19 de Junio, 1865
El Paso, Nuevo México
The slave bent down and shined his master’s shoes, trying hard not to listen to what was being said. It was not his business. They learned him to be meek, not a sneak.
“Governor, the President of México is here to see you,” said one of the master’s attendants.
“He is free to enter,” responded the master silkily.
At least that’s what it sounded like. He wanted to hear the word. Free. Did he hear it? Or was it just his imagination? Still mastering the language of the master race, he mused. These days he was only sarcastic in his thoughts, lest he meet the lash. Oh, how the lash haunted his dreams. He was very proud that he had been ignoring the conversation between his master and the Mexican President; lost in his thoughts, he hardly noticed anyone enter.
“The white men are strong and stubborn,” the Mexican was saying, “but not as strong as they thought.” He was clearly of Indian blood.
“Have you any news from the capital?”
“Washington, you mean?” There were three capitals nowadays, but during most of the war there had been far more.
“No, Taos,” the master said, rolling his eyes. “Of course I mean Washington. How is the President of the United States?”
“Not well. He is very sick. I have not seen him since mid-April. Rogers seems to be running things out of his kitchen cabinet.”
“Well, that is of little concern. I will telegraph any major decisions to Tiana then. What did you do with our Austrian friend?” the master asked.
“O Governor, Porfirio told me he is a Prussian. The General sends him to you as a gift,” the Mexican responded, and beckoned towards the entrance to the tent. Four guardsmen brought in a man with a great shaggy head of white hair, and an even greater beard. He seemed exhausted and not fully conscious.
The master’s eyes opened wide. “This is the man who troubled us so?” He guffawed. “He looks like your Santa Claus! That’s what you call him, yes? Your Nast couldn’t have done it better himself, ¿qué no?”
The Mexican seemed confused, until one of his men mumbled, “Papá Noel.”
“Ay, yes. Yes, he does! I am unfamiliar with this Nast.¨ the Mexican said apologetically.
“Nast is a New Yorker, from-” the bearded man murmured, before suddenly stopping. It was the first English the slave had heard in a long while; the man sounded more British than German, really. It was difficult to tell exactly where the hair ended and the beard began. His skin was sagging as if the man was at least four score, but he was less than fifty years old. The reason was likely a sudden change in corpulence.
There was a long pause. The master was rarely corrected in such settings, least of all by a prisoner of war.
The master broke the silence, switching back to Spanish. “Nuevo York, Nuevo México, Nuevo Leon, we’re all one American family here,” he said with a wink. All laughed save the Mexican President. The master continued, with a trace of disappointment in his eyes vanishing as he turned towards the President. “After all, that’s what the war was all about. It was not about those Oriental tales of yours about your Christ,” he complained, wagging a finger at the prisoner as if his unkempt beard was a Christian tradition.
The prisoner chortled weakly. “I’m a Jew. I never thought that’d help me in captivity before.”
The master’s mouth dropped open. “A Jew? You look different than the ones I know in Taos.” He peered closely at the captive, who seemed somewhat surprised to find there were any Jews in Nuevo México at all, let alone ones acquainted with the good master.
The captive mumbled, “I heard the San Diego pretender is a Jew as well.”
The master’s face unexpectedly softened. “Ay ¿pues se conoce querido Jesús? Dear Josh is a rather harmless friend of ours.” The master’s dark eyes were glittering with delight. “I once received a letter from him giving me permission to rule over this land in exchange for one of my daughters. I wrote back giving him the governorship of Alta California for his cheek! After all, what is the point of wealth and power if one cannot give them away?”
“The pen is mightier than the sword,” the prisoner supposedly called Carlito said with unnatural strength.
“Little words in the papers, that’s all you do. You were offered amnesty thrice. Why are you so stubborn?”
Instead of answering, the Carlito said, “The powers of international capital demand chattel slavery be abolished-”
“Excuse me?” The master’s tone had shifted from playful to cool. “Is it still 1845? You white men brought slavery to this continent. We ended it.”
“England or France may not care whether you call it peonage, but slavery by another name is-”
“I beg your pardon?” The master’s voice was ice itself. “Slavery was forever abolished on this continent the minute we liberated the Negros.” He kicked the prisoner in his fat face. His face scrunched up into a snarl.
