Then with an ache to her gut the image changed. And in her mind's eye she pictured a mechanical tractor instead—the sharp blades digging deeper, working faster than a hand shovel alone. It hurt. It dug deep, but God would take care of it, in His time.
"Take it, Lord," she whispered into the dark night. "Take what doesn't belong. I know the memories will always be there, but if there are any emotions . . . or even ties that don't belong, dig those out, as only You can."
From somewhere outside the cottage Badger barked, reminding her of his protection—and the care of Walt and Philip, too. She knew that somewhere beyond the mountains, tall peaks formed a wall of safety around her. Men, volunteers, sat in trenches, defending their lines and fighting for their convictions. But closer, deeper, inside her, Sophie knew that her fight was no longer her own. God was taking care of her. Digging in.
Yet even though she prayed, and she knew God took care of the inner stuff, outwardly she had to keep fighting. Michael was out there—no doubt looking for her. Or rather, seeking out what she had, what he treasured most. The gold.
Chapter Seventeen
Before the sun had completely risen over the mountains, Sophie left the cottage and wandered down to the creek. The air was cool and fresh, and as she walked she almost expected to come upon Philip and Badger. Neither was in the house or surrounding area when she'd left, and she wondered if Philip too had trouble sleeping after last night.
She settled onto the damp grass, tucking her skirt around her knees. Above her, two birds fluttered from limb to limb in the branches of a tree. She watched them squawk and flutter away. Then she heard the thump of Badger's feet and Philip's footsteps clomping down the trail.
He approached, hands in pockets, and sat on the grass beside her, his leg gently brushing against hers. Badger wasn't as gentle. He danced by her side, then jumped on her knees, finally plopping down half on her lap and half on the grass. Sophie smiled and scratched behind his furry black ear, waiting for Philip to speak.
"Sophie, we have to talk."
She looked at him and waited. She knew he wasn't waiting for her to respond, but instead seemed to be trying to figure out what to say.
"Is it about last night? Our conversation?"
The dark circles under Philip's eyes told her he hadn't slept. And she knew that although he'd said all the right things to her in the dark hours, he wasn't at peace.
He plucked a blade of grass and tore it into small pieces, letting the pieces flutter to the ground. "I want you to know how much I care. I meant what I said, but—"
"But you have questions. Things you were hoping you didn't have to ask. Concerns you wished would diminish in time?" She thought about taking his hand, then changed her mind. "You can ask me, Philip—even though I was hoping you wouldn't. But we need to get it all out. You have a right to know."
"Know what, Sophie? What happened during those three days after I saw you that you were with Michael? I saw the difference in your eyes. You seemed more attached to him than before."
She had expected Philip's questions, but his bluntness surprised her. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. Apprehension rippled through her chest. More than anything, she wished she had a different story to tell Philip. Anything but the truth.
She turned to him and noticed the color fading from his face.
"Your silence scares me," he whispered.
"I thought I could just forget it. Once I left him, I thought I could leave all that behind."
"Something happened, didn't it? I was with Cesar. Walt found his own way down to Gibraltar. And you—"
"I almost got married." There. She'd told him. And she would understand if he decided once and for all that she wasn't worth the heartache.
Philip's brows furrowed, and a deep sadness filled his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
Sophie's hands trembled, and she tucked them under her quivering leg.
"I told Michael that we knew where the gold was—that Walt and I figured out it was near Gibraltar. I told him that I loved you," she hurriedly added, "and I wanted to be with you. He said he didn't believe me. He told me to look in his eyes and say it was over."
Sophie dug her toes into the cool dirt. She looked away, wishing the birds would return. Anything to distract them from what she couldn't avoid. Philip remained silent. The only sound was the beating of her heart and the rustle of leaves as a soft wind blew.
"I couldn't do it. The first day. Then the second. Every time I opened my mouth, I couldn't do it." Sophie's throat felt hot and dry. She couldn't look at Philip, couldn't bear to see his face.
