THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK SIX: THE FIRST of the BOOKS of CHANGE

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

A Sergeant, Manuel Montilla, turned the dead man over and raised him to a sitting posture. This man had an unfortunate nickname... "manos de mantequilla", literally "butter-hands" for his was an uncanny instinct to detect such valuables as a fresh corpse or a living but unwary man carried and... with his fingers, swift and oily as melted butter... Montilla could relieve such of money, rings or other loot in the time it took for one to blink. He had been unfortunate once in his thieving, but fortunate enough to be offered the choice of the army or prison, and had not done poorly for himself among all of the opportunities the Territory presented.

This "butter-handed" Sergeant located the message Arturo Modesto had placed in his pocket but, although it had been pierced and bloodied, he recognized it for what it was and not a roll of banknotes. If profit could not be turned from the operator's death, at least favor with the General could be curried and the message was given over to Bravo who unfolded it, still thinking the worst. "This is what he plotted to conceal from us," the General told those nearest, then made a motion to shoo them away so that he could read the treacherous document in private.

Unfortunately the message had been rendered illegible by reason of his excellent aim. Being folded into four parts, the two bullets which had passed through it had made eight holes, and the rest was damp with blood. Not one word remained whole, merely isolated letters, and even parts of letters. The largest fragment, though wet with blood, seemed to contain the letters "venc..." and, from this, Bravo made the assumption that Rivera's party would be heard from no more, for these letters form portions of several Spanish words, all of which relate to victory.

Throwing the bloody message aside, Bravo stepped over the body and entered the telegraph office where the machine was crackling furiously. "What is it saying?" Bravo demanded of the crowd, but there was not another man who understood the code and the General himself had not used a telegraph for over thirty years. "Stop!" he ordered, forgetting that the night operator was asleep in his hamaca in a hut no more than a few meters distant, for, in some fashion, he trusted that the message was an inquiry from Mexico as to the fate of the Rivera party... and that the machine would be quieted at the order of a Mexican General.

He drew his pistol and, for a moment, marveled at the Providence that had compelled him to save one last bullet for this emergency. Firing into the heart of the machine he raised a wisp of smoke, a scratching sound and then nothing more could be heard. To the door he returned, where a crowd of hundreds had gathered and the loyal Corporal Boleaga forced them back to give Bravo enough room to stand on the top step of the building.

"Today," the General beamed, "the army of Tabi and their gallant commander have won an historic victory over the enemies of all of Mexico. Their accomplices here have been discovered and justice, which is accorded to all traitors, has been meted out.

"Let the rest of this day be a holiday with feasting, music, a celebration of patriotism. Let the whole world know Santa Cruz del Bravo stands, that Quintana Roo is invincible... a mighty well of scientific progress, a spearhead of civilization." Bravo paused to drink of the applause... which was substantial, for there are few things more gratifying than news of a victory except, perhaps, the celebration following.

Among this crowd, too, were those who might have rejoiced had the outcome been less to Bravo's satisfaction, but these were well disciplined to silence. Even at this moment of triumph the General's eyes, still keen after seventy seven years, wandered the throng for disbelievers but focused, instead, upon a small tableau in the distance... children charging the bodies of the prisoners left untended by the drama before the telegraph office; kicking and poking at the corpses, darting backwards in imagined terror of their rise.

And one of these, although Bravo could not know this, was a six year old boy just risen from his sickbed, the son of the murdered Arturo Modesto.

Ignacio Bravo, however, found that he did not care to join in the feast but, as Consuela was abed, dined in his office with Corporal Boleaga and the silent, but accommodating, El Chacol. "I am tired," Bravo suddenly declared and his companions rose to leave, the clumsy Jackal knocking his chair over. "Take these out," the General added, pointing to the dishes and empty bottle. When they had gone, he found a cigar and lit it, having looked in on Consuela, finding her asleep and at peace... although swelled so greatly Bravo wondered that she might be about to give birth to twins. "It will be different this time. No little monstrosos... I am a man, after all, and a General.

"How is it," he thought, back in the solemnity of his office, "that I am so changed by a woman, and an Indian at that? There is so much good European work to accomplish here, so little time to do it in, no matter what creatures the President sends out against me. Well, I still have a city to defend and, soon, perhaps all of the Yucatan, Campeche too, will rise up against this stumbling little President. They despise their Governors too, almost as much as Madero, and they have been whining for independence so long that, when I arrive they'll flock to me. Afterwards... well I'll have to contact Huerta, he'll know what the temperature is in Mexico." Momentarily he cursed his decision to destroy the telegraph, then remembered that his messages probably would be intercepted by Maderistas. He had done the right thing to destroy it.

"What a pity Reyes is in prison, and that Felix Diaz isn't of the stuff his uncle was." The General snuffed out his cigar, though half of it remained, which he would smoke tomorrow. Leaving Consuela the bed, he strung a hammock up beside her, hearing one last bleat of the benighted bugle as he blew the lamp out. "It is Mexico which has changed for the worse, not me. I may not be the man I was forty years ago," he said, throwing his boots aside and falling back into the hammock, "but I'm still among the best Generals in the Republic, the best of these kind. As long as I do not make it a practice to continue drinking wine atop raw cane liquor," he added before falling quickly into a sleep that, in its profundity and dreamlessness, was near to death.

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