The King's Armada

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER EIGHT

  That evening there were two messages, one from the beautiful Juanita and the other from her father, bidding him to stop by for a chat. He arranged to meet the father in the next few days, but late that night went over the garden wall and again found Juanita waiting in her skimpy gown. If there was passion before, it was turned up to white heat on this night. He had earned his reward as the slayer of Don Alonso de Monzon. Alonso had recently been a thorn in the side of the entire Tera family.

  García returned to his quarters as dawn broke and slept soundly till the sun was squarely overhead. With the help of Jesus, he bathed, shaved, dressed and ate a fine lunch. It was then siesta time. After a peaceful nap he was ready to meet the senior Tera and then looked forward to another midnight frolic over the garden wall. Was this the good life, or not?

  As these thoughts rolled through his mind, thoughts of the lovely and well proportioned Juanita, and what to say to her father who might be actively seeking a son-in-law, Jesus once again broke into his world.

  “We will soon embark on a perilous sea journey toward a dangerous country, my Captain, Sir.”

  “That is true.”

  “In considering that situation, the pleasures in life are scarce as gold coins, but the dangers and pitfalls multiply.”

  “Also true.” García groomed his hair. He had a fair day’s work ahead before the night’s occupation. He wondered if Jesus was simply playing the philosopher or had some point in mind.

  “I have spoken to Doria Queveda about holy matrimony.”

  “The prostitute?”

  “Yes, my Captain. Each of us must make their way in this life using the assets the Good Lord metes out. Is it not true?”

  “I suppose.” This marriage thing puzzled García. Jesus was a practical man of uncommon common sense. Why would he marry a whore just before departing for God knows how long? “You want my permission to marry?”

  “That is true, my Captain. I beg you for this favor.”

  “But why marry, then embark? You already sleep with the woman.”

  “I see your point, my Captain. Your thinking is very advanced.”

  My thinking might be advanced, but there is more to this than meets the naked eye, García thought. Jesus has something up his sleeve. Poncho, who had been taking in the entire conversation, sat in a state of high amusement. He loved these exchanges and could only guess at the result.

  “You have not totally confided in me, Jesus. Tell me your mind in full.”

  “My Captain. You have the gift of anticipation. Yes, there was one more item that might concern you. A matter of, you might say, morale.”

  “Morale? Something like esprit de corps?”

  “Exactly. The military powers encourage certain personnel to take wives along on long, unpleasant postings, such as Florida.”

  This surprised García. “You can’t mean you would take that woman aboard a troopship?”

  “My Captain, you speak of my wife to be. You see, if I were a sergeant I would rate a small room aboard, only a cubicle, but enough for the two of us.”

  “A sergeant? You are a common trooper.”

  “Not so common, my Captain. I am a man of considerable military experience and leadership ability. I was a corporal once, almost a sergeant, then there was some trouble and so it was back to trooper.”

  “Trouble?”

  “A trifling matter.”

  “Could it have been a barroom fight over a woman?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I have the gift. How many were killed?”

  “Only one. And he was a sheep farmer. It was an affair of honor. Here, you, my Captain, and people like the late Alonso Albertina, can kill at will and nothing happens. But me, I dispatch a stinking sheep farmer to the next world and I am punished. Where is the justice?”

  “You make a point, Jesus. Let me think this over. I must examine the question from all sides. It boils down to this: What would serve King Felipe best?”

  “We all love our king,” Jesus agreed. “But keep in mind, my Captain, it was only a sheep farmer who died and that incidental to the quarrel.”

  “Every man has value in the eyes of God, Jesus. Even small birds. Anyway, I thought sheep roamed free on hillsides and were followed by men called shepherds. These are free people who sleep out at night and provide us with both meat and wool.”

  “The shepherds watch the sheep. It is the sheep that provide us with meat and wool, against their will I might add. The men are like prison guards. They pretend affection for the beasts, but wish only their early demise. I myself enjoy a stew of lamb, potatoes, onions and carrots. And when I was in the mountains killing the French people, I wore a great long sheepskin coat that reached almost to the ground. It served me well against the wind and cold.”

  “You served up toward San Sebastian?”

