The Rebellion of the Hanged

by B. TRAVEN

“Now you’ll understand that it’s only because of the state of your hands that during the first two weeks they allow you to produce less than four tons without flogging or hanging you. But as soon as your hands have healed, those savages will find another part of your body to make raw.”

  Celso walked away, but in a few minutes he came back. “Listen, friend. I’ve just seen the other tree you cut.”

  “Yes, it’s the first I got down.”

  “All right, old man, but they won’t accept it.”

  “But why?”

  “Because you left it half finished. Here they count only logs, not trees. Go back back there and cut the trunk in the right place, calculating how much will make a ton. Then clean the bark off of a piece of it and cut your mark into it with your ax.”

  “By all the devils,” Cándido exclaimed, “doing that I’ll lose two hours more!”

  “With your lack of training, certainly. But what do you want? That’s how you must do it. There are plenty of trees in the forest. What the Montellanos want is logs, not trees. Well, then, you’d better go now. El Faldón will come round here in half an hour on his horse, and if he sees that tree the way you’ve left it, you’ll catch it. He won’t admit your ignorance as an excuse, just as lack of strength is no excuse here. Four tons daily—or hang, you lousy, shifty Indian! How are you going to get your four tons? That’s your business and has nothing to do with those who give you your grub and a gram of quinine now and then, not to cure you but to prevent you from dying too soon. The other way they’d have to bury you—and then you’d be able to rest.”

  The month of August came to an end, and Don Severo had decided to roll the logs into the water at the beginning of the next week. Accompanied by four overseers, Don Acacio rode around inspecting the camps on horseback to see if all the logs were collected and ready to be floated off. He was furious when he found that in the west camp more than two hundred trunks were still on the ground exactly where they had been felled. The ox-drivers explained that they had been hauling day and night but that it had been impossible for them to transport all the logs to the dumps. The logs were so deeply bogged down in the mud that to transport more than four of them each day had required inconceivable effort.

  Don Acacio called together the west-camp foremen and asked them what they had been doing all during the period of the cutting. They explained that they had had to stand over the cutters to make them produce the necessary wood and as a consequence had not had time to watch the haulers. They could not be everywhere at once, especially as there were only two of them. They begged Don Acacio to take into consideration that the trails and paths were inundated, that the mudslides were worse every day, and that the hauling was getting more and more difficult now that the rains were at their heaviest. Even the oxen were in a state of exhaustion, and the drivers were finding themselves obliged to haul trunks with their own hands.

  “Yes, you bunch of lazy good-for-nothings! Now you tell me this! But during the dry season you do nothing but sleep and get drunk. What else were you doing when it wasn’t raining?”

  “But, chief, it’s been raining in our district for months. And you can’t say that we’ve passed the time in bed and drinking, because here we have no aguardiente and no girls.”

  “Shut your mouth, you, if you don’t want me to shut it with this whip! I’ll deduct three months’ pay from each of you.”

  “Just as you wish, chief,” replied El Doblado, “but if you hold back our pay for something that’s not our fault, El Chapopote and I are leaving. That’s what we have agreed.”

  “That’s what you think, but your accounts still show you in debt.”

  “Quite true,” El Chapopote admitted, “we’re still in debt. But I’m not having anything taken from me, not even one day.”

  “Well, then, get going! Get out! Go and tell them in Hucutsin that I’ve run you out for laziness and getting drunk! But you’ll have to go on foot. The horses will stay here. You’ll go through the jungle on your own feet, on all fours if you wish, and one of these days I’ll have the pleasure of finding your skeletons well cleaned by the vultures. Come on, now, get moving! Send me some ox-drivers here!”

  Half an hour later two drivers appeared at the office.

  “At your orders, chief,” the men said as they went in.

  “Listen well to what I’m going to tell you.”

  Don Acacio went to the two ox-drivers, caught each one by an ear, and drew them toward him. Then he shook them as if he wished to pull their ears off. The drivers twisted and turned and tried to get hold of Don Acacio by the arm. At last he released them.

