The King's Armada

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER TEN

  If Jesus arrived late, García arose even later. A pan of cold water to douse his head, a cup of strong coffee and then hot water for shaving, followed by a session with a primitive Spanish toothbrush. The captain often thought of the everyday necessities of modern day America that would be considered exotic luxuries even in the wealthiest Spanish household.

  Jesus stood by, a bit puzzled, as he watched his charge discharge the morning routine. “You have had a trying night, my Captain?”

  “You might say that, Jesus. I enjoyed your gathering, but I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “No. Nothing of the sort. Just one of those things.”

  “More than one person said you left the party early accompanied by a quite striking lady, the wine lady.”

  “The wine lady?”

  “For a better name, my Captain. I believe it’s Señorita Botella, but the botella is a bottle and wine is the lady’s considerable fortune.”

  “I understand, Jesus. And it’s true. I did meet such a lady. She seemed quite, well, worldly.”

  “Yes, my Captain. A woman of the world.” He offered García a clean towel. “I have heard an interesting story about that lady.”

  García shrugged. “And what scandal monger might have whispered in your ear?”

  “It is not an evil story, my Captain. It involves the Duke and Duchess of Aragon, a couple of some importance. The Duke is well liked and a friend of Doña María’s. His wife the Duchess is, you might say, more distant and not overly attractive, but a splendid dresser. She seems to believe that stunning attire makes up for the plainness of her features. And she has an exclusive dressmaker.”

  “You are into fashion,” García said. “You are beginning a story about fashionable women in Madrid?”

  “Not at all, my Captain. You see Doña María felt she had been snubbed by the Duchess. This was three or four years ago. So Doña María planned a very large and very grand ball. At the same time, with the help of a few gold coins, she recruited a spy in the hire of that exclusive dressmaker. She obtained the details of what the Duchess would wear to that ball.”

  “Really, Jesus, you talk like a back fence gossip.”

  “If you will but bear with me. Doña María had two maids, both of medium build. She hired four more serving girls for the ball, two quite slim, even skinny, and two on the stocky side, you might say fat. She dressed the six of them, these serving girls, in exact copies of what the Duchess would wear. The night of the ball, with the Duke and Duchess in the middle of the room, all six of these serving girls appeared with trays of refreshments.”

  García smiled. “That is good fun. What did the Duchess do?”

  “Nothing for a long moment. She took in the scene as if she were paralyzed. The she turned a series of colors, and one witness said that smoke emerged from her ears. But that is only a rumor.”

  “A good story, Jesus. A deed worthy of Doña María. I believe it.”

  “But there is more, my Captain. With Doña María looking the other way, the Duchess took a tray from a serving girl, placed a single glass of wine on it and approached Doña María who took the wine without really looking at the Duchess. The Duchess started to speak, but Doña María waved a disdainful hand and turned away. At that time the Duchess raised the tray and struck her hostess over the head.”

  “My God, Jesus. It sounds like a barroom fight, but among the elite of Spain.”

  “Yes and no. Doña María was not really hurt. She turned, saw the Duchess holding the tray, both women gaped in shock, then they both began to laugh. Since that moment they have been the best of friends.”

  “A fitting ending to a marvelous story. But now a morsel of food to repair the night’s work.”

  “There is a matter of small importance that I would discuss. If you have a minute,” Jesus said, after ending his tale.

  “I do have a minute. But if I could first have more coffee, or chocolate, and a little breakfast?” García’s mind went to a higher state of alert. Each time Jesus sought a discussion there was a price to pay.

  At breakfast, Jesus explained that Doria had a younger sister, a girl of exquisite beauty now blooming into womanhood. “It is Doria’s solemn wish to protect Frenesi from the ways of the world, to guard her against snares and traps that beset the path of a young lady without noble family connections.

  “That seems only natural,” García agreed, wondering what would come next.

  “As a captain, you have the ability to recruit cadets, young men of good quality in training to become officers.”

  “I’ve heard that,” García replied. Wondering what in the world this might have to do with Doria’s sister. Perhaps he would like me to find a cadet who would marry this Frenesi.

  “A cadet would be under your protection, travel with you, sleep nearby.”

  “That’s possible.”

  Jesus came to the point. “Frenesi would make a handsome cadet.”

  García glanced toward the ceiling and put a finger in his ear as if to clear the wax. A bland smile creased the face of the sergeant. “I believe you said Frenesi is Doria’s sister, not her brother. Is there a question of sex here?”

