ON JUNE 25 Ramón Arnaud was having some fish with his wife and children when he saw a ship looming on the horizon. His reaction was that of a person watching a loved one return, because he thought the ship belonged to the Mexican Navy. They had finally come to take care of him! Where was Captain Jensen? Ramón already knew what to tell him. He would say, “Don’t you see it was better to wait? I knew my superiors would not fail me.”
Alicia saw her husband instantly shift from joy to dejection: his face turned paper white as he realized his mistake. The approaching vessel was flying the American flag. It was the U.S.S. Cleveland coming to the rescue of the crew of the Nokomis.
In spite of the many requests to his superiors that Arnaud had sent through the four Dutchmen, the ship had not come for him but for Jensen’s people. Jensen had been right to mistrust his words and to act on his own, Ramón Arnaud thought bitterly.
His disappointment was such that while all the others rushed to the dock, he remained seated without moving a finger for the whole hour it took the ship to anchor on the other side of the reef. A boat landed with two emissaries, and finally a seaman handed him a note from the captain of the Cleveland, together with a letter from Mexico.
The note from the captain—named Williams—indicated that his intent was only to take the crew from the Nokomis with him, inquire about Gustav Schultz, deliver some provisions, and offer help. The letter was from his father-in-law, Don Félix Rovira, and it was addressed to Alicia. She read it out loud.
My dearest child:
Joy fills my heart. I do not need to tell you that I am leaving for the port right now, and I shall be waiting for you, even though I might have to wait there a whole week for you.
My dream of every single day, during all these years, will finally come true. I am going to see you again—you and Ramón and my grandchildren—and be with you without the threat of a new separation.
I looked for Colonel Avalos to inform him of your urgent needs but he is no longer in Acapulco. He has been transferred, and I was unable to find out his address. The new commander of the zone is Colonel Luis Griviera, who admitted to me that, due to the constant rebel attacks, he is in no position to be able to send ships to Clipperton. He suggested it is best that you return on the Cleveland, taking advantage of the captain’s kind offer to render this service. My impression of Colonel Griviera is that he is too busy with his own survival to attend to anyone else’s.
I have not been able to talk in person with the three Dutch sailors who brought news of you to this port, but I know they reported that there were provisions on the island for three or four more days. I pray to God they last until you get the boxes the British consul is sending.
I am writing this to you in haste, my dear, for I only learned of your situation barely two days ago. I left Salina Cruz immediately for Acapulco, and the efforts on your behalf have not given me a minute to spare. The American ship that takes this missive to you and has promised to bring you back here sails very shortly. For that reason I will not comment on the situation our homeland is going through. There will be time enough to discuss these things (though it seems there is not enough time for anyone to comprehend so many chaotic events).
I am sending you, yes, newspaper clippings about the United States invasion of Veracruz. It has caused an outrage all over the country and, I daresay, in the whole continent. I think that Ramón should be aware of this, since you will be sailing on an invader’s warship. As to the personal intentions of Captain Williams, I think they are honest and humanitarian. By all means, I believe it is of the utmost urgency that you return with him, since the possibilities for a Mexican ship to sail to Clipperton seem remote under the present circumstances. My heart will summon the strength that it no longer possesses in order to withstand this period of waiting until your return.
Your father
“Wait a minute,” Ramón said when she finished reading the letter. “Let’s take this one step at a time, because I don’t understand anything. I wrote to the authorities, and your father answers. I ask for a Mexican ship, and we get an American one. And what’s this invasion of Veracruz? Let me see the clippings.”
They quickly read every word in the clippings sent by Don Félix and concluded that General Huerta was officially in power but without popular support, which was on the side of the revolutionaries, and without the support of the United States, which had invaded the port of Veracruz. The events had come to a climax on April 7. In Tampico an officer and seven men from the American cruiser Dolphin had disembarked in order to buy fuel. Once on land they were arrested by Huerta’s officials. Two hours later, a Mexican general set them free, apologizing for the mistake. President Wilson demanded that the Mexicans raise the American flag and, in reparation, honor it with a twenty-one-gun salute. General Huerta answered that Mexico would comply with the twenty-one-gun salute provided that the Mexican flag was equally honored by the United States. Seizing upon this as an excuse, Wilson ordered the military intervention he had long prepared, and sent his fleet into Mexican waters. On April 21, the U.S. Marines occupied the Custom House in Veracruz. After the Mexican Naval Academy cadets had resisted the attack for twelve hours and suffered the loss of 126 patriots, on April 22 the post surrendered. Thousands of Mexicans all over the country volunteered to join Huerta’s army to fight the invaders. At the same time, the revolutionary forces commanded by Venustiano Carranza, who controlled more than half the territory, also opposed the foreign invasion.
