John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“Antoine come back near seven,” she tells him, “but he don’t get paid till Sa’day.”

As he leaves the young men stare at the bundle of greens under his arm.

“Doctor got him some groceries,” calls one of them as he heads east. “Maybe he got a ham in that bag.”

It is a long walk to the apothecary on Broadway. There is only a young white man in a white apron inside, dusting bottles on one of the half-dozen shelves. Dr. Lunceford lays his bag heavily on top of the pharmaceutical counter. A gaudily painted sign on the wall proclaims that the establishment sells his celebrated Brain Food.

“May I use your telephone?”

The young man frowns. “Telephone is a nickel.”

Dr. Lunceford digs a coin from his pocket and lets it spin on the counter. The greens will not be especially filling, but excellent nutrition for a woman in Jessie’s state.

“The City Board of Health, please,” he says when a female voice comes over the wire. “Pathology, Bacteriology, and Disinfection.”

Everyone in the apartment will be quarantined, most likely, the poor dockworker and the snoozing boarder likely to lose their employment. Clothing will be destroyed, the rooms fumigated, but there is no other course if epidemics are to be controlled. They will ask, even before they administer the anti-toxin, who performed the intubation, and the mother will pass on the name he gave to her. The official who informed him of the licensing difficulties clearly did not believe he was a physician, even with the references from fellow McGill alumni, and went into detail outlining the punishments that would ensue if he were caught impersonating one.

“I’d like to report a case of diphtheria,” he says when a male voice asks why he has called. “This is Dr. Bonkers, Dr. Jeremiah Bonkers—”

Diosdado tries to read their smiles. The people, old men and women and children, have come out to greet their army, standing in clusters in front of sawali-grass huts, a few pulling the salakots off their heads in respect. A dozen of the more prosperous-looking citizens flank the capitán municipal in front of the little church.

“This is a great day,” beams the capitán, who is wearing his best camisa of Canton cloth, shoes shined and hair slicked back with brilliantine. He is missing several teeth. “We have been expecting your arrival.”

Diosdado nods toward the northern calzada, down which Sargento Bayani and his squad herd eight or nine young runaways at rifle point. “It appears that some of you couldn’t wait.”

The capitán’s face darkens. “Those men are not really from our town.” He speaks Spanish with some difficulty, eager to impress.

“Don’t worry,” says Diosdado as the rest of his men spread through the village to flush out the chickens that have run under the houses and search for hidden stores of food. “Nobody will be forced to fight. But everybody has to help dig.”

General Luna’s latest directive is to present to the enemy a series of trenches, one behind the other, making it less likely that they’ll be overrun and forcing the Americans to bleed for each foot of ground. Strategic withdrawal.

“Nine captured, one escaped,” calls Sargento Bayani in Zambal, grinning as he approaches with the conscripts. “I shot over his head but he didn’t stop running.”

“Waste of ammunition. Get them started.” Diosdado frowns as he recognizes one of the young men, a barefoot tao in kundiman trousers with a face cratered by smallpox.

“I’ve seen you before.”

“Yes sir.” The young man dips his eyes to the dirt. He is missing two toes on his left foot. “At San Francisco del Monte and at Novaliches and at Malabon.”

“You should enlist,” says Bayani. “Save us the trouble of catching you every time.”

The capitán, who has not stopped smiling, supervises two boys trying to hang the banner of the Republic from the flagpole by the convento , which seems to also serve as the municipal building. Diosdado steps over and helps untangle the lines.

“Do you know what this flag means?” he asks.

“That Padre Wenceslao is gone,” says the older boy, “and he won’t be coming back.”

“It sticks on the wheel,” says the other, pointing to the pulley above them.

“As long as you can get it down fast,” says Diosdado, pulling the line and tying it off. There is a ragged, scattered cheer from those in his company who see the flag hanging limply above.

“Papi has a place to hide it if the Spanish come back,” says the younger boy. “Under Auntie Dalisay’s house.”

Diosdado has forty-eight men left, twenty of them with rifles that still work, and more importantly, two dozen shovels saved from the equipment shack at Malinta. Private Ontoy, who can sew up a spur-shredded gamecock so it is almost new, is the company médico . Sargento Bayani controls the ammunition, issuing each man fifteen rounds and no more before an engagement, making sure the caliber fits the rifle, reminding them to aim before they fire. It is Bayani who hurries along the lines during the fighting, awarding more bullets, five at a time, to those who need or deserve them, bolstering their courage with his deranged smile and disdain for the yanqui sharpshooters.

“The Spanish tried to kill me since the day I was born,” he explains to the men, tapping the place on his chest where his charm is embedded. “What hope do the americanos have?”

Kalaw and a few of the others bring out small sacks of rice and some potatoes and squash hidden in the huts. Three chickens have been cornered and bayoneted, General Luna’s order against wasting ammunition on livestock observed whenever possible, though the general himself is fond of demonstrating his pistolwork by shooting live birds off the heads of junior officers. The cooks, two brothers from Pampanga whose military skills begin and end with scrounging firewood and boiling water, have set up a tunco over a fire and are already tearing handfuls of feathers off the chickens. It has been a week since they’ve eaten anything but cold rice supplemented by the few minnows and frogs Kalaw has been able to scoop from the paddies with a dip net.

“We thank you for your generous contributions to the Republic,” Dios-dado announces in Tagalog to the gathering crowd. Anything his men have not found the yanquis will not find either. “We will fight the enemy here, and defeat him. However, once the battle has begun it will be best for you to carry what you value most and seek shelter somewhere to the north.”

They will leave tonight, he knows, only the dogs who are not afraid of being eaten and the handful of men he’s impressed for the polo left in the morning, and the flag with the glorious many-rayed sun will be respectfully folded and buried under the old widow’s hut. The church here is too low to give the snipers much range, and if the yanquis don’t lose too many men or are in a hurry there is a good chance they won’t burn the village down like they did at Malabon.

In Malabon the yanquis had a fright, not knowing that fireworks were manufactured there. Even his own beaten and wounded soldiers turned from their retreat to watch the display in the night sky, cheering each colorful bomb-burst.

A runner trots in from the west, looking exhausted. He sees Diosdado’s uniform, approaches and salutes.

“ Mi teniente ,” he gasps, catching his breath. “You have a man who speaks americano ?”

“I am that man.”

“They need you right away.” He points back the way he came. “Just down the road, una media liga , at the great tree.”