For all Skye knew, a Texan might be as exotic as a macaw or an orangutan or a rhino to them all. A shirtless little boy picked up some dried offal and flung it, but a woman’s voice halted him in his tracks. These were civil people.
Skye cringed at their gaze. Ever since he had entered this nation, he had been paraded about, subjected to stares, made to endure the most humiliating of circumstances. Were not those gazes punishment enough for any man? But there was more to come, darker, crueller, the special fate of some in this nation that celebrated death, welcomed it with flowers, let itself be riveted by it, and looked for any excuse to experience it, playing it toward a climax of terror. A gentle people with a violent lust.
The old peon, whose name Skye had never discovered, began chattering with the corporal, and Skye understood at once: the man wanted his caretta and hogs back. The corporal nodded. The peasant would receive his property in moments, as soon as this enemy of the republic had been deposited at the palacio. The pigs stirred restlessly, knowing somehow that they were as doomed as the mortal between them. They squealed and grunted, and Skye thought they were even groaning. This was the end of the road for the three penned by walls of stakes rising from the cart bed.
Then, suddenly, the entourage burst into the plaza, and the corporal steered them straight to the low building commanding one whole side. Skye saw that ebony rig there, and knew Childress and the women were present, though he did not see them. He could not imagine what they could do: even if all three were armed to the teeth, they could do nothing. If Childress intended to get Skye out of the fix he had put Skye into, Skye had not an inkling of any way to do it.
The carreta creaked to a halt and the guards formed up at either side of the cart. The corporal lifted the rear stakes and beckoned Skye to crawl out. A silent gawking crowd pressed close now, eager to see the man who was now alive and soon would be nothing but a corpse.
They escorted him into a gloomy barracks, where a dozen soldiers had collected.
One spoke some English:
“There,” he said, pointing at a pail. “Clean up. Then get into this.” He gestured toward a bunk where some unbleached cotton clothing lay. “The gobernador, he hate smells. He got nose bigger than you, even.”
“That would be a big nose,” Skye said.
These men weren’t abusive, neither did they push him around. They were gentle, at least for now.
He turned his back on them, pulled off his fouled shirt and pants, and washed. He doubted that he would get rid of the pig smell for the rest of his life … which might last one hour, maybe two.
He eyed the barracks furtively looking for miracles, loaded cannon, conspirators, rebels, hideyholes, anything. But there were no miracles in that whitewashed room. He tied the cord that held up his loose-fitting pantalones, and faced them. He felt himself tremble.
Then he waited. He sat, taut, waiting, waiting. He tried to pray, he tried to think of Victoria, of London, of blue skies. But he could think of nothing; there was only the endless waiting, and the desperate hope that he might be freed. What did they have against him?
He would make his plea, tell the exact truth, look for every chance, let nothing escape him. For he was not yet dead and as long as life pulsed in him, there was hope. But not much hope. He could scarcely fathom just how he had arrived at this place, to face this fate, when all he wanted was to free two children in bondage, and leave Mexico just as it was, a peaceful and friendly country for the most part.
The corporal nodded, and now the blue-clad soldiers formed lines to either side of him, and at a command they escorted him, boxed among them, through an interior door, into an antechamber, down a hall, and into a public room of some sort, high-ceilinged, with hand-hewn vigas supporting its roof. A crowd had collected there, and the air felt choking even though the shutters were all opened. Skye had the sense that not one more person could crowd into the chamber. They watched him silently, as the soldiers cleared a way to a dais.
On the dais there stood a tall man with hooded eyes and an air of expectancy, in a fancy blue uniform, the muted light glowing from the golden thread that decorated his epaulets and sleeves. The governor, no doubt. Armijo. The man who would turn thumbs-up … or thumbs-down.
The soldiers led him there, to a place before the governor, but lower, so that the governor looked downward, as if from some great height. The man smiled, nodded to a black-clad balding clerk, who rose.
The crowd hushed. At the rear stood Childress all got up in his new black suit, and Victoria, and Standing Alone. He stared at them, loathing Childress for all of this, loving his wife and their friend, seeing them for perhaps the last time, all the feeling within him caught in his throat. Victoria nodded, ever so slightly, but in the faint movement of her head lay a universe of yearning. For whatever reason, she could give him no more, and he did not question it.
The clerk addressed him: “The governor of the province of Nuevo Mexico has asked me to translate. I will truly tell you his every word, and tell him all that you say. He informs you that you are charged with spying for the army of the rebels of Texas, and that you may respond now.”
Skye scarcely had time to think: all this was occurring with such breathtaking speed that he hadn’t given much thought to anything.
He tried to speak, but his throat froze up; everything within him died in his mouth. He was not far from tears. Then from some far corner of his heart, he remembered a line from a psalm: “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for Thou art with me …”
The terror lifted. He turned to the governor, who was watching him as a raptor watches a rabbit.
“I do not know why I am here,” he said slowly, letting the clerk translate into sibilant Spanish. “I came here to your good nation peacefully. I am told I am a spy. I am not. I am not a Texan either. My purpose was to find two children of the Cheyenne tribe, and if possible, return them to their grieving mother. That is all …” He started to say he had come with his wife, but thought better of it; the statement might endanger her and Standing Alone. “I swear before God that I came here in peace; that I have no connection with the Texans, and have never been in contact with them.”
