THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK SEVEN: THE SECOND of the BOOKS of CHANGE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Veracruz... again!

The Americans had invaded and occupied!

And all Mexico... as it seemed... rose to the defense of the Republic, and its representative, Victoriano Huerta.

The Jackal, rattling forward in a railroad dining coach some fifty kilometers west of Medicine Hat, Alberta, Canada, cursed the little Huichol and then, to be fair, his own stupidity.

Idaho, as had become apparent to him, was in no ways near to the so-called A-B-C Summit in Niagara Falls. Nor were business and politics done in the United States as in Mexico.

In the first place, Senator William Borah did not reside in his home state but, rather, domiciled nearly full-time in Washington, D.C. And while his understudy in Boise acknowledged the Senator's concerns over Wilson's warmongering, he grew distinctly hostile when his Mexican visitor suggested that the Senator simply do as Huerta had done... or Madero, for that matter, or Villa, or Carranza or a dozen others... gather up some reliable boys, march from the Capitol Building to Pennsylvania Avenue, string up this Woodrow Wilson and appoint himself President. In fact, Borah's man had called the local police... whose inexpertise with firearms, fortunately, had allowed the Jackal to make his escape into Washington State in a stolen motorcar. Compelled to cross the entire state... a desert, baked as Chihuahua despite being so far north, then treacherous mountain passes and hollows, cold and damp in midsummer as the Sierra Oriental!... he'd finally reached Seattle, crossed the border into Canada under the alias of Dr. Raul Ponce Navarette, and boarded the Canada-Pacific rail in Vancouver for Toronto, only a hundred American miles from the conference site.

Such blundering had seriously compromised his mission. Expecting to arrive in Niagara Falls by the start of the conference on the twenty first of May, José guessed that he would arrive nearly a week late! Fortunately the diplomats... Rabasa, Elguero and Rodriguez for President Huerta, Henry Land Wilson's intractable replacement, John Lind and the South Americans (Naon of Argentina, deGama of Brazil and Mugica of Chile)... behaving like diplomats everywhere, unable to agree on even the choice of wines to be served with their chops and filets at the Sun Parlour of the Clifton Hotel.

That Sunday afternoon... amused (but also disgusted) by an account of the faithlessness of Huerta's ruthless Dr. Urrutia, who had fled to one of the American warships in Veracruz, denouncing his patron... "Dr. Navarette" was joined by two gentlemen. One was, plainly, American, the other of apparent British origin... they politely inquired after the availability of seats, then flopped down, the heavily bearded Briton sweating profusely. "Deucedly hot," the Englishman observed, and his companion launched into an explanation that temperatures of the northern plains varied wildly and could, sometimes, exceed those in the deep south of America. "Though not, I suppose, in Mexico... may I presume that you are from our neighbor to the south?" inquired the American, with a distinctly unpleasant and official glare.

Seeing no gentlemanly way of disengaging himself from the pair, the Jackal allowed himself to be a Campecheño physician of independent income, waiting out the war in a place where bullets were less likely to fly, on his way to Niagara Falls to interview for a position vacant at a charitable hospital. The Englishman introduced himself as Mr. Doyle, and advised that the other, Mr. Burns, tended towards abruptness for his profession, which was that of a detective. "He is an old friend attending to business in the state of Oregon, however, and, as I was vacationing in the mountains, we agreed to meet in Calgary and return, from there, to Montreal... in my case... to Washington, in his."

"Indeed?" replied “Navarette”. "And may I ask what the nature of such business in Oregon was?"

"Mr. Burns investigates and prosecutes corrupt Federal officials."

The Jackal smiled. "You would not run short of opportunities in Mexico for some time."

The awkwardness of introductions aside, Dr. Navarette allowed some generalities about medicine and politics... the former gleaned from his long apprenticeship to Rosario, the latter guarded in view of the war, although he did permit a sigh of nostalgia for the days of Porfirio Diaz.

"There is much to be said for the iron hand, where it is applicable to enforcement of the laws of the land," acknowledged Burns. "Although, if you permit me the remark, I suspect many of the troubles of his latter days stemmed from the composition of his rural police... you can give badges and a uniform to bandits, but, at the first opportunity, most revert to their own natural instincts."

"That is always a possibility," the Jackal reasoned. "Although banditry is as prevalent among the genteel classes as in the provinces... look at the opprobrium President Huerta has earned by his treaties with Lord Cowdray of London for Tampico's oil! Woodrow Wilson would do nothing to improve the status and character of our police, let alone other urgencies of commerce such as roads, generating stations, ports or railways, yet he assumes that our resources will always be his, for the taking. One oughtn't confuse Mexico with one of your crown colonies, where the people are disordered and disinterested," he addressed Mr. Doyle. "If anything, we have been guilty of taking too much interest in a world which has abused our hospitality for too long. If England will not stand for our rights as an independent nation, perhaps the Kaiser will."

