The Rebellion of the Hanged

by B. TRAVEN

  “I’m going to tell you something you don’t know yet, Celso, something only I know.”

  Celso strained again to see the face of the man seated at his side on the sandy bottom of the river, but it was too dark. He sucked sharply at his cigarette. When the burning tip revived, a glow illuminated Martín Trinidad’s face. The latter looked around him to make sure that nobody was close enough to hear what he was going to say. He inched closer to Celso and spoke in a half voice.

  “What they say in the office about Don Acacio’s accident is a lie.”

  “What are you calling a lie?”

  “The story is entirely different, but they don’t want the truth to be known. They’re terrified that we’ll do the same.”

  “The same what? Speak up! Nobody’s listening to us, and if anyone should stick his ear in, I’d give him such a wallop that it would be a week before he could talk!”

  “Pascasio and Urbano ran away. You know that. But what you don’t know is that when Pascasio was about to be captured he smashed La Mecha’s skull with a stone. El Faldón shot him immediately. Urbano told the cook’s woman all about it while he was waiting for Don Acacio to get ready to give him the usual beating. But what Urbano did down here on the riverbank only I was able to see. Urbano took advantage of a momerit’s carelessness on the part of Don Acacio, jumped on him, tied him to that tree you see over there, and gouged out his eyes with a thorn.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes. I was on my way to change my ax in the store when I happened on that scene. I hid behind some bushes and saw everything that happened. After doing what I told you, Urbano tied a stone to his belt between his pants and his skin and jumped into the river, drowning himself. Nobody knows that. They all think that Urbano fled again and they’ve sent two men to follow him. Later Don Acacio, crazed with the idea of never seeing again, put a bullet in his own head.”

  “Did you see that too?”

  “No. But Epifanio, the boy in the store, saw it all through a crack. He saw Don Acacio commit suicide.”

  Celso hissed softly and said: “Do you know, Martín Trinidad, all this is very pleasant!”

  “Yes? Well, I know still something else,” said Martín, getting even closer to Celso and lowering his voice further. “The others up there think that Urbano escaped with Don Acacio’s pistol and cartridge belt. The fact is that he threw the pistol aside because he didn’t know how to use it. The poor fellow was very stupid. When he walked into the river I came out of my hiding place, picked up the revolver, and took the cartridge belt from Don Acacio, who was by then blind and unable to take in anything that happened.”

  “Then you have the revolver and the bullets?” asked Celso in a low, very excited voice.

  “Yes. I buried them in the sand. You’re the first one who knows this. As you can see, we could save ourselves easily.”

  “I’ve thought a lot about that. But no purpose would be served if I were to save only myself or you only yourself. We must all of us flee on the same day, and it’s essential for us to swear that we’ll never allow them to capture us and that we’ll die rather than let them bring us back here. The best thing to do would be to do away with everybody who isn’t one of ourselves. If we let them go on living, everything will go on as it was before, and some day or other they’ll have their feet on our necks again. Only a complete and well-directed operation will do. One man by himself can’t change anything or do anything. We must all work together and at the same time. Otherwise everything would be useless. I could have fled a hundred times, alone, or with Andres or Santiago or Fidel—who are also to be trusted. But we have told ourselves again and again that all these camps must be wiped out, completely destroyed, and the bosses liquidated and overseers exterminated. Otherwise it’s not worth the effort.”

  “You’re more intelligent than I thought, Celso.”

  “Don’t think that I’ve worked out all these ideas by myself. I’m strong and can stand a lot, but reasoning is a different thing. We’ve been discussing it together—Andrés, Pedro, Santiago, and all those of us who during their lives have seen something beyond the village or finca where we were born. And look, a schoolmaster and two soldiers who think exactly on the same lines come to join us! We needed exactly such help. Now we must think about how and when. It’s a pity that Urbano drowned himself. He was a true rebel, the sort of man we want. Because up to now nobody had dared to attack a boss and tear his eyes out. I don’t know if I myself would have had the guts to do it. Maybe so, it all depends. It’s a matter of the moment when a man has to say to himself: ‘This is the end. This is all I can endure. Anything more would be too much. Now I attack, cost what it may, for all that matters now is to end this, once and forever.’ ”

  Martín Trinidad took a last puff of his cigarette, threw it away, and stepped out of the water, shaking himself.

