Face to the Sun

by Geoffrey Household

  He was right in that. Dictators, in my limited experience, depend on such bees for action when evidence is lacking. Heredia had a strong gut-feeling that his wife and son-in-law had a hand in some monkey business over the Punchao. Why had she visited it so soon after her arrival? Why had Hector accompanied her? What was the connection, if any, with that successful raid on the late watchmaker’s shop? Well, he couldn’t jail Hector without getting hell from Juana and cabled hell from Carlota, so I was a temporary substitute for the lot of them. I did not ask to see the British Consul since I should have had to give him more details of my dealings with Juana than I liked and invent unconvincing lies about my movements and means of support which could well lead him to cable London for confirmation. I had no intention of mentioning the large part of my two hundred thousand which remained at the bank.

  The room to which I was escorted had at least a comfortable bed and chair, a wash basin and a water closet, all quite adequate for a country inn. I did not expect a visit from Juana or Hector until the clouds cleared away; they would be afraid of any confrontation when neither they nor I could know what story the other had confessed. Meanwhile, Juana cared only for herself and her husband, and Hector for both the safety of the Punchao and Carlota’s allowance from her father which allowed him to indulge his hobby as well as to improve his estate. I remembered how he had cursed the Ministry of Agriculture for not allowing him to terrace his hillsides in the common practice of the Iron Age.

  I passed the day in reviving such memories. Conversation with the gaoler who brought me food and wine at the normal times was not encouraged. He was armed but not against any expected trouble from me. He gave me the impression of being anxious of some growing disturbance in the city since the arrests of the early morning. I slept peacefully until someone dropped, as I thought, some heavy piece of furniture not far away. This was followed by shots, running feet and a powerful explosion which left the door of my hospitable cell hanging from one hinge. I helped it the rest of the way and ran out into the central passage where I was grabbed from behind and hurried along past several corpses including that of my last interrogator.

  We arrived in the courtyard, dismal in the first grey light of dawn, and I was hurled into a police van crammed with other prisoners who, for all I knew, might be bound for the firing-squad or the freedom of the mountains. When we had raced out through the shattered gates and round a corner where the hail of shots – most of them high – could no longer reach us, I disentangled myself from the crush on the floor of the van and had a look at my fellow prisoners. That was what they were: a pitiable lot, half-naked, beaten, with faces pulped and yelling with pain when they tried to move. There was no more doubt that I had been given a lift by a rescue party of Retadores. It occurred to me that when they discovered that I was a known friend of the Presidenta Juana I might not have long to live.

  The growing light was now enough to reveal a troop carrier a mile behind us and closing. If we had chosen a main road we could have raced away but we were on a track winding between outcrops of rock into the forested hills. Soon, optimistic shots were kicking up the dust and we were told to tumble out and take cover. I grabbed a rifle belonging to the driver’s mate who had stopped one of those random shots and dived into a cleft overlooking the track but much too close to it, hoping that the pursuers would continue to grind their way uphill. In fact, I doubt if I had any coherent plan at all. I took to the nearest hole, obsessed by a terrifying vision of my lonely body running up the track, an unmissable target. The rest of the prisoners, who had the advantage of knowing where they were, had become invisible. They squatted in cover as naturally as partridges.

  At the same time, the carrier was ditching its load of soldiers who took open order and continued the chase. I watched two of them blow out the brains of three poor devils who could not run. That was pitiless murder and I returned the compliment. Some Roman said that out of Africa always comes something new. It had. My General had insisted that all his civilian staff should know how to shoot. I took to the game and earned his personal commendation.

  The officer in command of the party was safely behind his men; only he could have clearly seen where my shots had come from, so I had to teach him to lead his troops from the front in future – if he had any future.

  There wasn’t an atom of soldierly courage in all this. I was angry, and certain that I was going to die. The safest place seemed to be the armoured troop carrier which was halted to my left and a little below me. I regretted that I had not the experience to drive a tracked vehicle, but there was a chance that the driver was still in his seat. If he was, I could get at him from behind by a possible wriggle through what might be called cover.

