By this means he gradually became aware of a great event of history. An Italian army of thirty or forty thousand men, part Blackshirts and part regulars, had been conveyed by train and by road around the loop to the west and north of Madrid; around the Guadarrama Mountains, covered by snow at the end of February, to strike at the capital from the northeast. Two roads come down from that direction and join; one of them the main highway from Barcelona, over which Lanny had traveled with Raoul Palma returning from their visit to the capital. Not far to the east lies Calatayud, where the purchase of the Comendador had been consummated; this town had been taken by General Mola at the outbreak of the rebellion, and Lanny had since learned from Raoul that his brother Esteban had fled into the Pyrenees and was now fighting with the people’s armies in Catalonia.
Down the broad valley of the Henares River and the neighboring valleys came the triumphant Nationalists, planning to reach the Jarama and join the Italian brigades on that front. At first Franco had advanced without much opposition, taking Siguenza, then Brihuega; after that his radios continued to announce new triumphs—but Lanny observed that they stopped naming places. Suddenly the Loyalist radios broke out in a clamor of delight, declaring that in the midst of an unseasonable storm of snow and rain their militia had fallen upon an Italian mechanized column, a mass of tanks and artillery crowded into a stretch of the highway at Guadalajara, and after three days of incessant fighting had driven it back in a rout which had not been equaled since Caporetto in the World War.
Lanny remembered the town of Guadalajara very well, having passed through it three times. Leaving Madrid with Raoul, they had stopped to look at the Palacio, a fifteenth-century building used as an orphanage; they had paid two pesetas to be shown around it, and Lanny wondered what had become of all those forlorn-looking little boys and girls, so carefully segregated. The other times had been on his second trip, when he had come from Valencia and detoured by this route so as to be safer from enemy planes. At Guadalajara he had entered the main highway, crowded with miserable fugitives; returning, he had found it the same, and had turned into the mountains toward Cuenca, where he had picked up the peasant family.
He pictured the broad river valley, now soaked with rain and snow which had turned to slush, and churned into red mud by the tracks of tanks and artillery. Day after day he listened, for the battle and pursuit lasted a full week. The rocky fields and scrub-oak forests were strewn with the wreckage of planes and tanks, and vehicles of every sort; field guns, antiaircraft guns, machine guns and mortars; shells and empty shell cases, ammunition boxes, tools, haversacks—all the wreckage of a terrible struggle. Lanny listened to the voice of an American correspondent, describing from a Madrid station this field of slaughter where several thousand Italian bodies were strewn, their waxy gray faces wet with cold rain.
After that he couldn’t doubt that it was true, and it pleased him better than any news he had heard since the invention of radio. It seemed the judgment of human decency upon Mussolini and his crew; it seemed the end of that monstrous growth of Fascism which Lanny had been watching for a decade and a half. To him Il Duce was one thing more than any other—the murderer of Matteotti; and here at last was punishment meted out. Lanny listened to descriptions of the crowds filling the Puerta del Sol, hysterical with joy; he had to stand in front of the mirror in his room and wipe the smiles from his face and acquire a somber expression to match those which he would meet in the hotel dining-room. Eight courses of grief they ate, hardly daring to put into words what they knew. Lanny wondered: “How did they know it? Had they been unable to resist the temptation to listen to forbidden stations? Or had they heard whispers from some other person who had listened?” Certainly the Franco radios hadn’t told, and yet everybody knew!
II
Jose came to Lanny’s room with the breakfast, beaming like a sunrise. “Pardon me, Senor. This is the only place in the hotel where I dare to enjoy my life.”
When Lanny agreed to forgive him he whispered: “I have news for you, Senor. Things go fast. Will you meet me tonight?” He needed to say no more, for at each rendezvous he had named a spot for the next. He was getting to enjoy the intrigue, in spite of his terrors. For the benefit of the other servants he had invented a romance; a mysterious woman was receiving him, and he had made it so real that he had a hard time keeping other men from following him.
Jose had indeed made progress. Using Lanny’s money, the husband of his one-time novia, or sweetheart, had got one of the guards of the prison drunk, and this fellow had talked freely about his superiors. Jose poured out a mass of gossip, and Lanny listened closely. His attention became centered upon a certain Capitan Vazquez, a recently recruited officer of the Guardia Civil who was in charge of the prison at intervals. It was said that he came from Barcelona and had a bad record there. “You know how it is in big cities,” said the waiter; “it is like the gangsters that we see in your movies. But these gangsters shot union leaders.”
“That has been known to happen in America and also in France,” replied Lanny. “We are not going to find any noble-minded idealists among prison-keepers.”
“This Capitan has a girl in the town and they say that he beats her; also, he frequents a gambling-place, and he is in debt there.”
“We could hardly ask for more,” said the American, With a smile.
“He is a very tough hombre, Senor.”
“What we want him to do will only take a few minutes, and it will pay him more money than he ever saw in his life before. That ought to satisfy the toughest.”
