Coming of Age

by Lee Henschel

  “¿Si, Abuela?”

  The old woman ladled soup into a small bowl and gave it to the girl, nodding at me. The girl came steady smooth and barefoot gliding—the dirt floor bearing her print just so. Small. Perfect. She perched on the cot offering the bowl. My hand trembled as I reached for it. She expressed a doubt, her eyes narrowing dark and her fine brows arching. She pushed my hand away gentle, and spoon fed me. It was a thin soup. Tomatoes, and corn. Toothsome, but I couldn’t finish.

  She put down the bowl and looked me in the eye, placing her small hand between her breasts. The little finger on her left hand was missing.

  “Soy Yadra,” she said, then opened her hand to me. “¿Usted?”

  “Ushant? Did you say Ushant?”

  She laughed. A small sound. A lute strumming soft.

  “No.” She repeated herself. She was telling me who she was, I think, and asking who was I?

  I pointed to her. “Yadra?”

  Her eyes smiled and her mouth parted just a little, her lips coloured dusty rose and shaped rich and over full. She nodded.

  “Owen.” I pointed to me. “Owen.”

  “Owen.” She said my name tuneful and it sounded most different coming from her. She said it once more and, strange—I wanted to kiss her. I’d kissed a girl once at Newbury Fair, Rebecca. I’d not liked it much—Rebecca’s breath smelled of onions. But Yadra—she made me want to try again. She took my hand and leaned near. Then the old woman stepped in and took the bowl. She nodded at the door and whispered to Yadra.

  “Vete.”

  Yadra left.

  I slept all day and awoke that night when the old woman unwound my dressing. She washed my eye in a warm solution then rinsed it with fresh water. A smaller hand came into view—a hand with a little finger missing. Yadra. She gave her abuela a small pot and the old woman dipped her fingers in it, then gently coated my wound with a cooling salve. She covered my eye with a new dressing, and tied it in place. The abuela left. But Yadra stayed. She sang in the dark. To me, maybe, but I think she sang for herself. It didn’t matter. Her voice came dreamy and soothing and when I closed my eye she stopped. She kissed me then. Her lips soft and warm and her smell earthy, and unknown.

  At dawn a horse stirred. Haditha! I went to stand but my head swirled and my stomach threatened to disgorge. I fell back until the swirling stopped and my stomach calmed. I waited for a moment then stood again, slow. Dizzy, but not so much, and I stumbled three paces to the window. I heard Haditha but couldn’t see her. Instead, I saw hill country covered in tall pines. A distant expanse of deep blue glinted below—beyond the trees. The sea.

  In the afternoon I was most incredulous when Kyle stepped through the door, his uniform at sixes and sevens and malodorous of salt marsh. I meant to stand at attention but came dizzy and fell across my cot.

  “As you were, Harriet.”

  “Lieutenant Kyle! Why are you here? Weren’t you . . .”

  “A long story and you shall hear it. But first you must say how you are. I’ve been told you’re seriously wounded. Shot, they say.”

  “In my eye, sir.”

  “Are you in great pain, lad?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. I mean not so much as before now. How long have I been here?”

  “Two days. This is a resistance camp high in the hills.”

  “What’s a resistance camp, sir?”

  “It’s complicated. You were found nearly dead on a trail close by. They took you to this hut where the old woman and the girl have been taking care of you. From the looks of it they’ve done well.”

  “But I’ll not see from my eye again anymore. Not once! It’s awful to think of.”

  “Buck up, Harriet. You might have died.”

  “I might have, sir. Except Yadra kissed me!”

  “And who is Yadra?”

  “A girl, sir. She’s most pretty.”

  “I see. And where did she kiss you?”

  “In the hut, sir.”

  “No, Harriet, what I mean is did she kiss your hand, or your cheek? Or somewhere else? Where a girl kisses you makes a difference, don’t you know.”

  “She kissed my eye, sir. Then my mouth, but the old woman came in then and Yadra stopped.”

  “Well, well! But never mind the girl. There’s other matters.”

