Chapter 1 ~
Ridgetop
15 April, Thursday
Simon Pargeter crouched in the long narrow shade of the
blasted pine as he waited to meet the partisans.
Lightning had streaked a serpentine line down the pine’s trunk.
Needles clung tenaciously to a few outer limbs. The others were dead, pointy
branches denuded of green needles, cones scattered on the rocky ground, and the
bark peeled from the dead softwood. Rooted on the crest, the pine stood like a
solitary sentinel for anyone traversing the ridge’s long saddle. A barren
branch pointed to the north slope. Far below, following the winding trail, a
river snaked, glinting quicksilver.
Beyond the southern slope stood Brittesca, the dolostone
walls faded grey to ocher with glittering specks of quartz catching the Iberian
sun. Terra cotta tiles covered most of the city roofs. A few had weathered
boards, and a very few were painted in colors, redder than the baked clay or
green as pines or a startling blue. One domed roof gleamed bright gold, like a
beacon to guide the lost. On the city’s south stood the ruined walls of an old
castle. The tower had collapsed long ago. The outer bailey, sharing walls with
the city, held newer buildings with planked roofs. Between the ridge and the
city were rolling hills of grapes and olive trees interspersed with patchworks
of tilled soil or pastures.
Simon threw another pebble, aiming where the lightning had
bored into the ground, leaving dirt clods churned and exposed roots charred. He
had already waited past noon, the agreed time. His commander had assured Simon
that he would be met. Major Stively had also given him the name of the leader
of the partisans in the area.
“Esperanza. Some
kind of noble.” Stively had said. “Name means hope in Spanish. They need hope, poor sods, with the French army tightening
its grip.”
Even though they were only in mid-April, the heat of late
afternoon shimmered on the rocks. A coronella
stretched its ropy length on a razor-edged slab of dolostone. Its forked tongue
tasted the heat. A fawn-colored crested bird with black and white markings
hooted at Simon. When it realized he was not going to move, it flew under a
scrubby bush and scratched about.
With a clear sky and the warm day, he should have been
basking on his own rock. He threw another pebble across the track along the
ridge crest. The rock bounced then rolled to a stop. He hadn’t picked the site
for this meeting. That was Stively, swearing this ridge between Brittesca and
the river was a common meeting point.
Yesterday Simon shook off the French patrol that had dogged
him. He was tired of those blue-coated French, tired of Spanish citizens who
refused aid to the British, and tired of guerrillas who would cut his throat
rather than risk his betrayal of them to the occupying French. He had a notebook
stuffed with drawings, calculations of the distances between towns, rivers marked
with their fords or bridges, notations about wide plains for an army
encampment, and descriptions of higher grounds from which to fight the French.
The black-barred brown coronella
slithered off its rock. On the dusty ground, it lifted its head, flicked its
tongue, then slithered into the shadows between boulders exposed by time.
Simon heard a low rumbling that could only be horses running.
The thunder increased, steady, stronger. He stood, stretching
his legs, working the kinks out of his shoulders. As he straightened, horses
rushed onto the height, following the track from the river.
Simon stepped to the center of the track. He waited, hands
hanging at his sides, palms out. His pistol remained tucked in his belt. He
didn’t pick up the Baker rifle leaning on his pack. His dun-colored horse
waited beneath a stunted holm oak, idly switching its ashy tail even as other
horses approached.
The horses galloped toward him. He stood his ground. The two
lead riders parted, and the four behind followed, thundering past. The
remaining riders drew up their horses before him, so close the flecks of foam
from the horses’ mouths spattered the ground before him. Without looking
around, he knew the first four had wheeled their mounts to complete the circle.
Major Stively claimed that Simon needed these guerrillas. He hadn’t found their compatriots to
the south friendly, but in these mountains he would need help to finish his
reconnaissance in time for Wellington’s approach with the army. Old Hooknose
pointed his avant garde at the only
major road from France, over which came supplies and more troops. Stop the
influx of armament and ammunition, communications and reinforcement, and this
arm of the French Grande Armée could
be pinned in Spain and wiped out.
The guerrillas
covered half their faces with patterned cloths. Their eyes hinted at dark calculations.
Two men tossed remarks that caused laughter.
