Tonio brought the news after dinner with the turgid mix he called
coffee. “Concepcion says,” he remarked, “that there has been a battle
beyond Cienaga and all the insurgents have been destroyed. But
Concepcion is a liar anyway, and does the señor wish me to open another
tin of milk? There is no more fresh. The cow is dead.”
Fellowes lifted his head with a jerk from the sticky leather cushion
where he had just laid it, too tired even to swear. “Hello! say that
again.”
“The cow is dead and Pepita wept. There is no doubt that it is dead
. . .”
“Never mind. I mean about the battle.”
“Saints! Concepcion says there has been one beyond Cienaga, and all the
insurgentes have been killed.”
“Who told him?”
“A man who fought in the battle, señor, a man who was there. Pedro is
hiding him in the cafetaria.”
“Why?”
“Quien sabe? Pedro says he is frightened. And there is no fresh milk.
Little Mother of God, that cow was exhausta . . .”
“Be quiet. Give me my boots again.”
For all his tiredness, Fellowes dropped out of the hammock lightly
enough. If there really had been a battle, and the insurgentes really
had been wiped out, then the victorious troops would probably straggle
back to the Town for rest and refreshment. In that case the Company must
be warned, and the Company’s loose property swept up and secured. “Damn
all governments, anyway,” said Fellowes, as he struggled with the boots,
and wondered where he might lay hand on one of his foremen.
After the heat of the lighted room behind the nettings, the dusk was
almost cool as he plunged into it. A storm was coming, and the sun had
dropped early into dark cloud. Sky and forest were so much of a
blackness that it looked as if the trees had suddenly and silently
surged upward and swallowed the day. The foul little roads were dim and
deserted; only the square flared with uncertain light. The church seemed
at one moment to waver near the ground; the next, it flickered aloft,
striking into the inverted pits of dark like a reflection in a well.
Only in front of the café a compact and sweating crowd fought and
screamed whole-heartedly, tiny by contrast of the night.
A man whirled from the outskirts of the crowd as Fellowes paused, and
caught him by the coat. “There is a man!” he shrieked above the din.
“One who has seen the battle!” Fellowes shook him off, lowered his head,
and drove through the mob by sheer weight of bone. They took his charge
with perfect good-temper. Brown hands caught at him, eyes gleamed and
darkened, and half the mouths in the Town screamed at him in unison.
“There is a man in the café. A man who saw the battle! Little Mother of
God, a man who was there!”
He was in the hard-breathing front rank, pressed against the wall. The
closed door of the café was in front of him. He could see a pale blot
wavering like a moth within the glass,—the anxious face of Pedro. Then
a darkness appeared in the blot, and two smaller blots appeared with
cautious gestures. Fellowes worked forward till he leaned against the
door. It opened suddenly. Fat hands dragged him within. And Pedro
clapped to the door again in the excited faces of his friends.
“That was well done,” said Pedro, puffing heavily. “I saw the señor. I
thought, he wishes to question me, to ask me the truth; I will admit
him. And you are here, señor.”
Fellowes looked round. The thick-walled room was cool and dark, bitter
with the smell of stale cheap wine, and as still as a chapel. The noise
outside penetrated only as a murmur. “And the man?” he asked, with a
breath of relief. “You have him here?”
“The man who was there?” said Pedro. “Yes, señor. You wish to ask him of
the battle? Yes, señor. I will give light.”
He brought a little reeking lamp of the sort they light in shrines.
Shapes dawned on them cloudily,—barrels, jars, an old door like a
cave’s mouth, and a flight of steps. “He is . . .?” began Fellowes in
some astonishment. And Pedro finished quickly, “In the cellar? Yes,
señor. Why? Because he is afraid.”
The last word came back deep and hollow as Pedro led the way into the
cellars. “Afraid . . .”
If the upper floor had been as still as a chapel, the cellar was as
still as a tomb. The steps led straight down into a square room full of
broad mud pillars; on three sides of this room smaller ones opened, bins
and cupboards for storing the wine and the aguardiente. Each opening was
hung with a rough door, and every door stood open, so that beyond the
circling shadows of the pillars there seemed to wait a monstrous company
of wings. Fellowes turned mechanically to close the door at the foot of
the stairs. And a voice cried to him quickly, “Señor, señor, leave the
door open, in the name of God.”
