by Allen, Jewel
“I certainly do, Your Highness.”
“In light of your distinguished military history, I am willing to make this bargain.” He held up a piece of paper. “This paper spells out a mission. Take it with you to the governor-general when you get to the country. If you conduct yourself honorably, and accomplish this mission within two years’ time, I may allow you to return to Spain.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“You know, Captain, I could have chosen to execute you, but you are more useful to me alive than dead.”
“I would hope so, Your Highness.”
“I like your sense of humor. Some days,” King Carlos looked over his shoulder at the grim-faced ministers, “it is refreshing.” The king leaned forward. “But this is no laughing matter.”
Raúl sobered. “No, it’s not, Your Highness.”
The king looked up at the ceiling art once again. “There is little time to prepare. I am sending you on the next voyage to the orient. A matter of days.”
Raúl reeled a little at the thought. How could he get ready so soon? But at the same time, the prospect of freedom and a new adventure filled him with excitement.
“Go, Captain Calderón,” King Carlos said. “Go with God.”
Raúl bowed and bid him goodbye.
73
The next morning, a carriage rumbled to a stop in front of the Royal Armory. Raúl came out of the barracks and walked alongside Mario Benavente. While the carriage driver loaded Raúl’s trunk in the carriage, the two men clasped hands.
“God be with you,” Mario said.
“And with you, too,” Raúl said. “Stay out of trouble.”
“I would hope the same for you. By the way, I thought Conchita would be here. I have stopped trying to figure that girl out.”
Raúl shrugged, trying hard to mask his disappointment. “Same here.”
“Remember you always have a home here in Madrid. Well, after your exile, that is.”
“And if you ever want to eat exotic food and swelter in the tropics, come see me.”
Mario grinned. “I just might.”
Raúl got into the carriage, shutting the door and waving as they pulled away. He did not look back. The memory of recent events tried to intrude upon his thoughts, and he shook his head in refusal.
Do not look back. What is past is past.
It would be hours before Raúl would reach Seville, to catch the ship sailing to Acapulco. And then from Acapulco to the Philippine port of Manila. Raúl leaned back and closed his eyes. Last night, he had not slept much, thinking of the future. Now he felt drowsy, exhausted beyond belief. He woke up when they stopped at an inn, where they rested for a few hours, and switched out for a fresh pair of horses.
By the time Raúl reached the port of Seville an hour later than he’d hoped for, there was little sunrise to speak of. Pale yellow streaks threaded through gray clouds. The wheels of his hired carriage splashed through puddles. A damp, salty breeze promised more rain. The carriage paused at the top of a rise before traipsing down a narrow winding alley of villas. Minutes later, it entered the plaza of the Catedral de Santa Cruz and stopped.
Raúl asked the driver, “Why the delay?”
“People are crossing the plaza for morning mass. It will only be a minute.”
Raúl’s fingers drummed against the window sill. He had to visit customs and every minute mattered. The greasy smell of churros filled the air as a female vendor waved him over, but Raúl shook his head. Finally, the church bell pealed seven times, scattering a flock of swallows, and the plaza emptied of the crowd like the receding tide.
They moved on through another maze of alleys which widened to the main avenida that fed into the harbor, where the galleon Santa María sat heavy in waters mirroring the dull blue sky, dwarfing the other boats. But first, they had to stop at Customs.
The clerk bobbed his head up and down as he unfolded Raúl’s traveling papers. “And where are you headed today, Captain?”
“Las Islas Filipinas,” Raúl said.
“The Philippine Islands?” The clerk’s head listed sideways like a ship with a leak. “I wish you better luck than my cousin. He got sick with malaria and returned alive, but just barely.” He stamped the documents and continued. “It’s the accursed weather, always raining, and with swamps everywhere...”
“Thank you,” Raúl cut him off as he gathered his papers and stood up. “I have a galleon to catch.”
The clerk bobbed his head. “Of course. Happy voyage, Captain.”
Raúl strode across the foyer and out in the open, where the rain began to drizzle from a somber sky. A woman with a tiny blue parasol almost ran into him.
“Perdon, Señor,” she said as he caught her arm.
That voice. It couldn’t be...
“Conchita?” he said.
Conchita lifted the parasol, revealing the face he’d sworn to forget. “Buenos dias, Raúl.”
74
Raúl realized he was gripping her arm tightly and released it. “What are you doing here?”
“I was trying to catch you before you left.”
The words formed in his head, but he didn’t say them. Had she changed her mind?
She bit her lip. “I’ve come to say goodbye.”
Had she no compassion? Por Dios, she not only wanted to break his heart but trample it. “I thought you already did that, once.”
“Mother Rita said I should do it before you leave.”
A steady rain began to fall in big droplets. She raised the parasol to cover him, but she had to stretch uncomfortably. He took the handle from her and held it, catching a whiff of her perfume – a rose scent that made his head spin.
She clasped her gloved hands together. “Mario brought me to Seville last night. He said I might find you here.”
Two men came out of the customs house and glanced at them curiously as they walked past. The church bells pealed eight times. Raúl turned his face towards the waterfront. “I need to go soon.”
