by B. TRAVEN
Perhaps what affected Andrés in the whole affair was simply that he was being thrust out of a life he was used to and into a new one. And there is generally something painful in being removed unexpectedly and against your will from your accustomed life.
3
However, even before they had reached don Laureano’s home, Andrés realized that his new master was a far easier man to serve than his previous one.
Don Laureano knew nothing of life on a finca from the inside. He knew that there were peons on a finca, but he did not know how harsh the discipline—the tyranny, in fact—was on the fincas. If he happened in the course of business to stay as a guest on a finca, he had no opportunity of gaining any insight into the conditions of the laborers; nor did he bother his head about such matters. It was none of his business to study them. He was there to do business and for that purpose wished to make the finquero his lifelong friend.
Don Laureano was a businessman. His attitude to all his carreteros and muchachos was governed by the plain rule of all good men of business: Live and let live. Experience had proved to him over and over again that if this rule were observed by all businessmen the results upon business, commerce, and trade of all kinds could only be beneficial. It is true that all his men lived hard and penurious lives, but when they compared them with the life of a peon they found theirs far from intolerable.
The men employed by don Laureano were free men. When one of them returned with his carreta to his employer’s yard he could say: “Listen, patrón, I want to quit and look for something else.” And if he was a good and reliable carretero don Laureano would say: “Why do you want to go, Julio? You’ve been with me four years now. We’ve always got along. Bueno, you can have a half-real more a day.”
The carretero perhaps stayed on, took half a real more per day and was contented; or else he left and went his way. Don Laureano did not insist on his staying if he wanted to go. The man was free.
Of course, he very soon found out that in reality he had very little freedom. The next man paid him less, worked him harder, and treated him like a dog. But since he could not fill his belly by holding his mouth open when it rained, he had to work for any man who paid him, so that he could buy tortillas and frijoles. In this way, the free carretero learned the great lesson that freedom and the liberty to go where he pleased were fine words which were used merely to veil the hard countenance of economic conditions.
So it really came to this when you saw it through to the bottom, that the loyalty and reliability of the carreteros in the service of their employer were no more voluntary than the compulsory service of the peons on a finca. The carreteros knew that they were free and could go when and where they pleased. The peons knew that they were not free and had no right to go when and where they pleased. But when you fully understand the economic conditions in which they both lived, it becomes clear that both were in the same hole; only it was called by different names. The finqueros made a higher profit by maintaining the peonage system, and the others made more by having free men to work for them.
The peon did only what he was told. He left it to the patrón to do the thinking and to bear all responsibility for the results of his orders. The carretero, on the other hand, had to think for himself and take the responsibility for what he did. For if he only did strictly what he was told and never thought from one kilometer’s end to the next how he could best and most safely get his carreta forward, no carreta would ever deliver a load to its appointed destination.
4
Andrés rode along beside don Laureano. They had just left the fonda, where they had spent the night.
“So you haven’t yet worked with oxen?” don Laureano asked, while he lit a cigarette and offered one to Andrés.
“No, patrón. Don Leonardo had no carretas. Carretas cannot go on the roads from Tenejapa to Jovel, or on the road to Simojovel and up to Bilja. The tracks are too narrow, boggy, and hilly, and often full of stones. We could only use mule transport, and on many of them not even a mule could go, where the track had broken away and fallen into ravines. There we could only use porters.”
“I know some of those roads up there,” said don Laureano. “Been there on business. For miles you have to lead your horse, unless you want to lose him and break your neck as well. Were there no oxen on the finca either?”
“Only in the herds, señor, to sell. And they were driven loose in droves to Juan Bautista and Frontera when the patrón sent them to Tabasco to market.”
“Never mind, muchacho,” said don Laureano. “You’ll soon pick it up. There’s not much to it. You seem a smart boy and ready to learn. You’ll soon learn to yoke an ox and put it in. And once you’ve been on a trip or two with the old carreteros, you’ll know the road and the tricks of the trade.”
“I’m sure I shall, patrón.”
“It’s not such hard work as it looks, my boy,” his new employer told him. “After you’re loaded there’s little more to do. The beasts know the road better than any muchacho. They find their own way however black the night. Of course, when the roads are bad there’s sometimes plenty to do. You have to take a hand then. You have to throw your weight on the spokes. And sometimes a carreta has to be lifted out of a hole, and stones and stakes have to be put down to level up the bad spots. As long as you keep your eyes open and don’t go to sleep you’ll very seldom have a broken axle. That makes work—but it’s your own fault. You pay the penalty for going to sleep and not keeping a good lookout.”
“I’ll take good care.”
“You’ll like it, I can tell you. You get to know the roads, see lots of different places and towns. Often you go down to the railroad. And you have company all the time. Sometimes you’ll have a family in the carreta. Then there’ll be half a peso for yourself if you make yourself agreeable and do what’s wanted.”
“Muchas gracias, señor.”
“And now about your wages, Andrés. We’d best go into that, so we know where we are. What did don Leonardo pay you by the day?”