  “What’s going to happen, sir? How are you here?”

  “My men and I were captured on the beach at Nagua when the launch failed to pick us up.”

  “Pogue, sir? He wasn’t there?”

  “He was not. And I knew then we’d be taken.”

  “Where are your men, sir?”

  “They’re being held at Nagua. But the town has no gaol and can’t afford to put them up or feed them. I’ve convinced the mayor—some fellow named Artà—to allow my men to bivouac at Otra Nova for now. They’ll earn their keep there by cleaning up the estate until arrangements are made for their release.”

  “But that cask, sir. If anyone . . .”

  Kyle stayed me. “Enough.” He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “They might be listening to us in here so we must find a more private place. How well do you walk, Harriet?”

  “I’ve not walked much, sir. I’m still dizzy and stray about.”

  “Well stand you up and try some more. Let me see how you do.”

  I stood and walked as best I could, unsteady and aching at all points and my feelings most sore when Kyle started to laugh. I was upset of it and asked him why he laughed.

  “You have sea legs, Harriet. But now you’re not at sea and that’s why you wander.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “And now you do. Come. We have business and I don’t know how much time we have. I’ll help you make your way.”

  We found an outcropping facing south, looking out to sea. Kyle went on. “I had my men bury that cask. They don’t know what’s in it. But I do. And you as well, I think.”

  “Aye, sir. Have they found its body, sir, in the work shed?”

  “No. The shed was reduced to ashes and the village assumes the owners are in hiding, along with Gottlieb’s agent. They’re not looking for them, though. I get the feeling those men won’t be missed.”

  “I think Gottlieb is dead, sir. And Tarif. He was shot serious and ran off. I’m sure the poor beast’s dead. He died most wretched, and alone. Should we go back and look for him?”

  “For the horse?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “It appears you grieve more for the horse than Gottlieb. Perhaps that’s why he chose you to go on this mission. But we have no time to look for either of them so you must listen hard, Harriet, and listen well.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “El jefe questioned me this morning. He’s very interested in you.”

  “Is he like that man on . . . I forgot the name of that place.”

  “Do you mean El Serrón?”

  “Aye, that’s it.”

  “No, this jefe is very different. Senior Posada just wanted us to leave them in peace. But the jefe here is fully engaged in the resistance. He also believes you stole that horse. And I wish to know where Gottlieb is, and the other horse as well. Tell me.”

  I said all that happened, then asked if Gottlieb’s mission was over.

  “No. There’s still a chance to reclaim it. But only if I act quickly.”

  “What will you do, sir?”

  “The less you know the better. But you should know this camp is not secure. And if I’m judicious they shan’t have cause to revoke my parole when I . . .”

  “Parole, sir?”

  “Yes. Artà granted it. He’s the mayor in Nagua and took us prisoner. He’s also the jefe’s father-in-law and he sent me here to separate me from my command. He spoke of a lad found seriously wounded in the hills. An English lad. I knew it must be you. So when I arrived here I asked after you. The jefe said he’d allowed me to visit you, but only if I consented to translate during your interrogation.”

  “Interrog
ation! But I don’t know anything, sir.”

  “He thinks you’re a thief. I don’t mean to alarm you Harriet, but the man deals harshly with thieves. He cut’s off the little finger after the first offense. Man or woman, young or old. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yadra’s finger’s gone, sir. The little one. But she wouldn’t steal, sir.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I love her, sir.” I cried most piteous. “And I don’t want my finger cut off, sir.”

  Kyle put his arm around me. “I shouldn’t have told you anything. But you mustn’t cry. If we are to get out of this I need you to stand firm. Like a marine.”

  “But what if he decides . . .”

  “Enough, Harriet. You must make do. Now watch the horizon. It’s nearly time.”

  “Time, sir?”

  “Yes. Artà had me searched when we were captured but his people failed to find this.”

  He withdrew a signaling mirror tucked deep in his waistcoat. It was small, three inches and two, with a tiny hole drilled center exact.

  “It’s well after noon and the sun’s in a good position to send and receive signals.”

