Blood and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  Maybe, if the Jesuit can fix things with Henry Mallín, and we can get married, I can send Dorotéa to the States to have the baby, and to wait there until this fucking war is over. Martha would be happy to have her, and she wouldn’t be in the line of fire on Big Foot Ranch.

  There was something very unreal about thinking all of these thoughts while he was cantering across the pampas on a beautiful afternoon, with nothing in sight but cattle and groves of trees.

  He remembered the Solomon Islands. It was beautiful and peaceful there too, at 15,000 feet over Guadalcanal. Blue sky and white clouds, with the blue ocean and the nice bright green vegetation of the island far below.

  Until the first Japanese planes appeared. Then, all of a sudden, there was no more peace or beauty.

  That’s going to happen here, too. All of a sudden everything here is going to turn to shit, too. The difference was that in the Solomons, I was at least a pretty good Wildcat pilot. Here I didn’t know shit from Shinola.

  When they rode up to the house Enrico was waiting for them, sitting in one of the rattan chairs on the verandah. A nice-looking blond-haired kid, thirteen or fourteen years old, sat below him on the wide verandah steps. Each was wearing a loose, white, long-sleeved shirt, black vest, billowing black trousers, and a wide leather belt; and each had a silver-handled knife in the small of his back. Enrico also had a .45 automatic jammed inside his belt, and his shotgun was resting against one of the pillars.

  There’s no question in his mind that sooner or later he’s going to need a gun to protect me. And he’s probably right.

  Jesus, why couldn’t we just keep riding? But I can’t do that, any more than I could have just kept circling 15,000 feet over Guadalcanal.

  The nice-looking kid rose to his feet and came off the steps.

  ‘‘Buenos tardes, Patrón,’’ he said, reaching up to take Julius Caesar’s bit.

  Clete swung out of the saddle. The kid mounted Julius Caesar—who, Clete noted with some chagrin, immediately sensed an expert horseman and behaved like a lamb—and reached over to take the reins of Rudolpho’s roan. Rudolpho slipped easily out of his saddle, and the kid rode toward the stables.

  Even in that gaucho suit, Clete thought, that kid looks more like an Englishman or a German—or maybe a Pole or some other kind of Slav, a Latvian or something—than a Spaniard or an Italian.

  He remembered his father telling him there was a massive immigration of Germans at the turn of the century, and another wave of immigrants after World War I—Germans running from the postwar depression in Germany, and Lithuanians, Latvians, Poles, and Russians fleeing the Russian Bolshevik revolution.

  Antonio was also waiting for him to return.

  ‘‘Are Señor Duarte or Señora Carzino-Cormano here?’’

  ‘‘No, Señor,’’ Antonio replied as he opened the door to Clete. ‘‘Señor and Señora Duarte are expected any moment. ’’

  ‘‘Well, that gives me time for a shower,’’ Clete thought aloud. ‘‘Where did you put my things, Antonio?’’

  ‘‘In your room, Señor,’’ Antonio said. There was a slight tone of disapproval in his voice.

  Ask a dumb question, get a dumb answer. Where else would he put my things?

  Oh, God! My room is not where I stayed before. My room is el Coronel’s room.

  Well, that’s the way it is. I better get used to it. El Coronel ’s gone, and what used to be his is now mine. Including his room and his bed.

  Clete turned to look at Enrico. He was pushing himself out of his chair.

  With effort, Clete saw. And tough old soldier or not, you’re in pain, pal. And tough old soldier or not, are you in any shape to try to protect me? Am I going to get you killed, too, just because you’re around me?

  Antonio led him to the apartment of the late el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade—unnecessarily, since Clete knew where it was. It consisted of a bedroom, a sitting, and a bath at the rear of the house. The windows opened on a garden.

  In the room there was another sign of Antonio’s none-too -subtle snobbery. A clothes tree held a tweed jacket, an open-collared shirt—that’s a polo shirt, a real polo shirt, for people who play real polo—and a pair of gabardine riding breeches. A pair of highly polished riding boots stood beside it.

  Christ, I hope that stuff’s not my father’s!

  ‘‘Your father intended that clothing as a Christmas present for el Capitán Duarte,’’ Antonio said. ‘‘He never had a chance to wear it. El Capitán was about your size. . . .’’

