Dressed to kill in a new charro suit, with a white kerchief knotted around his neck, thick hair tousled to the side and gold teeth glinting under a thick mustache, the tall and stocky, calm and confident Colonel Victoriano “El Catorce” Ramirez Lopez aroused desire in women and envy in men.
Sitting astride a horse, he neared General Miguel Hernandez Gonzalez, as troops broke camp in San Julian, preparing for the 50-mile trek to Tepatitlan de Morelos, Los Altos, the highlands of Jalisco, in Mexico.
“It would be good if you stay here while we go and come back,” the general gently warned, on that day in March, 1929.
“No. I’m not staying. I want to talk to the bosses,” Ramirez – feverish and sick – replied hoarsely, barely able to speak.
Marina Casillas also warned him: “Victoriano, don’t go. Your enemies are there, and something bad could happen to you.”
No. Ever the optimist, he refused to believe anything bad would happen to him. He simply wanted to talk to those officers who had snatched away his regiment and his horse. He wanted back his loyal troops, El Catorce’s Dragons. And he wanted back his favorite stallion, El Chamaco, the Kid, stolen by Major Mario Guadalupe Valdez, the malfeasant mastermind who had wreaked a camouflaged trail of treachery that would lead to the ultimate betrayal in Ramirez’s life, just one week shy of 37 years.
Ramirez emerged into a life of material privation but spiritual wealth, at 9 o’clock in the morning, on March 23, 1892, in the dusty little village of El Rincon de Chavez, on the outskirts of San Miguel el Alto, sitting at a cloud-high elevation of 6,444 feet, more than a mile up in the Highlands.
Illiterate and never formally educated, he learned – by rote – traditional daily prayers, offerings and thanksgivings from his mother, Bibiana Lopez Zavala (1864-?). She also taught him that he was created to do everything in life with joy, for the love of God, even if that meant suffering as a martyr.
His father, Carlos Ramirez (1861-?), a subsistence farmer, barely produced enough for the family to subsist on, which left little to sell, certainly not enough for clothing or shoes for his five children: Francisca (1881-?), Pedro (1886-?), Vicente (1889-?), Victoriano and Paulina (1894-?), legitimate fruit produced from the marriage of April 7, 1880.
One day, the farmer terrified his youngest son: “You will have to take care of some animals, and tomorrow morning, you will have to start.”
At the age of 8, Victoriano was expected to help the family by working on the Buenavista Ranch owned by Andres Lozano – a highly regarded, learned man with an estimable licentiate academic degree.
Seeking his mother, he begged, “Tell my father that I am not going to take care of them, because I am afraid.”
“Yes, you have to go. You will take your shotgun to defend yourself from any danger. It is a commitment that your father made with the bosses, and you will have to do it.”
“But I walk barefoot, and there are many thorns.”
“If you don’t do it, your father and your brothers won’t sow their land. Tomorrow you will have to go, without excuse.”
The next morning and each day after, he trudged more than 5 miles with the livestock. For clothing, he wore rags – short cotton pants and a simple shirt. Without shoes, the dreaded thorns stabbed his feet in the summer, and in the winter the frost numbed his toes.
Still a boy, every morning he hesitated out of fear to walk out the door of the house and join the grazing cattle. To encourage him, his mother waved her hand over him with the Sign of the Cross, to protect him from wild animals, and when he arrived home at night, she greeted him with a kiss to nourish his heart and food to nourish his body.
For protection, he always carried along his shotgun. Still small, he had taught himself how to line up a target and slowly squeeze the trigger, in imitation of his brothers, watching and studying them as they shot wild animals to fill out the meager dinner table.
His innate ability and trained talent caught the eye of the ranch owner, Lozano, who noticed that his young cattle herder excelled in shooting. A generous man, not only did he purchase a 30-30 carbine, lever-action rifle with a shorter, child-sized barrel, but he also splurged on a case with a plush interior for the gun’s safekeeping. Such an extravagant gift, never before had the boy received – or even seen – anything so beautiful, so expensive. He was completely overwhelmed.
He kissed the hands of his mother and those of his father, and he walked out the door and into his future.
At the age of 10, he made his First Communion, but, unlike the other children who had the comfort of kneeling on prie-dieus, he had to kneel on the bare floor.
“Did you like it?” his mother asked him.
“Yes, a lot, but why, Mama, didn’t they put me like the other children? They were not like me. I was on the ground.”
“You, your godparents and your parents are poor, and that’s why you didn’t have a prie-dieu.”
“But Mama, if we are poor, does God like us?”
“Yes, God is the only one who is even with his children. The poor and the rich go to heaven, yes, but only if we keep the Holy Commandments of the Law of God and of the Holy Mother Apostolic and Roman Church.”
With a happy and gentle nature, always smiling and friendly, always thoughtful and kind to others, he never resented or begrudged anyone for having more than he. Even as a young boy, he understood and accepted his state in life.
At 13, his father brought him in from herding cattle and taught him how to handle the plow. When not working as a teamster behind the yoked oxen, he continued to draw the 30-30 up to his shoulder and rest his cheek on the wooden stock. Breathing softly, he held steady, lined up the back and front sites and gently pulled the trigger. With constant target practice, his aim became unbeatable. His hunts, successful. Ambitious and industrious, what his family did not eat or use, he carried to San Miguel el Alto, where he earned extra money by selling the deer meat and the soft, luxurious deerskin and coyote pelts to buy food for the family. Sometimes, he splurged on clothes for himself.
He passed his youthful years happily at home with his family, but when he entered manhood, he wanted to improve not only his life, but the lives of his parents, brothers and sisters. His friends described El Norte, a world where jobs were plentiful and where he could earn a lot of money. They planned to go and invited him to go along. At the age of 22, he decided to leave. His plan: Go north.
Early one morning, before the sun rose, his friends arrived at the Ramirez home. It was time to go.
The news devastated his sickly mother, who pulled him close.
“Get on your knees, so I can give you a blessing,” she said, sobbing. “My son, the time has come. Grab your clothes, and go. Your friends are waiting for you. God bless you, and may He keep you and take care of you in that foreign country, where they say that it is very easy to protest His religion. Be strong son, and never do it. Remember how I have educated you since you were a child, saying your prayers. All this has cost me work. Do not lose this for any money. If you are in any danger, remember your mother, who, although ragged, you will not be able to find another so sincere and true that the heart speaks and not the facts.”
He kissed the hands of his mother and those of his father, and he walked out the door and into his future. On October 2, 1914, under a nearly full, waxing gibbous moon, he crossed the border from Juarez, in the state of Chihuahua, into the border town of El Paso, Texas. All his money in the world he tucked away: $5.
Twenty days later, a letter with a postmark from the Protestant country arrived at the Ramirez home:
“Mama, we all had to be smuggled. You cannot imagine what I have suffered. I spent so many days in the deserts and the mountains that I believed that some beast was going to put an end to my life, apart from the hunger and the thirst that I suffered. I have no more to write, because someone writes this letter as a favor. As you well know, I cannot read. Next time, I will tell you if I have a job or not.
“Your son.
“V.R.L.
“A Dios.”