“Don Leonardo paid me no wages,” Andrés said truthfully.
“That’s not my way,” don Laureano declared. “Every man who does his work deserves his pay. That is my motto. No one works for me for nothing. Every job is paid for. There are no peons and no slaves with me. A man, as well as his master, must live and have something to look to. There’s an encargado—a head driver—of mine. He worked for me for over eighteen years and now he has a nice little store at Suchiapa. Another who was with me fifteen years has a fine ranchito in Acala. Fellows who didn’t drink worked well and saved their money. I like my muchachos to get on and not to work for others all their lives. Anastasio, who has the store at Suchiapa, gets all his stock from me on credit and always pays punctually. Muchachos who have worked for me and proved themselves loyal and reliable never lack my help and support for the rest of their lives. I don’t forget one of my men.”
What don Laureano said was quite correct. He did not exaggerate by a syllable. When the men were past their peak and of no further use as carreteros—and the life of a carretero is a hard one, as Andrés was soon to learn—don Laureano helped them to set up for themselves in a small way. They were then his best customers and at the same time acted as subagents in the districts where they settled down. They did him good service, too, by keeping him informed about other traders in their neighborhoods and giving him many a good tip on new property owners and their requirements in the way of machinery and goods. He was no fool at organizing and extending his business.
“As I say, Andrés, nobody need work for me to no purpose. As for your wages, this is what I’ll do. I’ll give you a real and two-thirds a day—twenty centavos. That makes six pesos a month. That’s a good wage.”
“Muchas gracias, patrón.”
To Andrés it certainly seemed a good wage; for so far he had had none at all, and six pesos was a very big sum for one whose needs were so small.
“But first there’s a debt to deduct, Andrés.”
“That’s true, muchacho. You have bought nothing. But I must tell you that don Leonardo lost twenty-five pesos to me at cards, and you naturally have those twenty-five pesos to pay.”
“Sí, señor.”
“That makes—let me see.” Don Laureano reckoned it aloud to himself. “Yes, that makes twenty centavos in a peso, that’s five, and in twenty-five there’s a hundred and twenty-five. So that’s a hundred and twenty-five days. So you have to work a hundred and twenty-five days before I can pay out your wages in cash. I’m not a tyrant, of course. If you’re in need of anything, tell me and I’ll give you an advance of three or four pesos which we can count against your wages later on.”
“Sí, señor.”
“You understand that, Andrés?”
“Sí, señor.”
“Then that’s a bargain.”
“Sí, señor.”
“Of course, you get your keep. On the road you have your rations—beans, salt, sugar, coffee, rice, dried fish, dried meat, and now and then a can of sardines; and you get money for the road to buy tortillas with. Not a carretero of mine has ever gone hungry. And if you don’t spend your wages on drinking tequila, you can always put money by and set yourself up in life.”
“Sí, patrón.”
“You understand, of course, that you cannot quit my employment until your debt of twenty-five pesos is paid in full, and if I pay you any money in advance of wages, that is also a debt which you must pay before you can think of looking for another patrón or running off to Guatemala. Muchachos have a far worse time of it in Guatemala, I may tell you. Don’t you believe it when vagabond muchachos in Arriaga tell you what a lot you can earn on the plantations in Guatemala. It’s nothing but damned lies these loafers at Arriaga, Tonalá, and Tapachula tell you. Stay in your own place, Andrés, and serve your master well and you’ll want for nothing. La patria, tu país propio—in your own country, there you’re among your own folk and never starve; that’s the best and safest thing in life. I’m convinced from the look of you that you’ll make a good and loyal carretero.”
“I will do my best, patrón.”
“I hope you will, Andrés. As a carretero you have a great responsibility. If any goods should be missing from your carreta, whether stolen or burned or fallen down a ravine, you naturally have to replace them. It has to be reckoned against your wages. It’s a debt against you. But if you take good care, nothing of the kind can happen.”
“I will take good care, patrón, that no goods are lost.”
“I am sure of it—you’re a very reliable boy, Andrés.”
They went on at a walk for a little longer. Then don Laureano threw away his cigarette butt.
“We’ll have to trot a bit now if we want to get on.”
5
Lurching and rattling, the caravan of carretas painfully made its way up the fifteen kilometers from Chiapa de Corso to the high pass of El Calvario. This pass led over the Cerro de Chiapa. The Cerro de Chiapa is the highest point of the Sierra—that precipitous and rocky mountain range running all the way from Chiapa de Corso to Ixtapa and parting the tropical lowland of Tuxtla Gutiérrez from the cool upland, La Mesa de Las Casas.
This high pass, El Calvario, had, in spite of its pious Catholic name, a very ugly reputation. It was in every possible respect a veritable tribulation, a tribulation for travelers of every sort and description: for travelers on foot, on horseback, or on mules. It was no less a tribulation for Indian porters who carried up heavy loads of goods or basketwork litters in which sat a female traveler or a man unable to ride. Not least, this mountain pass was a tribulation to the drivers of carretas and strings of pack animals.
