“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
My shiv, secure in its sheath
My pennywhistle, no, alas. Somehow it got lost in last night’s scuffle. I had looked around for it but could not find it. Maybe some faun will pick it up to entertain the local nymphs. From the dryness around here, I fear the river naiads will be few.
Black wig and mantilla
That’s it. I look at what I have and decide what to do. First I take off the wig, shed the dress, rip the flounces off my drawers, and strip off the vest and shirt. Then, wearing the vest as an underlayer, I cinch it tight, throw my shirt back on over it, and stuff all the remaining items into a pouch made of the mantilla, which now looks very much like a fisherman’s net bag. Some dirt is rubbed over stubble on head and little Maria once again becomes bold young Jacques . . . or Juan . . . or whatever it is in this country.
&n
bsp; A young girl alone on the road, very much in danger. A ragged boy alone on the road? Who cares? I reflect once again that sometimes it’s easier being a boy.
After I trudge along for a while, I mount a small hill and see, with some relief, a road. A crude road, to be sure—it’s no more than two narrow furrows worn in the hard ground by countless wagon wheels—but still a road, nonetheless. I will take what I can get, says I, and I hurry down to take advantage of it. Where there is a road, there will be people, and that is what I want and very much need. I am growing hungry . . . very hungry.
I take the wineskin from my shoulder, open the nozzle, lift the skin, and squirt a bit of the juice of the grape into my mouth. It is good, but sometimes water is better, and right now, I wish I had some.
I walk on, humming a tune to keep my spirits up, and I think of friends . . .
Dear Amy, I cannot post a letter to you, dearest Sister, from where I am, but I can think fondly on thee. I hope that thou art—sorry, in speaking Spanish one picks up these idioms—I hope that you are well and in good spirits. Where am I, you might ask? Well, somewhere in Spain, ragged, dirty, and trudging along a dusty road, seeking some relief from thirst and hunger. But, hey, you know that I can deal with that sort of thing.
A friend told me of the River Manzanares, which lies somewhere up ahead and flows through the city of Madrid, so I know that if I can find that river, it will lead me there.
I play a game of kick the pebbles as I walk along, assigning myself the task of kicking the pebbles as far as they will go while still staying on the roadway. Did pretty well on the last one . . . Let’s see if I can beat it . . . there’s a likely looking rock, I’ll—
Later, Amy. Someone’s coming!
I hear a wagon lurching up the road far behind me. As it approaches, I look it over carefully, ready to run if necessary, but it seems to contain only an old man who is vigorously cursing the mule that is reluctantly hauling him along. I go to the side of the road and wait for them to draw abreast.
“Perdoneme, Señor,” I say, putting on my best poor- little-waif look as he pulls up next to me. “I am going to Madrid. Can you tell me how far I have to go?”
“Madrid? Ha! You have a ways to travel, boy. I am sure you shall wear out the soles of those shoes well before you get there!”
“Then perhaps, Señor, you might offer me a ride and save my poor feet from destruction? God will bless you for it.”
“Perhaps He might, chico. But maybe if there is good wine in that sack and if you are of a mind to share it, perhaps Papa Padron will give you that ride.”
“Por supuesto, Señor Padron,” I say, eagerly climbing up into the seat next to him. He clucks at the mule and we begin moving forward while I pull the wineskin from my shoulder and offer it to my host. He uncorks it, holds it to his mouth, and then slowly draws it away, the wine making a fine red arc from its nozzle to his open maw. He corks the skin, swallows, and hands it back to me.
“Madre de Dios!” he exults. “That feels good on a poor man’s throat!”
I lift the wine and take a draught myself, figuring that the wine will soon be gone and I should make sure to get my share.
“I am pleased you like it, Papa Padron,” I say, settling in for the ride. I note with disappointment that the wagon is filled with firewood, not with something that I might eat. Pity, that.
“You speak in a strange way, lad,” observes Padron. “Why is that?”
“I come from America, Señor. My name is Juan. I learned to speak Spanish while sailing on the Caribbean Sea.”
“Is that so? Then you shall tell me stories of America and I shall take you to where this road crosses the River Manzanares. You follow that river north for some sixty miles and it will lead you to Ciudad Madrid!”
And tell him stories I do, and Papa Padron discovers that I am very good at it. The miles roll by most pleasantly, as the wine goes down and is soon gone. It turns out that Papa does have a bit of cheese and bread, and he shares it with me. I’m finding that, while there is much that is evil and vile in the world, most people are good at heart.
Later, much later, as night is about to fall, we come to a stone bridge crossing a small river.
“Here is where our paths must part, chico,” says Padron, allowing the poor, long-suffering mule to stop. “It is the River Manzanares. Madrid is that way.” He points upriver. “Good luck to you, Juanito. You were good company.”
“Muchas gracias, Señor,” I say, climbing down. “Thank you for the ride. May you live long and prosper, Papa Padron.”
