As Sherry and I left the theatre in Mexico City one night, we met a
blind beggar tapping his way home. Sherry stopped him. “Good evening,”
he said over the blind man’s shoulder.
“Good evening, senor,” was the reply. “You are late.”
“Si, senor,” and the blind man pushed a hand down in his coat pocket.
“He’s got his fist on the rhino,” said Sherry to me in English. “He’s
not quite sure whether we’re footpads or not--poor devil.”
“How much has he got?” asked I.
“Perhaps four or five dollars. Good business, eh? Got it in big money
mostly, too--had it changed at some cafe.”
The blind man was nervous, seemed not to understand us. He made as if
to move on. Sherry and I, to reassure him, put a few reals into his
hand--not without an object, for I asked Sherry to make him talk on.
A policeman sauntered near with his large lantern--a superior sort of
Dogberry, but very young, as are most of the policemen in Mexico, save
the Rurales, that splendid company of highwaymen whom Diaz bought over
from being bandits to be the guardians of the peace. This one eyed us
meaningly, but Sherry gave him a reassuring nod, and our talk went
on, while the blind man was fingering the money we had just given him.
Presently Sherry said to him: “I’m Bingham Sherry,” adding some other
particulars--“and you’re all right. I’ve a friend here who wants to talk
with you. Come along; we’ll take you home--confound the garlic, what a
breath he’s got!”
For a moment the blind man seemed to hesitate, then he raised his head
quickly, as if looking into Sherry’s face; a light came over it, and
he said, repeating Sherry’s name: “Si, senor; si, si, senor. I know you
now. You sit in the right-hand corner of the little back-room at the
Cafe Manrique, where you come to drink chocolate. Is it not?”
“That’s where I sit,” said Sherry. “And now, be gad, I believe I
remember you. Are you Becodar?”
“Si, senor.”
“Well, I’m damned!” Then, turning tome: “Lots of these fellows look so
much alike that I didn’t recognise this one. He’s a character. Had a
queer history. I’ll get him to tell it.”
We walked on, one on either side, Sherry using his hat to wave away
the smell of garlic. Presently he said “Where’ve you been to-night,
Becodar?”
“I have paid my respects to the Maison Dore, to the Cafe de la
Concordia, to the Cafe Iturbide, senor.”
“And how did paying your respects pay you, Becodar?”
“The noble courtesy of these cafes, and the great consideration of the
hidalgos there assembled rendered to me five pesos and a trifle, senor.”
“The poor ye have always with you. He that giveth to the poor lendeth
to the Lord. Becodar has large transactions with Providence, mio amigo,”
said Sherry.
The beggar turned his sightless eyes to us, as though he would
understand these English words. Sherry, seeing, said: “We were saying,
Becodar, that the blessed saints know how to take care of a blind man,
lest, having no boot, he stub his toe against a stone.”
Off came Becodar’s hat. He tapped the wall. “Where am I, senor?” he
asked.
Sherry told him. “Ah!” he said, “the church of Saint Joseph is near.”
Then he crossed himself and seemed to hurry his steps. Presently he
stood still. We were beside the church. Against the door, in a niche,
was a figure of the Virgin in stone. He got to his knees and prayed
fast. And yet as he prayed I saw his hand go to his pocket, and it
fumbled and felt the money there.
“Begad, he’s counting it all,” said Sherry, “and now he’s giving thanks
for the exact amount, adding his distinguished consideration that the
sum is by three reals greater than any day since Lent began. He promises
to bring some flowers to-morrow for the shrine, and he also swears to
go a pilgrimage to a church of Mary at Guadaloupe, and to be a kind
compadre--By Jove, there you are! He’s a compadre--a blind compadre!”
