John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“I’ll tear your fucking heads off!” the Runt replies, red-faced, trying to keep from turning face-down as he is flung skyward. Hod stands at the edge of the crowd, not bothering to smile. Runt is new and wears glasses and is small enough to throw really high, but it could as well have been him and he doesn’t like the look on Grissom’s face or the way Sergeant LaDuke chants “ Up she goes, up she goes—” with each toss. Hod has his usual morning regrets, uncomfortable in the uniform, Army breakfast sitting heavy in his stomach.

They heave Runt higher each time, bringing the blanket almost to the ground on the catch, till a familiar voice calls out that that will be enough.

Hod feels dizzy. It is Lieutenant Niles Manigault.

“Put that soldier down.”

The men are confused at first, not recognizing the new officer, but field the Runt in the blanket one last time and lay him on the ground. Manigault, wearing a spanking-new tailored uniform, stares at Runt as the little soldier crawls to find his glasses on the ground and stands unsteadily, still red-faced.

“Name?”

“Runyon, sir. Company G.”

“That is my company now. And I won’t have anyone in it more fit to be shot out of a cannon than to charge one on a battlefield. Collect your gear and see the pay clerk.”

“But sir—”

“You are mustered out , soldier. Remove yourself from the training field.”

LaDuke laughs out loud. Manigault turns to the gaping men.

“Let’s get those haversacks squared away,” says the Lieutenant. “We’ll be laying siege to Cherry Creek this afternoon. Move !” He holds a hand up to Hod and Big Ten as the others hurry away, Runt moving dazedly in the opposite direction. “A word with you two.”

This is some confidence trick, thinks Hod, that they planned all along. The bait and switch. Niles steps close to speak quietly, drilling them with his eyes.

“You gentlemen left me in a rather untenable position.”

“Our nation pleaded,” says Big Ten, “and we answered the call.”

“I owe the Blonger brothers a considerable sum. Your participation,” he pokes Hod in the chest with a finger, “in the fistic enterprise would have squared me. Instead I have been forced to seek, like yourselves, refuge in this aggregation of halfwits and slackers.”

“You made lieutenant awful quick,” says Big Ten.

“I was a major in the Skaguay Guards,” Niles corrects him, “but have accepted a lesser commission for the good of the cause.”

Hod snorts. “But that was just Soapy doing the whole town.”

Niles pokes him with the finger again. “You are the last person who should be telling tales from the Yukon, Private McGinty.”

“Atkins,” sighs Hod, and nods toward the Indian. “He’s McGinty now. It’s what we told them when we enlisted.”

“Whatever. I hope you understand that any assumptions based on our familiarity have been precluded by rank. You stand warned.”

“What about me?” asks Big Ten. “I’m not familiar.”

“You, Private,” explains Lieutenant Manigault, arching his eyebrows, “are not even white .”

Nobody is shooting at them. Royal has been imagining it, dreading it, the green mat of jungle facing them crowded with armed Spanish, every one of them sighting his rifle at a spot dead between his eyes. But nobody is shooting, nobody here but a passel of sick-looking locals, nary a one of them got shoes on their feet. At least that, with all the orders shouted and screamed, with the waves washing over the rowboats and the mess with the livestock. The muscles in Royal’s stomach ache from all he’s thrown up on the big ship, his legs feel weak and it is hotter than it ever got in Tampa, but as he lunges out of the boat, waves breaking around his knees, and hurries after the others onto the little strip of sandy beach he is flooded with relief to be here, on solid ground, on Cuba.

“Company H stack rifles here!” shouts Sergeant Jacks, standing on a small rise in a swarm of mosquitoes he chooses to ignore. “Then get on those crates. Move !”

“I don’t see any of the white soldiers unloading cargo,” says Junior. He and Royal butt their rifles into the sand, bringing the muzzles together, and Little Earl adds his to make the pyramid stand.

“Somebody got to do it.”

Junior follows back to the boats. “But it’s always us.”

Royal shrugs as he wades out, then staggers backward into the surf as a crate of ammunition is pushed into his arms. “Didn’t send us down here to sit on the beach and eat cocoanuts.”

In the drawing a barefoot insurrecto stands behind Uncle’s massive calf, sticking his tongue out. Just in front of Uncle’s knee is Teddy in his campaign outfit, gloved hands on hips, glaring. The object of scorn is a Spanish don, greasy moustache ends dragging the ground, peeking up timorously at the towering American Icon whose top-hatted shadow covers him.

A NEW “BULLY” ON THE BLOCK

But he’ll have to start again. It’s impossible not to sweat on the paper here, to smear, and the Cuban isn’t right yet. He’s drawn a Mexican before, but the sombrero is different here and what cactus there is grows only a few inches from the ground. And the Chief is not fond of Mexicans. There are Cubans in Tampa of course, cigar kings and soapbox politicians, but they look nothing like this motley rabble grinning at the edges of the American throng, looking for something loose and preferably not terribly heavy to steal.

And then every few moments one of the damned illustrators drifts by from the operations at the shoreline to peer over his shoulder, maybe chuckle, and say how wonderful it would be to just be a lampoon man and not have to render the realities of life.

It is not meant kindly.

Remington is here, glued to the Rough Riders, the younger illustrators all kowtowing each time he passes, and Glackens from McClure’s , and Howard Christy from Collier’s and Macpherson drawing for the London papers, and a claque of photographers hung with leather-covered boxes and even a fellow from the Vitagraph company who thinks he’ll make a motion picture of the fighting.

The quandary is which type of insurrecto to draw. All the ones here to greet them are barefoot and starving and wear tattered white linen pajamas and slouch hats, the wide brims rolled back in the front so as not to hamper their aim. They carry their machetes , but for the few who sport captured Spanish Mauser rifles or ancient Winchesters, and have a beaten, hangdog look to them. Something less than your ideal plucky freedom fighter. A handful look like his Mexican or have the long El Greco faces of dignified European gentlemen, sans monocle and trapped in beggar’s rags. But more vexing, two out of three are clearly negro, and many of the others some mongrel mix. The Chief has not been promoting a slave rebellion, or an endorsement of miscegenation. He is sailing down on his yacht, due any day now, and Crane and a few of the other wags insist no real fighting will be allowed till he comes ashore. Perhaps when presented with the facts, when he sees the actual ebony-skinned, barefooted article — but no. Higher ideals are at stake here.

This place, Bacquiri, Daiquiri, something like that, is pleasant enough but for the heat and the mosquitoes. They were expecting a hot reception, and the Navy guns plied the coastal hills for a good while, a fireworks exhibition that perhaps induced the Dons to scurry inland. The only real excitement was the unloading of the beasts, which, in the absence of a landing dock, had to be improvised. A mule or horse would be led to the cargo port and given a glance at the beach, some four hundred yards distant, then shocked on the hindquarters with a blacksnake whip, the animal bolting forward into an awkward plunge. Quite a bit of braying and screaming when they first went in, but then each got down to the grim business of survival, many considering the floating transports to be their only safe haven and circling back to try to climb on board. There had been a particularly persistent mule just below him, somehow managing to lift its forelegs clear of the swells and thump the hull for a solid hour before going under. Teamsters and sailors were out among them in rowboats, talking softly, trying to herd them, occasionally managing to rope and guide a few to shore. Fitzpatrick was beside him at the rail, sketching furiously, doing an especially nice job on their eyes, huge with terror, and with the already drowned rolling about on the surface. And glancing over at the Cartoonist’s own empty hands as if to say, You’re not getting this?