“Yes,” said the fat Pedro in a whisper, “that is the man. Leave the door
open, señor. In the name of God.”
Fellowes looked. The soldier sat on a straw mattress with his back
against the far wall, so that all the open doors were in view. His
slender brown feet were wrapped in strips of native cloth that had once
been white, but were now stained a thick dark brown. His knees were
drawn up and his hands clasped them. He wore some sort of uniform-coat
with gaudy yellow flannel facings, and a broad hat lay beside him,
together with an untouched bottle of Pedro’s wine. His voice, singularly
sharp and quick, was yet the voice of a sound man.
“Are you . . .” began Fellowes, and then stopped. The face touched with
a strange reflection not of light, but of darkness, answered him. It was
the only answer he had. For the soldier was counting the doors on his
fingers,—“Four—seven—nine, and all open.”
Fellowes turned to Pedro. “Is this man—is he a little mad?”
“O no, señor. He is only afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of a closed door, señor. He is not mad. He was there, beyond Cienaga.
Wait. I will speak for you.”
He leaned forward and spoke loudly, a fat hand on either knee. “This
caballero wishes to ask if you were in the fight beyond Cienaga.”
The echoes of the deep voice rolled in little thunders; each echo died
before the man answered in his sharp, breathless voice.
“Yes, I was there.”
“He wishes to hear about the battle. Will you tell him all you know?”
Another silence. Then,—“Yes, I will tell him all I know. But do not
shut the doors.”
Fellowes took it up eagerly in his best Spanish. “Tell me all you know,
my friend, and I’ll make it well worth your while.” He felt in his
pocket for a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Go on. I’m ready.”
“There was a river,” said the soldier quickly, “and a house with a
yellow roof in a clearing.”
“Yes. Go on, please.”
“A house with a yellow roof. I was in the house.”
“Yes, but before that?”
“Before that, the swamps, señor. Then the river, and the village, and
the house with the yellow roof. I was in the house.”
“But—this is no use.” Fellowes turned to Pedro. “I want facts, all he
knows—”
Pedro’s full-moon face was turned gravely on the soldier; his eyes,
gentle as a girl’s, watched him only. “Señor,” he said, with an air
slightly absent, “I think he will tell you all he knows. Listen. In the
name of God.”
Pedro’s voice, the little shrine-lamp sending up a thin black finger to
the roof, the shadows, the open doors,—all these chilled Fellowes a
little. He glanced curiously from Pedro to the soldier. “Let him tell it
in his own way, then.”
The soldier began again, as if he were speaking for the first time.
“There was the house with the yellow roof. But before that we crossed
the swamps. It’s very bad in the swamps. We walked one behind the other
on logs laid down in the mud; they were very old logs, very slippery. We
walked for a long time, I don’t know how long. One man took the quick
fever, and when the pain came, he cried and fell into the mud, in a deep
place. He was gone before one could cry on the saints, and his gun too,
which was a pity. This man was the first who died. I forget his name
now, but he was very lucky at cockfighting.
“It was very dark in the swamps, too, dark almost like night. Sometimes
the trees broke, and a line of light lay across the mud. As the long
trail of men crawled along the logs, each as he passed under the light
would go very slowly, and lift his face to it, until he was pushed on by
the man behind who wanted to feel the sun on his eyes too. In this way
two more men were drowned in the mud. But I was safe, and so was the man
in front of me. I was glad of that, because he was my friend.”
“But can’t you remember how long you were in the swamps?” asked
Fellowes, gently. “Who your captain was? Anything that happened?”
The soldier looked troubled. “No, I don’t remember. But I had a gun, and
cartridges, and a bayoneta; and I was afraid of the insurgentes. I was
afraid they would come up behind us. We didn’t know where they were. The
man in front of me didn’t care. He was a young man and merry, with no
hatred in him. He said, ‘If a Señor Insurgente gave me a good dinner,
I’d build him a shrine.’ But I was afraid of the insurgentes. They were
devils.
