I turn the horse’s head and prepare to ride off, but Pablo reaches up and grabs the horse’s halter and looks to his wife.
She shrugs and mutters, “Muy bien, ella puede permanecer. But if she causes any trouble”—she cocks her hand into the shape of a pistol and points her finger at my face— “she is gone.”
Pilar fixes me with her hard gaze and pulls the imaginary trigger.
And I know exactly what to expect from her.
And so I now ride as a member of Comandante Pablo Montoya’s guerrilla band, my legs clasped around a very good horse, my hat on my head, no wig for me now, oh, no, for El Rubio now rides as La Rubia, The Blonde Partisan, two pistols held high, a cry of Libertad! on her lips.
Well, sort of like that...
Mostly I ride into any encounter firing my pistolas into the air, shouting revolutionary slogans, prancing about, and trying not to kill anybody.
Generally, we ambush small French convoys from whom we take supplies—food, powder, small arms. Once, we managed to capture a good-size cannon mounted on a caisson. Perhaps it will come in handy.
While I try not to kill anybody, men are indeed killed and left by the side of the road. It is war, after all, and men will die. Some of ours, some of theirs...
After one such encounter, birds circle in the sky as we withdraw from the scene of the violent action, leaving dead men on the ground.
As we ride, I look up and Pilar sees me doing it. She smiles grimly.
“Sí, muchacha,” she says as we push back into the hills. “It is said that Napoleon loves his soldiers...” She pauses to spit on the ground. “But, you see, the buzzards love them, too.”
I think of my Clodhoppers, the French boys in my squad back at the killing fields of Jena Auerstadt. I hope you all went back home after that carnage, I hope that with all my heart. Laurent . . . Dubois . . . all of you fine boys. I would hate to think of any of you lying still and open-eyed beneath the pitiless Spanish sun, beneath those descending carrion- seeking birds.
The men call me La Apasionada, and it pleases them to do so, so I do not mind. At night, by the campfire, I sing, I dance... A fiddle has been found for me and I play upon it, and all cheer and shout; and joy, however short-lived, reigns.
And so my legend grows . . . Why, I do not know, but it does, in spite of me . . .
Chapter 38
James Emerson Fletcher
Shaolin Novice
House of Chen
Rangoon, Burma
Jacky Faber
By All Accounts, Somewhere in Spain
My dear Jacky,
Today I received both an honor and some very good news.
Early in the afternoon, Sifu Loo Li and I face off. We bow and go to the en garde position, which now I know is called Waiting Dragon, our Bo staffs resting on our shoulders, our knees bent in lunging position. He initiates the bout by going into the Attack of the Angry Butterfly, in which his stick is held low to the ground and then whipped around to attempt to strike me at the shoulders. I parry with the Whispering of the Willow Wand and come back with Awakening of Sleeping Bee.
I find the Shaolin names for these moves quite charming. In our own British Navy Manual of Arms, a saber swing at the neck of an opponent, hoping to open his jugular vein, is called Attack in Position Two, while in Bojutsu, it would be named something like Gentle Caress of Sharp Banana Leaf. Very poetic... but just as deadly.
Sifu Loo Li and I fight to a draw. A break is called and we take tea with Kwai Chang, cross-legged on the grass. There are several other Shaolin monks in attendance as well, and all have been watching our bout. These monks do not wear the novice dragon tattoo that rests on Sifu Loo Li’s forearm, no, they have one on each arm, entwined with vines and flowers. These are the true Masters of Bojutsu.
“We are quite pleased with your perfomance, Chueng Tong,” says Master Chang. “You have come a long way in your time here...”
. . . for a barbarian, I think, silently filling in the unspoken words.
“... in both mind and body.”
“Thank you, Master,” I say, my head bowed. “I owe you much. I owe you my very self.”
He says nothing to that, merely nods.
“Ah, they are ready to resume the match.”
Sifu and I arise and go to the center of the field, bow to each other, and assume the Waiting Dragon. Soon we are fully engaged.
The Kick of Drowsy Lion parried with Alert Jaw of Jackal and then an attack in Devious Swan, fended off with Beguiling Perfume of Precious Peonies, and...
And then I see an opening. Sifu, recovering from my last attack, seems a little off-balance. I know it could be a trick to draw me into a fatal error, but I go for it anyway. Thrusting my stick between his ankles, I leap into the air and twist around, giving my Bo a hard yank.
There is no poetic name for what I just did, but Sifu Loo Li goes down all the same.
I whip my stick around and place the heel of it at his throat. His eyes go hooded and he nods in defeat.
I have won. I have won!
We get to our feet and bow to each other. I think the day over, but I am wrong. Master Chang takes me by the elbow and leads me to the Shaolin masters.
“Go with them, Long Boy,” he says. “You will not be disappointed.”
I follow them, and I am led into the Shaolin temple. I have been in here many times with Master Chang, but not with these men. They take me to the main altar, where bowls of incense and myrrh smolder. Hands reach out and take off my gi, and I am left standing only in my loincloth. They gesture for me to kneel and I do it, wondering just what is going on.
