Steve felt as though he could hardly breathe. Only Captain Figueroa’s voice brought him sharply back to reality.
“Capitan Alvarado—are you all right? Forgive me for asking, but this place has a way of affecting newcomers. I felt the same way, the first time they brought me down here to inspect the mines.”
Forget it! Steve told himself. Walk past the cells—ignore the chained beasts in there—pretend it doesn’t affect you in the least. They’ll all be new faces anyhow—if one could recognize a face under the matted beards. Who could last more than six months down here?
One of the guards, a man Steve recognized with hatred, was pointing out some of the diggings with the handle of his coiled up whip. Enrique had been quick to use it too—he was one of those who really enjoyed his work. Pablo—the dark, squat man there, with the beady eyes—had preferred using his fists on the manacled men.
Captain Figueroa was doing most of the explaining and Steve forced himself to ask intelligent, interested questions.
This shaft produced so many ounces of silver per day. The quota was never less—the guards saw to that. Now this other shaft over here—it was comparatively new. They had struck a really rich vein of ore—over a pound of the stuff in three days, wasn’t that amazing?
How many lashes on how many bleeding backs to produce that much ore? How many deaths for each ounce of pure silver after it had been purified? Dios—curse his weakness, but he actually felt sick in here. How long had this lot lived away from the sun? How long did it take to turn a man into a creature like a mole, eyes cowering from the light? Remembering the lice that used to crawl all over them, Steve felt his armpits begin to itch. He broke out into a sudden bath of sweat, in spite of the bitter cold down here.
Captain Figueroa was asking him a question, he had to bring his mind back to reality with an effort.
“What are we to do about all this now? Do you still want the same quota produced each day, or should we slow up until we can be sure of getting the shipments through safely?”
He kept his voice steady. “I think you should have them slow down. I’ll be giving you a receipt for the silver we take with us, of course, but as for later shipments—well, we’ll have to see what El Presidente decides to do. In the meantime—” his voice hardened, “—it’s only a suggestion, you understand, Captain Figueroa, you’re still in charge here, but I hope there are enough cells up there in which to put these men. The conditions down here are hardly human, even for such hardened criminals as these must be.”
“But Capitan!” one of the guards began furiously, and Captain Figueroa snapped, “You heard! I’ll have my soldiers help clean the cells overlooking the courtyard.”
They kept walking—and he thought how good it felt to walk—to take long strides instead of having to shuffle.
The moaning they had heard earlier seemed to have intensified. One of the guards banged threateningly on the black, closed trapdoor set into the ground at the blank end of the passage they had followed.
“Shut up, you filth, or I’ll really fix you good this time!”
“That’s the punishment cell,” Captain Figueroa whispered. “Only the worst troublemakers, the really stubborn ones, get put in there.”
I know, Steve thought. God, yes! I remember! Did I sound like that? An animal in pain, screaming his guts out—sounds of your own screams bouncing back off the walls, raking cruelly over eardrums.
Unable to control the impulse, Steve said suddenly, “How can you stand that racket? The man sounds as if he’s in real agony. In the army we’d get him to a hospital or shoot him to put him out of his misery if we couldn’t. Don’t you have a doctor around here?”
Behind him, he heard Manolo and another of his own men mutter angrily. The guard who had banged on the trapdoor turned around with what was almost a sneer in his voice.
“The capitan is too softhearted. Animals like this understand only the kind of treatment we give them.”
Steve dropped his hand casually to the butt of his revolver and the man shuffled his feet.
“I asked you a question.” He rapped out the words coldly, and saw the man’s eyes drop from his.
Captain Figueroa spoke quickly to avert an incident, a trace of embarrassment in his voice. “We did have one, as a matter of fact. He was my predecessor—a lieutenant. Unfortunately, he had an unfortunate accident.”
