November 2nd
Last night came what is practically an ultimatum from Washington to Huerta. He is to get out, he, and all his friends, or—intervention. N. was at the palace until one o’clock in the morning. It is asking Huerta to commit political suicide, and he, unfortunately, does not feel so inclined. Also, he has a conviction that he is a sort of “Man of Destiny” who can bring peace to Mexico. N. tried to convince him of the complete impossibility of standing up against the United States, and urged him again and again to give way. I was troubled during the night by visions of intervention, further devastation of this beautiful land, and the precious blood of my own people.
I am reading a Spanish book on the war of 1847, published in 1848. The reasons why battles were lost sound immensely familiar—generals not coming up with reinforcements, or the commissary not materializing, or the troops deserting. It is all so like what we are reading now in the newspapers! No tempora mutantur here.