THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK SEVEN:
CUAHTENOTL EPACT
CHAPTER ONE
"Death
is a mirror, which reflects the vain gesticulations of the living..." –
Octavio Paz
"Death
was important only as the solving of an equation." – Graham Greene
It was
not until the first week of the month of October, 1912, that José Macias... to
the best of his knowledge still a Major although, temporarily, a wanted
fugitive... received information that the treacherous El Chacol
had secreted himself high in the mountains along the frontier of Puebla and
Morelos states and that... moreover... he was accompanied by a woman.
"I
knew the witch was not dead!" exclaimed Ignacio Bravo in the
American Club of Havana, Cuba, nearly deserted for the violence of the
approaching elections, causing the third member of their little party... an
American performer of odd jobs who traveled under the name of Mr. Tymmonds... to throw up his hands and guffaw. What his real
name was José did not know, nor care... "Tymmonds"
was in Cuba to convey messages to and from certain interested parties
elsewhere; including Herr Unstedt of Berlin, that
trafficker in gum and information José had done business with in Quintana Roo. No amateur at the game of espionage and diplomacy, the
Kaiser had replaced Unstedt with another, untainted
agent upon Bravo's recall and... to the best knowledge
of both the Major and his Commander-in-exile... this worthy remained in Vigia Chico, earning his keep and waiting out that interval
before the inevitable fall of the pitiable Madero administration.
"Witches!"
Mr. Tymmonds now chortled, "...witches and their
curses! Old superstitions... fit for consumption by the indians, pure green hell on any white man who lets
his wits be swept away. The both of you are exceedingly fortunate to be out of
that damned Quintana Roo jungle... otherwise you'd
have gone the way of so many British colonials, too long in the hot climates.
Losing their reason... throwing off their clothes and howling at the moon! Not
that I blame you for taking her into your hamaca...
place gets beastly enough without a little coño now
and again. Even throwing down a few bastards ain't a
problem... I whelped my share in the Philippines, and it's probably to the
improvement of the race. But these affairs can't be allowed to become serious,
I mean... you said this gentleman gave you her heart as proof that he'd done
what he'd said?" (The weeks of waiting in Havana, where the sun beat down
almost as fiercely as in Yucatan and drink was ever at hand had loosened the
old General's tongue.) "Her... heart? That wouldn't pass muster
even in one of those gloomy German novels my last ex-wife used to read... one
of the reasons that I left her."
"He
said it was her heart and, because I was in a hurry, I chose to believe
him," Bravo allowed, taking a healthy swallow of Havana rum, swishing it
about like mouthwash before letting it plummet to his stomach. "I wonder
whose heart it was? A prisoner's? An animal's? I hope
he didn't cut it out of one of my own men," the General appended.
"The
Kaiser has been apprised of your dedication to duty and to the welfare of your
men," Tymmonds attempted to console him.
"We've taken a temporary setback, but what's important, now, is that we
have a fix on this fellow and that he hasn't been able to do a damned thing
with the securities, except cause several people in Veracruz to become shot
over them... which is about what I'd expect, since you tell me that he cannot
read, nor even write his own name..."
"El
Chacol is an imbecile in all but the arts of
intimidation and murder," Bravo agreed. "But if she is with him, who
knows how long we have before something unfortunate might happen?"
"But
she is another unlettered indian,
barely capable of speaking Spanish... you say... let alone the King's English,
especially in the way that the bankers use it."
"So
she seemed." Bravo set his copita down
upon the table, but made no motion towards the half-empty bottle of Bacardi.
"But she was there... in my quarters... for the better part of... has it
truly been ten years, José?"
"It
seems longer," the Major remarked.
"Well!
Ten years, let us say, always there, always keeping the place tidy, always... listening. Did I abuse her? No more than
any patron abuses his mistress, less so, I would think. I bought her fine gowns
to wear to Mass, a looking-glass and these oils and unguents so appreciated by
all women, no matter the circumstances of their birth. I gave her no reason to
despise me... and what could she have learned in all that time? She put it into
my Jackal's head... to betray me!... he never would
have gone off on his own. The thought wouldn't have occurred to him! Josélito," the General said, then, using a diminutive
that the Major despised, but tolerated as Bravo's way of pretending to show
affection for those on whom he depended, "I entrust, to you, this
photograph of my wicked, wicked deserter. I have no photographs of Consuela,
though several were taken... none ever seemed to turn out exactly right. Boleaga... you'd expect a man like that would turn thief,
that's why I entrusted him with gold that was not worth a tenth part of those
securities. May God strike that miserable Cabo down in whatever swamp he's
crawled into to spend my money..."