  “Tomorrow morning all the logs must be taken to the dumps. If not—if they’re not, I promise you that you’ll have a little fiesta such as you’ve never had. Get out there and tell that to the others!”

  The two drivers replied in unison: “Very good, little chief, it’ll be done as you order.”

  “We’re in the state we’re in because of your laziness. But you’ll see how I’ll put an end to your laziness!”

  Don Acacio went back into the hut that served as an office and sat down at the table. Outside, it was raining heavily. The ground around the office and the other huts was being rapidly converted into a lake.

  Don Acacio sent a servant to fetch him a bottle of mezcal from his kit and, having warmed himself inside, went over the list of workmen. From time to time he got up, strode over to the door, and looked out to watch the lake becoming bigger and bigger.

  In the end the water invaded the hut. “Damn the weather!” Don Acacio swore. He took a good swig of alcohol and shouted in the direction of the cookhouse: “Hi! Pedro! When are you going to give me something to eat?”

  “At once, chief,” answered Pedro. “One second, please. The coffee boiled over and put out the fire—but it’s nearly ready.”

  “Right. But get a move on. I’m dying of hunger.”

  An hour later the rain stopped. But the lake that had formed had hardly started to recede when another downpour struck the place. Then, night having fallen, the ox-drivers returned to the camp to eat.

  The rain had stopped again.

  The earth floors of the huts were drenched. Some cutters had hammocks, but most of them had nothing but a sarape.

  They were so tired that after having stretched themselves out they lacked the energy to get up when, an hour later, the water again flooded into the huts. The older and most experienced men had put planks on boxes and rolled themselves up on top, managing to sleep dry as long as the water did not soak in through the palm-leaf thatching. As for the others, who were not familiar with the jungle rainfalls, there was nothing for them to do but sleep in the water or decide to make the untold effort of arranging for themselves the sort of places the old hands had.

  Only the cutters had lain down.

  The ox-drivers, warned of the gigantic task they had to complete in the twenty-four hours to come, quickly ate their supper and rested a moment standing up. Then they lighted their lanterns and went to the camps. After being fed a little, the oxen also were led back to work. The drivers returned early in the morning to eat their rice and beans and go back once again to the camps.

  At noon Don Acacio mounted his horse and rode over the region inspecting the camps. Dozens of tree trunks were buried deep in the wet soil. He met ox-drivers sunk in the mud up to their chests and in danger at every moment of falling and being crushed to death under a trunk. They were making superhuman efforts to transport the logs to the dumps. Regularly every two hours the rain fell for twenty minutes, making more and more mud.

  “Look, you haven’t been able to move even half the logs in spite of the order I gave to move the whole lot. What did I promise you, you herd of swine? A little fiesta, wasn’t it? Well, you’ll get it—with music and dancing!”

  The only answer he got was the creaking, grating, and squeaking of chains against the yokes, the panting of the drivers making the inhuman effort to haul logs out of the swampy earth, the
tearing of the roots that held them back, the yells of the men urging the beasts forward, and the smacking sound of the muddy earth as it clung to the legs of the drivers and the oxen, submerging them a little more at every step.

  When night fell the drivers and their helpers returned to the camp to eat something. But they were so weary that they could not eat, for when they slumped down on the ground they fell into deep sleep. Only a few of them dragged themselves as far as the cookhouse to drink a little coffee and eat a few beans.

  Don Acacio arrived, escorted by his five foremen. Directing his voice toward the shapeless masses made by the bodies of the drivers on the ground and by the small group of men eating in the cookhouse, he shouted: “Get up, you lousy goats! On the way! Now you’re going to see who I am. To the dance—everyone!”

  The workers, accustomed to obey white men’s orders unconditionally, on hearing Don Acacio’s voice, stood up immediately.

  “Let’s go! Down there to the trees!”

  The drivers obeyed.

