The Adventurers (99 page)

"We could hold at Santa Clara, and it was close enough to the city to make them feel they had a chance. They would pause there and call for reinforcements from the traitors in the south to help them push on to Curatu.

"But there was only one way for the traitors from the south to come to their aid. The way north was blocked by our loyal troops, so they had to move west, around us via the peninsula. Yesterday morning they began their move. By nightfall all three divisions, along with some of the rebels, were on the peninsula. Then we made our counter-move. Two armored divisions and three infantry sealed them off. There was no way for them to escape. There was only one direction in which they could go, and that was into the sea!"

El Presidente looked at me triumphantly. "The traitor colonels realized immediately that they were in a trap from which there was no hope of escape. Already, early this morning, I have had reports from the field that they are asking for conditions. And now that it is morning, long past the time for reinforcements to have arrived, the bandoleros at Santa Clara are beginning to realize they have extended themselves. Intelligence reports that already some of them are beginning to turn back. But they, too, are in for a surprise. Two armored divisions, brought in from the west, are now between them and the mountains. They will be cut to pieces!"

My head was spinning and my eyes felt heavy and leaden. "But the news," I said, "was so uniformly bad. They were winning."

"They were," el Presidente replied with a smile, "at first. And when I put my plan into effect I refused to allow any counterclaims to be made. One word about our possible victory and they might have pulled back in time to avoid the trap. I had made up my mind. This time they would not escape. Once and for all they had to learn that I am the government, that I am Corteguay!"

El Presidente looked at me silently for a moment, then turned to the others. "That will be all for the moment, gentlemen."

He did not speak until they had closed the door behind them, then silently he made a spitting gesture at the floor.

"They are pigs and cowards! They think I do not know that they were waiting to see which side had the better chance of winning before they committed themselves!"

I looked at the old man. The years had seemingly fallen away from him. He seemed as strong and as full of vitality as he had ever been. It was the time of waiting that had drained his energies.

El Presidente placed his hand on my arm and looked into my eyes. "You were the only one I did not doubt," he said. "I knew you would come to stand beside me no matter what happened. I did not have to be told that you were on your way. I knew it."

I didn't answer.

He went to his chair and sat down. "You must be worn out from your trip. Go to my apartment and bathe and rest. There will be a fresh uniform for you when you awake."

"A uniform?"

"Yes, you are still a colonel in the army, aren't you? Besides, I have a mission for you. I am too busy here to get away. I have decided that you will go as my representative to arrange the surrender of the traitors in the south."

"The south?" I repeated.

"Yes. For the bandoleros in the north there will be no surrender. I shall kill them all!"

It was ten o'clock the following morning and the rain was beating heavily against the earth outside the farmer's cottage in which I awaited the rebel officers. Looking through the window, I could see several sheep and one goat grazing in the fields, oblivious to the water pouring down upon them.

Colonel Tulia came back from the open door. "They are coming."

I got to my feet and faced the door as he came around the table to stand slightly beside me. I heard the clank of rifles as the guards presented arms, then the door opened and they came in. Their uniforms were wet and dirty from the mud of the fields, and their faces drawn and exhausted. They stood just inside the door looking at us.

I already knew these men. Colonel Tulia had probably known them for years, by their Christian names; no doubt he had even socialized with their families. Yet we all stood there silently. The formalities had to be observed.

A young captain, one of Tulia's staff, made the introductions. "Colonel Vasquez, Colonel Pardo." He paused for a moment. "Colonel Xenos, Colonel Tulia."

The two officers stepped forward and saluted. We returned their salutes. The young captain closed the door.

"Won't you sit down, gentlemen?" I indicated the chairs at the table. I gestured to Fat Cat, who was standing in a corner behind us. "Will you have coffee brought in?"

Fat Cat nodded and turned, then, remembering, did an about-face and saluted awkwardly, almost bursting the seams of his too tight army blouse. I hid my smile as I returned his salute, and turned back to the others.

"There are only two of you, gentlemen," I said. "I had been led to understand there would be a third. A Colonel Mosquera, I believe?"

The two colonels shot a brief look at one another. "Colonel Mosquera was accidentally killed this morning while cleaning his revolver," Vasquez announced formally.

I glanced at Tulia. We both knew what that meant. It had been no accident; this was merely army language for suicide.

Fat Cat came back into the room with four steaming mugs of thick black Corteguayan coffee. I watched the two colonels pick up their mugs and sip at the coffee. A little color came back into their faces.

"Shall we proceed to the business at hand, gentlemen?" I asked.

They nodded.

I opened my attache case and took out the typewritten forms and placed them on the table between us. "I assume that you gentlemen have already read the draft of this document which was handed you last night, and that you understand it and accept all its conditions?"

"There is but one condition that I would like your excellency's permission to discuss," Vasquez said.

"Proceed."

"It is clause six, pertaining to the punishment of individual personnel according to their rank, responsibility, and guilt as determined by court-martial."

"Yes, Colonel. Your question?"

"It is not a question," he answered. "Colonel Pardo and

I are quite willing to accept our punishment. But it is our feeling that it should be ours alone. The officers and men under us were merely doing their duty. They are good soldiers and have been taught to obey their superiors without question. Surely they share none of the responsibility for what happened."

"That is true," the other colonel interjected. "You cannot punish three whole regiments because they were misled."

"That is not our intention, gentlemen," I said. "Your men have been guilty of insurrection and rebellion against the government. I am sure they were aware at whom they were shooting, yet they aimed at their fellow soldiers."

The two officers did not answer.

"I have constructed clause six most carefully and explicitly," I continued. "Undue hardship and injustice can and will be avoided as much as is humanly possible. I call your attention to the words 'individual personnel.' This means there will be no mass trials where a man could be punished for the sins of his associates. Each man will be judged on his own."

