“We took boat here—not a sailing boat, for those have passed away and market produce goes now to the city by train. We went in one of the ferries which ply every hour from Carpinche to Santa Barbara, calling at La Boca. I landed at La Boca to try to find word of Giordano. He had gone back to Italy, they told me, some years ago and was living there near Florence; very rich, they said. Pedro Ruiz was still marketing and gardening. I saw him at last in the flesh and bought some plants from him, which I hope I shall make grow for the sake of old times. The padron of my boat and Chigo had both gone back to Italy: few Italians stay here more than seven years.
“From there I came on to the Farola, where I had the long wait that anxious morning. As I landed in the late afternoon, I was the only person there, except a few anglers fishing for snappers. I could see what used to be the Piranhas’ house, so leaving the pier, I walked up to it. It is now the house of enclosed nuns in which Rosa lives. They are contemplatives, so there was no seeing Rosa: none of us will ever see her again, I suppose. I am too active to take to the monkish way of life myself; but I have seen monks and nuns out here, from time to time, who have made me see something of what they see. When you once see the beauty of holiness, no other beauty seems living. Rosa is happy. I went to the house just when they were singing their service, in that chapel which used to be the Piranhas’ chapel, where Donna Emilia and her husband are buried. I felt very queer, to think that Rosa was singing there and I so near her, listening: and suddenly I knew that she knew that I was listening, and was sending me a message of great happiness.
“In the city, I learned of some of the rest of these people. Don Inocencio was killed in the troubles: murdered the day after Don Manuel lost the battle, like so many other Whites. Allan Winter is still out at Quezon: Weycock is in the Shipping Co. I saw him at the Club: he is a man I cannot stick. Don José is one of his clients, they say: he would be.
“I asked Colonel Peñedo at the War Office if he could find out for me about the Pituba officer who would not let me land and afterwards jailed me. He was a Captain Avellano, it seems; a well-known Red and as brave as they are made. Don Livio, that mongrel scoundrel, was responsible for sending him to Ribote to burn the Ribote house. It seems that he had no written orders to stop the boats at La Boca: in doing that he was probably just being cussed. He was a gallant man in his way: he was killed fighting for Lopez a year later, “fighting like a wild tiger cat, one against twenty,” so Peñedo said. The Pituba officers were usually pretty tough: so I hope he may rest in peace.
“Of some of the other criminals and waifs, upon whose tracks mine impinged, I could learn nothing. Anna the were-wolf got herself shot in the troubles by wanting to be too revolutionary: the Reds did not kill the Whites so that Anna and her friends might rule.
“I haven’t mentioned Ezekiel Rust, because I have so often written to you about him. He and his wife Isabella are still out at Encarnacion; he runs the haras there, in very good style; she seems fond of him: both are well. He always wants to come back to England, to see Tencombe again, but I beg him not to think of it. Many there would recognise him, and although the evidence against him cannot now be strong, he would be certain to incriminate himself, and it would be too pitiful if the poor old chap should get himself hanged or (more probably) shut up as a criminal lunatic. Where he is now, he is a valuable man. Where he is now, Keeper Jackson is, I hope, a valuable ghost. Why not let it rest at that?
“I asked about that picture-dealer on the water-front. It seems that he got a lot of things from the de Leyva collection, chiefly the bronzes. Then Don José tried to get them out of him, and as he wouldn’t sell them, Don José took them, with all his other belongings, and had the man deported. I suppose this is Don J’s nearest approach to a virtuous act. Of course, this was years ago, only a few days after the troubles began.
“H. E. had me out to dine at the palace, to ask me about another job, opening up the Burnt Lands by canals, and would I design the boats? It seems tame, after the San Jacinto: like falling off a log; but I want to be in everything that H. E. is in. He thinks that the B. L. can be planted in patches, if there are catchments. He is the most hopeful soul I know.
“By the way, in the palace, I found the Aztec, the Ribote brother. He is a sort of Secretary for Clerical Affairs, rather a big gun. I did not remind him of our meeting.
“Well, this is a long letter: I must stop.