Episode #316

Part Two of Three

I sit up. "'May'? What do you mean, 'may'?"

"You are quite correct in saying that none of the dons would dare lay any such charge against Hidalgo, even if he were capable of treason. The young man making the accusation has newly arrived in Alta California via Monterey." His face goes grim. "He is from Cadíz. His name is Pedro Malsano."

The room closes in around me, dark and cold and small as the cave I fell into last Christmas Eve. I sink back into the chair, gripping the arms, and close my eyes. The pain in my head threatens to overwhelm all my senses. "I see you recognize the name, Doctor." Montoya's voice comes to me as through a layer of grave soil. "As you should. It was the Conde and Condesa Malsano, was it not, who died under your care in Cadíz?"

I swallow, forcing myself to breathe. Steady, now, Robbie. You've got no noose around your neck, not yet. "Yes." I open my eyes and look up at Montoya, who does not look nearly as pleased as I would think he should. "What I don't understand is why we are having this conversation. Or is this just a last, friendly chat before I'm led off to the gallows?" God help me. I should have known he would get back at me for that bit of sleight of hand last fall.

Montoya folds his hands in front of him, creasing some of his precious documents. He pays that no mind. He must be as upset by this as I am, to be so distracted, but why? He's not the one who was branded a murderer. "You have nothing to fear from me, Doctor, I assure you. Whatever the question of your guilt regarding the Malsanos' deaths--and I, myself, was never convinced of it--I have no interest in turning you in. There would be too many awkward questions."

"Ah, yes. There is that." I feel cold relief wash through me as the shadow of the gallows recedes. "How I escaped from the Malsano's cellar, for example. And who it was that helped me get on that ship to the New World." I watch him--he is nervous, very, very nervous. I can use that. "You would swing right alongside me for aiding a fugitive from justice if the dons ever found out. Yes, I do see your point."

"If they found out, yes." The warning tone in his voice comes through clearly. We stand together or he tries to sell me to the dons to save his own hide. "I am not certain how much he knows, but I think we can safely leave out coincidence as the reason for his arrival now."

"If he's here for revenge, he's a bit late. It's been almost four years since Cadíz." To think I had grown used to the idea that no one would ever come after me for this.

He nods. "I did wonder about that, but it appears that he is a second son who spent most of his time in Madrid. Perhaps the eldest brother sent him out here to get rid of him, who knows? Whether he removed you by the gallows or you removed yourself by flight into exile, it would not matter to the real murderer where you went, as long as you never came back to haunt him." One side of his mouth lifts in an ironic smile. "It is possible that he does not even know of your involvement, but we must assume the certainty that he is aware of his parents' death."

My head is clearing, now. "There is also the possibility, of course, that he is not who he says he is. But why go after Don Hidalgo?"

Montoya shrugs. "I am not certain, but I did find it very interesting that it was Don Borges who introduced Don Malsano to me. It seems that the young Don is allowing his new friend to stay with him."

"I see." That is a possibility. Borges is a romantic, young idiot. Who knows what Malsano has told him? Nor are Borges and Gaspar on speaking terms for the moment. Borges' sweet fiancée, Lola, called Vera Hidalgo a whore at the Borges engagement party for defending Tessa and me dancing together (we thought it was a good idea at the time). Things really got out of hand after Vera retorted that at least she loved her husband and not his money. Vera is not the slutty, little fool that everyone likes to take her for. And my Lord, can she pull hair.

Montoya smirks. "It was perhaps not so wise for you and Don Hidalgo to sponsor that young man in his quest to retrieve his father's estate. It appears to have gone to his head."

"Perhaps not." I glower at him. "Who knew he'd end up being such an idiot?" Well, I knew, but Tessa wouldn't pay any attention to what I told her. "But I could hardly turn down a direct plea on his behalf from Señorita Alvarado, now could I?" Now, it's his turn to glower. That's right, Luis. She loves me, not you, and there isn't a damned thing you can do about it.

"I suppose not," he agrees, but not with any good grace. "Since you are wooing her yourself."

"Which I was doing before that young pup, Borges, came along. It's not my fault he thought he was in with a chance." I narrow my eyes. "You don't think Borges is so petty as to try to get this Malsano to take down Hidalgo along with us, do you?"

Montoya raises one eyebrow. "That, my dear doctor, is what I want you to find out."

