For years the republic had been in the throes of civil war—ever since the downfall of the great Dictator, Porfirio Diaz.
Diaz had built up his country by encouraging the foreign capitalist and the foreign promoter. It had become one of the leading nations of the world. But Mexican pride had been wounded at the admission that foreigners were essential to Mexico’s development and prosperity. Mexican jealousy had resented the fortunes which the foreigners were reaping. Mexico had risen to cast out Diaz, and no other man had proved capable of filling his place. Conditions had grown steadily worse, until a dozen revolutionary leaders were squabbling for the presidency, each of them ruling a portion of the republic and claiming to rule the whole.
In an effort to bring order out of chaos the American government—under Wilson and Bryan—had recognized Venustiano Carranza as “First Chief.” With American arms and ammunition, which proved even more useful than the American moral support, Carranza took Mexico City and elected himself president. In the estimation of most Old-Timers in the country, the American government might much better have recognized Pancho Villa or any other bandit. For Carranza, of all the contenders for power, was the leading exponent of the doctrine, “Mexico for the Mexicans!” His first move was to promulgate a new constitution, in many ways a splendid document, but one that gave every right to the workman and none to the capitalist. The foreigner promptly withdrew. And Mexico, in the hands of the Mexicans, enjoyed a complete economic collapse.
Without employment, the peon everywhere turned to banditry as the only profitable occupation. Rebel leaders continued to dominate many sections of the republic—Villa in Chihuahua, Pelaez in the Oil Fields, Felix Diaz in Vera Cruz, Meixuerio in Oaxaca, and others elsewhere. And even in the territory nominally under Carranza control, gentlemen like Pedro Zamorra were popping up from time to time to spread a few rails, remove a few ties, pitch a railway train over a cliff, and provide another holiday for the buzzards.
V
Each evening in Manzanillo, when the beer had lost its mid-day warmth, two or three Old-Timers, stranded like ourselves, would gather at the bar to discuss conditions.
The Old-Timer in Mexico is very much of a type.
He is usually a quiet, unassuming man, with grizzly gray hair, and friendly blue eyes. He came from somewhere in the West or Middle West, so long ago that he has forgotten just when. He owns a mine that has ceased operation pending the arrival of better times. He is easy-going and fatalistic, a trifle careless about dress, blunt in manner yet with a natural kindliness, slow of movement from long residence in the tropics, and very fond of talking about “these people,” by which he means the Mexicans. During the last revolution they took all his money away from him, and smashed up his mine, but he still cherishes an affection for them. He is waiting hopefully for another Diaz to bring prosperity back to Mexico.
He is a trifle reticent at first about talking. He is surprised that the itinerant writer regards him as an interesting character. But he is secretly very much pleased. Gradually he commences a yarn. It suggests another, and that one suggests another, until they follow in rapid succession.
Quoth one: