A Most Uncivil War Read online

  The second man replies, “We can close the factories and keep them closed, but we can do no more than that.”

  Miguel waits for him to finish speaking before declaring, “We have enough members to stop the harvest but no more.” The old man nods his head as he listens.

  The four men sit in silence for a moment. Salvador watches the old man carefully, trying to discern his thoughts. It is pointless; the old man gives nothing away. Salvador listens intently while the others speak. Once everyone falls silent he speaks, “The last thing Raul told us was that if we can’t take the village we are to do nothing.” The two younger men listen to the teenager and then quickly turn back to the old man to watch his response. Salvador doesn’t wait. “If our comrades want to do something, let them join the strike in Zaragoza or Barcelona. If we try and fail here we will have only succeeded in weakening our movement. If the cities can be shut down and our comrades there protected, then the villages will eventually follow.” His gaze doesn’t deviate from looking directly at the old man as he speaks. The man listens to him, stroking the greying moustache and chin stubble with his thumb and forefinger in repetitive circles.

  The old man looks to the two younger men for a response. When he doesn’t get one he continues, “I can take it to our brothers and sisters. But if too many go then the factories will close anyway.”

  Miguel nods, “Of course, and the same goes for the fields.”

  Salvador waits a moment before adding another consideration, “We must make it every man’s choice.”

  The old man suggests a way forward, “If the vote is against striking here, then we could always suggest organising delegations to Barcelona and Zaragoza. That way the numbers can be controlled, and everyone gets to choose.” The three men nod in agreement.

  Miguel and Salvador leave the taverna together and make their way out of the square and down the side of the building. Under the blue tint of the moonlit streets they start discussing again in hushed tones. Miguel says, “I am going to go to some of the men now and tell them the plan. The rest I will speak to tomorrow.”

  Each time they reach a street corner Salvador looks both ways down each street before turning into it. “Good, I will help you with that tomorrow. And when it comes to the vote, unless they choose to close the village, I go to Barcelona to help,” Salvador replies.

  They reach the junction in the road where their routes diverge. Miguel puts his hand on Salvador’s shoulder. “Safe journey, Comrade. We’ll speak in the fields tomorrow.” The two men take their different paths.

  Chapter 14

  Over the course of the following days the organisers take the ballot to their members in secret; on breaks, in their homes and in the bars. Aware that something is going on, the guards bring in extra troops from the Zaragoza barracks.

  On the night of the 4th October, after collecting and counting all the votes, the four men are joined in the taverna by three other organisers at the table. The room is filled with members waiting to hear the final count. The crowd spills out onto the square. Fifteen police stand nervously on the other side of the square with their rifles loaded, watching the crowd of nearly 300 factory workers and field labourers. The hundreds of workers thronging about the square outside the taverna openly and without fear display their black and red flags and bandanas. It doesn’t take long for the count to be checked. The oldest of the men stands up and holds the piece of paper out in front of him. “Of the 1,728 members 1,479 vote against, 192 vote for a strike.” The numbers echo back through the crowd and onto the square. As soon as the numbers are read out the seven men at the table, the workers in the bar and in the square all begin debating the next steps.

  After much shouting the old man stands up again and raises his voice across the others, “We do not have the will or the weapons to take our village. I say the ones that want to strike should be supported in reaching the strikes in Barcelona or Zaragoza if that is what they want.”

  One of the other organisers stands up and thumps his fist on the table. “If we want to take the village the men in this bar alone could do so now.”

  Salvador pushes his seat back from the table and remains silent. Miguel notices him do it and knows that he won’t speak in this forum. He decides to speak for him, “The soldiers from the barracks in Caspe can be here in two hours. They will harvest us like wheat. Our strength is in the cities. Those among us who want to fight should be supported in reaching those that have to fight. The rest of us will support their families while they are gone.”

  The old man looks around the table as each man signals his agreement. The moment he has a consensus at the table he stands up and pushes his way through to the veranda. He is helped up onto a chair and then a table. Several of the men closest to him start calling for silence, whistling and trying to get the thronging crowd’s attention. Slowly, the silence washes across the crowd from front to back. The old man shouts across the sea of workers’ faces, “The vote is in. We will not strike.” A massive cheer goes up, drowning out the hoots of a small number dotted around the crowd. The old man waves his arms to quieten them, “There is one last decision to make. For those who want to go and support our comrades in the cities, will the rest of us support their families while they are gone? All those in favour?” As one organism, 282 men and women in the bar and square hold their left fists clenched to the sky, cheering. From the back of the crowd the words of ‘The Internationale’ start clambering above the cacophony of cheers. Salvador stands at the table looking out across the sea of faces and raised fists. In the distance he can see the police. He clenches his fist tightly and holds it up. He sings out the words at the top of his voice.

  For several hours the majority of the workers stay in the square. Drinking and singing, the workers keep those unlucky enough to live above the shops turning in their beds until late into the night. The men that wish to take strike action after quickly agreeing the plan make their way back to their homes to prepare themselves for the following day. The union leaders stay in the bar readying telegrams for the morning. Salvador goes back to the hut to get a few hours’ sleep before travelling.