  Celso put his head under water, made great bubbles, spat, wiped his wet face with his hands, tossed back his long hair, and with his arms outstretched propelled himself like an arrow onto the sandy bank. “I feel like a sponge,” he said to Martín Trinidad. “But at least I think I got rid of all the ticks. The mosquito bites have disappeared and even the marks of my last hanging don’t show up now.”

  When they reached the top of the embankment Martín Trinidad said quietly: “It’s understood that you won’t say anything about what I’ve just told you, Celso. Not even to Andrés. Nor will I say anything to Méndez and Ortiz. Only you yourself know it. Let the men go on thinking that we’re three tramps, three escaped convicts. Let them think whatever they like. I wanted you to know who we are and that we think and want the same things as you and your friends. You go your own way and we’ll go ours. But when it’s time to break loose you must know that if you take the lead, I’ll form the rear guard or that I’ll take the vanguard if you decide on the rear. We may have to wait two months, maybe six, but I know we won’t have to wait a year. Over the whole country the fire is spreading, the first flames are rising everywhere. What mattered was for me to tell you what I have told you. Our war cry will be ‘Land and liberty!’ and ‘Down with the dictatorship!’ ”

  “Not in such a hurry, little brother,” Celso replied. “Not yet. When with all our strength we cry ‘Liberty!’ not a single man must fail to respond to the call.”

  “We don’t need banners or standards,” Martín Trinidad said. “All we need is blood in our veins. ‘Land and liberty!’ ”

  And instead of “Good night,” Celso answered: “Land and liberty!”

  10

  The following night Don Felix walked into the lean-to where the workers ate their meals. Six tree trunks held up a thatched roof, and that was all. When it rained, the men had to huddle as closely as possible together in the center of the lean-to to avoid getting wet. Of course there were neither tables nor benches: the eating men squatted on the ground with the pots and tortillas within reach. The bosses had never stopped to consider whether their workers might have wanted a little comfort for eating.

  Don Felix penetrated a few steps inside, looked at the men, and spoke: “You Cándido, you Tomás, you Cástolo, and you,” he said, pointing to a number of the men, “get your packs ready immediately to go across the river. From now on, you will work in the new camps about four leagues from here. Get a move on, quick now! Finish eating and get on the way. The boatmen can’t wait all night.”

  The men who had been picked hurriedly finished their supper and ran to their huts to get ready.

  Cándido sent his two boys to look for the little pigs, which wandered freely about the camp, feeding on whatever they could find. Don Felix had often said that he would have them killed and then would eat one after another because, seeing that they had grown fat on his property, he had a perfect right to them.

  Modesta helped her brother to tie up his bundles.

  Don Felix made his way to the hut where Cándido and Modesta were.

  “Hey, girl,” he called out, “why
don’t you stay here in the main camp? Down there in the new camps there’s nothing but jungle. You won’t find anything but jaguars and snakes there, not one cabin built. Today and tomorrow they’ll have to sleep in the open, unless they set about making lean-tos when they arrive in the middle of the night. And as it’s going to rain, that won’t be any fun. I know what I’m saying. Better remain here, little one.”

  “Many thanks, little chief, but I prefer to go along with my brother.”

  “Just as you like, girl. What I’m telling you is for your own good. If you change your mind tomorrow, you know that you can come back. I’ll wait for you until tomorrow, but no longer.”

  Returning to his own hut, Don Felix passed the cook. “When a man wants to help these pigs, they refuse. They prefer to live in their pigsties. That’s all they know.”

  “That’s true,” replied the cook approvingly.

  He had learned that it is always better to agree with the powerful ones in this world. That way one runs no risk of making a mistake, and one’s daily bread is assured. The cook had never been beaten or hanged. From time to time Don Felix would give him a few slaps, but these he accepted as if they were friendly gestures.

