Zorro and the Little Devil

by Peter David

  “And yet here we are doing so,” said del Riego. The other pirates near him chuckled, and then their attention turned to Alejandro. He knew they were waiting for him to speak so that they could laugh in derision at every word coming out of his mouth. He was not remotely prepared to give them that sort of satisfaction.

  Del Riego seemed disappointed. “Nothing to say, Alejandro? Any threats you would care to throw my way?” He smiled. “I can see it in your eyes. So many threats you would like to hurl at us. What’s preventing you from telling us how you will thwart us?”

  And Don Alejandro did the one thing he promised himself he would not do. He drew his lips back in a sneer. “Senor Zorro will find you and dispose of you.”

  Just as he knew it would, this provoked further laughter from the pirates. Don Alejandro didn’t care. He knew their laughter would be turned to prayers for mercy once Zorro showed up, as he always did, and saved the day.

  “Senor Zorro?” said del Riego when he had managed to compose himself sufficiently. “Medium sized man, dressed in black, with a cape and a sombrero cordobes on his head? That is your planned rescuer?” He made a sad “tsk” sound with his mouth and said, “I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Zorro is dead. I killed him.”

  “We killed him,” said Maria.

  “Of course, yes. We killed him. Beat him at sword play and then knocked him off a cliff. Zorro is dead, Don Alejandro. Most assuredly dead.”

  “That is nonsense,” said Alejandro flatly. “Such as you could never … ”

  Maria was now leaning toward him and, to his shock, there was what appeared to be genuine sympathy on her face. “It is true, Alejandro. It may be difficult for you to hear, because I know he is quite the hero hereabouts. You may well have come to count on him when you are in trouble. But I am afraid he is truly dead.”

  Alejandro was about to reject the claim yet again, but something in her voice and tone stopped him.

  Zorro … was dead?

  His son was dead? Killed by these … these barbarians?

  Don Alejandro’s mind split in two, with half of it rejecting the news and half of it slowly accepting it. It was entirely possible that it had happened. He was reasonably sure that Diego had returned to the hacienda to take on his Zorro identity because somehow he had managed to figure out that these men and this woman were not what they presented themselves to be. And if he had done so and underestimated them in any way, it was entirely possible that …

  To his shock, Maria seemed concerned. “All the blood has gone from his face. Alejandro, are you … ?”

  With a roar like a charging lion, Alejandro launched himself at del Riego. His hands were securely tied behind his body, but that didn’t seem to matter to him. He slammed full on into the startled pirate and the two of them went down to the ground. Don Alejandro tilted his head back and slammed it into del Riego’s face. He heard a satisfying crunching sound and del Riego howled in pain. Don Alejandro de la Vega had broken the pirate’s nose.

  Before he could do it a second time, the other pirates grabbed him by either arm and hauled him off del Riego. The pirate was clutching his nose and moaning, and Don Alejandro spat on him for good measure.

  Immediately the pirate captain scrambled to his feet and yanked out his sword. “I should kill you right here!”

  “Do it!” Don Alejandro dared him, for at that moment he truly believed that he had nothing more to live for. “Come ahead! Do it, if you have the nerve! Kill the richest man in all Los Angeles! You think I am afraid of you? You are going to be vastly disappointed, you bastard! Or better still, loose my hands, give me a sword, and use on me whatever tricks you used on Zorro. See if you can dispatch me with as much ease as you claim you did Zorro! Do it! Do it!”

  Maria was applying a cloth to his broken nose in order to stop the bleeding. He pushed her aside, grabbed the cloth and did it himself. “You would like that, wouldn’t you. Save your foppish son from having to pay to have you released. No, Don Alejandro. You do not get out of your value to me that easily. Get him on the ship!” he ordered his compatriots, and they quickly hauled Alejandro toward the small boat.