A little while afterwards we were in Becodar’s house--a low adobe but of
two rooms with a red light burning over the door, to guard against the
plague. It had a table hanging like a lid from the wall, a stone for
making tortillas, a mortar for grinding red peppers, a crucifix on
the wall, a short sword, a huge pistol, a pair of rusty stirrups, and
several chairs. The chairs seemed to be systematically placed, and it
was quite wonderful to see how the beggar twisted in and out among them
without stumbling. I could not understand this, unless it was that
he wished to practise moving about deftly, that he might be at least
disadvantage in the cafes and public resorts. He never once stirred
them, and I was presently surprised to see that they were all fastened
to the floor. Sherry seemed as astonished as I. From this strangeness
I came to another. Looking up at the walls I saw set in the timber a
number of holes cleanly bored. And in one of the last of these holes was
a peg. Again my eyes shifted. From a nail in one corner of the room
hung a red and white zarape, a bridle, one of those graceless bits which
would wrench the mouth of the wildest horse to agony, and a sombrero.
Something in these things fascinated me. I got up and examined them,
while the blind man was in the other room. Turning them over I saw that
the zarape was pierced with holes-bullet holes. I saw also that it was
stained a deeper red than its own. I turned away, questioning Sherry. He
came and looked, but said nothing, lifting a hand in deprecation. As
we stood so, Becodar appeared again in the doorway, bearing an olla of
pulque and some tortilla sandwiches, made of salad and shreds of meat,
flavoured with garlic. He paused, his face turned towards us, with an
understanding look. His instinct was remarkable. He did not speak, but
came and placed the things he carried near the chairs where we had sat.
Presently I saw some writing on the adobe wall. The look of it showed
the hand of youth, its bold carelessness, a boy. Some of it I set
down soon afterwards, and it ran in this fashion: “The most good
old compadre! But I’d like another real.” Again: “One media for a
banderilla, two reals for the bull-fight, five centavos for the sweet
oranges, and nothing for dulces. I threw a cigar at the toreador. It was
no good, but the toreador was a king. Good-night, compadre the blind,
who begs.” Again: “If I knew where it was I’d take a real. Carambo!
No, I wouldn’t. I’ll ask him. I’ll give him the new sword-stick that my
cousin the Rurales gave me. He doesn’t need it now he’s not a bandit.
I’m stuffed, and my head swims. It’s the pulque. Sabe Dios!” Again:
“Compadre, the most miraculous, that goes tapping your stick along the
wall, and jingles the silver in your pocket, whither do you wander? Have
you forgotten that I am going to the cock-fight, and want a real? What
is a cock-fight without a real? Compadre the brave, who stumbles along
and never falls, I am sitting on your doorstep, and I am writing on your
wall--if I had as much money as you I’d go to every bull-fight. I’d keep
a fighting-cock myself.” And once again: “If I was blind I’d have money
out of the cafes, but I couldn’t see my bulls toss the horses. I’ll be
a bandit, and when I’m old, and if Diaz doesn’t put me against the wall
and prod holes in me like Gonzales, they’ll take me in the Rurales, same
as Gerado.”
“Who is it writes on the wall, Becodar?” asked Sherry of our host, as,
on his knees, he poured out pulque for us.
The old man turned musingly, and made motions of writing, a pleased look
in his face. “Ah, senor, he who so writes is Bernal--I am his compadre.
He has his mother now, but no father, no father.” He smiled. “You have
never seen so bold and enterprising, never so handsome a boy. He can
throw the lasso and use the lariat, and ride--sabe Dios, he can ride!
His cousin Gerado the Rurales taught him. I do well by him as I may, who
have other things to think on. But I do well by him.”
“What became of his father, Becodar? Dead?” asked Sherry.
