The King's Armada

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER SEVEN

  The officers’ mess was buzzing with the news that night. Many were the glances at García, but none approached him. There seemed to be some delight in the fact that one of their number had actually done in Don Alonso de Monzon. He was a notorious figure who had killed more than one officer in a so-called duel of honor.

  García was pleased that Alonso had died such a good death, no last minute curses or recriminations. He was beginning to like the man. And that delicious joke about his posting to La Florida. Alonso likely guessed that he was as good as dead. If the mosquitoes and gators didn’t get him, the English brigands would.

  There was always a trooper on duty in the transit officers’ quarters and always wine, bread and cheese available at the pulling of a bell cord. Hidalgo and García shared many drinks after dinner with the Yorkie looking on impatiently. It was bedtime, and dogs needed their sleep as well as humans.

  Relaxing after the grim day’s work and falling deeper into his cups, García suddenly asked, “Are the dead really dead?”

  “What do you mean?” Hidalgo asked.

  “I mean,” he almost fell forward splashing wine on the table, “I mean are we dead, or could we be dead and do the dead live?” Several times he opened and closed his eyes, trying to shake off the wine.

  “Your meaning is not clear to me.”

  “Well, for example.” García stared off into space for a full minute. Hidalgo waited patiently, and Poncho saw trouble coming. “For example,” he finally said, “take Queen Isabella, the Catholic. Is she dead?” Everyone in Spain was aware that she had gone to her reward near the turn of the century.

  “It’s well known that she is dead. There was a great funeral, well before our time. But she is dead.” Hidalgo was also drunk.

  “But what if we could go back to her time. Would she be dead?”

  “How could we do such a thing?” Hidalgo had been in many drunken conversations, but this one was taking a weird turn.

  “Turn back the clock. Reverse the calendar.”

  “Through some black magic, witchcraft?”

  Poncho realized his master was treading dangerous ground, so he barked. The bark was his last resort to warn García, and it was seldom used.

  “What was that?” Hidalgo asked.

  “The dog barked,” García said, regaining some of his senses.

  “The dog doesn’t bark. That dog doesn’t bark.”

  “All dogs bark. Bow wow. Bow wow.”

  “But that dog, that Poncho, your dog, doesn’t bark.”

  “Some dogs say arf arf. But Poncho has his own distinct bark.”

  “But he is mute,” Hidalgo insisted.

  “No, not Poncho. There are mute dogs. I’ve heard of them. But Poncho barks.” He looked at the dog and said, “Don’t you, Poncho?”

  Poncho barked again to assure Hidalgo.

  “So your dog does bark. But why?”

  “He’s sleepy and so am I.”

  “OK, we will sleep. But first tell me more about this dead thing, dead people not being dead.”

  “It just popped into my head. It is religious. The Bible says that we will have eternal life. But we don’t know the exact form. That is a mystery of the Church.”

  “Ah, truly,” Hidalgo agreed. “The Church has many mysteries. Some of the things the Church claims to know seem quite mysterious.”

  “So,” García said, hoping to end the long day on a light note, “when I get to heaven I can chat with the good Queen. We will all be equals there.”

  “What if she is in hell?” Hidalgo countered.

  “Then you can talk with her.”

  The night was not long enough for García. He was awakened slowly by Poncho licking his hand. His head was throbbing, his eyes like stones. He bathed and shaved and was tempted to use Hidalgo’s cure for a hangover — a cup of wine, but resisted. He welcomed the help of Jesus who laid out his attire and would straighten his quarters and see to any other needs.

  After a light breakfast he attended to his duties. The Madrid contingent of men chosen for the Florida expedition were being assembled. García was making every effort to whip them into a unit and to know each and every non-commissioned officer. They would be meeting a larger force on the coast. Unfortunately, these were the dregs of the army, many of them recent recruits who had been dragooned from back alleys. His Majesty was saving the cream of the crop to face the English heretics.

  For the next few days he busied himself with his work. Almost daily he received notes from Juanita seeking further trysts. He labored over return messages citing overwhelming obligations to duty, always promising to meet soon.

  One day on arising, there was no Jesus. He had gotten used to the short, stout man with the bad eye and so had Poncho, who had come to depend on him for food. Halfway through the morning a messenger arrived from the provost: Jesus had gotten into a mean barroom quarrel and now rested in the stockade where he would remain for a good many months if not rescued.

  Dressed in his finest and most military outfit, García, dog in hand, marched to the provost’s office. The dog had become something of a famous mascot. García was often recognized by the Yorkie. The canine was like a nametag, or a badge of honor, both now were famous for slaying the man who had brought a sword to a gunfight.

  Upon hearing of García’s arrival, the provost came into the outer office to offer personal greetings:

  “If it is not Don Pedro García, the man who faced down and killed Don Alonso de Monzon,” he exclaimed. Then taking the Yorkie from his master’s arms, the provost said, “And this must be Poncho. The fame of you two has preceded you. It is an honor to have you both present, the inseparable duo, a man and his dog. To see the two of you, like this, and we must remember this is army life, it reminds me of the domestic scenes of my youth. How you can preserve that touch of domesticity in this rough environment, Don Pedro, it is marvelous.”

