Pacifica

by Jill Zeller

  We were in full view of everyone and in the very center of the camp. There would be no sneaking off without being seen by several people.

  The rebel citizens gathered around the troops as they happily laid down their burdens of crates and sacks. Several men emerged from a large palm-thatched structure to embrace the rebel commander and his brother. There was laughter, and the slapping of backs. Emerging from their cook and laundry shed the women smiled and snapped orders at the soldiers, who carried much of the supplies over to the cooking fires.

  Even the sight of this orderly little city of rebels silenced Edison Lowe, who had maintained a constant monolog with me as the main audience, all the way up the mountain.

  He was a journalist for the San Francisco Examiner, he’d told me, staying by my side as we followed the switchback trail upward. He’d learned Spanish, reported often on Mexico and Central America. He had just been in Panama writing an article about the opening of the canal. When I told him I drew for the Splash and the Windy Hill, he claimed to have heard of them. And I believed it, because he named a few of the stories I had illustrated. After learning that about me, he began to treat me as a long lost friend, a companion, different, somehow, from our other two hostages.

  The young assistant surgeon’s name was Milo Dudeck, and he stayed pretty much silent after offering this information about himself. If he was frightened, or just brooding, I couldn’t tell. He sat a few feet away from us, knees drawn up, his once-smart blue uniform smudged with dust.

  Hubert “Hammer” Schneider, quartermaster, my aging, bald protector, kept up a running monolog of complaints and opinions generously sprinkled with German.

  Mountain ridges folded away into green mist. Expecting jungle, instead I saw a dry, fragrant land of slopes dotted with tall trees. Up here, the air cooled at night and I shivered; the second morning I woke to find a wool blanket over me, put there during the night by someone.

  Today, however, I had to get these boots off. Before I even devoured the little meal the soldiers handed out, beans wrapped inside flat corn bread, I unlaced the boots. Edison Lowe’s eyes were closed as he leaned against a tree.

  My stockings were a bloody mess. Burning pain stung my toes and heel as I tugged them off, taking off bits of skin.

  I poured water onto them, trying not to gasp with the stabs of pain. How was I going to continue with feet like this? My stockings were unusable. Holes and rips ragged my skirt and blouse; my hair stayed coolly on my head with the help of pins, but raw sunburn chaffed the skin of my neck and cheeks.

  Milo Dudek appeared next to me, stirred from his brooding silence perhaps by my inadvertent intakes of breath.

  “Let them dry. We’ll try to pad them—perhaps with bits of your dress?” He gave me a slight smile. Weariness crazed his face, along with the dust of our trek up the mountain path. His satined-black hair stuck out in all directions, stiff with dirt.

  Hammer stood over me. “You need unguent. Bedamned these heathens, forcing a young lady to walk all this way.” His white uniform stretched over his massive body; white hairs felted his bulging arms.

  Milo’s gaze drifted past me; one of his eyebrows drew down. Someone approached us.

  The rebel commander and his brother, with another soldier trailing, stepped into the little thatched glade where his hostages rested. Since the leader had paid no attention to us during our trek up the mountain, the sight of him spun alarm through my gut. Was he now going to start shooting us, one by one? My stomach shifted, and for the moment the pain in my feet seemed a minor trouble.

  Milo got to his feet. Hammer stayed motionless, glaring at the rebel leader. I hoped the old German quartermaster wouldn’t do anything stupid.

  The commander gazed at us, one by one, his final gaze fastened on me. I felt the stab of his hazel eyes. His gaudy hat was gone, his black hair wet and combed, as if he had just washed. He even wore a clean white shirt, with scarlet sash and without his bandoliers. His wound was hidden under a fresh dressing, no sight of blood anywhere, arm fastened to his side by of all things a pale blue silk scarf. It looked expensive.

  Bowing slightly at the waist, he said, “Good afternoon, my friends. My apologies for the forced march into the mountains, but we needed to make a hasty retreat.

  “I am Jesus Robles, Coronel. This is my brother, Major Francisco Robles.”

