As Hector drew back the weapon in readiness to strike, an arrow shot from the darkness and slammed into a wooden post a few feet from him. Its fletching was painted orange and attached to the nock by a small piece of gut was the long slender tail feather of a quetzal bird. Another arrow followed quickly, striking inches away, its long shaft quivering before it grew still.
All stares went to the arrows and to Hector who was frozen to the spot. Everyone at the table knew the missiles’ significance. From the darkness the old Indian stepped into the glow from the fire. He did not have a bow in his hand, just a spear, but behind him, moving deliberately, the two young Indians emerged, their bows drawn fully back, fresh arrows levelled, the firelight highlighting the subtle circular tattoos on their hairless arms and torsos. The icy look of total commitment filled their eyes.
One of Hector’s lieutenants moved a hand to his pistol. The first young Indian pointed the tip of one of the arrows in the taut bow towards him and the man let go of his weapon. No one present doubted that the slightest aggressive move by Hector or his men would end lethally for them.
‘Call off your Indians,’ Hector hissed angrily.
‘Please don’t move,’ Victor said rather nervously, glancing back imploringly at the Indians. ‘I don’t have as much control over them as some people think.’
‘I said call them off !’ The commander was incensed. Not only had he been stopped in mid-blow but he had been forced to stand there looking like a fool, unable to move. Like everyone else, he was well aware of the Indians’ complete fidelity to Victor.
‘Put down your blade,’Victor said, stretching an arm out towards the Indians. ‘Slowly’.
Hector lowered his arm and stepped back. He faced Sebastian. ‘This is a black day,’ he growled.
‘Don’t let your injured pride take control of your judgement,’ the old man advised.
‘I will give you time to reconsider your position. But not long. I urge you to think it over carefully. We can end this war together. Or you can continue it alone.’
Hector marched away, his men following. The other brigade leaders nodded respectful farewells towards Sebastian and headed away into the darkness.
Sebastian left the table and walked to the main cabin. Louisa followed him.
Victor breathed out noisily, relaxing visibly as the strain eased. He looked back at Stratton. ‘Why didn’t you just run?’
‘Why didn’t you let me go when I asked?’
Victor conceded the point.
Stratton picked up his rifle and slung his pack over one shoulder. ‘Well, thanks very much. I’ll be on my way, unless there’s anything else.’
‘There’s no point in you going now,’ Victor said.
‘Is that French humour?’
‘You’ll be okay for tonight. I’ll arrange an escort in the morning. They’ll take you to the border. No one will bother you any further, I can assure you.’
Stratton looked around at the Indians and tended to believe him.
‘You can stay in the cottage,’ Victor added.
Stratton shrugged his agreement. ‘Thanks for stepping in, anyway,’ he said.
Victor rolled his eyes at the comment as if Stratton had no idea of the problems that it had created. ‘I could do with a drink,’ Victor decided, heading towards the cabin furthest from Sebastian’s.
Stratton followed, looking back at the Indians who were watching him. He gave them a wave which was not returned.
‘I owed you,’ Victor said. ‘The rocket. I repay my debts.’
‘Is that the only reason you stood up to Hector?’
Victor paused at the door of the cabin, glancing at Stratton as if he had broached a delicate subject. ‘I would have done it anyway.’
Stratton found the answer curious. ‘Why?’
‘You no doubt suspected there’s a history between Hector and me. It’s true. There is. But it’s all on his side. I would have stepped in front of him anyway, like I said, but I’m not entirely sure why. Ask them,’ he said, indicating the Indians.
Victor pushed the cabin door open and walked inside.
Stratton glanced back at the Indians, who were talking among themselves. None the wiser, he followed Victor into a large room that was lit by a hurricane lamp. It was open-plan, equipped with a small kitchen, a dining table and several chairs, a couple of them facing a cold grate filled with fresh logs. The room seemed to be used for storage. All kinds of boxes were stacked around, most of them marked with US military stencils. A flight of stairs led up to an open mezzanine half the length of the cabin with a balcony that overlooked the ground floor. Under the stairs was a collection of very large glass bottles in woven baskets with corks the size of fists sealing their necks.
‘Hector has always been antagonistic towards me,’ Victor said as he inspected the contents of a collection of well-used cooking pots on the stove. ‘Resentful is probably a better description,’ he corrected himself, feeling inside one of several clay pots on a shelf and producing an onion. ‘I think it’s just a strategy on his part. I’m another way of getting at Sebastian,’ he added, searching a box on a shelf for more ingredients and a variety of local vegetables.
‘Are there many foreigners here?’
‘We’ve had soldiers of fortune from other parts of the world come through over the years. We don’t have the money to pay them. Some have stayed anyway. A few, like me, are here on principle. I’m not a soldier of fortune, I hasten to add. There are some Spaniards in the Fourth Brigade, a handful of Americans in the Second.’ His nose wrinkled in horror as he sniffed the contents of one of the pots. ‘You’re probably not fussy about what you eat, are you?’
Stratton was used to people assuming that because he was a soldier he was uncultured. He would have been the first to admit that he was a long way from sophisticated but neither was he a total slob. ‘I’ll have what’s on offer,’ he replied.
‘I have become used to poor cuisine,’ said Victor, sniffing a piece of meat on a muslin-covered plate. ‘It is probably the greatest sacrifice I make by staying here and the one least appreciated by my comrades.’ He took a glass jug off a shelf, shook it upside down to remove any dust and held it out to Stratton. ‘Fill that, please,’ he said, indicating the bottles under the stairs.
Stratton inspected the tops of the huge bottles and found one that had already been opened. It was almost full and too heavy to lift easily so he tipped it onto the side of its wicker base and poured some of the velvet-red contents into the jug. He replaced the cork and brought the jug over to Victor who handed him a clay mug which he filled with the wine along with one for himself. ‘I suppose you don’t care what you drink, either.’
‘I know when a wine is corked,’ Stratton replied. ‘I just don’t mind drinking it.’
‘Ah. An honest Englishman.’ Victor was about to propose a toast but paused thoughtfully and scratched the several days’ growth on his cheeks. ‘I don’t know what to drink to. Today’s unforgettable past or tomorrow’s uncertain future . . . Let’s keep it simple. Santé.’
‘Cheers,’ Stratton said.
They took healthy swigs. Both men grimaced as they lowered their mugs.
‘That’s an interesting grape,’ Stratton offered, clearing his throat.
‘You think it’s made from grapes?’ Victor said, sarcastically. ‘My taste buds are ruined.’ He went back to preparing the food. ‘I was born not far from a vineyard that was overlooked by the Pyrenees. When I was a young boy I would sometimes sneak in and eat the grapes until I could hardly walk. I would lie and stare at the mountains and daydream of being an adventurer. They were Tannat grapes and when I grew up I preferred to drink the wine that was made from them. All my life I could recognise the smell of a Madiran from across a crowded room . . . I don’t think I could tell the difference between it and a glass of acid today.’