“Yes,” Robert Jordan said.
“One other thing, Inglés,” Pilar said as softly as her harsh whisper could be soft. “In that thing of the hand–”
“What thing of the hand?” he said angrily.
“Nay, listen. Do not be angry, little boy. In regard to that thing of the hand. That is all gypsy nonsense that I make to give myself an importance. There is no such thing.”
“Leave it alone,” he said coldly.
“Nay,” she said harshly and lovingly. “It is just a lying nonsense that I make. I would not have thee worry in the day of battle.”
“I am not worried,” Robert Jordan said.
“Yes, Inglés,” she said. “Thou art very worried, for good cause. But all will be well, Inglés. It is for this that we are born.”
“I don’t need a political commissar,” Robert Jordan told her.
She smiled at him again, smiling fairly and truly with the harsh lips and the wide mouth, and said, “I care for thee very much, Inglés.”
“I don’t want that now,” he said. “Ni tu, ni Dios.”
“Yes,” Pilar said in that husky whisper. “I know. I only wished to tell thee. And do not worry. We will do all very well.”
“Why not?” Robert Jordan said and the very thinnest edge of the skin in front of his face smiled. “Of course we will. All will be well.”
“When do we go?” Pilar asked.
Robert Jordan looked at his watch.
“Any time,” he said.
He handed one of the packs to Anselmo.
“How are you doing, old one?” he asked.
The old man was finishing whittling the last of a pile of wedges he had copied from a model Robert Jordan had given him. These were extra wedges in case they should be needed.
“Well,” the old man said and nodded. “So far, very well.” He held his hand out. “Look,” he said and smiled. His hands were perfectly steady.
“Bueno, y qué?” Robert Jordan said to him. “I can always keep the whole hand steady. Point with one finger.”
Anselmo pointed. The finger was trembling. He looked at Robert Jordan and shook his head.
“Mine too,” Robert Jordan showed him. “Always. That is normal.”
“Not for me,” Fernando said. He put his right forefinger out to show them. Then the left forefinger.
“Canst thou spit?” Agustín asked him and winked at Robert Jordan.
Fernando hawked and spat proudly onto the floor of the cave, then rubbed it in the dirt with his foot.
“You filthy mule,” Pilar said to him. “Spit in the fire if thou must vaunt thy courage.”
“I would not have spat on the floor, Pilar, if we were not leaving this place,” Fernando said primly.
“Be careful where you spit today,” Pilar told him. “It may be some place you will not be leaving.”
“That one speaks like a black cat,” Agustín said. He had the nervous necessity to joke that is another form of what they all felt.
“I joke,” said Pilar.
“Me too,” said Agustín. “But me cago en la leche, but I will be content when it starts.”
“Where is the gypsy?” Robert Jordan asked Eladio.
“With the horses,” Eladio said. “You can see him from the cave mouth.”
“How is he?”
Eladio grinned. “With much fear,” he said. It reassured him to speak of the fear of another.
“Listen, Inglés–” Pilar began. Robert Jordan looked toward her and as he did he saw her mouth open and the unbelieving look come on her face and he swung toward the cave mouth reaching for his pistol. There, holding the blanket aside with one hand, the short automatic rifle muzzle with its flash-cone jutting above his shoulder, was Pablo standing short, wide, bristly-faced, his small red-rimmed eyes looking toward no one in particular.
“Thou–” Pilar said to him unbelieving. “Thou.”
“Me,” said Pablo evenly. He came into the cave.
“Hola, Inglés,” he said. “I have five from the bands of Elias and Alejandro above with their horses.”
“And the exploder and the detonators?” Robert Jordan said. “And the other material?”
“I threw them down the gorge into the river,” Pablo said still looking at no one. “But I have thought of a way to detonate using a grenade.”