The gag rule. Images of a world long forgotten, of marble halls and walls, rushed forth before the image of an angry master banished them again. Ice had turned molten, and the master was now ranting and raving.
“And I do not have time to be talking to people nobody has ever heard of! You should thank your God I do not pull your tongue out!” the master angrily exclaimed.
“I do not believe in any religion. It is the peyote of the masses.”
“I have no more patience for the insults of a captured Jew!” He motioned the guards. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” the master added hastily to no one in particular. As the protesting prisoner was taken away by two guards, he turned towards the Mexican. “Though many a traitorous Mexican certainly thought so, didn’t they Mr. President?”
“Indeed, they did. But they were wrong. I am grateful for the positions you have provided me in your wisdom, O Governor.”
“I cannot provide anything,” chuckled the master. “You know how and where we decide these things in a democratic manner. You are the best suited for your roles. In fact, it is a good thing you never left your Christian tomfoolery behind you. Last night we decided, unanimously, of course, to reward you for your patriotism.”
The Mexican seemed a bit taken aback. “A reward? I was doing my duty to la patría. That is all.”
“Are you prepared for the trip back to Washington?”
If Benito Juárez was looking forward to the trip, he did not show it. “Am I to leave immediately?”
“Now that the rebellion is over, you should be able to make it for the swearing-in ceremony. You know how the Yankee is a stickler for tradition. Isn’t that right, young Jaff?”
Surprise at being addressed could not subsume the sudden rage which had filled the slave’s black heart. He wanted to say a thousand things, but didn’t. He wanted to say, Washington is a Southern city. Instead, he said, “Of course, Governor.”
“Yes. Mr. President of México, how would you like to be Vice President of the United States?” The master suppressed a giggle, clearly pleased with himself.
“Vice President? Again?”
The master looked at him, with mock reproach glinting in his dark eyes. “You’re a stern man, Benito Juárez! I wouldn’t recognize you if you smiled! That’s your only vice. And you are our only Vice. If you laughed a little more, you’d live a lot longer! Then you could enjoy a fourth term! Were you always so glum, or did years of war make it so?”
“It’s just that--I have already been Vice President of the United States for eight years, and-”
“You will also be the Liberal candidate in the next Mexican election,” said the master in his accented Spanish, as if Juárez had never spoken. Even the slave didn’t notice the code-switching; Juárez’s stone mask had slipped into a rare smile, rendering him nigh-unrecognizable.
“Muchísimas gracias gobernador.” The United States forbade statewide officials from federal office (except in the savage state of Nuevo Jersey), but México was technically a different country.
“No, thank you for the lovely gift. How dangerous is he?”
“Carlos Marx? Mostly harmless. We caught him fleeing the battle. The Texian Germans rallied to his prose, not his person. I doubt anyone will remember him before long.”
“Good, good,” the master said absentmindedly. “Anything else?”
“Before leaving Washington, I met with former president Martin van Buren. He asked me about if the proposed Constitutional-”
“That matter is one we can discuss away from the ears of prying peons. Hasta la próxima, Benito. You are free to go,” the master concluded, nodding to his servant. The President nodded back, and started to leave.
Free. That word again. Perhaps one day the master will free me. Perhaps. But I best stop eavesdropping.
“The war is over! And here I thought it would last thirty years.” The master seemed to be talking more to himself than to anyone else. He gave a sudden grin. “Oh, I almost forgot. You can take that one as a fair trade. One paleface peon for another.”
The slave was silently startled. The master was pointing at him. He hardly expected the war to end anytime soon, but he never thought his master would ever give him away as if he were a mere rug. This changes everything. Disdain and self-loathing creeped into his chest, spreading throughout his body until it reached his fingertips and toenails. How many masters much I serve before I meet St. Peter? In theory his enslavement would end eventually; the old ways ended when Washington was sacked. He still remembered the color of the dress he had hidden in that day. The Reds will not free you, he thought. You are a symbol to all white men who dare to stand up to the Indian and Negro . He stopped himself. Thinking in English again. They won’t ever free you at that rate. You’re an idiot, Jefferson Davis.