  “No, my Captain, not at all. Dressed in the uniform of a cadet, Frenesi would be a striking addition to your entourage.”

  García rubbed his forehead. In the company of the statuesque Doña María, he had gotten little sleep last night. “Jesus, I have no entourage. Only you might qualify. Otherwise I lead a group of determined Spanish fighting men. I stress the word men.”

  “But there is another way, my Captain.”

  “Another way to what? To enlist a pretty teenaged girl in the Spanish army?”

  “No, my Captain. Frenesi, and she is available for inspection, is a fresh young thing of prime quality. She would make you an elegant wife.”

  García was almost ready to ask God to strike down Jesus with a merciful lightning bolt. “And I could carry her along to La Florida where she would bear me a brood of children, there among the savages and pirates.”

  “If that is your wish, my Captain.”

  “That is not my wish. Nor was it my wish to promote you to sergeant and see you married to a woman who seems to be a Madrid social queen, but who will now be closed up on a stinking trooper for at least weeks and endure the hardships of military life.”

  “What is done is done, my Captain. But back to the cadet idea because I think you are not ready to leap into matrimony.” García nodded in partial agreement. “Frenesi is quite clever with writing and in mathematics. She could lift the burden of paperwork from your head, she could sleep in an adjacent room, protected from the officers and men, just as I will protect Doria, and her sex would not be discovered. Is it worth a throw of the dice?”

  “She can read and write and do figures?”

  “Very definitely.”

  The idea of a clerical person had its appeal. And thus far, Jesus had been a man to lean on and had not led García too far astray. “All right. If you turn her out like a cadet, then bring her around and I’ll give her a trial.

  So it was that a Cadet Francisco became a member of García’s entourage.

  Her real name was María Elena. Her father had dubbed her Frenesi at an early age because she seemed always to be moving, sometimes almost in a frenzied way. Her hyper activity wore off, but the nickname remained. She was quite young when sister Doria bolted home in search of adventure in the big city, only to be pressured into prostitution, a profession that fit her like a glove.

  She was yet a slip of a girl, but a very attractive one, when tragedy struck the family.

  Her father was ruggedly handsome and her mother had been the beauty of the village before she married and went to live on a small farm. Frenesi had grown up among the chickens, geese and ducks. There was also the family cow and usually a pig. She learned to draw milk from the cow and pluck feathers from the fowl at an early age.

  After a week of heavy r
ain, her parents were returning from a wedding party when the mother was swept away while crossing a swollen stream. The father, his brain numbed by wine, never forgave himself for failing to rescue the love of his life.

  Depressed, at loose ends, he entered Frenesi into a convent as a novitiate. With that burden lifted from his head, he sold the farm and livestock, gave the money to the church and wandered off toward the mountains and into oblivion.

  Frenesi was given a rigid course of study under the hawk-like eyes of the stern nuns. The ability of her intellect to grow was recognized, and she was launched on an academic course while others were sidetracked to more menial duties.

  As Doria advanced in her profession she kept a watchful eye on her sister’s progress. Upon learning she was about to take serious life-time vows to become a nun, she snatched her from the convent.

  Shortly after that Doria and Jesus cooked up the scheme to make Frenesi a cadet. It was the hope of Jesus that the lovely Frenesi, in the fresh flower of life, might wed the man who had become his idol, Captain Pedro García, or Don Pedro as he was sometimes called. No one challenged his authority to use the title.

  In fact Doña María encouraged it. As the days passed, García was seeing more of Doña María and less and less of the lovely Juanita. Perhaps it was this fact that caused Juanita to show up one day in García’s office where she came face to face with Cadet Francisco.

  “I didn’t know that Don Pedro had such a handsome clerical worker,” Juanita cooed.

  “I am a Spanish cadet, Señorita. And I aspire to become an officer of the King.” Francisco had practiced keeping her voice low. It carried a certain sexual timbre that fascinated Juanita. With the cadet’s attractive, almost feminine face, along with that voice, Juanita almost forgot why she came to the office. Of course her father was now importuning her to marry García. He sensed a certain wildness in his daughter that marriage might bridle.

  She drew up a chair to Francisco’s desk and chatted with the young cadet for the better part of half an hour. The cadet knew her/his role well and carried off the masquerade in style until there came a time when he/she said that certain work must be done, thus dismissing Juanita.

