Hmmm . . . One good thing about having her stern presence around is that I do not have to put off advances of an ardent nature from any members of the band. She has made it quite clear that she would consider that disruptive to our mission, and so no one is to mess with me in an amorous way, especially not Pablo. Ah, no more honeyed words of romance from that stalwart guerrilla, oh, no. Napoleon is to be feared, but the wrath of Pilar, even more.
Sleep is about to come, and I hear the deep breathing and, yes, the snores of those gathered about me, and it gives me some comfort to be in their midst.
Yes, Jaimy, I am once again amongst friends and am safe, sort of—at least as safe as one can be, being a member of a guerrilla band—but I—
Suddenly, there is a shrill whistle from outside—the danger signal from one of the sentries! In an instant, we are all on our feet, grasping our weapons. Pablo and Pilar are standing together with pistols in hand and looking in the direction of the alarm.
Two short whistles are heard, and everybody relaxes... to a degree. Two whistles means “friend approaches,” but still we are watchful... and we wait.
Presently, a rider appears out of the gloom, reins up, and dismounts.
“Hola, Pablo, Pilar!” says the man. “I bear orders from Comandante Guzman!”
“Joachim!” exclaims Montoya. “Welcome! Compadres, bring refreshment for our brother-in-arms!”
I stand back to watch this exchange. Pablo grabs the intruder by the shoulders and gives him a bear hug worthy of Mississippi Mike Fink.
“What news do you bring us? Tell me Bonaparte is dead and in the ground!”
“Not yet, Pablo!” The messenger laughs. I can now see he is a very young man dressed like the rest of us—black garb with crossed bandoleros on his chest, black hat thrown back and hanging on his neck by a cord. His teeth flash in the firelight as he looks about. “But soon, I swear it! I will shovel the dirt on him myself!”
I hang back, watching. This Joachim looks somehow familiar.
“Ha! So what is the news? What are the orders?” asks Pablo, releasing the man.
“You and your gallant freedom fighters are to blow up the bridge at Siguenza.”
“Over the Henares River? Pero porque?”
“We have word that the French will be sending many divisions of soldiers over that bridge. It will hinder their advance if there is no bridge there to carry them over.”
“But, Joachim,” says Pilar, “we have no powder, no explosives.”
“Ah, but we know of a shipment of such material that is coming soon and right by here. We shall take it and use it to destroy that bridge and cause confusion to our enemy!”
This young man does not lack for words, that’s for sure, I’m thinking, as I step out of the shadows to warm my hands at the fire.
“Yes, the convoy will arrive on—But what’s this, then?” asks this Joachim, as his eyes fall upon me. “Ah!” he exclaims, catching his breath. “Can this be La Rubia herself? La Apasionada in person? We have heard of her! I am astounded, I am in awe!”
He drops to one knee and bows his head to me. “Bless me with your touch, divine one!”
Pilar snorts. “That is her, all right. We are taking her to Lisbon, and good riddance, I say.”
“But such a shame,” says the young man, rising and extending his hand to me, “to let one such as this slip away from us!”
I laugh and take his hand. “I am neither divine, nor will the loss of my company be much of a shame, but I am pleased to see you again, Joachim, nonetheless.”
“Again?” he says, confused. “We have met before? I am sure the memory of that meeting would have been seared into my very soul, but I—”
“You were the one who picked up my poor battered self on the battlefield at Vimeiro and took me to hospital. Do you remember now?”
“Of course!” he exults. “The poor little muchacha, fallen on the field of battle. But then your face wore a veil of our precious blood and I thought for sure you had given your very life for the cause! I cried over you as I carried you off!”
“You can see that I did not die, Joachim,” I say, grinning in spite of myself at his glowing words. These Spanish lads, I swear . . .
“Enough pleasant talk,” growls Pablo Montoya. “What of this caravan?”
Joachim avidly kisses the back of my hand, leaving it a bit wet, and then releases it. He turns to the Montoyas. “It will be here in two days and will pass down the road right here. It is well guarded, but with our courageous fighters, and La Apasionada by our side, we are certain to take it. And then we will use that powder to blow up the bridge.”
I listen to their plots and plans, but one thing I know—I will not be taken to Lisbon until this job is done. And I will have to help do it.
Chapter 40
“They are not Grand Army Regulars,” I say, squinting through Montoya’s spyglass. “Maybe the two riding off to either side are, but the rest are new conscripts.” I am lying on my stomach, peering over the ridgeline at the coming convoy.
“How can you tell, chica?” asks Joachim, who lies by my side.
“Because of their uniforms. They are cheap and ill fitting. Remember, I was once a member of that army.”
“Are you sure?” asks Pablo, who lies on my other side.
“Sí. They are just the kind of soldiers sent on a dismal mission like transporting tents. They do not even have outriders.”
Joachim nods. “Our informant tells us that the explosives lie under the tents. For cover. It is possible the guards do not know what they are carrying.”
