The Warlords Read online

“Advantage?” Vasquez echoed dully. “What do we gain with dead men, mi coronel?”

  “Watch and learn, Luis.”

  Garza took a stub pencil from his shirt pocket. He turned the leaflet over and scratched out the printed warning from the Rangers. Then, with bold strokes, he wrote: Basta ya de brutalidad! Basta ya de sufrir insultos y desprecios de los gringos! Viva la libertad!

  The message was short but succinct, a ringing battle cry to all Mexicans. Enough of brutality! Enough of suffering insults and contempt from the Yankees! Long live liberty!

  “There,” Garza said, dropping his pencil. “We will have the picture of our dead comrades reprinted at the top and the words I have written at the bottom. I will add my name as commander of the Army of Liberation.”

  Pizana, for the first time in days, broke into a smile. “You are brilliant, Augustin.” He slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “These poor men I led will not have died in vain. The people will rally to our cause.”

  “Salud, mi coronel,” Vasquez said, hoisting his glass with a laugh. “The Rangers will regret the day they printed their atrocidad!”

  “Before we are done,” Garza said in a tight voice, “they will regret many things.”

  Pizana volunteered to have the leaflet reprinted. Martinez, instead of being promoted to the headquarters staff, was ordered to distribute the leaflets throughout villages and towns along the north side of the Rio Grande. Despite himself, he felt a certain grudging admiration for the commander of the Army of Liberation. He thought it was indeed a stroke of brilliance.

  Augustin Garza had turned the tables on the Texas Rangers.

  Major Hans Eckhardt arrived in Los Angeles on August 11. He was traveling under a diplomatic passport, which identified him as an attaché of the German embassy in New York. His orders were to seek out Ricardo Flores Magon, publisher of Regeneración.

  Eckhardt checked into a hotel near the train station. He wore civilian clothes and he was alert to the possibility of unwanted surveillance. In the course of his westward journey, he had changed trains in Chicago, Kansas City, and Albuquerque. He thought it unlikely he’d been followed by agents of the U.S. Bureau of Investigation.

  After a change of clothes, Eckhardt got directions to Edendale. The small farming community was on the northern outskirts of Los Angeles, and serviced by an interurban streetcar line. On the ride north, the land became increasingly bleak and barren, almost a desert. Eckhardt, whose family estate was in the Bavarian forests of western Germany, found it all rather depressing. He wondered why the Americans prized a land so devoid of greenery.

  Colonel Franz von Kleist had charged Eckhardt with a critical mission. His orders were to secure the cooperation of Ricardo Magon, and influence him to further inflame the situation on the Rio Grande border. Through Regeneración, the anarchist newspaper, von Kleist hoped to build support for the Army of Liberation, and incite rebellion among the tens of thousands of Tejano workingmen in Texas. All of this was to be accomplished in time for the invasion, in early September.

  On the trip west, Eckhardt had versed himself on Ricardo Magon. The embassy staff had assembled an intelligence portfolio that revealed a man at odds with the world. A native of Mexico, Magon had first surfaced as an opponent of Porfirio Diaz, dictator of the country since 1876. In 1900, Magon and his brother, Enrique, formed the Mexican Liberal Party, commonly referred to as PLM, and established the newspaper Regeneración. Their strident opposition to Diaz resulted in intermittent prison terms through 1903.

  Late that year, the Magon brothers went into exile. By the time they settled in California, Ricardo Magon had been transformed from a revolutionary to an anarchist. He advocated the abolishment of private property and rejected any form of government as corrupt and inherently impossible to reform. His view was that any society based on private landholdings and industrial wealth robbed common people of any hope in life. Regeneración spread the message that government, through control by the rich, subjugated the masses to exploitation and poverty.

  Eckhardt stepped off the streetcar in Edendale. The town was a farming community, and as he walked along Main Street, he recalled that Magon rented five acres of land just outside the city limits. As a livelihood, Magon and his brother, with their families and other dedicated members of PLM, operated a peach orchard. The small farm was worked on a communal basis, with no one person holding ownership and all sharing equally. They lived the life they preached, the hallmark of anarchists.

