by B. TRAVEN
Although this situation lasted scarcely thirty seconds, it seemed to the lieutenant an eternity. His sadness deepened with every ensuing second, as he looked at the laughing and grinning faces of the muchachos. If he had been ten years younger, he would have cried for his mother, so desolate and helpless did he feel. For a few moments he forgot his surroundings and recalled, with the speed, clarity, and briefness of a flash of lightning, an episode in his life he thought to be the saddest he had ever experienced.
Before he had entered the military academy as a cadet, he knew a girl who at that time was barely thirteen years old. They were deeply in love with each other, and they plighted themselves to marry as soon as he became a lieutenant. They wrote to each other twice every week, and when he was on leave they spent every afternoon together. She was his goddess and his saint. They had sworn to be faithful even beyond the grave. However, when he was in the middle of his last year at the academy, he received a letter from her in which she begged his forgiveness: she had been married six weeks before. His first thought was to end his life with a lump of lead in his skull. But he only retired to his room. And when he thought it all over, what the girl had been to him and how she had sworn eternal faith to him a hundred times, even on one occasion in church, kneeling before the picture of a saint, he felt so desolate, so helpless, that he cried for hours on end. Later he told his comrades, who teased him about his swollen face, that he had had the foulest toothache any cadet could have.
This episode, which quite unexpectedly leaped to his memory, now obsessed his mind. That same sadness swept over him, the same feeling of desolation that had come when he had received the letter, and he felt the tears welling up inside him.
He would actually have begun to cry had he had ten seconds more to dwell upon that episode and shut out the world around him. But he was prevented from this by an exclamation.
“Caray!” shouted General, energetically propping his fists on his hips. “Look at him! I always knew that I had a miserable coward to deal with, and him wearing a uniform. At first he was afraid because I had a knife and he none; then he was afraid because I gave him a knife and threw mine away. And now he’s afraid of being staked to the ground, as he was proposing to do with me. He’s even scared of that, the worm. And that’s why this uniformed crab spat at me and bleated so that I should work myself into a rage and carve him up quickly and spare him from being staked to the ground. That’s your lieutenant! An officer in the glorious army! A coward, nothing else; and now I’m ashamed of having wanted to fight here with such a coward. An old lame woman in our army has more courage in one loose tooth than such a wet rag of an officer. But, by God, I’d rather eat dog flesh for supper tonight than run my decent knife into his miserable body.”
A mocking burst of laughter from the muchachos followed.
The lieutenant had listened to this speech with a terror that deepened with every word. He shook his head as if he feared his brain were becoming confused. Half-aloud he said, “O Dios mío, how can you permit a man to be so deeply humiliated?”
Then he opened his mouth wide, to yell in answer to General’s mocking speech that it was a misunderstanding; that he hadn’t spat at General’s feet to make him shoot him in fury, but that it was just the opposite—it was from fearlessness and bravery that he had insulted General so grossly.
But even before he said this, he realized that he would only make himself still more ridiculous were he to speak of a misunderstanding. It would appear idiotic if he asserted that he had spat at General to display his courage.
When General had finally ended his speech, the lieutenant was so pale and shrunken that it seemed as if the very words had already killed him. Again he looked at his general. This time not in search of moral support, but merely to see how he had taken this humiliating speech.
The general did not look at him, but stared, so the lieutenant thought, intentionally away. Then he knew that the speech had persuaded even the general that it was not bravery but fear that had made him attempt to arouse General’s anger in order to gain himself a quick and painless end.
And now, at last, the lieutenant could no longer hold back his tears. He began to sob, pulled out a handkerchief and buried his face in it.
General had turned around and stepped back a few paces nearer the fire. He stood there, beckoned one of the Salvajes to him and said, “Just hang the worm, quickly and simply, and hurry with it.”
The lieutenant hastily dried his eyes, went up to the general, and said, “Mi general, please believe me seriously when I tell you that I only shouted at that swine because I wanted to—” He said no more. He turned half around. To himself he said, What’s the use? I know it, and that will comfort me to all eternity. Whether others know it, too, and whether I would even be capable of making it clear to anyone, will be absolutely unimportant in five minutes’ time.
He drew himself up, stepped close to his commanding officer, looked him straight in the face, and said in clipped military tones, “Excuse me, sir, I wish to take indefinite leave. With your permission.”
Thereupon he saluted: “Mi general, a sus órdenes! Adiós, mi general!”
The general held out his hand to him, drew him close, embraced him, let him go again, saluted likewise, and said, “Adiós, muchacho! Adiós, Lieutenant Bailleres. We will meet again in a few hours. Hasta la vista!”
A faint smile crinkled the lieutenant’s lips, but he saluted once more.
Then he turned quickly around. Without hesitating or waiting for a command, he walked rapidly ahead of the men who were to lead him away, one of whom slipped a muddy lasso noose over his head.
A few moments later there was heard a shout from one of the men: “No, Lieutenant, not there. Here—more this way! Here, here! Your feet are touching the ground!”