Letters continued to be exchanged. His mother always inquired when she would see him again, and he saved what money he could for his sojourn south.
Finally, he sent a letter home that revealed the date of the big day, but when he did not arrive and walk through the door, his mother was devastated. So was he. He longed for home. He missed his family as much as they missed him. So, after only 18 months, he, at last, returned to Jalisco, where he found his mother on her deathbed, sharing her dying wish: that her loved ones would live as Catholics.
When all lay sprawled on the blood-soaked ground, he gathered and bundled the 14 rifles of the deceased and sent them to his Uncle Chema with a message: “Don’t send a search party with so few men.” Legend has it that was how the hero earned his moniker El Catorce, but that just one possible account of many.
Following his mother’s funeral, he found work as a foreman for Don Luis Alcala, at La Sarteneja Ranch, between Belen and Buenavista, in San Miguel el Alto. One of his duties was to confront suspected thieves working on the Ranch, which he often did and usually gave the same ultimatum: Either quit stealing, leave, or die. But because he was so soft-hearted, nothing ever really changed. Nobody stopped stealing, nobody left, and nobody died.
He also married. Church records show that at the age of 24, he wed Crescencia Macias Padilla, a 17-year-old beauty, born in 1899, in the same village as Ramirez, El Rincon de Chavez. Father Benito A. Retolaza officiated the marriage, on June 17, 1916. But the youthful bride, along with a son, suffered an all-too-early, untimely death, in Durango.
Ramirez eventually settled down with Dolores Gutierrez, a tough, energetic woman whose family was also from El Rincon de Chavez. She soon gave birth to a daughter, Natalia Ramirez Gutierrez.
But trouble simmered in Mexico, which had long-suffered societal problems caused by the string of toppled Socialist regimes that oppressed the Church and encouraged malevolence, misdeeds and immoral behavior in the anti-clerical, anti-Catholic portion of the populace.
A devout Catholic, Ramirez always sided with the Church and had a great deal of respect for the priests, the padrecitos, as he called them, who suffered fierce persecution, accelerated since the Mexican Revolution (1910-1920). He reverently attended Mass. When the bells pealed at noon for the Angelus prayer, he humbly removed his hat and bowed his head. And when passing a church, again he removed his hat out of respect for the Blessed Sacrament inside the Tabernacle.
Because of his religious practices and beliefs, he began to receive unwanted attention from the San Miguel el Alto acordada, gangsters funded by corrupt local politicians to terrorize faithful Catholic residents. Unfortunately, one of those corrupt politicians was his very own uncle, Jose Maria “Chema” Lopez, the mayor of San Miguel el Alto, who barked orders to the acordada, a gang of criminals that consisted of degenerate, greedy men backed by the regime. For money, for favors, or for the hell of it, they performed whatever brutal deeds the authorities ordered. They often harassed Ramirez, looking for him, threatening him, but never getting too close, because they knew he was brave, brilliant and a superb marksman.
“They say that my Uncle Chema wants to use his acordada to catch me. That’s what he does to me. I have done nothing to him, and I am not afraid of him or his acordada.”
Nonetheless, he decided to transplant his little family from San Miguel el Alto to Santa Maria del Valle, about 8 miles away; however, the harassment continued, especially the spread of vicious, false rumors. Despite the slander, with his tranquil disposition and unrelenting faith that God and the Virgin of Guadalupe would take care of him, no matter what, he feared neither the acordada nor his uncle.
But his uncle was always scheming, and he plotted to set up his nephew and have him seized or gunned down at the horse races in Santa Maria del Valle. That day, as his uncle stayed safely away, his henchmen attended the races, looking for Ramirez. One of the gangsters, nicknamed La Pulga (the Flea), staggered around, drunk and belligerent, and when he stumbled upon Ramirez, he pulled out his gun and waved it around.
“Look, Flea, don’t get close, because I’ll kill you!” Ramirez repeated and repeated, until he had no option and fatally shot the Flea.
Ramirez escaped to the nearby Aguila Hill, where he hid in a natural parapet between cliffs and a ravine. When his uncle learned of his location, he sent 14 armed men to capture him; however, he outsmarted his uncle. As the gunmen neared, because he was such an excellent shot, he picked them off one by one, until he mortally wounded all 14. When all lay sprawled on the blood-soaked ground, he gathered and bundled the 14 rifles of the deceased and sent them to his Uncle Chema with a message: “Don’t send a search party with so few men.” Legend has it that was how the hero earned his moniker El Catorce, but that just one possible account of many.
Uncle Chema was not the only one to betray him. Someone very close: the mother of his daughter.
Distressed about the new betrayal of his wife and of the chronic treachery of his uncle, he walked along the streets, devastated but buoyed by the locals who surrounded him with kindness and compassion, a reciprocation of the kindness and compassion that he had always shown to everyone.
Man-hungry and self-indulgent, Dolores fell for another man, and whenever Ramirez fled from their home to avoid trouble with the acordada, she had her lover visit her day and night.
Finally, one day she pulled out a gun, grabbed her lover by the hand and ordered, “Take me now! If you don’t take me, I will accuse you to Victoriano that you wanted to take me by force! You know what to do!”
Quickly, she grabbed some clothing, and the two fled Santa Maria del Valle for the state of Gunajuato, abandoning her little girl, Natalia.
When Ramirez returned to the two-story house they rented from Jesus Gonzalez Martin, he found his little girl, only around 8 or 9 at the time, all alone, sobbing, asking for her mother. Crushed to see his daughter so distraught, he inquired around at the neighbors’.
Distressed about the new betrayal of his wife and of the chronic treachery of his uncle, he walked along the streets, devastated but buoyed by the locals who surrounded him with kindness and compassion, a reciprocation of the kindness and compassion that he had always shown to everyone.
Placing Natalia somewhere safe, he swung up on his horse and galloped out of town, heading east, hot on the trail of the lovers, not so much for Dolores, but for his daughter, who needed her mother.
Reaching San Francisco del Rincon, he asked around at the hotels and boarding houses and soon found the surprised couple.
When he barged in on them, at first, they pretended to be dead.
“Let’s go!” he said to his wife and then turned to her lover, “It’s not your fault. You’re a man. This woman is to blame.”
“What are you waiting for!” she screamed. “Why don’t you leave!”
“Because I know, more or less, what I have,” he replied, and the two returned home.
Turmoil in the home mirrored turmoil in the nation, with the political ascendence of Plutarco Elias Calles (1877-1945) to the Mexican presidency, in 1924. The head of State plotted major actions against the Church. His scheme: Close churches. Plant secular schools. Implant immorality. Install Socialism. Put an end to Catholicism.
But Catholics had a stratagem, too.
When Father Jose Harculano Moreno – a parish priest in Santa Maria del Valle – received news from his superiors about Calles’ intentions, he immediately opened local chapters of two national groups: the Association of Workers and the Mexican Catholic Youth Association (the Asociacion Catolica de la Juventud Mexicana, the ACJM).
As government forces escalated attacks on the faithful and their churches, to do his part to avert bloodshed in the defense of the Church against the Socialist regime, the priest gathered members – peasants and elite – and organized meetings as frequently as possible, wherever possible: private homes, classrooms, even on the street.