“When we came out of the swamps many of us had fever, and our feet were
sore with leech-bites. There was a road, but it was very bad. Soon one
part of our army was far ahead of the other. Those who went in front had
shoes, those who went slowly, hadn’t any. I was afraid the insurgentes
would catch us, but I couldn’t go fast. My friend had shoes, but he
stayed with me. And one day he went off by himself, and came back
laughing with a pair for me. ‘There’s a village yonder,’ he told me,
‘all shut up except the church. A poor place. Only the fleas are fat. I
said a prayer in the church, amigo, and stole the jefe’s shoes for you.’
“Now that we both had shoes we left the rearguard behind us, the men who
had none. I don’t remember where we went. We went on for a long time,
and there was fighting in front of us. I think we fought too, because I
remember hiding in some thick bushes covered with pink flowers. There
was a dead man near us, and when I fired my gun, the pink flowers fell
until he was almost buried,—only his feet out. There were lots of dead
men, though, we didn’t mind them. But there were a few who were not
dead. Those insurgentes are devils. I was not afraid of fighting—I was
afraid of insurgentes. I would call to my friend in daylight, like a
child at night. ‘Are they here, have they come, amigo?’ And he would say
‘No, we must still keep the dinner hot for them.’ He was a merry man
even when he was hungry.
“I still had my gun, and some cartridges and my bayoneta; but we had no
food. When we came to the river, and the village, and the house with the
yellow roof, my friend went away to find food. I hid in the house with
the yellow roof, waiting for him; I hid in a corner of the lower room
behind the door, where there was a little window, high up. I had my gun,
and my cartridges, and my bayoneta. I was going to fire on the rebels
through the window if they came. But they didn’t come.
“It was very still in that house. The room was a very nice one, very
clean. A water-pot hung under the eaves and dripped, and that was often
the only sound I could hear. A child’s shoe lay in the middle of the
floor; they must have been well-to-do folk if even the children had
shoes. But I couldn’t find anything to eat, not so much as a mouldy
plantain or a bit of bread. The door was open. I left it open and stood
in the shadow behind it with my gun and my cartridges and my bayoneta,
looking out of the little window and wondering where my friend was.
There was a clearing outside, surrounded with tall trees. Sunlight hung
like ropes made from gold between the trees. Birds talked; one flew in
at the open door of the room where I hid. It was so quiet you woauld
never have thought of fighting, of anger, of dead men. Except when the
sunny wind blew off the woods.”
As if the remembered quietness locked his lips, the soldier was silent.
The door at the foot of the stairs swung in a draught and he watched it
anxiously with drawn-in lips until it was still. Then he went on
breathlessly: “I will tell the gentleman all I can remember. It is not
much. But there was fighting, but I don’t remember where or what it was
all about. It is all gone. Only I was in the lower room of the house
with the yellow roof, behind the door. And the door was open. I was
waiting for my friend. I waited a long time, but he came at last.
“He broke through the trees on the far side of the clearing, running as
if he were mad, and leaping from side to side. He had a dead fowl under
each arm, and as he ran, their long necks jerked together. His tunic was
all stuffed out with things, and his ragged trousers fluttered round his
legs like flags round a flag-pole at a fiesta. He looked very funny. He
was laughing as he ran. I laughed too, and I was just going to run and
meet him, when I thought, is there a kettle here to cook the fowl in? I
looked for the kettle, and looked back through the window. And I saw the
little blue puff break from the trees . . .
“The crack followed, little and foolish in that big quietness as the
crack of a twig. And three men ran out of the trees after my friend.
They were insurgentes. I had never seen them so close before. I was
afraid. But he wasn’t, I saw his white teeth flashing as he ran for the
open door. He ran as fast as a dog, with the fowls’ heads jerking
against his knees. And he laughed.
“I became very cold, there behind the door. Something jerked in my
chest, and the gun jerked in my hand. I wondered what I should do. If I
fired, I might have hit my friend. I didn’t fire. I watched the
insurgentes coming nearer. I saw their faces, as they ran through the
streaks of light and shadow in the clearing, now bright, now dark, and
all with one thought in them . . . Then I was afraid. Afraid as I hadn’t
been before. The light went out, my flesh trembled, my sinews shook
against my bones. Mother of God, I died,—died many times.”
