(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale (21 page)

Don Manuel was walking up and down, up and down the long room, with his hands behind his back and brows compressed.

I sat on the windowsill and waited. At one point he came up to me and said in a low voice, but with terrific emphasis, "I tell you, señor, rather than leave these good, simple children in the clutches of that harpy, I would take them with me and jump off the cliff, out there!" He nodded to the window.

"I fancy that Doña Conchita would probably leave the children in the custody of her parents for most of the time," I suggested doubtfully.

"The old Escaroz? And what sort of care would
that
be? They are Carlists, dyed-in-the-wool reactionaries."

Have you no kin of your own, I was on the point of asking, who might undertake the maintenance of the children, then remembered Don Ignacio, who had refused to shelter his brother, and had, it was thought, reported him to the Military Commission. And not a reliable-looking man...

"Well, I would leave them only on one condition," Don Manuel said suddenly. "If Doña Juana would undertake to have them—"

"But, señor, how could I possibly promise for her? After all, she is a nun, devoting her life to God—and, in any case, why would Doña Conchita ever consent to such an arrangement?"

His suggestion seemed to me hopelessly impracticable and set about with difficulties; indeed, now that I came to think of it, Juana herself had raised some objection, when she was writing the letter, when Conchita suggested—

"
Luisa!
What have you got there?" suddenly exclaimed Don Manuel, in a sharp, strange, frightening voice.

"Why, it is nothing but a little book, Papa—it is your little book of birds, remember?—that Mama has sent to you. I have been showing the pictures to Pilar. See, Pilar, here is an eagle—we saw one just like that earlier today. I have been unsticking the pages because the book must have got damp—they are all stuck together—"

"Give it here!
At once!
" His voice and face were both terrible; the children, trembling, gazed at him petrified, and I, all at once, began to remember the stories of his madness, the fits of frenzy and ungovernability—though, now that I came to think of it, most of those stories had issued from Conchita....

Violently he snatched the book from Luisa's hands. I had a momentary glimpse of it: a tiny leather-bound volume, about the size of a pack of cards, but thicker; on every second page was a highly tinted picture of a bird, with text opposite.

"It is your dear little bird book that you had when you were a boy," Luisa said reproachfully. "You promised that Nico should have it one day, as he loved it so. I remember when you wrote from prison and asked Mama to send it—"

"Yes! And she never did. But now she sends it—why, I wonder? As a reminder of past kindness between us? I think not! I'll take nothing—
nothing
from that harpy!" The book spun from his fingers, out through the window—one of those windows that looked over the cliff. He turned on his heel and swooped toward me.

"Did you know about this book?" The terrible eye bored into mine.

"Indeed I did not, señor!—I—I only encountered your daughter Pilar when she was halfway up the clifF—previously she was in the care of Don Amador—"

"Yellow-hair came climbing up and helped me," corroborated Pilar. "But I wouldn't have been stuck for very long on my own," she added quickly.

"How did you come to be by the cliff, then, child?"

"Uncle Dor-Dor left me there. He said he was going to look for a tunnel."

"He did, did he?" Don Manuel said grimly. Again he turned on me. "Do you know Don Amador?"

"No, señor, I do not. He has been traveling separately from Doña Conchita—but he was in San Quilez this morning, Doña Juana had a glimpse of him—"

"That is a pity. If you were acquainted with him, you could have taken him a message from me. The tunnel he seeks is mined, as the road was. If I choose, I can destroy it, as I did the road."

Don Manuel' began his tigerish pacing again.

Oh, heavenly Father, what do I do now, I wondered? Tentatively, hesitantly, I said, "Señor, if you were to write a letter to Doña Juana Esparza—if you were to ask her to undertake the care of your children—until you were ready for them—I do not really see how she could refuse such a request. I can see that is, perhaps, the only solution."

And waited, without a great deal of hope, for his answer. His mood seemed so much fiercer now.

"I could take Juana the letter," I said. "And perhaps—perhaps in the circumstances, Doña Conchita would agree—"

Perhaps, perhaps, I thought altogether too many perhapses.

