Never an Empire Page 9

  ‘I do not need to think; it was entirely my own idea.’

  The chief of police came back to his desk, sat down heavily, and began his questioning again.

  ‘And who did you tell you were planning to go to this village?’

  ‘But we have been over this already. You have asked me these same questions twice and if you ask them twice more my answers will not change.’

  ‘Never mind how many times I ask them. I’ll ask it twenty times if I like, priest or no priest.’

  Father Enrique gave a small sigh of resignation.

  ‘I told my housekeeper and my sacristan four days before we set off. They would have told other people that I’d be away and everyone in the town would have known where I was going by the time I left.’

  ‘But the bandits were waiting for you in the village?’

  ‘That’s possible. They may have been there when I arrived but if they were I didn’t see them until the morning of the following day.’

  ‘And by that time my men had been taken?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The chief stood up again, took another turn round the office, then came back and stood in front of Father Enrique.

  ‘Now look, Father, I’ll tell you something. In the normal course of events I wouldn’t dream of giving an inch to those cowardly brigands. I’d let them hang my men rather than negotiate. Then I’d hunt them down like the scum they are.’ He paused and pulled awkwardly at his moustache and a change of tone came into his voice. ‘That’s the official line, Father, that’s what Manila expects me to say, and that’s what I’ll have to say unless we can find some other way.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, we. You got me into this mess, didn’t you?’

  ‘Me?’

  The tone changed back.

  ‘Yes, you. You’re the one who went running off to some godforsaken village stuck out there in the middle of bandit country and if you insisted on going I had to send an escort with you didn’t I? You knew that.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  The chief waved aside his answer.

  ‘Of course you did. Everyone did. I couldn’t let an important man, our only priest, make a dangerous journey like that without proper protection.’ He made a wide gesture with both arms. ‘The whole town knew I would have to send an armed guard, that there would be my men with you.’

  Father Enrique shrugged noncommittally; he didn’t want to argue: he wanted to be on his way. He had come directly to the chief of police’s office as soon as he returned from the village and handed over the written message Carmen’s husband had given to him just before he left.

  ‘If you say so. I know nothing of these things.’

  ‘Oh? You know nothing, eh? Well I say you know enough to arrange a trip to nowhere for no good reason other than to drop my men into an ambush.’

  Father Enrique looked up at him genuinely surprised.

  ‘Are you saying that I was part of some plot to kidnap your men?’

  The chief of police, who had been standing over Father Enrique in a menacing manner, now deflated, walked round the desk, and almost collapsed into his chair.

  ‘No, Father, of course not. I was just trying to find out if it might sound right if I said it to anyone else.’

  ‘Well if you do say it to anyone else I hope it sounds as preposterous to them as it does to me because it’s nonsense.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I didn’t really think it could work and you’re right, it wouldn’t. But the fact is I’m desperate.’ He pushed the letter from the lieutenant across the desk. ‘You’ve read it?’

  ‘No, but the lieutenant who gave it to me told me what it said. Your men for theirs or your men hang when theirs do.’

  The chief pulled the letter back.

  ‘And he gives me only a week. I ask you, Father, what can I do in a week?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m a priest, not a policeman or a soldier.’

  A sudden anger came into the chief’s voice and his fist banged in the desk.

  ‘They’re not soldiers, they’re bandits, criminals. The Americans passed a law that says so, that anyone who opposes their occupation is a bandit and that includes anyone who helps them. You know that as well as I do even if you are a priest.’

  ‘All I know is what I saw. The man wore a military uniform, spoke like an officer, and behaved like one.’

  The flash of anger passed as quickly as it had come. He might be chief of police, but he also had a problem, a bigger one than just having two of his officers taken by the rebels.

  ‘Look, Father, I’ll tell you the truth. I’m in a difficult spot and I’ll need your help. One of those two men I sent to look after you is my wife’s nephew, her sister’s boy. He’s not very bright and I doubt he’s very honest but he’s still my wife’s nephew so I had to give him a job when no one else would have him. Not that I blame them: he’s caused me enough headaches with his lazy ways, but if the rebels kill him my wife will never forgive me, and you know what that would mean in any household? Oh, no, sorry, Father, I was thinking out loud more than talking. But I need the boy back safely and I’ll need help to do it. Your help.’

  ‘Me? What can I do?’

  The chief leaned forward. He may not have looked like a man of intellect and action but it was not for nothing that he had become the chief of police. Already he had begun to form a plan in his mind. His difficulty was the plan only worked if he had an absolutely reliable man communicating for him with the rebels. He looked at Father Enrique. This priest had to be that man.

  ‘I want you to go back to the village and get a message to the rebels. I will release their men and make it look like an escape but they must put my two men where I know I can get them back safely once the escape has taken place. Will you do that, Father? Will you go and take that message to the rebels?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? Not to save lives: my men and the rebels I’m holding?’ He tried to get a sneer into his voice, ‘And you say you’re a man of God.’

