General from the Jungle

by B. TRAVEN

  General drew a jug of coffee from the fire and filled up his little beaker, which he clasped in both hands as though trying to warm them. Several times he twirled the beaker in his hands; then, when it had cooled a little, he drained it in one gulp.

  More and more muchachos had come up to the staff fire. They crowded closely around so as not to miss a word of General’s message to the divisional commander of the Federal Army.

  “Don Petronio has taken up position with two battalions of infantry, a cavalry regiment, and a machine-gun section immediately beyond La Peña Alta, where he is lying hidden and waiting for me to slip into his clutches in the long gorge there. Tell him I shall not do him this favor, because I would never fall into a trap so clumsily devised.”

  The lieutenant stared at General as though he saw a ghost rising up behind him.

  “He would like to lure me to Las Margaritas in order to take me in the flank as well. It’s not convenient for me to do that. I shall expect him here, now that you know our position. That lecherous old goat wouldn’t be afraid of such filthy, stinking swine as we are? What a miserable, lousy son of an ulcerated bitch your commander is, if he only dares to attack us in a swampy gorge! If he’s a first-class soldier who’s earned his medals, then let the son of a whore come here and leather our asses for us. And don’t you forget to tell him what I think of him.”

  These insults provoked the lieutenant to such a pitch of rage that he completely forgot where he was. He leaped up and in one bound confronted General.

  General had sprung up simultaneously. None of the muchachos interfered. That may have been because it had happened so quickly, or else because they believed it was part of the prearranged plan.

  The lieutenant lashed out with his fist. But before the blow could reach General’s face, the latter had struck with all his strength at the lieutenant’s chin. The lieutenant stumbled backward and fell approximately at the same place where he had been squatting.

  “Pity you didn’t have your revolver with you. That’s what you’re thinking now, isn’t it?” asked General. “You’re not the first officer I’ve hit in the jaw. That’s why I’m now general of the muchachos, who aren’t cowardly wretches such as let themselves be hit in the face without defending themselves. What I think of your chief, you know now. And if your commander isn’t here within four days to have himself slaughtered by us lousy, filthy Indian swine, then he won’t find me here any more. For I shall march in a wide detour around Balun Canan and make for Shimojol. That’s a nice, rich little town too, where we’ll have plenty of fun. Then on to Huninquibal, and after that I’ll take Yalanchen, then Tsobtajal, then Acayan, then Nihich, and finally Socton. And after that the attack on Tullum, where we’ll visit the governor, provided he hasn’t departed to attend a wedding. Perhaps we may change our plans. But I’m only telling you all this so that you know that I’ve no need to go to La Peña Alta, where the trap’s been laid. That’s all you have to tell your chief. And if you forget a word, we’ll get you again and the other half of your ears will come off. And don’t forget to repeat to your commanding officer what I said.”

  General again drained his beaker and shook out the dregs. “Who’s got a fat cigar ready for me?” he asked, looking around. “So that you won’t lose your way, I’m sending two of our muchachos with you as far as the ranchito where your horses are waiting.”

  The lieutenant stood up. “Where are my companions?” he asked.

  “They’re looking at our armory. First they looked at our treasures from above, now they’re examining them from below. Probably they’ll stay here forever. None of us invited them. Tomorrow morning at breakfast you can tell your commander: either he comes with a battalion to fetch them or else he lets us make our detour. And before you go, don’t forget to say thanks for the frijoles, the tortillas, and the coffee. You’ve been very well entertained here. Or haven’t you?”

  Without answering the lieutenant wheeled about and followed the two muchachos who were to set him on his way.

  Scarcely had the three men vanished into the night than the muchachos around the fire began to talk excitedly. “But, hombre, General, how did you know all that? Is it true that the Federals are waiting for us behind the rocks? How did you know who the four were?”

  “That was easy enough,” replied General, lighting his cigar and filling his beaker again with hot coffee. “Much easier than you might think. I didn’t do anything wonderful. It just fell into my lap. Some peons really did come into the camp today. Three. Not from Las Margaritas. From another finca. But they were genuine peons, not spies. In a minute I knew they were genuine peons. And that’s why you didn’t see them. They never came into the camp, not right here in the middle. They lay out there in the bush, well beyond our outer patrols. For three or four hours they remained hidden in the bush until they were sure I was the one they were looking for. I was out at training exercises in the bush. When I was alone for a moment and the muchachos had run on ahead, I heard someone call softly, ‘Oye, listen, brother. We want to talk with you.’ I let the muchachos go on running and went deeper into the bush with the peons. They came to warn me about the approach of the troops and to tell me about the ambush we are supposed to fall into for the pleasure of the Federals. They also knew about the four disguised officers.”

  Colonel laughed loudly. “Of course, anyone can lay his plans when he has such good informants.”

  “But they might not have come to you,” suggested General, grinning and looking sideways at him.

  “Why shouldn’t they have just as readily come to me?”

  “You don’t inspire as much confidence as I do. What most excited me was not the valuable news they brought me. No. What rejoiced my heart was the fact that for the first time during our revolution, peons had come to us voluntarily and given us unexpected; but therefore all the more welcome, help. That’s a sure sign that the revolution is now slowly beginning to make an impression, even in the minds of these intimidated peons. Once the hundreds of thousands of peons come over to us, once they begin to rebel on their fincas entirely of their own accord, then the victory of the revolution is assured, even if the struggle goes on for another two or three years.”

  “I couldn’t have put that better by one single word, General,” said Professor, with a long yawn. He stood up, sought out his mat and blanket, and crept behind a bush to pass the night there.

  “I still don’t understand much about making war,” said Matias at last, when no one else showed any inclination to speak, “but I think, General, that you’ve made a bad mistake.”

  “What sort of a mistake do you mean?” asked General, who had half fallen asleep, but still remained squatting by the fire and puffing at his cigar. He asked in a manner that suggested he expected no answer, as though the question had escaped him purely mechanically.

  “You needn’t have told the lieutenant what your plans were.”

  “A mistake? I made a mistake? Oh well, why shouldn’t I make a mistake now and again when so many mistakes are made by us, and even more by those damned swine lying in ambush beyond La Peña Alta? I had to tell him something so that he now won’t discover what we are going to do. Had I said nothing to him about his plans, which I knew, he would have had nothing to worry about and would simply have marched against us. But now he won’t be certain what to do. And what will that old fat sucker do? He’ll send one battalion in one direction, and another in another, because he can’t be sure where we might bob up. And the poor peons who came here so bravely to tell me everything, if they can’t account satisfactorily for where they’ve been today, they’ll probably be buried up to their necks and trampled to death. I hope they’ll have enough gray matter in their heads to know what to say. They could have gone after a strayed cow. God, muchachos, I’m tired.”

  A second later the muchachos heard him snoring. Fidel stood up, fetched a blanket, covered him with it, and then pushed a saddle under his head. Contentedly General stretched out his legs. Several bare
toes peeped out, for his boots, which had once belonged to a captain, were too tight for him, and he had had to slit the sides and also cut some holes to give his toes room.

  The muchachos hastily raked the fire farther back, for General had pushed his boots, still encrusted with dried mud, into the fire and the leather had begun to smolder.

  10

  Don Petronio Bringas, divisional general and officer in command of the army that had been dispatched by the government to annihilate the rebels, sat at breakfast. It was a breakfast worthy of a general, although it was provided in the main house of a small rancho where the general had established his headquarters. The longer these headquarters lingered at the rancho, the thinner and more haggard in the face grew the unfortunate man to whom the rancho belonged. Of course, the general was no bandit chief. He was a genuine general of the Federal troops. He paid half a peso for each meal. That was what was paid by every traveler, every merchant traveling along that road and seeking and receiving lodging for a night in the rancho. There were no hotels along those lonely tracks; a traveler stayed the night at whatever rancho his road led him to by the late afternoon, for he stopped as soon as he was told he could not reach the next rancho in less than three hours, knowing that it would be pitch dark within an hour.

