Low Twelve

THE MAN WHO SAVED
PRESIDENT DIAZ

How the fate of the Mexican Republic once hung on the Masonic honor and fidelity of a Brooklyn man is the point of a remarkable political story that has been revived in every Brooklyn lodge by the recent visit to the Mexican capital bf a member of Kings County Lodge, F. and A. M.

It is the story of a country made stable by the strength and ability of one man, and it contains every element of heroic manhood, unquestioned bravery, passionate politics and grim humor, running the gamut from the fate of a nation to that of a fistic encounter in which future President Diaz was sent sprawling across the deck of an American steamship by a purser who proved to be the greatest friend he ever had.

The facts given below are vouched for by leading Masons in Brooklyn and are in detail as corrected by the Rev. T. Morris Terry, of Kings County Lodge, a veteran member of the order and a Past Master. The member who is responsible for the revival of the story, because of recent honors extended to him both in New Orleans and in Mexico City, is another member of the same lodge, John Jerome Farley, an expert connected with the Goodyear (shoe) Machinery Company, now of 133½ North Front Street, Columbus, Ohio. Among those who have been prominent in an investigation of the story is Fred L. Jenkins, the head of the Veteran Masons, of 452A Hancock Street, Brooklyn.

Mr. Fancy, however, though his recent visit to the Mexican lodges brought forth the story, was at the time of the series of events that are hereinafter told a babe in swaddling clothes in Brooklyn. Just who the real hero was is not yet disclosed, but on the statements made to the Eagle it seems certain that his identity is known to some.

In the early seventies President Diaz was not known as a patriot. Patriots in Spanish-American republics are successful revolutionists. Diaz was not successful in those days. Rather was he a fugitive beyond the confines of his own land, and few who saw him about the cafe's and at the festivals of New Orleans paid much more attention to him than did men of later years to Cubans who talked filibustering in Philadelphia before the war with Spain.

At the time there was plying between New Orleans and Vera Cruz an American merchantman, taking to the war-racked nation cotton, grains and foodstuffs and bringing back the tropical products and the mineral wealth of Mexico. The purser of that vessel was a young man from Brooklyn.

The purser did not know Diaz, nor did he know that there was a price of $50,000 on the head of any man in New Orleans, and the full knowledge of what such a munificent headpiece means did not come back to him till later years, when, tried by fire and found not wanting, he came to his reward by the hand of the man who, on that eventful night, he met as an exile in the Louisiana metropolis.

While walking along one of the city streets, thinking of the sailing in the morning, the purser was accosted by a friend who introduced a quiet-looking young man whom he asked the purser to make a passenger with him on the morrow. The stranger wore a magnificent Masonic emblem.

"He is a fugitive," said the friend, "and must return before it is too late."

"But I can't take him. My ship and my cargo might pay the forfeit," said the purser, shaking his head.

"But you must take him. He is your brother and his very life is at stake," was the stern answer.
The purser wavered and then consented, promising to protect to the utmost the stranger in his cabin from spies and Mexican officials who might be watching for the "rebel" leader.

On the morning when the ship was passing out of the muddy delta of the Mississippi, Diaz, who even for years afterward was unknown to the man who was befriending him, was seated at the purser's desk. He had been writing on a long, narrow strip of paper. Toying with it as the ink dried, he turned to the purser and slowly said:

"You have helped me, but I must tell you something. I am in your power. There is a price of $50,000 on my head. To earn that all you will have to do is to hold me till we get to Vera Cruz and deliver me to the military. Señor, you may do that if you like."

The young purser looked steadily at the man before him, started to say something and then stopped. Clearing his throat, he slowly and with a voice choked with emotion, answered:

"I don't befriend a man to betray him. I took you aboard. If I can, whatever the cost, I am going to put you on the beach in your own country."

Diaz's eyes filled with tears and all the fire of his ardent nature was in 'his embrace as he exclaimed fervently:

"Thank you."

The scene was dramatic, but no master of stagecraft ever completed another such with so strong a climax.

Handing the purser that long, narrow strip of paper on which he had been writing, the Mexican said:

"Here is a check equal to what they would pay you."

Again the young purser looked at the man before him, almost angrily this time, then seizing the paper, he tore it to bits that were borne away by the lazy, sluggish gulf winds and lost in the wilderness of the blue waters. His answer was:

"I would not take you for money. I won't take money for saving you.