“No matter how much they get, they want more.”
Lanny chuckled. “My father tells about a landowner in his home state who said that he was not greedy, he only wanted the land next to his own. I gather that you have such in Estremadura.”
They discussed the problem of how to approach this Catalonian gangster. It was like the belling of the cat in Aesop’s fable. Jose shrank, and said: “It will do no good for any of us poor men to talk to him. He will want to see our money, and if we show it he will demand where did we get it and when can we get more. I could not tell this man a story about having got the money in a box with a razor.”
Lanny thought for a while. “Sooner or later I have to take the plunge; and how could I expect a likelier prospect?”
“It will be frightfully dangerous, Senor.”
“I will be tactful and not say too much at first.” He might have added: “I am the son of a munitions salesman, and learned in boyhood how to deal with shady characters.” But another of the things he had learned in boyhood was not to say everything that came into his head.
“Do you suppose this Capitan would come to some secret place to meet me?”
“It would do no harm to suggest it.”
“Can a message be delivered to him?”
“If the messenger is paid, and if he can say that you sent him.”
“Have your messenger say that the American art expert who is staying at the hotel wishes to speak to him privately, and that his car will be under the live-oak near the alcalde’s house at ten o’clock tomorrow night. Here is money for the messenger, and keep for yourself whatever portion is safe for you to own.”
“Si, si, Senor,” whispered the man, still agitated.
III
The very ancient town of Alcantara lies some thirty miles to the northwest of Caceres. It is on the River Tagus, and has a famous bridge which the Romans built of solid granite blocks without the use of mortar. It is the birthplace of the Order of Alcantara, dating back seven hundred years, and the ruins of the old church of the knights are still to be seen. In short, it is a place which a connoisseur visiting this district for the first time would be reluctant to miss. Lanny came down to his breakfast next morning and chatted about it with a young staff lieutenant of the local garrison whom he had come to know well. He said: “Do you suppose I could travel there on my pass which reads to Caceres?”
“I don’t think anybody would object,�
� was the reply. “There are no military secrets in Alcantara. But I’ll get you a pass from our headquarters if you wish.”
“I should be in your debt, mi Teniente.”
“It is only a short way to the border of Portugal, Senor Budd; and if you smuggle any good English whisky, you may bring me a bottle.”
“I didn’t know about the smuggling,” replied the American, “but I will try to find out.”
“It is forbidden, Senor—but still some insist upon doing it.” The officer smiled, with what might have been a slight trace of a wink. He was a tall and thin young fellow with a little black mustache, a weak chin, and a long line of distinguished ancestors. “When do you intend going?” he inquired.
“Today, if it is agreeable.”
“Well, come to the office for the pass.”
“I will drive you over, if you say so.”
Thus Lanny set out on an expedition. The roads were poor, but the valley of the Tagus, composed of bare rounded hills, was green with early spring. There was military traffic on the valley road, most of it eastbound, from Portugal. Lanny practiced the device of getting behind an empty military truck and following its ill-smelling wake. In Alcantara he really looked at the ruins, for he would have to talk about what he had seen. The bridge is impressive, having six massive piers, two of them in the water, and in the center of the bridge is a fortified gateway. The town is on a bluff, and the river flows through a gorge.
Seven miles farther on is the Portuguese border, and thereafter the river forms the border between the two countries for a matter of forty or fifty miles. That was the part in which Lanny was interested; he drove on until he came to a place where the stream widened and the land flattened out. He saw a small farmhouse not far from the water’s edge, and turned into a grass-grown lane.
The family was at their midday meal, and when the dogs barked, the peasant came out, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. When he was told that this very elegant Senor wished to share his food, he was embarrassed and said that he had nothing fit for such a person; but Lanny replied: “In Italy, where I live, I walk in the country, and all the peasants are my friends. I know what they eat, and desire nothing better.” So they brought up a stool for him, and put before him a mess of cooked greens with olive oil added, fresh dark bread, dried olives, and cheese; in his honor they produced a jug of red wine, and he repaid them by chatting freely, telling about being a correspondent for an Italian paper, desiring to know what the plain people of Spain thought about the war. To Lanny’s surprise they began to argue, and many of the things they said would surely not have passed the censor. They were a self-confident and poorly disciplined peasantry.
IV
They didn’t want to be paid for the meal, but Lanny pressed a few pesetas into the man’s hand, and said he desired a longer interview; so they strolled down to the river-bank, where Lanny asked if the fishing was good, and then commented on the beauty of the yellow-brown stream. “I suppose there is a lot of traffic across it,” he remarked.
“No, Senor,” was the reply; “that is strictly forbidden.”
Lanny smiled. “I know; but some cross, I suppose, in spite of regulations? Not in the daytime, of course, but after dark?”
“It may be, Senor; I wouldn’t know about it.”
“The roads all over Spain are crowded with military traffic,” remarked the visitor; “but I am told that one can get to Lisbon without great delays. I suppose that if one could find a boat, and was willing to pay for the trouble, it might be possible to be set across.”