  Part of Don Alejandro believed that he should continue to battle them. Who knew exactly how far he could carry it if they were loath to slay him. But then the full weight of what he had learned bore down on him, and his shoulders sagged in defeat. No matter what he did to the pirate — and that included killing him — there was nothing he could possibly do to restore his beloved son to life.

  Zorro was dead.

  Don Alejandro was alone in his life. No wife to love him. No son to carry on the name of de la Vega. No grandchildren to bounce on his knee. No siblings with whom he could share his grief. Just servants. People who would leave him in a heart beat if he ceased paying them.

  His will to live fled him. He no longer cared about anything. The pirate had slain his son and there was no one left to avenge him.

  He offered no protest as he climbed into the small boat where Quintero was seated. Several pirates sat between them and grabbed the oars. There were more boats bobbing around the dock and they were busy loading the treasure chest into one of them. Their captain was telling them to be careful; that it was worth more than all their lives combined. Yes, that was absolutely the way to command men’s loyalties. Tell them they were worthless.

  Then again, the pirate had dozens of men who would gladly fight on his behalf. Don Alejandro had no one. So really, who was he to lob criticisms at him?

  “Don Alejandro,” whispered Quintero. “Are you all right?” When Alejandro didn’t answer him initially, he continued, “Is your wound painful?”

  “It is nothing compared to other pains I have endured,” said Alejandro. Then he scowled at Quintero. “You could have issued a warning to me when I rode up, you know.”

  “They said they would shoot anyone I tried to warn.”

  “They shot me anyway, you idiot!”

  Quintero was about to issue some sort of irritated comeback, but instead he opened and closed his mouth with no words emerging. Then slowly he lowered his head. “You are right,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I am an idiot. Zorro tried to warn me. He sent a man to tell me of Diabolito’s scheme … ”

  “Who?” said Alejandro. Then he realized. “That is his real name. Not del Riego. Diabolito.”

  “I doubt that’s his real name,” said Quintero. “I find it hard to conceive any parent would name their child ‘the Little Devil.’ ”

  “So Zorro sent you a warning?”

  “Yes,” said Quintero grimly. “I should have listened. I should have assembled a garrison of fifty men and come riding to your hacienda. Right now they should all be dangling from nooses around their necks. Instead we are both their prisoners because I did not have the common sense that God normally doles out to see that the man’s words were true. Instead I tossed him in a cell and then came riding out on my own to make certain that ‘del Riego’ was safe. I rode right into their hands. Has there ever been someone who is as much of an idiot as me?”

  For a long moment, Don Alejandro said nothing. Then, as if speaking from very far away, he said, “I once knew a man. He had a son whom he despised. But the son was actually a hero through and through and for the longest time, the man had no idea.”

  “What happened to him?” said Quintero.

  “The son died,” Alejandro said. “And the father was left on his own with no one to love, or hold, or even speak to. All he had to his name was the sense that he had been an idiot to never truly appreciate the son that he had.”

  “Do I know the man?”

  For a moment he was tempted to spell it out to Quintero. To let him know that Don Diego de la Vega was actually the legendary Curse of Capistrano, Senor Zorro.

  But instead he kept the words to himself. Because that is what Diego would have wanted.

  “No,” said Don Alejandro de la Vega. “In a way, I think nobody knows him.”

  They spoke no mor
e for the endurance of the trip.

  ***

  Rope ladders were lowered from the deck of the ship, which Don Alejandro was able to quickly discern, was a Spanish galleon. The proud flag of Spain fluttered from the main mast, and the ship was clearly well kept up and attended to.

  Now Don Alejandro knew exactly what had happened. The Little Devil had stolen the ship from genuine Spanish soldiers, taken their uniforms and left them either alive on the pirate ship or dead at the bottom of the ocean.

  So that he could grip the rope ladder in order to pull himself up, the pirates severed the rope that was binding his hands. “Don’t get any ideas,” one of the pirates warned him. Don Alejandro didn’t even bother to shrug. He had no son and was outnumbered by pirates. What idea could he possibly conceive that would do the slightest bit of good?