Act Three

1813, Catalonia

Ah, just look at her. So young and sweet. She can't be much older than six, from the way she cringes away from them, and already she is an orphan. Michel has her by one arm and the back of her shabby, faded dress. None of us in here is fashionable this season. Philippe is impersonal--no pervert, just a hard bastard. And from what I can gather from the way these two are talking, the girl is the daughter of a sometent. They're not likely to show her any mercy, though she'll get a clean-enough death, compared to a full-grown woman. Doesn't stop her shaking right down to her bare, dirt-blackened feet.

Her eyes widen. "Papa!" she cries, and runs off into some long, pleading complaint in Catalan. If my ears weren't ringing, I could understand what she said. I blink at her through my blood haze. Do I know this girl? I don't remember...from the street, maybe. That urchin who sold me to them did thank me when I gave her the bread and the coin. Fool that I was, I thought that would be bribe enough for her. Children can be treacherous. But could it be her, or another child? They all look much alike to me. I'm not making connections very well tonight. Even if they force me to talk, they will need to give me time to remember what I am supposed to tell them. Of course, the longer I hold out, the less valuable my knowledge becomes. And of course, they know that.

Frenchie yanks my head back and leans over me, grinning. "Is she yours, English. Your bastard?"

I snort. And I'd admit to that? I don't think so. "Ves te'n--"

He punches me in the head, making my ears ring like the church bells in Barcelona. It's hard to hear anymore but I think he's saying, "I heard you the first time, English."

The brat is still yelling. I wish she'd shut it. What is she doing here? Where did my Spanish nobleman defender go? He didn't last long. And why is this girl calling me "Papa"? I have me that kind of fun well behind my own Army's lines. It is best to keep your breeches buttoned in enemy territory. What, they're going to threaten her to make me talk? Not bloody likely that I'll give it up for that kind of persuasion. I am not about to betray my country for some peasant brat.

Frenchie lets go of my head and stalks over to Michel. "Tais-toi!" he snaps at the girl and cuffs her. She yells louder.

What if she is the one who betrayed me? If she is, she is one dead little child. Oh, you're wondering if I'd kill a little girl, are you? Too right I would, mate. For King and Country, hahaha. Anyone in this room who gets in my way is dead. I just have to get loose, first.

Frenchie is slapping the girl, now. She finally subsides, whimpering (oh, my head), and praise the Lord for that. I couldn't take much more of her whining. Unfortunately, he then turns his attention back to me. "Qu'est-ce que tu penses?" he hisses at me, "What do you think, English? If you will not save yourself, how about the little girl?" He grabs my hair again and forces my lolling head forward so I have to look at her--or as much as I can with all the dizziness. "Perhaps I should cut her throat in front of you?"

Go right ahead. She's nothing to me, you miserable crapaud. I open my mouth, but I am too sick to speak. Naturally, he assumes that I'm protesting his suggestion and yanks harder on my hair. I groan through clenched teeth and curse that bloody Pierson again for making me shave. Bastard. Why can't Frenchie just let it alone?

It is the girl who breaks the deadlock. She starts squealing again, only this time, she wriggles free and runs to me before Philippe can stop her. "Papa! Papa!" she shouts, colliding with me as she wraps herself around my knees. I stare down at her, dazed, while she keeps on at her yowling and Philippe comes over, grinning, to pry her off. It takes me a long, long moment to realize that one of my legs has been cut free. By Christ, it's her! Before I can react more, she is crawling up onto my lap as if to find comfort in my arms and my other leg is free. She hugs me fiercely, genuinely, and as they yank her off me, I feel something sharp, oblong and hard shoved into my hand. Her eyes seem huge as Philippe drags her away; those tears are real. Even from the middle of my haze, I can see what I need to do. As Frenchie grabs my hair again and Philippe pulls out another knife and licks it, I saw at the ropes. They feel old and greasy under my fingers--rotten, I hope. I couldn't do anything about that before, but now.... Little girl, you are an angel of mercy. How I love you.

The ropes come free. Yes, oh yes. I have just enough sense to clench my numbed fingers into fists, clinging to the back of the chair. I grip the piece of whatever the girl gave me so hard that it hurts and my numbed hand goes slippery with blood. Well, then, what is a little more? The element of surprise is everything now. Frenchie looms over me, his expression cold. "Well, English? What is it to be?"

