Noli Me Tángere

he Cockpit

To keep holy the afternoon of the Sabbath one generally goes to
the cockpit in the Philippines, just as to the bull-fights in
Spain. Cockfighting, a passion introduced into the country and
exploited for a century past, is one of the vices of the people, more
widely spread than opium-smoking among the Chinese. There the poor
man goes to risk all that he has, desirous of getting rich without
work. There the rich man goes to amuse himself, using the money that
remains to him from his feasts and his masses of thanksgiving. The
fortune that he gambles is his own, the cock is raised with much
more care perhaps than his son and successor in the cockpit, so we
have nothing to say against it. Since the government permits it and
even in a way recommends it, by providing that the spectacle may take
place only in the public plazas, on holidays (in order that all
may see it and be encouraged by the example?), from the high mass
until nightfall (eight hours), let us proceed thither to seek out
some of our acquaintances.

The cockpit of San Diego does not differ from those to be found in
other towns, except in some details. It consists of three parts,
the first of which, the entrance, is a large rectangle some twenty
meters long by fourteen wide. On one side is the gateway, generally
tended by an old woman whose business it is to collect the sa pintu,
or admission fee. Of this contribution, which every one pays, the
government receives a part, amounting to some hundreds of thousands of
pesos a year. It is said that with this money, with which vice pays
its license, magnificent schoolhouses are erected, bridges and roads
are constructed, prizes for encouraging agriculture and commerce are
distributed: blessed be the vice that produces such good results! In
this first enclosure are the vendors of buyos, cigars, sweetmeats,
and foodstuffs. There swarm the boys in company with their fathers
or uncles, who carefully initiate them into the secrets of life.

This enclosure communicates with another of somewhat larger
dimensions,--a kind of foyer where the public gathers while waiting
for the combats. There are the greater part of the fighting-cocks tied
with cords which are fastened to the ground by means of a piece of
bone or hard wood; there are assembled the gamblers, the devotees,
those skilled in tying on the gaffs, there they make agreements,
they deliberate, they beg for loans, they curse, they swear, they
laugh boisterously. That one fondles his chicken, rubbing his hand
over its brilliant plumage, this one examines and counts the scales
on its legs, they recount the exploits of the champions.

There you will see many with mournful faces carrying by the feet
corpses picked of their feathers; the creature that was the favorite
for months, petted and cared for day and night, on which were founded
such flattering hopes, is now nothing more than a carcass to be
sold for a peseta or to be stewed with ginger and eaten that very
night. Sic transit gloria mundi! The loser returns to the home
where his anxious wife and ragged children await him, without his
money or his chicken. Of all that golden dream, of all those vigils
during months from the dawn of day to the setting of the sun, of all
those fatigues and labors, there results only a peseta, the ashes
left from so much smoke.

In this foyer even the least intelligent takes part in the discussion,
while the man of most hasty judgment conscientiously investigates
the matter, weighs, examines, extends the wings, feels the muscles of
the cocks. Some go very well-dressed, surrounded and followed by the
partisans of their champions; others who are dirty and bear the imprint
of vice on their squalid features anxiously follow the movements of
the rich to note the bets, since the purse may become empty but the
passion never satiated. No countenance here but is animated--not
here is to be found the indolent, apathetic, silent Filipino--all
is movement, passion, eagerness. It may be, one would say, that they
have that thirst which is quickened by the water of the swamp.

From this place one passes into the arena, which is known as the
Rueda, the wheel. The ground here, surrounded by bamboo-stakes, is
usually higher than that in the two other divisions. In the back part,
reaching almost to the roof, are tiers of seats for the spectators,
or gamblers, since these are the same. During the fights these seats
are filled with men and boys who shout, clamor, sweat, quarrel,
and blaspheme--fortunately, hardly any women get in this far. In the
Rueda are the men of importance, the rich, the famous bettors, the
contractor, the referee. On the perfectly leveled ground the cocks
fight, and from there Destiny apportions to the families smiles or
tears, feast or famine.

At the time of entering we see the gobernadorcillo, Capitan Pablo,
Capitan Basilio, and Lucas, the man with the sear on his face who
felt so deeply the death of his brother.