"After days of being unable to sleep, I fell asleep in the car. I thought we had to be near Gibraltar. I didn't even wake up when the car stopped. Or at least not right away. All I remember is being alone, waking up all sweaty from the heat coming through the windows. I opened my eyes, and the automobile was parked in front of a church. I . . . I didn't see anyone around, and I knew the only place Michael could be was inside."
She turned to Philip, and his eyes searched hers. She lowered her gaze again, tracing her finger on the flowered pattern of her skirt.
"I thought about running away, but I had nothing. He'd taken my satchel, and I had no money—not even my identity papers."
"Which was likely a good thing in southern Spain."
"Yes, well, I didn't know what to do. I walked to the church and opened the door, and there he was. He was speaking to the priest. He turned and looked at me. And he actually smiled. I swear. It was the dream I had since I was a child. The priest was there, and Michael was standing at the end of the aisle. He turned and looked at me and stretched out his hand." She swallowed hard. "I walked up the aisle. I don't know why. It's almost as if I did it without thinking. I had come to Spain for that moment. It was all I ever dreamed." She turned away. She knew she couldn't face him.
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'Let's do it.'" Tears ran down her face. "'This is what you came for. Sophie, will you marry me?'"
Footsteps sounded behind them, and Sophie knew it was Walt. She quickly wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
"And then what happened?" Philip touched her arm as if urging her to continue.
"I told him I couldn't. I told him I loved you, Philip—for your goodness, your heart. Michael didn't say anything, but his face—" A cry caught in her throat. "He didn't say a word, and then we got back in the automobile and drove to the tunnel. Only hours later, when we prepared to leave, Walt showed up. Michael was injured. We drove to the airport. And the rest is history."
Sophie glanced over her shoulder and noticed Walt standing in the distance . . . giving them space and time to finish their conversation.
Philip coughed faintly. She dared to glance at him and found his eyes fixed on hers. "Thank you . . . for telling me." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Thank you for choosing me." He held her gaze, and then turned to Walt.
Responding to Philip's nod, Walt approached. "Sorry to interrupt, but I'm heading out again." He tucked his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight. "I . . . I'm going to try to find a ride to Granada—to check out what's ahead. I'm going to see if there is someplace we can drive the truck."
Philip pursed his lips. He nodded once and rose. Then reached his hand behind his back and pulled out a pistol from the waistband of his pants.
"Really, Walt?" Philip's voice was tense. "I don't think so. Not until we talk."
Walt's eyes widened in surprise, and he lifted his hands in the air. "Philip, you—"
"What are you doing?" Sophie interrupted, jumping to her feet. "Put that gun down!"
"Walt, quiet. No, Sophie. I'm tired of this game we all seem to be playing. Tired of hearing the truth in pieces. I want to know it all. Now. No one is leaving until I do."
The crackle and boom in the distance caused Deion's shoulders to tense. Still, his footsteps didn't waver, and his aching feet plodded forward as he left the last sign of civilization behind. At
least the tension of his neck took his mind off the hollow ache in his stomach from the lack of rations. Or perhaps from fear.
Deion readjusted his hands on the thick rope laid over his shoulder and pulled harder, dragging what seemed like dead weight.
They'd been given steel helmets—thick and heavy, yet not as heavy as the burden Deion pulled through the soil behind. It was said the Italians, fighting for the Fascists, had tractors that pulled their antitank cannons to the front lines. Deion only dreamt of such a thing. Instead, their cannons were pulled by the strength of Deion's back. His and a handful of other men. Nine on each cannon—but not nearly enough for the weight.
One of the men, Jerry from Cincinnati, told Deion the name of the village they'd just passed through, but five minutes later Deion had forgotten it already. He could barely remember his own name, so numbing, so oppressive, was the summer heat. Thinking back, fighting in the treed hills around Bilbao seemed preferable compared to the plains that stretched before him now. Not a tree in sight; only blinding rays that cooked his skin until he was certain he couldn't get any darker.
