Gringo Rebel

Ivor Thord-Gray

• Publisher: Red Kestrel Books
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781839740565
• Topic: Personal Development
• Subtopic: Travel

Gringo Rebel, first published in 1960, is the account of Swedish-born adventurer Ivor Thord-Gray of his time in 1913-1914 in revolutionary Mexico. Thord-Gray first served as an artillery officer in Francisco 'Pancho' Villa's forces, and later served as a cavalry officer in Carranza's army under Obregón. He formed close bonds with his Yaqui and Tarahumara scouts, and later prepared a Tarahumara-English Dictionary, and other books about Mexican archaeology. Gringo Rebel offers a first-hand look at the poorly understood conflict in Mexico between the wealthy ruling class and the large majority of land-less peasants living in slave-like conditions, as well as insights into rebel leaders such as Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata (leader of the 'Zapatistas'). Seventeen pages of illustrations are included in this new edition.

1

The reason why to Mexico—With Pancho Villa—Pedro joins my staff—The battle of Tierra Blanca—A very young soldier—Gun-running—The story of Pancho Villa

The bar at the German Club in Shanghai was crowded with people when I entered to join an American friend for a gin-and-bitters before tiffin one day in October, 1913. Here were heated arguments, a bedlam of opinions, over the Mexican revolution now in full swing.

The Times of Malaya and other newspapers in the Far East had for some time released scattered items referring to the revolution, such as Madera’s murder and the war against Huerta. Reports and rumors were telling of wholesale plunder, confiscation and murder by the revolutionaries.

The American, whom I will call Bradstock because he reminded me of an old friend in Cape Mounted Riflemen, hinted on several occasions that he was a freelance newspaperman also interested in gathering material for a book. But he acted more like an agent of some government nosing around for information. About ten months after this Shanghai meeting, I found him with the federal army in Jalisco, Mexico.

Baron von Trotta, a German international prototype, asserted in his forceful Junker manner, “All rebels should be strung up by the neck or shot as they are a danger to the peace of the world.” My friend, Bradstock, surprised me by agreeing with the German when he lashed out at the methods used by the rebels to gain their ends in Mexico.

Mr. Alcantara, a nice looking Venezuelan, stood up for the revolution. He declared bluntly that those present did not know the facts nor the underlying reasons for the revolt, and added with some feeling, “My beloved country will also have a revolution some day to overthrow the dictatorship of Gomez.”

Since all this news from Mexico seemed one-sided, and having nothing better to do, I decided to have a look for myself. Bradstock made a bet that the revolution would be over and lost before I could get there. The challenge was accepted and a passage to the United States was booked immediately. Then I called on the Mexican Consul and he kindly gave me a special permit to travel throughout Mexico for six months on archaeological and anthropological work. Thus prepared I landed in beautiful San Francisco in the early part of November 1913.

The following morning the newspapers mentioned a few words of a large Mexican federal force marching on Juarez to put down the revolution. As it was necessary to move quickly before the revolution petered out, I boarded the first train for El Paso, and put up at Hotel Paso del Norte. When settled in the hotel, I went out to gather information, particularly on Pancho Villa and Carranza, and found that the Carranzistas and Villistas were called bandits by the federals. The rebels returned the compliment with a name they considered worse and called the federals cientificos [scientific swindlers of the people, applied to large landowners, politicians, high officers of the federal army, and the clergy].

It was considered by everybody in El Paso that Villa was the undisputed rebel leader in northern Mexico, and all were surprised at Villa recognizing Carranza as First Chief (Primer Jefe) with headquarters far away in the State of Sonora. Americans, in the know, said this arrangement would not last for Villa was difficult to subordinate. Besides, his high strung temperament made him uncertain, capricious, almost freakish and he willfully did terrible things.

In spite of this information I was looking forward with some eagerness to meeting Pancho Villa, because he had done wonders, almost the impossible, as a cavalry leader, which was interesting to me, a cavalryman.

With Pancho Villa

No vehicles were allowed to cross over the International bridge into Mexico without special permit. I had to proceed on foot, but was detained by the U.S. Border Guard. They advised me to remain on the American side, as the Mexicans hated all foreigners and would soon dispatch me to the Happy Hunting Grounds. It took some time to convince them of my firm intention to go over and I was allowed to do so after showing the Mexican Consular permit from Shanghai. Once over the Rio Grande, it did not take long to reach General Villa’s headquarters, but many people seemed to follow my movements with suspicion and by their scowls it was evident that foreigners were not particularly trusted or wanted in this land.