“Why on earth does your father think that we are leaving on that ship?”
“He is taking for granted that Mexican ships are not coming anymore.”
“What do you mean, ‘not coming’? Nobody has ordered me to leave this post.”
“You don’t have orders to leave, but you don’t have orders to stay either. I think the truth is, Ramón, that nobody cares. With the country in such a chaotic situation, probably nobody even remembers we exist.”
“The United States invades, all of Mexico resists, and do you think I’m going to surrender Clipperton without a shot? Is that what you’re asking me?”
“I’m not asking you anything. I have never asked you for anything”—Alicia’s voice broke, and she began to cry. Softly at first, then emotionally, interrupting to wipe her eyes with a handkerchief and blowing her nose. But the tears rushed out in their own uncontrollable dynamic, making her breathing difficult.
“Have a good cry,” Arnaud said. “Let it all come out, all the complaints you have held back for six years.”
Finally she was able to speak again.
“I have never asked for us to leave, and I am not going to ask you now. But why don’t you realize that it makes me sad to think of my father standing there at the port, waiting for us. How can you expect me not to be heartbroken seeing that those uneducated, underfed creatures running around are my own children? How could I not think that passing up this last chance to leave would force us to stay here forever, and perish. . . .”
Alicia could have kept talking for hours, protesting, complaining about her bad luck, telling her husband all that she had not said in six years about her marriage and her life on the isle. But at that moment Captain Jensen joined them. He was shaved and groomed, and Arnaud felt somewhat intimidated by the other’s regained position as a member of the civilized world.
“Better hush, dear, Jensen is coming,” he interrupted her. “Tell him that I am not in. I don’t want to see him before I know what I should do.”
“And if he asks me where you are?” Alicia was still sobbing, her eyes red and her nose stuffy.
“Tell him I am at a Gala Ball. Or at the horse races.”
“And what about me? Is it all right for him to see me crying?” she screamed at Ramón’s back as he started to leave. “Well, fine! Let Jensen see me, let everybody see me crying! I am sick of pretending to be happy!”
Arnaud escaped through the back door and walked along the beach, taking long strides over the moving carpet of red crabs. He stepped on several of them at every move, and the crackling sound of the crushed crab shells pierced his ears. This triggered the nervous twitch of his upper lip, and at regular intervals his face contracted in an involuntary grimace.
He was trying to think, he needed to understand, but, like a clock without a spring, his mind was not responding. It had stopped. Was the situation as drastic as his father-in-law had made it appear? Was it a black-and-white choice—either to leave now or to stay forever?—or were there intermediate shades that Don Félix as an anguished father could not perceive? Was Huerta’s downfall and the collapse of the federal army imminent? Don Félix had always favored the rebels and perhaps that made him overestimate their importance. Or was he right this time? Even so, the foreign invasion had changed everything; it had to, and internal differences would end at the threat from the outside. Wouldn’t they? That man Carranza would offer a truce to General Huerta while they fought the invader together. Or would he? If the enemy made the federal army, his army, surrender, what role would he have in Clipperton? Why must he stay if Avalos and all the others went their own ways? However, it is the rats that abandon a sinking ship. Arnaud had no information, and his head was spinning in search of inspiration. He needed to guess right. He read and reread the letter and the clippings, looking for a solution in every phrase, in every word.
Images were flashing fast in his mind, driving him to despair. Two were much more insistent than the others. They were contradictory, irreconcilable; one he would have to reject because there was no room for both, and his head was about to crack like the crabs he was stepping on.
In one he saw Alicia crying and his children abandoned, wild, badly undernourished, and sick.
“I cannot stay here,” he said out loud. “I cannot stay here.”