"I ask amnesty for my men—" Vasquez' voice broke.

I looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Colonel. I have not the authority to change these conditions. They were read and approved by el Presidente."

Pardo hesitated a moment, then picked up the pen. "I will sign."

A moment later Vasquez also signed, then Tulia and I. We all got to our feet. "You will place yourselves and your men in the custody of Colonel Tulia," I said. "At the proper time he will issue further instructions."

"Si, Coronel." They both saluted.

I returned their salute and as they turned Colonel Vasquez stopped before me. "I apologize for my tears, excellency."

I looked at his sad, weary face. "Your tears do you honor, sir."

Vasquez turned again and continued out the door. The war in the south was over.

CHAPTER 31

But the war in the north was not yet over. The bandoleros were not soldiers; they did not fight according to the rules of warfare. To them war was not a game like chess, when if the situation was hopeless one resigned. To them war was to the death. They would continue to kill until they themselves were killed.

And they died. By the hundreds. But in dying they also killed, not only soldiers but anyone and anything that lay in their path. They moved through the land like a plague, and like a plague their savagery was contagious. Our soldiers grew callous and careless. In a matter of days they became no better than their enemy. They, too, began to destroy everything that got in their way merely to get to the enemy.

The roads became clogged with campesinos, women and children fleeing first one way, then another. They were unsure who was their enemy or in which direction safety lay. The stories that came back to Curatu, carried by refugees, were almost too incredible to believe.

Murder and rape had become commonplace, death and torture a way of life. And the lawlessness was common to both the soldiers and the bandoleros. Between the two, entire villages were wiped out in the name of war. The bandoleros acted out of a fear that the villagers might lead the army to their hideouts, and the army reacted because they were afraid the campesinos might give comfort to the bandoleros. The helpless campesinos, caught in the middle, had no choice but to die, for if the soldiers did not kill them the bandoleros would.

And for every bandolero that the soldiers killed, at least one got through their lines. Relentlessly the army pushed after them. Each day the war became more vicious, more improbable. Because it was no longer even a battle. It was total extermination.

On the fifth morning after my return from the south, el Presidente asked if I would fly him over the battlefields. He wanted to see for himself the progress of the war. We flew in bright shining sunlight over the bleakest terrain man has ever seen. The earth had been truly scorched. In many places the winter harvest still smoldered in the fields, and animals lay dead and decaying. Entire villages had been fired, and the buildings which still remained were silent in their lonely emptiness. Nowhere was a sign of life visible.

Occasionally on the roads below us an army vehicle moved or a platoon of soldiers trudged toward the north. But outside of that the only people we saw were occasional straggles of refugees, bent under their packs and heading toward the safety of Curatu.

It was not until we had almost reached the mountains, not far from my hacienda, that we witnessed actual war.

There we saw an entire regiment besieging a small village. They had surrounded it with cannon and mortar and were mercilessly lobbing shell after shell into the tiny hamlet. I did not see how anyone could remain alive after such a holocaust. I glanced over to see how el Presidente was reacting to it.

He was looking down, his face impassive. I sent the plane into a wide slow circle. Almost at the same instant two men broke from one of the houses below us, carrying rifles. Behind them came a woman, pulling a small child. She turned and ran between one of the houses. The men were obviously trying to cover her escape. The four of them made it almost to the back perimeter of the village before the two men were cut down in a murderous crossfire. The woman got to the last building and sank down, the child at her back.

I banked the plane again, looking over the side. The soldiers were moving in. Slowly and cautiously. There was no returning fire. Now a group of them was gathered around the woman and the child, who knelt there beside the building, staring up at them.

One of the soldiers gestured at her. Slowly she got to her feet and with an odd gesture dusted off her skirt. The soldier gestured again and she took the child's hand. He prodded her with the muzzle of his rifle and she stumbled to the door of the small cottage. He motioned for her to go inside. She hesitated. He raised his rifle threateningly. With a last backward glance she pushed the child before her and went in through the door. A moment later the soldier and several of his companions went in after her.

I glanced at el Presidente again. His lips were drawn back tightly over his teeth, his eyes shining. He looked up and noticed that I was watching him. For a long moment our eyes met, then his face became expressionless again.

"It will teach them a lesson," he said harshly, "the bandoleros and the campesinos who help them. It will be a long time before any of them will want to make war again."

"If that child lives," I said, "it will hate the government for all its life. If it is a boy, as soon as he is old enough, he too will go back into the mountains."

El Presidente knew what I was talking about. It had always been that way. The children who somehow survived la Violencia were scarred, something inside them became warped and they, too, carried the seeds of violence.

"It is war," el Presidente said emotionlessly, "and there is nothing that can be done about it."

"But they are soldiers, they are not animals! Where are the officers who are supposed to control them? Do you wish them to become the same as the bandoleros?"

El Presidente looked at me for a moment. "Yes, they are soldiers but they are also men. Men swollen with victory, or the fear of death, and faced with a sudden realization of the nothingness of their lives."

I didn't answer. I had no answer.

"We can go back now."

I nodded and began to bank left, then on a hunch decided to fly over my hacienda. We were scarcely ten minutes away. I came down to about a thousand feet. There was nothing left except a few charred and burned timbers and the stones of the foundations. Even the barns were gone.

Only the cemetery remained, its small white headstones standing like tiny beacons in the scorched fields around them. I glanced over at el Presidents. He was looking out the window but I doubt that he realized where we were. His face was expressionless.

I altered course to take us directly back to Curatu. There was a strange tightness in my breast. Suddenly, for the first time in the last few hectic days, for perhaps the first time since I had arrived home, I thought of Beatriz.