The Warlords Read online

  “I’ll ask,” Gordon said hesitantly. “I won’t order Martinez to put himself at risk. On the other hand, just asking will probably be enough. He’s a cocky devil.”

  “We’ve really no choice,” Parker said in a solemn tone. “The alternative is a war where no one wins. Except, of course, the Germans.”

  Gordon was struck again by a thought that had nagged him for the past three days. He’d expected a wire from Director Holbrook when he arrived in Brownsville. Instead, he was left to ponder what seemed the most critical of questions.

  Why hadn’t they located Franz von Kleist?

  Garza arrived at the German Consulate late that afternoon. One of the junior attachés had brought him a message only an hour before at the rebel headquarters on Calle 5. Otto Mueller wished to see him right away.

  A servant ushered Garza into Consul Erwin Reinhardt’s office. Reinhardt excused himself, nodding curtly to Garza, and went out the door. Mueller was standing beside the consular’s desk, and seated behind it was a man of aristocratic bearing with chiseled features and pale blue eyes. Garza instinctively recognized him as a military officer.

  “Colonel Garza,” Mueller announced, “I have the honor to present Colonel Franz von Kleist of the German General Staff.”

  Von Kleist rose, extending his hand. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Colonel Garza. You are to be commended for your fine work.”

  “Gracias, mi coronel.” Garza accepted the handshake, trying to cover his amazement. “I hadn’t expected an officer of the General Staff to visit Matamoras.”

  “Hardly a visit, Colonel. I have come to watch your glorious invasion of Texas. History will record no finer hour.”

  Von Kleist was actually there to oversee the invasion. He had slipped out of New York undetected, traveling incognito, changing trains in several cities before arriving in Brownsville. Only that afternoon, he’d crossed the International Bridge, briefcase in hand, posing as a businessman with clients in Matamoras. Though he had entrusted Mueller with the mission, he’d intended all along to be there for the invasion. World events, and a recent cablegram from Berlin, dictated nothing less.

  The war in Europe gave no signs of victory. Ten days ago a battle had been fought outside the village of Champagne, in northern France. The Allies attacked with twenty divisions on a front twenty miles wide, supported by a thousand pieces of artillery. The attack was repelled, at a cost of eight thousand German casualties, and stalemate once more settled over the trenches. Kaiser Wilhelm, haunted by the specter of American intervention, directed the General Staff to take immediate action in Texas. General Alexis Baron von Fritsch, in an encoded cablegram, ordered von Kleist to expedite the invasion by whatever means necessary.

  Upon arriving at the consulate, von Kleist had learned of Huerta’s arrest in New Mexico. The attack along the upper Rio Grande, under the command of Huerta and Pascual Orozco, had now been aborted. But von Kleist was nothing if not resilient, and he was determined to salvage the months of effort devoted to the Army of Liberation. Mueller, who had been advised of his arrival by coded telegram, assured him that Garza was a competent leader and a shrewd tactician. He was also assured by Mueller that the Mexican was a man of overbearing arrogance and high ambition. He thought those were the very traits needed for what lay ahead.

  “We have much to discuss,” he said without further ceremony. “Captain Mueller tells me you are aware General Huerta has been captured by the Americans.”

  “Si,” Garza said in a rueful tone. “A sad day for Mexico and all who call themselves loyalists. General Huerta would have led us to victory.”

  “The exigencies of war sometimes give rise to new leaders. A man of valor makes his own destiny. Don’t you agree?”

  “We are military men, Colonel, and we can speak frankly. Are you suggesting I appoint myself General Huerta’s successor?”

  “Why not?” von Kleist said with conviction. “You organized the Army of Liberation, and it is you they will follow into battle. Who better to assume the mantle of leadership?”

  Garza studied him a moment. “And after Texas, what then?”

  “We adhere to the original plan. At the appropriate time, once you have overrun Texas, Germany will underwrite your campaign to defeat Carranza, then Villa and Zapata. The Revolución is yours to win, Colonel.”

  “What assurance do I have of your support?”