And, although the luncheon concluded amicably, Mr. Burns came away with a worried face and questioning deportment. "That fellow knows too much for a simple Mexican country doctor," opined Burns... though a superior detective, he was not unlike most of his countrymen in ignorance of the fact that most Mexican doctors, attorneys and other professionals (some few, like Rosario, excepted) were, in fact, men of wealth, genteel manners and education. "If you were of a mind to keep an eye upon him, you might concur that this doctor is not as he seems. I've no stake in the Mexican troubles... as I hear it, they're all a bunch of crooks... but there is something about this fellow that simply strikes me as wrong."

"I'm afraid this is one instance where I must agree with your suspicions," replied Doyle. "That he should mention Germany brings a dryness to my throat... have I not filled your head with warnings that the situation on the Continent is much, much worse than most Europeans suspect, let alone Americans? Some great Gothic undertaking is afoot, and the Devil's messengers fly to and fro in the most innocuous of guises. A Mexican doctor? Why not? But what do you propose to do about this fellow?"

"Well," Burns said, grumpily, "I cannot simply shoot him, nor can I have the authorities detain him in Saskatchewan for a proper roughing up. Canada is, I gather, somewhat yours and somewhat ours and somewhat other... all rolled together into one untidy ball of taffy. Let's put our heads together, see what we can find out. To begin with, a search of the man's belongings might turn up a clue as to his real business. I'd like to get into his compartment... if you could endeavor to keep him up at the bar for a while."

"I shall hope that he is no Prohibitionist," Doyle answered, by way of assenting to the Detective's proposal. "Since Madero, no one quite knows what to make of Mexicans. Really... the Spiritualists would have it that our faculties were not polluted by liquor nor tobacco, meat and sweets are also held injurious... so we'd best enjoy our cakes and ale while we may have them, eh?"

Fortunately, Dr. Navarette was amenable to a few drinks that evening as the train crossed the vast and monotonous prairie... Doyle rapped on his compartment and extended an invitation, allowing as there were certain professional matters upon which the Doctor's expertise could be useful. Feeling more confident in his deception with every passing mile, the Jackal readily agreed to a copita of whatever passed for good cheer... being further heartened by his new acquaintance's conviction that the Canada-Pacific kept supplies of the best Scots whiskies on hand, and, after Navarette diligently locked his compartment, they proceeded to the bar.

"I make my living by my pen," the Englishman revealed, "but in my younger days I was, also, a physician in Her Majesty's Service, down at the toe of Africa."

"How remarkable," answered the Jackal. "I was, also, a military doctor." And, in that manner, he discouraged Doyle from discussion as might expose his lack of medical credentials, steering their conversation to matters of English and Mexican armies in the colonies... external or internal. Doyle told a tale of the Kaffirs which, with fine, peat-flavoured Scotch, inspired "Doctor Navarette" to tell of his own experience with native superstitions in the Territory... blending several diverse episodes of the uay-tigre, uay-aguila and uay-serpiente into a single narrative that so captured the attention of the British traveler that he quite forgot his refreshment.

"Now Doctor, I am compelled to ask of you... being that you have obviously passed no little time among these primitives, as I have... has it ever occurred to you that there might be a medical condition allowing for the transference of attributes from man to beast and... well, there is no denying it... beast to man? These are beliefs not unique to Mexico, nor the Transvaal... I recollect tales from the Himalayas of man-beasts, and Mr. Burns alleges he has also heard the same regarding such in the forests of Washington and Oregon."

"A pity he cannot tell of these himself. Has he been taken ill?" the Jackal asked, causing Doyle a moment's discomfiture.

"No... no, I left him in our compartment with his legal work. These Federal attorneys require veritable reams of documents detailing his evidence to be completed before his arrival, but this is one of those disadvantages attenuating to democratic government."

"The curse of bureaucracy. A pity," the false Doctor sympathized. "So... you have mentioned that you are an author... now, do you write treatises on the superstitions and practices of Africans?"

"Actually, Doctor, I mostly write tales of suspense and deduction... quite a few have been published hereabouts," Doyle added, seeking an equilibrium between his instinctual humility and a quite human irritation at not having been recognized. "The detective Sherlock Holmes is, perhaps, my most favoured creation."

"Holmes..." and the Jackal massaged his temples, pretending to think. "It is a pity that there are so few good translations available in Mexico... what with our current problems... I shall certainly look for your works when I reach New York. Detective tales have not been a passion of mine to date... excepting, of course, the sublime fables of Mr. Poe, a wonderful credit to English literature and, in my humble estimation, foremost among authors of the last century."