In the other he saw himself a few years back, facing the blackened walls of the prison at Tlatelolco and making his solemn promise that “the next time I will stand firm, come what may, next time I will prevail. Better dead, a thousand times better, than being humiliated again.”
“I cannot leave,” he contradicted himself. “I cannot leave.”
He looked for Cardona. He found him standing in the shed, trying to take his first steps using two pieces of wood as crutches.
“Cardona, sit down. And think carefully about what I am going to tell you.”
“The gringo ship arrived to rescue the Dutchmen, right?” asked the lieutenant.
“Yes.”
“Then the four on the little boat made it to Acapulco—”
“Yes, but only three of them got there.”
“That was not a bad deal then. Who didn’t make it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Another Flying Dutchman who eats melted iron and drinks bile.”
“May he rest in peace.”
“Ramón, tell me, do you really believe that someone who dies like that, without a Christian burial, can ever find peace? I would not like to be floating about for all eternity.”
“Who knows? But there is a serious matter here, Secundino. Listen to this.”
Ramón read his father-in-law’s letter, and then the news about the invasion. Cardona did not utter a word until he finished.
“Twenty-one-gun salute? Sure. Right away. Just give me a minute—”
“The captain of the Cleveland is also offering to take us to Acapulco. You already know what my father-in-law says—If not now, when? On the other hand, those who are rescuing us here are the same ones who invaded over there. It’s not an easy thing to decide, and I would like to know your opinion.”
Cardona scratched his head.
“What could happen if we leave? Wait—I mean for a few days, in order to make contact with Colonel Avalos, or with someone who could tell us what’s what, who could tell us what the plan is. Hey, we cannot continue the way we are. This looks like an orphanage.”
“And if this maneuver is just an enemy trap?”
“It looks more like a friendly trap. Besides, which enemy? The gringos or the French? Aren’t we supposed to fight against the French to keep from losing this island?”
“From what I see, now it’s the gringos we are fighting against in order not to lose all of Mexico. I don’t know, Cardona,” he said in a firmer voice and straightening his back. “However, I feel it’s our duty to stay in honor of the hundred and twenty-six Veracruz patriots.”
“Well, yes,” Cardona offered after some thought. “But Veracruz was invaded, and Clipperton was not. . . .”
“But we don’t know what might happen.”
“No, we don’t. But there isn’t much we could do anyhow.”
“We could offer the ultimate sacrifice for our homeland, like our fellow soldiers in Veracruz. . . .”
“What a darned life.”
“Yes, sure enough, life could be better.”
They remained in silence for a long time, until Arnaud got up.
“I want to make clear to you that your condition as a seriously wounded soldier places you in a special situation, very different from mine. We cannot take care of you properly here, and you have every right in the world to leave in order to get proper treatment. If you leave, you will not fail Mexico, you will not fail your military honor, you will not fail me or anybody else.”
Lieutenant Cardona did not have to think much about it.
“Do you remember what you told me in the cave during the hurricane?” he asked Arnaud. “Either the two of us live, or the two of us die. That was what you said. It was good then, it is good now. If you stay, I stay.”
“Let’s shake on it.”
“Here.”
“I must look for Alicia,” Arnaud said walking toward the door. “She had never complained, and today when she did, I left her talking to the wall.”
At that moment Sergeant Irra rushed in. He had been looking for Arnaud everywhere on the island. He informed him that the captain of the Cleveland wanted to meet the port captain to deliver the food supplies; that he had orders from the British consul to take Gustav Schultz to Acapulco, if he so wished; and that Jens Jensen and the rest of the Dutchmen wanted to say good-bye personally.
“You take care of going to the Cleveland for the provisions,” Arnaud said to Cardona, “and tell the captain that I will make the official clearing later.”
“I can barely walk, Ramón.”
“Have some of the men carry you.”
“But I wonder, wouldn’t it be better if you went? In what language do you want me to communicate with him?”
“Find a way. I must talk with Alicia first, the rest will have to wait.”
“And what do we do with Schultz, Captain?” asked Irra, waiting for orders. “Do we let him loose, or do we take him in tied up?”
“Set him him free, Irra, and we’ll see what happens. If he becomes too nervous, triple up his dosage of passionflower tea, but make sure he boards the Cleveland,” answered Arnaud, considering the matter closed.
