March to the Monteria

by B. TRAVEN

  The men who had been approaching Don Anselmo with branches and leaves in their hands had stopped in their tracks when Don Anselmo pulled the gun—whether out of courage or out of indifference would be hard to say, because they knew that running away is not much good against flying revolver bullets.

  That the gun failed to go off did not impress them. At least they showed no surprise. They let Don Anselmo reload, watching him from where they had stopped when he aimed his gun at them.

  Once he had pushed his gun back into the holster, one of them said in a loud voice: “Patroncito, we only want to bring you hierbas buenas, some healing leaves, to cure your wound and stanch the blood. Understand, you may bleed to death right here, patroncito.”

  “Bueno, bueno, muchachos,” said Don Anselmo, while wringing out his bandanna in the water, “come on, bring the curitas and let’s see if they are any good.”

  The muchachos came close, picked up stones, dipped them into the water to wash off the earth and then ground and stamped the leaves and thin twigs into a sort of pulp. They helped Don Anselmo to put the mush on his wound and to tie it up firmly with his bright-colored bandanna. Once bandaged, he turned first left and then right and said: “Goddamn it, where is that maldito cabrón, that horse of mine?”

  “El caballito está detrás de las otras bestias ya bien adelante en el camino,” said one of the muchachos.

  “Well, if it is ahead already I suppose I have to make it on foot to the next paraje,” said Don Anselmo, clumsily trying to get up.

  As soon as he stood on his feet he wavered, but he got hold of himself, stumbled with two long, dragging strides toward a tree and leaned against it. He shook himself like a wet dog. Then he let off steam, swearing in the most blasphemous way, berating the saints, the federal government and that of the state, and in particular the poor condition of business which forced him to take up such a godforsaken profession, that of giving work and bread to miserable Indians, whom he, out of sheer generosity, freed of their debts and bondage. Then he shouted: “Hey, you whoring bastards, cabrones y ladrones malditos, has none of you a drop of goddamn stinking aguardiente or comiteco? Whatever it is, hand it over!”

  One of the men still squatitng on one of the cups replied: “Tenga, patroncito. I’ve got a bottle.”

  “Of course, I knew it, puercos, marranos del diablo, I knew that some of you goddamned swine would drag a bottle along. That the Santísima Madre del Dios Poderoso slay you and rot your filthy bones. I knew there was booze in the outfit. Hand over the stuff.”

  The man pulled a bottle out of his pack, jumped from cup to cup across the river and offered the fifth, more than half full, to Don Anselmo.

  Don Anselmo screwed out the corncob which served as a cork, smelled the contents, sniffed noisily, smelled again, sniffed more noisily than before and yelled at the top of his voice: “I should’ve known it. It’s Doña Emilia’s piss. That old goddamn hag isn’t satisfied with keeping a whore house with half a dozen bitches, every one of them ten times a grandmother and fatter than a prize sow. No, she has to brew booze on top of it. Only God Almighty knows what that lewd slattern has spit and pissed into her bottles this time.”

  He lifted up the bottle, stared at it, made a gesture as if overcome by nausea and took a huge gulp. He shook himself with all his might, belched terribly and spat out the stuff that still lingered in his mouth in a wide curve against the bushes lining the river bank. He yelled: “That I, an honest and faithful Catholic, should have to drink such goddamned whore’s piss when I can hardly stand on my feet no one would believe. That damned old whoring bitch should be hanged for brewing this stinking stuff, and she even has the nerve to call it ‘comiteco añejo.’ No wonder that with such rotgut in their belly the boys go crazy and think of murder. I would do the same.” Shaking himself wildly he took still another swallow out of the bottle. Then, the bottle swinging in his hand, he broke out in another stream of oaths.

  However, he did not do this just to entertain the boys, who by now only stared at him in deep silence. They did not even mumble among themselves. They only watched him to see what he might do. But his swearing only proved that he was slowly becoming himself again. He had to get his mind clear and off the fact that only a few minutes before he had been as near to death as any human being can come. Besides, he had to dull the terrific pain which now, since the shock was over, increased so much that he thought he could not bear it any more without going insane. A severely wounded, dying soldier who in his agony swears the blue out of the skies and the saints out of Heaven feels in his heart that he is more assured of the understanding of Nature’s God than the mollycoddle who whines for a soul-saver’s babblings, which to the dying soldier are utterly meaningless. If you have to go to hell, do it with dignity like a man and don’t bother about trifles which won’t change the outcome anyway.

  With a horrified grimace on his face Don Anselmo looked critically at the bottle in his hand, and when he noticed that less than one-third of its contents was left he gave it back to its owner and said: “Gracias. But let me tell you, son, if you don’t want to die poisoned but return to your mother someday instead, don’t take another drop of this stuff.”

  At this the boy grasped the bottle, went to his pack and stored it very carefully away between a pair of pants and his woolen blanket.

  “Hey you, come here,” Don Anselmo called the boy back. Taking him aside so that the other boys should not overhear their conversation, he reached into his pocket, produced a small leather purse, fumbled in it for a coin and said: “There, take this tostón for the aguardiente I drank out of your bottle, for which sin only God Almighty in person can forgive me.”

