Page 51 of Sweet Savage Love

51

W hen Ginny awoke the next day she realized that some instinct had made her reach gropingly out beside her, only to encounter emptiness. She levered herself to a half-sitting position, squeezing her eyelids together against the bright sunlight that streamed into the room.

“Where is he? It’s late—perhaps he’s only gone outside—in a minute he’ll come back in and wake me,” but even as she tried to console herself with cheerful thoughts some deep-seated instinct made Ginny go cold with fear.

When Maria knocked gently at the door and then opened it, her eyes very large, her face solemn, Ginny knew, even before she saw the piece of paper that the girl held in her hand that her worst fears were about to be confirmed.

“I’m sorry, Ginny, but I never did get around to telling you I have to leave first thing this morning— c’est la guerre! It will probably be quite some time before I pass this way again.”

Why does he bother to write? Ginny thought savagely. Why doesn’t he at least leave me to draw my own conclusions?

All the bitter memories of the previous night came back and she covered her face with her hands; not sure whether she hated him or herself more. How cruel he had been! How unfair—how unreasonable! And he had admitted, bluntly, that he could neither forget nor forgive her past—he actually blamed her for everything, when it had all been his fault in the beginning! Oh God, what could she do? She felt as if she couldn’t possibly stand any more hurt, and she knew that he would continue to hurt her and continue to use her body, for as long as she’d let him. That was all she meant to him—a woman’s body for his use. And after all, she thought bitterly, why not? After all it was she who had followed him here and thrown herself at him, forcing him to accept her.

He’s never once told me he loves me—he’s been honest in that respect at least! And he’s even admitted he had no intention of consummating our marriage—not even in the beginning! So all the time it was I who cared, I who gave my heart to him—he only married me because of a promise he made his grandfather! Is it fair to him, to saddle him with a wife he obviously doesn’t need?

When Maria came back in the room with the Senora’s chocolate she found the Senora in tears. The girl’s eyes became sympathetic as she tiptoed out of the room. It was natural, she supposed—how sad to have just one night of love and then have one’s lover torn away by a war! Maria herself was too young, her mother said, to think about young men yet, but she had her thoughts all the same! She hoped that the Senor would return very quickly so that the Senora would begin to smile again.

Steve Morgan, however, at that very moment, was riding as hard as he could away from Tehuacan and towards the mountains that sheltered Puebla. He felt unutterably tired, and his mood was none too good, although it improved slightly when he caught up with his troop at the place they had decided upon earlier.

Sergeant Manolo Ordaz came to meet him, a wide grin on his face. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind!” He winked. “If I had a wife like yours I’d find it almost impossible to tear myself away from her arms!”

The familiarity that had been born between them when they were both guerrilleros, constantly on the run sometimes sharing the same canteen, made Steve force a tired grin.

“Well, I’m here, as you see! Let’s get moving—we have less than a week to get this job done.”

The men were already mounting up. A picked troop of twenty-five men, mostly ex- guerrilleros, men who knew these mountains and every narrow trail and bit of cover they afforded. At their head, Captain Esteban Alvarado, especially chosen for this mission because he had once been an inmate of the very prison they were going to visit.

This was an official sortie, so they were all in uniform. A matter of obtaining silver ore, badly needed in order to be exchanged for money to pay the Juarista armies—to pay for the guns that were still pouring in from across the border.

General Díaz had been very specific as to the procedure to be followed. It was to be an official, straightforward confiscation. The owner of the silver mine had already fled the country, leaving the small military garrison and the prison guards to protect his interests. The silver mine now belonged to the State—and in effect, the State was now El Presidente Benito Juarez.

There were other mines that had been similarly taken over, of course, but they were far away. This one, nestled in the hills overlooking Puebla, would provide silver for the army of Porfirio Díaz and at the same time would not be allowed to make more shipments to Vera Cruz, to line the pockets of the Imperialist armies.

What this all really meant was hard days and nights of riding, especially since they had to avoid the highways and more frequently used paths and snaked their way through the mountains, using goat trails when they had to. It was like being with the guerillas again, the men often muttered to themselves. They were all travelling extra light, because of the silver they were supposed to carry back with them. Two men shared a canteen sometimes—they foraged for food wherever they could, sometimes reduced to eating cactus-pulp and pinon nuts.

As they penetrated further and further into the mountain fastnesses the air became colder and thinner. Sometimes a damp, chilly mist hung over everything, so that their uniforms seemed to stay perpetually soggy. Thank God the Imperialist armies were too busy trying to guard the four major cities which were all that remained of Maximilian’s empire, to spare the men to patrol such remote areas. Thank God, even, for the mists which hid their furtive passage! The men gave more attention to their horses than they did to themselves—the loss of a horse would probably mean disaster and death for the man who had been riding it. They snatched at their precious hours of sleep, spending most of the time in the saddle. The sooner they arrived at their destination, the sooner they would be able to turn back.

