Black Flower Page 23
Madero was anxiously considering strategy with his supporters at the Hutchinson Hotel. Menem sat at a distance and watched him. There was an air about Madero that only the noble-minded possessed. When he had finished his meeting and came out to the lobby for tea, Menem approached and greeted him. “We have met before, President Madero. I am Don Carlos Menem, from Mérida.” Madero waved a hand. “I am not president. And I am sorry, but I do not remember you.” Menem clutched at Madero as he turned away. “I am a friend of Aquiles Serdán. I have come straight from Puebla.” Madero’s expression changed. “Señor Menem, you have come a long way. Have some tea with me.” Menem sat down and told him about the battle he had seen from the train. Madero laughed as if it were nothing. “My uncle’s troops were supposed to come from Mexico, but they did not arrive. Thus my troops returned. But the mood elsewhere is intense. Especially in Chihuahua, the flame of revolution is blazing like wildfire. Wait and see. We will not forget Serdán’s death. We have heard the news as well. It was truly horrible. So, what was it like there?”
Menem had originally intended to tell the truth. But a completely different story sprang from the mouth of this descendant of a French swindler. With tears streaming down, he related to Madero the great massacre that had taken place at the house as if he had seen it with his own eyes. Menem himself had fought heroically, but most of his comrades died gallantly in battle due to the snare laid by the cowardly police chief. He was so violently choked with tears when he related the deaths of Aquiles Serdán and his brother Máximo that Madero could only pat him on the shoulder. Before he knew it, Madero’s staff and supporters had gathered around to hear of the great massacre at Serdán’s house. Menem gradually grew more excited and continued his dramatic monologue.
“That’s enough,” Madero said with grief in his voice, cutting him off. He waved everyone away. Then he spoke quietly to Menem. “Do you believe in telepathy?” Menem hesitated for a moment at this unexpected question. “Well, I have heard of it.” The presidential candidate Madero stared into space as he spoke: “I believe in it. The gods relay their messages to humanity through telepathy. This is what all of the revelations received by the prophets were, including those of Moses. Not long ago, an American named Bell invented the telephone, but that is far too limited a means of communication, nothing more than communication between two people. But telepathy is different. It is slowly being proven scientifically as well. If we want something strongly, we can convey it to someone, sometimes to many people. You may not believe this, but yesterday I received a telepathic message from Serdán.” Madero put his hand on his chest. “It was such a heartbreaking thing. When I was young, a fortuneteller once revealed to me that I would be the president of Mexico. And to this day I have not doubted that even once. And now that revelation has become a telepathic message and is spreading all over Mexico. If that is not revolution, then what is?”
This talk of telepathy, coming from the lips of an intellectual who had studied for five years in Versailles and Paris and then studied agriculture in Berkeley in the United States before returning to Mexico, aroused misgivings in Menem’s heart concerning the course of the revolution. A few days later, Menem returned to the Yucatán.
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KIM IJEONG, WHO HAD been living in secret in the state of Chihuahua, was following the path that Bang Hwajung and Hwang Sayong had shown him and attempting to cross the border when he came under fire from Mexican government troops and United States border guards. He received a slight wound in one arm, and he gave up on the border crossing for the time being and stayed in Mexico. The little money he had was dwindling. He was not even aware that the Mexican Revolution was under way. But when he encountered troops led by the union leader Cástulo Herrera, holding rifles and marching along the ridge toward Temosachic, he immediately understood what was going on. The revolutionaries treated his wound and invited him to join them. Buoyed by the passion of revolution, they put into practice the spirit of fraternity and solidarity, two early virtues of the struggle. The members of the revolutionary army were truly diverse. Hacienda laborers, university students, shop clerks, repairmen, mule sellers, beggars, miners, cowboys, deserters, lawyers, and American mercenaries were all mixed together.
Yet Ijeong rejected their invitation in a roundabout way. Going to the United States was his first priority. Ijeong was of a mind to earn money in Chihuahua and attempt another border crossing. He parted with the fighters and waited for a train. But the train never arrived. The entire state of Chihuahua was seething with the zeal of revolution. He rode on mules and in carriages and made his way to the city of Chihuahua. But the revolutionaries foiled even that plan. They commandeered trains in order to transport weapons and troops.
