Mercenary (29 page)

He had drifted into semi-consciousness during his beating and soon after coming round he gave up plotting any escape for which he would have to depend on his own resources. His bonds were secure and the pole was too high to loop the strap over. A brief effort to push against the pole proved he would never be able to break it or pull it out of the ground. His only chance would come if his captors gave him a window of opportunity. But the beating he had given the patrol commander and his subordinate had made them wary of him and they were keeping a close watch on him.

Stratton estimated the time at around four in the afternoon although it was difficult to judge without being able to see the sun. He could only hope that the clouds would burst soon so that he could ease his thirst with their rain.

He realised several soldiers were looking at him and it became obvious that he was the subject of their conversation. One of them walked over to talk with the ambushers’ leader. Several of the others followed him. It attracted the attention of the rest of the ambushers and before long there was quite a gathering.

The bearded leader seemed to arrive at some kind of agreement with the soldier and together they walked over to Stratton, followed by the others. The leader and the first soldier stopped in front of the captive while the others surrounded him.

‘Stand up,’ the leader demanded.

The uniformed soldier stared intensely at Stratton, a grimace on his rugged face.

Stratton brought his feet under him and shuffled his arms up the pole as he straightened his legs. The ambushers’ leader decided to lend a hand and grabbed him by the hair to help him up. The soldier stepped closer to square up to him, his face full of hatred.

‘I’m told you are the one who blew up Chemora,’ the soldier said.

Stratton couldn’t see any reason to deny it. ‘I had that pleasure,’ he said. There was no point in being half-hearted about it, either.

‘My brother was on that bridge. I could not find him when they asked me to look at the bodies. All I know is that he isn’t here any more.’

Stratton could only stare at the man. But it didn’t matter. The very sight of him seemed to enrage the soldier. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fist, drew it back and drove it deep into the pit of Stratton’s stomach with all the strength he could muster. Stratton bent over as the wind left his lungs and he thought he was going to throw up despite having nothing in his stomach. But the soldier had not finished with him. He grabbed hold of Stratton’s hair, yanked him upright and gave him a stinging blow across the face. Blood splashed those nearby as the wounds already on Stratton’s lips reopened. He dropped forward again and his vision clouded. The soldier pulled his head up once again and delivered another savage blow to his body, following it up with another to his face.

‘To hell with this,’ the soldier said, taking a knife from his belt. ‘I’m going to fillet him right here.’

He gripped Stratton by the throat and was about to shove the point of the long, sharp knife into the Englishman’s gut when the ambushers’ leader grabbed his arm. ‘No, my friend,’ he said, holding the soldier steadily. ‘I’m sorry about your brother but this bastard’s work is not done yet. My orders are to keep him alive . . . He dies tomorrow but not before.’

The soldier was far from satisfied but he did not force the issue.

The bearded leader seemed relieved that the soldier had backed down. ‘If you’re around at the time you can do it yourself. I’ll look out for you.’

The soldier released Stratton and stepped back. He sheathed his knife but before leaving he hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it in Stratton’s face.

Then he walked away, his colleagues patting him on the back and consoling him.

‘I lied to him,’ the ambushers’ leader said, watching the soldiers go. ‘I’m going to kill you myself.’

As the bearded leader and his colleagues walked away Stratton slid back down the pole and slumped to the ground. His vision was still fuzzy and he felt nauseous. He dropped his head to one side, closed his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness.

 

Louisa stood in front of the stables, looking out across the jungle towards Hector’s encampment. She had learned about the return of Victor’s horse and Stratton’s subsequent departure. It was late in the afternoon and the activity in the camp had greatly increased with the rumours of a Neravista attack. Reports that patrols from some of the outlying observation posts had not returned and their reliefs had failed to open up communications only increased the speculation.

Men headed to defensive locations throughout the camp. Sebastian had given the general order to stand to. The rebels’ living quarters buzzed with preparations, the wiser ones among them gathering their possessions and packing them up in order to move quickly if they had to. Generally, confidence remained high that the combined guerrilla forces could repel a government attack.

Their leaders, however, had reason to be concerned. The other brigades had been unusually quiet, in particular their nearest neighbour, Hector. What messages they had received were vague. Their requests for intelligence on enemy troop activity had been met with inconsistent reports and even silence.

Sebastian had said very little about the matter. Some read this as evidence of calm confidence while others felt he had run out of ideas.

Louisa decided to give up waiting and headed back towards the cabin, looking over her shoulder one last time at the edge of the jungle behind her.

Men were preparing for combat in the courtyard in front of the cabins and on the open ground beyond. They were quiet as they speculated about the intentions of the Neravistas and the other rebel brigades.

Louisa entered her father’s cabin where half a dozen officers surrounded the dining table, poring over diagrams of the camp and outlying area and discussing their defences.

Sebastian was not there. She crossed to his bedroom at the back and knocked gently on the door. ‘It’s me, father.’

She heard him reply and she opened the door. Sebastian stood by his wardrobe, holding a smart-looking uniform on a coat-hanger. He placed it on his bed with some reverence.

‘What is that?’ Louisa asked. She had not seen it before.

He looked strangely cheerful, as if the uniform gave him some kind of pleasure. ‘It’s a dress uniform. I had it made some years ago.’

‘It’s very regal,’ she said, wondering why he was revealing it now. ‘Is everything okay, father?’

Sebastian’s expression became serious. ‘I want you to leave, Louisa. Can you do that for me, without arguing?’