Capitan Basilio approaches one of the townsmen and asks, "Do you know
which cock Capitan Tiago is going to bring?"

"I don't know, sir. This morning two came, one of them the lásak
that whipped the Consul's talisain." [127]

"Do you think that my bulik is a match for it?"

"I should say so! I'll bet my house and my camisa on it!"

At that moment Capitan Tiago arrives, dressed like the heavy gamblers,
in a camisa of Canton linen, woolen pantaloons, and a wide straw
hat. Behind him come two servants carrying the lásak and a white
cock of enormous size.

"Sinang tells me that Maria is improving all the time," says Capitan
Basilio.

"She has no more fever but is still very weak."

"Did you lose last night?"

"A little. I hear that you won. I'm going to see if I can't get
even here."

"Do you want to fight the lásak?" asks Capitan Basilio, looking at
the cock and taking it from the servant. "That depends--if there's
a bet."

"How much will you put up?"

"I won't gamble for less than two."

"Have you seen my bulik?" inquires Capitan Basilio, calling to a
man who is carrying a small game-cock.

Capitan Tiago examines it and after feeling its weight and studying
its scales returns it with the question, "How much will you put up?"

"Whatever you will."

"Two, and five hundred?"

"Three?"

"Three!"

"For the next fight after this!"

The chorus of curious bystanders and the gamblers spread the news
that two celebrated cocks will fight, each of which has a history
and a well-earned reputation. All wish to see and examine the two
celebrities, opinions are offered, prophecies are made.

Meanwhile, the murmur of the voices grows, the confusion increases,
the Rueda is broken into, the seats are filled. The skilled
attendants carry the two cocks into the arena, a white and a red,
already armed but with the gaffs still sheathed. Cries are heard,
"On the white!" "On the white!" while some other voice answers,
"On the red!" The odds are on the white, he is the favorite; the red
is the "outsider," the dejado.

Members of the Civil Guard move about in the crowd. They are not
dressed in the uniform of that meritorious corps, but neither are
they in civilian costume. Trousers of guingón with a red stripe,
a camisa stained blue from the faded blouse, and a service-cap, make
up their costume, in keeping with their deportment; they make bets
and keep watch, they raise disturbances and talk of keeping the peace.

While the spectators are yelling, waving their hands, flourishing and
clinking pieces of silver; while they search in their pockets for the
last coin, or, in the lack of such, try to pledge their word, promising
to sell the carabao or the next crop, two boys, brothers apparently,
follow the bettors with wistful eyes, loiter about, murmur timid words
to which no one listens, become more and more gloomy and gaze at one
another ill-humoredly and dejectedly. Lucas watches them covertly,
smiles malignantly, jingles his silver, passes close to them, and
gazing into the Rueda, cries out:

"Fifty, fifty to twenty on the white!"

The two brothers exchange glances.

"I told you," muttered the elder, "that you shouldn't have put up all
the money. If you had listened to me we should now have something to
bet on the red."

The younger timidly approached Lucas and touched him on the arm.

"Oh, it's you!" exclaimed the latter, turning around with feigned
surprise. "Does your brother accept my proposition or do you want
to bet?"

"How can we bet when we've lost everything?"

"Then you accept?"

"He doesn't want to! If you would lend us something, now that you
say you know us--"

Lucas scratched his head, pulled at his camisa, and replied, "Yes,
I know you. You are Tarsilo and Bruno, both young and strong. I know
that your brave father died as a result of the hundred lashes a day
those soldiers gave him. I know that you don't think of revenging him."

"Don't meddle in our affairs!" broke in Tarsilo, the elder. "That might
lead to trouble. If it were not that we have a sister, we should have
been hanged long ago."

"Hanged? They only hang a coward, one who has no money or
influence. And at all events the mountains are near."

"A hundred to twenty on the white!" cried a passer-by.

"Lend us four pesos, three, two," begged the younger.

"We'll soon pay them back double. The fight is going to commence."

Lucas again scratched his head. "Tush! This money isn't mine. Don
Crisostomo has given it to me for those who are willing to serve
him. But I see that you're not like your father--he was really
brave--let him who is not so not seek amusement!" So saying, he drew
away from them a little.

