Crusader's Tomb

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘Not here, thanks to the Virgin of Guadalupe and the natural good sense of Spain. But elsewhere. A great, very great war.’ He paused, observing the look of stupefaction on the other’s face, then politely, with a slight bow, he offered the folded newspaper which he carried in his hand. ‘This is of the day before. The Señor may see for himself.’

  Stephen straightened out the sheet, which was dated August 7, his gaze instantly arrested by the smudged grey headlines. They struck him like a blow. In the daze of one long out of touch with the progress and culmination of events, he read on, then, after a few minutes put the paper down, stared blankly across the alleyway, recollecting with a pained constriction of his brow all that Hubert had said to him in Paris.

  ‘You are Inglés?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stephen came to himself, aware of the other’s mannerly curiosity. ‘Can you direct me to the consulado?’

  ‘It is quite near. Take the second turning on the left, then again to the left. You will see the flag above the entrance.’

  With an expression of thanks Stephen hurried off.

  The consulate was a villa standing in a small garden near the harbour. The door was open, and as Stephen mounted the short flight of steps and entered, he found the hall and staircase already crowded. From the two rooms on the ground floor came the sound of intense activity. A Spanish clerk, carrying an armful of documents, accompanied by a consular official, passed and repassed through the hall.

  With a sense of urgency Stephen took his place at the end of the line. His need was immediate and, judged by their comments, the people ahead of him had already been waiting a long time. Many of these were tourists, some of them women, all anxious to get home, aggrieved at the unexpected crisis, yet more upset by the interruption of their holiday than by any grave premonition of world disaster. They chattered a good deal, even joked, as the queue moved slowly forward.

  He must act quickly. Yet he could not push his way up the jammed staircase. Then, as the official emerged once more from the room on the right, Stephen stepped forward. At the same time he said, rapidly:

  ‘May I speak with you? It’s a matter of importance.’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘I assure you, I should only take five minutes of your time.’

  ‘You must wait your turn.’

  ‘But surely …’

  With an exclamation of annoyance the official looked at Stephen. He was under thirty, with thinning hair and a fair complexion, wearing a light linen jacket, his open and agreeable expression marred by the frown of a man harassed and overworked. His gaze travelled upwards with distaste over the dusty, worn boots and shiny suit, the dingy shirt, last washed in a muddy arroyo, then, with a slow and subtle lightening of his eye, a faint look of recognition appeared upon his face. Pleasantly, with a slightly mannered air, he said:

  ‘Why … yes. Come into my room.’

  He led the way into a small office, bare and distempered, but made personal and human by two tennis racquets in one corner and several group photographs on the walls, and pulled out a chair before seating himself at a littered, varnished desk.

  ‘Sit down, won’t you. I’m George Hollis.’

  ‘My name is Desmonde.’

  There was a pause, then suddenly the other smiled.

  ‘Now I remember. Didn’t you come up to Trinity in ’ 09?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course.… That was the year before I went down. I felt sure we’d met. How are you?’

  Stephen shook the proffered hand. Then, quickly, he said:

  ‘I hate to impose on you at a time like this. But actually…’

  Hollis waved away the apology.

  ‘I understand. It’s perfectly natural. We all want to go back in double-quick time to get into the show. Tell me… what are you doing out here?’

  ‘I’ve been on a painting trip, with a friend who …’

  ‘Ah, sort of walking tour. Rough country to get about in. May be a bit rougher, though, when we march on the Rhine. Now, let me see what we can do for you.’ He consulted a paper on the desk. ‘As you may imagine, we’re practically off our heads trying to get people home. The frontier is closed, so trains are impossible. Shipping is at a premium. There isn’t an inch of space. And most of the coastal waters are being mined. But I’ll take care of this for you. There’s sure to be a freighter leaving soon. By pulling a few strings I’m sure we can get you a berth on her.’

  ‘Thank you … thank you.’ Stephen spoke precipitately, desperate to come to the point. ‘In the meantime, could I tax your goodness further? My friend is ill, seriously, I’m afraid. I must get him a good doctor, in fact get him into hospital at once.’

