THINKING ABOUT TIRSA RENDÓN, I read old novels and documents from the beginning of the century to find out about camp followers. There is not much about them. They were the dogs of war. Half heroines and half whores, they marched behind the troops, following their johns; the men on horses, the women on foot.
They would sleep with a man for a couple of pesos and then leave him the next morning on a whim, unpredictable and slippery in their affairs. Or they could be loyal to him until death; get killed for just giving him a sip of water; steal or have knife fights over a chicken in order to have something they could give him to eat. They were the females in the troop, daughters of the hard life. Filthy, ragged, and drunk, like their johns. Tender and brave like them.
They knew how to do many things, and were indispensable to the men. Without them, the men would have died of hunger, of filth, of loneliness. Always agitated, always shouting, always carrying on their heads the water jugs, the luggage, and the cured meats. On the river-banks they washed their petticoats and their men’s uniforms. At night they went into the barracks or the military camps and in smoky bonfires they prepared fried chicken or turkey, made fatty salt pork soup, threw dough balls into the fire. They slept on the floor under their serapes, legs entangled with their soldiers. On very cold daybreaks, they sang corridos and mañanitas in their shrill voices, and warmed up the air with their steaming hot coffee. Then they picked up their rags and their things and left while the officers shouted at them.
“Out with these women!”
They were also in charge of the prayers: they prayed for the soldiers who were alive so they would not die, and for the dead ones so they would not have to suffer in hell. Rather than to Jesus Christ or to the spirits, they prayed to the Saint of Cabora, Teresita Urrea, a living virgin from Chihuahua who was catatonic and epileptic, and who performed miracles and blessed the carbines so that for each and every bullet, a dead man. The camp followers sought shelter under her great power and hung around their necks pieces of Teresita’s poor garments, with tufts of her sacred hair. When a soldier died, they cried for him: with a lot of feeling or with a lot of wailing if he was someone they loved; and routinely just to fulfill their tradition if he was unknown.
They were also in charge of looting. After a battle, when victory was on their side, the camp followers sacked the conquered towns, the abandoned ranches. Stepping on the wounded, kicking aside the corpses, they stole, raided houses, set them on fire, and all bloody, black with soot, and intoxicated with victory, they returned dragging their booty.
As for smuggling, they were experts. In their bodices, in their babies’ diapers, and in between the corn tortillas, they knew how to hide the marijuana leaves. To save them for their men, they knew how to escape the controls and the searches in the barracks. They were carriers of the yerba santa, the only true relief from their suffering and helplessness, the liberating weed among the soldiers at war.
The camp followers were also the news service for the troops. The men were confined, isolated, and got no news from outside. They knew only their officers’ shouts, they saw nothing but their own misery, they wished nothing more than to do their time in order to leave the post. Whatever happened in the rest of the world did not penetrate the barrack walls. The camp followers, on the other hand, came and went, had a chat with the storekeeper who knew all the gossip in town, with the railroad man who brought news from distant places, with the general’s mistress, who pricked up her ears to hear the plans of the high command. Through their women the troops found out if their battalion would take part in an attack or travel to another town. Thanks to the women they did not forget that there was still a world outside.
Given the opportunity, the women also participated in the fighting. At the death of her man, a woman inherited his horse, wore his cartridge belt, and shouldered his rifle.
Tirsa Rendón, Lieutenant Cardona’s woman, was one of them. A camp follower.
They met one day, when military life united them on the paths of Yucatán, or on the roads of Cananea. Perhaps they celebrated an urgent wedding of love and convenience, such as the one told—with the same words but different characters—by General Urquizo in his book Tropa vieja. He knew all about such things from his years with the troops.
Young Tirsa and handsome Cardona had never met before. Perhaps they sat together on the train one day when the troops were being transfered. Fate squeezed one against the other in a car packed with soldiers, camp followers, and animals. The air was thick with sweat, dirty feet, rawhide, rifle oil, foods stored in pockets, farts, and burps.
The jolts of the train brought them closer until she was almost on his lap. They both liked their skin contacts. They found pleasure in each other’s smell and body warmth. Perhaps he noticed her eyes, her very white whites and very dark irises, and perhaps she saw his smile.
After their flirting briefly and brusquely, came the ceremony, what General Urquizo called a “wedding in pure military style.”
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Tirsa Rendón, and yours?”
“Secundino Cardona.”
“Are we hooked up?”
“Okay with me.”
“Let’s shake on it.”
“Here.”