by Lily Tuck
José de Carmen Gomez, formerly the commandant at Villa Franca, was one of the officers who complained. He said his soldiers would not fight alongside the Guaycurú Indians. The Guaycurú, Commandant Gomez said, were indifferent to the outcome of the war and not to be trusted. Every chance they got, the Guaycurú stole his soldiers’ weapons, his soldiers’ clothes, their food. No telling, he said, what they would steal next! One incident in particular stayed in the commandant’s mind—the same way he said he could never forget having once seen a woman’s arm being amputated without proper anesthetic. It occurred one night when he left his tent to relieve himself—something he had to do more and more frequently—and he had stumbled upon a group of Guaycurú. To him it looked like a scene from a bad dream: the Guaycurú were sitting around a fire eating, and no mistaking it, the commandant swore on his mother’s grave!, he saw them eating arms and legs and one of the Guaycurú Indians was gnawing on a head—a head with long blond hair! The next morning, Commandant Gomez could hardly believe it himself. Shrugging his shoulders, he took a noisy sip of maté through his bombilla—who knew, he told himself, maybe it had been a bad sueño after all. Only he did not believe so.
Ella too had bad dreams, and in one dream she was eating as well. She ate plate after plate of food and still she was not full and still she was hungry. The food was both familiar and unfamiliar: one plate was filled with food that tasted like chestnuts—the same roast chestnuts she used to buy in winter along the quays of the Seine—but did not look like chestnuts; another plate was filled with what tasted like artichokes but again did not look like artichokes. As time went by, the food that had once tasted good to Ella no longer tasted good and was harder to chew and it tasted like uncooked bark and leaves from a tree. The bark and leaves were raw and tough and she had to chew and chew and chew before she could swallow them; and, in her dream, she realized that what she was eating was a yatai palm tree—raw, the heart of the yatai palm, Ella knew, tasted like chestnuts, cooked, it tasted like artichokes, but when the heart was removed, the palm tree, she also knew, died.
In the morning when she awoke Ella could hardly speak, her jaws were too sore from chewing all night in her sleep.
Charles Washburn, full of his own sense of justice and importance, took a steamer and went to see Franco at Humaitá. Over breakfast, he tried to flatter Franco into giving up the war.
“What men of modern times have been received with the most enthusiasm and respect?” Too clever for his own good, he asked Franco. “Not the victors with laurels, nor those who have triumphed, irrespective of their cause, by means of superior resources, or even superior genius and ability. For instance, Napoleon”—the American minister knew how much Franco admired him—“was none the less honored for having died a prisoner at St. Helena than he would have been had he conquered at Waterloo and afterward expired in the Tuileries.”
“I have no personal ambition. I labor for my country,” unswayed, Franco answered Charles Washburn. “I will survive or fall with it. I stand by my acts—mis hechos, mis hechos,” he said.
Accompanied by his brother Venancio, his brother-in-law General Barrios, his son Pancho, a staff of about fifty officers and a personal escort of twenty-four men, Franco rode out to the Allied trenches to meet with General Mitre. Dressed carefully for the occasion, Franco wore his best patent leather boots, polished to a high shine by his servant, Mañuel, his heaviest silver spurs, a scarlet poncho trimmed with gold lace and lined with vicuña, and a tricornered hat; instead of the mule Linda, he rode a big white horse.
Franco and General Mitre spoke for five hours. During that time, they ate nothing and drank only brandy. After several glasses, Franco was ready to agree: Paraguay was to withdraw from occupied Allied territory; each nation was to pay for its share of the war; the Allies were to recognize the independence of Paraguay—all but the last provision. When he heard its words—Franco was to resign and leave the country—Franco let out a roar and threw down his riding whip. Then, leaping to his feet and shouting for his horse, he left without another word to General Mitre.
On the way home, Franco struck his horse with whatever came under his hand—sharp pointed reeds, thorny branches he ripped off the trees—forcing the big white horse into a frenzy and making him gallop and gallop faster, whipping him through the mud and the marshes, and never once allowing him to slow down or catch his breath. When finally they reached camp, the big white horse’s legs buckled under him and he fell dead. Franco too could hardly stand. His scarlet poncho trimmed with gold lace and lined with vicuña was torn, his tricornered hat got knocked off and was lost, his shiny patent leather boots were spattered with mud.