  “Hang them by the legs and put salt on their skin,” Don Acacio commanded the foremen. “And don’t be afraid to draw the ropes tight,” he added, turning to El Guapo. “If you pull off a piece of hide it’ll grow back on them again. Leave them strung up for an hour until the salt has sunk well into their pig-flesh or they swallow it when their sweat drips down over them. That way they’ll remember not to leave logs in the camps overnight!”

  The foremen needed at least two hours to rest and recover, but before that they had to be ready to untie and take down the hanging drivers.

  The tortured men remained motionless at the feet of the trees on which they had been hanged. There they slept in the mud without the energy to reach their huts, insensible to the cold and the rain.

  The next morning two of them did not get up, but went on sleeping. Four hours later they had begun to stink and had to be buried.

  7

  Among those who had been able to get up were Urbano and Pascasio, Indians from the same village and friends since childhood. They tended each other’s wounds and smeared each other’s sores with the grease that the cook distributed among the hanged men.

  It was still night when the drivers were called to work. Urbano and Pascasio followed the column, but they had gone only a few yards when Urbano said to his friend: “Now, little brother!”

  With catlike movements they left the column and slipped away among the trees, hiding behind trunks. The foreman who led the gang did not see the men disappear in the darkness. Even if he had seen them, he would have thought that they had stopped to look for something they had forgotten.

  The two Indians reached their hut, quickly gathered up all the dried meat, tortillas, and bean-meal there, quickly crossed the open space, and disappeared into the jungle.

  “We’d better go around so as not to cross the camp,” Urbano advised.

  “They won’t miss us until noon,” said Pascasio softly, as though afraid of being overheard. “With a little luck they won’t notice until early tomorrow.”

  The next day, at midmorning when they were wading across an arroyo, they heard their names being called. It was the two foremen sent on horseback to hunt them down. A lasso reached Urbano in the middle of the arroyo. Pascasio, who was quicker, was able to reach the other bank and make off. He ran to take shelter in the thickets that surrounded a low outcropping of rock. La Mecha sped his horse after the Indian, but the animal stopped at the foot of the obstacle in spite of the rider’s efforts to make him climb.

  Pascasio was on the summit of the rocks. He realized that he could not escape even if he clambered down the opposite face of the rocks and hid himself in the jungle. The foremen would find some way to make him come out—and then they’d catch him.

  La Mecha shouted to him to come down and follow them back to the camp without resisting, but Pascasio did not reply. He remained standing on the rocky platform, watching the movements of his enemy and hoping in spite of everything to find some means of saving himself.

  Seeing this, La Mecha got down from his horse and prepared to climb the rock.

  The other foreman, El Faldón, who had just returned to the other bank of the arroyo dragging Urbano firmly tied up at the end of his rope, immediately saw the danger: La Mecha was laboriously climbing one side of the rocks while the Indian was getting ready to escape down the other. Pascasio might well succeed, reach the base quickly, take La Mecha’s horse, mount it, and escape, abandoning the animal in some distant place because the prints of its hoofs would mark his trail better than those of his own bare feet.

  Having guessed the fugitive’s intentions, El Faldón acted promptly. He tied Urbano tightly to a tree trunk and then rode around the rocks to cut off Pascasio’s retreat. But the Indian understood the maneuver and quickly climbed up again, reaching the summit just as La Mecha did.

  All hope of flight vanished. Pascasio picked up a heavy stone and with all his strength flung it at La Mecha’s head. The foreman collapsed backwards, followed by the enormous stone. Pascasio, beside himself, picked up the stone, leaped on him, and pounded until his victim’s head was a shapeless mass. Then he looked around for his companion. He had lost his machete during the climb, and now he needed it to cut Urbano’s bonds, as too much time would be lost trying to untie them. But El Faldón, having lost sight of Pascasio, deduced that the Indian had descended the opposite side of the rocks and was now in the hands of La Mecha. So he retraced his steps and from a distance saw Pascasio at the point of releasing Urbano. But Pascasio also saw the foreman and again made off, running to climb the rock with the intention of hiding and of attacking the foreman from behind. When he reached the rock, his eyes fell on the body of La Mecha, in whose belt was a heavy-caliber revolver. If Pascasio had not wasted time looking for his machete, but had climbed up to hide himself sooner, he would have won the game. But he realized this too late. When he moved back after tearing the gun from the dead man’s body, he faced El Faldón pointing a revolver at him.

