Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  “We all need something now and then to help us forget—to give us distance,” he said, his green eyes focused on her. “Sometimes my photographs do that for me. It’s like the camera separates me from the pain. The pictures carry the burden for me, so I do not have it weighing on my heart or emotions.” He sighed, removed his arm, then laid his head back against the cushioned headrest and closed his eyes.

  Sophie wanted to ask him what weighed on his heart. Instead she looked away. Her own emotions rose in her, and she felt a tenderness growing inside after seeing him so vulnerable. But then, she realized, she needed to protect herself too. The more time she listened to Michael’s heart, the easier it was to care— something she refused to do.

  Sophie opened a letter and began reading. She needed the distraction to still the dozens of questions that filled her mind, especially her worry that by leaving Bilbao she was leaving her guardian behind.

  July 17, 1867

  Dear Jeremiah,

  Sometimes I walk to where Mateo is working, and I watch. The other women think this is foolish, but they’ve lived this same way as long as they remember. I like to watch as the coal tumbles from the chutes and falls into the wagons. It is then moved from the pithead to the sorting area. The wagons are pushed by men. They push them to where the women sort. Some of the women are widows. A few are married and trying to work beside their husbands for survival. They sort the coal by hand using a sifting screen. Two women work together. They work hard all day and have little to show for it.

  I’m amazed by the independence of the people I now live amongst. The farmers live in their own houses and eat the food grown by their own hands. All households make their own clothes and even shoes—wooden madreñas, which they form in the leisure of winter. It is hard enough working to support oneself, but recently rich men have come into the area searching for a cheap, abundant, and subservient labor force. Now these farmers work twice as hard to enhance the lives of the rich.

  Most miners do not live close to the mines, and some take an hour to travel to work. There are poor roads, no electricity, few schools, no washing facilities. The worst of all is the lack of water. I think back to the river behind my father’s house, remembering how we used to laugh and play in its current during those hot summer days.

  These are a wonderful people, I’m realizing. A people who center their lives around traditional and religious practices. That is not to say they are always friendly—they think little of outsiders. I saw this when I first arrived, but I strove to win over their hearts. And, I soon discovered, the people were easier to adjust to than the conditions of the environment.

  Here there is no water and little beauty. Perhaps that is why I find myself in the chapel of the Minas de Saus as often as I can. It is a beautiful chapel decorated with elegant paintings, altar pieces, and sculptures.

  Mateo heard there was a miners’ strike in Langreo, but he won’t tell me much about it. Perhaps he knows I would want to have our own strike. Sometimes I talk too much about men’s right to be free. My husband tires of it. He should know better. When he married me, I was in Paris for a workers’ strike. Did he think he married a quiet woman?

  I know you would have agreed that something should be done. There should be an argument against the wage reductions, against the harsh discipline for the smallest infractions, and the overtime work.

  Still, I’d rather live here without protest than not at all. Even when Mateo works long hours, he always comes home, washes up, and opens his arms to me. He’s never too tired to listen about my day and the small things I enjoy sharing. He no longer asks about America, and I no longer tell him. He understands more than anyone what I gave up to be with him, yet he doesn’t feel bad for me. My Mateo knows our love means more to me than anything America held.

  When I first moved here, the villagers would ask me about America. At first I’d tell them all the wonderful ways of my homeland, but they looked at me as if I were relating the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales. Now I simply tell them that it’s not unlike Spain, and in the deepest hearts, it is the same. People have the same hopes and dreams and desires. The only difference is that in America you can strive for them, whereas here you shove them down further and pretend they’re not there.

  I wonder what will happen when these people learn more about the outside world—when they realize it is not fairy tales that I speak of. Will they revolt? Try to change? Can things ever change here? It’s hard to imagine this world any different.

  I wish I could say something, do something. Instead, all I can do is pray for this people and this land. Pray that the outside world will take notice of their plight.

  And just think. If you, my love, hadn’t died, we would be married and living a peaceful life in America. Though I miss you, I know I am here for a purpose. Even if it is only to pray for a change, to pray for these people.

  Love, Eleanor

  Sophie didn’t notice her tears until she refolded the letter and returned it to the pages of the Bible. Taking a handkerchief from her satchel, she wiped her face and blew her nose.

  Michael opened his eyes. “Sophie, you’re crying. Are you okay?”

  “Just a sad letter.” She patted the Bible and tried to laugh at her own sentimentality. “A letter from a woman I’ve never met, who died before I was even born. Still, it feels as if I’ve found a kindred soul.”

  Michael patted her hand. “Maybe it is simply a way to help you release the emotions you have inside. You try to be so brave, you know. Sometimes I wonder how you do it.”

  “I do it by thinking of the man I love.” She looked at Michael as she said those words, but they caught in her throat.

  For though he smiled and offered her a quick kiss on her nose, Michael had no idea she thought of another as she said them.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Deion woke with a start—the face of the man he ’d killed filled his mind. The Moor had died months ago in body, but he lived strong in Deion’s imagination and dreams.

