Andersonville (85 page)

Her name was Angelita. She had blue eyes, narrow but dancing, and tumbled brown hair which did not appear too clean. She was nearly as brown as the original Moors who must have been numbered thickly among her ancestors. Her tough legs, her round hips swung with a flourish beneath the layers of colored Andalucian skirts, and caused Nathan much aching later when he lay in bed, in a distant village, and thought of Pepe and Pepe’s wife, and how they must be united in that wigwam.

...Does the ugliness corrode you, soldier? Would you escape its burning and stain? Then drift once more where holly oaks and stripped cork oaks put down their shade.

He’d spent two days in Ronda. For hours he’d leaned on the bridge across the chasm, staring down at specks which were swallows and pigeons, at larger slower blacker specks which he supposed were crows or rooks. Gypsy children hung about to importune him for money each time he stirred, but he was deaf to their whining and had ears only for the loose rumble of the shrunken stream far below. He wondered how it would have been had he lain as a prisoner in that jail so close at hand—hearing the shrillness of swallows, the hollow eternal vesper song of the river, yet walled away, fettered tight, unable to participate in the beauties of the gorge . . . how would it be, to be a prisoner? Oh, he lamented, that there must be any prisoners, anywhere, in any time.

On the second day following, Nathan became in fact a prisoner—at least he was taken in charge by others, he was commanded to do a thing he had not planned to do. It came about as Tomás paced sedately up a narrow path, a connecting link between the road which led from Ronda to the Cuevas de Becerro and the road which led from Ronda to Burgo. A peasant had told Nathan about this track, he had drawn a map in the dust with a stick. Many miles of traveling would be saved, and the path led through wild and beautiful country (all the country roundabout was wild, it was beautiful . . . a few late poppies shed brilliant blood in the valleys, bees lived above thistles as dainty as orchids). But the peasant had been incorrect about the feasibility of the path for a traveler on muleback. Good enough for black goats with their stiff wiry legs, but a trial for a tall youth whose own knees were scraped by jutting rocks along a dozen keyhole passages. Nathan had to dismount and let Tomás follow him through rising crannies, and for a time he had to carry the baskets, for they were fairly torn from the mule’s trappings by the narrowness of the way. Still it was a fair adventure. Once they routed out a wolf which galloped off disdainfully, twice Nathan saw spool-spindled horns of the ibex gleaming on some upper shelf. Over the crest of this range the road turned wider once more, and again Nathan was able to ride.

He sang discordantly, he wished he had his violin. He could not make pleasant music with his voice but the sheer enthusiasm of living youth made him roar. He sang Mendelssohn, sang airs for which there were no words, he invented ohs and ahs and roodle-doodles to support the strain. The path wound down through a gradually widening gorge, and Nathan could see a sparse flock of sheep feeding where grass began once more, and two motionless dots which were the shepherds, watching. Why two shepherds for a mere eight or ten sheep? And there leaped no dog to challenge him as he approached. Nathan left off singing as he approached, and was about to call a greeting when he was treated to an abominable surprise: one of the shepherds reached down behind a boulder and came up with a blunderbuss—truly, one of those bell-barreled relics which you saw in museums. He waved this weapon in Nathan’s general direction and ordered him to dismount.

Why do you threaten me with that ugly gun? Is it because I’m such a bad singer?

Bad singer, good singer, it matters not. Get down from that mule! Examine his pockets, Tello.

Nathan stood with his hands in the air, frightened but managing to keep smiling. The armed shepherd was a sour-faced fellow of middle age; he had greasy iron-gray hair curling to the collar of his patched blue jacket. The other man resembled him—perhaps a son or a much younger brother—but was less forbidding in appearance, and wore a yellowish smock. He had been eating food laden with garlic, his breath nearly suffocated Nathan, who liked garlic well enough but not in such nauseous doses.

Behold, he has a pistol, brother. Unloaded.

Take it from him nevertheless.

And a splendid knife.

Take it. And money?

A few coppers only.

He must have more, perhaps concealed. We’ll find out later. The Wolf will soon discover whether he has money or no. Young man, where are you bound?

To Burgo, said Nathan, thinking it best to name the nearer town rather than Málaga.

Is your home in Burgo? And what a magnificent mule we have here!

We
have no mule, Nathan cried. The mule does not belong to me; he belongs to a friend; his name is Tomás, and back to that friend Tomás goes.

Not if I give you a dose of stones from this weapon of death,
bobo.

I do not believe that it will shoot.

You’ll soon find out if you attempt to flee. Now, march! We go to
El Lobo.
You have heard of him, no doubt.

