At Guadalupe, the first stop just outside the city, a painful incident occurred. About twenty-five persons, friends, were waiting there to board the train and continue the journey with us. But N. had given his word of honor, when he received the safe-conduct, that no person or persons other than the personnel of Embassy and Consulate should avail themselves of this privilege. So rarely was faith kept with Huerta that it seemed hard that it should be done in this crucial hour and at the expense of our own people. We intended, however, to save even honor; but as our train rolled out of the station I felt, to the full, “the fell clutch of circumstance.”
My idea is to be immediately vaccinated and injected for all ills, and to return from New York with the first Red Cross brigade. I look into the deep barrancas and up the high mountains, and know my people will be lying there, needing help, before long. Zapata is supposed to have offered his services to Huerta, to place himself in the Sierras between Puebla and the Tierra Caliente. He can do heartbreaking things. I know I must go now, but afterward I can return to work. Shall we ever again have an embassy in Mexico? This seems the death of Mexican sovereignty, la fin d’une nation.
I saw Sir Lionel for a moment, alone, last night. I thanked him for all the work, the great responsibility that he was about to undertake for our people. He is very worried and anxious, and kept saying, “Oh, the dreadful responsibility it will be!” I told him we would not fail to let Washington know all that he would be doing for us. I fear a nervous break for him. Tears were in his eyes and his lip trembled. Our press has not handled him gently these past months. I felt both grateful and ashamed.
We have just passed over a deep, vine-draped ravine—the Atoyac Gorge, with a noisy river flowing through. Women and children are bathing and washing clothes under the trees. Occasionally a blonde baby is seen in his dark mother’s arms—so is life perpetuated. We have just passed the village of Atoyac, with its little thatched shacks and adobe huts, where the people are shouting “Viva Mexico!” and we are about to make our last descent into the burning plain. There, after a while, our outposts will be waiting for us—our people waiting to receive their own. This is the march of empire in which we literally join. Southward she takes her course. General Corona has had many offerings of fruit and flowers, people whom he had never seen calling him “Ramoncito” and “Mi General,” and throwing pineapples and oranges into the train—the offerings of humble hearts.
But I must go back to Wednesday night—our last night in Mexico City—when I was too tired for feeling or thought. In the morning Nelson decided that, under the circumstances, he would not, could not, go to the Huerta wedding. Then I decided to go alone. Rowan went with me, in the automobile. I put on my best black things, long white gloves, and pearls, got through the crowd in front of the Embassy, and went to the President’s house in the Calle Alfonso Herrera, enfolded and exhilarated by dazzling air. I got there to find myself the only foreigner, of course, and only three or four other women, the wives of Cabinet Ministers and generals. The men were mostly in full uniform. Madame Huerta came in, looking very handsome and dignified in a becoming dress of delicate pomegranate color veiled partly with black lace—a good dress. We gave each other the abrazo, and she placed me at her side, on the sofa. The youngest son, Roberto, a fat but sympatico boy of fourteen, also in full uniform, came in and kissed his mamacita’s hand, and asked for some order. The dark, bright-eyed bride, in a dress with a good deal of imitation lace, arrived nearly three-quarters of an hour late. Immediately after her arrival the President entered, in his slouch-hat and the celebrated gray sweater.
He quickly greeted the guests, called his wife, “Emilia,” and then turned to me. “Mrs. O’Shaughnessy,” he said, and indicated a place near the table where the marriage contract was to be signed. So I rose, and stood with the family during the ceremony, which he had put through at a lively pace. The contract, in referring to the parents of the bridegroom, said “Victoriano Huerta, fifty-nine,” and “Emilia Huerta, fifty-two.” His age may be lessened in this document a year or two, but I doubt it. Madame Huerta can’t be much more than fifty-two. The youngest girl, Valencita, is only seven.
After the ceremony, when we all went out to get into the automobiles, Señora Blanquet was with us. She is short, stout, and elderly. I wanted to give her her place as wife of the Minister of War, but the President, who helped me in, insisted first upon giving me his wife’s place. I said, firmly, “No”; but I was obliged to take the seat beside her, while Señora Blanquet struggled with the narrow strapontin! Imagine my feelings as we started off through the dazzling streets to the somewhat distant “Buen Tono” church—built by Pugibet, of “Buen Tono” cigarette fame, and put by him, most beautifully decorated, at the disposition of the President for the wedding. On our arrival the President, who had gone ahead, appeared to help us out of the motor; then, saying to me, “Tengo que hacer” (“I have something to do”), he disappeared. I never saw him again.
I went up the aisle after Madame Huerta, on Rincon Gaillardo’s arm. As soon as we were in our seats the archbishop came out and the ceremony began—dignified and beautiful. Afterward there was a low Mass with fine music. The tears kept welling up in my eyes as I knelt before the altar of the God of us all. After the ceremony was over we went out into the sacristy. I congratulated the bride and groom, spoke to a few of the colleagues who were near, and then, feeling that my day and hour were over, I went up to Madame Huerta.
We embraced several times, with tears in our eyes, each of us knowing it was the end and thinking of the horrors to come. Then I left the sacristy on some officer’s arm—I don’t know who it was—and was put into my motor, where Rowan was patiently waiting. There were huge crowds before the church, but never a murmur against us. Tears were raining down my cheeks, but Rowan said: “Don’t mind. The Mexicans will understand the tribute, and all your sadness and regret.”
We passed by the round point, the “Glorieta,” where I had seen the statue of George Washington so solemnly unveiled two years ago, on the 22d of February, 1912. It had been pulled down in the night. On the defaced pedestal had been placed a small bust of Hidalgo. Flowers were scattered about, and a Mexican flag covered the inscription on the marble base. I learned afterward that the statue had been dragged in the night by powerful automobiles, and placed at the feet of the statue of Benito Juarez, in the Avenida Juarez, whence the authorities had had the courtesy, and had taken the time, to withdraw it—through streets whose windows were hung with flags of every nationality except ours: German, French, English, Spanish.