These drivers, less stoical than the Indian porters who tripped along silently and indefatigably with a nimble rolling step, began to curse as soon as the little town of Chiapa de Corso, nestling pleasantly in the unfading greenery of its palms and banana groves, was an hour behind them. The steeper and more arduous the road became, the more thorough and violent grew their curses. The drivers cursed their own souls and the souls of those who begot them. They cursed the day on which they were born, and did not forget to curse the day which had made them drivers of carretas. They cursed at the tops of their voices God in heaven and the Holy Virgin and consigned into the bargain all the saints of the Church to hell. As each bend of the road came in sight, they offered up their souls and the souls of all their children to the devil if he would get them safely past before a wheel or an axle broke or the oxen fell down a precipice or a pack mule slid backward into a ravine. For the men had to get up the pass, and whether it was God or the Holy Virgin or the devil who helped them in their tribulation was to them a matter of indifference as long as they got there with their carts, their beasts, their loads, and their goods intact.
At the summit of this mountainous Calvary stood a large weatherworn wooden cross, set up on a high cairn on which withered wreaths and flowers lay in heaps. As soon as the carreteros and mule drivers reached the cross they all removed their large weather-beaten bast hats, made three genuflections, and crossed themselves. With this they were received once more into the company of true believers and the devil had no more power over them or their souls; for God and the Blessed Virgin are quick to forgive the sinner who turns again in repentance to songs of praise and consecrated candles, while He who made mountains, ravines, rivers, bogs, and lakes took the responsibility for all that happened or was done because of these creations of His.
Not that after reaching the cross their tribulations were by any means at an end—as might be supposed, since there stood the cross which promises relief to all men. Things are not so easy as that for men on earth; if they were, men would soon wax fat.
For many travelers, particularly for those on horseback who traveled singly or in twos with a boy or two boys in attendance, the real tribulation only began after this.
El Calvario had a double meaning. When the first meaning had been grasped in a torrent of curses, imprecations, lamentations, groans, and sweat, there was still the second to solve; and the answer to the second meaning frequently enough ended with the swift, businesslike, and merciless death of the travelers.
2
The pass was notorious and dreaded on account of the bandits who lay in wait there for travelers and caravans. These bandits were smart men of business who knew their job and went about it with sense and discretion. Under a dictatorship where governors, generals, police chiefs, councilmen, mayors, and customs officers robbed land and people whenever they had the chance, there was often nothing left for hundreds of unofficial persons but to rob in their turn. When officials steal it is called corruption; when stealing is unofficial it is banditry. But you never find bandits except where officials are thieves; and as soon as robbery ceases at the top, the bandits all die out in a week at the bottom.
The bandits of the Hill of Calvary did not lie in ambush every day. Their wives would have had no patience with them; for a wife wants more of her husband than daily bread and an occasional new rag. Besides, these footpads could not live on banditry alone: they had faces to save. So they all had small, in some cases large, farms, to which they devoted the greater part of their time—firstly, in order to remain respected citizens; secondly, to divert unnecessary suspicion; and thirdly, to have an assured income for their children, who were to grow up into worthy citizens.
For all these reasons they did not go hunting every day. Besides, it would have scared people from ever traveling that way; or they would have made certain to travel only in large companies and spoiled the game. For another thing, the government would have established a military post there, which, again, would have been a nuisance to the bandits. So weeks and months often went by without a single robbery taking place. And then suddenly for three days every traveler and every caravan on the road was looted. Or again, it might happen that only two or three travelers were held up and only a small pac
k-mule train robbed, while all the rest who passed that day or that week were unmolested.
It was this very irregularity of the bandits’ onslaughts that made this road a road of terror. It was like running a gantlet. You could never say beforehand whether you would get through with your money or your life. No one could be certain of conveying from one place to the next money needed for or acquired in commerce, and the same with valuables of any sort. Even if he had neither money nor valuables, he might be stripped and killed. Only horses and mules and saddles were safe, for the animals were branded and the saddles had so many little marks and features of their own that with their help the bandits could have been traced.
The travelers, of course, might have traveled in large companies. But that is not as easy to arrange as it is with a company of soldiers, who fall in and march off at the word of command. The day that suits one party of five does not suit another five who had thought of joining forces with it. One has a child sick, another a wife brought to bed, the third has bought a house and must go see to it, the fourth’s stomach is out of order, and the fifth has come to the conclusion overnight that his journey is not urgent. The first party of five also melts away. The first has a summons to attend the courts; another’s house burned down early in the morning. And thus there remain only three, or even two, who have to go at all costs because their business compels them to be at Tuxtla or Arriaga by a certain day. Trusting to their luck and to the charms and blessings of the Church, to the prayers of all their relations and to a good revolver, they ride off; and two days or two weeks later they are found at the foot of a precipice, shot or struck down. Some of the bandits, innocent, industrious, and simple countrymen on whom no reproach can be cast, help in the search and blame the government and the irreligion of the bandits who are a scourge to the country just because they have no belief in the retribution of the life to come.