CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The two moved with caution through the darkened streets, past taverns with flickering oil lamps and candles, music and boisterous conversation through the open windows. Then they were in the quiet part of the city at the familiar wall that García had scaled many times. Once inside the garden, they drew weapons, García his sword, Jesus a dagger in each hand.
The moon was almost full and white light illuminated the garden, except for the dark patches of small trees and shrubs. Cautiously, García led the way toward the usual meeting spot where they found Juanita waiting, seated on a wooden bench clad once more in her gown. Quickly, the two sheathed their weapons.
She rose when she saw the two and put a hand to her cheek in surprise. “Who is that with you?” she croaked in a harsh whisper.
“It’s my sergeant, Jesus. We have been so busy, Juanita. Preparations for the march to Lisbon to embark for Florida. I’ve come simply to say goodbye.”
She hesitated for a moment, looking from one man to the other. “I see,” she finally said. “So this is goodbye.”
“We don’t know how long we will be in Florida. There are storms and battles to be fought. We may perish on a foreign strand.” García hoped he wasn’t laying it on too thick.
“I understand. So you may kiss me goodbye.” After a short embrace and a kiss, Juanita said, “May God go with you.”
The two men stood for a moment, then realized it was over. “May God be with you,” García said, then turned and led Jesus back down the path.
Once over the wall and headed back to the presidio, Jesus spoke. “We were not alone in the garden.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone was lurking in the shadows. I could feel their presence and I could see a slight movement.”
“I’m glad you are with me, Jesus.” Approaching the lights of a tavern, García said, “Let’s have a drink.”
When the two men had departed, Juanita again took her seat on the bench. After several minutes a dark figure approached. Juanita stood and said, “You failed me.”
“Failed you, Señorita? There were two strong men with drawn weapons. You told me there would be only one with no weapon. They were expecting something.”
“Possibly. But what I have paid you will have to do. You didn’t earn the final payment.”
“I will give up the gold, Señorita, for a single favor.”
She looked the ruffian up and down. “What favor do you speak of?”
“A matter of sex, Señorita.”
“There is a night watchman here. He stays in the front of the building. If I scream he and others will come.”
“I don’t wish you harm, Señorita. But know certain things. If I should reveal them, your reputation and your family’s good name would be in the mud.”
Juanita hesitated. “You know I like sex and you are a big healthy brute. There is no reason why we shouldn’t.” She opened her gown to expose her body in the pale moonlight. “But let’s do it right. Remove your clothing first. It’s so much better that way.”
The woul-be assassin was pleased at such an easy conquest of such a dewy young beauty. Quickly he removed his belt and heavy sword. Juanita helped him. He fumbled with his clothing. He was a dirty unkempt man and his shirt was held together with bits of string. Juanita stood back and watched him begin to disrobe.
When she could see his naked belly she withdrew his short sword from its scabbard and thrust it with all her might into the soft flesh. He made only a low moan as the blade emerged from his back. He crumpled towards her and Juanita jumped back, certain that he was dead, or dying. She was amazed that there was no blood.
Resuming her seat on the bench and readjusting her gown, she sat watching the still figure for a full five minutes, then got up and returned to her bedroom. Once in her bed, one thought coursed through her head before sleep overtook her: Killing a person isn’t all that difficult.
At midmorning the following day, Juanita’s father, Don Tomás Hernando Pizzaro showed up at García’s headquarters. He seemed excited and hesitant, as if he didn’t know where to begin. Finally he said, “my servants found a dead man in my garden this morning.”
“Was he a soldier?” García asked.
“No. A ruffian.” There was no contradiction here, García thought. Most of the soldiers are ruffians of one sort or another. “We called police. The man is a well known criminal, a sneak thief and possibly an assassin.”
“You mean he meant you harm?”
Don Tomás sighed. “Perhaps. He was within a few feet of Juanita’s bedroom doors and she often forgets to secure them. You’ve been to the garden. He was dead in front of the wooden bench.”
“How did he die?”