  “Signals, sir? To who?”

  “To Eleanor.”

  “Eleanor, sir? I don’t understand.”

  “Captain Cedric sensed this operation would be flawed from the start. So in the event you and Gottlieb failed to appear in Mahon he planned to lay off Nagua every afternoon for a week and stand in just long enough to watch for a signal.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know.”

  “And now you do.”

  “But will they see it, sir, the signal?”

  “They will. Sending signals on a reflective surface is quite effective. It’s ancient practice—the sun’s reflection off Claymores and such. Now it’s done more with mirrors, and just before we left on this mission I told McFerron to be aloft in the afternoon watch looking in.”

  “McFerron has sharp eyes, sir.”

  “He does. And I trust him. He’s a Scot, don’t you see. Same as me. Besides, he’s bound to look in for me. I owe him money.” He considered me for a moment. “Do you have money, Harriet?”

  “Only a few bob, sir.” I removed my purse to show him. “Father gave me it. It’s nearly all gone now, sir. Next pay is Port Mahon though, and I must be onboard to sign. I’ve not much money.”

  “No matter. You can’t use English coins here, anyway.”

  “Use them for what, sir?”

  “Food, lad. You’re on shore now and not on ship’s rations. And I don’t think that old woman intends to feed you much longer.”

  “I’d not thought of that, sir.”

  “I’d advance you out of my purse but Artà’s confiscated the thing. So we must improvise.” He dug in his tunic for paper and pencil and scribed a note. “Take this. You may well need it.”

  He’d written a name and I sounded it out.

  “Sergeant . . . Sergeant . . . Oh! Now I see it! Certain I see it! Ghoti!”

  “What!”

  “Ghoti, sir. His name . . . it’s Ghoti.”

  “Are you mad, Harriet? His name is Fish. Sergeant Fish.”

  “Of course, sir. Sergeant Fish. F—as you say the ‘gh’ in enough, then ‘o‘— like in women, and then the ‘sh’ sound in nation. All together that spells G-H-O-T-I! Do you see it now, sir?”

  “Yes. I suppose I do. Did you think of that on your own, lad?”

  “No, sir. It was Mr. Lau. He posed it as a riddle once . . . a problem for my lessons.”

  “Outstanding that you would solve it. You would make a good officer of marines.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You are welcome. But now you must bear down and listen to me. Very likely you’ll be in Mahon tomorrow, and . . .

  “Tomorrow!”

  “Yes. Tomorrow. And that presents another riddle of sorts. A problem of logistics.

  “What is that, sir?”

  “I will answer by asking a question. What will happen if you arrive in Mahon and report onboard Eleanor, except she’s not in port, but still at sea?”

  “I don’t know, sir?”

  “Then you’ll be on your own until she makes port and you’ll have no funds. That’s a problem in logistics. ”

  “Can’t I report to navy pier, sir?”

  “There is no navy pier on Mahon’s waterfront.”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “Because the army, despite its claim, don’t really have control of Minorca. Mahon is secure, mostly, but not at all times. So to be safe all naval installations are based on Illa del Rei.”

  “Where’s that, sir?”

  “In the middle of the harbour. So if Eleanor isn’t in port, well then you’ll just have to wait.”

  “Wait where, sir?”

  “That’s why you must find Sergeant Fish. He was my sergeant onboard Adamant. He’s retired now, and owns a pub on chandlers row, Fornell’s. Go you there and hand in this note. It confirms you are an Eleanor, and under my command for the moment. When he sees your condition I’m quite sure he’ll tend to your needs, and the horse as well.”

  “Aye, sir. That’s most thoughtful, sir.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  I tucked the note away. “The signals, sir, are you allowed to make them? I mean when you’re on parole and such?”

  “Definitely not. If I’m caught Artà may choose to hang me.”

  “Then why do it, sir?”

  “Because you’re but a lad, Harriet, and thrown into dicey circumstance out of your depth. I feel justified to re-interpret my parole a bit. To relieve one so young as you.”

  “Oh. Thank you, sir.”

