by B. TRAVEN
Although the muchachos had old scores to settle which the inhabitants richly deserved to pay, it turned out, when a count was taken, that the losses were no greater than was usually the case when smallpox invaded the town. Of course, all the soldiers and the majority of the officials in the town hall had fallen for the honor of their Caudillo, as was subsequently reported in the newspapers.
The respectable citizenesses returned to their houses, and with the surviving pots and pans and the remains of their rice, corn, and dried meat began to prepare the evening meal.
While the women were thus occupied, the men were standing about the plaza, telling each other how bravely they had dealt with the rebels and how they had once again shown them how far superior a ladino was to a dirty Indian.
The cleverer among the citizens, however, wasted no time with such boasting, which profited nothing. They hastened to divide rapidly among themselves the now vacant civic posts, before the rest of the people had had time to recover from their adventures and to discuss the question of holding office or even of holding emergency elections. Finally, one of the men in the groups that were standing about the plaza declaiming their heroic sagas, said, “Caramba, vecinos, we’ve now got to think about new officials for the jobs; I believe, compañeros, I’ve always shown that I have a righteous character and that I’m by no means disinclined, in these difficult times through which the fatherland is passing, to shoulder the burden of being mayor of Achlumal.”
“We’ll discuss that in a moment, Don Aurelio,” replied Don Jesus Maria. “I am sure that you would scarcely seriously deny that I possess that sense of honesty, that proper feeling for justice to qualify me for the post of chief magistrate.”
“Of course, of course, Don Chucho,” responded Don Aurelio hastily, immediately sensing that in Don Jesus Maria, at all events, he had already found an influential citizen who was on his side.
“Caballeros!” said Don Pablo, coming up with half-a-dozen others to the chattering groups. “May I present our new civic officials and our new federal authorities? I myself, obeying at last the urgent persuasion of our most eminent citizens, have assumed the heavy duties of municipal president. We are convinced, caballeros, that in view of the prevailing circumstances you will raise no objections, for we are counting on your patriotism and on your benevolent support as good citizens.”
“Of course, of course, Don Pablo,” said Don Aurelio sourly. “We, my friend Don Jesus Maria and I, have nothing to object. I thought that I perhaps—”
“We thought of you, too, Don Aurelio,” interrupted Don Pablo hurriedly, “and also of Don Jesus Maria. But we realized that you, with your tobacco-purchasing, and Don Jesus with his pig-trading were too heavily occupied at the present time for us to expect you to neglect your excellent businesses in order to serve the community and the country.”
What mean spite that man displays in comparing my poor business with the fat perquisites of a mayor, thought Don Aurelio furiously. But aloud he said, “I am convinced, Don Pablo, that our town could find no better president than yourself.”
“Muchas gracias, Don Aurelio. A thousand thanks for your kind opinion of me,” replied Don Pablo. He walked over to Don Aurelio and embraced him. “I wish I had more friends as upright as you, Don Aurelio. Come over to my house for a while this evening, and bring Don Chucho with you. I’ve still got a few bottles of good old comheco tucked away that those pestilential swine didn’t find.”
“Do you not think that these thieves and bandits may come back here again?” asked Don Emilio, the new mayor.
“Don’t worry, my dear mayor. There’ll be no rebels returning here so long as I’m municipal president. That I can assure you. I have already sent two muchachos to Balun Canan and two to Jovel to report to the military authorities and to describe the route those scabby curs have taken. There’ll be a thorough clean-up during the next few days. This damned mutiny will be nipped in the bud. We’ve always been too lenient with those scoundrels. I’ve always said that insolent peons and loud-mouthed campesinos should not be put in jail, but hanged immediately, as soon as they open their stinking mouths and start talking about getting no justice here.”
9
On the flat land between Achlumal and Balun Canan the army of the rebels lay encamped. There were several reasons that made General delay the march on Balun Canan.
Balun Canan was no small market center like Achlumal, nor a little town like Hucutsin. With more than ten thousand inhabitants, it was among the most important centers in a state that contained only six towns with over five thousand inhabitants.
There was also a strong garrison.
Simply to attack the town, as the muchachos had done with Achlumal, would have been impracticable; even if this had been attempted, it would have resulted in the total destruction of the rebel army. Not one of the muchachos doubted that.
General pondered anxiously over plans that might enable him to conquer and wipe out the opposing troops without being compelled to attack the town so long as it was occupied by the garrison. If he wanted to advance on the capital of the state, he dared not leave these troops at Balun Canan in his rear, especially since the troops he would encounter in the capital city were far more numerous and better equipped than those that lay at Balun Canan.
“Can I help you?” asked Modesta, coming up to Celso. Celso was occupied with his machine gun, oiling it, cleaning it, and examining it with endless patience for loose screws and sand.
“Of course you can help me, muchacha,” answered Celso. “Go over to that fire and fry some pig fat so that I can grease and oil this properly. Hell! while we were in Achlumal I should have gotten myself a can of olive oil from a shop. Do you know, Modesta, that olive oil, Spanish olive oil, is the best thing you can have for oiling a machine gun when you haven’t got the proper oil handy?”