He supposed he should be thankful for the 45-mm gun. It wasn't pretty, wasn't easy to work, but he'd heard it was effective. And that was the most important thing.
The explosions grew louder as they pressed on. The familiar odor of gunpowder stung his nose. Overhead, a thin layer of gray haze, lower than cloud cover, told him they neared their objective.
And his goal? To make it out alive, one more time.
Next to Deion, Jerry blew out a long breath. "Dang, it seems like this gun grows heavier with each step."
Deion nodded and licked his dry lips. "I was just thinking that."
"Anyone got anything to eat?" another commented.
"I heard them say that over the next hill they're gonna set up a command post. And a mess tent."
"That's worth continuing." Another man beside Deion wiped his brow.
Hours later, Deion shook his head at the phrase the next hill. It was farther than they'd thought, and reaching it had taxed the measly strength that remained.
He placed his hands on the small of his back and let out a low moan as he straightened.
He glanced around him. He couldn't see the far target, but in the distance, the cool mountains. He knew the ocean waves crashed far beyond this place in the other direction. The ocean. An ocean breeze. He took a breath and sighed.
"Vamanos! Set up the cannon!"
As a team, the exhausted and sore soldiers set up the gun, and then Deion scurried into a nearby foxhole. A different hill, other guys, but he knew soon the same type of battle would replay.
The large ba-boom of the gun caused earthquake-like vibrations to move through the ground, as if the very rocks under his feet had taken on a life of their own. As soon as the gun fired, Deion and the others stretched their necks to see if they'd hit their mark. Cheers erupted as an enemy machine-gun nest exploded in a cloud of smoke and debris.
Behind the big guns, the infantry waited for their cue to move forward. With the voices of the infantry, the rumble of a few tanks added to the music of war.
The first set of machine-gun nests was blown. They moved forward again. More enemy troops spotted. Additional fire from their big guns. More cheers.
Pride grew within Deion's chest each time their offensive gained ground. For too long they'd held the defense lines—restraining the enemy. This time he was a part of those leading the fight.
He hunkered down again—pulling the metal helmet tight to his head—as the big guns did their work, and he remembered the days back in Chicago. The first news report of the Spanish War came back to him, as if he'd read them yesterday. He could think of nothing else as he'd cleared the dining tables, picking up after rich folks who didn't notice the colored man's serious expression.
Deion smiled. This time they would carry news of this offensive. In Chicago and New York. Even as far as California. Surely the papers would have bold headlines telling the world that the tides had turned. The Spanish people had hope once again!
But then he thought of the reality. How many times had he seen those men in business suits reading the international news section? No, they skimmed to the business section first. Fancy Chicago women flipped through the lifestyle and gossip columns. How many really cared about Spain? Or about international affairs?
Then again, maybe if these troops succeeded . . . even gaining one small victory . . . people would take notice. If Deion and the others were able to show what dedicated volunteers could do, then surely the people would send support.
These hopes replayed through Deion's thoughts, giving him strength. When the dust had settled they received word to head out again, and he picked up the rope, taking the lead—thoughts of victory lightening his load.
"Just think. Maybe tomorrow or the next day they'll print what's happenin' here. Whole world'll see we're not beat yet," he said to Jerry.
"It's nice to think about, but will it really happen? And even if it does . . . no one will know it was us." Jerry wiped at his red eyes, brushing away the dust that blew in his face as the wind picked up.
"But we'll know." Deion tugged harder on the rope. "And at least they'll know we haven't given up."
Though the others didn't comment, he could feel their pace quicken, and it brought the slightest smile to his face.
"Do you think they'll say the Abraham Lincoln Brigade is involved?" asked a man named Howard. "My mother would like that. She never put up with bullies. She'll know I'm here fighting."
