He nodded and closed his eyes, saying no more. After half an hour he had a coughing fit and a great gout of red blood poured from his mouth.
Ten minutes later he died.
TEN
They chased me like hounds chase the fox. I’ve never been much in favour of blood sports and this experience reinforced my distaste because it gave me a very good idea of what it’s like to be on the wrong end of a hunt. I also had the disadvantage of not knowing the country, while the hounds were hunting on their home ground. It was a nerve-racking and sweaty business.
It began not long after Harry died. I couldn’t do much about Harry although I didn’t like just leaving him there for the forest scavengers. I began to dig a grave, using Harry’s machete, but I came across rock close to the surface and had to stop. In the end I laid him out with his arms folded across his chest and said goodbye.
That was a mistake, of course, and so was the attempt at a grave. If I had left Harry as he was when he died, just a tumbled heap at the foot of a tree, then I might have got clean away. The body of the dead chiclero was found, and so was Harry’s body, a little further in the forest; if I had left him alone then Gatt’s men might not even have suspected that I existed. But dead men don’t attempt to dig their own graves, nor do they compose themselves for their end in such a neat manner, and the hunt was on.
But maybe I’m wrong, because I did take as much loot from the dead chiclero as I could. It was too precious to leave behind. I took his rifle, his pack, the contents of his pockets, a bandolier stuffed with cartridges and a nice new machete, as sharp as a razor and much better than those I had been using. I would have taken his clothing too, for use as a disguise, had I not heard voices on the trail. That scared me off and I slipped away into the forest, intent on putting as much distance between me and those voices as I could.
I don’t know if they discovered the bodies then or at a later time because, in my hurry to get away, I got thoroughly lost for the rest of the day. All I knew was that Gatt’s trail to Uaxuanoc was somewhere to the west, but by the time I’d figured that out it was too dark to do anything about it, and I spent the night up a tree.
Oddly enough, I was in better shape than at any time since the helicopter crashed. I had food and nearly three quarts of water, I was more accustomed to moving in the forest and did not have to do as much useless chopping with the machete, and one man can go where two men can’t—especially when one of the two is sick. Without poor Harry I was more mobile. Then again, I had the rifle. I didn’t know what I was going to to do with it, but I stuck to it on general principles.
The next morning, as soon as it was light enough to see, I headed west, hoping to strike the trail. I travelled a hell of a long way and I thought I’d made a terrible mistake. I knew if I didn’t find that trail then I’d never find Uaxuanoc, and I’d probably leave my bones somewhere in the forest when my food and water ran out, so I was justifiably anxious. I didn’t find the trail, but I nearly ran into a bullet as someone raised a shout and took a shot at me.
The bullet went high and clipped leaves from a bush, and I took to my heels and got out of there fast. From then on there was a strange, slow-motion chase in the humid green dimness of the forest floor. The bush was so thick that you could be standing right next to a man and not know he was there if he were quiet enough. Imagine putting the Hampton Court maze into one of the big tropical houses at Kew, populating it with a few armed thugs with murder in their hearts, and you in the middle, the object of their unloving attentions.
I tried to move as quietly as I could, but my knowledge of woodcraft dates back to Fenimore Cooper and I wasn’t so good at the Silent Savage bit. But then, neither were the chicleros. They crashed about and shouted one to the other, and a couple of shots were loosed off at random but nowhere near me. After a while I began to get over my immediate fright and the conviction grew upon me that if I chose a thickish bit of forest and just stood still I was as likely to get away with it as if I kept on running.
So I did that and stood screened by leaves with my hands sweaty on the rifle until the noise of pursuit disappeared. I didn’t move out immediately, either. The greatest danger was the man more brainy than the others who would be doing the same as me—just standing quietly and waiting for me to come into view. So I waited a full hour before moving, and then, again, I headed west.
