by Jill Zeller
“There’s a surgery now, to repair harelip. Dr. Doors told me about it.”
We watched the boy cross the camp plaza toward the leaders’ tents. He was probably fifteen or sixteen, small for his age, but he walked straight and proud. There would be, I feared, no pretty girl for him to kiss. A rope of sadness wound round my heart.
When I asked Mr. Dudek how this could be done, he told me Dr. Doors didn’t know of any doctors who could perform it, but he thought he could find out. The colors of the day and my pride in my drawings soured as I thought of Mama and Papa, who would soon be wondering why they had heard nothing from me. News of Leopardo’s wreck would reach the New York papers soon enough. Papa would be able to find doctors to repair harelip. But how would I ever be able to ask?
And not for the first time, my heart grew cold as iron buried deep in the ground as I looked across the plaza at the rebel leaders’ tents, flaps closed as they planned and plotted. What if they changed their minds about us? What would be our fate then?
Glancing back at Milo, I saw him looking at me through his deep brown eyes. I could see the same question on his face, and I knew he didn’t like the possible answer.
R
That night I dreamt of a wide river coated in black. Leopardo had become a leaky yacht, and myself, my mother, and Jesus Robles were onboard, floating rudderless into a veiled night. Lights of a city hugged the distant shore and we were trying to get there; the current held us as if we were stuck in ice, and carried us past. When I turned, my mother was gone and I shouted for her, my voice echoing in thick blackness.
I woke with Mr. Dudek’s hand on my shoulder. I had, apparently, cried out in my sleep. It seemed that starlight glinted in Mr. Dudek’s eyes, but it was the light of lanterns. Hearing voices I sat up.
Mr. Edison and Hammer stood near the opening of our lean-to, staring across the plaza. A group of men moved near the tents—one of them, Uncle Amado, I thought, held a lantern. I could make out Colonel Robles’ slender form, and the bulk of his brother beside him.
“Something’s up.” Mr. Edison stared, hands in pockets, pushing back his stained white jacket.
“A rider just came in,” Hammer explained in his thick German accent. “Sounded like a hundred of them.”
Lantern light shone on the faces of Señor Robles and his brother, Uncle Amado, and another wearing a bandana across his face. Drawing the bandana down, this one spoke to them in a quick low voice. Questions spun back and forth. I had to agree with Mr. Edison. Something, definitely, was up.
After a few moments of tense chatter the Robles brothers and the new arrival disappeared into Colonel Robles' tent.
By now more than half the camp was awake. According to Mr. Dudek’s wristwatch—a gift from Dr. Doors, seemingly—it was nearly five in the morning and pale light settled over the camp. Dark figures of soldiers milled in the plaza, muttering and smoking; a thick heat still lingered in the air, carrying the fruity reek of our enveloping jungle.
Low voices floated toward us as the men talked among themselves. I saw the women moving to the cooking hut, standing together, white blouses ghostly in the night. The distant call of some night animal, low and haunting, sent a chill down my neck.
Raised voices floated toward us from Colonel Robles’ tent. I exchanged a glance with Mr. Edison.
I said, “Sounds like an argument.”
Mr. Edison nodded. “Something about who will be sent ahead.”
“Can you tell what is going on?” This from Mr. Dudek. Getting up, he wiped his hands on his uniform. He seemed at last to have emerged from his perpetual funk.
Shaking his head, Mr. Edison shrugged, began to roll a cigarette. “I can only guess that perhaps Zapata has sent for Robles. There must be a problem with the truce.”
Colonel Robles had spoken of Emilio Zapata with respect, even reverence. But I had no idea a truce was in the works.
I asked, “The Federals will be talking to the rebels?”
Mr. Lowe shook his head. “It’s more complicated than that. The Federals are revolutionaries too, in Mexico City, and broken apart. They’re fighting Zapata. He refuses to join them.”
The cold iron inside me, the relentless heaviness of fear, began to thaw. Maybe, if there was a truce, we would be released. Able to go back to the United States.
Looking at Hammer and Milo Dudek, I knew they were thinking the same thing.
