The Vanquished (28 page)

Gabilondo laid the pistol down beside his hip and took out a cigar from the humidor on the table. He offered it to Giron; Giron shook his head absently. Gabilondo bit off the end of the cigar and lighted it, and squinted against the smoke. He said quietly, “And so you see, amigo, that we can not permit the filibusters to tell their story in court. They must be silenced.”

It was very deep, very involved, very confusing. Giron was a soldier; he was a simple man. He did not like to be drawn into political decisions. He did not understand the implications of political acts. He did not like being put in a position where, no matter what he did, the results might be disastrous for someone. He felt trapped; but his honor forced him to say, “I do not agree. I can not agree. It is honorable to kill on a battlefield. But to murder men who are in a helpless position—that is a mortal sin, General. I can not agree to it.”

Gabilondo studied him through half-shuttered eyes. He said softly, “You know, Giron, you are a very valuable man. Not only are you a fine soldier, but you are a man of simple tastes and simple virtues. You are truly a man of the people, amigo. You are a mirror—you reflect the wishes of the people. In your eyes I see all the feelings of the little dirty men and women who work the land. You have taught me something, José, and I am grateful to you for it. It is never wise to go against the wishes of the people. One must always be aware of presenting events in a good light, or the people will rebel.” He stood up, away from the table; he picked up his pistol and bounced it in his hand, and holstered it. “Very well,” he said, smiling gently. “We shall give them their trial, amigo.”

CHAPTER 22

Charley sat with his back to the wall, cradling the rifle between his knees. Crabb was standing by the diminished pile of supplies. The last dim rays of twilight swept across the plaza in swaying shadow. From the church the Mexicans fired occasionally, just often enough to keep the Americans irritated. Crabb talked in a low, level voice, displaying no emotion, none of the histrionic gusto that had marked his earlier speeches. He said:

“The matter is simple enough. This house is completely surrounded. We are outnumbered roughly by a factor of twenty to one. Hilario Gabilondo is here and has made it plain that Pesquiera has turned completely against us. Militarily, our position is hopeless. Gabilondo's truce-bearers have offered us terms of surrender. They are as follows:

“On surrendering, we will be taken to Altar, which is several miles up the river and a larger town than this. There we will be tried as prisoners of war. Gabilondo has several good physicians and has assured us that our wounded will be well attended to. No promises have been made but the implication is that, in view of the touchy nature of our agreements with Pesquiera, the trial will be held quietly and thereafter we will all be escorted under arms to the border, and released on American soil. The details of the surrender are that we will be required to leave the house one by one, leaving our arms behind, and go over to the Mexicans.”

He paused, seeming to gather his breath. His head was down, beard against chest; his fingers absently toyed with a button on his vest. He went on: “I might say that Pesquiera's treachery has been a terrible disappointment to me, and I daresay to all of us. I know that many of you had staked your hopes on the promised lands and mineral claims that were to be ours here in Mexico. Instead, men have died here. I offer all of you my profound apologies; I wish I could do more.”

He looked up and slowly his gaze traveled around the room. “We have been given till midnight to make up our minds whether we are to surrender. I ask you to think about it and make your answer known to me before that hour.”

He nodded sadly and turned, and went out of the room. A dozen heated conversations sprang up immediately; knots of men formed and busy-talking men darted from one group to another. Charley sat still, looking obliquely through the window across the deserted square, turning pale in the wash of moonlight. A bittersweet, faraway expression came into his eyes. A man across the room stood alone praying over a tiny cross in his hands. Norval Douglas stood by a window, rifle in hand, his yellow eyes flickering even in the dimness of night. A shadow nearby was young Carl Chapin, sallow and hollow-eyed, a bandage around the calf of his leg. His lips worked nervously. John Edmonson, old and dried, stood coughing over his bent chest, a pistol hanging forgotten in his hand. The last five days had turned him into a fighter. Charley wondered what good it had done the man. Captain Bob Holliday was relaxing loose-jointed against the wall near Norval Douglas; Holliday looked unconcerned. McDowell was in the center of an angrily arguing group of men. He was holding his injured arm as if it pained him terribly. Charley looked down. He had scars on both hands, from a ricocheting bullet that had sprayed splinters into them. He rubbed his palms against his shirt.

What appeared to be a giant shooting-star flared redly across the square, going overhead in a rush of flame. At his post, Norval Douglas wheeled, “Fire arrow,” he shouted. There was a crackle from the roof and when he looked up, Charley saw flames expanding on the thatch roof. Smoke curled downward. Crabb came striding into the room. Fifty men stood and sat, all staring at the growing flame above their heads; Charley felt paralyzed. A chunk of burning thatch fell inward, glancing off a man's shoulder. The man leaped back. Several men rushed forward and began to stamp out the flames. Crabb was shouting for their attention. “Everybody get out of this room! Someone fuse the powder kegs—we'll have to blow the roof off.”

Norval Douglas put down his rifle and walked forward deliberately to the corner where the powder kegs were stacked. Charley found himself getting up and following Douglas. Men were streaming out of the room into the back corridors, dragging with them everything they could carry—canteens, guns, food, blankets. By the time Charley carried two kegs to the center of the floor, the room was bright and smoky, and deserted. Douglas looked around and swore softly. “The slow-match fuses are gone.”

Charley rushed around in frantic search until he heard Douglas's voice, calm through the thickening smoke: “Never mind, Charley. Bring me a candle.”

He took a candle from the big table that they had shoved back against the wall and, not knowing what it was for, carried it to Douglas. He began to choke and cough on the smoke. Douglas dropped the candle to the floor and stamped on it, crushing it, breaking the wax away from the wick. Then he stripped the wick with his fingers and stuck it into the bottom keg. “Get out of here, Charley.”

