Page 52 of Sweet Savage Love
52
B y the time they had shared a few bottles of wine and partaken of a hastily prepared hot meal—the first Steve and his men had tasted for almost a week—the atmosphere had lightened and the tensions relaxed.
The soldiers, Juarist and ex-imperialist, fraternized in a friendly fashion, and there had even been some laughter when the five men Steve had left on the hillside to cover their possible return had joined them.
“So! Your capitan takes no chances, does he?”
“Not our capitan! ” Manolo boasted. “That’s why General Díaz sent him on this mission. He’s a good leader—we’ve fought together for a long time.”
The atmosphere in Captain Figueroa’s quarters was just as expansive. A mestizo himself, the dark-featured capitan still held a kind of grudging respect for the criollos, who had been the ruling class in Mexico for so many centuries. He found that this young Capitan Alvarado, however, in spite of his lisping Castilian Spanish, was no chocolate-box soldier like so many other creole officers. Alvarado had seen a lot of fighting—he had the look of a fighting man, with his rather hard, reckless brown face and blazing blue eyes. He even listened sympathetically to the story of all the problems Captain Figueroa had had to face since he had been here—his feeling of humiliation at being appointed to a prison, of all places!
“Perhaps we can arrange for a transfer—I’ll speak to General Díaz myself,” Steve promised.
“You know the general, then? Personally?”
“His brother, Colonel Felix Díaz, was quite a good friend of mine many years ago,” Steve said casually, lighting a cigar. “And as for General Díaz, yes, I’ve met him, several times. He’s the kind of man you’d be proud to serve—the finest general in all the world!”
Captain Figueroa mentioned diffidently that he felt sure he himself would be proud to serve such a man.
If he wondered why Capitan Alvarado did not remove his wet tunic, and had removed only his forage cap, he was too polite to mention the fact. Perhaps General Díaz insisted on strict formality on the part of his officers.
Asking searching questions as if he really knew nothing about the prison or the operation of the silver mines, Steve discovered that there hadn’t been many changes made since he’d been here. The silver was still kept in a tightly secured strong room underground, with soldiers guarding the door in shifts. Work in the mines had slowed down somewhat since the war had come so close—the perilous state of the roads leading down to Vera Cruz had made sending any shipments down there too risky.
As for the prison itself—Captain Figueroa gave an expressive shrug. He did not interfere too much in the running of it—he had only been here a few months himself. There was a mine manager who ran everything “down there” and saw to it that the guards were paid. The soldiers were here mainly to keep off bandidos and other marauders who might be tempted by so much silver lying in a strong room.
And the conditions in the prison? Again the captain shrugged. They were the same in most prisons, he expected. He did not know for what offenses the men were here, but he had been informed that they were some of the worst felons in the country, most of them sentenced to life imprisonment or having their sentences of death commuted to life so that they could make up to society for their crimes.
“You mean they’re all thieves and murderers?” Steve persisted, wondering why he did.
“I am forced to believe so, Capitan. They’re certainly a wretched lot. But you don’t have to worry about going down there—they’re all locked up in their cells by this time. And in any case the guards always have the situation well in hand—they have their ways of taking care of recalcitrant troublemakers.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “You don’t mean to say you allow any really bad treatment here? Surely the guards don’t resort to torture?”
“Capitan Alvarado—you know how it is! Those guards—some of them are very hard, brutal men. I was given orders when I was transferred here not to interfere with the way they keep discipline. It’s the only way, I suppose—some of those men are worse than animals.”
“I suppose the orders came because of the influence of Don Hilarion Delgado in high places,” Steve said sarcastically. “He was the former owner of the mine, you know.”
He saw the curious look that Captain Figueroa gave him and decided that he should curb his tongue. Unfortunately, he was not here to release any prisoners but to get as much silver as he and his men could carry and get out. The general’s instructions had been strict.
“There will be time later, Capitan Alvarado. But Mexico must be taken first. Those men, if they’ve survived this long, will manage to survive for a few more weeks.”
