John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“ Retíranos! ” the capitán calls then and it is worse going back, Diosdado forcing himself to retreat slowly, facing the fire as the men rush past him, helping Bayani drag a boy hit in both his legs to the base of the bridge and then the artillery begins to blow the hill behind them apart, the shells falling just short of the waterworks, each one louder, closer, walking down the slope to the edge of the river where the remnants of his ragged company are huddled. The ones who have rifles fire, none really aiming, reloading frantically and firing again while the enfilade from the American line continues steadily, Diosdado’s men dug in only as deep as bayonets and tin cans can scratch in desperation, dew-moistened dirt spattering up to slap against his white uniform pants as he wills himself to stroll, hands clasped behind his back the way Luna does when he drills the men, some of his boys wounded, crying, Reynaldo Puyat dead, yes, that is what dead looks like up close and the bodies they left on the bridge still lying there and the whump! of the shells behind them, the shock of each blast like a thick board smacked against his body and the fighting cocks crowing and flapping and he is tired, tired as the sun seeps over the land to the west, understanding now how men can charge into certain death, so exhausted they can think of nothing better to do and he can see the others now, moving across the bridge and along the pipeline, huge men, Americans, hurrying a few steps then taking a knee to fire again and then a sharper bang tearing the air and it is shrapnel, his men beginning to run, run back up the hill where the big shells are plowing the ground or sideways along the river with canister-bursting jagged shrapnel screaming slicing and whump! the section of the bank he is standing on lifts suddenly into the air and the ground slams him on the side, punching the breath from his lungs and more earth, heavy, falling on top of him and he starts to leave, body floating out into the fragrant earth, dirt in his mouth in his nose in his hair and something wet and hot mashed against his cheek.

Something with feathers—

The soldier is young, not much more than a boy. Fit-looking in his uniform shirt and trousers, leggings wound tight over the calves, square-chinned under a battered campaign hat, but no Adonis. The rifle slipping from his stiffened fingers was at parade rest, butt on the dusty ground, no bayonet fixed to its barrel. There is a look of confusion on the young American’s face, of innocence betrayed, his lips parted in surprise, his lower back arched in where the kris has been thrust from behind. The Cartoonist has actually seen a kris , hung behind glass on a wall in a Boston museum, but has added a few extra serpentine curves for effect.

The wily Filipino is a bit of a problem. The feet are bare, the clothes the same peon’s rags he has used for the Mexicans the Chief hates so much and more recently for the noble Cuban insurrectos . The straw hat is equally ragged but less round, coming to a point suggestive of a cutting edge at the peak. Even the shade of the skin he has left relatively unaltered, a delicate cross-hatching to give shape to the exposed areas and suggest something between white and negroid. He hopes that if it pleases the Chief enough to be reprinted on Sunday the color-ink boys will render it a yellowish-tan, like a bilious weak tea. He’s done the features over several times before hitting on something that looks right, the cheekbones high and sharp, the eyes narrow, up-slanting razor slits, the mouth twisted in a cruel, treacherous grin as he drives the crooked blade through his victim’s spine. Only a slight exaggeration from the one photo published of their jefe Aguinaldo, who — though reputed to be of a Chinese-Malay mix — bears the angular, cunning stamp of the Jap.

Beneath the assassin’s feet, trodden into blood-soaked foreign soil, lies Old Glory.

The Cartoonist roughs in the caption, noting below it that he wants the heavy Gothic font they use for In Memoriam buys on the obit page, sober and declamatory at once—

THE THANKS OF A GRATEFUL NATION

They are waiting for him on the dock, notepads gaping like the mouths of baby magpies, insatiable. They are waiting for him everywhere these days, in the hallways, in the lobbies, in front of the hotels, on street corners and under lampposts, in gentlemen’s clubs and workingmen’s resorts, starved for quips, for observations, his every vocalization sandwiched between quotation marks and rehashed for the delectation of the reading public. Having sent his wife and daughter ahead, the Humorist nurses a cigar that has burned down to a stub, waiting, as the steward has requested, for the other passengers to absent themselves. No sense obstructing the disembarkation.

He has seen some of the caricatures occasioned by his political musings, forwarded to London by friends and accompanied by suitable proclamations of outrage. His favorite is the senile literary lion, toothless perhaps but still full-maned and regal compared to the bonneted schoolmarms they’ve made of Hoar, Carnegie, and poor, hapless William Jennings Bryan, his once voluminous bag these days nearly bereft of wind. The fellow at Punch had some sport with him after an interview sympathetic to the Boers, drawing him as a grimy, wild-haired Voortrekker shooting himself in the foot with a blunderbuss. There is a sort of glee in it, the illustrators attempting to outdo each other, attaching his physiognomy to a menagerie of outlandish creatures, both extant and mythical.

“All in good fun,” chortled the editor from Lloyd’s Weekly at the Travelers’ Club, though his countrymen slaughtered at Mafeking and Ladysmith might be excused for undervaluing the hilarity involved.

“Thank you very much, sir,” says the steward, appearing beside his deck chair. “I believe it will be all right now.”

The Humorist rises, lifts the tattered carpetbag he carries more as a prop than as a necessity, and descends the gangplank of the Minnehaha , flash powder fulminating with each step, to feed the Beast.

The New York Herald is there, and the Sun and the World and the Times and the Mail and Express and the Chicago Tribune and the Philadelphia Inquirer and, for all he knows, a representative from the New Yorker Staats Zeitung .

“How does it feel to be on American soil?” The Sun .

“A good deal superior to being under it,” answers the Humorist, setting fire to a long black article and taking the first puff. “But then I’ve only just arrived.”

Chucklings of appreciation.

“What are your plans?”

“If I am drafted to serve as President, I will not shun the honor. Short of that I will settle for schnitzel and ale at Luchow’s.”

Knowing laughter. Winks. The World steps forward, features devoid of mirth.

“In regard to the statements attributed to you during your stay in London—”

“I found the Prince of Wales an admirable drinking companion and all-around good egg,” the Humorist interrupts, “and I shall defend that position with my life.”

More jollity, but the pack is on the scent now and won’t be shaken.

“I meant your reaction to the situation in China,” clarifies the newshound from the World.

“The Boxer is a patriot,” replies the Humorist, pausing for effect as pencils are jabbed into notebooks. “No less a patriot than you or I — and I am giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

The World man stiffens, not certain as to whether he has been insulted.