‘No,’ she answered lightly.

He looked tired. ‘Why won’t you do as I ask?’

‘I have told you. It’s my life now. It’s no more complicated than that.’

Sebastian took a moment to consider his next words. ‘If you are to pursue your ambitions, this is where we must part company.
I
must stay and finish what I started.
You
must go and begin your new life.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘This is over, Louisa. My dear girl, they mean to destroy us.’

‘If that’s true then why don’t you just surrender, prevent all the bloodshed?’

‘Neravista would hang us all anyway. He has already delivered his ultimatum. That would be the end of the revolution. Hector has betrayed me, but not what he believes in. So now I must do what I can to help him, to help what’s left of our struggle. Hector is waiting for you on the road to his camp.’

The reality of what Sebastian was saying hit home and Louisa’s lips quivered as she fought back tears.

‘Will you go now?’ he asked. ‘Before it’s too late.’

She shook her head. ‘I would be deserting. That’s not the reputation I want.’

‘You’re not a soldier.’

‘Nor are the wives and children of those men out there.’

Sebastian looked at his daughter, the light of his life. Louisa would not leave because she was like him. He took her in his arms. She clung to him and buried her face against his shoulder, the tears rolling down her face.

He released her finally and walked out of the room, leaving her to face the painting of her great-grandfather charging across the Jarama Valley.

It was dark when the rain began to fall, hitting Stratton’s upturned face. The gentle sting of the heavy droplets brought him out of his fog. He blinked heavily and opened his mouth, grateful for the water that fell on his dry lips.

As the liquid trickled down his throat he felt better. But it was not enough. The rain fell so hard that puddles formed around him. He stretched down against the bonds to touch the water with his lips and sucked. He coughed and nearly choked as the pain from the beatings returned, yet he exulted in the life that the rain was restoring and he stayed there, breathing, lapping up the water.

Someone grabbed the back of his neck brutally and a weight fell on him, forcing his face into the mud. He struggled desperately, his hands fast about the pole behind him. His attacker was determined to suffocate him.

Stratton mustered all his strength and fought to raise his head. He managed it just long enough to draw a breath. But his move only provoked his would-be slayer to double his own efforts. The assailant forced Stratton’s face back into the mud.

Stratton was trapped between the man’s weight and strength and the bonds holding his arms around the pole. His eyes began to bulge and his heart felt like it was about to burst. He had to make one last effort or drown in the mud.

He gathered his strength and gave an almighty heave while pulling against the pole at the same time. He lifted his face out of the mud but it was not enough to free himself. In a final act of desperation he lunged to one side. The attacker lost his balance and toppled over him. Stratton twisted his torso, raised a leg and brought it down with every ounce of force he could muster, striking the man on the side of his neck. The man was rocked by the blow and tried to roll away but Stratton hooked a heel over his head and held him in place, raising his other leg and bringing the heel crashing down on the man’s throat. His body spasmed. Gripped by a wild frenzy, Stratton struck again and again and again in the same spot.

Stratton had crushed the man’s larynx with the third blow but he did not stop until exhaustion eventually brought him to his senses. The man lay still, on his back, unmoving in the mud.

The rain continued to pelt down as Stratton sucked in air. He blinked heavily to help refocus his vision and looked around to check if anyone had seen him. Everyone was under cover, the fires extinguished, the darkness complete.

Stratton leaned forward to look at the man, wondering who it could be. He wore the camouflage fatigues of the Neravistas. His eyes and mouth were wide open. It was the soldier whose brother had died on the bridge.

Stratton remembered that the man had a knife and he quickly stretched out his legs, placed them over the body and dragged it towards him. Another effort brought it against Stratton’s backside. He shuffled his back up the pole until he could stand and used his bare feet to move the man’s jacket aside in search of the knife’s sheath. He could feel it with his toes but, when he exposed it, to his horror it was empty.

The man must have had it in his hands.

The ground was covered in puddles, the mud disturbed by their struggle. Stratton swept his feet around the area where the man had been standing. His toe hit something - it was the knife. Stratton looked around once again to ensure he had not been seen. There was a flash of lightning followed by rolling thunder.

He curled his toes over the haft and dragged it close to the pole, turned around to sit back down and picked it up in his hands. He found the sharp edge, dug the tip into the wet earth against the pole, reached back so that the bindings were beyond the blade and slid them up and down it. The leather strap was severed in seconds.

In his peripheral vision he picked up movement. A figure climbed out from under a poncho. The man walked towards him through the mud and sheeting rain. Stratton moved his hands back behind the pole and felt for the knife.

The man stopped in front of Stratton, water cascading over the rim of his hat. Stratton looked up to see that it was the ambushers’ leader. When the soldier saw the body his eyes widened and his stare flicked to Stratton’s hands behind the pole. He crouched slowly beside the dead man to see who it was. Recognising the body, he flashed a look at Stratton again, his straggly soaked hair hanging out from under his hat. Closer now, he leaned to look at Stratton’s hands - and saw the cut leather bindings in the splashing mud beside them. In that instant he knew he was in trouble.

He cried out as he turned to run away. But he slipped in the mud and fell to his knees. He reached for his pistol frantically as he looked back. Stratton was already coming for him. The man screamed but Stratton cut him short by driving the knife upwards into his throat. The man fired his pistol into the ground as Stratton forced the blade in all the way to the hilt and up into his brain. His last breath escaped as a gurgle through the hole in his throat, which quickly filled with blood.