by Lily Tuck
At last a parcel from France arrived; the wrapping paper was torn, the string untied. When Ella opened it, she could barely hide her disappointment. Instead of two books, she found only Salammbô.
Ils frappaient au hasard autour d’eux, ils brisaient, ils tuaient; quelquesuns lancèrent des flambeaux dans les feuillages; d’autres, s’accoudant sur la balustrade des lions, les massacrèrent à coups de flèches; les plus hardis coururent aux éléphants, ils voulaient leur abattre la trompe et manger de l’ivoire.
After reading a few pages, Ella shut the book. She had had enough of fighting.
The next time she saw Lázaro Alcántara, she gave him the book.
Pleased with the gift, he asked, “Is Carthage in France?”
“Yes,” Ella replied.
“Madame!” Lázaro was running back, he was waving something.
“What is it?”
PARIS
25 April 1868
Ma chère amie,
How I wish you could have been with me at the Odéon the other evening! I am certain you would have enjoyed Le Passant, François Coppée’s new one-act poetic drama. I am even more certain you would have enjoyed the performances! Madame Agar played Sylvie admirably (she is criticized for being too old but how can that be her fault? In my estimation she was excellent); but I must admit I was particularly drawn to a new young actress by the name of Sarah Bernhardt, who played the lover, Zanetto, to perfection; she was as supple and slender as any young man and one would have hardly guessed that…
Ella began to laugh. She laughed so hard she had to stop reading the letter. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Standing next to her, Lázaro was concerned. “Bad news?” he asked.
“Traitor! My own brother!”
Rage consumed Franco. He was dumb and numb with it. He could not have said what time it was or what day. He was not aware of any person around him or of any person speaking to him; if there were birds singing or church bells ringing, he did not hear them. Like a black funnel cloud, rage spiraled inside his head, spreading to his neck, straining the muscles there and settling in his chest, making his heart pound too fast and loud, forcing his breath out of his ready-to-burst lungs, making his arms and legs tremble and ache, and his hand shake as he closed it into a fist to hit Benigno as hard as he could.
Franco broke Benigno’s nose. He heard the snap of the bone and watched the dark blood flow from Benigno’s nostrils; it gave him a slight feeling of release. Once, a long time ago, riding home, he had beaten a dog on the road and that had given him a similar sensation.
“Speak, traitor!” Franco screamed, hitting Benigno again.
Whirling around, he turned to his brother-in-law Saturnino; like Benigno, Saturnino sat with his arms and legs chained to the back of the chair. Rage so fogged Franco’s vision that he could barely distinguish between the two men; he saw only treacherous, featureless shapes.
“Bastard! Piece of merde!” Franco yelled, his spit spraying Saturnino in the face. Shutting his eyes, Saturnino tried not to flinch.
“Here! I have proof! A signed confession by Frederick Masterman, the Englishman!” Franco continued, waving a piece of paper—the paper was blank and Franco was guessing. “You think I’m so stupid? You think I’m so ignorant?” He was working himself up even more. “You think I don’t have my spies?” This time Franco hit Saturnino. He hit him so hard that, still chained to his chair, Saturnino fell sideways and the men guarding him had to straighten him back. One of Saturnino’s eyes closed.
“Don’t think I don’t know everything. You dogs! You cowards!” Franco hit Saturnino again. This time the chair tipped over and again the men guarding Saturnino had to right it. “I know what you had planned!” Franco gave a mock laugh. “Also, the date of the evacuation of Humaitá by our soldiers. And do you have the temerity to claim that it was by sheer coincidence that the Brazilian ironclads made their way up the river on the same day?” Franco sneered. “Lieutenant-Major Thompson reported that he saw someone on board trying to signal to the shore. One of the men waved a handkerchief and shouted something—” Franco paused to catch his breath.
“Speak, Saturnino! Say something before I kill you!”
“Please!” Saturnino pleaded. He opened his eyes and tried to focus.
“As for you, scum, vermin, lowest of the low”—Franco went back to stand in front of Benigno—“always the favorite, always indulged. Well, not this time, little brother!” Franco punched Benigno in the stomach hard and Benigno’s chair fell over.