“A sword thrust through his middle. The sword remained.” Don Tomás pulled his handkerchief and wiped his brow, García poured him a cup of wine. “The police thought it might be his own sword. Then he appeared to be partly disrobed.” He raised his hands in despair. “I don’t know what to do, but I will hire an additional watchman for the garden.”
“It sounds like a group of thieves, at least two, invaded your garden and, perhaps fell to quarreling. That’s luck for you.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps it’s for the best. But I felt I must tell Juanita. I went to her bedroom and when I told her, she was appalled at the horror, the nearness to her chamber. She fainted dead away. Her dueña is with her at this moment.”
“But she will recover.”
“Yes, but she was shaken, and she said she would like to end her relationship with you. I’m sorry, Don Pedro. But she heard about you and that woman, that Doña María Botella. She is a well known woman about town. A true beauty. Women fear her.”
García placed his hand over his eyes to hide his pleasure and pretend to be emotionally wounded at this announcement. Do all lovers play games, he wondered. Madrid is just like Chapel Hill. Finally he admitted guilt. “I was indiscreet, Don Tomás. You are a man of the world and you can understand how one could be, be uh, enamored, shall we say, with Doña María. She is a healthy animal.”
“Perfectly. If only I were younger. If only I could trade places with you. But Juanita is my daughter. I know, I am the father, and it is I who must approve the husband, but I can’t go against her wishes.”
“I understand. We will soon depart for Lisbon and then Florida. I may never return. A soldier’s life is a chancy thing.”
“I know, Don Pedro. You make Spain proud. And I have been unable to reassign you, even though they need men like you to attack the English heretics. So may God go with you.” They shook hands, and the older man was about to go when he hesitated. “Incidentally, Juanita has apparently had friendly conversations with a young cadet on your staff, a Francisco. She asked as I was leaving if I might invite him to call.”
“Yes, Francisco has been a great help to me. We are in a rush to get organized and start the march, but I’m certain we can spare him an hour or two. But surely she couldn’t receive him in her chamber. Send a note when she is better and I’ll send him along.”
“Done.” And the older don departed.
“Yes, I will send Francisco to your side, Señorita. And by his side will be Jesus who will serve as his dueña!” García smirked.
The weather was fine and the banners were unfurled, a glorious sight on the presidio parade grounds as García’s men, almost 350 strong, were falling into their ranks, the shouts of the non coms, the permanent garrison and commander fallen out to bid them farewell. It was a gallant panorama that would make the blood course swiftly through the body, the heart swell with pride.
García and his two cadets sat their horses and watched the formations take shape. At that moment, a horsewoman, Doña María Botella, came riding up on a handsome chestnut gelding. “Don Pedro,” she called. “I come to say goodbye, at least for a time. For we will meet again.”
“You are coming to La Florida?” he asked in jest.
“I have no such plans.” She circled the three
of them, closely inspecting the cadets. “I have heard of your cadets. They are a handsome pair. And so far beardless.” She gave him a wink and a smile.
“They have been a great service to me in the mountain of paperwork that goes with running such an expedition. You might know that King Felipe is keen on keeping records.”
“I do. We all know of the record office at the Castle of Simancas. I would guess you couldn’t have picked a better pair of clerks. And a cadet will eventually be an officer, is that a fact?”
“That is the plan. But they must prove their worth.”
“Of course.” The two cadets sat uneasily in their saddles. This beautiful woman with her sly remarks. Their masquerade had gone very well up until now. The four horses were restless, Doña María moved hers in a circle and drew close to Francisco. She rubbed the back of her hand against the young cadet’s face. “You have beautiful skin. I envy you.”
“Thank you, Señorita. You too have lovely skin and are a handsome woman.”
“You play your role well,” she grinned.
“Well, it was good of you to come, Doña María,” García said. “But we will soon hit that dusty trail for Lisbon and the perils that lay beyond.”
“Ah, yes, the perilous life of the soldier with his two stout hearted cadets. I understand one of them, Jose Padilla, is a relative of yours.”