  Across the square the estate manager and Pedro sit in silence, watching the crowds trickle out of the square. By the guard’s office Manolo issues orders to his second in command to send men to protect the factories from a lock-in and to double the guard on the cache of rifles and pistols in the police station. The young man rushes off to pass on his orders.

  The estate manager watches the goings-on in the square in silence. As the activity slowly subsides he gets up to leave. He flings several coins onto the table. Not enough to pay the bill, but enough to look like he tried. Pedro watches him from under his brow. Before leaving, Garcia turns and says, “Secure the gardens before worrying about your own fields.” Pedro nods his head and looks down at his coffee. Garcia strides out of the square, his long, thin legs stabbing at the floor as he walks.

  Pedro sits a while longer watching the last workers leaving the square. He can feel the waiter watching him from the doorway of the bar. He glances back over his shoulder to see if he is the last one there. He gets up and counts the coins into the saucer. The waiter deferentially scuttles across to him, his head bowed. “Thank you, sir; thank you, sir. Good night, sir,” he chatters as he places the empty cups and glasses onto the tray.

  Pedro barely acknowledges him as he leaves the bar and walks back across the square towards his home. Walking through the streets, he sees the first shift of policemen taking their positions around the village in pairs. He feels a sense of unease about the situation as he makes his way back to the lonely security of his bed.

  As the pre-glow of sunrise chases the darkness from the night sky and gently rouses the village cocks into their morning barrage of nervous crowing, Salvador hears a knock at the door of the hut. Already awake and clothed, and tying up the knapsack, he pulls the door open to see Miguel wa
iting outside. The half-light draws thick black lines around his comrade’s face. “Did you sleep?” Miguel asks as he enters the hut and pours out a lukewarm coffee from the pan.

  Salvador places the knapsack by the door. “A few hours. Have you decided whether you will come with me or will you go to Zaragoza?”

  Miguel hands him the cup of coffee. “We go to Barcelona.” Salvador takes it and drains the cup. The weak, brown liquid coats the inside of his mouth. He brushes a blanket of grey ash over the few remaining embers in the fire, picks up his knapsack and steps out of the hut.

  “Then we must hurry,” Salvador says as the other man follows him.

  Salvador ties the door shut before they walk quickly up the dirt track towards the railway lines. The closer they get to the station, the more groups of workers they see, making their way towards the same objective in the crisp dawn air. Miguel speaks, his rapid breathing putting stress on his voice. “There are at least forty or fifty.”

  Salvador and Miguel reach the ticket office to find the union leaders taking names and destinations. Salvador pushes his way through the crowd until he has jostled his way to the front. The old man looks up and smiles when he sees his face. “Don’t worry, I know where you are going. Is Miguel going with you?” Salvador nods. The old man makes a note in the book. “We will keep an eye on your mother. And I’ll let her know where you are.” Salvador thanks him. “The 6:15 train is yours; everything is organised, just use the last carriage,” says the old man.

  Salvador puts one hand on his shoulder, kisses him on both cheeks and replies, “Thank you, Comrade.”

  He turns and pushes his way back through the crowd to where he has left Miguel with the knapsacks. They make their way down the platform and onto the earth running up to the tracks. They sit down on the floor and with their knapsacks behind their heads, the brim of their flat caps pulled down over their eyes, the two men fall back into a semi-sleep. The noise of the nearby crowd is just enough to stop them falling too deep.

  Just over one hundred yards away Manolo the Civil Guard officer stands watching the station with two of his guards. They look on in silence. The clock above the platform ticks relentlessly forwards. Once he has seen enough Manolo turns to walk away. “I will send support for you soon. Let me know how many get on each train and if any reinforcements are arriving,” he says. The men bark affirmatively as he starts walking back towards the centre of the village.

  *

  Pedro leads his horse out of the storehouse and onto the street. He mounts it and nudges it into a slow walk with his heels. He strokes the animal’s muscled neck. “Don’t you get any ideas either,” he whispers to the horse. As man and horse make their way through the village they keep seeing Civil Guards either marching purposefully or standing threateningly. In direct contrast, Pedro can’t help but notice the vast number of workers eyeing the guards as they make their way through the village. He rests his hand on the stock of the rifle in the saddle holster. The horse continues plodding through the streets, seemingly oblivious to the goings on.

  *

  Marianela is making the breakfast as Juanico comes into the kitchen. She smiles at him and he sits down at the small table where his breakfast place is waiting for him. “There is much going on today in the house, young master,” she says, smiling. The boy listens but consciously stops himself from looking up at her. She continues, “Your father has left very early to go to work today.” The boy fights with himself to show no sign of interest. Marianela places the melon in front of him, “What is wrong, young master? You are very quiet this morning.”

  Getting steadily angrier with the incessant noise, he finally barks, “Cut my melon. Do you expect me to do it myself?”

  Marianela stops still, unblinking. She feels her stomach begin to tighten. “Don’t just stand there, girl. Cut my melon,” he repeats. Unblinkingly, she takes the sharp fruit knife in her hand. The serrated edge glistens slightly in the rays of sunlight coming through the window. The wooden handle is secure in her tight grasp.