  ‘Well, now …’ Hollis considered. ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult. Dr Cabra, in the Calle Estada, would be your man. He’s physician at the Hospital San Miguel. Best thing to do … I’ll give you a note to him.’ He took a pen and wrote on the consulate notepaper, blotted the sheet, placed it in an envelope and pushed it across the desk. ‘That should do the trick, Desmonde.’

  ‘You are really too kind. I’m grateful.’ Stephen spoke with feeling. ‘When may I see you again?’

  ‘Look in any time. I ought to have news for you in a few days.’ He stood up with a smile. ‘We might dine together one evening before you go.’

  Hurrying across the Cathedral Square. Stephen observed, with satisfaction, that it was not yet eleven o’clock. He found the Calle Estada without difficulty and there, on an arched doorway, was a brass plaque: DR JUAN CABRA, beneath which was added: EQUIPO TRANSFUSIO DE SANGRE. A servant admitted him, accepted his letter, and left him in the hall. A few moments later the doctor appeared. He was a youngish man, small, dapper, with neat hands and feet, and a round, smooth, saffron face in which his sloe-dark eyes seemed to radiate cheerfulness, to twinkle with perpetual good nature. He bowed to Stephen, his manners were perfect.

  ‘I am always pleased to be recommended by the Consulado Británico. What can I do for you?’

  As briefly as possible, Stephen explained the situation. A pause followed, during which the little doctor looked thoughtful. Then, after questioning Stephen on one or two points, he nodded with decision.

  ‘Impossible to treat your friend at such a distance. Besides, the conditions are too difficult. We must bring him to the hospital.’

  ‘But how?’

  Cabra smiled, genially self-deprecating, yet with a kind of humorous vanity, his little black eyes disappearing completely in the smooth, creamy folds of his cheeks.

  ‘We are quite up to date in Málaga. The Casa de Socorro has an ambulance. A motor, in effect, for the use of all the medicos in town. I myself frequently conduct it. And as I do not consult at the hospital at four o’clock, we shall requisition it and proceed together to visit your friend.’

  ‘Then we may leave at once?’

  ‘Whenever I have had breakfast. Come and join me.’ As he showed Stephen into a small panelled sitting-room where coffee and rolls were set out on a tray, he added: ‘I have been to a case most of the night. Such fun to bring a fine boy into the world. And such joy for the mother.’

  ‘It was a first baby?’

  ‘Oh, no, no. The tenth. And all alive and healthy.’

  Another cup had been brought and with perfect courtesy he poured coffee for Stephen, proffered the platter of rolls. Then, with relish, he began his own meal, talking almost continuously, deploring the war, but predicting its speedy ending, discoursing on his practice, the beauty of Málaga, the excellence of the climate, all with a kind of natural gaiety, yet from time to time darting towards his guest glances charged with sympathetic curiosity. Finally he said:

  ‘If you had not come to me for your friend I should have suspected that you were the patient. You are much under weight.’

  ‘I am naturally thin.’

  ‘You have a cough.’

  ‘It is nothing.’

  ‘So it is nothing. Well, then, smile a little, for a change.’
r />   Stephen reddened.

  ‘I daresay I am anxious about my friend.’

  Cabra did not immediately answer, but as he finished his coffee and got up, he leaned forward suddenly and pressed Stephen’s hand.

  ‘We shall do our best for him.’

  They left the house, and in five minutes were at the Casa de Socorro, where the ambulance, a field model with a canvas top secured by straps, stood in the cobbled yard at the back. The doctor put his bag on the seat, cranked the engine, and presently they were moving out of the town at a surprisingly good pace. If Cabra had been talkative before, now he was equally silent. Crouched over the wheel, to which he anchored himself with both hands, like a little bantam cock, he drove with concentrated, intensity and incredible lack of caution, taking the curves without slackening speed, sounding his horn incessantly, rocking the top-heavy vehicle until it seemed in danger of turning over. But as the dust-clouds billowed behind them, the long road over which Stephen had tramped that morning steadily diminished. Within the hour they passed the aldea of the cave dwellings, turned on to the narrow hill track, and bumped across the wasteland to the house of Luisa Mendez. They went into the cabaña. Peyrat was lying on his back, a compress on his forehead. Seated at the table, wringing out a fresh cloth in a bowl of water, was the woman Luisa. Stephen went forward to the bed.