  The nightmares started once Deion returned to the front lines. It wasn’t the sound of gunfire that worried him. Or the bombing raids. It was the reality that Moors could silently infiltrate their position.

  In Jarama the Moors had attacked with force, but Deion had heard other stories—more recent stories—that trickled down the lines. Rumors of soldiers waking to find all their comrades dead, throats slit and bodies mutilated. Some said these were only stories, but Deion didn’t doubt they were true.

  Alex hunkered down at Deion’s left side, a Swiss named Weiner on his other. Both snored softly, almost in unison, and Deion wiggled his shoulders, wishing he could adjust his position without waking them. Suddenly he heard footsteps and spotted a figure running toward them. Snatching up his rifle, Deion was on his feet.

  “Deion? For goodness’ sake, what are you standing around for? Get those guys rousted. They’re lining us up—you need to move or be left.”

  Within minutes others joined the three, and Deion pushed through the crowd of soldiers to try to hear the shouted orders.

  “What’s going on?” he asked the man who seemed to be in charge.

  “We ’re moving forward—attacking.”

  As the men anxiously awaited their orders, small talk centered on other battles. They spoke of men who’d died during the months Deion recovered from his injuries and drove Sophie. They talked about attacks at Jarama, and anger filled their voices as they murmured about their losses.

  Because of the slaughter at some of these battles, battalions had joined together. The Washington group joined with the Abraham Lincolns. The British joined one of the regiments of the Fifteenth Brigade. And somewhere near them, he heard, was a group made up of the French, Slavs, and a Spanish battalion.

  “Do you remember a Scot named Ian something?” Deion asked as they waited. “I remember him from Jarama. Did he make it out okay?”

  “Made it out, but not okay,” said a short, stocky man. “His body was fine, but his
mind went. He couldn’t stop the shakes. Some say he ran away and was killed for desertion. Others say he went so loony they locked him up.”

  The man looked away, but not before Deion saw understanding in his gaze and the looks of the others. They all knew it could have just as easily been them.

  Finally a man approached—a new officer Deion hadn’t seen before. He had a high, wide forehead and large cheekbones that gave him a determined look.

  “This is our last chance at protecting Bilbao,” he said. “We ’re taking the far hill.”

  They marched, chatted, shushed one another, and talked again. Before long, they were all crouched in a vineyard, waiting for their turn to advance on a far hill. Deion was thirsty, but he knew his water had to last, so he refused to drink.

  A small group of a dozen soldiers huddled under one tree. No one took charge. If there was a plan for their formation or what they were to do on the other side, Deion didn’t know what it was. He supposed they waited until they were told to run, guns blazing.

  Finally word came down the line. They were to dig in and wait. Deion hated the uncertainty. The anticipation seemed worse than fighting. He worried whether he ’d be able to do his part, or if he ’d fail and look like a fool in front of the others. And from the looks on the faces of the other men, it seemed they too just wanted to get it over with.

  They dug as quietly as they could until they created a long trench large enough for all of them to fit inside. Deion curled his body and snuggled down tight in a hollow near an ancient olive tree. He pressed his hands to his ears, trying to ignore the cries that came from across the field.

  He thought about the bespectacled student who had recently joined their ranks. The kid looked no more than seventeen. Just a few hours ago, the boy had a look on his face that was a mix of worry and excitement. Was he now fighting for his life somewhere across the darkness?

  Lightning streaked the sky, followed by thunder a few seconds later, and Deion smelled the rain coming. His body trembled with cold. His teeth chattered so violently he was certain the clacking could be heard across enemy lines.

  Grenades burst in, pink and green under the black velvet shadow. Soon, big fat raindrops fell, and a man in the next dugout muttered feeble curses. As if that was not bad enough, a whine shrilled through the air, ending in an explosion not fifty yards from Deion’s dugout. And the rattle of a machine gun soon followed, crackling like popcorn.

  And so they passed the clockless hours of the night, waiting for their orders to fight. Instead, another voice rang through the air as morning dawned. Deion recognized it as their commander’s, though his voice wasn’t as steady and sure as it had been hours earlier.

  “Retreat! Retreat!” the officer’s voice called from somewhere behind him, and Deion didn’t have to think twice about following orders. He would live to see tomorrow. The only problem was that the Nationalist troops would spill into Bilbao by then.

  To give up the line is to give up the town, he thought as they ran.

  José rode up the ridge and glanced behind him to watch those who followed. Petra rode Erro. Pepito and his father were on two of the mares; the other two followed quietly. Behind them, Bilbao’s skyline was visible in the deep valley below. From the rumors that circulated around town, the Ring of Iron had been crushed. The campaign in the north—the Nationalists’ push to destroy the Republican stronghold—was over. And though Pepito and Juan had both insisted the invading army would let them be, José refused to take any chances. It was hard enough leaving Ramona. He just hoped the Nationalists would be as kind to the nurses as his wife believed. And he promised himself that as soon as he led his father to safety, he ’d return for her, despite the danger.

