The Flesh and the Devil (89 page)

         
With infinite, aching slowness she lifted her head. She had
reached her nadir; she had nothing left, neither pride nor subterfuge. She
would tell the truth because there was nothing else to tell, she thought, and
noticed vaguely that his hand was clenched so hard on what he held that it was
trembling.

         
The voice from outside the door seemed to come from a
different world in its raucous urgency. It was seconds before Juana realized
what it was; seconds more before she could make sense of the words. She
remained transfixed, staring at Tristan's hand as though she were trying to
learn the sight of it for eternity, and then the meaning of the noise broke
through to her brain like a dam bursting.

         
'One, in there! Are you deaf? I say there is a ship putting
out tomorrow for England - but the
chica
 
must hurry if you want to go on it!'

         
It was Mother Salsa's voice. Juana gave a short, choked
exclamation and turned to fumble with the latch, and Tristan's clenched hand
fell slowly to his side. As the door swung to after her, he heard a quick
exchange of voices outside, then Juana's footsteps clattering downstairs in her
wooden shoes. After a moment he turned and limped across the room, brushing the
dirt from the clogged wooden shutter that kept out the sun to see her hurrying
away down the crowded street. Theharbour lay that way, and the wool-merchants'
warehouses.

         
He unclenched his fingers slowly and stared down at what
had lain crushed in his hand all the time she had been in the room. The bitterness
in his face would have appalled her if she had seen it.

         
Juana had a stitch in her side, but she still ran on. It
was imperative that she arrived in time, she thought, for she would never have
another such chance, though the unuttered words still burned in her throat as
though she had swallowed poison, she knew she had done right not to stay to
speak them. Any delay, however slight, might cost her this one chance of
salvation.

         
The sign of the Crescent in the Calle Negro, Mother Salsa
had said. How the old woman had come to hear of the ship, and how she knew
where its owner would be drinking at this hour of the day, Juana did not even
bother to surmise; she had long since concluded that Mother Salsa was only
ignorant when she chose to be, and now she blessed whatever impulse had made
her pass on the information and the directions to the Calle Negro.

         
The sign of the Crescent swung over the gateway of a
spacious, whitewalled inn that opened on to a paved courtyard, with stone
benches set under the dark cypresses that shaded them from the sun. Heads
turned as Juana crossed the threshold and she felt her palms grow wet with
embarrassment
-
women alone were known to enter hostelries for only one
purpose, and she could see speculation in several of the faces turned to her.
But she had no time now to allow herself to feel a modesty that would hamper
her. Her eyes darted round her in search of one who answered Mother Salsa's
description of Captain Diaz.

         
Young, she had said; brown hair and blue eyes, 'handsome if
you like the type - the sort who has already drunk himself halfway to the grave
at thirty. But then, no other man would be fool enough to risk his ship against
the Portuguese, so he has his uses! Wears a striped shirt and a red bandanna
and fancies himself with women - that should help you.'

         
Juana saw him almost at once, in conversation with a pale,
scholarly looking man who looked out-of-place and slightly anxious. The
Captain's elbows were propped on the table, and he was talking fluently. His
unlined, bearded face had the settled flush of the habitual drunkard, and his
eyes, nearer grey than blue under straight, heavy brows, were glassy and
unblinking for all his verbosity. Once or twice the other man said something
brief, frowning each tune, but the Captain seemed to be waving away any
objection.

         
'Tomorrow early, senor, as early as you please, but not a
moment before. I tell you I know what they are doing — there are only six or
seven of them out there, pretending to be a fleet, and if we cast off betimes
we can slip through them before they have time to come about. Trust me.' He
waved a hand as the other man tried to expostulate. 'How do you think I brought
the
San Martin into
 
port, if not
through the blockade?'

         
'I do not doubt your veracity, Captain, but -'

         
'Handsome of you, What, then?'

         
'-but I have already been delayed in Cadiz for nearly three
months beyond the time I was due to sail. My business in England is most
urgent, and I shall not hire your vessel unless I am assured that I shall reach
my destination safely and without delay.'

         
The Captain widened his eyes and placed his hand on his
heart with exaggerated fervour. 'On my honour as a seaman, Senor Oliver.
Tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, if you so decide. Can I say fairer?'

