His rage began to thin as he exaggerated more and more and spread his scorn and contempt so widely and unjustly that he could no longer believe in it himself. If that were true what are you here for? It’s not true and you know it. Look at all the good ones. Look at all the fine ones. He could not bear to be unjust. He hated injustice as he hated cruelty and he lay in his rage that blinded his mind until gradually the anger died down and the red, black, blinding, killing anger was all gone and his mind now as quiet, empty-calm and sharp, cold-seeing as a man is after he has had sexual intercourse with a woman that he does not love.
“And you, you poor rabbit,” he leaned over and said to Maria, who smiled in her sleep and moved close against him. “I would have struck thee there awhile back if thou had spoken. What an animal a man is in a rage.”
He lay close to the girl now with his arms around her and his chin on her shoulder and lying there he figured out exactly what he would have to do and how he would have to do it.
And it isn’t so bad, he thought. It really isn’t so bad at all. I don’t know whether any one has ever done it before.
But there will always be people who will do it from now on, given a similar jam. If we do it and if they hear about it. If they hear about it, yes. If they do not just wonder how it was we did it. We are too short of people but there is no sense to worry about that. I will do the bridge with what we have. God, I’m glad I got over being angry. It was like not being able to breathe in a storm. That being angry is another damned luxury you can’t afford.
“It’s all figured out, ‘guapa’,” he said softly against Maria’s shoulder. “You haven’t been bothered by any of it. You have not known about it. We’ll be killed but we’ll blow the bridge. You have not had to worry about it. That isn’t much of a wedding present. But is not a good night’s sleep supposed to be priceless? You had a good night’s sleep. See if you can wear that like a ring on your finger. Sleep, ‘guapa’. Sleep well, my beloved. I do not wake thee. That is all I can do for thee now.”
He lay there holding her very lightly, feeling her breathe and feeling her heart beat, and keeping track of the time on his wrist watch.
36
Andrés had challenged at the government position. That is, he had lain down where the ground fell sharply away below the triple belt of wire and shouted up at the rock and earth parapet. There was no continual defensive line and he could easily have passed this position in the dark and made his way farther into the government territory before running into some one who would challenge him. But it seemed safer and simpler to get it over here.
“‘Salud!'” he had shouted. “‘Salud, milicianos!'”
He heard a bolt snick as it was pulled back. Then, from farther down the parapet, a rifle fired. There was a crashing crack and a downward stab of yellow in the dark. Andrés had flattened at the click, the top of his head hard against the ground.
“Don’t shoot, Comrades,” Andrés shouted. “Don’t shoot! I want to come in.”
“How many are you?” some one called from behind the parapet.
“One. Me. Alone.”
“Who are you?”
“Andrés Lopez of Villaconejos. From the band of Pablo. With a message.”
“Have you your rifle and equipment?”
“Yes, man.”
“We can take in none without rifle and equipment,” the voice said. “Nor in larger groups than three.”
“I am alone,” Andrés shouted. “It is important. Let me come in.”
He could hear them talking behind the parapet but not what they were saying. Then the voice shouted again, “How many are you?”
“One. Me. Alone. For the love of God.”
They were talking behind the parapet again. Then the voice came, “Listen, fascist.”
“I am not a fascist,” Andrés shouted. “I am a ‘guerrillero’ from the band of Pablo. I come with a message for the General Staff.”
“He’s crazy,” he heard some one say. “Toss a bomb at him.”
“Listen,” Andrés said. “I am alone. I am completely by myself. I obscenity in the midst of the holy mysteries that I am alone. Let me come in.”
“He speaks like a Christian,” he heard some one say and laugh.
Then some one else said, “The best thing is to toss a bomb down on him.”
“No,” Andrés shouted. “That would be a great mistake. This is important. Let me come in.”
It was for this reason that he had never enjoyed trips back and forth between the lines. Sometimes it was better than others. But it was never good.
“You are alone?” the voice called down again.