I open my mouth, forcing the words out through the pain. "Please," I say in English. Frenchie smiles in triumph. You hold onto that glow, boyo. You take it with you right down to Hell. "Don't hurt her. Please." It is all I can do not to burst out laughing, or into tears, at the lie. "I'll tell you...anything." I let my voice fade on the last word. So, of course, he leans over to hear me better. When he does, I bring my hand up and around as hard as I can and slash his throat. Blood spurts from his throat into my face and he falls over on top of me, knocking me and the chair over backwards. I land with a thump that jars my back and head, as if I needed more pain. Why can't this mission go right for once?

"Qu'est-ce que c'est...?" Philippe says. Dammit! I'm pinned with one hand still trapped under the chair and it hurts like hell. I hear footsteps, though I can't see a thing over this great lump of flesh. Frenchie jerks like a fish on a line, gurgling, his eyes wide as the girl's and inches from my face. "Sergent? Sergent!" Philippe says. Then, Frenchie is dragged off me. "Sergent! What did you do to him, you...." I rock the chair over on its side to free my arm, ignoring the pain in my head and back. I crawl away from the chair as Philippe shakes Frenchie, who is going limp. Give it up, you silly sod. Frenchie has gone to greet the Devil in person. I need a weapon. I glance down at the thing in my bloody hand and see a piece of dark green glass, a few inches long. Almost useless. Philippe looks up from his efforts to help his superior. "You...." He starts to straighten up as I crawl backwards, trying to find the wall so I can brace myself to stand up. As he steps forward, though, the girl leaps at him from behind, grabbing his hand and biting it. He curses and strikes at her with the knife, but she dodges around him, forcing him to turn after her.

I won't get another chance. I push myself off the floor. Ignore the pain, Robbie. Just get off the floor. But the best I can do is crawl. Philippe will get her in a minute and then he will finish me. Frenchie. The pistol. I have to get to Frenchie. I crawl over to his body. It's trapped underneath him. Perfect. The yelling nearby, Philippe and the girl combined is deafening. I get the pistol free and lift it up as Philippe gets a good grip on the girl, lifting the knife over her head.

"Hey!" I say. I want to see his face. He turns his head and I see the surprise, right before I pull the trigger. The ball hits him in the chest and he staggers back, letting go of the girl. She drops onto the ground, curling into a huddle of faded cloth. At first, I think he'll stay on his feet, that I didn't hit anything vital. I'd rather I'd had a musket, but beggars can never be choosers. Then, he sinks onto his knees and falls over to one side. He twitches a few times, before going still.

I crawl over to the girl. "Are you hurt?" I say in English, before I remember to repeat it in Catalan. She lifts her head and looks at me, then over at Philippe. She jumps up and starts kicking him. I let her get on with it while I straighten out my limbs and find the strength, somehow, to stand up. Somewhere outside is at least one guard named Michel, and we need to get out before he comes back. 'We'? What 'we'? I watch the girl expelling her rage on Philippe. All right. She saved my life when she didn't have to. That rates her something more than I'd give the average village brat. The least she deserves is an escort out of this village, to wherever she may have relations. Oh, give it up, Robbie, she knows the place better than you do and you did a reconnaissance on it before they caught you. You need her to get out of here.

"Hey," I say again. She stops and looks up at me. "Save your strength. You'll need it. We're leaving." She watches me, solemn, before she runs over to me and buries her face in my leg. I pat her awkwardly while she sobs into the side of my trousers. They didn't include this in our Army training.

"Come on. Come, now. Let's go," I say in English, more kindly than I thought I could manage, under the circumstances. She lifts her head, wiping tears away with a dirty hand and nods. "How do we get out of this village?" I ask her, switching back to Catalan.

"Through the graveyard and then the orchard, Papa," she tells me in an obedient, schoolchild voice. She takes my hand. "Vingá. I will show you." As we move towards the door, however, a voice comes from outside.

"Sergent?" The girl freezes, her breath coming out in panicked gasps. Dammit! It must be Michel, coming back from shagging the village whore or whatever he'd got himself off to doing. Why couldn't he have done it for a few minutes longer?