  He searched his shirt pocket for cigarettes. He pulled out a package which was nothing but a brown mealy paste in soaked and dissolving paper.

  “I’ve got cigarettes, patroncito,” said one of the men, getting up from the ground and coming near. He only had the type which is very good uncured tobacco wrapped in ordinary packing paper. This coarse paper does not exactly contribute to the pleasure of smoking. “But then what can you do if you haven’t got something better,” thought Don Anselmo to himself.

  He took the cigarettes offered him. “Tonight, at the paraje where we camp, I’ll give you a whole new package. Good ones. I’ve got plenty in my packs.”

  “Gracias, jefecito,” said the man. “Shall I look for the caballito and bring it back, patroncito?”

  “No, let it go. The horse is along with the other animals by now and too far ahead. Before you’re back, night will have fallen. I’ll march on foot like all of you. Good for my health.” And so saying he lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, then he shouted: “Oigan, muchachos, let’s be on our way. Get up. Come on, damn it all, we got to make the next paraje or sleep on the road like pigs. Abran las piernas. Get going.”

  Without waiting to see whether all the men would really follow, he pulled up his pants, tightened his belt and as, owing to his bandage, he couldn’t put his hat on straight, he slapped it on sideways and started on his way.

  20

  It was tough going at first. He wobbled along, swayed and had to rest leaning against a tree now and then to gain new strength. After half an hour he went on better. By now he had really found his stride. Not once did he turn around to look back. He left it entirely to the men whether they wanted to follow or complete the mutiny and return home.

  The next paraje was at a distance which on a regular march could have been reached about four in the afternoon, the hour most preferred by jungle travelers.

  Don Anselmo arrived between six and seven o’clock. Sunset was close.

  His boy had been worrying because he had not seen anyone for hours. But since he had left the entire troop including the boss behind, he hoped that everything would turn out normally. He was not particularly surprised when Don Anselmo’s horse came trotting along by itself and was wildly greeted by the other animals at the camp with snorts, braying and neighing.

  Two h
ours later, when neither Don Anselmo nor any of the muchachos had showed up, the boy became restless. But there was nothing he could do. If he mounted his horse and rode back, the other animals left alone would stray away. He told himself that since Don Anselmo was in the company of more than twenty men, they would surely bring him to the camp if anything happened to him. After waiting undecidedly some time, the boy unloaded the mules, unsaddled the horses, let them roll around on the ground and then had them look for fodder. Fixing up the camp as well as he could, he built a fire and began to prepare the usual meal, consisting of beans, rice and dried meat. When the coffee was boiling Don Anselmo arrived and let himself drop close to the fire, dog tired. The boy pushed a saddle behind Don Anselmo’s back so that he could rest against it and offered him coffee, and hot beans and rice, mixed in a pan.

  “Que pasó, jefe? Anything happen to you?” asked the boy. Don Anselmo drank the scalding coffee, shoved a few hard toasted tortillas close to the fire and said: “Nothing that matters. Not even worth discussing it. Some of the muchachos got drunk. I got a blow with a machete over the head. That’s all. Don’t know who did it. Doesn’t matter anyhow. You know how such things happen. And so while I was washing off the blood, the horse made off by itself. That’s why we’re late. Eso es todo. Nada en particular.”

  “Didn’t you shoot, Don Anselmo?” asked the boy.

  “I wasn’t drunk, so why shoot? What do you think, chamaquito? Why shoot? I’d only shoot up my own good money. And I’m not that loco, to amuse myself by shooting my own money to pieces. Come on, open a can of sardines. I just feel like celebrating. Do we still have any comiteco left in the bottle?”

  “More than half full,” replied the boy. “Do you want the bottle now, Don Anselmo?”

  “Not right now. Later. After supper. Before lying down. Give me those sardines. Where’s the salt? Any of the mules saddle galled?”

  “No, jefe, the mules are in fine shape. No sore backs.”

  “You were not afraid all by yourself, chamaquito? Or were you?”

  “I’m no coward. I was only worried that something might have happened to you. Perhaps with the muchachos.”

  Don Anselmo laughed. “You needn’t worry about me. You ought to know that. And the muchachos are good boys, all of them. No exception. Just homesick, that’s what they are.”

  “Pues,” the boy replied, “I’m not so sure about the Bachajones. Son matones. Killers. But look, patrón, there they’re coming.”

  Don Anselmo looked toward the point where the trail ran into the paraje. The men were arriving, one by one, single file.

  Darkness settled quickly. Before the last of the men arrived night had closed in completely.

  At the camp one could only see the dancing fire and the men, moving about like shadows.

  They built their own fires, several of them, away from Don Anselmo’s.

  Don Anselmo did not know whether all the men were present, and if not, whether they would arrive later, perhaps on the following day, or never.

  Long before sunrise on the next morning the camp was busy. Some of the men went out to fetch the scattered animals and helped to load them. It was not their job but they did it anyway.

