THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK SEVEN:
THE SECOND of the BOOKS of CHANGE
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Surrender?"
replied the bewildered Egealiz. "I think your
choice of words is wrong. Zarate... what is it you
told these people?"
"Actually,"
said the Major, squirming in his chair as if possessed with the sudden
inclination to relieve himself, "I didn't quite talk with them
myself..."
"Well,
what did happen?" demanded the General, sweating profusely now
despite the protection of the umbrella. The voices of the arguing officers were
loud enough to be heard by their waiting troops who exchanged glances with the sublevado guards.
"Actually,"
continued Major Zarate, "I contacted the Turk,
that one who repairs boots and knows a travelling merchant by the name of
Colombo. He was the one who actually arranged for this meeting, this Colombo...
he's a Mexican, of course... I think..."
"I'm
pleased to hear that," Egealiz replied, trying
to hide his scowl. "Listen Chief, there may have been a sort of... misunderstanding?"
"Chief
Poot does not speak much Spanish," the tallest
of the sublevados interrupted. "You may speak to
me and I will tell him what you mean, and I will tell you his answer."
"Well
that's fine," said Egealiz, "just fine! And
what does he have to do with this?" the General asked, pointing to
the third Indian. "Who is he, by the way? For that matter, who are you?"
"I
am Silvestro Kaak, at your
service."
"Well
Silvestro," the General began and then frowned
again, for the perspiration had stung his eyes. "Get me my towel," he
snapped at Zarate and the negotiating party waited
while he wiped his brow. The old Maya chief sniffed curiously at the perfumed
towel, exchanging a few more unintelligible words with his interpreter.
"Very
well," Egealiz resumed. "It is a mark of
progress, at least, that we are here exchanging words instead of bullets,
whatever may have transpired in the past." He paused and kicked the
peddler beneath the table. "We are also prepared to show that which Mexico
offers its citizens who support our Great Father in Mexico City." He
kicked the peddler again.
The indians exchanged a few words, and
Silvestro Kaak replied:
"We shall inspect your tribute."
Egealiz didn't like the sound of that either but whispered
to the peddler, who unsnapped the suitcase and grinned, bringing forth a bottle
and displaying its label to the indians.
It was genuine Cuban rum, costing three times the value of a like amount of aguardiente. Chief Poot uncapped
it, sniffed, then placed it to his mouth and took a long swallow until bubbles
formed. He passed it to the silent one whose hair was long and graying and this
man took a drink of equal proportion.
"It's
supposed to be a gift," the peddler whined, "they hadn't intended you
to start drinking now," but Silvestro Kaak had already taken the bottle, tilted it back to
swallow perhaps four full ounces and passed the rum back to Egealiz,
grunting.
Zarate tapped the General's shoulders. "They expect
you to drink with them."
Egealiz frowned. "Get me a glass," he muttered. "A glass!" The major nodded to the indians and rose... the General,
avoiding the rather ominous gaze of Silvestro,
regarded, instead, the old chief. Concluding that Chief Poot,
although a savage, had the face of a reasonable man, he took the glass Zarate had brought, poured a quarter inch of rum and
swallowed, setting the bottle and glass before the Major. Chief Poot, however, reached across the table and picked up the
empty glass, which he held up to sun, remarking upon something to Silvestro. Obviously pleased, he passed the glass to the
silent one, who put it in a leather pouch he carried, and the table was silent
again.
The
peddler was not an educated man, but knew enough of human nature through his
craft to grasp the awkwardness of the moment and now withdrew the metal image
of an American backwoodsman with his hunting rifle pointed at a metal stump.
"Watch,"
he said, placing a silver peso in the groove atop the rifle. He bent over the
statue but the peso fell out.
"This
was made in Germany and, I suspect, for German money," he explained with
an apologetic smile. He balanced the coin with his finger and, before it could
fall, he pressed a lever and the rifle sprang forward, emptying the peso into a
hole, which had opened in the trunk. "See that? Gone!"