  Von Kleist spread his hands. “You have the same assurance as given General Huerta. Kaiser Wilhelm would never stain the honor of Germany. His word is his bond.”

  “And you, Colonel?” Garza said. “Do you have the authority to speak for Kaiser Wilhelm?”

  “I have,” von Kleist lied smoothly, “and I do.”

  A long moment slipped past as they stared at each other. Garza finally nodded. “Four thousand men await my orders at Monterrey. Three thousand are cavalry, and their horses are being trailed even now to our base camp outside Reynosa.” He paused with a dark smile. “I will transport the men by train on September 12.”

  “And the invasion?”

  “We will cross the river on September 15.”

  “Excellent!” Von Kleist warmly shook his hand. “Your countrymen will applaud your daring, Colonel. Or perhaps I should call you ‘General.’ ”

  Garza shugged. “All in good time.”

  The meeting ended after a brief discussion of strategy. When Garza was gone, Mueller shook his head with wonder. “If I may, Colonel—”

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, you are a master of subterfuge. He believed every word of it.”

  Von Kleist laughed. “ ‘Deceive boys with toys, but men with oaths.’ ”

  “How very appropriate,” Mueller said. “A quote from Shakespeare?”

  “No, long before his time, Otto. We can thank the ancient Greeks for the art of duplicity. Plutarch wrote that in 395 B.C.”

  “Perhaps General Nafarrate reads Plutarch. Not that oaths mean anything, but he would certainly sell his soul. The man is a soldier without honor.”

  “Nonetheless, he serves our purpose,” von Kleist remarked. “It is imperative that he not interfere with Garza’s plans. How much have we paid him so far?”

  “Thirty thousand, sir,” Mueller said. “Our agreement was for ten thousand a month. I’ve arranged a meeting with him tomorrow morning.”

  “Very good idea, Otto. Until the invasion, we must keep our Mexican friends happy. Particularly the generals.”

  “Do you think Pancho Villa will honor his word, Colonel?”

  “I believe so,” von Kleist said. “Although it makes little difference in the end. Garza will start our war.”

  Otto Mueller thought they were on the verge of an historic moment. Few men experienced the sense of power, the spiritual intoxication, of starting a war. He was anxious for it to begin, the date like a beacon lighting the way. September 15.

  Eleven days.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Vasquez crossed the river the night of September 6. He was leading a company of one hundred fifty men, the largest strike force yet assembled. His orders were to probe the American defenses south of McAllen.

  Loyal Tejanos in the area reported that the army’s mobile reserve, estimated at a reinforced cavalry battalion, was bivouacked outside McAllen. Colonel von Kleist, in strategy conferences with Garza, had suggested that a raid be conducted in company strength. The objective was to determine the response time of American troops.

  The invasion was to be staged from Reynosa, on the Mexican side of the border. McAllen was on a direct line with the staging area, some eight miles north of the Rio Grande. Von Kleist recommended that the invasion force should strike the strong point of the American defenses, the troop dispositions around McAllen. Defeat the mobile reserve, he argued, and the way was open to the interior of Texas.

  The town selected for the raid was Las Milpas, six miles southeast of McAllen and five miles north of the river. Garza contended, and von Kleist agreed, that the distan
ces involved would adequately test the reaction time of the army’s mobile reserve. Las Milpas was a farm community, and the pretext for the raid was to destroy an irrigation pump station on the outskirts of the town. The Americans would never suspect that the true purpose was to probe their defenses.

  A strike force of one hundred fifty men required assembling every available volunteer. One of those called to service was Hector Martinez, who had been searching for a way to infiltrate the rebel field operations. On September 4, two nights ago, Gordon had asked him to somehow worm his way inside, and tonight he was riding with the raiders. There were four platoon leaders, and Vasquez, who recalled his determination to fight, had assigned Martinez to act as the liaison sergeant. He was in the thick of the action, and he thought it all but providential. He’d been detailed as the commanding officer’s aide.