He waited as the clerk droned on. The entire city, it seemed, was crammed into that tight space, and was listening closely.
“I ask you, what is your evidence? Where are your witnesses? Who accuses me? Do I have the right to confront my accuser?” He refrained from glancing at Childress with all that. “Where is a lawyer to defend me? What are the laws that I face? Can you show me any evidence? Any at all?”
He waited until that had been conveyed.
“I ask for a real trial; present your evidence; let me rebut it. Judge the case on its merit, and on its truths. I am innocent.”
That was all he had to say.
They waited for more but he shook his head.
Armijo smiled and began speaking. “The gobernador, he says that the evidence is sealed and comes from a reliable informant in Taos, and without rebuttal, he finds you guilty as charged. But because there is some small chance that you are innocent, he will put the matter into the hands of God. He will count out nine black beans, and one white bean, and place them into this earthen pot. You will draw a bean. If it is white, you shall live.”
That excited the crowd, which stood tautly. Skye knew how they were thinking. They were already seeing the execution, and feeling it in their bellies. They were hearing the snare drums, watching the condemned walk to the wall, listening to the padre recite a prayer, watching the jefe tie a blindfold over the eyes of the condemned, watching with morbid delight as the condemned was tied to a post before the wall, the man who was now alive, but in seconds would know nothing at all; knew the words that would come, once the soldiers lined up with their good clean rifles, and the command came … fire!
Yes, it was there in their faces, the swift intakes of air, the sweat, the eagerness, the fine, bright horror, the thrill that
swirled through them all like a snake.
Slowly, the governor counted out the nine black beans and the white bean, showed them to all, and dropped them into the pot. Then he nodded.
But Skye stood still. “I will not participate in the travesty of justice. If I am to die, let the blood be on his hands, not on mine.”
The clerk translated the response: “Draw a bean, or face the firing squad. If you are innocent, God will protect you.”
Skye shook his head. So it had come down to that.
“If you will not, then I will,” Armijo said.
Skye stared, refusing the participate in his own doom.
The crowd tensed. Armijo waited.
Then the governor reached into the pot.
thirty-nine
Skye stared at Armijo’s nose as the man’s hand lowered into the tawny earthen pot. He could not look at the man’s hand.
“Don Manuel!”
The voice was familiar. The governor paused. Childress stepped forward, pushing his way to the front of the rapt crowd. A long dialogue ensued and Skye understood none of it. But strangely, Childress kept pointing at the monkey, and Armijo kept examining the monkey, as if Fate were somehow connected with the simian.
Skye felt his knees buckle. There was only so much a man could endure.
Then, finally, the governor nodded to the black-clad clerk who had translated for Skye. The clerk gestured toward Childress. “That hombre is a high official of the government of England; I don’t quite know his title. That ape of his is a prodigy. What this Englishman said is this: Your Excellency, you must not take into your hands the will of God. Only a poor dumb creature like this monkey of mine should draw the bean. He does that all the time, reaches into things and pulls them out. Let him do it, and then the will of God will truly be known. And the governor, he says, well, he doesn’t like that, but maybe it is best; the blood of a man will not be upon him but upon the monkey. And so it is to be.”
Skye gripped himself. He was in the hands of that miserable little spider monkey. His life was in the monkey’s hands. Well, no; his life was already over. Nine black beans, one white. The monkey would make no difference. This was nothing but another small entertainment for the Mexicans, and they would soon be calling Shine the Death Monkey.
Skye nodded. The mode by which he was to be condemned to death, by monkey paw or human, did not matter.
And with that, the clerk stepped back and Childress led the monkey by the hand. It jumped up to the table where the clay pot rested malignantly, its earthen belly filled with death and life.
Now the silence deepened into unbearable tautness.
“Fetch,” said Childress.
The monkey peered in, rattled the beans, battered the sides of the pot until it rocked on the table, thumped and hammered, a living thing as the monkey’s paw pillaged its interior. And then, slowly, the monkey lifted its paw and held it open for all to see.
A white bean.
Skye stared, mesmerized. The monkey held the bean high. White, white, no mistake.
Armijo stared at the monkey, stared hard at Childress, stared hard at Skye, stared bleakly at the women with Childress.
Skye felt wobbly, faint, and caught himself before he fell to the floor.
“Miragro,” breathed the clerk. Miracle.
The monkey chittered and grinned and licked the bean.
Governor Armijo held out a hand, and the monkey dutifully deposited the bean into the governor’s hand. He inspected it, peered into the pot, squinted darkly at Childress, and finally nodded.
“Ah, señor, he says, so be it. God above has spoken. You are free.”
But Armijo was still muttering.
“He says, Señor Skye, that if you are guilty, you will be found out and executed without a trial, so that no monkey can conspire against the justice of the Republic of Mexico.”
Skye nodded. “Tell him justice was done. That’s all I have to say.”
“Ah, senor, I will say so.”
The crowd didn’t drift apart; on the contrary, people gathered around Skye, touching him, this man saved from death. One woman kissed the sleeve of his rough shirt, and then made the sign of the cross.