“Charles Washburn, the American—” Benigno tried to say when he had caught his breath and was sitting upright again. He had hit his head and blood was dripping into his eyes and frightening him.
“I know all about that meddlesome fool, Charles Washburn,” Franco roared. “His servant was in my employ!” Again, he laughed his mock laugh. “Basilio told me how you told Washburn that your secret plan was to replace me and become president in return for handing over the country to the allies. To Caxias—that cowardly bastard!”
Franco paced back and forth in front of Benigno and Saturnino. He could feel his rage diminishing, the black spiral cloud unraveling, dissipating in the air. A part of him wanted to maintain the frenzy, the fury; again, he punched Benigno, but not quite as hard this time.
“From the very beginning, I did not trust that fool, Charles Washburn; nor do I trust the other foreigners who disobeyed my orders and lived at the American Legation, claiming diplomatic immunity. That English pervert, Frederick Masterman! Cowards! I’ll have them all arrested. Mark my word!”
Saturnino tried to speak but his mouth had filled with blood.
“What? Speak! What is it that you wish to tell me? Ah, perhaps, you wish to tell me about your wife, my dear sister! She is a traitor as well! Do not worry, Rafaela and Inocencia will soon get their due!” The thought of his fat sisters made Franco lose control of himself again. “Fat cows!” He screamed at Saturnino. “I’ll have the fat scheming cows arrested!”
Saturnino tried to form a word but managed only a sound.
Franco stopped his pacing and stood still for a moment. He looked at his two prisoners. Benigno’s nose was swollen and he was trying to vomit only it was too painful; Saturnino’s eye had disappeared inside the socket and he was spitting blood. Both men were making horrible mewing noises and Franco wanted to be rid of them, rid of the sight of them. Annoyance, irritation, impatience had replaced his rage. He could feel certain things. For instance, a tooth had begun to bother him, there was a tightness in the gum, also a slight throbbing. He looked up as Ella came into the room. For the first time, he noticed the two deep lines on either side of her mouth.
“And what about your mother? Doña Juaña?” Ella was careful to make her voice expressionless.
“No, not my mother. Arrest Inocencia and Rafaela.” Suddenly, Franco felt tired. More than anything, he wanted to lie down by himself and sleep—sleep for a week, for maybe a month. “And that lazy, good-for-nothing stonemason who never finished building my palace, arrest him as well. Alonzo Taylor,” he added for no reason.
Fifteen
PIKYSYRY
10 September, 1868
My Dear Mother,
Several weeks have elapsed since my last letter to you and although I accept your affectionate reprimand I am also well aware that under different circumstances, my omission would be of no importance. My silence is due in part to my negligent habits but also to the suffering I have had to endure.
I cannot express to you, Mamma, the pain and sorrow with which I read your letter; I expected a more frank and honest reply. Dear Mamma! Perhaps, you do not understand the bitterness I have felt recently without ever daring to speak out or complain. All my endeavors have been useless and my hopes in vain. From the start, all of you have arrayed yourselves against me without a thought to what I may have felt. I am the poor victim! Only the good Lord let the light shine through the darkness to confound my enemies and allow me to surviv
e. And would to heaven!—would to heaven!—dear Mamma, that I could help those who turned against me to survive as well.
Venancio and Benigno are in good health.
If I can give you a word of advice, Mamma. I would recommend that you do not concern yourself overly with the events of the day. Despite your mother’s tender heart, it would not be prudent to show your alarm.
I read your letter as one from a mother to her son, rather than one from a supplicant to a magistrate. The latter kind would only do harm.
