For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway [192]
“Buena suerte thyself, Fernando,” Robert Jordan said.
“In everything thou doest,” Agustín said.
“Thank you, Don Roberto,” Fernando said, undisturbed by Agustín.
“That one is a phenomenon, Inglés,” Agustín whispered.
“I believe thee,” Robert Jordan said. “Can I help thee? Thou art loaded like a horse.”
“I am all right,” Agustín said. “Man, but I am content we are started.”
“Speak softly,” Anselmo said. “From now on speak little and softly.”
Walking carefully, downhill, Anselmo in the lead, Agustín next, Robert Jordan placing his feet carefully so that he would not slip, feeling the dead pine needles under his rope-soled shoes, bumping a tree root with one foot and putting a hand forward and feeling the cold metal jut of the automatic rifle barrel and the folded legs of the tripod, then working sideways down the hill, his shoes sliding and grooving the forest floor, putting his left hand out again and touching the rough bark of a tree trunk, then as he braced himself his hand feeling a smooth place, the base of the palm of his hand coming away sticky from the resinous sap where a blaze had been cut, they dropped down the steep wooded hillside to the point above the bridge where Robert Jordan and Anselmo had watched the first day.
Now Anselmo was halted by a pine tree in the dark and he took Robert Jordan’s wrist and whispered, so low Jordan could hardly hear him, “Look. There is the fire in his brazier.”
It was a point of light below where Robert Jordan knew the bridge joined the road.
“Here is where we watched,” Anselmo said. He took Robert Jordan’s hand and bent it down to touch a small fresh blaze low on a tree trunk. “This I marked while thou watched. To the right is where thou wished to put the máquina.”
“We will place it there.”
“Good.”
They put the packs down behind the base of the pine trunks and the two of them followed Anselmo over to the level place where there was a clump of seedling pines.
“It is here,” Anselmo said. “Just here.”
“From here, with daylight,” Robert Jordan crouched behind the small trees whispered to Agustín, “thou wilt see a small stretch of road and the entrance to the bridge. Thou wilt see the length of the bridge and a small stretch of road at the other end before it rounds the curve of the rocks.”
Agustín said nothing.
“Here thou wilt lie while we prepare the exploding and fire on anything that comes from above or below.”
“Where is that light?” Agustín asked.
“In the sentry box at this end,” Robert Jordan whispered.
“Who deals with the sentries?”
“The old man and I, as I told thee. But if we do not deal with them, thou must fire into the sentry boxes and at them if thou seest them.”
“Yes. You told me that.”
“After the explosion when the people of Pablo come around that corner, thou must fire over their heads if others come after them. Thou must fire high above them when they appear in any event that others must not come. Understandest thou?”
“Why not? It is as thou saidst last night.”
“Hast any questions?”
“Nay. I have two sacks. I can load them from above where it will not be seen and bring them here.”
“But do no digging here. Thou must be as well hid as we were at the top.”
“Nay. I will bring the dirt in them in the dark. You will see. They will not show as I will fix them.”
“Thou are very close. Sabes? In the daylight this clump shows clearly from below.”
“Do not worry, Inglés. Where goest thou?”
“I go close below with the small máquina of mine. The old man will cross the gorge now to be ready for the box of the other end. It faces in that direction.”
“Then nothing more,” said Agustín. “Salud, Inglés. Hast thou tobacco?”
“Thou canst not smoke. It is too close.”
“Nay. Just to hold in the mouth. To smoke later.”
Robert Jordan gave him his cigarette case and Agustín took three cigarettes and put them inside the front flap of his herdsman’s flat cap. He spread the legs of his tripod with the gun muzzle in the