American Woman's Thrilling Flight from Mexico.

New York Times 100 years ago today, March 9, 1913:
Caught in the Recent Revolution, She Had to Use a Revolver to Reach Safety — Her Hobble Skirt Nearly Prevented Her Escape.    The following thrilling account of the terrible days of bloodshed in Mexico City that ushered in the regime of Huerta last month and the exciting time that preceded them is from the pen of an American woman who spent over a year in Mexico and just returned last week to New York. She prefers not to have her name published.
    It was as an expert mining engineer that my husband became a trusted counselor and later a close friend of Porfirio Diaz and his nephew, Col. Felix Diaz. Our intimate friendship with the families of these two statesmen-warriors came near to costing us our lives.
    Señora Diaz and also the wife of Col. Felix are women who represent the highest type of womanhood. They are not only beautiful but both are women of fine, strong characters.
    It was not long ere exclusive doors, through which very few Americans are ever invited to pass, were opened to us. We soon came to know the highly educated and aristocratic families, whose members showed the possibilities that lie in the Mexican blood, once it is educated through a few generations. As the political difficulties increased during that Winter of 1911 there were few dinner parties given, either at the private residences of the Diazes or at the National Palace. Now and then a few of those who were close associates of the political circle would ride out to San Angel Inn and eat a social meal, but the ride home from there, even in the early evening, became a perilous undertaking.
    Later as the anti-Diaz forces drew near the city many Americans lived in sleepless terror; I was among that number, for my husband was on a ranch forty miles away. I was afraid that he would not hear of the sudden approach of the troops, and would fail to return to protect me. Even if he had heard the news and was attempting to return, I feared for his own safety, for I could not learn from which direction the soldiers were marching.

A Quick Resolve.
    Moreover, I had learned that the opposing army was made up chiefly of bandits. However, as soon as I found that the troops were coming toward the city from the opposite direction of the mine, I telephoned for a horse that I had ridden a great deal and hastened to a ranch that was five miles out. I am not a woman of nerve, but impending danger seemed to give me courage. Fortunately, the news had not reached the wilderness in which the mines were located, and my husband had therefore made no attempt to come into the city, so we did not miss each other as I was afraid we might. I rode from ranch to ranch with only such protection as was offered me by the ranch overseers, who were good enough to escort me to the next stopping place. I knew the road perfectly, as parties of us had often made the trip for pleasure. I did feel rather timid over a short trail through a dense wood, but there was even then no danger so far as I was concerned, for the trail was well blazed, but I was afraid of snakes and tarantulas, which are a lurking danger to a rider's horse, I made the forty-mile trip in safety and remained with my husband until after the new Government under Madero was established. This was not, however, to be my worst for last experience in fleeing from the Mexican bullet.
    I returned to our pretty home in the city, dug up my jewelry and money that I had buried in the garden and tried to feel settled once more. But all social life was changed.
    The "Grand Old Man" was exiled, Felix Diaz imprisoned, and Mexico seemed indeed an uncertain place. Many of the adherents of the Diaz régime tried to gather at informal dinners, but the old-time joyous Mexican spirit drooped under the pall of tragedy, and the gay little parties that used to be so pleasurable were now more like memorial services.
    Every one doubted the ability of the new Government to manage the country in a manner that would be for its good. All through last Fall we heard blood-curdling rumors of what was about to happen in the city, and my husband begged me to return to the United States. He feared for all foreigners in the event of a second rebellion.