  Once his hands were freed, he flexed his fingers experimentally and then climbed up the rope ladder and stepped onto the ship’s deck. He imagined it being filled with the legitimate men who should have been sailing it. What would happen to them, he wondered. Did they all have families who had no idea pirates had captured them and were very probably unlikely to ever see their children and wives again? What a terrible, inhumane career to have. Don Alejandro wagered to himself, given what had happened to them, all the men regretted their career choices.

  And why not? It was a time for regrets all around.

  Why had he let Diego continue to masquerade as Zorro?

  It was selfish. That’s what it was. He had embraced the notion his son was a hero, fighting back against Quintero and his squads of fools. Protecting innocent people from bandits, pirates and the like.

  Why did he do it? It came down to the realization that he envied Diego’s dual life. His son was doing the kinds of things Alejandro had imagined himself doing during his youth.

  How selfish had he been? How had he not seen how Zorro’s career would inevitably end? He should have put an end to it, insisted that Diego cease his insane adventures. Instead he let his pathetic self-satisfaction govern his actions. What a blasted fool he had been.

  As he stood on the deck, he saw a pirate coming toward him with rope to retie his bonds. Part of him wanted to lash out, drive his fist into the man’s face, lay him out. Then free Quintero and the two of them could fight their way off the vessel. But even as the thoughts went through his mind, his common sense warned him not to. He was an old man and they were youthful criminals. They would not engage him in swordplay, even though his blade was still dangling in the scabbard on his belt. They would likely just stand several feet away and shoot him again, and this time it likely wouldn’t be lucky enough to pass through him and just leave him with a scar. Besides, the loss of his son also robbed him of his will to survive, to live. What if he escaped? What would he be heading home to? An empty hacienda in which he would sit every day and wait to die.

  Quintero was now standing next to him, also having his hands bound. “Are you all right, Don Alejandro?”

  “I would be better if you stopped asking stupid questions.” Then he hesitated a moment before inquiring, “Maria. How does she play into this?”

  “Maria is my sister,” said Quintero.

  The news hit Alejandro like a hammer to the head. “Your sister? And it did not occur to you to tell me this?”

  Quintero shrugged. “I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I had no clue that she had taken up romantically with a pirate.”

  Don Alejandro slowly shook his head, finding it almost impossible to digest this latest piece of news. The innocent woman whom he had rescued in the market square was a pirate’s lover. Alejandro had fancied himself a remarkable judge of character. Yet he had once thought his son, the hero, was a useless fop, and the decent woman Maria had taken advantage of his credulity as part of a plot cooked up by a pirate.

  “You did the right thing,” said Alejandro.

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “No,” and Alejandro nodded. “If you cannot believe the best of your family, then who else is one to trust?”

  “The lesson has been learned, Don Alejandro: Trust no one.” Quintero “harrumphed” deep in his throat. “I was an idiot.”

  “We both were,” said Don Alejandro. “We are both idiots and our reward for our idiocy is to be captives of a pirate.”

  “If he slays me, it will be a relief,” said Quintero.

  One of the pirates strode forward and grinned. “Diabolito will be pleased that you feel that way. Come with me, gentlemen.”

  Their hands once again secured behind their backs, the two prisoners were led down into the bowels of the ship. Two pirates escorted them, and when they reached the lower decks, one of them took Quintero in the opposite direction from Alejandro. Don Alejandro, for his part, was led down to a small room that was unfurnished and quite dark since there was nothing in there to illuminate it.

  “This is a storage room,” growled Alejandro’s pirate captor. “I hope you don’t mind sitting in the dark.”

  “Not at all. I will pretend it’s my coffin.”

  The pirate laughed loudly at that. “You have an odd sense of humor, Don.”

  I wasn’t joking, he though grimly, but didn’t bother to disabuse the pirate of his opinion.