15
The general squatted and seemed to have lost all interest in his surroundings. Automatically he drew a cigarette from his heavy gold case and lit it with a glowing ember.
Gradually the other muchachos belonging to the staff also crouched by the fire again, while the remainder withdrew to their own groups.
Then a fellow called Agapito came up, stood there, and looked first at the general and then at General, as if sizing up the two for a boxing match.
Finally he said, “General, you know you could wear that uniform. Then you’d look very smart, and everyone would know right away that you were our general. I think the uniform would suit you well. You’re both about the same height. Only you’re as thin as a pole and the great army leader whom we have here is fattened up like an old sow.” Suddenly breaking off his quiet, humorous banter and changing his tone, he shouted at the general, “Up, quick, jump to it, my little fellow, and take off all your rags so that we can try them on here.”
The general plucked up his courage and looked around at the speaker. He squirmed hesitantly and plainly did not know what to do, whether to obey this ragged Indian lout or not. Uncertainly he looked up at General and Professor, whom he recognized as the only authorities here, or at least was compelled to recognize them because he was left no other choice. But General, Professor, Celso, and the others were not to be disturbed in their conversation. They behaved as if none of them had heard what Agapito had said.
When the general made no movement to remove his tunic and was plainly waiting for General to say something, Agapito gave him such a hefty jab in the ribs with his naked foot that the general toppled over. “Didn’t you hear what I said to you?” shouted Agapito. “Off with your rags, and be quick about it!”
The general now drew himself up, furious. “You swinish Indian, are you trying to give orders to a general? I’ll have your hide off you for your impertinence.”
“Don’t talk hot air,” answered Agapito, without being in the least deterred by the general’s outburst of rage. With his powerful arms he wrenched the general into a standing position, beckoned closer some of the muchachos standing around, and a quarter of a minute later the general sto
od before the muchachos in a pair of extremely soiled green underpants, which reached down to his knees.
Now the muchachos who were chatting with General seemed to notice the incident. General looked at the pile of clothing. He went up to it, picked up each article, and appraised it as if wondering whether an old-clothes man would buy it.
“Will these tatters,” he said at last, with a wealth of contempt, “these tatters with some shiny buttons and a gold eagle on the shoulders make a general?”
The muchachos laughed loudly and looked at the general, who, faced with so many scornful faces, had shrunk again into himself after having tried for a few seconds to behave with outraged dignity. He was shivering. He crept nearer to the fire and shriveled. It was not only the cool of a rainy evening which made him shiver so. It was much more the uncertainty of his fate that robbed him of his poise, and, more even than this, the discomfort inflicted on him by these fellows, that he, a prisoner, had to endure. He would ten times rather have stood up proudly and worthily, wearing his uniform and be shot, than, clad in only a pair of underpants that were also extremely dirty, be laughed at by these muchachos.
“Well, what are you now?” Professor asked him. “Squatting there, not even El Caudillo would take you for a general. And if you were to march up to your division in your present state, no one would even shout, ‘Attention!’ You’d have to come a bit closer for someone to recognize you, and then perhaps he’d say, ‘Oh, Dios mío, there’s our general. What on earth does he look like?’ Without your uniform you look pitiful, General. That I must tell you. With you it’s only the uniform that makes you a general, because if you were a real general, you wouldn’t be standing here naked before us in all your insignificance. Instead, we’d be your prisoners and you’d have us all buried alive.”
Arcadio nodded approvingly and said, “What Professor says is right. Here, look at our General, the one beloning to us. He hasn’t got on a fine uniform like you; he hasn’t got any uniform at all. The leather gaiters he’s wearing are both right-legged because the left ones are either being worn by someone else, or they’re still on the legs of two of your officers who aren’t on their legs any more.”
“No, Arcadio,” General interrupted him, “that’s not true. The two left ones were so ragged that I couldn’t use them. That’s why I have only the right ones.”
“Of course you don’t regard our general as a real one, do you?” asked Celso. “And you think he can’t be a real general because he doesn’t wear a beautiful uniform like you. But we don’t need any uniforms. We don’t need any flags or other muck, as you do to give you courage. We’ve got enough courage without drums and trumpets, and we always know our stations and where our battalion is. We don’t even need stripes on our sleeves, or stars or eagles on our shoulders, to kill the Federals and Rurales. We know what we want. Every one of us knows what he wants. Your uniformed soldiers are like sheep running here and there when the shepherd pelts them with dung or when the dogs are at their heels.”
“Well said,” Professor intervened again. “Very well said, manito. That’s the reason we shall win the revolution, even if the revolution lasts five or ten years, for we all know what we want, and your sheep don’t know that, because you don’t allow them to want anything or even to think for themselves. If you’re shivering, General, just come nearer the fire. We won’t eat you. At least not yet.”
General bent down, picked up the general’s tunic, held it on high, and called out, “Hey, muchachos, which of you wants a good jacket?”