  “Be quiet now. Watch.”

  It was not long before Kyle spotted the topmasts of a ship on the horizon.

  “There! Look there, do you see it?”

  He was pointing out to sea but he was looking at me, his floating eye playing tricks again. So I looked to where he pointed.

  “Oh! I see it. She’s full and by.”

  “I’m a marine, Harriet, not a sailor. Explain full and by, if you will.”

  “She’s near close hauled, sir, and she means to hold her station.”

  “Well then, now I know.”

  I saw a faint glimmer from the main top. “Is that the signal, sir?”

  “No. Only the sun’s reflection off a telescope lens. Someone on that ship is glassing the coast line and should know better. They’re too far out to see anything of interest, so there’s no need to reveal they’re looking in at all.”

  “But it’s Eleanor, sir.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Wat, sir. He sewed a patch on the flying jib and I see it plain now.”

  “Good on you, lad.” He brought the mirror to his eye and peered through the peep hole to make sure he flashed his signal direct. He made nine-four-one, Eleanor’s number. A repeater came straightaway from the ship, making one-nine.

  “Ahhh! Good.”

  “What’s good, sir?”

  “One-nine is McFerron’s pay ticket. It means we’re in communication with him.”

  Kyle made 3-8.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “My pay ticket, so he knows who’s signaling from this station.”

  He made nine-four-one-two-one.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Eleanor to proceed to Mahon.”

  “Oh! Shall we go there, too, sir?”

  “No. Only you.”

  “What about you, sir?”

  “Do not ask.” He stood, watching as Eleanor wore ship and stood out to sea. “We are done here. No doubt someone saw that ship signaling in and will report it to jefe, so I don’t wish to be caught with this.” He buried his mirror. “There. Now we must go.”

  We started back. We’d not gone far when I discovered I’d left my coin purse.

  “Sir, please wait. I left my coin purse back there.”

  “Then hurry lad, we’ve spent too muc
h time as it is.”

  I was almost there when I saw a figure kneeling on the ground digging. Yadra. She saw me and ran off. I chased, but was unsteady. Besides, she was fast and darted through the brush rabbit quick. I found my purse and counted the bob. All there. But then what was she doing there? I made to leave but saw where she’d been digging and understood. It was Kyle’s mirror she was after, and she’d run with it. In an instant I remembered Tate and his little tin box. It had been his sole possession in a life of penury, and I guessed it was as much for Yadra, to have but one thing to call your own. I’d not thought of poor Tate as of late, and wondered if his tin box still was still tucked away on the orlop.

  I caught up to Kyle.

  “Yadra, sir, I just saw her. She dug up you mirror and ran away.”

  “Then perhaps she really is a thief.”

  “Yadra and her grandmother, they’re most poor, sir, and don’t have anything. I think she took it for a looking glass. I’ll pay for it, sir.”

  “You will not. And if you see her again tell her to get rid of it.”

  “But if . . .”

  “If she’s caught with it she may be accused of signaling the enemy and be hung. Child or not.”

  “Oh. I’d not thought of that, sir.”

  “And now you have. Come now. Double quick.”

  “Where are we going now, sir?”

  “You will go to the hut and rest. You will ride out tonight.”

  “Aye, sir. Will you go with me?”

  “I will not.”

  “But, sir, I don’t know what trail to take.”

  “Take the trail next to your hut. It leads down through the hills. When you reach the coastal plain it will be only five miles to Punta Prima, and Mahon lies just beyond.”

  “But what if . . .”

  “No more questions, Harriet. Go you, now.”

  I went to the hut, hoping to see Yadra. She wasn’t there, but the old woman stood at the hearth making a fish stew. She pointed to a pile of potatoes and turnips, dried tomatoes and onions and handed me a small knife.

  “A trabajar.”

  I peeled and chopped while she stirred. The fire was big and the pot was large enough to serve twenty, and it was late evening before the stew was ready. Several men came in then and ladled it into smaller pots and carried them away. Only then did the old woman hand me a small bowl of stew.