As we watched, and waited, a small group gathered near the little altar. The priest appeared, pulling on an ankle-length dark robe as he came from the shadows near the hut. Several soldiers knelt and it seemed a blessing was being given. For the first time in many years, an urge to thank my grandmother’s saints nudged at me.
But the priest froze as Colonel Robles’ tent flap flew up. The gathered men and women turned to stare. Francisco Robles was the first to emerge. Motioning to two men who fell in step beside him, he marched straight toward us.
Fear crushed my heart, froze my breath. Mr. Lowe moved forward, out of our hut, as if to meet the fierce lieutenant. Hammer thrust me behind him. Milo Dudek stood statue-like, staring with widened eyes.
Now, now, they are going to kill us.
But behind Robles from the tent came his brother, Jesus, shouting angrily, with the tall stranger quickly moving across the compound to follow his brother. Men swarmed close behind Colonel Robles. Others seemed to angle in to join Francisco. My panicked mind ordered them into two groups, one behind Major Robles, the others devoted to the Colonel.
The coming of this stranger had, I thought wildly, torn this quiet camp apart.
Colonel Robles’ voice shattered the night. “¡Pare lo que hace ahora mismo, soldado!”
Whatever Colonel Robles said seemed to make no difference to his brother. Pulling his pistol from his belt, Major Robles pointed it straight at Mr. Lowe.
Someone screamed, “No!” It may have been I, although later, as things happened so quickly, I was never sure.
Colonel Robles barked an order. But even before his men’s carbines could be cocked and aimed, the tall stranger stepped forward, pistol in his hand, and held it directly to the back of Francisco’s head.
My heart thundered deep in my chest. I felt as if it would burst out, spring forward from my body. I found myself moving, reaching, to get there and knock that gun aimed at Mr. Lowe away.
But a white cloud slammed me down. I fell, and as I fell I heard the explosion of a gunshot.
There was a weight on my legs. Heavy, warm. I couldn’t move, and I might have been screaming; at least inside a scream scratched at my throat like a crazed cat.
Voices, shouting, cursing. A scramble of feet and dust rose around me.
Have I been shot? I can’t have been shot. I’m still alive.
I sat up. I heard panting breathing, sharp, angry. The dust, or maybe it was terror that had blinded me, cleared, and I saw in a flash of terrible understanding what had happened.
Hammer lay across my legs. He was on his back, and a dark stain spread across the front of his white quartermaster shirt. He was looking at me, eyes open with a sort of wonderment. I looked at his neck, stretched and white like his shirt, muscular and corded.
Milo Dudek crouched beside Hammer, pressing on his chest, trying to stanch the bleeding.
Prying my legs from underneath Hammer, I went to my knees beside him, and without much thought, pulled my loose peasant blouson over my head and bunched it down onto Hammer’s wound.
My ears rang with the sound of the pistol. I heard voices, angry and pleading, Mr. Lowe’s rapid in Spanish, and Jesus Robles, spitting with fury.
Hammer watched me through his blue eyes, watched me without expression. The skin of his cheeks paled, blue shadowed his lips and under his eyes and I knew he was dying. We would not be able to save him.
While Milo pressed at the wound with my blouse, I cupped Hammer’s head, leaned in, and kissed his cheek. Tears came sudden, burning behind my eyes. I did not see exactly when Hammer went, as I kept his gaze on mine.
But Milo did, and taking my shoulders, he gently pushed me back.
Even though it seemed centuries passed while Hammer died, it was really only a few seconds. Now I looked around me, eyes cloudy with tears, wondering what had happened, trying to piece it together.
Mr. Lowe stood near Colonel Robles—they were talking, or Mr. Lowe was talking with Colonel Robles waving him away. Just to the Colonel’s left stood his brother sagging between two men; I could see a dark splotch of blood coursing down Francisco’s forehead and cheek.
The stranger stood a little closer to our hut, between the Colonel and his brother, and myself and Milo. He held a pistol in one gloved hand, not aimed but cupping the barrel. I could feel his gaze on me, over the bandana that he still wore.
I forced myself not to look away. The stranger’s eyes were narrow, frowning under straight black brows. He wore his hair in two braids, like an Indian.
“Milo,” I said, keeping my gaze on the stranger. “What just happened?”