  “But I will see you again,” Juanita pledged. “We are of an age, and youth is for the young.” Francisco nodded in agreement. Certainly many things were for the young and a casual flirtation should do no harm.

  Despite distractions, García’s work with his troops went on. He had divided the men into groups of 60 and then those into a larger company. Practice with weapons was an almost daily event, while close order drill instilled discipline and camaraderie. They marched for at least two hours a day except for the Sabbath. He had even made up nonsense songs for them to sing while going through what otherwise might be a boring routine. A couple of the songs were:

  Don’t be sad and don’t be blue,

  We’ll be coming after you.

  Or:

  If I die in Barcelone,

  Box my ass and ship it home.

  Of course they were much different in Spanish.

  On the day after the wedding party García received a note via messenger requesting his presence in Juanita’s garden late that night. He replied by the same messenger that he had spent the previous night at a wedding party and was bushed and needed a night’s rest.

  Within the hour the messenger returned with a sizzler:

  “Dear Don Pedro, I am well aware of your activities last night, as is most of Madrid. Doña María Botella is a well-known man-eater and half of Madrid saw you escorting her from the wedding party. If you must cheat on me, I would counsel discretion. If I were a man I might challenge you to a duel. But I am a tender woman and I’ll forgive your sin. Get your rest and I will wait your presence at midnight tomorrow. With a fervent hope that you have not contracted the French disease from that bitch. Your Loving Juanita.”

  García read the message twice, then read it to Poncho before committing it to the flames. He poured himself a vessel of wine and a saucer full for Poncho. “We might as well both get trashed on this rotgut,” he remarked to the dog.

  The following morning a case of good wine arrived at his quarters with a note from Doña María: “Take a step up, but don’t drink it all. I’ll see you in a few days.”

  Jesus got things humming again after his brief honeymoon. García had missed the orderly, who almost served as second in command even though three lieutenants had joined the outfit. García guessed they were rejects from other units, the screw-up sons of minor officials, or merchants.

  Doña María was fascinated by García and needed a project. Simply being rich can often be boring. She was convinced that Spanish was not his first language. If he was a foreigner, there would be gaps in knowledge of language, culture, geography and so forth. Hers was a classic education, and she could easily trip him up. Very likely he was as advertised, a provincial of peasant stock.

  Their previous liaisons had been primarily of a carnal nature at out of the way places. But this time she sent a note inviting him to dinner and stated that her carriage would call for him at eight sharp. García was puzzled at the formality, but he was up for almost any game. Soon he would be off for La Florida, leaving all this behind. He spiffed up as best he could and boarded the coach at the appointed hour. The apartment was in a grand old house with an elaborate wrought-iron gate guarded by two men in police uniforms.

  The carriage passed through sculpted boxwoods, formal gardens and reflecting pools, snaking down a long lane to an excessively large house. It stopped at a side door from which a servant emerged, opened the carriage door and greeted García as a celebrity.

  Captain Don Pedro García, we are honored to have you visit this dwelling. Please follow me.”

  Up wide steps and through double doors, then through a high ceilinged hall hung with portraits and finally a closed door, the male servant rapped and a pretty maid answered. “Please step inside, Don Pedro.”

  Doña María was seated on a couch and did not rise. She motioned him to a chair opposite and signaled the maid to pour him sherry. She was already holding a glass. “It is early, Don Pedro. We will have a lovely chat before dinner.”

  “I look forward to the chat and dinner, Doña María. You might be the most fascinating person in Madrid.” García was truly interested in discussing Spain and matters Spanish, and here was a treasure trove. He was acquainted with the history and geography of the land backward and forward, but he did not know the small talk, what people were thinking and talking about at this critical time. The worries, fears, joys and expectations of the populace.

  “You flatter me, but I am a fool for such talk.” And they talked. The talk went east and the talk went west. It traveled north and south. Doña María used difficult words, words the average man on the street would not know. But she found that García was her master in language, history, geography and current events. She could trip him up on trivia, but he brushed that aside, saying he was a military man, leading a military life and often missed out on trivial events.

  Getting nowhere, she decided to try religion. “Do you think the church ever has, or ever will have, two popes?”

  “If you want my opinion, I’d say one pope is plenty. But you must know the successor to Gregory XI in 1377 was Urban VI.” García raised his hands indicating a problem. “There was something wrong about him, and another pope was chosen, this one Clement VII. So we had two popes. Urban in Rome, Clement in Avignon.”

  It was María’s turn to raise her hand. “Alright, I know the story. You needn’t go on.”

