General from the Jungle

by B. TRAVEN

  When the advance guard reached the ranch, the muchachos found all the huts deserted. The patron and his family had retired deep into the bush. All the families of the peons had followed him.

  “There we have proof that someone has betrayed our arrival and our march,” said General. “They’ve had news here, and fear has driven them all away.”

  “To know that is worth a great deal,” replied Professor. “Now we can be certain that we shall come up against Rurales at one of the two next fincas.”

  Two men threw off their packs and listened to what General and Professor were saying to one another. One of them said, “General, we can easily find the patron in the bush. You’ve only to say the word, and we’ll be off and drag him back to you with all his brood.”

  “What’s the point of that?” answered General. “Kill all the cattle you find, and have a good meal for once. What’s left over, we’ll take with us on the march. And the last company fires the place. Then there won’t be a stronghold at our backs. You, Nicasio, take the order to every company following that we’re camping here for the night. It’s going to rain again and we can use the huts for the night. I’ll go with Professor and Celso, and as many others as can find room, into the master’s house. Tomorrow morning at four o’clock we march off.”

  The next day, when the first troop packed up, they were well lighted on their way: all houses and huts were blazing. There was scarcely a glowing cinder left when the last company left the ranch. All pigs and cows had been slaughtered, and all horses and donkeys were taken away as booty of war.

  Toward midday the troop arrived at the Rancho Santa Isabel. As at Santa Margarita, the huts there were also deserted. Cattle and swine had obviously been driven by the occupants into the bush. Only a half-dozen cats were licking themselves sleepily outside the empty huts. Two or three hounds, which had probably been knocked about and had arrived too late to take part in the general flight of the inhabitants, gaped at the muchachos, then crept behind the huts when the hounds of the troop took up the hunt against them.

  Scarcely half the troop had passed through, and all the huts, the owner’s house, the bodega, and gates and fences were in flames. Before the ranch had been put to the torch, the muchachos had searched for saddles and machetes—and found none. The general impression was that the inhabitants had left their dwellings the day previously, if not perhaps some days before that. All the hearths were cold and damp. A few iron water pots were all that was left in the huts.

  On the subsequent march the muchachos discovered that even the tiny settlements of the independent Indian farmers were deserted. Idle hounds and cats lay around, or stole secretly and mistrustfully away at the approach of the troop.

  “The reputation that precedes us,” said Professor to General, as he commented on the solitary and ghostlike appearance of the deserted huts, “is a bad one. I’d like to know who has decried us as murderers, arsonists, and bandits.”

  “Well, we don’t give a damn for what’s said about us.” Celso had joined them, taken off his pack, and squatted on the ground to rest. “We’re rebels. Or perhaps we’re not rebels? We haven’t come here with sugar bonbons. And anyone who doesn’t like it can just get out.”

  “Celso’s right,” said General. “What do we care whether the Inditos are afraid or not? One day they’ll realize that we’re not bandits. If they won’t help us now to clear out the tyrants, then they’ll have to put up with the patrones and the whips for a few years longer. But we won’t put up with them. What do you say to that, muchachos?” He turned to a group of lads who had marched up and just arrived at the hard-trodden square of the little village. Like Celso, they threw their packs off and squatted down to gain fresh breath and new strength. There was still two or three hours’ marching to the place where their next camp was to be pitched.

  This little village consisted of only ten huts, each containing one room. Here the revolution could bring nothing to the small Indian peasants. The revolution would have to bring a more fruitful soil, cattle, and grass for the cattle, and also a few sacks full of rags before these miserable peasants and their wives and children would have even the most essential clothing. Out of the inhabitants of this tiny pueblito, only three families possessed a machete, while each man had a rusty, half-broken knife. Each family had a single communal spoon. There were no beds, no chairs, no tables to be found in the whole village; no axes, no nails. After searching all the huts, about twenty yards of wire had been collected. It was wire that the men on their long marches into the countryside had found and gleaned piece by piece, or had cut down from hanging telephone cables, or had torn off wire fences which they had passed. All they possessed to cultivate the meager, stony ground was a stout, pointed stake that they stabbed into the earth when sowing the corn.

  Even these men and their families had abandoned their miserable habitations and fled deep into the bush from terror of being killed by the rebels who marched to their war cry, “Tierra y Libertad!”

  They could have listened for a whole day to Professor expatiating on dictatorship, tyranny, and the bondage of the proletariat, and they would not have understood him. They possessed here land and freedom, and they asked nothing more of life and their tyrants than that they should not be murdered, that no one should steal from them, and that they should be left in peace to their own ruination when the arid ground became yet more arid owing to lack of rain or due to an excess of rain washing away the shallow surface of the soil, and when their wretched crop of corn and beans was one third consumed by rats and another third by corn borers and bean maggots. They would have been grateful to a revolution, could that revolution have protected them from the eagles, hawks, martens, and coyotes that stole their chickens, and from the jaguars and alligators that preyed on their pigs and calves. Their problems were so simple that even the grandest revolution and the most inspiring rebellion, which liberated the country from its dictatorship, passed them and their lives by without their even noticing it. Their only awareness of the revolution was that in the marketplace at the nearest small town it was no longer Don Damaso who collected their market dues, but Don Dionisio now; and that whereas before the revolution they had had to pay two centavos tax when they wished to sell twenty-five centavos worth of wool, now they had to pay five centavos tax, of which one centavo was reckoned as an extra tax for a country school that was never built.