On the other side of the island, Gustav Schultz and Altagracia had not seen the ship approach and were totally unaware of the situation. Everything remained the same, immutable, inside the hermetic bubble where they had taken refuge. Even in his madness, Schultz had the lucidity to understand that the sweet, homely girl was enough of a pretext for him to come to terms with reason and to anchor himself in reality. Thanks to her he did not feel alone for the first time in his life.
That day his warm bath had taken two hours, and according to the ritual they had established, it concluded with the act of love.
Schultz had Altagracia lying by his side, her head on his shoulder. He found serenity in the shade of her extraordinary hair.
“I am going to count every hair on your head, one by one,” he would say, “and every day I am going to count them again, to make sure there is none missing.”
His heart was at peace, his body relaxed, and the fresh sweep of the trade winds carried away all his past anguish.
“The madman has raped the child!”
The wild shouts of the sergeant broke into a thousand pieces the gentle calmness. Before Schultz could get up, Irra and three other men lunged at him and beat him with their bare fists and whatever else they found handy.
“Dirty gringo, get your hands off that girl!” they shouted.
Altagracia got scared like a little animal and ran into the cabin. Through the cracks in the wall she saw how they tied his hands and took him away, shoving and pulling him by his chain.
She overcame her fear and ran after them.
“Where are you taking him?”
“A ship came for him. Today he goes to hell, the madman.”
“Don’t take him that way, Irra,” she pleaded, “at least let him put some clothes on. Don’t you have some respect for a human being?”
“He’s more beastly than the beasts.”
“You are the wild beasts,” she murmured, and while the soldiers struggled at dragging him, she managed to get him into a pair of pants and a shirt.
Schultz roared with a pained blind fury. Everyone could hear his screams, which echoed through the cliffs, but only Altagracia was able to hear a soft, dry cracking sound that escaped from his breast like a sigh.
“They are breaking your soul, Towhead,” she said.
On the other side of the island, Ramón Arnaud had met his wife. She was not crying anymore. Broom in hand, she was sweeping the ramshackle porch at home.
“Why are you sweeping?” he asked her.
“Because I already know what your decision will be. And if we are going to continue living here, it might as well be clean.”
“Come, I want you to understand something.”
They sat on the floor of the eastern terrace where sometime in the past there had been a hammock for watching the sun come up.
“Alicia, do you remember that I told you once I was doing nothing because I felt it was not my war? Well, now I feel this really is my war. I still don’t know whether we should leave or stay; the only thing I know is that I have to fight this war.”
At the dock Arnaud met Cardona, who was hobbling past the piles of wooden boxes, recording everything in a notebook.
“Two hundred boxes, Ramón,” the lieutenant shouted with enthusiasm. “We have dried beef, wafers, sausages, lard, coffee, you name it. Enough for three more months.”
“That will give us the option to stay or to leave.”
“What I would like to know is who sent this food and for whom.”
“Who else could it be? The Mexican Army sent it to us, of course.”
“I don’t believe so, Ramón. With the little English I know, I understood it came from the British consul for Gustav Schultz.”
“Then, let him leave it to us as his legacy. Any citrus fruit?” Arnaud inquired.
“Haven’t seen any.”
“That’s bad news. Very bad.”
Arnaud got into a boat and asked to be taken to the Cleveland. He still did not know what his decision would be, and he could think of nothing on the way. At 1520 he boarded, and Captain Williams received him in his private office, adjacent to his cabin. It was a small interior room, all paneled in cedar, with the scent of good wood and fine tobacco. On his working table there were writing pens and an inkwell, and a machine of such novel design that it took Arnaud some time before he figured out it was a typewriter. The furniture was sparse but deep cushioned, covered in barely faded, wine-red velour. A Persian rug covered the floor, and a copper and opaline glass lamp lit the room evenly, giving the effect of natural light. In one corner was a trunk in embossed leather, and, in the opposite corner, a heavy iron stove obviously in disuse and covered with books.
