THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK SIX: THE FIRST of the BOOKS of CHANGE

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

The General’s victory celebration, which continued through the day and carried over through the night and onto the morning of the fifteenth of September, was not extended to the hundreds of prisoners who, with a few exceptions carved out by influence, would have no part in the feast. To keep them out of mind, they were herded back into the church, the door bolted behind the last of them at noon, that they might suffer the midday heat besides the uncertainties of evening. No food was given them, nor, even, was water provided while the territory feasted... the church and its occupants shunned like some dead dog in a room which partygoers prefer not to enter.

If they could not eat nor drink, they were not prevented from hearing Quintana Roo at its play. An ox was slaughtered and roasted whole, some pigs as well, and other foodstuffs had been procured while, to accommodate the thirst of Santa Cruz, a barrel of aguardiente was opened, although somewhat before its time. The city was well stocked with fireworks and these were lit at sundown, splintering the revelry into a hundred gatherings, like pieces of a mirror.

All now avoided the church, whose groanings did not resemble the cries of men but of the earth itself in its rupturings - a sound that inspired a few of the soldados from Mexico's mountain villages, where earthquakes were common, to cross themselves with the hand that did not hold a cup.

In his quarters, the General dined late, again, with Corporal Boleaga and the Jackal, who had been called to serve but had stayed to share the General's table. In his hour of triumph, Bravo was a lonely man. Consuela remained abed, her brow moist and stomach distended... the time of birth nearing rapidly. Dr. Rosario had looked at her that afternoon but, when the General had gone to the hospital to invite the doctor to a night of drinking, cards and recollections... keeping him by in the event Consuela gave up what Bravo was now certain would be at least one son... Rosario was not there, nor were any of his attendants, not even the boys who ran errands in the tents. The General had inquired of the sick and injured in Rosario's outer office without success and, when he approached one of these lying on a bench and began speaking of the honor and tradition of the military, the lack of response so disturbed him that he shook the shoulder of a man apparently sleeping upon his side. The soldier fell back, staring up at Bravo with his sightless eyes which had already been discovered by wasps... a pair of them crawling up the dead man's cheeks skittered to the blankets that dangled from the bench and another alighted on his lips to seize and transport the old bits of food between his teeth. The temperature had scarcely fallen since sundown; Bravo could hear shouts, snatches of song in the distance and the wailing of a trumpet held by someone who had had too much to drink.

It would have been hours since Rosario had been here, perhaps all day. Probably drunk again! Fearing what a further search might turn up, Bravo left the hospital and, remembering that a place had been set for the doctor, offered the Jackal Rosario's seat.

This man was a killer of hundreds, most of those upon the orders of Corporal Boleaga, but both of these deadly specimens sat spellbound, waiting, anticipating every whim of the General... never speaking except in reply or agreement or to offer grunted compliments as rhythmic as the breaths Bravo took between his words and bites.

"I am contemplating the removal, altogether, of the telegraph to Peto," he said, lifting a spoonful of broth prepared by a soldadera conscripted to serve during Consuela's indisposition. "It brings nothing but bad news and inconveniences."

"Quite right, sir," Boleaga answered as the General swallowed.

"Everything which I require can be handled from the port. I don't need advice or orders, or any words from Mexico City, for that matter. The new British Governor thinks as I do, if Madero has something to tell me he can wire Belize and I'll choose to reply or not depending upon the message. Now guns, powder, supplies... if engineers devised a way to send them through a wire I would place more value on the telegraph."

"Obviously, General."

"Five good men were killed, four years ago, on the road between Nohpop and Chankik, Corporal. The sublevados ground it up and put it in their shotguns."

"What, my General?" the Jackal asked. His voice was soft and high pitched, a child's voice emerging tentatively from a giant's chest.

"Telegraph wire." Bravo took a mouthful of wine which settled uneasily atop the raw aguardiente he had swallowed earlier as a gesture of goodwill, one of too many he was having to make in order that his men's loyalty be held. "I'll have to reinforce the northwest... Ichmul, Sacalaca. Even Peto." He closed his eyes but spoke on, as if speaking through a dream to galleries of phantoms.

"The General at Peto's another musico, one of Madero's marching toys which soil their pants at the smell of a battle. And the city is practically on the border of the territory... imagine, such a poorly held place so close to Quintana Roo. These, gentlemen, are times in which favor is given to those who protect themselves. What of the law and property... they're worth their weight in Orozquista money. Is Madero master of Morelos? Of Sonora? What the runt has done by sending his pathetic General after me has been to declare war. Tabi was the first, now Peto shall answer for his arrogance."

"Do you plan to attack the fort?" Corporal Boleaga asked.

"Attack Peto? That would be an act of treason. I would never do such a disloyal thing, not even to that incompetent in Mexico City," Bravo smiled. "But if the General there, Zufino I believe, or something like that, cannot keep the lid on those indians thereabouts, I would be obligated to lend such assistance as was necessary the way I did to Valladolid two years ago."

"There has been no problem with the sublevados to the northwest," Boleaga noted blandly.

"For the present," Bravo reminded him, tossing a piece of fat to a brown and white spotted bitch, which had followed the smell of meat into the room. Snatching the morsel up, the beast yawned and crouched forward in a crawling posture, dragging its hindquarters behind it.

"Things change."

Boleaga and the Jackal swallowed their morsels at this and then the General raised up his fork to make a point.

"Do you know what the indians say of such an animal?" Bravo pointed. The Corporal and the Jackal shook their heads, although both knew well what the General referred to.

"This dog is measuring somebody's grave. And since it is a small dog," Bravo reasoned, "the length of the grave is short, five feet perhaps. Maybe an inch or two longer, or shorter, as it may be."

He smiled again, and the others had no cause to ask of whom the General was speaking... for the President was of exactly such a height.

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