They halted early. The rain had stopped. The flies and mosquitoes renewed their onslaught but there was a chance to dry some clothing in the rays of sun that filtered through the trees.
They ate some berries the Indians said were edible. They wetted soya flour that had been in one of the emergency ration bags, and swallowed it down greedily. While the food was being shared out, Singer disappeared. It took them half an hour to find him. He’d fainted into his own bloodied excrement. They carried him back to where a fire was going. Lucas could do nothing to alleviate the pain, the stench or the humiliation of his condition. One of the Indians gave Singer a handful of coca leaves. Lucas watched and said nothing.
Perhaps it was the coca leaves, or the warmth of the fire, or some inner strength that Singer was able to conjure out of nowhere, that helped him recover. More likely it was the way in which the symptoms of such fevers came and went suddenly, leaving the sufferer ever weaker. But soon Singer was smiling and arguing. ‘Dying is easier for Catholics,’ he told Lucas. ‘They have a life hereafter.’
‘They have to meet their maker. They have to show remorse.’
‘Touché!’ said Singer.
‘Religion and politics have no place in a soldier’s life,’ said Lucas, who seemed as stolid and unemotional as ever.
‘They had no part in life when you were a soldier,’ Singer told him. ‘Things have changed. Now men fight for their beliefs and for no other reason.’
‘Men were doing that in the Middle Ages,’ said Lucas, ‘but what did they decide by their fighting?’
‘That you would not be born Catholic?’
‘How do you know I’m not a Catholic?’
‘That self-righteous air of impartial superiority.’
Lucas smiled wearily and got to his feet. He couldn’t tear his mind away from Inez, no matter how he tried. Lucas had a cloth containing some Epsom salts. He’d dampened the cloth and was going the rounds, dabbing it upon the men’s sores and ulcers. It was absurd: like fighting a typhoid epidemic with a packet of aspirin. But perhaps the ritual was good for morale. The man with septic teeth would die any time now, but Lucas went through the business of treating his sores with no less care than he treated those of the others.
Singer had sores too. He was treated last. Now that Angel Paz was lost, such details had established Singer as the man commanding the party. When Lucas was treating him he even disclosed some of the dealings he’d had with Ramón. ‘How soon did you guess?’ Singer asked.
‘I realized that you weren’t simply captured during the attack on the survey camp: you were chosen. And Ramón chose you: someone who turned out to speak Spanish fluently. Then there were the radio signals from Rosario, and more from the camp. I noticed that Ramón operated the radio personally. He coded and decoded everything himself. And there were those long interrogations when you and Ramón talked together for hours. Does that hurt?’
‘You bet,’ Singer said as he grimaced.
‘What was so secret about all that?’
‘The White House doesn’t want to be seen talking to Marxists; Ramón doesn’t want to be seen talking with the Yankees.’ Singer chuckled.
‘Talking about what?’ Lucas put the dirty dressing back into place.
‘When they burn the coca out of the valley, Ramón will move in and take over the Pekinista territory. Okay: he’ll stamp on the coca but there will be money in the coffee crop. And he’ll get a slice of the oil money too. And Washington will guarantee the price of his coffee. It will be cosy.’
‘Won’t that make Ramón’s force a bigger threat?’
‘You don’t understand how the game is played, amigo. Aid is habit-forming. They’ll start him off with cans of beans and wind up selling him colour TVs complete with “I Love Lucy” reruns. A guerrilla army can only exist through military action. If Ramón and his army sit on their fannies for another year or so, they will cease to be any kind of military force.’
‘Why doesn’t Washington just leave them to die in the rain forest?’
‘The power-play, Lucas. They play him off against Benz and his bandits in Tepilo. They beat Admiral Benz over the head with him. Competition, see? Like capitalism.’
‘I’ve got to get some shut-eye.’
‘Sure. Got any ideas about what to do tomorrow?’
‘Maybe skiing?’