  García smiled. He knew he was being put to the test. “I thought we were launched on a philosophical religious discourse. Was I wrong? Let me ask you a question. There’s talk of a mighty invasion of England. What do you think will come of that?”

  “A Spanish victory of course.”

  “And for what purpose do we invade England?”

  “To root out the heretics. Restore the true church.”

>   “Possibly you are aware that ten years ago, the date was Nov. 5, 1576, Spanish Catholics massacred a large number of Protestants in Antwerp.”

  “I’ve heard of such a thing. A great victory for the church, so I was told.”

  “Yes, that’s the face put on it. I am a soldier. But a massacre of civilians, it just doesn’t sit well. I just wonder if the same might happen in London once we conquer those heretics?” García knew he was treading thin ice.

  “I should think not. The heretics will be given the chance to return to the faith. It’s only fair. But why talk of such things on such a night when we are both young and healthy. We can talk of many things. We can even discuss the Renaissance.”

  “Good. Truly great men like Bramante, Fra Angelico, Bottecelli, Raphael and Leonardo da Vinci. I love to delve into that era. Not that it’s ended. The artistic, cultural and scientific energy that was generated, an explosion of creative brain cells. Tell me your thoughts, Doña María.”

  “My thought is that you’re teasing me. You are the cat and I am the mouse. Your knowledge dazzles me. Please fill my wine glass.” She held it out and he carefully poured the good sherry. “Now I will lead you to my bedroom and you can dazzle me with something else.”

  “But you said talk, then dinner.”

  “We will eat dinner presently. The night is young and we are energetic. You know, I believe you have a certain type of memory.”

  García chuckled and sipped his wine as he walked. “You mean photographic.” As soon as the word was out of his mouth he almost choked on his wine.

  María stopped in her tracks and turned toward him. “What was that word?”

  Dumb, dumb, dumb, García though to himself. How many new words had crept into the language since the 1580s and wasn’t he aware not to use them. He was aware of being watched and he had almost frozen for an instant. María was nobody’s fool. “I think it means like a painting or a drawing. That you would look at it and then remember it in some detail.”

  “But I’ve never heard that word. I am educated, don’t you know?”

  “Of course you are. But I’ve lived on the coast. Travelers come and go on an almost daily basis. I think the word is from the Greek. There are many languages in the world.”

  “And the Greeks have a word for it. I’ve heard that one before. But I believe, Don Pedro, that you have a secret. And I also believe that I’ve tripped you up. You are smarter and more sophisticated than me. I underestimated you and thus started at a disadvantage. But now I’m wise and I’ve stumbled on your secret.”

  “You have? Tell me about it.” He drained his glass.

  “You’ve started to unravel. For some reason the word embarrassed you, and you, a man of the world. I’m going to find out what makes your wheels go round, Don Pedro. You might as well confess and save me the trouble.”

  “And destroy the mystery, thus destroy my appeal? No thanks. Please remain in the dark. Shall we continue?”

  There came a day not long before their departure that Don Tomás Hernando Pizzaro showed up at García’s office quarters with his daughter, the lovely Juanita, in tow. “This is a social visit, Don Pedro,” Pizzaro said. He was in high good humor, jovial, projecting the bon vivant spirit. “I thought you might show us around.”

  Juanita’s eyes had at once fallen upon Cadet Francisco, who occupied a small desk in the corner.

  “I would like nothing better, Don Tomás.” García grasped the older man’s hand and made a slight bow to Juanita. “I will escort you through the Presidio.”

  “Oh, military matters,” Juanita said sweetly. “They are the life of men, the talk of men. You two go on and I’ll find a comfortable chair in the office. I rose early and am a bit fatigued.”

  It was a surprise to García that Don Tomás had sailed with the Gold Fleet in his younger days. He had been a common seaman before the mast, but possessed an excellent understanding of military matters. The old man related a story that García was familiar with. That of English privateers, or pirates as the Spanish called them, capturing a Spanish ship and found it had a total cargo of what they believed to be animal dung. The English burned the ship, never to know that the cargo was cocoa, as valuable as silver or gold to the Spanish.

  Don Tomás assured García that he was pulling strings attempting to get him reassigned from La Florida to the mighty Armada. King Felipe himself was overseeing every detail of the Armada. He had high hopes that his name would resound through the halls of history as a great Catholic and an outstanding warrior king.