"War Talk" Bred Contempt.
    But I felt that the right kind of a wife would stay wherever it was necessary for her husband to be, regardless of bullet and shell. We had gotten so used to war talk that I paid no attention to it. We were like the people in many countries who live on the sides of volcanoes and become accustomed to the ominous grumbling. Once again I promised to flee to the mining camp if things became too strenuous in Mexico City. The second flight, however, was not to be so easily accomplished as the first.
    On Friday evening (the 7th of February) a number of ladies and their husbands, all Americans, had planned to attend the theatre. I had been invited to join the party, which was to meet at the hotel and proceed from there. A few of the party had arrived and were chatting in the lobby, when one of the gentlemen, who had just come from the American club, entered hastily and told us that it would by no means be safe for us to go to the theatre. He had had a "tip" that there was a large gathering of troops, who were waiting only to release Felix Diaz from prison, that he might leave them against the city. We all thought it an overdrawn statement, but returned, nevertheless, to our homes.
    The next morning all Americans received word from our Ambassador that the greatest caution regarding safety should be taken, as the political situation in the immediate vicinity was taking on a very serious aspect. That night the electric lights were out more than two hours.

Too Late to Escape.
    About midnight there was a furious pounding at the front door; I took my maid, and we went to the door together.
    "Who is it?" I called, without opening the door. A voice called back, rather roughly:
    "It's a telegram for you."
    He slipped it under the door and went away. It was from my husband, and read: "Take night train for Veracruz. Have no luggage. Obey me."
    The train that I had been commanded to take left early in the evening. It was now midnight. I could not "obey." But I resolved to take the early morning train; moreover, I must spend the remainder of the night in finding hiding places for my most precious belongings that I must leave behind.
    Then it dawned upon me that the next day was Sunday, and that there was no train till the evening. I was rather glad of an excuse not to hurry, and resolved to spend the day getting some of my trunks into storage. As daylight dawned it seemed foolish, after all, to have been alarmed; surely, if there was to be any actual fighting, it would be outside the city. But I had no sooner reasoned with myself in this manner than a neighbor rushed in to tell us that the mounted troops were already in the city; they even had heavy artillery, and the beautiful Alameda was an armed camp!
    A group of twenty or thirty American ladies gathered in a home near my own, and all day we listened to the reports, that became more and more appalling. Many of these women, like myself, were wives of men whose business interests took them out of the city for days at a time.
    The night came on and we heard the awful commotion in the city. The arsenal was stormed and seized; pedestrians were being shot at from the house tops, and I realized that all possibility of reaching the railroad station was gone.
    I felt like a trapped mouse. The purple gloom of death seemed suddenly to have been flung like a sombre garment over my well-beloved city of Mexico. The telephone gave us constant reports of the distress and turmoil, of the dead and dying that lay in the streets, the wholesale arrests of guiltless people; and the impossibility of further food supplies hourly made matters worse.
    There is something about the horrors of war that no one who has never heard the whiz of the enemy's bullets can understand. You may sit by your fireside and read about war, but to be so close to it that at any moment your home is likely to be looted, and to experience the thought that you yourself may he blown into eternity by a shell, is to know that war is worse than hell.