The next day, Franco fell ill with malaria, a recurring bout so severe that his fever lasted over a week. One moment he was cold, freezing cold—all the blankets, rugs, furs in the army camp were piled on top of him and still he shook and trembled—the next moment, he was hot, boiling hot, and within seconds he was drenched with sweat, the sweat pouring off his body in rivulets and soaking through his nightshirt, his linen, the mattress. Franco’s fever fluctuated so fast and so often that even Dr. Stewart despaired. The whole time, Ella sat by Franco’s bedside. She bathed his forehead, she stroked his hand, she spoke quietly and reassuringly to him in his delirium. When he had recovered sufficiently, she had her piano, the Bechstein, brought into Franco’s bedroom and she played it for him.
Twelve
CURUPAYTY
“A change of scene” was the reason Lieutenant-Major George Thompson, Franco’s military engineer, gave his brother for leaving England and going to Paraguay. He also claimed to have had no previous knowledge of military engineering or artillery; everything he knew he had picked up from Macaulay’s Field of Fortification and The Professional Papers of the Corps of Royal Engineers. He had taught himself, he said: “I took bearings, with a small hand prismatic compass, to all objects I could see, and these bearings I laid down by applying my paper-scale to the proper bearing on the pricked protractor, and carefully shifting it along thence, in a parallel direction, to my station on the paper, and then ruling a line. I then estimated the distance, which I laid down by scale. I surveyed in this manner a great part of the Bellaco…. I also made a trigonometrical survey of the River Paraguay, from Curupayty to its fall into the Paraná.”
Shortly after he finished building the fortifications at Curupayty—the name was derived from the Guaraní word for the acacia tree—Lieutenant-Major Thompson, along with Captain Ortiz and Major Sayas, the commanders of the river battery, and Captain Gill and Major Hermosa, the artillery commanders, took Franco for a tour. Pancho and Ella came, too.
“We constructed a trench two thousand yards long and six feet deep and eleven feet wide,” Lieutenant-Major Thompson explained. Riding ahead, he proudly pointed out each of the gun emplacements; as always, he had a cigar in his mouth—the smoke, he claimed, helped drive away the buffalo gnats and mosquitos, which were a great source of aggravation. “These two eight-inch guns are aimed at the land front, the two over there at the right flank, those four at the river.”
Slightly south of Humaitá and across the river from it, Curupayty overlooked a bend in the Paraguay at a point where the water was deep and flowed swiftly. From there the Paraguayans launched torpedoes at the Brazilian fleet. The torpedoes were flimsy homemade affairs—glass capsules filled with sulphuric acid, chlorate of potash and white sugar, all wrapped in cotton wool. Many of them were accidentally exploded by driftwood or by curious crocodiles; one torpedo blew up an American, Mr. Krüger, and a Paraguayan, Mr. Ramos.
“Over here you will find several thirty-two-pounders mounted on both the trench and in the river battery—” Lieutenant-Major Thompson paused to slap at a buffalo gnat that, in spite of the cigar smoke, had landed on his neck. Dark clouds of buffalo gnats rose from the river and descended upon the camp—there were so many that a slap of the hand might kill half a dozen. The sting left a black spot that marked the skin for weeks, Lieutenant-Maj
or Thompson’s body was covered with them. “Already the five twelve-pounders and the four nine-pounders are in position in the trench.” He wiped the blood where the gnat had stung him. “All in all there are forty-nine guns and two rocket stands. Thirteen of the guns belong to the river battery, the rest to the trench.”
Ella could never quite say why she did not like the lieutenant-major. His manner was too dry, too formal. He never looked at her directly.
Finished, he bowed politely to Franco, then lowering his eyes, he bowed ever so slightly to Ella. Lieutenant-Major Thompson did not much like her either. Ella was too flashy, too pretty; he was more used to women like his mother and his sisters back home in England, who served tea and spoke only when spoken to. And a woman did not belong on a battlefield.