The three children huddled together apprehensively, watching their father. The two elder ones loved him deeply, I could see by their expressions; but, just the same, this predicament was more than children of such an age should have to bear. They were tired and half starved, and dreadfully frightened. Supposing troops from the Military Commission should come and bombard the castle? Suppose the assassins Pepe and Esteban made their way in, as I had, and killed Don Manuel? The murderers would no doubt say that it was sufficient evidence of madness just to have brought the children and taken refuge in such a place.

I began to be sorry that I had inserted those climbing irons.

"Well," said Don Manuel at last, in a milder tone, "I will write a note to Juana Esparza. Her, I know I can trust. And you, Señor Felix Brooke, will be so kind as to deliver it. Are you, by the way"—he glanced at Juana's letter—"a grandson of Don Francisco, the Conde de Cabezada?"

"Why yes, sir."

"He is a fine man, your grandfather. You may give him my respects, if you please, when you next see him. Now, how can I write? I have no paper, ink, nor pen."

It was a pity, I thought, that he had just thrown away that useful little book.

"You could write on the back of Juana's letter," I suggested, "and I can easily make a pen—here are hundreds of feathers—"

It was true. Pigeons had used the place extensively for nesting.

"And we can make ink from soot and water," suggested Luisa.

"
Bueno
. You are a practical little woman,
hija.
Would you like to be taken care of by your cousin Juana—until I have found a new home for you?"

"Oh yes!" Their faces lit up. "Cousin Juana has a beautiful home of her own in France. We stayed there once, and she told us stories about the
laminak.
But we would rather be with you, Papa."

I refrained from telling the poor things that Juana's home had been sold to furnish her dowry for the convent in Bayonne. One step at a time, I thought.

Don Manuel slowly wrote his note, with the pen I had trimmed, and the ink made from soot.

"There, then. Bring me back her reply, acceding to my request, and I will let you take the children to her. De Larra will see that the arrangements are faithfully carried out."

Their faces drooped. And I could not help wondering how Conchita would ever submit to such a disposition of her children; but that, too, must wait for time to solve.

"
Vaya!
" He handed me the note. "Now you had best climb down quickly, for the weather worsens."

This was an understatement. A mountain storm was brewing up, the sky had gone black as a boar's hide, large drops of rain had begun to fall, and thunder growled a low, ominous warning. I was exceedingly glad that I had left Pedro lying under a thickset pine tree, and my gun beside him, well wrapped up in my jacket.

"Señor—with your permission—I brought along a piece of rope—just in case Don Jose failed to obtain any. Rather than climb down that cliff, which in this rain would be a great deal more difficult than climbing up, I will put your pulley back into working order. I daresay Nico will help me, will you not, Nico?"

"Oh yes, señor," the boy said readily, and, having received his father's permission, he led me down the stairs, unbarred the door at the foot, and showed me the way to the pulley. It was governed by a primitive device, like a capstan. The old rope, tattered and frayed, still dangled from the wheel; it was a comfort to recall that what I had brought was good stout new hempen cord, the best that Pamplona could provide. Even so it was with scanty enthusiasm that, having replaced the old rope by the new, tested the pulley arm, wheel, and capstan, I finally (having discarded the rickety old basket that seemed to have been used in long-ago times for hoisting up supplies) made a loop of the rope, sat myself in it, and instructed Nico to let me down slowly. This, although a slender boy, he could do easily enough, because of the ratchet mechanism, which prevented the rope from running too fast.

"Will you not say good-bye to Papa and the girls?" he asked.

"No, I shall be seeing them again, soon enough, when I come back with your cousin Juana's reply." Let the poor things have time together while they can, I thought. Besides, I was growing anxious about Pedro. "Take care of them, Nico! I hope Señor de Larra comes soon with some more food for you."

He will be fairly astonished to find a new rope already installed, I thought, rather smugly; I have stolen a march on you there, my friend! And then I concentrated on the disagreeable task of getting myself down, in the rain, wind, and semidarkness, without dashing out my brains on protruding jags of rock. The descent, spinning giddily, around and around, seeming to take an eternity—far, far longer than the climb up the cliff.

