General from the Jungle Page 11

  The long wooden table now erected here was covered with cheap, brightly colored cotton tablecloths. The board was richly set with dishes of reddish-black beans, roasted turkeys and chickens, fresh salad, great masses of onions, tins of sardines and Alaska salmon, and huge baskets piled to the brim with pineapples, bananas, melons, mangoes, custard apples, and other tropical fruits of the region. About five bottles of Spanish vermouth and muscatel stood on the table. There was not much wine. The finquero apologized for the scanty number of bottles. No one took offense, for each knew it was not easy to stock large quantities of wines in such remote regions. Of course, the finquero knew very well that good wine, and particularly large quantities of good wine, would be wasted on the officers whom he had to entertain here as uninvited guests. They did not understand how to appreciate fine wine. Besides, the finquero was clever enough to reserve the greater part of his really fine wine for himself, for real celebrations given in style and pomp for his landowning friends and their families. They appreciated good wine. He could no more behave meanly to them than they would to him when they gave fiestas.

  But at one end of the table was a five-gallon barrel of excellent old comiteco, and there was no one sitting at the table who did not prefer the comiteco; for the comiteco of the owner of Santa Cecilia had a great reputation in the country. It was distilled on the finca and never drunk until it was five years old.

  In the patio and along the foot of the veranda the men of the Rurales and Federals and the major-domos and capataces of the victorious finqueros sat feasting. Two pigs and a calf had been slaughtered to feed the unexpected number of warriors. This crowd of valiant trenchermen consumed vast quantities at a meal, and the finquero’s wife, Dona Guillerma, thought with concern of what she would do if the army should settle in for a week. It was not a shortage of meat or corn that she feared. It was the salt, the sugar, the coffee, and the disappearance of plates, cups, napkins, knives, forks, and spoons that frightened her. Of course the soldiers and major-domos all ate with their fingers. But they had to have spoons. And it was not only in the patio but also at the tables where the officers were fed that after every meal the implements, including saucers and coffee cups, grew fewer and fewer. It was not that these things were simply stolen. One of the guests would throw a cup at his servant’s head to encourage him when he was called for and did not come quickly enough. Another wished to scare off the dogs, which crept between the legs of the eater, scrounging bones, and he threw knives and spoons at them. Yet a third felt impelled to display his skill as a juggler at the table, and he persevered with his balancing of cups, plates, and dishes until the whole pyramid collapsed and not a thing remained unbroken. Others knew tricks with forks, spoons, and knives in the course of which the cutlery had to become so bent and broken that at last the conjurer could make it vanish into his mouth or behind his ear. The success of these performances was overwhelming, but the knives and spoons were useless ever after. On top of all this, a third of the cutlery disappeared in the usual way, and Dona Guillerma saw coffee spoons and knives in pockets, a number of which belonged to officers’ uniforms.

  The Rurales and the Federals—that is, their commanding officers—charged the government, through the commissary account, for the cost of subsistence at the finca. And the government paid it. But the finquero who quartered all these men never received a centavo for his expenses. Of course not. For he lived under the blessings of a dictatorship. He did not even dare to raise the question with the officers. First, it would have been unworthy of the dignity of a caballero to concern himself with such trivial matters; second, the commanding officer would have said, “Querido amigo mío, you should be satisfied that we’ve beaten the rebels. If we hadn’t arrived when we did, not even the walls of your finca would be left standing now, and it’s by no means certain that you yourself would still be alive.” Since the finquero knew very well that he would receive this answer, his pride forbade his inviting such a retort.

  The patio was full of people. There were not only the soldiers, squatting on the ground and stuffing their bellies, there were also the peons, with their wives, daughters, and sons, who were either serving here or else lounging around and watching the soldiers enjoying a meal such as the peons were never offered even though they were the producers of everything there.

