The Rebellion of the Hanged

by B. TRAVEN

  “And in an hour,” another added, “we’ll be back to see if your cheek is still holding out or if the rotten meat of your face has fallen away from your bones. Then we’ll change you over to the left ear!”

  Another interposed: “It all depends on the quality of your hide, my dear Félix. If the hide is good and resistant—and we hope it is—the pleasure can last six hours or even ten… . Oh, how all of you took it easy in your houses, swinging in your hammocks while we were sweating at work! Now it’s your turn to sweat blood while we eat your provisions, smoke your cigars, and go to bed with your women—if they should happen to please us, which remains to be seen.”

  “Have a good time, my good friend Félix!” shouted one of them as they started for the shop.

  Darkness was beginning to fall. In a quarter of an hour it would be completely dark.

  New groups of ox-drivers and cutters were arriving at the main camp. Many of them had been told what was happening, but they stopped to rest around their huts as though everything was normal.

  Andres and Santiago mounted guard at the shop to see that there was no pillaging—a useless precaution, as it seemed that nobody had thought of taking anything. Soon, however, they began to gather around. After a discussion with Celso and Martín Trinidad, it was agreed among them that Andres should make an equitable division of the provisions among the workmen. Andres was selected because he was the only one who could read and write.

  When he arrived at the shop, he found it locked, the employee who took care of it had run away to hide himself.

  Andrés left Santiago as sentry and went off to a group of huts where he felt certain he would find the storekeeper. His intention was to ask him for the key, so that he would not have to break open the door. On the way he met Celso, who, with a few other men, was looking for the canoemen. They wanted to be taken to the various encampments in search of Cándido.

  The blacksmiths, carpenters, ropemakers, cooks, and canoemen were the privileged workers. They constituted a sort of middle class. They earned one peso or one and one half pesos a day. They lived in the camps with their families and formed a real little village. Among them were mestizos and white men.

  They looked down on the laborers as much as the bosses did, or more so, and considered themselves to belong to the upper classes They spoke a fairly correct Spanish, had their own little chapel, and could read and write. They never mingled with the other workers except when they wanted to sell something or when they saw that the men had some money they might get. They felt proud to be able to speak to the bosses almost as equals and were disposed to do whatever the bosses required of them. They all but regarded themselves as aristocrats, and though in fact their material circumstances were very similar to those of the workmen, they did not wish to admit it. Although they sometimes earned less than the cutters, they considered themselves richly rewarded if the boss made a small friendly gesture or invited them occasionally to have a drink, though not to sit down. They were always ready to take his side against the lazy Indian pigs and to do them harm when that suited him.

  All these workers, the canoemen, the supply-keepers, and their families, had witnessed the assault on the office from the shadow of their huts. A large number of them had pistols. If the Montellanos or the foremen had called on them at the moment of the attack, they would have rushed forward, perhaps much against their will. But Don Severo had not had time to call on them, even if the idea had occurred to him. Apart from anything else, he had not taken the mutiny seriously, and when he had taken its magnitude in, it was too late.

  All these artisans were congratulating themselves on being forgotten. They deemed it wiser and less dangerous to witness the battle through peepholes, watching the development of events from a distance, having made up their minds to congratulate whoever won and to join that side immediately. If the men triumphed, they would make common cause with them. If the bosses won, they would be ready at once to perform their duty and to lend themselves to the task of crushing the rebellion.

  Now, the rebels having won the day, the artisans, seeing the victors approach their huts, hurried out to greet them, saying: “We said that this had to happen some day. ‘If the men aren’t better treated, some day they’ll rebel.’ You can’t go on all the time ill-treating a horse, much less a man, who, in spite of everything, is a human being.”

  Celso, Andres, Santiago, Fidel, Martín Trinidad, Lucio Ortiz, and most of the others knew what value to put on these protestations of friendship from their new friends. They therefore declined the services now pressed upon them with so much enthusiasm. The more intelligent among them, not rebels of the moment, but permanent revolutionaries, understood those invertebrates well and knew better than to trust them. Experience told them that if the situation changed, thanks to help from the federal army, those puppets would go over to the side of the bosses with the same obsequious air they now employed. And not only that. They would immediately become the most bloodthirsty informers, the most ardent assistants to the bloodhounds. The men therefore remained unmoved by the abject attitude of the artisans.

  “I said it all along,” the blacksmith repeated, “isn’t that so, comrades? I always maintained that this couldn’t go on.”

  “Sure, you always said that.”

  “Shut your mouth!” Celso said brutally. “Shut it before I knock it shut. Tell us, you swine, which is the canoemen’s hut?”

  “Over there, Chamulito. If you wish I’ll take you. See that hut where the lantern’s shining? That’s Pablo’s, and Felipe’s comes next.”

  Celso went to Pablo’s hut and called him from outside: “Pablo, come here.”

  The canoeman came out trembling with fright.

  “How many children have you?” Celso asked.

  “Three.”

  “Bring them out.”

  “But I implore you, Chamulito, you’re not going to do anything to them!” the canoeman pleaded in terror.

  “Come on, now, get your children out here.”