Captain Williams’s physique seemed more at home in this intimate environment than in the impersonal harshness of his battleship. He was an older man, pale, and so refined-looking that he seemed never to have been exposed to direct sunlight or even a sea breeze. He wore very thin rimmed spectacles, and one could detect a discreet scent of cologne. He offered Arnaud a seat and a cup of espresso along with a glass of cognac. As they exchanged the customary greetings, Arnaud kept fingering the velour, the leather, the warm cup, and took in the wonderful scents of wood, cologne, and tobacco, his body inspired by the memory of these almost forgotten textures and smells. An uncomfortable nostalgia for a better world was beginning to creep over him. He felt dirty, unkempt, smelly, and jarred by a great irrational impulse to leave. He had delayed this interview as much as possible because he knew it would place him in a disadvantageous position. After not even two minutes, and in spite of Williams’s politeness, he did not wish to prolong this meeting a second longer than purely necessary.
Arnaud expressed gratitude for the boxes of supplies, and Williams asked about Gustav Schultz. Ramón, who had completely forgotten the German fellow, explained that he was being brought on board because this strange man’s altered state, after suffering several mental breakdowns, had made it advisable to sedate him before departure. He spoke ill of Schultz, in too many words and with too many adjectives, which he regretted, noting the detachment in Williams’s blank expression as he listened.
Looking at the list of names, Williams said that Lieutenant Cardona had informed him that two ladies, Daría and Jesusa—already on board—would travel with Mr. Schultz as his wife and daughter.
“That is correct, sir. They are his wife and daughter,” answered Arnaud emphatically, but realized his error a second later. He understood the sense of Williams’s query when he imagined the scene as sharply as if he were actually seeing the two women climbing on board and embracing their Dutch lovers. His face turned red.
“Well, more or less,” he stammered, not knowing what else to say.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Captain, I understand; it was just a routine question.”
The issue of Daría and Jesusa, which he had overlooked, had already placed him in a bad light. And he knew things would get worse. In openly cordial tones, Williams repeated his offer to take him to Mexico together with his family and the rest of the people in Clipperton. Jensen had told him about their hospitality and generosity in spite of conditions. “That kind of conduct deserves a reciprocal gesture,” Williams added.
“I am deeply grateful, but I have not received orders yet from my superiors to abandon my post.”
“At this point your superiors are in no condition to issue orders, not even to themselves,” answered Captain Williams with a kind smile. “The federal army is disbanded.”
Arnaud felt deeply hurt. Realizing it, Williams retreated.
“It’s just my personal opinion, of course,” he said. “Don’t take offense.”
Ramón Arnaud took time to answer, to feel the weight that each of his words would have, and finally said, “Having to take care of public order makes things difficult for Colonel Huerta, and the arbitrary invasion by your country makes things difficult for my country. Those are two powerful reasons why I cannot abandon my post.”
“Everything has changed since you were sent here. Everything. It is not just Mexico’s internal situation, it is, above all, the war.”
“Are you referring to the war between your country and mine?”
“No, Captain Arnaud. I am referring to the war that is about to break out between one half of the world and the other half. I suppose that you are aware of this,” answered Williams, while offering him a Havana cigar. “Would you care for one?”
Ramón felt the rug pulled out from under him. The news had jolted and stunned him like an exploding grenade. It was too much. What war? What world? Why? Which side would Mexico be on? He was dying to know, and his heart began racing like a mad horse. He had to summon all his military pride and all of his willpower in order to lie.
“Of course, Captain Williams. I am fully aware of the imminence of war. But that does not affect my decision.”
His own words reverberated in his head: “But that does not affect my decision.” He was closing the last door, he felt. This was suicide, and he was condemning his men, his wife, his children. But he contained himself and did not retract. From the corner of his eye he saw the Cuban cigar Williams was offering him. It was a Flor de Lobeto, fragrant and magnificent. For many months he had not seen one. He would have gladly exchanged his little finger for it. But he lied.
“A Havana cigar? No thanks, I just had one.”
“As you wish,” he heard the other man say.
Time was melting in his head. The minutes stretched with rubbery elasticity, unbearably: “As . . . you . . . wish.” Between one word and the next there was an eternity, and meanwhile, the only possibility of being rescued vanished, escaped like the smoke of the cigar that Williams had just lit.
Suddenly, time recovered its usual speed. The Mexican captain felt an unexpected tingling in the pit of the stomach, and an irrepressible urge to live made him speak.
