Insurgent Mexico by John Reed

The Casa Grande of La Cadena had been sacked, of course, by Che Che Campa the year before. In the patio were corraled the officers' horses. We slept on the tiled floors of the rooms surrounding it. In the sala of the owner, once barbarically decorated, pegs were driven into the walls to hang saddles and bridles on, rifles and sabers were stacked against the wall, and dirty blanket-rolls lay flung into the corner. At night a fire of corn-cobs was built in the middle of the floor, and we squatted around it, while Apolinario and fourteen-year-old Gil Tomas, who was once a colorado, told stories of the Bloody Three Years. "At the taking of Durango," said Apolinario, "I was of the gente of Captain Borunda; he that they call the Matador, because he always shoots his prisoners. But when Urbina took Durango there weren't many prisoners. So Borunda, thirsty for blood, made the rounds of all the saloons. And in every one he would pick out some unarmed man and ask him if he were a Federal. 'No, señor,' the man would say. 'You deserve death because you have not told the truth! ' yelled Borunda, pulling his gun. Bang! "We all laughed heartily at this. "That reminds me," broke in Gil, "of the time I fought with Rojas in Orozco's-(cursed be his mother! )-Revolucion. An old Porfirista officer deserted to our side, and Orozco sent him out to teach the colorados (animals! ) how to drill. There was one droll fellow in our company. Oh! He had a fine sense of humor. He pretended he was too stupid to learn the manual of arms. So this cursed old Huertista-(may he fry in hell! )-made him drill alone. "Shoulder arms! " The companero did it all right. "Present arms! " Perfectly. "Port arms! " He acted like he didn't know how, so the old fool went around and took hold of the rifle. "This way! " says he, pulling on it. "Oh! ' says the fellow, 'that way! ' And he let him have the bayonet right in the chest. "After that Fernando Silveyra, the paymaster, recounted a few anecdotes of the curas, or priests, that sounded exactly like Touraine in the thirteenth century, or the feudal rights of landlords over their women tenants before the French Revolution. Fernando ought to have known, too, for he was brought up for the Church. There must have been about twenty of us sitting around that fire, all the way from the most miserably poor peon in the Tropa up to First Captain Longinos Güereca. There wasn't one of these men who had any religion at all, although once they had all been strict Catholics. But three years of war have taught the Mexican people many things. There will never be another Porfirio Diaz; there will never be another Orozco Revolution; and the Catholic Church in Mexico will never again be the voice of God.

Then Juan Santillanes, a twenty-two-year-old subteniente, who seriously informed me that he was descended from the great Spanish hero, Gil Blas, piped up the ancient disreputable ditty, which begins: "I am Count OliverosOf the Spanish artillery. "Juan proudly displayed four bullet wounds. He had killed a few defenseless prisoners with his own gun, he said; giving promise of growing up to be muy matador (a great killer) some day. He boasted of being the strongest and bravest man in the army. His idea of humor seemed to be breaking eggs into the pocket of my coat. Juan was very young for his years, but very likable.