  ‘Jerome, I’ve brought the doctor. How have you been?’

  ‘I have been suffering of course.’ His eyes, bright in his furrowed, yellow face, turned suspiciously towards Cabra. His hands were fidgeting with the blanket. ‘But now I have taken the turn, and am mending rapidly, thanks to the ministrations of this good woman.’

  ‘Has he had food?’ The doctor put his bag on the table and opened it.

  ‘No, Señor, only water. And that in great quantity.’

  ‘Water, spring water, is a purifying agent. Although no longer regarded as an element, as it was in former times, water cleanses the system, purifies the blood …’

  ‘And quenches thirst,’ Cabra interrupted. ‘You are thirsty?’

  ‘I may have been.’

  ‘Your head aches?’

  ‘No. But I admit to a painful ringing in my ears. Indeed, because of that’ – Peyrat raised himself, feverishly and with difficulty, upon his elbow, speaking through dry, cracked lips – ‘I have been reflecting upon the subject of bells … their immense variety … even when one does not include gongs, cymbals or tinkling ornaments. There are, for example, sheep and cow bells, sleigh bells, harness bells, house bells, bells which summoned the Romans to the public baths, bells which rang the Sicilian vespers when eight thousand French were slaughtered by John of Procida, bells that ushered in the Massacre of St Bartholomew, curfew bells, wedding bells, passing bells, and of course church bells. In De Tintinnabulis …’

  ‘Amigo.’ Cabra placed a restraining hand on Peyrat’s shoulder. ‘I beg of you, no more of bells. Be silent and permit me to examine you.’

  Peyrat closed his eyes and sank back, exhausted, submitting while the doctor took his pulse and temperature.

  ‘Does your leg still hurt?’

  ‘No,’ said Peyrat, feebly but with a triumphant air, not opening his eyes. ‘It is absolutely without pain.’

  Studying the doctor’s face, Stephen saw his expression alter imperceptibly.

  ‘No feeling whatsoever?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Ah, then perhaps we may look at it.’

  Cabro turned down the blanket and bent over the bed. Standing back at the window, filled with anxiety, Stephen observed only the movements of the doctor’s hands as he removed the dressing and made his investigation. This was not unduly prolonged, and when Cabra straightened, there was a false cheerfulness in his manner.

  ‘Well, amigo, don’t you think it time you were in a comfortable bed? We have one for you at the San Miguel. And I propose to take you there now.’

  Peyrat moved his lips in protest, but said nothing. Stephen could see that his imaginative, childish soul was struck with fear. Presently he looked up in a pitiful manner.

  ‘My friend, when I gave our money in honour of Thérèse, I did not think she would repay me in this fashion.’

  Cabra, at the table, was repacking his bag.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Stephen said to him.

  ‘No.’ The doctor was emphatic. He advanced to the window. ‘You would be useless. Besides, if you are not careful, you too will be ill. Stay here and rest.’

  ‘When shall I come? Tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Let us say the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Then you are hopeful?’ Stephen asked in a low voice.

  Cabra looked away – his eyes were altogether less humorous. He picked a shred of lint from his sleeve.

  ‘From the thigh down the leg is in a serious condition. The foot is probably gangrenous. If he is to live something must be done at once. But rest assured, we shall do it.’

  On the stretcher, as though to protect himself, Peyrat still kept his eyes tightly shut. From time to time he murmured meaningless, incoherent phrases. But as the moment of departure arrived he signed to Stephen. He was clearly not himself.

  ‘Let me have my ocarina.’

  He was clutching it as slowly, and with considerable care, Cabra drove off. Stephen stood there a long time, watching. The blind woman, in a posture of listening, stood beside him.