A muchacho wearing an indescribably tattered and torn shirt and trousers full of holes cried, “I can use that jacket. It’s goddamned cold at night when I’m on watch.”
General flung it to him. The fellow picked up the tunic and immediately put it on. He buttoned it up and found it too large. “Doesn’t matter.” He laughed. “The next hacienda we take will produce enough food for me to eat myself so full that even this old goat’s coat will fit me.”
“Leave those eagles perching on the shoulders,” shouted Celso to the muchacho. “None of us’ll take you for a general!”
Professor laughed. “Yes, Esteban. Let the eagles squat there. They look pretty. When you get to Jovel one day and walk past the barracks, the guard will present arms. Then you can go into the barracks and have the whole regiment marching where you want, and then you’ll bring them here with all their guns and ammunition. Not a soldier will look you in the face, so you needn’t be afraid. They’ll only look at your shoulder badges. When they see three stars there, or even an eagle, they’ll lose all their senses and turn into machines. You have only to shout at the machine, and it’ll rush off—into the middle of a lake if you let it get that far. Any fool can make the machine move if he sticks a few stars or an eagle on his shoulders. You obviously don’t believe it, but it’s true.”
“And who’ll have the trousers? They’ve got a leather seat,” continued General, holding the trousers aloft for someone to claim.
“Give them to me,” answered Cecilio. With one jerk he tugged off the rags he wore for trousers and pulled on the general’s elegant pair. When he stood up and stroked the trousers to see how they fitted him, he said, “There’s a piece missing. Where is it?”
The muchachos laughed. One shouted, “They’re only long enough for a son of a whore like the general to wear. They’re like that, so these gentlemen can unbutton them at the bottom.”
And another said, “It’s very necessary, you know, Cecilio, for these officers to be able to unbutton their trousers at the bottom. They always have to when they’re sent against us rebels and we have rifles and machine guns. It’s only when we’ve got nothing in our hands but machetes or clubs that they have the courage of a ravening lion.”
The general did not know what to do. Everything, the jests, the mockery, were at his expense. So unworthy, so discredited was all his haughty dignity, so unimportant did he now seem to himself, that he was no longer able even to pity himself. Had he had his revolver handy he would have made a quick end to himself. When he thought of this, another idea occurred to him: that he wouldn’t have shot himself, but would have fired at the muchachos up to the last bullet and taken good care that General received the first well-aimed shot. As his thoughts wandered, there suddenly occurred to him the idea of another way of escape, which he might perhaps attempt with success: simply to jump up and run away. Perhaps luck might have it that one of the muchachos would shoot after him and kill him, thus ending once and for all the humiliations and insults he had suffered and probably would have yet to suffer.
He raised himself to his knees and propped both hands on the ground to give himself a good start. But then he noticed that he was wearing only underpants and had no boots on, just stockings full of holes. In stockinged feet he could run over the rough ground only with the greatest difficulty, and he would have to hold up his pants with one hand to stop them from slipping down around his ankles. When he visualized this, he knew that in the attire he was wearing and under the circumstances in which he would have to run, he would make himself so indescribably ridiculous that, in contrast to it, his present humiliations seemed even tolerable, the more so since he hadn’t called down this disgrace on himself, nor could he prevent it, whereas by running away he would simply be shaming and demeaning himself. So he remained sitting and waiting for his sentence of death, which, he knew, would be passed this very hour.
The muchachos who had taken the lieutenant away now returned and reported: “General, he is hanging.”
“Good,” replied General, “when he has hung there long enough, go and bring the lasso back to me. We need it now for our friend, the divisional general. We can’t afford to use a new rope for every officer, and we haven’t got the time to stone him to death. What do you think, General?”
“You might leave me the last slight shred of my honor by shooting me. You wouldn’t need to waste more than one bullet on me.” The general attempted to screw up a smile, but it slipped and rema
ined wedged in a fold that ran from the left corner of his mouth to the farthest end of his lower jaw.
The muchacho who had received the general’s trousers threw his own tattered pair over to the general’s feet.
“I presume I may put these on?” asked the general.
“Of course,” said Celso. “We’re far too respectable. We don’t allow anyone, not even a general, to run about forever in his dirty underpants. What would our women think? You might think we were still an immoral horde of wild Indians.”
He turned and called across to a group, “Which of you has an old shirt to spare for our guest? You’ve got enough new shirts today brought by the soldiers out of pure love for us and for which we are duly grateful. Here, give me a shirt, even if it’s only a rag. We gladly give the naked and the poor whatever we can spare.”
A ragged yellow cotton shirt that stank of sweat flew over from somewhere. Celso picked it up. “There, now you’ve got a nice little shirt, General,” said Celso, throwing the rags to him. “You mustn’t think that we don’t know how to treat guests who visit us, even if they are uninvited guests.
Then he shouted out again, “Has anyone a pair of old sandals he can’t use any more? Give them here!”