  I would just as soon not wear any clothing made for my dead cousin, not to mention clothing which would make me look like an Englishman about to go chase a fox, but thank you very much, Antonio, just the same.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I’ll see if it fits.’’

  The seeds of curiosity were sown, however, while he was taking a shower and shaving: I wonder how I would look in that outfit? The Princess would probably think it made me look—what’s that Limey word she uses?—smashing!

  And why not wear it? It’s new. And you’re wearing Uncle Jim’s Stetson. And you brought Sullivan’s Half Wellingtons home from Guadalcanal and you wear them. So why not wear Cousin Jorge Alejandro’s fancy English riding boots and the rest of it? Waste not, want not, as Aunt Martha always says.

  A sudden, very clear, and very painful image came into his mind and was still there when he came out of the bathroom in his underwear: First Lieutenant Francis Xavier Sullivan, 167th Fighter Squadron, U.S. Army Air Corps, flying his P-40 in support of the Marine Raiders; going into Edson ’s Ridge on fire from the nose to the vertical stabilizer.

  As Clete walked into the bedroom, he was startled—even frightened for a moment—to find Capitán Roberto Lauffer, in civilian clothing, sitting in an armchair near the bed, his very nice, highly polished jodhpurs crossed on a matching footstool. Clete then noticed that Enrico was also there, leaning on the wall beside the closed door to the sitting.

  Lauffer quickly pushed himself out of the chair and offered Clete his hand.

  ‘‘I thought, mi Mayor,’’ Enrico said, ‘‘that it would be all right to bring el Capitán here. Señor and Señora Duarte are in the reception.’’

  One Cavalryman taking care of another, huh? Spare a fellow horse soldier from Beatrice? Well, it least it shows Enrico likes him.

  Clete nodded at Enrico to show him he approved, and then looked at Lauffer.

  Very sporty, Clete thought, that’s a damned nice tweed jacket, a classy polo shirt, and he’s even got one of those whatchamacallits around his neck.

  ‘‘Of course,’’ Clete said. ‘‘How are you, Roberto?’’

  ‘‘I’m afraid you’re stuck with me again,’’ Lauffer said. ‘‘General Rawson wants me to stay close to something you’re holding for him . . .’’

  ‘‘The money, you mean?’’ Clete said, but it was not a question.

  ‘‘. . . until he can make arrangements, tomorrow, to safely transport it elsewhere. Señora Carzino-Cormano said you would understand the necessary imposition this will cause.’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ Clete said. ‘‘No imposition at all. When can I expect her?’’

  ‘‘She said that you would understand why she can’t call today, but that she looks forward to seeing you tomorrow.’’

  I wonder what that’s all about?

  Clete started to get dressed.

  Cousin Jorge Alejandro’s—the late Capitán Duarte’s— polo shirt fit him perfectly. The breeches were maybe half an inch too large in the waist, and the jacket was a little loose. But once he managed to work his feet into them, the boots also seemed to fit perfectly.

  One other item of clothing was left on the clotheshorse, a whatchamacallit like Roberto Lauffer was wearing. Roberto ’s was yellow. Cousin Jorge Alejandro’s whatchamacallit was red.

  Foulard! It’s a foulard!

  Maneuvering the silk foulard in place, and making it stay in place, proved more difficult than he thought loop
ing some red silk around his neck would be, but he finally made the thing work.

  ‘‘Very elegant,’’ Lauffer said.

  ‘‘I’d feel a lot more comfortable in it if my father’s butler hadn’t told me my father bought it as a Christmas present for my cousin, the late Capitán Duarte.’’

  ‘‘I’m the youngest in a large family,’’ Lauffer said. ‘‘I think I was sixteen before I received anything but shoes that weren’t previously ‘hardly worn at all’ by one or more of my brothers. Be grateful it fits. And it is elegant!’’

  ‘‘You look pretty elegant yourself. I never saw you in civvies before.’’

  ‘‘One never knows, does one, where one might come across an attractive member of the gentle sex with an eye for a man’s clothes,’’ Lauffer said.

  ‘‘And then, all dressed up, you get yourself screwed by the fickle finger of fate? You get sent over here, where the only female is going to be my aunt Beatrice.’’

