The General and the Jaguar (40 page)

“You boys make your getaway, if you can, because I am done for,” Morey gasped.

The Mexican cavalry, meanwhile, had swung around behind the soldiers. The panic-stricken men who had been holding the extra
horses kicked their mounts into a gallop, flying through a narrow gate and over a hill. Some didn’t stop until they reached
the Santo Domingo ranch. Rather than pressing their advantage, the Mexican troops stopped to loot the fallen bodies, including
Captain Boyd’s.

Morey stumbled off the field with several men—one of whom was badly wounded in the knee—eventually stopping at a limekiln.
Morey sank down against the cool stone and dashed off a telegram to his superior officer. He related the events leading up
to the battle and closed by saying, “I am hiding in a hole two thousand yards from field and have one other wounded man and
three men with me.” After he had finished his message, he turned to his companions and said, “You men may do as you please.”

Several soldiers chose to remain with him. At dusk, the small band started out for the ranch, walking for perhaps a minute
or two, then lying down and sleeping. Morey finally became too exhausted to go on and forcibly ordered the others to leave,
handing them his map, field glasses, and compass. After they were gone, he lay down and slept for two hours. When he awoke,
he felt suddenly refreshed. By alternating his marching with short, intense periods of sleep, he was able to make it back
to the Santo Domingo ranch at around 4:00 a.m. He sprawled facedown in a mud hole and drank sparingly, then stumbled toward
an adobe building where, as if by miracle, he found beefsteak, coffee in a pot, and corn bread.

The ranch had been the scene of intense activity earlier but was now completely deserted. McCabe would later tell army investigators
he had watched in disgust as groups of badly frightened men straggled back from Carrizal that day. “I told them they were
doing a mighty poor thing to run off and leave their comrades, and tried to get them to stop and remain there. They replied
that there were more of their men coming towards the ranch, and that they were going for re-enforcements.”

Throughout the day, more exhausted and scared troopers had stumbled up to the ranch. They fed and watered their horses and
were given something to eat. About 4:00 p.m., a rumor had circulated that fifteen hundred Mexican soldiers were headed for
the ranch and the U.S. soldiers panicked. McCabe had begged them to stay, but they left en masse, leaving him alone with two
Chinese workers and three Mexican laborers. Fearful of an attack themselves, McCabe and the ranch hands had gone out in the
bushes and hidden.

Back on the battlefield, the Mexicans had swept down on the remaining Americans. “Who are you and why are you fighting us?”
one Carrancista soldier had asked an African-American trooper named Willie Harris. Lem Spilsbury, seeing himself surrounded,
had thrown up his arms and surrendered. Throughout the day, the Carrancistas continued to round up fleeing soldiers until
they had captured twenty-four troopers. The men were stripped of their shoes, hats, clothing, money, and jewelry. Then they
were taken to a little cuartel and locked up in a dark room. “While we were in this house,” remembered Spilsbury, “we heard
a number of shots, one or two at a time, and the Mexican guard asked me if I knew what they were. I said, ‘No.’ Then he said
that they were killing the wounded.”

The prisoners were marched to Villa Ahumada, where a train was waiting to take them to the penitentiary in Chihuahua City.
The Mexican passengers swarmed around the Americans, threatening to kill them. “The Mexicans got so close in around us—there
were only sixteen men guarding us—that we could hardly move. This man stepped out among the crowd and addressed them as ‘patriots
and brothers’ and said that we had killed their general and were enemies but that we were prisoners of war and should be respected
as such. He was a civilian and his speech quieted the crowd considerably,” Spilsbury recalled.

When the prisoners reached Chihuahua City, another crowd was waiting for them and pelted them with stones. They directed their
fury mostly at Lem Spilsbury—the “Mexican Tejano”—the only white face among the black prisoners. “They wanted to hang me and
burn me at the stake and threatened to rope me and drag me. But they did not do anything to us but throw stones at us.”

At the penitentiary, Spilsbury scrubbed out his cell and settled down to wait. The Mexican guards treated them decently, feeding
them beans and rice and bread. Each day the British consul and an Associated Press reporter paid them a visit to see how they
were doing and to make sure they were not being mistreated.