The stretchers they’d rigged from bamboo and creeper were crude. The sick and wounded were lashed to a couple of sticks and carried like fresh meat. The tight bindings made Inez wince, but over the mud patches and fallen trees – where the bearers stumbled – the springy poles saved her from extra pain. She did not complain, either when the humid jungle heat made the fever burn within her, or when they crossed the patches of swamp where heavy rain soaked her to the skin.
Food was very scarce, but no man went truly hungry, for the jungle would always provide something edible no matter how unappetizing. They’d calculated upon reaching the Sierra Serpiente in four days. This gave them a couple of ounces of soy and maize at morning and at night. If it took longer there would still be enough, for it was evident that more men would die.
Often, on the march, Lucas would touch Inez lightly and lovingly on the face or neck. Sometimes she was strong enough to talk. ‘Your body can find its own resources,’ Lucas told her. ‘With plasma I would have you up and running inside half an hour. Fight it. Fight it.’ He watched all the time for the stiff ‘trismus’ of the lower jaw and neck. It was a positive sign that the tetanus poison was attacking the muscles. After that came the arching back and the agonizing pain.
‘Say you love me, Lucas.’
‘You know it.’
‘It was the man behind the tree. I didn’t see him.’
‘There will be clean dressings and a chance to drain you. That will ease the pain.’
She stretched her hands under the bindings and pressed her belly to relieve the relentless ache. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep but the rain beat upon her face. ‘Is it an abscess, Lucas?’ she whispered.
‘Try and rest.’
At noon they reached a place where the narrow river split to make a triangle of mud. Singer went ahead to probe it. He sank suddenly, thigh-deep in the black morass. Three men were needed to get him out.
With the cliffs of the Serpiente getting nearer, it was exasperating to have the mud impose upon them a detour of over four miles. Even so, they were in ankle-deep swamp for most of the way. The men carrying Inez sank to their knees and stayed very still. Eyes closed, they sobbed silently in frustration and rage. When they halted for a rest, some men had to be bullied into removing the leeches. They were losing the will to do anything; losing the will to live. At first Singer changed the tasks around, hoping that bearing casualties would give men a purpose for living, but by the end of the day this device no longer helped.
Twice that afternoon Lucas pronounced death. The bodies were tipped into the swamp without being unlashed from their poles. At least two more would never reach the foothills of the Serpiente. Was it worth the delay that carrying them inflicted upon the party’s progress? Shock had already killed more men than the bullets had. Lucas had expected that. The medical books predicted such delayed effects. But this didn’t lessen the pain and dismay that such deaths caused him.
They were on the far side of the triangle, sunlight hitting the peaks ahead, when one of Inez’s bearers walked off into the bush. Lucas had noticed him stumble several times. Then the man wobbled drunkenly, lurched against the man alongside him, and collided with a tree. Lucas grabbed the poles as the man collapsed. Heatstroke. There had been other such casualties but this man was otherwise healthy. They’d had enough for one day. They camped that night at a site not far from where the man had fallen.
They made a fire and boiled water. Sharing out the tiny rations of food had become a ritual now. They made cheroots and passed them round as they stared into the fire. Lucas moved Inez close to the blaze. He used the light of the flames to look again
at the wound under her ribs. The blood was brownish black and Lucas sniffed, fearing to detect the stink of gangrene. He probed to let air get into the tissue but it would do little good to such a deep wound. Inez winced and fainted. Lucas improvised a drain from his last sterile dressing and wedged it into place before she came round.
That night the rain started again. It was still drizzling in the early morning light. Every leaf shone like silver and hissed like a thousand adders. Lucas was up very early. He caught Singer and took him aside. ‘I think I’ll stay here with Inez for another hour or two. I want to look at that wound again in good daylight.’
Singer looked at him for a moment before responding. ‘I’ll tell the bearers. You’d better keep three of them.’
‘Don’t leave anyone.’
‘How is she?’
‘She’ll be all right.’
‘We can wait a couple of hours,’ Singer offered.
‘Keep going. You’ll be on the foothills of the Serpiente before dark, if you push along. After that you’ll have harder ground all the way.’
‘Is it the climb?’
