The Rebellion of the Hanged

by B. TRAVEN

  The first task was to kill off the finqueros, the bosses, and their relatives and children, to sack their strongly fortified domains, to prevent all possibility of a counterrevolution when the rebels should finally have laid down their arms. The difficulty was that the fincas and haciendas were a long distance from the jungle and near the towns and garrisons. To conquer them it was necessary, before anything else, to defeat the rural police, the federal army, and all the defenders of the dictator. And to win against these it was essential to destroy everything that could be useful to them.

  The rebels were not to blame for their ideas of death and destruction. They had never been allowed freedom of expression; every possibility of communication and discussion had been denied them. Nobody had ever come to them to talk about economics or politics. No newspaper had dared criticize the acts of the dictator. They never saw a book that might have given them any conception of how to improve their condition without recourse to destruction and killing.

  Those who were not on the side of the dictator had had to listen and keep quiet. The workers, the peasants, all the humble people, had been deprived of every right, and had only one duty: to obey. Blind obedience was inculcated in them by lashings until it became their second nature. Wherever all the rights are in the hands of a few people and the mass has nothing but obligations, not even the right to criticize, the result will inevitably be a reign of chaos.

  It was not only the dictator who ruled. The big industrialists, the bankers, the feudal lords, and landowners had the well-defined duty of assuring the dictator’s domination. But these lofty personages at times also had something to decree on their own account. They did not do it themselves, but forced their leader, the dictator, to decide in their favor. In this way they could enchain the people, supporting their acts with laws. If they had taken it on themselves to make decisions openly, the people would have soon seen that the leader served only to fill the pockets of the powerful. Dictating to the dictator what he should decree, however, they had their wishes published as being in the interests of the State, and thus they deceived many sincere patriots.

  If the workmen had proposed to the bosses an amicable discussion of their differences, the bosses’ reply would have been wrapped in lead, for the mere fact of a wage-earner’s proposing the examination and discussion of his situation was considered a crime against the State. And it was also a crime to permit workers to submit any proposal. The workers had the sole right to work hard and to obey. That was all. The rest was the business of the dictator and his cronies, to whom the right to give orders and to criticize belonged exclusively.

  Thus it was not savagery that drove the Indians to assassination and pillage. Their acts could not be taken as proofs of cruelty, because their adversaries and oppressors were a hundred times more savage and cruel than they when safeguarding their interests.

  Fifteen days after the mutiny, the troop was ready to march. In the meantime they had captured two batches of mail. The letters and newspapers that the less ignorant men were able to read brought news that in the north of the republic four regiments had rebelled against the old decoration-covered dictator, always disposed to sing his own heroism. The soldiers were tired of hearing him call himself “the God and savior of the Mexican people.”

  The newspapers proclaimed that the old man would not be dethroned so easily, because thousands of creatures favored by him and enthusiasts of his reign would prevent it. These enthusiastic creatures would not be defending the old leader but merely their own beans, and when it’s a matter of defending one’s daily beans one’s zeal is greater than when one is fighting in the defense of a dictator. And when a dictator looks for his friends, he often finds empty the corners where his songbirds used to be.

  After reading the newspapers Martín Trinidad commented: “All in all, this doesn’t interest us. Nobody bothers about us, and nobody’s at our side helping us. If we want our land and liberty, then we must fight alone. If when the accounts are totted up, only one of us should remain, and if he should be able to cultivate his field in peace, our struggle will not have been useless. We haven’t come into the world to obey, to be submissive and badly treated. No, men, we live on the earth to be free. But if we want to be free, we must win our freedom every day. He who rests on his freedom for one moment will lose it in less than a week. I know what I’m saying, comrades, liberty can be lost the very day you’re celebrating it. Don’t believe that you’ll be free just because your liberty is written in bronze letters and consecrated by law, by the constitution, by whatever you like. Nothing is established for eternity in this world, and all that you can count on is what is renewed and struggled for every day. Never be confident of a chief, no matter who he is, what his promises may be, or where he appears from. Those of you will be free who fight every day for their freedom and entrust it to nobody. We’ll all be free if we really have the will to be so, and we’ll be slaves if we allow ourselves to be ordered about. Don’t worry about your neighbor’s freedom; begin by looking after your own first. And if each one of us is a free man, then we’ll all be free, and there won’t be any more finqueros, politicians, or government toadies able to send us back to the lumber camps.”