One by one, each stood and answered how to put an end to the evil intentions of Calles. Some said penance and prayers. Some said sacrifice. Some said weapons. When it was Ramirez’s turn, he stood and said, “There is no other answer than to shoot them in the head.”
Ramirez readily joined the meetings.
At one particular poignant meeting, in June 1925, the priest asked those present to answer the following question:
“What should be used to defend religion? Penance? Sacrifice? Weapons?”
One by one, each stood and answered how to put an end to the evil intentions of Calles. Some said penance and prayers. Some said sacrifice. Some said weapons.
When it was Ramirez’s turn, he stood and said, in his slow-cadenced, soft-yet-gruff voice, “There is no other answer than to shoot them in the head.”
Immediately the priest scolded him.
“Because you are not at peace, you want to set everything in motion. You are a fool for not thinking of other things.”
Humbled, Ramirez, who never held a grudge against anyone, stood and listened, ashamed that he had offended the priest, and, after the meeting, he mulled over what had been said. Hounded relentlessly, persecuted, for years by religiophobes – Uncle Chema and his gangsters – he knew that the same thing was happening to countless other Catholics throughout Mexico, where many demonstrations had erupted by those who vocalized their opposition to the vicious attacks on priests and faithful and the closing of Catholic schools and churches. The protests resulted in deaths and increased Calles’ hatred of the Church and of the Catholics’ hatred for Calles.
Ramirez felt a calling, a vocation, to help defend the defenseless faithful against the religious persecution. But, how? With his gift given to him by God: superb marksmanship.
Meetings with the priest and faithful continued. At one get-together at the Agritos Ranch, in December 1926, affluent locals attended and donated 2,000 pesos to support the Cristeros – the recently formed volunteer army of irregular soldiers, counterrevolutionaries battling against the revolutionary, atheistic government. With great aplomb, the priest handed the money to Ramirez and promised more to follow for his fight against the anti-Christian forces.
The priest blessed everyone and then presented a Cristero flag – bearing the Virgin of Guadalupe – to Ramirez, who wrapped the cloth around his body, as seven men joined him, kneeling to honor the banner and vowing to defend Christ and His Bride, the Church.
At the close of the evening, after those present kneeled and offered prayers of thanksgiving, the priest blessed everyone and then presented a Cristero flag – bearing the Virgin of Guadalupe – to Ramirez, who wrapped the cloth around his body, as seven men joined him, kneeling to honor the banner and vowing to defend Christ and His Bride, the Church.
“Die rather than deny Christ the King, without fearing martyrdom or death, in whichever way it may come,” Ramirez said.
“Viva Cristo Rey y la Virgen de Guadalupe!” shouted those present, with tears in their eyes.
“Well, we’re going to take some shots in defense of God and his Church, and He’s going to help us,” Ramirez announced.
In a procession, parishioners then prayed and sang their way to town, arriving around 5 in the afternoon. The priest halted the group about 60 feet away from the Santa Maria del Valle Catholic Church, because all clergy had been ordered by the ecclesiastical hierarchy in Mexico to vacate all churches after July 30, 1926, to protest the recently enacted, anti-Catholic, blasé sounding Law for Reforming the Penal Code, commonly called Calles Law, set to take effect on July 31.
After parishioners kneeled and offered the rosary for God to save everyone from war and from bloodshed, the priest discussed Calles and the president’s hatred for the faith, for the faithful and, especially, the clergy, who continued to live their vocations and offer the Sacraments at their peril, underground, in the modern-day catacombs. Those bound by vows and loyalty to Pope Pius XI (Ambrogio Damiano Achille Ratti, 1857-1939) faced persecution at best, execution at worst.
“We will wait for orders from the Pope. You will be left alone without anyone to absolve you at the time of death. You only have to make a spiritual confession and communion so that God can take you to Heaven. Meanwhile, we will wait to see if this is fixed, so we priests can return to our towns to officiate freely. Do not be faint. Forward! To fight for the cause and for Christ the King!
That’s how you should greet each other: Say, ‘Viva Cristo Rey!’ and answer, ‘Que Viva!’ whatever the cost.
“All Catholic homes must have a small board on the doors, with the writing, ‘Viva Cristo Rey!’ And that’s how you should greet each other: Say, ‘Viva Cristo Rey!’ and answer, ‘Que Viva!’ whatever the cost.
“All this I am telling you, because, tonight, I am going into hiding, because it is dangerous to be a priest. You see, July 30, 1926, was the last day that there was public worship. It’s been five months, and everything is going from worse to worse, and I have to leave immediately, because I am fearful. So, with this, I give you my farewell. I don’t even know where I’ll go. Let’s see if I can defend my life.”
Asking for final blessings, his parishioners crowded around him for several hours. At 9 that night, everyone said their final goodbyes, and the priest secretly departed, disguised as a muleteer with a big beard, carrying a suitcase filled with peasant clothing. He headed for Leon, in the state of Guanajuato. There, he received lodging, underground – literally and figuratively – and although uncomfortable and humid, it was safe.
On Sunday, January 2, 1927, Ramirez saddled up his favorite mount, El Chamaco, and joined General Miguel Hernandez Gonzalez (1878-1934) and 60 fellow soldiers. It would be one of Ramirez’s first battles, and it had significance. At 6 that morning, they galloped into the plaza of San Miguel el Alto and ignited a firefight against the corrupt mayor, Ramirez’s very own Uncle Chema; his son, Miguel, in charge of removing all religion from the schools; and the acordada. All had targeted Catholic faithful, pushing the regime’s Socialist agenda.
By 5 in the afternoon the next day, the besieged surrendered, the Cristeros forced the school’s authorities to leave, and Uncle Chema even pledged to never return, but being dishonest and disgraceful, of course, he went against his word.
The next week, on January 10, Hernandez and Ramirez met up again. Covered in road dust, the colonel arrived in San Julian and entered the grocery store, where he asked for the general. Immediately escorted to the officer, they greeted one another with a military salute and embraced. Hernandez – organizing and preparing for an attack – invited Ramirez to go with him. The two sat down and discussed the details until 10 that night.
Camped out in San Julian, the next morning, the men woke and crossed themselves, blessing themselves for the day to come. The plan was to march – on horse or on foot – about 27 miles, south-southwest, to Arandas, surrounded by three hills: the Ayo, the Gallo and the Mexiquito, which boasted a monument with an image of the Heart of Jesus. At Arandas, they were all to meet up with Espiridion Asencio and his men, all waiting to join the Good Fight.
Around 9 that morning, the Cristeros prepared themselves and their horses for the journey, excited to get to Arandas, chatting about the future, the adventures, the glories that awaited them.
Hernandez had about 10 men. Ramirez, 7. Along the way, the line consisted of ragtag soldiers with worn-out huaraches, tattered sombreros, patched cotton shirts and pants. The lucky ones rode horses, some bareback, without bridles, just gripping the manes. But they were always in elevated spirits as they marched through villages and towns, receiving food, money, horses and weapons, which the soldiers desperately needed, for many only carried knives, swords, axes, sticks, or, at the very least, rosaries.