  Every traveler is content with what the ranchero’s wife provides for him and is grateful for any special concession, even for a rickety bed. But, of course, a ranchero cannot treat an army general like that. What was set before the general at each meal was worth at least four pesos. The ranchero dared not ask more than the customary price, for fear of arousing the general’s anger and ill will and of falling into disfavor with all the little dictators who controlled his destiny. If the general had been alone, the situation would have been just tolerable, and the ranchero could tell himself that one has to make some sacrifices for the good of the fatherland. But from the general there depended a long tail of officers, men, and orderlies, who all helped to eat the ranchero out of house and home, all paying half a peso for a meal, and all being fed in a style which, so the poor man believed, generals, majors, and lieutenants were accustomed to.

  The general and his other officers were bored because the cursed rebels seemed reluctant to advance into the gorge selected for their massacre. And therefore every day the rancho was visited by women from the garrison town, ordered by the general and his officers. The ranchero and his family passed their nights squeezed together in a corner of the portico, so that the visitors might have the best rooms and everything else besides. The twenty or thirty attendants, who also formed part of the tail, could not afford to pay half a peso; they paid only fifteen centavos. But not one might get up from the table hungry. Yet all this, painful though it was, was not the greatest sorrow of the ranchero, who was informed fifteen times a day how lucky he was to be able to amass a fortune by having the army quartered on him. Hens, pigs, calves, and whole sacks of corn vanished, and the girls of the rancho went around with yellowish-gray marks on their faces and told the mistress they were sure they had caught something.

  So one can very well understand why, fourteen times a day, the ranchero prayed, “Oh, dear God in Heaven above, please make the rebels at last advance so that they can be killed and the whole horrible business here be over and I can have my own ranch back again, even if it is nothing but ruins.”

  The general, meanwhile, was in no hurry to attack the rebels. He received active-service pay as long as he was in the field. Once the rebels had been defeated, he would have to return to his garrison, and the active-service pay and the rich meals for half a peso each would cease.

  It was ten o’clock in the morning when he lowered himself, comfortable, good-humored, ponderous, and powerful, into the crude chair the ranchero proffered him with a “Ya listo, mi general,” thereby indicating that everything was ready and the maidservants were actually en route from the kitchen with their dishes. The general sharpened a knife against his fork, smacking his fat lips, and said, “Ah, Don Rosendo, what have we delectable for breakfast today? I hope something specially good. Dammit, out here in the country I’m eternally hungry and could spend all the day and half the night just eating.”

  The ranchero drew in a painful, whistling breath and said, “Chicken broth, General, fried rice with red chilies and tomatoes, eggs à la Ranchera, roast cockerel, suckling pig, barbecue with drunk sauce—I mean of course, barbacoa con salsa borracha—then purée of papayas, and coffee.”

  “Is that all, Don Rosendo?” asked the general with an expression of disappointment. “No mole poblano de guajolote today?”

  “Siento muchísimo, I’m extremely sorry, General,” replied the sorely tried man with a shrug of his shoulders. “The turkeys still remaining are too young to be killed yet. The three dozen plump, full-grown ones that I had—well, you know, General, where they’ve gone.”

  “But my dear Don Rosendo, on a fine ranch such as you’ve got, these birds just grow wild and breed like mad. You must simply lay some more eggs.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Don’t you think I’d do the same for you, Don Rosendo? But with the best will you couldn’t ask that of me!” The general was so pleased at his joke that he burst out in uproarious laughter and continued to laugh, until the other officers came into the room to join him at table.

  “Gentlemen,” he called to them, making another effort to burst with laughter. “Gentlemen! No! You won’t believe it possible, but Rosendo has asked me to lay eggs for him. What do you say to that?” With both fists—a knife in one, a fork in the other—he banged on the table to lend greater musical force to his bovine roars.

  “What sort of eggs does he want you to lay, General?” asked Captain Segu, with an innocent expression. Only his expression was innocent, not his question. He wished to stimulate his superior’s pleasure still further.

  The general could have kissed the captain for giving him an opportunity to renew and intensify his laughter. “Did you all hear that, gentlemen? What Captain Segu asked me? Did you hear, gentlemen?” He could scarcely get the words out between his bursts of merriment. “Captain Segu asked what sort of eggs I should lay.”

