shackle him to a nearby fence. A true Chinese torture: spending the Patagonian night out in the open, with one’s feet in the water. (An investigation will conclude with Jameson’s dismissal on March 23rd, 1921 for “misconduct and moral weakness.”)
But the “Battle” of the Río Centinela will naturally be seized upon by the press as yet another opportunity for outrage at the savagery of the strikers. Río Gallegos’ La Unión will refer to the death of Artaza as an “unprecedented and premeditated murder” and a “repulsive crime.”
But Correa Falcón has only a few days left in power. After six months of indecision, Governor Yza is finally leaving for Río Gallegos. The ranchers prepare to give him a warm welcome. They distrust him as a Radical, but trust him as a military officer. One editorial in La Unión proclaims:
It takes the authority of a disciplined spirit—such as the we see in Captain Yza, forged in the purest patriotic traditions and strengthened by military life in the bosom of these legendary institutions and by daily contact with the symbols of our nation, which inspire the most fervent and austere feelings of appreciation for the values they represent—to take on the task at hand, which demands not only governmental expertise and the application of time-honored measures, but also the virtue of a civic conscience and the serene, magnanimous understanding of lofty souls.
The news that the new governor is on his way arrives even as Correa Falcón and Malerba carry on with the repression. In Río Gallegos, every democratic right has been revoked. Meanwhile, the Rural Society is extremely active in preparing its defenses. Its members resolve to unite with similar organizations in San Julián and Puerto Santa Cruz. The unification committee is made up of sixteen members (eight from Río Gallegos, four from Puerto Santa Cruz and four from San Julián) and chaired by Ibón Noya. Governor Correa Falcón is ratified as its managing secretary. But the most important decision the committee takes is to collect 100,000 pesos for expenses and for “the campaign to uphold law and order.” These funds are raised by requiring each landowner to pay the Rural Society two centavos per head of livestock. One document that clearly shows the connivance between the police, the army, and the White Guard—the self-defense organization of the ranchers—is the report addressed to the interior minister by Engineer Cobos, sent to Buenos Aires as a delegate of the Santa Cruz Rural Society:
The White Guard has taken responsibility for supplying meat, automobiles, and gasoline to the local police station and has agreed to pay for repairs. And let me also mention that, for some time, each of the town’s five primary retail outlets has been providing them with goods equivalent to 50 pesos per month, free of charge. This arrangement has been in place for years. The White Guard has covered the expenses of a car trip taken by four officers stationed at Tamel Aike who were needed as reinforcements at the police station in San Julián. During the strike, when it was decided to send eleven soldiers to San Julián, their journey was underwritten by merchants and landowners, as was their return trip to Río Gallegos. And, during their mission, they had to be provided with lodging and saddles, along with other supplies and living expenses. We merchants and landowners have paid a total of 8,615 pesos on maintaining and transporting these troops, which does not include the 4,000 pesos provided by the White Guard.
There is little hope left for the workers. Who are the police and army going to defend if they depended on the landowners for food and transportation?
Yrigoyen is slow but neither deaf nor blind. The federal government mobilizes the 10th Cavalry Regiment with orders to pacify the south. The regiment is under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Héctor Benigno Varela.
Varela visits the Casa Rosada to meet with the president and clarify the details of his mission. On a torrid January day, Varela and his young assistant, First Lieutenant Anaya, both of them in dress uniform, enter the cool shade of the president’s office. Before them stands an enormous man, twice their own height, who barely seems to be moving. He speaks slowly, taking his time. Anaya is awestruck. Varela listens with a religious silence. The president talks in generalities and the officer listens with growing interest, anticipating the moment in which his commander-in-chief will issue the “secret instructions,” the precise orders that must never be repeated outside that mysterious office. But the president takes his time. He speaks of party politics, the struggles of years past, and the republic in general.
Suddenly, the audience is over. The president rises to his feet. Taken aback, Varela ventures one polite and deferential query: “Mr. President, I should like to know what I am to do in Santa Cruz.”
Hipólito Yrigoyen, his warm voice inflected with trust and intimacy—as if he were addressing a brother or a son—tells him, “Go, Lieutenant Colonel. Go and study what is happening and do your duty.”
And that is it. Varela is at a loss. But the giant offers him his hand. There’s no more to say.
“Stop by Dr. Gómez’s office and he will give you your instructions.”
But Anaya will later state, “Dr. Gómez was waiting for us in his office but didn’t add a single word. He merely passed on some telegrams he had received and wished us a safe journey.”11
Varela is not the type of man who spends his time worrying about if he’s being set up. His thoughts are on his soldiers, his plans, his preparations and logistics. Having been ordered, he will act. The 10th Cavalry Regiment shakes to life. Varela has a military soul. He loves action, discipline, duty, and the manliness of command. He is a great admirer of German military discipline and has been diligently studying the German language for years.
The 10th Cavalry Regiment did not exist when it was ordered to move south. The 1889 class had graduated in December and the new class was still being recruited. The soldiers would need to be tracked down. One by one, the former conscripts are taken from their homes and sent to the barracks. We can only imagine the “delight” felt by these young men, their military service completed, who are now ordered back to active duty to crush a strike in Patagonia. Anaya describes this forced recruitment as “a difficult task.” He only manages to muster up 150 men and will have to reinforce the regiment with another twenty additional soldiers from the 2nd Cavalry Regiment.
They embark on the Guardia Nacional on the night of January 28th, 1921.
The strikers continue their occupation of La Anita. A car passes by, carrying the ranchers Gerónimo and José Stipicich, along with their brother-in-law Duimo Martinovich and Gerónimo’s son, only twelve years old. The strikers take them prisoner. El 68 suggests that Stipicich go to Río Gallegos and encourage the other ranchers to sign the labor agreement. His brother and son will be held at the ranch until he returns.
Trembling, Stipicich drives towards Río Gallegos, accompanied by Guillermo Payne, another rancher who was being held hostage. In the meantime, El Toscano heads to the Río Coyle to stir up the workers and bring back food and weapons.
The first thing Stipicich does upon reaching Río Gallegos is send a telegram to the representative of La Anónima in Puerto Santa Cruz. We have reproduced it below as it describes the situation well:
Mr. Menotti Bianchi: I have just arrived from Lago Argentino. I had set out on the 21st, along with my brother, my son, and several other people. When we arrived at La Anita, we were greeted by the over five hundred strikers who were occupying the ranch. They held me for six hours, and my brother and son remain in their power. I received permission to leave and seek out some sort of settlement. You can understand my plight. I would recommend settling because the situation is dire—they didn’t kill me only because they didn’t want to, they told me that I arrived at just the right time, as they were about to burn down La Anita, as well as all of my ranches. They agreed to grant me four days’ reprieve. The authorities are powerless. Over fifteen police officers have also been taken prisoner, including Commissioner Micheri, who has been wounded.
