Black Sun

by Glenn Starkey

Overview

From the underworld of the Ojuela Mine to the majestic Sierra Madre Mountains and across the desert plains of northern Mexico, a boy is forced to survive and grow into manhood through a turbulent decade that erupted into the bloodiest revolution of the twentieth century--the Mexican Revolution of 1910.

On the run for a murder he didn't commit, forced to hide even his name, Arnulfo Triana is swept into a maelstrom of tragedy as revolutionaries, led by his mentor and friend Pancho Villa, collide with the forces of a corrupt dictator.

Black Sun is based on actual events. A young man's life unfolds against a background of poverty, injustice and political corruption that finally explodes into a devastating revolution.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781458220011
Publisher:	Abbott Press
Publication date:	02/22/2016
Pages:	444
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.99(d)

Read an Excerpt

Black Sun

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By GLENN STARKEY

Abbott Press

Copyright © 2016 Glenn Starkey
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-2001-1

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CHAPTER 1

June 1900
La Mina de Ojuela
Mapimí, Durango, Mexico

The miners sloshed through ankle deep water in single file, their shoulders slumped and heads bent low to avoid hitting the jagged rocks of the stope's ceiling. An occasional cough, the clank of hand-tools bumping the rock walls, and splashes from their shuffling steps cut the dank air of the dimly lit tunnel.

Arnulfo's stomach tightened. The candles and oil-wick lamps they carried were burning out. He didn't fear the pitch black that would engulf them as much as he disliked feeling his way to the chicken ladders, the notched logs in the shafts to climb from level to level to reach the upper tunnel leading to the adit, the mine's entrance.

"Why can't we work in one of the higher stopes where the water doesn't seep in?"

"Silencio, you fool! If Garcia hears you complain, your ass will be in the lower levels tomorrow with the indios — or worse, with El Niño."

The grumbling came from the men ahead of Arnulfo and was heard throughout the tunnel. Behind him, his friend, Chamaco, spoke out in a growling tone.

"Cabrón, don't worry about tomorrow or the ghost boy! If you don't walk faster now, I'm going to come up there and shove a hoe handle up your ass!"

Men nervously laughed but the threat worked. The line sped up. No one wanted to risk being touched by the spirit of the boy that asked for a candle, as he was known to do in the dark. Death followed his touch, yet neither did anyone want to be the focus of Chamaco's wrath.

Nerves were always frayed while in the Ojuela mine. Walls might cave-in as miners dug into them, pulling ore as they called it. Each strike of their hoes and chisels could spark escaping gases and explode. Water levels in the lower stopes rose and fell, at times reaching a man's thigh before the pumps caught up with the seeping water. The main shaft's hoist engines failed or their thick cables snapped under the constant strain of hauling tons of ore to the surface in massive iron buckets. Mining accidents were frightening, but none more so than when a cable broke and ore rained down the shaft. Workers standing near the statues of the Virgin Mary at every platform landing of the mine's nineteen levels, were crushed with the statues and vanished into the black hole below. The ghostlike wails of the dying resonated through the mine, but the destruction of the statues drove the superstitious miners to their knees to make the sign of the cross and recite prayers.

There were a hundred reasons to dread the mines, but Raymondo Garcia was among the worst. The crew boss punished the miners on a whim to show he ruled the underworld, and today was one. He held the crews over two hours without reason and wouldn't allow them to leave at the end of their shift. It grated on their nerves, yet complaining brought only more misery upon them. If Garcia wished to add further insult, he let the indios leave before all others. That rarely happened, though. Garcia, like President Porfirio Díaz and the majority of Mexicans, despised Spaniards for their ancestors' atrocities, yet loathed Indians more, seeing them only as expendable slaves.

Arnulfo never understood their deep-seated animosity. Díaz himself was mestizo from a Zapotec Indio mother and a Criollo father, one of Spanish descent born in New Spain, as Mexico was first named. The majority of Mexico's population who wished the indios dead were of some mixed blood heritage, but that was overlooked.

