by Jack Higgins
‘He doesn’t seem too happy,’ I commented.
Janos smiled. ‘His wife is, I understand, in labour, though whether at this precise moment in time he is worrying more about her than van Horne is a matter of doubt.’ He blew out a cloud of cigar smoke with a sigh of content. ‘Really a most excellent afternoon. Good to be alive.’
I could never decide to what extent he said things for effect and yet on the whole, I am inclined to feel that his nonchalance was not studied, but real. The plain truth is that he was one of those odd people who really did live in the here and now and for whom the future and its prospects held few terrors for it simply did not exist.
We strolled casually through the village by the east wall, coming in the end, to the rear of the church where we were admitted by van Horne at the back door which led directly into the vestry.
He wore a white linen alb over his cassock and now he put on a green stole, crossing it under his girdle to represent Christ’s Passion and Death, as I remembered. The green chasuble came next and he was ready.
‘I must say you look the part, sir,’ Janos told him.
‘I damn well better do,’ van Horne replied grimly. ‘About fifteen minutes to go, so the sooner you two get up that tower, the better.’
He took us out through the church and opened a small wooden door at the rear of the pulpit which I had never noticed before, disclosing a stone spiral staircase.
‘You’ll find everything you need up there,’ he said. ‘Just remember one thing. You fire when I do. No private parties, no matter how it looks to you from up there. We want this thing to turn out just one way.’
The door slammed and I went up through the half darkness behind Janos who was making such heavy weather of the steep and narrow stairs that I had to put both hands to his back and push.
We made it and found ourselves in a room perhaps ten feet square with long narrow windows on three sides reaching almost to the floor. Everything was ready for us as van Horne had promised, laid out neatly on a blanket. The shotgun with ammunition, the Winchester, several Mills bombs and the Thompson gun, half a dozen drum magazines in a neat pile beside it.
Janos collapsed on a wooden bench struggling for breath, sweat pouring from him. He took a flask from one of his pockets, unscrewed the top and had a long swallow as I examined our situation.
There was one snag. The position of the windows in the wall on the side which counted was such that it was impossible to see down into the village itself unless one leaned out, although it gave a clear view of the immediate area around the porch which was twenty feet below and a little to one side.
I showed Janos, who seemed himself again, how things stood and he nodded soberly. ‘That means we won’t be able to see him coming so we had better be ready.’
I moved a bench, positioning it against the wall by the window so that Janos could sit in comfort, out of sight and yet with a clear view of the area around the porch. I gave him the Thompson and he nursed it on his knees, a cigar between his teeth. My intention was to support him with two or three judiciously placed Mills bombs and if necessary, the Enfield or the Winchester. The shotgun, because of the shortness of its barrels, didn’t seem much of a proposition.
There was a single narrow slit, some nine inches wide, in the wall with no windows. When I peered through I found myself looking down into the pulpit, the church beyond. There was no sign of van Horne and then the vestry door opened and he came out holding the Thompson gun. He turned towards the pulpit which meant that he now faced the altar and as I watched, he genuflected smoothly, automatically crossing himself, then mounted into the pulpit, his face impassive.
‘And what, my dear sir, would you make of that?’ Janos breathed in my ear.
Van Horne placed the Thompson carefully on a small shelf where it would come to hand, sat down on a stool and opened the Bible. I straightened and shook my head. ‘God knows,’ I said and meant it. ‘I no longer try to understand him. I just accept.’
It was very quiet and far too hot. Janos wiped sweat from his face and sighed. ‘I’m not built for this kind of thing any more.’
‘But you were once.’ It was a statement, not a question. As much for the sake of conversation as anything else.
‘When I first came to Mexico I served as a cavalry advisor to a federal force that was trying to exterminate the Yaqui in the mountains north of here and finding it hard work, in spite of the fact that the going rate for a Yaqui warrior’s ears was one hundred pesos.’
‘They must have wanted rid of them pretty badly.’
‘The government wanted their land, it was as simple as that, which explains why the survivors now live in areas like the Wind River country where no one else could. This all took place in the bad old days under Diaz.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘In the early days of the Revolution I served with Francisco Madero at the taking of Ciudad Juarez. There were many like myself. What he called his foreign legion. Men like the great Garibaldi’s nephew, Guiseppe. A fine soldier.’
‘You must have had some interesting experiences.’
‘Indeed, but then they murdered Madero, or that at least is my own interpretation of what happened. Too good to live, poor man. If he’d been harder on the rogues that needed it. Dark days, sir. One never quite knew who to follow next.’
Hooves rattled on the cobbles of the street out of sight to the right of us, laughter drifted up on the warm air, the jingle of harness. When they rode into view, I saw that we had all miscalculated woefully for there were at least two dozen of them, each man an arsenal in himself.
Tomas de la Plata was in the centre, as dark and sombre a figure as usual and greatest shock of all, his sister rode at his right hand.
11
He had brought her to witness van Horne’s humiliation and for no other reason that I could see, for she looked white and strained and came off her horse with considerable unwillingness when he reached up for her. He took her by the arm and went into the porch, seven or eight of his men following.
