Episode #318

Part One of Three

Prologue       

Helm brushed past the guard, ignoring the subtle push that sent him stumbling slightly against the iron door of the cell. The doctor's attention was focussed on the dark figure sitting on the cot, her back against the rough adobe wall. Her lower face seemed a little flushed; the eyes that turned in his direction were wide and feverish. She reminded Helm of a trapped animal.        

His heart squeezed with fear for her and he shivered with dread. Late afternoon rays lanced through the cell window and cast barred shadows across her body. Those shadows seemed like an omen, that it was her destiny to end her life in prison, and at the end of a rope. He shoved the thought away as he pulled the cell door open after the guard had unlocked it.        

As soon as Helm entered the cell, the guard closed the door firmly, locking the doctor in with the prisoner. Immediately, Helm felt as if the walls were closing in on him and a fine sweat popped out on his brow. Though he had been inside these cells more times than he liked to remember, the whole feeling of the place still filled him with horror. Strong, mixed odours of decayed food, the ammoniac smell of urine and unwashed humanity clung to the very walls of the place. It stung his eyes and clogged his nostrils. He knew it would take days to get rid of the smell from his skin and clothes. A sense of outrage filled him as he looked at her sitting impassively on the cot, caged in this fetid environment.        

"What are you doing here?" he whispered as he dropped down next to her.        

"I've seen the outside of this place so often, I thought I'd like to see the inside for a change," she said with a saucy smile.        

Anger rushed through him, making his scalp tingle. "I'm not in a laughing mood right now, so stop trying to put a brave face on this. How in hell did you get caught?"        

The Queen regarded him for a moment, then turned her eyes back to the jail wall. She took a weary-sounding breath. "I had a good head start and thought I had made a clean get-away from the patrol but my horse stumbled and I fell off. When I tried to stand, I found a half dozen pistoles pointed at me. It seemed like a good idea to surrender rather than get riddled with bullets ...even though most of them would probably have missed," she added with a laugh. She suddenly froze, clutching her side with a deep groan.        

"Are you hurt?" Helm asked, reaching toward her.        

Wincing as she sat up, she said, "I think I have a broken rib or something." Her lips curled slightly as she slowly inhaled through gritted teeth.        

Her pained expression cut through him like a knife and he breathed deeply and slowly to calm himself. "Open your blouse and I'll take a look, see if there's any dangerous injury."        

She raised her chin and gave him a haughty look. "Really, Doctor! Without my duenna present?"        

Helm dropped his hands away as if they were scorched. Their one night of lovemaking had imprinted her body indelibly on his mind, but he still felt he had no right to touch her. He stammered, "I'm sorry ...of course ...what was I thinking? I'll have the guard bring a woman here immediately."        

The Queen laughed, then coughed and grunted with pain, gripping her side. "Please, Doctor. No more jokes. It only hurts when I laugh." More soberly, she added, "Luckily, there's not much to laugh about in here. Nothing to do but read the writing on those filthy walls. Look at that, Doctor. A few poems, some farewells to loved ones, or just names and dates. It's as if this is the only thing left to the condemned, to put up a marker that they actually existed once." Searching his face, then dropping her gaze, she sighed, "I wonder what I will write there?"        

Helm gripped her gloved hands, and said in an urgent whisper, "You won't die! I promise I'll get you out of this. If Montoya were still here, you'd be hanged tomorrow without a trial. But the people are all worked up about your being captured. A large crowd is milling about outside in the plaza right now. They're in a dangerous mood and the soldiers are keeping an eye on them." He smiled slightly. "The junta of dons don't know what to do with you. Some of them want to wait for the colonel to return but most don't want to let go of their new power. Don Gaspar insists on a fair trial. That may be your salvation."        

"I don't want a trial, Doctor. My identity would be revealed and I would be of no further use to the people. I would rather die than let that happen." Tenderly, she touched his cheek. "Don't worry. I won't make it easy for them."        

Helm choked down the fury that was building inside him, trying to reason with her. As usual, she planned to fight this alone. "What if we insist that your identity is not revealed during the trial? That only if you're found guilty would you be unmasked? "        

"But, Doctor, I am guilty." The look she gave him was at once both tender and pitying, like that you would give a child who had said something foolish. She pursed her lips, regarding him solemnly. "A fair trial could never exonerate me. I am guilty of all the charges that Montoya has made against me ...sedition against the Crown, theft, the killing of the King's soldiers. I am guilty of living outside the law."        

Helm shook his head, trying to grasp this strange mood she was in. It must be the effect of this dismal prison on her spirits. "What do you expect me to do ...just stand by and let you die? Everyone knows that what you have done was done with good intentions. You were trying to help the people. I may not agree with your actions, but I agree with your motives. Don't worry. We'll get you the best lawyer in Monterrey."        