‘No, no, no. I’ll catch you up.’
‘Sometimes these mountains are easier than they look.’
‘If it’s anything like I think it will be, you’ll have a hard climb,’ Lucas said. ‘No carrying once you reach the rock. Dump everything except food. That might make all the difference. You might have to leave the ones who can’t make it.’
‘I’ll fish out some supplies for you.’
‘No. I’ll catch you up,’ said Lucas.
‘Take an AK-47.’
‘No, my handgun is all I need.’
Singer shouted to the rest of them to get moving. By now he’d learned some of the invective that the locals used and – always a mimic – his accent was perfect. He even got a grin from one or two of them.
As they left, Singer said, ‘Don’t hang around here too long, Lucas. You never know who might happen along.’
‘Thanks, Singer.’
‘I’ll miss your happy laughing face, amigo.’
‘Tote that rod and lift that bale!’ Lucas called.
Singer heard the shots. Two: one immediately after the other. They came about an hour and a half later, echoing across the valley and sending the birds clamouring into the air. Singer stopped in his tracks. Poor Lucas; poor Inez.
‘What was that?’ one of the others asked, always fearful that another attack would come.
‘A bad prognosis,’ said Singer. ‘Keep moving!’
It was an arduous march and the mountains seemed to recede farther from them at every step. It was impossible to forget that the Spanish word Serpiente also meant devil.
In the middle of the afternoon they came upon the fungi. Mushrooms crunched as they walked upon them, breaking into pieces that revealed white interiors and pink undersides. They dared to believe that the ground might have begun to slope slightly – ever so slightly – upwards. Singer heard the sound of a stream and insisted that they search until it was found. A stream meant a source in the hills ahead, and perhaps a passage through them. They walked in the water to take advantage of the path it made through the denser vegetation that they began to encounter. The sun came out and the heat made the jungle steamy. Suddenly the cicadas began their sawing.
Singer’s attack of dizziness came without warning. He felt his guts give way and the next thing he knew he was slumped with his back propped against a tree. Two Indians were holding him to prevent him from falling over. He wondered how long he’d been unconscious. Befouled and stinking, he wiped himself and then got to his feet slowly. He waved his hand in the air to get them started again. He went only about twenty paces before he had another dizzy spell. This time he had more trouble getting to his feet. He made no protest when they lashed him to a pole and carried him. The rhythm of the swaying poles tormented him and he could not remain conscious all the time. He told himself that if he conserved his energy he’d be able to walk the next day.
It was a gruelling day’s march and they managed without Singer to lead them, without Paz and without Lucas either. It was the sight of the Serpiente that kept them going. They didn’t need a compass and they didn’t need anyone to tell them that getting there was their only chance of survival. Once or twice the swaying form of Singer was consulted by men who believed that he knew best. Sometimes he grunted. But Singer was past all that. He was just so much dead weight. He didn’t even care any more.
It was twilight as they went uphill. Some of the men were able to see the marks and trails of game. At one stage they all stopped to sniff the air. There was the smell of scorched chilli. In that part of the world it was conclusive evidence of the presence of man.
It was soon after that that they found the carcass of a small jungle deer. It was still warm and there were cuts on its hide to show that hunters had been interrupted at their task. Everyone studied the half-skinned deer with disbelief. Soon two diminutive half-naked tribesmen appeared at the edge of the clearing. They looked in awe at the smelly festering giants who had come out of what they called ‘the lake’. No one in living memory had crossed the huge swampy basin.
One of the guerrillas found a tobacco leaf to hand over to the two little men as a gesture of friendship. They nodded their thanks. At the sight of Singer bound to a pole they showed no surprise. They watched to see him placed carefully on the ground, his eyes closed. Then, feeling secure, the two hunters crouched down and continued the task of disembowelling the deer. They stripped off the skin and suspended it on a length of bamboo.
Eventually they put their kill on their shoulders and started along what was faintly discernible as a trail. Waving they indicated that the men should follow. They smiled artfully as if they knew exactly what was happening and where they should go.