‘Now what happens?’ Janos whispered.
I moved to the slit in the wall and peered into the church. Van Horne was still seated only now the Thompson gun was ready across his knees. There was the rattle of spurs, a burst of laughter and de la Plata walked in, his arm around Chela’s shoulders.
‘Business is not so good today, father?’ he called.
Van Horne put the Thompson gun back on the shelf very carefully and stood up. ‘It would appear so. Does that give you satisfaction?’
‘To discover that pigs behave predictably? Not particularly.’ De la Plata looked down at his sister whom he still held tightly. ‘Does it give you any satisfaction, my love?’
There was something unpleasant here, something under the surface that should not be. She tried to pull free of him, but he held her tight. ‘You must forgive her, father. Strange under the circumstances, but she was not anxious to come here. She only did so under my persuasion.’
Behind him, his men ranged in a line, rifles cradled carelessly, a perfect target, yet van Horne would not try now, not with the woman there and if I disobeyed his orders and tried to pick off de la Plata himself, the return fire of his men must be met and Chela in the middle of it.
I could not see van Horne’s face, but his voice was quite calm when he said, ‘What do you want with me, señor? My death?’
‘Not necessary.’ Tomas de la Plata shook his head. ‘You will go, priest. Tomorrow you will leave the way you came with those who brought you. I would hang you with pleasure, but unfortunately I gave my sister my word and if she keeps hers, I will keep mine.’
He turned and swept out, his arm still tight around her shoulders and his men trooped after him, the last one spitting on the floor. Van Horne went down the steps of the pulpit and hurried after him.
I got to the window just as Tomas de la Plata swung into the saddle beside his sister. As his men moved in around them, the whole group started to turn a
way.
Van Horne appeared from the porch and shouted, ‘Señor de la Plata. A word with you.’
Don Tomas reined in his horse and the others followed suit. ‘What do you want?’
Van Horne spoke clearly so that all might hear. ‘I have in my possession the image of the Blessed St Martin de Porres taken from this church during the Revolution. In these circumstances, before replacing such a relic in its rightful place, it is usual to carry it in procession through the town.’
Only the nervous stamping of a horse broke the stillness as all waited for what was to follow.
‘I intend to make that procession at nine-thirty tomorrow morning starting from the church.’
Chela gave a short, anguished cry, stilled by her brother in an instant. ‘There is not a soul in the village who would take that walk with you.’
‘Then I walk alone.’
Tomas de la Plata drew the pistol from under his jacket very fast and I snatched the Thompson from Janos in the same instant, ready to fire if needs be, Chela or no Chela, although even van Horne was too close for comfort now.
Chela cried out, a hand on her brother’s arm and I think for a moment, things hung in the balance. He pushed the gun back into its shoulder holster.
‘I keep my word, priest,’ he said. ‘You have until tomorrow at noon to go and live. As for this walk of yours. Try to take that and I will kill you myself.’
‘Alone or with your men at your back?’
Tomas de la Plata’s eyes glittered. His face was pale as white fire, but he said not another word, gave the signal and the whole group moved away.
I took a chance, leaning out of the window to watch them go, caught a glimpse of people standing in a ragged line fifteen or twenty yards away and drew back quickly.
‘It seems he had an audience.’
‘By God, sir, I can believe anything,’ Janos replied.
I went down the spiral staircase, Janos following more slowly, and hurried along to the main entrance, pausing in the porch to peer cautiously through the side window which was minus its glass.
The crowd was fading away and beyond them, de la Plata and his men were already passing through the gate. Van Horne walked in through the porch rapidly, brushing past me as if I wasn’t there. He pulled his chasuble over his head and threw it down on the nearest bench, then started to take off his alb.
‘Quite a performance,’ I said, as Janos approached.
Van Horne turned on me, anger and frustration bursting out of him. ‘And what would you have had me to do, Keogh? Kill the woman?’
‘Never mind that,’ I said, evading an answer. ‘What about this other nonsense? This procession with that damned image. De la Plata was right. There isn’t a man, woman or child in this village who dares to take that walk with you.’
‘Then I’ll take it alone.’
‘And hope you’ll shame de la Plata into barring your way on his own? He doesn’t play those sort of games.’
He did not reply and yet a muscle worked in his cheek, the great hands clenching and unclenching and there was something between us, something which could not be put into words. I knew and I think he did also.
I moved close and said in a low, urgent voice, ‘Why, van Horne? Why?’
‘Damn you, Keogh, I don’t even know the answer to that one myself.’ He flung the alb to one side, turned and walked down to the vestry.
There was really nothing to say after that. Janos and I left him and went down to the hotel. There was no sign of Moreno in the bar so I went behind and served us both with a whisky.
‘Now what?’ Janos demanded.
‘Don’t ask me, ask him.’
He sighed morosely. ‘You know something, my friend? It doesn’t look good. It doesn’t look good at all.’
He reached for the bottle and helped himself to another drink and I left him there, went round to the rear courtyard where I had parked the Mercedes and drove back up the hill towards the church.