  The rebels could easily have been made content with land, which was abundantly available and could have been distributed to them out of the hundreds of thousands of acres of land which belonged to the fincas, but had never been cultivated, and which the owners never would cultivate. It would have been cheaper for the finqueros, for the owners of great estates, to have given away these uncultivated tracts. It would have been cheaper to abolish debt-slavery. And for the whole nation and for the good repute of the dictator, it would have been a thousand times better if genuinely free elections had been instituted, if the autocratic rights of the dictator had been curtailed, if he had been made answerable to a parliament, even though that parliament consisted of men who talked for hours without saying anything and argued for days without deciding anything. It would have been better and cheaper and, for the people, more useful, if the dictator had allowed all his compatriots, friends or foes, the unrestricted right to gabble themselves silly. But like all dictators whose names have been recorded in history, he permitted no opposition. What he commanded was law, without the man who had to obey and observe the law having been given the right of any say in the making of that law. He knew only one answer against the wishes and demands of the citizens, and that was the answer of his uniformed henchmen with their truncheons and revolvers.

  It would have been so simple, had the chief of police of the district sent a few sensible and peaceful men to meet the troop when he received news of their approach. Such men would certainly have achieved more—far more of value for the State—than the Rurales, whom the police chief dispatched with the order to enter into n
o kind of negotiations, but simply to start shooting as soon as the bandits and murderers came into sight.

  * Tropical mahogany forests.

  2

  The troop was now marching along a broad road. The road was not a constructed one, but was broad and open only because it led across the plain. This plain belonged to the Santo Domingo finca, the whitewashed church of which could already be seen from a hilltop. As far as the eye could see, into the distance ahead and to left and right, all the land belonged to the fine a.

  Forty families of peons lived in their huts close beside the main house. Fifty more families lived in four small settlements that lay strewn at the four corners of the vast area of the finca. Placing these further settlements at such a distance from the ranch house had the advantage that the peons, who were cowherds, could better watch and gather their herds, which strayed far over the grasslands.

  General, Professor, and Celso were resting on the hilltop whence they could see the church of the finca. Rather more than halfway from the hill to the finca there was a deep depression in the ground, which, so far as could be estimated from their vantage point, must be at least two miles in length. The plain was undulating and broken by numerous little hills. These hills were seldom more than fifty feet high, most of them being lower. However, to the south in the gray-blue distance rose a range of mountains that stretched across the whole of the visible horizon. Over the countryside were scattered a few trees, solitary ones and some in clumps of ten or twenty combining to make a copse. In between, similarly strewn about the countryside, were wild bushes, singly and in clumps.

  From the hill, at the foot of which the first company had just arrived, the route to the courtyard of the finca was clearly visible. This route consisted of four or five well-beaten tracks, running beside one another, sometimes joining up into three or only two, then again dividing into five or even eight and nine. These tracks looked as though they had been made by the wheels of wagons. But no wagons were in use here. The tracks had been trodden out of the green grassland by the cattle ambling back to the farmyard at evening and returning to pasture in the morning. Here, too, came the mule caravans, which traveled from Hucutsin to the fincas and to the monterías. Last and least, the Indians tramped along them when they went to market.

  These tracks had been so trodden down that no grass grew upon them. Thus they were plainly visible for many miles.

  The grass itself did not stand very high, scarcely three feet. It was not dense, but stood more in thickets. However, it was very green following the rainy season.

  The road from the jungle had been broad and open for the last two hours of the march, even though there had been bush on both sides. Now, however, the bush opened out farther and farther to both sides, which made the plain seem far greater and more extensive than it was in reality. The harsh sun, hanging over the flat land enveloped the plain far into the distance in a shimmering, thin haze, so that the little white church and the courtyard of the finca sometimes vanished or seemed to reappear in a different place from where one had believed it formerly. At moments cattle looked like dogs in this shimmering, flickering light, and great stones appeared like houses; charred tree trunks, which stood upright, and burned palms resembled now the standing columns of ruined temples, now the brown figures of motionless Indians.

  Normally the traveling caravans encountered here whole herds of cattle and half-wild horses, the property of the finca. Now and again, nearby or in the distance, two or three peons or vaqueros riding away on horseback would be seen, searching for these herds to seek out calves that had been born in the night or sick cows or horses, and then to lasso them and take them back to the ranch to be looked after and cured.

  But on this day there was not a herd to be seen on the whole wide plain, only here and there a few solitary, stray cattle. Not a vaquero, not a peon was visible. Some ten or twelve vultures were circling high in the air. And in the distant courtyard of the finca could now and then be seen a swirling plume of smoke rising—sometimes from the kitchen of the finca, sometimes from one of the huts of the peons.