"Poe... yes," Doyle admitted, "we all but hope to measure up to his legacy. Speaking of which... and, as one of his most celebrated mysteries found its resolution in the doings of a great ape... I have considered writing of a doctor, as ourselves, who comes to grief seeking the grail of immortality, through genetic manipulations as have been conducted upon Drosophilia at Columbia in New York. What is your opinion of Mendel? He... my doctor... creates a serum in which there is the essence of an ape and comes to grief thereof."

"Why must he come to grief?" objected "Navarette", wishing to turn the conversation back to matters philosophical, thereby ensuring that the Englishman would not make further medical inquiries that were as unknown to him as the mountains of the moon.

"Because man ought not usurp God. Were he successful, the idler, the sensual and those who have grown rich by exploiting the talents of others would prolong their lives at the expense of the rest of us! The spiritual dimensions being neglected, decay of the race would commence."

"That is the sort of stuff that consumed President Madero. Perhaps you should seek an audience with him, upon the spiritual plane. As for your story, why not have your fellow turn himself into one of the lesser apes or, better, a monkey... only so big!" and the Jackal held his hands half a meter apart. "Most dogs hate the smell of a monkey, one could leap upon your player with God and rip him to pieces. Personally, I would prefer a happier, positivist end... there is no insult to playing with God for He certainly plays with us."

"Well I shall certainly give consideration to your views," conceded the author and then, to the relief of his opposite, Doyle lifted his glass to savor the bouquet of a spirit untainted by human science or anthropoid essences. They conversed perhaps an hour longer... the Jackal remarking upon some peculiarities of aboriginal astronomy, Doyle recommending, to his other, a visit to the Tombs Prison in New York... "just the place to inter Irish and suffragettes!" and, also, Coney Island... particularly its Crazy Village, with tilting walls, unexpectedly sliding floors and jiggling sidewalks. Dr. Navarette replied with a few reminisces of the Pike in Saint Louis, and they parted... William Burns, during this time, having successfully entered the "doctor's" compartment and inspecting his belongings, carefully replacing them well before the Jackal's return.

"I knew there was something wrong with that fellow," the detective fumed when secure with Doyle in their compartment. "He has letters from Huerta himself, two guns... one of them a nasty little Browning... and," Burns emphasized, "a book of notes and addresses."

"And?" replied he who had created Sherlock Holmes, as verily as had God... or some other... caused the Jackal to come into being...

"It's rotten with German names and locations... in New York, Toronto, and Niagara Falls, not to mention Buffalo, on the other side of the border where, I remind you, President McKinley took an anarchist's bullet."

"There are as many Irish secret societies in and around Buffalo as German sympathizers in Chicago and Milwaukee," Doyle fretted. "Our politicians, as ever, underestimate the Hun! Berlin has raised fifty millions through its war tax, and our Ministries sleep while Dublin conspires... even though the Kaiser arms himself with guns, bombs, even submarine boats! Were we to lose Ireland to a devil's alliance of home rulers and German sympathizers, you fellows would truly know the meaning of isolation!"

"There was also a Mexican map with certain coastal locations circled, next to which was some damn German writing and sums of money that I can only hope represented pesos, not pounds sterling..."

Doyle leaped to his feet! "My God, man, do you realize what this blackguard intends? If he is not going to Niagara Falls to disrupt the peace conference physically, he is laying the foundations of a plot to aid both Huerta and the Kaiser. That dictator's done for, Wilson will see him driven out, but they have a tradition... well-intentioned, though foolish... of letting these fellows go into exile, then come back in a year or two and take charge again. That Santa Anna, the one your Texans remember for the Alamo... he went in and out and in again as one in a revolving door, seven times, I believe. But, while he's still President, Huerta means to sign leases to the Germans for naval bases all along the underbelly of your country, Bill. No doubt there's to be some agreement that German initiatives on the Continent shall be accompanied by uprisings in Ireland and Mexico, the better to keep both of us distracted while the Kaiser, and those damned Hapsburgs establish dominion from Normandy to Novosibirsk. And, lest your apologists for isolation bleat out that it is no problem for Washington, be forewarned that Germany will never stop. Never!... until there is one world, and the Hun its master!"

"You paint a portrait of a disturbing, yet plausible future," frowned Detective Burns. "Now, I think that the question is... what are we to do with this intelligence?"

"I have a plan," confided Doyle, "though it will require our detouring for a day or two, and a probable circumvention of Canadian law. I would understand, if you declined to participate."

"Nonsense! If there is trouble here, I shall simply ask President Wilson to invade Canada and secure our release. We've been waiting a century, you know, for an excuse to spread manifest destiny north and south as well as east to west..."

And Doyle shrugged. "If that is the price to be paid..."

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