The Vanquished (29 page)

“The sons of bitches. Maybe we shouldn't have trusted them.”

“Crabb, you bastard, it's all your fault. None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for you.”

“By God, Crabb, if I get loose from here I'll hunt you down and so help me I'll stick a knife in you.”

“I suppose your own greed had nothin' to do with it, hey, Shorty?”

“Go to hell, Hyne.”

“Gentlemen,” Crabb said softly, “if we emerge safely from this, I shall put myself at your disposal.”

“Goddamn right you will,” said Shorty's voice in the gloom.

“Oh, Mother of God!”

“Did you hear those shots? They must have killed McDowell and Douglas. Goddamned fools, those two.”

“I wish that Zimmerman son of a bitch was here. This would make him a nice fat story for the
Times
, all right.”

Anonymous voices in the black. Charley tried not to listen to them. In a little while a Mexican officer came in and took Crabb away with him. A silence enveloped the building; he could hear the uneven breathing of men around him. Somebody said quietly, “Hey—
soldado
. You got a drink?
Agua?
” The guards made no answer.

Giron sat in the stuffing of a faded red sofa and watched the pistol slap steadily against Gabilondo's palm. Gabilondo went around the desk and sat down behind it. Crabb stood stiffly in the center of the room, an armed soldier behind each shoulder. His right arm hung in a bandage-sling. He looked like a mild, everyday sort of man, Giron thought, not like a raging filibuster at all. In a moment a line of junior officers filed into the room and ranked themselves along the wall. “This,” Gabilondo murmured to Crabb with a gesture, “is your jury, amigo. You are here to be tried by a court-martial.”

“I thought we were to be tried at Altar.”

“I have changed my mind,” Gabilondo said. Giron followed his English with difficulty; he was surprised that Gabilondo showed the courtesy to speak in Crabb's tongue.

“Am I not entitled to counsel?” Crabb asked. Giron admired his haughty, unbending demeanor.

“As a man of varied political background,” Gabilondo said, “you are no doubt perfectly capable of speaking in your own behalf, señor.”

“Very well,” Crabb said. The junior officers stood blankly at attention. Giron stood up, not wishing to draw attention to himself, and moved around beside the sofa where he could put his shoulder blades to the wall. He folded his hands before him.

“You are charged,” Gabilondo said, “with illegal invasion, with acts tantamount to an act of war, and with willful murder. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“To each charge?”

“Yes. To each charge.”

“The evidence is as follows,” Gabilondo said. His voice rang hollowly under the high ceiling. “At the head of a band of armed men, you entered the state of Sonora from a foreign territory, intending to invade by force of arms. When halted by a regularly appointed officer of the government army, you informed him that you intended to advance in spite of the fact that he ordered you to withdraw. Then you shot the same officer, without warning, and inflicted a state of siege upon the members of the local militia. Now, these are all facts, señor. I do not see how you can plead innocence when the facts are so plain.”

“The facts as you state them are incomplete.”

“Ah,” Gabilondo said, and smiled. “How so, señor?”

“We are here not as illegal invaders, but as friendly colonists who were invited to settle here by your state government.”

“I see,” Gabilondo said. “You no doubt have proof of this allegation?”

“I do.” Crabb reached awkwardly into his vest with his left hand and pulled out an oilskin pouch. From this he extracted a sheaf of papers and stepped forward to place them on Gabilondo's desk. Gabilondo picked up the papers and made a show of reading them. It took some time. Giron was aware of the rise and fall of his own chest, the flicker of oil in the lamps, the sleepy attention of the junior officers who were probably longing to return to their blankets and go to sleep. A young lieutenant sat back at a small writing table under a lamp, taking down testimony. His expression was bored, tired; he had marched for a week. Giron was thirsty for beer. He licked his lips.

“Forgeries,” Gabilondo said in a bland tone. “Naturally you would prepare yourself with such so-called documentary evidence before embarking on such a ruthlessly daring expedition. But this signature is definitely not that of Ignacio Pesquiera, and for myself, señor, I deny ever having affixed my signature to such a paper.”

Crabb stood calmly and said nothing.

Gabilondo took the hood off the desk lamp. Crabb said, “The documents are not forgeries, General, and you know that fact as well as I. We were both present when they were signed.”

“Your memory must be at fault, señor,” Gabilondo murmured, and set a corner of the sheaf of papers afire. He let them burn up until the flames reached his fingers; then he dropped them on the desk and let the flames consume the last corners. “So much for that evidence,” he said. “Have you anything else to say in your defense?”

“Only that I am innocent, that you know I am innocent, and that if the people of Sonora ever discover what treacherous dogs they have elected in you and Pesquiera, you will both find yourselves rotting in the earth.” Crabb's words were forceful; his voice was calm. He seemed to recognize the futility of protest. Giron looked away and studied the crucifix on the wall.

Gabilondo turned to the lieutenant at the writing table. “You may strike the defendant's last remark from the record, Lieutenant.”

“
Sí, General
”

Crabb said, “You may do with me as you wish, General. I do not deny that my motives may have been base. But I ask that you honor your terms of surrender to my men. They did not come here expecting to fight against troops. They had no political objectives in mind. They are innocent of any crime against the state. I hold you to your word to release them on American soil.”