The
tall one, Silvestro, picked the statue up looking for
the coin. He even turned it over and shook it, hearing something rattle within,
but there was no trace of the peso.
"It's
a bank," the peddler exclaimed. "Banco!" Silvestro
put the top of the woodsman in his mouth but could not bite through the hard
metal, and he put it down, exchanging a few words with Chief Poot.
"I
don't think you're impressing them," Egealiz said. "Better try something else. And the
peddler next placed upon the table a tin of Spanish olives, three spotted bow
ties and a pair of thick spectacles. Chief Poot had
seen men with spectacles and tried these on, but quickly removed them with an
expression of disgust.
"Peculiar
fellows," the peddler frowned. "They loved this stuff in Tabasco."
"Do
something Zarate," the General appealed. "I
think they're going to leave."
"Wait,"
the peddler called, addressing Silvestro with a
frantic waving of his arms that caused a dozen flies and twice that number of mosquitoes
to rise from the back of his coat. "Very well boys, you've driven a rough
bargain. I have for you a photograph of the President himself; our Great Father
in the capital. Yes, it's him!" And he took a framed portrait from the
suitcase, some nine inches wide by twelve across. "This is for you!"
"It's
a miracle," Zarate said, for the indians... not only the delegate,
but the entire sublevado guard, tugged at the
photograph, loudly shouting in their imponderable language.
"There
is always a way to capture any man," the peddler said, resuming his seat
with vapors of pride orbiting his brow. "Some are merely bought. There are
some bad ones you have to suppress, but others, like these fellows here, you
must impress."
"Well
you've done something, but I'm not sure you've managed to impress them,"
said the General for, intermingled with the Mayan words came a repeated cry of
the Spanish word "chacol!". Silvestro Kaak, holding the photograph with his fingers extended as
if it were something foul, tossed it across the table where it slid into the
General's lap.
"We
are not afraid of the jackal," he said in quite passable Spanish.
"Without the other ones, those who pay the mazehualob
to kill and inform on one another... without the blood vomit the dzulob bring, even the jackal, himself, cannot defeat us.
We have our guns still, and we have many to use them."
General
Egealiz and Major Zarate
were much dismayed by this but the peddler, undaunted, snarled at the indians through his sharp little
teeth. "So it's Bravo and the smallpox that make you jump? Well you shall
have them. General Bravo is in the north, but he has, I hear, requested
assignment to the Territory. And as for the other, that can also be arranged. The President can do whatever he pleases…"
"On
your guard," the Sergeant whispered to his men, who had gathered in a
semicircle roughly twenty meters from the table while a like number of the sublevados watched back from the edge of the monte.
"Do
you think that they will fire?" asked the soldier from the mountains.
"Probably
not," the Sergeant said, "but one never knows. There are more of
them, back there, but they knew we, also, have our reserves. Egealiz is likely to do nothing. If it were Bravo, he would
give the order to shoot the whole bunch now. Anyway, if it comes to a fight,
amigo, try not to hit the General.
The
three indians had been
backing away from the table, which was at the center of the line of fire, Chief
Poot turning his back on the Mexicans disdainfully.
Major Zarate motioned for the sergeant and three soldados to approach but with rifles lowered.
"Arrest
this man," Egealiz said when they had reached
the table. A soldier grabbed the peddler from behind, yanking him upwards, and
the suitcase overturned, spilling an avalanche of buttons, brightly colored
ribbons, silver spoons, tiny dolls and novelties that skittered across the
table. A chance breeze captured half a dozen picture postcards, wafting them in
the direction of the Cruzob.
The indians watched from the edge of the monte
and Chief Poot covered his nose and mouth as the
little wind passed, dropping a postcard at his feet.
"Even
the winds that the dzulob bring are treasonous," he said, "and we
have never been defeated save where we remain where they may enter and destroy
us." Poot prodded the postcard with his toe; it depicted a French or
Italian garden. "Let us leave this place as quickly as we can, and talk no
further with these Mexicans. It was a mistake even to have come here at
all."
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