The Eternal Adam and other stories (5 page)

‘Will you hold your tongue!’ snapped
Martinez.

After that the sailor kept his mouth shut.
‘Here’s a nice place to have scruples,’ he said to himself. ‘Anyhow,’ he
continued aloud, ‘when I get back I’ll settle down in this charming land of
Mexico, where you can go on the spree through the pineapples and the bananas,
and run aground on reefs of gold and silver!’

‘Was that what you mutinied for?’ Martinez
asked him.

‘Why not, Lieutenant? A question of cash!’

‘Ah!...’ Martinez gave an exclamation of
disgust.

‘Well, what about you?’

‘Me!... A question of rank ...’ What the
lieutenant really wanted was to be avenged on his captain.

‘Ah!...’ now José gave an exclamation of
disgust.

Whatever their motives, the two men were
equally worthless.

‘Quiet!’ Martinez pulled up sharply. ‘What
was that I saw?’

José stood erect in his stirrups. ‘There
isn’t anything,’ he said.

‘I saw a man slinking under cover!’
Martinez insisted.

‘Imagination!’

‘I saw him!’ the lieutenant insisted.

‘Well, look for him at your leisure ...’
and José pushed on.

Martinez went by himself to a clump of
mangroves whose branches, taking root wherever they touched the ground, formed
an impenetrable thicket.

The lieutenant dismounted. The solitude was
complete.

He suddenly caught sight of a sort of
spiral moving about in the shadows. It was a small snake, its head crushed
under a boulder while its hinder parts twisted as though it had been
galvanised.

‘There’s been someone here!’ he exclaimed.

Superstitious and guilt-stricken, he stared
round him. He began to tremble.

‘Who? Who?’ he muttered.

‘Well?’ asked José, who had come up beside
him.

‘It’s nothing,’ Martinez replied. ‘Let’s
get on!’

The travellers now followed the banks of
the Mexala, a small tributary of the Balsas, and followed its course upwards.
Soon some smoke betrayed the presence of the natives, and the little town of
Tutela-del-Rio came into sight. But the Spaniards, anxious to get to Tasco
before nightfall, soon left it, after a few moments’ rest.

The road now became very steep, so that
they could get only the slowest pace out of their steeds. Here and there olive
groves appeared on the side of the hills, and remarkable differences developed
in the soil, in the temperature, in the vegetation.

Evening was not long in coming. Martinez
followed a few paces behind his guide José, who could find his way only with
difficulty among these dense shadows. He looked for the practicable footpaths,
swearing now at a stump which made him stumble, now at a branch which whipped
across his face and threatened to put out the excellent cigar he was smoking.

The lieutenant let his horse follow his
companion’s; a vague remorse was troubling him, and he could no longer account
for the obsession of which he was the prey.

Night had soon come, and the travellers
hurried on. They passed without stopping through the little villages of
Contapex and Iguala, and at last reached the town of Tasco.

José had spoken the truth. It was a large
city compared to the wretched hamlets they had left behind them, and a sort of
inn opened on the main street. Having entrusted their horses to the ostler,
they went into the largest room, where a long narrow table was already laid.

The Spaniards took their seats opposite one
another, and wolfed down a meal which might have pleased the native palates, but
which hunger alone could make palatable to a European. There were fragments of
chicken swimming in a sauce of green pimento; dishes of rice mixed with red
pepper and saffron; old hens stuffed with olives, dried grapes, peanuts and
onions, sugared pumpkins and purslane, the whole accompanied by
tortillas,
a sort of maize cake cooked on an iron griddle. Then, after the meal, the
drink.

Whatever this might lack in the way of taste, hunger was satisfied, and
fatigue made Martinez and José sleep to a late hour next morning.

The lieutenant was the first awake.

‘Come on, José!’ he shouted.

The seaman stretched and yawned.

‘Which road do we take?’ asked Martinez.

‘Faith, I know two of them. Lieutenant.’

Which?’

‘One goes by Zacualican, Tenancingo and
Toluca. From Toluca to Mexico, the route’s good, for already we’ve scaled the
Sierra Madre.’

‘And the other?’

‘That takes us a bit farther east, and then
we’ll get near these fine mountains, Popocatepetl and Iectachuolt. That’s the safest,
because it’s the least frequented. A nice walk of about fifteen leagues up a
gentle slope!’

‘Settled for the longest way and let’s go!’
Martinez decided. ‘Where do we sleep tonight?’

‘Sailing a dozen knots or so, at
Cuernavaca,’ the seaman replied.

The two Spaniards went to the stable, had
their horses saddled, and filled their
mochillas,
a sort of saddle-bag
which forms part of the harness, with maize cakes, pomegranates and dried meat,
for in the mountains they ran the risk of not getting enough food. Having paid
the bill, they mounted their horses and swerved off to the right.

Soon for the first time they saw the
oak-forests, a tree of good augury, for the unhealthy emanations from the lower
plateaux stop at their edge. Here, 1,500 yards above the sea, the travellers
found themselves comfortable in a moderate temperature.

However, getting higher and higher on the
Anahuac plateau, they crossed the immense barriers which form the plain of
Mexico.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed José, ‘here’s the first of
the three rivers we’ve got to cross.’

And, indeed, a river had worn its deep bed
just at their feet.

‘Last time I was here, this river was dry,’
José commented. ‘Follow me, Lieutenant.’

Going down a fairly gentle slope cut into
the bed-rock, they reached a practicable ford.

‘That’s one!’ said José.

‘Are the others just as easy to cross?’
asked the lieutenant.

‘Just as easy,’ José replied. ‘During the
rainy season these torrents swell and flow into the little Ixtolucca river
which we’ll find in the mountains.’