  The soldiers, major-domos, and capataces, too, were enjoying their comiteco. For them the finquero had placed in the patio a gigantic stone jug that held fifty gallons. Of course it wasn’t the same excellent vintage as in the miniature barrel standing on the table. It was the lees of the best comiteco, very young and fiery, and clear as water.

  As a result of the good food and plenty of comiteco, things soon became extremely merry. The peons’ wives and daughters and the Indian maids were seized upon and made to dance whether they wanted to or not. It was useless for Dona Guillerma to call the maids and wives away from the soldiers, to protect them from harm. The soldiers were the masters here and did not hesitate to laugh rudely in the face of the wife of the finquero.

  Less than two hours had passed when about fifty revolver bullets whistled back and forth through the air, now thick with smoke from the huge bonfire that blazed in the patio. A few peons received wounds and crept away to their huts. Two soldiers and a major-domo were killed, and a half-dozen soldiers and capataces retired to the great harness room, where they had to be treated by helpful comrades. After that, all was once more peace and amity.

  The prisoners were confined in a corral, a fenced-in area for keeping horses and cattle. No one had bothered to untie them. So they remained trussed and corded, just as they had been when they were dragged in behind their captors’ horses. Like parcels they lay on the bare earth of the corral, which was slimy with horse manure and cow dung.

  Four soldiers with rifles on their knees sat on the top rails of the encircling fence to keep watch over the prisoners. They were annoyed that they had to do duty here while their comrades were able to enjoy themselves in the patio. Later they were relieved, so that they, too, could eat. The new guard was even more annoyed than the first, because they had had to leave the feast to keep watch on the lousy Indian pigs here.

  Peons from the finca had timidly approached and given the prisoners some water to drink and a few handfuls of boiled beans. They were in constant terror that the soldiers on guard would ram their rifles into their stomachs because they were doing an act of mercy for the prisoners. However, the soldiers were so disgruntled that they paid no attention to what the peons did, so long as they did not loosen the lassos with which the muchachos were bound.

  A Federal lieutenant got up and walked over to a dark corner of the patio, close to the corral, feeling an uncomfortable pressure of liquid within him. He went up close to the fence and sought out a place where several of the prisoners were lying against the rails.

  “Just stay where you are, you swine,” said the lieutenant, as the muchachos attempted to creep away from the warm stream of urine. The muchachos moved no farther.

  “Filthy, lousy swine, you ought to feel honored that a Federal officer condescends to piss on you. Do you understand? Answer!”

  “Sí, jefecito,” said the muchachos submissively and did not move from the spot.

  The lieutenant returned to the table. When he saw that, for the moment, the wife and daughters of the finquero were not near enough to overhear, he related his latest adventure.

  A roar of laughter followed this, and all, officers and finqueros for want of better entertainment and more edifying conversation, got up in turn, went over to the corral, and summoned the muchachos to come close to the rails.

  And during the succeeding hours when one or another of them felt the necessity, he went “to water the pigs.”

  The soldiers, major-domos, and capataces, as soon as one of them happened to discover the game, copied their officers’ joke, until finally one of the captains of the Rurales forbade this, not out of pity for the humiliated muchachos, but from the feeling th
at the men had no right to use for their needs the same place as had been selected by the officers and caballeros, because such a state of affairs could easily lead to a blurring of the important distinctions of rank.

  The next morning, as soon as officers and caballeros had wiped their eyes with wet fingers and the maids had offered each a morning cup of hot black coffee boiled with coarse brown sugar, the major commanded that the examination of the captured rebels should commence.

  The major composed the trial. He was simultaneously prosecutor, judge, and the final court of appeal. The remaining officers and the finqueros stood or sat around as supernumerary judges. Their activity, however, was restricted solely to suggesting particularly effective forms of punishment that would leave an impression not to be forgotten in a hundred years.

  To engage in rebellion was the prerogative only of the officers, finqueros, and industrial magnates when the dictator was not to their liking. Indeed, every person in the country, even an enlightened schoolchild, knew that the dictator only remained El Cacique so long as he did what these individuals ordered him to do, for they were able to keep the government under control because they held the cudgels in their money bags.

