by B. TRAVEN
The Jungle Novels
Government
The Carreta
The March to Caobaland
The Troza
The Rebellion of the Hanged
The General from the Jungle
Other Books by B. Traven Published in English
The Death Ship
The Cotton-Pickers
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
The Bridge in the Jungle
The White Rose
Stories by the Man Nobody Knows
The Night Visitor and Other Stories
The Creation of the Sun and the Moon
B. Traven
The Carreta
Begin Reading
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
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1
Andrés Ugalde was of pure Indian stock, a member of the great Tseltal tribe. He was a native of Lumbojvil, a finca in the Simojovel district. The full name of the finca was Santa María Dolorosa Lumbojvil.
Lumbojvil was the old Indian name of an Indian village, or commune, and it meant “cultivated land.” After the Spanish conquest it was taken away from the Indians and the land was given or sold by the governor in command there to one of his followers, who made a finca, or landed estate, of it. The Indians, its original possessors, remained in the village because there was nowhere else for them to go. They remained partly from a sentimental attachment to the soil and the place where they had been born and partly because they quickly realized that very much the same fate awaited them wherever else they might go. They were no longer independent peasants on land of their own; the finquero, the new lord of the place, assigned them plots of land according to his own will and discretion, and thus they could cultivate crops for their own and their families’ support. This took the place of wages for the labor which they owed as serfs to their new lord.
When the Spaniards took over the land of these village communities they adopted the old Indian names; otherwise the Indian population, which had been used to these names for centuries, would not have been able to indicate where they belonged. But lest they might forfeit the protection of their own gods, the Spaniards prefixed to the Indian name a good pious name of their own—in this case, Santa María Dolorosa.
In the course of time the Lumbojvil finca passed by sale and inheritance through many hands. But what never changed, however often the land was bought and sold, was the land itself and its original inhabitants. The same families continued to live on the finca as had lived there before the Spaniards came. True to the land and the soil, they waited quietly and patiently for the day when they would come into their own again.
Finally the finca came into the possession of don Arnulfo Partida, a Mexican of Spanish descent—a distinction of which he was very proud, although he had a great deal more Mexican and Indian blood in his veins than Spanish.
2
It was a very rare thing for a peon to get away from a finca to which he belonged. The father was a peon and the son a peon and the daughter a peon’s wife. This was as good as a divine law; and if a peon ran away to start on a life of his own, the finquero gave five pesos to the head of the district council, who then had the peon apprehended by the police and brought back again. After a special punishment for his attempted escape there were the five pesos still to work off. But an Indian is so closely linked with his family and his relations and friends that a peon very seldom thinks of running away from the finca of which he is a part.
Andrés Ugalde got away from the finca without needing to run away. It does not at all follow that it is always to the advantage of a peon to get away from the finca where he was born, even though he was born into virtual serfdom. It is more often than not to his disadvantage. The peon lacks the intelligence, that is, the experience, either to judge of things beforehand or to adapt himself readily to new circumstances, and the finquero has no desire whatever to see the peon’s intelligence developed. If anything of the sort is undertaken by the State for reasons of its own, the finquero turns Monarchist, Bolshevik, or starts a revolution—anything to obstruct such a dangerous policy on behalf of his peons.
3
One of don Arnulfo’s daughters was married and lived at Tenejapa. Tenejapa is a clean and pleasing little town inhabited partly by Mexicans—Ladinos—and partly by full-blooded Indians. The Indians and the Mexicans each live in a section of their own; but in the market and in all affairs of business they mix freely with each other, just as the inhabitants do in any other town in the world. The Mexicans have their own alcalde or mayor and the Indians their jefe or chief, or cacique or whatever they choose to call him.
Doña Emilia could not find servants to suit her in her new home. Perhaps she could not get used to the Tenejapa Indians; or perhaps she wanted to have familiar faces about her. In any case she wrote her father a letter, which she sent by an Indian, begging him to send her two girls from home. She mentioned Ofelia and Paulina as the two she would like best. They were already employed in the kitchen and about the house, and doña Emilia was used to them. While she was about it she asked as well for a handy boy, for her young husband was in urgent need of one to help in the store.
Don Arnulfo could not deny his daughter anything; besides, she hinted in her letter that he would in due course be a grandfather—as she had discovered the week before. So he made haste to send the two girls she asked for, and also picked out the boy to go with them.
This boy was Andrés. Ofelia was his aunt, and as he was to go with her he did not so much mind the separation from the paternal jacalito, the mud hut in which he had been born.
