MAMista (28 page)

It was seven yards wide here and getting wider, and more
precarious, all the time. It narrowed sometimes to gush between sharp granite rocks. Where it widened, the smooth stones over which it flowed were covered in a slimy green fungus. Paz stepped close to the edge and looked back uphill to see the white water tumbling down. It would be a miserable climb to retrace their steps all the way back to where it was an easy crossing.

He halted the men. The crossing would provide a chance to practise for the more serious obstacles that lay ahead. ‘Should they remove their boots?' Paz asked Lucas.

‘Boots and socks off,' Lucas said. ‘This is not a patrol. The sooner they realize that the better.'

Some of the more experienced men had plastic bags with them. They carried their footwear around their necks in the bags and were sure it was dry.

The mules were sent first to be sure they got across. They complained in their hoarse and feeble way, and did everything they could to be difficult. It was their nature; the mule being a curious creature noted for both its obstinacy and its intelligence. The water was numbingly cold. For the men who formed a human chain by standing in the water it was painful. The food stores, the ammunition and the machine gun were passed from hand to hand. But the bed of the stream was slippery with moss and a man could not carry a burden and enjoy a steadying hand too. Tito – Novillo's number two on the machine-gun team – was proudly carrying a container of machine-gun ammunition when he went sprawling. The ammunition went bouncing down the steep hillside and so did a box of dried fish.

‘You pack of goddamned idiots!' Paz said. ‘I told you to take care. Where were you, comrade Santos?'

‘Helping with the mules,' said Santos.

‘Goddamn it; stay with the men,' Paz said. ‘Lucas! Lucas!' he shouted. ‘Why weren't you here to help?'

Lucas, busy checking the foot of the man who had fallen, pretended not to hear.

No one was seriously hurt but the ammunition and the fish had to be opened, dried and repacked. It took a long time and as Lucas discreetly pointed out to Inez, the crossing had been done without any reconnaissance of the other side of the stream. A handful of hostile men on the far bank could have caught them in midstream and cut them to pieces. It was an observation that Singer made too; but he made it to the world at large, loudly and forcibly with interlarded expletives.

With feet dried, and a lesson learned, the party started off again. Paz looked at his map. Santos looked at it too. This stream was not marked on the map, but keeping to this route they would soon come to a river that merited a distinct thick pen line.

They trudged on. The men were quiet now as fatigue bit into them. Even the more ebullient youngsters – like the eighteen-year-old twins – had begun to see what was in store. It was another gruelling two-hours' trekking before they heard the sounds of the river. The mules perked up. Water attracted all living things. They heard birds and monkeys and there were sudden movements in the greenery underfoot.

‘There she is,' Singer boomed. From the vantage point of his chair, and with no need to watch his footsteps, he was the first one to spot the water. In his fine bass voice he rendered, ‘He don't plant 'taters, he don't plant cotton, An dem dat plants 'em is soon forgotten; But ol' man river he just keeps rollin' along.'

During his time in the camp such renderings had become Singer's running gag. Now they also served to remind everyone that while they were sweating and straining their hostage was idle with breath to spare.

Paz ignored Singer's performance. He hurried to a break in the trees and looked at it through his field-glasses. At first sight the river did not seem as wide as he feared it might be. His relief was short-lived. What seemed to be the
far bank proved, on closer inspection, to be a muddle of tree-covered islands. One served as a monkey colony. As the patrol arrived at the riverbank, there came from it a shrill chorus of fear and defiance that was amplified by the intervening flat water.

The river flowed southwards. It had a long way to go, for this was one of a thousand such tributaries of the Amazon. Paz reasoned that it must narrow as they went farther north.

Santos stared down at the water. It was frothy with a rich brown colour. It showed that somewhere between here and its source the rains had already started. He decided it was his duty to tell Paz, but as he went up to him Paz thought he was requesting orders.

‘We follow the river,' Paz said in response.

‘Thank Christ for that,' called Singer sarcastically. ‘I thought we were going to swim it.'