I had remembered the arms left in the bell tower. In his present mood van Horne would probably forget them and they were better in a safe place. I suppose the real truth was that I wanted to have another crack at him. I was wasting my time for as I reached the top of the hill, I passed him on his way down with Moreno.
I brought the arms down from the tower anyway, repacked them in the box, took it out to the Mercedes and put it back in its hiding-place under the seat.
I returned to the church, sat on a bench and looked down towards the altar. All right, so I could manage without God these days, but it was peaceful in there in the half light with the candle winking at the altar.
Victoria Balbuena appeared in the doorway. She paused, looking at me searchingly, automatically covering her head with a square of cotton and tying it under her chin.
I took her hands, smiling as I pulled her down beside me. ‘See, I survive all things.’
We could take it no further. There was a shout outside, running feet and van Horne appeared in the doorway. The Enfield was already in my hand.
He said, ‘You won’t need that. It’s Moreno’s wife. She’s in a bad way. The baby won’t come and the old woman who’s midwife round here doesn’t seem to know what to do.’
I sat there, staring at him. He got me by the front of the jacket and had me on my feet in an instant. ‘Good God, boy, did you spend four years training to be a doctor or didn’t you?’
When I drove up to the hotel, there was a crowd of thirty or forty people outside for bad news travels fast. I told Victoria to come with me and we followed van Horne who pushed his way through ruthlessly.
The scene in the bedroom was unbelievable. At least a dozen people, all close relatives, the women already mourning their loudest, Moreno with tears in his eyes and unable to control any of it.
The wretched woman on the bed was covered with a sheet and obviously terrified out of her life, crying hysterically. The old crone who leaned over her, presumably the midwife, was without a doubt the dirtiest-looking creature I’d seen in many a long day.
‘Get them out,’ I told van Horne. ‘All of them. The midwife can stay as long as she washes her hands. Tell them I want hot water from the kitchen instantly and soap.’
They went, protesting, although Moreno already counted her dead and I heard him say so brokenly as he went backwards through the door.
‘Then pray for her,’ van Horne said calmly. ‘Pray that the Blessed St Martin de Porres might intercede for her.’
He closed the door, then went swiftly to the windows which stood open to the terrace for the crowd was beginning to get noisy. I couldn’t hear what he said to them, presumably something similar, but it certainly shut them up and he came in and closed the windows.
There was a tap at the door, Victoria opened it and returned with a pan of water and a block of cheap carbolic soap. I started to wash my hands and told the old woman to do the same. Her only reply was to throw up her hands and run out of the room.
I pulled the sheet back over the woman’s belly, pushed up her knees and made my examination, discovering immediately the reason for the old midwife’s dismay.
‘Can you still remember how?’ van Horne asked.
We spoke in English for the mother’s sake. I said, ‘A baby’s normally delivered head-first. This is what’s known as a breech. That means it’s presenting its backside which is one hell of a complication.’
‘But can you handle it?’ he said urgently.
‘Let’s say I’ve studied the theory.’
The woman started to yell, I moved to her side and tried to calm her. It didn’t do much good and van Horne went round to the other side and took her hand. ‘There is nothing to worry about, I promise you,’ he said. ‘Soon it will be all over and you will have your son.’
There was that quality in his voice again. Compassion, love, call it what you will and complete authority. The woman’s crying subsided into little broken sobs, but she would not let go of his hand, gazing up at him with comp
lete trust.
I took Victoria into the corner, explained to her very rapidly in a low voice what I was going to try to do and her part in it and then I got to work.
I needed the woman as close to the edge of the bed as possible to facilitate the work, so to speak. We moved her between us which started her off again until van Horne quietened her.
In my time under training, I had delivered half a dozen children, all perfectly straightforward cases. I had only once seen the type of delivery I was going to attempt now, and that in hospital, but had naturally studied the theory of the thing as I had informed van Horne. I took the deepest of breaths and tried to remember, stage by stage as I might if confronted by the examiners.
The first problem was to deliver the legs and success in that area depends upon them being flexed. I probed gently and found, as might have been expected, that the legs were extended. Which meant more patient probing until I could get a finger up against the back of one of the child’s knees and prod. The leg flexed instantly and so did the other when I repeated the performance.
Señora Moreno gave a startled cry, her body shook convulsively. I told her to start pushing. A moment later, the legs delivered themselves.
Victoria had torn a linen sheet into several pieces and was standing by. I held out my hands and she wiped them clean and dried them quickly. I turned to begin the next stage.
I grasped the legs, fingers beneath the thighs and thumbs on the sacrum and pulled down until the shoulders were in sight. Now the arms were extended, but I remembered how to handle that one too. I twisted the child gently to the left. The shoulder flexed, I hooked a finger into the left elbow and delivered the arm. Then I rotated in the opposite direction and carried out the same manoeuvre for the other arm.
I paused to take breath and van Horne said in English, ‘How is it going?’
‘Fine so far, but I’m just coming into the most dangerous stage. Delivery of the head. Tricky even with instruments. There is a very real chance of brain damage unless it’s done just right.’