It does not take me long to find out.
A monk comes to my left side and places a sort of small bench, more of a footstool, really, next to me and then takes my left arm and puts it on the bench, inside of forearm up. He opens a packet he has by his side, and I see needles and vials of color.
He takes a long needle and sets to work, the black color first, then the gold, then the green.
When I leave the temple, I have the Mark of the Red Dragon on my arm. I have been made a novice of the Shaolin Monastery, and never have I felt more pride in an accomplishment.
That night, after Mai Ling and Mai Ji have expressed their joy and admiration over my new decoration—and dear Sidrah has placed a soothing ointment on it to ease the prickling pain—Chopstick Charlie smiles upon me.
“Honored guest,” he says, puffing on his hookah, “and you are truly honored now—the Shaolin do not give those things away, you know—I have something to tell you, something that might give you great joy... and perhaps distress the heart of my dear daughter.”
She and I look up expectantly. Charlie hands the hookah to me, and I take a long drag and wait.
“There is a ship moored in the harbor, and she is headed back to the West. It is the merchant Mary Bissell.”
There is a sharp intake of breath on both my part and Sidrah’s.
“My associates inform me that she is sound of timber and well-captained. I assume you will want to sail away on her? Hmmm?”
“Yes, Honored Host, I would like that,” I say, my pulse beginning to race. “I must get back.”
“Umm,” says Charlie. “I suspect you must. However, the Mary Bissell sails under American colors and is headed back there, not to England.”
I sit quietly, taking this all in, while Charlie goes on.
“That might be just the thing for you, Long Boy. I have told you that the very worthy John Higgins has also written to me, and he is of the opinion that England is not a very safe place for you right now. It seems the populace has not forgotten the depredations of the Black Highwayman. Hmmm?”
I have to grimace at that, and admit the truth of it.
“Besides, the object of your affections just might find herself back in America. From long discussions I have had with Number Two Daughter, I know she feels safe there, and it is to that place she consistently returns.”
That is true, I’m thinking. And it might be months before a ship comes here, one bound for Britain, that is.
I will take it! It will be easy to get from the States to England.
I collect myself and say, “Where in America is this Mary Bissell headed?”
“New York, I believe, but I do not have her list of ports-of-call right now. Tomorrow, I will. But Boston is not all that far from New York, I see from my charts, and...”
And what?
“Think on this, Long Boy. It would be well for you to be in disguise for a while, considering, well, you know...”
How well I know...
“... and when we brought you here, you had no clothing other than shirt, trousers, and boots. Oh, yes, and that big black cape... and a mask...”
Don’t rub it in, Chops, I know what I did...
“So what I propose is this: We can tie back your long black hair, maybe shave your forehead a bit, and outfit you with a noble Chinaman’s attire. If you affect a slight halting of speech, like English is not your first language, you could easily pass for Eurasian—Yankee missionary father, Chinese mother, all that.”
“And to what end, Honored Chen?”
Charlie smiles his cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile. “To establish a branch of the House of Chen in the New World will be the purpose. It is time for me to expand into that area. You will be given money to do that and I want you to set up that shipping company—Oriental Enterprises, I think we shall call it...”—he pauses, as if relishing a private joke—“in Boston.”
I, too, have to smile at that.
“Won’t that put a bit of a twist in the tail of our little Lotus Blossom, hmmm?” says Charlie with a grin. “To have a rival company that already has a firm grounding in the spice-laden Orient, perhaps even right across the street from Faber Shipping Worldwide, hmmm?”
I lose my reserve and laugh out loud at that. It just might, Charlie, and I must admit, the thought of a little twist in that particular tail is not all that distasteful to me...
Chapter 39
We sleep out in the open most nights when the sky is clear and it does not rain, but sometimes, when it is not clear, we commandeer a farmhouse—sometimes with the blessing of the owner, sometimes not.
Those who resist pay a price, mostly in material goods, as the Montoya band is not needlessly cruel. That, in fact, is where my fiddle came from. The previous owner, landlord of a big estate, proclaimed himself afrancesado—we are near the French border, and so there are many sympathizers in this area—and added that we were a bunch of dirty scoundrels and that we should go away. Brave man, yes, but stupid, too. Unwashed we are, but away we don’t go. We are also well armed, so his violin now rests in my seabag when I am not playing it for the joy of my compadres. The owner was lucky to escape with his life, and perhaps in the future he will watch his mouth when facing an unruly group of desperados.
Tonight we sleep under the stars, my head resting on my saddle, the seat of which has been well polished by my bottom. As I lie here by the campfire, I think on Jaimy and Richard and all my other friends around the world, they who have taken me in and protected my poor self, and I pray for their safety and health. As I am about to drift off, with my knees pulled up to my chin, my blanket wound tightly about me, I think about my present companions—Montoya and all the lads... and Pilar, too.