Nothing more was said by the miners as they splashed through the murky water. When the shadow-filled stope grew brighter and sighs of relief were heard, Arnulfo knew they had reached the ladders and would begin the ascent to the main level. The older miners preferred the chicken ladders rather than riding in the large iron buckets that hauled men to the top and slowly spun as they rose. The ladders were no better, though, and shook when too many climbers were on them. It wasn't uncommon for a man to lose his balance and knock others off the ladders as he fell into the abyss.

Waiting his turn, Arnulfo shifted his tools to his left hand, ready to grasp a ladder notch with the fingers of his right and climb. He took a foothold and started up but felt a light shake. He realized more distance was needed between the climbers and paused, immediately incurring the wrath of the men following him.

He kept his gaze level, always on the ladder as he climbed, watching for the next notch to grip. The miners never looked down or out into the wide expanse of open shaft. Doing so produced a drunkard's sense of imbalance and misjudgment of the next step or notch. Climbers never looked up either. Dirt or dripping water might fall into their eyes, blinding them and risking a loss of balance. But foremost was that no miner wanted to raise his face into the family jewels or filthy buttocks of the man above them.

The tools shifted in Arnulfo's left hand. He gripped them tighter, hoping they wouldn't slip through his fingers and fall.

How did the Indians climb these ladders every day after being flogged by the Spaniards and forced to carry almost two hundred pounds of ore in surones? It was a question Arnulfo could never answer. He had tried to use one of the rawhide bags to carry ore in a tunnel, but the sack that hung down his back from a wide strap across his forehead made him feel as if his head was being ripped off. And not only had the Indians climbed the ladders bearing such weight, but they carried their sacks down the canyon to burro pack trains waiting to depart for the adobe oven smelters. The cruelty of the Spanish reign was beyond Arnulfo's comprehension.

Except for threadbare breechcloths and leather sandals a miner might wear, they were bare-skinned. There was no need for clothes in the bowels of earth. Seeping water soaked their bodies and mixed with the dust and dirt freed by their chisels. Within an hour they were blotted with mud as they worked. They washed in the seepage, and sat in it to eat their simple meals when no dry ground could be found. Worse, though, were workers who relieved themselves in the water rather than walk through the stopes to the 'Honey Pots.'

Arnulfo learned after his first day, years ago, that clothes were best left in a small pile along the inner walls of the adit, the mountainside entrance. In doing so, he would have something dry to cover his filthy body as he walked home — if no one had stolen them.

He was within a few notches of reaching the main level when the ragged sandal on his right foot slipped. Panic struck him as he fell forward against the large log ladder and wrapped his arms about it. Workers below him cursed when the ladder shook, but a strong hand grabbed his right ankle and held fast. Arnulfo felt his foot being set on a notch.

"Now, get up the ladder, boy. I don't feel like dying today," Chamaco said in a firm, yet friendly voice.

Breathing hard when he climbed onto solid ground, Arnulfo glanced back at Chamaco and thanked him with a nod of the head. The miner ignored him and continued climbing until off the ladder. They walked together in silence to their piles of clothes and parted ways.

Arnulfo found his tattered peasant trousers, shirt, and cowhide sandals and dressed quickly, anxious to leave for home. The company had given everyone the next two days off for the Catholic celebration in Mapimí to honor one of the Church's patron saints. Arnulfo didn't care which saint. The Church had one for everything, and if truth were known, the celebrations were to pressure the company into more donations while priests walked about, milking the peasants of their money in exchange for heavenly blessings. But to the miners, the importance of the event came in having time to rest and be with family as they pleased.

"Tell me, Indio, did the Peñoles Company piss away their money today by paying you a salary?"

Pretending Raymondo Garcia's sarcasm had gone unheard; Arnulfo grabbed his iron scraper and 'Sticking Tommy,' the short iron bar used to hold candles after sticking the sharpened point of the bar into a stope wall. He turned to leave and the crew boss blocked his way.