Since his bout with malaria, Franco had stopped drinking. He had lost weight and looked fit; for once his teeth did not bother him. Dismounting, with Pancho at his side, Franco walked over to speak with the officers. In an attempt to be friendly, Major Sayas put his hand on Pancho’s shoulder but Pancho shrugged it off.
General Diaz, the commander in chief, who had just arrived, rode up to Ella. General Diaz was married to Doña Isidora, one of Ella’s ladies-in-waiting. Short and stocky, he was enthusiastic and polite and Ella liked him well enough—more than she liked Lieutenant-Major Thompson.
Taking off his hat, General Diaz said, “This time, we will have them for certain.”
“I sincerely hope so,” Ella answered.
Reaching up, General Diaz slapped at a cloud of buffalo gnats that hovered over his bare head. “A victory, I guarantee it.”
Summer in Asunción was murderously hot and Charles Washburn was determined to move his wife, who was pregnant and suffering from the heat, to cooler quarters. Fortunately, Doña Rafaela, who was kinder and less avaricious than Inocencia, her sister, offered him her own quinta, a few miles outside the city. Built on a hill, the quinta had a splendid view and large airy rooms that caught the breezes. Also, it had a walled-in garden for Mrs. Washburn’s terrier to run in (although, at nearly twelve, Bumppo was a little arthritic and no longer quite so active). Mrs. Washburn spent most afternoons sitting on a balcony, reading and resting, and most afternoons too, unannounced, Rafaela came by to visit and to practice her English.
“American,” Mrs. Washburn corrected her. “It’s quite different actually.” Although blond and fragile-looking, Mrs. Washburn knew how to stand up for herself.
“As different as Guaraní is from Spanish?” There was something childish and naïve about Rafaela and Mrs. Washburn did not dislike her. Also, each time Rafaela brought gifts. The gifts of food, the look and smell of them, made her feel ill; some of the gifts were valuable: a gold chain with a pearl pendant for the baby.
“Oh, but I can’t accept this,” she started to tell Rafaela.
Rafaela frowned, her lip began to tremble, she looked as if she might cry.
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Washburn quickly got up and kissed Rafaela. “Of course, I’d be delighted.” Then, embarrassed, she called, “Here, Bumppo, here!”
Ella’s equerry, Lázaro Alcántara, claimed to be eighteen but Ella guessed he was only fifteen or sixteen years old. He was a quiet, soft-spoken boy, with blond, curly hair. If Ella went out alone, Lázaro rode with her; if Ella needed a leg up—which she didn’t—Lázaro helped her mount her horse; if Ella, for some reason, had to dismount, he held her horse. When Ella asked Lázaro questions about himself and his family, he told her that his mother was German originally—it was from her he had inherited his fair hair and curls; his father had died; he had a younger brother and sister to support. Lázaro also told Ella that his dream, once the war was over, was to go to Paris, to study. He wanted to study architecture there, he wanted to build the same kind of buildings in Paraguay that he had seen in books about France.
“I could teach you French,” Ella told Lázaro one day as they were riding along the bank of the Paraguay River.
“Do you think I could really learn?” Lázaro’s eyes shone with pleasure.
“Of course. We can begin right away. Bonjour, Monsieur. Comment allez-vous? You must repeat exactly what I say.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur. Comment allez-vous?” “Très bien. Only you must call me Madame.”
Standing in his shirtsleeves in front of his quarters at Humaitá, Franco was looking at the battle through his field glasses. It was an exceptionally hot and humid day but Franco hardly noticed (he did not notice until it was almost too late the sound of a stray enemy shell that landed a few feet away from him). He was watching the Argentinian soldiers cross the open plain and then, long before they reached Lieutenant-Major Thompson’s trench, get slaughtered at point-blank range by the fire of the 8-inch guns. When he was not looking through his field glasses, Franco was reading the dispatches; Baron von Fischer-Truenfeld had laid down the posts and telegraph lines from Curupayty to Humaitá—there were not enough telegraphs and Baron von Fischer-Truenfeld had had to improvise with an instrument that looked like a knocker. By the end of the afternoon, Franco had received several dispatches confirming what he himself could see: five thousand Argentinian soldiers dead and only fifty-four Paraguayan soldiers and two officers killed, one of whom was Major Sayas. Franco, who had barely moved from his post all day, except to run for cover from the stray shell, stayed where he was a little longer to watch the enemy retreat and his own soldiers go and gather the spoils: rifles, pistols, knives, watches, money, clothes, also saucepans—the enemy had planned on having supper that night at Curupayty. Franco watched the wounded who were lying in the field get shot—only a lieutenant, who had a shattered knee, managed to crawl away as the soldier who was going to shoot him had trouble reloading his musket—or, to save bullets, get hanged from trees. He watched until night fell and until the rest of the Argentinian dead were thrown in the marshes and into the river.
