“... in both mind and body.”
“Thank you, Master,” I say, my head bowed. “I owe you much. I owe you my very self.”
He says nothing to that, merely nods.
“Ah, they are ready to resume the match.”
Sifu and I arise and go to the center of the field, bow to each other, and assume the Waiting Dragon. Soon we are fully engaged.
The Kick of Drowsy Lion parried with Alert Jaw of Jackal and then an attack in Devious Swan, fended off with Beguiling Perfume of Precious Peonies, and...
And then I see an opening. Sifu, recovering from my last attack, seems a little off-balance. I know it could be a trick to draw me into a fatal error, but I go for it anyway. Thrusting my stick between his ankles, I leap into the air and twist around, giving my Bo a hard yank.
There is no poetic name for what I just did, but Sifu Loo Li goes down all the same.
I whip my stick around and place the heel of it at his throat. His eyes go hooded and he nods in defeat.
I have won. I have won!
We get to our feet and bow to each other. I think the day over, but I am wrong. Master Chang takes me by the elbow and leads me to the Shaolin masters.
“Go with them, Long Boy,” he says. “You will not be disappointed.”
I follow them, and I am led into the Shaolin temple. I have been in here many times with Master Chang, but not with these men. They take me to the main altar, where bowls of incense and myrrh smolder. Hands reach out and take off my gi, and I am left standing only in my loincloth. They gesture for me to kneel and I do it, wondering just what is going on.
It does not take me long to find out.
A monk comes to my left side and places a sort of small bench, more of a footstool, really, next to me and then takes my left arm and puts it on the bench, inside of forearm up. He opens a packet he has by his side, and I see needles and vials of color.
He takes a long needle and sets to work, the black color first, then the gold, then the green.
When I leave the temple, I have the Mark of the Red Dragon on my arm. I have been made a novice of the Shaolin Monastery, and never have I felt more pride in an accomplishment.
That night, after Mai Ling and Mai Ji have expressed their joy and admiration over my new decoration—and dear Sidrah has placed a soothing ointment on it to ease the prickling pain—Chopstick Charlie smiles upon me.
“Honored guest,” he says, puffing on his hookah, “and you are truly honored now—the Shaolin do not give those things away, you know—I have something to tell you, something that might give you great joy... and perhaps distress the heart of my dear daughter.”
She and I look up expectantly. Charlie hands the hookah to me, and I take a long drag and wait.
“There is a ship moored in the harbor, and she is headed back to the West. It is the merchant Mary Bissell.”
There is a sharp intake of breath on both my part and Sidrah’s.
“My associates inform me that she is sound of timber and well-captained. I assume you will want to sail away on her? Hmmm?”
“Yes, Honored Host, I would like that,” I say, my pulse beginning to race. “I must get back.”
“Umm,” says Charlie. “I suspect you must. However, the Mary Bissell sails under American colors and is headed back there, not to England.”
I sit quietly, taking this all in, while Charlie goes on.
“That might be just the thing for you, Long Boy. I have told you that the very worthy John Higgins has also written to me, and he is of the opinion that England is not a very safe place for you right now. It seems the populace has not forgotten the depredations of the Black Highwayman. Hmmm?”
I have to grimace at that, and admit the truth of it.
“Besides, the object of your affections just might find herself back in America. From long discussions I have had with Number Two Daughter, I know she feels safe there, and it is to that place she consistently returns.”
That is true, I’m thinking. And it might be months before a ship comes here, one bound for Britain, that is.
I will take it! It will be easy to get from the States to England.
I collect myself and say, “Where in America is this Mary Bissell headed?”
“New York, I believe, but I do not have her list of ports-of-call right now. Tomorrow, I will. But Boston is not all that far from New York, I see from my charts, and...”
And what?
“Think on this, Long Boy. It would be well for you to be in disguise for a while, considering, well, you know...”
How well I know...
“... and when we brought you here, you had no clothing other than shirt, trousers, and boots. Oh, yes, and that big black cape... and a mask...”
Don’t rub it in, Chops, I know what I did...
“So what I propose is this: We can tie back your long black hair, maybe shave your forehead a bit, and outfit you with a noble Chinaman’s attire. If you affect a slight halting of speech, like English is not your first language, you could easily pass for Eurasian—Yankee missionary father, Chinese mother, all that.”
“And to what end, Honored Chen?”
Charlie smiles his cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile. “To establish a branch of the House of Chen in the New World will be the purpose. It is time for me to expand into that area. You will be given money to do that and I want you to set up that shipping company—Oriental Enterprises, I think we shall call it...”—he pauses, as if relishing a private joke—“in Boston.”
I, too, have to smile at that.
“Won’t that put a bit of a twist in the tail of our little Lotus Blossom, hmmm?” says Charlie with a grin. “To have a rival company that already has a firm grounding in the spice-laden Orient, perhaps even right across the street from Faber Shipping Worldwide, hmmm?”
I lose my reserve and laugh out loud at that. It just might, Charlie, and I must admit, the thought of a little twist in that particular tail is not all that distasteful to me...
Chapter 39
We sleep out in the open most nights when the sky is clear and it does not rain, but sometimes, when it is not clear, we commandeer a farmhouse—sometimes with the blessing of the owner, sometimes not.
Those who resist pay a price, mostly in material goods, as the Montoya band is not needlessly cruel. That, in fact, is where my fiddle came from. The previous owner, landlord of a big estate, proclaimed himself afrancesado—we are near the French border, and so there are many sympathizers in this area—and added that we were a bunch of dirty scoundrels and that we should go away. Brave man, yes, but stupid, too. Unwashed we are, but away we don’t go. We are also well armed, so his violin now rests in my seabag when I am not playing it for the joy of my compadres. The owner was lucky to escape with his life, and perhaps in the future he will watch his mouth when facing an unruly group of desperados.
Tonight we sleep under the stars, my head resting on my saddle, the seat of which has been well polished by my bottom. As I lie here by the campfire, I think on Jaimy and Richard and all my other friends around the world, they who have taken me in and protected my poor self, and I pray for their safety and health. As I am about to drift off, with my knees pulled up to my chin, my blanket wound tightly about me, I think about my present companions—Montoya and all the lads... and Pilar, too.
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 a
s 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.