“Is there some place we can talk in private? Just a few minutes.”
He shrugged. “My carriage, I suppose.”
Raúl helped Conchita into the carriage, his fingers burning where he held her gloved hand briefly. He told the driver to proceed to the dock and to take his trunk up to the galleon deck once there. They took seats across from each other.
Raúl expelled a sigh. He would make the first conciliatory move. “Thank you for delaying the king’s entourage.”
“I’m glad it worked.” She paused. “Despite what you might think, I still love and admire you.”
Her words sounded insincere, thrown carelessly, like a bone to a dog. “That sounds awfully like some consolation prize.”
“Does it? I don’t mean it to.” She hesitated. “Gabriel was released from prison. He’s here, in Seville.”
Raúl bristled at the mention of his name. “That probably makes you happy. Will you marry him?”
“Marry?” She looked at him, puzzled. “Why should I?”
“I thought, as much as you cared about him, that you and he...”
“We’re just friends,” she interjected. “I want to clear the air on something. I’m not ready for marriage. So when I called off our wedding, there was that reason.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
“Your proposal happened so quickly. I thought I could think about it, get more comfortable. But then we were in the middle of the theater run so I... I just couldn’t do it.”
His gaze followed the line of her jaw. He’d always admired her ambition, now she just seemed extremely shallow. “I feel sorry for you.”
“Why?’
“Someday, when you are ready for marriage, you will be a lonely woman.”
She covered her ears. “Stop it.”
He grabbed her wrists and pulled them down. “I promised you love. I promised you protection. I am not perfect but I would have stayed faithful. What more did you want?”
“More experience,” she cried. “Lead parts without having to worry about children.”
He let her wrists go. “We can wait.”
“But these things happen, and you cannot take them back.”
“These things, as you call them, would be blessings in disguise.”
She lifted her chin. “Perhaps, for some women.”
“But not for you?”
“Not right now.”
Gulls circled overhead, emitting their mournful cries. Exhaustion settled in Raúl’s bones. “It’s a long ride to break someone’s heart all over again.”
She lifted her fingers to her neck, then lowered them. “I’m staying the night. I am visiting a friend here.” Their gazes locked and he knew she was going to see that snake, Gabriel.
He leaned back, his breath knocked out of him. Disgusted. “Is he the real reason then?”
She wouldn’t look at him. As silence stretched, his fears multiplied. Finally, she raised her eyes to his, challenging him. “He and I are made of the same cloth.”
Heaven help him. Raúl wanted to grab and make mad love to her, until her knees weakened and she flung her resolve to the wind. He hated the sight of her, that fire in her eyes that caught and spun him until it left him breathless with wonder. He hated himself, too, for still desiring her after what she’d done.
She tapped her parasol on the floor. “This shouldn’t surprise you, Raúl. When we were young, you knew of my ambitions.”
“Oh, I knew, all right. But you had a heart then.”
As though he’d delivered a physical blow, she put an arm to her midriff and gasped. “You’re wrong about me.”
“Apparently.” He looked out the window. “Listen, I have a ship to catch.”
She touched his sleeve. “I’m sorry, Raúl.” Moments later, she was gone.
He closed his eyes and took two deep, labored breaths before following her out. The rain had let up. For a long moment, he stood on the dock, just letting the movement of the crowd swirl around him, waters agitated by an impending storm. Like a current, the conversation threatened to pull him down. Finally, forcing himself back to the surface, he heard a familiar voice by his ear. “Don’t move, Captain.”
Turning, he looked into Leandro Aguilar’s eyes, then at the pistol pointed at his side.
75
“Just walk normally,” Leandro said.
Raúl walked, scanning the crowd for any familiar faces. Everyone was a stranger. The pistol prodded him on the side.
“What do you want?” Raúl asked.
“When I heard the king was sending you out of the country on exile, instead of executing you, I decided I would take matters into my own hands.”
Raúl stopped to let a woman pass. Leandro barked, “Keep moving!”
“Where are we going?”
“To the edge of the dock. I have my own boat, enough rope, and a rock to weigh you down with.”
Raúl felt a chill pass through him. “Why not just shoot me?”
“That is too easy.” Leandro’s eyes danced like a crazed lunatic’s.
The galleon blew its horn and the shipmaster called out for passengers to board. Where Leandro was leading him, they kept getting farther and farther from the vessel. Up ahead, a carriage was trying to make its way down the congested road, splashing pedestrians with rain water. As it got closer to them, Raúl stepped away from Leandro and pushed him towards the wheels. The driver pulled back on the reins, careening away from Leandro, who lay stunned on the ground.
Raúl ran back towards the direction of the ship. The galleon was leaving the dock, its gangplanks up. Behind him, he heard the report of a pistol. A horse shied, rearing on the slick surface. The animal’s legs went out from under him, throwing its rider off. People screamed, running out of the panicked animal’s way.
Still, Leandro pursued him.
