by L. A. Meyer
“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?”
Coarse laughter from his cohorts. Har-har! What do you have under that skirt, girl? Enough for all of us good fellows?
“No, sir, I will not grant you that favor,” I say, rising to my feet and going to stand by the horseman. “But I will grant you an even greater favor.”
“And what favor is that?” He laughs, leaning over me in the saddle.
“I will give you your life.”
He looks startled. “How will you give me my life? Are you an angel?”
“Non, Monsieur. But perhaps you have heard of La Belle Jeune Fille Sans Merci?”
“What? But she is—”
“She is standing right here, mon ami,” I say, twirling about and sweeping my hand toward the horizon. “Look up there, all of you.”
Startled, they take their eyes off me and gaze upward. There stands the Montoya band of guerrillas, dark and menacing against the sky, a rifle in each hand, held across each chest. In the midst of them stands a cannon, pointed down at the convoy.
“Diable!” shouts the leader.
“There are a hundred of us! Save yourselves!” I shout. “Run, my friends! Will you die for your tents? Save yourselves!”
With that, I thrust my hand into the air and am rewarded with a deep boooom from our cannon on the hill.
I am also rewarded with... yeeeouch! A hail of small shot rains down upon us. One catches me on my hip, another hits the flank of the caravan leader’s horse. I scream, and so does the horse. The horse bolts forward and carries his rider away.
My hipbone stings and I fume, but still I go with the plan. “Run, comrades, run! Look, they come!” I scream, pointing up at Montoya’s men charging down the hill. “They will kill you! Run!”
They need no more encouragement. The French soldiers climb down from the wagon and take to their heels. Those on horseback spur their mounts and follow the others in their panicked flight.
The last of them have gone off down the road as Pablo and the others swarm over the wagon and draw the horses around. Primitivo leaps up onto the seat, picks up the reins, and gets the nervous horses started on the way back to our camp. A grinning Joachim comes running to me. Then I spot the stolid figure of Pilar.
“Pilar!” I yell, pointing an accusing finger at her. “You loaded that gun. You shot me!”
I rub my sore thigh. It hurts, but I know the spent shot did not penetrate my skin.
Pilar smiles. “We wanted it to look good, no? It was your plan, remember, girl.”
I do not think her smile is genuine and I continue to look resentful.
“No matter now, cara mia!” exults Joachim, putting his arm around my waist. “I shall kiss it and make it well!”
Our horses are brought up and we mount. “We have the powder and we did not lose a single man, thanks to the cunning of La Apasionada!” Joachim shouts, standing in his stirrups.
“On to the bridge at Siguenza!”
Chapter 41
James Emerson Fletcher
Onboard the Mary Bissell
Bound for America
Jacky Faber
Who Knows Where
Dearest Jacky,
Yes, I now stand on the deck of the Mary Bissell, looking out to sea. I am dressed in the finest of Oriental garb. At my waist is a sash that holds a very sharp knife, but at my side hangs no sword. No, instead, in my hand I hold my Bo staff, and I think I will need naught else in the way of protection.
The sails have filled and we gain headway and Burma fades behind me, as I look to the west with a certain amount of cautious hope concerning our eventual reunion.
I bade farewell to my Rangoon friends last night at a great feast put on by the House of Chen in my honor. Mai Ling and Mai Ji were there, protesting that they shall wither and die without their beloved Long Boy, but I suspect that they will survive.
Kwai Chang attends and eats very heartily for a monk. I must say, our own starched churchmen should take a lesson. He gives me his blessing and once again I give him my thanks for his teachings, and I ask him to tender my farewell to Sifu Loo Li.
“Tell him, Master, that I thank him for his instruction at Bojutsu,” I say. “And I want you to do this when you tell him that.” I look in his eye and wink my own eye very broadly.
“But what does that gesture mean, Chueng Tong?” asks the Master, mystified. “Could it be a Western koan with which I am not familiar? Is it the sound of one eyelid closing? That is puzzling, for that sound cannot be louder than that of the footsteps of a mosquito wearing slippers, walking across an elephant’s testicles. Please enlighten poor teacher, Long Boy.”
It is all I can do to suppress laughter at the Master’s ability to turn a crude gesture into a metaphysical question.
“No, Master,” I manage to say. “It is merely a sign that the one winking is not entirely convinced of an action, or a statement.”
“Oh,” he says, eyebrows raised, apparently puzzled. “Please go on.”
“That particular wink should convey to Sifu Loo Li my certainty that he threw the fight that let me win my Red Dragon.”
Master Kwai Chang laughs and says, “Oh, Chueng Tong, he would never do that. Trust me!” He chortles for a bit and then goes on. “But I will wink my eye when I tell him of your words!”