One man threw his reins forward then slung his leg over and
slid down. He had the wiry leanness of a knife fighter. His clothes were loose
and plain. His scuffed boots were sturdy leather, soft with age. He didn’t look
like a noble don, but his crossed arms and tilted-back head mirrored the stance
of an arrogant lord of the realm. For a brief moment, Simon remembered Lord
Ainsley, but that proud man was a thousand miles away and more than five
thousand days ago.
He waited on the guerrilla. He wouldn’t push. He had already waited
over an hour; he could wait longer. The ringing horses shifted restlessly,
tossing their heads, backing, surging forward before reined back. Good
horseflesh. Not for the first time he wished he were in Spain buying horses,
not spying for His Majesty’s Army.
The dust drifted over him, over the horses and their riders,
back onto the dry ground and rocks and scrubby growth.
The wiry man glanced over his shoulder then looked again at
Simon, who gave a little tilt of his head, acknowledgment of their game of
patience. He used his peripheral vision to watch the other men, his hearing to
listen for anything coming from behind him. How long would this test last?
“¿Usted es Señor
Pargeter?”
Ah, the wiry man had broken first. Simon nodded. “Si. ¿Usted es Don Esperanza?”
Someone in that circle of riders laughed. Simon glanced
around, wondering how his question had failed the test.
“Don Esperanza, se ha
ido.”
Gone. Which kind of gone? Dead, left, or vanished? An
absent contact didn’t bode well for his mission, but Simon hid his growing
uneasiness. He didn’t smile; he didn’t frown. He just watched. He’d guessed
that the name Esperanza would be an alias for the leader of partisans, not a
family name. He had no means of tracking down his contract. Everything depended
on these men—who weren’t welcoming him.
The wiry man once more looked behind him.
A horse pushed forward. Like the others, this rider wore a
wide-brimmed hat and a heavy scarf. He’d belted a bulky jacket around his waist.
He was as slim as the first man, but in that over-sized jacket he looked more
like a youth mimicking his elders than the leader of partisans who fought
fiercely against the French soldiers occupying their country. If this
was the leader. He certainly wasn’t Don Esperanza.
The new rider walked his horse into the circle. Simon backed
up a step as the rider slung a leg forward over the pommel then jumped down. Dust
puffed under leather boots, but Simon wasn’t looking at boots. He saw long legs
and well-shaped hips before the leader jerked down the bulky jacket. A woman. Not
a youth, but a long-legged woman who barely topped his shoulder. The
wide-brimmed hat hid her hair, and she kept her scarf up, covering most of her
face. The shadow cast by the hat’s wide brim hid her eyes, but he caught a
glint of sparkling amber, like wine.
She tossed her mount’s reins to the wiry man. He rattled off
a question that Simon didn’t catch. The inflection sounded like a strong
dialect, likely Basque. The only word he caught clearly was Doñabella. He
seized on it, for it sounded like a name. She tossed back a short “no” and came
forward. The man scowled. Without taking his eyes off Simon, he returned a hand
to the knife sheathed at his belt, a clear warning not to do anything against
this woman.
Simon bowed. Formality was the wisest course. His first
question needed to determine if this woman had stepped into Don Esperanza’s
role. His second question needed to determine if she would honor the agreement Major
Stively had worked out with the don. “Señora,
buenas tardes. ¿Señora Esperanza?” he queried, holding the name he’d
heard in reserve.
“Esperanza, no. I
regret—.” She paused then said, “My apologies, Señor Pargeter. Our delay was
not avoidable. Don Esperanza himself told me of your coming.”
Even with the cloth muffling her voice, her English came
clearly, with only a trace of accent and no pronunciation or grammatical errors.
Whoever had tutored her had been precise. Yet women of the Spanish nobility would
not ride with partisans. The most sheltered English lady had more independence
than Spanish ladies. Who was she? Did she have the don’s trust? Can I trust her?
“May I inquire about Don Esperanza?”
“He advises us, but he found it necessary to step back from
leadership.”
“The French?” She didn’t answer. Simon gestured to the surrounding
horsemen. “You are in charge of these men, Doñabella?”
Those sherry-colored eyes widened then narrowed, and she gave
a definite shake of her head. “Is anyone in charge of partisans? I have taken
the don’s place. That is the best answer to your question.”
The wiry man spoke, three or four sentences, still in that
dialect Simon didn’t know, but he had the feeling the man knew just enough
English to dispute the woman’s denial of leadership. After his comments, two
other men spoke up. Doñabella half-turned to look at the encircling riders. She
said something in Basque. No one responded. She spoke again. Several gave
determined responses of si and ¡dale!
