by B. TRAVEN
There was lively discussion in the first council of war called together after the establishment of the camp. But the discussion was nothing like the lamentable deliberations of those men who, in nearly all revolutions, speak and orate endlessly—speak, when they should be taking action, about the way to carry out their resolutions. They talk and talk, and it is these windbags of revolution who end by ruining it. It is during these deliberations that the enemies work, and while the revolutionaries discuss edicts concerning the color of their flag, the counterrevolution falls on the outposts, makes the first columns waver, seizes the sentries, and silences the incorrigible charlatans. Among the rebels there were fortunately no old theorists. They knew nothing of impassioned assemblies or inflamed writings. They argued animatedly, but not about faded and worn-out devices. They talked simply to find out which group should march in the vanguard when the situation, during the march they were getting ready to set forth on, became serious. The company in the vanguard would have the glorious prospect of being annihilated down to the last man when the rural police turned the first machine gun on them. Even without having untied the machine guns from the backs of their mules, the soldiers would account for some men in that vanguard. Had not every soldier been provided with a repeater carbine and a Colt revolver for just this purpose? And had not both federal soldiers and rural police been well trained with this object in view?
The discussion was far from being about the halo of glory that the vanguard would earn. The men still had no notion of the great feats of arms idealized by historians with poetic inclinations. They had not been contaminated by the deformed and deforming spirit of newspapermen and orators. For them it was a question, not of winning glory but of something more concrete and precise: of obtaining their enemies’ arms. Not one of them had ever read a revolutionary article or studied histories of revolutions. They had never attended political meetings or known the significance of a program. But experience said to all of them: “If you have arms and your enemies have none, you will win the revolution or the rebellion or the strike, no matter what name you give to the action that liberates those who work. True revolutions are not those which have as their only object the raising of salaries, the division of goods, or the winning of such and such privileges. The true revolutions do not stop until they have achieved justice without deceit.”
For the men the revolution signified the end of slavery, of the servitude to which they had been driven by bestial means—nothing more.
From infancy all of them had heard said what later had become clear to them: that he who carried a pistol in his belt or a carbine in his bandoleer had the right to reduce the Indians to servitude, to exploit them, to mistreat them, and to impose his will on them. And as the Indian, the servant, had no pistol in his belt or carbine in his bandoleer, he had to submit and let them lead him away. If he dared to open his mouth in protest, the butt of the pistol smashed his skull, or that of the carbine crushed his ribs. It was therefore completely natural that to them the conquest of arms should represent the triumph of the revolution. To deprive their enemies of arms: that was their watchword and their device.
The company that was to march in the vanguard would be obliged to take the first shock of those who possessed arms. It was evident that at least three-quarters of its men would fall. But the fourth part would remain on its feet to take advantage of the arms won at such a cost. And the rebels were like those lottery-players who are convinced that they will win the first prize: they were all certain that they would be members of the group that would remain on its feet and armed.
The discussion about which group should be in the vanguard was going on with some animation when the General and Celso stopped it.
“God damn it, you bunch of idiots!” shouted the General. “You sound like gossiping old women. The vanguard will consist of the first company. We make up the first company. What then? Now go away and leave us in peace!”
To Celso the General’s words did not seem sufficiently energetic, and he let his own voice be heard: “Do you understand clearly? Did you hear what the General said? This is a rebellion, you fools! Rebels act; they don’t talk. Within six days we’ll all be at the fiesta and never fear, half of us will stay there stretched out on the ground.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the men. Some of them added: “You’re right, Celso. But the other half of us will have arms and cartridges. Land and liberty!”
Night fell. Attracted by the voices, many of the peons from the ranch had cautiously approached the spot where the rebels were. They would not have dared to do so during the day for fear of the majordomo. They came up timidly, because they did not know how they would be received. The men did not consider them to be their own sort. Earlier the peons had not made a single effort to win confidence or friendship, and the men might well consider them spies who came not to join their movement but to ferret out their intentions and relay them to the majordomo—or even to denounce them to the finqueros or the nearest rural police for a bribe of one peso.
But some of the peons had heard some of the rebels speaking their own language and had recognized them as from their own village. Thus they had learned that they were in rebellion, that they had done away with the bosses in the lumber camps, and that they were getting ready to do the same thing on the fincas. Knowing that much, they were able to confirm it as soon as they entered the encampment. They asked to speak to the leader and were sent to the Professor and the General. They approached the hearth around which the general staff was grouped. Courteously removing their hats, they said: “Chief, do you want to tell us what we have to do?”
“Man,” the Professor answered, “I’m not your ‘chief.’ Now there aren’t any chiefs and owners. I’m your comrade. You, the peons of this muddy ranch, are welcome. Land and liberty without overseers and without owners, that’s what we want. Land and liberty for all!”