Steve Morgan found himself unusually absentminded during the long days and nights that followed his hasty, almost surreptitious departure from the hacienda. He told himself angrily that his preoccupation nearly amounted to an obsession. Damn it, why did Ginny keep obtruding herself into his thoughts even now? Why did he actually feel guilty that he had left her as he had?

He remembered the way she had looked asleep that morning—her eyelids still red and swollen from the tears he had made her shed, her hair lying in tangled strands across her face. He hadn’t had time to write her a longer note—he hadn’t felt in the mood for lengthy explanations—the probable tears and recriminations he would have had to face if she was awake. So he had left her, still sleeping—and now he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

The past was catching up with a vengeance, Steve thought grimly. First hers and now his. He thought of that prison, and felt a pang of pure hatred flash through his mind as he wondered if the effeminate young doctor was still there. What had been his name? Cabrillo—yes, that was it. Doctor Cabrillo. He rolled the name on his tongue like a foul, bitter taste, and felt all his old scars begin to ache again. The leg and wrist irons, digging deeply into flesh, almost to the bone—solitary, and the slow corrosion of the mind while the body continued its blind functioning. That morning when they had taken him out into the sun, the indescribably horrifying feeling when the ants had begun to crawl curiously over his shrinking flesh—the doctor’s shiny boot, digging into his ribs—and yet, he had survived. He was here, riding back of his own free will. What an unpredictable irony!

They were suddenly caught in a blinding rain shower as they worked their way farther into the remoteness of the mountain called Malinche. The trails they followed—little more than animal tracks—became slippery and they were thankful for the shelter of the closely growing pinon trees. Still, they were too close to their destination to pause. They kept going, slowly and cautiously, their horses picking the way.

The cold was biting, through their soaking wet uniforms. Steve, like the others, had turned the collar of his uniform up and pulled down the visor of his forage cap to protect his eyes from the cold needles of rain.

Adelante! Keep moving! The rain dripped from the pine needles and made a soft soughing noise as it filtered through the trees. Somewhere to the right of them came the sound of rushing water down a steep barranca. Water going down to join the river, ending in the sea. What would happen when they reached the prison? Would their carefully planned bluff work?

Steve shot a quick upward glance through drooping branches to see if there was any chance that the rain would stop, but the sky looked steel gray, menacing. What a hell of a way to fight a war! But then, was there anything else he was good for? He realized with what was almost shock that he had spent over a third of his life doing just this. Travelling—moving—sometimes the hunter and sometimes the hunted. Nights spent sleeping on the ground or in tawdry hotels and barrooms. Faceless, innumerable women—chance encounters with predictable, inevitable endings. Always brief, always meaningless in retrospect. Except for one. He remembered, far too vividly, riding with her in the rain, her body held before him in the saddle, curve of her back pressed closely against him. Heat of her body under one, thin blanket. Taste of the rain and salt tears in his mouth.

How he had made her suffer! And had delivered her, without his realizing it, into even worse suffering and degradation. Yet, she had been strong enough to live through it all—stronger, in her way, than he had been. Her scars were deeper than his, even if they didn’t show; and she wouldn’t let them show—she was too proud! She had too much pride, she was too strong. He had tried to make her crawl to him, begging his forgiveness, and she had refused to do so.

The only thing she would admit to was her love for him, and he had thrown it back in her face, too much of a coward to admit the truth—that he was making her pay for the very crimes that had been committed against her. He had acted like an adolescent in the throes of his first romantic love; not being able to countenance the fact that his idol had suddenly developed dirty feet and a tarnished halo! After all, what did it really matter? She had been with other men, had used her body as an instrument for survival. Would he really have preferred to hear that she had killed herself instead? Could he have borne the thought?

She had begged him for understanding, and he had given her rejection. Perdición! he swore to himself, suddenly remembering the heartbroken look on her face. I call myself a civilized man, and I’ve acted worse than any illiterate savage! How many women have I slept with, merely to satisfy a passing appetite? Didn’t I first take her for the same reason? He thought about Concepción—installed as his mistress when Ginny turned up. And she had fought for him, his little termagant! He had a sudden wild, crazy longing to feel her arms go around his neck, to hold her against him and kiss her endlessly. “Ginny—Ginny— sangre di me corazon, amada mia…. ” Why had it always seemed so difficult to say the words to her?

The rain had lost some of its force and came down like a fine cobweb, a mist of moisture. He turned back to look at the miserable-looking men who followed him.

“Come on—we have to keep moving—it’s only a little way now…” They rode out of a narrow barranca, and started down the mountainside, the trees soon giving way to shale and rocks. Another rise, another descent, and they would see the reddish stone walls of the prison.

Steve left five of his men spread out as much as possible under cover and took the remaining twenty with him, riding boldly over the stretch of open ground that led to the massive gates.

“I think this is the most uncomfortable experience of my life,” Manolo said out of the corner of his mouth as they came abreast of the gates.

