Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  The colored man signaled to the cavalry unit on the other side of the bridge, and uncountable men on horses thundered across, their gray cloaks flowing in the wind.

  "The Moors," cried a man next to Deion.

  "The Moroccan Calvary." The blood in Deion's veins turned ice cold. "Paid killers."

  They'd heard and even passed on rumors of the Moors the way young boys shared ghost stories around the campfire. Deion had thought of them more as imaginary monsters than actual men. Yet they were real men, colored men, just the same as him.

  When the cavalry were halfway across the bridge, an explosion filled the air, nearly bursting Deion's eardrums. Republican mines, laid on the bridge for just such an emergency. The bridge rose a few feet in the air, only to drop back into place. In less than a minute the dark cavalry poured into the unprepared Republican positions.

  The commander rose, waving his hands and shouting. "Forward and smash 'em!" he cried, leading his men in a charge.

  Deion had no choice but to follow. With his rifle to his shoulder, he ran forward. His heart pounded as he saw the Moors pouring into the orchards, firing their rifles from their hips.

  Deion ignored them all and focused his eyes on one—the first man who had slit the throat of the guard. His back was to Deion as he faced his approaching troops, guiding them to the best paths. Deion propelled himself forward until he stood within twenty yards of the man's back; then he pulled the trigger. The shot missed, and the man turned.

  His dark, sweaty skin glinted in the sun. His eyes narrowed with blood-thirst, and he plunged toward Deion, extending his bloody knife like a sword. Deion reached forward to eject the spent shell, jacked another into the chamber, took more careful aim, and fired again, this time hitting his mark. The man jerked and winced, then looked down at his stomach, where blood seeped through his shirt. His wild eyes widened in fear. As if surprised, he pressed his hand to his stomach, pulling it out bloody.

  Deion steadied the rifle again and shot one more time, hitting the man's shoulder. The force of the bullet jerked him back, and he tumbled to the ground, rolling down a slight hill until he stopped at the bottom.

  Deion moved to the nearest tree and squatted down behind it for protection. And there he remained, taking shots at the hundred of Moors streaming across the bridge. Hitting some, missing most. As he reloaded, he glanced at the black man dying before his eyes, crying out words Deion didn't understand.

  The battle raged around him unabated, men dropping; some crying out in agony, some lying still. The dark horsemen rode through the Republican line almost at will, alternately shooting their guns and slashing with their scimitars. Some fell, but most continued to kill Deion's comrades.

  Deion did his best to fight against the men on horseback, and somehow he survived. As darkness descended, he looked again at the first man he had killed, and realized how easily their roles could have been reversed. They were both colored men fighting on foreign soil for causes not their own.

  Chapter Thirty

  Fue por lana y salió trasquilado.

  She went looking for wool and came back shorn.

  Spanish proverb

  It wasn't until the night turned pitch-black that the fighting stopped. With a shiver that caused his whole body to tremble, Deion dared to crawl back to the safety of the trenches. Moving past the dead horses and dead men on both sides of the fight, he found a group of men from the Abraham Lincoln Brigade—men he'd trained with and those who, like him, had somehow survived.

  The night was cold, yet his numb limbs mattered little to his exhausted mind. More than anything, he longed for sleep and warmth. All his senses peaked, waiting for the next explosion and the hail of earth and shrapnel.

  "I feel betrayed," one man said, warming his hands by the fire. The hands were covered with blood, as was the man's clothing.

  Deion didn't ask what happened. He didn't want to know.

  "They led us into that . . . led us into the slaughter. I'm not sure how I made it. How any of us did."

  "I think I know why I survived." Deion sipped from his water jug. "My mama must have been prayin'. She's likely figured out where I am by now. Not married, but off fighting in some foreign war." He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth, attempting to stop the shaking, though he couldn't tell if it came from cold or fear.

