The Three Sentinels

by Geoffrey Household

  ‘Ourselves we’d rather have walked back and chanced it,’ he said. ‘But the only hope for the women and children was the launch.’

  A boat carrying a line was hurled into the cove at the cost of one broken arm. Its crew rigged a running cable to the launch, anchored on good ground beyond the surf, and somehow got those helpless women away. But Catalina was drowned and lost and two men smashed to pulp trying to save her.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Went last. I should have gone first to see how it worked.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have done. Sinking ship and all that.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But if I’d had real guts I should have tried it on the dog and let ’em talk afterwards. The missus would have understood, which is all that matters.’

  ‘Who frightened those blasted women out of their wits in the first place?’

  ‘The Government say communist agents.’

  ‘Under the bed?’

  ‘No. What was on it.’

  ‘Facts, please, Mr. Thorpe.’

  ‘Can only give you what Catalina told my wife.’

  ‘That’s probably as near gospel as we’re likely to get.’

  ‘They didn’t like their husbands with a pocketful of money among all the dockside whores of the Capital.’

  ‘They used to take that as natural—at any rate for a couple of days off. There must have been more to it.’

  ‘There was. Police hanging round at night.’

  ‘Rape?’

  ‘Worse than that. For money.’

  ‘Why weren’t they knifed?’

  ‘Nobody knew about it. All the men had gone from those old shacks beyond the refinery.’

  ‘But I still don’t understand.’

  ‘The women wanted to get to their husbands then and there. Not a month or two later, in case of results. I don’t mean that they were all at it—only a dozen or so of the dirtiest. But the panic caught on like an epidemic and even the decent ones were infected.’

  ‘The women who were rescued—haven’t they talked?’

  ‘Not so far as I know. They wouldn’t. Their men were shipped back the same week. And my wife and I kept it quiet. We didn’t want to be responsible for a massacre.’

  ‘You told Birenfield?’

  ‘Yes—when he kept on drivelling about left-wing agitators. He didn’t believe it. I didn’t myself till Jane looked it all up in the library. Collective hysteria, it’s called.’

  ‘What does the field make of it?’

  ‘Just that. Collective hysteria in their own words. When their husbands were not sent back as promised, the women persuaded themselves they never would be.’

  ‘The police must know.’

  ‘Those who were responsible, yes. I doubt if Captain González does.’

  ‘We’ll leave it that way. Imagine you haven’t told me!’

  ‘May I let Jane know that I have?’

  Mat noticed the change. First, the facetious ‘my missus’, then ‘my wife’, now ‘Jane’. Confidence was established.

  ‘Of course. Now, when was the last check on the explosives store?’

  ‘Mr. Gateson made one recently, and a police patrol visits the perimeter.’

  ‘You mean, it’s in their orders to visit.’

  ‘Shall we run up there, sir? I have a key.’

  ‘Just quietly. In your truck if it’s outside. I don’t want to put ideas into anyone’s head.’

  The store was up to professional standard, sheltered by a high earth bank, fenced by unclimbable barbed wire and approached by a narrow road from the abandoned field. The wire was intact and the gate padlocked. Inside the store itself the boxes were neatly stacked, contents labelled, lids sealed. A carbon copy of the inventory was in a frame screwed to the wall. Evidently Gateson had given his personal attention to explosives with model efficiency.

  ‘Just as you remember it, Mr. Thorpe?’

  ‘I think so. You suspect there might be some missing?’

  ‘I only know that they have sticks of gelignite down in the town.’

  ‘Then it’s not from here. We have no more now—only a little guncotton and some ammonal and dynamite. Personal knowledge, sir, or someone breathing fire over drinks?’

  ‘Personal. Have you ever noticed how the first twelve hours in a new place are often the most productive?’

  ‘I hope to God …’

  ‘No. I slept very well.’

  ‘To think there was always such good will! And now the dead hang over us like those damned hills.’

  ‘What would you do in my place to stop them falling?’