  “They’re asleep, fellows.”

  “Do you want me to get them with this machete?”

  At that moment the children appeared in the doorway, drawn by curiosity about the voices. Their mother was in the little lean-to kitchen preparing the supper. She seemed not to have heard anything of what happened, but in reality she had taken shelter there on orders from her husband, who feared that the workers might wish to avenge themselves on the women for the many humiliations suffered at their hands.

  One of the men seized the children, who began to scream. Then the mother rushed out and threw herself on her knees.

  “Don’t squeal like that, you old sow,” said one of the men, “we’re not going to do anything to your kids.”

  Celso ordered: “Take the two older ones to the embankment. And you, Pablo, come with me.”

  The woman began crying again, and one of the men in irritation said: “Shut your trap if you want your rats to come back!”

  On reaching the slope Celso had the two children, one of seven and one of ten, tied up. The children struggled and wept, but Celso told them: “Be quiet now! We don’t eat children. We won’t hurt you if your father obeys our orders. Vicente, run to the shop and tell Andres to give you a piece of chocolate for the children. Then you stay here and watch out that a snake doesn’t bite them or a scorpion sting them while they’re tied up here.”

  Vicente ran off toward the shop.

  “You, Pedro, listen to me. You know well all the camps up and down the river. You’re going to go right now to the new camp and fetch Cándido and his little son and all the men you find there. Call Felipe to get his canoe and go with you and help you bring them back as fast as possible.”

  “But don’t you see that it’s already night? How do you expect me to steer the canoe in the darkness?”

  “Tell me, you pig, when your boss ordered you to go out at night did it seem dark to you? Now we’re the bosses, and you’ll do as we tell you. I’ll keep the kids so that
neither you nor Felipe will run away in the canoes. I’ll hand over your children when you’ve brought all the men from the camps on both sides of the river. The sooner you bring them, the sooner your children will be free. If one of you makes off, I’ll keep the kids tied up for four weeks. As you see, we are using exactly the methods the bosses used on us. You invented these systems, and it would be a mistake for you to complain if we apply them. So you’d do well to get going at once. You know quite well that the red ants like to amuse themselves at night, and I don’t think your kids would enjoy being eaten by them. We’ve known about this torture for some time… . Come on, now, get a move on. Go and find Felipe and whoever else can guide a canoe, and bring those men to me here. Tell them to bring their belongings and their machetes—to bring everything they own.”

  Celso turned to some of the men near him. “Each one of you will take his place in a canoe to keep watch on the canoeman. I don’t want these swine to play any tricks.”

  Two minutes later four canoes were on their way downstream.

  “Forget that nightmare!” Celso said to Modesta. “Do you know what we’re going to do?”

  “How can I know if you haven’t told me?”

  “That’s right! Look, then—we’re going over to the store, and you’re going to pick out the best clothes and the shoes you like best.”

  When they reached the store, they found Andres, Santiago, and some of the others there. Andres was having a heated discussion with the storekeeper.

  “Don’t waste my time. Give me your pistol and the cartridges. And do it right now!”

  “But this pistol is mine. It never belonged to the Montellanos.”

  “It’s all the same. Give it to me!”

  “How do you expect me to live without a pistol in this wild place?”

  “Exactly the way we’ve lived up to now. Coming and going at the mercy of the jaguars. And now—get out!”

  It was Santiago who said these last words, pointing them up by kicking the storekeeper in the ass.

  “Andres,” said Celso, “give Modesta a dress—the prettiest there is.”

  “With pleasure,” Andres said, laughing. “How many do you want, muchacha? Three, six, ten, twenty—as many as you want! In any case there’ll be enough left over even after we dress up all the girls. You’ll find everything here—blouses, drawers, slippers. We even have watch chains and earrings. Holy God, you should see what things they had piled up here! And all for those old whores of theirs.”

  But the storekeeper returned to the charge: “Please, men, you must give me my inventory and my stockbooks. Without them they’ll think I’ve been dishonest.”

  “Listen to this idiot!” Celso said. “Inventory, stockbooks? And what else? All the books and inventories will be burned, and all the contracts, too. Accounts, debts, and everything are finished! We’ve started to clean up, and we’ll clean thoroughly. Do you understand? Isn’t that right, fellows?”

  “We’ve waited long enough for this moment,” Santiago answered, picking up a carton of cigarettes. “To win our freedom we must burn everything. And now that you know it, get out! But get out and stay out, and don’t let us catch you hanging around here or I’ll tear your hide off!”

  “Don’t worry, Modesta,” Andrés said to the girl. “Pick the best dresses and go behind the counter and get dressed in peace. Don’t be afraid. All this belongs to us. We’ve paid far too much for it. Tomorrow we’ll divide it all, and only God knows how many things there are to divide.”

  “Celso,” Santiago broke in, “do you know what we could do? Let’s have a look around the huts of all those bastards of artisans. We’ll requisition their guns and the ammunition they have. If one of them tries to hide anything, we’ll tie a rock around his neck and throw him in the water.”