Yes, Charlie and I exchanged heartfelt farewells that night. I tendered my thanks for his hospitality to both you and me. He tut-tutted all that and said he was sure he would be repaid many times over by his new contacts in the New World. Never let it be said that Old Chops ever missed an opportunity to extend his business interests... or his ultimate empire. “Here, Mr. Fletcher, is a packet of money in various currencies. Use it as you wish, and invest it wisely, and I believe we both shall prosper. Regards to my Little Round-Eyed Barbarian when you see her. Bon voyage, Long Boy.”
Everyone said their goodbyes that night... all except for one, and that one stood at the dock as the Mary Bissell pulled away. Sidrat’ul Muntaha waved a silken handkerchief and the same wind that billowed her bit of cloth also filled our slack sails.
Goodbye, Sidrah, I shall remember you . . .
Jaimy
Chapter 42
We are below the stone pillars of the bridge that arches above us. It is late afternoon and we strive to get the job done before nightfall because there is a report that a French battalion is marching southward toward this very bridge.
“Here. Pack them in down at the base of the pillar,” orders Rafael, who seems to know more about explosives than the others, and certainly more than I.
I serve as powder monkey in this endeavor, not having much expertise in this field other than setting a simple fuse and then lighting it. Rafael takes my bag of powder and shoves it tight against the others already stacked there.
Last night was spent in celebration over our taking of the French convoy and its precious powder. There was good food found in the French wagons, and wine, too, and so we ate and drank and caroused far into the night. I danced with Joachim and sang with him, and when it was time for sleep, our two bedrolls became one, as the night was cool.
Today, however, is all work.
It seems rather a shame to destroy this bridge, I’m thinking, as I drop my bag of powder and gaze up at the underside of the structure. It looks like it’s been here a good long time. I imagine it’s helped many people in getting their goats and sheep across the river, and I’ll bet lots of poor people have camped beneath it. Yes, it’s just like Blackfriars Bridge back in London, which gave shelter to me and the rest of the Rooster Charlie Gang. Oh, well, war is war, and it will have its way.
I am going back for another bag when I hear Joachim call out. “Jacquelina! Augustin has come back from a scouting mission with news. He reports that there is a whole division of French troops marching this way. They intend to cross this bridge!”
Augustin sits there on his puffing horse, plainly proud of being bearer of this news.
“Hola, Augustin,” I say, wiping the sweat and dust from my eyes. “What were they?”
“What do you mean ‘What were they?’” asks the lad, confused. “They were French soldiers, that’s what, and there were lots of them. What else?”
“Yes, I know,” I say. “But how were they arrayed? How were they placed as they marched along? How were they dressed?”
The boy considers. “They were in three columns, with riders out to the side. The ones in front had shiny breastplates on their chests and high hats with plumes out the back.”
I turn to Joachim and say, “They are Cuirassiers, the finest of battle-tested soldiers, second only to the Imperial Guard. They are not like the farm boys we scared away yesterday, Joachim. We must beware, and we must set our charges and get the hell out of here.” I look around nervously.
“But why, guapa?” he says, once again drawing me to him. “They are far away and—”
“And they are members of the finest army ever assembled, and they will have scouting parties out in advance of the main force. Count on it, Joachim. Ignore my advice at your peril!”
I push him away and seek out Pablo Montoya.
“Comandante,” I say upon finding him, with Pilar by his side. “We must get this done quickly and get away as fast as we can!”
Pilar crosses her arms and scowls at me. “Once again, the smallest one gives the biggest orders,” she says, her voice thick with scorn.
“If they come upon us, we will be lost, Pilar. Count on it. They are many, we are few—”
“Stop squabbling, the two of you,” says Montoya. “The French are many miles away, and evening is upon us. They will stop and camp for the night. So will we. Raphael has told me that all is in readiness. We need only to light the fuse and the bridge will be gone. It is time for some dinner.”
Joachim comes to my side and takes my hand in his. “Come, guapa, the campfire is lit, the cook pot is on. Let us sing together again and—”
But we do not do that at all, for a shot rings out... then another, then...
“Allons! Pour la France!”
More shots, more screams, more—
“Compadres! We are attacked!”
Damn! I just knew it! We are ambushed! A French patrol has fallen upon us! Damn!
I grab my pistols and head into the fight. There are screams, there are shots. I fire at shadows once, twice, and yet again, crouching down to reload each time and making no sense of what is swirling around me.
I know that Joachim is by my side, and then... then... I feel him jerk. No, God, please! Not again! But it is true—a bullet has found him.
He falls against me and I hold him up as best I can and struggle with my burden back to the campsite, as the sounds of fighting slack off, then cease.
I see Montoya by the fire, reloading his pistols, cursing under his breath.
“Dirty cowards! Bastardos!”
I gently lower Joachim to the ground and kneel by his side and take his hand.
“Joachim. Can you hear me?” I say gently.
“Si, mi querida. I can... and your voice is like honey in my ear. I...”