Houses and buildings soon cropped up on the plains. Every so often, as they dragged their guns forward, they spotted burnt-out tanks—more cause for celebration. Deion tried to ignore the fact that men's bodies most likely lay burnt within the metal frames. War was war, and for once his part mattered.
They moved down a small village's main dirt road, and Deion noted foxholes and concrete defenses littering the area. Most enemy soldiers had already abandoned their positions. Only the scattered lifeless bodies testified that just hours before, this ground had been controlled by the enemy.
It stirred eagerness inside Deion, seeing they were making progress. But it also made him realize how crazy their advance was—they'd crossed a dozen fields. They'd made it a few more miles down the road. All that work for so little. Then again, didn't every inch count? Sure, it only made sense. They would win inch by inch. They couldn't give in. Not a little.
The sky, which had gleamed blue all day, turned a gray white as Deion helped to set up the large gun in an abandoned cornfield. He heard a noise from inside one of the white brick houses. A vulture had landed on the roof, knocking over a loose brick. He saw what the vulture waited for. An enemy soldier sprawled in the dirt below it. The man's legs were bloodied, and even though he tried to appear dead, Deion saw his eye blink open. The vulture waited for him to die.
But before Deion could decide what to do about that, machine-gun fire erupted from somewhere inside a row of stone houses.
Looking up to see what they were firing at, movement caught his attention, and Deion looked to the trees across the field from where the enemy had retreated. Stupid. I've been thinking too much, not watching enough. I should have known . . . .
The spaces between the tree trunks became a solid mass formed by the blue color of enemy uniforms. There were two times—three times—more enemy soldiers than Deion's group.
"Everyone down!" The words were out before he realized it. "Moors!"
The glint of the sun on their rifles told Deion the Moors were lifting, aiming modern guns. Accurate guns. Unlike their own.
The rat-a-tat of bullets split the air, and Deion covered his ears.
As he dropped, the golden stubble of grass blocked his view of the trees. His fingers dug into the reddish clay as he scrambled to turn and retreat.
His head turned. His body was slow to follow. I've gotta get out of here.
Around him men's bodies dropped in succession like bowling pins,
struck down, tumbling. How did the fire miss me?
Deion tried to move through the others in his group toward the row of houses. A man dropped before him. A pained expression deformed his face.
One man still stood. Jerry. He peered down in amazement, or perhaps disbelief, as blood spurted from the bullet wounds in his gut. Stupid. Get down. What are you doing?
Deion scrambled over the injured man to get to him. As he heard the cries of his friends, Deion wondered if the hospital had come closer. If anyone could help. Gwen. Are you near? Will you help?
Deion reached for Jerry. "Get down! You'll get us killed. You're a perfect target."
He watched, as if in slow motion, his own hand reaching. He snagged Jerry's bloodied, torn shirt. Anger filled him, and he cried out again, "What do you think you're doing!"
Anger at Jerry for being so stupid and not getting down soon enough. Anger that another friend was hit.
Jerry submitted to Deion's tug and crumbled at an awkward angle.
"Don't make me responsible for this. Don't make me responsible to save you!" Deion shouted in his ear.
Jerry's face was within inches of Deion's own. His eyes blinked and his mouth opened, but no sound emerged.
"Don't look at me like that. Don't look at me like you're dying!" Deion's trembling hand covered his face, unsure of what to do, where to go.
We should have known. Why were we so bold?
"They always leave the Moors—leave them to clean up the mess," Deion mumbled as he ripped his shirt off and quickly wound it around Jerry's stomach. He cinched it tight, hoping to stop the bleeding.
"Everybody back to the trees. To the buildings!" Deion didn't know what possessed him, but he knew he had to get the others—mostly new recruits—out of the danger zone. Before he could second-guess his plan of action, he jumped to his feet and lifted Jerry into his arms. Then he ran as fast as he could toward cover.
"To the buildings. Now!" he shouted again, unable to turn to see if the others followed.
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