He remembered the way she had looked asleep that morning—her eyelids still red and swollen from the tears he had made her shed, her hair lying in tangled strands across her face. He hadn’t had time to write her a longer note—he hadn’t felt in the mood for lengthy explanations—the probable tears and recriminations he would have had to face if she was awake. So he had left her, still sleeping—and now he couldn’t get her out of his mind.
The past was catching up with a vengeance, Steve thought grimly. First hers and now his. He thought of that prison, and felt a pang of pure hatred flash through his mind as he wondered if the effeminate young doctor was still there. What had been his name? Cabrillo—yes, that was it. Doctor Cabrillo. He rolled the name on his tongue like a foul, bitter taste, and felt all his old scars begin to ache again. The leg and wrist irons, digging deeply into flesh, almost to the bone—solitary, and the slow corrosion of the mind while the body continued its blind functioning. That morning when they had taken him out into the sun, the indescribably horrifying feeling when the ants had begun to crawl curiously over his shrinking flesh—the doctor’s shiny boot, digging into his ribs—and yet, he had survived. He was here, riding back of his own free will. What an unpredictable irony!
They were suddenly caught in a blinding rain shower as they worked their way farther into the remoteness of the mountain called Malinche. The trails they followed—little more than animal tracks—became slippery and they were thankful for the shelter of the closely growing piñon trees. Still, they were too close to their destination to pause. They kept going, slowly and cautiously, their horses picking the way.
The cold was biting, through their soaking wet uniforms. Steve, like the others, had turned the collar of his uniform up and pulled down the visor of his forage cap to protect his eyes from the cold needles of rain.
Adelante! Keep moving! The rain dripped from the pine needles and made a soft soughing noise as it filtered through the trees. Somewhere to the right of them came the sound of rushing water down a steep barranca. Water going down to join the river, ending in the sea. What would happen when they reached the prison? Would their carefully planned bluff work?
Steve shot a quick upward glance through drooping branches to see if there was any chance that the rain would stop, but the sky looked steel gray, menacing. What a hell of a way to fight a war! But then, was there anything else he was good for? He realized with what was almost shock that he had spent over a third of his life doing just this. Travelling—moving—sometimes the hunter and sometimes the hunted. Nights spent sleeping on the ground or in tawdry hotels and barrooms. Faceless, innumerable women—chance encounters with predictable, inevitable endings. Always brief, always meaningless in retrospect. Except for one. He remembered, far too vividly, riding with her in the rain, her body held before him in the saddle, curve of her back pressed closely against him. Heat of her body under one, thin blanket. Taste of the rain and salt tears in his mouth.
How he had made her suffer! And had delivered her, without his realizing it, into even worse suffering and degradation. Yet, she had been strong enough to live through it all—stronger, in her way, than he had been. Her scars were deeper than his, even if they didn’t show; and she wouldn’t let them show—she was too proud! She had too much pride, she was too strong. He had tried to make her crawl to him, begging his forgiveness, and she had refused to do so.
The only thing she would admit to was her love for him, and he had thrown it back in her face, too much of a coward to admit the truth—that he was making her pay for the very crimes that had been committed against her. He had acted like an adolescent in the throes of his first romantic love; not being able to countenance the fact that his idol had suddenly developed dirty feet and a tarnished halo! After all, what did it really matter? She had been with other men, had used her body as an instrument for survival. Would he really have preferred to hear that she had killed herself instead? Could he have borne the thought?
She had begged him for understanding, and he had given her rejection. Perdición! he swore to himself, suddenly remembering the heartbroken look on her face. I call myself a civilized man, and I’ve acted worse than any illiterate savage! How many women have I slept with, merely to satisfy a passing appetite? Didn’t I first take her for the same reason? He thought about Concepción—installed as his mistress when Ginny turned up. And she had fought for him, his little termagant! He had a sudden wild, crazy longing to feel her arms go around his neck, to hold her against him and kiss her endlessly. “Ginny—Ginny—sangre di me corazon, amada mia….” Why had it always seemed so difficult to say the words to her?