         
Juana had edged closer, and she could see the scepticism in
the other man's mild hazel eyes. He was a neat, precise-looking individual with
greying brown hair and a massive forehead that was contradicted by a childishly
turned-up nose that robbed his pleasant face of all its natural dignity; and at
the moment he was clearly doubtful. He said in carefully correct, execrably
accented Spanish, 'Forgive me, Captain, but to judge by your - er - consumption
this morning, it is hard to believe that you will be fit to rise from your bed
at the crack of dawn tomorrow let alone command your vessel.'

         
'You slander me, Senor Oliver! I assure you—'

         
His voice trailed away as he saw Juana, and he pushed
himself back in his seat to survey her with more attention. Ignoring his
appreciative gaze, Juana said directly, 'Are you Captain Diaz of the San
Martin?
'

         
'None other.' He bowed his head but did not bother to rise.
His companion, after glancing dubiously from one to the other, also remained
seated, but his air of unease increased.

         
'They told me that you are sailing from Cadiz to England.'

         
'They
 
are
quick. I am.' He took a giant swallow from the tankard he held in one hand,
eyeing her fixedly.

         
'Do you take passengers?'

         
'Sometimes, if it pays me, but in this instance not.' He
slammed his tankard down. 'Nothing would please me better than to oblige a lady
in the common way, but for this once I am not my own man - Senor Oliver here is
so hasty to go back to his cold country that he has hired my whole ship, and
the crew, and me, to take him safely out of the reach of our Portuguese
friends.' He waved his hand liberally. 'Apply to him - though I doubt he would
hear your pleas with the same warmth that I would, eh, senor?' The scholarly
man's expression was wintry and made Juana suddenly aware of her shabby,
dishevelled state. He started to say 'My good young woman, I fear there will be
no place for -' but she broke in before his kind but final tone could freeze
her hopes. 'Senor, I beg you to listen to me. My husband is English, and he
wants to take me back to his country. He has been wounded - by brigands who
attacked us on our way to Cadiz - and he sent me to ask whether we could join
Captain Diaz's ship because he cannot leave the house. We can pay our fares
now, but I am afraid that if we stay here longer we shall have to spend all our
savings to keep alive.

         
Her hood had fallen from her head, and her emotion had
whipped a flush into her cheeks that completely dispelled the pallor that
pregnancy had begun to lend her pointed face, while her long dark eyes glowed
with urgency. Captain Diaz eyed her admiringly.

         
'Nonsense. You could support ten husbands in luxury if
you-'

         
Juana ignored him. 'Please, Senor Oliver-' Her tongue
stumbled over the name. He was rubbing his square chin with a long forefinger,
looking troubled.

         
'An Englishman, you say? Why did he not come to see me when
I sent out asking for news of any men from England?'

         
The question took her aback, and she stammered, 'W-we are
only just arrived in the city. We did not hear anything about. . . .'

         
The man made a noise of impatience. 'I knew I should not
have relied on such a method! These disobliging cut throats of officials and
their
manana
-as well employ a collection of imbeciles, but what else
could I do? ' He regarded Juana rather testily. 'It would be best if I were to
see this husband of yours before I answer

         
you,

         
young

         
woman. You will take your oath that he is English? He speaks
English ? '

         
Juana found herself smiling at the sudden painful anxiety
in his tone. She said reassuringly, 'He speaks a foreign tongue that I do not
know, and he told me that it was English. It is sharp, and - and slow, and I
have never heard anyone else speak it, but his Spanish is perfect. He has lived
here since he was a boy.'

         
Senor Oliver's face brightened. 'An Englishman - ! Then he
may know of-'

         
He rose to his feet with sudden decision and glanced down
at the sprawled figure of the Captain. 'Captain Diaz, I am accompanying this
young woman to speak with her husband. It is possible that he may have heard
tidings of the man I came to Spain to find -I might be able to take back some
news of bun after all. In the circumstances,' he added with a faint gleam of
humour, 'I shall not insist upon departing tonight. The
San Martin
 
may set sail tomorrow morning - at the crack
of dawn.'

         
'Senor.' Diaz saluted with his tankard. 'You make a wise
decision. Bring the wench with you, if you can.
Adios.
'

         
The pale man nodded politely, then turned to Juana with
sudden eagerness.