Authors: Geoffrey Household
There was a roar of Viva Molinos as if the shots which had killed him had all been blank. He must have seemed, in the memory of many who had suffered under Heredia, a true and honourable soldier
contrasted with the brutality of Heredia’s police and the cruelty of his army. The murders and tortures in his prisons which they had accepted with coarse laughter or silence were revealed,
as if in confession before a priest, as debaucheries they wanted to be absolved of by another Molinos.
The sergeant major stepped forward and bowed to the Punchao as if it had been the Cross.
‘And you, companero?’ he asked Pepe. ‘I can see you have been a soldier. Shall we work together?’ He turned to me, ‘And you? You are a foreigner?’
‘I am English, sergeant major.’
‘Then I am not surprised to find you here on the side of the people. Englishmen and Spaniards, they have their sins but stand for justice.’
A Spaniard he called himself proudly. He was as black as my hat, bless him!
‘And the dog? What is she?’ he asked to raise a laugh.
‘She is Italian,’ Pepe replied with his first smile, ‘and cares for liberty and her belly. Salute, Donna!’
That was an engaging trick which I had not seen before. She sat smartly on her hindquarters and raised a paw to her muzzle in a very fair imitation of a salute.
He should have been a politician, the sergeant major. I could see that perhaps only a dozen of the company were not in agreement.
‘What shall we eat?’ one of them shouted.
‘What our fellow citizens give us in gratitude.’
‘And what we take from our officers,’ Pepe replied, who seemed none too sure of the gratitude, ‘which is in the truck there. If we hurry, your commander will think we are
freeing it for his use.’
They fell upon the truck and lifted it to get at the stores which were under the wheels. By the time that their comrades came over the ridge they were running downhill and had dispersed among
the trees.
It seemed to me that we should all be caught and promptly shot as mutineers. For the time being, however, there we were like any pack of tropical beasts escaped from the zoo and safe among the
trees. We had a good start. An attempt was made to follow us, but half-hearted, Teresa turned round in a gap of the forest and held up the Punchao to the midday sun. The troops wavered in
astonishment and were ordered back to the bank of the river lest some of them should be tempted to join the almost mythical symbol.
The sergeant major who had assumed command asked me to ride out and report the movements of the enemy. I felt happier on foot and left the horse to graze when I was not far from our former camp.
It was empty except for the three tanks which had returned from the frontier. The crews were having a late breakfast. I was tempted to strike a late blow for liberty by turning on the fuel and
putting a match to it, but I couldn’t find the damned tap. My short military experience with the African Father of his Country had not extended to armoured vehicles. I thought of shooting the
crews but then remembered that this was not my war and so mounted my horse and returned to the mutineers, as feebly as any other staff officer, with the news that the enemy had not moved and that
for the present we were safe. We were all massed in a glade, not unlike a much larger edition of Donna’s private kennel, with the sergeant major and Teresa in the centre and the Punchao
between them. It was attached to the tip of a light pole, just cut from some crimson wood, and irresistibly recalled the Eagle of a Roman legion.
The sergeant major addressed us. He was a primitive champion of democracy. He told us that we were all equal but must have discipline. Without discipline we could never be a fighting force and
he would suggest, only suggest, what our organisation should be. If they approved they were to raise their hands.
‘Our Commander-in-Chief will be the Señorita Molino Cisneros by right of birth.’
They were startled but raised their hands in approval without a moment’s hesitation.
‘I, having some experience of command, shall be her Chief of Staff.’
All agreed with a solemnity which showed they were thankful to have him.
‘And now, I would like this Englishman as my Chief of Intelligence.’
I was somewhat alarmed at my appointment which was accepted. But Intelligence has to analyse the motives of allies and enemies, and I certainly had more experience than any of them.
‘I accept with pride, companeros,’ I said, ‘but you must remember that it may be my duty at some time to negotiate with supporters of Heredia. I beg you to trust me. Viva
Malpelo! Viva la Muerte!’
I borrowed that one from the Spanish Civil War. It appeared to be new to them and aroused wild enthusiasm.
