Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [18]
They made four more stops on the way. Pulling up outside houses that the priest didn’t recognise; picking up men and women whom he didn’t know. At each stop, two or three more people were shoved into the back of the truck. There was some shouting, a few screams but no real complaints and no resistance.
By the time they reached the dockside, the truck was full. The driver slowed his speed as he pulled onto one of the piers. Through the gap in the canvas, Pettigrew caught a glimpse of a distinctive four-mast schooner, the Dama Blanca. The White Lady was a familiar sight in Valparaíso, being the training ship for the cadets at the city’s Arturo Prat Naval Academy. He had even been on board once himself, during an Open Day early in 1972. Visitors were given a tour of the bay, some free rum and a rather boring lecture on Arturo Prat and his good works.
This time, no doubt, the programme would be rather different.
Despite everything, Pettigrew managed a smile when he recalled Agustín Arturo Prat Chacón. Prat was a very Chilean kind of hero. He took a bullet between the eyes in 1879 while fighting the Peruvians.
Almost 100 years later, there were 162 streets named after the great man in Chile. In Valparaíso, there was an Arturo Prat statue as well. By all accounts, Prat was much taken by the liberalism of the times. His academy was supposed to teach future naval officers ‘academic, moral, cultural and physical education’. Pettigrew wondered which part of the curriculum they were covering tonight.
Their truck trundled past a group of twenty or so people who had been rounded up by the military. Some were lying face-down on the quayside; others were kneeling. All had their hands clutched behind their heads. Half a dozen armed sailors stood around them, keeping guard, smoking, sharing the occasional joke. Above them all, a group of maybe thirty navy cadets stood at attention on the main deck of the ship itself, watching closely despite keeping their gaze fixed firmly on some invisible point in the inky sky.
The truck came to a gentle stop and the canvas covers at the back were thrown open. Without being told, people started getting off. ‘I hope you know how to swim,’ one of the soldiers joked as Pettigrew jumped down from the truck onto the cold cobbles.
As soon as it was empty, the truck headed off into the night, no doubt in search of its next passengers. Stretching, Pettigrew looked around. The pier was kept in darkness, the only light coming from the ship’s portholes and from the orange street lights in the town above. He shivered as a chill breeze cut in from the sea. Without being told, he sank to his knees on the dockside, keen to fit in. Most of his fellow travellers followed suit. He bowed his head and was quickly rewarded by a blow to the neck with the stock of a sailor’s rifle. Without complaining, he looked up and carefully studied his tormentor. The latter was tall and pale, with thin wrists, a small mouth and green eyes. His tunic was unbuttoned at the neck and an unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth. Avoiding the red priest’s gaze, he recorded Pettigrew’s existence and silently moved on. Pettigrew watched him wandering through the kneeling group, casually offering the occasional blow, seemingly as engaged as a man pruning his roses.
It was another fifteen minutes or so before the detainees were formally handed over to the ship’s commander. Even at times like this, we Chileans like our ceremony, Pettigrew mused. He was almost surprised that they didn’t have a brass band on hand to provide a musical accompaniment. They were pushed up the gangplank under a hail of kicks, blows and curses.
On the deck of the ship, his hands were untied and he was told to crouch with his hands behind the back of his neck. As the final prisoners shuffled on board, he counted twenty-six men and twenty-two women. He guessed that their ages ranged from something like fifteen to sixty-five. They were arranged in eight rows of half a dozen each, facing away from the pier. Wandering between the