The King's Armada

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  And now preparations were final, and La Anunciada was ready for sea. García’s men were camped nearby ready to embark. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait until the entire Armada was ready to weigh anchor. King Felipe, a great detail man, fussed over every loose end.

  The day soon came when the Inquisitor returned, bag in hand, a scribe trailing behind. “We are ready to travel,” he said. “I assume we will have a coach.”

  “Much better than that, Father Juarez, a small, swift vessel that carries messages and supplies to our brave troopers at San Augustin.”

  Juarez paled. “That’s in La Florida, far across the sea.”

  “Yes. Lieutenant Hidalgo commands the troops there. You know the small wooden fort and settlement have been burned a time or two by the piratical English heretics. We will soon wipe them out when the Armada sails, and there is talk of building a large fortress of stone and masonry. You may be in on the start of this bold adventure.”

  Juarez took a seat. His pallor had turned to pale green. “There are insects and wild animals, venomous serpents and savage natives in La Florida. The heat has been compared to that of hell.”

  “But the Church is there, Father. There are priests.”

  “I know. Failed priests would be a better word. I think I should consult my Prior.”

  “There’s little time. The packet boat sails with the tide. The captain expects you on board. He is buoyed up by your coming. You will say mass for his hardy crew. And your example will be spread across the Atlantic.”

  “My bones may be spread across the Atlantic. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “You didn’t ask and it didn’t seem important. Your Prior has told you to seek out the heretic, wherever.”

  “That’s true.” He glanced at his scribe who was cringing in the corner. “One thing is certain. We are assured passage through Heaven’s gate. We go.” García summoned an orderly and instructed him to see the Inquisitor and his scribe aboard the vessel. He bade him have a pleasant voyage and they parted.

  Later that day, as García strolled with Poncho in his arms, he came across Jesus decked out in civilian attire. “Where have you been, sergeant?”

  “Personal business. Getting my affairs in order, preparing for the fight with the English.”

  García guessed he had been squirreling away the gold and silver coins he and Doria had piled up during the Azores voyages. But where? How would he safeguard it? Anyway, it was a fine day and a glass of wine or brandy would go down well. “Why not join me for a drink? There is a tavern up ahead. By the way, an Inquisitor visited me today. He would have words with Lieutenant Hidalgo.”

  “But, my captain, Lieutenant Hidalgo is across the wild sea, and what would trouble an Inquisitor about that simple man?”

  “Know your place, Jesus.” García spoke sternly. “Hidalgo is an officer of the King.”

  “I regret my impertinence, my Captain. But still, La Florida is far off and the inquisition would hardly intrude on our military duties.”

  “But there has been something. A word, an enemy, who knows what? But this inquisitor, a certain Father Jose Juarez, has boarded the fast packet and is now at sea in his quest for religious justice.”

  Jesus actually laughed. “But, my Captain, if this Inquisitor happens to be lucky enough, or have the misfortune, to reach La Florida coast, and begins to question Lieutenant Hidalgo, we must remember that the lieutenant is the commander of the troops in that dismal place.”

  “I’m aware of that, Jesus.”

  “Then you must know that an Inquisitor, or anyone else, including a simple scribe, might be lost forever in the Florida swamps, devoured by prowling beasts. They say there are large cats that scream like women from the dark night thickets.”

  “That seems so, Sergeant. One wonders why someone like Father Jose Juarez would undertake such a journey.”

  “Save for the glory of the true church,” Jesus responded. “This padre, this Juarez, he is a dead man, a foolish dead man.”

  So the two men fell into step and continued their approach to the tavern, and as they drew near Poncho became exited and even emitted a slight yelp. “That dog,” Jesus said, “that dog would like to speak.”

  That was true. Poncho was looking at the tavern sign, the Trident and the Lobster, but there were no words, simply a trident and a lobster pictured on a large hanging board sign. It struck Poncho like a lightning bolt, a past life during this very era. He had been a bartender at this very bar. Could it be that he was about to meet himself? Was that possible?