  ‘‘ ‘Fickle finger of fate’? That’s good,’’ Lauffer chuckled. ‘‘Well, there’s always tomorrow.’’ Then, visibly embarrassed: ‘‘Forgive me, I was not thinking of what will happen tomorrow. No disrespect was intended.’’

  ‘‘I know that,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I’m just going through the motions. I’m told the people who work here expect it.’’ He turned to Enrico. ‘‘You did find the Capitán someplace to sleep, Enrico?’’

  ‘‘I told Antonio you would wish for el Capitán to be well cared for,’’ Enrico said. ‘‘He is the third door to the left.’’

  ‘‘Speaking of Aunt Beatrice,’’ Clete said, ‘‘Antonio said she’ll be here any minute, Enrico. I think el Capitán and I need a little liquid courage before we face her. Is there anything—strong—in here we can drink?’’

  ‘‘Scotch whiskey, mi Mayor?’’

  Clete looked at Lauffer, who nodded.

  ‘‘Please, Enrico.’’

  ‘‘My pleasure, mi Mayor,’’ Enrico said, and walked out of the bedroom.

  He’s never going to stop calling me ‘‘Major,’’ Clete thought. To hell with it. And then he had another thought: ‘‘It’s liable to be worse with my aunt than you think,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘She is a very charming lady.’’

  ‘‘Tonight, she will almost certainly regale you with the details of a wedding we hope will be held here sometime in the near future.’’

  ‘‘Oh, really? Whose?’’

  ‘‘Mine.’’

  Lauffer’s eyebrows went up.

  "I didn’t know you . . . I hadn’t heard that you were engaged. "

  ‘‘At the moment, actually, I’m not,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘I don’t understand,’’ Lauffer confessed, a little uncomfortably.

  Enrico came back into the room carrying not the expected whiskey glasses, but a telephone, a large French-looking instrument.

  ‘‘It is Padre Welner, Señor,’’ he said as he walked to a plug mounted on the wall beside the bed and plugged it in.

  He took the receiver from its cradle and held it out to Clete. Clete walked to the bed, sat down, and took the receiver from Enrico.

  ‘‘What can I do for you, Father?’’

  ‘‘I have been busily taking care of my pastoral duties, and I thought you might he interested in learning the result, ’’ the priest announced cheerfully.

  If he had bad news, he wouldn’t be so cheerful!

  ‘‘Absolutely!’’

  ‘‘First of all, I called on the Bishop, to explain the role you and Father Denilo would like him to take in the mass tomorrow. And the subject somehow turned to the waiving of the banns of marriage, which is permitted under canonical law when a bishop determines there are extraordinary circumstances. In these extraordinary circumstances—’’

  ‘‘You told him the circumstances?’’ Clete interrupted.

  ‘‘Not in specific detail. I think the Bishop formed the impression that I had learned of the extraordinary circumstances through the confessional booth; and of course, he could not ask me to reveal matter I had learned in my role as confessor. In any event, the Bishop feels that he can in good conscience permit your marriage in fourteen days. He also indicated that if you asked him to officiate, he would grant your request.’’

  ‘‘And what do we do about her father?’’

  ‘‘That proved less of a problem than I thought. After I spoke to Claudia, she telephoned him and asked him to reconsider his decision not to come to Estancia Santa Catalina. She told him that I was here and wanted to speak to him about you and Dorotéa.’’ The priest laughed.

  "That’s funny?"

  ‘‘Señor Mallín responded that Claudia should thank me very much indeed for my interest, but to tell me there was no longer cause for my concern. He was already aware of your regrettable and impossible interest in Dorotéa and had taken the necessary steps to bring the situation under control. ’’

  ‘‘And?’’ Clete asked, chuckling.

  Why am I laughing?

  ‘‘At that point, Claudia told him that I was standing beside her, and why didn’t he tell me that himself?’’

  ‘‘And?’’

  ‘‘He did so. I had to correct his belief that the situation was under his control, and to explain his options, as I saw them.’’

  ‘‘Which are?’’

  ‘‘The one he chose is to accept your invitation to stay with you at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo tonight. Tomorrow, his family will be seated in the family pews—to the right of the altar—of La Capilla Nuestra Señora de los Milagros. With the exception, of course, of Dorotéa.’’