Paz didn't look at Singer. ‘Will you keep them all moving, comrade Santos,' he shouted angrily. ‘It's not time for a break.'

The river curved so that they could see along it for miles. The width of it allowed sunlight to slant under the edges of the jungle revealing a riverside track obviously used by local tribesmen. The men marched happily. It was pleasant to breathe the cool air and watch the water but it didn't last long. Soon the marked path ended. They continued onwards but the sunlight and plentiful water encouraged thick impenetrable growth at the riverside and there were patches of marsh, and streams that joined the river. Progress became more and more difficult. Reluctantly Angel Paz decided to lead the patrol away from the water. He would cut through the jungle until eventually this river looped back across their path. Then they would be forced to make the crossing. There was always the chance that they would find locals with boats who would ferry them over.

The patrol moved away from the river with mixed
feelings. Some men were afraid of the water and afraid of the snakes. Others had begun to look forward to a wash down in the river at the end of the day.

Only fifty yards from the edge of the river the vegetation changed. They found the simplest sort of primary growth. It was eerie. The spongy humus underfoot absorbed sound so completely that only the loudest noises were heard. It was dark too. Only a dim green gloom penetrated this airless oven. Each breath became an effort, and the moisture could be heard wheezing through their lungs.

As they walked on, the men became conscious of a strange green ceiling. Now it was not only the mighty trees that blocked out the light, there was another secret ‘forest' above their heads. They stopped to stare up.

‘Will you look at that!' Singer said. His voice echoed in the enclosed space.

A tangle of creepers had made a lattice of greenery that was knit tightly together. Upon this tangle had fallen seeds and dead leaves. So had been formed another layer of humus, nearer to the sunlight. From this extra floor of jungle a hanging garden of ferns, creepers, mosses and orchids spilled over. The men walked on slowly, as if in awe of the surroundings. Every few steps there was a loop of vine or a rope creeper. They hung there as if inviting some foolish giant-killer to ascend to this wonderland above them.

Once the initial surprise was over they moved more quickly, for the forest floor was flat and clear. They were pleased to make up some of the time they had wasted that morning, chopping through the plantation. Although it was hot and humid, the land continued flat and the springiness underfoot lessened the fatigue of walking.

They had been walking for just over two hours when Singer called out, ‘Hey, Ralphie, old buddy! A word in your ear, amigo!'

Lucas moved up to where Singer was being carried in princely fashion. He thought it would be something
concerning Singer's sprained ankle. Singer enjoyed complaining while all around him slaved.

When the going became especially difficult he liked to sing, ‘You and me we sweat an' strain, body all achin' an' racked wid pain. Tote dat barge! Lift dat bale! Git a little drunk an' you land in jail.' It was his favourite song and it well suited his bass voice. Between times he kept up a persistent account of his symptoms. It was harassment thinly disguised as humour, and Lucas had become incensed and exasperated by Singer's aches and pains. And by his singing too.

‘What now?'

‘No need to snap my head off, Lucas, old buddy,' Singer said with lazy good humour. ‘I just thought you'd want to know that we are going round in circles.'

Heavily loaded, Lucas found it difficult to walk while bending to hear Singer's whispered comments. ‘Is this another of your stupid jokes?' Lucas asked.

‘I don't know any stupid jokes, old boy!' said Singer in a suddenly assumed British accent. ‘I'm just telling you that we are going round in circles.'

‘I've got no time for nonsense.'

‘Me, I have. I've got all the time in the world. I just got to sit here and watch the world go by: right? I'm a tourist. Okay? We are going round in circles. Do you think lover-boy up front is trying to work up an appetite for dinner?'

Lucas didn't reply. He walked on, watching the track and thinking about the route they'd taken.

Singer said, ‘You go tell that jerk that if he's going to navigate through jungle, he has to have his compass down back of us. He has to take bearings on the way the column moves. You said you were in Nam, old buddy. Boy Scout handbook; chapter one, page one, right?'

‘Are you watching the track?'

Singer let out a little low-voiced laugh. ‘No, lover-boy is watching the track. I'm watching the sun.'