Please convince yourself, Mamma, of all the love with which your blessing is begged, by
Your most obedient son,
F. S. Lopez
Charles Washburn knew that the instant he left the American Legation to return to the States, Frederick Masterman would lose his immunity and be arrested—already a half-dozen armed guards had surrounded the house. Mrs. Washburn, in particular, had wanted to shake Frederick Masterman’s hand to wish him luck and tell him thank you—after all, had he not saved her life? And her baby’s? However the baby, Hester, was screaming—amazing the amount of noise a tiny baby could make!—and, to make matters worse, Bumppo had gotten so lame with arthritis she had to carry him in one arm (the baby in the other!), so that with all the commotion of the departure, Mrs. Washburn felt nauseated and dizzy all over again and she never even managed to say good-bye. Mr. Washburn too in his rush to accompany his wife, the baby, the English servants and secretary, to the harbor to board the U.S.S. Wasp, and to spare them the sight of—who knew?—the guards shooting Frederick Masterman on the spot, did not have the time to tell him what he had intended to—that Frederick Masterman was free to accuse him of any crime, if, by doing so, he could avoid being tortured and secure his freedom. Instead Charles Washburn had only enough time to wave a hasty farewell before joining his wife and the others.
In reply, Frederick Masterman had raised his hat and called out after him, “Good-bye, Mr. Washburn, do not forget me!”
Frederick Masterman had sewn a little opium and a little quinine into the seam of his coat. The precaution was useless. As soon as he was arrested, he was stripped of his clothes, the opium and quinine were discovered, iron fetters were fastened to his ankles and he was thrown into a dank, windowless cell. From there, Frederick Masterman, still wearing the iron fetters, was put on a mule and taken to San Fernando. Along the way, as the mule was descending a steep slope, the mule began to trot and Frederick Masterman lost his balance and fell. Unable to free himself—the iron fetters were attached to the mule’s saddle girth—he was dragged some distance on the ground on his back while the mule, attempting to free itself, repeatedly kicked him.
In San Fernando, Frederick Masterman endured far worse torture than the bruises inflicted by the mule. His arms were tied tightly behind him and a musket was placed under his knees; his head was pushed down until it rested on the musket and a second musket was placed on the back of his neck and lashed to the first.
“Is it not true that Charles Washburn was the chief conspirator in a plot to depose President Lopez?”
“No!” Frederick Masterman screamed.
“Is it not true that Charles Washburn was in league with the Allied commander the Duke de Caxias?”
“No!”
Two more muskets were added to the back of Frederick Masterman’s neck. As the cords were being tightened, he threw his head forward to avoid the pressure on his throat and cut his lip so badly that the blood almost choked him. Then he fainted from the pain.
“Is it not true that Charles Washburn was the chief conspirator in a plot to depose President Lopez?”
“Yes!” When he regained consciousness, rather than be tortured again, Frederick Masterman confessed.
“Is it not true that Charles Washburn was in league with the Allied commander, the Duke de Caxias?”
“Yes!”
After he had signed the false confession, which filled two closely written sheets of paper, Frederick Masterman was given something to eat—he had gone two days without food—and he was allowed to go to sleep, outside, chained to the ground.
Frederick Masterman woke up soaking wet the next morning. Exhausted, he had not noticed that it had rained all night. He recognized Alonzo Taylor, the English stonemason, who was still sleeping lying next to him; on Frederick Masterman’s other side, his eyes open and staring blankly at the rising sun, was a young Paraguayan officer who had died unattended sometime during the night. Venancio Lopez, Captain Simon Fidanza, Dr. Antonio de las Carreras, Major Aveiro, Lieutenant Levalle, José Berges, Gumesmindo Benítez were some of the other prisoners at San Fernando. Half naked, beaten and starved, their physical appearances were so altered—Dr. Carreras had his fingers crushed and could no longer use his hands, José Berges had both his ears cut off, Gumesmindo Benítez’s spine was broken and he had to crawl everywhere on all fours—that Frederick Masterman did not always recognize them. He did recognize Benigno Lopez, whom he saw being taken away by soldiers carrying muskets and cords, the instruments of torture. Don Benigno returned a few hours later; he could not walk or stand alone. Saturnino Bedoya, Frederick Masterman was told, had been shot in the head the day before.
Inocencia and Rafaela had been taken prisoners as well. The two sisters were kept inside a bullock cart whose sides and windows were boarded up. Every morning, they were made to stand with their dresses pulled up over their heads, their underwear already ripped to shreds, and they were whipped publicly.