  “Agreed. Take a dozen of the fellows with you and collect all the guns you can find. And don’t be gentle with those pigs or waste your time arguing with them. If one of them opens his mouth, shut it up right away with your fist.”

  Juan Méndez, who arrived just then, interrupted: “Right. Because you can be sure that if the bosses were able to take revenge, nobody would lend himself to repression with more cruelty than these artisans, who now smile at us idiotically and offer us whatever they can to save their skins. I know it from experience. When I was a sergeant I saw them take part in suppressing strikes and punishing runaway peons. So let me go with you, Santiago, I’m very fond of pistols.”

  The group of searchers had just left when Modesta heard herself being called by name. Cándido, the little boy, and the workers from the new camp had just arrived.

  “You see, Andrucho!” Celso exclaimed in a triumphant voice. “The canoemen have never traveled so quickly and safely as now. I’m sure that before midnight all our men will be collected here. See how the canoemen push ahead with the torches in their hands so as to arrive more quickly. Now they’re really moving!”

  “All the men from all the camps are here now,” said Pablo, the canoeman, who had come to give an account of his mission. The workman who had been detailed to watch him confirmed what he said.

  “Andrés!” Celso called out. “Andrés! I name you supply man. Have you the keys of the shop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Go to the tree where Pablo’s children are tied. Untie them, take them to the shop, and give them a piece of chocolate or whatever they want. Also give the little girl a pair of earrings and the boy a jackknife. Then send them to their hut.”

  “Many thanks, my friend,” Pablo said effusively.

  “Keep your thanks!” Celso replied dryly. “Take your children and go and look for your wife and the other sneaks like yourself. We’re not going to do anything to them, I give you my word. We’re getting out of here and we’ll leave you the whole encampment for yourselves alone. We’ll even leave you provisions in the shop. You’ll find enough corn there. And you can keep the oxen. That way there’ll be no danger that you’ll die of hunger. And fifteen days after we’re gone, you can start out too.”

  Pablo thanked Celso. Martín Trinidad interrupted him: “What our comrade here has just told you concerns your future, canoeman. But I have two words to say about your present. That it must not occur to any of you to try to escape and carry the alarm to Hucutsin or to denounce us to the military authorities. Be clear about what I’m saying! Celso has made you one promise and I’ll make you another. If one of you leaves the camp today or tomorrow or even one day before the fifteen days set by Celso, we’ll cut the throats of all of you, men, women, and children. I swear it. As for me, I’d drown you right now like sick cats, because you and we aren’t and never will be friends. I know exactly what you’d do if things turned out differently. For that reason we’d do well to get rid of you once and for all. Nevertheless, for the time being we’ll leave you in peace. Go back to your pals and tell them what you’ve heard. Explain it to them carefully. Above all, don’t forget to tell them what’s waiting for them if they don’t obey. From now on you’re the watchdog of the pack.”

  16

  “When we leave we must see to it that none of the men is left behind,” said Martín Trinidad.

  Dawn was breaking, and they had gathered together for a council of war.

  “We won’t leave a single one of us in the camps. Even if someone resists, we’ll take him along by force. Everyone must respond to our call.”

  It was still very early. The sun was now on the horizon, but its rays did not yet reach them. The embankment was enveloped in a thick mist. The clouds were so low that the river could not be seen even from the slope.

  Cándido exclaimed happily: “The devil, but my pigs are pretty!”

  “Listen, Cándido, for the moment there are other things more important than that to worry about. Leave your pigs in peace.”

  “Why, little brother?”

  “Don’t bother with them. Leave them to the sons of bitches of canoemen.”

  “But the animals have grown so fat! It wo
uld be a pity.”

  “Then sell them to the artisans. They like fat pigs.”

  “That’s what I’m going to do! It would be impossible to take them with me the whole way back. We’ll have to cross the swollen river several times. I don’t know how we’re going to get home.”

  Meanwhile the council of war went on deliberating. In the end it was decided that Juan Méndez and Lucio Ortiz should leave with twenty armed men on horseback to visit all the camps within a radius of twelve miles to requisition all arms and bring back all the men—as had been done the preceding evening in the Montellano camps—and that the men and arms should be pooled at the general headquarters, where they would form an imposing rebel force of three or four hundred men. Then they would be able to march on Hucutsin.

  On the way to Hucutsin they would destroy every form of authority they met. They would kill all the finqueros, bosses, aristocrats, and white men and would enlist all the peons and workers being held as slaves. They would take Hucutsin by assault, and then all the villages as far as Balún-Canán and Jovel so as to take control of the highway to the state capital, and, once there, the railroad station.

  Nobody seemed to ask himself what would happen once everything had been destroyed. Even Martín Trinidad had only a vague picture of what might happen later.

  He and the most intelligent of the men—Andrés, Celso, Santiago, Fidel, Matías, and two or three others—explained that if land and liberty were to be won for everybody, they would have, in the first place, to carry the revolution to the farthest corner of the republic.

  Only half the men would remain under arms, while the other half would return to the villages to cultivate the fields. Then the ones who had been working on the land would relieve the combatants, who in turn would go back to continue the work at home. The women, children, and old people would take in the harvests.