Finally, they arrived at the outskirts of Arandas.
The strategy was to enter from different sides, to surprise the government. Slowly, they approached. After a heavy silence filled only with the snorting of horses, the stomping of their hooves and swishing of tails, all at once the men charged toward the buildings, careful to fire as few shots as possible, because of the scarcity of ammo. Town authorities – without shooting a single bullet – immediately surrendered.
To alleviate boredom during the long stretches between skirmishes and to condition his men for the excitement of warfare, Ramirez regularly held drills and exercises to instruct them in the handling of their newly acquired weapons.
After the easy takeover of the Arandas, Ramirez and Hernandez met with Asencio. Happy to see them, he welcomed them into his home, where they spent the night celebrating and considering how to get their hands on weapons. More weapons. More ammunition.
The next day, the soldiers assisted in the celebration of Mass for the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, after which Hernandez, Ramirez and Asencio ate breakfast and then met with Pedro Valadez and Ramon Saines. Given money for guns and ammunition, the two men grabbed some sacks, rode donkeys to Ocotlan, about 50 miles away, and then caught the train to Guadalajara, another 50 miles, where they planned to buy the necessary firepower.
Meanwhile, about 275 miles to the east, in the Mexican City presidential palace, Calles was kept abreast of the Cristeros and dispatched General Ubaldo Garza to Los Altos, to prepare 100 men to take Arandas back. Federales and horses traveled via train and arrived at 4 in the afternoon in Atotonilco el Alto. They then left for Arandas, 22 miles to the north. Riding through the night, quietly arriving around midnight at the outskirts of their destination, where they dismounted and let their horses – still saddled – graze, while the men caught up on their sleep, waiting.
Pre-dawn, Garza quietly ordered his troops to prepare for an attack on the Cristeros.
Dispatching his men stealthily around the town, they waited for the command, the sudden blast of bugles, at which the Federales rushed forward, catching the Cristeros unaware and confused. Not accustomed to living the soldier lifestyle, ready to engage at any moment, most of the men had completely undressed, so they wasted precious seconds grabbing their clothes and guns; however, most escaped.
By the time the two weapon smugglers returned to Arandas, they realized they had arrived too late. They found Asencio shaken, reluctant to continue with the Cristeros. The attack by the Federales had frightened him to his core, so he decided to donate everything – guns and ammo – to the cause.
“Onward! There is no need to be discouraged,” said the smugglers, who went to look for Ramirez and Hernandez to hand over the cache – about 200 Mausers and 4,000 cartridges stashed in Arandas.
“They are at your service, my jefe,” said Valadez and Saines.
No longer fearing the Federales, who had long gone, the Cristeros re-entered Arandas, where the weapons were distributed. After arming themselves, the men were ordered to go to the hills and to stay away from the towns and villages. At the higher elevations, they would be able to spot any incoming danger. Day and night, lookouts manned their posts.
To alleviate boredom during the long stretches between skirmishes and to condition his men for the excitement of warfare, Ramirez regularly held drills and exercises to instruct them in the handling of their newly acquired weapons.
“From now on, we will learn a little military to fight,” Ramirez encouraged, standing before them. “Ready! Come on!”
He also led them through the basics of equestrian instruction. He, himself, spent much time with his beloved horses, training them, doting on them. Closely bonded, they understood him, and he understood them. His prized horse, El Chamaco, stood tall, red, fine and very light. Another favorite was Retinto. Beautiful jumpers, they flew over fences, ditches, hazards. Didn’t matter. Wherever he wanted to go, they wanted to go and went willingly, whether over a ravine, into deep water, up steep cliffs, anywhere dangerous.
Like a small, portable village, the guerilla fighters’ camp was well established with cooks, and in the Cerro del Aguila, Eagle Hill, where there was even a blacksmith, who set up a forge to shoe horses and to make other necessities. All the while, as more men joined the just cause, even more women arrived daily at the camp with food and other provisions hidden under their blousy tops and circle skirts.
Still, the Federales plotted.
Garza, one of the regular army’s generals, hatched a plan to meet with Ramirez.
From San Miguel el Alto, Garza traveled about 2 miles north of Santa Maria del Valle, to the Astillero Ranch, owned by Jesus Gonzalez Martin. At the ranch, the officer bivouacked for the night after speaking with the owner, who agreed to help arrange a meeting between the general and Ramirez.
On the afternoon of March 14, 1927, Cristeros poured into San Julian to support the local Catholic fighters defending their God-given rights stolen by State decree. The new arrivals were welcomed with food and drink and euphoric cheers of “Viva Cristo Rey!” and “Que viva!”
A message dispatched to Domingo Arias informed Ramirez about the proposal from Garza. The Cristero colonel accepted, as long as it was not a scheme. He set conditions: They would face each other with no less than three men accompanying them; their armies would stand at the ready, about a mile away; and they would fire no shots.
Garza accepted the conditions and traveled to Los Robles, a tiny village on the shores of the Santa Maria, where Ramirez waited for him. They saluted one another, shook hands and began discussions.
The general offered him money to pull out of the war.
“I’ll think about this, because it has already cost me a lot of money and work,” he answered, calmly in his thick voice.
Garza turned nervous.
“Why are you afraid, friend? Didn’t I give you my word of honor and propose that no one would shoot unless they gave my order?”
Saying goodbye, Garza stopped briefly at the Astillero Ranch to gather the rest of his men and then continued traveling until he arrived at San Miguel el Alto. Once safely settled in his quarters, he wrote a report to Calles, revealing what had happened.
When Calles received the dispatch, he held a meeting with his generals and read the account to them:
“Yesterday, February 3, 1927, I had the opportunity to meet and talk face to face with the ringleader nicknamed Ramirez. I was most shocked to see him, because he is a man who does not show fear at all. I spoke to him proposing money for him to leave his company, and he answered these words: that he would think about it later, that it had already cost him work and money. I said goodbye to him, horrified and thoughtful. Said leader brings about 100 well-organized men. Apart from him, there is a priest Vega, also with 50 men. It is no longer easy to finish them off. Without further ado, I say goodbye.”
After the reading, General Espiridion Rodriguez Escobar boastfully and obsequiously responded: “My president, if you would like and feel that I am useful to you, and if you give me expert men in the militia, I will appease those fanatical Cristeros and traitors.”
With complete confidence of allegiance and competence from the general, Calles accepted and arranged all: soldiers, horses, artillery.
A clash of forces loomed.
On the afternoon of March 14, 1927, Cristeros poured into San Julian to support the local Catholic fighters defending their God-given rights stolen by State decree. The new arrivals were welcomed with food and drink and euphoric cheers of “Viva Cristo Rey!” and “Que viva!”
At the same time, four miles northwest from San Julian, Rodriguez and his 78th Cavalry Regiment arrived at Los Cerritos Ranch; however, the ruthless and haughty general received a cold and cautious welcome from residents. No, no, no, the government does not persecute religion, the Callista general attempted to assure the silent and somber locals, whom he had ordered to gather and greet him. He singled out one of the peasants, threatened him and demanded that he travel to San Julian, to find out who the leaders were, how many men they had, and then return with all the information.