“Your heroics are touching, amigo,” Gabilondo murmured. “But I have the feeling that the spirit of filibustering remains strong in the barbaric hearts of your countrymen north of the border. I believe they need a lesson. It is time they learned that Mexico is not a savage free land open to the greedy clutchings of misguided filibusters. We are a sovereign people, señor, and it is time the United States was made aware of that fact.”

“Marvelous sentiments,” Crabb drawled. Giron cringed; he wished the man would break down.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” Gabilondo said, his tone as dry as the desert winds, “I will have your verdict.”

One of the junior officers nodded his head. Gabilondo said, “It is the verdict of a jury of regularly appointed officers that you are guilty of the charges brought against you by the state. Have you anything to say before I prescribe punishment?”

“Nothing,” Crabb said.

“Then it is the sentence of this court-martial that you and your followers be executed by rifle fire at dawn.”

Giron felt he should speak. He looked at the slitted eyes of Gabilondo and held his tongue. He was very thirsty and wondered if the cantina was still open to the soldiers. He would go there afterward and drink enough beer to knock him out.

“
Adios
, Señor Crabb,” Gabilondo murmured.

“I doubt,” Crabb said, “that you can know the consequences of this inhuman act, General.” He turned on his heel and went out between the two silent guards.

“Very well, José,” said Gabilondo. “Are you satisfied? The trial has been held. The verdict goes on record.”

Giron said nothing. He picked up his hat and sword and turned to the door, flicking his dry tongue around his teeth. It was better not to mix in political things.

CHAPTER 23

Crabb was returned to the barracks at one o'clock in the morning; he was kept by himself and was not allowed to communicate with the men. Charley lay awake and listened to the snoring of a man nearby. Someone came in with a lamp and a Mexican read in halting English the official sentence of the court-martial, that the entire company was to be shot at sunrise. A dozen guards stood at the front with shotguns. Several more lamps were brought. Charley saw bearded faces, open red mouths, weeping eyes; men cursed and men cried; some just sat. In half an hour some soldiers came in and looked around and picked out the sallow youth, Carl Chapin, and took him outside with them. Soon they returned and Chapin walked directly to Charley. “He's younger than I am,” Chapin said, and went back to fade into the crowd. The soldiers took Charley with them and sudden fear made his legs go limp; he concentrated all his attention on a livid hatred of Chapin.

But the soldiers only took him back to the big adobe house with its roof blown off where he had spent the previous days in siege. Nine of the wounded were there, and Charley remained under guard until just before dawn a man came and took him to another large house beyond the church. A squat, powerful man in a creased uniform took him by the arm and sat him down and spoke brusquely. “My name is Hilario Gabilondo. I am in charge here. What is your name?”

“Charles Evans.”

“Your date of birth?”

“December twenty-fifth, Eighteen Forty-two.”

“Christmas Day, eh?”

“Yes.”

“You are the youngest of the party, then.”

“I guess I am. What about it?”

“We have decided to spare one from among you,” Gabilondo said. “As the youngest, you have been chosen. I trust you will be thankful for your good fortune.”

“Yeah,” Charley said numbly.

“Eventually,” Gabilondo continued, “you will be released to return to your country. You understand it is a gesture of mercy on our part to show that we are not wolves here. I shall expect you to make a full report of what has happened here to the American newspapers—so that your countrymen will know better than to try invading Mexico again.”

Charley said nothing. He hoped his expression was as cool as he intended it to be; he had that much caring left. In the past few hours he had not thought much about anything. He knew he was thirsty and hungry and in need of sleep, but those things did not matter. Nothing mattered.

They took him outside and put him on a horse amid a column of soldiers.

The window was high; the only thing he could see through it was sky. For hours he would watch clouds drift across, their shapes slowly changing. There were two cots in the cell, nailed to the floor, but Charley was alone. There was a tiny barred opening in the door. All he could see through it was the dim adobe wall on the far side of the jail corridor. With busy fingers he tied knots in pieces of straw that he had taken from the mattress ticking. The floor at his feet was littered with little bits of broken straw.

Once in a while he would tell himself he was lucky to be alive.

Usually he did not believe it. Lucky or unlucky, he did not know, what difference was there?

One afternoon the door opened and someone stumbled into the dim room. The door closed quickly and tumblers clicked. Charley squinted up through the gloom.

“Evans,” the man said hoarsely. “Evans?”

“Yes.”

“My God. I thought they were all dead.” It was, Charley saw, Sus Ainsa.

“No,” Charley said, “not all of them.” He saw the tracks of pain and anger etched into Sus' face and suddenly he wished very much that he could also be able to feel those things. He felt nothing.

Sus lurched to the opposite cot and lowered himself onto it. He sat with his elbows on his knees, hands dangling, jaw slack. He shook his head, blinked, and said, “How long have you been here?”

“I don't know. I didn't bother to start counting. Sooner or later they'll let me out and send me back across the Line.”

“Lucky,” Sus said.

“Sure.”

“Were—” Sus began, and stopped to clear his throat, and began again: “Were you there?”