"Let's take him up, what's the difference?" said Bruno. "It's the same
to be shot as to be hanged. We poor folks are good for nothing else."

"You're right--but think of our sister!"

Meanwhile, the ring has been cleared and the combat is about to
begin. The voices die away as the two starters, with the expert who
fastens the gaffs, are left alone in the center. At a signal from
the referee, the expert unsheathes the gaffs and the fine blades
glitter threateningly.

Sadly and silently the two brothers draw nearer to the ring until their
foreheads are pressed against the railing. A man approaches them and
calls into their ears, "Pare, [128] a hundred to ten on the white!"

Tarsilo stares at him in a foolish way and responds to Bruno's nudge
with a grunt.

The starters hold the cocks with skilful delicacy, taking care not
to wound themselves. A solemn silence reigns; the spectators seem
to be changed into hideous wax figures. They present one cock to
the other, holding his head down so that the other may peck at it
and thus irritate him. Then the other is given a like opportunity,
for in every duel there must be fair play, whether it is a question
of Parisian cocks or Filipino cocks. Afterwards, they hold them up
in sight of each other, close together, so that each of the enraged
little creatures may see who it is that has pulled out a feather,
and with whom he must fight. Their neck-feathers bristle up as they
gaze at each other fixedly with flashes of anger darting from their
little round eyes. Now the moment has come; the attendants place them
on the ground a short distance apart and leave them a clear field.

Slowly they advance, their footfalls are, audible on the hard
ground. No one in the crowd speaks, no one breathes. Raising and
lowering their heads as if to gauge one another with a look, the two
cocks utter sounds of defiance and contempt. Each sees the bright
blade throwing out its cold, bluish reflections. The danger animates
them and they rush directly toward each other, but a pace apart they
check themselves with fixed gaze and bristling plumage. At that moment
their little heads are filled with a rush of blood, their anger flashes
forth, and they hurl themselves together with instinctive valor. They
strike beak to beak, breast to breast, gaff to gaff, wing to wing, but
the blows are skilfully parried, only a few feathers fall. Again they
size each other up: suddenly the white rises on his wings, brandishing
the deadly knife, but the red has bent his legs and lowered his head,
so the white smites only the empty air.. Then on touching the ground
the white, fearing a blow from behind, turns quickly to face his
adversary. The red attacks him furiously, but he defends himself
calmly--not undeservedly is he the favorite of the spectators, all
of whom tremulously and anxiously follow the fortunes of the fight,
only here and there an involuntary cry being heard.

The ground becomes strewn with red and white feathers dyed in blood,
but the contest is not for the first blood; the Filipino, carrying out
the laws dictated by his government, wishes it to be to the death or
until one or the other turns tail and runs. Blood covers the ground,
the blows are more numerous, but victory still hangs in the balance. At
last, with a supreme effort, the white throws himself forward for
a final stroke, fastens his gaff in the wing of the red and catches
it between the bones. But the white himself has been wounded in the
breast and both are weak and feeble from loss of blood. Breathless,
their strength spent, caught one against the other, they remain
motionless until the white, with blood pouring from his beak, falls,
kicking his death-throes. The red remains at his side with his wing
caught, then slowly doubles up his legs and gently closes his eyes.

Then the referee, in accordance with the rule prescribed by the
government, declares the red the winner. A savage yell greets
the decision, a yell that is heard over the whole town, even and
prolonged. He who hears this from afar then knows that the winner is
the one against which the odds were placed, or the joy would not be
so lasting. The same happens with the nations: when a small one gains
a victory over a large one, it is sung and recounted from age to age.

"You see now!" said Bruno dejectedly to his brother, "if you had
listened to me we should now have a hundred pesos. You're the cause
of our being penniless."

Tarsilo did not answer, but gazed about him as if looking for some one.

"There he is, talking to Pedro," added Bruno. "He's giving him money,
lots of money!"

True it was that Lucas was counting silver coins into the hand of
Sisa's husband. The two then exchanged some words in secret and
separated, apparently satisfied.

"Pedro must have agreed. That's what it is to be decided," sighed
Bruno.