Once safely in San Julian, the peasant explained to an understanding Ramirez, that he was there against his will on a forced reconnaissance mission.
“Tell that general that I am Victoriano, El Catorce, and that I have 400 men!”
When Rodriguez – backed by a force of hundreds more – received the message, he scoffed, “Death doesn’t scare me,” after which, he baited his men, telling them that if they successfully beat the Cristeros and bring him the head of El Catorce, they could take anything and do anything they want in San Julian. It would be a pillagers paradise for all sociopaths, thieves, perverts, rapists, killers.
At the sounding of the horns, men took their positions: on house tops, behind buildings, around corners. More than two dozen stationed themselves in the church tower. Meanwhile, terrified townspeople hid in their homes, slamming the doors behind them, giving way to a chilling silence. The only sound, children crying.
But the Cristeros were ready for them.
At dawn, Tuesday, March 15, 1927, Ramirez climbed the stairs of the bell tower, peered through his binoculars and watched as federal troops approached San Julian. He ordered the blowing of the bugles to alert the men standing at the ready throughout the town.
At the sounding of the horns, men took their positions: on house tops, behind buildings, around corners. More than two dozen stationed themselves in the church tower. Meanwhile, terrified townspeople hid in their homes, slamming the doors behind them, giving way to a chilling silence. The only sound, children crying.
The Federales, who outnumbered the Cristeros in men and firepower, advanced and stormed the plaza without Rodriguez – the general who claimed to not fear death – safely ensconced in a house on Main Street just west of San Julian.
All quiet, like a ghost town.
Suddenly, someone shouted, “Viva Cristo Rey!” and the Battle of San Julian began, exactly at 5 a.m.
Rodriguez’s men sparked the firefight with their Mausers and machine guns, one planted in the middle of the road in the center of town. Cristeros exchanged gunfire, and the tower was soon engulfed in a cloud of gun smoke, giving the illusion that the rising sun was in a total eclipse.
Outside, a cacophony of bugles, explosions, shots and shouts, hidden in a billowing shroud of dust. Inside, behind doors, faithful – fearing for their lives and their deaths at any moment – prayed their rosaries and made spiritual confessions and communions.
The horns from both sides continued to blow.
Advance!
Defend!
Despite suffering a catastrophic number of fatalities, the Callistas never flinched or flagged, and the fighting continued throughout the day, with a short pause around 1 in the afternoon, which lasted about an hour.
In his safe haven, Rodriguez learned that his men had suffered heavy casualties, as troops and horses lay splayed on the blood-soaked earth. Relentless, he ordered an escalation.
When the general held the binoculars to his eyes, around 3 that afternoon, he spotted more troops approaching in the distance, riding toward San Julian. His men saw the same, as did the Cristeros. Both sides believed, hoped that the arrivals were backup for their side.
The Federales cheered, “El Indio Amaro has come! El Indio Amaro has come!”
Not so. It was not the Secretary of War and Navy and former Revolutionary General Jose Joaquin “El Indio” Amaro Dominguez (1889-1952).
Actually, it was Hernandez, a native of San Julian, galloping with his men, tricolor flag snapping in the wind. While in Jalpa de Canovas, he had received an urgent message, pleading for help for the beleaguered Cristeros engaged in battle with the Callistas. His cavalry regiment rode the 30 miles as hard as they could without exhausting or killing the horses. Before reaching San Julian, he paused at the Loma de Obrajeros Ranch to choreograph his attack; he then divided his men into three columns for three separate points of attack.
At the ready, bugles blasted. Charge! Shouts of “Viva Cristo Rey y Santa Maria de Guadalupe!” cut through the smoke.
Within two hours, the Federales – sandwiched between Ramirez’s men and Hernandez’s men – were overwhelmed, with bodies strewn everywhere.
Federales fled, dropping all excess weight, to lighten the burdens for their escapes and for their horses.
At the sign of their win, Cristeros cheered and villagers trepidatiously stepped out of their homes, ecstatic at the outcome and happy to be alive. But when they returned inside, some found strangers, Federales, those without horses who had run for safety indoors, where they tried to disguise themselves. Unsuccessful, they were seized as prisoners.
Rodriguez – the supercilious general – hid in the home of wealthy pro-federalists until he could escape, dressed as an old woman led by the elbow, without men, without weapons, without daylight, without a prayer, in the middle of the night, under a nearly full waxing gibbous moon, buffeted by a strong, bitter wind.
In the legendary Battle of San Julian, the disorganized Cristeros had humiliated the highly organized federal troops, and Calles soon learned the truth about the defeat of his men in the place he referred to as the “chicken coop of the Mexican Republic.”
Before the triumph over the Callistas, Ramirez had been a well-known soldier in his home state of Jalisco. But after the Battle of San Julian, he gained nationwide fame as the heroic El Catorce. And it was deserved. A great warrior, he always excelled, no matter what the battle, whether large or small, long or short, against battalions of Federales or a few pro-regime agraristas. Even though he could neither read nor write, he kept everything neat and tidy in his memory. And with a wonderful disposition, he was calm, compassionate and soft-hearted, yet deadly.
Filled with empathy and sympathy, Ramirez never killed just for the sake of killing. Because of his kind ways, he drew others to him. Always calm and charitable, he never bragged or showed off his bravery, never caused trouble and never took anything by force.
The Federales feared him.
His men revered him.
In the following days, the Cristeros and the villagers buried the dead, helped the sick and dying, collected money, weapons and ammunition from among the bodies.
When some soldiers asked Ramirez if the prisoners of war were to be shot, he answered, “I don’t like to kill defenseless people. If they want, give them their weapons, and we will hold ourselves back to see if it’s their turn to escape or to die.”
But the soldiers refused.
“Go to Don Miguel, and he will tell you what he intends to do with them,” Ramirez told them.
Hernandez gave the orders to execute. Around 10 that morning, the Cristeros led the Federales to the fields. Realizing their impending fate, the prisoners begged for their lives.
After a doctor, the eldest prisoner of war, was granted a final wish – that he be taken to meet the legendary El Catorce – he kneeled in front of the Cristero and begged forgiveness.
“I have heard that you are a good man; therefore, I ask you to forgive me. I am a doctor, and I can help you with many things. I will never betray you,” he groveled.
“Why didn’t you come sooner?” Ramirez simply asked and sent the doctor back with his fellow prisoners.
Hernandez formed his men and inquired who had the guts and grit to execute the enemies. Two from the Jalisco town of Zapotlanejo volunteered. On execution day, March 19, forbidden to waste bullets without imminent danger, they wielded daggers to brutally, fatally slash and stab their prisoners.
On March 30, El Indio Amaro finally reached San Julian. Finding the bloody devastation left behind by the departed Cristeros, he decided to retaliate for the humiliation of the federalist forces.
Days earlier, on March 26, his troops had arrested Father Julio Alvarez Mendoza (1866-1927) as he walked to a nearby ranch to minister to parishioners. In San Julian, Amaro forced the simple parish priest, of Mechoacanejo, Jalisco, onto a pile of garbage, where he was to be executed.