Doñabella bowed her head, as if humbled. She turned back to
Simon. “They tell me that I lead. They answer your question.”
Simon tackled what concerned him. “Don Esperanza gave his
word to help me.”
“The don has never met you,” she retorted.
“He gave his word to Major Stively through a messenger, not a
month ago. He did not hesitate. Whatever aid that I needed.”
She did not ask for specifics. She stepped closer, close
enough for him to see striations of gold in her amber eyes. The wiry man
followed, keeping the same distance, a hand still on his knife, a clear
warning.
“My regrets, again, señor.” Her gaze flashed behind him then
to her right then came back, and she lowered her voice. “These men, they claim
not to speak English. I do not trust that. I cannot. We have a spy in our
midst, a traitor who helps our foreign invaders. He does not know that we are
aware of his betrayal. He does not know we are looking for him. He will not
know until we find him.”
Her guard spat, and Simon had no doubt the spy would meet the
man’s knife.
“Señor Pargeter,
you should not associate with us. This man will betray you just as he betrays
us.”
“Your traitor can’t concern me. I have a mission to complete.
This is not a choice, Doñabella. Don Esperanza vowed to assist my mission. He
gave his word. Te doy mi palabra. Palabra de honor. En el honor de mi familia
y de Esperanza.[1]
I need you to uphold his word, Doñabella. My mission depends upon it.”
At his roll of Spanish, the surrounding men murmured. Simon
had spoken loudly enough for all to hear. He wanted no misunderstanding. The
Spanish lived by their honor. The don had given his word. If these partisans
owed him any loyalty, they would not willfully cause the breaking of that honor.
And the spy would go along, trusting that no one knew of his betrayal.
He needed local help. Wellington needed maps for his assault
through northern Spain. Tucked against his skin, Simon’s journal had detailed
drawings and damning notes. If the journal fell into French hands, the evidence
would damn him, and his lack of uniform would get him shot as a spy.
If Simon were caught, the French would know General Wellington’s
plan: an attack through north Spain, ignoring the south. Barricade the border
between the countries. Wipe out the French presence at the British Army’s back.
Then turn into France and aim for Napoleon.
To accomplish this goal, Wellington needed the maps that his
predecessor hadn’t had. He needed specific ground information that the Spanish
officers attached to his command didn’t have.
And Simon needed this Doñabella to give him the support that Don
Esperanza had promised.
“Señor Pargeter, do
you not see? It is impossible. Your mission will fail before it begins.”
Once again he resorted to Spanish. He slowly pivoted, trying
to make eye contact with every man, including the wiry man with his threat of
the knife. If he couldn’t convince her, the men might ask enough questions that
she would have to reconsider. If she did not reconsider, one or two of them
might give help on their own. “We English will defeat Napoleon. We will help
you remove that French puppet Joseph, the one who styles himself José I, from the Spanish throne. We will
restore the rightful king Fernando. We will help you drive the French from your
homes. We will not abandon you. With your help, we will drive the French back across
the Pyrenees and all the way to Paris.”
“Fernando? Rey Fernando?”
Folding her arms above the wide belt that cinched the bulky jacket around her, Doñabella
also lifted her voice. “El Rey Felón o el
Deseado?”
The encircling partisans shouted at her question, chosing The Desired over the criminal.
That question was clever manipulation. Simon ceded that part
of the argument to her. The deposed Fernando had two contradictory names, one
from the French supporters, the other from the Spanish nationalists. Napoleon
had forced Fernando’s abdication then installed his brother Joseph on Spain’s
throne. The upper class, especially those near Madrid who had witnessed Fernando’s
incompetence, supported King Joseph. The common people, who knew only that the bloodline
sitting on the throne was not Spanish, they agitated against Joseph.
Napoleon’s plan would have succeeded if his brother had
either inspired the common people or charmed them. He’d tried. He’d ended the
Inquisition. He’d implemented reforms. But he was French blood trying to rule
Spain, and whole areas of the country revolted, calling for their independence
from Napoleon’s empire.
The men called out to Doñabella. With half her face hidden by
the scarf, Simon wasn’t certain she even considered his argument.