El Paso, Nuevo México
The slave bent down and shined his master’s shoes, trying hard not to listen to what was being said. It was not his business. They learned him to be meek, not a sneak.
“Governor, the President of México is here to see you,” said one of the master’s attendants.
“He is free to enter,” responded the master silkily.
At least that’s what it sounded like. He wanted to hear the word. Free. Did he hear it? Or was it just his imagination? Still mastering the language of the master race, he mused. These days he was only sarcastic in his thoughts, lest he meet the lash. Oh, how the lash haunted his dreams. He was very proud that he had been ignoring the conversation between his master and the Mexican President; lost in his thoughts, he hardly noticed anyone enter.
“The white men are strong and stubborn,” the Mexican was saying, “but not as strong as they thought.” He was clearly of Indian blood.
“Have you any news from the capital?”
“Washington, you mean?” There were three capitals nowadays, but during most of the war there had been far more.
“No, Taos,” the master said, rolling his eyes. “Of course I mean Washington. How is the President of the United States?”
“Not well. He is very sick. I have not seen him since mid-April. Rogers seems to be running things out of his kitchen cabinet.”
“Well, that is of little concern. I will telegraph any major decisions to Tiana then. What did you do with our Austrian friend?” the master asked.
“O Governor, Porfirio told me he is a Prussian. The General sends him to you as a gift,” the Mexican responded, and beckoned towards the entrance to the tent. Four guardsmen brought in a man with a great shaggy head of white hair, and an even greater beard. He seemed exhausted and not fully conscious.
The master’s eyes opened wide. “This is the man who troubled us so?” He guffawed. “He looks like your Santa Claus! That’s what you call him, yes? Your Nast couldn’t have done it better himself, ¿qué no?”
The Mexican seemed confused, until one of his men mumbled, “Papá Noel.”
“Ay, yes. Yes, he does! I am unfamiliar with this Nast.¨ the Mexican said apologetically.
“Nast is a New Yorker, from-” the bearded man murmured, before suddenly stopping. It was the first English the slave had heard in a long while; the man sounded more British than German, really. It was difficult to tell exactly where the hair ended and the beard began. His skin was sagging as if the man was at least four score, but he was less than fifty years old. The reason was likely a sudden change in corpulence.
There was a long pause. The master was rarely corrected in such settings, least of all by a prisoner of war.
The master broke the silence, switching back to Spanish. “Nuevo York, Nuevo México, Nuevo Leon, we’re all one American family here,” he said with a wink. All laughed save the Mexican President. The master continued, with a trace of disappointment in his eyes vanishing as he turned towards the President. “After all, that’s what the war was all about. It was not about those Oriental tales of yours about your Christ,” he complained, wagging a finger at the prisoner as if his unkempt beard was a Christian tradition.
The prisoner chortled weakly. “I’m a Jew. I never thought that’d help me in captivity before.”
The master’s mouth dropped open. “A Jew? You look different than the ones I know in Taos.” He peered closely at the captive, who seemed somewhat surprised to find there were any Jews in Nuevo México at all, let alone ones acquainted with the good master.
The captive mumbled, “I heard the San Diego pretender is a Jew as well.”
The master’s face unexpectedly softened. “Ay ¿pues se conoce querido Jesús? Dear Josh is a rather harmless friend of ours.” The master’s dark eyes were glittering with delight. “I once received a letter from him giving me permission to rule over this land in exchange for one of my daughters. I wrote back giving him the governorship of Alta California for his cheek! After all, what is the point of wealth and power if one cannot give them away?”
“The pen is mightier than the sword,” the prisoner supposedly called Carlito said with unnatural strength.
“Little words in the papers, that’s all you do. You were offered amnesty thrice. Why are you so stubborn?”
Instead of answering, the Carlito said, “The powers of international capital demand chattel slavery be abolished-”
“Excuse me?” The master’s tone had shifted from playful to cool. “Is it still 1845? You white men brought slavery to this continent. We ended it.”
“England or France may not care whether you call it peonage, but slavery by another name is-”
“I beg your pardon?” The master’s voice was ice itself. “Slavery was forever abolished on this continent the minute we liberated the Negros.” He kicked the prisoner in his fat face. His face scrunched up into a snarl.
