Yes, 'tis time to leave the charms of Havana behind, which the Nancy B. will do—right after the noon cockfights, that is.
Dr. Sebastian, too, has returned from his pursuits ashore, so he escorts me to the arena. On the way, I fill him in on the events of the past two days, little of which pleases him.
"So, it seems the entire Hispanic world knows of our intentions. That is not good, not good at all," he grumbles, lost in thought.
"I did warn our good Captain Hudson of the ears that wag on a ship," I say.
I've got El Gringo in a little canvas pouch held at my side, his head sticking out of the top of it, peering avidly about. I figure this is better than a chicken cage—better for his machismo.
The Doctor sighs. "Captain Hannibal Hudson is my dearest friend, and he has no equal as to bravery in battle or in knowledge of things nautical. But I am afraid that he is a complete fool when it comes to intelligence. Ah, well, we shall deal with this when we rendezvous. Ah, here we are."
We stand before the great hall of cockfighting and take in the flags whipping about, along with the colorful posters advertising the gladiatorial combat that will soon take place inside. The crowd pours in. Dr. Sebastian takes his leave of me and goes in the front entrance, while I am directed to a side door where the combatants enter. Inside I find a room filled with caged cocks and their handlers. At the other end of the room are the big doors that I know open out into the ring, through which Gringo and I will go when it is time. Meanwhile, back here there is a great deal of cackling and crowing, with challenges thrown back and forth between the birds. I can feel Gringo quivering with rage beneath my hand. He works himself up into a mighty crow and delivers it with a certain kiss-my-feathered-ass-and-stay-away-from-my-hens-all-you-pretenders-to-my-throne sort of quality. Be patient, mi amigo, you'll get your chance.
The man in the red sash is there and I go up to him to register as well as to pay my entrance fee—the prize money for the winners has to come from somewhere, doesn't it? He writes Gringo's name on a slip of paper and drops it into a basket. I am the only female in the place, but that's nothing new to me. The men don't seem to mind, either. Here, it's all about the fighters and everyone pays very little attention to me.
Eventually the ringmaster goes to the doors that open on to the ring and announces, "The first contest, El Demonio against El Gordo." Two men stand up, take their birds from out of their cages, and hold them to their chests. "The second will be El Asesino versus El Rey." More preparations are made. "The third match shall be El Matador"—and here he pauses to snicker—"in mortal combat with ... El Gringo Furioso!"
There is laughter all around.
I puff up and say, "But El Matador is the champion and this is El Gringo's first battle! That cannot be fair!"
Red Sash shrugs and says, "The luck of the draw, Señorita. Either your fighter goes through those doors in honor"—here he points to doors leading to the ring—"or out those, in disgrace." He points again, this time to the back doors. "And there will be no return of the entrance fee. Comprende?"
Grrrr...
We sit back to wait our turn.
There is a roar as the doors are opened and Red Sash makes his announcements and El Demonio and El Gordo, along with their handlers, advance to the center.
The battle is joined and soon El Gordo lies dead in the dust. Then it is El Asesino and El Rey's turn.
As I sit and wait for the outcome of that battle, I think back to last night and wonder how Cisneros knew that Eduardo and the others had been keeping company with me—probably the lads were bragging about it back on their ship. Stupid men, I swear...
I am jolted out of my reverie by the announcement, "And now El Matador versus El Gringo Furioso!"
I remove Gringo from his bag and head out into the ring. There is a roar, but I know it is not for me and my bird—it is for the champion, El Matador. For us there is laughter.
El Gringo Furioso? No, El Gringo Lamentable! Ha! Ha!
Look at that! Just the kind of bird a stupid girl would bring to the ring!
El Gringo Loco! El Gringo Soon-to-Be-Dead!
I flush and try to keep my mind on the business at hand. I see the reason for their laughter—El Matador is half again the size of Gringo, and a good two pounds heavier. El Matador's handler gazes upon me and my bird with great contempt—This will not take long, I know he is thinking.
"Engage!" shouts Red Sash and we shove our cocks together to get them in fighting spirit.
The neck feathers of both birds stand straight out as they struggle to get at each other. Gringo fixes his eye straight on El Matador and he flips his cockscomb back and forth as if to say, Where is your comb, maricón, where are your wattles? Did they cut off your cojones as well?
"Ready!" cries Red Sash, and I crouch down with Gringo quivering in my grasp. Both birds are insane with rage.
"Fight!"
The hourglass at the judges' table is turned upside down, so I release Gringo and step back to the rail as the birds fly at each other, wings beating, spurs up, each beak seeking out the eyes of the other.
After the initial contact, they step back and seemingly size up their opponent, then they are at it again. This time Gringo manages to flap his wings enough to rise above El Matador so that he can bring down his spurs upon the other fighter's back, but they cause little effect. The other bird is just too big, I am coming to realize with a sinking feeling. Just hang on, Gringo. He is bigger, but you are faster. Hang on. Live to fight another day.
The birds separate again, and once more appear to be looking for signs of weakness in each other. I lean against the rail and a very familiar head covered with beaded braids appears next to me.
"Buenos días, my sweet little English cupcake."