  I reached the carrier, apparently unseen by its previous occupants who were up ahead busy searching every rock and patch of scrub, and climbed in. The driver was still there. He heard me and turned round to see my rifle trained on him. I ordered him to drive straight ahead. Neither of us had any temptation to be a hero, so he obeyed, pushing our empty van viciously out of the way.

  I gratefully admired the American troop carrier. None of the shots which hit us penetrated the armour. But there was no enthusiasm for the chase in the Heredia troops; some of the shots presumably aimed at the carrier missed so widely that men on the far side of it, instead of searching the outcrops of rock, crouched behind them. Meanwhile, we reached the top of the ridge and were in dead ground; beyond was the edge of the forest and I could see three or four of my fellow prisoners dodging from tree to tree until they disappeared. The driver was disinclined to go further for shots were coming from ahead, and it was obvious that we now faced an advanced detachment of Retadores from which the raiders of the police station had started.

  I ordered the driver to take off his uniform coat and his fairly white shirt which I raised, attached by the sleeves, to the barrel of my rifle. That puzzled the enemy; firing stopped and then began again. I waved my improvised white flag, and they let us alone while we rumbled down the track which continued clear of obstructions, into the trees. There we were savagely charged, but instead of a load of Heredistas they found only Edmond Hawkins shouting that he too had been a prisoner, terrified by what seemed a hedge of bayonets but turned out to be only four.

  They thought at first that the driver had come over to them and slapped him on the back for his courage in joining the side of the people. He had the sense to keep silent and charged boldly along what once had been a forest path. After half a mile the tracks of the carrier became so entwined by lianas and saplings that it gave up.

  Meanwhile, they tied my hands and threw me on the ground. After a discussion whether to shoot me or not, assuming that I was one of Heredia’s American advisers, they decided to take me back to their camp.

  ‘You’ll have to walk for the first time in your life, son of a whore,’ one of them said to me.

  ‘Well, I have legs.’

  They were amused by my retort.

  ‘He has legs,’ they repeated jovially. ‘And he speaks Spanish.’

  ‘Is that such a marvel? It is the language of half the world.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘An Englishman recently arrived in Malpelo, and they put me in prison.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Frankly, friend, I do not know. It seems to be the custom in this country for one half of the people to put the other half in prison and then that first half returns to let them out. So if you need some prisoners to take home as presents I will tell you how to get them. The Heredistas are wandering about the hillside searching for more of you to kill. But as they no longer have an officer, I’ll bet you they are tired of it and are sitting still and smoking. You will see them from the ridge, and if you then creep round the flanks, give a yell and charge, you will get them for nothing.’

  ‘And what about you, Englishman? I would let you go but you would run away.’

  ‘Where to, compañero? All I know is that this is a forest in Malpelo. Give me
something to eat and drink and I will await your return.’

  ‘That I might do,’ he replied, ‘if I knew why Heredia had put you inside when you are not of our party.’

  I had to invent some reason. I had begun to feel a liking for the Retadores; they reminded me of the humbler members of the Spanish hotel staff with whom I had sometimes shared a jug of wine after making my formal and usually unnecessary inspection of a kitchen. They relished any shaft of humour, especially if sardonic.

  ‘Look! You know that Doña Juana recently flew back from London. Well, I travelled alongside her, and halfway across the Atlantic she began to permit certain intimacies. I think that a steward must have noticed her enjoyment and reported it to the old sod in the palace and he made sure that I should not sit close to her again.’

  ‘The President’s wife! Well, she was once beautiful and, by God, there’s plenty of her left to play with. I wouldn’t mind sitting next to her myself. Look, mate,’ he went on, ‘we came out without any rations, but I carry about with me a little flask of good rum for emergencies only, you understand. Here it is and help yourself and be sure that we will carry you back to camp if those legs of yours won’t. Now we are off!’