  Each case was dealt with in a very brisk and military fashion. The prisoners stepped forward, or, to be more accurate, they were hurtled forward by hard fists and boots; each said his name and stood motionless, arms crossed over his breast.

  The major, who had undertaken his duties voluntarily, asked each prisoner whether he had been a laborer in the monterías. Every one of them confirmed this. Not a muchacho fell on his knees and begged for mercy or prayed for forgiveness. Even in face of the agony that awaited them during the next few hours, they showed themselves greater and better men than their executioners, who later, when the dictatorship began to collapse, behaved just as would be expected of minions and toadies of any dictatorship the world over.

  The colonel took no interest in the matter of the trial or in what happened to the prisoners. He had enjoyed a long and healthy sleep, then breakfasted alone in order to ensure a better meal, in which expectation he was not, to his pleasure, disappointed. Then he sat down at a little table in the farthest corner of the veranda, pensively smoked a powerful cigar, and dictated to his clerk an account of the battle for the benefit of the chief of military operations, who had his quarters in Jovel.

  After the taking of their names, which no one troubled to record, the trial was at an end and the major’s heaviest duties for the day satisfactorily concluded.

  Meantime, he, the other officers, and the finqueros had acquired a fierce hunger as a result of the ardors of this tribunal. Since they had noticed with smiles in their eyes that the Indian maids had bedecked the long tables with steaming suckling pigs and vast brown mounds of roasted veal and chops, haste was necessary in order not to disappoint the wife of the finquero who had taken so much trouble to entertain them well. The delicious dishes must not be allowed to grow cold, and it was therefore essential that the contents of each platter should vanish just as rapidly as jaws could masticate.

  “Sergeant Paniagua!” shouted the major.

  “A sus órdenes, mi comandante!” answered the sergeant, standing before the railing of the veranda on which the major sat with a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  “Take away the prisoners, outside the walls of the finca, and execute them. But first you can have your breakfasts.”

  “A sus órdenes, mi comandante.”

  In pious consciousness of having done his duty as soldier and guardian of the dictator, who gave him his daily bread, the major slipped down from the railing, went over to the washstand, washed his hands, beckoned to the other officers, and walked across to the table. A dozen finqueros were already sitting before their plates and waiting only for the colonel, the senior person there, to sit down also before they could at last begin their delayed meal.

  “God,” said the major, sitting down after the colonel and cleaning his nails with a toothpick, “I must say this is a damned good meal, enough to make the heart of an old soldier and fighter leap with joy within his breast. Well, up and at ’em, caballeros, and into battle with all the courage you have!”

  The caballeros at the table were not halfway through their battle when Sergeant Paniagua reported to the major: “Listo, mi comandante.”

  “Muy bien! You know what you have to do with the prisoners, sergeant?”

  “Sí, mi comandante.”

  “Good. Get on with it.”

  “Just a moment, Major!” interrupted the proprietor of Santa Cecilia, who as host occupied the center seat at the table, between the colonel and the major. “I would make the suggestion, Major, that we summon all the peons on my finca so that they can witness the punishment of these rebels. It will benefit all us finqueros for the peons to see it. It’ll drive out of them once and forever, we hope, all that chatter about tyranny and injustice.”

  “Bravo! Bravísimo!” shouted the rest of the finqueros at the table. “That’s a fine idea of yours, Don Delfino. Pity we can’t get our own peons here quickly enough to join in the spectacle. Such an excellent education can’t be given them every day.”

  Several of the peons were already in the patio, where they were serving or standing around out of curiosity. On days like these, when great celebrations were held in the finca, there was rarely much work done, because the major-domos and the capataces wished to miss nothing of the banquets. Only the most important work was attended to.

  Nevertheless, the finquero sent his major-domo across to the peons’ village to summon all men, women, and children to witness the execution of the rebels.