No longer used to drinking alcohol, the champagne to celebrate the victory went straight to Franco’s head. All night long, he sang, he danced, he told bawdy jokes. During the battle, one of the officers had gotten hold of a packet of letters from the enemy—letters from General Flores to his wife.
“Old impassioned Venancio, from your beloved Maria!” General Diaz, who also had drunk too much champagne, made as if to read the letters out loud to Franco. He mimicked a woman’s high-pitched voice. “To my old impassioned Venancio!” General Diaz repeated as he made loud smacking sounds with his lips and shook his hips.
Smoking a cigar and sitting off to one side, Lieutenant-Major Thompson, who was sober, was telling Colonel von Wisner about how the Allies had fired some very beautiful 40-pounder Whitworth rifled balls and percussion shells.
“So beautiful, in fact,” he said, “it would almost be a consolation to be killed by one.”
“I recommend you, Venancio, send me no finery or silk dresses,” General Diaz continued in the high-pitched voice.
“Receive my whole heart, my beloved Maria!” Franco embraced stocky General Diaz to his chest—General Diaz’s head barely reached Franco’s chin—then, laughing, Franco danced and twirled him around the room in his arms, as if he were a woman, while the other officers whistled and clapped.
“Mañuel!” Franco shouted, “bring us more champagne!”
Frederick Masterman was arrested a month after the battle of Curupayty. Riding home from visiting friends one evening—for him a rare luxury to be away from the hospital—he was absorbed thinking about why the sand flea needed to lay its eggs under the skin of a living animal, and he was not a bit apprehensive for his own safety. He had worked out in his mind that the sac in which the flea laid its eggs was not just a bag of eggs but the developed abdomen of the flea, which absorbed nutritive material from the skin of its host, when all of a sudden he was stopped by an officer and several armed soldiers. He was bound and gagged, and thrown into prison.
Although repeatedly questioned, it was not clear what he was accused of—something to do with the improper
delivery of letters not stamped by the Paraguayan post office, a mere pretext for his arrest. Under the threat of torture or, worse, death, he was forced to sign a deposition admitting to his guilt. Guilt for what? Frederick Masterman never found out.
Always damp, his narrow, underground cell was furnished with a bed (a hide stretched over a wooden frame), a broken chair, a candle and a basin; his servant, Tomàs, was allowed to visit once a day and to bring books and wine (later, Frederick Masterman claimed that Monsieur Narcisse Lasserre, a French distiller and a friend who lived in Asunción, saved his life by sending him three bottles of brandy). Tomàs was forbidden to speak to Frederick Masterman—a soldier with a drawn sword always stood between them.
The worst part of his imprisonment was he could not sleep. A sentry stood outside the door of his cell and all through the night, every fifteen minutes, to show that he was awake, the sentry shouted “Sentinela alerta!” His cry was taken up in succession by a series of sentries inside the prison and when the last one had finished shouting, it was time for the first one to begin all over again. Also Frederick Masterman feared for his health. Toads shared the cell—each time he got out of bed he put his foot on one. There were cockroaches and he lived in terror of being bitten by a centipede or a scorpion (luckily it was too damp for fleas). There were so many spiders, his cell resembled a giant cobweb. One spider that made its home in a hole in the wall next to his bed became the object of his special attention. He was fascinated by how seemingly effortlessly the spider managed to capture and devour the poisonous scorpions and by how frequently the spider laid its eggs, and as an experiment, to test the spider’s fecundity, he removed the ball of eggs, which was almost as large as the spider itself. Each time he did this—six times in a three-week period—the spider produced another ball of eggs.