The rain had lost some of its force and came down like a fine cobweb, a mist of moisture. He turned back to look at the miserable-looking men who followed him.
“Come on—we have to keep moving—it’s only a little way now…” They rode out of a narrow barranca, and started down the mountainside, the trees soon giving way to shale and rocks. Another rise, another descent, and they would see the reddish stone walls of the prison.
Steve left five of his men spread out as much as possible under cover and took the remaining twenty with him, riding boldly over the stretch of open ground that led to the massive gates.
“I think this is the most uncomfortable experience of my life,” Manolo said out of the corner of his mouth as they came abreast of the gates.
They were challenged from one of the watchtowers when they had come close enough for their uniforms to be seen.
“Alto! Quien es?”
Steve found he had to swallow hard before he could answer. He made his voice as hard and commanding as possible.
“Capitan Alvarado—Ninth Cavalry Regiment, serving under General Díaz. I have business to discuss with your commander—better open up quickly, my men and I are very wet.”
There was a short pause, in which they could almost sense the surprise and consternation of the men who had just hailed them.
Finally, another voice called down, a note of doubt in it.
“General Díaz, you say? You’re Juaristas?”
“General Díaz serves our presidente, Don Benito Juarez. We represent the government of Mexico, señores! What’s the meaning of this delay?”
“Just a minute—you will have to wait just a minute until we tell our capitan….”
They waited, the seconds seeming interminable. Easy targets—Steve prayed that the men hidden behind them would be able to cover them with their fire in case they had to beat a quick retreat. But at this range, how many of them would live to gain cover?
The gates suddenly swung open, creaking on their heavy hinges. A man in the uniform of a captain in the Imperialist army was revealed in the opening, and then as the gates opened wider, the men who formed a tight semi-circle behind him, rifles at the ready.
“You may enter, Señores, but you will have to explain…”
Steve allowed a tight smile to touch his lips as he gave his counterpart the formality of a salute.
“Do we have to explain the obvious, Señor Capitan? The war is all but over. We have just taken Puebla, and the whole of this province is under the command of our Supreme Commander—General Porfirio Díaz.”
He kept the faintly sarcastic smile, hoping fervently that the men in this isolated garrison had not had any news recently. He could feel the tension in the men who sat their horses so rigidly straight behind him, and his own muscles ached with the strain.
“But what are you doing here, Capitan?” The commander of the small garrison kept pulling at his mustache nervously, as if he was uncertain what to do next.
“It is my duty to inform you, sir, that this place is now the property of the state—you understand the policy of the government with regard to the holdings of certain people who conspired against the state?” As if to take some of the sternness from his words, Steve gave a small shrug. “As for you and your men, Capitan, you are soldiers, are you not? I’ve been given orders that there are to be no reprisals aga
inst loyal soldiers who fought for the last government, and that you are to be given the chance to transfer your allegiance to the present and rightful government of Mexico.” He added with a wry smile, “To tell the truth, Capitan, neither my men nor I have the stomach for this kind of duty—it’s too isolated out here, and we’re in a hurry to join the march on Mexico City.”
“On Mexico City you say? The war’s progressed so far?”
“You can hardly call it a war any longer, I’m glad to say. It’s merely a rout, now! Our presidente is in San Luis Potosí—as soon as Queretaro is taken he’ll travel to Mexico City for his formal inauguration. Do you still have any doubts as to where your loyalties lie, Señor Capitan?”
For the length, possibly, of a couple of heartbeats the nervously scowling captain seemed to hesitate, and then suddenly he drew himself up, clicking his heels together as he bowed formally.
“I am Capitan Juan Figueroa, at your service, Capitan. You must understand my hesitation—as you pointed out, we are rather isolated up here, my men and I. But believe me, as soldiers, we live to serve the government of Mexico!”
