“The revolution needs money badly.” Like an old rug merchant the general leaned forward to wheedle the prospect. “I will accommodate your every wish. If we attack an objective, for instance, Juarez or Ojinaga or some other border garrison, I will agree not to engage the enemy until you are ready and say conditions are favorable.”
Paul felt he’d fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole. He took a deep puff of his cigar.
“General, you may not understand what I’m going to say, but please try. Pictures have to tell the truth because there’s enough trickery and ignorance and other bullshit in the world without adding more. If you stage a battle according to some timetable we work out, that isn’t the truth.”
Villa understood well enough; his bland smile changed to a frown. “Is this your answer? Or the answer of the man who employs you?”
“I don’t know how he’d answer, he’s back in England. I’ll tell him what I said when I see him. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll discharge me.”
“And that is your answer?”
“Yes.”
Villa’s brow darkened, and he spat between his boots. He tilted the bottle and emptied it, then waved the bottle in Paul’s direction. “I
was wrong about you, gringo. When they brought you here I thought, ah, here’s one with the look of a sensible man. I was deceived.” He threw the empty bottle away, and it broke noisily on the tiles.
“Let me tell you something. I know other picture men come to El Paso. One of them will hear of my offer and accept.”
“Probably,” Paul said, nodding.
“I will do business with that wise man.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Villa jumped up, startling Paul and setting his heart to hammering again.
“You will leave this town and the state of Chihuahua. I will permit you to keep your camera so you will have a few pictures of our revolution, to make you wish you hadn’t been so stupid. If you cross the border again, you and your helper, and we catch you, we will show you an adobe wall. There will be no conversation first. Take them away.”
61. English Edgar
Fritzi and Lily rode the big red trolleys to Edendale six, sometimes seven days a week. Often Fritzi wasn’t needed on Sunday, but Lily usually worked in her closet-sized office, or in her bedroom, turning out scenarios. “The Chinese Torture.” “Mad for Love.” “Smoking Pistols.” She was facile, quick; she had a gift for telling stories. Pelzer liked her work, and he liked her personally. He raised her to sixty dollars a week.
Gaining confidence, Lily studied each finished picture, the rights and wrongs of it. If she disliked something, she said so. She had a running argument with Eddie:
“It’s nuts to put the dialogue title at the beginning of the scene. It should be inserted right where the dialogue occurs.”
Though an experimenter in some things, Eddie stuck to the conventional wisdom here:
“Everybody does it the other way.”
“Do you care about everybody, for God’s sake? The best people making pictures don’t. Griffith doesn’t. Try it, Eddie. Just try it once.”