"Get that one's knife," I say, nudging the girl and pointing at Philippe. I'd do it myself, but I'd don't think I could get back up. She doesn't move. "Do it!" I hiss. Breaking loose from her paralysis with a gasp, she scampers over to Philippe and grabs the knife lying next to him, the one he used to threaten her. She brings it back. I take it and pull her with me across the room. There is no time to spare; Michel comes up the steps, even as we duck behind the door.

"Sergent?" he says uncertainly as he steps in through the doorway. I hear harness and leather rasping when he moves to unsling his rifle. Before he can get the musket free, I grab the door and slam it against him. He stumbles and I jump on him, grabbing his head from behind. He tries to buck me off, but I have done this more times than he--I bring Philippe's knife around and slice Michel's throat. When he falls down, I fall down on top of him. I have to roll free to disentangle myself from his harness. I retrieve the rifle and the knife and gather myself back up, though the effort makes me sick. At least I still can stand. The girl has come out from behind the door. Now, she moves forward to help me stand up. I lean on her, one hand clamped onto her shoulder. Yes, it's not such madness to bring her with me. I am going to need her support if I want to get back to my own lines, let alone make a decent report for Wellington.

"Come, Papa, come," she says, pulling me into another room with no door, lit only by the lamplight from the main room. There are clothes scattered around it and I see a few low beds. I sink onto one while she goes to one large pile and picks out a coat. She brings it back to me. "You should wear your coat, papa. It is so cold out there at night."

"Com es diu?" I say. "What is your name?"

She holds out the coat, eyes wide. "Maria. You know that, Papa."

I take the coat from her. It is shabby and too small for me, but I put it on anyway. Something about the way she fusses about me as she helps me adjust the sleeves that ride up my arms tells me not to question her, that the man who wore this before me is dead. I shiver as I let her lead me out of the room and to the outside door. I must remember that I need her to get me out of here. I cannot afford to be superstitious. The house is small and the steps are right there. I stumble down them, after her. It is still dark outside, but the moon is coming up. I don't want to be caught out here once it clears the trees. As soon as we get away from the house, I force myself into a run, outstripping the girl and dragging her along. We cross a dirt road and the deadening silence of the darkened, terrified village follows us. May they be as afraid of us, or for us, as the French and not report our going.

"Aquí, aquí," she whispers, tugging at my hand. We break through a gate into a small field that reeks with decay. We are halfway across it before I stumble over a stone slab and realise that we are in a graveyard. The girl keeps pulling me along. In one corner of the graveyard, she slows and stops, staring at a pile of what look like old clothes. As I stagger past her, I glimpse mummified flesh and charred bone. "Mama," the girl whimpers and goes to her knees next to the pile, clasping her hands together. Good Lord. Is the little hellcat praying? She looks up at me, her tears visible by the rising moon. "Sis plau, Papa. We must bury her." So much for getting her out to relations. I think they are all here. I hope they weren't epidemic victims, or it won't matter how fast we run.

"No, Maria," I shake my head, making my denial of this basic right as gentle as I can. "We must go." Yes, I think these poor sods deserve a decent burial. Yes, I can understand why the poor mite wants to us to do it now. But if we stay, we will be joining them on that pile, and I am damned if I will do anything to keep me from getting out of this alive--aside from betraying my own. Sometimes you have to do what you have to and let "the decent thing" go by the wayside. The girl is shivering, disbelieving. In a moment, I will lose her to her grief and that will almost certainly shorten my lifespan. I hold out my hand to her. "Come. Your mother would want you to be safe." I have no idea whether her mother would want the brat to run out on burying her own family. I am only assuming that Mama was a sensible woman who would want the only survivor to get away with her life, though it is hard to tell with these tradition-minded Catholics.

At first, I think she'll refuse. Then, slowly, she reaches up and takes my hand. I pull her to her feet. "Where?" I say. She points down the hill past the graveyard to a copse of trees, just visible in the darkness. Behind us in the village, someone starts shouting. "Vinga!" I say. "Come on!" I flee down the hill, dragging her behind me. I hit a fence and heave myself over it. The girl clambers over it, as nimble as a monkey, just as I drop to the ground. I can't hear any pursuit above our scramble for cover and the pounding in my head. I just grab the girl's hand and run down the hill into the trees, fear clearing my head enough to make me fleet. As we enter the woods, I smell oranges.

Continue to Part Three