  When they were ready to march all the fires were extinguished, stamped down and covered with earth. Don Anselmo, already in the saddle, shouted: “On our way, muchachos! Vamonos!”

  As soon as they took the trail Don Anselmo told the boy to ride ahead to guide the animals. He himself followed, without bothering to count the men in the troop.

  His wound hurt him considerably. He had not taken off the bandage during the night. It was sticking strongly to his skin, and whenever he made a careless movement with his head, the bandage tore at the wound and increased the pain. In the evening, he had examined the short wound on his shoulder as best as he could. It was only about a finger long and half an inch deep. He did not attach any importance to it. Such a little scratch was not worth thinking of. He poured some comiteco into the cut. Not much. Just a little. It was too valuable to waste on a wound.

  Three days later the troop arrived at the montería, and at last Don Anselmo found it necessary to count the men he had brought along. He had lost only two—the two Bachajones who had attacked him. He brought no complaint against them and did not have them pursued for breach of contract on which they had been given a considerable advance to pay off their debts. He simply considered them losses in the same way as if they had died on the march.

  In the montería he was asked how he had gotten his wounds. He said that one of the men had hit him with a machete and then run away. He did not go into details. In due time, however, the circumstances of the case became known, because some of the men told them to fellow workers at the montería.

  A well-known citizen of Jovel by the name of Don Anselmo carries his scar to this very day. It is so noticeable that nobody can help seeing it, for he can’t cover it up. If someone who doesn’t know him is looking for him, he is told: “Oh, you mean Don Anselmo with the big red scar all over his face. You can’t mistake him for any other Don Anselmo.”

  Today Don Anselmo is still a recruiting agent. Dozens of times since that eventful march he has led half a hundred Indians through the big jungle to the monterías, accompanied only by a boy to save expenses. He doesn’t do it for pleasure or for adventure. No. He has to support a steadily growing family. It is the only trade he knows and it gives him a sufficient income to keep his family fed, clothed and housed.

  Every time he thinks that the youngest girl has passed the worst and that now he will be able to purchase a small store and spend the rest of his life quietly in the comfortable neighborliness of a small town, his wife says to him: “Anselmo, you know, I think the next one is going to be a boy.” So what can he do? He must go out again and contract workers and get them to the monterías. He is tied by exactly the same rope from which the men whom he recruits for the mahogany companies hang; and if he does not use his head better than do the Indians whom he takes there, it might happen that he won’t come to the monterías as the recruiting agent, but as a contracted laborer sold to the montería for his debts.

  21

  People who fight at their first meeting often become the best of friends.

  Thus it happened to Andrés and Celso. When Celso sobered up enough to look at the surrounding world clearly, he made his peace with Andrés. But he made it clear to Andrés that the cause of the encounter had been Andrés fault as much as his own.

  Through his long years of working as a carretero on the highways of the state, Andrés had lost almost completely the customs and the manner of speech of the Indians that hailed from the little independent villages as well as those of the peons belonging to the fincas. Through his way of dressing and because of his permanent contact with ladinos and, even more, through the fact that he had learned to read and write, Andrés gave the impression that he was of that class from which the monterías and the coffee plantations selected their capataces and privileged workers, the so-called “empleados de confianza,” whom they needed because of the degree of education which they had been able to acquire.

  It was therefore only natural that Celso should see in Andrés, when the latter arrived at the camp of the future caoba workers, a capataz, a spy, a driver and a stoolpigeon. And because the fury which Celso felt against capataces, drivers and henchmen had reached its climax, it was in many ways excusable that he should have attacked Andrés without apparent cause. Once he knew Celso’s story, Andrés understood Celso’s rage better than many others would have. He himself, like Celso, through no fault of his own and without being able to do anything about it, had fallen into the clutches of a contracting agent, the same Don Gabriel.

  Owing to a number of different circumstances, Andrés had been separated from the finca, of which, like the cattle and the land, he was a part. But though the finqueros, at times, may apparently let a peon go his own way, whenever they believe it to be to their advantage, they will find a way t
o get the peon back when they think they need him again.

  On the finca from which Andrés came, there lived his father, his mother and his younger brothers and sisters. Andrés’ father, born on the finca like his grandfather before him, was indebted to the finquero. The finquero, afraid that Andrés’ father might die before he could work off his debts, decided to collect by selling him to Don Gabriel for the amount of the debt. Andrés’ father was getting on in years and probably would no longer be taken on as a fully capable caoba man. The finquero pointed this out to the agent, Don Gabriel, but he put Don Gabriel’s mind at ease on the matter: “Don’t worry, Don Gabriel. You won’t have to take the old man. You’ll get the young one, his boy, strong and sound like a four-year-old bull.”

  And Andrés, the son, when he heard of his father’s plight, appeared as expected and took over his father’s contract, because he could not bear the thought of his father dying in the montería or, more likely still, collapsing on the march through the jungle.

  Thus, the finquero got the amount of the debt paid in cash by the agent, and on top of it, at the same time he kept Andrés’ father and also the growing younger brothers and sisters bound to the finca. Naturally these youngsters would marry and have children in their turn, keeping the finquero provided with new generations of peons.