We cleaned up that gallant horse, setting Teresa in the saddle, and since she could not well carry the red flagpole we chose Pepe as her standard bearer and Donna as her heraldic beast.
What was left of the Retadores we did not know nor how many of them had escaped across the frontier. In any case the sergeant major had no intention of looking for them and handing over the
Punchao. He decided to march on the village which Pepe, after his visit before the battle, had reported to be mainly of sympathisers. There we would get all the news of the district and might even
find some recruits.
We should have liked to accompany our column with a band. In its absence we marched down the main street in good order singing the anthem of the Retadores about the President, his wife and his
amusements which would have ensured a court martial for any man who was word perfect. I regret to say that Teresa must have learned it in the London office and added a disgusting line or two of, I
hope, the polo player’s invention.
There was no opposition but, on the other hand, there were no recruits for us, for the telephone had carried the news of the utter defeat of the Retadores. We shut the three village policemen in
the local gaol and then privately removed their trousers in order not to offend the delicacy of our Joan of Arc who would willingly have shot the lot of them. The genuine Heredistas locked their
houses and remained inside. We commandeered food, drank the local tavern dry and added a few verses to our marching song in the absence of our commander who had been taken under the protection of a
pair of admiring communist sisters, bravely expecting the worst in spite of the incoherent assurances of our Chief of Staff.
Disaster struck us at first light. I was awakened by the rush of feet, the clamour of frightened military voices and the professional roaring of the sergeant major. A party of
Heredistas, preceded by three tanks, were reported to be crossing the river. I cleared off towards thick cover with Pepe, Donna and Teresa who had no time to dress again as a man but still proudly
carried the Punchao. The horse was abandoned to our friends.
As we stumbled away from the village and the merciless chatter of machine-guns we came across a cleft covered by undergrowth and decided that it would have to do. Teresa was physically and
emotionally exhausted but still carried the Punchao round her neck and would not give it up. Disappointment, the death of her new comrades and lack of sleep had all persuaded her that she was not a
commander but a mere mascot.
‘Where can I go to escape?’ she asked hopelessly.
‘Straight to Hector.’
‘He cannot protect me.’
‘He will if anyone can. I shall find a way of letting him know.’
‘You will forgive me?’
‘What for? Courage?’
‘Oh God! The courage has been yours for trusting me.’
She lifted the Punchao from her neck and gave it to me. I slipped it on inside my shirt, still warm from her body.
‘Now you must dress as a man from the village.’
‘How can I?’
‘Stay here! I will bring you some clothes. You mustn’t mind if I take them from the dead.’
She shivered and cried ‘No.’ But I persuaded her that she must.
‘Now stay here with Pepe and Donna till I return.’
I approached Ramales, the village which we had entered in triumph the previous night. In the only street of which I had a clear view three policemen were stalking about fully dressed and looking
very pleased with themselves. The mutineers were some way out to my left and I took them at first for flower beds – a rare decoration for a village – until I saw that they were the
ranks of the dead. They had evidently been taken out in batches and shot. I dared not be seen looking along the red rivulets for sizes, so I turned back into the trees following the line of the
tanks and found three bodies, whose faces I recognised, shot down on the very edge of safety. One was a small, slender Indian who had been killed outright by a single clean shot in the head. He was
the best I could do, and I returned to Teresa with his shirt, trousers and boots.
‘Must I?’ she asked, shying away from the dead man’s clothing.
‘If you want to escape Heredia’s vengeance, yes, Teresa.’
‘Drop them in the puddle.’
I did and wrung them out.
‘You can wear them on top of your own. Now go with Pepe and Donna. Both are devoted to you.’
I gave her a note to Hector, saying: ‘Here is a recruit for your labour force. Look after him.’
‘Where will she be safe?’ Pepe asked.
‘Nowhere. But take her to Donna’s splendid kennel if you can reach it and then do whatever McMurtrie tells you. Look after her, dear friend!’
‘I promise you that I will die before she does.’
‘Then – till we meet again. Go as far as you safely can before dark!’
