The Teeth of the Gale

  After some discussion it had been decided that Juana and I, as the lightest of the group, should cross together with Nico slung between us. I was mortally anxious about this, for the ropes from which the bridge was constructed, unlike mine from Pamplona, were old and decidedly worn. Would the weight of three together be too much? However there was really no other way in which the crossing with Nico could be achieved; he was too heavy for one person to carry on that flimsy, swaying spiderweb of cords.

  ‘And if the bridge bears Don Amador, it should surely support you and me and this poor child,’ whispered Juana. ‘I do not believe that the three of us together weigh as much as he does – the fat pig!’

  Pedro helped us by lifting up Nico, in his net, and supporting his weight until we were ready for him, balanced on either side of the ropes, facing one another. I had left loops of rope at each end of the hammock, which were slung round our necks, leaving our hands free to grip the bridge. The strain on our necks was punishing; it seemed amazing that Nico, a small, slight boy, could be such a dead weight. My neck began to feel as if it would never be able to hold my head up straight again – and if mine felt so, what must Juana, small-boned and slender, be enduring? She had turned very white, her lips were pressed tight together, there were deep lines on her face from mouth to nostril.

  As we moved sideways, with extreme difficulty, I asked her, to keep her mind off the horrible and frightening sway of the bridge, ‘Do you think that the old Escaroz will raise any objections to your taking charge of Conchita’s children?’

  ‘I suppose,’ she answered after a moment, raising her eyes from the torrent rushing among its boulders a long distance below our feet, ‘I suppose they well may. If there is money involved. If Don Manuel were to die – then the grandparents would certainly lay claim to his estate on behalf of their grandchildren. But, so long as he lives, they may not –’

  ‘Oh, I hope so much that he escapes,’ I said fervently. ‘He is such a fine man. One of the best in Spain, I am sure.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’ she said crossly. ‘How many of the best men in Spain have you met?’ and I grinned a little, inwardly, at my success in distracting her, if only for a moment, from the strain and terror of our position. What I feared most of all was that Nico should move, or twitch, and unbalance us, for then we would all plunge into the gorge together.

  ‘Felix,’ Juana went on, ‘I want to say to you that I am sorry – very, very sorry – that you have been dragged into this bad business. If I had not told Conchita about you, she would never have known, never have had you summoned. It is all my fault –’

  Impetuously I interrupted her.

  ‘Listen, Juana. Whatever happens – even if there is more trouble, more danger – I could never regret it. Because, for the last five years, my deepest wish has been to see you again –’

  She suddenly looked up, and I met the full glance of her coppery eyes. I went on, ‘And, now that I have seen you, my only wish is to help you in any way that I can. If you would –’

  She was beginning to say something in return, but voices from the edge of the bridge broke in. Pepe and Esteban were standing there with arms extended, ready to relieve us of the weight of Nico. We had not realised that we were so far across.

  ‘Ay, de mi,’ sighed Juana, in a moment, edging herself gingerly off the rope and on to firm ground, then vigorously rubbing her neck. ‘I do not think I shall ever be able to stand up straight again – ’ and she knelt down at once by Nico, to see how he did. ‘Have you any water?’ she asked the men, and one of them went into the hut.

  Having satisfied myself that Pedro, also, was now on his way across the bridge, and that it was not too hard for him, I too knelt down by Nico and began to unknot the net which had kept him safe but which must, if he was conscious of it, feel very constricting for the poor boy.

  Behind me I heard Don Amador give some low-voiced order to one of the men. The other was offering a flask to Juana, who opened it, sniffed it warily, and tasted a little of the contents on her finger before venturing to administer it to the boy.

  Pedro by this time was past the middle of the bridge, moving slowly and with care.

  ‘Now!’ I heard Don Amador mutter, and turned round just in time to see Pepe discharge his musket at Pedro, only about fifteen cubits distant now. Pedro spun round and dropped into the gorge like a shot partridge.

  At the same moment a stunning blow on the back of my head reduced me to unconsciousness.