The soldier bent forward, panting. His eyes for the first time met
Fellowes’.
“I was there. I will tell you all I know, señor. He was my friend. I was
afraid.
“I shut the door.”
The cellar was very still. The lamp-fire trembled, and Pedro’s immense
squat shadow surged like a cloud.
“I shut the door. The square of sunlight on the floor grew thin and went
out. There was a place for a bolt, but no bolt. I drove in my
bayoneta,—drove it in with the child’s shoe I picked up from the floor.
I leaned against the door, staring at the floor where the sunlight had
been. My hands were over my ears, but I could hear everything, rolling
like stones in my heart, in my head . . .
“I shut the door. It was fast when he flung himself against it, calling
me to open in the name of God. I wanted to open it, then, señor, I
wanted to open it. But I couldn’t move. I was afraid. And they killed
him against it. They didn’t shoot. They killed him with their bayonets.
The points came through to the other side and pricked me,—twice,—as I
leaned against it. Then they took the fowls and went away. I don’t know
how many there were or why they went away. Perhaps they didn’t see the
door had been open.
“It was very quiet again. I crushed my ear against my side of the door,
but there was no sound from his side. I put my lips to the wood and
spoke to him in a whisper for fear the insurgentes should hear and come
back. I couldn’t believe that _he_ didn’t hear. I thought he was
listening in silence and laughing,—just to pay me out—but there was no
sound but the drip from the water-jar. It was very loud, like a bell. A
drop would flash in the shadow and fall, and then the sound would come
in my head,—‘Boom.’ Soon I saw that there were two ‘Booms’ to every
drip that fell. I couldn’t understand it at first. But the other drip,
the other noise, were outside. I looked down at my feet. The jefe’s
shoes he had stolen for me were very dark, very wet, with—with what had
dripped and run under the closed door from his side to mine . . .
“I was afraid again. I kicked off the shoes and ran round and round the
room. I couldn’t believe that he was dead. He was such a merry one. As I
ran, I kept saying, ‘I’m afraid of the insurgentes, afraid of the
insurgentes,’ and I called, ‘Are you here, amigo, have they come? But he
didn’t answer ‘We must keep the soup hot.’ Then I knew I wasn’t afraid
of the insurgentes, but of my amigo on the other side of the door.
“When it was dark, so dark I could see nothing, I went to the door. My
hands were quite steady as I worked out the bayoneta. But I opened it
the breadth of a hand. Señor, the door opened inwards. As it came,
something came with it, heavy, dragging on the ground—pinned to it as a
bat’s skin’s pinned on a board . . .
“I don’t remember much. I shut the door again. I was very cold. I took
my gun and broke down the window and climbed out that way.
“The clearing was in very dark shadow, but the tops of the trees were
white in the coming moonlight. I knew I must be away before the
moonlight shone on the door. I dropped from the window and my foot
struck something,—a loaf of bread. His tunic was all fat with things as
he ran and laughed . . .
“I was very hungry. I caught it up and ran, wondering why the
insurgentes had left it. I went on and on. The moon rose and the light
came on my hands. They were dark, señor, the bread was dark. No wonder
the insurgentes had left it. It was all spoiled . . .
“I don’t remember much more. I went on,—went on. Then it was day, and
there was a town, one of our towns. When they saw my feet, they let me
ride in the wagons. They offered me bread, but I couldn’t eat it. They
thought I was wounded and starved. They thought I had fought the rebels.
Perhaps I had. But I only remember that I was afraid. And so I shut the
door.”
“But the fighting?” asked Fellowes under his breath. “Under whose
command? Who cut off the insurgentes? Where will the troops retire? He
must . . .”
“Hush, señor.” Pedro lifted his hand and turned on his heel. “Hush. He
knows no more.”
“More?” The man in the yellow facings caught at the word. “Tell the
gentleman that’s all. There was a house, and an open door, and I shut
the door.”
“Come,” said Pedro again, “there is no more. He has told you all he
knows.”
They went softly up the steps. And behind them the breathless voice
called: “Señor, señor, for the pity of God, do not close the door!”