The beggar crossed himself. “Altogether, senor. And such a funeral had
he, with the car all draped, and even the mutes with the gold braid on
their black. I will tell you how it was. We were great friends, Bernal’s
father and me, and when the boy was born, I said, I will be compadre
to him. [‘Godfather, or co-father,’ interposed Sherry to me.) I had my
sight then, senors, out of the exalted mercy of the Saints. Ah, those
were great times, when I had my eyes, and no grey hairs, and could wear
my sword, and ride my horses. There was work to do then, with sword
and horses. It was revolution here and rebellion there, and bandits
everywhere. Ah, well, it is no matter; I was speaking of the boy and his
father and myself, the compadre. We were all great friends. But you know
the way of men. One day he and I--Santiago, Bernal’s father--had been
drinking mescal. We quarrelled--I know not why. It is not well nor right
for a padre and a compadre to fight--there is trouble in Heaven over
that. But there is a way; and we did it as others have done. We took off
our sombreros, and put our compadreship on the ground under them. That
was all right--it was hid there under the hat. Then we stood up and
fought--such a fight--for half an hour. Then he cut me in the thigh--a
great gash--and I caught him in the neck the same. We both came to the
ground then, the fight was over, and we were, of course, good friends
again. I dragged myself over to him as he lay there, and lifted his head
and sopped the blood at his neck with my scarf. I did not think that he
was hurt so bad. But he said: ‘I am gone, my Becodar. I haven’t got
five minutes in me. Put on your compadreship quick.’ I snatched up the
sombrero and put it on, and his I tucked under his head. So that we were
compadres again. Ah, senor, senor! Soon he drew my cheek down to his and
said: ‘Adios, compadre: Bernal is thine now. While your eyes see, and
your foot travels, let him not want a friend. Adios!’ That was the end
of him. They had me in Balim for a year, and then I came out to the boy;
and since then for twelve years he has not suffered.”
At this point he offered us the pulque and the sandwiches, and I took
both, eating and enjoying as well as I could. Sherry groaned, but took
the pulque, refusing the sandwiches almost violently.
“How did you lose your sight, Becodar?” asked Sherry presently.
Becodar sat perfectly still for a moment, and then said in a low voice:
“I will tell you. I will make the story short. Gentle God, what a thing
it was! I was for Gonzales then--a loyal gentleman, he called me--I, a
gentleman! But that was his way. I was more of a spy for him. Well,
I found out that a revolution was to happen, so I gave the word to
Gonzales, and with the soldiers came to Puebla. The leaders were
captured in a house, brought out, and without trial were set against a
wall. I can remember it so well--so well! The light was streaming from
an open door upon the wall. They were brought out, taken across the road
and stood against a wall. I was standing a distance away, for at the
moment I was sorry, though, to be sure, senor, it was for the cause of
the country then, I thought. As I stood there looking, the light that
streamed from the doorway fell straight upon a man standing against
that wall. It was my brother--Alphonso, my brother. I shrieked and ran
forward, but the rifles spat out at the moment, and the five men fell.
Alphonso--ah, I thank the Virgin every day! he did not know. His zarape
hangs there on the wall, his sombrero, his sword, and his stirrups.”
Sherry shifted nervously in his seat. “There’s stuff for you, amigo,” he
said to me. “Makes you chilly, doesn’t it? Shot his own brother--amounts
to same thing, doesn’t it? All right, Becodar, we’re both sorry, and
will pray for his departed spirit; go ahead, Becodar.”
The beggar kept pulling at a piece of black ribbon which was tied to
the arm of the chair in which he now sat. “Senors, after that I became a
revolutionist--that was the only way to make it up to my brother, except
by masses--I gave candles for every day in the year. One day they were
all in my house here, sitting just where you sit in those chairs. Our
leader was Castodilian, the bandit with the long yellow hair. We had a
keg of powder which we were going to distribute. All at once Gonzales’s
soldiers burst in. There was a fight, we were overpowered, and
Castodilian dropped his cigar--he had kept it in his mouth all the
time--in the powder-keg. It killed most of us. I lost my eyes. Gonzales
forgave me, if I would promise to be a revolutionist no more. What
was there to do? I took the solemn oath at the grave of my mother; and
so--and so, senors.”
Sherry had listened with a quizzical intentness, now and again cocking
his head at some dramatic bit, and when Becodar paused he suddenly
leaned over and thrust a dollar into the ever-waiting hand. Becodar
gave a great sign of pleasure, and fumbled again with the money in his
pocket. Then, after a moment, it shifted to the bit of ribbon that hung
from the chair: “See, senors,” he said. “I tied this ribbon to the chair
all those years ago.”
My eyes were on the peg and the holes in the wall. Sherry questioned
him. “Why do you spike the wall with the little red peg, Becodar?”