At fifteen, Arnulfo stood a hand taller than him, and lanky, yet his body was hardened from smashing rock all day with a heavy iron scraper. Garcia had ten or more years on Arnulfo, was wider shouldered, and easily carried a hundred pounds more. Heavy drinking each night, and eating all day while the crews worked, had left him with the belly of a woman about to give birth yet he retained agility and strength. Arnulfo had once seen Garcia pull a short club from his belt and strike an Indian with the speed of a rattlesnake. The crew boss split the man's head like a ripe melon and walked away.

They stared at one another. A smirk crossed Garcia's ruddy face. He let his gaze drift over Arnulfo from head to foot and saw the young man's hand tighten about the Sticking Tommy. The crew boss raised his dark eyes to Arnulfo's face. The blue gray color of Arnulfo's eyes fueled his internal fire.

"What's the matter, Indio? Don't you like the name I've given you? You look like a pinche indio, so you should be called one."

Arnulfo couldn't argue that point. He had Indian features, and was often mistaken for one. Black hair brushed his shoulders and framed a lean face. His cheekbones were high, and his Roman nose favored an Indian's, but with little time in the sun, his fair skin was lighter than Garcia's.

"I am Arnulfo Triana Benavente," he stated proudly in the Spanish custom of the paternal name being first, and the maternal name second.

Garcia had goaded him for months, hoping the boy would strike out, but Arnulfo knew better. He believed the underworld boss wanted an excuse to kill him or send him off to the army using "la leva," the practice of the affluent to rid themselves of those that had fallen into disfavor. Arnulfo's father had been such a victim in the mines years ago for reasons the young man never learned.

Struggling to mask his anger behind a dispassionate face, Arnulfo couldn't conceal the rage in his eyes.

Garcia spat through the air, cynically laughed, and glanced at the adit before returning his attention to Arnulfo. Men began to distance themselves, not wanting to witness the antagonism and be forced to lie on behalf of Garcia to save themselves from his future indignations.

"Oh, I was mistaken. You're not one of those pinche indios. No, you're one of those pinche Spaniards! Another bastard of a Spanish wh —"

"Indio!" The hard voice came from behind the young miner.

Arnulfo's knuckles were white from his grip on the Sticking Tommy. He readied himself to strike, knowing what Garcia was about to say. The sharpened end had begun to rise to Garcia's stomach when the voice called him again, halting him.

"Indio, come help me carry my tools. Come along — now!"

Chamaco stood five feet away. He straightened his posture, squared his shoulders and nodded as he waved a hand toward his chisel and long handled hoe on the ground.

"Let's go. It's late and I'm hungry." He spoke to Arnulfo but stared at the crew boss with a gaze that warned him to stop his taunts.

Garcia left few men alone in the mine. Chamaco, the wild-eyed, bushy bearded, scraggly haired miner ranked highest among them. He never talked of his past, and his gruff appearance hid his age, but rumors of having been a murderous bandito marked him as a dangerous man in the Ojuela.

"Run along, Indio," the crew boss said condescendingly. "We will talk another day." He laughed but there was no humor in its tone as he turned his back to Arnulfo and left.

Chamaco waited until Garcia was out of sight before slapping the side of his friend's head.

"Do you want to die?" Chamaco bent and took up his tools.

"What do you mean 'die'?"

"You were so busy looking at the pig's face that you didn't see the knife he held by his leg."

Arnulfo's eyes widened and he swallowed a thick lump in his throat. How could I have not seen the green gem handled knife Garcia always carries? he thought.

The gulping noise made Chamaco grin. He laid a hand on Arnulfo's shoulder as they started for the adit, the mine's entrance.

"You have much to learn if you wish to live, my young friend. Always know where a man's hands are, and what is in them. Some lessons are harder than others."