  ‘Make a balls of it. I can’t bear standing around, so I’d force the pace. Law and order pronto!’

  ‘You think I shouldn’t?’

  ‘No. Play it cool and let them come to you.’

  ‘Rock of Ages stuff?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Hide myself in thee.’

  ‘Well, it looks as if there is room enough,’ Thorpe replied with a grin.

  ‘Thank you. But the furniture hasn’t arrived yet. I have to wander round a bit myself and ask questions.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Sons,’ said Captain González in a tone that was paternal rather than familiar, ‘not for a moment do I forget the instructions given to me by the Minister of Labour in person. Firmness without brutality!’

  He did not look paternal, apart from a weariness of expression such as any father might fall back on when exasperated by his own powerlessness. His lemon-coloured face was a mask of professional geniality which had long since ceased to reflect moral values.

  ‘It is the duty of all of us,’ he went on, ‘to show the world, which has its eyes upon us, that in the Republic the glorious traditions of humanity are preserved.’

  ‘Nothing simpler, Captain,’ Rafael Garay replied, ‘provided the police keep out of it.’

  The office of Captain González together with barracks for his sixty policemen had been constructed in the Cabo Desierto customs shed. Since the quarters had been furnished by the Company, they were considerably more imposing than the average police station elsewhere. González delighted to show himself off in such surroundings and had developed an almost ministerial taste for conferences.

  Rafael Garay and Gil Delgado were themselves somewhat impressed by the comfort of the chairs in which they sat opposite the Captain’s desk though they had no respect for the man himself. After the first few interviews with him they had realised that if he were never provoked into leaving his office he was unlikely to do so of his own accord.

  ‘How are your invalids, Captain?’ Gil Delgado asked with a faultless pretence of kind enquiry.

  ‘Better. Much better, thank you. What a mercy no one was killed! As it is, I have been able to report that never was the situation out of hand.’

  That first and decisive battle with the police had been an affair of overwhelming numbers pouring down to the port in a spontaneous burst of anger—a few wild shots on one side, knives and iron bars on the other. González, reluctant to admit that his men had run like rabbits, circulated the official myth of a heavily armed gang before which the police had retreated with dignity to avoid provocation and bloodshed. That suited Garay and Delgado very well, for in fact their men had few arms—only a few cheap pistols bought in calmer days more to show to friends than for use, and now some better ones lifted from unconscious policemen. There were not even any sporting guns in a community which had only inedible sea birds to hunt.

  ‘Good, my sons, let us leave it so!’ González went on. ‘Least said, soonest mended. But it is my duty to warn you that there must be no interference with that most noble and sympathetic person, our new General Manager. Any accident and you all go to gaol!’

  ‘Who’ll take us?’ asked Gil Delgado.

  ‘Quietly! Quietly! What can you do against the weapons of the police ?’

  ‘Turn them round.’

  ‘Gentlemen, I beg of you! Is that the way to talk?’
Captain González exclaimed, placing his hands upon his desk as if to rise. ‘All I ask is consideration for Don Mateo.’

  Truculence, Rafael thought, went down well at meetings but should not become a habit. Gil always liked his power to be felt. There was no object in bullying a man who was always looking over his shoulder in case he got into trouble with the Government or the Company. González’s dislike of any definite action entirely suited their policy.

  ‘One can always speak with you, Captain,’ he said, ‘and be sure of a hearing.’

  ‘With you, Sr. Garay, it is always a pleasure. Now, tell me in confidence—has Don Mateo made any offer?’

  ‘There is no offer we will accept.’

  ‘Good! I understand your feelings. But if he does, do not take it as an insult!’

  ‘If it is an insult, it is. If it is not, it is not. We want nothing more than to work our lands and forget.’

  ‘You are a hard man. In the end you will compel the State to take over the Company.’

  ‘If they wish. But they will get no oil.’

  ‘You have no duty to the Republic?’

  ‘It had none to us.’