  They had left before dawn, heading into the mountains where the horses struggled up the steep, sometimes nearly vertical, hillside. The horses were bred to be showpieces, yet José took pride in what they’d accomplished. Calisto led the pack with confidence, asif he’d been a guide horse his whole life. And for some reason, with Petra on his back, Erro too behaved his best, making the trip possible. With the two stallions in the lead, the mares followed without question.

  The plan was to save the creatures, but José also knew it was the creatures who saved them. Without the horses, the trip would be impossible for the two old men and the girl. Without the horses, their only choice would have been to submit to the Nationalists and beg for mercy.

  By this afternoon, José expected that the soldiers would march into Bilbao’s Plaza de Arenal on the bank of the Nervión. The Republicans had evacuated the city without a fight, leaving the people to meet the horror of the arriving enemy troops.

  From José’s position on the hill, he saw the Nationalists erecting pontoon causeways to take the place of bridges blown apart by retreating troops. He only hoped Sophie had escaped in time.

  He ’d done all he could for his friend. Petra had done her job well; not only had she brought him the photographs, she had done so without question, trusting his decisions and motivations.

  Together they’d passed the photos to Lester. And though Lester seemed out of sorts, José did not stay around to find out what had unnerved him. Then the explosions of the bridges started, and José knew time was short. With no rest for him, Petra, or the horses, they raced to the stables, got the others, and headed for the hills.

  Nearing the top of a wooded plateau, José slowed his horse. From Calisto’s pricked ears, he knew they weren’t alone in these mountains. He climbed from the stallion’s back and waited for the others to approach.

  With tired eyes, Petra looked down at him from her mount. “Is everything okay?”

  “We’ll soon find out. All of you, stay here. There must be soldiers in these hills, and we don’t want to come upon them by surprise.”

  While they waited in the trees, José walked a half mile toward a clearing. As he neared the edge of a cliff, he fell to his knees and crept closer to the edge, gazing down the hill. Then he sucked in a breath, noting the sea of troops below. There had to be a thousand of them in the valley where he and Calisto had frolicked just a few weeks before.

  He pulled the binoculars from his jacket pocket and took a closer look. Before the troops stood a priest wearing a scarlet beret with a purple tassel. If José was not a religious man, he thought, he would find that the vividness of those made the man a perfect target. He patted the holster that held his pistol. It was an ornamental piece—a gift from a friend. But who knew when it would come in handy in these hills?

  The talking of the troops ceased as the priest began mass. In the silence his voice carried to José’s ears. “¡Contra Dios no se puede luchar!” he cried. Against God it is impossible to fight.

  José crawled backward until he was out of sight, then stood and headed toward the others, mumbling to himself. “So they have God on their side, do they?”

  He thought of the people in Guernica and those in Bilbao too. Did the destruction they faced mean that God had turned His back on them? Or . . . like the numerous times in the Bible when His people strayed, was God only trying to get their attention?

  Or perhaps their pain was due to the sins of others—men who hungered for power and control. José believed that was true above all else.

  He found Petra, Pepito, and Juan sitting on the ground, eating lunch and chatting, unaware that less than a mile away the enemy prepared to descend upon the coastal valley. The soldiers would never take this high path where they rested, but still José didn’t want to wait too long. He took his water skin from Calisto’s saddlebag and took a long drink, curious at what Petra and the men could be talking about with such serious expressions on their faces.

  “Edelberto’s family fled, I know, to save their lives. It is amazing his cousin Michael still remains.” Petra leaned close to the men, as if fearful of speaking too loudly. “But I do not understand . . . why did the people target the rich in the first place? Wasn’t it these landowners who provided for them all these years?”
<
br />   Juan cleared his throat. “There has always been strife between the dons and the people. When Don Garcia bought tractors to help with the harvest, the people tore them apart. Then, when their demands for better wages weren’t heeded, they refused to gather the harvest. Much was lost that year.”

  “I’ve seen men burn the barley in the fields,” Pepito added. “Some of the men were arrested and beaten.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Petra said. “Wouldn’t a tractor have made their lives easier?”

  José eyed her curiously. He ’d known since he first met her that she was more than an ordinary peasant girl . . . but by the way she talked . . . he could see the truth.

  “Yes, Petra,” José said, interrupting. “But one tractor driven by one man can do the job of ten men. How will the other nine feed their families? It is hard enough for them to care for their wives and children as it is. The killings were wrong, but the people simply lashed out against the oppression that has for so long burdened them.”

  He squatted before her and held out his hand.

  She looked to the bread in her hand, refusing to meet his gaze. Then she broke off a piece and handed it to him.

  “The killing was wrong,” he said again. “Surely they could have found another way.” Then he stood and took a bite of the bread. “But these are things we can discuss as we travel. We still have a long way to go.”

  “And just where is our destination?” Juan asked, rising with slow movements.

  “Away.” José looked into the distant hills, wishing he could offer more than that. “Far from the troops and the fighting. To a high mountain pasture somewhere, I hope, where we can sit out the war.”

  He looked at his father, realizing his words did not satisfy. His father, more than the other two, no doubt had questions about where they’d find shelter and replenish their food supply, but for those things José had no answer. Finding safety was all he had to offer. He had to trust that after this first thing was accomplished, more answers would come.