  “That Santo Domingo is a damned great and fine finca,” said Celso, squatting down and rolling a cigarette. “I know it. It belongs to Don Patricio. I know it well. Spent the night there several times with the peons. It’s a grand, rich finca.”

  “I know it well, too, and so do you.” General turned to Professor. “We spent a day and two nights here when we were marching to the monterías.”

  Several more muchachos now came up the hill and sat down beside them.

  Professor stood up and looked back down the way along which, at this very instant, the second company was coming into view and preparing to make camp when they saw the first company already resting.

  “Yes, we’ve been here before,” said Professor suddenly in a changed voice. “What do we do now? We’ve reached the first large finca. Something’s got to be done. We could march around it and go on as if we hadn’t seen it. But what’s the point of being rebels if we choose to go on our way without snapping up the first good morsel we find in our path? And if we’re really serious about making a revolution and giving all the peons Tierra y Libertad, then we’d better make a beginning. An important axiom of revolution runs: ‘Never leave an enemy in your rear!’ If we just go through here peacefully like a herd of sheep, we shall have a powerful enemy at our backs! So what do you say?”

  “The same as you,” answered General.

  Celso blew out a thick cloud of smoke and said dryly, “Right. Why should the finquero and his brood reign here any longer? It’s time the others had their turn, who’ve been ruled over so long and haven’t dared open their mouths.”

  Professor laughed. “Then we’re all agreed. Agreed in thought. Agreed in action. Agreed on battle. What do you say, muchachos?” he called in a loud voice across to the men nearby.

  “Tierra y Libertad!” they all yelled together in reply. And then they shouted: “Viva, Professor! Arriba General! La muerte a los tiranos y todos los patrones y dictadores! Libertad para todos!”

  When Professor had sat down again, Celso said, “The finca isn’t deserted. Otherwise there’d be no smoke.”

  “That’s just what I’ve been thinking.” Professor gazed over in the direction of the ranch. “Why is there smoke coming from the house and from the huts? Because none of them has run away, although they know that we are many and have revolvers and rifles. And why has none of them run away?” He looked questioningly at Celso and General.

  “Because they believe we’ll only slaughter a few cattle and then go on our way,” answered General, ironically winking an eye.

  “And you, Celso, what do you think?”

  “They’ve got Rurales in the finca,” replied Celso.

  “Celso, I promote you to colonel,” said Professor, laughing. “Do you confirm that, General?”

  “Confirmed.”

  “Well done, Celso,” exclaimed Professor. “You’re a damned clever lad. What you said is right. They’ve got the finca full of Rurales. They must have received news of our approach some days ago in Balun Canan or Achlumal, otherwise the Rurales couldn’t be here already.”

  “But it’s possible the Rurales were on a tour of inspection, to make sure that all’s quiet and there aren’t any insurrections or cattle-robbing by the Bachajon Indians.”

  “Celso, you’re right again. It’s far more likely that there’s only an inspection patrol there in the finca, twenty or twenty-four men, a captain, a sergeant, and three or four N.C.O.’s. They have rifles and usually carry a machine gun with them.”

  When the muchachos who were squatting about the hill heard this, they grew excited. “Rifles and revolvers! Viva las armas! Hurrah for weapons!” they shouted, jumping up and dancing around as though they had already won the battle.

  “A report could hardly have gotten to Balun Canan,” continued Professor. “And in Achlumal and Hucutsin there are only occasional small guard commandos. But without doubt the news
is already on its way to Jovel, and that will bring half a battalion out against us. Where do you think those Rurales would be at this moment, General?”

  “When we were on commando raids, we didn’t wait at a finca—we waited in open country, or went after the rebels.”

  “Why didn’t you wait in the yard, which is walled and offers good cover?”

  “Simply because, first of all, too much damage would be done to the finca, and, second, we might easily find ourselves caught in a trap, particularly if the insurgents were five hundred strong and we only five and twenty. In open country, with our machine guns, rifles, and well-disciplined soldiers, we had a superiority even if we were only twenty and the rebels five hundred.”

  “Then you think they’ll come after us here, out in the open?”

  “I don’t think. I’m certain of it. I wasn’t a sergeant for nothing. I know how it’s done—having done it myself.”

  “Against peons and workers?”

  “You can’t do much about it when you’re caught up in the army. It works like a machine: whether you like it or not, you have to conform, and you can change things only by stabbing a few officers or bashing their skulls in and then taking to your heels. But if you know you’ve got a few dozen in the battalion on your side, and if you have the nerve for it and strike at the right moment, then you can win the whole battalion to your side. After all, they’re all ill-treated hirelings like yourself.”

  While General talked, Celso had been squatting there, quiet and relaxed, smoking his cigarette and blinking as he stared across at the courtyard of the finca.

  Now he gave vent to a half-choked, excited cry. He changed from his crouching position into a kneeling one, placing both fists on the ground, ducked down, and stretched his head as far forward as possible.

  “What in God’s name has gotten into you?” asked Professor.

  Several muchachos, who had gathered on the hill, took up the same attitude as Celso. It was their natural posture when they wanted to observe in the distance something which they wished to see clearly and to judge before it came closer.