Then they had marched on until they came to the Castle of Montevideo. There the world ended. There was nothing but time, divided into alternations of night and day. He had seen nobody but soldiers, except the old woman Catarina, who seemed to be a sort of scullion. After he recovered from the prison fever of which his comrade of the chains died, the old woman had shown a sort of pity for him; perhaps she liked him as one often likes those upon whom one has conferred benefits. She yielded to his entreaties for a pencil for an hour or so, and some paper, just a sheet or two. She smuggled them to him, and she smuggled away the letter that he wrote. She did not know what would happen, but she would give it to her son Porfirio, who was a vaquero. Porfirio would give it to his friend Antonio Vaquez, who was leading a burro train north to Monterey. After that was the unknown, but who could tell? Antonio Vaquez was a kind man, and the Holy Virgin sometimes worked miracles for the good. As for the poor lad, the prisoner, he must rest now. He had been muy malo (very sick), and it was not good to worry.
John tried not to worry. It was such easy advice to give and so very hard for one to take who had been buried alive through a time that seemed eternity, and who had been forgotten by all the world, except his jailers. That letter had gone more than a year ago, and, of course, it had not reached its destination. He ought never to have thought such a thing possible. Very likely it had been destroyed by Porfirio, the vaquero, old Catarina's son. He had not seen old Catarina herself in a long time. Doubtless they had sent her away because she had been kind to him, or they may have found out about the letter. He was very sorry. She was far from young, and she was far from beautiful, but her brief presence at intervals had been cheering.
He watched the last rays of the sun fade on the volcanic slope. A single beam, livid and splendid, lingered for a moment, and then was gone. After it came the dark, with all the chilling power of great elevation. The cold even penetrated the deep slit that led through twelve feet of solid masonry, and John Bedford shivered. It was partly the dark that made him shiver. He rose from the stool and made his way slowly and painfully to his cot against the wall, his chains rattling heavily over the floor.
He heard a key turning in the lock and the door opening, but he did not look around. They usually came with his food at this hour, and the food was always the same. There was no cause for curiosity. But when he heard the steps of two men instead of one he did look around. There was the same soldier bringing his supper of frijoles and tortillas on a tin plate, and a cup of very bad coffee, but he was accompanied by the new governor of the castle, Captain Pedro de Armijo, whom John did not like at all. The soldier drew up the stool, put the food on it, and also a candle that he carried.
John began to eat and drink, taking not the slightest notice of de Armijo. The man from the first had given him the impression of cold, malignant cruelty. John Bedford had often thought that his own spirit was crushed, but it was far from being so. Pride was strong within him, and he resolved that de Armijo should speak first.
De Armijo stood in silence for some time, looking down at the prisoner. He was not in a good humor, he had seldom been so since that fatal day when the whole army of Santa Anna was hurled back by the little force from the North. He knew many things of which the prisoner did not dream, and he had no thought of giving him even the slightest hint of them. In him was the venomous disposition of the cat that likes to play with the rat it has caught. A curious piece of mockery, or perhaps it was not wholly mockery, had occurred to him.
"Bedford," he said, speaking good English, "you have been a prisoner here a long time, and no one loves captivity."
"I have not heard that any one does," replied John, taking another drink of the bad coffee.
"You cannot escape. You see the impossibility of any such attempt."
"It does not look probable, I admit. Still, few things are impossible."