Once again, news of the battle reached Funston and officials in Washington before Pershing could piece together what had happened.
In an angry telegram, Funston asked Pershing:

Why in the name of God do I hear nothing from you the whole country has known for ten hours through Mexican sources that a
considerable force from your command was apparently defeated yesterday with heavy loss at Carrizal. Under existing orders
to you why were they there so far from your line being at such distance that I assume that now nearly twenty-four hours after
affair news has not reached you who was responsible for what on its face seems to have been a terrible blunder.

President Wilson learned of the Carrizal fight from newsmen hawking “extras” on the street. In all, twelve Americans were
killed or missing in action, another twelve were wounded, and twenty-four were captured. Although the Mexicans refused to
reveal their casualties, they were estimated to be even higher, with anywhere from forty-two to fifty-two killed and thirty-nine
wounded.

It seemed to Wilson that the dreaded break with Mexico had finally come. Through diplomatic channels, he demanded an immediate
release of the prisoners and prepared a message to Congress asking for authority to use whatever military force was needed
to secure the frontier, including, if necessary, the occupation of all the Mexican states along the U.S. border until a responsible
government could be constituted. If Mexico had possessed a legitimate government, he wrote, he would have asked Congress for
a formal declaration of war. “But we are not dealing with such a government. There has been no such government in Mexico since
February, 1913. At no time since the tragic assassination of President Madero have we had any certain evidence that those
who were assuming to exercise authority in that distracted country represented anybody but themselves.”

The bellicose Carranza was pragmatic enough to see his own potential demise in the rapidly escalating situation and he soon
ordered the prisoners released. Several days later, his representatives suggested that formal negotiations be held to reconcile
the differences between the two countries. The United States quickly agreed. By then, the details of the Carrizal incident
had become better known and Wilson and his aides realized that the incident had largely been instigated by Boyd. Three representatives
from Mexico and three representatives from the United States were named to the negotiating panel, which was scheduled to begin
meeting in the fall in New London, Connecticut. With that, the air began to clear. In an eloquent speech, given on July 1
at the Press Club in New York, the president said: “Do you think the glory of America would be enhanced by a war of conquest
in Mexico? Do you think that any act of violence by a powerful nation like this against a weak and distracted neighbor would
reflect distinction upon the annals of the United States?” He added, “I have constantly to remind myself that I am not the
servant of those who wish to enhance the value of their Mexican investments, that I am the servant of the rank and file of
the people of the United States.”

The U.S. prisoners were taken to Juárez and released on the international bridge. A throng of reporters were on hand to observe
them. Some of the captives were barefoot, others were wearing riding jodhpurs cut off at the knees. Lem Spilsbury presented
one of the most eccentric figures of all, wearing soiled white duck trousers, a yachting cap, and a serape over his shoulder.
The soldiers were taken to a fumigation shack where their clothes were burned and they were scrubbed down with kerosene and
vinegar. Then they were allowed to take soap-and-water showers and don fresh clothing. As they departed for Fort Bliss, the
African-American residents of El Paso handed the troopers delicate bouquets of sweet peas. The soldiers held them in their
fists and grinned widely as the photographers snapped away.

The Carrancistas had dumped the bodies of the twelve troopers listed as killed or missing in action, including Boyd and Adair,
into a hole and buried them, but U.S. authorities demanded that the bodies be exhumed and returned to the United States. The
weather was sweltering and by the time the corpses reached the border, they were so badly decomposed that health authorities
in El Paso refused to open the caskets and fingerprint them so that proper identification could be made. The surviving members
of the two troops were eventually able to identify all but one body. The remains of Boyd, Adair, and a private named DeWitt
Rucker were returned to their families and the other soldiers were buried with full honors in Arlington National Cemetery.
The bodies of four troopers from the Tenth Cavalry were never recovered.