Steve saluted shortly.
“Capitan Esteban Alvarado. And just to make sure we understand each other and there are no more doubts, would you like to see my credentials, sir?”
He thought he saw a gleam of relief in the other man’s eyes as he took the stiffly crackling paper that Steve handed to him, drawing it carefully out of its oilskin covering.
“You will observe, Capitan Figueroa, that it bears not only the signature of General Díaz but of our presidente himself. I hope it makes my instructions and my mission here quite clear?”
Still scrutinizing the amazing document carefully, Captain Figueroa answered almost absentmindedly, still tugging at his mustache.
“Oh, yes—certainly, Capitan!”
There was no mistaking its genuineness, of course. General Díaz’s bold, flourishing scrawl—the smaller, neater penmanship of Don Benito Juarez himself. Yes, it was all too real—what they had all feared had happened, and in a way it was a relief to have it done with! The prison—the silver—he had begun to feel it was far too great a responsibility. Now he could hand it all over without the loss of either his honor or his life!
Watching the changing play of expressions on Captain Figueroa’s face, Steve let some of the tenseness leave him as he began to relax imperceptibly.
“We’ve made it! He’s going to hand it all over without a fuss!” He felt a surge of triumph, of relief, go through him as the captain looked up, folding the document carefully as he handed it back to Steve.
“You must excuse my lack of manners, Capitan Alvarado! Please to dismount, you and your men—perhaps you would care for a drink in my quarters before we get on with our—er—business transaction?”
Figueroa cleared his throat rather awkwardly as he continued, with a dry smile, “After all, Capitan, you are now technically in charge here—my men and I will be happy to cooperate in carrying out whatever orders you may have.”
“Thank you Capitan. I must admit, it’s been rather a long and tiring ride up here. I will make sure that General Díaz hears of your—excellent cooperation!”
52
By the time they had shared a few bottles of wine and partaken of a hastily prepared hot meal—the first Steve and his men had tasted for almost a week—the atmosphere had lightened and the tensions relaxed.
The soldiers, Juarist and ex-imperialist, fraternized in a friendly fashion, and there had even been some laughter when the five men Steve had left on the hillside to cover their possible return had joined them.
“So! Your capitan takes no chances, does he?”
“Not our capitan!” Manolo boasted. “That’s why General Díaz sent him on this mission. He’s a good leader—we’ve fought together for a long time.”
The atmosphere in Captain Figueroa’s quarters was just as expansive. A mestizo himself, the dark-featured capitan still held a kind of grudging respect for the criollos, who had been the ruling class in Mexico for so many centuries. He found that this young Capitan Alvarado, however, in spite of his lisping Castilian Spanish, was no chocolate-box soldier like so many other creole officers. Alvarado had seen a lot of fighting—he had the look of a fighting man, with his rather hard, reckless brown face and blazing blue eyes. He even listened sympathetically to the story of all the problems Captain Figueroa had had to face since he had been here—his feeling of humiliation at being appointed to a prison, of all places!
“Perhaps we can arrange for a transfer—I’ll speak to General Díaz myself,” Steve promised.
“You know the general, then? Personally?”
“His brother, Colonel Felix Díaz, was quite a good friend of mine many years ago,” Steve said casually, lighting a cigar. “And as for General Díaz, yes, I’ve met him, several times. He’s the kind of man you’d be proud to serve—the finest general in all the world!”
Captain Figueroa mentioned diffidently that he felt sure he himself would be proud to serve such a man.
If he wondered why Capitan Alvarado did not remove his wet tunic, and had removed only his forage cap, he was too polite to mention the fact. Perhaps General Díaz insisted on strict formality on the part of his officers.
Asking searching questions as if he really knew nothing about the prison or the operation of the silver mines, Steve discovered that there hadn’t been many changes made since he’d been here. The silver was still kept in a tightly secured strong room underground, with soldiers guarding the door in shifts. Work in the mines had slowed down somewhat since the war had come so close—the perilous state of the roads leading down to Vera Cruz had made sending any shipments down there too risky.
