“Come on out you yellow-footed, back-shootin nigger,” drawls a voice across the pass. “We seen you, you goddam turncoat. Come on out and die like a man.”
Gallego’s man is still there and if Royal answers he will likely be shot from behind. If he managed somehow to cross over, the regulars would probably kill him on the spot instead of dragging him back to Manila to be tried and hanged.
In that land of dopey dreams
Happy peaceful Philippines—
— the regulars sing from behind the trees now—
Where the bolo-man is hiking night and day
Where Tagalos steal and lie
Where Americanos die
There you hear the soldiers sing this evening lay—
Royal knows the words and sings along softly, thinking about Junior and the boys in the 25th—
Damn, damn, damn the Filipinos!
Slant-eyed khakiac ladrones
Underneath the starry flag, civilize em with a Krag
And return us to our own beloved homes!
It is not nearly dark yet when one of the rebels signals by shooting a chunk out of the rock not far from his ear. Or maybe trying to kill him. The man jerks his rifle for Royal to come up, then draws a bead on him again. There is cover here and there but wide spaces between it and he is scrambling uphill on loose rock with the Americans whooping in joy and trying to nail him and by the time he dives behind the first outcroppping he has been grazed on the arm and is soaked with sweat. He catches his breath and on his second run there is some covering fire and he can see other rebels climbing around him so he is not the only target. His next dash is sideways across the base of the mountain to where the footpath starts and there behind a tangle of uprooted trees he finds the Teniente with Bayani, who has been shot up bad.
“We have spotted another patrol on the way,” says the Teniente. “We must retreat.”
Bayani is shot in the hip and through one side under his arm, having a tough time breathing. Got a lung, thinks Royal, and hands the Mauser to the Teniente, who has his own rifle and Bayani’s captured Krag as well. Royal turtles down and the Teniente helps Bayani, surprisingly light, onto his back. They wait until there are others climbing and being shot at before they move, Royal almost running uphill with the wounded Filipino till they are behind cover again and he can get his wind back. Bayani clenches his grip tight a couple times but doesn’t make a sound and the Teniente hurries behind them, the rifles rattling on their slings.
“It hurts when we move,” Bayani reports, “and it hurts when we stop.”
When they get back to the camp the American drops to all fours, exhausted, and Diosdado helps the woman from Las Ciegas pull Bayani off his back and lay him out on a mat.
“The other time I was shot,” says Bayani, “it didn’t hurt like this.”
There is not much to do without a doctor. One bullet has passed through his chest and out his back but the one in his hip is embedded. Another wounded man, hit in the jaw, is already there drooling blood on the ground. Diosdado waits for his own men to arrive — Legaspi, then Ontoy, then El Guapo, then Kalaw, then Katapang and Pelaez and Puyat, then Gallego stomping into the camp, furious.
“We have them outnumbered and your maldito africano doesn’t shoot.”
“He ran out of ammunition,” Diosdado says to him. “He never had a chance.”
“I’ll give him a chance.”
The American has caused him no trouble and in time might even join their cause, but now Bayani is hurt and they need to get him down to help, so when Gallego has his men drag the negro forward, hands him a bolo, and demands that he execute the prisoners, Diosdado does nothing.
The negro, Royal Scott, raises the bolo over his head. The prisoner who is a lieutenant of volunteers cries out “No, don’t do it, boy, don’t do it! I got land here, plenty of land and I’ll give you some!” and the other man who is not in uniform tells him to shut his mouth. Royal throws the bolo down so it sticks in the ground.
“Hell with it,” he says. “Yall want em dead you can do it yourself.”
The Colorado lieutenant starts to weep.
There isn’t room for him on the tree, so the negro is tied hand and foot and thrown on the ground next to the man with the shattered jaw.
“He saw his father’s nakedness.”
The Correspondent only groans.
“Noah drank of the wine,” Niles whispers feverishly, “and was drunken; and he was uncovered within his tent. And Ham, the father of Canaan, saw the nakedness of his father, and told his two brethren without. And Shem and Japheth took a garment, and laid it upon both their shoulders, and went backward, and covered the nakedness of their father; and their faces were backward, and they saw not their father’s nakedness. And Noah awoke from his wine, and knew what his younger son had done unto him. And he said, Cursed be Canaan; a servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren.”
The Correspondent, dullard, does not stir.
“It is more than Genesis, though,” hisses Niles. This is important, this is so very important. “There is Leviticus 20:11—If a man has sexual intercourse with his father’s wife, he has exposed his father’s nakedness.”
“Lunatic,” mutters the Correspondent.
“He must have been a lunatic, no doubt, to do such a thing and at such a time. For there were three that copulated on the ark, and all punished — the dog was doomed to be tied, the raven to spew his seed into the mouth of his mate, and Ham, Ham was smitten in his skin, and thus was darkened the face of Mankind. They are the sons of Ham, the descendants of Canaan.”
None of the tormentors are awake. It is only Niles, Niles ever vigilant, beyond sleep—
“Their blackness comes not from their time in the sun, but the dark source from whence the degraded race sprang.” If his hands were free to gesture he would indicate all of those sleeping about them. “These are the children of vile incest, and thus have been cursed with darkness. Darkness of the skin, of the mind, of the soul. That nigger — it was Fagen, the demon. He was going to smite us but I fixed him with my eye. They cannot abide that. As long as we are steadfast, as long as we do not sleep, they cannot slay us, for we are the children of God. It is written on our faces.”
This is a test. Noah was tested, and Abraham, and poor sweet Jesus on the cross, and now Niles Manigault. He will not falter. He will not fail. He will not pray or plead, for God loves a forthright man, a self-reliant man, a manly man. The nigger with the sword was only a test, a creature from Hell, and I stared it in the eye and it was vanquished. The Hamites are our servants, it is written in the Book and they know it within their hearts. When they rise up, when they rebel, they know in their hearts that He will not let them succeed, for they are the spawn of filth and wickedness.
“On the Ark,” Niles sighs, his heart racing, all his senses open, alive to epiphany. “With his father’s wife. Can you imagine such evil, such bestiality? On the Ark.”
“Stark, raving mad,” mutters the Correspondent.
They have men waiting down the pathway to shoot if the Americans decide to climb up after them, but nobody above and nobody on the other side of the mountain. Everybody left in camp is asleep but Roy and the man who was shot in the jaw, who has his eyes closed and is crying. Even the other American prisoners sleep now, heads nodded forward and to the side, the rope binding them to the tree digging into their necks. Nilda takes a small sack of the corn and an American canteen that is almost full of water. Her knife is dull from splitting bamboo and it takes a long time to saw through the hemp around his wrists and ankles. They soaked it before tying so the knots can’t be untied. Roy says nothing and watches her face, which makes her cheeks burn. They have left him at the edge of the camp, far away from the fire, and his hands are cold to the touch. He shouldn’t have to die. None of them should have to die, but they are set on their war and haven’t decided to stop fighting yet.