Face to the Sun (11 page)

‘She will look after that. Partridges will find themselves in the pot before they know it. Now if you come here with three horses early in the morning, Pepe and I will be ready for
you.’

‘But the police will miss the horses and follow our tracks to make sure where they have gone. If I don’t turn up it will mean that I have been arrested and shut up in the house. You
and Pepe must then go on alone.’

She slipped away into the trees. I wanted to catch Pepe at his first appearance, so I lay down across the entrance to Donna’s hollow and dozed the rest of the night away.

At dawn I was woken up by Donna’s special greeting to Pepe, between a low bark and an almost human speech of greeting. Her nose was magnificently sensitive. It was some time before he
actually arrived. On seeing me, his hand dropped to his knife.

‘Put that away, friend,’ I said, ‘and tell Donna that as soon as all three of us have had breakfast, you, the Señorita Molina and I start the march to take the Punchao
to the general of the Retadores.’

‘Then this is the Punchao?’ he asked in a voice which showed that he thought it possible, but couldn’t believe in the dream.

I raised it clear of the shirt so that it took the first light of the rising sun. Pepe dropped to his knees and lifted his hands in adoration. The first was his Christian response; the second an
unconscious obeisance to some remnant of the old religion underlining, for me, Heredia’s brilliance in choosing the Punchao for his emblem of government.

I told Pepe of Teresa’s intention of securing it for the Retadores. He was even more enthusiastic than I had anticipated and begged me to let him accompany us.

‘I shall be counting on you and Donna too, but are you married?’

‘Not yet. But after this she will know that I am a man worthy of her.’

We heard a horse approaching, but only one, and Teresa’s head and shoulders appeared above the screen of bushes.

‘I could only get away with one,’ she said. ‘The same horse as before. I think the police were suspicious. There was a guard on the stables.’

‘Well, you and I will walk with Donna,’ I said to Pepe, ‘and God be with us!’

‘We will take turns to ride,’ Teresa ordered.

We struck inland to the heart of the mountains and that was the last we saw of the sea. Progress was slow. It took us three days to reach the camp of the Retadores from which they had launched
their attack on the capital and then had set out, after evacuating the women and children, on that gruelling march to the sea. Our own tracks were plain enough. Donna, faced by unfamiliar scents,
was no help apart from showing us that the refugees had divided into three parties. We chose the wrong third, which appeared to be heading for the northern frontier. I could see why Heredia in
spite of continual reported victories found it hard to pin down any concentration of Retadores, who attacked, disengaged and bolted to their villages leaving a scatter of dead and wounded behind
them. Prisoners were his only hope of gaining useful intelligence, and they were few.

We let it be known that the daughter of the executed General Molinos was with us and at last came upon one of his supporters who recognised her. Till then, avoiding large villages, we had fallen
in with foresters and field workers who would not talk and were useless. This fellow had been a corporal in the palace guard – one of the few who had vanished into the hills after the capture
of General Molinos – and rejoiced to see that Teresa was alive. He told us that all the provincial police had been warned to look out for a party, two on foot and one on a horse, who were to
be instantly arrested and searched. One was believed to be a Russian who must be interrogated until he died. That was cheerful. It was, of course, inevitable that any foreigner in arms should be
reported as Russian. That suited Heredia, whether he believed it or not, and ensured a further supply of American arms.

‘Are you Russian?’ the ex-corporal asked me.

‘As much as you.’

‘I thought so, for it is known that all Russians wear fur hats.’

The rumour was enough to send us during the night as far from the village as we could reasonably get, aiming vaguely at the north-western frontier which gave us some hope of escape if we were
caught. Our friend replenished our supplies, including a fat chipmunk for Donna. We found that she had killed a hen being short of meat, for which we paid generously and would not allow her to
share in spite of her mild protests. Pepe interpreted her remarks as: (a) reproach; I intended this for you; (b) a louder, sharp bark: ‘You’re a bunch of shits’; (c) with downcast
brown eyes: ‘Well, I know I am only a dog.’