  The captain kept a straight face, not betraying by the twitch of an eyebrow that he understood the joke. That evoked still further laughter from the general, to see the captain standing there and looking so innocent. With his fork he now pointed at the captain and looked around at the laughing officers on all sides, to incite them to follow the direction of his fork. “Captain Segu asked me what sort of eggs I should lay. Gentlemen, gentlemen, what sort of eggs should I lay?”

  The captain now changed his expression. He grasped his chair by the arms and drew it toward him preparatory to sitting down at the table. At the same time he looked around, astonished and questioning, as if he could in no wise understand what all the laughter was about. He sat down slowly and said now in an irritable voice, “Damnation, gentlemen, it’s nothing to laugh at when I ask what sort of eggs should be laid: there are all sorts of eggs a general can sit on.” It was not so much his answer as the offended and peevish tone in which he said it that intensified the effect of his apparent innocence at failing to understand a silly joke, which made the general laugh so much that he swallowed his broth the wrong way. He recovered, pointed at the captain with his spoon, and roared as he choked with laughter, “Captain Segu, you ought to be an undertaker, not an officer, making a sour face like that when everyone else is happy and laughing.”

  “Excuse me, sir, I am an undertaker,” said the captain stolidly.

  “Eh?” snapped the general. “You? An undertaking business? Where? Never heard of it.”

  “But, sir, is that so difficult to understand?” His expression remained impassive as he added dryly: “We are all undertakers here. Why else do you think we carry revolvers at our sides and the men out there have rifles and machine guns?”

  “In other words, Captain, you’re saying that I’m an egg-laying undertaker?” Once more the general bel
lowed with laughter. All the other officers joined in, a few out of politeness, the majority, however, because, like their general, they considered this conversation to be the wittiest and most intelligent they had heard for a long time.

  When the laughter diminished somewhat, the captain found an opportunity to reply. “Those are not my words, General, they are yours. I must ask you to excuse me.”

  “Hombre,” said the general, “you are really the dullest, most humorless and ungenial fellow that I’ve ever come across in my life. The man hasn’t a spark of humor in him. You’re a wet blanket. But that won’t stop us investigating, with due regard and relish for its toothsomeness, this beautiful little suckling pig, which the equally beautiful maidens are now bringing in and setting before us. Hey, Lieutenant Cosio, push my beloved comiteco bottle across to me; I must baptize the crisp skin of this suckling with a swig of alcohol to sterilize it from microbes and bacilli! And talking of that, Captain Segu, what’s your view of microbes?”

  “It depends what sort of microbes you mean, General.” The captain had speared a morsel of meat on his fork and twiddled it around several times, pensively staring at it, before he pushed it into his mouth. When he had finally swallowed it and the general had certainly long ceased to think of his question, the captain said, “What sort of microbes do you mean, sir? It’s a matter of who’s putting the question. Perhaps all of us who are sitting here and eating pork are nothing else but microbes, and probably the pigs regard us as their microbes. Let’s ask them what their world looks like, seen through their eyes. Every parasite feels itself the most important object in the universe, while at the same time it regards the beings to which it owes its life as created for no other purpose than to serve as nourishment for it.”

  The general, fully occupied with his mighty hunk of roast meat, was unable to follow the discourse that far. He had gotten no further than the first sentence. With the last fragments still in his mouth, he gave vent once more to his bellowing laugh. “First I lay eggs for Don Rosendo. And you ask me what sort of eggs I lay. Then you turn me into an egg-laying undertaker. And now into a microbe. And you treat your commanding officer like that, Captain? I must seriously ask Lieutenant Ochoa later to investigate whether this microbe isn’t a matter for a court-martial. But first, Captain Segu, let’s down another good glassful of comiteco to deal with these millions of microbes that we’ve been swallowing during the last ten minutes. I know from long experience that my microbes are expert at distinguishing between a worthless, poisonous glass of cheap brandy and such a fine comiteco as we have before us now. And in this matter my microbes never make a mistake. Ha, and here comes the barbecue, to be greeted with cheers and jubilation. I say, Don Rosendo, the sauce could have been drunker; not enough fresh green chilies. Not sharp enough. Hand me that little plate of viriginal peas. Muchas gracias!”