  She hears the footsteps of Soledad coming down the stairs and then the shrill howling begins, “We are having our breakfast now. Hurry up, girl. Get on with it.” Marianela quickly picks up the melon and draws the sharp blade through its yellow hide and watery flesh. The juices run between her fingers and down her forearm. She cuts the long slice into mouthfuls and places them on the plate in front of the boy. He doesn’t look up. Rushing, she feels the serrated blade slice the skin on the tip of her finger. The juice of the melon takes no time to force its way into the wound where it quickly begins to burn. She takes a cloth and wraps her finger so that it is not visible. Before the shouting starts again in earnest she hurriedly starts ferrying the breakfast things through to the dining room.

  As she enters the room she sees the two women staring at her, their faces plastered in contempt. The older woman speaks, “What are you doing? Stupid girl. Get a move on.” Marianela bows her head and visibly shortens her spine as she lays the table apologetically. Neither of the two older women sees the blood seeping through the cloth and into her hand.

  Dona Soledad shouts towards the kitchen, “Beautiful boy, come and join your grandmother for breakfast.” She snarls at Marianela, “Bring the boy in here.” Marianela rushes to the kitchen and picks up the boy’s breakfast things and ushers him into the dining room.

  Juanico pushes back against her, “Don’t rush me, girl. I am not a dog.” Soledad stands up from the table and takes her cane from the hatstand at the corner of the room. Marianela puts the boy’s plate and glass down.

  The second the plate and the glass are safe on the table and the girl’s hands are clear of them Soledad swings the cane at her shoulder. The sting against the flesh ripples through Marianela’s upper body. She cowers and backs out of the room, her hands covering her face. The old woman swings again, crying, “You show the young master respect, peasant.” The cane whistles down between neck and shoulder.

  Marianela backs out into the hallway apologising and trying desperately to defend herself with her arms, “I am sorry. I am sorry. Forgive me.” The old lady follows her to the doorway of the dining room and takes one last swing against her behind and lower back as she runs to the kitchen. The tip of the cane whips across the flesh of her buttock and she stumbles into the kitchen.

  Soledad turns back to the table and as she passes the boy she puts her hand on his shoulder, “Don’t you ever let the servant disrespect you, my boy. You are to be the master of this house and this family one day. If you let the dogs bark now they will only bite you later.” Juanico nods his head while the guilt rises inside him making the indigestible melon sit high in his throat. In the kitchen Marianela stifles her sobs in the blood-dappled cloth. Silently, she holds the cloth hard against her face, her chest rising and falling as she tries to calm herself down.

  *

  Pedro enters the duke’s gardens and rides alongside the wall making a mental note of what would need defending. He rides into the rear courtyard where the workers are waiting for him. He doesn’t get off the horse; he rides closer to them and looks down from the saddle. He counts them and sees that there are two missing. He puts one hand on the stock of the rifle and says to one of the men, “Where are the other two?”

  The man looks at his feet before answering, “They have not come in today.” The man withholds the truth.

  The horse breathes out forcefully, slapping its lips as it begins to turn. Pedro wheels the horse back around so he is facing them. “If they are not here in five minutes then there is no job for them,” he says to the man. He gestures to two of the men, “You two follow me.” He pulls the horse around towards the workshop and nudges it forward. The two men look at each other, slightly bemused, and follow the horse.

  Pedro slides out of the saddle in front of the workshop and hands the reins to the stable boy. The two men follow him into the workshop whe
re he unlocks the padlock on the gun cupboard. He gets out two shotguns and two belts filled with cartridges and hands them to the men. “If there is any trouble here today with the workers you are to defend the house,” he says. By not letting go of the guns he underlines his comments, “Do you understand? You will both get a bonus at the end of the week if you make sure we don’t have any trouble here.” The two men nod their heads. Pedro lets go and the men take the guns. Pedro points to the flatbed truck by the stable. “One of you take position there to keep an eye on the workers and you by the gate.” The two men look to where he is pointing and put the cartridge belts over their heads and across their chests. He continues, “There will be a good bonus if you keep the house and gardens safe. You understand?” Both men say yes and take up their allotted positions.

  Pedro takes off his jacket, puts the rifle over his shoulder and checks the revolver in his belt. He walks out of the main gate and looks up and down the road, first towards the village and then out to the fields. He stands for a few moments looking up and down the road. The beret on his head, the cigarette hanging from his mouth and the dusty trousers and shirt make him look like his father and his father before him. The peasant underneath the mask of new-found respectability was never well hidden. He walks back into the courtyard. The workers are making their way into the gardens and workshop to start their day’s work. He sits down on the empty crates stacked at the side of the workshop and rests the rifle against the wall beside him.

  *

  Soledad stands in the doorway of the kitchen. “I will take Juan Nicolas to his lessons,” she says. Juanico looks up from putting his books into his satchel. Soledad turns to him. “Because we are all up so early you can join me for mass before your lessons.”