  11

  In the tartana; little Pilar makes herself useful; arrival at Berdun; a use for the rubbish chute; we find a doctor; we return to Bilbao where I receive bad news from home

  My wits returned to me by slow degrees. Violent physical discomfort was the first token that I was still alive.

  Now I know how Nico must have felt, I thought – like a sardine in a net. Ropes were tightly crisscrossed all over my body. My hands were fastened behind me, my ankles were tied, and I seemed to be lying in a lumpy, knotted sling, with various heavy weights piled on top of me. Perhaps I am dreaming? Am I really still crossing the rope bridge? Or creeping down the cliff-face, entangled somehow in my own climbing rope? Cords, cables, rope, I was lying in a mesh, like a fly in a web, and something rough and thick was pressed against my face. For a while I wondered if I could be in a boat, for I and everything around me seemed to be swaying about in a horrible manner, it was like a nightmare . . .

  The dark made it all much worse.

  Then I began to receive the impression that there were other live bodies pressed against mine – shifting, struggling, the other sardines in the net – and, I suppose, I must have let out a stifled groan. A creature – some small, active body – rubbed close against me, writhing upward towards my face, and after a while I felt a warm tickling breath against my ear, and heard a tiny voice, which whispered, ‘Senor Felix? Are you alive?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Hush – don’t speak aloud!’

  ‘Que tal? Where am I?’

  ‘In the tartana.’

  Now, all of a sudden, my surroundings made sense. The rope, the swaying motion . . .

  ‘Is it night?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes; but wait a moment. I will try and see if I can pull with my teeth –’

  I felt a sudden sharp tug at my hair, and let out an involuntary hiss of pain. But then a fold of thick cloth which had enwrapped my head was partially twitched aside. Now the darkness was not quite so dark, and I could breathe more easily; I was able to distinguish night sky and dark trees overhead, also hear the clip-clop of mules, pulling the cart along.

  At this point, remembrance came back to me with a most agonising rush. Pedro, I thought. Oh, Pedro. How will I ever tell Grandfather? How can I bear to face him with such news? Or Pedro’s aunt Prudencia?

  Alongside remembrance and grief came deep rage, boiling up inside me, so that I wrestled furiously and vainly with the cords that tied my wrists and ankles. How dared they kill Pedro – who was so good, so cheerful, never grumbled, never harmed a living soul – how dared they? This had not been his affair, he had come on the mission out of duty to my grandfather and friendship to me – it was the most wicked injustice that he should have been shot down, with such callous disregard, too, as if he were no more than a rabbit or a wild deer. Just let them wait till I get at them, I thought, battling with my bonds. And when my struggles had not the slightest effect, some angry tears rolled down my face, of which I was heartily ashamed.

  The little voice came again.

  ‘Senor Felix?’

  ‘Yes? Who is that? Is it Pilar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you undo my hands?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered, sounding subdued. ‘Mine are tied too.’

  ‘Where are Nico and Dona Juana and Don Amador?’

  ‘Uncle Dor-Dor is driving the tartana. He is a pig. I hate him,’ she muttered. ‘Nico and Cousin Juana are at the other end of the cart; I think they are tied up
too. And there are a lot of things on top of them.’

  ‘So there are on me too.’

  ‘I know,’ Pilar whispered. ‘It is all Mama’s clothes – her cloaks and furs and the bedding she brought. And stones and branches on top of that. They piled them on to hide us. I could hardly breathe at first but I managed to move my head about and make a space.’

  ‘Where do you suppose they are taking us?’

  ‘Back to Berdun, they said. To Don Ignacio’s house, perhaps.’

  This gave me plenty of matter for thought, as the tartana plodded on its way. It seemed to be moving at quite a speedy pace; I supposed they had Pedro’s and my mules harnessed, besides the original pair.

  On whose side, I wondered, was Don Ignacio? Was he a Royalist? A Carlist? Or simply interested in his brother’s inheritance? And Don Amador? Where did he stand, now Conchita was dead?

  ‘Where are Pepe and Esteban?’ I whispered.

  ‘Riding ahead,’ said Pilar.

  If only I could locate Juana and talk to her. Was she asleep? Unconscious? Stifled, gagged? I tried to move, but only evoked a squeak from Pilar, who said I was crushing her.

