“Too depressing. So it is, let us say, a hundred miles, from the Pacific to the coastal plain and then on to the Atlantic Ocean. At this rate we will lose a regiment that way.”
“It’s the same distance again, if not more, to Vera Cruz.”
“Yes, but the land there is dead flat. Once the road reaches the plain it will just be a matter of smoothing the donkey track that is already there.”
“I pray you are right. England is too far from this stinking hole. I fear that I will die here and be buried in the moldy soil. I despair of ever seeing her blissfully cold and fog-shrouded shores ever again.”
The dark-skinned man at a nearby table apparently took no notice of them. His thin shirt was more suited to the climate than their wool tunics. His meal of guacamole and juevos rancheros was far easier to digest as well. He scooped the last of it off of his plate with half of a fresh tortilla. Washed it down with black coffee, sighed and belched slightly. A single languid wave of his hand brought the proprietor rushing over to serve him.
“A sus órdenes, Don Ambrosio.”
“Unpuro.”
“Ahoritita.”
The fat owner of the cantina hurried away and returned moments later with an open box of long cigars. He held it out for inspection. Don Ambrosio took his time in selecting one, then held it to his ear and rolled the tip in his fingers to test the cigar’s texture. He nodded approval, opened a large clasp knife and carefully cut off the end of the black Orizaba cigar. The proprietor, Chucho, scratched a sulfur match on the underside of the table, waved it to life, then carefully lit the cigar.
“You, there, more wine,” the captain shouted. Chucho did not respond until the cigar was lit and drawing well. Only then did he stroll slowly into the back room, returned some minutes later with a clay jug.
“The locals get all the service, don’t they,” the captain said, scowling in the direction of the dark-skinned man who was languidly blowing a cloud of rich smoke into the air.
“Helps to speak the lingo I imagine.”
The wine slopped onto the table when Chucho put the jug down. He wiped at it lazily with his stained apron. Major Chalmers sipped at his wine and looked idly at the man at the other table who was now using his clasp knife to sharpen a point on his pencil. He put the knife away, opened a small bound book and began to write. The major looked at him and frowned with suspicion.
“I say — who’s that blighter?”
“Mande?”
“That man, the one at that table there who is doing the writing. Who is he?”
“Yes. He ees Don Ambrosio. A big planter from Santo Domingo Tehuantepec. Much land, many trees with fruits.”
“Next town down the road,” the captain said. “What’s he writing down in that bloody book? Has he been listening to us? I can’t say that I like any of this.”
“Nor do I,” Chalmers said, coldly suspicious. “If he speaks English he could overhear our conversation with great ease. Does he understand English?”
The proprietor shrugged and called out deferentially to the gentleman.
“Mil perdones, Don Ambrosio. Habla usted inglés?”
“Solamente español, Chucho.”
“He say he only speak Spanish. No one speak English here but me ’cause I work with gringos to the norte. Most not even talk Spanish, got a language of their own…”
“I couldn’t care less about that. What I want to know then is what he is writing in that infernal book?”
Chucho raised his eyes heavenward as though seeking inspiration there. “Don Ambrosio he is a very great man, he is also a great, how you say it, he is a poeta.”
Hearing his name spoken the don turned and smiled at the officers.
“Poesía, si.” He riffled through the book, found the right page, then read from it with great Latin feeling.
Mexicanos al grita de guerra
el acero aprestad y el bridón,
y retiemble en sus centros la Tierra