“I have done no wrong. My crime is being a minister of God. I forgive you,” the priest said, and then crossed his arms and waited for the fusillade of bullets.
Filled with empathy and sympathy, Ramirez never killed just for the sake of killing. Because of his kind ways, he drew others to him. Always calm and charitable, he never bragged or showed off his bravery, never caused trouble and never took anything by force. His admirers willingly bestowed gifts of money, clothing, love and affection.
Wherever he went, because of his reputation, his bravery, his demeanor, at each ranch, men clamored to join the Cristeros and women flocked to him and greeted him with cheers of “Viva El Catorce!” and tried to kiss him or toss him a peso or two. He welcomed their attention, their caresses, their kisses. Maybe because he loved women too much, or maybe because his own woman didn’t love him enough.
Heriberto Navarrete Flores (1903-87) – who had abandoned his university studies in engineering to join the Cristeros but would later be ordained a priest of the Society of Jesus, in 1945 – asked Ramirez, “Hey, Victoriano, what is the name of your wife?”
“Which?”
“Your legitimate wife.”
“Any woman is legitimate,” he replied, shrugging off the question.
Navarrete explained that, as a Catholic and as a Cristero, fornication with a woman not his wife was not acceptable and was forbidden while a soldier.
“You already belong to the soldiers of Christ the King, and you cannot ignore the order against illicit affairs.”
“Look, they are different things,” he responded. “I am Catholic, and whenever I can I go to church. It makes me very angry that the damned government is chasing the priests and trying to steal the churches. I know how to pray. All that is about the Catholic Church. About me, a man, being with women, what does that have to do with it?”
Ripped from their homes, generations of families filled the roads astride horses, donkeys, mules, or alongside oxen, pigs, chickens, dogs. On the way, pregnant women gave birth. The sick, the invalids, those plagued with fevers died. Some were met by Federales stationed at sentry boxes. They searched everyone, and if any religious object was found, it was thrown to the ground, stomped on and the owner slapped and humiliated.
Intimacy belongs in a marriage, between a wedded couple, for the purpose of procreation, Navarrete explained.
Flawed, like all mankind – including former womanizer, drunk, thief and non-believer, Saint Augustine of Hippo (354-430), the Berber who once prayed, “Lord, give me chastity and continence, but not yet.” – El Catorce continued his amorous ways.
Meanwhile, Calles’ generals met and sent him a proposal:
“Mr. President Plutarco Elias Calles.
“We have had a conference with all the generals gathered. We have not been able to finish off the Rebels; instead of ending them, they increase more and more. They have also presented us with good combats, during which there have been many casualties of ours, but of theirs almost none, because when they see danger they run. They also have on their side all the peasant farmers, where they all go hide in their houses. They follow them tirelessly day and night with ammunition and provisions wherever they are. In view of all this, we believe that these ranches should be relocated to the towns, where there is a government to help make it easier for us. They may even starve to death.
“General Uvaldo Garza.”
After receiving the report, Calles signed the following diktat regarding the rural areas favored by Cristeros:
“I, President of the Republic, P. Elias Calles, command and decree that it is my wish that from May 1, onwards, all the people will be reconcentrated to towns, where there are federation lines. Whoever does not will be punished with the death penalty as a Rebel.
“Elias Calles.”
Printed into flyers, they were dropped from airplanes over the Jalisco Highlands. His plan: vacate the countryside, where the people supported the Cristeros, with hopes that it would put an end to the Cristeros.
Before daylight broke, on May 1, 1927, the great relocation began.
Ripped from their homes, generations of families filled the roads astride horses, donkeys, mules, or alongside oxen, pigs, chickens, dogs. On the way, pregnant women gave birth. The sick, the invalids, those plagued with fevers died. Some were met by Federales stationed at sentry boxes. They searched everyone, and if any religious object was found, it was thrown to the ground, stomped on and the owner slapped and humiliated.
Most Cristero leaders disappeared, with some fleeing across the northern border. Ramirez remained steadfast with two assistants: Miguel Gomez Loza and Victor Lopez Diaz. Difficult to get their hands on supplies, they often went for painful stretches without food and considered themselves lucky when able to eat an ear of roasted corn.
By the end of May, nothing had changed. The Cristeros survived, and Calles ordered the peasants back to their homes.
But he never relented.
In June 1927, the regime sent two separate offers to Ramirez. One from General Espiridion Rodriguez Escobar, the second from General Ubaldo Garza. They both wanted and offered the same thing: If he laid down his arms and left the country, the government would give him 10,000 pesos and a passport for the United States. In exchange, he would agree to abandon the fight.
But he wasn’t interested in money. He was interested in freedom, the freedom of religion. His response was written by Rafael Martinez Camarena, secretary in charge of the correspondence for Miguel “El Chinaco” Gomez Loza:
“If you want to do me a favor, don’t give me anything, just fix the arrangement about the priests and the churches. Release the priests, let them open their church doors and say Mass, and I will be at peace. Until you fix that, don’t think that you’re going to buy me with money.”
Over the next year, along with other Cristeros, Ramirez and his men – which numbered around 300 – camped out in the hills, leaving the highlands only to clash with enemy combatants.
On August 1, 1928, Calles – exasperated at the continued losses of battles, men, horses and the inexplicable wins of the Cristeros – called a meeting with his Chamber of Councils to plot the demise of the horde of religious fanatics.
The president had a plan: Send a spy, a Callista to infiltrate the Christian counterrevolutionaries.
One man rose to the top of the roster for the assignment: Mario Guadalupe Valdez. And it wasn’t long before he finagled his way to have an audience with Ramirez, whom he believed to be one of the greatest assets for the Cristeros, and for that reason, he needed to be eliminated.
“Victoriano, I bring you a proposal. I am a learned man. I know enough about the military, and I can hold some command positions in the troops. I am from the capital of Mexico, and I feel great sympathy, and it would give me great pleasure to join you,” he offered.
Unsuspecting, Ramirez thought the new man would benefit his rebel forces against the federal forces and accepted the covert Callista into the cause and immediately, generously appointed him to the rank of major. Given so much power, the enemy could command the penalty of death to anyone who disobeyed any of his orders.
Valdez shouted, ordering, “Shoot! 2,000 pesos to anyone who delivers El Catorce, dead or alive!” He then walked over to Ramirez’s horse, helped himself to a pair of binoculars, a beautiful Belgian cavalry rifle and claimed El Chamaco as his own.
But he had to be tactical about his underhanded plans. First, he planned to push a smear campaign among the officers and rank and file to vilify the war hero and slowly, steadily turn his followers and adherents against him. Then when Ramirez’s confreres began believing the lies, take away his men – the Dragons of El Catorce – disarm him, humiliate him, capture him and, finally, kill him.
Immediately, with a false façade of intellectualism, charm and courtesy, Valdez set about winning over the officers. And with drill instructions, marching and war simulations he wooed the troops. Most were good men from the country, but naïve and easily deceived.
But not all, and not always.
One day when Valdez received a report that Federales were close by, he set in motion a plan to eliminate Ramirez’s men, one by one.