  Standing a little behind, shadows of the tall trees striping his face, Francisco Robles watched us. In contrast to his brother he was still dressed in the dust-stained gear of travel, and cradled his carbine in his arms as if it were his child.

  “We rest today, but in a few days we start on a longer trip.” Colonel Robles jerked his chin at the third soldier, a very young man with dark skin and a round face who carried a bundle of clothing.

  Almost timidly, the soldier brought the bundle forward and laid it down at my feet.

  “You cannot travel in the clothes you wear.” Bowing again, Colonel Robles walked away. His brother gazed at us for a few seconds, face betraying nothing except for the barest twist to one corner of his mouth. Then he too left, followed by the boy soldier.

  Edison Lowe inhaled, exhaled in a low whistle. “Jesus Robles. I’ve heard of him. An educated man. The son of a plantation owner in Morales, the center of the revolution. Went to expensive schools in Europe.”

  “Why would a man like that be leading the peasants in rebellion?” I picked up the bundle of clothes, including a pair of thickly woven leather sandals. I couldn’t get the vision of Jesus Robles and his brother’s matching hazel eyes out of my mind. Each guarded an intelligence far different, I thought, from the other.

  “Radical politics, or the lure of anarchy, snares many a young educated man. Or woman.” Mr. Lowe’s eyebrows rose upward and he gave me a slight smile. His look reminded me of one dear Silas and the other newspapermen shared, of cynicism and sureness and knowing. Strangely, seeing this look on Edison Lowe’s face irritated me; although Silas had many faults, he spoke to me as if I were a colleague, and a friend. This Mr. Lowe seemed to think I was an innocent girl to be sheltered under his patronizing wing.

  But one thing Mr. Lowe had said intrigued me. Women anarchists. Women who joined in rebellions against repression. I wondered about such women, what their lives must be like, what sacrifices they would make to live in such a world.

  A moment later the young soldier returned with a little pot full of grease. He pointed at my feet, made a motion as if to show me that I should rub the grease on my blisters.

  Mr. Dudek took the pot, sniffed it, shrugged, and handed it to me. “Should work. Smells like Parson’s Unguent.”

  The clothing was clean. Soft cotton trousers, a loose shirt, leather sash. The sandals were soft and pliable with soles of thick leather. I instantly felt freer, as if the clothes made me a part of the land and the mountains; the trappings of my old life left entirely behind. Perhaps I was a fool, but I felt almost happy to be a prisoner of the Mexican rebels. So far they had treated us very well.

  Hammer scowled as he saw me appear in my garb, but Mr. Edison gave an approving grin. After staring at me Mr. Dudek turned away, his face flushing.

  Edison Lowe laughed. “The newest rebel member. And we are all Lynchistas, members of our own los proscritos.”

  Cursing under his breath, Hammer spit on the ground. “We should not make a game of this. They are killers. And they’ll kill us soon as kick us in the behind.”

  “A game is what we should make, it, Herr Schneider.” Edison Lowe kicked at a twisted log. “What else to do but laugh in the face of death?”

  “Do something about it.” Hammer’s voice hissed to a whisper. “They leave one guard on us. I can deal with him.” He opened, then slowly closed his massive hands as if squeezing an orange. “Steal horses and escape, back to Acapulco. Americans are there.”

  Mr. Lowe nodded, lips pursed. “And how many guards are on those horses? And do you really think everyone here is sleeping at night?” He gave a short, derisi
ve laugh. “These are smart, calculating fellows, stowing their hostages in the center of everything.”

  “Better to die trying to escape, than take handouts from murderers and thieves.”

  “Hammer, perhaps this isn’t the place to try.” I looked up at him, as he turned to me. I had grown rather fond of him these last two days, especially after he had tried to protect me from the soldiers back in the sick bay tent.

  “They can’t keep us here forever.”

  “Miss Lynch is correct.” Mr. Lowe gazed out across the camp, busy with movement as everyone worked to secure and sequester the stores. “They have big plans for us, I’ll wager.”

  And so we were to learn what those plans were that very evening.

  I

  Even the surly Hammer snored as the rebels left us alone the rest of that day in our little enclave. Weary and sore, we rested, but I couldn’t sleep.