The new revolutionary leader he chanced upon was Pascual Orozco. Orozco had been a merchant in western Chihuahua, where he had driven mules and transported ore. His greatest enemies had been the bandits of the countryside, who were after his cargo. He had grown up fighting the bandits, and for him battle was a way of life. Orozco had no great hatred for Díaz, nor did he have any affection for Madero. He was only enraged at the tyranny of the Terrazas family, who held power in Chihuahua. He gradually built up his own force, taking the city of Guerrero, a vital rail junction, and brought in revolutionary leaders like Pancho Villa, and he rose to become the greatest power in northern Mexico.
Ijeong stayed in Orozco’s camp for several days. Those of the revolutionaries who were peasants knew of life on a henequen hacienda. “Sugar cane, cotton, it’s all the same. The only thing different is the length of the hacendados’ beards,” the peasants said. “You say you’re going to the United States? That won’t change anything. The wealthy live off the fat of the land, and the immigrants work in sugar cane plantations or orange groves until their necks break.” Still, Ijeong did not abandon his dream of going to the United States.
A few days later, federal troops attacked Orozco’s soldiers. Armed with heavy weapons, they pounded the undisciplined revolutionary rabble. Ijeong fled with the insurgents along a ridge just below the skyline. One of them gave him a weapon, and Ijeong fired a gun for the first time in his life. The feeling was similar to when he had held the knives in Yoshida’s galley. The excitement that emanated from the cold and functional metal spread throughout his body like a drug. When he loaded a bullet and pulled the trigger, it felt as if all of the old bitterness that had built up in his body was expelled in that one shot. His bullet pierced the thigh of a federal soldier and kicked up a cloud of dust as it buried itself in the ground. Red blood mixed with the dust.
The battle ended, and Orozco’s men had taken a large number of casualties. But Ijeong did not leave the troop. And he held his gun when he slept. A few days later, Ijeong’s troop received orders: they were to launch a surprise attack on a sizable contingent of returning federal soldiers. That was the Battle of Malpaso Canyon, which would long be remembered in the history of the Mexican Revolution. On that day, the revolutionaries caught the forces led by Colonel Martín Luis Guzmán unawares and took many spoils of war.
Ijeong captured a federal soldier who was trying to flee. In his pocket was some rotten corn. He pleaded for his life. Ijeong could not understand him. As soon as he returned with the soldier, the revolutionaries stripped him naked and made him sing. His penis shriveled as he sang his lungs out. Then the revolutionaries let him go. At that point, there was still some humor left in the revolution.
News of the victory at Malpaso Canyon excited anti-Díaz revolutionaries around the nation. The first victory in battle that Ijeong had ever experienced paralyzed his reasoning. He forgot about the United States and about Yeonsu. He even forgot about all the contempt and suffering at countless haciendas. In victory in battle there was genuine happiness. And he liked the atmosphere in the revolutionary army as well. It was similar to what he had tasted in Yoshida’s galley. A world of only men. A world where he was exempt from all obligations. They were filthy and noisy, but among them there was peace.
The old and rough peasant soldiers asked Ijeong about the country he had left behind.
“There are brave men like you there as well, of course,” Ijeong said. The revolutionaries asked, “Who do they fight?” “They fight the Japanese army.” “Why do they fight them?” “Because they took away everything. Japan annexed the whole country.” The Mexican revolutionaries shared his rage as they thought of how the United States had swallowed up New Mexico and Texas in the north of Mexico. But they soon lost interest in talk of a distant Asian country, and a country that no longer existed at that.