First, he sent in Ramirez’s second in command with his 10 troops, who advanced down the hill, toward the army. Easily overcome, Valdez ordered a few more to go. Some balked, wanting everyone at once to go down the hill to face the enemy.
“He wants to kill us! Why don’t we all go!” demanded Ramirez’s lieutenant.
“Do you know the penalty for those who disobey or do not accept what they are ordered?” Valdez asked, threatening, and then immediately answering: “Execution!”
Seeing no more Cristeros descending down the hill, the Federales withdrew.
In October, Ramirez entered San Miguel el Alto, accompanied by the supreme commander of the Cristero army, General Enrique Nicolas Jose Gorostieta Velarde (1890-1929), and others, including General Father Jose Reyes Vega (?-1929), General Father Aristeo Pedroza (1900-29) and Valdez.
Ignoring all the others, the residents rushed to greet Ramirez, crowded around him, showered him with accolades, money, clothes, baskets of food, flowers, confetti, trying to touch him, shouting, “Long live Christ the King! Long live Victoriano Ramirez! Death to the bad government!”
A humble man, Ramirez felt pangs of guilt that he and not the other Cristero leaders with him received such a greeting. Instead of arrogance, he continued with humility.
“Those are the miracles of others, and they hang them on me!” he said with a laugh when he heard about all his glory. “I am not worthy of so many honors and this reception. Why don’t you go to our superiors? They are worthy of all respect.”
But the crowd continued to focus all their attention on Ramirez.
“Viva Cristo Rey! Viva la Virgen de Guadalupe! Viva Victoriano Ramirez!”
Snubbed, Valdez burned with hatred born of envy. Malevolent. Greedy for money, gold, silver, he not only enriched himself by repeatedly stealing precious metals from unsuspecting followers, but he also worked at corrupting the morals of the Catholic soldiers, encouraging them and then coercing them to steal from the same people who generously gave food and supplies to the Cristeros.
And he steadily, surreptitiously slandered Ramirez to his companions, causing division between the military hero and the others: generals, officers, priests, squad leaders. All men, all Catholics, all flawed.
Valdez plotted. He schemed.
In January 1929, Ramirez, a few officers and around 100 men were camping atop Carretero Hill when forces approached the bottom. Pedroza ordered that his men – including Valdez and Navarrete – line up behind him and climb the hill at a walking pace, so as not to alarm those at the top.
Halfway up, Pedroza noticed that Ramirez’s men took a defensive stance between boulders. He ordered those behind him to stop and then kicked the sides of his horse, encouraging it to gallop upward, where he confronted the Cristeros:
“Who are you waiting for? What does all this mean? Don’t you know who we are? Immediately abandon your positions and put away your weapons. Where is Victoriano?”
Using the opportunity, Pedroza scolded Ramirez about wasting ammunition and deceiving his soldiers.
Thirty minutes later, Pedroza sent a message to his men below: Ascend the hill.
After a long conference that afternoon between Pedroza and Ramirez, Pedroza ordered the troops to gather. Standing in the middle and holding an official document, Pedroza announced:
Colonel Victoriano Ramirez will leave the San Miguel regiment; Lieutenant Colonel Mario Valdez and Major Heriberto Navarrete will head the regiment; Colonel Ramirez will be authorized an escort of no more than six armed men; and he will have no authority in any militaristic capacity, until further notice.
Calmly, Ramirez mounted El Chamaco and rode off, followed by six faithful men.
A couple months later, on the night of March 7, Ramirez drew in the reins and dismounted in front of a cantina in San Miguel el Alto. Valdez – who’d been boozing all day – stumbled out to greet him, saying, “Come on in, Victoriano, come on in,” and the two strolled inside.
Ramirez traveled to offer thanksgiving to Our Lady of San Juan de los Lagos, at the basilica, for miraculously saving him the night before. While in town, he was invited for a drink. Fearful that his enemies plotted to poison him, he exchanged his with that of another man, who unsuspectingly drank it and died instantly. Escaping death yet again, he fled to San Julian to meet up with fellow troops.
Ramirez had been invited to a dinner that night at the home of Mercedes Jimenez de Jimenez, at 9 Calle General Francisco Ramirez, next to the parish church of Saint Michael the Archangel, a few blocks from the town square. Valdez also attended.
After dinner, just as the two men were leaving the home, they heard an argument on the front porch erupting between Valdez’s men and Ramirez’s men, who remained loyal, for they had witnessed the thievery and treachery of Valdez. After consuming a bit of liquor, they shouted, “Long live Catorce! Death to the black hats!” in reference to the wide-brimmed, black Tejano hats worn by Valdez and other enemies of Ramirez.
Primitivo “Primo” Ramirez – Ramirez’s cousin and assistant – understood what Valdez had in mind, and he stood between the two when they walked out the door. After pulling out a gun, he fired all the bullets, but Valdez was quick to respond and deliberately fell back, grabbed a chair, holding it in front of him, saving himself, before his would-be assassin fled.
Jesus Jimenez, from Santa Maria del Valle, quickly kneeled upon the dirt and fired his rifle. With one shot, he killed Ramirez’s cousin on the spot, just two steps away from disappearing around the nearest corner. When the dead man’s gun was collected, Valdez discovered it was none other than the Colt .38 Special that Ramirez was known to carry in his gun belt.
Ramirez ran across the way to grab his horse tied to a grill on a window. Valdez fired shots, missed and yelled, “Don’t run, coward!”
Abandoning the idea of escaping with his horse, he ran up the street and disappeared into the darkness, as one of his men mounted El Chamaco, but he, too, was gunned down.
Without any consideration to those in the streets and the town square, Valdez shouted, ordering, “Shoot! 2,000 pesos to anyone who delivers El Catorce, dead or alive!” He then walked over to Ramirez’s horse, helped himself to a pair of binoculars, a beautiful Belgian cavalry rifle and claimed El Chamaco as his own.
Although Ramirez escaped during the outburst of gunfire and hid in the home of Epifanio Munoz in the outskirts, one of his companions, Domingo Vazquez, was not so lucky.
Valdez’s men swarmed the San Pedro Inn and dragged out Vazquez. The disturbed hive shot Vazquez 17 times and then trampled him under the horses’ hooves until his body was nothing more than minced meat.
The next day, March 8, Ramirez traveled to offer thanksgiving to Our Lady of San Juan de los Lagos, at the basilica, for miraculously saving him the night before. While in town, he was invited for a drink. Fearful that his enemies plotted to poison him, he exchanged his with that of another man, who unsuspectingly drank it and died instantly. Escaping death yet again, he fled to San Julian to meet up with fellow troops.
The week before, Gorostieta had ordered a meeting of Cristero forces in Tepatitlan. He had a plan to take over the city of Guadalajara for a few hours – a spectacular feat, though merely a show of force – while the Federales were busy in the north trying to wipe out the Manzo and Escobar Rebellion (March 3 to April 30, 1929), led by Jose Gonzalo Escobar (1892-1969) and General Francisco R. Manzo (1885-1940).