“However, Captain Williams, since this is a question that also affects my men, I would like to ask for some time to consult with them before I give you a definitive answer.”
“Of course, Captain. Think about it, and consult with them.”
Williams pulled his watch chain and checked the time.
“I wish to sail in an hour, if there are no objections,” he said.
They said their good-byes. On deck Ramón met Jens Jensen, his wife, Mary, as evanescent as ever, and the rest of the Dutchmen. They embraced and wished one another good luck.
Once in the rowboat on his way to the dock, Arnaud breathed deeply, relaxed on the seat with a brief smile, and thought: There is an invasion, a civil war, and a world war while I am here, wrapped in my own thoughts, worrying about whether booby eggs are better fried or scrambled.
It was already 1555. Before 1655 he had to make the most serious decision of his life.
After landing, he told Cardona: “A world war broke out. Or is about to. Don’t ask me any more. I did not dare ask, I didn’t want to concede to that gringo that I didn’t know. We’ll find out when the Mexican boat gets here.”
“If we wait that long, we’ll find out who started it and who won, all at the same time.”
Arnaud and Cardona summoned the rest of their people, and, a few minutes later, Sergeant Irra appeared on the dock holding Gustav Schultz by the arm. Due to the triple dosage of passionflower tea, the poor German fellow struggled, like a sleepwalker or a drunkard, in an iridescent, blurred, elusive world. He sensed vaguely that something ominous was about to happen to him, but he couldn’t figure out what. Even his own anguish dissolved into a nameless feeling. His head was turning around, then it stopped; it rushed forward; it swooped down in a painful and confused trajectory to the depths. His feet tripped forward; he mouthed incoherent words; he was beating Sergeant Irra clumsily.
Altagracia Quiroz ran after them. The moment he saw her, Schultz was able to collect all the loose pieces of his delirium. With a violent jolt he broke free from Irra, embraced Altagracia, and even though he could not fully control his numb, sticky tongue, the words he uttered came from deep inside.
“Come with me, Altita.”
“I can’t, Towhead. I wish I could. I came with Mrs. Alicia, and I have to stay with her.”
Recovering, Sergeant Irra again grabbed Schultz and threw him into the rowboat, where two soldiers were waiting to take him to the Cleveland.
The boat left. Schultz defied his condition and the rocking of the waves, and managed to stand up.
“I’ll come back for you, Altagracia,” he shouted. “I swear to you. I swear to you I’ll get you out of here and marry you. I swear!”
The ocean was gray, the sky was violet, and the girl remained at the dock, alone. She heard the German’s words, and to bid him farewell she took off the shawl covering her head. Her hair cascaded almost to the ground, sparkling under the afternoon sun, and waved softly in the breeze like a black flag.
In the meantime, Ramón Arnaud ordered the troops to interrupt their tasks and report in formation to the plaza—where their old vegetable garden, now barren, had been—in full uniform, rifles and all. Young Pedro Carvajal made the bugle call, and the men mustered.
“Platoon, charge . . . weapons!” barked Cardona. Arnaud, next to him, just watched.
The ten soldiers who made up the garrison were standing in the inhospitable and harsh wasteland. If a soldier had shoes, he had no shirt; if he had a rifle, he had no sword; if he had a cartridge belt, he had no ammunition. They had only whatever the hurricane had not taken away. Around them in a semicircle, the women stood watching, babes in their arms. They were all battered people in a battered place.
“Present . . . arms!”
They sang the Mexican national anthem and raised the new flag, the one nuns had embroidered. When it was up, Arnaud saw that it was as faded and frayed as the old one. There was no red or green, the white center now extended to the sides. And without the eagle and the serpent, it was nothing but a white sheet in the sun.
Easy come, easy go, Ramón thought, and watched his people. We look like ghosts, and on top of that, we belong to an army which no longer exists. How could he convince them to go on, not to quit? Worse yet, with what arguments could he convince himself? He focused on the tortured nights that he had spent in prison, on his regrets while facing the black walls in Tlatelolco, and as he felt the taste of humiliation in his mouth, he managed to find the arguments he was looking for.
