A voice in the yard called: Montez: He sat on upon his dead feet; he thought automatically: This suit isn't good for much more : it was smeared and fouled by the cell floor and his fellow prisoners: he had obtained it at great risk in a store down by the river, pretending to be a small farmer with ideas above his station. Then he remembered he wouldn't need it much longer-it came with an odd shock, like locking the door of one's house for the last time. The voice repeated impatiently: Montez.
He remembered that that, for the moment, was his name. He looked up from his ruined suit and saw the sergeant unlocking the cell door. Here, Montez. He let the old man's head fall gently back against the sweating wall and tried to stand up, but his feet crumpled like pastry. Do you want to sleep all day? the sergeant complained testily: something had irritated him: he wasn't as friendly as he had been the night before. He let out a kick at a sleeping man and beat on the cell door: Come on. Wake up, all of you. Out into the yard. Only the Indian boy obeyed, sliding unobtrusively out, with his look of alien happiness. The sergeant complained: The dirty hounds. Do they want us to wash them? You, Montez. Life began to return painfully to his feet. He managed to reach the door.
The yard had come sluggishly to life. A queue of men were bathing their faces at a single tap; a man in a vest and pants sat on the ground hugging a rifle. Get out into the yard and wash, the sergeant yelled at them, but when the priest stepped out he snapped at him: Not you, Montez.
Not me.
We've got other plans for you, the sergeant said.
The priest stood waiting while his fellow prisoners filed out into the yard. One by one they went past him: he looked at their feet and not their faces, standing like a temptation at the door. Nobody said a word: a woman's feet went draggingly by in black worn low-heeled shoes. He whispered without looking up: Pray for me.
[127] What's that you said, Montez?
He couldn't think of a lie: he felt as if ten years had exhausted his whole stock of deceit.
What's that you said?
The shoes had stopped moving. The woman's voice said: He was begging. She added mercilessly: He ought to have more sense. I've nothing for him. Then she went on, flatfooted, into the yard.
Did you sleep well, Montez? the sergeant badgered him.
Not very well.
What do you expect? the sergeant said. It'll teach you to like brandy too well, won't it?
Yes. He wondered how much longer all these preliminaries would take.
Well, if you spend all your money on brandy, you've got to do a bit of work in return for a night's lodging. Fetch the pails out of the cells and mind you don't spill them-this place stinks enough as it is.
Where do I take them to?
The sergeant pointed to the door of the excusado beyond the tap. Report to me when you've finished that, he said, and went bellowing orders back into the yard.
The priest bent down and took the paiclass="underline" it was full and very heavy: he went bowed with the weight across the yard: sweat got into his eyes. He wiped them free and saw one behind another in the washing queue faces he knew-the hostages. There was Miguel, whom he had seen taken away: he remembered the mother screaming out and the lieutenant's tired anger and the sun coming up. They saw him at the same time: he put down the heavy pail and looked at them. Not to recognize them would have been like a hint, a claim, a demand to them to go on suffering and let him escape. Miguel had been beaten up: there was a sore under his eye-flies buzzed round it as they buzz round a mule's raw flank. Then the queue moved on: they looked at the ground and passed him: strangers took their place. He prayed silently: O God, send them someone more worthwhile to suffer for. It seemed to him a damnable mockery that they should sacrifice themselves for a whisky priest with a bastard child. The soldier sat in his pants with his gun [128] between his knees paring his nails and biting off the loose skin. In an odd way he felt abandoned because they had shown no sign of recognition.
The excusado was a cesspool with two planks across it on which a man could stand. He emptied the pail and went back across the yard to the row of cells. There were six: one by one he took the pails: once he had to stop and retch: splash, splash, to and fro across the yard. He came to the last cell. It wasn't empty: a man lay back against the walclass="underline" the early sun just reached his feet. Flies buzzed around a mound of vomit on the floor. The eyes opened and watched the priest stooping over the paiclass="underline" two fangs protruded. ...
The priest moved quickly and splashed the floor. The half-caste said in that too-familiar nagging tone: Wait a moment. You cant do that in here. He explained proudly: I'm not a prisoner. I'm a guest. The priest made a motion of apology (he was afraid to speak) and moved again. Wait a moment, the half-caste commanded him again. Come here.
The priest stood stubbornly, half-turned away, near the door. Come here, the half-caste said. You're a prisoner, aren't you?-and I'm a guest-of the Governor. Do you want me to shout for a policeman? Then do as you're told: come here. It seemed as if God were deciding ... finally. He came, pail in hand, and stood beside the large flat naked foot, and the half-caste looked up at him from the shadow of the wall, asking him sharply and anxiously: What are you doing here?
Cleaning up.
You know what I mean.
I was caught with a bottle of brandy, the priest said, trying to roughen his voice.
I know you, the half-caste said, I couldn't believe my eyes, but when you speak ...
I don't think …
That priest's voice, the half-caste said with disgust. He was like a dog of a different breed: he couldn't help his hackles' rising. The big toe moved plumply and inimically. The priest put down the pail. He argued hopelessly: You're drunk.
Beer, beer, the half-caste said, nothing but beer. They [129] promised me the best of everything, but you can't trust them. Don't I know the jefe's got his own brandy locked away?
I must empty the pail.
If you move, I'll shout. I've got so many things to think about, the half-caste complained bitterly. The priest waited: there was nothing else to do: he was at the man's mercy-a silly phrase, for those malarial eyes had never known what mercy is. He was saved at any rate from the indignity of pleading.
You see, the mestizo carefully explained, I'm comfortable here. His yellow toes curled luxuriously beside the vomit. Good food, beer, company, and this roof doesn't leak. You don't have to tell me what'll happen after-they'll kick me out like a dog, like a dog. He became shrill and indignant. What have they got you here for? That's what I want to know. It looks crooked to me. It's my job, isn't it, to find you? Who's going to have the reward if they've got you already? The jefe, I shouldn't wonder, or that bastard sergeant. He brooded unhappily: You can't trust a soul these days.
And there's a Red Shirt, the priest said.
A Red Shirt?
He really caught me.
Mother of God, the mestizo said, and they'll all have the ear of the Governor. He looked beseechingly up. He said: You're an educated man. Advise me.
The priest said: It would be murder, a mortal sin.
I don't mean that. I mean about the reward. You see, as long as they don't know, well, I'm comfortable here. A man deserves a few weeks' holiday. And you can't escape far, can you? It would be better, wouldn't it, to catch you out of here? In the town somewhere? I mean nobody else could claim ... He said furiously: A poor man has so much to think about.
I dare say, the priest said, they'd give you something even here.
Something, the mestizo said, levering himself up against the wall; why shouldn't I have it all?
What's going on in here? the sergeant said. He stood in the doorway, in the sunlight, looking in.
[130] The priest said slowly: He wanted me to clean up his vomit. I said you hadn't told me ...