Having spoken, Chamaco lifted his shirt enough for Arnulfo to see a long scar across his stomach.

The night air felt good as they walked out of the mine and made their way to the Roebling suspension bridge. A full moon bathed the surrounding desert with tender light to see across a landscape that was like a devious temptress; one day allowing a man to take pleasure with her, and the next, leaving him to suffer.

The bridge loomed before them, stretched over Cañón de Puente Volante, the thousand feet wide and two hundred feet deep canyon of the flying bridge. Towering pylons at each end anchored thick cables that supported the bridge's wooden framework between the mountains. Ore cars ran the length of the bridge on narrow tracks in the middle of the walkway, yet when the cars were not running, three men could travel shoulder to shoulder across it. At the midway point, the walkway gently swayed, and even the bravest pedestrian often reached for its wooden side beams.

Lights, mere dots on the far side of the bridge, flickered from the encampment where miners lived in small shacks owned by La Compañia Minera de Peñoles. To the miners, though, it was their village. Villages were homes with families and love, and no one wanted to think of himself as a prisoner in a company camp anymore than they already were.

Arnulfo gazed at the far horizon, thankful there were lights to judge the remaining distance as they crossed the canyon. His first steps onto the bridge came slow as he tested the sturdiness of the wooden planks. Chamaco brushed past, amused by the young man's caution.

"You weigh as much as a bird. Do you really believe this bridge will fall because of you?"

"I was only making sure of my footing." Arnulfo's voice didn't hold the matter-of-fact tone he wanted it to. "A board could be loose — make me trip over a rail track and fall."

"Don't worry about the fall, boy. It's the sudden stop at the bottom of the canyon that should concern you." Chamaco laughed, stroked his bushy beard and strode across the suspension bridge.

Arnulfo remained several steps behind him, glad Chamaco couldn't see his right hand held out, ready to grab the side railing. When he felt as if they had walked for hours, the village lights began to appear larger. Once past the swaying middle, he breathed easier and increased his speed.

"Can you read?"

Chamaco's question puzzled the young man.

"Yes, my sisters taught me. They are teachers in the school for the miners' children. I can write too."

A long silence passed between them as they walked. When Arnulfo believed no more talk would come, his friend spoke again over his shoulder.

"Garcia is jealous of you. He knows you are smart and doesn't like it."

Chamaco halted so abruptly that Arnulfo bumped into him. He turned, looked at his young friend with admiration. "You don't belong in the mines, Arnulfo Triana Benavente."

They stood on the bridge with the quiet of night surrounding them. The moon rose into a sky overflowing with stars. Arnulfo believed Chamaco was weighing his life and where fate had led him. Nothing more was said. The former bandit returned to his walk.

Stepping off the last bridge plank, Chamaco angled toward a shortcut to his shack.

"Are you hungry, Chamaco? My mother will have food cooked for me. We can share it if you wish."

Chamaco never slowed his pace. With his back to Arnulfo, he waved a hand through the air and motioned goodbye. "Another time, Indio. Right now all I want is a bath and a drink!"

The young miner listened to his friend's laughter as he faded into the night. Watching a moment longer, Arnulfo grinned and started home.

* * *

The Ojuela encampment sat atop a mountain escarpment with a wide, flat-bottomed wedge cut through its center. The smelters, massive adobe oven furnaces used since the days of Spanish rule to extract the ore, were in Mapimí, the nearest town a few miles west of the mountain.

The 'Patio' was the flat land centered between the left and right slopes, and as a man stepped off the Roebling Bridge, he could continue through the Patio and on to the Mapimí road, or turn to the shacks on the right slope. The Americans and other foreigners lived on the Patio in Colonia Américana, quarters reserved for mining administration, but the area also served as a central point for offices, the private school with American teachers for the foreigners' children, and the shafts of mines still operating within the escarpment.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Black Sun by GLENN STARKEY. Copyright © 2016 Glenn Starkey. Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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