Lucas looked again at Singer, trying to decide if this could be some elaborate joke that was to be played upon Paz.

Singer said, ‘Let's face it, mister. The junior G-man up front wouldn't notice if the sun did a cartwheel and whistled Dixie.'

Lucas stared at him for another moment and then called, ‘Paz!' He hurried forward, hobbling under the weight of his pack, his water bottle, his blanket and his pistol. After him Singer called, ‘Tell him to get his tail down to the rear … Get one of these Indians to take point. These guys maybe will get us there.'

Paz looked back as he heard Lucas calling his name. Lucas caught up with him and said, ‘I think you should have the compass at the rear of the patrol, Paz. Singer says we are wandering a bit. I think he may be right.'

Lucas' exaggerated courtesy did nothing to mitigate the report. ‘I told you before; stop bugging me.'

‘Santos!' Lucas called. The sergeant came to join them. ‘Can you use a compass, Santos?'

‘I was there when we captured it,' said Santos, looking at the shiny brass instrument in Paz's hands. ‘From an officer in a Federalista patrol. We lost three men.'

‘Which way is north?' Lucas asked Paz.

Paz looked at his compass. Santos said, ‘This way,' without looking at it.

Lucas took Paz by the shoulder and gently turned him to see his men. ‘Look back, Paz.' The patrol was strung out in a line that curved westwards. He saw the uncertain look in Paz's face. ‘Give it a try from the back,' Lucas suggested diplomatically. ‘Let Santos take point. He's spent all his life in this kind of jungle without a compass. You check his direction as we go.'

With bad grace Paz complied. The patrol changed after Santos went to point. After an hour or more Santos called the flank leaders closer. The mules came up closer, to a
position where Santos could see them. Paz noticed these changes but made no comment. The rearguard was tighter too, for the sound-absorbent rain forest swallowed up the commands that were called. Sometimes Singer repeated them. It was the first useful thing he had done all day.

The bad feeling between Paz, Singer and Lucas had, during the day's march, become evident to every member of the force. Even the passive face of Santos had from time to time shown his contempt for the foreigners and the woman. Yet even Santos had to concede that, despite the problems, the day's march had not gone badly. It was difficult to estimate how far they had come but when Paz said ‘fifteen miles' he wasn't contradicted, and they made camp well before nightfall. It was a good site: a dip in the ground where the stream provided water while the elevation was high enough to avoid any risk from a flash flood.

They made two fires: one for what Paz called ‘command' and for the sentries; the other for cooking. They used measured portions of dehydrated soup. In it pieces of dried fish were cooked until they were soft enough to chew.

Lucas and Inez sat together eating their meal. Now that they had become lovers there was a change in her manner. Inez was more solicitous. No longer did she care if the others saw the possessive way she looked at her man. Lucas had become preoccupied and nervous. For him the new relationship was serious and permanent and now he worried about a thousand practical details of its future.

‘That clown, Singer,' Lucas said. ‘I don't know how I keep my hands off him sometimes.'

‘Don't let him upset you,' Inez advised. ‘It's exactly what he wants to do.'

‘I just can't be sure if he could walk or I would kick him off that damned chair.'

‘Do you think he's up to something?' asked Inez.

‘Such as?'

‘His CIA people must be able to guess what route we must take.'

‘How could they do that?'

‘The American satellite photos. Ramón says they can read heat emissions. That would show them the position of so many humans in the jungle. From fixing the position of the camps they could guess our route. We have to go on foot: we can't take wide detours.'

‘What else did Ramón say?'

‘He wondered if the Americans would try to pick Singer out of the jungle somewhere along the route.'

‘To save his ransom?'

‘The oil companies have helicopters. Saving a kidnapped American would be good publicity for them.'

‘Did Ramón tell Paz all this?' Lucas asked.

‘Yes, he did.'

‘I wish he'd confided as much to me.'

‘You are not an easy man to confide in, Lucas.' She was able to say it now.

‘Am I not?' He was surprised; he had always thought of himself as the most approachable of men.