  ‘I am a priest, not a policeman nor a police messenger and I don’t want to get any more involved in this thing than I already am.’

  ‘But that’s the point. You are already involved. You led my men to the village. You were there when they were taken. You spoke to the leader of the bandits and you were his messenger to me.’

  ‘And my answer is still no.’

  But Father Enrique’s voice was not as final as he would have wished and the chief noticed it. He sat back and smiled and stroked his moustache. He was back on familiar ground now.

  ‘Don’t worry, Father, nothing will happen to you. You are our priest, respected, admired. You gave us the orphanage and the sewing school. You brought us Mass and the sacraments. People know you to be a good and holy man. But you are also somewhat otherworldly, you are an innocent among the devious ways of the wicked. You trust too easily and cannot see when villainy stands right beside you, even perhaps in your own house.’ He held up a hand as if to prevent some refutation of his comments although Father Enrique had made no attempt to speak. ‘Oh I don’t blame you, Father, it is good for a priest to be like that, but someone led my men into a prepared ambush. Someone who knew that you would be going to the village gave that information to the rebels in plenty of time for them to get ready.’

  ‘I told you. Everyone would know: the whole town would have been told there would be no Masses while I was away.’

  ‘True, but that was only just before you left, not time enough to contact the rebels and for them to make their arrangements. No, it had to be someone who knew about your visit as soon as you had decided to go. Let me see, who did you say knew you were going?’ He put his fingertips together as if trying to remember and waited a moment. Father Enrique felt a knot of fear form in his stomach. He knew what was coming.

  ‘Ah yes, your housekeeper and your sacristan. You told them both because you said you would be taking them with you. Yes, that’s right. I remember now. Well, Father, one or th
e other must be in league with the bandits. Or maybe they’re in it together. I will have to have them brought in and questioned, questioned quite severely. Of course my men will have to be told what it’s all about and no doubt they will take it badly. I’m afraid the interrogation might be used by them to get some sort of revenge.’

  He spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘I couldn’t approve of any such brutality but I can understand how it might happen and of course I could do nothing to stop it until it was probably too late. The woman would suffer more I think. Men, even policemen, can become animals when women are involved in violence; who knows what might happen to her before I could intervene. And your sacristan is an old man, not strong. It is not impossible that he might not survive a really severe interrogation. Any misjudgement by …’

  But Father Enrique had heard enough. If Maria was questioned she might admit it was her idea to go to the village and if that happened he would be caught out in a lie. Then there was the matter of Carmen. No, for more reasons than the chief understood Father Enrique knew he could not let Maria be interrogated.

  ‘Very well. I will take your message.’

  The chief of police beamed at him.

  ‘Good. I knew I could rely on your help, Father, after all, you are a man of God and lives are at stake here. Now go home and don’t mention any of this to a soul.’

  ‘My housekeeper and sacristan will not be questioned?’

  ‘No, not as long as they keep their mouths tight shut. Tell them that, Father, tell them to forget everything they heard and saw. Tomorrow, just before dawn, I will send a man to your house. He will bring you a good horse and go with you most of the way.’

  ‘And what excuse will there be for no morning Mass?’

  ‘You’re unwell. You have to stay in bed. You caught something at the village.’ The chief grinned, pleased with himself. ‘After all, it’s not so far from the truth, is it?’

  ‘And your terms for the exchange? Will this man bring me your message to hand over?’

  ‘Oh no, Father, nothing in writing, not from me anyway. You can remember all that’s needed, I’m sure. The rebels I’m holding in gaol will escape as soon as I know my men are safely deposited somewhere I can be sure of getting them back unharmed. That’s not so hard, is it?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  The chief stood up.

  ‘Well, I suppose you want to get back now and do whatever it is you do.’ He came round the desk and held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Father, you’ve made the right choice.’

  Father Enrique stood up. Another choice made, apparently. He shook the chief’s hand, then turned and walked to the door where he stopped.

  ‘You think I have?’

  ‘Of course, sooner or later everyone has to choose which side they’re on, now you’ve made yours and you can take my word, Father, it’s the right one.’

  Father Enrique nodded, but whether that signified he agreed or simply accepted he was in a situation over which he had no control the chief couldn’t tell nor, in truth, could Father Enrique.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘It’s madness, you know that. You can’t trust the police. You can’t trust anyone in a thing like this.’

  His housekeeper’s last words to him as he was about to leave the house rang through Father Enrique’s head as he and his companion neared the village. For the whole of the journey the man sent by the chief of police had rode in front of him. He wore ordinary clothes but no one would be fooled by this because he carried a large service pistol in a holster at his side. He had arrived at the house with a saddled horse as the first light of dawn was breaking and he and Father Enrique had set off soon after. Throughout the journey neither had exchanged a word but now, about fifteen minutes ride from the village, he dropped back alongside Father Enrique and reined his horse to a stop. From the start of the journey he had set a brisk pace that Father Enrique, no horseman, had found difficult to sustain. On his previous journey to the village the party had never progressed at more than a gentle walk. He was glad that his companion finally felt it necessary to stop.

  ‘You know what to do, Father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know who you will speak to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you go on alone. I will wait for you here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They have two of our men. I don’t want to make it three.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Father Enrique reluctantly kicked his horse into motion.

  On entering the village the people, who seemed to somehow know of his coming, gathered round him and walked silently alongside the horse as he made his way to the centre of the village. Once there the head man, who was already waiting, signalled a woman to come to him. She stepped forward reached up, took the reins and held the horse as, slowly and inelegantly, Father Enrique managed to slide from the saddle. The head man stepped forward, obviously nervous and worried.

  Why had the priest returned so soon? It could only be bad news, terrible news.

  ‘Welcome, Father.’

  Father Enrique stood silent for a moment. For most of the journey he had been planning how to deliver his message, preparing the words he would use, deciding who would be the best person to speak to, the manner of his delivery. Should he give the message to the head man or should he give it to Carmen? The message had to be delivered and passed on. Carmen was the one most likely to see that her husband got the message but if he spoke to the head man his involvement in the whole wretched business was the less, it kept the whole thing more formal. But now, dismounted, all he wanted was to stand for a while and rest, preferably in the shade. He wanted to let the ache in his back subside and he desperately wanted a drink of something cold. The head man stood waiting patiently.

  ‘Have you something cold to drink?’

  ‘Yes, Father, of course. Would you like to come to my hut and sit down?’

  ‘No.’

  The reply was emphatic. He definitely didn’t want to sit down.

  ‘Is it bad news, Father? Has something happened? It is wonderful that you have come to us once more but, forgive me asking, why have you come? Is it to do with the lieutenant and the policemen he took? Is there going to be trouble, Father?’

  ‘I will take a drink then I want to speak to the wife of the lieutenant.’ Father Enrique had decided. This man was asking too many questions and he wasn’t sure he had the right answers. ‘It is a private matter. A message for the lieutenant, not for anyone else. I will wait here.’

  The crowd surrounding the two men stood in absolute silence. They kept a distance but were close enough to hear clearly what was being said, especially as neither the priest nor the head man tried to lower their voices. The head man nodded to someone at the front of the crowd who turned and passed out of sight through the villagers. A rustle of murmuring began as the people discussed among themselves what had been said and what it might mean.

  A woman came through the crowd with a bowl of cold water and handed it to Father Enrique who took it, drank deeply, and handed it back. The crowd parted and Carmen came towards him. She was by herself; there was no sign of her child.

  ‘You sent for me, Father.’

  ‘Yes. I have a message for your husband.’

  Carmen looked at the head man for guidance but he stood there immobile.

  ‘I cannot send any message, Father. I have no way of contacting my husband. I do not even know where he is.’

  Father Enrique hadn’t expected this sort of response. In his mind on the journey he had envisioned giving the message and then leaving, no more. It should all have been simple, straightforward, and brief. He looked at the head man.

  ‘It is the truth, Father. None of us have any contact with the rebels. We know nothing. We are poor people who work hard and obey the laws. The rebels are in the mountains,’ he gestured vaguely towards some distant peaks, ‘far away. We have nothing to do with them.’

  ‘But they
were here. They took two policemen captive. I spoke with a lieutenant, this woman’s husband.’

  The head man shrugged.

  ‘If you say so, Father, but I remember nothing.’

  ‘You said your young men were with the rebels, that they come back to see their women. You told me that yourself.’

  ‘Did I, Father? I don’t remember.’

  ‘You know you did.’

  ‘If you say so, Father. But what I think I said was that the land is poor round here and produces very little. Most of our young men have gone away to find work in more prosperous places or to Manila. Sometimes they come back to bring money for their families. That is what I think I said, Father.’ He looked at the silent faces surrounding them. ‘Ask them, ask anyone. They were there listening just like they are now. They will tell you what I said.’

  Father Enrique looked around at the blank, staring faces. They held no welcome now as they had when he had first come. Now he was a stranger, an unwelcome stranger who would bring trouble to them. He thought about it. Last time he had come as a priest and behaved like a priest. Now he was someone else, someone who had come to talk about rebels and messages and kidnapped policemen. Of course they couldn’t simply say to him, yes, your message will be sent. To do so was to admit that they were in contact with the rebels, even a tacit admission that they gave them support. They couldn’t admit a message could be sent, not by Carmen, not by anyone. If they did then under the American law it made them bandits themselves. He felt helpless and confused.

  Carmen spoke.

  ‘If you have a message for my husband you can give it to me if you wish, Father. He came when you were here but no one knew he was coming. I hadn’t seen him since he left but he must have heard a priest was to be in the village so he took a chance. Who knows, one day he might come again, I doubt it, but he might. If he does I will give him your message.’

  The head man seemed angry.

  ‘He will not come. It is no good leaving a message for him. He is far away in the mountains.’