Raúl crawled under a vendor’s stall, emerging on the other side. Leandro caught up with him and emptied a container of fish towards Raúl. As Leandro’s boots hit the slimy water, he skidded and landed on his side. He tried to stand up, but Raúl punched him in the jaw. Leandro staggered back, then lunged, gripping Raúl’s neck. Leandro squeezed his windpipe, making Raúl gasp. Raúl swung his fist up into Leandro’s belly. As Leandro doubled over, Raúl kneed his nose.
Panting, Raúl turned towards the sea. The galleon was getting farther and farther. He looked at Leandro, kneeling on the ground and holding a hand up to his face. Raúl assessed the distance between the dock and the departing ship.
He ran to the edge of the dock and dove cleanly into the water. He started swimming upward, until he broke the surface about a fourth of the way to the ship. With steady strokes, he swam, attracting a crowd on the ship’s rail.
“Man overboard!” someone shouted.
Raúl kept swimming, but each stroke got slower and slower as exhaustion set in. He wanted to stop and just float there. He could just stay in Spain. Go into hiding.
But he would have lived without honor. And the king had entrusted him with a mission in exchange for his freedom.
With renewed strength, Raúl kept swimming. He focused on the strokes, one, two, one two. Consistent movements that closed the distance. And then he saw the rope, being thrown over the hull of the ship. That far out to sea, the waves broke over his head. He tried to catch the rope, but it kept staying out of his reach.
“Catch it,” someone said.
He tried, heaven knew he tried. Every time it came near his hand, a wave buoyed Raúl the opposite direction. Finally, he grabbed hold of the rope, but the force of the waves knocked him back underwater in a confusing swirl. Disoriented, he flailed his arms, but he could not get to the surface. He looked down and his boot was caught in a rope anchoring a buoy. He kicked and kicked, until the rope slackened and allowed him to get free. Raúl swam towards the surface, breaking through and coughing out seawater.
He saw the rope, dangling from the ship, beating against the hull like a tentacle. Raúl bridged the distance, keeping his head low and his strokes steady. A wave bore him up, right to the rope. Raúl reached for it, missing. When the wave came up once again, he stretched his arm.
His hand closed in on the hemp.
The wave pulled him down, but he kept hold of the rope. Up again, he went. He looked towards the rail above. Several men were hoisting the rope up. His arms burned with pain, but still, he held on. As he twisted in mid-air, he caught sight of Leandro, kneeling on the dock.
The sun rose higher overhead, bathing Seville in its soft light. Raúl’s life had been one small adventure after another until this point. Now, as he watched the port get smaller and smaller on the horizon, he knew things were going to change. They were going to be bigger. His adventure had only just begun.
As the passengers continued to pull Raúl towards the galleon rail, he murmured, “Adios, España.”
-The End-
PART THREE
EXTRAS
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About the Author
Jewel Allen is an award-winning journalist, author and ghostwriter who grew up in the Philippines and now lives in Utah. She graduated from Utah State University with a bachelor’s degree in English. After two decades as a journalist, she started a memoir publishing company, Treasured Stories, and is the author of the young adult novel Ghost Moon Night and the political memoir Soapbox: How I landed & lost a columnist gig, fought a prison, and got elected. She lives with her family, horses, dog and cats on six acres of horse property.
Connect with Jewel
E-mail: [email protected]
Website: www.JewelAllen.com
Facebook: Jewel Allen, Journalist & Author
Twitter: @jewelallen87
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Acknowledgments
This novel has been a long time coming, so there is at least a decade's worth of people to thank:
My late great-uncle Tatay Salong, who mailed me a package of family history papers in the late 1990s which briefly mentioned an ancestor who defended the Spanish king in the 18th century. And not providing any other information, which made me obsessed to know what his life could have been like.
The judges of the 2007 LDStorymakers First Chapter contest, who plucked The Spanish Exile from obscurity with a first-place suspense win and encouraged me to complete the novel.
My youngest daughter Sabrina, for enthusiastically reading the manuscript at all stages, helping me cut out lame and unbelievable details, and suggesting ways to make the plot (especially the first and last chapters) more exciting.
The amazing volunteer instructors at Wasatch Fencing, for teaching Sabrina and me how to fence one exciting, sweat-filled evening so that I could get those scenes right.
My Spanish professors and Spanish-speaking friends in college who instilled in me a love of all things Spanish.
Alauna Cowdell, Pamela Keller, Wendy Elliott, Holli Anderson, Laura Bastian, Amy Sandbak, Cindy Whitney, Liz Stone, Marcie Shumway, Mari Riches, Melanie Skelton, and Toby Dillon for reading my drafts and giving me valuable feedback.
Editor Sabine Berlin of Eschler editing, for asking the right questions that helped me discover the heart of my story.
Brilliant fellow creatives Julie Coulter Bellon for helping me summarize my book’s essence into a blurb, and Mikey Brooks for the fantastic series cover design that makes me swoon every time I look at it.
Fellow authors in Author's Think Tank who patiently answered my questions about 18th century warfare and weapons.
My sister Joy and oldest daughter Sierra, for taking a memorable trip with me in 2014 through Spain so I could see the balcony where our ancestor may have stood as he protected the king. And so we could eat paella and churros.