  After what seemed like a couple of hours’ travel we halted, to rest the beasts, I supposed. It was still dark, but we had come out of the forest; I could see the jagged edges of mountain peaks, a deeper black against the starry sky.

  Footsteps echoed alongside the tartana, and a hand reached in and dragged me to a semi-sitting position. I could just make out the fat form of Don Amador.

  ‘So: you are waking,’ he said, peering at me closely. ‘Are you sensible?’

  I made some noise of assent.

  ‘Listen then. God knows I do not wish to send you to prison –’

  ‘To prison? Are you mad, senor, or am I? What have I done to justify my being sent to prison?’

  ‘My friend – I could send you off to Montjuich just like that – ’ I heard him snap his fingers – ‘by writing your name on a slip of paper. I have friends on the Council of Regency; the Bishop of Osma is my brother-in-law’s cousin. Chaperon, the President of the Military Commission, is the brother of my sister’s husband’s –’

  ‘But what have I –’

  ‘Assisting a felon to escape! Women, even children, are sent to jail for lesser crimes. You have not only yourself to think about, my young friend, remember. What about Dona Juana? The children? Do you want your grandfather the Conde to be impeached – his estates seized by the Crown?’

  ‘But why should –’

  ‘God knows,’ he repeated in his thin, reedy voice, ‘I do not wish you or your grandfather – or, indeed, Dona Juana or the children – any harm, not the least in the world . . .’

  ‘Then why are you threatening me, senor?’ I asked angrily. I saw his fat face shine in the moonlight, like an overripe fruit, beaded with sweat. He was, I realised, more frightened than I.

  All that filled me, just then, was rage.

  ‘You killed my friend Pedro!’ I burst out. ‘You killed him like a farmyard beast – with no more thought than that!’

  ‘Friend? He was your servant.’ Don Amador sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘I knew him since I was born!’

  ‘He was only a servant,’ the fat man repeated. ‘How can his death be of concern to you?’

  ‘Only a servant!’ I was almost strangled with fury.

  ‘Listen.’ Don Amador leaned closer and spoke more urgently. ‘You are in bad danger, boy. The only way you can avoid terrible trouble for yourself and your loved ones – are you listening?’ He spoke lower, and shook my arm, which he still clutched. ‘The only way is to pretend to know nothing, pretend that you saw nothing – that Manuel was gone when you entered the castillo, or that you never entered it – do you understand?’

  He is afraid for himself, I thought; that I will betray his part in the death of Luisa, and so, also, of her mother; that I will tell about Pedro.

  ‘I cannot pretend, senor.’

  ‘Fool!’ he hissed. And then, suddenly, in a much louder voice, ‘Come, now – what we must know is the whereabouts of those casks of silver dollars. For sure, you and your grandfather still have them.’

  Briefly, I thought that he must have gone mad. Silver dollars? And then, looming up behind him, I saw the figures of the two outriders. He was speaking, evidently, for their ears.

  ‘I know nothing about any silver dollars, senor,’ I said curtly.

  ‘It is stupid to pretend. You know perfectly well what I am talking about. It happened at the village of Cerezal in January of the year 1809, when the English general Paget would not release draught oxen to draw the carts with the British army pay-chests. And so all the money was left behind, hidden on the mountain-side. You know perfectly well,’ he repeated.

  ‘That old tale! If my grandfather had known where it was, he would long ago have restored it to its rightful owners. He is an honourable man!’ I snapped.

  ‘And he has not restored it,’ said Don Amador smoothly. ‘Therefore it still lies where it was hidden. You know its whereabouts. A letter was sent to you about it.’

  ‘Not true,’ I told him wearily. ‘The letter that the Englishman, Smith sent me was not about any treasure. He was warning me of a threat to my life. And that was five years ago. If he had told me about any treasure, I would have informed my grandfather.’

  ‘You know where the money is,’ repeated Don Amador stubbornly. ‘And if you are wise, you will tell us.’ He gave my arm a warning nip.

  ‘Enough, enough now, senor,’ Esteban said roughly. ‘We must hurry on our way. We need to reach the house of Don Ignacio before daylight. The young man may be questioned again later.’