  “You’re right, comrade!” exclaimed Celso. “Come. Now we’ll march, and there won’t be any federal soldiers or rural police who can stop us. We’ll set out day after tomorrow.”

  “Day after tomorrow! Day after tomorrow!” hundreds of voices repeated.

  Through the jungle sounded the roar of “Land and liberty!”—words that expressed the unanimous will of the men.

  “There’s still a lot of work to do before we leave,” said Andres as they were having a meal. “Lots of work, and very important too.”

  “Ah, and what’s that?” asked Celso. “We’ll do whatever must be done. We could even finish off that filth we’re thinking of leaving here. That way we’d be sure those sons of bitches wouldn’t attack us from behind at any moment.”

  “No, I wasn’t thinking of that,” said Andres, and with a nod he indicated the main office. “That’s where there’s something to be done. We must burn all the papers in there and then scatter the ashes to the wind.”

  “By my mother, that’s a good idea, Andresillo! Just to think we were forgetting about that! We certainly must burn all the account books, contracts, papers, and lists of debts. And as we go through the villages on the way to Hucutsin we must always burn the town records, the civil registry, and all.”

  “Why?” asked Pedro. “We don’t owe anybody anything there.”

  “Because there’s some doubt, and because there may be papers there saying that one of the men owes something. What’s more, you ought to know that if you want us to win and stay winners we’ll have to burn all the papers. Many revolutions have started and then failed simply because papers weren’t burned as they should have been. You can kill all the finqueros you like, but later, one fine day, their sons, their daughters, their cousins, or their uncles will come back to confound us with their documents, registries, and account books. You’ll be cultivating your cornfield peacefully with no more thought of the rebellion, and they’ll come out of their hiding places, their caves, and they’ll come with their police, their rural police and federal troops, carrying thick lawbooks and endless documents to prove to you that the cornfield doesn’t belong to you, but to Don Aurelio or Don Cornelio or Doña Rosalia or Doña Regina or to the Devil. And then they’ll say: ‘Boys, the revolution is over at last! Now we live in order and in peace, now we’ve returned to civilization. You must respect all these documents, with their signatures and seals, for without seals and signatures civilization is impossible.’ ”

  “By twenty thousand devils! That’s how they talk!” Matías exclaimed. “Why, we’d have been working for nothing, and we’d have to begin all over again.”

  “I’m glad you see the point. Now you know. We must find all those papers, pile them up, and make a bonfire. And when we go into the fincas or the villages,
into Hucutsin, Jovel, Balún-Canán, Oschuc and Canancu, Nihich and Achlumal, the first thing we must do is attack the registry and burn the papers, all the papers with seals and signatures—deeds, birth and death and marriage certificates, tax records, everything… . Then the heirs won’t ever come and stick their papers under our noses. Then nobody will know who he is, what he’s called, who was his father, and what his father had. We’ll be the only heirs because nobody will be able to prove the contrary. What do we want with birth certificates? We live with a woman we love, we give her our children. That’s being married. Do we need papers to prove it? Papers only serve to let someone come along and take away the lands we cultivate. Land belongs to the man who cultivates it, and if it’s granted that we cultivate it, that’s more than enough proof that it belongs to us.”

  The men seemed bewitched. They had forgotten their meal and were paying attention only to what Martín Trinidad was saying. They had collected near the group formed by him, Celso, Andres, Pedro, and Matías. Martín Trinidad’s words had a novel sound for them, but they understood easily because the words were simple. They were fully familiar with the omnipotence of documents. It had always been by means of papers covered with writing and seals that it had been proved to them that they had nothing to say, that they must submit and pay.