Under the pine tree I was relieved to find Pedro still stretched out, breathing peacefully and regularly; his faint had turned to genuine slumber. When I touched him he responded drowsily. "Hmmm?"

"
Que tal,
friend? How do you find yourself?"

"
Nada, nada.
It is a trifle—except that my head aches like the Devil," he grumbled, rubbing it. I noticed that when he scrambled up he swayed, and had to grab a branch; which filled me with great anxiety as to how, in this shaky state, he was going to manage the crossing of the rope bridge.

"Come," I said. "Lean on me. This is no spot in which to loiter."

For the rain was now cataracting down, and jagged shafts of lightning every minute weirdly irradiated the castillo perched high above us on its crag. I had a notion that lightning might strike the cliff and bring down more masses of rock tumbling upon our heads.

And what about those poor children, immured up there in such a comfortless shelter, without food or "bedding? Would they not be frightened to death as the storm raged about their ears? They had a fire, it was true, and their father—and the bit of bread I had brought, to dull the worst pangs of hunger; but that was no place for children. The sooner they are out of there, I thought, the better; and I hoped that Juana would feel as I did about the matter.

"Courage,
hombre
," I said to Pedro. "Make what speed you can."

"If this accursed lightning did not get in one's eyes so," he mumbled, tripping over a root and leaning heavily on my arm. Cumbered as I was, carrying both of our guns slung over my other shoulder, and he still weak and stumbling, we made but slow progress. I did not like to hurry him, though the thought of Juana troubled me; in this storm she would be wondering what in the world had become of us.

Suddenly, in one of the lightning flashes, I saw, a few yards ahead of us, an unmistakable figure floundering about in the darkness, much as we were ourselves. I recognized him at once from his girth.

"
Hola
there, Don Amador!" I shouted. "
Hola!
"

I saw his big face turn—wet, white, and startled—lit by the next dazzling flash.

"Who calls?
Quien es?
"

"It is us—Felix Brooke and Pedro." For of course he must know, he couldn't help knowing perfectly well who we were, just as we knew him. It seemed foolish to keep up the pretense of ignorance any longer. "My friend has been hurt by a falling rock," I called. "Can you help us along?"

"Willingly, señor."

In fact he seemed pleased to have our company.

"Have you by any chance seen a little brat of a child?" he asked me confidentially, taking Pedro's other arm. "I have searched for her everywhere—but everywhere! I do hope that she has not fallen into the gorge. For if so, Doña Conchita will be angry with me. I shall be in real trouble. But what could I do? I cannot be in two places at once. 'Find the tunnel!' Conchita tells me. As if it would be marked with a big sign:
This way to the castillo.
High and low I looked for the cursed tunnel. Not so much as a rabbit hole did I find. And, meanwhile, the wretched child disappears! Ten million devils, what a time I have had of it, nurse-maiding that little scorpion across Spain. I would sooner be in charge of a barracuda! Conchita claims that she is mine, but that fact I take leave to doubt. No other member of my family—but
nobody
—has ever been possessed of such a temper. She is ungovernable! I think she is a child of the Evil One—heaven protect us!" He stopped to cross himself and to drink, from a flask, something that smelled like
aguardiente
—it was plain that he had taken a good deal of it already.

"Set your mind at rest, señor," I said. "Little Pilar climbed up the cliff into the castillo. She is with her brother and sister."

"
Really? Did
she, indeed?" Don Amador seemed delighted. "Do you know," he confided, "I had half a notion that, if I left her at the foot of the cliff, some such idea might light into her head. She is a devil for climbing. But what happened then, señor? Did the madman devour her?"

To my ear, he sounded hopeful, rather than anxious.

"No, he did not. And the other children greeted her kindly enough."

"Ay, ay, they are not bad children. Though heaven forbid that
I
should be saddled with their upkeep," he added hastily. "But what of the madman? Did
you
see him, señor?
El Tuerto?
Is he raving?"

"Yes, I saw Don Manuel. And, no, I must say that he seemed to me perfectly sensible, in full command of his wits."