“Yes, a shirttail relative, a distant cousin.”
“From the rugged mountains of the north.”
“Of course.”
“I assume then he speaks like you. Because you do have a distinctive accent. Correct in every way, but distinctive.”
“I hesitate to discuss it, particularly in his presence, but the young man has a slight speech impediment. It in no way tarnishes his work, but it can be a social barrier.”
“How convenient. I mean, it would be convenient if one were anti-social, or wished to discourage idle social intercourse.”
“That might be true in some cases, Señorita. That’s a fine horse you ride.”
“I seek out good animals. I have made some casual inquiries about your family in the north. You will forgive me, but I enjoying knowing the antecedents of my intimates.”
“I am pleased. There is nothing to hide.”
“How could there be anything to hide when there is no family?”
“Truly. I am the last of my line. If I pass without issue, the name dies with me. It is sad, but it is a melancholy fact.”
The troops were formed up and a lieutenant came galloping up, shouting, “Captain, we are ready to pass in review. Shall I give the order?”
“Please do.”
The lieutenant galloped away and soon the drums and bugles sounded and García’s expedition began its sprightly march before the turned-out garrison troops. It was a proud moment. García had stressed close order drill and this was the pay off. Even with the recent addition of the prisoners the formation was near perfect.
Over the din and the dust, García shouted to Doña María, “This is the fruit of my labor. These well drilled troops. Disciplined, battle ready.”
She drew close to García and placed her hand on his. “I am glad for you, Don Pedro. Now you must go and I must go. But we will meet again soon.”
“Perhaps you are right, and such a meeting would not be unpleasant. But you seem to speak in riddles.”
“We both have our secrets, is it not true?” Then she spun her horse and moved away at a fast trot.
The review was soon over and García took his place at the head of the long column on the march to Lisbon, some 300 miles, or just over 500 kilometers distant. He reckoned the march at 12 to 16 days, making allowances for breakdowns and the unexpected. But it was in his mind not to tarry. Already Doña María had sniffed a rat, but he liked her and considered her a friend. Muleskinners with the supply wagons brought up the rear. Poncho sat on the seat next to the driver of the lead wagon, taking in the columns snaking ahead and imagining himself a field marshal off on a glorious mission.
García called a halt to the first day’s march after just 15 miles. The day had been shortened by the ceremony, and they had arrived at a large green meadow. The men had been drilled to set up camp with a goal of 30 minutes, but had never completed the task in less than 45. Thank God for the seasoned non coms, García thought as the men fell into their proper formation and began the task.
A farmer came racing from a nearby cabin to attempt to shoo the military from his pasture. García sent Francisco galloping to intercept him, show him the orders from the high command and piece him off with a few ducats.
When the camp was assembled and the cook fires lighted, García sent word for the bugler to sound church call. The two priests, one almost feeble with age, the other fresh with the flower of youth, had assembled a portable altar.
When the men had gathered under the watchful eye of their non coms and lieutenants, García addressed them. He stressed their duty to one another on this mission so important to Spain, their duty to King Felipe II, their duty and obedience to the church and their supreme obligation to the people of Spain.
Then he spoke of religion. “Sometimes we will worship as a group as we are today, sometimes we will pray in silence, sometimes aloud, sometimes we will pray as individuals and at times we might gather in small groups and choose one to lead us in prayer. Because of our role as fighting men we will not always have the services of the clergy and the holy sacrament of the mass. But we will always know that God is watching and that God is with the Spanish cause. Our cause is just, our conscience is clear, let us sustain the purity of our hearts in accordance with the confessional.” Then the older priest took over.
Blue smoke rose from the cook fires as the mass was said, tents were in orderly rows, horses were picketed and the world seemed totally at peace in that vast green meadow. This was in sharp contrast to the stewing doubts and twisted thoughts of the troopers who had heard wild tales about the barbaric coast of Florida.
In their tent, with three cots in a row, Jose Padilla commented on García’s speech in her strange halting Spanish. “You have become quite a military leader.”