He clucks at the mule and his wagon clatters over the bridge and is gone.
I leave the road and walk down to the riverbank, where I look at the water flowing past me and think on things . . .
I know, from the maps laid out before me back at General Wellesley’s headquarters, that this river flows down to the River Jarama and the Jarama flows into the Tagus and the Tagus flows through Spain and Portugal and out to the Atlantic at Lisbon. I look downriver. Hmmm . . . I could steal a boat and float on the current till I reached that port and could then book passage back to London . . . or Boston. Naval Intelligence must surely have lost track of me by now. Or I could take a ship to Rangoon and see about Jaimy . . .
But then again, I have no food, no money, and with my whistle being gone, no way to get any, and it’s a long way from here to Lisbon. Besides, once there, what would I use to book passage?
I look upriver. Madrid is up there. If I go to that city, I will still have no food, no money . . .
As if adding its voice to the discussion, my belly rumbles. I know I have eaten today, but tomorrow that belly will demand more, and it will be most insistent. I face north and begin walking.
To hell with it. Let’s see what Madrid’s got. At least it’s closer.
PART II
Chapter 11
The sixty miles from Papa Padron and his mule to the city of Madrid are some of the hardest miles I have ever traveled, be they at sea or on land.
I do not lack for water, for there is plenty of that along the River Manzanares as I work my way into Madrid. Remembering how I had gotten mighty thirsty on the way here, I fill up my wineskin for future use. I do, however, lack for food. My empty belly comes up to rest against my backbone yet again.
But the weather is mild, so I resolve to stop whining and make the best of things and push ever on, stopping only at night to sleep under a convenient tree or bridge. Most of the traffic along the river is by canal boats far out in the stream, so there is scant chance of my catching another ride. I know oranges grow in Spain, but I sure don’t see any. There is some sort of root vegetable growing in a field that borders the river, but when I go to investigate, I am chased away by an angry farmer waving a very lethal-looking pitchfork.
Oh Lord, it’s been three days since I’ve had anything to eat and your poor girl is so very, very hungry . . .
I see nothing of the edible plants Professor Tilden had told us about back on the Dolphin. When first I came to this slow-moving stream, I had gone down the riverbank to see what I could find. There were reeds sticking up out of the water all around me and I choked down a few of their leaves, but they were bitter and my belly rebelled and threw them right back up. When I was with the Shawnee, back there on the Mississippi, Tepeki and the other Shawnee girls showed me the good things to eat that grew along their big river, but there sure ain’t no cattails nor wild rice around here, no. I’ve been gnawing on about everthing I can find, but I ain’t found nothin’ edible yet. Things are looking grim. My belly is flat and I’m still a long way from Madrid. What I would give for a nice, fat turnip, even though I don’t really like turnips . . . or didn’t used to.
Ah, dear Amy. Yes, it’s me again thinking of you and the dear old Lawson Peabody and in particular those wonderful breakfasts that Peg would serve—eggs fried sunny-side up, the yolks all gleaming golden yellow, crisp bacon browned just right, melted butter oozing off a hot, fluffy biscuit. Oh Lor
d, please . . . Wait, what’s that?
That is a mushroom, a big mushroom, standing right over there. It is a rather pretty mushroom, considering it’s growing out of what looks like an old pile of cow flop. I squat down to pluck it up and I gaze at it closely. It’s got a shiny orange top and its gills glisten with a purplish iridescence. It looks uncommonly juicy out here in all this desert dryness. My mouth waters . . .
And yes, I did eat that mushroom. I closed my eyes and ate it. It felt good in my mouth, tingling even on my tongue, but it wasn’t very filling, so I just swallowed and pushed on down along the riverbank . . .
I don’t get very far when things start to look a little . . . strange . . . weird, like. Must be the hunger, I’m thinkin’. The sun is hot and beatin’ down on me brain and what was that? From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a mouse skitter away . . . just a little mouse, but in a white suit of clothes and a top hat, of all things. Curious, that. I swear he tipped his hat as he skittered off. Wot the hell? I shakes me head to clear it, but that don’t help much, no it don’t. There seems to be a slight purple haze around the edges of things . . . geez . . . I blink my eyes and my vision clears, but I dunno . . .
I go on staggerin’ along the river, turnin’ over rocks, looking for anything, anything, to eat—a nice fat grub don’t seem all that disgusting right now. But all I find is slimy centipede-like things and I ain’t quite ready for that. Ain’t seen no people in a while—the last ones I did see was too poor for me to beg anything off of so I didn’t even bother, no, just keep pushin’ on.
I’m on my hands and knees in the reeds and suddenly I hear Mary . . . Little Mary Faber . . . Come to me, my child, and I look up and, wonder of wonders, there is a white-robed figure, surrounded by a brilliant purple haze, standing on the opposite bank, his face glowing with a heavenly radiance, his arms upraised and beckoning to me. It’s . . .