THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK FIVE:
THE BOOK of STONE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
The
escape of Francisco Madero and subsequent publication of his insolent Plan of
San Luis Potosi from exile in San Antonio, Texas, had infuriated President
Diaz. In every corner of the Republic, antireelectionistas
were being rounded up and jailed... many of their leaders deported to the
territories of Lower California and Quintana Roo. No
longer were the prisoners ragged conspirators and
bandits; they now included professional men of caution, discretion and
distinction. Indeed, Major Macias returned to Akbal
with a trainload of such, whose only crime had been to warn the President of
the quagmire that Mexico was sinking into without the guidance of arguably
corrupt but capable men like the former Finance Minister Limantour
or the peripatetic former Minister of War, Bernardo Reyes.
Dr.
Rosario, for ten years now the resident physician of the territory, followed
closely all developments in Mexico City, hoping that the new anguish of the old
regime might blow a breath of exoneration towards Quintana Roo.
Instead, his enemy... being one of those men of little quality that had risen
as those of principle had either abandoned the Cientificos
or had been made their prisoners... advanced and thrived. Even the military was
no longer immune from the gravity of this corruption... a brother of General
Hector Lopez and the sister of General Eduardo Neri
were now numbered among the convict population of Santa Cruz del Bravo.
Officers, doctors and bandits alike continued to arrive in chains, supplies did
not, and Rosario managed as he could while hectoring the new arrivals for word
of the ruin of his enemy in Mexico City. Far from ruining himself, Rosario's
vengeful Cientifico had charmed the silk-hatted perfumados of Standard Oil, as well as the German colony,
for most of their erstwhile rivals, the British, had passed up the Centennial.
They had returned to London, one and all, for the funeral of Edward VII...
another who, like the American Mark Twain, had been carried off into the void
in the tail of Halley's Comet, approaching Mexico and all the world with its
sinister pedigree and deadly omens.
Late in
November, a thumping noise approached his door... a hollow, chopping sound,
regular as the grinding of a henequen press... one heavy "clomp"
followed by another, and a lighter "pock" responding, repeated
several times at a rapidly closing distance. The "pock" came from a
mahogany walking stick topped with a ball of ivory, a gift of Mexico to the one
who wielded it; a token of gratitude for the sacrifice made by its wielder for
his country. The louder "clomps" were also memoirs of the sacrifice,
they came from wooden "shoes" extending halfway to the knee, hiding
the stumps that were the legs of the doctor's visitor.
When
Osvaldo Andujar had returned to the capital, less the
feet that the sublevados separated from him, he
discovered that the life of a decorated cripple is little different from that
of the common one. Loterios, newsdealers and vendors Mexico City had in abundance, and
the flag and uniform which were the inspiration of so many patriotic speeches
proved of little value in the crowded streets.
Abhorring
a beggar's future, and using such friends as he still had from his service and
the all-pervasive mordida, Andujar
regained his commission in a clerical capacity. So many wholly imaginary
soldiers were, after all, contained on the roster of those paid that a man
merely without feet was a bargain. The circle completed, he had been assigned
to Santa Cruz to serve as a custodian of the territory's greatly expanded
armory, and also to help in the keeping of the names of the arriving prisoners.
Rosario
was sleeping at his desk when the wooden footsteps disturbed his dreams. He sat
up and rubbed his eyes. "Ah, Sergeant," he said, holding up a finger.
"We
have company," Andujar told the doctor.
"From
the capital?" The sergeant nodded. "You've seen them?"
"I
have. More from lower California."
Rosario
grunted. Victims of the famine in the territory at the opposite side of Mexico
were being shipped to the penal colony with the cost of their passage assessed
against the wages they had been promised. Unfortunately, little had been set
aside for food and, already weakened, many of these had died in transit... at a
loss to the Cientificos who sponsored them as also,
of course, to themselves... and most of those who arrived were barely more than
skeletons.
"Ah,
to work, to work." Rosario picked a pot of tepid coffee up and peered
down. With a shrug, he gulped the contents from the spout, wiping the grounds
from his chin. Fifteen minutes later, the first of the arrivals were already
forming a line at his door that snaked, under the eyes of Bravo's guards,
around the side of the hospital.
Such
lines! Rosario had seen hundreds of lines during his tenure in the territory,
thousands of beseeching, damaged men. Bones twisted out of shape by accidents,
beatings or overwork. The pallor of scurvy or malaria, skin diseases of
numerous… often loathsome… origin, wounds left unattended, even some in which
the insects already had made a home. Rosario had seen so many such lines that
they seemed, at times, to become one; one endless, faceless queue of all the
doomed and diseased of the planet.
"One
of these animals claims that he knows you," a corporal called out.
"Certainly,"
Rosario said wearily. Everybody claimed to know the doctor or the General or
some authority in either Santa Cruz or Mexico City. Someone whose rank could
move him towards the front of the line. Rosario had ordered such persons be
ignored and, if they made a nuisance of themselves, shot. Half an hour later,
the corporal again pointed out the supplicant as he neared the head of the
line... a stranger of course, with the hollow eye and protruding ribs of every
other body on line. He was distinct from the others only in that his complexion
was pale, a dead gray... like something buried under an old log.
"He's
not from Baja California," the doctor guessed, for those who had been sent
to that place did not lack for sunlight, at the least. "More likely the
capital, Belem perhaps." Aloud, he asked, "I know you?"
"Certainly,
Don Raul. I served here almost eighteen months, under somewhat different
conditions." Despite his wretched state of health, the man retained a
military bearing. "I am Octaviano Solis, Doctor,
at your service," the prisoner declared.
"The
captain?"
"The
colonel... for a time." Solis tried to smile, but it was thin as the rest
of him.
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