But Armijo stared, first at Skye, then at Childress, and at the monkey.
Childress pushed forward, the women trailing.
“My dear sir, let me introduce myself: Sir Arthur Childress, first baronet of Wiltshire, and an emissary of the queen. Let me congratulate you on your good fortune, Sah.”
Skye was speechless. The clerk hovered closely, registering every word. It would soon be filtered into Armijo’s ear in another tongue.
“I wish to introduce you to two ladies traveling with me, their highnesses the queens of Zanzibar and Sheba. I am viceroy of Ceylon and Andaman Islands, looking for investment opportunities in this magnificent land.”
“The monkey saved me.”
“No, my good sir, it was the will of God.”
Skye supposed he should be grateful, but the bitterness at having been betrayed did not leave him so swiftly.
“I will be on my way, sir.”
“I hear some England in your voice, Sah.”
“London.”
“I thought so! A fellow subject!”
“I am no one’s subject.”
Childress looked astonished.
Skye moved away, not wanting any more to do with Childress.
“Wait, Sah, how about some tea, eh?”
“Some other time.” Maybe Childress thought he was acting, for the benefit of the watchful governor, but Skye had no intention of rubbing shoulders with Childress again. There would be no more deadly accusations, or rescue by means of a clever monkey.
He pushed through the gawking people and out the door. No one stayed him. He sucked air into his lungs and surveyed the deserted plaza. His knees were close to buckling. People still swirled around him, pointing, whispering, the man who had escaped death, but he ignored them.
He found Victoria staring at him, and he nodded. There were tears in her eyes. Somehow, they would need to unite, but not now; not for this crowd to witness. He saw Standing Alone there too, and there were tears in her eyes. They simply stood in the warm sun, under the free blue heavens, and stared at him, and he stared back, shaken to the core.
Childress was smart enough to stay away. Skye was ready to punch him in his fat gut.
A Mexican approached him: “Come with me, sir,” he said in flawless English.
Skye did.
The thin, handsome man, with a hawk’s nose and a raptor’s air about him, led him into a handsome mercantile on the south side of the plaza, built entirely of wood rather than adobe, and well stocked with manufactured goods that plainly came from afar.
“Manuel Alvarez, United States consul. I am a Spaniard, actually, not a Mexican.”
Skye shook the man’s hand. “Mister Skye, sir. Formerly a subject of Great Britain.”
“And?”
“And now a man without a country.”
“You must wonder why I’ve asked you to come here.” He led Skye toward a large and cluttered desk in an elevated cubicle in the center of the store. “Here,” he said, handing Skye a note.
It read:
Steer clear. Shine will fetch you. We are working on plans. I have asked Alvarez to help you. He has seen this.
It was unsigned.
“I don’t know what it means, Mister Skye, but I will assist if I can.”
“Is there anyone who needs labor?”
He surveyed Skye, who remained clad in the soldiers’ castoffs. “You have no means, eh?”
“None.”
“What did you do before you came here?”
“I was employed at Bent’s Fort.”
“Bent! He is a great friend of mine.” Alvarez paused. “You are on good terms?”
“Yes, sir.”
The merchant seemed to be coming to some conclusion. “I suppose you could pick out your necessaries, and I could send
the bill to William. Would he honor it, and would you repay him with labor or by whatever your means?”
Skye nodded, too exhausted to talk. He was so tired from his scrape with death that he couldn’t speak.
“Help yourself, Mister Skye.”
‘Thank you.” But Skye lacked even the strength to shop, and slumped into a chair.
Alvarez took one look at him and trotted off, leaving Skye to gather his strength. When the consul did return, it was with a steaming pot of tea and a cup.
“You English need your spot of tea,” he said, pouring into the cup. The smoky pungence of Oolong filled the raised office that overlooked the whole floor.
Skye sipped, and nodded to Alvarez.
“Mister Skye, if you’re not occupied, perhaps you will join my wife and me for supper. We follow the custom of our old country, and eat rather late by your standards. Around nine. When the bells of La Parroquia ring at sundown, that’ll be vespers, and you just show up here after that. We’re upstairs.”
“That’s a great kindness.”
“No, not really; I want to get your story. You interest me.”
An hour later, wearing a blue ready-made shirt and gray twill woolen pants and some squeaking ready-made shoes that didn’t fit well, Skye left the emporium.
He wandered aimlessly, still reeling, and found himself drifting along an alley.
There, before a butcher shop just off a corner of the plaza, hung the pink, fly-specked carcasses of two small hogs.
forty
Jean Lafitte Childress took a swift inventory: he had nothing except time. Now that Skye was safe, matters weren’t so urgent. He could go about his next steps without feeling the pressure that had harried him from Taos to Santa Fe in time to halt an execution.
The most urgent business was the trotters, which were drooping in their harness, played out by the hard trip and lack of feed. That posed a problem: that Taos seamstress and a few purchases en route to Santa Fe had cleaned him out; he didn’t have a peso to pay for their care, and he knew there wouldn’t be a blade of pasture grass within miles of this busy town.
The Deliverance Page 21