He smiles in appreciation.
“Much better, Señorita. You are now the muchacha campesina perfecta.”
Higgins straightens up and prepares to take his leave, saying, “I do not wish to offend you, Senhor, but I must point out to you that even though she is entrusted to your care, she remains Crown Property and, as such, must be returned to us in the same condition as when she left.”
He is not offended. He sweeps off his hat and bows low. “She shall be treated as the Sanctified and Holy Sister of My Soul in Our Common Struggle Against Tyranny.”
Higgins and I exchange glances—as if we believe that for even a moment.
“You will like Madrid, Miss. It is quite a lovely place, in spite of its being overrun with those French pigs. I was born and raised there.”
“So you are actually Spanish, then?”
“I am many things, mi querida, and being actually Spanish is one of them.”
“So we can drop the Portuguese, then, Señor, and stick to the Spanish?”
“Sí, Señorita.”
“Bueno. I am easier in that language.”
“It is, indeed, a loving tongue, full of the promise of romance.”
Hmmm . . . Just who is this man?
“Well, Señor Montoya, neither love nor romance is in the picture. It is duty that calls and we must go. Are you ready?”
“Sí, Señorita,” he says, bowing and gesturing to the door.
I turn to John Higgins and place my hands upon his chest.
“Don’t worry about me, John. I have handled randy males before. I have money, clothes, and my shiv. This should be a rather easy assignment. Please give my compliments to Dr. Sebastian and Mr. Peel, and to my grandfather and any of my other friends you might happen to meet. Please write to Ezra and explain the situation. I have told you of my arrangements for Lord Allen. Please do what you can for him. Go now, John. Godspeed.”
I push him out the door, sniff back a tear, and hand myself over to Comandante Montoya.
“I am ready, Señor.”
“Good. Will you require a coach? A carriage?”
“No, mi patrón. Just a good horse and a regular saddle.”
“Bueno. We shall be off, then.”
Indeed we are, and as for what Fate has in store for me, I cannot imagine.
Chapter 9
The light from the campfire flickers on the faces of those of us gathered about. I sit on the ground with my legs pulled up against my chest, my arms around my legs, chin on my knees. We have just eaten a very acceptable mutton stew out of tin containers, washed down with copious quantities of tinto—the local red wine—drunk from wineskins held high over open mouths. The moon is high in the sky, sentries are posted, and the gentle strumming of a guitarra is heard in the warmth of the Iberian night. It had been decided, mainly by Montoya, that we should travel to Madrid in a small group of his most trusted men, so as not to attract unwarranted attention.
“There are not only bandits out there, Señorita, but also bands of deserters from the French army, who can be even more dangerous than your common outlaw. It is best that we travel light.”
And so we did travel.
Montoya is stretched out beside the fire, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood and regaling me with tales of Madrid.
“The beautiful River Tagus runs through the city. Here is a verse from a song that sings of her, little one.” He lifts his voice, a voice that is surprisingly soft for such a rough man.
Yes, my hair is turning white,
but the Tagus is always young,
She flows through Madrid as the very blood of life,
Till the end of all time.
“You have something of the poet in you, Comandante,” I say. “May I ask what is your first name?”
“If I can have yours, guapa, then thou shall have mine.”
“I was born with the name Mary.”
“Ah, Maria . . . How beautiful . . .”
“But now I go by Jacky.”
“I shall call you Maria. It is a name that sits more easily on my tongue,” he says, sidling up a little closer to me. “And please, sweet Maria, you must call me Pablo.”
Hmmm . . . It seems it is time for a little diversion here.
“Pablo, would you like for me to sing you a song?” I ask.
“By all means, Maria. It would give me great pleasure.”
“Then, if I could borrow a guitar?”
“Joachim! Be so good as to lend nuestra chiquita bonita su guitarra.”
The instrument is passed to me by the young man I recognize as the very one who had picked me up when I had fallen on the battlefield at Viermo and taken my limp self to hospital. As he hands it to my waiting hands, he smiles and his gaze says to me, Yes, beautiful English girl, Pablo Montoya is our esteemed leader, the strongest and bravest of us, but I think, pretty one, you would have much more fun with one such as me. I nestle the guitar into my lap and return the gaze, silently agreeing with him.
“I learned this song in Havana. I hope you will like it.” And I hope you will like it, too, Joachim. With hooded eyes and a glance to the young man, I strum the first chord and begin:
Tú sólo tú
Has llenado de luto mi vida
Abriendo una herida
En mi corazón.
“Most beautiful, Maria, perhaps another, to warm a poor man’s soul?” Montoya reaches out to pull my mantilla a little bit from my face. “Pardon, muchacha, it is only so I can gaze upon your fair countenance in the firelight.”
I launch into another of the few Spanish songs I know. What’s going to happen when I run out of them?