“Lieutenant Cabrillo allowed himself to be too kind to certain prisoners,” one of the guards said, a grin overspreading his face. “What happened was that he got himself killed by one of them—a man he took a fondness for and made his puto.” The man made an obscenely descriptive gesture with his hand, still grinning. “He did it with a broken bottle, after he’d smashed off the top—you understand, Capitan? Up there…”
There was a burst of laughter from the guards, and Captain Figueroa burst out furiously, “By God! You brutes forget yourselves! The Señor doctor was an officer.”
“But he was also a joto, Señor Capitan!”
Steve felt such a cold, murderous rage take hold of him that he was glad when Manolo nudged him sharply.
He’d stayed down here too long—he had too many bad memories; and as long as he stayed here he was playing with fire. Captain Figueroa was right—the guards were all brutes, toughened and twisted in sick patterns by their own warped brutality.
“By God, I think I’ve had enough of this pesthole to last me forever!” he said abruptly. He had to think only of the twenty-five men he’d brought along with him, and the silver they had come to get. That was all. But some day—some day he’d volunteer to bring some of his guerrillero friends down here and clean this prison up!
They began, at last, the slow, careful ascent back into the blessedly clean, blessedly cool night air. And thank God the rain had stopped. It would make their return journey a lot easier and faster.
Riding back the way they had come with their saddlebags weighted down with silver, Steve felt as if he could never breathe in enough of the air up here in the mountains. His wet uniform had dried out and he hardly felt the chill of the night.
It was clear, with millions of stars that seemed very high above them, very far away. They stopped to drink their fill of water at a tiny spring, bubbling out of the ground. In the daytime, with the sunshine filtering through the ferns that surrounded it, it would probably look like Ginny’s eyes. Beautiful, fathomless green eyes—and how warm her skin would feel now, against his! He had to see her again, as soon as he turned the silver over. He had to explain—he remembered her crying out at him, “and isn’t there something that you’re hiding from me? Some incident so horrible, so impossibly vile, that you can’t even bear to think about it?”
He could tell her everything now—about the prison—even about Doctor Cabrillo—yes, even that sick feeling had left him now. He felt free; with most of the bitterness starting to ooze away—leaving more room for her. He could face the fact now that she had captured his mind, as well as his loins. He loved her after all—why had he been trying to escape from that inescapable, unavoidable truth?
53
The port of Vera Cruz had never been so crowded, in spite of its limited accommodations. The harbor itself could not contain all the ships that arrived daily, and sleek vessels lay at anchor even beyond its limits, waiting for a berth.
Here, in the humid, tropical climate of the Tierra Caliente, Europeans usually found the heat unbearable. Even the Mexicans themselves preferred to take longer siestas than usual, and until the glaring sun began to slip down behind the distant mountain ranges of the Tierra Templada and Tierra Fria, there were usually very few people to be seen on the narrow, dirty streets.
In spite of the overpowering heat and unpredictable tropical rainstorms that beset Vera Cruz, several Europeans remained. A few diplomats had decided to “wait it out” now that the outcome of the war was beyond question. And there were still the refugees—American, Belgian, even Austrian, who had clung hopefully and tenaciously to their ne
wly acquired lands and possessions until the very last moment. There were even a few newspaper reporters, too nervous to approach the encroaching battle fronts, but deciding that since they were here, after all, they would stay and get a story. Everyone, it seemed, was waiting for something! Sometimes it was for a ship to take them home—sometimes for news of friends or relatives who still fought in the war.
Ginny, who had arrived in Vera Cruz almost a week ago, was still waiting for the Yankee Belle to be cleared by Customs and Quarantine and obtain a berth in the harbor. By now, her anxiety to leave and be done with it, bordered almost on desperation.
She hated this town! A collection of squat adobe buildings, its architecture patterned on the Spanish style, with red roofs and peeling wrought iron grillwork. Narrow, impossibly dirty streets, with squalid, odorous alleys where the displaced actually slept at night. And the oceanfront itself consisted of desolate, humped sand dunes, their shapes constantly changing under the furious onslaught of the fierce Atlantic winds—scrubby palm trees that seemed grotesquely bent and twisted by the force of those same winds. Even the nights were impossibly hot, and she understood why this was referred to as the “fever belt.” How could people possibly choose to live here?
