He made his way through the throng: inside, standing in front of the map hastily nailed to a wall, the general was explaining: "The federales are mounting a counterattack at our backs, in territory the Revolution has already liberated. What they want is to cut us off from the rear. At dawn, a scout up in the mountains spotted a thick cloud of smoke rising over the towns occupied by Colonel Jiménez. He reported it, and I remembered that the colonel had collected a big pile of boards and railway ties in each town, which he would burn if he was attacked, to warn us. That's how things stand. We have to split up. Half will go back to the other side of the mountain to help Jiménez. The other half will go out to finish off the groups we defeated yesterday and to make sure that another big offensive doesn't come from the south. We'll only leave a company here. But it doesn't seem likely they'll get this far. Major Gavilán…Lieutenant Aparicio…Lieutenant Cruz: you head north again."
Jiménez's fires were petering out when, around midday, Artemio Cruz passed the outpost at the mountain pass. From up there he could see the train overflowing with people: it ran without blowing its whistle, carrying mortars and cannon, ammunition boxes and machine guns. The cavalry detachment made its way down the steep slopes with difficulty, and the cannon began to fire on the towns supposedly retaken by the federales.
"Let's speed up," he said. "They'll keep firing for about two hours, and then we'll go in to scout."
He never knew why, the moment his horse's hooves reached flat ground, he lowered his head and lost all notion of the finite mission he'd been ordered to carry out. The men with him seemed to vanish, along with the positive feeling of an objective to be reached, and in their place came a tenderness, an inner lament for something lost, a longing to return to Regina's arms and forget it all. It was as if the flaming sphere of the sun had overwhelmed the nearby presence of the cavalry and the distant noise of the bombardment: in place of that real world there was another, a dream world where only he and his love had the right to live, where only they had a reason to save it.
"Do you remember that rock that stuck out of the sea like a boat of stone?"
"He gazed at her again, yearning to kiss her, afraid he would wake her, certain that by gazing at her he was making her his. Only one man possesses-he thought-all the secret images of Regina; that man possesses her, and he will never give her up. Contemplating her, he contemplated himself. His hands dropped the reins: all he is, all his love, is embedded in the flesh of this woman who contains both of them. I wish I could go back…tell her how much I love her…tell her the depth of my feelings…so that Regina would know…
The horse whinnied and bucked; the rider fell on the hard ground, on the rocks and briars. The grenades of the federales rained down on the cavalry, and as he got up in the smoke, all he could see was his horse's chest on fire, the shield that had stopped the flames. Around the fallen body of his own mount, more than fifty horses were rearing senselessly: there was no light above; the sky and moved down one step, and it was a sky of gunpowder no higher than the men. He ran toward one of the low trees: the bursts of smoke hid more than bare branches. Ninety feet away, a forest began; it was low but thick. A chaotic shouting reached his ears. He dove to catch the reins of a riderless horse but threw only one leg over its back. He hid his body behind the horse and whipped it on. The horse galloped and he, head down and eyes blinded by his own tangled hair, desperately held on to the saddle and bridle. The brilliance of the morning finally vanished; the shadow allowed him to open his eyes, part from the animal's flesh, and roll until he hit a tree trunk.
Again he felt as he'd felt before. The confused sounds of war were all around him, but between those near and the far rumble that reached his ears, there was an unbridgeable gap: here the slight trembling of the branches, the slithering of the lizards could be heard quite distinctly. Alone, leaning against the tree trunk, he again felt a sweet, serene life languidly flowing through his veins: a well-being of the body that dispelled any rebellious attempt at thought. His men? His heart beat evenly, without a throb. Would they be looking for him? His arms and legs felt happy, clean, tried. What would they do without him to give them orders? His eyes searched through the roof of leaves for the hidden flight of some bird. Would they lose all sense of discipline? Would they, too, run and hide in this providential forest? But he couldn't go back over the mountain on foot. He would have to wait here. And what if he was taken prisoner? He couldn't go on thinking: a moan parted the leaves near the lieutenant's face, and a man collapsed in his arms. His arms rejected him for an instant and then held on to that body from which hung a red, limp rag of torn flesh.
The wounded man rested his head on his comrade's shoulder. "They're…really…pouring it…on…"
He felt the ravaged arm on his back, staining it, dripping angry blood. He tried to push back the face, which was twisted with pain: high cheekbones, open mouth, eyes closed, tangled mustache and beard, short, like his own. If the man had green eyes, he could be his double…
"Is there any way out? Are we losing? Do you know anything about the cavalry? Have they pulled out?"
"No…no…They went…forward."
The wounded man tried to point with his good arm-the other, splintered by machine-gun fire-never relaxing the horrible grimace that seemed to sustain him and prolong his existence.
"They're advancing? How?"
"Water, pal…in a bad way…"
The wounded man fainted, holding on with a strange strength full of wordless pleading. The lieutenant bore that sculpted lead weight on his own body. The tremors of cannon fire returned to his ears. An uncertain wind shook the treetops. Again, silence and tranquillity broken by machine-gun fire. Taking hold of the wounded man's good arm, he disencumbered himself of the body that had been tossed over his own. Holding him by the head, he laid him on the ground, on the knotty roots. He opened his canteen and took a long drink. He brought it to the lips of the wounded man: the water ran down his blackened chin. But his heart still beat: now, on his knees near the wounded man's chest, he wondered how much longer it would go on beating. He unfastened the man's heavy silver buckle and then turned his back on him. What was happening out there? Who was winning? He stood up and walked into the forest, away from the wounded man.
As he walked, he touched his body, sometimes pushing the lower branches out of the way, but always feeling himself. He wasn't wounded. He did not need help. He stopped by a spring and filled his canteen. A creek, dead before it was really born, ran from the spring and disappeared under the sun just beyond the forest. He took off his uniform jacket and used both hands to douse his chest, his armpits, his burning, dry, raw shoulders, the taut muscles of his arms, the smooth, greenish skin with thick calluses. He wanted to see his reflection in the spring, but the bubbling water made that impossible. This body was not his: Regina had acquired another possession: she had demanded it with each caress. It wasn't his. It was more hers. He had to save it for her. They no longer lived alone and isolated; the walls of separation had fallen; now they were two in one, forever. The Revolution would end; towns and lives would end, but this would never end. It was now their life, the life of both of them. He dried his face. He went out once again on to the plain.
The charge of the revolutionaries came from the plain toward the forest and the mountain. They ran swiftly alongside him while he, disoriented, walked down toward the burning towns. He heard the whips slap the croups of the horses, the dry crack of rifles, and he was alone on the plain. Were they running away? He turned around, raising his hands to his head. He didn't understand. It was essential to leave a site with a clear mission and never lose that golden thread: only then would it be possible to understand what was happening. A moment's distraction and all the chess moves of war would turn into an irrational, incomprehensible game consisting of tattered, abrupt movements devoid of sense. That cloud of dust…those furious horses galloping onward…that horseman shouting and waving a bare sword…that train stopped in the distance…that dust cloud coming closer and closer…that sun coming closer and closer to his dazed head with each passing minute…that sword just barely grazing his forehead…that galloping that rushes by him and throws him to the ground…