Is he the wolf I frightened on the trail some kilometers distant? Nathan was terrified, but still he insisted on jeering at his captors. He felt that it was essential for him to put up a bold front. The wolf ran like a
cabrito
the moment I appeared. Will your precious
Lobo
do the same?

You’ll see. March! Tello, lead the mule.

Despite his fright, Nathan wondered about the sheep, and whether they would be left to the mercies of predatory beasts. He did not wonder for long. The elder bandit—for such these must be—slid two fingers into his mouth and emitted a whistle as piercing as the blast of a French locomotive. A little boy came bounding down the slope before they’d taken many steps; he did not stare in surprise at Nathan and Tomás, for he had watched the whole performance from his perch on the walls of an ancient fold. He was a ragged dwarfish creature with squinting brown eyes.

Rafaelito, the sheep are in your charge.

Yes, uncle. The boy whipped a sling from his rags and went to assume his duty.

If you harm me or the mule, declared Nathan, soldiers will come into this region and give you a taste of bayonets.

Soldiers? I laugh at the word.
El Lobo
is ruler here.

He’ll learn whether he is ruler or whether Queen Isabella is ruler, once those soldiers appear.

I spit at the word. The iron-gray bandit spat. Now you shall march.
Siléncio!

They prodded Nathan Dreyfoos along for nearly two miles on a side path which might have been fit for kids; it seemed to Nathan that certainly the track was not suited to the travel of adult goats. He slipped and stumbled, Tomás stumbled, the bandits carried Tomás’s baskets, the bandits walked cat-footed with the elder man ahead and the younger behind. Finally they reached a chasm choked with bouquets of oleander. The elder man grunted and unfastened the black scarf tied around his neck. This smelly kerchief he folded into small compass and bound tightly across the upper part of Nathan’s face. The men took him, one by each arm, and going thus blindfolded he found it easier to travel than before, because the men were practically carrying him. He could not guess where they went: it must have been across a wide field above the chasm’s brink . . . throughout most of the journey there was room for the three of them to move abreast, and Tomás squirmed dutifully behind—Nathan could hear him coming.
Urrro,
said Tello again and again, urging the mule. In time Nathan felt a coolness as of shadows, and the captors altered their positions: one was ahead of him, guiding, with Nathan’s hands on his shoulders; the other had his hands on the boy’s hips. Nathan brushed a raw cliffside, first with one shoulder, then with the other. He lurched, and might have fallen if the bandits had not supported him. Surely they went through the narrowest defile in those mountains. A hand ripped the cloth away from his eyes and he stood blinking. Here was a region of yellow precipices, shallow caves curling darkly beneath the overhang, caves oiled with the woodsmoke of centuries. Hannibal’s soldiers might have slept there, and a thousand herdsmen had bedded away from the rain, delighting in the comfort of their fires through the ages which followed.

El Lobo
and four of his men were lunching off eggs and roast veal, and where had they got hens’ eggs in such a weird place?
El Lobo
was perhaps thirty-five or forty years of age—tall for an Andalucian, not as tall as Nathan. His tanned well-chiseled face carried the marks of smallpox spread thickly, and when he grinned he displayed wide-spaced brownish teeth which were near the size of tushes: doubtless those fangs had given him his name. His blue eyes were intelligent and piercing, but somehow there was madness in his manner. The gods have glowered on me, thought Nathan with dreary humor. Father was right about the bandits, and now they will knock me on the head; and no one will ever know where or how I vanished in these hills.

El Lobo
was dressed in baggy black pantaloons and sash and a silk shirt which had once been red but was faded to pink across the shoulders, and discolored otherwise by the ravages of perspiration. He wiped egg off his mouth and arose leisurely to survey the new arrivals. Rocks made the table, rocks made the stove and cellar, and they were paved and upholstered by a collection of colorful and very dirty blankets.

El Lobo
sauntered forward with a crust of hot veal in his hand. He stopped immediately in front of Nathan, examined him from head to foot, then offered the meat.

Thank you, said Nathan. I am not hungry.

Because of fear?

I suppose you are The Wolf.

Thus I am called. What name have you?

Natán.

The Wolf stared, rolled up his eyes, and clapped a hand to his close-cropped head. Nátan, Natán, he repeated. Of all travelers who might have chosen to pass this way, to think that it should be you! Why, Natán, your home is in Málaga. And this animal is Tomás. Where did you sleep on Thursday night? At the small inn conducted by Angel Matas and Dorado, the inn known as the House of Gold. You feasted on chicken, cucumbers and
manzanilla.
You paid in gold coin, and it was difficult for Señor Matas to provide the change. Oh, Natán, you have broken my heart today!