  When Celso returned to the camp from work, he went to the eating lean-to. Seeing no sign of Cándido, he went to the latter’s hut to look for him. “Then the boss is sending you to the other side of the river?”

  “Yes,” replied Cándido wearily. “What can we do?”

  “It’s real jungle there. You’ll have to start by cleaning out underbrush. The first night you’ll have to sleep in the thickets. At least wrap yourselves up well in the mosquito nets. Wait, Modesta, I’m going to help you.”

  Just then the youngsters returned with the little pigs, which were squealing desperately, thinking that the day had come on which they must be converted into hams and sausages.

  “I’ll come over there and help you both,” said Celso.

  “That’ll put you way behind with your own work,” replied Cándido, pleased, in spite of everything, by this promise.

  “Perhaps I’ll be sent there too after the logs have been launched on the water. It would be nice for all of us to get together every night as we do here.”

  “Sure, I’d feel very happy. And you, little sister—what do you think?”

  Modesta did not reply.

  Celso, taking courage said: “Would you be glad if I should join you there, Modesta?”

  “Yes, very glad.”

  “I like to hear you say that,” replied Celso, laughing happily.

  The first convoy of workers had been put off on the other bank. The two canoes that had carried them across were returning. The trip downstream was child’s play by comparison with the upstream return, for the river was turbulent and its current extremely violent.

  The canoes were nothing more than simple dugouts, long, hollowed-out tree trunks. Only the canoeman stood up during the crossings. All the others huddled in the bottom. The canoe constantly rocked back and forth dangerously, leaning far to each side. A canoeman had to be well trained and very skillful to guide such a skiff over those tumultuous waters without upsetting it and tossing all his passengers into the water.

  Cándido, Modesta, the two little boys, and Celso were waiting on the shore for the return of the canoe that would take them. Their bundles and packs were on the ground beside them. The boys had the pigs firmly tied up.

  The little animals had become so fat that Cándido could no longer carry them easily on his back. He did not know what to do with them, but he kept them, thinking of them as friends, because for him they were the only links to the home for which he had bought them.

  He had recently had a conversation about the pigs with the camp cook, who wanted to buy them. The cook had assured him that with the money he would get for them he could pay up his debt and go free. But a workman whom Cándido had consulted had said that the thing wasn’t that easy: even if he cleared up the debt he would not be free, because his contract was for a certain period of time. If, at the end of that period he had paid up all his obligations, he would certainly be able to go home with some money in his pack. That could happen. But for the immediate future Cándido would not consider getting rid of the animals. His one fear was that Don Félix would simply take them without deducting more than a few miserable pesos from his debt account.

  Cándido and Celso were waiting right at the water’s edge with lanterns in their hands to show the canoeman the exact spot where he should come in. The lanterns were full of moisture and gave very little light. The moon was full, but its beams were hidden behind thick clouds. A fine rain had begun to fall, and it was impossible to see even two yards into the darkness.

  Suddenly, as unexpected as a ghost, the first canoeman emerged from the mist and rain. Cándido jumped into the canoe and called to Celso and the boys to pass him the packs and bundles. But the canoeman said: “You’re not going in my canoe. You’re going with Felipe, who’ll be along in a minute. He’s just a few yards behind me. He’s soused, that’s sure, and can barely stand up. But even when he’s asleep or has both eyes blindfolded he can manage the canoe better than I can. I have to take some of the other men over and also carry a load of tools, axes, whetstones, and God knows what else, besides El Faldón. Here comes Felipe now.”

  Felipe was even more drunk than Celso had supposed from the words of the first canoeman. He reeled about in his canoe, which he had not even succeeded in bringing to rest on the sand.

  “God Almighty!” the canoeman shouted, “what stinking weather! Wet from head to feet, without a dry hair!”

  He was accompanied by a small boy, who he took along to help him and whose job it was to jump out and haul the prow of the canoe up the sand.

  “Run up there and get me the bottle,” he ordered. “I need to throw a little fuel into my body.”