Modesta produced a thick bundle of rags, which she laid on the ground. “These are the best things for polishing such a wonderful weapon,” she said, smiling.
“Where did you get those rags, Modesta? They look just like silk.”
“They are silk, Celso. They’re my silk dress that you gave me from the shop in the monterías. But what need have I of a silk dress now that we’re at war? It’s far better to use the silk for cleaning your machine gun.” As she said this, she had already begun to polish the brass bits, which soon shone so that one could see one’s own reflection in them.
“But get me the pig’s fat first. Then you can go on with your polishing,” said Celso.
“I can get that,” said little Pedrito, who had come up with Modesta.
“All right, chamaquito.” Celso grinned good-humoredly. “You can fetch it just as well as Modesta. And then I’ll show you how one oils a machine gun properly and according to the rules. Because once we get into a fight, there’s no time for oiling or cleaning, and if the thing jams just at the wrong moment, then the soldiers will be on us and it will be goodbye to my beautiful machine gun. If you ever want to become a proper machine gunner, then remember this: the important thing is always to be ready a day before the enemy, and always to be on the battlefield two hours before those mercenaries arrive.”
“I’ll remember that, mi comandante” answered Pedrito and saluted. Then he ran off to find a container in which to carry the hot hog’s fat.
Modesta, somewhat pensive, kneaded the silk rags in her hands in order to make them even softer than they already were. Attentively she watched every movement of Celso’s hands as he removed the screws and with a sliver of wood scratched the sand and dust out of the cavities, grooves, and crannies, screwed the gun together again, peered through the sights, then swung the barrel to left and right and squinted through that, too, as he rejoiced over the polished fittings.
When Modesta had watched him for a while, she sighed deeply and then said softly and shyly, “Celso, do you know what I’d like better than anything else in the world?”
“What, muchacha?” he asked without looking up from his g
un.
“You told me you would teach me how a gun like that works and how one fires it on those mercenaries and ear-choppers.”
Celso stood up and looked at her. “I do believe, Modesta, that you really could be a good and useful soldier with my machine gun if you paid attention to what I taught you. Do you know, girl, I haven’t been able to sleep well for nights? Always wondering what would happen if I got hit. Who’d take over my machine gun, I’d like to know? All the other men have their own jobs and duties. Ambrosio and Eulodio, my two half-sections, aren’t worth a torn sack, I must admit. They don’t run away. They’d never run away, whoever attacked them. But if this gun stopped working because something was wrong with the machine, they wouldn’t know what to do and they’d take to their machetes, which they can handle devilish well, but this beautiful gun stays out of action when we’re perhaps needing it more desperately than the pure air we breathe. I’ve explained it to them a hundred times. But these asses can’t learn. They can’t even aim it. They let loose with it and think the bullets will fly of their own accord just where they want them to, mowing down the Rurales. General’s got the same concern. We’re all worrying ourselves to death because not a man knows how to handle an automatic he captures. But you could learn, Modesta, I know that for certain. You’re clever. I could trust you with the gun if we needed it in a battle and I got a stopper in my guts. And why not? You could be just as good a soldier as I. I’ll teach you everything I know. And I’m sure you’ll be one of the best machine gunners in the rebel army.”
Modesta looked at him and said softly, “You’re such a good fellow, Celso. And I think I must kiss you because you are such a good muchacho, with a good heart. Really you are, Celso. I’ve been wanting to tell you that for a long time. And now I can because you’re going to let me work with you and your beautiful machine gun.”
Modesta had scarcely begun to polish the gun anew and even more energetically when Colonel came stumbling up. “My God, I thought I had a few machine gunners I could use against the enemy. And what the hell was I thinking of?”
Celso and Modesta both looked up aghast.
“No need to get scared, you young fools.” Colonel laughed. “You’ve done no damage yet. An efficient soldier always keeps his gun in good condition and so brightly polished that he never needs a mirror. In barracks. And in peacetime, mind you. But now we’re at war. Rub muck over all that polished brass and let it crust there—that’s my advice. Then tie twigs with plenty of leaves on them around the gun as soon as you know the enemy’s near. Of course, you mustn’t let mud get into the barrel or into the chamber or breech, causing the gun to jam. But if it shines as it’s shining now, my God! it can be seen a hundred miles away, and no need of a telescope either. Smear some paint on it, or grease it and then sprinkle it with ashes. That’s the proper thing in wartime. When those damned swine attack, that’ll have to spray them like a hose, but they mustn’t see where the spray’s coming from. Now do you understand the point, Celso?”
“You’re right, Colonel. I didn’t think of that.”
“How could you? No one had told you about it. But from now on, you know. It’s good advice.”
“Now are you sorry about your silk dress?” asked Celso, after Colonel had stumped off.
“Not a bit,” answered Modesta. “In any case, it was always in the way. I was ashamed of having it. It looked just like one of the dresses of those rich ladino women. What do I need a silk dress for? After all, we’re rebels.”