“‘Me cago en la leche’,” Andrés shouted. “How many times must I tell thee? I AM ALONE.”
“Then if you should be alone stand up and hold thy rifle over thy head.”
Andrés stood up and put the carbine above his head, holding it in both hands.
“Now come through the wire. We have thee covered with the ‘máquina’,” the voice called.
Andrés was in the first zigzag belt of wire. “I need my hands to get through the wire,” he shouted.
“Keep them up,” the voice commanded.
“I am held fast by the wire,” Andrés called.
“It would have been simpler to have thrown a bomb at him,” a voice said.
“Let him sling his rifle,” another voice said. “He cannot come through there with his hands above his head. Use a little reason.”
“All these fascists are the same,” the other voice said. “They demand one condition after another.”
“Listen,” Andrés shouted. “I am no fascist but a ‘guerrillero’ from the band of Pablo. We’ve killed more fascists than the typhus.”
“I have never heard of the band of Pablo,” the man who was evidently in command of the post said. “Neither of Peter nor of Paul nor of any of the other saints nor apostles. Nor of their bands. Sling thy rifle over thy shoulder and use thy hands to come through the wire.”
“Before we loose the ‘máquina’ on thee,” another shouted.
“‘Qué poco amables sois!'” Andrés said. “You’re not very amiable.”
He was working his way through the wire.
“‘Amables’,” some one shouted at him. “We are in a war, man.”
“It begins to appear so,” Andrés said.
“What’s he say?”
Andrés heard a bolt click again.
“Nothing,” he shouted. “I say nothing. Do not shoot until I get through this fornicating wire.”
“Don’t speak badly of our wire,” some one shouted. “Or we’ll toss a bomb on you.”
“‘Quiero decir, qué buena alambrada’,” Andrés shouted. “What beautiful wire. God in a latrine. What lovely wire. Soon I will be with thee, brothers.”
“Throw a bomb at him,” he heard the one voice say. “I tell you that’s the soundest way to deal with the whole thing.”
“Brothers,” Andrés said. He was wet through with sweat and he knew the bomb advocate was perfectly capable of tossing a grenade at any moment. “I have no importance.”
“I believe it,” the bomb man said.
“You are right,” Andrés said. He was working carefully through the third belt of wire and he was very close to the parapet. “I have no importance of any kind. But the affair is serious. ‘Muy, muy serio’.”
“There is no more serious thing than liberty,” the bomb man shouted. “Thou thinkest there is anything more serious than liberty?” he asked challengingly.
“No, man,” Andrés said, relieved. He knew now he was up against the crazies; the ones with the black-and-red scarves. “‘Viva la Libertad!'”
“‘Viva la F. A. I. Viva la C.N.T.’,” they shouted back at him from the parapet. “‘Viva el anarco-sindicalismo’ and liberty.”
“‘Viva nosotros’,” Andrés shouted. “Long life to us.”
“He is a coreligionary of ours,” the bomb man said. “And I might have killed him with this.”
He looked at the grenade in his hand and was deeply moved as Andrés climbed over the parapet. Putting his arms around him, the grenade still in one hand, so that it rested against Andrés’s shoulder blade as he embraced him, the bomb man kissed him on both cheeks.
“I am content that nothing happened to thee, brother,” he said. “I am very content.”
“Where is thy officer?” Andrés asked.
“I command here,” a man said. “Let me see thy papers.”
He took them into a dugout and looked at them with the light of a candle. There was the little square of folded silk with the colors of the Republic and the seal of the S. I. M. in the center. There was the ‘Salvoconducto’ or safe-conduct pass giving his name, age, height, birthplace and mission that Robert Jordan had written out on a sheet from his notebook and sealed with the S. I. M. rubber stamp and there were the four folded sheets of the dispatch to Golz which were tied around with a cord and sealed with wax and the impression of the metal S. I. M. seal that was set in the top end of the wooden handle of the rubber stamp.
“This I have seen,” the man in command of the post said and handed back the piece of