It was the first time he would be away from home. His mother wept as she kneaded his posol for him, but his father was stoical and gave no sign of his feelings. All the same, the boy knew as between one man and another how deeply his father loved him and how sorely he felt the pain of parting from his only son. There was not the slightest movement of his features to betray this. There was only a flicker in the dark brown eyes, a light Andrés had never seen in them before; and this told him that his father loved him with a strength of which until that moment he had never thought him capable. For Criserio was a simple man who knew no more of life and of the world than his milpa—his corn patch—his bean field, his few sheep, and the fields and herds of his master could teach him. He was unable to express his feelings either in words or gestures; and it never entered his mind to express them.
This glitter in his father’s eyes when Andrés took leave of his home was to have several years later a decisive influence over the course of his future life.
Andrés was then twelve years old.
4
The two girls were put on horseback, and their clothes and sheepskin rugs packed in bast mats and loaded on a mule. Andrés and the man who was sent with them, and who would take the animals back, went on foot. It was a three-day journey.
The girls, and the boy too, felt some alleviation of their homesickness when they saw doña Emilia’s well-known face once more. She had, after all, been born on the same soil as they themselves. She was only a year older than Ofelia and only three years older than Paulina.
They had grown up together, for the two Indian girls went into service at the master’s house at a very early age. They had all worked together in the kitchen and in the household, laughed, cried, danced together, and knelt together before the images of the saints in the chapel of the finca, and had shared their secrets. Doña Emilia spoke their own language as easily as they themselves, and the girls knew enough Spanish to make themselves understood among Mexicans.
Doña Emilia had always been beloved in the families of her father’s peons, though of course it might have been only as the crown prince is more beloved than the king. But she had always been ready to help the sick, and whenever she could had tried to redress the wrongs which in her own opinion or in the opinion of the peons were done by her father or his overseer. And so the two girls and the boy were quickly reconciled to their new surroundings by the presence of their young mistress, in whom they already had confidence.
5
Don Leonardo was a comerciante, a merchant. He had a tienda de abarrotes, a store with all sorts of merchandise—sugar, coffee, maize, beans, soap, flour, brandy, preserves, shoes, lamps, hatchets, ready-made clothing, cotton goods, ribbons, gramophones, patent medicines, tobacco, holy images, ink, bottled beer, perfumes, saddlery, cartridges—a Wanamaker Department Store in miniature, which for Tenejapa, a half-Mexican, half-Indian town of about a thousand inhabitants, suggested the splendors of a metropolis.
Don Leonardo was easily able to run this giant concern singlehanded. In a crisis, if a woman came in for a three-centavo candle and at the same moment someone wanted two centavos’ worth of turpentine, doña Emilia could always leap to his assistance. But it did not often happen that there were two customers in the store at the same time; it could only happen on a market day. On an ordinary day, there might be an Indian squatting at the door at half-past five in the morning ready to come in the moment the door was opened; he might buy a quinto’s worth (five centavos) of tobacco leaf. Two hours later a child would appear to buy ground coffee for a medio (six centavos). At ten o’clock a seamstress sent for sewing-machine needles, size seven. Word was sent back that they were not in stock. The child ran home and came back to say that size eight would do. Don Leonardo was sorry, he had not size eight either, but he had size nine. The child came back once more and bought a needle, size nine, for three centavos. In the course of the day the needle was changed four times, until toward evening the parties to the transaction finally agreed on size five, and the sale was completed on the understanding that the seamstress might still change the needle again in the course of the week if she found that size five was not suitable.
Sometimes, of course, a pair of boots or twenty-five quinine pills or a length of cloth might be sold, or even a whole new dress—price twenty-three pesos. That is to say, don Leonardo asked twenty-three pesos for it, because he had got it from New York. At the end of four hours, during which both don Leonardo and the purchaser wept or at least pretended to weep, the dress would be sold for fourteen pesos. Don Leonardo wept because he was selling below cost price and did so only because she was his neighbor and wanted the dress for a wedding, and he hoped that now she would be a faithful customer of his for the rest of her days; while she gave way to tears because she had wished to spend eight pesos only and now all her savings were gone by such scandalous extortion. But when it was all over, don Leonardo told his wife that he had made six pesos on the dress; and the purchaser of it told the whole town how cleverly she had cheated don Leonardo by getting a dress that was worth at least thirty pesos for the ridiculous sum of fourteen, and that she had never in her life bought such a lovely dress—so well made, so stylish—for so little money.
Don Leonardo would never have been rich, or even comfortably off, on the proceeds of the tienda—there was so much competition. Every fourth house in the town was a store. Of course, they were not so large or so well stocked as don Leonardo’s. Most of them were hardly stores at all; as for a good half of them, you could buy up their whole stock for ten pesos and still be a loser.