  ‘‘They’re coming out here?’’

  Welner ignored the question.

  ‘‘During the mass, Dorotéa will be seated beside you on the chairs—in front of the family pews—reserved for el Patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and his wife. When the service is over, she will take your arm and the two of you will lead the exit procession of the laity. Immediately afterward, she will stand beside you at the head of the reception line, as you greet your guests.’’

  ‘‘He went along with this?’’ Clete asked incredulously. ‘‘You said they’re coming out here today?’’

  ‘‘They are at this moment en route and should be here within the hour. But let me finish. I told Señor Mallín that Dorotéa’s prominent role in the ceremony should suggest to just about everyone present that the relationship between you and Dorotéa is long-standing, has had all along the approval of the respective families, and that because of your recent loss, there is nothing really extraordinary in your electing to have a small, private wedding in two weeks here at the Estancia.’’

  ‘‘You’re an amazing fellow, Padre.’’

  ‘‘So I have been told. I prefer to think of myself as a simple priest, a simple shepherd, encouraging the erring members of my flock to do the right thing,’’ Welner said with outrageous piety, then added: ‘‘And Señor Mallín didn’t really have much of a choice, did he?’’

  ‘‘He could have said no,’’ Clete said, laughing. ‘‘Not only no but ‘over my dead body.’ ’’

  ‘‘But that, my son, might have been misinterpreted by some people—as matters of this kind often are. The word might have been whispered around the Jockey Club that ‘there goes poor Henry Mallín. Foolish chap, thinking he was onto a good thing, practically threw his daughter at Cletus Frade, who, after sampling the merchandise decided he’d rather not endow the young lady with all his worldly goods.’ He would, I knew, find something like that hard to take.’’

  ‘‘Good God! You didn’t say anything like that to him, did you?’’

  ‘‘Let us say that I suggested to Señor Mallín that it would really look better all around if you appeared eager to take his daughter as your bride. You are prepared to do that, aren’t you, Cletus? To eagerly endow Dorotéa with all your worldly goods?’’

  ‘‘Of course,’’ Clete said, chuckling.

  ‘‘Good. Now that you’ve
had a chance to consider how many worldly goods you now possess, I was a little concerned that you might have had second thoughts.’’

  ‘‘I hope you’re kidding.’’

  ‘‘Another reason I called, Cletus, is that Claudia suggested there is probably a ring which might be suitable for Dorotéa in your father’s strongbox.’’

  ‘‘What strongbox?’’ Clete asked, and turned to Enrico. ‘‘Is there a strongbox around here?’’

  ‘‘In the library, Señor Clete.’’

  ‘‘Enrico says there’s a strongbox in the library.’’

  ‘‘That’s probably it. Why don’t you have a look? I think it would be nice when I come for dinner—Did I mention that Claudia suggested you ask me to dinner?’’

  ‘‘Why don’t you have dinner with us, Father?’’

  ‘‘Thank you very much. Very kind of you. It would be nice, as I was saying, if when I come over there, Dorotéa had an engagement ring on her finger. And even more for people to notice tomorrow morning.’’

  ‘‘Christ, you’re something.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be over there, probably, before your fiancée and her family arrive,’’ the priest said, and the line went dead.

  Clete put the receiver back in its cradle and stood up.

  ‘‘Show me the strongbox, Enrico,’’ he said, and then turned to Lauffer. ‘‘I have just been informed that my fianc ée and her family will be joining us for dinner. I know, a moment ago, I told you I was not engaged. A moment ago, I wasn’t. Now I am.’’

  ‘‘Well, then let me be the first to offer my congratulations, ’’ Lauffer said.

  XIV

  [ONE] Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province 1805 11 April 1943

  The strongbox turned out to be just that, a metal box reinforced with thick wrought-iron bands, and closed with two enormous padlocks. It was concealed in a huge leather trunk set against one wall of the library. After Enrico showed it to Clete, he retrieved the padlock keys from behind a set of Compton’s Picture Encyclopedia.

  The strongbox held two small wooden boxes, resting on top of what appeared to be legal documents. Clete picked up the first box and started to open it.