A thick and heartbreaking book could be written upon the soldadera—the heroic woman who accompanies the army, carrying, in addition to her baby, any other mortal possession, such as a kettle, basket, goat, blanket, parrot, fruit, and the like. These women are the only visible commissariat for the soldiers; they accompany them in their marches; they forage for them and they cook for them; they nurse them, bury them; they receive their money when it is paid. All this they do and keep up with the march of the army, besides rendering any other service the male may happen to require. It is appalling what self-abnegation is involved in this life. And they keep it up until, like poor beasts, they uncomplainingly drop in their tracks—to arise, I hope, in Heaven.
3 o’clock.
There is some idea that we may start. Men with ropes and hatchets and picks are getting on our train.
Later.
We arrived at Maltrata to be met by dozens of wet Indian women selling lemons, tortillas, and enchiladas. Each wore the eternal blue rebozo and a pre-Spanish cut of skirt—a straight piece of cloth bound around the hips, held somewhat fuller in front. They are called enredadas, from the fashion of folding the stuff about them. Each, of course, had a baby on her back.
Long lines of rurales came into sight on horseback. With full black capes or brilliant red blankets thrown about their shoulders, their big-brimmed, high-peaked hats, with their black rain-proof covers, these men made a startling and gaudy picture with the underthrill of death and destruction. We have been moving along at a snail’s pace. In a narrow defile we came on one of the train-loads of Federals we had seen leave Orizaba, their guns pointed, ready to fire.
Well, so far, so good. We hear that it was a band of several hundred revolutionaries who attacked the train. The train officials managed to escape under cover of the darkness.
5.30.
We have just passed the scene of pillage. Dozens of Indians—men, women, and children—are digging out hot bottles of beer, boxes of sardines and other conserves from the smoking wreck. Cars, engine, and everything in them were destroyed after the brigands had selected what they could carry away.
A white mist has settled over the mountain. Many of the Indians are wearing a sort of circular cape made of a thatch of bamboo or grass hanging from their shoulders—a kind of garment often seen in wet weather in this altitude. It is marvelous that in so few hours a new track could be laid by the old one. We are passing gingerly over it, and if nothing else happens we shall be in Mexico City after midnight. I am too tired to feel adventurous to-day and shall be glad to find myself with my babe in the comfortable Embassy, instead of witnessing Zapatista ravages at first hand in a cold, gray mist which tones down not only the local color, but one’s enthusiasm.