  The offices of Regeneración were located at the corner of Main and Fargo Avenue. When Eckhardt entered, he saw immediately that the quarters were spartan, clearly operated on a shoestring. There were two battered wooden desks at the front, and at the back of the room, an antiquated printing press. For the moment, the press was silent and several men were busily engaged in bundling stacks of newspapers. A narrow-faced man with an unruly mustache sat at one of the desks.

  “Good afternoon,” Eckhardt said. “I wish to speak with Ricardo Magon.”

  “I am Magon,” the man replied. “Who are you?”

  “Hans Eckhardt. I have traveled from New York for the pleasure of meeting with you. Could we speak in private?”

  “There are no secrets here. Sit down, Señor Eckhardt.”

  “Thank you.” Eckhardt seated himself in a rickety chair. “I have come to talk with you about your newspaper, Regeneración.”

  “Your accent is German,” Magon said with a hard stare. “I understand the Germans are backing Huerta’s man, Augustin Garza, in the Texas rebellion. Are you here in an official capacity?”

  Eckhardt was momentarily speechless. “Well—” he quickly gathered his composure. “May I ask how you come by such information?”

  “I have my sources,” Magon said. “What is it you want of me . . . Herr Eckhardt?”

  “Nothing more than that you support the movement for liberty in Texas. These are your people, Señor Magon, and Regeneración can speed the day to their freedom.”

  “Por favor, do not attempt to guile me with propaganda. You seek to replace one government with another, and perhaps provoke war with the United States. Why should I support your conspiracy?”

  “You are a proponent of anarchy, Mr. Magon. Is not chaos, and the fall of any government, a great step toward anarchy? How could you better serve your own goals?”

  “A clever argument,” Magon said with a wave of his hand. “But it begs the question in large measure. Will a rebellion in Texas open the floodgates of true anarchy? Or will it simply lead to another dictator, Huerta or someone else—a government by any name?”

  “Permit me to quote your own words.” Eckhardt took a slip of paper from his suit pocket. “ ‘The revolutionary must be willing to use terror against the state and all who support it. Violence in the name of the people!’ ”

  “I am flattered you are a student of my philosophy. But what is your point?”

  “You have struggled for fifteen years to liberate your people and free them from oppression. So I ask you now in all sincerity, Mr. Magon. Doesn’t a rebellion in Texas take you closer than ever before?”

  “Perhaps,” Magon said vaguely. “Perhaps not.”

  “Then consider your own position,” Eckhardt countered. “Let us presume the rebellion succeeds, and you have elected to take a neutral stance. Would your name still be spoken of with respect by those you respect? Would your people still look to you for leadership?”

  Eckhardt knew that Magon was aligned with radical organizations throughout America. William “Big Bill” Haywood, who headed the Industrial Workers of the World. Samuel Gompers, the president of the American Federation of Labor. Emma Goldman, a Russian émigré anarchist whose fiery speeches championed the overthrow of the U.S. Government. And Eugene V. Debs, leader of the American Socialist movement. Intelligence reports concluded that all of these organizations provided occasional financial support to keep Regeneración in business.

  All the more remarkable then, Eckhardt told himsel
f, that Magon managed to publish 20,000 newspapers a week. The majority of the subscribers were in Texas and California, and by 1915 Regeneración had become the leading anarchist newspaper in America. Eckhardt sensed he’d struck a nerve by alluding to the loss of Magon’s good name among the American radical community. These were people whose opinion mattered greatly to Magon, and he couldn’t be seen as a slackard in the fight for liberty. Confident now, Eckhardt moved to close the argument.

  “We both have our sources,” he said. “From what I gather, you receive financial assitance from Gompers and Haywood, and other friends. Am I mistaken?”

  “No, you are well informed,” Magon said with a guarded look. “There are many people who applaud the efforts of Regeneración.”

  “So, then, I’m sure you wish to remain the leader in the anarchist movement. I propose you allow those I represent to further assist in your efforts.”