  “Could you at least sever these ropes so I have my hands free?” said Don Alejandro.

  “Yes, I could,” said the pirate. Then he turned his back to Alejandro and swung the door shut. Alejandro was plunged into darkness. He heard a latch being slid into place, but he didn’t hear any sort of lock clicking on the other side. Why would they have to lock it? Alejandro couldn’t see anything and his hands were tied behind his back, so he had no way of opening the door.

  The grief of losing his son began to overwhelm him. He had concealed his reactions upon hearing about Zorro’s demise because he knew, if he truly gave vent to what he was feeling, it would certainly tip the pirates off to his relationship to the dead hero. Now, though, alone in the darkness, he was able to release the true swelling of grief that overwhelmed him. He started to sink to his knees.

  And that was when he felt a blade in his back.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Into the Deep

  Senor Zorro knew that he was going to have to time this perfectly. If he waited for too short a period of time, then he would be spotted and his rescue mission would come to naught. If he waited for too long, the boat would depart and would be beyond his range to do anything. So he waited patiently, trying to judge what would be the best moment to move.

  Finally all of the pirates were gone from the wharf, rowing small vessels toward the waiting galleon. Zorro judged in his mind how long it would take for them to reach the ship. They were not rowing especially fast. Why should they? They had all the time in the world, especially once they got Quintero and his father out of immediate sight.

  Finally he decided he had waited long enough. Moving quickly through the darkness, Zorro sprinted down to the water and waded in. Seconds later, with quick, strong strokes, he was swimming toward the galleon.

  There was one thing in his favor: The rope ladders that were being lowered down to them were on the far side of the ship, while his goal was on the side closer to him. That meant that if he could reach it before the rowboats managed to get there, he would be able to scale the side of the vessel completely unseen.

  His swimming motions were minimal but effective, making no noise in the water as each arm stroke pulled him forward. He wished he could have removed his clothing before he had set out, since the weight of it — especially the cloak — were weighing him down. But there was nowhere he could have left it where it would have been secure, and besides, he liked his costume. A dripping wet Zorro was still going to be more threatening than a dripping wet, unclothed Don Diego.

  He was capable of moving faster than the oared rowboats, and so it was that as the rowboats swung around to the port side of the vessel, Zorro made his way to the starboard section, unseen by anyone top side since
their attention was entirely engaged on the embarking passengers.

  There it was, just as he had known it would be: the anchor that was keeping the ship in its place.

  He gripped the chain firmly and began hauling himself up it. The dripping wet cloth of his cape was threatening to drag him down off the anchor, but he willed himself to maintain his grip and keep hauling his way up, hand over steady hand.

  Within moments he had drawn even with the shuttered hole through which a cannon was projected should they be faced with a battle. That, Zorro felt, was his way in. The problem was, he was a bit of a distance from it, and wasn’t entirely sure how to get to it.

  He removed his sword from his scabbard and reached toward the window with the blade. Thus did he managed to make up for the limit of what his natural arm length presented, and was able to lift up the window cover so that he could see the mouth of the cannon within.

  Unfortunately nothing was keeping the window cover aloft. Presumably when it was opened, the extended cannon prevented it from swinging shut. So Zorro had no means of getting it to stay open.

  Except for one.

  Bracing himself on the anchor chain, he reached up with his free left hand, pulled off his hat, and threw it just as he removed the sword from keeping the window propped open. The cover closed on his hat. Now there was a space of a few inches into which he could sink his fingers.

  At that moment, he heard the two worst words he could have picked up from above.

  “Weigh anchor!” came the command from Diabolito.

  Immediately the anchor began to rise.

  Zorro had only seconds in which to act. He rocked the chain back and forth once, twice, and then flung himself at the window. His questing fingers snagged the lower part of the window and his body thudded against the ship’s hull, but fortunately so softly that no one above would have heard it above the groan of the anchor chain.