  "Not that I believe like she does," he added. "I grew up wondering not if one of ours would be killed in a lynchin', but when. I'd say, 'Mama, if the Lord loves us like you says He does, why does He allow white folks to treat us like they do?' I still don't know why bad things have to happen. Things like today."

  "My mum is one of those religious types too, lad."

  Deion recognized his climbing partner over the Pyrenees. Ian. His hair was shorter, nearly shaved to his head, and a thick red beard covered the lower half of his face.

  He nodded to Deion with a deep sadness in his gaze. "Of course," he added, "it's hard to see if it's done much good in her life, though she tried to convince me it did. Mum could retell most every Bible story from history, but then she cried her eyes out when I told her I was heading to Spain."

  Ian puffed on a cigar, pulling it out to finish his story. "At first, it bothered me to leave her like that. Then I got to thinking—what difference was there between me and the fights of those characters in her Bible book? Weren't it David who dared to step out against a giant, and Joshua who led the people, even though there were giants in the land? So I told her that, and she cried even harder."

  "Because she knew you were leaving no matter what?" Deion asked.

  "No, I think it were tears of joy, because I actually had paid attention to her stories all those years! After that she still cried, but she did it when she thought I wasna lookin'. I'm supposin' we've come to a truce of sorts. An unspoken agreement that if I did come, then I'd win, just like David and Joshua. Of course, then days like today come." He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back, gazing into the starry night. "What about you? Are you thinking we'll win, Deion?"

  "Wouldn't be here if I didn't. But even today, when I was near sure it was my last day on earth, I'd rather be here than back home."

  "Why's that?" another voice asked.

  Deion didn't know who spoke, for the exhausted gestures of the men around him seemed to meld as one.

  "Here I feel like a human being. A man. It's something you can't understand unless you've been treated worse than people treat their dogs."

  "Equality?" another man said. "Yer right 'bout that. Those Fascists send equal bullets all around."

  "Makes sense to me." Ian shivered and pulled his blanket tight over his shoulders. "When it comes to real fightin', phrases like 'volunteer for liberty' aren't meaning a thing. Truth be told, war isn't you against the other guy. It's you against yerself. All your past demons. All your fears and worries visit you there."

  His words made Deion think of the Moroccan soldier. He shook the thought away, not wanting to let himself go there. Because for him to feel like a human being, he'd killed like an animal. And that made no sense at all.

  The sun was just cresting the distant hills as the truck drove Philip and Sophie toward the front lines. Eagerness stirred within Sophie, causing her leg to bounce with built-up tension at the thought of painting the battlefield—tanks facing off, planes soaring overhead, men in their trenches holding the line.

  "After this painting, do you think we can visit José?" She turned to Philip. "Commander Johnson said he's in a hospital beyond the war zone, and he's recovering well."

  Philip didn't seem nearly as excited about approaching the battlefield. Fear filled his gaze, and without saying a word, he wrapped his left arm around Sophie's shoulders, as if that gesture alone would protect her from whatever lay ahead. "It would be good to visit your friend. Did you know him before you came to Spain?"

  "Oh, no." The truck rumbled over a bump, jarring her, and her head hit against Philip's jaw. "I came for other reasons—but Jos
é was one of the first people I met. He helped me to not miss home as much."

  "You said home is Boston, right? I've been meaning to ask you; how come you don't have an accent?"

  "You think people from Baw-stin should tawk about wheah we pahk our cahs?" She grinned. "I've worked to hide my accent all my life. My mom is from California, and she always felt that the best accent is none at all. She wrote speeches for a living, you see, and hated it when no one could understand the speaker."

  "Speeches? What kind?"

  "Women's issues mostly. Women's right to vote. Safety in the workplace. Things like that."

  "So that's where you get your fighting spirit."

  Though Sophie couldn't see his face, she was sure he was grinning. "Fighting spirit, eh?"

  "You're a young, single woman traveling alone in Spain, aren't you? And now you're a combat artist."

  "Combat artist? Why, I guess I am."

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sophie watched the driver. Either he didn't understand English very well, or he was a man of few words. His gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead.