Smoke clogged his lungs; he could not breathe. He turned and staggered blindly. At the edge of the room the smoke was less intense. He found a doorway and went through into a crowd of men. Looking back, he saw Douglas's shape dim in the wavering smoke, weirdly illuminated from above by the clattering flames. A section of thatch fell burning to the floor beyond the powder kegs. Douglas lit the candlewick and wheeled, running forward; but the wick burned quickly and Douglas was not yet to the door when the explosion went off.

The force of it blasted Douglas through the doorway. Charley's head rocked back, recoiling from the terrible noise. Men tumbled around him and he heard brittle objects falling; the room darkened. Douglas, blown flat on the corridor floor, struggled to his knees. His back appeared to have been burned but otherwise he did not seem hurt. A cool draft swept Charley's face and inside the big room he could see that the powder had blown away most of the roof. Two corners still burned, but the flames were small and not powerful enough to do any damage to the adobe walls. Log rafters made naked bars across the night.

“These people,” McDowell said firmly, “are determined to destroy us. By surrendering, we'd fall into their hands. Do you honestly think they'll let us go? They can't afford to. If I've got to die in this God-forsaken place, then by Jesus I'm going to sell my life dearly.”

“Gabilondo assures me,” Crabb murmured in reply, “that he has four sixteen-pound horse-drawn cannon on the way. We can't hold out against him.”

“Goddamn it,” said McDowell, “I'll take command myself. We can still fight our way out of here.”

“Can we?” Crabb retorted. “Gabilondo has half a thousand men—seasoned troops, not green militia any more.”

Charley listened to all this with detached bitterness. He looked up past the scorched rafters at the star-patterned sky. Smoke still hung in his nostrils. Crabb said firmly, “We can't divide the party. It would do neither of us any good, McDowell, if half of us surrendered and the other half attempted to make a fight of it. Only if the whole party surrenders at once will they treat us as prisoners of war. It's better I assure you not to rankle them by useless resistance. I'm satisfied with the terms; I advise we surrender.”

“I'll second,” McCoun said in a wooden tone.

McDowell threw up his hand and grimaced, and turned away. Norval Douglas joined him and the two tall men conversed in quiet tones. Crabb pulled out a pocket watch from his vest and squinted at it, and shook his head, handing the watch to McCoun, who read the time and handed it back. Crabb snapped it shut, pocketed it, and said, “Men, it's now eleven o'clock. I intend to surrender the party.”

A murmur ran around the room but no one spoke in protest. There was, in fact, a tangible measure of relief in the air. McDowell and Douglas moved back to the far wall, both of them carrying their guns, and stood resolutely there. Charley could see what, was on their minds. He went across to them. McDowell gave him a curious look, but it was Douglas who put his hand on Charley's shoulder and shook his head. Charley said defiantly, “It's not my fault if they're all cowards.”

“They're not cowards,” Douglas said. “They just don't believe that what's here is worth fighting for. You can't blame them.”

“Then why are you staying?”

“We'll try and make a break for the river after you've all left. If we can steal a pair of horses, we'll be all right.”

“Why take the chance?” Charley said. “In a day or two we'll all be loose.”

“Probably. But I didn't sign on just to surrender. It's hard to explain, Charley. Just take my word for it.”

“I guess I'll stay,” Charley said, feeling the dampness of his palms.

“No. Get out of here with the rest of them.”

“Listen,” Charley said, “don't commit suicide. Come on out with the rest of us.”

Douglas shook his head gently. “You've got a chance, Charley, to make something out of your life, because you're young. The rest of them don't.”

“What about you?”

“If you live for something, you've got to have the decency to die for it. Get out of here, Charley.” Douglas spoke the last five words with hard energy, as if by his viciousness he hoped to persuade. When Charley didn't move, Douglas said, “I don't want you here, Charley. Do you understand that? If you stay, and we don't make it, your death will be on my hands. Don't do that to me.”

Charley looked away, disappointed—for at this moment Douglas, who relied on no one, was pleading with him. “Go on,” Douglas said softly. Charley turned away and moved like a mechanism toward the men who were lining up by the front door, discarding their weapons. When he looked back, Douglas and McDowell were gathering up abandoned revolvers, jamming them into their belts.

Crabb was at the head of the line. His arm in a white sling was a pale triangle. He said, “All right. Open the door.” Someone lifted the bar down. Crabb pulled the door open. For a stretching interval, no one spoke, no one moved; and nothing stirred on the plaza. Crabb took up a white flag and stepped out.

Through a window Charley saw him cross the square, saw two Mexican soldiers come out to meet him, saw them take him away.

The night was deep and still. Singly, men walked through the door and across the dusty square. It was a long walk. Charley, last in line, looked back and in the shadows saw two lean figures standing. He looked down, scuffed his feet, and went out.

The Mexicans searched them and tied them up in a long storehouse beyond the church. Crabb was not tied; he stood off in a corner between two guards. Old John Edmonson sat down wearily beside Charley and scratched his face with his bound-together hands. He said, “Unfortunate, very unfortunate.”

Charley covered his face with his hands and thought darkly of two tall figures in the gloom. Over the mutter of conversations he heard a sudden flurry of gunshots, a ragged after volley, and a thick silence. In the distance someone shouted, “
Viva México!
” And outside the storehouse, a voice spoke heartily: “
Tendrimas cadaveres Yanquis, con que engordar a nuestros puercos
.” And back in the black shadows one of the prisoners said hoarsely, “Our hogs will fatten on the carcasses of the Yankees.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What do you suppose they'll do to us?”