雙語·杰克·倫敦短篇小說選 墨西哥人 1

The Mexican I

Nobody knew his history—they of the Junta least of all．He was their “l(fā)ittle mystery，”their “big patriot，”and in his way he worked as hard for the coming Mexican Revolution as did they．They were tardy in recognizing this，for not one of the Junta liked him．The day he first drifted into their crowded，busy rooms，they all suspected him of being a spy—one of the bought tools of the Diaz secret service．Too many of the comrades were in civil an military prisons scattered over the United States，and others of them，in irons，were even then being taken across the border to be lined up against adobe walls and shot．

At the first sight the boy did not impress them favorably．Boy he was，not more than eighteen and not over large for his years．He announced that he was Felipe Rivera，and that it was his wish to work for the Revolution．That was all—not a wasted word，no further explanation．He stood waiting．There was no smile on his lips，no geniality in his eyes．Big dashing Paulino Vera felt an inward shudder．Here was something forbidding，terrible，inscrutable．There was something venomous and snake-like in the boy's black eyes．They burned like cold fire，as with a vast，concentrated bitterness．He flashed them from the faces of the conspirators to the typewriter which little Mrs．Sethby was industriously operating．His eyes rested on hers but an instant—she had chanced to look up—and she，too，sensed the nameless something that made her pause．She was compelled to read back in order to regain the swing of the letter she was writing．

Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos，and questioningly they looked back and to each other．The indecision of doubt brooded in their eyes．This slender boy was the Unknown，vested with all the menace of the Unknown．He was unrecognizable，something quite beyond the ken of honest，ordinary revolutionists whose fiercest hatred for Diaz and his tyranny after all was only that of honest and ordinary patriots．Here was something else，they knew not what．But Vera，always the most impulsive，the quickest to act，stepped into the breach．

“Very well，”he said coldly．“You say you want to work for the Revolution．Take off your coat．Hang it over there．I will show you—come—where are the buckets and cloths．The floor is dirty．You will begin by scrubbing it，and by scrubbing the floors of the other rooms．The spittoons need to be cleaned．Then there are the windows．”

“Is it for the Revolution？”the boy asked．

“It is for the Revolution，”Vera answered．

Rivera looked cold suspicion at all of them，then proceeded to take off his coat．

“It is well，”he said．

And nothing more．Day after day he came to his work—sweeping，scrubbing，cleaning．He emptied the ashes from the stoves，brought up the coal and kindling，and lighted the fires before the most energetic one of them was at his desk．

“Can I sleep here？”he asked once．

Ah，ha！So that was it—the hand of Diaz showing through！To sleep in the rooms of the Junta meant access to their secrets，to the lists of names，to the addresses of comrades down on Mexican soil．The request was denied，and Rivera never spoke of it again．He slept they knew not where，and ate they knew not where nor how．Once，Arrellano offered him a couple of dollars．Rivera declined the money with a shake of the head．When Vera joined in and tried to press it upon him，he said：

“I am working for the Revolution．”

It takes money to raise a modern revolution，and always the Junta was pressed．The members starved and toiled，and the longest day was none too long，and yet there were times when it appeared as if the Revolution stood or fell on no more than the matter of a few dollars．Once，the first time，when the rent of the house was two months behind and the landlord was threatening dispossession，it was Felipe Rivera，the scrub-boy in the poor，cheap clothes，worn and threadbare，who laid sixty dollars in gold on May Sethby's desk．There were other times．Three hundred letters，clicked out on the busy typewriters （appeals for assistance，for sanctions from the organized labor groups，requests for square news deals to the editors of newspapers，protests against the high-handed treatment of revolutionists by the United States courts），lay unmailed，awaiting postage．Vera's watch had disappeared—the old-fashioned gold repeater that had been his father's．Likewise had gone the plain gold band from May Setbby's third finger．Things were desperate．Ramos and Arrellano pulled their long mustaches in despair．The letters must go off，and the Post Office allowed no credit to purchasers of stamps．Then it was that Rivera put on his hat and went out．When he came back he laid a thousand two-cent stamps on May Sethby's desk．

“I wonder if it is the cursed gold of Diaz？”said Vera to the comrades．

They elevated their brows and could not decide．And Felipe Rivera，the scrubber for the Revolution，continued，as occasion arose，to lay down gold and silver for the Junta's use．

And still they could not bring themselves to like him．They did not know him．His ways were not theirs．He gave no confidences．He repelled all probing．Youth that he was，they could never nerve themselves to dare to question him．