  ‘But the work which was offered! There were jobs I should be glad to have myself.’

  ‘No doubt they are still available,’ said Gil Delgado.

  Rafael managed to suppress a smile but knew that his eyes had given him away. He often wished that in his interviews with the police and the town worthies he was not escorted by Gil Delgado, although Gil’s eloquence and sarcasm were indispensable in committee and at public meetings. He himself—well, what was he? He could only say what he meant simply and honestly. If he was cheered as enthusiastically as Gil it must be because he was relentless and his comrades knew it.

  ‘Frankly, Sr. Garay, one would expect so sympathetic a man as you to be open to argument,’ González protested.

  ‘Words change nothing, Captain. The State and the Company broke their word and murdered our women.’

  ‘You forgive no more than your son.’

  ‘My son? What has he to do with it?’

  ‘He told me that when he was big enough he would stick a knife in me.’

  ‘You too have children, Captain,’ Rafael answered hesitantly.

  ‘Yes indeed. And I shall be glad when I can see them again. So it was understood between Chepe and myself that this was to be my fate and that in the meanwhile, as bitter enemies, he would do me the honour to accept a biscuit.’

  Gil Delgado remarked that such gentlemanly behaviour was out of a romance.

  ‘It seemed to me that for a moment he let me live in one, Sr. Delgado.’

  Outside the police station a score of men waited idly for the reappearance of their two leaders, enduring the direct blast of the Cabo Desierto sun upon the shadeless concrete of the waterfront. That was the only sign of purpose in the loose gathering which, under its casual cheerfulness, concealed its determination that anyone who entered the station should leave it. Voices became louder and less disciplined when Rafael and Gil walked out on to the quay.

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ Rafael announced. ‘Antón!’

  A little mestizo, alert as a ferret and wearing the greyish remains of the uniform of some indistinguishable army, answered:

  ‘Chief?’

  ‘Return the police rifle! Throw it through the back window while they are asleep!’

  ‘As you order, Rafael. Is there any danger?’

  ‘None. A favour to González—that is all.’

  There were three cafés under the colonnades of the town. Two were no more than dark taverns. The third, patronised by the Mayor, the Harbourmaster and the Company’s white-collar employees, was on the street level of Cabo Desierto’s only hotel and had its waiters, trays and kitchen staff. Rafael and Gil would never have dreamed of using it before the boycott, but they were now responsible citizens. They sat down at one of the dozen iron tables outside the door and ordered two glasses of the cheapest rum.

  Both were in need of relaxation. There was so much to do: organisation of full-time work on the land, distribution of relief, posting of guards. On top of all that routine work was an obstructive bank manager who could not help receiving the contributions from sympathisers abroad but made every possible difficulty over the signatures necessary to draw on them. The last straw was to be compelled to waste an hour on González.

  ‘But there is no point in being rude to him, brother,’ Rafael said.

  ‘What does it matter? He’s a coward.’

  ‘We do not want them to send the army instead.’

  ‘They dare not.’

  ‘No, provided we are peaceable. That is what I have said at every meeting.’

  ‘Keep your eyes on me, Rafael! The General Manager is coming.’

  ‘What the devil is he doing out of his car? To me he seems simple-minded. An unfortunate!’

  ‘Brother, he’s going to lose his pants if he doesn’t kick that dog!’

  A yellow, short-haired mongrel was excited by the unfamiliar smell of manager. Rafael and Gil leaned forward delightedly. Mat Darlow, not knowing if the cur belonged to anyone of importance, was tacking up the street and avoiding a definite engagement. Aware that in another moment he would become a figure of farce he decided that the nuisance could no longer be treated as somebody’s valued pet. He shot out a hand to his ankles and seized the astonished animal by the scruff of the neck. With his other hand supporting its backside, he lectured it in rich Castilian finally heaving it gently into the gutter where it, its mother and its daughter had carried on their trade.