“Comrades, that’s what we want too. A piece of land and the liberty to cultivate it in peace. The right to talk freely among ourselves about whatever we like without having the foreman come and smash our faces. That’s what we want, nothing more.”
“Good. If that’s what you want, come with us. We need a lot of fighters, for in a short time many of us will have fallen. Now get ready. Tomorrow we leave.”
“But look, little chief—”
“I just told you not to call me ‘chief’!”
“Pardon, comrade, let me tell you. I have a little cornfield. If I go with you I can’t harvest the corn. I also have three little pigs. What should I do?”
“Didn’t you just tell me that you want land and liberty?”
“Certainly I want it. But look, comrade, I also have my woman, and she is pregnant and will give birth within three weeks. I can’t leave her here alone.”
“Good; then stay here. Stay here, all of you, on the ranch so that they can beat you as soon as you try to raise your voices.”
“We could change all that and stay here on the land we work. Because look, every one of us here has a little piece of land to sow with corn and frijoles. But in return for it we have to work three weeks out of four without their giving us a single centavo.”
“Do you all have machetes?” asked the General.
“Yes, comrade.”
“Good. Then tell me: what do you do if you are cutting down underbrush to clean off the land and you stir up a wild boar?”
“When I have my machete in my hand, there isn’t an animal that can get away from me.”
“Very good, my friend. You want land and liberty on this ranch, on which you now work without getting a centavo, but—yes—getting many blows.”
“That’s right.”
“Who, then, stands in your way at this moment?”
“You know, comrade, it’s Don Chucho, the majordomo.”
“And you all have machetes?”
“Yes. And Florencio and Marcos, these fellows who are with me, have more than one. They have two.”
“And you all kno
w how to sharpen the machetes. Right?”
“Of course we know how. It’s the first thing we do when we get up.”
“In that case, get your machetes, sharpen them well, and use them to cut down everything that stands in your way—if you really want the ranch for yourselves.”
When the peons had left, the General called in the captains of all the companies to give them the instructions needed for setting out on the march the next day. They had decided that from this point on, the companies would march closer together because they would be expecting their first collision with the enemy at any moment.
When daybreak came, and at the orders of the General, of Celso—chief of the general staff—and of the Professor, the first company would march out at the head. The second and third companies would leave, respectively, half an hour and an hour later. Then would come the fourth and fifth. The last three would form the rear guard, bringing up the animals loaded with provisions. Each man would carry his usual load on his back. The women and the children would follow the company in which their husbands or fathers marched. Modesta formed part of the advance company and on her shoulders carried the same load as the men.
The men did not ask themselves what they would do or what their attitude would be when they reached the fincas. Nor did they stop to elaborate plans for victory over the rural police or the federal soldiers. Why discuss things and waste eternities in useless words? The revolution would triumph, the enemy would bite the dust. To win, to destroy the enemy—that was what mattered. Once that had been achieved, they would have time to reflect and deliberate.
“You can’t sell a jaguar’s skin before you’ve caught him,” the Professor said to Andres, who hard been advancing a plan for the division of the finca on which he had been born and on which his father still worked as a peon.
“It wouldn’t be bad,” Andres answered, “to look in advance for a good buyer for the jaguar’s skin so as not to be obliged to sell it too cheaply later.”
“Look, Andresillo—for the moment forget the wandering buyers. When we have the skin, that’ll be the time to discuss good offers.”
In the middle of the night the General called the men of the first company together for the departure. The other groups could take advantage of at least a half hour’s more sleep.
It had not rained for four days, but toward midnight, when they were ready to leave, it began to rain again. The rain was fine but dense, and in less than two hours the soil had begun to become mushy again. By the time the General gave the order to start out, all the men were wet to their bones. They had had to work hard before they had succeeded in making fires to warm themselves and heat a little coffee.
The rain let up toward four in the morning. The first company was ready to leave when they saw approaching them the peons who had spoken to them the evening before.
“What is it?” asked the General. “Have you decided to come with us?”
“No, comrade, now that isn’t necessary. Now we have what we want. Now we have land and liberty. The ranch is ours.”
“Did the majordomo give it to you?”
“No—well, that is to say—when we explained that for many years we had been cultivating the little ranch without pay, he became furious and started to shout that he knew perfectly well what was happening, that the damned lousy fellows from the lumber camps had stirred us up, urged us on, advised us badly, and that if we didn’t shut our mouths at once he would take charge of settling with us as soon as the bandits from the camps went on their way.”
“And you? What did you answer?”
“Hardly anything. We had sharpened the machetes in advance. When we started toward Don Chucho he pulled his pistol and shot. He killed Calixto and Simón and wounded three others.”
“Then it’s out of fear that you ran over here?”
“No, my friend. We had thought a lot about what you said, and right now Don Chucho, his wife, and his kids are dead. Furthermore, we took his pistol and his rifle because we may need them. As for his house, we don’t want it—it’s full of rats. Under these conditions, comrade, little chief, you’ll understand that we don’t need to go with you. What we have now is all we want, nothing more. If you want to stay here you can do it, because now there aren’t any foremen or bosses.”
“No, my friend, thanks. We will go on and you will stay here to divide up your land and work it in peace. But tell me: if the rural police come right now and ask for the majordomo, what will you tell them?”
“We’ll say that Don Chucho and Doña Amalia became so frightened that they ran to take refuge in the forest. And if our answer doesn’t satisfy them, we’ll sharpen our machetes again immediately, and we might even make use of the pistol and the rifle that we have now. But you know, little chief, that the rural police won’t come here because you’ll get rid of them and the federal soldiers on your way. Now we’ll go back to the ranch. The men have killed a very big pig, and the cracklings ought to be ready by now. It’s too bad that we can’t invite you—there are so many of you that there’d never be enough. Good-by, my friend captain. Good-by, all of you, and many thanks. May good luck accompany you!”
The Professor called Andres and said: “Did you understand that, Andresillo? That is what they call the practical revolution.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, simply that the instinct of possession, the idea of property, is now more deeply rooted on that ranch than before. Only the name of the proprietor has changed, and I assure you, brother, that tomorrow or the next day the new owners will be dealing out machete strokes because of the property and will be killing one another off until only one remains, if he can, to enjoy the property. He who remains will be the one who has the pistol. He will be the new owner, and if one of the others succeeds in keeping the shotgun, he’ll be the majordomo. As for those who by chance preserve nothing but their lives, they’ll be the new peons.”
“Then the revolution will have been useless?”
“For these people, yes. The thing has been too easy for them and they have got it too quickly. Ease and speed are not good for revolutionaries. The fields and the pigs will have changed hands, but the ideas will be the very ones that hold up the whole system, which unfortunately will have remained intact. Florencio, and then Eusebio or Fulano; but the owners will continue in their places, because here everything will go on the same way. They didn’t show even a glimmer of gratitude for us, who gave them the idea. They would let you die of hunger, and me too, before they would deprive themselves of one bit of cracklings.”
Andres tried to defend the peons, saying: “But how do you expect them to know what they should do if nobody explains it to them?”
“Revolutionaries who have to have explained to them the motives for which they should rebel are poor revolutionaries. The real revolution, the one capable of changing the system, lies in the hearts of true revolutionaries. The sincere revolutionary never thinks of the personal benefit rebellion may bring him. He wants only to overthrow the social system under which he suffers and sees others suffer. And to destroy it and see the realization of the ideas he considers just, he will sacrifice himself and die.”
Andrés tilted his head to one side and answered: “Professor, all this is very complicated for me. Just let me become a professor some day. Perhaps then I can understand.”
“Don’t worry about it, Andresillo, You, the General, the Colonel, Celso, young Modesta, Santiago, Matías, Fidel, Cirilo, and many others among you are the people the revolution needs. You carry it in your hearts, and those who have it there don’t need explanations.”
A shout was heard in the dawn: “God damn it, Professor, why do you talk so much? Let’s get going!” It was the voice of the General looking for his aide.
“Here I am.”
“March, comrade! It’s the hour for getting out of here. We’re going in the vanguard and have a good stretch to cover.”
“I was amusing myself explaining to Andrés how those peo
ns, the ones who just left, will be killing one another tomorrow for the possession of two or three more yards of land.”
“To hell with them! We have other things to worry about, and we can’t stop for such meanness. Perhaps later—”
“You’re right, General. We have little time to lose.”
“You have said it. Perhaps in a few hours—But now let’s get on the road. Quick—we must get to the head of the column! Up there we’ll have to be always in the vanguard, Professor. That’s the only way we can keep from hearing about selfishness and go on nourishing our hope that the revolution will change not only the system but also the narrow spirit of man.”
“Where did you find these ideas, General? I’d like to know that.”
“Last night, when the peons returned to their houses, I thought about it. I wandered around our encampment. I saw the fires burning through the underbrush. Bits of the men’s talk reached my ears. And the ideas just popped into my head!”
“And excellent ideas they are! By my mother, we ought to put them down on paper.”
While talking like this, they were walking as fast as possible, tripping over the roots of bushes, against stones in the road and branches broken off by the rains, sinking at times into mud up to their waists.
The day had begun cold, gray, and wet. It lighted the tops of the ancient trees stingily, while underneath, on the ground covered with the thick foliage of the forest, the darkness was complete.
The men made a strange, monotonous noise as they clumped along, putting their feet into the mud. They groaned, swore, and lamented when they sank in up to their chests in swampy spots or when the least breath of wind in the trees let down on them veritable bursts of water from the branches.