  “You can’t take us to the other side in your drunken state,” Celso protested. “You can’t even stay on your feet.”

  “Who’s drunk? Me? And it’s you, you greasy Chamula, who’s daring to tell an old canoeman that he’s drunk? Me—drunk? Tell me just this: who’s running this boat—you or I?”

  “You,” replied Celso.

  “Exactly! So you shut your trap. Do you people want to get into this canoe or not?”

  Cándido collected all his courage and said to Celso: “Wait for me here. I’m going to look for the boss and ask him to let us go in another canoe.”

  “You’ll go in the canoe that you’ve been assigned to,” decreed Don Félix in reply to the request of the wretched man, who stood in the doorway of the hut and explained that Felipe was in such a state of drunkenness that his legs would not support him. “Who gives orders here, Chamula?”

  “You do, little chief.”

  “In that case you have nothing to fear. Felipe can be as drunk as he likes, but that doesn’t prevent him from being the best canoeman in the camps. Pablo drinks less, but when it comes to knowing the river he can’t touch the points of Felipe’s shoes.”

  “Little chief, if you’d like, we could cross the river very early tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t even think about that. We’d lose half a day. You’re crossing the river right now—and you’re leaving me in peace this instant. Pablo has to transport the tools, the axes, and the other men. Besides, with all the stuff you carry around, to transport you and your drove takes a whole canoe. Now then, get going! Tomorrow very early I’ll come over to see how things are going. Here, have a drink.”

  Cándido accepted the cup and at one gulp swallowed its contents, which cheered him up a little. He said: “Thanks,” and left after a courteous “With your permission.”

  He went back to the riverbank where Celso was waiting.

  “Nothing doing.”

  “I knew that beforehand, and I’ve loaded everything into the canoe. Sit in the back. Up front everything is soaked. The kids have been bailing it out, but with this rain there’s no way of keeping anythin
g dry.”

  Celso had arranged the bundles in the canoe. Modesta was seated in the middle with the children on either side of her. They kept the pigs in place by holding fast to the lasso with which they were tied. On her knees Modesta had the bundle containing her things.

  Cándido jumped into the boat, stepped over the pigs and bundles, and huddled himself down in the bottom holding up a lantern. Near him Felipe stood with a long paddle in his hands. He was in a rage—first because his small assistant had stumbled and spilled half a bottle of aguardiente, and second because his passengers were so slow in getting settled. This was his last trip across the river for the night, and he was in a hurry to get to sleep.

  Celso handed the lantern to the boy assistant. “Get into the canoe. With this load it would be too much for you.”

  Celso put his shoulders to the prow, lifted the canoe a little, and made it slide along the sand until it floated. Felipe began to paddle. Celso climbed into the primitive craft, which began to move out into the enveloping darkness.

  Felipe gave two vigorous strokes with the paddle, which carried the canoe to the middle of the river and into the foam. He straightened it out quickly to avoid getting caught in the current, working with such skill that Celso and Cándido recognized that their fear of the water had been foolish.

  The canoe sped like an arrow. From time to time Felipe pushed the long paddle into the river’s bed to steer the canoe toward a spot where it would move more swiftly. He wanted to finish his task as quickly as possible. Generally, when the current was as strong as it was now, the canoemen did exactly the opposite of what Felipe was doing, keeping away from midstream so as to avoid the risk of being swept away by the current. In fact, if a pilot were to lose control of his craft even for a second, it would be swept off its course, and the current, catching it broadside, would capsize it, throwing all it held, men and things, into the water. For this reason the canoemen preferred to keep well in toward the banks, searching out calmer spots. But the calm areas were not always on the same side. Sometimes they were near the right bank, sometimes toward the left, depending on the course of the current. Therefore a canoeman’s real work consisted in steering his craft from one bank to the other, looking for the least rough surfaces. Crossing the river demanded not only consummate skill but also a thorough knowledge of its course, of the whirlpools, sandbanks, and rapids. The canoemen began their careers in childhood, accompanying older canoemen who served as their teachers.