  “Even beyond. I was a pikeman, and we fought as far as Bayonne. Perhaps God sees men and birds as equals, but I tell you a Spaniard is worth a dozen of the French. We rolled over them and took their women. Blood and wine flowed like the freshets of spring. Those times were rich with excitement, but now we are afflicted by peace.”

  García laughed. “Possibly, if there is no war where you are, there is local peace. But in La Florida and South America there is conflict, men die in wholesale numbers. Also, drums roll and banners are unfurled with great plans to attack England.”

  “And you as captain, and I as your sergeant and orderly, we can do great things together. I have seen it through a dim and puzzling vision.”

  “You would not think war so glorious, Jesus, if it was you on the wrong end of the pike. We pity the innocents killed in war. Who would think the gruesome sight of a battlefield strewn with the dead of both sides is a thing of beauty? Yet men do. There is beauty in the chaotic aftermath if you have eyes to see. Is there any cure for the lure, the lust for combat? If everyone could see the mutilation, the agony, even hear the cries of the dying, perhaps if the dead could talk, would there be an end to war?”

  Jesus was solemn. “No, my Captain. It is the nature of man. And it is the nature of women to birth warriors. It is bred in the bone.”

  García scratched his head and sought a more pleasant topic. “Tomorrow, or in the next few days, I will research regulations. In the meantime, attend to your own appearance. My orderly should at all times comport himself in a military manner.”

  Jesus looked at himself, fresh out of the stockade. There was no uniform in the Spanish military. Officers and men alike garbed themselves in the most garish manner with gold buttons and lace, garments of silk or satin, velvet and embroidery, feather plumes and silk tassels. García preferred to dress plainly in rough, dark cloth with leather trim, buckles and buttons of brass that Jesus kept shined.

  Taking a cue from his master, Jesus also confined himself to plain dress, usually armed with only a dagger, which he carried in his boot.

  As a captain, García was permitted to carry a sword, but generally reserved it for ceremonial occasions. He too had taken to having a dagger in his boot, plus the deadly belly gun, which had given him an aura of mystery.

  Cannon were commonly used in warfare, but hand-held weapons — the muskets of the era — weighed up to 20 pounds and had to be fired from a forked rest. They were fired by a trigger that brought a slow match down to the priming pan that set off a flash and, after a short interval, fired the main charge. The musketeers wore broad-brimmed hats that they would pull over their faces at the moment of firing to protect them from the blinding and burning flash. To draw a small weapon and fire it created a stir. And it might be a matter for the inquisition to consider. The odd small dog might also draw the attention of the Catholic police.

  That someone might challenge him to avenge the death of Alonso had crossed García’s mind, but it seemed that Alonso was singularly unpopular and, because of his twice defeating that able swordsman, García himself was feared with great sincerity.

  A hundred piddling
details of the journey to Florida occupied García’s time as commander of the military contingent. Hidalgo had been sent ahead to Lisbon, Portugal, which had been annexed by King Felipe in 1580, as that was where the force would embark for the long, perilous journey. Men who could be spared from other units, many of them disciplinary problems, would come dribbling into Lisbon and be placed under Hidalgo’s command.

  Meanwhile, García had decided to take the provost at his word and empty the stockade of all but the criminally insane. King Felipe and the cream of the army, navy and nobility were focused on assembling a mighty armada to go against Queen Elizabeth and the English heretics. Their thoughts seldom drifted to La Florida, the northern fortress of Spain’s new world, guarding the treasure trove of gold and silver that kept the scattered empire afloat. For King Felipe II ruled not only Spain, but Portugal, Sardinia, Sicily, Southern Italy, Milano, Parma, a section of France and the Spanish Netherlands, which were based in Antwerp, plus his overseas holdings.

  García had cleared his desk of most of the morning’s work when a grizzled sergeant entered his office with an invitation to dine with a Captain Mateo de Recalde.

  “And who might this captain be?” García inquired.

  “He is late of La Florida command.”

  “And you served with him?”

  “I did, Sir. I have served the captain for these last 20 years.”

  “And did you enjoy your Florida tour, sergeant? I understand the climate to be moderate.”

  “Stifling hot, Sir, in summer. Pleasant enough during the winter months. But the captain wishes to bring you the details in person. There is a private room in the officers’ mess. Say at 10 tonight?”