Milo, voice high and breathless, told me that Hammer made a move and Francisco Robles shot him.
Hammer made a move. But it was I who made a move, not Hammer. My stomach shrank into a ball of sorrow.
Hammer made a move to protect me.
Milo continued, “Then that man with the mask hit the shooter with the butt of his gun.”
I got to my feet. My knees were steady and strong, but blurry lights floated across my vision, and something was wrong with my hearing. I walked out of the hut, past my hare-lipped guard and Mr. Lowe’s back and soldiers standing still as mice and straight to Francisco Robles.
I slapped him across the face.
The palm of my hand burned. But because of the pain I could see and hear again, as clear as bells and the open sea. Francisco Robles stared at me through spidery ropes of blood. A smile raised one corner of his mouth and he straightened. One of the men holding him let go, and Francisco Robles bowed to me.
Murmurs broke through the crowd of men. Turning my back on him, I saw Edison Lowe bringing me his jacket.
I had forgotten that my blouse was soaked in Hammer’s blood, and I wore only my flimsy blue lace chemise. But I didn’t care. Hatred for Francisco Robles flared inside me, hatred for his ready violence and smug responses. Shrugging into Mr. Lowe’s jacket I walked back toward the hut, tears again stinging me as I saw Milo kneeling helplessly next to Hammer’s corpse.
I said to Mr. Lowe beside me. “Tell them we need the priest to come. Now.”
But that moment the camp exploded into action like a hive of disturbed bees. Colonel Robles marched away, the tall stranger beside him. His brother, surrounded by men, followed.
“I don’t think there will be time for a funeral.” Mr. Lowe squinted as he gazed across the plaza. “I think we’re going to shortly be on the move.”
I was halfway across the plaza, my faithful guard trotting beside me, before I even knew I had left the hut. A huddled group gathered at the little shrine, but the young priest was nowhere to be seen.
I marched toward Señor Robles’ tent, but two guards stopped me. Inside I could hear voices; Jesus Robles giving his brother an earful, I hoped. Around me the camp bustled with activity. Men scurried to help the women pack the cooking tent. Others brought donkeys and mules from the paddocks and began to load them up with crates from Leopardo.
I stood helpless, as people rushed round me. How would I be able to help the brave Hammer? We couldn’t leave his body here to be torn to pieces by the big cats who roamed the jungle.
As I started back toward our little hut, I saw three men approaching it. Mr. Lowe met them, and as I neared I saw the young priest kneeling beside Hammer.
The rites were said, even though Milo said he believed Hubert “Hammer” Schneider was a Lutheran. We cleaned him as best we could, and wound one of our brightly woven blankets around his torso.
In his pocket we found a gold-plated shark’s tooth and a small leather wallet containing a worn photograph of a family before a white house; my eyes smarted with tears, and I wondered if these were Hammer’s relatives.
Milo gently laid the photo and the tooth on Hammer’s chest. “I don’t think he ever married. He was a sea-going man. He served on transatlantic voyages. He’s been shipwrecked and stranded and seen ports in Africa and China.”
Milo fingered the wallet. “These are likely his parents, and perhaps brothers and sisters. He never went back to Germany to see them, he said, not in many, many years.”
“But how will they know? Who will ever tell them their brother is dead?” My voice strained on the words.
“If I live, I will make certain it will be done.”
Taking Milo’s hand, because I couldn’t speak, I squeezed it. He gazed at me, a little startled, I think.
The three men, Mr. Lowe told us, had been sent to bury Hammer. There was, behind the crude hut that was the church, a graveyard with about half-a-dozen markers.
We stood beside Hammer’s body while the men chopped up the rocky soil under a tree with thick rising roots. The graves were shallow, piled high with rocks. I helped to carry some of these and lay them on the body, to protect and keep Hammer’s mortal coil from predators. His soul, I knew, had left this place he despised and gone seeking the sea where he was most content.
E
We reached the village of Tlaltizapán in three days. We three remaining hostages walked with the women, guarded by the hare-lipped boy, who told Milo that his name was Nicanor. In a way he reminded me of Etienne the kitchen boy of Leopardo, even though they had little in common except stature and age. And perhaps they shared a maturity beyond their years. Etienne’s deep intelligence and Nicanor’s surly quickness shielded them both as boys living in a world of men and trying as hard as they could to become one.