After announcing myself, and waiting for half an hour, I was ushered into a large room and stood before Villa. My first impression of Pancho Villa, the reputed outlaw, bandit, murderer of hundreds, and general extraordinary, was not very bad in spite of his unsavory reputation, and his unshaven and somewhat unkept appearance. He was powerfully built, forceful looking, robustious, with a roundish large head and slightly bloated face. The lips were large and strong but sensuous. The upper lip was covered with a heavy stumpy mustache. The eyes were bloodshot as if in need of sleep. The hair was out of sight under a sombrero which was tilted back. He wore soft leather leggings reaching above the knee. His face was dirty looking but a gorilla-grin, not at all unkindly, illuminated his countenance which otherwise seemed hard and coarse.

As the great Villa did not condescend to look my way, there was time to observe that the unventilated room stank with noxious human exhalations, stale sweat-soaked clothing and cigarette smoke. A bunch of pretty hothouse flowers stood in front of Villa, stuck in an expensive blue Chinese jar from the Ming period, a beautiful museum piece.

Eventually Villa looked but when he saw me his face turned into a scowl, almost of anger, associated, it seemed to me, with arrogance or contempt. His whole attitude was a challenge, startling though not altogether objectionable. But, for the moment, it reminded one of a bull-ape beating his chest in the

African or Malayan jungle. I couldn’t help feeling this was a pose or a show put on for the benefit of his staff to cover up some idiosyncrasies or, perhaps, not unlikely, to scare me.

When introduced by a staff officer, I saluted and presented my credentials from the Mexican Consul in Shanghai. General Villa did not return the salute nor did he in any way acknowledge my presence. In fact, he seemed completely oblivious of my existence which nettled me perhaps a little. He took the document from the officer and read it carefully, upside down, and then I realized Villa could not read. After “reading” the permit he passed it to an aide with a remark ,which in Mexico, I found later, is equivalent to son-of-bitch, or worse.

The staff officer, a thin, undersized, sallow-faced, half-breed Indian, looked at the letter and asked in good English, “Where did you obtain this permit to enter Mexico? Why are you here?” When I explained that my trip across the Pacific was for the purpose of archaeological research work in Mexico, but that I wished to join the revolutionary army, he looked incredulous and unconvinced but told his chief.

Evidently Villa did not believe my answer either, as he appeared enraged once more and the words, “Gringo spy,” came from his almost frothing mouth. It was evident that this hard man’s nerves were on edge. He was caught off his guard and looked repulsive. I seemed to have met baboons in South Africa better looking than Villa at this moment. He turned to me with blazing bloodshot eyes, shouting orders for me to get out of Mexico.

When requesting the return of my permit, Villa tore it up with some more juicy insults and accused me of being an American agent, sent to spy on him for Huerta in Mexico City.

There was nothing more for me to do. Not wishing to lose my temper, I walked out without saluting, to return to El Paso. It was obvious my long trip from China had been in vain, but I had not lost my bet with Bradstock which consoled me a little, perhaps. There was, of course, the Mexican Federal Army to be considered, but I dismissed the evil thought. Then it flashed through my mind to return to China and more friendly people.

On my way back through Villa’s camp, however, I noticed two field guns by which stood a handsome but dejected looking officer, obviously not a Mexican. Having been through a course in Horse Artillery in the C.M.R. while in Pondoland, I became interested naturally and wanted to see what kind of guns they had in Mexico, and stopped.

I found the man to be an American, keen to pour out his trouble to someone, not a Mexican. He had been a sergeant in the U.S. Infantry, and got into trouble over a woman by hitting an officer and had skipped into Mexico rather than face a court-martial. “He offered his services to Villa who, possessing no artillery officer, made him captain of his artillery, taking for granted that the American sergeant would know something about guns.

The captain informed me he was in trouble as he knew very little about artillery, but thought the guns had been tampered with by the federal gunners before they abandoned them. I examined the breech-blocks, found that the firing pins had been broken, and suggested he make new ones. The possibilities of making temporary pins astounded the man, and he admitted he didn’t know how. Personally, I wasn’t sure either, but was willing to try and offered to do so, at which he brightened up but was horrified when told I needed to take one of the blocks to El Paso.

At this point, the officer straightened up like a ramrod and ordered me to move on. But, it was too late as Villa with a few men was striding towards us. When he spotted me he roared out an order at which four men, armed with guns, machetes and long knives, closed in and grabbed me. I was under arrest. There was a tall swarthy looking man standing close to Villa who constantly kept his eyes on me in an unfriendly manner. Afterwards I found out it was the much feared Rodolfo Fierro, better known as El Carnicero (The Butcher), because of his unscrupulous killings.