  García, who had learned at this juncture that he would be addressed as Don Pedro by his peers from now on, wondered how long the provost would carry on. The man and the dog were invited into the inner office for the inevitable glass of wine. García wondered if no one drank tea or coffee in the forenoon. Then it was small talk, García telling about himself, the provost doing the same, time slipping away, and finally to the point.

  “There was the unfortunate incident involving my orderly, a certain trooper named Jesus. I believe he is confined under your good offices.”

  “Ah, but yes,” the provost replied. “A good stout man, but a naughty one. He partially wrecked a drinking emporium, battered a couple of vacationing sailors and badly cut a civilian man who had the misfortune to become involved.”

  “But Jesus is a mild mannered man, surely there was provocation?”

  “Mild mannered, perhaps, when sober. Drink does take its toll of our good senses and at times causes us to stray from the path we know so well.” With this the provost hiked up his glass, grinned, and took a good swallow. “But, God bless the good wine. As we journey through this forest of snares and daily disturbances, it brightens our souls, chases the bad, brings on the good, submerges our sorrows, even brings on romance. But about Jesus, truly he is locked up for cause.”

  “I’m certain he deserves harsh punishment,” García agreed. “But harsh punishment awaits him. You might know he is part of the men being assembled for La Florida Expeditionary Force. We will leave for the coast soon, embark and be gone. Some will not return.”

  “Yes, I know of that wild place. Vicious beasts and insects lay in wait on land, while hungry sharks ply the lovely waters. The isolation is supreme.” The provost stared out the window for a moment. Madrid was in the midst of its workday. Donkey and pony carts mingled with the foot traffic. Fruit vendors had sidewalk stands, open-fronted shops sold cloth and other necessities. “I’m sorry that arduous mission has fallen to you. And for Don Pedro García, the hero of the moment, we will make special concessions.” He called a sergeant and ordered him to bring Jes
us to the office.

  “By the way, Don Pedro, if you need a band of bastards who simply don’t give a shit, I’ll empty the stockade for you. Of course you’ll have to provide an armed escort to get them to the coast and aboard ship.”

  “That’s generous of you, and we are having some problems lining up truly rugged men. That might be just the solution.”

  The provost raised his hands in compliance. “Bring your guards when you are ready to depart. It will save me the trouble of feeding those misfits and save my guards from a bad case of nerves. Some of our inmates would just as soon knife you as say hello.”

  Jesus soon entered, followed by the sergeant.

  “Captain, Sir,” Jesus said. “I’m grateful. I kiss your hand.”

  “Don’t bother,” García said, although he knew it was merely an expression. “I understand you created some rough trouble, Trooper Jesus.”

  “Defending the honor of my girlfriend. A man insulted her, my Captain.”

  The provost tossed in, “Not to injure your feeling, Jesus, but your girlfriend, one Doria Queveda, is a notorious whore.”

  “Yes, provost, Sir. She is famous. I am proud she has chosen me to be her partner.”

  “I imagine she would have many partners,” García said.

  “Perhaps you are right, Captain, but only one special partner. Myself. She and I are that way about one another.”

  “Anyway, you caused property damage, you knifed a civilian, you battered a couple of sailors, what else did you do?”

  “That sums it up.”

  “Are you ready to renounce your sinful ways, perhaps go to confession, embrace the Good Lord and attempt to adhere to the path of the true believers?”

  “Of course I am. This was an affair of honor. Very much in keeping with your duels with Don Alonso. Let me say you are famous throughout Spain for that bloody deed.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” García said, not terribly pleased with his fame, then to the provost, “What about this trooper, can he be trusted to return to duty? He is a good orderly and acts with some initiative.”

  Again, the provost raised his hands. “Take him, but keep him under cover until you depart. The tavern keeper will seek remuneration.” Jesus started to speak, but García bade him remain mute. He thanked the provost and the two of them were on their way.

  Outside, in the pleasant air, García remarked that he meant to confine Jesus to his quarters and his duties until their departure for San Augustin.

  “We will never see Florida,” Jesus said.

  “You are frightened?”

  “No, my Captain. I have no fears, because I know my fate.”

  “Your fate? What might that be?”

  “It may be difficult for you to understand, although you are an unusual man and sometimes I think that dog listens with understanding to our every word, but my mother had the gift. And I have the gift.”

  “And what gift might that be?”

  “To glimpse the future.”

  García nodded. This information interested him in the extreme. “I am not surprised there is such a gift. Because there is a future as well as a past. Most of us live simply for the present. Tell me, what does the future hold for us?”

  “You are correct, Captain. The three of us are together. You, me and the dog called Poncho. But we are not in Florida. We are somewhere else. Frankly, there are things that I see that are beyond my understanding. For now, let me say that we are not marked for death in the near future. But just what chaos is to come, I know not. Between the night and the day, when the first birds sing and I rouse from a deep sleep, I sometimes see these bits and pieces, but not always. As I fit the puzzle together, you will know.”

  And they left it at that. García was certain Jesus would perform his duties well. He was also certain his orderly would attempt stealthy meetings with the prostitute queen, Doria Queveda. He would be on guard.