He began his speech hesitantly. About the defeat of their army he didn’t say much, not to demoralize them. And about the world war, he said nothing, not to overwhelm them. He picked up energy getting into his historical account of foreign invasions and the national resistance. His enthusiasm rose together with his voice as he informed them of the events in Veracruz, and he waxed poetic talking about the defense of Clipperton. By the time he began to notice it, everybody was crying with heroic fervor.
“In honor of those who fell in the struggle against the American invaders,” he announced at the peak of his harangue, “we are going to give them the twenty-one-gun salute President Wilson wanted. But this time, damn it, we’ll be saluting our own flag. The Mexican flag!”
Cardona approached him and murmured in his ear.
“Twenty-one volleys is too much, my friend. We’ll have no powder left.”
“Well, ten then.”
“Five?”
“There will be only five blasts,” shouted Arnaud. “But with ball, so they reach Washington!”
“And even Paris!” broke in Cardona, who was not forgetting their quarrel with the French.
More or less in unison, the ten rifles fired five times. The thunder of fifty shots was heard, and the smoke from the blasts darkened the sky. Their nostrils felt the burning and their eyes smarted, partly because of the powder and partly because of emotion. All, even the women and children, ended up crying.
They are already mine, Ramón thought. He explained the possibilities and the difficulties of trying to survive on the island, the military and political significance of staying, the personal advantages of leaving, and he informed them of the offer by the captain of the Cleveland to take them back to Acapulco, together with their families.
“Whoever wishes to leave has my permission to do so,” he added last. “In these confusing circumstances, I cannot decide your fate by asking you to stay.”
He gave them some time to think about it and discuss it with their women. They dispersed. Each one joined his own family. Once in a while, someone would go from one group to another. Whispers, laughter, crying, and arguments followed. Some returned to the plaza before the call. When they were in formation, Arnaud called the roll one by one, for each man to report his decision.
“Private Rodríguez, Silverio.
Private Juárez, Dionisio.
Private Pérez, Arnulfo.
Private Mejía, Constancio.
Private Almazán, Faustino.
Private Carvajal, Pedro.
Private Alvarez, Victoriano.
Corporal Lara, Felipe.
Sergeant Irra, Agustín.
Lieutenant Cardona, Secundino.”
One by one, each man stepped forward and gave his answer. After the last one spoke, Arnaud ordered them to break ranks.
At 1650, five minutes before the appointed time, the rowboat was delivering their message to the Cleveland.
Captain Williams:
On behalf of the Mexican Army, my garrison, and myself, I thank you for the valuable assistance granted. Being in state of war, as we are, we find your attitude to be a worthy model of gentlemanly exchange between combatants. We cordially decline your offer to take us to Acapulco. My men and I, together with our wives and children, will remain here until we receive from our superiors orders to the contrary.
Signed, Captain Ramón Arnaud Vignon,
Governor of Clipperton Island,
territory of the sovereign Republic of Mexico
Clipperton, 25 June 1914.
Back on the isle, sitting on the leaning trunk of a palm tree, Arnaud still did not know whether the correct decision was to leave or to stay. But he no longer cared. Be what may, this had been the best day of his life, the day in which he had recovered his dignity and done something memorable. He was on top of the world.
He saw the Cleveland sailing away and felt sorry for Captain Williams, with his little artificial, comfortable corner, his eau de cologne, velour-covered chairs, cognac glasses; Captain Williams, backed by the easy security of his powerful ship. Ramón thought that he did not envy him—or at least, not much—because this time he, Ramón Arnaud, had been the true prince, the dandy, the tough son of a bitch. His decision to stay made him feel pleased with himself, fulfilled, big; and the loyalty of his people—Alicia, Cardona, his men—made him feel like a giant. Fortune did not offer everyone the possibility of playing for all or nothing in the ultimate showdown, of putting to the test each and every fiber in one’s body, of lying at the razor’s edge for honor and courage.
And this had happened to him. This time he, Ramón Arnaud, had measured up. He was a prince, a warrior, a show-off, a bastard. The old blemish of his desertion had been obliterated, his debt with fate had been paid, and he had finally managed to catch up with his own pride. That Havana cigar, that Flor de Lobeto, was the only thing he needed at this moment to touch heaven with his hands.
When the U.S.S. Cleveland disappeared on the horizon, Ramón Arnaud was a man at peace.