“I hate it. I can’t wait to leave this place!” she told herself each day as she woke up very early for her regular visit to the shipping agent. And each day the news was the same.
“There are other ships that have priority, ma’am, the Yankee Belle has to wait its turn. Don’t worry,” the blunt featured American had added once, taking pity on her pale, pensive looking face, “they’re not going to leave without you! They have a shipment of silver to pick up from my warehouse.”
She had even asked if she couldn’t possibly go aboard the ship right away, and wait—but he had shaken his head regretfully.
“I’m afraid not, ma’am. There are all kinds of rules, you see. And in any case, it really gets rough out there in the ocean, you won’t find any of these little rowboats willing to go outside the harbor!”
And so she waited, spending most of her time in the tiny room she had managed to obtain for herself in one of the smaller, shabbier posadas—not daring to open her windows because of the smells from the alley below and the chance of picking up some infection.
The posada fortunately boasted its own tiny walled in patio-garden, with a rickety collection of tables and chairs that did not match. But it was pleasant out there when the sun wasn’t directly overhead and the stunted palm trees provided a little shade. She ordered naranjada, orangeade, constantly, always remembering to caution the waiter to be sure that the water was boiled first.
Sometimes, on an exceptionally clear day, one could catch a glimpse of the peak of Orizaba, white snow glistening in the sun. Beautiful, vine-hung Orizaba—the little town nestling at the foot of the peak—the gay days—dancing for the Emperor beside his gardenia-strewn pool—the days when she had been a butterfly, never thinking too much, skimming the surface enjoyment of life. Agnes, with her shrill gaiety, and handsome Miguel, her charming lover who had brought everything crashing about her ears…
Ginny wondered about Miguel, sometimes, using his memory as a talisman to stop herself from thinking about Steve. Miguel in Queretaro with poor Max—the ring of Juarista soldiers closing tightly around them—“trapped like rats in there” Salvador had told her triumphantly on that day that seemed so long ago now. What would become of them all?
Already, Ginny had run into several people she knew, or remembered seeing at the balls and parties she had attended almost nightly in Mexico City. Listlessly, she began to allow herself to be drawn into their company, their almost pathetic attempts at amusing themselves of an evening. Anything to stave off depression, the tension that came from waiting—waiting. The month of March continued to drag on—she heard from a new arrival that General Marquez, with a hand picked cavalry detachment, had managed to cut his way through the besiegers of Queretaro and had gone to Mexico City to drum up reinforcements. But her informant had commented dryly, “Who will he find? Those scared politicians who are left there are going to tell him to get out quickly, to go off and try to keep the Juaristas out of the city.”
Every time she heard them talk of the Juaristas she would wince. But after all, who would imagine that she, the intimate friend of the Princess du Salm, once engaged to a French captain; sometime mistress of Colonel Miguel Lopez—that she might actually be married to one of these same Juaristas they feared so much?
How could she stop herself from thinking of Steve? She wondered where he had gone that morning, leaving her so suddenly, so heartlessly, without even a farewell kiss. And where was he now? Sitting outside Puebla with the rest of Porfirio Díaz’s army? Had he bothered to go back to the hacienda? Had he read the long letter she had left for him?
When the ocean reflected the bold, dark blue of the sky she would remember his eyes. Blazing with passion sometimes—cold as sapphires at other moments, when he was angry. When she tried to read, the memory of his face came between her eyes and the page to haunt her. How she had loved the crisp feel of his dark hair under her fingers! She remembered wistfully that the harshly handsome hardness of his face could soften when he smiled—when he really smiled—the deep grooves in his cheeks and the dancing lights in his eyes making him suddenly appear younger and less remote. Did he ever think about her? Would he miss her?