“So they should be easy to take,” asserts Pilar with a certain air of grim determination. “Who would die to protect tents?”
“Sí, Señora,” I say. “But any of them could get off a lucky shot if we just charge at them blindly. Some of us could be hurt or killed. And all of them would be dead. It could cause reprisals. They could send out a division to hunt us down.”
“So what do you suggest, wise one?” asks Pablo Montoya. “That we just let them go on their way, whistling a happy French tune?”
“Nay, Pablo,” I reply, handing him back his glass. “We must have the powder. I know that. But perhaps we can do this with a minimum of bloodshed. Look down below there, at the curve in the road. Do you see the little stream there?”
“Sí. But what—?”
“I intend to wash my feet, as they sorely need it,” I say, and outline my plan.
“Good one, Jacquelina! An excellent idea,” exclaims Joachim upon hearing it. He gives my rump a slap before rising to his feet to prepare for the action.
Men, I swear . . . Present them with a female all demure in a dress with modestly covered head, and they are all, So pleased to meet you, Miss and À votre service, Mademoiselle and En su servicio, Señorita, but put that same girl in pants and all fine custom disappears, and all she can expect is a rude slap on her tail. Geez . . .
Actually, I have been enjoying a bit of fun with this Joachim. Since he is from another band, he is not completely under Pilar’s stern control, and, therefore, he can be on more friendly terms with me. Oh, she still puts her gimlet eye on us as we sit close, laughing and singing by the campfire. He has a fine tenor voice and we have a good, warm time around the campfire at night. He has with him a cuatro, a very small guitar, and we sing all the songs we know to each other, and for the enjoyment of the others.
I sing the “Malagueña Salerosa” and dance in the firelight, castanets clicking, while Joachim plays on his cuatro and all cheer and shout.
At the end of the evening, I take the little guitar and play the beautiful “La Paloma.”
Si a tu ventana llega Una Paloma,
Trátala con cariño, que es mi persona.
Cuéntale tus amores. Bien de mi vida,
Coronala de flores. Que es cosa mia.
The song refers to the legend of a time when the ancient Greeks were fighting the Persians, and while the victors were watching the sinking of the defeated fleet, they saw swarms of white doves lift into the air. They decided that those birds were the souls of the dying seamen heading back home, where they’d beat their white wings on the windows of their beloved ones as a last message of love. Of course, that sort of lyric hits me right where I live, and I put my heart and soul into it.
Joachim gets into the spirit of the thing and joins me in singing the whole chorus.
Si a tu ventana llega Una Paloma,
Trátala con cariño, que es mi persona.
Cuéntale tus amores. Bien de mi vida
Coronala de flores. Que es cosa mia.
Ay! Chinita que si!
Ay, que dame tu amor.
Ay, que vente conmigo.
Chinita a donde vivo yo!
After we sing the refrain one more time, all turn in for the night.
A little kiss at the end of evening? Well, maybe... But no, I do not sleep with him...
Even though I do sleep next to him, rolled up in my own bedroll.
I now sit by the side of the stream, facing the road. My feet are in the water, and I am washing them. Actually, it feels quite good, the cool water flowing over my grubby hooves. Mmmmm . . . I have shed my matador pants and jacket, and wear only my loose white top and simple black skirt. I scan the hills that surround me and signal to those who lurk there that all is in readiness. Then I wait.
Presently, the lead rider appears at the bend in the road, followed by the rest of the caravan. I pull my skirt higher on my thighs, thrust my arms down between my knees to massage my feet, and I commence to sing.
Auprès de ma blonde,
Qu’il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon,
Auprès de ma blonde,
Qu’il fait bon dormir.
Hearing the familiar French song, the caravan comes to a halt. Hey, the song is about a man sleeping next to his beautiful girlfriend. What Frenchman would not stop for that? Especially when sung by a passably comely maid who sits by the road with her skirt hiked up.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle!” calls out the lead rider. “It is good to hear the beautiful French spoken in this dismal land. And by such a comely jeune fille!”
“You are much too gallant, Monsieur,” I purr, sliding my mantilla back from my head and letting it fall about my shoulders. It is the signal to those watching above to get into position. Out of the corner of my eye, I see silhouettes appearing against the sky. Spread your men out, Pilar. Make it look like there are many more of you than there are. Place a horse between each man and that will double your number. Put a charge in the cannon, but do not load it with shot. I will be the bait, but I do not wish to die for Spain, not just yet. Remember my instruction: Show yourselves when I take off my mantilla, fire the gun when I lift my hand into the air.
“Perhaps you will ride with us for a while,” the man says with a leer. “For long enough to have some fun... We will make it worth your while. We have gold and silver in great store.”
“Is that what you have in your wagon, my bold young man?” I simper, drawing the skirt ever higher.
“That wagon? Non, Cherie. Just stupid tents in there. The gold is in my pocket,” he says, patting his crotch. “Would you like to reach inside and take some?”