How is it that you know these things? asked Nathan.

I know everything which occurs within this region. I have friends, and the news is carried to me promptly. If this were not true I should have been hanged long ago. Even so I was caught and imprisoned— long ago—and have no wish to be caught and imprisoned again. Observe these scars on my wrists. And—here—on my legs. Those came from fetters. Never again shall I be fettered.

He dropped his greasy hands on the surprised boy’s shoulders and called him
hombre.

Nathan inquired dizzily, Why do you greet me in such a manner of friendship? Is this a false thing?

No, no, it is true. You are a friend of the husband of my sister.

It is impossible.

No, no, it is true. How many birds did you shoot for Pepe with his old gun? My sister tells that you are a polite youth with excellent manners, and probably have great wealth in your family, for you have traveled to the ends of the earth. And you gave Pepe your wine, freely, when he said that he had thirst.

This conversation was accompanied by a chorus of exclamation and repetition on the part of the other men clustered around them. He shot birds for Pepe. Pepe cannot see to shoot. Yes, probably great wealth in his family. Very tall for a boy. Pepe said that he had but fifteen years.

Antonio, you and Tello are idiots. Did you not know these things? Could you not recognize Natán from the description?

Antonio, of the greasy iron-gray hair and blue jacket, mumbled something or other.

Antonio, how often have I said that you were an idiot?

Very many times.

¿Es verdad?
Now everyone was laughing, and The Wolf had his arm around Nathan. Nathan felt himself enfolded in their primitive childish circle; it was a good and simple warmth he felt; he was still enough of a boy to linger joyfully with the notion of playing bandit.

Suppose, he said, that it were true that my family had wealth. Would you keep me as a captive until much money was paid?

Ah, I have a number of friends who are men with fortunes. I have taken them to hunt the ibex. I did not keep them as captives. No, Natán, you are a friend of my sister’s husband and thus you are a friend of mine. Come and enjoy some veal and wine. I fear that the eggs are all devoured. The veal is roasted beautifully; and it was stolen from the herd of Don Miguel Sagasta and Arias, but butchered only yesterday.

At last Nathan knew the identity of that other marksman who fetched quail, sometimes, for the larder of the charcoal burner. . . .

Why, he asked over the veal, does Pepe not give up his work as charcoal burner, and come to live this free-and-easy life with you?

He has fear. Once the soldiers took him and tortured him, hoping to discover where they might seize me. Pepe did not tell them, for the very good reason that he did not know. He does not know, at this moment. He would rather blacken himself with
carbón,
he declares, than risk his neck as we outlaws do. Oh well, one day they may shoot me; but never again shall I be lodged in a dungeon.

Antonio and Tello went back to their sheep, but Nathan remained with The Wolf. Nathan lived blissfully through the dream of that afternoon and the long evening following, and the night. There was a wide moon in this week. A sentinel was on duty each hour through the night, and perhaps more sentinels were posted nearer to the roads. The men took turns at sentry duty, in the manner of soldiers and with almost no bickering. It was hard for Nathan to sleep; he did not rest well, but he did not really wish to sleep at all; he wanted to stay awake, and glory in the enormous blue and silver myth which moonlight made of this region. Valley and shallow caves lost their entity as an actual part of the world’s surface—they became legend, along with the storied tinkle of goat bells somewhere in hills below, the wolves which howled on upper pinnacles, the gem made by a lounging sentinel overlooking the crack in the boulders which was the door to this mountain closet. The sentinel stirred, he moved his musket, it took fire from the moon and became a diamond wand, again it was a black stick and part of his bulk as he sat blanket-wrapped against the coolness. One sentinel had a big pipe and perpetually he smoked dried mullein leaves as a treatment for his cough. His pipe would glow and sputter when he came down to put a twig in the low broad fire and light the pipe, the strange tonic odor of charring mullein would penetrate deeply into the nostrils of Nathan Dreyfoos. And with it would come the smell of baked meat, the scent of the campfire itself, the rough sour scent of old perspiration in old stained blankets. Over all—the dry pervading smell of dry Spain itself, Spain and its mountains, the rocks long lived-over, lived-among. . . . I am alone in the hills, sleeping with a gang of outlaws. It will be a memory for me when I am old, so old that I cannot bestride a
burro
but must sit sideways like a woman. What a memory, what a joy. It is more potent than the oldest brandy, the richest wine from Jerez.