The gag rule. Images of a world long forgotten, of marble halls and walls, rushed forth before the image of an angry master banished them again. Ice had turned molten, and the master was now ranting and raving.
“And I do not have time to be talking to people nobody has ever heard of! You should thank your God I do not pull your tongue out!” the master angrily exclaimed.
“I do not believe in any religion. It is the peyote of the masses.”
“I have no more patience for the insults of a captured Jew!” He motioned the guards. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” the master added hastily to no one in particular. As the protesting prisoner was taken away by two guards, he turned towards the Mexican. “Though many a traitorous Mexican certainly thought so, didn’t they Mr. President?”
“Indeed, they did. But they were wrong. I am grateful for the positions you have provided me in your wisdom, O Governor.”
“I cannot provide anything,” chuckled the master. “You know how and where we decide these things in a democratic manner. You are the best suited for your roles. In fact, it is a good thing you never left your Christian tomfoolery behind you. Last night we decided, unanimously, of course, to reward you for your patriotism.”
The Mexican seemed a bit taken aback. “A reward? I was doing my duty to la patría. That is all.”
“Are you prepared for the trip back to Washington?”
If Benito Juárez was looking forward to the trip, he did not show it. “Am I to leave immediately?”
“Now that the rebellion is over, you should be able to make it for the swearing-in ceremony. You know how the Yankee is a stickler for tradition. Isn’t that right, young Jaff?”
Surprise at being addressed could not subsume the sudden rage which had filled the slave’s black heart. He wanted to say a thousand things, but didn’t. He wanted to say, Washington is a Southern city. Instead, he said, “Of course, Governor.”
“Yes. Mr. President of México, how would you like to be Vice President of the United States?” The master suppressed a giggle, clearly pleased with himself.
“Vice President? Again?”
The master looked at him, with mock reproach glinting in his dark eyes. “You’re a stern man, Benito Juárez! I wouldn’t recognize you if you smiled! That’s your only vice. And you are our only Vice. If you laughed a little more, you’d live a lot longer! Then you could enjoy a fourth term! Were you always so glum, or did years of war make it so?”
“It’s just that--I have already been Vice President of the United States for eight years, and-”
“You will also be the Liberal candidate in the next Mexican election,” said the master in his accented Spanish, as if Juárez had never spoken. Even the slave didn’t notice the code-switching; Juárez’s stone mask had slipped into a rare smile, rendering him nigh-unrecognizable.
“Muchísimas gracias gobernador.” The United States forbade statewide officials from federal office (except in the savage state of Nuevo Jersey), but México was technically a different country.
“No, thank you for the lovely gift. How dangerous is he?”
“Carlos Marx? Mostly harmless. We caught him fleeing the battle. The Texian Germans rallied to his prose, not his person. I doubt anyone will remember him before long.”
“Good, good,” the master said absentmindedly. “Anything else?”
“Before leaving Washington, I met with former president Martin van Buren. He asked me about if the proposed Constitutional-”
“That matter is one we can discuss away from the ears of prying peons. Hasta la próxima, Benito. You are free to go,” the master concluded, nodding to his servant. The President nodded back, and started to leave.
Free. That word again. Perhaps one day the master will free me. Perhaps. But I best stop eavesdropping.
“The war is over! And here I thought it would last thirty years.” The master seemed to be talking more to himself than to anyone else. He gave a sudden grin. “Oh, I almost forgot. You can take that one as a fair trade. One paleface peon for another.”
The slave was silently startled. The master was pointing at him. He hardly expected the war to end anytime soon, but he never thought his master would ever give him away as if he were a mere rug. This changes everything. Disdain and self-loathing creeped into his chest, spreading throughout his body until it reached his fingertips and toenails. How many masters much I serve before I meet St. Peter? In theory his enslavement would end eventually; the old ways ended when Washington was sacked. He still remembered the color of the dress he had hidden in that day. The Reds will not free you, he thought. You are a symbol to all white men who dare to stand up to the Indian and Negro . He stopped himself. Thinking in English again. They won’t ever free you at that rate. You’re an idiot, Jefferson Davis.