A cloud, one of the tattered remnants from last night’s
spring storm, crossed the sun. For a brief moment they were all shadowed. Then
the cloud passed, the sun blazed down from the deep blue sky, and Doñabella
acted as if the debate among her men didn’t concern her.
The wiry man spoke. She had ignored the other comments, but
she turned to speak to him. Simon wished he spoke the local dialect. As their
argument flagged, he played his trump. “Wellington took Salamanca and Madrid.”
She turned and flashed, “We have seen Wellington take cities
and then retreat when he could not hold them. Burgos. Valladolid. Madrid. Torquemada.”
He winced at that truth. Her anger hinted at rage associated
with Wellington’s retreat. His rebuttal sounded weak even in his ears. “Circumstances
are different this time.”
“How are they different? We risk our lives!”
“Just as we British risk our lives. Shall I count off the men
we’ve lost in battle?”
“Badajoz,” she retorted.
Angry murmurs from the partisans backed Doñabella, turning
the wavering men.
Barely one year before, the siege of Badajoz had turned into
an ugly victory that even Wellington had called costly: three days of rioting, thousands
of Spanish citizens massacred, and British officers who tried to enforce order killed
by their own men.
Badajoz blotted all of Simon’s arguments.
“You’re right,” he admitted, still in Spanish for the benefit
of all. “I can give you no defense for Badajoz. It represents the worst of war
and the worst of men. I can only tell you that we British are not here for our
own gain. We are here to help you.”
“Do not lie. You British are here because you hate Napoleon.”
“And do you love Napoleon? Do you know your Latin, Doñabella?
Amicus meus, inimicus inimici mei?”
“My friend, the enemy of my enemy,” she translated, the words
slow, and behind Simon a man translated the phrase into the local dialect. The
murmurs this time restored his hope. “El
Director de las Almas,” she gave the credit. “You know your Pinamonti.”
He could have lied and increased the slight connection he’d
managed. He chose truth. No matter how slight, lies never paid their cost. “My
source is Franz Hoeger. Die Siben Brodt[2].”
“Ay, si. You English
invited a German to take your throne.”
“We chose a German from a bloodline with an English
connection. We can debate history if you wish. If we have time.” He glanced
around, at the men, at the track he’d ridden up. When she rolled her eyes,
Simon knew she had caught his meaning that they delayed unnecessarily. He came
back to his strongest argument. “Did the people of Spain have a choice in Joseph
Bonaparte becoming their king?”
She unfolded her arms. “You make good arguments and bad ones,
but we cannot help you, Simon Pargeter. My regrets. I have told you the reason.”
She turned toward her horse.
“One last argument. Please.”
Doñabella paused. She looked over her shoulder. “Speak.”
“Marshal Soult has returned to France. King Joseph dismissed
him.”
Even with the shadow cast by the wide-brimmed hat, he saw her
eyebrows lift. “And the reason you believe this is your great rebuttal?”
“Marshal Jourdan replaced him.”
“Jourdan? The Jourdan of Talavera?” She turned completely
around, and Simon’s hopes lifted from the dust. “This is yet more proof that
Joseph is a fool.” He knew she wavered, but then she shook her head decidedly. “Yet
still it is not enough incentive to risk my men. They have wives, children, bebés. Chuy will show you the track to
Miranda de Ebro. We will send word for them to expect you.”
“Doñabella?”
“No,” she cut him short and strode over to the wiry man.
That man was Chuy, Simon reckoned, for he looked displeased
by her offer.
A gunshot cracked.
Simon ducked then sprang for his Baker rifle.
The riders shouted. Letting their horses have their heads,
they rode out in a thunder of hooves, chased by more gunshots. The dust of
their going swirled up and hid Simon. His horse shied away when he ran for him.
The dead tree-branch broke. With a snort and a buck, his mount joined the
others racing away. The long reins trailed in the dust.
Simon stared at the dun-colored gelding. Then, the shielding dust
swept away. He snatched up his rifle and pack and sprinted for the boulders
jutting out of the ground, hoping the flying bullets peppering the air hadn’t
spotted him as a target.
·
[1] Te doy mi
palabra. Palabra de honor. El honor de mi familia y de esperanza :: I give you my word. Word of honor. The honor of my
family and of hope.
·
[2] Director de
las Almas, el :: The Director of Souls, a book originally published in the early
1700s by Pinamonti, translated by Franz Hoeger into Die Siben Brodt