  And then, to my utter consternation and surprise, he stepped behind Don Amador and swiftly garrotted him by twisting a knotted kerchief about his throat; the fat man gave one piteous, gasping cry, then crumpled to the ground, dead as a shot hare. The two postilions speedily dragged him to the side of the road and tumbled him down the bank. We had halted near a high-arched bridge; he was deposited in the water under the bridge, where he might lie for months until he was nibbled down to his bones by fish, before anybody discovered him.

  Then Esteban took the driver’s seat, his mule was tethered at the rear of the cart, and we resumed our journey in silence. The whole assassination had been so lightning-quick, so merciless, and so unexpected, that I could still hardly credit what I had seen. Don Amador had been a worthless, venal man, quite prepared, I was sure, to sacrifice anybody else for his own ends – except Conchita; I suppose he had truly loved her in his way – but still, his murder came as a fearful shock. And came, also, as a stark message showing what the rest of us might expect.

  Indeed, after a few miles, Esteban addressed me.

  ‘Ingles? Can you hear me?’

  ‘I can hear you,’ I said. ‘But I am not English. I am as Spanish as you.’

  ‘I am not Spanish, I am Catalan. Did you take notice of how we dealt with that fat fool?’

  ‘I could hardly avoid it.’

  ‘Well! Take warning! If you and your grandfather do not lead us to that treasure, you will go the same way as Don Amador. The Conde will be glad enough to tell us where the treasure lies, when we send him a few of your fingers and toes.’

  I did not reply. What was the use? He would never believe my assertion that we did not know where the treasure lay – if, indeed, there was any treasure left by now.

  The postilions’ act had shown them to be ruthless, professional assassins; to hope for mercy or reason in them would be like hoping for sweet water in mid-ocean.

  I heard Pilar snuffling quietly beside me, and realised, with some compunction, that she was weeping for Don Amador. His murder had come as a terrible shock for her too.

  ‘Poor Uncle Dor-Dor! He bought me turron in Zamora . . .’

  Wretched little creature, I thought. In the space of a few hours she has seen both her parents die unexpected and brutal deaths; if, indeed, Don Am
ador was her father. And if her father is Don Manuel he shows no intention of acknowledging her, and has gone away, God knows where.

  Had he succeeded in making his way along the tunnel? How many hours had elapsed since he and de Larra left the castillo? More than twelve, I guessed; they must have met the gipsy horse-shearers long ago. Supposing that the tunnel was not flooded . . .

  I tried to whisper consolations to Pilar. ‘Never mind; I am sure Dona Juana will look after you lovingly –’

  But where was Dona Juana? Deeper and deeper grew my worry about her. Why was there no sound from the other end of the tartana? What had they done to her?

  ‘I am going to try to wriggle along to Juana,’ I whispered to Pilar.

  ‘I want to come too,’ she answered instantly.

  ‘Not just yet. You stay here. Otherwise Esteban will notice.’

  It had never occurred to me, in my life hitherto, to ask myself what a worm must feel like, as it bores its weary way through the solid earth. Now I did not wonder; I knew. For my hands and feet were tied, reducing me to the shape of a worm; I could not use my arms to assist motion, but only my feet, elbows, and leg muscles. Moreover I had to fold my body like a jack-knife in order to impel myself in the direction towards which my feet were pointing; and all these movements had to take place under a weight of clothes, cloaks, blankets, stockings and petticoats (it seemed Conchita had equipped herself with enough garments to supply the whole Convento de la Encarnacion); these, furthermore, pressed down by stones and pine branches.

  Writhing my way through this mass of material was a slow and laborious business; I dared not push too hard or I would make the tartana sway suspiciously.

  At last, after what seemed like hours of struggle among the various shapes and textures, I encountered one that was warm, and moved; and I thought I heard a stifled cry.

  ‘Don’t be afraid; it’s I, Felix,’ I whispered reassuringly. I had no answer, save another muffled sound; can she be suffocating under all those layers of petticoats, I thought in horror, and tried to increase my speed. Fortunately I was now at the rear of the cart, farther from the driver.