“It might be, Senor. It is not a thing for me to discuss.”
“What do you suppose a boatman would charge for such a service?”
“Really, I cannot say; it would be a dangerous thing for a poor man to do.”
“I have a friend who might be wishing to cross. Of course I might try to hire a boat and row him myself; but, not knowing the river, I shouldn’t be able to get back to the same landing-place in the dark. It would be a question of finding a man to row the two of us across and then bring me back. Can you think of one who would do that if I paid him enough?”
A silence. Then: “What would you think was enough, Senor?”
“I don’t know. It is not such a long row. A man ought to be able to go and come in half an hour, wouldn’t you say?”
“Possibly. But they have guards who patrol the river, especially now in wartime.”
“It is a long river, and perhaps the guards have regular hours. Suppose that a traveler crossed between three and four in the morning, would there be much chance of his being seen?”
“No, Senor, I wouldn’t think so.”
“If one wraps a cloth around each oar, that would muffle the sounds, I am told.”
“That might be a good idea, Senor.”
“Let us say that somebody were to pay five hundred pesetas for the service. Do you think it would be possible to find a boatman at that price?”
“The money to be paid before the boat starts, Senor?”
“One hundred to be paid before we start, two hundred to be paid when you set the passenger ashore on the other side, and two hundred when you bring me back to this place. Also a propina for good luck.”
There was a long silence. The man knew now why the good-looking stranger had been so sociable and why he had paid so liberally for his meal. He didn’t dare to look into the stranger’s face, but kept his eyes fixed on the opposite river bank, perhaps ferrying himself back and forth in imagination. Finally he said: “I think it might be possible to find a man at that price.”
“Very good,” declared Lanny. “Will the boat be at this place?”
“Si, Senor.”
“Bueno. I cannot tell what day my friend will wish to come, but it will be in the next two or three days. May I suggest that you keep your dogs inside, so that they will not make so much noise? I will knock on your door, and hope that it will not be too hard to awaken you. Take my advice and say nothing about it, even to members of your family.”
“Si, Senor.”
“One thing more. I am staying with friends, and I promised to bring home a good fat hen for dinner. Would you sell me one?”
“I will ask my wife about it, Senor, since the fowls are hers.”
“Charge me a good price, so that both you and your wife can be sure to feel friendly to me.” The peasant grinned, and after consultation he caught a chicken and tied up its legs and wings. He said twenty pesetas, and Lanny gave him thirty. Long, long ago Robbie Budd had taught his son that this was the way to make people like you.
V
Lanny drove back to the small town of Alcantara, and found a liquor shop in which he purchased two bottles of English whisky which he could be reasonably certain had been smuggled; also two empty bottles, and filled one of them with water. Then he found a money-changer and bought some Portuguese money. In the window of a stationery shop he noticed some drawings of peasant boys and girls which seemed to show talent, and he bought several of them for a handful of pesetas. He decided as an extra precaution to study the ruins of the ancient church of the knightly order, so as to have plenty of things to talk about in Caceres. Then he drove back, arriving shortly after dark.
Before entering the town he stopped at a deserted spot by the roadside and performed a rather gisly operation. He got out of the car and took the trussed-up hen and carefully broke her neck. When the kicking had stopped, he opened his pocket knife, cut off the creature’s head, and thrust the neck into the empty bottle, holding it there until most of the blood had drained out. Then he threw the carcass into the underbrush for the first fox or whatever came along. He corked the bottle of blood tightly and washed his hands with the water from the other bottle. After hiding both bottles in the car, he drove on, and after showing his pass to the road control at the outskirts, he entered the town.
But he didn’t put his car in the hotel garage; he parked it on the street near by, locked it, and went to his room. First he washed his hands aga
in and inspected his clothing, to make sure that it had no bloodspots; then he rang and ordered some food, which meant Jose.
“Everything is arranged, Senor,” whispered the waiter. “Your man will meet you at ten o’clock tonight. He asked no questions.”
“O.K.,” said the American, in the world’s new universal language.
He repaired to the room of the lieutenant and gave him the two bottles of whisky, assuring him that he had personally seen them smuggled, a jest which the young Spaniard appreciated. He opened one of the bottles and Lanny drank enough for politeness. He showed the drawings he had bought, and told about the sights he had seen: that magnificent bridge and the other Roman ruins, and how the Romans had adapted the arch, and how the pax romana had protected the world for centuries. The young officer had neglected his history studies, it appeared; he was interested to learn that this region had been the ancient Lusitania, the wealthiest part of the great Roman province of Hispania. He wanted to know what was the reason it had fallen into decay, and Lanny explained his notion that it is the practice of civilized man to cut the forests from the land which he inhabits, and as a result the topsoil is washed away and deserts are manufactured. Before many more centuries there would be no place for men to dwell except in the tropics, and perhaps they would go back to living in the treetops.
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