They were challenged from one of the watchtowers when they had come close enough for their uniforms to be seen.

“Alto! Quien es?”

Steve found he had to swallow hard before he could answer. He made his voice as hard and commanding as possible.

“Capitan Alvarado—Ninth Cavalry Regiment, serving under General Díaz. I have business to discuss with your commander—better open up quickly, my men and I are very wet.”

There was a short pause, in which they could almost sense the surprise and consternation of the men who had just hailed them.

Finally, another voice called down, a note of doubt in it.

“General Díaz, you say? You’re Juaristas? ”

“General Díaz serves our presidente, Don Benito Juarez. We represent the government of Mexico, senores! What’s the meaning of this delay?”

“Just a minute—you will have to wait just a minute until we tell our capitan…. ”

They waited, the seconds seeming interminable. Easy targets—Steve prayed that the men hidden behind them would be able to cover them with their fire in case they had to beat a quick retreat. But at this range, how many of them would live to gain cover?

The gates suddenly swung open, creaking on their heavy hinges. A man in the uniform of a captain in the Imperialist army was revealed in the opening, and then as the gates opened wider, the men who formed a tight semi-circle behind him, rifles at the ready.

“You may enter, Senores, but you will have to explain…”

Steve allowed a tight smile to touch his lips as he gave his counterpart the formality of a salute.

“Do we have to explain the obvious, Senor Capitan? The war is all but over. We have just taken Puebla, and the whole of this province is under the command of our Supreme Commander—General Porfirio Díaz.”

He kept the faintly sarcastic smile, hoping fervently that the men in this isolated garrison had not had any news recently. He could feel the tension in the men who sat their horses so rigidly straight behind him, and his own muscles ached with the strain.

“But what are you doing here, Capitan?” The commander of the small garrison kept pulling at his mustache nervously, as if he was uncertain what to do next.

“It is my duty to inform you, sir, that this place is now the property of the state—you understand the policy of the government with regard to the holdings of certain people who conspired against the state?” As if to take some of the sternness from his words, Steve gave a small shrug. “As for you and your men, Capitan, you are soldiers, are you not? I’ve been given orders that there are to be no reprisals against loyal soldiers who fought for the last government, and that you are to be given the chance to transfer your allegiance to the present and rightful government of Mexico.” He added with a wry smile, “To tell the truth, Capitan, neither my men nor I have the stomach for this kind of duty—it’s too isolated out here, and we’re in a hurry to join the march on Mexico City.”

“On Mexico City you say? The war’s progressed so far?”

“You can hardly call it a war any longer, I’m glad to say. It’s merely a rout, now! Our presidente is in San Luis Potosí—as soon as Queretaro is taken he’ll travel to Mexico City for his formal inauguration. Do you still have any doubts as to where your loyalties lie, Senor Capitan? ”

For the length, possibly, of a couple of heartbeats the nervously scowling captain seemed to hesitate, and then suddenly he drew himself up, clicking his heels together as he bowed formally.

“I am Capitan Juan Figueroa, at your service, Capitan. You must understand my hesitation—as you pointed out, we are rather isolated up here, my men and I. But believe me, as soldiers, we live to serve the government of Mexico!”

Steve saluted shortly.

“Capitan Esteban Alvarado. And just to make sure we understand each other and there are no more doubts, would you like to see my credentials, sir?”

He thought he saw a gleam of relief in the other man’s eyes as he took the stiffly crackling paper that Steve handed to him, drawing it carefully out of its oilskin covering.

“You will observe, Capitan Figueroa, that it bears not only the signature of General Díaz but of our presidente himself. I hope it makes my instructions and my mission here quite clear?”

Still scrutinizing the amazing document carefully, Captain Figueroa answered almost absentmindedly, still tugging at his mustache.

“Oh, yes—certainly, Capitan!”

There was no mistaking its genuineness, of course. General Díaz’s bold, flourishing scrawl—the smaller, neater penmanship of Don Benito Juarez himself. Yes, it was all too real—what they had all feared had happened, and in a way it was a relief to have it done with! The prison—the silver—he had begun to feel it was far too great a responsibility. Now he could hand it all over without the loss of either his honor or his life!

Watching the changing play of expressions on Captain Figueroa’s face, Steve let some of the tenseness leave him as he began to relax imperceptibly.

“We’ve made it! He’s going to hand it all over without a fuss!” He felt a surge of triumph, of relief, go through him as the captain looked up, folding the document carefully as he handed it back to Steve.

“You must excuse my lack of manners, Capitan Alvarado! Please to dismount, you and your men—perhaps you would care for a drink in my quarters before we get on with our—er—business transaction?”

Figueroa cleared his throat rather awkwardly as he continued, with a dry smile, “After all, Capitan, you are now technically in charge here—my men and I will be happy to cooperate in carrying out whatever orders you may have.”

“Thank you Capitan. I must admit, it’s been rather a long and tiring ride up here. I will make sure that General Díaz hears of your—excellent cooperation!”