  I had guessed right. They were all Indians or had Indian blood, but as well as the language they had absorbed the spirit of Spain. His generous gift was most welcome, but sheer liquid fire for any poor gringo brought up on whisky. I took a couple of mouthfuls and settled down with my back against a tree trunk. I felt a new confidence in myself, having survived a Father of his Country and revolutionaries alike with all spare parts still intact.

  They returned after a couple of hours, driving in front of them a party of my former pursuers with no trousers. I saw no brutality apart from laughter when any of the prisoners tripped into a cactus and had trouble regaining his feet because his hands were tied behind his back. A march of an hour took us to the headquarters of the brigade which was keeping a distant watch on the city. It was a village of temporary huts set in a dip of high plateau, containing wives and children who had been burnt out of their homes as well as the fighting men. The west side looked across impassable forest to a rugged coastline. On the land side, any force of Heredistas which broke out of the trees would be met by a curtain of fire from four or five strong points.

  I was held apart from the rest of the prisoners and, lest that should show favouritism to a member of the classe culta, made to sit on the ground outside the commander’s tent while a smart orderly, probably a deserter from the regular army, went in to report what my captors had said about me. He then led me in before a major – to judge by his ragged insignia – of about my own age with a fair pointed beard who looked like one of the original Conquistadores. I had no hat to raise so I gave him a courtly bow.

  ‘First do me the favour to explain who you are and what an Englishman is doing in Malpelo.’

  I replied that I was an archaeologist named Edmond Hawkins and a friend of the son-in-law of the President.

  ‘He was about to escort the Presidenta back from London to Malpelo and asked me if I would like to come with them. Naturally, I jumped at the chance. But on the second night after my arrival there was a raid on the shop of a watchmaker and afterwards I was put under arrest for no reason. My story of an indecency with Doña Juana was an invention to amuse your troops. I did not sit near her and, if you will excuse me, she is not to my taste.’

  ‘I have met this Hector McMurtrie. What is your opinion of him?’

  ‘His interests do not correspond to his sympathies.’

  ‘And yours?’

  ‘I cannot see that your Retadores are against democracy. You have, I believe, a number of so-called communists, but what of it? If they should seize power, they are not likely to storm the Panama Canal.’

  ‘You are right. The Indians have always been communists, but only now have they latched on to the name. Soak the rich. That’s their politics. In Europe you would call them left-wing socialists. Now, is it true that you took that troop carrier single-handed?’

  ‘Let your men take the credit for that, my commandant. I was the only prisoner who had a rifle.’

  ‘You have been a soldier?’

  ‘Never. But I was taught to shoot by an expert.’

  ‘Then you will have to learn the trade. You will understand that you have seen too much for me to let you go.’

  ‘Thank God for that, Major! I do not know how we got here or in which direction is the city, and it is very likely that I should end up in one of those valleys on the way to the sea.’

  ‘So would most of my men. Few of them can read a map and the contour lines are mostly wrong anyway. Well, I must do my round of the pickets, and when I return perhaps you will give us the pleasure of entertaining you in the mess.’

  He fixed me up with a blanket and a pup tent where I soon fell asleep in spite of bruises. To put it mildly, it had been a hard day.

  I was awakened by the same orderly who brought me a much needed bucket of water with which I cleaned off some of the blood of my fellow prisoners who had been packed with me into the rescuing van, and the clean but clinging dirt of vegetable and mineral. It was far from a regimental mess to which I had been invited. The major himself had evidently had no more than a bucket, and that was yesterday.

  The major, three of his officers and a priest were round the table. They had excellent bread from the camp baker, plenty of eggs, corn and potatoes. No meat, since they would not deprive the Indian farmers, scattered in the ravines outside the perimeter, of the few beasts they had. I was in luck, they told me, a barrel of wine had arrived from Chilean sympathisers and been spirited from the docks to the mountains by the priest and a donkey. They could keep it for the mess without arousing any resentment since the guerrilleros preferred rum and water.