  “Are you offering me a bribe, Herr Eckhardt?”

  “Nothing so crass, Señor Magon. Let us call it a contribution to the struggle for liberty.”

  “How large a contribution?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.” Eckhardt removed an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the desk. “And another fifty thousand with the publication of your September 1 issue.”

  Magon eyed the envelope. “And what message would this issue deliver, specifically?”

  “A clarion call to rise up and take arms in the Texas rebellion. A ringing endorsement by Regeneración for the Army of Liberation.”

  “How do I know I would receive the final payment?”

  “You have the assurance of those I represent. And we are the most ardent supporters of anarchy in America.”

  Ricardo Flores Magon placed the envelope in his desk drawer.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The train chuffed to a halt before the Brownsville depot. The engineer tooted his whistle with three sharp blasts and a cloud of steam billowed from the locomotive. Lieutenant General Frederick Funston, accompanied by his aidede-camp, stepped off the lead passenger coach.

  General Parker waited on the platform with members of his staff. Arrayed behind him was the Fort Brown marching band, buckles and buttons polished to a dazzling brilliance. Off to one side, the honor guard, resplendent as freshly painted toy soldiers, was called to present arms. The band struck up a lively military march.

  “Welcome to Brownsville, General,” Parker said with a snappy salute. “I trust you had a good journey.”

  “Tolerable,” Funston replied over the racket of the band. “You didn’t have to turn out the fort to greet me. It’s hardly what one would call a ceremonious occasion.”

  “Yes, sir, though it’s good for the morale of the troops. Would you care to review the honor guard, General?”

  “Let’s be quick about it.”

  Funston, with Parker to his right, walked along the front rank of the honor guard. Once a year, generally in the spring, he traveled to the various posts under his command on an annual inspection. But his trip to Brownsville was prompted by the crisis on the border, and the threat of war with Mexico. The date was August 18, with a sweltering midday sun overhead, and he was in no mood for ceremony. His review of the troops was cursory, conducted at a brisk pace.

  A Ford Model-T, Parker’s personal staff car, waited at the end of the platform. He led Funston to the car, and the driver, a crisply starched sergeant, opened the door. Some moments later, with the Ford puttering along in the lead, the band fell in behind, still blaring away, and the honor guard brought up the rear. Shops and stores emptied on Elizabeth Street as people turned out to watch the curious little parade. The column slowly made its way to the front gate of Fort Brown.

  “Field quarters, hmmm?” Funston said, pointing to the rows of tents covering the parade ground. “How are the men holding up?”

  “Quite well, General,” Parker replied. “Our main problem has to do with routine medical care. The post hospital wasn’t built to accommodate so many troops.”

  “I daresay.”

  Funston spoke in a precise, clipped manner. A man of short stature and keen intellect, his reputation was that of a soldier who demanded the most of subordinates. He was a graduate of West Point, and in 1898, leading a cavalry squadron, he had made his mark in the Spanish-American War. Theodore Roosevelt, a president partial to veterans of the Cuban conflict, smoothed the path to rapid promotion. He was often mentioned as a future candidate for General of the Army.

  The Ford stopped in front of regimental headquarters. After the driver opened the door, Funston led Parker and his aide-de-camp into the orderly room. Sergeant Major O’Meara stood stiff as a ramrod as the officers trooped through and entered Parker’s office. An orderly appeared an instant later with a large silver carafe, and Captain Hugh Willowby, Funston’s aide, poured mugs of coffee. Funston settled into a chair, pulled a cigar from inside his tunic, and lit up in a blue fog of smoke. He waved Parker to his desk.

  “All right, Jim,” he said, motioning with the cigar. “Let’s have a status report. Anything new?”

  Parker seated himself at the desk. “Nothing more than my report day before yesterday. Garza and his rebels are still raising hob throughout the district.”