It did not seem a time for discipline, so while Pepe was portioning out the bird with his back to us, I secreted a wing from my plate. She had the sense to make no remarks and vanished with it
out of hearing.

We could get no certain information of where the main body of the Retadores was. If Heredia had heard of us at all, we must also have been a puzzle to him. Since he did not
know that we had the Punchao, Teresa’s escape from her family home must have appeared to him merely a wild attempt to join the insurgents. As for me, I was nothing more than an enigmatic
nuisance who should be promptly expelled from the country as soon as captured, for he wanted no complications with the British. I doubt if Pepe was even missed.

Hector? Well, he would be embarrassed by my disappearance but would no doubt devise some archaeological explanation for it. Much later I heard that he had invented an appointment with a
historical society in Panama whom he described as useless people who had got their dates wrong and, like all romantic amateurs, leaped upon impossible theories. As nobody knew my writing, except
for my signature on permits, Hector forged a note from me explaining that I had received reliable news that the Punchao was being offered for sale in Mexico. I could imagine that Carlota had asked
emphatically why the devil I had not said so before.

Meanwhile we were pretty well hidden in a cave which was wide enough to provide quarters for Teresa’s horse and opened into a passage for us. Pepe volunteered to return to Ramales and get
the latest news. He left Donna behind for she was his only connection with us. Pepe was away most of the day singing the praises of Heredia in the local café, and between silences and
enthusiasm had managed to sort out the supporters of both parties. He had left with a party of Heredistas for their favourite taverna but had learned no more than that a strong force of Retadores
was up against the frontier and that the government was trying to pin them there and destroy them.

Teresa changed her clothes and reappeared as a woman. We decided that she should ride the horse with Donna at heel as protection, keeping her distance from us until after dark. The change of sex
seemed to me premature for we knew nothing of the intentions of the Heredista command, and with a supposed Russian in our party we should not be given time for conversation.

‘Nothing is going to be easy,’ she reminded me, ‘unless I am recognised by the Retadores as my father’s daughter. And that is impossible unless I am dressed as a
woman.’

In the morning we had a stroke of luck; we crossed the line of a ragged column moving towards the northern frontier, and the tracks of their boots, and even of bare feet, showed that
they were Retadores. Teresa considered me the military expert, and it was agreed that I should take the horse and try to find out whether this party were marching to join their main body.

So I rode off on their tracks which were easy to follow and aimed steadily north-west; but all I could find out was that they were certainly those of Retadores. At one point where the ground was
boggy I got mixed up and travelled on some miles before I realised that the line of march had doubled in width and that I must be following the vanguard of pursuing Heredistas. Well, that
information was valuable too, if they were bound for the position of their own troops. So I followed in case the rising ground gave me a chance of seeing them. It did. They were bivouacked on dry
ground, and beyond them was the gleam of a little river in the last of the setting sun. Not a bad position, I thought, if they expected to be attacked, but probably it was only the end of a hard
day’s march.

I rode on keeping the river on my left and wondering where their rearguard was. The answer came almost immediately, and my horse and I galloped out of there at the first shot. They could have
had a valuable prisoner if they had waited a little longer. At any rate, I had discovered enough to make the journey worthwhile.

I returned at first light with at least one good bit of news. I had found a truck bogged down, abandoned and possibly waiting for dawn to be recovered. It was carrying supplies – very
welcome to us – and the crew must have left it to be hauled out in the morning. The engine started at the second pull, so we unloaded it and shoved its cargo of boxes and sacks under the back
wheels. Then with the help of my weary horse we managed to coax it up the last little slope which had beaten it. There was still no sight of the enemy, but we could look down on the river and knew
more or less where the command post of the Retadores would be. All we had were four rifles from the abandoned truck, so we had nothing to gain by joining the coming battle. I had some difficulty in
convincing Teresa of that. All we needed was a clear run to the nearest command post and instructions of where to deliver the Punchao.