  ‘Has the major told you that we have something to celebrate tonight?’

  ‘I have too,’ I answered politely. I was longing to know whether the raid on the watchmaker had been successful.

  ‘May we tell him why?’

  ‘Why not? But Don Edmondo will not know what the Punchao is.’

  ‘I know what it was, and I have read somewhere that a model of it was made.’

  ‘Good! Well, Heredia stole that model from the museum and intends to use it as an emblem of the unity of his state. Now, we have, as you would expect, some loyal agents in the city and one of them informed us that Heredia had dispatched it to his clock repairer. Now, it is ours. Would you like to see it?’

  The thought passed through my head that I wished to God I had never seen it. But was that true? I had to admit that I was enjoying myself.

  The major picked up a parcel from his desk and undid the soft and careful wrapping. The exquisite little golden suns of the Punchao flashed back the light of the paraffin lamp. Here it seemed to be rejoicing in a more rightful setting than the bedroom of the Richmond hotel where I had last seen it.

  ‘Can you tell us who made the original?’

  ‘Nobody knows.’

  That was true enough; but it was a subject I had to avoid. Apparently I could pass as an amateur guerrillero, but never as an archaeologist.

  The priest made over it the sign of the Cross. Smiling, he noticed and remarked on my surprise. I replied that I was completely ignorant of church policy and assumed that they were for the government of Heredia.

  ‘Some perhaps. What we are for is that the peasant and worker should be contented and earn enough to feed and educate his children. Or do you think that I should not bless this symbol of the Rising of the Sun because the original was the supreme god of Indians who knew no better? To the Christian, it is a manifestation of the Holy Spirit like all the glories of the arts. We do not worship them; we thank God for them. It is Heredia who would treat the Punchao del Dia as an idol. But I preach a sermon, my sons, when I should be warning you that Heredia is planning revenge. Troops are pouring in from the coast and the country. It is up to your leaders to decide whether you fight
or hide.’

  That evening, inspired by the rare treat of wine and past victories, we rose to our feet and called for fighting. In the morning, a general council weighed the evidence. From agents in the plain came the news that what the padre had told us was no exaggeration. Later on a sweating messenger arrived – they dared not use radio – from Headquarters, authorising us to abandon the camp if we doubted whether we could withstand a siege. We were to remember that we were only a vanguard and a refuge for the destitute and that the Heredistas would split up into small parties to search for us and make us pay for our audacity by ambush after ambush.

  It was more advice than an order but we took it. By evening, the posts were abandoned and stripped like the troop carrier. The weeping women and children were divided into small parties, each with its own handful of armed guides, and told where to go and what story to tell if any of them were rounded up.

  The major asked me what I would choose, telling me that the choice was mine. I was at liberty to rejoin my distinguished friends if I wished.

  ‘I will come with you and the Punchao del Dia if you will have me,’ I answered. ‘I will make only one stipulation. If we run across my only friend in Malpelo, Hector McMurtrie, spare him and hand him over to me. But I think it very improbable that he will go adventuring beyond the city.’

  Chapter Four

  It was decided that our party should aim for the wild coast. Heredia would certainly not attack from that direction since half a dozen men armed with light machine-guns and posted at the mouth of a canyon or on the slopes above could compel him to search for any other approach, which would turn out to be as bad or worse. Our route was largely guesswork. We would hack our way through choked woodlands of pine or oak or climb low cliffs so steep that the mules once had to be hauled up, and then find that we were committed to head away from the coast and have to retrace our steps. By nightfall we had not gone far from the camp and could hear the distant rattle of firing – and saw from a hilltop a ripple of flame as they set the huts alight. A horrible business. Those few of our wounded whom our surgeon had pronounced to be past saving had been left behind and we had no doubt that their bodies were helping to fan the flames.