Malagueña salerosa
Besar tus labios quisiera
Besar tus labios quisiera
Malagueña salerosa
He beams in satisfaction and repeats the verse in English:
Rose leaves of Málaga
To kiss your wanted lips
To kiss your wanted lips
Rose leaves of Málaga
And then he adds a bit more:
And telling you, beautiful girl
That you are pretty and magical
That you are pretty and magical
As the innocence of a rose
For a rough country guerrilla, this guy pitches the lines pretty smoothly. Randall Treveleyne could take a lesson, I’m thinking.
“Another verse, mi corazón, and then perhaps we might lie down together and sleep.”
Ummm... All right, another verse.
Yo no te ofrezco riqueza
Te ofrezco mi corazón
Te ofrezco mi corazón...
CRAACK!
That’s as far as I get, as the strings suddenly go limp under my fingers . . .
Wot?
It occurs to my formerly lazy and sleepy mind that a bullet has just shattered the head of the guitar and it is ruined, but worse, now I am in grave danger.
“DIABLO!” shouts Montoya, jumping to his feet. “Asga sus armas, mis hermanos!”
There are shouts and curses all around.
Banditos! Damn them to hell!
I dive to the ground in a blind panic and scramble away, the rough dirt grinding into my elbows and knees, my mind fixed only on escape. Please, God, not here, not now! Bullets whiz all about me as I head toward the scant cover of a low bush.
Allez enfers, Spanish dogs. Go to hell, cochons! Die like the filthy pigs you are!
There are more shots, more screams of agony, more pleas for mercy . . . and from the awful sounds of men gurgling out their last breaths, I know there is very little of that mercy given.
I’m now about twenty yards away from what had been our cozy campfire. I lie still and listen, my breath coming ragged, my heart pounding. The shooting has stopped, but I still hear men running around shouting. I can see shapes darting about in the moonlight, but I cannot tell if they are our men or the attackers.
Best lie low, girl, and wait. When you hear Montoya call out for you, then you will rise and go with him, but not till then.
As I lie there, I reflect that perhaps my singing had lulled the sentries into complacency and for that I am surely sorry. We all should have been more careful. We should have—
Uh-oh! I hear footsteps close by and . . .
“There she is! I told you there was a girl with them!”
Two men loom above me. I try to get to my feet to run, but I am grabbed and thrown back down.
“And you were so right, André, and she looks like a pretty one, too, a proper reward for a poor soldier.”
French! Deserters from the Grand Army—surely desperate men! I am lost!
The one named André reaches down and starts tearing at my clothes. Giving up trying to get into my sturdy vest, he reaches up under my skirt and starts pulling down my drawers. I wriggle and squeal and shout for help, but none comes.
“Oh, this will be so sweet, so sweet, so—”
He stops abruptly. He has found my money belt.
“What is this?” He manages to undo it and opens it up. “Mon Dieu, Henri! It is gold! Much of it!”
There is a high-pitched whistle and a call of Allons! Allons!
“Damn! We must go! Damn!”
“Ah, Henri, the gold will make us feel much better. We will be able to buy many women. Hide the pouch from the others. There is no need to share.”
In a moment, they are gone and all is silence. Breathless, I wait for signs of Montoya and his men, but nothing comes. No call that all is well, no rescue, no nothing.
Not wanting to silhouette myself against the moonlit sky, I crawl farther away and into a small ravine.
I wait . . . I wait . . . and then curl up into a ball and then . . . sleep.
Chapter 10
When dawn breaks, I poke my head cautiously out of my hiding place and look out over this particularly dry and desolate part of Spain, and try to quell the despair that’s about to overwhelm me. There is not a soul to be seen, neither French enemy nor Spanish friend.
Groaning, stiff in every joint, I rise to my feet and look in all directions. I see nothing but low scrubby trees, reddish-yellow dirt, and rocks . . . Lots of rocks. Although I know that England is no younger than Spain, somehow this land gives the impression of having been ground down to its very bare bones, then weathered through the ages. Not a country for those looking for the lush life. Not here, anyway.
I stumble down to our former campsite. I see the dead fire, ringed with now cold stones, and I see blood spattered here and there, but I do not observe any bodies. They probably took their dead with them. Montoya must have been killed, else he would have come back for me. I know that he would have . . . Requiescat in pacem, Pablo.
There is the overturned pot of shepherd’s stew, now empty, and discarded cartridges scattered about. Nothing else—nothing that might aid me in . . . Ah, what’s this? It is a wineskin, and it seems to be about half full. That’s something. I shan’t die of thirst. Not right off, anyway.
Again I look around, this time a little more carefully, shading my eyes with my hand. I am on a hilly plain, but there—far to what I perceive to be the north—is a low line of mountains. The Sierra de Gredos, Montoya had called them, telling me they lay to the west of Madrid, with the River Tagus running through the foothills of that mountain range.
Bueno. I shall go in that direction, but first I need to take stock of my situation. This is what I possess:
Self, relatively whole
Black skirt, stockings, shoes, cap; brown vest and dark wig; white shirt, drawers