All he wanted me for was as an occasional bed-partner, she thought, someone who could slake his desire quickly so that he could leave again. No, I could not have borne to suffer and go on suffering any longer! It’s best this way—if he wants me, he will have to come after me this time. She would berate herself for her pointless longings, her impossible hopes. He didn’t love her, and he never had. It was she who had been stupid enough to read something more than plain unvarnished desire into his words and actions. I will not continue to beat my head against a stone wall any longer, she told herself sternly. And yet, all her friends had been quick to notice and to point out that the charming Madame du Plessis was not her usual gay self—that she was pale and tired-looking as if she did not sleep very well—that in repose her face bore a withdrawn and pensive look.
It was because she had grown tired of having people ask her if she felt ill, and remarking on her lack of vivacity, that Ginny allowed herself to respond to the eager, curious overtures of a Mrs. Baxter, a middle-aged American widow from Boston who was travelling with her companion.
Unable to speak a word of Spanish, Mrs. Baxter had overheard Ginny talking quite companionably to the little maid who was supposed to clean their rooms at the posada, and she had immediately bustled up with a beaming smile on her face, her slightly protuberant eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“Oh, my dear—pardon me for approaching you without a formal introduction, but you must be European! You do speak English?”
Hiding a smile, Ginny admitted that indeed she did. From that day on Mrs. Baxter seemed to monopolize her company, to the decided annoyance of several gentlemen who had had the same idea.
She plied Ginny with questions without the slightest trace of embarrassment at her own probing curiosity. A young American woman who dressed and spoke like a lady, all alone here? Mrs. Baxter appointed herself Ginny’s unofficial chaperone immediately, especially when she contrived to discover that Madame du Plessis was none other than dear Senator William Brandon’s daughter. She had actually met the Senator once, during her dear husband’s lifetime—it had been at a grand reception in Washington. Now, how was that for coincidence? It seemed to be an even greater coincidence to find that Mrs. Baxter had actually been a passenger on the Yankee Belle, and planned to go all the way to California to visit her son and daughter-in-law in San Francisco. She admitted that she had had to pay an enormous sum of money to have herself rowed into the harbor.
“But after all my dear—you can’t imagine how choppy it is out there! I had a terrible case of mal de mer, and so did dear Sophy here—she was absolutely
no use to me at all! And I asked myself, why should I be so uncomfortable on board ship when I have the perfect opportunity to see something of Mexico? Particularly in these exciting times!”
In spite of Mrs. Baxter’s grumbles about her accommodations on board ship, she complained even more about the room she was forced to occupy at what she termed a “third rate hotel.” It was too small—too shabby—badly furnished—and the heat, of course, was intolerable. Still, the lady managed to survive and take a lively interest in Ginny’s many friends and admirers.
She preferred the dark Southern gentleman, that Mr. Frank Julius with the charming manners to a plump and slightly balding Belgian banker who was decidedly too old for Ginny. She wanted to know everything about the grand days when Maximilian and Carlotta had their court in Chapultepec—about the gay life in Mexico City—about the beautiful but rather fast Princess du Salm.
Ginny had taken to coming out into the tiny walled garden of the posada a trifle later than she usually did, because Mrs. Baxter liked to rise early, and usually retired to her room when the sun began to get too hot.
She sometimes ordered her dinner outdoors in the evening too, when they lit the flickering torches that hung on the bougainvillea-covered walls. On these occasions, in spite of the fact that Mrs. Baxter was always in attendance, there were usually three or four gentlemen who also begged to be allowed to join the ladies. Frank Julius, who had been one of the southern colonists in Cordoba, and Bernard Bechaud, a merry-faced Belgian—one of “Carlotta’s crowd,” who had tried his hand at planting coffee and tobacco in Oaxaca until Díaz armies drove him out—these two were Ginny’s most constant swains. Monsieur Bechaud was content just to be in Ginny’s company and to bask in her occasional flashing smiles, but Mr. Julius, a darkly handsome ex-colonel of the Confederate army, wanted a little more than smiles. When she had first met him, she had been with Miguel—and later he had been one of the emperor’s guests when she had danced by the pool at Jalapilla that night. He knew she had been Miguel’s mistress, and before that, the petite amie of the Comte d’Arlingen. When she rebuffed his rather bold advances he told her smilingly that he could wait—she was too beautiful, far too charming to remain alone.
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