  The blasted dog was a reminder—not that any was needed—of his isolation. He had been swimming at the Country Club and had taken a momentary dislike to all the self-satisfied faces. Perhaps it was his age. At any rate he felt himself to be wasting time in a bright half-world which had no more to do with life than a musical film. The background of sparkle and trumpeting flowers and imported palm trees was indeed much the same. So he had driven down to the town and left his car outside the port offices.

  Astonishment at seeing the General Manager on foot in the main street was obvious and embarrassing. Very well, let them be astonished! He wasn’t manager of anything at all. Managers should have the Company, the Police and the Government behind them. The Company was hoping—with long drinks in the shade—for an energetic offensive. The sole interest of the police was to avoid blame for whatever happened. And the Government, faced by the problem of marketing the bonanza of the Three Sentinels, was not at all eager to take them over and shoot down workers in the name of nationalisation.

  Wander around a bit and ask questions—he had spent a week on that and received too many answers. The Company executives were sure they had right on their side. Well, from their limited angle so they had. The priest. He couldn’t say what Jesus Christ would recommend in a case like this. He was disconcerted by Mat’s curiosity. Divinity should stay safely on the Cross. He got more out of Dr. Solano, who at least had shown a professional interest—as if dealing with a cage of rats—in the experiment of living without wages. Undernourishment, he said, was not yet serious and the Cabo Desierto lands could give a poor but adequate standard of living. When he felt free to talk frankly Luis Solano would be an invaluable friend—of far more use than the likeable, bumbling Mayor who contradicted himself daily. Before lunch he was horrified at the folly of his fellow citizens; after lunch they had his sympathy.

  The police were predictable anyway. They were on the side of religion and property, which was always surprising since they had little of one and none of the other. And that Captain González—a timid bureaucrat who seldom dared to show how intelligent he really was! The Manager must not sit in lit windows. The Manager must not go out alone. González would like to see him continually followed by three well-polished, armed half-wits in uniform. That would look well in a report.

  No one but he could get Cabo Desierto back to work. No one could help him in more than minor decisions. No
one could share his perceptions. But there it was! Without his car and an expression on his face as blank as Lorenzo’s he was biteable as any other intruder. The dog was perfectly right. One could only hope that Henry Constantinides was, too.

  The café under the hotel was an inviting refuge, though it was awkward that those two toughs should be sitting there—one black and stocky, the other tall, big-bellied and exceptionally white for Cabo Desierto. Gil Delgado, of course, and Rafael Garay, the father of the boy. However, he had shaken hands with them on arrival, so it would be safe to try a polite bow and sit as far away as possible. Or even join them, damn it! If they were sullen and got up to leave, at least enmity would be clarified.

  ‘With your permission?’ he asked, approaching their table.

  There were indeed two seconds of hesitation, but due to surprise rather than deliberate coldness.

  ‘Sit down, Mr. Manager,’ answered Rafael Garay.

  Mat drew up a chair, allowed formal courtesies to flower and was asked what he would take.

  ‘What are you drinking? Rum? That will do me good, too.’

  ‘Are you very busy?’ asked Gil Delgado when the drink was served.

  Mat smiled at the pretended politeness and made a mental note that at some future date the fellow should be pulverised by a sharper irony than his own. He might appreciate it. Reports had it that Garay inspired the troops and the more sophisticated Delgado gave the pep talks.

  ‘Not so busy as I used to be. Here where we are sitting was a quarantine station—nothing but three walls, a thatched roof and a sort of government doctor. I remember he wanted to vaccinate two of our Texan drillers who had just arrived. One of them shot the ampoule out of his hand while the other dealt with the bottles.’

  ‘Those were the days!’ Gil exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, we wouldn’t stand interference from the outside. Did you ever hear that for a week we declared Cabo Desierto an independent republic?’

  ‘Who? The British?’ Rafael asked with a shade of resentment.

  ‘Not we! We were sick with laughing. The drilling crews were at the bottom of it. They didn’t approve of an import tax on our liquor.’