  To have the free and unrestricted disposal of such a large number of ragged, verminous, cowed, and totally defenseless prisoners would have rejoiced the heart of the sexually degenerate, spiritually defiled, uniformed invertebrates such as Central Europe produces so cheaply and in such great quantities. Dictators who feel safe and happy only when surrounded solely by slaves are content—for entirely understandable reasons—to rely for acclaim and support on abject minions. With free men capable of feeling even a glimmer of dignity, they wouldn’t remain sitting on their thrones a week. It was not so in olden days, but in modern times protection comes from the meanest and most miserable henchmen and guardroom parasites, those human dregs, immature and snot-nosed, who, because they have no individuality, no spark of personality, can feel themselves alive only because they are permitted to don a uniform cap. These uniform caps transform a human cipher into a semi-being, but as soon as this semi-being is without his uniform cap, he immediately reveals himself for what he really is: an idiotically distorted, crookedly conceived cipher.

  Sergeant Paniagua, who had received the major’s order for the punishment and execution of the rebels, had, like the rest of the N.C.O.’s and policemen, no thought of satisfying any sadistic mental streak by beating defenseless prisoners for days and weeks on end or making them spit on one another or box each other’s ears. Such a thing would have seemed to them so laughable, so idiotic, that they would have doubted their own sanity.

  Usually, captured rebels were hanged on a nearby tree. That was done with such speed that ten men were hanged in ten minutes.

  Sergeant Paniagua called out a squad and gave the order to take out the prisoners three hundred yards away from the finca, and there to hang them in turn from the trees, after having cut off their ears.

  But no sooner had they reached the trees than there came up a major-domo of one of the finqueros who was still sitting at his meal, with an order to the sergeant to delay the hangings for a while, since the finqueros wished to be present.

  The sergeant sent a corporal to the major to inquire whether such a delay was in order. The major gave his permission and commanded that the hangings should wait until the caballeros had finished their meal and had time to reach the scene of the executions.

  After half an hour the finqueros strolled up leisurely, together with the major and a few bored
officers.

  “We can’t have a celebration like this every day,” observed Don Crisostomo, the owner of the Santa Julia finca.

  “Too true,” Don Abundio, the master of La Nueva Granda, nodded in agreement. “But that’s not all. It’s far better that we should see justice done and everything carried out to the letter of the law. What does a filthy swine of a peon care when he’s hanged?”

  This evoked a burst of healthy laughter from the caballeros.

  “All the peons here?” asked Don Delfino.

  “Sí, patrón,” answered his major-domo.

  “Why should we all have to stand around?” asked Don Faustino, the master of finca Rio Verde. He summoned one of the major-domos and gave him the order to saddle horses and bring them there in order that all could be mounted and not have to stand on their scrawny, bandy legs.

  “Oiga, Major!” Don Eleuterio of finca La Providencia came up to the major. “I imagine it’s all the same to you who deals with these rebel dogs.”

  “Es cierto,” replied the major. “It doesn’t matter to me. I’ve only got to report that the captured rebels are dead, either shot or hanged. I don’t care. I’m a soldier. And my men are soldiers. And since we’re soldiers we would be ashamed to beat or torture defenseless prisoners. We hang or we shoot. What the police do, we soldiers are not responsible for.”

  The major shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

  “Look, Major,” interposed Don Tirso of La Camelia. “In the next day or two you’ll march away. Then once more we’ll all be left here alone and completely defenseless. I know very well our peons are no longer what they were. They’re restless. They’re waiting for an opportunity, and then they’ll be at our throats. We’ll be slaughtered like sheep. All in one night. If we don’t give them a thorough lesson on how we deal with rebels, here and now, which they won’t forget for the next two or three years, we’ll have no security.”

  “Muy bien, caballeros! Do what you wish. I’m going to have a quiet drink, get into my hammock, and spend a pleasant sunny afternoon. Sergeant Paniagua!”