  “What fools we are!” said Santiago. “I never thought a thing about all this, but you’re quite right, Martín. We must burn all the papers we can get hold of.”

  “What I should like to know,” said Gabino, one of the cutters, “is where you learned all this. The truth is that you know more than a priest.”

  “I’ve read a mountain of books. I’ve read all that’s been written about revolutions, uprisings, and mutinies. I’ve read all that the people in other countries have done when they became fed up with their exploiters. But with regard to burning papers I have read nothing. That’s not written in any book. I discovered that in my own head.”

  “Man, you’re the best of us all!” exclaimed Pedro. “If it’s true that you found that in your head, you by yourself know much more than the books!”

  “Damn it!” said Celso. “Don’t be an idiot! Sure he knows more than can be read in all the books. Don’t you know that he’s a teacher, a real professor? He has taught hundreds of children in big schools.”

  Martín Trinidad continued to talk to the men for some time, telling them that the moment had come for them to exchange their life as beasts of burden for an existence befitting their dignity as men.

  “It’s better to die rebelling than to go on living on one’s knees! Land and liberty! Long live the revolution!”

  The defiant cry resounded once more through the encampment around the office, and its echoes were heard in every corner of the impenetrable jungle.

  All the papers the men found in the main office were burned in the open space outside in the presence of Martín Trinidad and Celso. After that the artisans were forced to turn in the little account books and notebooks, every piece of paper they had, even to pictures of saints, calendars, and snapshots. Not one letter, not one written word, was left in the principal camp. All went up in smoke. Even the ashes were scattered carefully.

  Santiago directed this operation. When it was all completed, Martín Trinidad, now referred to by everyone as Professor, expressed his satisfaction.

  “Very well done, little brother. Now you know how to set about it in Hucutsin, in the fincas, and in the administrative offices. Our comrades in the paper factories of San Rafael will give us all the paper we want, to write and print all we wish and when we wish.”

  At nightfall Andres and two of the other men went around to the various groups telling them to think over well what they intended to carry with them. For the next day there would be a dividing up of everything in the camp store: suits, pants, shirts, jackets, bedclothes, machetes, watch chains, earrings, rings, spools of thread, ribbon, hats, bolts of cloth, huaraches, rope, tobacco, cigarettes, matches, and lanterns. Having enumerated the treasures in the store, Andres gave them this warning: “Let nobody ask for more than is absolutely indispensable to him. Once our real needs are satisfied, we’ll talk about what’s left over. Very likely it won’t be possible to please everybody. And besides, you must realize that everything we distribute will have to be carried on your backs—the horses, the burros, and the mules will already be overloaded. Don’t forget that we must take with us a dozen women and more than twenty children.”

  Martín Trinidad, “the Professor,” added: “Later we’ll hold a meeting to settle the order of departure. But seeing that we’re talking about things from the store, I’ll tell you that the provisions won’t be distributed individually. They will be divided among groups, and the groups will take charge of provisions and of preparing food. We’ll form the groups at the meeting, but if any of you want to be in a different group from the one you get assigned to, you can arrange to change places with men in another group. Obviously each man will have to carry his share of the provisions for his group, and that’s why I advise you not to load yourselves with things that aren’t strictly necessary. We might easily be delayed five weeks before reaching the first villages. Don’t forget that we’re in the middle of the rainy season and that we’ll be satisfied if we can cover nine miles a day.”

  Next day at the council the men asked for very little in the way of stores. Absolute necessities had been divided during the first days of the rebellion. It struck Andres that the men had not asked for as much as possible. Perhaps they did not want too much to carry. That was almost certainly the explanation: their moderation was not the result of any moral scruples.