  Immediately after crossing the river, the raiders encountered a patrol. The firefight was brief but deadly, for the nine-man patrol was overwhelmed by the sheer size of the strike force. Vasquez was nonetheless pleased as it would alert patrols upriver, who in turn would alert the mobile reserve outside McAllen. Martinez was dispatched with orders to post a platoon on the western flank, something of a mounted picket line, to sound an early warning in the event of a counterattack. He returned just as the main column approached the Las Milpas pump station.

  “As you ordered, mi capitán,” he said, reining his horse alongside Vasquez. “Barragan and his platoon are in place.”

  “Well done, Sergeant,” Vasquez said. “We will draw the yanqui soldados into our web. Mark my words.”

  “I wish tonight were the night of the invasion, mi capitán. We would lay waste to Texas!”

  “Never fear, your wish will come true, Martinez. Sooner than you think.”

  “Tomorrow would not be too soon for me. Am I permitted to ask when we will invade?”

  “You will be told in good time. We have work to do now. Andale!”

  The pump station was deserted. Under the light of a full moon, Vasquez directed men to break down the door. They found cans of kerosene inside and splashed it over the walls and the generator. A rag soaked in kerosene was set afire, then tossed through the door, and the building exploded into a crackling inferno. The flames leaped skyward, sparks and cinders flying, visible for miles in the night. The men cheered as the roof buckled inward on itself.

  Vasquez consulted his pocket watch. In the light of the fire, he saw that something more than an hour had passed since they’d crossed the river. He thought the Yankee soldiers were slow to react, and idly wondered if a direct attack on McAllen might be the better plan on the night of the invasion. He would raise the idea with Garza, who would doubtless take it to the German, von Kleist. He told himself he could burn McAllen as easily as he’d burned a pump station.

  On the retreat, Barragan was ordered to hold his position on the westward flank. Some while later, as the main column skirmished with patrols near the river, a drumming roar of gunfire suddenly erupted from the west. Vasquez immediately knew it was the counterattack by elements of the reserve battalion, and mentally marked the time. The gunfire swelled in intensity, bracketing the night in a sustained roar, and he thought it sounded like a full company of cavalry, perhaps more. He led the column at a gallop toward the Rio Grande.

  Miguel Barragan and a wounded Tejano were the only survivors of the counterattack. Sometime after midnight they forded the river, their horses exhausted, and delivered the news to Vasquez. A cavalry force Barragan estimated at two companies had overrun his platoon and literally shot them to pieces. He’d left twenty-four dead on the field in Texas.

  Vasquez revised his opinion. The yanquis were slow to react, but once they got into action, they were disciplined and organized, merciless fighters. He thought it was a point worth noting in his report.

  Colonel von Kleist would appreciate his assessment.

  Gordon emerged from Fort Brown late the next morning. The weather was pleasant for a change, a light breeze rippling through the trees on Elizabeth Street. He walked toward the hotel.

  The morning had been spent in meetings with General Parker and his staff. For the most part, the discussion had dealt with last night’s raid outside Las Milpas. There was consensus that it was more ruse than raid, a deception intended to test the defenses around McAllen. The staff officers thought the primary objective was to draw out the mobile reserve battalion.

  General Parker took it a step further. He reminded everyone of the boat landings recently built at Reynosa, the Mexican town directly south of McAllen. In his view, the boat landings and last night’s raid led to an inescapable conclusion. The Army of Liberation, he told the staff officers, was planning to invade from Reynosa. He believed their initial goal would be to defeat the mobile reserve battalion. That accomplished, the insurgent army would drive deeper into Texas.

  Gordon accepted the premise. He would have preferred hard intelligence to support the theory, but no prisoners were taken in last night’s raid and there was no one to interrogate. His only hope for intelligence lay with Hector Martinez, who had been called to active service with the rebels just two days ago. The timing was more than coincidence and he suspected Martinez had ridden with the raiders at Las Milpas. Yet there was no way to know until he heard from Martinez, and he couldn’t hazard a guess when that might be. He felt very much in the dark.