Our own troops – I may now call them so – were in cover among the little valleys and peaks through which occasional streams rippled down to the river. They had to win the coming
battle, for they had chosen to concentrate near the frontier and drive the enemy into the marshes. It seemed to me that Heredia was not in his usual form.

The Retadores had the advantage of irregularly rising ground; little hillocks and ridges which gave them shelter till they were ready to attack. They were the weaker side and there was no point
in exposing themselves to make the difficult crossing of the river. The party began with a feeble bombardment by the Heredistas which continued until they realised that the enemy could not be
dislodged by the few shells which skimmed the top of the intervening ridges. The Retadores could very well stay where they were and laugh; but they tried one futile and furious attack, were allowed
to reach the river and were then massacred on its banks.

Both sides were now cautious. From our position we could see most of the action, and unless some party came out to recover the truck and its supplies we were safe as war correspondents. Teresa
was bursting to pick up a rifle and join the fun. I reminded her that we could do no good and were the guardians of the Punchao.

But men were dropping from the Retarodes’ small-arms fire and the Heredistas became impatient. They too tried to ford the river where it was shallowest and suffered the same losses as the
rebels had earlier. There were already streaks and patches of red where bodies had been flung aside by rocks protruding from the bottom.

I was by now as much bored as horrified by this futile battle and one hand had started to play with Donna who was lying alongside me when Teresa cried:

‘Oh God, no!’

She was looking downriver where I saw four tanks in line, bouncing, sliding and recovering. They were still out of sight of the defenders for they had come across a bridge over the curve of the
river not far from the point where I had been shot at the previous evening.

There the defenders had a post which had not been engaged at all or fired a shot except the one directed at me. We could see them running for their lives to gain the shelter of – at a
guess – the reserves of the Retadores whose glimpsed movements were as agitated as those of a disturbed antheap. They hadn’t a hope. Heredia had planned the battle well unless his
opponents had armour-piercing shells which he knew they had not. I saw a hit on a track which halted the leading tank, but the other three roared on, turning the tributary streams into little
valleys of death. The Retadores broke and scrambled over the ridges towards the frontier. The mass of the Heredistas followed wading, swimming and spraying the fugitives with ill-aimed rifle
fire.

Teresa, Pepe and I stood up, I at least hoping for a parley with one of the small parties of Heredistas who had formed up, better disciplined than their raging comrades, on our side of the river
as if to show their contempt for those bloodthirsty comrades who had not waited for orders but given chase like a pack on the scent.

‘The end of the Retadores for a generation,’ I exclaimed.

‘No!’ Teresa answered, her eyes hard and shining as the diamonds on the Punchao. ‘Give it to me!’

I took it from the horse’s back, unwrapped it and put it into her outstretched hands. I thought she meant to save it from capture by racing down into the trees behind us before the
victorious troops paid any attention to the three isolated civilians. Myself I waited for death and hoped it would come by a single shot. Pepe laid his hand on Donna’s head in a gesture of
comfort.

Teresa walked over the ridge into full view of the enemy and held up the Punchao with both arms while Pepe and Donna followed a few paces behind, he proud and calm as befitted an ex-corporal,
Donna with all four legs standing to attention and muzzle pointing fearlessly at the unknown.

The enemy company advanced, still in fairly good order. I could see that they were all Indians or mestizos. They were silent as she came down the hill towards them.

‘Here is your hope of peace!’ she cried in a voice which rang purest silver. ‘Respect it.’

A sergeant major stepped in front of his company, called them to attention and to order arms. He then marched forward and saluted her.

‘Stay with me,’ she answered, ‘and fight for justice and mercy! With the help of God, I will lead you in the name of your women and children. I am the daughter of General
Molinos.’

The sergeant major’s response was immediate.

‘Company, present arms! What will you choose? The leadership of this brave woman or of the brute who calls himself President of Malpelo?’