The officer intervened and spoke to Villa explaining that this foreigner, pointing to me, was an expert on artillery. I had never said anything of the kind, but it worked wonders. My arrest was suspended for the moment. Villa’s stern and angry face became relaxed and transformed into an open-mouthed grin and he looked me over with some interest. When the conversation led to the necessity of taking a breechblock out of Mexico he flared up in anger but calmed down and asked, “Why can’t you fix them in Juarez?” The outcome was obvious, he needed the guns desperately, and I could not fix them without one of the blocks and a good machine-shop, so he gave in. But, while this conversation was going on, misgivings had entered my mind as to the possibility of the breech-block being confiscated by the United States on the bridge into El Paso. It was heavy and it would take two men to carry it between them on a pole, in a gunny-sack, and therefore difficult to smuggle past the boundary guard on the other side of the Rio Grande. Besides, Villa had stipulated that the block must be back in Mexico within two days, so there was no time to maneuver around farther up or down the river.

It was therefore necessary to dismantle the block in Juarez. A machine-shop was found to which the gun was moved. It was not an easy operation. Luck was with us though for the firing-pin was, in fact, merely broken at the point; consequently, fairly easy to copy on a lathe. With this pin in my pocket I began to walk toward the bridge when the captain impressed upon me that he would be imprisoned or sent back to the States if the pin was not back within the specified time. I then went over the bridge to El Paso.

Due to my newly acquired relationship with the revolutionaries, I thought it prudent to keep my own counsel and began looking for a trustworthy owner of a machine-shop, and to get further information about the trouble in Mexico. I moved about and listened to conversations in bars where usually one obtains most valuable information.

To my surprise there was a decided mixed feeling for and against the revolution. Some were downright hostile, others felt sorry for the peons’ desperate struggle for freedom and wished them luck. No one seemed to like Pancho Villa, his reckless shooting of prisoners and confiscation of cattle, especially cattle and horses. He was severely censured yet many admired his ability.

Eventually a machine-shop was found with an owner in sympathy with the peons. This man wished them luck but did not think they had a chance to win because the United States and Great Britain were against the rebels, and besides, there was a large well trained Mexican army moving northward against them.

I returned to work at the machine-shop the following morning and after several tries we had two fairly good looking firing-pins cut on a lathe, and with these I again crossed the bridge into Mexico on the afternoon of the second day. My appearance was a great relief to my new friend, the captain in charge of the guns. He almost pulled me to the shop to see if the pins fitted. They did.

With my firing-pin mission completed, I wished the captain goodbye and luck with his guns. As I was about to leave, an officer marched up with four armed men and informed me that General Villa had commanded my detention until further orders as he wanted the presence of the gringo at the gun trials the following day. I protested vigorously as I had an appointment in El Paso that night, but to no avail. The order had come from Villa himself.

Thus I was under arrest once more. I was allowed to walk around, but four armed soldiers were detailed to see that no harm came to me in their words. Resigned to my fate, I took this opportunity to inquire into the artillery pieces which had caused so much trouble. They were Montregon guns so named for a Mexican artillery general who served several years in the French Army. When asked about the gun-sights and instruments, my new friend simply remarked, “There are none.”

Early next morning Villa turned up with his staff and off we went galloping along a very dusty road for the gun trials. As speed was required, the so-called gunners were all mounted. On a low ridge a few miles south of Juarez, Villa pulled up his horse and pointed to a small bush-covered ridge standing out clear, thus making a good target, and ordered the guns to be trained on it.

I calculated the distance to be some 12,000 yards and informed him it was too far. Villa seemed embarrassed but gave a new target, a little shack, and called out, “Hit that house.” He appeared extremely impatient and annoyed, but it was my unpleasant task to enlighten this bandit general that it was difficult, if not impossible, to hit the house, or even come anywhere near it, without a range-finder or a gun-sight of some kind. Having become a little irritated myself at his attitude, and at being forcibly detained the day before, I reminded him that I had only promised to try to fix the firing-pins and that this had been done.

I fully expected Villa to fly off the handle but was agreeably surprised when he looked at me hard for a few seconds, dismounted, and came to the unlimbered guns. He petted them in a gentle caressing manner with both his big hands and asked almost humbly, as in a prayer, “Is there no way in which these cannons can be used against that usurper Huerta in this our fight for land and freedom?”

There was something so pathetic about this hard, flea-bitten rough-neck showing such deep sentiment that I felt sympathy for him. Then I told him they could be fired without sights or instruments by guessing the elevation, but only as a temporary measure, as the shots would be erratic and ineffective. The guns might act as a surprise to the enemy, however, and I suggested that we fire one shot per gun to make sure the firing-pins worked.

When the interpreter had explained these points, which I could not express intelligently enough in Spanish, Villa frowned, shook his head doubtfully but remained silent. This gave me the opportunity to study the man and I came to the conclusion that he considered the suggestion of range-finders and other instruments silly and superfluous, or a subterfuge on my part. Then again he might be pondering what t...