Morey left Mexico by automobile. In Columbus he boarded the eastbound Golden State Limited and went to Fort Bliss for a brief
reunion with his old command. The men were delighted to see him and crowded around, smiling and slapping him on the back.
He left after only a few moments, telling reporters that he was still in a weakened condition from his wound. But in truth,
he was probably discouraged and frightened. An internal investigation of the Carrizal incident had begun and Morey could already
feel the great weight of the army’s disapproval settling upon him. Eventually sworn statements would be taken from nearly
every participant in the fight, including Lem Spilsbury and W. P. McCabe. Army investigators concluded that Boyd was largely
responsible for the debacle but nevertheless praised him and Adair for their bravery. As for Morey, they wrote, “he did not
stand forth as a leader.”

The investigators sidestepped General Pershing’s role in the whole affair and left many questions unanswered. For example,
why did Pershing order two detachments on an identical mission a hundred miles away after General Treviño had issued his ultimatum?
Why was Captain Boyd, well known for his aggressive soldiering, chosen for the mission? Why were Boyd’s orders oral and Morey’s
written? And finally, why were they not told of each other’s assignments?

Only Lem Spilsbury, a civilian, had the temerity to suggest that the U.S. military was deliberately trying to provoke a war
with Mexico. As for General Pershing, he professed himself to be heartsick when he learned of the disastrous battle and Boyd’s
role in it. “No one could have been more surprised or chagrined than I was to learn that he had become so seriously involved.”
He also insisted that he had urged Boyd to use caution. “I told him, among other things, that the Mexican situation was very
tense, and that a clash with Mexican troops would probably bring on war and for this reason was to be avoided.”

In fact, Pershing’s orders had produced a debacle that would result in the end of his mission. And somewhere, hidden from
friends and enemies, his leg wound slowly mending, Pancho Villa was plotting his comeback.

T
HE
C
ARRIZAL INCIDENT
was the last fight of the Punitive Expedition. Forbidden by his superiors to even send out patrols,
Pershing had nothing left to do but await orders to withdraw, which did not come for another seven months. In some ways, the
dormant period proved more challenging for him than the active hunt for Pancho Villa. His task now became trying to keep an
army of ten thousand men occupied and out of trouble. The troops were divided into two camps, with roughly six thousand men
at Colonia Dublán and another four thousand troops stationed sixty-five miles to the south near the town of El Valle.

The Dublán camp, enclosed by a fence and patrolled by sentries, soon came to resemble a small thriving town. A river ran along
its western edge and to the east were irrigated fields and a few of the brick houses belonging to the Mormons. Dozens of Chinese
entrepreneurs descended upon the camp, opening up laundries and concession stands, which sold hot doughnuts and the sugary
treats that the soldiers had craved during the long, cold marches. The cooks often took their shotguns and hunted for wild
turkey and quail and ducks and rabbits to supplement the officers’ messes. In the neighboring pastures, the horses fattened
and grew serene. The troops built sturdy shelters from adobe bricks and stretched their canvas tents over the walls for roofs.
They stuffed grass beneath their bedrolls and made “ice boxes” by draping wet gunnysacks over crates. Long truck trains rumbled
in and out of the camp from the dirt road leading north to Columbus, bringing letters, food supplies, and packages from home
that included navel oranges, English walnuts, writing tablets, candles, and Ivory soap.

An arena for boxing and wrestling was built and a field laid out for baseball and football games. In the evenings, there were
minstrel shows and one-act plays and long hours of letter writing. Pershing turned a blind eye to the craps and high-stakes
card games, but drew the line at allowing intoxicating liquors into the camp. As a consequence, cantinas sprang up outside
the fence and a lively bootlegging business developed. One of the largest cantinas and dance halls was run by Greeks from
Juárez. The “sanitary village” south of the camp continued to do a land-office business. The compound was roughly an acre
in size and consisted of a restaurant and about forty one-room cabins where prostitutes worked and slept. Pershing approved
a similar restricted district for the troops in El Valle. In a letter to General Scott, he said he saw no other way to resolve
the “woman question” and pointed out that the arrangement had actually lowered the rate of venereal disease. Some of the medical
officers, though, found the arrangement appalling. “As some of the men remarked, ‘Whenever the wind blows we get covered with
whore dust,’ and while that is putting it rather vulgarly, yet it was the way we felt about it,” William Eastman concluded.