Not much later, languishing in post-carnal relaxation, he found he was required to respond to a lover desperate to ensure his continued assistance, without being aware if Laporta had asked her to apply pressure. Any resistance to the idea of taking part in the move on Saragossa was sapped as quickly as had been his sexual energy, though he did manage the caveat that he would have to talk to Vince Castellano before making any decision.
If he had hoped that would be an end to Florencia’s attempts at persuasion he was disappointed; if a female anarchist was anything, she was persistent.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Throughout the barrage of passionately delivered arguments, Cal Jardine had to consider what he might be joining, never mind any commitment to back up Vince. To his mind, the principles of the group to which Florencia belonged had within them all the ingredients that could create a recipe for disaster, one policy crossing with another to produce mostly confusion; if everyone had a right to an opinion, as well as the entitlement to express it, who made the decisions – a committee, a show of hands?
The notion of any form of organised government was anathema, as were courts, the law, a police force and prison for offenders against the commonwealth. Taxation was transgression; a way of taking from the productive to feather the nest of the idle, indeed money itself was nothing but the primary step to the corruption of the ideal of an economy based on trust – he had observed some anarchists lighting their cigars with high-denomination peseta notes, fortunately not his – which might be all very well in ordered times; these were far from that.
But now it appeared the CNT-FAI had a real problem, for they had to accept that not only was government necessary for Catalonia, but they had to be part of it. The streets had to be policed, the distribution of food and the provision of medical care supervised, while the not-so-minor problem of mistrust meant an organised military force needed to be maintained to ensure that crime was held in check, and also that no one body could exercise control. The Civil and Assault Guards had to be watched as well, to protect against any backsliding – for all their recent support, such one-time state entities were not to be trusted.
Observation over the last forty-eight hours had been confused, but for all the flag-flying and display it was obvious to even the most inattentive mind that the CNT-FAI activists were the party that had done most to save Barcelona, hardly surprising given they were by far the most numerous and committed. On barricades, and in those flying columns of truck-borne fighters, the red and black colours had been the most prominent by a factor of five to one. They were in a position to control what happened next, yet it was those very same principles Florencia espoused that prevented them for exercising that power.
To force others to accept their governance flew in the face of their core ideology; they did not believe in dictatorship, not even their own, which meant cooperation with other political organisations was inevitable, while at this moment, such consideration had to take a back seat to the primary task, the defeat of the revolt. Into that mix was thrown the endemic desire of the various factions who constituted the regional government that Catalonia should be an autonomous federated province of Spain, if not an outright independent state, which put the whole state on a collision course with Madrid.
Laporta, apparently, had spent half the night arguing the toss with the other faction leaders and Catalonian separatists about how to proceed, both in governance and in pursuance of the conflict. The CNT was desperate and determined to go to the relief of Saragossa; everyone else, even if they had conceded the point, was concerned about the security of what they already held, fearful that a city denuded of so many fighters might be vulnerable to attack in what was a very confused picture about what was happening throughout the Peninsula.
‘Does the man ever sleep?’ Cal asked this while once more drying himself, after a second and shared bath. The saucy look he got in response made him grab for his clothes and answer with some haste. ‘We must go to Vince, who will be wondering what’s happening.’
The streets were quieter than the day before, but nothing like as settled as they had been prior to the uprising. Still lorries roared around, but the barricades had been opened and normality was in full swing: mothers pushing babies in prams, shopkeepers laying out their wares or patching damaged windows, even sweepers cleaning up the debris of the street battles. Tellingly there were no bodies – they had been removed – though the smell of their one-time presence had not faded in a sun-drenched city.
On street corners and outside important buildings, unshaven men in blue overalls and varied armbands, rifles slung over the shoulders, muzzles pointing down in the manner of the classic revolutionary, eyed passers-by with looks that would not have disgraced the most cheerless Civil Guard, who, tellingly, were not to be seen. Passing damaged buildings, pocked with bullet marks, Cal was struck by one wall, where the indentations were mixed with the black stains of sun-dried blood.
Pointed out to Florencia as an obvious place of execution, he was struck by her indifference and wondered how it was that a woman so passionate in person, and one whom he had witnessed being kind and considerate over the time they had spent together, could now be so unfeeling. The spilling of blood did that, of course, the sight of bodies and the witnessing of killing hardening the senses until such a sight seemed normal, not softened by a sense of righteousness no less deep than the kind that had supported the Spanish Inquisition.
On arrival at the hostel, they found Vince giving his boys training in the very basics, lecturing them on how to strip, oil and reassemble their rifles, which, Cal knew from experience, he would keep at them to do until it was a task that could be carried out in the dark; rumours had abounded about the planned move on Saragossa, and looking into their faces, and watching Vince acting as an instructor, Cal was taken back to a time when he too had trained youngsters to be soldiers.
For all his misgivings about the British army and the way it was led and directed, he could recall the satisfaction that came from turning raw recruits into effective soldiers, as well as the pleasure of leading them in combat and watching them grow from boys into men. Would that happen now, would he feel the same with these kids? In the end it was the attitude of them and Vince that forced a decision; he was not prepared to leave these inexperienced boys to do what they intended without his help, which meant Cal, already swayed by Florencia, felt he had no option but to do likewise.
He and she left them at their training and went to find out what the rest of the British party were up to, only to discover, as they toured their various places of accommodation, that they had already voted with their feet. By their very nature a spirited bunch of individuals, the athletes had, with a few exceptions, upped sticks and made some form of exit, many it seemed just deciding to hitchhike north to the French border. Those few he found still present he gave some money and told them to make their way home too, taking care to settle any outstanding bills due to their Spanish hosts.
Returning, they found Vince and his boys lined up on parade, weapons reassembled, looking smart, each with a blanket round their shoulders, a beret on their heads and a knapsack on their backs, leaving Cal to wonder if they had looted a store or paid for items that created a kind of uniform. He instituted a final equipment check, pleased that so little needed to be discarded.