The two little hunters moved quickly under the trees. The guerrillas, plodding slowly and burdened with their sick, followed the smell of the warm deer and the trail of its freshly spilled blood.
The hunters hurried ahead and then returned to be sure they were coming, like sheepdogs round a slow-witted flock. Eventually they reached a large clearing. One side of it was taken up by mixed crops, neatly planted in rows. On the other side stood a thatched hut and a corrugated-tin shed and a sugar press which smelled of powerful local rum. Behind a fence, red and black pigs and chickens were running around and making a noise. From somewhere out of sight came the barking of dogs.
A pale-faced man emerged from the doorway of the hut. He was a gaunt old character with a wispy beard and watery eyes. He wore tattered cotton trousers and a tartan shirt that had faded to a light grey. The hunters spoke to him in great excitement. He looked at them and then at the newcomers. He didn’t like guerrillas: no one did. But this smelly lot of cripples would give no trouble. Using the local dialect that ensured confidentiality, he told one of the little tribesmen to take news of their arrival down to the place where the Federalista patrol regularly called. His position as a foreigner was always uncertain: he couldn’t afford to be accused of harbouring guerrillas.
Long ago this old Austrian man had arrived here as a missionary. His belief had waned and he’d stayed to become first a farmer and then a recluse. At his call two nubile young women brought out bananas and beans cooked to a mush. They put the food on a large table in the yard. There were flowers everywhere. ‘Eat,’ said the old man, and when they had eaten the young women brought hot coffee too. It was fierce black stuff grown here on his land. With it came a big plastic container of home-made cane spirit.
When he had first heard the commotion, and the excited gabble of the tribesmen, the old man had allowed himself to hope that Europeans or Americans had arrived. For a moment he’d been excited enough to anticipate urbane conversation or a game of cards, but one look was enough to dispel such ideas. It was a pitiful crowd. They were a mixed collection – all shapes and sizes – but there were no Europeans nor Americans with them.
The guerrillas kept pointin
g to a muscular black fellow and saying that he was a Yankee, but the old man was unconvinced. It didn’t matter much either way: the poor devil had been dead for ages. The old man wondered why they had carried the body so far. The dead man was quite cold and stiff: his flattened hands pressed together as if in prayer.
26
ABOARD AIR FORCE ONE. ‘These things always work out.’
There was a time when the President of the United States of America was required to focus his attention solely on the affairs of the Nation. But now he’d become a super-mayor as well, for the malfunctioning township that stretched from coast to coast. His daily concerns still encompassed the wider issues: his Party, the budget deficit, the balance of trade and foreign policy, civil rights and the environment. Now he was also expected to take care of drug abuse, abortion, pollution, Savings and Loan accounts, urban blight, day care for infants and even layoffs in southern California.
The President had advisers of course. One of his most trusted ones – John Curl – sat opposite him now in Air Force One. There was a speech writer with him. He was looking over Curl’s shoulder as Curl checked the draft of what the President would say to the gathering this afternoon. As well as slashing criss-cross deletions here and there, Curl was underlining places where the speech was to be expanded, and inserting queries against passages that must be checked by a researcher.
Curl handed it back to the writer. ‘It’s great, Steve. I like that slow beginning. But make it more Californian. Forty per cent of the population there is made up of ethnic minorities: Comprende usted? Insert some jokes about West Coast personalities maybe – and put in some kind of off-the-cuff indiscretion about offshore drilling. Jack knows the score if you need local colour.’
The speech writer nodded to Curl and to the President. Curl resumed his study of the itinerary that would begin the moment they touched down. Speeches and counter-speeches, honour guards, campaign songs, photo opportunities, motorcades, Press conferences without TV cameras, Press conferences with TV cameras, off-the-record interviews with a list of non-attributable statements, and a battery of meetings and dinners with party workers. Worse yet would be the bright-eyed ambitious wives, with their pink hair-dos and long red beautiful nails. They would fight for desirable table places like protocol officers. A hundred bitter complaints from VIPs always followed a trip like this.