Taking Desperate Chances.
    Oh, not to have seen beautiful Mexico in her death convulsions! How changed it all was from the days when mighty old Diaz held sway! The very friends that then were a protection had now become a menace to one's safety. The hosts of many a brilliant dinner party were now behind prison walls, spies lurked upon the unsafe streets, one dared not answer a knock at the door.
    The want of food slowly creeps upon one; there is the ominous tread of martial feet, the actual "ping" of bullets, the rumble of artillery, and then the awful boom of the cannon, and the hour has come when you must flee for your life. What to do, where to go, which way to turn, I did not know. I looked out into the night; it seemed as if the heavens were never so black. There were stars, yes, but somehow they gave no light. A man rushed up to the house and then on to the next one, crying: Get out of this vicinity; you are right in the line of the firing!"
    I ran back to my own apartments, found a long black opera cape, and flung it over my shoulders. There were a pair of small, pearl-tipped revolvers, that my husband had given me to carry when out riding alone; I clasped the belt about me and ran to the street to "fly" toward the railroad station.
    I had gone but a little way when down galloped a squad of mounted soldiers. It was frightful enough just to see the dark forms of the riders rush by, but imagine my terror when only a block away they encountered opposition that called forth a volley of shots.
    I ran back into my little garden and felt as if I would die of fright, for a crouching figure crept by me not three yards off, and stealthily made toward an open window in the cellar, through which it disappeared.
    But there is nothing like a good shock to restore one's nerve, and before long it came.
    There was one monstrous crash. I felt of my ears to see if they were still on. There had been an awful explosion. It was only a moment ere the tell-tale flames leaped up over the housetops, for the little monastery not half a mile off was in flames.
    I made an attempt to get at least as far as the American Embassy; surely it would be safe there. There was now a deathlike silence, and by the faint flickering of the monastery fire, that seemed to have been gotten under immediate control, I saw that the street ahead was clear. I quickened my pace. Ordinarily I could run like a deer, but something was wrong. Was it, I questioned myself, the fact that my slippers kept slipping at the heels?
    What was the matter? I was conscious of not running at all, but of just pattering along in the diminutive steps necessary to a — hobble skirt!
    I was furious; was this miserable garment (that only two short weeks ago had been the pride of my heart) now going to make my flight to safety impossible? I tried to hold it above my knees as I ran, but it felt just the way a kicking strap looks on a broncho. I had no scissors; I could not very well take the infernal thing off. Was this, my beloved hobble skirt, going to be my death trap?
    One thing was certain — I could not stand there thinking about it; in the last moment of desperation I gnawed a little rent in both sides just big enough to get my fingers in and easily ripped it down.
    Freedom was mine! But my dignified tailor-made hobble must have looked like a cross between a kimono and a man's night shirt. I was thankful for the darkness.

A Narrow Escape.
    I had not gone over a block before a bevy of drunken ruffians (undoubtedly some of the criminals that had been released from the penitentiary) came stumbling along. It was just in front of the residence of a wealthy Mexican who had built an American garden, and over its walls a great soft vine had draped itself. I crept back under this until the men had passed and then started to run on again. Again my progress was suddenly interrupted by the huge form of a lone man that confronted me. Fortunately, I saw him first. My hands instinctively felt for the little weapons that were in my belt. It really seemed to be a matter of instinct or automatic action rather than thought, for I had forgotten that they were in my possession until I felt the cold butts of them in my hands.
    "Where are you going, little Señora?" he said, coughing violently between his words. He made as if he would put his arms about me. I wiggled free and backed off.
    "Where are you going?" he again asked.
    "I am going," I said, "to give you something for that cough of yours," and pointed both little guns at his knees. The little triggers answered promptly. Down he went.
    "You go to the devil." he hissed.
    "This seems to be his home town," I replied, and started to run, but he raised himself up on his knees and lunged forward in an effort to trip me. But I freed myself, gave him a parting shot (just for luck) and sped on.
    Three times I was fired at. The whir of the bullets seemed to scorch the atmosphere close to me. It is a sound not easily forgotten.
    After getting by a certain number of men who sought to detain me I reached the embassy, but, to my astonishment, mounted men were lined up near its gates and I feared to attempt an entrance, so from there on I made my way unmolested to the railroad station.
    I found there a Spanish gentleman and his family whom I knew, and they, like myself, were waiting to board the first train that should leave for Vera Cruz. They were even more excited than I, although they had managed to get to the station in the early evening without the perilous experiences through which I had passed.

Safe at Last.
    The trip down to the coast was without incident. Just before we reached Orizaba the train was stoned and the windows broken. We all lay down flat on the car floors. Being small had its advantages for once, for I crawled under the seats. A few more bullets whizzed over my head. Crouched down there in the tattered remnants of my fashionable hobble skirt. I made the remainder of my journey to the coast.
    I think I had fallen asleep, for with a sudden jolt I became conscious that the train had stopped, and rose up tremblingly on my knees to see what was going to happen next, when I realized that we were at Vera Cruz. Stiff, lame, and disheveled, I hobbled out of the car, and the first face that I saw, pale and drawn with anxiety, belonged to a man, who said:
    "Margaret, why did you not obey me and come immediately?" Wasn't that just like a husband?