Teresa had rubbed her face with mud and shortened her hair to shoulder length by hacking at it with a knife. She was only vaguely female under the dead man’s shirt and could pass as
Pepe’s male friend. Two little channels in the mud showed that her eyes were wet, but she smiled as she said to me:
‘Goodbye, gallant bastard!’
I kissed the hand she held out to me and the three of them – I include the fearless Donna – vanished into the trees like the first puzzled spectres of the dead.
Myself, I decided to go straight for the capital, dropping the Punchao in a safe hiding place on the way and with some sort of believable story still to be composed. How many of the Heredistas
had seen me? Well, few of the victorious army but most of the Retadores in the village; to them, however, I was not the Chief of Intelligence appointed by the sergeant major but a mystery. Was I a
foreigner? I flatter myself that it was not too obvious, but the sergeant major had undoubtedly been talking and under the influence of the bottle had probably made me a foreign expert. A Russian?
Why not? But I did not know how Heredia would treat a Russian prisoner. Interrogation and hide the body, probably.
I did not dare to sleep, and followed the tracks of the Retadores which would eventually lead me back to the start of the fatal advance. Several of them had had the same plan and instead of
bolting to safety and internment across the frontier had allowed Heredia’s army to pass them and then, seeing that defeat was inevitable, had turned back for home. The ground was bone hard
and I made good time until the eastern sky began to lighten and I realised that I must seek temporary cover. In the darkness, I had glimpsed small parties of twos or threes on their way to the
villages or the capital. These fugitives, however, were always ahead of me and thus seen or heard before I ran into them. I wondered what route Pepe and Teresa had taken and thought it likely,
since Pepe knew the country, that they had marched due south for several days before turning west for the capital or Hector’s excavation.
The journey was long but quite uneventful. Food was the only problem, but if I made my occasional purchases after dark no questions were asked – proof that the peasants were quietly on the
side of the Retadores. When at last I came in sight of Hector’s dig I found that the solitary tent was still in place and I hid in the tall grass of the little valley for a night and a
morning to watch. No one came near it. Pepe, Teresa and Donna had evidently not yet arrived. Donna’s enclosure was not far away, and after cleaning myself up so far as possible I made it my
headquarters. It was so quiet that I could have stayed there for ever given a supply of food and drink.
Again I launched myself like an ape at the drooping branch which cracked as I hit it. Thankfully, I took off the Punchao and put it back in the vulture’s nest which was known only to Pepe
and Donna and as safe as anywhere else. The next infernally difficult task was to get in touch with Hector, for there was no telephone nearer than Nueva Beria and I should be recognised.
On the third morning, I was awakened by a bedraggled Donna desperately thirsty and with a paw from which the claws had been brutally torn. Where had she come from and how could I find it out?
Well, the only way was by interrogation while I cleaned up the paw which she held out to me.
‘Pepe?’
She at once got up and prepared to lead me to him.
‘Teresa?’
The name meant nothing to her. So I tried: ‘La Señorita?’
She gave a little moaning bark.
‘Dead?’
I cannot remember exactly how Donna let me know she was alive. I think she answered my eyes with her own and that they were cheerful. At any rate I had no doubt what she intended to convey.
‘Near?’
I accompanied the question by a sweep of the arms covering the horizon.
Donna routed about in her empty bowl, found nothing and lifted her head to give me a long look.
‘Hungry?’
She fell upon the stew which I had prepared overnight for breakfast but picked up the largest chop in her mouth and waited.
‘Off we go then! Show me Pepe!’
Any intelligent dog would have taken me to Pepe’s village and her permanent home, but the ultra-intelligent Donna knew that we were hiding from danger. She led me for mile after mile
through unknown country, still with the chop in her mouth, until I picked up a little stream which looked vaguely familiar and halted to look round. Yes, it was indeed familiar. We had crossed it
on the way to the cave where we three and Teresa’s horse had spent the night. I petted and praised her to which she responded by waving her tail as much as to say quite undeservedly
‘How clever you are!’ I left the rest of the journey to her with confidence and was not surprised when she caught the scent of the missing couple and quickened her limping pace.