III
The bandit attack upon the train had occurred so close to the city that the Carranzista garrison threw up temporary barricades on the approaches to town.
Instead of sallying forth to pursue the bandits, however, the soldiers contented themselves with a daily parade across the plaza, led by a wheezy band of four pieces, intended presumably to reassure the civilian population.
The local commandante had suddenly assumed an air of great importance. He was a tall man with broad but extremely thin shoulders, with a wasp-like waist, and with legs that tapered toward the ground until one marveled that he could maintain his equilibrium in a stiff breeze. As though to accentuate the top-heavy effect, he wore the largest-brimmed sombrero in Mexico, a pair of moustachios that curled in several spiral twists, a flowing red necktie, six kilometers of cartridge belt, and a massive old rifle, while he clad his slender ankles in skin-tight Spanish trousers of a type seldom seen to-day except upon the stage.
Seeing him alone, one felt that the rank of general was too little for him. Seeing him with his twenty valiant soldiers, one felt that the grade of corporal was too much.
The first qualification for a federal soldier in Mexico appears to be that he shall not exceed four feet in height. He comes invariably from the very lowest rank of society, which in Mexico is extremely low. He represents the poorest—and frequently the worst—specimen of humanity in the republic. In the days of Carranza he was ununiformed, except in the capital, and usually barefoot. He was generally dirty and unshaven, and his principal occupation seemed to be that of lounging on street-corners, insulting passing servant maids.
No motive of patriotism had prompted his enlistment. In some cases he was a mere boy attracted by the privilege of carrying a rifle. In others, he was a peon drafted against his will. In others, he was some old devil who could earn a living in no other fashion. Having been issued his arms, he became a full-fledged soldier. No one drilled him. He was allowed to wear whatever clothes he already possessed, although a faded pair of overalls was considered especially de rigeur. Sometimes he received a peso a day, sometimes nothing. When I was in Mazatlán, a federal paymaster newly arrived with a satchelful of gold for the local garrison was giving such an elaborate series of booze-parties to his friends, that one wondered how much the troops did receive.
Such discipline as the soldiers possessed was due solely to fear of their particular commander. Under a strong man they made pretty fair soldiers. Under a weak man they were quite apt temporarily to turn bandits themselves. Every train in Mexico in those days was accompanied by a guard of them, but they seldom offered resistance in case of a hold-up.
IN THE DAYS OF CARRANZA ONE FREQUENTLY SAW A BANDIT HANGING AROUND THE RAILWAY
“Why should they?” said an Old-Timer in Manzanillo. “The bandits don’t attack unless they outnumber the guard. The soldiers haven’t much chance. If the bandits win, they make a lot of money. If the soldiers win, they get nothing. So they usually cut and run.”
“I suppose that’s what they did when Zamorra held up this train?”
“No. According to reports, they pitched in and helped Zamorra rob the passengers.”
Even though our Commandante marched across the plaza each day behind his wheezy band, Manzanillo was expecting an attack, and there was considerable speculation as to what part the garrison would play. But the gunboat Guererro—one half of the Mexican navy—finally came down the coast from Guaymas, and landed a force of sailors. Under their escort a party of workmen marched out to the scene of the disaster, and we followed them.
It was a jolly little picture. Pedro Zamorra, the local bandido, had twisted the rails and removed a few ties at a point where the train came around a bend. All that remained of the cars was a mess of twisted iron and a pile of splintered boards. A thousand ashen-gray buzzards were picking and quarreling about the wreckage. A thousand more, sleek and content, roosted upon the surrounding hillsides. From the tangled débris the workmen extracted the few remaining bodies of the passengers—very nonchalantly and unconcernedly, as though this were an accustomed task—and heaped them into a gruesome pyramid. A few cans of oil—a match—a bonfire. The buzzards glared in silent indignation at this interruption of their holiday. And the workmen commenced the labor of reconstruction.
PEDRO ZAMORRA HAD REMOVED A FEW TIES WHERE THE TRAIN CAME AROUND A BEND