Before leaving San Julian for Tepatitlan, Ramirez’s friend Domitilo Jimenez warned, “Everything is already against you. They are envious of you, so you should no longer trust them. They are enemies, not friends.”
Ramirez disregarded his friend’s warning. He wanted justice for the attack against him and his companions, on March 7th, in San Miguel el Alto. He wanted back his regiment – El Catorce’s Dragons. And he wanted back his favorite horse, El Chamaco. Little did he know that Valdez would trade El Chamaco for a car with General Saturnino Cedillo (1890-1939) – a federal soldier who fought against the Cristeros.
Desperately, Ramirez wanted everything to be right between him and his Cristero companions. Along the dusty way to Tepatitlan he, along with the line of soldiers, surged forward. But during a stopover for food and rest at El Cuarto Ranch, he received another warning.
“Look Victoriano, don’t go. They’re going to kill you,” cautioned Father Pedro Gonzalez, his good friend and spiritual mentor.
“No. They won’t do anything to me,” responded the perpetual Pollyanna.
“They are going to kill you. I know it for certain.”
“No. They are not going to do anything to me. They are my companions. How are they going to kill me? No. They are not going to kill me.”
“Look, get out of here, and I’ll go with you.”
“No, Father, they won’t do anything to me.”
Disregarding the warnings, he continued, astride his mount, until nearly in Tepatitlan, he received a final, simple caution from Hernandez.
“You better turn around, Victoriano.”
“No. I’m going to fix this.”
And on he went. Around 2 in the afternoon, March 16, 1929, Hernandez and his men entered Tepatitlan’s plaza, where hundreds of Cristero troops had already arrived and settled in amidst an impromptu welcoming fiesta with music and laughter and street vendors hawking fruit, sweets and pastries. In city hall, soldiers downed beers between cheers for themselves and their leaders.
When Ramirez arrived in the midst of the celebrations, immediately, everyone’s attention turned away from all the other soldiers to the renowned soldier in the new charro suit.
“El Catorce! Here comes El Catorce! Viva El Catorce!”
The adulation of the locals overwhelmed the big-hearted, ever-humble Ramirez, the hero of the Cristero War, whose every move was covered by the press. But not everyone was happy about his appearance. The love shown to him dampened the party for other soldiers – in particular, Valdez – envious of the admiration and glory denied him.
But Valdez had completed his work. He had bamboozled soldiers, even the leaders, against Ramirez. It was time for him to step back and let the others, whom he had duped, finish what he had started.
Pedroza immediately left the fiesta in the plaza and rushed into city hall, where he sat in front of a typewriter and hammered away at the keys. When he pulled the paper from the platen, he handed it to Navarrete, who, escorted by six men, delivered the order to Hernandez, who had dismounted.
“Do you think, my major, that we could go see General Pedroza?” Hernandez asked, hoping to avoid the capture of Ramirez.
Navarrete led Hernandez and Ramirez inside city hall and headed for Pedroza’s office, on the second floor.
Halfway up the stairs, Hernandez – a sincere man – was handed another directive. After a quick read, he turned to Ramirez, who stood on the same step.
“Victoriano, I have an order from General Pedroza for you to give me your weapons. Don’t do anything rash. Give them to me, and I promise that I will speak for you, whatever happens.”
Without any resistance, Ramirez handed over a pistol and a small Mauser to Hernandez, who, in turn, handed the weapons to Navarrete.
“Colonel Ramirez is at your disposal, my major,” Hernandez said.
Navarrete nodded and gave the following order to Captain Cecilio Cruz: “Colonel Ramirez will remain your responsibility, as prisoner, in one of the dungeons of this building, with two sentinels on sight and at the disposal of General Pedroza.”
Ramirez was marched – past tables laden with food and drink for the night’s banquet in city hall – to his cell. In, he stepped. Behind him closed the thick, wooden door, with a small barred vent at the top. The padlock clicked, locking him in.
The three crimes that he was accused of:
1. the attempted murder of Lieutenant Colonel Mario Valdez;
2. the embezzlement of funds from the San Miguel Regiment; and
3. insubordination and resistance.
The first count was Valdez’s fabrication about the recent night when it was, actually, he who had attempted to shoot and kill Ramirez. The second count, of embezzlement, involved 200 pesos that Ramirez had received from El Aguila hacienda, which he used to buy files and other tools for the camp’s blacksmith shop on the hill.
When the door finally gave way, Ramirez jumped forward to escape and was blocked by Cholico, who stabbed him in the side with a bayonet. Not yet dead, Ramirez then received three slices to his neck, with the blood staining his white kerchief, fatally wounding the legend, the hero.
After the banquet given by Tepatitlan Mayor Jesus Navarro, in honor of the Cristero leaders, with rich dishes, flowing wine and lots of beer, Ramirez’s loyal men tried to find him. Victor Lopez Diaz, Lieutenant Colonel Toribio Valdez, Major Eulogio Gonzalez, among others, worried about their colonel and sought out the leaders. Eventually, just before midnight, they found Vega.
“It’s already late,” Vega said. “I don’t know where Aristeo Pedroza is, but we should leave without delay. Nothing will happen to Victoriano. In the morning, they will release him.”
At midnight, Hernandez and his men received orders to leave Tepatitlan for Paredones, making their way to Guadalajara, for the siege of the city.
Around the same time, Vega officially ordered, in writing, that Captain Francisco Pena form a platoon and take the prisoner to the pantheon before dawn and shoot him.
Upset and unwilling to obey, Pena begged Vega to revoke the order.
Vega acquiesced and appointed another, Lieutenant Refugio Cholico, of the Ayo Regiment. Shortly before dawn, he formed a platoon and proceeded to the thick, wooden door, with the small barred vent at the top. Inserting a key into the padlock, it clicked and unlocked.
But Ramirez had used beams inside his cell and barricaded the door.
Using an improvised battering ram, the platoon pounded at the door, as Cholico stood by, waiting to execute. When the door finally gave way, Ramirez jumped forward to escape and was blocked by Cholico, who stabbed him in the side with a bayonet. Not yet dead, Ramirez then received three slices to his neck, with the blood staining his white kerchief, fatally wounding the legend, the hero. His killers wrapped his body in a mat, tied with a rope and dumped carelessly, unceremoniously, quietly in the black early morning hours of March 17, 1929.
Gone, but never forgotten.
Viva El Catorce!
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Miscellanea and facts were pulled from the following: “Ancestors of Victoriano Ramirez Lopez, ‘El Catorce,’” nuestrosraices.com/nuestrosranchos/es/node/22193; “Barbarous Mexico,” by John Kenneth Turner; “El Catorce y la Guerra Cristera,” by Victor Ceja Reyes; sanjulian.gob.mx/informacion-general; “¡Tierra de Cristeros! Historia de Victoriano Ramirez y de la Revolucion Cristera en los Altos de Jalisco,” by Juan Francisco Hernandez Hurtado; and Vatican.va.
Theresa Marie Moreau, an award-winning reporter, is the author of Martyrs in Red China; An Unbelievable Life: 29 Years in Laogai; Misery & Virtue; and Blood of the Martyrs: Trappist Monks in Communist China.