  On August 16, two days ago, Parker had submitted a lengthy briefing by telegraph. In it, he reviewed five raids in three days, with several ranches and farms burned, and four civilians killed. Army patrols, in concert with the Rangers, had accounted for seven dead rebels. The report, so soon after the raid on the King Ranch, had prompted Funston to act. He’d telegraphed back that he was on his way to Brownsville.

  “This has to stop,” Funston said, puffing a wad of smoke. “I’ve given you two thousand men over and above your normal complement. Why aren’t your patrols able to intercept the rebels?”

  “No excuse, sir,” Parker said, in the traditional response to a commanding officer’s criticism. “Although I will say we’re at something of a disadvantage. The rebels operate almost exclusively at night. They’re easy to miss in the dark.”

  “Come now, you have nearly five thousand men under your command.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s true, but it still makes for a thin line of defense over a four-hundred-mile border. The rebels can slip across the river in a thousand different places.”

  “Point taken,” Funston said. “Show me the disposition of your troops.”

  Parker unfurled a map of the Rio Grande from Brownsville to Del Rio. He used a pencil as a pointer, indicating dispositions of battalion strength at towns and villages along the four-hundred-mile stretch of river. Funston studied the map as though he might see the solution to a mystery as yet unrevealed. He finally looked up.

  “You are spread thin,” he conceded. “Have you considered redeploying troops from upriver closer to Brownsville? All the raids so far have occurred within fifty miles of where we sit.”

  Parker nodded. “The problem revolves around this much-talked-about invasion. If and when it happens, we don’t know where Garza will strike.” His pencil skimmed the map. “Tactically speaking, the raids around Brownsville could easily be a diversion. Garza might well be planning the invasion farther upriver—Rio Grande City or Del Rio.”

  “Too much river and too few men.” Funston was silent a moment. “Tell me about this special agent, Frank Gordon. Do you think he’s up to the job?”

  “General, quite frankly, he’s our biggest asset. All of the intelligence to date has been developed through his operatives in Matamoras. He has a decided talent for espionage.”

  “You’re confident in him, then?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. Of course, you can judge for yourself when he arrives. As you directed, I asked him to drop by. He should be here shortly.”

  “Good.” Funston flicked ash from his cigar into an ashtray. “I’d like to see these handbills you mentioned in your report. Are they as bad as you said?”

  “General, if anything, I’d say they’re worse.”

/>   Parker gave him the postcard printed by the Rangers and the handbill printed by the rebels. Funston stared at them, the cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth, and his features knotted in a scowl. He shook his head with disgust.

  “Damn the Rangers, anyway,” he said tersely. “For sheer stupidity, that sets a new standard.”

  “Yes, sir, I couldn’t agree more,” Parker said. “The rebel handbills have been distributed by the thousands. Gordon’s operatives report that both Mexicans and Tejanos are mad as hell.”

  “I wouldn’t wonder. There is no justification for desecrating the dead.”

  “General, I believe it will surely come back to haunt us. One picture is worth a thousand words—and perhaps a thousand new recruits to the rebel cause.”

  There was a rap on the door. Sergeant Major O’Meara opened it and stood aside. “General, sir, Special Agent Gordon to see you.”

  Parker performed the introductions when Gordon entered the office. As he seated himself, Funston assessed him with a shrewd, penetrating glance. A moment slipped past before Funston spoke.

  “General Parker speaks highly of you,” he said. “I understand your operatives in Matamoras have done a commendable job.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Gordon said. “Given the circumstances, we’ve been fortunate so far. Garza plays it close to the vest.”

  “You’re convinced he means to invade Texas?”

  “All of our intelligence leads to that conclusion. We believe he’s assembling a force of five hundred men, maybe more. Probably somewhere around Monterrey.”

  “The Army of Liberation,” Funston said pointedly. “No doubt armed and funded by the Germans.”

  “No doubt at all,” Gordon remarked. “Garza meets almost daily with Otto Mueller, at the German Consulate. We suspect Mueller is a military man, an officer of some sort. He has the look of a soldier.”

  “And you’re equally convinced this invasion will take place in early September?”

  “Everything we’ve learned points in that direction. We’re still trying to determine a specific date.”