‘And there’s nothing to be afraid of in
this solitude?’

‘Nothing, unless it’s a Mexican dagger.’

‘That’s true enough,’ commented Martinez.
‘The Indians of these uplands have a tradition of being faithful to the
dagger.’

‘Yes,’ the seaman laughed, ‘what a lot of
names they’ve got for their favourite weapson: estoque, verdugo, puna,
anchillo, beldoque, navaja! The name comes into their mouth as quickly as the
dagger into their hands! Well, so much the better! Santa Maria! At least we
shan’t have to fear invisible bullets from their long carbines! I don’t know
anything more annoying than not to know the rascal who’s killing you!’

‘Who are the Indians who live in these
mountains?’ asked Martinez.

‘Well, Lieutenant, who can count the
different races who swarm in this El Dorado of a Mexico? I’ve studied the
various crosses with the idea of making a good marriage one of these days. Each
cross has a different name for the kids, and there’s dozens of them!’

This was true, and the mixture of races in
this country makes anthropological research very difficult. But in spite of the
sailor’s conversation, Martinez kept falling into his usual taciturnity, and he
sometimes kept away from his comrade, whose presence seemed to annoy him.

Soon two other torrents cut the road in
front of them. The lieutenant seemed disappointed at finding their beds dry,
for he had counted on them for watering his horse.

‘Now here we are in a dead calm,
Lieutenant, with no food and no water,’ said José. ‘Bah! Follow me! We’ll look
among the oaks and elms for a tree which is called the
ahuehuelt
and
which takes the place of the wisps of straw they use as signs for the inns. You
always find a spring within its shade, and if it’s only water, faith, I can
tell you that the water is the wine of the wilderness.’

The horsemen went round the mountain spur,
and soon they found the tree in question. But the promised spring had run dry,
and it was obvious that it had done so recently.

‘That’s queer!’ José commented.

‘You might say it’s
queer!’
Martinez
had turned pale. ‘Come on, come on!’

The travellers did not exchange another
word until they had reached the village of Cachuimilchan, where they reduced
the load in their saddle-bags. Then they made for Cuernavaca, towards the east.

The country had now become extremely rugged,
and confronted the travellers with gigantic peaks whose basaltic summits
checked the clouds coming from the ocean. Beyond a large rock they sighted
Cochicalcho Fort, built by the ancient Mexicans on a plateau of 9,000 square
yards. They made for the gigantic cone which forms its base and which is
crowned by tottering rocks and grimacing ruins.

Having dismounted and tethered their steeds
to the trunk of an elm, Martinez and José, anxious to verify the direction of
the road, climbed, helped by the irregularities of the ground, to the summit of
the cone.

Night fell and, robbing the various objects
of their colour, gave them a fantastic appearance. The old fort vaguely
suggested an enormous bison, crouching down with motionless head; and the wild
imagination of Martinez made him fancy he could see shadows moving about on the
flanks of the monstrous animal. He said nothing, however, for fear of laying
himself open to taunts from the incredulous José. The latter slowly wandered
off along the mountain paths and whenever he vanished behind some obstacle, he
guided his companion by the sound of his ‘St James’, and ‘Santa Maria’.

Suddenly a huge night-bird, uttering a
raucous cry, rose heavily on its mighty wings.

Martinez pulled up sharply.

An enormous block of stone was visibly
swaying on its base about thirty feet above him. Suddenly it came loose, and,
smashing everything in its way with the speed and noise of thunder, it was
engulfed in the abyss below.

‘Santa Maria!’ cried the seaman – ‘Hi!
Lieutenant?’

‘José?’

‘Over here.’

The two Spaniards moved towards one
another.

‘What an avalanche! Let’s go down,’
suggested the seaman.

Martinez followed him without saying a
word, and they soon got down to the lower plains.

Here a large furrow marked the track of the
rock.

‘Santa Maria!’ exclaimed José. ‘Look, our
horses have vanished – they’re crushed flat.’

‘Good God!’ Martinez gave an incredulous
gasp.

‘Look here!’

What was more, the tree to which the
animals were tethered had gone with them.

‘If we’d been down there!’ was the seaman’s
philosophic comment.

Martinez was gripped by a violent feeling
of terror.

‘The snake, the spring, the avalanche!’ he
muttered.

Then he turned his haggard eyes on José.

‘Aren’t you going to say something about
Captain Don Orteva?’ he asked, his lips contracted with anger.

José recoiled.

‘Oh, no nonsense, Lieutenant! We’ll take
off our hats to our poor beasts, and then move on! It doesn’t do any good to
hang about here when the old mountain is shaking its mane!’

The two Spaniards pushed on without saying
another word, and in the middle of the night they reached Cuernavaca. But they
found it impossible to get any horses, and it was on foot that they made their
way to Popocatepetl.

The temperature was cold and vegetation
completely absent. These inaccessible heights belonged to the glacial zone,
known as ‘cold country’. Already the lines of the foggy regions showed their
dry outlines between the last oak of the more elevated lands, and springs
became even more rare in a soil consisting largely of splintered trachytes and
porous amygdaloids.

For six long hours the lieutenant and his
companion dragged themselves painfully along, cutting their hands against the
edges of the rock and their feet against the sharp stones in their path. Soon
weariness forced them to sit down, and José got busy preparing some food.

‘A devil of an idea not to have taken the
usual road!’ he muttered.

They both hoped, however, to find at
Aracopistla, a village lost among the mountains, some means of transport to
finish their journey. But what was their disappointment when they found only
the same destitution, the complete lack of everything, and the same
inhospitality as at Cuernavaca! None the less, they had to get on.