  On a pad of palm fronds I lay, my head toward the camp, watching. Across from me, Milo Dudek sat silent. He had not spoken a word since applying the balm to my blisters, now ensconced in the soft leather sandals. Knees drawn up, he buried his face in them. I think he actually fell asleep in that attitude.

  As the heat of the day grew, activity in the camp subsided. In a perpendicular row to the cooking hut, directly across from our enclave, stood three tents, one of those shared by Jesus Robles and his brother. The other two seemed to house four other men whom I had seen enter Commander Robles’ tent shortly after we arrived. I assumed they were rebel officers of some kind.

  Directly across from the cooking hut was a little grotto encircling a stump where a wooden statue of the Virgin guarded a golden sacrament cup. Throughout the day several camp-members kneeled before her, lighting candles glued with wax to a stump beside her.

  Next to the little altar stood a series of thatched structures, under which, it appeared, soldiers lounged and gamed, laughing, arguing, and passing around small bottles. Behind these was a paddock made of brush, and inside stood horses, several small donkeys, and a couple mules.

  The women, I noticed, seemed to stay near the food and cook pots where they worked, laughing and talking. I counted six, one of them white-braided and large, the rest of various ages, from about twelve to forty. The cooking fires were banked—likely to prevent smoke from rising into the air and giving away our location, although I doubted there was anyone else for many miles around.

  Then, as the day became hotter, everyone became quiet. The soldiers rested, hats on their faces. The women lay on blanketed palm fronds along the back wall of their hut. The horses and mules stood motionless with one hoof cocked, nose to tail. The only sound was the ratcheting whirr of invisible insects in the trees. Even the birds were silent.

  I wished for my portfolio, my pencils. I could capture it all on paper, just as I was captured here, in this moment I could never have imagined in a million years. Nothing moving except the random leaf floating to the stony ground.

  I could draw, and not think of my family and whether I would ever see them again. If the rebels killed us, no one would learn of our fate for months, even years, perhaps.

  There were many things I could never tell my mother and father, even if I survived. Inside me a cold place opened and spread, like water through broken ice. Tears moistened my eyes and I wiped them away. It was no good, thinking of them. Concentrate, Ondine, on the picture before you, and how you would draw it.

  I must have slept, for the next thing I knew were voices and movement.

  Sunlight slanted across the rebel camp plaza. From the cooking tent came the sound of laughter. Shifting onto my elbow I sat up, wondering the time. Mr. Lowe lay on his side behind me, back to us, straw hat covering his head. Across from me Hammer stretched out on his back, massive hands folded across his belly, eyes closed.

  Mr. Dudek was gone.

  Sitting up, I scanned the camp. The priest knelt before his little altar. Women moved in the lengthening shadows of the cooking tent. The palm orchard where the soldiers had all fallen asleep was without movement—one of the crates, I knew, held a portion of the Leopardo’s liquor.

  Our guard had changed as suddenly as the light. Leaning against the young tree supporting one corner of our hut, a boy with a harelip turned sharply at my movement, hefted up his rifle.

  “Where’s Mr. Dudek? Our companion here. He’s gone.” Getting to my feet, I motioned around our hut. The boy stepped back, aimed his rifle straight at me.

  I felt a hand on my arm. Edison Lowe stood beside me, scowling, blinking, eyes puffy with sleep.

  “What happened?”

  I told him. Mr. Lowe raised his hand, stepped toward the boy, and spoke, in Spanish.

  I could see from the way the boy’s eyes narrowed eyes and how he barked the words, that his answer was less than helpful, more like be quiet and don’t move.

  Mr. Lowe glanced at me. “He won’t tell us anything. All we can do is wait.”

  By how Hammer was awake and on his feet. The soldier boy held his rifle tighter.

  Another soldier ambled toward us from the impromptu barracks area, his carbine resting casually on one shoulder.

  The boy spat another order to us.

  “He’s telling us to move back. I suggest we obey.” Mr. Lowe gently tugged on my arm and pulled me.

  I should have been afraid, but anger uncurled inside me. “You tell us what you did to him. Where is Mr. Dudek?”

