John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

American Bull Dogs, all double-action, self-cocking, all have rubber stocks, all beautifully nickel-plated, all have saw handles, all have fluted cylinders, all have octagon barrels—

There are so many to choose from. Forehand and Wadsworth, Harrington and Richardson, Hopkins and Allen, Colt, Smith and Wesson — it is hard to know. The higher calibers will do more damage, of course, but the pistols that deliver them tend to be bigger, longer, harder to hide—

HANDSOME REVOLVERS

ACCURATE RELIABLE

47146

Colt’s New Navy

This revolver has been adopted by the U.S. Navy and every one has to pass a rigorous inspection.

Double-action, self-cocking, shell-ejecting revolver, nickel-plated or blued finish, rubber stock, beautifully finished, finest material; length about 12½ in., 6 shot, weight 2 lbs., 4½ or 6 in. barrel, 38 caliber using 47981 cartridges.

Each… $12.00

By mail, extra… .35

The Assassin is a metalworker but not a gun person. He looks at his hand, tries to imagine it holding something with a six-inch barrel. Military men shoot to kill all the time, they are trained for it, but the military belongs to them, it is the whip hand of the State. In all the strikes the military and the police have had the guns, have had the power—

52338

Iver Johnson “Safety Automatic”

“A Sure Shot”

Small-frame double-action top break revolver; nickel-plated, hand-checkered wood grip, exposed hammer, 3 in. barrel. 6 shot, chambered for S&W.32 cartridge.

Each… $3.10

By mail, extra… .17

It is no bigger than the palm of his hand. The Assassin has seen them for sale in hardware stores, short and heavy-looking. He has even lifted one in his hand, pretending to consider buying it. Even without the cartridges loaded he felt a different man. A man who could make some difference in the world.

A man of destiny.

HOW TO ORDER—

Diosdado carries his uniform in a sack, easy to toss away if they encounter the Americans. No point in drawing more fire than you need to. The men, remnants of four companies, walk on ahead and behind him through the head-high cane, ducking away from the razor-sharp leaves, rifles slung over their shoulders, silent, listening to the terrain in front of them. A pair of hawks wheel slowly overhead, hoping the troop will flush something edible into the open. With dead, wounded, and deserted it is only twenty-five of them left plus the boy, Fulanito, who appeared one day carrying a Spanish Mauser nearly as tall as he is.

They pause at the end of the cane, Sargento Bayani crossing the road first as always, moving unguardedly into the rice paddy with a bolo resting on his shoulder. The enemy is too confident to bother with ambush, impatient to fire at anything that moves, and Bayani insists he is an irresistible target. He walks for a full minute, then turns to wave them ahead.

There is no telling what the reception will be in Cabanatuan. General Luna has ordered every telegraph line in the province cut and by the time runners have traveled back and forth the situation may have changed completely. General del Pilar, busy gathering his own men for a forced march to Bayambang, only nodded when Diosdado informed him that the men had voted to stay together rather than be split up and reabsorbed into other units.

“Go to headquarters,” he said. “They’ll find something to do with you.”

Diosdado’s troop is a mix of Zambals, Ilocanos, Pampangans, and Tagalos, bound now by blood and suffering. The rumors — that the ilustrados are selling the country to the Americans, that General Luna is secretly forming his own army, that the Jesuits are behind it all — do not seem to concern them. They talk about food and women and gamecocks, they make fun of each other, play liampo , gripe about the rebuilt shells jamming in their rifles and the true provenance of dried beef. They are good Catholics, kneeling for a quick Jesus, Maria, y José even in the roofless shell-blasted churches, and believe deeply in the miraculous power of the saints. Kalaw who writes an oración on a circle of paper and puts it in his mouth before a battle, careful not to swallow the hosta redentora till the danger has ended, Rafi who wears a vest with a red-eyed, sword-wielding angel embroidered on the back, the Pampangano brothers who empty their pockets of all metal when the shooting starts and say that Dr. Rizal is not really dead, that he will be resurrected on the day the americanos are driven from Luzon.

The boy, Fulanito, carries messages and brings water and spies on the yanquis but does not speak. It is not clear whether he ever could.

The cane fields give way to a series of hills, Diosdado keeping the troop off the main road as they begin to climb. It is morning still, but the men are careful when shifting their rifles on their backs not to touch sun-heated gunmetal with bare skin. He wonders if his boots will give him away as an officer if they are captured by Americans. Goyo del Pilar looked immaculate as they left San Isidro, a warrior in white astride his steed, breaking hearts in every barangay he rides through. Diosdado can’t imagine Goyo hiking through the mountain passes in rags and a straw hat, no matter what the danger.

Sargento Bayani drops back beside him, using the bolo now and then as a walking stick as he climbs. He has taken to carrying it instead of a rifle as an example for the men, saying that this is their future, that before long they will have nothing left to fight the Americans with but their bolos, and on that day they will be true Filipino patriots.

“Maybe they’ll send us to General Tinio in Ilocos,” he says. “Somewhere they know how to fight.”

Tinio is younger than Goyo del Pilar, only Diosdado’s age, but already making a name for himself around Vigan.

“Why would they send us away from the front?”

Bayani shrugs. “Because we’re not Tagalo and they don’t trust us.”

They climb silently for a while. Diosdado had been thinking the same thing, but resists seconding his sargento’s cynicism. An officer must appear to be above politics—

“Maybe to Zambales, di ba ?” Bayani smiles. “It would be nice to see San Epifanio again before they kill us.”

Diosdado shoots his subaltern a look. “How do you know my baryo ?”

“Because I’m from the same place.”

Diosdado feels a chill. He studies the man’s face as they climb, sees no one from his past. “There was no Bayani in—”

“A name I took after I left. My mother was Amor Pandoc.”

The sargento says it lightly, eyes on the faint trail through the rocks, waving his bolo at his side like he is on a stroll in the country. Diosdado can think only of a day riding back from Iba with his father, passing a tiny patch of ground about to be swallowed by the jungle, a woman with dark skin and fierce eyes rising up from her sweet potatoes to stare, and a sullen boy some years older than him on his knees in the mud next to her. Don Nicasio kept his eyes forward and did not speak for the rest of the ride home. Diosdado had seen the woman in town for holy days and at the misa de gallo while he yawned through his duties as an altar boy, always a hushed tone in the churchwomen’s voices when she was spoken of, some scandal that, like the countless others in San Epifanio, was never revealed to him. His first year back from Manila he heard that this woman, this Amor Pandoc who never had a husband mentioned with her name, had died of tuberculosis and that her son had run away to join the tulisanes in the mountains.