Десмонд Бэгли - The Vivero Letter

So I made myself comfortable, or as comfortable as I could, and rested up. I split the food up into three meals and marked the water-bottle into three portions. The last lot was for breakfast just before I left. I slept, too, and I remember thinking just before I dozed off that I hoped I didn’t snore.

Most of the time I spent in a somnolent condition, not thinking about anything much. All the affairs of Fallon and Uaxuanoc seemed very far away, and Hay Tree Farm could just as well have been on another planet. There was just the clammy green heat of the forest enfolding me, and even the ever-present danger from the chicleros seemed remote. I daresay if a psychiatrist could have examined me then he’d have diagnosed a case of schizophrenic retreat. I must have been in a bad way and I think that was my nadir.

Night came and I slept again, this time more soundly, and I slept right through until daybreak and awoke refreshed. I think that night’s sleep did me a lot of good because I felt remarkably cheerful as I munched the tough dried beef and ate the last of the bread. I felt devilish reckless as I washed it down with the last of the water from the bottle. Today was going to be make or break for Jemmy Wheale — I had nothing left to fall back on, so I might as well push right ahead.

I abandoned the water-bottles and the knapsack and all I retained were the switchblade knife in my pocket, the machete and the rifle. I was going to travel light and fast. I didn’t even take the bandolier, but just put a half-dozen rounds in my pocket. I didn’t see myself fighting a pitched battle, and all the ammunition in the world wouldn’t help me if I had to. I suppose the bandolier and the water-bottles are still up in that tree — I can’t imagine anyone finding them.

I came out of the tree and dropped on to the ground, not worrying too much whether anyone saw or heard me or not, and made my way through the forest to the trail. When I got to it I didn’t hesitate at all, but just turned and walked along as though I hadn’t a care in the world. I carried the rifle at the trail and held the machete in the other hand, and I didn’t bother to slow at the corners but just carried straight on.

When I arrived at the clearing the chicleros had chopped out for their little camp I stopped and felt the embers of the fire. It never occurred to me to be cautious in my approach; I just marched into the clearing, found no one there, and automatically bent to feel the heat of the embers. They were still warm and, as I turned them over with the point of the machete, there was a glow of red. It was evident that the chicleros were not long gone.

But which way? Up-trail or down-trail? I didn’t particularly care and set off again at the same pace, striding out and trying to make good time. And I did make good time. I had examined the map and tried to trace the course of my wanderings during the days I had been harried. It was something of an impossibility, but as near as I could reckon I thought I was within three miles of Uaxuanoc, and I was damned well going to keep to that trail until I got there.

Fools may rush in where angels fear to tread, but there is also something called Fool’s Luck. All the time those bastards had been chasing me and I’d been scared out of my wits, I had run into them, twist and turn as I would. Now, when I didn’t give a damn, it was I who saw them first. Rather, I heard them nattering away in Spanish as they came up the trail, so I just stepped aside into the forest and let them pass.

There were four of them, all armed and all pretty villainous-looking, unshaven and dressed in the universal dirty whites of the chicleros . As they passed I heard a reference to Señor Gatt and there was a burst of laughter. Then they were gone up the trail and I stepped out of cover. If they’d had their wits about them they could easily have spotted me because I hadn’t gone far into cover, but they didn’t even turn their heads as they went by. I’d reached the stage when I didn’t give a damn.

But I was heartened as I went on. It was unlikely that any more of them would be coming up the trail and I lengthened my stride to move faster so that I’d outpace any possible chicleros coming up behind. It was hot and strenuous work and the precious water I had drunk filmed my body in the form of sweat, but I drove myself on and on without relenting and kept up a lulling pace for the next two hours.

Suddenly the trail took a sharp turn to the left, went on a hundred yards, and petered out. I stopped, uncertain of where to go, and suddenly became aware of a man lying on top of a hillock to my right. He was staring at something through field glasses, and as I convulsively brought up the rifle, he half-turned his head and said casually, ‘Es usted, Pedro?’

I moistened my lips, ‘Si!’ I said hoping that was the right answer.

He put the glasses to his eyes again and resumed his contemplation of whatever was on the other side of the hillock. ‘Tiene usted fosforos y cigarrillos?’

I didn’t know what he was saying, but it was obviously a question, so I repeated again, ‘Si!’ and climbed up the hillock boldly until I was standing over him, just a little behind.

‘Gracias,’ he said. ‘Qué hora es?’ He put down the glasses and turned to look at me just as I brought the rifle butt down on his head. It hit him just above the right eye and his face creased in sudden pain. I lifted the rifle and slammed it down harder in a sudden passion of anger. This is what would have happened to Harry. The sound that came from him was midway between a wail and a grunt, and he rolled over down the hillock and was still.

I gave him a casual glance and stirred him with my foot. He did not move, so I turned to see what he had been looking at. Spread out below was Uaxuanoc and Camp Three, not a quarter of a mile away across open ground. I looked at it as the Israelites must have looked upon the Promised Land; tears came to my eyes and I took a few stumbling steps forward and shouted in a hoarse croak at the distant figures strolling about the huts.

I began to run clumsily and found that all the strength seemed to have suddenly drained from my body. I felt ridiculously weak and at the same time, airy and buoyant and very light-headed. I don’t know if the man I had stunned — or killed for all I knew — was the only chiclero overlooking the camp, or whether he had companions. Certainly it would have been a simple matter for a man with a rifle to shoot me in the back as I stumbled towards the huts, but there was no shot.

I saw the big figure of Joe Rudetsky straighten as he turned to look at me and there was a faint shout. Then there was a bit of a blankness and I found myself lying on the ground looking up at Fallon, who wore a concerned expression. He was speaking, but I don’t know what he said because someone was beating a drum in my ear. His head shrank and then ballooned up hugely, and I passed out again.

Water — clean, cold, pure water — is a marvellous substance. I’ve used it sometimes to make those packet soups; you get the dry, powdery stuff out of the packet which looks as unappetizing as the herbs from a witch doctor’s pouch, add water and hey presto! — what were a few dry scrapings turn into luscious green peas and succulent vegetables.

I was very dehydrated after my week in the forest, and I’d lost a lot of weight, but within a few hours I felt remarkably chirpy. Not that I drank a lot of water because Fallon wouldn’t let me and rationed it out in sips, but the sight of that water jug next to my bed with the cold condensation frosting the outside of the glass did me a world of good because I knew that all I had to do was to stretch my arm and there it was. A lovely feeling! So I was feeling better although, perhaps, like the packet soup I had lost a bit of flavour.