That is over, he told himself, and thou canst try to atone for it as for the others. But now thou has what thou asked for last night coming home across the hills. Thou art in battle and thou hast no problem. If I die on this morning now it is all right.
Then he looked at Fernando lying there against the bank with his hands cupped over the groove of his hip, his lips blue, his eyes tight shut, breathing heavily and slowly, and he thought, If I die may it be quickly. Nay I said I would ask nothing more if I were granted what I needed for today. So I will not ask. Understand? I ask nothing. Nothing in any way. Give me what I asked for and I leave all the rest according to discretion.
He listened to the noise that came, far away, of the battle at the pass and he said to himself, Truly this is a great day. I should realize and know what a day this is.
But there was no lift or any excitement in his heart. That was all gone and there was nothing but a calmness. And now, as he crouched behind the marker stone with the looped wire in his hand and another loop of it around his wrist and the gravel beside the road under his knees he was not lonely nor did he feel in any way alone. He was one with the wire in his hand and one with the bridge, and one with the charges the Inglés had placed. He was one with the Inglés still working under the bridge and he was one with all of the battle and with the Republic.
But there was no excitement. It was all calm now and the sun beat down on his neck and on his shoulders as he crouched and as he looked up he saw the high, cloudless sky and the slope of the mountain rising beyond the river and he was not happy but he was neither lonely nor afraid.
Up the hill slope Pilar lay behind a tree watching the road that came down from the pass. She had three loaded rifles by her and she handed one to Primitivo as he dropped down beside her.
“Get down there,” she said. “Behind that tree. Thou, gypsy, over there,” she pointed to another tree below. “Is he dead?”
“Nay. Not yet,” Primitivo said.
“It was bad luck,” Pilar said. “If we had had two more it need not have happened. He should have crawled around the sawdust pile. Is he all right there where he is?”
Primitivo shook his head.
“When the Inglés blows the bridge will fragments come this far?” the gypsy asked from behind his tree.
“I don’t know,” Pilar said. “But Agustín with the máquina is closer than thee. The Inglés would not have placed him there if it were too close.”
“But I remember with the blowing of the train the lamp of the engine blew by over my head and pieces of steel flew by like swallows.”
“Thou hast poetic memories,” Pilar said. “Like swallows. Joder! They were like wash boilers. Listen, gypsy, thou hast comported thyself well today. Now do not let thy fear catch up with thee.”
“Well, I only asked if it would blow this far so I might keep well behind the tree trunk,” the gypsy said.
“Keep it thus,” Pilar told him. “How many have we killed?”
“Pues five for us. Two here. Canst thou not see the other at the far end? Look there toward the bridge. See the box? Look! Dost see?” He pointed. “Then there were eight below for Pablo. I watched that post for the Inglés.”
Pilar grunted. Then she said violently and raging, “What passes with that Inglés? What is he obscenitying off under that bridge. Vaya mandanga! Is he building a bridge or blowing one?”
She raised her head and looked down at Anselmo crouched behind the stone marker.
“Hey, viejo!” she shouted. “What passes with thy obscenity of an Inglés?”
“Patience, woman,” Anselmo called up, holding the wire lightly but firmly. “He is terminating his work.”
“But what in the name of the great whore does he take so much time about?”