This time I found the trail. I burst into it unexpectedly, but luckily there wasn’t anyone in sight. I hastily withdrew and looked at my watch to find it was after five in the afternoon, not far from nightfall. I debated with myself whether or not to take a chance and use the trail. I was tired, and perhaps my judgement wasn’t as keen as it ought to have been, because I said out loud, ‘The hell with it!’ and boldly stepped out. Again it was a relief to have unhampered freedom of movement. There was no need for the machete, so I unslung the rifle and took it in both hands, and made good time, conscious that every step brought me nearer Uaxuanoc and safety.
This time I surprised a chiclero. He was standing in the trail with his back to me and I could smell the smoke of the foul cigarette he was puffing. I was retreating cautiously when, apparently by some sixth sense, he became aware of me and turned fast. I popped off a shot at him and he promptly fell flat and rolled into cover. The next thing was an answering shot, so close that I felt the thrill of air on my cheek.
I ducked for cover and, hearing shouts, pushed into the forest. Again, there was a fantastic game of hide-and-seek. I found another hidey-hole and froze in it like a hare in its form, hoping that the hunt would go around me. I listened to the chicleros plunging about and shouting to each other and there was something about the quality in their voices which made me think their hearts weren’t in it. After all, one of their number was dead, stabbed in a very nasty way, and I had just taken a pot-shot at another. It can’t have been very encouraging; after all, I’d shown definitely murderous tendencies, they didn’t know who I was and I could be standing in wait to garrotte any one of them. No wonder they stuck together and shouted at each other—there was comfort in numbers.
They gave up at nightfall and retreated to wherever they had come from. I stayed where I was and put in a bit of solid thought on the problem, something which I’d been neglecting to do in the hurry-scurry of the day’s events. I’d run into two lots of them during the day, and as far as I could make out, they were moving in groups of three or four. Whereas the first chiclero—the one I had killed—had been alone.
Again, this last lot was neither spying on Uaxuanoc nor staying at Gatt’s camp, and it seemed to me that its sole purpose was to hunt for me, otherwise why would they have been staked out on the trail? It was very likely that Gatt had identified the body of Harry Rider and he had a shrewd suspicion of who Rider’s companion was. Anyway, every time I tried to make a break for Uaxuanoc there had been some one placed to stop me.
Apart from all that, I had no illusions about what would happen to me if I were caught. The man I had killed would have friends, and it would be useless to expostulate that I hadn’t intended killing him and that I was merely dissuading him from splitting Harry’s skull. The fact was that I had killed him and there was no getting away from it.
Remembering how he had looked with the machete obscenely sticking from his body made me feel sick. I had killed a man and I didn’t even know who he was or what he thought. Still, he had started it by shooting at us and he had got what he deserved, yet, oddly, that didn’t make me feel any better about it. This primitive world of kill or be killed was a long way from Cannon Street and the bowlerhatted boys. What the hell was a grey little man like me doing here?
But this was no time for indulging in philosophy and I wrenched my mind back to the matter at hand. How in hell was I going to get back to Uaxuanoc? The idea came to me that I could move along the trail at night—that I had already proved. But would the chicleros be watching at night? There was only one thing to do and that was to find out the hard way.
It w
as not yet dark and I had just time to get back to the trail before the light failed. Moving in the forest at night was impossible, and movement on the trail wasn’t much better but I persevered and went slowly and as quietly as I could. It was very depressing to see the fire. They had hewn out a little clearing, and the fire itself was built right in the middle of the trail. They sat around it talking and obviously wide awake. To go round was impossible at night, so I withdrew regretfully and, as soon as I thought I was out of hearing, I hacked into the forest and found myself a tree.
The next morning the first thing I did was to go further into the forest away from the trail and find myself another tree. I chose it very carefully and established myself on a sort of platform forty feet above the ground with leaf cover beneath so thick that I couldn’t see the ground at all and no one on the ground could see me. One thing was certain—these boys couldn’t possibly climb every tree in the forest to see where I was hiding, and I thought I’d be safe.