“A great and lonely spirit，perhaps，I do not know，I do not know，”Arrellano said helplessly．

“He is not human，”said Ramos．

“His soul has been seared，”said May Sethby．“Light and laughter have been burned out of him．He is like one dead，and yet he is fearfully alive．”

“He has been through hell，”said Vera．“No man could look like that who has not been through hell—and he is only a boy．”

Yet they could not like him．He never talked，never inquired，never suggested．He would stand listening，expressionless，a thing dead，save for his eyes，coldly burning，while their talk of the Revolution ran high and warm．From face to face and speaker to speaker his eyes would turn，boring like gimlets of incandescent ice，disconcerting and perturbing．

“He is no spy，”Vera confided to May Sethby．“He is a patriot—mark me，the greatest patriot of us all．I know it，I feel it，here in my heart and head I feel it．But him I know not at all．”

“He has a bad temper，”said May Sethby．

“I know，”said Vera，with a shudder．“He has looked at me with those eyes of his．They do not love；they threaten；they are savage as a wild tiger's．I know，if I should prove unfaithful to the Cause，that he would kill me．He has no heart．He is pitiless as steel，keen and cold as frost．He is like moonshine in a winter night when a man freezes to death on some lonely mountain top．I am not afraid of Diaz and all his killers；but this boy，of him am I afraid．I tell you true．I am afraid．He is the breath of death．”

Yet Vera it was who persuaded the others to give the first trust to Rivera．The line of communication between Los Angeles and Lower California had broken down．Three of the comrades had dug their own graves and been shot into them．Two more were United States prisoners in Los Angeles．Juan Alvarado，the Federal commander，was a monster．All their plans did he checkmate．They could no longer gain access to the active revolutionists，and the incipient ones，in Lower California．

Young Rivera was given his instructions and dispatched south．When he returned，the line of communication was re?stablished，and Juan Alvarado was dead．He had been found in bed，a knife hilt-deep in his breast．This had exceeded Rivera's instructions，but they of the Junta knew the times of his movements．They did not ask him．He said nothing．But they looked at one another and conjectured．

“I have told you，”said Vera．“Diaz has more to fear from this youth than from any man．He is implacable．He is the hand of God．”

The bad temper，mentioned by May Sethby，and sensed by them all，was evidenced by physical proofs．Now he appeared with a cut lip，a blackened cheek，or a swollen ear．It was patent that he brawled，somewhere in that outside world where he ate and slept，gained money，and moved in ways unknown to them．As the time passed，he had come to set type for the little revolutionary sheet they published weekly．There were occasions when he was unable to set type，when his knuckles were bruised and battered，when his thumbs were injured and helpless，when one arm or the other hung wearily at his side while his face was drawn with unspoken pain．

“A wastrel，”said Arrellano．

“A frequenter of low places，”said Ramos．

“But where does he get the money？”Vera demanded．“Only to-day，just now，have I learned that he paid the bill for white paper—one hundred and forty dollars．”

“There are his absences，”said May Sethby．“He never explains them．”

“We should set a spy upon him，”Ramos propounded．

“I should not care to be that spy，”said Vera．“I fear you would never see me again，save to bury me．He has a terrible passion．Not even God would he permit to stand between him and the way of his passion．”

“I feel like a child before him，”Ramos confessed．

“To me he is power—he is the primitive，the wild wolf，—the striking rattlesnake，the stinging centipede，”said Arrellano．

“He is the Revolution incarnate，”said Vera．“He is the flame and the spirit of it，the insatiable cry for vengeance that makes no cry but that slays noiselessly．He is a destroying angel moving through the still watches of the night．”

“I could weep over him，”said May Sethby．“He knows nobody．He hates all people．Us he tolerates，for we are the way of his desire．He is alone．．．lonely．”Her voice broke in a half sob and there was dimness in her eyes．

Rivera's ways and times were truly mysterious．There were periods when they did not see him for a week at a time．Once，he was away a month．These occasions were always capped by his return，when，without advertisement or speech，he laid gold coins on May Sethby's desk．Again，for days and weeks，he spent all his time with the Junta．And yet again，for irregular periods，he would disappear through the heart of each day，from early morning until late afternoon．At such times he came early and remained late．Arrellano had found him at midnight，setting type with fresh swollen knuckles，or mayhap it was his lip，new-split，that still bled．