Tarsilo remained gloomy and thoughtful, wiping away with the cuff of
his camisa the perspiration that ran down his forehead.

"Brother," said Bruno, "I'm going to accept, if you don't decide. The
law [129] continues, the lásak must win and we ought not
to lose any chance. I want to bet on the next fight. What's the
difference? We'll revenge our father."

"Wait!" said Tarsilo, as he gazed at him fixedly, eye to eye, while
both turned pale. "I'll go with you, you're right. We'll revenge our
father." Still, he hesitated, and again wiped away the perspiration.

"What's stopping you?" asked Bruno impatiently.

"Do you know what fight comes next? Is it worth while?"

"If you think that way, no! Haven't you heard? The bulik of Capitan
Basilio's against Capitan Tiago's lásak. According to the law
the lásak must win."

"Ah, the lásak! I'd bet on it, too. But let's be sure first."

Bruno made a sign of impatience, but followed his brother, who
examined the cock, studied it, meditated and reflected, asked some
questions. The poor fellow was in doubt. Bruno gazed at him with
nervous anger.

"But don't you see that wide scale he has by the side of his
spur? Don't you see those feet? What more do you want? Look at those
legs, spread out his wings! And this split scale above this wide one,
and this double one?"

Tarsilo did not hear him, but went on examining the cock. The clinking
of gold and silver came to his ears. "Now let's look at the bulik,"
he said in a thick voice.

Bruno stamped on the ground and gnashed his teeth, but obeyed. They
approached another group where a cock was being prepared for the
ring. A gaff was selected, red silk thread for tying it on was waxed
and rubbed thoroughly. Tarsilo took in the creature with a gloomily
impressive gaze, as if he were not looking at the bird so much as at
something in the future. He rubbed his hand across his forehead and
said to his brother in a stifled voice, "Are you ready?"

"I? Long ago! Without looking at them!"

"But, our poor sister--"

"Abá! Haven't they told you that Don Crisostomo is the leader? Didn't
you see him walking with the Captain-General? What risk do we run?"

"And if we get killed?"

"What's the difference? Our father was flogged to death!"

"You're right!"

The brothers now sought for Lucas in the different groups. As soon
as they saw him Tarsilo stopped. "No! Let's get out of here! We're
going to ruin ourselves!" he exclaimed.

"Go on if you want to! I'm going to accept!"

"Bruno!"

Unfortunately, a man approached them, saying, "Are you betting? I'm
for the bulik!" The brothers did not answer.

"I'll give odds!"

"How much?" asked Bruno.

The man began to count out his pesos. Bruno watched him breathlessly.

"I have two hundred. Fifty to forty!"

"No," said Bruno resolutely. "Put--"

"All right! Fifty to thirty!"

"Double it if you want to."

"All right. The bulik belongs to my protector and I've just won. A
hundred to sixty!"

"Taken! Wait till I get the money."

"But I'll hold the stakes," said the other, not confiding much in
Bruno's looks.

"It's all the same to me," answered the latter, trusting to his
fists. Then turning to his brother he added, "Even if you do keep out,
I'm going in."

Tarsilo reflected: he loved his brother and liked the sport, and,
unable to desert him, he murmured, "Let it go."

They made their way to Lucas, who, on seeing them approach, smiled.

"Sir!" called Tarsilo.

"What's up?"

"How much will you give us?" asked the two brothers together.

"I've already told you. If you will undertake to get others for the
purpose of making a surprise-attack on the barracks, I'll give each
of you thirty pesos and ten pesos for each companion you bring. If
all goes well, each one will receive a hundred pesos and you double
that amount. Don Crisostomo is rich."

"Accepted!" exclaimed Bruno. "Let's have the money."

"I knew you were brave, as your father was! Come, so that those
fellows who killed him may not overhear us," said Lucas, indicating
the civil-guards.

Taking them into a corner, he explained to them while he was counting
out the money, "Tomorrow Don Crisostomo will get back with the
arms. Day after tomorrow, about eight o'clock at night, go to the
cemetery and I'll let you know the final arrangements. You have time
to look for companions."

After they had left him the two brothers seemed to have changed
parts--Tarsilo was calm, while Bruno was uneasy.