I was tired—tired to death of running, and fighting this bloody forest, tired of being shot at and of shooting at other people, tired because of lack of sleep and because too much adrenalin had been pumped into my system, tired above all, of being consistently and continually frightened.
Maybe the grey little man inside me was intent on running away. I don’t know—but I rationalized it by saying to myself that I wanted a breathing space. I was staking everything on one last throw. I had a quart of water left, and a little food—enough for a day if I didn’t have to run too much. I was going to stay in that tree for twenty-four hours—to rest and sleep and get my wind back. By that time I’d have eaten all the food and drunk all the water, and I’d bloody well have to make a move, but until then I was going to take it easy.
Maybe it’s a trait of little grey men that they only go into action when pushed hard enough, and perhaps I was unconsciously putting myself into such a position that hunger and thirst would do the pushing; but what I consciously thought was that if the chicleros saw neither hair nor hide of me for the next twenty-four hours then they might assume that I’d either quit cold or gone elsewhere. I hoped, rather futilely, than when I came down out of that tree they’d have gone away.
So I made myself comfortable, or as comfortable as I could, and rested up. I split the food up into three meals and marked the water-bottle into three portions. The last lot was for breakfast just before I left. I slept, too, and I remember thinking just before I dozed off that I hoped I didn’t snore.
Most of the time I spent in a somnolent condition, not thinking about anything much. All the affairs of Fallon and Uaxuanoc seemed very far away, and Hay Tree Farm could just as well have been on another planet. There was just the clammy green heat of the forest enfolding me, and even the ever-present danger from the chicleros seemed remote. I daresay if a psychiatrist could have examined me then he’d have diagnosed a case of schizophrenic retreat. I must have been in a bad way and I think that was my nadir.
Night came and I slept again, this time more soundly, and I slept right through until daybreak and awoke refreshed. I think that night’s sleep did me a lot of good because I felt remarkably cheerful as I munched the tough dried beef and ate the last of the bread. I felt devilish reckless as I washed it down with the last of the water from the bottle. Today was going to be make or break for Jemmy Wheale—I had nothing left to fall back on, so I might as well push right ahead.
I abandoned the water-bottles and the knapsack and all I retained were the switchblade knife in my pocket, the machete and the rifle. I was going to travel light and fast. I didn’t even take the bandolier, but just put a half-dozen rounds in my pocket. I didn’t see myself fighting a pitched battle, and all the ammunition in the world wouldn’t help me if I had to. I suppose the bandolier and the water-bottles are still up in that tree—I can’t imagine anyone finding them.
I came out of the tree and dropped on to the ground, not worrying too much whether anyone saw or heard me or not, and made my way through the forest to the trail. When I got to it I didn’t hesitate at all, but just turned and walked along as though I hadn’t a care in the world. I carried the rifle at the trail and held the machete in the other hand, and I didn’t bother to slow at the corners but just carried straight on.
When I arrived at the clearing the chicleros had chopped out for their little camp I stopped and felt the embers of the fire. It never occurred to me to be cautious in my approach; I just marched into the clearing, found no one there, and automatically bent to feel the heat of the embers. They were still warm and, as I turned them over with the point of the machete, there was a glow of red. It was evident that the chicleros were not long gone.
But which way? Up-trail or down-trail? I didn’t particularly care and set off again at the same pace, striding out and trying to make good time. And I did make good time. I had examined the map and tried to trace the course of my wanderings during the days I had been harried. It was something of an impossibility, but as near as I could reckon I thought I was within three miles of Uaxuanoc, and I was damned well going to keep to that trail until I got there.
Fools may rush in where angels fear to tread, but there is also something called Fool’s Luck. All the time those bastards had been chasing me and I’d been scared out of my wits, I had run into them, twist and turn as I would. Now, when I didn’t give a damn, it was I who saw them first. Rather, I heard them nattering away in Spanish as they came up the trail, so I just stepped aside into the forest and let them pass.