  "So what's Boston like?" Philip asked. "I bet there's a historical monument every mile or so."

  "Make that every block. My father was an assistant manager of one of the finest hotels in the city," she continued. "When I wasn't in school, I was there with him. The Old City Hall was across the street next to King's Hall. Boston Common, just around the corner. It's a small city, actually. Nothing like New York. I walked everywhere. Chinatown, Little Italy, up to Cambridge . . . it's all real close. Of course, I visited the Museum of Fine Arts practically every day."

  Her eyes focused on the rolling hills ahead, but in her mind she walked the narrow cobblestone streets, looking at the boats in the harbor and the old cemeteries where the names on the weathered headstones were no longer distinguishable—the identity of those they honored lost in history.

  "Home to me is the whistle of the traffic cops, the street performer with the trumpets or juggling balls," she continued. "Police officers on horseback, and lines of children on school trips following guides dressed as Benjamin Franklin or Paul Revere. Women pose by the historic meeting halls, and they'll let you have a picture taken with them for a coin. And in the midst of it all are homeless men and women in unemployment lines looking longingly at the businessmen who hustle back and forth between the office buildings. Tall skyscrapers overshadow the historic churches, making both appear out of place."

  Philip smiled. "I think you're a writer as well as an artist. Tell me more."

  Sophie sighed and smiled. If Philip was trying to take her mind, as well as his, off the battlefield that awaited them, it was working.

  "Well, there are carriage rides and big cemeteries that haven't added new bones in dozens of years. There's Boston cream pie, and Boston baked beans, and tea sold at every family restaurant. Not to mention lobster and fish—so much so that I keep away from the restaurants near the docks at dinner, because the scent is so overpowering.

  "I've never appreciated it until now," she whispered. "I mean, I've heard the tour guides give the same speeches time and again. This battle started here. This man died on these steps. This document was signed within these doors. . . . It was so familiar it became commonplace, like knowing the color of your mother's eyes or the feel of your father's hand on your own. You don't appreciate those things until you no longer have them."

  "So have you written home to tell your parents about your paintings or the French newspaper?"

  "Not yet. I've been so busy I barely glanced at it myself."

  "Do you still have a copy?"

  "Yeah, sure." Sophie dug in her satchel and pulled out the paper. Together they looked again at her painting on the front page; then Philip opened it to a spread of photographs from the front lines just outside Madrid.

  Sophie studied them. She looked at one image of a soldier's body caught in the line of gunfire. His body was arched in an awkward angle. And the edges around him were hazy . . . as if a piece of silk had been placed around the edge of the lens. . . .

  Beside her Philip chuckled. "Did you see the photographer's name? If I were the guy, I'd change my name. Who would name their kid Arnold Benedict? Then again, if your last name is Benedict I'm sure you get tied in with the historical figure no matter what."

  "Arnold Benedict . . . like Benedict Arnold . . . the traitor." Sophie's hands began to tremble, and she moved them to her mouth. "Philip. How recent are those photos?"

  "A week, I suppose. Maybe a little longer."

  She reached across Philip for the door handle. "Driver, please pull over. I'm going to be sick."

  He did as asked, and Philip jumped from the vehicle. Sophie followed, retching in the ditch on the side of the road. She felt Philip's hands holding back her hair. She retched again, and he rubbed her back.

  "Sophie, are you okay? What is it?"

  She lowered her face in her hands. "He's alive," she whispered. She lowered herself onto her hands and knees and crawled close to a small tree, leaning against it for support.

  Philip crouched in front of her. "Who's alive? What are you talking about?"

  "Michael. He's the reason I came to Spain. We were going to get married. Then—" Her voice caught in her throat. "Then he was killed by a sniper's bullet. At least I thought he was."

  Sophie looked into Philip's face. His eyes radiated concern.

  "Was he the man in the painting?" he said softly. "The one gunned down in the street?"