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AT TEN O’CLOCK on the night of May 21, 1911, Díaz finally raised his hands in surrender. The gist of the peace accord signed by the revolutionaries and the federal army was as follows: Díaz would resign from office by the end of May. The government would issue compensation for the damage caused by the revolution. And new presidential elections would be held. On May 24, an excited crowd swarmed the presidential palace. The machine guns on the roof spit fire. At two-thirty in the morning on May 26, the weary, sick, old dictator left the palace, where he had resided for decades, and boarded a special train bound for Veracruz. In Veracruz he boarded the German ship Ipiranga and spoke to his devoted servant General Victoriano Huerta, who had come to see him off, uttering the famous words that would be on everyone’s lips throughout the Mexican Revolution:
“Madero has unleashed a tiger. Let us see how he deals with this tiger. After much suffering, he will ultimately come to see that the only way to rule this country is my way.”
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JO JANGYUN’S PARTY arrived at the port of San Francisco. They followed the pontoon bridge into the harbor and were asked a simple question by the immigration inspector: “What is your business in the United States?” He looked a little nervously at Jo Jangyun’s darkened face and massive frame. Jo Jangyun boldly replied that they were on their way to Hawaii as members of the Korean National Association. The immigration officer, who spoke Spanish, asked them again in Spanish. Jo Jangyun revealed that they were representatives of a group of immigrants and were entering the country in order to settle in Hawaii. The officer glanced at the faces of Jo Jangyun and the other three, went into an office, and then came out again. An official took the four of them into an empty room and had them sit down. They stayed there for six hours. The official informed the government of their reason for entering the country and waited for instructions. The U.S. Bureau of Immigration concluded that they could not allow the four to enter for the purpose of working. Contrary to what Jo Jangyun had expected, the Hawaii Sugar Planters’ Association had not received permission in advance from the Bureau of Immigration.
Jo Jangyun’s party was confined in the bureau’s holding facility for forty-three days. During that time, the Sugar Planters’ Association and the Korean National Association repeatedly requested permission for their entry from the relevant authorities and anxiously awaited the outcome. In the end, the four men were put on a ship called the Lucky Mountain and forcibly deported. The Koreans of Mérida were also paying close attention to events as they unfolded. Yet when the effort stalled and ended in deportation, the bold project that had been seen as the Exodus of the twentieth century vanished. Thanks to Jo Jangyun’s party, the Bureau of Immigration had thought that the Korean immigrants in Mexico were going to flood en masse into the United States, and they had enough of a headache as it was with the friction between Chinese and white laborers.
A total of $547.82 was paid for their stay and boat fare. Bearing the guilt of not only having spent their brethren’s money in vain but also of having everything go wrong, the representatives quietly returned to Mérida. But Mérida was not quiet. The wind of revolution had reached it as well.
67
A YEAR PASSED. Francisco Madero was now president. The United States did not like him, and the political situation was chaotic. Coup attempts were made, and Madero was not able to keep these under control. Completely naïve, he entrusted the suppression of these coups to General Huerta, who had followed Díaz to the end. Huerta positioned competent generals in the wrong places and ordered incompetent generals to make reckless attacks, causing pointless casualties. In Mexico City he bombarded the residential area where the diplomatic legations were concentrated, killing more than five thousand civilians. Two skillful shots were fired, one hitting the door of the Ciudadela fortress, where the rebel troops were hiding, the other hitting the main gate of the presidential palace. The capital became a living hell. Bodies were scattered everywhere. The corpses that the survivors did manage to retrieve were brought to a park, doused with kerosene, and set on fire. A stench and smoke hung over the city streets. Despite having five times as many troops as the rebels, Huerta stalled for time. He was waiting for grievances against the irresolute Madero to be raised. He entertained Madero’s younger brother and confidant, Gustavo, and offered him cognac. Then he took a phone call, said he had forgotten his pistol, and asked if he could borrow Gustavo’s for a moment. Naïvely, Gustavo handed Huerta the pistol that he carried at his waist. When Huerta left, a group of soldiers rushed in and arrested Gustavo. At around the same time, another group of soldiers told President Madero that he was under arrest by order of General Huerta. Huerta’s lightning coup ended its first act with the execution by firing squad of President Madero. Just as Díaz had said, the tiger was on the rampage, and there didn’t appear to be anyone who could tame it.