  García agreed to be there and later sent word to Juanita that duty would keep him from the evening’s passion. He welcomed the respite and, indeed, looked forward to first- hand knowledge of his new command. He was aware that the San Augustin contingent was commanded by a lieutenant, the survivors of the fracas with Drake, plus a few marines from the two relief ships.

  He took particular care with his appearance and attire for the meeting and decided to let Poncho remain in quarters, a fact that upset the small canine to no end. The dog considered himself García’s guardian and felt that he had been placed in this life, in this small body, for that purpose. In previous lives he had been of the Chinese nobility, and several lives back he had even been an Egyptian princess. Now, in a fit of pique, the dog wondered if in the next life he could be the master and García the dog. Wouldn’t that be a dog of another color?

  Promptly at 10, García was ushered into the private room where he found Captain Mateo to be thin, of medium height and lacking his left hand. He wore a metal hook in its place. García was welcomed with great courtesy and the usual offer of wine.

  “I’m happy you returned safely,” García said.

  Mateo held up his hook. “Most of me came back. But our losses were painful. Of 250 men in my command, only 45 returned, and a good third of them either wounded or sick. Use great caution, my friend. Trust no one, particularly the Indians.”

  “They are wild people?”

  “Savages. One of my men who got to know a few of them was bold enough to go to one of their villages alone. I think he was seeking a woman. They stripped him and staked him out among the sand spurs and insects. What tortures he experienced and how long he survived, I know not. His body was partially eaten by wild beasts when we found him. His eyes plucked out.”

  The two men were seated at a large dark candle-lit oak table. The flickering light threw dancing shadows on the wall. “We all must die,” García said. “But there are ways to die and there are other ways to die. What of the other casualties?”

  “Malaria, stomach sickness, clashes with the Indians and pirates. Not to mention gangrene. That is what took my hand. It started with a mere mosquito bite that I had the poor judgment to scratch. Anything can start an infection in that low country.” Mateo shook his head sadly. “A few of the men simply disappeared.” He poured more wine and called for a waiter to bring more.

  “Deserters?”

  Mateo smiled. “Perhaps. But where would they go in such a place? The Indians to the south, the Seminoles, are hostile, the Indians to the north, the Creeks, are hostile. The English pirates hold us in low regard. Perhaps they chose suicide in the sea.”

  “You had priests?”

  “Five. Two returned and one remained there. Being a man of the cloth is no guard against the perils of La Florida. I thank God that I am back and hope to sail with the Armada.” A waiter brought fried steak, potatoes and more wine. García noticed that the old sergeant was standing just outside the door.

  “And how did you get back?”

  “A pair of relief ships. La Trinidad, a vessel of more than 700 tons and 24 guns, and the Valencera, slightly smaller, but still with 24 guns. They brought only a hundred soldiers, but some of the marines were forced to stay on. Fortifications have been thrown up and improved on a daily basis. They will lay low until you arrive with fresh men. With your men and those already there, you should have a fair time. Absolutely, it is a good opportunity for a man of your age. You can make a name for yourself.”

  “I hope to serve my king.”

  “Don’t we all,” Mateo said lightly, “And you might as well add the Good Lord and all the saints.” The two fell to eating. The older man explained that fish and shellfish were in good supply, and food crops and fruit crops could be grown and harvested year round because of the subtropical climate.

  They lingered over brandy to talk of the weather, geography and location of Indian settlements. Mateo produced a series of helpful charts and maps. Medical supplies and the need to keep the men healthy were touched on. What artisans and other staff personnel that should be taken along were discussed.

  García mentioned the request by Jesus to take a wife along, omitting her past history.

  “Women can be trouble,” Captain Mateo said thoughtfully. “We had none. But some of the men already there had women, some of them Indians. An Indian woman is much like a slave. Trained in that manner from childhood.”

  “You advise against women?”

  Mateo smiled broadly. “No. They are a necessary evil. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. To satisfy the priests, they should be married.”

  “And how are the priests satisfied?”

  Mateo chuckled, catching the pun. It was after midnight when the two parted, García with an armful of charts and maps. He felt he had a wealth of information to share with Hidalgo, Jesus and the other non commissioned officers. And he had decided to grant Jesus his wish.