“Where have you been with that hot fat?” Celso shouted as he saw Pedrito come tearing along, carrying a little jug carefully in both hands.
“Here you are, Celso. The pig had to be slaughtered first,” bellowed Pedrito as loudly as he could. But this retort distracted his attention from the stony ground. He tripped and fell headlong, smashed the jug, and the fat ran over the earth.
“And there lies Pedro and his brew in the mud,” roared Celso, laughing and going over to the boy. “Run back to the fire right away and get some more fat.”
“There’s no more there,” said the boy, and began to howl.
“Why no more?” asked Celso. “A pig has more fat than just that little jug full.”
“Yes,” sobbed the boy, “but when I said what you wanted the fat for, all the muchachos came up with their rifles and revolvers and wanted to grease and oil them, and in a flash it was all gone.”
Celso bent down to the broken fragments of the jug and began, with Modesta’s help, carefully to scrape up the top layer of fat that had not been in contact with the soil and to pile it on one of the pieces of pottery.
It was night. General walked up to one of the outer fires that served as assembly points for the forward sentries. Beside the fire lay two muchachos, squalling and singing.
“Stand up!” commanded General.
“You can’t order us about, see?” said one of them, while the other made a clumsy effort to rise.
“What are you standing up for? Lie down!” said the first.
Several of the muchachos accompanying General sprang forward and hoisted up the two sentries with a fierce, unmerciful grip, standing them on their feet.
“What’s your name?” General asked the first.
“Go to hell!” was the reply.
“A good name for you,” retorted General. “Just the place you’ll soon be going to.”
“And you?” General asked the second. “Davila. Angelo Davila.”
“Where did you get the brandy you’ve been drinking?”
“Back there, from the little ranchito. From a poor peon, just like us,” said Angelo Davila.
“I posted you—and four others—here on sentry duty because you have rifles.”
“They’re our guns,” said the first, shouting. “We won them and we can do what we want with them.”
“Where are they then? The rifles, I mean,” asked General calmly.
“General,” said Angelo, “General, you don’t imagine that the peon in the ranchito can give us brandy. He’s as poor as we are.”
“Not quite as poor as you are,” General informed him. Then he turned to the muchachos who were holding the couple upright. “Let them go. They’re fools.”
The muchachos stepped back, and the two men swayed from side to side without actually falling to the ground. General shot twice. “Throw them into the fire,” he said to the muchachos. “Poke them in with your feet and shovel the fire over them.”
After that he ordered four muchachos to go over to the ranchito and give the peon a peso, which he produced from his pocket, and to bring back the rifles.
Then he went on to another outpost where forward sentries were on guard. He went alone. The muchachos who had remained by the fire to carry out General’s orders heard four more shots.
“Those out there,” said General, when he returned, “we’ll leave to the coyotes and the vultures. And besides,” he added, looking at the muchachos, “anyone who thinks that we’re marching about these parts for pleasure is mistaken. Every man must understand that by now. Either we’ve embarked on a rebellion or we’re taking a walk. And if we’ve decided it’s a rebellion, then it’s a rebellion and not a holiday excursion. Right—or wrong?”
“Right, General,” answered Professor. “Right in what you say, and right in what you did. Anyone who doesn’t expect and understand this has brought nothing here and therefore has nothing to expect here. We don’t need him and are better without him. Shouting viva won’t win us any revolution. We can do without those loudmouths, but not without rebels who know why they are rebels.”
General sent out other muchachos as forward sentries.
Late in the afternoon of the following day four peons came into the camp. A sentry led them before Professor so that he could hear what they wanted to say.
“What brings you here?” he inquired. And he asked in such a tone and manner as if similar visits occurred ten times daily.
In fact, peons or other Indians never came int
o the camp unless they stumbled upon it on their way elsewhere. And even in these cases, such folk hastened away from the camp quickly, as soon as they saw the first sentry. After four hundred years of injustice, the Indian had become so mistrustful that he assented to everything with his lips, but in his mind believed nothing and trusted no one, especially those who came saying they were his friends or would like to be.
Therefore it was understandable that Professor studied these visitors attentively, without, of course, letting them notice it.
One of the peons spoke up, “There was so much talk in the fincas about you people from the monterías, that you want to free everyone and give them land and soil, freedom, and independence when you win. If that’s really true, we’ve come to talk to your chief so that he can come to our finca and free us too, for we’re very much enslaved!”
The way this man spoke convinced Professor that something was not quite right. He noticed that the speaker was at pains to make mistakes in his Spanish, as peons do unconsciously and involuntarily, since they are more accustomed to their own Indian language than to Spanish. Professor was particularly struck by the phrase “we’re very much enslaved,” which was remarkable and odd. The peons, like all the Indians, did not express their unhappy social and evil economic state in such words. From their youth they had been accustomed to working as long as a spark of strength remained within them. Cash payment they never saw, and they never spoke of being enslaved or exploited; only at most that they were too poor to be able to pay their debts to their employers, and therefore unable to leave the finca and settle somewhere on an unoccupied patch of ground and live as independent settlers.