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THE FLAME OF revolution continued to burn. Venustiano Carranza, the governor of Coahuila, drove out Huerta, and the bandit-turned-revolutionary-leader Pancho Villa won a series of victories over the federal troops and was becoming something of a legend. The thirty-year-old Emiliano Zapata was also using guerrilla warfare to harass Mexico City and trip up the federal troops. Álvaro Obregón, who would later turn the tide of the revolution and become president himself, led his Mayo Indian troops to victory after victory as well, and he was being called an ever-victorious general. Heroes emerged to test their strength against one another as if they had been waiting for just this opportunity, this Mexican version of China’s Warring States period. Industry and commerce were hurtling downhill like a car without brakes. It was Huerta’s fate to follow in Díaz’s footsteps and board a German transport at Veracruz.
On August 15, 1914, Obregón’s army at last triumphantly entered Mexico City. The brave Yaqui Indian troops beat their drums and marched proudly at the head of the ranks. Yet Pancho Villa did not recognize Carranza, and Emiliano Zapata also could not allow control of the government to fall into the hands of Carranza, a large landowner. Carranza and Obregón felt the pressure from the pincer attack of the two star players of the revolution and retreated to Veracruz. Clever and meticulous, Obregón took all of the important civilians with him when he withdrew. Personnel vital to the maintenance of rail and communications networks came first. He took as many of the clergy with him as possible. This was not because he liked priests, but because he wanted to drag them from their luxurious cathedrals and force them to witness the tragic plight of the people. Before his departure, Obregón ordered physical examinations of the clergy. Of the 180 priests, 49 of them—27 percent—were suffering from venereal diseases.
An advance element of Zapata’s peasant troops marched into Mexico City on November 26. It was a quiet entrance, with no sound of victorious trumpets and no showy parade. Zapata’s troops met little resistance as they seized the agencies necessary for maintaining order, such as the police station. Pancho Villa, who advanced from the north, entered Mexico City on December 4. The former bandit and the former peasant had much in common, such as the fact that they both had so little education that they were nearly illiterate. Yet they were both geniuses of guerrilla warfare, and they were both very popular with the people, and their first meeting began with stammered words of mutual respect. These two shy, rustic leaders denounced Carranza’s craftiness and congratulated each other on their accomplishments. Two days later, the northern troo
ps and the southern troops held a large-scale joint victory parade.
Among the northern troops marching down the Paseo de la Reforma was an Asian soldier, drawing the attention of the crowd. It was Kim Ijeong. As part of Pancho Villa’s ever-victorious División del Norte, Ijeong had finally entered the center of Mexico. After three years of revolution, he was twenty-five years old. Pancho Villa’s army was loved and welcomed by the people wherever it went, and Ijeong received similar treatment as part of that army. There was nothing wrong with being that sort of revolutionary. It was an existence that crossed back and forth between life and death. On occasion he longed for women, and at these times he thought of Yeonsu, but now that he had joined the insurgency he was not free to move about as he pleased.
Unlike Emiliano Zapata, Pancho Villa began a reign of terror as soon as he entered Mexico City. The capital was quickly plunged into chaos as arrests and executions were carried out according to a list that had been drawn up in advance. Blood begat blood. The soldiers had to learn how to murder without question, like Mafia hit men. Day after day they held pistols to the chests of those who could not fight back and pulled the trigger. It was like drawing faces on pieces of wood and using them for target practice. Ijeong, too, pulled the trigger without thinking. Every time he did so, something in his heart collapsed a little. The landowners must die, he thought. He believed that the hacienda system, which filled only the bellies of the large landowners, had to be abolished immediately. The same went for the filthy slavery system under which people were bought and sold. Strangely, though, the ruling class was not easily caught. After Ijeong had shot a number of men, he found out that they were petty farmers and poor people no different from him. It didn’t matter whom they supported; they were drafted and joined the war, sometimes on Huerta’s side, sometimes on Villa’s side, and sometimes on Obregón’s side. Ijeong blindfolded them and put a bullet in their heart. Orders were orders.