There were four of them, all armed and all pretty villainous-looking, unshaven and dressed in the universal dirty whites of the chicleros. As they passed I heard a reference to Señor Gatt and there was a burst of laughter. Then they were gone up the trail and I stepped out of cover. If they’d had their wits about them they could easily have spotted me because I hadn’t gone far into cover, but they didn’t even turn their heads as they went by. I’d reached the stage when I didn’t give a damn.
But I was heartened as I went on. It was unlikely that any more of them would be coming up the trail and I lengthened my stride to move faster so that I’d outpace any possible chicleros coming up behind. It was hot and strenuous work and the precious water I had drunk filmed my body in the form of sweat, but I drove myself on and on without relenting and kept up a lulling pace for the next two hours.
Suddenly the trail took a sharp turn to the left, went on a hundred yards, and petered out. I stopped, uncertain of where to go, and suddenly became aware of a man lying on top of a hillock to my right. He was staring at something through field glasses, and as I convulsively brought up the rifle, he half-turned his head and said casually, ‘Es usted, Pedro?’
I moistened my lips, ‘Si!’ I said hoping that was the right answer.
He put the glasses to his eyes again and resumed his contemplation of whatever was on the other side of the hillock. ‘Tiene usted fosforos y cigarrillos?’
I didn’t know what he was saying, but it was obviously a question, so I repeated again, ‘Si!’ and climbed up the hillock boldly until I was standing over him, just a little behind.
‘Gracias,’ he said. ‘Que hora es?’ He put down the glasses and turned to look at me just as I brought the rifle butt down on his head. It hit him just above the right eye and his face creased in sudden pain. I lifted the rifle and slammed it down harder in a sudden passion of anger. This is what would have happened to Harry. The sound that came from him was midway between a wail and a grunt, and he rolled over down the hillock and was still.
I gave him a casual glance and stirred him with my foot. He did not move, so I turned to see what he had been looking at. Spread out below was Uaxuanoc and Camp Three, not a quarter of a mile away across open ground. I looked at it as the Israelites must have looked upon the Promised Land; tears came to my eyes and I took a few stumbling steps forward and shouted in a hoarse croak at the distant figures strolling about the huts.
I began to run clumsily and found that all the strength se
emed to have suddenly drained from my body. I felt ridiculously weak and at the same time, airy and buoyant and very light-headed. I don’t know if the man I had stunned—or killed for all I knew—was the only chiclero overlooking the camp, or whether he had companions. Certainly it would have been a simple matter for a man with a rifle to shoot me in the back as I stumbled towards the huts, but there was no shot.
I saw the big figure of Joe Rudetsky straighten as he turned to look at me and there was a faint shout. Then there was a bit of a blankness and I found myself lying on the ground looking up at Fallon, who wore a concerned expression. He was speaking, but I don’t know what he said because someone was beating a drum in my ear. His head shrank and then ballooned up hugely, and I passed out again.
II
Water—clean, cold, pure water—is a marvellous substance. I’ve used it sometimes to make those packet soups; you get the dry, powdery stuff out of the packet which looks as unappetizing as the herbs from a witch doctor’s pouch, add water and hey presto!—what were a few dry scrapings turn into luscious green peas and succulent vegetables.
I was very dehydrated after my week in the forest, and I’d lost a lot of weight, but within a few hours I felt remarkably chirpy. Not that I drank a lot of water because Fallon wouldn’t let me and rationed it out in sips, but the sight of that water jug next to my bed with the cold condensation frosting the outside of the glass did me a world of good because I knew that all I had to do was to stretch my arm and there it was. A lovely feeling! So I was feeling better although, perhaps, like the packet soup I had lost a bit of flavour.
Fallon, of course, wanted to know what had happened in more detail than in the brief incoherent story I told when I stumbled into camp. He pulled up a chair and sat by the edge of the bed. ‘I think you’d better tell me all of it,’ he said.
The Golden Keel / The Vivero Letter Page 51