"Bese mi culo, Flaco," I say. "I am mad at you, and besides, I am busy. Go away."
"I would gladly kiss your perfect bottom, Jacky," he says, grinning his avaricious grin. "But you cannot be mad at your Flaco, as we are going to be very rich together, no? Shall we not bathe together in silver tubs full of golden doubloons? Shall we not—"
"No. I don't know what you are talking about, Flaco. Leave me alone." Flaco's crew is gathered about him, and I spot El Feo, his ugly First Mate. He has his eye upon me, and I don't like the way he looks at me.
The birds are at it again, and I leave the rail. Streaks of blood have appeared on the wings of both gladiators. The audience is appreciative.
The little one, he is small. But he fights well, no?
Si, he is fast. There is no disgrace here.
But El Matador, he is so much stronger. The end must be near for El Gringo Furioso.
I look over at the hourglass—there are many grains of sand left. The birds engage again and El Matador, with his superior strength, forces Gringo up against the rail, and though Gringo tries with all his might, he cannot get away. El Matador raises his left spur and brings it down on Gringo's breast, and then he does it again. Blood appears, and Gringo staggers. El Matador steps away and then heads in for the kill.
"Time! Fight over!" cries the judge, and I leap over to pick up my fallen fighter and cradle him in my arms. He tries to raise his head, but he cannot.
"Hang on, Gringo," I say, "hang on."
As I leave the ring, there is applause, but I am sure Gringo does not hear it. There is also Flaco calling after me, "Soon, heart of my heart, we shall meet again."
Back at the Nancy B., I lay Gringo on a bed of soft straw. I have put healing salve on all his wounds, and I hope for the best.
As I leave him there, I hear Jemimah wrapping up her last Brother Rabbit tale with Daniel and Joannie in rapt attendance. The rest of my crew is topside, preparing to get under way.
"...so Brother Fox, mad as hell at Brother Rabbit for foulin' up the stew in which he was the main ingredient, pulls him out of the pot, but Brother Rabbit's big fat ol' rabbit foot catches on the edge of the pot and pulls it over so that the broth runs over the feet of Brother Fox and Brother Bear and they howls with the pain of it and it snuffs out the fire, and Brother Rabbit hops away, singin' a song. End of story."
I go to the stove and pick up a bit of bacon that's grilling off to the side and stick it in my mouth. Then I ask, "How come Brother Rabbit always ends up in that pot, him being so fast and all?"
Jemimah considers and then says, "Well, there are lot o' traps in the world, child, not all of 'em made outta wire and wood and other hardware."
Jemimah is involved in baking bread, and she's kneading dough and has flour up to her elbows. Then she starts...
"Now there was this one bunny, she bein' called Sister Rabbit, and she was of a mind to marry up with Brother Rabbit, and she was a pretty little thing wi' a nice fluffy chest, carried high, and her little white cottontail sittin' up all fine on top o' her behind. Brother Rabbit like her a lot, but he fancy himself a free-travelin' man and didn't want to mess with any of that marryin' stuff, no, he didn't. He want his lovin' fun for free like all the men do. You mind that, Sister Joan," she says, waving a floury finger in Joannie's face.
"That's true. I've met many like Brother Rabbit," I say, putting my two cents in and thinking rather fondly of that rogue Randall ... and Captain Lord Richard Allen ... and Joseph Jared ... and maybe a couple dozen others.
"You hush. You a bad influence on this girl. She want to be just like you, and as far as I can see, that cain't be any good."
I cast eyes heavenward and hush up, as she goes on.
"Now Brother Fox and Brother Bear know that they can't get Brother Rabbit on the level, he bein' much too fast with his two big back feet, so they gets to thinkin' as to how they can ketch 'im.
"'Hmmmm ... we cain't catch him,' says Brother Fox, 'but we can get him to come to us. Look over dere, Brother Bear.'
"Brother Bear looks out t'rough the bushes and sees the churchyard, where Sister Rabbit is holdin' Sunday school—Raccoon Child and Possum Boy and Muskrat Girl is sittin' there in front o' her on little benches, holdin' on to their prayer books.
"'We cain't grab her in church, Brother Fox,' says Brother Bear. 'We go to Hell for dat.'
"Brother Fox cuts his eyes over to Brother Bear, think-in' maybe Brother Bear ain't quite as bright as he need to be.
"'We wait till she done, fool.'
"An' Sister Rabbit teaches 'em the Parable of the Ten Talents, and then she say, 'Now chil'ren, 'fore we all go away and spread the word of the Lord, we goin't' sing a fine ol' gospel song.'"
And Jemimah lifts her voice and sings.
O Come along, Moses, you'll not get lost,
Let my people go,
Stretch out your rod and come across,
Let my people go.
Then she swings into the chorus:
Go down, Moses,
Way down in Egypt's land.
Tell oV Pharoah,
Let my people go.
I speak up and say, "For a little bitty bunny, Sister Rabbit sure got a fine, deep voice." I am once again shushed and Jemimah goes on.
"So then the meetin' breaks up and all the chil'ren run off, and Sister Rabbit is collectin' the hymn books when the fox and the bear come up and grab that poor sister and take her back to their lair and get ready for some fun.