As weary as I was, I continued to draw in my notebook; we moved quickly through deep ravines on narrow trails, and halted only for short intervals, climbing upward into a high, dry forest of pine and oak, often shrouded in fog. When there was light enough—we had no cooking fires and ate cold tortillas filled with beans—I would sketch the scenes around me.
I saw little of Colonel Robles and his brother. Our train of rebels was very long, and they kept us in the midst of a ragged line of burros as the long-eared, sweet-faced and utterly obnoxious animals were called. They offered me a mule to ride, but I refused, telling them I would walk with the men as well as anyone. Whenever I caught a glimpse of the leaders I saw them riding together on their quick, small horses, and the masked stranger was always with them.
Uncle Amado sometimes brought us little bits of food: oranges, a jar of pickles, and once strong ground coffee in a metal pot. Whenever he did so, Mr. Lowe would ply him with questions, but he would just shake his head and smile, offering nothing.
The death of Hammer sat heavily on me. I realized how foolish I had been as I sketched the camp and began to respect and care for everyone there. Francisco Robles was a violent and brutal man, capable of killing in cold blood. If his brother ever invited me again to dinner, I told myself, I would refuse.
I hoped Mr. Lowe, as he scribbled endlessly in his own notebook, was writing down the truth of Hammer’s murder.
A storm pelted us the day we arrived in Tlaltizapán, a warm, tumultuous downpour bringing up the smells of the earth. Veiled in sweeping curtains of rain, Tlaltizapán was a tiny pueblo of red-tiled roofs on the side of a mountain. Uncle Amado told us that shielded by the rain were two nearby volcanoes, The Mount that Smokes and The Sleeping Woman. As we followed the winding trail down the mountain, we passed a church whose spires vanished into the heavy clouds above us. I wondered if the volcano and the iglesias competed with each other; the old gods would not be moved by the new upstart, and the town between was their claimed prize. An uneasy truce, I thought, just like the one Emilio Zapata was trying to forge with the new Mexican government.
In the drenching rain the little city resembled a pile of gray rubble. I realized, as I stepped over puddles,
protected from the rain by a broad-brimmed straw hat, and a woolen cloak called a serape, that this town had been awash in war only a few months ago.
The revolution, Mr. Lowe explained, had been fought all through this province of Morelos, south of Mexico City. We followed a sloping road between stone buildings pocked with bullet-holes and scorched with gunpowder. I could hear shouts and whistles. People of the town appeared on the street despite the rain, waving and calling to the soldiers.
The rain eased as we entered a small square. Near the doorway of what must have been a bar—cantina, Mr. Lowe translated—I could see Colonel Robles, his brother, and the tall stranger whose identity even Mr. Lowe had been unable to discover.
They spoke to two men at the doorway. The men wore the loose white garments of a farmer, the same I had been given. A lively discussion broke out.
A moment later we were on the move again. I heard the men muttering, the name Zapata sprinkled through their incomprehensible words. We were herded through narrow streets, driving upward, until we followed a narrow road along the mountain’s feet beside a high whitewashed stone wall.
The ground was slick with mud. I felt beyond weary by now, skin soaked damp and sweaty under my woolen garment heavy with rainwater.
“Where are we going?” I asked Mr. Lowe, and Milo stayed close to hear the answer. “What are the men saying?”
Mr. Lowe gave an impatient huffing noise, as if my questions were too trivial to bother with.
“A delegation from Mexico City has come to a nearby town to meet with Zapata. But he refuses to see them. President Carranza came himself.”
I wondered at this information, but more than anything I wished for the friendly sight of at least one American. But all I saw were weary soldiers with carbines slung over their backs, the great behinds of mules, and the citizenry in their white clothing accompanying us along the trail.
A moment later one of the soldiers approached and snapped an order at Mr. Lowe.
“He wants us to stand aside, to wait here,” Mr. Lowe whispered. Taking my arm, he almost roughly pulled me toward the stone wall.