But don Leonardo had other strings to his bow. He bought maize in large quantities from Indian peasants who cultivated their own land, then sold it again at a good profit in the larger towns—Jovel, Tuxtla, Yalanchén, Balún-Canán. He bought coffee in the Simojovel district and cocoa beans in the Pichucalco district and sold them to the large American importers at the railhead. He bought bales of tobacco by the thousand at Hucutsín and sold them to the dealers in the towns. He had not the capital to go in for these enterprises on a large scale, and there were plenty more buyers about, all doing their best to rob each other of a good thing. Besides this, the output was not large enough or constant enough to get rich on. Nevertheless, these sidelines were a great help; and he had reason to call himself better off than his father-in-law, don Arnulfo.
6
Up to his marriage an aunt of his had helped him in his business, but after that event she quarreled with him. Mothers and aunts have this in common, that they are apt to turn nasty and even vindictive when their charges marry and do not eagerly insist on sharing their married life with them.
Don Leonardo had no wish to see his wife constantly at the beck and call of the business, though this is the rule in the upcountry towns of Mexico and particularly among tradespeople of the lower middle class. The Mexican woman has a far better head for business than her husband. She is more industrious, more adroit, and quicker at grasping a situation. The Mexican woman has something that the Mexican man entirely lacks: foresight, and the patience to wait quietly on events.
It was because don Leonardo did not wish his wife to work in the store, at least not as a necessity, that he thought of having a boy whom he could train to take his place when he himself was away buying up merchandise. When she learned that it was Andrés whom her father was sending to Tenejapa doña Emilia described the boy to her husband and recommended him.
Andrés had been taken into don Arnulfo’s home at the age of nine to wait at table. It is usually boys, not girls, who wait at table on the ranchos and haciendas of Mexico. They are nearly always the sons of peons on the hacienda, though sometimes they may be the children of the owner of the finca, or of his sons, by one or more of the Indian girls of the finca.
The work of a peon’s son in the master’s household counts as a duty, but the father gets some return. He may have a little more land allotted him; or he may be let off one or two days of the fortnight’s labor he owes his master every month; or he may be given the right to pasture a few goats or even a cow on the master’s grassland; or perhaps the boy works off a debt which his father contracted with his master when he wanted cloth for a shirt or purchased a small pig or a puppy from him.
Andrés did not only wait at table: he helped with the washing up and with the cleaning of the rooms; he watered the flowers in the garden, polished the master’s saddle and bridle, helped to wash down the riding horses, helped to carry water from the river; and when there was nothing else to do, the overseer shouted for him to come and help in twisting ropes. But whatever the job might be there was no need to work himself to death. In fact, no one, not a single peon, serfs in a sense though they were, was required to kill himself with work—not on this finca, anyway. For nothing was done in too great a hurry. If Andrés was called by someone in the house and happened to be playing with the boys of the village, he would get a scolding and perhaps even a clout on the ear; but there it ended.
Meanwhile, Andrés benefited greatly by his service in the house. He picked up Spanish; and in fact by the time he went to Tenejapa he could speak it as well as any Mexican boy in the place. And as his native Tseltal was also the language of the Indians of Tenejapa and all the region around it, allowing for a difference in the dialect, he was naturally of great value to don Leonardo; for don Leonardo, particularly on market days, did more business with Indians than with Ladinos.
7
Don Leonardo soon came to have a very good opinion of the boy. Andrés was eager to learn and he was
intelligent and quick. He soon learned to distinguish the various articles and to call them by their right names; and he knew their worth and whether they would last well, also their prices. He even got to know how much he could put on to them in making a sale, or how far to come down without depriving his master of a profit.
Nevertheless—not from any love of the boy, and still less for any thought of his future, but from purely self-interested motives—don Leonardo sent him to evening classes, so that he could learn reading, writing, and arithmetic. The boy had a very rudimentary knowledge of figures. If he was given a peso for a purchase costing eighty-six centavos, he had to ask don Leonardo or doña Emilia to do the sum for him; sometimes he had to go and find one of them, and this was annoying when don Leonardo had just sat down to a meal or to read the newspaper. It was annoying, too, that the boy could not read the labels on the cases and packages, and sometimes opened the wrong case and ran the risk of mixing up the price tickets and selling goods below their cost.
So don Leonardo came to the conclusion that the boy would be worth more to him if he could read and write and reckon figures. It was the same thing on a small scale as it is on a large scale all over the world. The manufacturer, the capitalist, the big landowner is at bottom opposed to the education of the worker. He feels, with reason, that an educated working class may endanger his privileged position. But economic life has become so complex that an industrialist whose workers are uneducated stands no chance against one whose workers are intelligent, alert, and well schooled.
The capitalist of today, if he wishes to remain one, must support the government, and even lead the way, in giving the children whom he may one day need on machines an education such as a hundred years ago very few children of manufacturers ever got. It goes against the grain with him, but he has no choice. Today, and still more is this true of the future, it is not the country which is most highly educated at the top, but the country which is most highly educated at the bottom that takes first place and decides the worth of the dollar.