The next in a series of incidents in this game - where the life of a nation, rather than the life of a man was at stake - happened off Vera Cruz, where the American ship came to anchor.

"You must put me ashore," begged the future ruler.

"It's death, man," pleaded the purser. "I can't do it. If you are captured, I will be taken and so will the ship. And they will kill you."

"I must go! I will go! I will swim it!" young Diaz cried with that determination that afterward made him what he is to-day.

"It's madness, man. You will drown. The harbor is full of sharks. You will never reach the shore."

Diaz was obdurate, however, and that afternoon he divested himself of his heavier clothing, girded on a knife to defend himself against not only man-eating sharks, but man-hunting soldiers, and sprang overboard.

Taking to the water, he headed toward the beach, and the friend who had protected him so far watched him with his glasses as he rose and fell with the waves, now tossed on their crests, now hidden behind them as they broke in combers on the sand bars.

Suddenly Diaz turned back, and seemed swimming with redoubled effort to regain the ship. Through the breakers there plunged a boat and from it came the glint of sunlight as the red rays struck on the drawn swords of soldiers. The man had been seen and was pursued.

The race was an exciting one, but the swimmer had the start and was alongside as the purser shouted to the men in the fo'castle:

"Line the starboard rail! Lower a line," and made a place for that bit of the ridiculous that so persistently seems to enter into every affair of moment.

As Diaz was seized and drawn aboard the patriot soldiers were already coming up the gangway. The situation was critical, and a false move would have meant death to the young man.

Yankee wit, however, saved the day. Seizing the wet swimmer by his frowsy hair and giving him a heavy blow behind the ear, the purser threw him to the deck, and with an oath, pounced upon him and grabbed him by the throat.

"You drunken dog! You hound, I'll teach you to jump ship. I'll teach you to try to drown yourself," he cried.

Then, leaping to his feet, the purser gave orders to put the man into irons, and turning to the astonished soldiers, asked them what he could do for them.

In broken English the leader explained that the country was in the throes of a civil war, and said that all ports were being watched for rebels, who had been driven from the country, but who might at any time return. Seeing a man in the surf, they thought that he had been caught, but were glad to know they were mistaken and that "Senor El Capitan had got his drunken sailor back." With many other apologies they went away.

The next danger that menaced the young man was when two lighters came alongside to take off the cargo. These had aboard, beside their crews, emissaries of the government, and it was with a good deal of difficulty that the situation was met.

The work of loading was made as slow as possible, and it was long after dark when the scows were filled. Hiding the fugitive as best they could, the officers of the vessels invited the crew to share their hospitality while Diaz was rowed off into the darkness and put ashore farther down the coast. This effort was successful, but it interrupted for years the friendship that had sprung up between the humble purser and the great Mexican leader.

A few years ago, however, there came the climax, and it was brought about with all the dramatic effect of the modern melodrama. The sailor hero of this story chanced to go to Mexico, and among the places he visited was Mexico City. As he alighted from his train he was suddenly arrested by military officers. Being innocent of any wrong, he grew indignant and begged to be informed of the cause of his detention.

"This is an outrage; send for the American consul," he cried. But the soldiers only the more pushed him along toward a carriage drawn by gayly caparisoned horses and gave the order to the driver to proceed. Bands played and the hoie poloi along the streets waved their sombreros and shouted. Being arrested with martial honors was something he did not understand.

His amazement grew as the procession drew up in soldierly ranks before the plaza and the American was politely assisted to alight and escorted into the central room of a palace, where there stood before him, dressed in a finely fitting frock coat, a thickset man of small stature in whose eyes he saw a look of friendly recognition.

An officer in uniform - still like the stage this story goes - then broke the clouds:

"El Presidente."

The friend of years ago, the exiled rebel, the brother in trouble, was President Diaz, for years the head of the Mexican Republic. It all came back to him; even the head price was explained.

"But how did you know I was here?" asked the American.

"My friend, never since the day I left you have I failed to know where you were. I have followed you and watched you prosper. You saved me and you saved Mexico. I could do no less than wait for you to come back to her."

Recently the Masonic papers contained the announcement of the honors bestowed upon an American, but Brooklyn was not connected with the matter till the New Orleans and Mexico City lodges sent communications to the Rev. Mr. Terry about the visits of Brother Farley.

The Masonic announcement was, however, that the $50,000 which floated away on the warm waters of the gulf stream thirty years ago was paid later as a present, and that an American Mason, the friend of President Diaz, was holding a responsible office under the Mexican Government.