  García sensed that all was not right when they returned to his office after a thorough tour of the installation. Francisco was at his desk, but seemed pale. Juanita was petting Poncho who was perched upon García’s desk. Nothing seemed amiss, but still the feeling of unease.

  Pouring a measure of army wine for Don Tomás and himself, the two men drank and parted the best of friends. When they were gone García asked Francisco if he would care for wine.

  “Yes, please, Captain. It was terrible, what happened the moment you departed. That woman asked me to show her the living quarters. I took her to the bedroom and she attacked me!”

  “She attempted to injure you?” García asked in disbelief.

  “No! To make love! She grabbed me, pawed me. She said her father wishes her to marry you, but you are too old. She said she wanted a virile young buck like myself. Imagine me, a young buck.”

  “What else happened?”

  “I didn’t lose my head. I did as you told me. I kept my voice low, although I couldn’t have spoken if I had tried. Our lips were locked. She kissed me and I returned her kisses. Her tongue was in my mouth. Is this romance?”

  “I suppose it’s one type. I won’t ask if you enjoyed it.”

  “I was shaken to my boots and blurted out that you might return and ask for satisfaction, that I could be killed in a duel of honor. Me, no more than a teenage girl, in a duel of honor. The horror of it.”

  “She backed off then?”

  “Finally. She told me that she would send for me and that I should come to her garden late at night. There would be instructions. The two of us would be lost in a sea of blissful love. She pawed me over. I had trouble keeping her hands away from my crotch. But I carried it off. Thank God. What happens next?”

  García laughed. “Francisco, you make a handsome young man. You’ll break many a lady’s heart.”

  “But what am I to do, Captain? If I go to that garden I think her intentions are serious sex. Don’t you see the mess I’m in?”

  “Yes and I’ll help you out of it. You must write a note pledging your love to the beautiful Juanita.”

  “Tell her I love her? That’s not my first instinct. I fear her. Maybe I should say that.”

  “No. Add to the note that you are just recovering from a social disease you picked up at a whorehouse a week or two ago. But when you are totally recovered you will rush to her side and seek passion in the garden.”

  “I see what you mean. But what if I do recover?”

  “Very soon we leave for Portugal. Incidentally, did Poncho follow you into the bedroom?”

  “Yes, Captain, he did. He seemed to be watching us, taking in everything. Sometimes I think that dog will speak to me. He likes for me to cuddle him at night when you are gone.”

  Poncho sat in a corner listening to the conversation between his master and the attractive cadet. It was his thought that not even previous lives had been this conflicted. Soon they would all set off for Portugal and then out into the Atlantic on a great adventure. But even Poncho, with all his sagacity, could ever imagine that such a wild card would soon fall onto the table.

  The small dog had seen in Juanita a flash of wild passion, a fire that flared almost out of control when she clutched Francisco. If Francisco had been a willing partner with the proper equipment, Poncho had no doubt that the two would have mated right there on the bed.. Was this typical Spanish? Such instantaneous passion he could not remember during a
ny of his previous lives. If he could but write he would start a journal. If he could but talk. But he had eyes and he had a brain. And he had four good legs, perhaps short, but sturdy. And a tail to wag and a pair of fine ears. There seemed to be more questions during this life than answers.

  But the one nagging question was why? Why had he been blessed, if that was the word, with reincarnations and the ability to remember past lives? And in human form, both male and female (had he ever been gay? He couldn’t remember), was he able to remember past lives. He thought not. That memory was only thrust upon him in animal form, which might be thought of as maddening. Was there a grand plan behind his lives, was he a pawn of some master being? If there was a why or wherefore, would it ever be revealed to him? Sometimes he felt his soul was like a butterfly, fluttering from one being to the next.

  The Yorkie could read and understand several languages, including Persian and Chinese. He often fell back on his considerable knowledge of existentialism at times like these, the truth that there was no truth. It was plain that we lived in an irrational world and that philosophy fed our desire to make rational decisions. The dog knew well that the thirst for logic and immortality are futile. But it might be possible to define one’s own meaning, no matter how temporary.

  Perhaps this was hell. Forced to endure these lives. Lives no matter how fulfilled and rewarding generally came to tragic ends. Dying was not much fun. Dead people were crashing bores. Was he being punished for some heinous past crime? On reflection, he thought not. He was something of a canine philosopher and, on balance, enjoyment in every life far outweighed grief. He put these thoughts out of his head and scratched his ear with his left hind foot and his thoughts turned to mealtime and a saucer of wine.