Seeing the practicality of the General’s viewpoint, Steve had not pressed the issue. Now, he was almost sorry.
It felt strange to be descending the steep, winding steps that led down into the mines again. A surly, taciturn guard opened the heavy wooden trapdoor for them. The manager, who had objected strenuously to what he termed “theft and invasion of private property” had been locked in his quarters under armed guard. Steve, who remembered occasional glimpses of the red-whiskered man, was glad he hadn’t had to face him again. As it was, he kept the visor of his cap pulled low and hoped his clean-shaven face and pure Castilian Spanish would keep any of the guards from recognizing him.
The trapdoor thudded shut, enclosing him in the familiar darkness. The lanterns carried by the guards who led the way, and by Captain Figueroa himself, gave the impression of hell.
Steve heard Manolo, who followed close behind him, whisper “ Dios mio! Am I glad I don’t have to live down here!” An involuntary shudder that he passed off as a shrug ran through his body as his nostrils were suddenly assailed by the same close atmosphere, the ineradicable prison stench that he remembered only too well. It was all he could do to continue taking the steps steadily, one by one, reminding himself to be careful, controlling the impulse to retch.
It was the irrepressible Manolo who commented, “Faugh! Does it always stink like this down here?”
Captain Figueroa grimaced apologetically. “I’m afraid so. If you have a handkerchief to cover your nostrils it might help.”
He produced one himself and continued, as Steve followed suit, “One gets used to it, after a while. It’s these torches, you see—and of course the dirty bodies, crowded too closely together…”
They were walking down a familiar, narrow passageway with the creosote torches flickering in brackets on the walls. One of the guards who preceded them held his lantern up high so that they could get a better view of the tiny, barred cubicles they called cells. They could hear the rattle and clank of chains as the men inside stirred uneasily. A steady, animal moaning came from somewhere up ahead. The punishment cell? The pitch-dark pit they called “solitary” where a man could feel his body and mind slowly rot in that impenetrable blackness?
Steve felt as though he could hardly breathe. Only Captain Figueroa’s voice brought him sharply back to reality.
“Capitan Alvarado—are you all right? Forgive me for asking, but this place has a way of affecting newcomers. I felt the same way, the first time they brought me down here to inspect the mines.”
Forget it! Steve told himself. Walk past the cells—ignore the chained beasts in there—pretend it doesn’t affect you in the least. They’ll all be new faces anyhow—if one could recognize a face under the matted beards. Who could last more than six months down here?
One of the guards, a man Steve recognized with hatred, was pointing out some of the diggings with the handle of his coiled up whip. Enrique had been quick to use it too—he was one of those who really enjoyed his work. Pablo—the dark, squat man there, with the beady eyes—had preferred using his fists on the manacled men.
Captain Figueroa was doing most of the explaining and Steve forced himself to ask intelligent, interested questions.
This shaft produced so many ounces of silver per day. The quota was never less—the guards saw to that. Now this other shaft over here—it was comparatively new. They had struck a really rich vein of ore—over a pound of the stuff in three days, wasn’t that amazing?
How many lashes on how many bleeding backs to produce that much ore? How many deaths for each ounce of pure silver after it had been purified? Dios—curse his weakness, but he actually felt sick in here. How long had this lot lived away from the sun? How long did it take to turn a man into a creature like a mole, eyes cowering from the light? Remembering the lice that used to crawl all over them, Steve felt his armpits begin to itch. He broke out into a sudden bath of sweat, in spite of the bitter cold down here.
Captain Figueroa was asking him a question, he had to bring his mind back to reality with an effort.
“What are we to do about all this now? Do you still want the same quota produced each day, or should we slow up until we can be sure of getting the shipments through safely?”
He kept his voice steady. “I think you should have them slow down. I’ll be giving you a receipt for the silver we take with us, of course, but as for later shipments—well, we’ll have to see what El Presidente decides to do. In the meantime—” his voice hardened, “—it’s only a suggestion, you understand, Captain Figueroa, you’re still in charge here, but I hope there are enough cells up there in which to put these men. The conditions down here are hardly human, even for such hardened criminals as these must be.”