  Uptown, Gordon entered the hotel. Hoyt Maddox was attending a meeting of the Ranger captains, similar to the staff conference at Fort Brown. They had agreed to join up for lunch at the hotel and exchange notes on the morning’s activities. Maddox wasn’t in the dining room, and as Gordon walked back through the lobby, the desk clerk called out to him. The clerk handed him an envelope, commenting that it had been delivered by a young Mexican woman only minutes before. Gordon tore open the envelope.

  The note inside was from Guadalupe. In a mix of English and Spanish, she asked that he come to her house quickly, and she had underscored the words muy pronto. Gordon sensed an urgency to it, for as a matter of security he’d never before gone to her house during daylight hours. He left the hotel, wondering if she’d received a message from Martinez, and made his way through the Mexican quarter of town. Housewives and children paused to stare as he approached the house and knocked on the door. Guadalupe admitted him, Antonio in her arms.

  “Gracias Dios,” she said in a breathless voice. “We didn’t know if you would receive my message.”

  “I came as soon as I got it.”

  Martinez and Vargas were seated at the dining table. Gordon knew something important had occurred for them to risk meeting with him in broad daylight. As he moved forward, Guadalupe kept Antonio in the parlor and distracted him with toys. Gordon took a chair at the table.

  “I don’t have to ask,” he said, nodding to them. “You’ve learned something that wouldn’t wait until tonight.”

  “Si, many things for sure,” Martinez said with an uneasy smile. “I have been off with Luis Vasquez and the rebels. We fought the soldiers south of McAllen.”

  “I thought you were probably there. Is it true he had over a hundred men?”

  “Oh, yes, half again that many. Some of us returned by train from Reynosa this morning. Vasquez is very proud of himself.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Martinez briefed him on the raid. He confirmed that the purpose was to draw out the mobile reserve and test their reaction time. His impression, though he hadn’t been told, was that the rebel army would invade from somewhere around Reynosa. As for the invasion date, he’d learned nothing more, except that it would be soon, very soon. Nor had he uncovered anything about the army of thousands that would comprise the invasion force.

  “But there is a curious thing,” he said, one eyebrow arched. “On the train, I pretended to sleep and overheard Vasquez bragging to his platoon leaders. He told them he would report to the chief German advisor in Mexico—a military advisor.”

  Gordon felt his pulse quicken.
“Did you get a name?”

  “Not then,” Martinez motioned to his cousin. “Manuel has something interesting for you.”

  “There is another German in Matamoras,” Vargas said, clearly delighted with himself. “Mueller treats him with much respect, and I have been watching them for three days. This new one also stays at the Bezar Hotel.”

  “And his name?” Gordon demanded.

  “I have said nothing because I only learned it today from the hotel doorman. His name is Franz von Kleist.”

  Gordon couldn’t speak for a moment. His gaze strayed to the parlor, where Guadalupe was playing with Antonio. A thought, vagrant and unbidden, reminded him that he hadn’t yet asked her to marry him. Something always intruded, another raid, desperate communiqués from Washington, the threat of war. And now, too sudden to comprehend, a mystery solved. Colonel Franz von Kleist in Matamoras.

  “You’ve done well,” he said, turning back to the men. “Von Kleist is Mueller’s superior, the man responsible for the conspiracy. We had no idea where he was.”

  “There’s more,” Martinez said with a lopsided grin. “When Vasquez was bragging, and I pretended to sleep—on the train?”

  “You heard something else.”

  “Sangre de Cristo, it never ends! There will be another raid tonight. The railroad bridge at San Benito.”

  “Will Vasquez lead the raid?”

  “You know, he did not say. But he told his platoon leaders it is a very important mission. Military supplies for all the valley come over that bridge. They intend to dynamite it tonight.”

  “Hector, I think they’re in for a surprise. The biggest surprise of their lives.”

  Martinez laughed. “I thought you might plan to greet them.”

  Gordon hardly knew where to start. General Parker would have to be advised that von Kleist was across the river, masterminding the final preparations for war. Maddox and the Rangers would have to be alerted, a trap laid on for tonight at San Benito. And with any luck at all . . .