"I've put myself beyond the help of the law. Even with the best motives, in the eyes of the law, I am a vigilante, a criminal."        

She swallowed audibly and Helm realised this admission was costing her dearly. In her own mind, she was doing right, but deep inside, her actions must cause her great pain, must leave emotional scars that no one could see. Helm knew all about those inner scars. He felt a strong bond with her, facing those demons that could plague your dreams and haunt your conscience. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. "The people will stand behind you. No one will let you die after you've helped so many. This town owes you a huge debt and now it's their turn to repay it."        

With a sad smile, she said, "Don't expect the people to do anything, Doctor. Before I came, they bowed to Montoya and let him trample over their rights. When I'm gone, they will go back to trying to live as best they can. As long as no one is bothering them, they will go on with their lives. It's the nature of people to avoid conflict if they can. I don't blame them for their ways. It's all they know."



       

Act One        

Gaspar mopped his moist face for the umpteenth time with a handkerchief that was nearly as damp as his skin. The heat in the colonel's office was almost intolerable, but they had been forced to close the windows and the outer door to keep out the din from the crowd in the plaza. A pulse throbbed behind his eyes and he felt the start of a headache drumming inside his brain. Until now, he had never realised how difficult and selfish his fellow dons were. The junta of thirteen dons had been cooped in this oven-like room for hours, wrangling over the fate of the Queen. Some of the men wanted to avoid the responsibility for making a decision by waiting for Colonel Montoya to return, others just wanted to hang her quickly and get it over with. Most seemed to wish they could avoid having to make any decision at all, and return to what they knew best, managing their haciendas.        

It had taken all Gaspar's powers of persuasion to get the dons to band together, to present a united front to the colonel, to force him to give them equal power of governance. With the order from the Viceroy, it made their hand even stronger. Weeks before, two of the dons had gone to Monterrey to present their petition for a junta comprised of the dons and the military to share the governance of the territory. The Viceroy had heard about Montoya's excesses and had written the order. He had also recalled Montoya to Monterrey for a meeting. Gaspar knew it was to get the colonel out of the way so the junta could get a good hold on their new powers.        

For over two weeks, since Montoya had taken a leave of absence at the order of the Viceroy, the junta had intervened in squabbles among small landholders, sentenced drunks to fines or jail, given punishments to disorderly soldiers and generally, handled the day to day command of the territory. But the matter of the Queen was of a much higher order. They were not prepared for this kind of decision.        

With a deep frustrated sigh, Gaspar began again. "We must act, señores. If we wait for the colonel to return, we are admitting that we cannot govern. There must be a trial, and it must take place tomorrow or the next day. The people are in a savage mood, waiting for something to happen." Gaspar strode to the balcony door which overlooked the plaza, and threw it open. A howling, animal sound filled the room, making the hairs on his neck rise. He always feared mobs, especially after what had happened in Madrid during the war of independence. The fierce, animal nature of humanity erupted from a mob and it could tear to pieces anything in its path. He closed the door hurriedly and returned to his place behind the colonel's desk. "We must show the people that we are just and honest, that even a vigilante has the right to a fair trial."        

The dozen men in the room seemed to be meditating on his words while Gaspar waited with barely held patience. Finally, one of the men spoke, the myopic Don Geronimo Villaloba.        

"We don't even know who she is. Suppose she is one of us ...someone's wife or daughter? What will we do then?" He squinted at Gaspar, then raised a lorgnette to his eyes and opened them wider. "How can we try one of our own?"        

Another barely-audible voice rose. "And, Don Gaspar, if we find her guilty, how can we hang a woman?" The mild-mannered Don Julio Méndez shivered visibly and shook his silvery head. "I, for one, could never see myself doing such a thing to a woman. It is unthinkable."        

Several of the dons nodded. Gaspar pressed his lips together. His headache was reaching epic proportions now. How he wished he could be at home with his dearest Vera, his delicate petal, to feel her cool hands soothing away the wretched pain that was almost blinding him. He loosened his collar, then cleared his throat and replied, "Who is to say that she would have to be hanged? Perhaps we could exile her to Mexico or Peru or Chile. She is actually a political prisoner, an enemy of the state, so exile would be the best punishment for her crimes."        

Relieved smiles accompanied his pronouncement and Gaspar felt a glow of satisfaction course through him. He was truly in his metier, he decided —a leader of men. One did not have to be a tyrant to get what one wanted; one only needed to be reasonable, to find an area of compromise. The tension in his head eased a little. Now it was a matter of getting the trial underway. Once the people outside knew there would be a trial — an open and fair trial — perhaps they would disperse without incident and no blood would be shed.

Continue to Part Two