  Chapter Eight

  Next morning, the sun broke early out of a blinding sky and struck through a rent in the sacking that served for the window of the cabaña. It awoke Stephen, who had slept as one dead. He lay motionless for some time, then, as though returned, he got up and in a mood of sick wretchedness went from the hut. The old woman was at the dome-shaped oven in the yard, drawing from its blackened mouth a flat loaf of maize bread. As he approached, without turning her head, she broke the new loaf and handed him a piece, still steaming and damp. While he ate, standing, she remained passive, silent, her opaque eyes turned upwards in their orbits, her attitude so withdrawn it seemed as though with every other faculty than sight she saw him, sounded the depth of his distress. Suddenly she said:

  ‘You are thinking of the other?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you known him long?’

  ‘Not long, but enough to call him my friend.’

  ‘He seemed to me a learned man, speaking of many things, but foolish.’

  ‘He spoke so because he is sick.’

  ‘Ay, ay, he is sick. Of that there is no doubt whatever. I have seen them so before.’

  ‘I have much anxiety for him.’

  ‘It will pass. Everything passes, love and hate alike.’ There was a grave fatalism in her voice. Then as she moved away she said: ‘Work is the best cure for sadness. I have need of brushwood for this oven. Usually I bring it from the clearing beyond the valle.’

  He went to the stable. The donkey was on its four legs, standing solidly again, and glad to see him, rubbing its muzzle against his shoulder. Luisa had given it fresh hay. He saw that it had recovered, harnessed it to the cart, then took a rusted machete from its hook beside the stall and started out across the arroyo to the place she had indicated.

  This had once been a wood of chestnut trees, long since cut down, the stumps now rotted and overgrown by a jungle of briars and avellano bushes. While the donkey began to nibble the avellano leaves, Stephen took off his shirt and set to work. The machete was old and blunt, he was not used to swinging it, but with a kind of desperate intensity, he slashed at the tough scrub, trying to stifle, or at least to deaden, the images that crowded in upon him.

  Yet he did not succeed. While he slaved and sweated he thought of Peyrat, self-martyred through a sequence of follies heartbreaking to contemplate. He winced at the recollection of the wild donation of their funds, the inopportune surrender of the boots, the perverse determination to ease the blistered heel in Iberian dust. It was as though by some trick of Spanish sun or air the knight of La Mancha had been reborn in Je
rome, had sallied forth again on this most lamentable misadventure.

  When, with an effort, he wrenched his thoughts from this sadness, they turned inevitably towards the war. At this precise moment men were killing and being killed. And he too must join in the holocaust, whose only result would be a hideous chaos of suffering, hatred and vengeance. Once again recollection of Hubert’s taunt brought the blood rushing to his brow. He must go back, and quickly, if only to justify himself, prove that he was not afraid.

  All day he worked, bringing one load after another to the yard behind the stable, where, as shown by a ring of scattered branches, the brush-pile stood. All together he brought eight loads, and as he came over the rim of the arroyo with the final one, Luisa was standing by the door, hands clasped, elbows indrawn, in her attitude of brooding immobility.

  ‘That is a good measure for the last journey.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘By the creak of the cart axle and the breathing of the burro.’ Her impassive expression did not relax. ‘ Your supper is ready. Tonight, if you wish, you may eat at my table.’

  He bedded down the ass for the night, washed in a bucket drawn from the well, then entered the house. Like the cabaña it had only one room and was almost as sparsely furnished, the table and chairs roughly hewn from chestnut wood. A charcoal brasero stood at one end of the room and some old copper pans hung on the wall behind it. A brass bedstead, half screened, occupied the other and beneath a coloured lithograph of the Virgin de las Batallas. Some wicker matting, much worn and frayed, covered part of the clay floor.

  The woman, with a gesture, bade him be seated, cut a slice from the maize loaf and, from a pot on the brasero, served him a heaped dish of beans cooked with pimentos. A moment later she took the chair opposite him. There was a silence, then Stephen said:

  ‘You are not eating?’

  She put aside the question with a motion of her shoulders.

  ‘Is the food to your taste? There is more. I am sorry I have no wine.’

  The beans were coated with oil and tasted of garlic, but he was hungry and their meaty warmth made him feel less tired.