Crusader's Tomb by A. J. Cronin

Author:A. J. Cronin [Cronin, A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan

Chapter Seven

Next morning, as he crossed the last summit and came down the steep incline towards Málaga, he felt the dark cloud of his anxiety lightened by a sudden gleam of hope. He was here at last. The town beneath, curving along the bay, sheltered by its long breakwater, shimmering white and gold against the deep Mediterranean blue, the roof of the cathedral glinting in the early sunshine, seemed, after the arid wilderness behind him, a haven of security. Peyrat, when Stephen left before dawn, although still fevered, had been quiet, and apparently in less pain. Now it would not be long before help reached him.

Hastening through the outskirts of the town, Stephen passed along an avenue of palm trees, then entered the Calle de la Victoria. As he made his way towards the main square he began to sense a singular stir in the streets. Men were standing in groups around the cafés talking and gesticulating, and at the corner of the Calle Larios a large crowd had collected outside the offices of the Gaceta de la Caleta. Stephen stopped and spoke to a man on the edge of the gathering.

‘Friend, what is the reason of this assembly?’

‘The reason? Why, man, we are waiting for the next edition of the Gaceta.’

‘And is that usual here… in such numbers, every day?’

‘No, it is not usual. But then, not every day is there such news.’

‘What news, friend?’

‘Why, man, news of the war.’

‘War?’ Stephen did not understand, thinking that the word guerra which the man had used referred to some local disturbance, a strike perhaps. ‘Then there is a conflict in the town?’

‘Not here, thanks to the Virgin of Guadalupe and the natural good sense of Spain. But elsewhere. A great, very great war.’ He paused, observing the look of stupefaction on the other’s face, then politely, with a slight bow, he offered the folded newspaper which he carried in his hand. ‘This is of the day before. The Señor may see for himself.’

Stephen straightened out the sheet, which was dated August 7, his gaze instantly arrested by the smudged grey headlines. They struck him like a blow. In the daze of one long out of touch with the progress and culmination of events, he read on, then, after a few minutes put the paper down, stared blankly across the alleyway, recollecting with a pained constriction of his brow all that Hubert had said to him in Paris.

‘You are Inglés?’

‘Yes.’ Stephen came to himself, aware of the other’s mannerly curiosity. ‘Can you direct me to the consulado?’

‘It is quite near. Take the second turning on the left, then again to the left. You will see the flag above the entrance.’

With an expression of thanks Stephen hurried off.

The consulate was a villa standing in a small garden near the harbour. The door was open, and as Stephen mounted the short flight of steps and entered, he found the hall and staircase already crowded. From the two rooms on the ground floor came the sound of intense activity.

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