“Misericordia!” Rafaela screamed, falling in a heap to her knees.
“Bastardo!” Although her fat backside was bleeding and she was humiliated, Inocencia would not give in to her brother. Two days before, her husband, Vincente Barrios, had tried to commit suicide by slitting his throat—unfortunately for him the wound was not deep enough—and Inocencia was made to watch while he was bayoneted to death.
“Bastardo! Bastardo!” Inocencia kept screaming.
Mathilde, Ella’s horse, stood swaying in her stall. Her legs could barely support her, her stomach was horribly distended. When Ella opened the stall door, the horse did not lift her head or prick up her ears or show her usual signs of affection.
“Mathilde, my darling!” Gently, Ella stroked the bloated belly.
“Oh, Mathilde, my Mathilde,” Ella whispered. She went to get the horse a pail of clean water, a handful of fresh oats, but Mathilde did not move. Mathilde’s breath was labored, her gray coat covered with sweat. Then, as if she could no longer bear her own weight, Mathilde sank to her knees and rolled onto her side on the floor.
“Mathilde!” Ella cried.
Too frightened to speak, the stable boy mumbled the names of poisonous plants: “Romarillo, chucho, mio-mio.”
Wrapped in her cloak, Ella lay down on the straw next to her horse. Long out of the practice, she began to pray silently: “Dear God, please, please, I beg you, make Mathilde well again. Please, God, don’t let her die. I’ll do anything you ask—anything, I promise—” Ella paused. “I’ll ask Franco to free those two fat bitches, Inocencia and Rafaela.”
Despite her efforts to stay awake and tend to her horse, Ella fell asleep. The next morning she woke to the sound of a loud healthy grunt. Mathilde was getting to her knees, then to her feet, her bloated belly gone. Also thirsty and hungry, Mathilde walked over to the pail of water and drank, then she went to the oats and ate.
“Thank God,” Ella said out loud to herself.
Stiff from lying on the ground, Ella sat up slowly—someone else, she realized all of a sudden, was in the stall with her. The person was still sleeping and at first—the light in the stall was dim—Ella thought it might be the stable boy, until she saw a shoe with a thick wooden sole sticking out of the straw. Doña Iñes had her rosary beads clasped tightly in her hands, and she was snoring lightly.
“Thank God,” Ella said again, resting her head against Mathilde’s neck.
Franco did not like to spend the night alone. Most nights, Juaña Tomas Frutos, Brigida Chaves,
Carmencita Chaves—the two women were not related—or one of the other women who had offered to take up arms for Paraguay and were producing saltpeter from urine (Franco no longer minded the odor on the women’s hands) or stamping percussion caps out of copper slept with him. Ella rarely did. The few times she stayed and shared Franco’s bed, Franco was either too tired or too drunk to make love to her and Ella was relieved.
In December, the Wasp—the same ship that had taken away Charles Washburn, his family, his servants and secretary—returned bringing the new American minister, General Martin MacMahon, as well as Admiral Davis, who had come to negotiate the release of Frederick Masterman.
“You see,” Franco said, showing Admiral Davis the confession signed by Frederick Masterman, “there is no doubt that the man is guilty by association.”
Franco was most persuasive and Admiral Davis was disposed to believe him. “I assure you, Your Excellency,” Admiral Davis answered, “that I will receive Mr. Masterman as a criminal and keep him prisoner until he has reached Washington and can stand trial there.”
On board the Wasp, the temperature often reached a hundred degrees. In the evening, as he waited for permission to disembark, thousands of mosquitos swarmed around General MacMahon and he spent his time slapping at them. He had brought a copy of Don Quijote de la Mancha to improve his Spanish but it was too hot to concentrate and too hot to attempt to discover the meaning of avellanado and anto-jadizo and pensamientos (for some reason, MacMahon had imagined Spanish to be a language of short, one-syllable words). To relieve the monotony, General MacMahon played cards, practiced his marksmanship with the other officers on board and wrote down the events of the day in his journal—events, General MacMahon could not help but notice, that were beginning to bear an eerie similarity to those created by Cervantes: