by Lou Cameron
One of the more interesting prisoners was the village priest, a Father Pico. He’d been arrested for protesting Captain Torture’s abuse of the local womenfolk. He was a bewildered little man in a dusty black frock. He looked and talked something like a sparrow and couldn’t understand how this was happening to him. El Presidente was said to be a good Catholic.
The other worth mention was not much bigger than the old priest, but there the resemblance ended. He said his name was Gaston, and he was obviously French. Gaston was in his mid-fifties, with thinning gray hair and bright, darting, blue eyes. He called himself a “soldier of fortune,” and when Walker asked him to explain the term, he said, “I came here as a boy with the French Foreign Legion, during Louis Napoleon’s illfated Mexican adventure with the puppet emperor, Maximilian. You know how it ended, of course?”
“Sure. We finished our Civil War and massed troops on the border after telling Napoleon he couldn’t have his puppet empire next door. You French went home and Juarez shot Maximilian. It was one of the few times U.S. foreign policy made sense.”
“Ah, but we did not all go home. Some of us switched sides when we saw the Juaristas were going to win.”
“You deserted France?”
“One may say France deserted us. The Legion had not been paid for months, the Juaristas were picking us off like flies. One does what one must to survive, m’sieu”
“I’m learning that. But how did you wind up in this fix if you joined the Mexican Army?”
“Ah, there are Mexican armies and there are Mexican armies, m’sieu. When Diaz seized power, there were objections.”
“In other words, you’ve been riding with one of those ragtag guerrilla bands most folks call bandits.”
“But what is any soldier but a bandit, m’sieur? If a man steals a few hundred dollars he is a thief and his men are bandits. If a man steals a country and taxes everyone for billions he is a statesman and his men are an army. It is all a matter of proportion, hein?”
The American laughed and said, “I’ll admit there’s little to choose between a bandit and these Rurales, Gaston. I wish those idiots in Washington could see the so-called stable government they’re backing down here.”
“Bah, your Washington is run by bandits, too. All men are thieves and bandits, when they get the chance.”
“Come on, we have our faults, but the United States is a democracy, damn it.”
“In what way is this important, once anyone is in power, by any means? Tell me, do not your people pay taxes?”
“Of course, but—”
“And are these taxes not backed up by the threat of force? If a man in your country refuses to pay his taxes, is he not punished?”
“Well, maybe, but it’s not the same.”
“How is it not the same? If I put a gun to your head and say I want your wallet you are out, at most, the little you may have been foolish enough to be carrying. If I am a government and I tell you I intend to take your money unless you wish to go to jail.”
“What are you, an anarchist?”
“Of course. All free men are anarchists. Since all governments keep us from being free.”
“I’ve heard the argument. It still seems you have to have some sort of rules and regulations. If all men were saints, we wouldn’t need to have governments, but—”
“Ahah! And since no man is a saint, any man in charge of a government will use his power unjustly! So we are better off with none!”
“What do you think we should have? Jungle law?”
“But of course. It’s the only real law there has ever been or ever will be. The strong man needs no one to protect him. The weak man is never going to be protected in any case.”
“But what does a soldier of fortune fight for, if he doesn’t believe in any cause?”
“Merde alors! He fights for the fortune, of course! I, Gaston, am a professional. I will fight anybody, anytime, for anyone who pays me well!”
“Why not just go out and rob a bank?”
“Oh, but I have, on occasion. This, however, while honest enough, is dangerous. It is better to have the cloak of legality, as a soldier, when one robs people.”
“Let’s get off politics. Have you given any thought to getting out of here?”
“But of course. It is most hopeless. We shall most certainly be shot.”
“Maybe if we and the other prisoners all started running at once when they led us out?”
“Some would get away, but who is going to be the first to run? These peones are sheep. How else would they have such a ridiculous government? The first night I was here I tried to enlist some of them. One, to save his life, told the guards and they beat me. The idiot who informed on me is still here, over in the far corner. He is only nineteen and perhaps he still thinks this world is just.”
“All right, let’s say it’s just you and me. We’re both professional fighting men and—”
“What do you think the Rurales are, circus clowns, perhaps? There are about a dozen men posted here. Most will be coming to watch the amusing demonstration of M’sieu Maxim’s new machine gun. The two of us would have little chance if we were armed. Without weapons, we are only asking for a slow, brutal death if we attempt resisting a quick one. But this is life. To live free, one must face the fact that all of us must die, sooner or later. At worse, it can only happen a bit sooner, and one may as well face the inevitable with such charm as one can muster.”
“I don’t feel charming at all about getting shot. They were going to hang me, one time, and I fought like a son-of-a-bitch.”
“Ah, but, in the end, you shall die in any case. Don’t you find all this desperation fatiguing? These Mexicans enjoy the game of death, played with style. Perhaps they will give us a last smoke, if we behave bravely at the end.”
“I don’t feel like a smoke. Have you been to many of these Mexican executions?”
“Of course, although this is my first time as the victim. Captain Torture is a species of insect, but he will behave correctly toward us if there are women watching. One imagines the whole village will turn out to see the new machine gun in operation. There are so few opera houses in this part of Mexico.”
Despite the situation he found himself in, Walker had to laugh at the little man’s grotesque view of life in Mexico. He realized Gaston had been part of it for a whole generation if he’d taken part in the revolt against Maximilian. Walker said, “This soldier-of-fortune thing of yours seems to have gotten you into a pickle, but I must say it sounds like you’ve had a lot of excitement in your time.”
“Exactly, m’sieu, and as you see, I am no longer a young man. How many men my age can say they have made love to a Yaqui squaw with her tribesmen shooting over his derriere? How many men of any age have looted a city, or been the general in command of even a small army? Ah, the things I could tell, if we had time. But no matter. Since we shall all be dead shortly, why should I attempt to load your mind with memories? By this time tomorrow, neither of us shall have memories of any kind, hein?”
“I take it you don’t think we’re going anywhere, in the hereafter?”
“Merde alors! If any man here really believed in a just God or anything beyond the grave this cell wouldn’t smell of urine and vomit! Did you fight so hard to stay alive until now just to avoid meeting some angels?”
“Touché! How’d they get you, anyway? You said something about being part of a rebel band.”
“Not so loud! If they knew that they’d treat me most harshly. I prefer to be shot with these other peasants.”
“You mean they don’t know? What in the hell are they shooting you for?”
“As I said, there is no opera in this part of Mexico. When a Rurale patrol stumbled over me I had no papers and, naturally, did not care to tell them who I really was. In Mexico, these days, this can be a capital offense. Is there a reward for you, in the States?”
“Probably. Why do you ask?”
“If I were you, I’d tell Captain T
orture who you really are. Let him hand you over to your own government for the reward.”
“What good would that do? Uncle Sam’s fixing to hang me!”
“Ah, but not this afternoon, hein? You escaped once from a Yankee jail. Even if you couldn’t manage a second time, it would mean at least a few more days of life.”
Walker thought about it. Then he shook his head and said, “No. They’d take me back in irons and this time they’d hang me sure. The only bright feature of my getting shot down here is that those sons-of-bitches up there will never know it. I’d like them to wonder if I was still at large. Even if I die down here, those bastards will think I’m still alive, and lose some sleep over it!”
Gaston slapped him on the back and laughed, “Now you are thinking like a man of gallantry! As I said, we all must die, but a real man dies with style!”
The cell door suddenly flew open and a screaming, naked woman sailed into the room to land, still screaming, on her hands and knees between the legs of the men packed in the small, crowded space. Her face was bruised and her ivory buttocks were smeared with blood and filth. Before Walker could react, the old priest, Father Pico, had stripped off his frock and draped it over the sobbing girl. He was stripped to the waist in thin cotton pants as he helped her to a corner with soothing words. The other men parted, not looking at the girl’s shame-filled face as she continued to sob, as if in a nightmare, “He touched me! He touched me everywhere and he hurt me, too!”
Gaston shook his head wearily and muttered, “As I said, a species of insect. They are shooting her brother, too. He is that young man joining her and the priest in the corner.”
“Son-of-a-bitch!” growled Walker. “You can’t just shoot a woman after you’ve raped her!”
“Ah, but he does it all the time, they tell me. If you want my opinion, he’s afraid they’ll talk. Not about his raping them. Everyone knows about that, whether he shoots them or not. No, I would say our gallant captain has a very small penis. It fits with his sodomic desires, don’t you think? The girl can’t be more than sixteen and is probably a virgin. I mean, still a virgin, if you take my meaning.”
“Christ, you mean he corn-holed her?”
“But of course. When one has a small means of satisfaction, even the vagina of a young virgin may be too large. When I was a young boy in the Legion we had a sergeant who brutalized recruits that way. He had a very little penis, as I recall.”
“Jesus, did you find out the way it sounds like you found out?”
“Not exactly. I killed him. Our captain was most understanding. In the Legion, we were allowed to settle such matters informally and, while the sergeant was a good soldier, his habits were not conducive to good discipline.”
“Sounds like a rough outfit.”
“It was. Listen. I think they are coming for us!”
Gaston was right. The door opened again and a quarter of Rurales with Swedish Krag rifles ordered them all outside. There seemed little point in hanging back, so Walker and the strange little Frenchman were in the van as the fifteen-odd men and the still-crying girl were led out into a courtyard.
The Maxim squatted on its tripod in the center of the walled-in space, its ugly, water-jacketed muzzle pointed at the pockmarked adobe wall the guards herded them toward. Despite himself, Walker stared at the deadly weapon with interest as he passed it. The machine gun was only four or five years old, and few soldiers of his generation were really familiar with the new weapon. It was too bad his Army career had been cut short so soon. Warfare promised to be very interesting in the near future. Geronimo was still alive, playing possum on the reservation once again. Walker wondered what would happen if ever he jumped the reservation again. It seemed the Indian wars were over forever, between the machine gun and those new telephones they were installing at Army posts across the country.
The prisoners were shoved into a ragged line against the wall, facing the machine gun and a crowd of curious onlookers from the nearby village. The pudgy little Captain Torture strutted back and forth near the gun, smoking a cigar. Walker wondered why the watching peones didn’t do anything. Couldn’t they see there were only a dozen or so Rurales? Couldn’t they see their townsmen and kinsmen standing here, waiting to be shot down like dogs without any real attempt at security?
Speaking from the corner of his mouth, Walker said to Gaston, “They’re not even tying our hands! If all of us were to rush them at once—”
“Eh bien, you rush, and if anyone follows, I’ll join you. You can see how it is, my young friend. To move means certain death, right now. To stand here like sheep is to delay it perhaps a few more moments. This habit of humans as well as other animals makes it easy for those who wish to indulge in massacres.”
“God damn it, Gaston, I’m going to make a break for it. Are you with me?”
“Mais non. It sounds fatiguing.”
The Rurales were gathered around the machine gun now, engaged in a heated discussion. Walker knew the Maxim’s tripod was locked. It wouldn’t track more than a few yards to the right or left. If he waited until the last minute and ran the opposite way the muzzle was trained— But the others had rifles as well as six-guns.
Captain Torture walked over to them, chewing his cigar with an annoyed frown. He stopped in front of Walker and asked, “Is it true you were in the U.S. Army?”
“Why do you ask?”
“We are having trouble with the thrice-accursed Yanqui machine. None of my men is certain how the thing is to be cocked. I think they put the belt in wrong. Would you be good enough to come over and show the fools how to load and fire the damned thing?”
Walker laughed, incredulously, and asked, “Suppose I told you to go to hell?”
“You would die very unpleasantly. Perhaps on an ant pile, smeared with honey. On the other hand, if you show us how the machine gun works, I may let you live until you can teach one of my men its mysteries.”
“How long would that be, Captain?”
“A day or two, perhaps? We can always use the rifles, on these others. Why don’t you be a good sport? Show us how it works. This is all very embarrassing, with the villagers watching.”
Gaston hissed, “Do it, you fool!”
There was an odd urgency in the little Frenchman’s tone, considering what he was asking. The Rurale leader nudged Walker and insisted, “Come, we are wasting the time, Captain Gringo. Your friend is right. My men are not very good with those new Swedish rifles, either. It will be quicker and cleaner for everyone with the machine gun.”
Walker shrugged and followed Captain Torture back to the machine gun. The sergeant who’d arrested the tall American muttered, “Forgive me, my Captain, but to hand a loaded machine gun to a prisoner—”
“Silence! Do you take me for a fool? I know what I am doing. The gun is unable to swivel more than a few inches on that heavy mount. Were you really intending us to all go over and stand before the wall with the victims?”
“Forgive me, my Captain, I meant no disrespect. It was a stupid thought on my part.”
“I know. That is why you are an enlisted man and I am an officer.” He nudged one of the pipe legs of the Maxim mount and told Walker, “Be quick about it. It’s hot as the devil out here and we’ve wasted enough time with this foolishness.”
The American squatted behind the big weapon’s square breech, glancing along the water-filled cooling jacket of the rifle-length barrel toward the wall. The prisoners stared back at him in mingled horror and apathy. He saw the French soldier of fortune was lounging against the bullet-pocked wall, hands in his pockets. The old priest, still naked to the waist, was holding the sobbing rape victim upright. His eyes were closed as his lips mumbled silent prayers.
The Rurale officer asked, “What’s the matter, Captain Gringo? I thought you were an important Yanqui officer! Don’t tell me you don’t know how a machine gun works!”
“Captain Gringo” opened the chamber block and said, “Here’s part of your trouble. The first po
cket of this canvas ammunition belt is empty. The mechanism won’t draw an empty belt. Your Krags fire the same ammo. Somebody give me a rifle round.”
Captain Torture barked an order and the nearest guard worked the bolt of his rifle, spitting a cartridge from his magazine into his free hand and stepping closer to hand it down to the American.
Walker shoved the round into the empty pocket of the machine-gun belt. The other end lay in accordion folds in the tin ammo box on the dusty ground to the left of the tripod. He tried to remember. Did a Maxim feed from left or right or … Yeah, they’d told him one of the new weapon’s neater features was that it could chew up ammo belts and spit out bullets from either side. This piston doohicky, here, was the thing that reloaded the chamber each time it recoiled. Yeah, he could see how the trigger sear connected to the complicated mechanism and—
“What’s wrong?” asked Captain Torture.
Walker placed the belt end correctly and slammed the action shut. He said, “This is the arming lever. You pull it back, so, and if I’ve adjusted the head spacing right it’s ready to fire.”
“And if this, what do you call it, is not adjusted?”
“Oh, the gun blows up in your face. You want to try it, Captain?”
“Please be my guest, Captain Gringo! You shall have the honor of seeing if it’s working now.”
The American took a deep breath, leaned forward over the gun, and got a firm grip on the water jacket with his left hand. Then he put his right on the grips, a finger on the trigger, and suddenly rose to his feet, gun and all, as he pulled the Maxim’s swivel pin from its socket on the tripod. Captain Torture gasped, “What are you—?” and then he was dead, torn almost in two as Captain Gringo fired into his fat gut at point-blank range!