  Pascasio had never before had a revolver in his hand. He knew, and this because he had heard it said, that you had to press the trigger to make the bullet shoot out. Holding the revolver with both hands, he pulled the trigger. The gun fired before he expected it to, and the bullet was lost in the bushes.

  El Faldón considered only one thing: the Indian had tried to kill him. So, without hesitating, he in turn fired; and he did not miss. Pascasio doubled up and fell to the ground.

  “I ought to drill a hole in your body too,” growled El Faldón, looking at Urbano, who, tied up, had been a helpless witness to the scene.

  “I ask myself why you’re waiting to do it, you stinking coyote,” the Indian replied insolently, using the same form of address the foreman used in speaking to him.

  “Wait a minute, you mangy cur, and I’ll teach you not to be familiar in speaking to me.”

  El Faldón’s whip snapped repeatedly across the prisoner’s face.

  “So that next time, pig, you’ll speak properly to me,” said the foreman, replacing the whip in his belt.

  But Urbano was determined to incite him. Again using the familiar form, he said: “Your day will come too. Have patience!”

  “Shut up and see to the burying of the bodies!”

  “I’ll bury my comrade’s, but the foreman’s can go to hell.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  The foreman began to be uneasy, looking in all directions, scanning the horizon as if afraid he would see more fugitive Indians springing from the jungle. Finally he decided to untie Urbano, taking all sorts of precautions and leaving him just able to move but incapable of attack. Before freeing the Indian’s body and hands, he tied his legs so that Urbano could just stand up and take short steps. Then he went to Pascasio’s corpse, picked up the revolver that had fallen on the ground beside it, and put it in his belt. This done, he drew his own pistol and, aiming it with one hand, untied Urbano’s chest and arms. When the ropes fell, he jumped to one side and a
gain pointing his weapon, gave an order to the prisoner: “Pick up that carrion and take it down there among the thickets behind the rock.”

  While Urbano was carrying out the foreman’s order, the latter stood a few paces behind him, lasso in hand, ready to tie him up at the first suspicious movement. Urbano saw that he could neither defend himself nor escape. He carried the body of his companion behind the rock. El Faldón ordered him to do the same with that of La Mecha. Urbano obeyed.

  Finally El Faldón made him scoop out a grave. To make a good job of it Urbano should have had his machete, but El Faldón was wise enough to know that at the least sign of carelessness on his part the prisoner would cut his bonds and take to flight. Urbano might easily pick up a stone and smash his skull without giving him time even to shoot.

  So he ordered Urbano to cut a strong branch. Using it, the Indian began to dig the ditch. The process was slow and difficult. At last the trench was opened.

  El Faldón said: “Put La Mecha in the hole.”

  Urbano lifted the corpse and threw it into the ditch, using his feet and hands to help.

  “Tell me, you bastard, can’t you do it like a Christian? As if he were a dog!”

  “God will judge better than we can,” answered Urbano.

  “Come on, get out of there!” roared the foreman.

  He went up to the body, took off his hat, crossed himself, and made the sign of the cross over the corpse, all without ever taking his eyes off the prisoner. Now the trench had to be filled in. He was about to order Urbano to do it when he remembered a rite that he had forgotten. He lassoed Urbano suddenly and rolled him over on the ground.

  “Stay there and don’t move until I tell you to. Understand? If you’re unlucky enough to move your head, you know what’ll happen to you.”

  Urbano remained perfectly still.

  Then El Faldón, watching the Indian from the corner of his eyes, began to go through the dead man’s pockets. He found four pesos and twenty-three centavos. He removed the cartridge belt and examined the body carefully for anything he might find hidden among the clothes. When he did not find anything he regarded this ceremony as completed. El Faldón turned back toward Urbano.