  There was one thing that seemed curious to Andres. Many of the workers went about dressed in rags, and even the simplest cotton shirt in the store should have tempted them. Nevertheless none of them had asked for one. Curious, Andres asked some of them why. One man replied: “Bah! By the time we get out of the jungle all our clothes will be rags, new ones just the same as old.”

  Another said: “Do you want me to put on a new shirt to blow up in? Look—when I meet the rural police I’ll go for them like a madman. If they get me I won’t need a shirt. If they don’t get me that’ll be beause I’ve cracked open at least six of those dogs, and then I can pick up all I want in the way of shirts, pants, and boots. And best of all I’ll have a good gun and plenty of bullets. So why do you want me to carry around what’s in the store? For the time being I’ve got lots of much more important things to think about than bothering about bargains in the store. As long as my rags still keep my ass well covered I don’t have to worry. When I want to renew my wardrobe, the rural police and federal soldiers will be there to wait on me. Get it, Andresillo?”

  For three days the artisans’ women worked at grinding the limed cornmeal, preparing the dough, and making the tortillas, making bean paste, and getting everything ready for the march. Every man carried at least a sontle of tortillas—that is, four hundred of them. That was little enough, for the tortillas were very light and not very filling.

  The artisans’ women did not like acting as cooks for the workmen. They felt their dignity wounded. Santiago had overheard one of them say angrily but quietly: “How can we have fallen so low that we have to make tortillas for those lousy Chamula pigs? It’s a shame that we have to be servants to those Chamulas, who don’t even know how to talk like Christians!”

  Santiago had waited until the woman’s rancor had run out. When she stopped talking, he went up to the group from which her voice had come. “Say, you animals, what are you good for? I ask myself constantly: ‘Why have we let them live?’ ”

  On seeing Santiago appear, the women were shaken with terror, having realized immediately that he had overheard their words.

  “God damn it!” Santiago went on, “we’ve done enough for you, too, coming back worn out by the day’s labor and still having to cut wood for you, carry water for you, fix the roofs of your lairs—all that when we were dying of weariness. And then, you swarm
of bitches, did one of you open your trap to say you were sorry for us? Answer me! Dare to tell me any lies and I’ll shove them down your throats with a punch in the face. Now get to work, and right away! Let’s see—give me one of those tortillas so that I can see that they’re properly made, and if they’re not you can fix them up. I’ll be back within three hours, you old sows, and each one of you had better have at least ten sontles of tortillas ready if you don’t want me to beat your hides and pull out your hair. Now get to work and keep your mouths shut!”

  “But, sir,” one of the women replied timidly, “you know that it takes many hours to prepare the corn. Then we have to grind it, and even if we throw in lots of lime I don’t think—”

  “I don’t give a damn! Let’s see how you manage it. I’ll give you one hour extra. If the tortillas aren’t all ready when I come back, I’ll turn you all over and beat you thoroughly. Didn’t we often have to do three days’ work in one? And when we couldn’t, they whipped us and hanged us. And when that happened did any of you say to the bosses: ‘Señor, the poor men can’t get that work done’? No! And not only that! You enjoyed it and said: ‘Give it to them good, those Chamula swine!’ ”

  “I never said anything like that,” the blacksmith’s wife said.

  “Perhaps you didn’t, but when others said it you never came out with a word of protest. Well, that’s enough chatter. Get busy!”

  The women set about the tasks, calling even their children to help them. Santiago walked away. He had no intention of returning in four hours, for he knew that whatever the women did they could not carry out his order.

  It went harder with the artisans, the husbands of these women. Matías and Fidel gave them no chance to breathe and told them very clearly what they thought of them. They had to repair saddles, fill water jars, make rope, cut leather straps, and take care of the animals, treating their sores and feeding them. To prepare the departure of so numerous a caravan demanded work without rest, and the men were well acquainted with means of getting action from their employees. They had only to remember how the artisans had treated them. All the same, the workmen were more humane. Obedience was the watchword, but there were no whippings or hangings, nothing much more than a few ribs caressed by the impatient fist of some worker.