“But Capitan!” one of the guards began furiously, and Captain Figueroa snapped, “You heard! I’ll have my soldiers help clean the cells overlooking the courtyard.”
They kept walking—and he thought how good it felt to walk—to take long strides instead of having to shuffle.
The moaning they had heard earlier seemed to have intensified. One of the guards banged threateningly on the black, closed trapdoor set into the ground at the blank end of the passage they had followed.
“Shut up, you filth, or I’ll really fix you good this time!”
“That’s the punishment cell,” Captain Figueroa whispered. “Only the worst troublemakers, the really stubborn ones, get put in there.”
I know, Steve thought. God, yes! I remember! Did I sound like that? An animal in pain, screaming his guts out—sounds of your own screams bouncing back off the walls, raking cruelly over eardrums.
Unable to control the impulse, Steve said suddenly, “How can you stand that racket? The man sounds as if he’s in real agony. In the army we’d get him to a hospital or shoot him to put him out of his misery if we couldn’t. Don’t you have a doctor around here?”
Behind him, he heard Manolo and another of his own men mutter angrily. The guard who had banged on the trapdoor turned around with what was almost a sneer in his voice.
“The capitan is too softhearted. Animals like this understand only the kind of treatment we give them.”
Steve dropped his hand casually to the butt of his revolver and the man shuffled his feet.
“I asked you a question.” He rapped out the words coldly, and saw the man’s eyes drop from his.
Captain Figueroa spoke quickly to avert an incident, a trace of embarrassment in his voice. “We did have one, as a matter of fact. He was my predecessor—a lieutenant. Unfortunately, he had an unfortunate accident.”
“Lieutenant Cabrillo allowed himself to be too kind to certain prisoners,” one of the guards said, a grin overspreading his face. “What happened was that he got himself killed by one of them—a man he took a fondness for and made his puto. ” The man made an obscenely descriptive gesture with his hand, still grinning. “He did it with a broken bottle, after he’d smashed off the top—you understand, Capitan? Up there… ”
There was a burst of laughter from the guards, and Captain Figueroa burst out furiously, “By God! You brutes forget yourselves! The Senor doctor was an officer.”
“But he was also a joto, Senor Capitan! ”
Steve felt such a cold, murderous rage take hold of him that he was glad when Manolo nudged him sharply.
He’d stayed down here too long—he had too many bad memories; and as long as he stayed here he was playing with fire. Captain Figueroa was right—the guards were all brutes, toughened and twisted in sick patterns by their own warped brutality.
“By God, I think I’ve had enough of this pesthole to last me forever!” he said abruptly. He had to think only of the twenty-five men he’d brought along with him, and the silver they had come to get. That was all. But some day—some day he’d volunteer to bring some of his guerrillero friends down here and clean this prison up!
They began, at last, the slow, careful ascent back into the blessedly clean, blessedly cool night air. And thank God the rain had stopped. It would make their return journey a lot easier and faster.
Riding back the way they had come with their saddlebags weighted down with silver, Steve felt as if he could never breathe in enough of the air up here in the mountains. His wet uniform had dried out and he hardly felt the chill of the night.
It was clear, with millions of stars that seemed very high above them, very far away. They stopped to drink their fill of water at a tiny spring, bubbling out of the ground. In the daytime, with the sunshine filtering through the ferns that surrounded it, it would probably look like Ginny’s eyes. Beautiful, fathomless green eyes—and how warm her skin would feel now, against his! He had to see her again, as soon as he turned the silver over. He had to explain—he remembered her crying out at him, “and isn’t there something that you’re hiding from me? Some incident so horrible, so impossibly vile, that you can’t even bear to think about it?”
He could tell her everything now—about the prison—even about Doctor Cabrillo—yes, even that sick feeling had left him now. He felt free; with most of the bitterness starting to ooze away—leaving more room for her. He could face the fact now that she had captured his mind, as well as his loins. He loved her after all—why had he been trying to escape from that inescapable, unavoidable truth?