“The Little Red Peg, senor? Ah! It is not wonderful you notice that.
There are eight bullet-holes in that zarape”--he pointed to the
wall--“there are eight holes in the wall for the Little Red Peg. Well,
of the eight men who fired on my brother, two are left, as you may see.
The others are all gone, this way or that.” Sherry shrugged a shoulder.
“There are two left, eh, Becodar? How will they die, and when?” Becodar
was motionless as a stone for a moment. Then he said softly: “I do not
know quite how or when. But one drinks much mescal, and the other has
a taste for quarrel. He will get in trouble with the Rurales, and
then good-bye to him! Four others on furlough got in trouble with the
Rurales, and that was the end. They were taken at different times for
some fault--by Gerado’s company--Gerado, my cousin. Camping at night,
they tried to escape. There is the Law of Fire, senors, as you know.
If a man thinks his guard sleeps, and makes a run for it, they do not
chase--they fire; and if he escapes unhurt, good; he is not troubled.
But the Rurales are fine shots!”
“You mean,” said Sherry, “that the Rurales--your Gerado, for
one--pretended to sleep--to be careless. The fellows made a rush for it
and were dropped? Eh, Becodar, of the Little Red Peg?”
Becodar shrugged a shoulder gently. “Ah, senor, who can tell? My Gerado
is a sure shot.”
“Egad,” said Sherry, “who’d have thought it? It looks like a sweet
little vendetta, doesn’t it? A blind beggar, too, with his Gerado to
help the thing along.
“‘With his Gerado!’ Sounds like a Gatling, or a bomb, or a diabolical
machine, doesn’t it? And yet they talk of this country being
Americanised! You can’t Americanise a country with a real history. Well,
Becodar, that’s four. What of the other two that left for Kingdom Come?”
Becodar smiled pensively. He seemed to be enduring a kind of joy, or
else making light of a kind of sorrow. “Ah, those two! They were camping
in a valley; they were escorting a small party of people who had come to
look at ruins--Diaz was President then. Well, a party of Aztecs on the
other side of the river began firing across, not as if doing or meaning
any harm. By-and-bye the shot came rattling through the tent of the
two. One got up, and yelled across to them to stop, but a chance bullet
brought him down, and then by some great mistake a lot of bullets
came through the tent, and the other soldier was killed. It was all a
mistake, of course.”
“Yes,” cynically said Sherry. “The Aztecs got rattled, and then the
bullets rattled. And what was done to the Aztecs?”
“Senor, what could be done? They meant no harm, as you can see.”
“Of course, of course; but you put the Little Red Peg down two holes
just the same, eh, my Becodar--with your Gerado. I smell a great man
in your Gerado, Becodar. Your bandit turned soldier is a notable
gentleman--gentlemen all his tribe.... You see,” Sherry added to me,
“the country was infested with bandits--some big names in this land had
bandit for their titles one time or another. Well, along came Diaz, a
great man. He said to the bandits: ‘How much do you make a year at your
trade?’ They told him.
“‘Then,’ said he, ‘I’ll give you as much a month and clothe you. You’ll
furnish your own horses and keep them, and hold the country in order.
Put down the banditti, be my boundary-riders, my gentlemen guards, and
we will all love you and cherish you.’ And ‘it was so,’ as Scripture
says. And this Gerado can serve our good compadre here, and the Little
Red Peg in the wall keeps tally.”
“What shall you do with Bernal the boy when he grows up?” added Sherry
presently.
“There is the question for my mind, senor,” he answered. “He would be
a toreador--already has he served the matador in the ring, though I did
not know it, foolish boy! But I would have him in the Rurales.” Here he
fetched out and handed us a bottle of mescal. Sherry lifted his glass.
“To the day when the Little Red Peg goes no farther!” he said. We drank.
“To the blind compadre and the boy!” I added, and we drank again.
A moment afterwards in the silent street I looked back. The door was
shut, and the wee scarlet light was burning over it. I fell to thinking
of the Little Red Peg in the wall.