With a glance toward Francisco, he replied, “Of course. It has been my training since youth. I could tell you tales of harsh winter campaigns in the mountains and pitched battles that would curl your hair. But modesty compels me to refrain.”
“I am weary and my backside is sore after this day’s ride,” Francisco said.
“My feelings exactly,” Jose agreed.
García squeezed wine into his mouth from a leather pouch, then rolled into his cot and was soon asleep.
“Men,” Francisco whispered to Jose, “they drink too much, sleep heavy and snore.” Jose giggled, then fell asleep.
The cooks were up and had their fires kindled before dawn. The muleskinners were getting their animals into line. The shouts of the non coms turned the men out for roll call. Would there be desertions? García wondered, but his buddy system seemed to be paying off.
After a quick breakfast, García sat his horse along with the two cadets. He discussed the paperwork they had prepared for provisions aboard ship. He feared scurvy and beriberi during the substantial sea voyage and even after landing in Florida. Would there be fruit trees? He supposed the earlier Spanish settlers had provided for that. Anyway, through the cadets he had ordered casks of lime juice as well as a quantity of fresh limes. He had discussed hygiene and health with the two doctors and instructed them to lecture the men during the voyage.
As the column shaped up, the drums rolled and the bugles blared and the order was given for the front rank to move forward, García sent Francisco galloping to the rear of the column to bring word when the last wagon began rolling ahead.
He talked conspiratorially to Jose. “You know there is a lot we ancient Spanish scholars don’t know. Of course that’s why I picked this time frame for my one and only chance at time travel.”
“And to return,” Jose added.
“
Hopefully. But I have learned a lot and have stumbled onto one fact that had been discussed during our annual gatherings. In fact it’s something of a solution to a nagging mystery.” The two of them began riding along with the front of the column as the men poured out of the green meadow in columns of fours.
“It sounds intriguing,” Jose said.
“It is. I can tell you, but no one else would believe me. There was a famous swordsman in Spain during the era in which we now live. And suddenly we heard no more about him. No records. As if he had vanished. There were hints that he had been killed, but how? He was a master with the rapier. No one could defeat him.”
“And?”
“I killed him.”
Jose nearly fell off his, or her horse. “You killed him? That’s crazy.”
“To save my life. We fought two duels over Juanita. You see, when I met her I thought she was the purest of the pure. Incidentally, that is another reason I choose to take this risk and test the travel formula. I thought I would pick up, not pick up, but find, an intelligent Spanish young lady and possibly propose marriage.”
“Are you joking? You would select a three or four hundred year-old girl as your wife? That’s not only crazy, it’s stupid.”
“You don’t understand time travel, Jose. She would be the same age in the 21st century. As I am the same age here. And you.”
“Well I hope you gave up that dumb idea.”
“Believe me, I did. I suppose I am a romantic. Or rather, was. But I found purity knows no era. We’re better off with our own generation in our own times. You’re right. It was a crazy idea. We had one helluva fling though. Then she threw me over for Francisco, believe it or not.”
Jose laughed. “Star-crossed lovers if there ever were any. She frightened Francisco.”
“I’ll bet.”
García spurred his horse and galloped ahead to lead the formation. Jose followed. Both cadets had turned out to be good riders.
“Who did you kill?” asked Jose.
“Don Alonso de Monzon, a knight of the Order of Santiago. I saw his grave, quite elaborate, when I visited Madrid a couple of years back.”
“That’s weird. How did you kill him?”
“Derringer. I’m glad I brought it along.”
“The old sucker trick, eh. The Don brought a sword to a gun fight.”
Francisco joined them and reported that the entire column was in motion. The fine day wore on. At noon they paused for water and a cold lunch, then continued into the fading light of evening and another campsite. They had spent 10 hours on the road that second day and traveled almost 25 miles.
The long march continued without incident during the following days, save for the desertion of three troopers, all former prisoners, and a few run-ins with farmers attempting to save wear and tear on their fields.