Viva Jacquelina! (29 page)

I sing the
“Malagueña Salerosa”
and dance in the firelight, castanets clicking, while Joachim plays on his
cuatro
and all cheer and shout.

At the end of the evening, I take the little guitar and play the beautiful
“La Paloma.”

 

Si a tu ventana llega Una Paloma,
Trátala con cariño, que es mi persona.
Cuéntale tus amores. Bien de mi vida,
Coronala de flores. Que es cosa mia.

 

The song refers to the legend of a time when the ancient Greeks were fighting the Persians, and while the victors were watching the sinking of the defeated fleet, they saw swarms of white doves lift into the air. They decided that those birds were the souls of the dying seamen heading back home, where they'd beat their white wings on the windows of their beloved ones as a last message of love. Of course, that sort of lyric hits me right where I live, and I put my heart and soul into it.

Joachim gets into the spirit of the thing and joins me in singing the whole chorus.

 

Si a tu ventana llega Una Paloma,
Trátala con cariño, que es mi persona.
Cuéntale tus amores. Bien de mi vida
Coronala de flores. Que es cosa mia.
Ay! Chinita que si!
Ay, que dame tu amor.
Ay, que vente conmigo.
Chinita a donde vivo yo!

 

After we sing the refrain one more time, all turn in for the night.

A little kiss at the end of evening? Well, maybe... But no, I do not sleep with him...

Even though I do sleep next to him, rolled up in my own bedroll.

 

I now sit by the side of the stream, facing the road. My feet are in the water, and I am washing them. Actually, it feels quite good, the cool water flowing over my grubby hooves.
Mmmmm . 
.
 .
I have shed my matador pants and jacket, and wear only my loose white top and simple black skirt. I scan the hills that surround me and signal to those who lurk there that all is in readiness. Then I wait.

Presently, the lead rider appears at the bend in the road, followed by the rest of the caravan. I pull my skirt higher on my thighs, thrust my arms down between my knees to massage my feet, and I commence to sing.

 

Auprès de ma blonde,
Qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon,
Auprès de ma blonde,
Qu'il fait bon dormir.

 

Hearing the familiar French song, the caravan comes to a halt. Hey, the song is about a man sleeping next to his beautiful girlfriend. What Frenchman would not stop for that? Especially when sung by a passably comely maid who sits by the road with her skirt hiked up.

“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!”

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

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!”