As for the prison itself—Captain Figueroa gave an expressive shrug. He did not interfere too much in the running of it—he had only been here a few months himself. There was a mine manager who ran everything “down there” and saw to it that the guards were paid. The soldiers were here mainly to keep off bandidos and other marauders who might be tempted by so much silver lying in a strong room.
And the conditions in the prison? Again the captain shrugged. They were the same in most prisons, he expected. He did not know for what offenses the men were here, but he had been informed that they were some of the worst felons in the country, most of them sentenced to life imprisonment or having their sentences of death commuted to life so that they could make up to society for their crimes.
“You mean they’re all thieves and murderers?” Steve persisted, wondering why he did.
“I am forced to believe so, Capitan. They’re certainly a wretched lot. But you don’t have to worry about going down there—they’re all locked up in their cells by this time. And in any case the guards always have the situation well in hand—they have their ways of taking care of recalcitrant troublemakers.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “You don’t mean to say you allow any really bad treatment here? Surely the guards don’t resort to torture?”
“Capitan Alvarado—you know how it is! Those guards—some of them are very hard, brutal men. I was given orders when I was transferred here not to interfere with the way they keep discipline. It’s the only way, I suppose—some of those men are worse than animals.”
“I suppose the orders came because of the influence of Don Hilarion Delgado in high places,” Steve said sarcastically. “He was the former owner of the mine, you know.”
He saw the curious look that Captain Figueroa gave him and decided that he should curb his tongue. Unfortunately, he was not here to release any prisoners but to get as much silver as he and his men could carry and get out. The general’s instructions had been strict.
“There will be time later, Capitan Alvarado. But Mexico must be taken first. Those men, if they’ve survived this long, will manage to survive for a few more weeks.”
Seeing the practicality of the General’s viewpoint, Steve had not pressed the issue. Now, he was almost sorry.
It felt strange to be descending the steep, winding steps that led down into the mines again. A surly, taciturn guard opened the heavy wooden trapdoor for them. The manager, who had objected strenuously to what he termed “theft and invasion of private property” had been locked in his quarters under armed guard. Steve, who remembered occasional glimpses of the red-whiskered man, was glad he hadn’t had to face him again. As it was, he kept the visor of his cap pulled low and hoped his clean-shaven face and pure Castilian Spanish would keep any of the guards from recognizing him.
The trapdoor thudded shut, enclosing him in the familiar darkness. The lanterns carried by the guards who led the way, and by Captain Figueroa himself, gave the impression of hell.
Steve heard Manolo, who followed close behind him, whisper “Dios mio! Am I glad I don’t have to live down here!” An involuntary shudder that he passed off as a shrug ran through his body as his nostrils were suddenly assailed by the same close atmosphere, the ineradicable prison stench that he remembered only too well. It was all he could do to continue taking the steps steadily, one by one, reminding himself to be careful, controlling the impulse to retch.
It was the irrepressible Manolo who commented, “Faugh! Does it always stink like this down here?”
Captain Figueroa grimaced apologetically. “I’m afraid so. If you have a handkerchief to cover your nostrils it might help.”
He produced one himself and continued, as Steve followed suit, “One gets used to it, after a while. It’s these torches, you see—and of course the dirty bodies, crowded too closely together…”
They were walking down a familiar, narrow passageway with the creosote torches flickering in brackets on the walls. One of the guards who preceded them held his lantern up high so that they could get a better view of the tiny, barred cubicles they called cells. They could hear the rattle and clank of chains as the men inside stirred uneasily. A steady, animal moaning came from somewhere up ahead. The punishment cell? The pitch-dark pit they called “solitary” where a man could feel his body and mind slowly rot in that impenetrable blackness?
Sweet Savage Love Page 65