But he does not get to finish, as blood burbles out of his mouth and over his cheek. It is plain that the bullet got him in the lung, and it is also obvious that he is done for. Yet again, I find myself at the side of a dying soldier.
He cannot speak, but his eyes are open and they fix on me.
“Goodbye, Joachim,” I whisper, holding his hand to my chest, as tears stream down my face. “I will wait for the dove of your soul to beat at my window. I will, Joachim, and I will throw up the sash and let you in, I promise. Now go with God, mi querido.”
And, with a soft, shuddering sigh, he goes off.
I place his hands on his chest and reach up and close his eyes. Vaya con Dios, mi amigo . . .
Then I stand, wipe my eyes, and look about me. I see with dismay that there are three more still forms lying dead in a row. It is Anselmo, and Fernando, and the boy Eladio.
Good Lord, what a waste of young lives . . .
“We will blow the bridge now,” I hear Montoya say. “Prepare the pig.”
What?
I turn to see that the horror is not yet over. The band has a prisoner, and they mean to exact some terrible revenge.
He is a young French lieutenant, Infantry by his uniform, a uniform now stained with his own blood—he has received a grievous wound in his right side. He is tied to a tree and he is hurt, but not so bad that he cannot see what is in store for him. Racks of dry wood and tinder are being stacked around his feet.
They mean to burn him alive.
I rush to stand in front of the prisoner. “Pablo! You cannot do this!”
He does not reply, but Pilar does. “Shut up, girl! We have four dead lying there because of him! He shall pay for it with his death by fire!”
“Mademoiselle,” I hear spoken behind me. I turn and look into the eyes of the prisoner who has spoken. Plainly, he senses in me someone of sympathy. “Aidez moi, s’il vous plait . . . Donnez moi la mort d’un soldat.”
“What does he say?” asks Montoya.
“He asks for a soldier’s death. It is his right, Pablo.”
“He shall not have it. He leads a cowardly ambush and four of ours lie dead!” snarls Pilar. “No! When the bridge goes, so goes he. Rafael! Go light the fuse! Andres! When you hear the blast, you will light his funeral pyre.”
Rafael takes a burning stick from the fire and runs off. Andres, numb with grief over the death of his brother, takes up another ember and goes to stand in front of the prisoner.
The French lieutenant is in pain from his wound, but that pain will be nothing compared to the slow agony of the flames. He looks at me with terror in his eyes, pleading...
I set my jaw. No! I will not witness this.
There is a tremendous blast from the direction of the bridge.
I have two pistols in my belt, one of which is still loaded. I pull it out and aim the barrel at the young soldier’s heart. My finger tightens on the trigger... and I give him the release he seeks...
I give him the gift of death.
The pistol bucks in my hand, the bullet goes into his heart, and his body slumps in his bonds.
“There,” I say, sticking the spent pistol back in my belt and mounting my horse. “You may burn him now.”
“You should not have done that,” growls Pilar, and Montoya looms large and scowling behind her.
“I know that, Pilar,” I say, gathering up the reins. “But I did. I disobeyed your order and I know I must go. The ‘little wars’ of the guerrillas are too cruel for me. I lack your strength of purpose, I lack your resolve. Adiós.”
With that, I turn the horse’s head, put heels to her flanks, and pound out of the camp. I put my fist to my mouth and let the tear
s flow.
Four lie dead on the ground... five, now, with the French lieutenant.
What did it serve?
Nada.
What will be remembered?
Nada.
What does it all mean?
Nada.
PART IV
Chapter 43
I have been riding for five days now. I push westward toward the sea, but I’m growing weary. I must stick to the shadows because I have no protection other than my two pistols, and they will not provide much in that way should I be jumped by... whom? Anybody, that’s who. Anyone who takes a notion to do so. I have my resources, yes, but still I am a young girl alone. The sea is far away and I have very little money. There are great mountain ranges between me and the ocean, and then there are the mighty armies whose lines I must cross.
I am tired... and I am very, very hungry.
I mount a ridge and slide out of the saddle to give poor Gabriella a bit of a rest. I lean against her flanks as she munches on the sparse grasses that grow about—poor girl, I should be able to provide better for you, but I cannot, not now, anyway, but be strong, something will turn up—and I look down into the valley. As I gaze about, a yellow wagon pulls into my view, far below... then another one, painted red with gold trim... and yet another brightly adorned in blues and... finally, a long line of them. They seem to be pulling into a circle.
Gypsies!
I drag my seabag from Gabriella’s back—off with my pants and on with my black embroidered skirt. I already have on my white shirt and toreador jacket; that should serve. I cram my dark wig on my head and drape the black mantilla over that. Back on Gabby’s back, I give a gentle nudge with my heels and we head down to the gypsy camp.
As I approach, two men come out to meet me. They are young and darkly handsome and they are dressed very Majo—or very much like it—maybe even a little bit more in the way of sashes and headscarves.