"Boleaga will assuredly be taken with syphilis, if he has
not already finished his days dangling at the end of someone's rope," José
took a turn at comforting his General... "be it
Madero's, Zapata's, Huerta's, Orozco's... or just some village Oficiale whom he has insulted."
"Perhaps..."
said the General, without enthusiasm.
"Speaking
of General Huerta," Tymmonds now confided,
"my employers in Berlin still have a high regard for him."
"That...
Maderista!" José spat.
"Let
us not speak of our old comrade ungenerously," Bravo corrected the Major.
"For many years, while we enjoyed authority and the privileges of our
station in the Territory, Victoriano was subject to
one humiliation after another... at the hands of both Porfirio
Diaz and Madero. He could not be discreet about his championing of Reyes over
that Corral... whom, I am given to understand, is near death... and, so, he paid
the price. But, withal, he remained a man... I cannot begrudge him his
successes in the field, even in such a futile cause as the survival of Madero's
regime."
The
cunning old Huichol... his duty of escorting Porfirio
Diaz to safety in Biarritz finished... had gleaned weakness in Bernardo Reyes'
coup d'etat and remained on the sidelines, refusing
to take up arms against the Federals. And so, when Madero's General Salas
committed suicide in March after repeated trouncings
by Pascual Orozco, Huerta had taken command of the
armies of the North, even humbling himself to maintain an alliance with the
volatile Pancho Villa who he would naturally prefer
to have shot. Madero had refused him this privilege despite Villa's thieving
and insubordination... instead, Huerta had directed his fury upon the rebels at
Rellano, in May, and at Bachimba,
a month later. Now the old drunkard was Madero's savior and a national hero... Capitaleños danced the Rellano
waltz and did the Bachimba march.
"How
can you be sure the fellow won't follow orders if Madero sends him to oppose
our interests."
"He
won't," Bravo declared. "I know the man... he may not be with us, at
the start, but he'll contrive some excuse to prolong his usefulness to all
sides." And then he repeated a proverb which, in translation to English,
lost much of its potency... to the effect that where victory rested, there
would be found Victoriano Huerta.
Of
course the money... perhaps eight hundred thousands of pesos, and lodged in the
banks before Madero's latest devaluations... would have more than a little to
do with the campaign against Madero, also.
"The
gentleman in Veracruz who has provided me the location of this treacherous Chacol and his woman travels under the name of Ricardo Malafonte... Rico, he calls himself... most assuredly he
has assumed other names in the past. Don't concern yourself... he is only
acting on behalf of some other person, high up in the mountains, who has
actually seen them. Pay these gentlemen what you must, I have no fondness for either
of them," the General added with a glint in his eye, something well short
of a wink that, nevertheless, insinuated that it might well go better if they
never lived to spend their money, or entertain thoughts of betrayal. "El Chacol gave me her heart," he added, speaking of
Consuela, "...and that, evidently, was not good enough. Bring me their
heads, if you can, I anticipate being in need of paperweights.
"By
Christmas," Bravo predicted, "Felix Diaz shall be President, I shall
be his Minister of War and you, you José, will have your Colonel's rank...
within a year or two, your Generalship and a command of your choosing. Perhaps
you'd like a go at Zapata and his bandits, or maybe we'll make you jailkeeper for all Mexico, thinking up some of those inventive
punishments of yours for don Francisco's creatures.
Perhaps you can go back to the Territory!"
José
sneered and looked down at the photograph of El Chacol
in his fist... it gave no inkling of the strength in that massive body beneath
the petulant face that looked quite like that of any thief, with only the man's
eyes betraying the maniac that he was.
"And
what will be my reward?" the irrepressible Mister Tymmonds spoke up, bobbing his head like a bouncy puppy.
"We'll
make him Minister of Gum, eh?" the General taunted, finally eliciting a
smile from José Macias. "Plenipotentiary of all chicle, and henequen, too!
You will be the Minister of Rope! And when Felix Diaz has become President, you
shall remember small afternoons in cantinas as these, for the grandeur and
enormity of the work which your ropes must do."
RETURN to HOMEPAGE
– “THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ”
RETURN to GENERISIS HOMEPAGE