  "Yes." She wiped her eyes with trembling hands. "I thought he died, but I didn't see him up close."

  "But what makes you think he's alive now?"

  Sophie pointed to the photograph. "I need to talk to José," she said. "He was there. He can tell me the truth."

  "Yes," Philip said. He took both of her hands in his. "But first, you need to go to the front lines. They're counting on you, remember?"

  Sophie shook her head. "I don't know. I don't think I can. Philip, I don't want to do it. . . . Please, can we just turn back?"

  "Sophie, you can do this, and you will. We don't need to stay for long. Just take some photographs. Do some sketches. Then we’ll leave." He lifted her face toward him and looked her in the eyes. "I'll be there with you, every step of the way, okay?"

  "Okay." She wiped her face. "But then we can go see José?"

  "Yes, Sophie. Then, together, we will see José and get to the bottom of this."

  The truck moved slowly, and Sophie felt Philip's arm tighten around her shoulders.

  "Driver. This is close enough," he said.

  In the distance, the whole bank of the river was pitted with craters from the bombing. The river shimmered with a million flecks of light, giving a false sense of peacefulness.

  Sophie jumped from the truck.

  Philip placed both hands on her shoulders and looked intently into her eyes. "We’re about four hundred meters behind the front lines. If anything happens, you run back here. Understand?"

  She nodded.

  A black velvet shadow fell over the grove of olive trees, the sun's rays not quite reaching that spot. In the field closest to the bridge, bodies could be seen sprawled on the packed earth. In the distance, machine guns crackled like popcorn. And beyond that came the sound of grenades bursting.

  Next to the road sat a burnt-out farmhouse and a carved stone gate. Sophie wondered who had lived there before war came to their part of the world.

  "Philip, we need to find our soldiers. Can we get closer?"

  "I suppose we can." He lifted his rifle to his shoulder. "I'll lead, but if I tell you to hit the ground, you drop. Do you understand?"

  She nodded. "Yes."

  Philip turned to the driver. "Wait here. We'll be back shortly."

  Sophie grabbed her satchel and walked behind Philip toward the closest grove of trees.

  "Halt!" A man in a blue mono stepped from behind the tree and pointed his rifle at Philip's chest.

  "I'm with the Abraham
Lincoln Brigade."

  "Password?"

  "Delores."

  The man nodded, then turned his gun to Sophie. "What about her?"

  "She's with the newspaper," Philip said. "I'm her escort. Sophie, show the man your camera."

  She removed it from the satchel and hung it around her neck.

  The man stepped aside. "Proceed."

  The first group they came upon contained a cluster of injured soldiers. Philip leaned his mouth close to her ear. "They're waiting for the ambulance. From the looks of things, the fight's been bad."

  One soldier, lying under a blood-soaked blanket, cried out in pain. His eyes were open and wild, and his hands clawed the air in front of him as if he were climbing a hill. "Did we take the hill?" he cried. "Did we take it?"

  "Sure we did, buddy." Another soldier held the man's arms. "We won."

  Philip and Sophie tried to go closer, but the sounds of the battle pushed them back. The cries of men. The smell of dead bodies. The ground pulsing beneath their feet.

  Yet Sophie saw enough to imprint her mind for a lifetime. Men scurrying around the valley below stumbled from tree to tree, desperate for cover. Others sprawled on the ground, using their hands to dig deep into the earth. Sophie snapped through one roll of film, then two.

  Philip turned to her. "We need to head back. There will only be more of the same. Did you want to do any sketching?"

  "No. Only the dead and dying will stay still enough for me to draw. And I can't do that. . . ."

  They quickly moved back to their truck, only to find that it was being filled with injured men.

  "Can we still get a ride?" Philip asked the driver.

  The driver pointed to Philip, and another man stepped forward and spoke. "Philip Stanford?"

  "Yes?"

  He placed a hand on Philip's shoulder. "She can go, but you're coming with me." His gaze narrowed, and he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his jacket.

  "What is this about?"