  The soldier who had approached us, an older man with heavy, dark eyebrows and mustache, stood watching, amusement on his face. But the boy with the rifle aimed at us and glared, breathing heavily.

  Mr. Lowe breathed in my ear. “Don’t antagonize this boy. Don’t you see how frightened he is? He may just shoot us out of fear.”

  The older soldier said something, and I heard Mr. Lowe’s relieved intake of breath.

  “They took him to see Señor Robles. To check his wound.”

  And indeed a few moments later, the flap of the center of the three tents across from us opened, and Milo Dudek appeared, followed by Francisco Robles.

  As they approached across the compound, relief stretched its claws under my ribs and retracted them. You lost your temper, Nola Lynch. My cheeks warmed.

  “I don’t like it, them just taking him away like that.” What was this feeling? Was I turning into a mother all of a sudden? Or was it something more, a wish to keep our group whole and safe. If they started separating us from one another, it might mean the end of our safety.

  “They pretty much can do as they like, Miss Lynch.” Mr. Lowe smiled a little wistfully at me. His smug calm enraged me even more, but I bit back my reply.

  Francisco Robles stood easily, his ever-present rifle across his shoulders, arms draped over it and hands dangling carelessly. Then he lifted his chin at Mr. Lowe and uttered what sounded like a command.

  Mr. Lowe’s smile didn’t change, but I saw his hands stiffen. He glanced at me. “My turn now, apparently.”

  After giving me a long look, Francisco Robles sauntered away, following Mr. Lowe across the plaza.

  After Milo rejoined us and answered as little as he could of our questions, I paced until the boy with the harelip told me to stop. As dusk filtered the light from the air, I felt like a wild thing caught in a cage, and there was nothing I could do about it. I wanted to scream and shout at the sky, but that would be a mistake.

  I would have to be careful.

  C

  Mr. Lowe was gone a long time. Hammer kept up a steady watch, standing as close as the guard would allow to the edge of our little hut. Occupying his corner, Milo sat with knees drawn up, wrapped in silence, staring at nothing.

  I sat next to him, the stony ground hard and rough under me. “Did they treat you well? What were they like?”

  Raising his head, Milo glanced at me, then away. “Colonel Robles is very cordial.”

  “He must be a very strong man.” I laced my fingers around my knees, nerves like vibrating wires, and I hoped talking to the q
uiet Milo would quiet me. “I could see that he was weak from loss of blood. He must have been hemorrhaging for some time.”

  Shifting, Milo gave me a narrow look. “Yes, it’s a deep wound. Not, I think from a bullet, but a laceration, like a knife.”

  “Or a sword, perhaps.” I don’t know why I said it. I had seen some of the men carrying swords.

  “I thought the same.” Milo gazed at me. “You know something about medical practice?”

  “My father is a physician.”

  Milo nodded. “I would like to go to medical school, when I am done with my sea tour. San Francisco, perhaps. The ship’s surgeon, Dr. Door, encouraged me.”

  “Señor Robles seems to trust you. That is a gift in itself.”

  “They’ve treated us well enough.”

  Nodding, I wondered why. I knew little of this Mexican rebellion, except what I saw in New York Times cartoons. The United States seemed to view Mexicans as ignorant, violent peasants. From what I had seen so far, I had to disavow myself of that notion. On the contrary, Colonel Robles’ orderly and sophisticated operation turned that assumption into the myth that it was.

  Darkness rose from the ground; around us the ever-present insects increased their ratcheting music. Fires sprang to light near the cooking hut as we watched Edison Lowe, under guard, approach us, white suit catching the glints and reds of the flames.

  “Robles is an interesting fellow. I was right about him.” Edison Lowe lowered himself onto the palm fronds next to me and Milo. “He is the son of a plantation owner in Morales, the heartbeat of the revolution. Of course, he defied his father and the local chiefs who support los terratenientes, the landowners.”

  Pulling a cigar from his suit pocket, Edison Lowe fingered it longingly. “He gave me three of these. If only I had a match.” He leaned forward and held one out to Hammer, who took it with a gruff, “Danke.”