  In the bar the two men ordered port and called for a small saucer for Poncho, who at that point needed a drink. He looked at the bar and appeared agitated. Was he about to appear? He had started as a young man here and with his usual luck had been run through by a nobleman before his thirtieth birthday. He recalled it was fairly painless.

  “Poncho wishes to tell us something,” Jesus said. “I can almost read his mind.”

  García remembered that Jesus had some sort of inordinate gift. “Do so then and we will not need conversation.”

  Jesus turned the dog to face him and looked into those dark marble eyes. “I will question you. Yes is one bark. No is two barks. Now, first question: Is there something you want to tell us?”

  One bark.

  “Is it about a crime or a criminal?”

  Two barks.

  A man at a nearby table grumbled, “Shut that damn mutt up or I’ll do it with my knife.”

  “It is annoying,” García agreed. “No more barking, Poncho.” He was amazed that the dog seemed to be responding, and in Spanish. Very likely he knows Portuguese too.

  Jesus again took over. “We use eye blinks. One for yes, two for no. OK?”

  One blink.

  “You want to tell us something about this tavern?”

  One blink.

  “You have been here before?”

  One blink.

  “My Captain, you brought Poncho here before?”

  “No. Never. This is the first time down this street.”

  Jesus shrugged. “Maybe one of the cadets. You were here recently?”

  Two blinks.

  “Long ago?”

  One blink.

  “Puzzling,” García said. “The dog must not be telling the truth, or doesn’t understand perfectly.”

  Two blinks.

  “I think he does understand. I think Poncho knows quite a lot. Was it a previous life?”

  One blink.

  My God, García thought to himself. We are from the Twenty-first Century. Surely this tavern’s life is limited. How to handle this? Then he decided to ask the questions. “Let me be the interrogator, Jesus. I know this dog well.” Turning to Poncho, he asked, “Was the tavern much like this when you were here before?”

  One blink.

  “You were a frequent patron?”

  Two blinks.

  “You seldom came here?”

  Two blinks.

  García turned to Jesus. “An obvious contradiction.”

  “Not so.” He asked, “You were an employee?”

  One blink.

  “Bartender?”

  One blink.

  García once again took over. “Do you recognize anyone here other than the two of us?”

  One blink.

  They had been served by a young lady, probably not yet of age. An old man sat on a chair toward the rear of the room, very likely a swamper and dish washer. An older woman was behind the bar. Three patrons were at the bar and a few others scattered at tables in the large, cavernous room.

  “The old man back there?”

  Poncho looked around, then blinked twice.

  “The woman behind the bar?”

  One blink.

  “She was young then,” Jesus guessed.

  One blink.

  “Where did you go from here?” García asked, then realized it could not be answered with a yes, or no.”

  But the dog
blinked twice.

  “That’s a no,” Jesus said. “It might mean he went nowhere. Did you die here?”

  One blink.

  “Were you killed?”

  One blink.

  “A bad barroom fight?”

  Two blinks.

  “An assassin?”

  Two blinks.

  “Sword?” Jesus asked.

  One blink.

  Jesus looked at García. “Probably a local noble ran him through over the women. Not uncommon.”

  One blink.

  “Let’s move to the bar,” García said. “How’s your Portuguese?”

  “She’ll understand Spanish,” the sergeant replied.

  At the bar, García asked the woman for another round of drinks and offered to buy her one. She accepted. “What’s your name?” he asked, as she poured the wine. He placed a gold coin on the bar and told her to keep the change. Her face lit up as she pocketed the gold.

  “Pilar.”

  García placed Poncho on the bar and Pilar eyed him with suspicion. “I don’t know if people want a dog on the bar. It is a dog, isn’t it?”

  García said yes and told her its name. “It’s a special dog. Do you believe in reincarnation?”

  “I don’t know. You mean dying and returning to life as someone else?”

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  “I don’t think the church would welcome such an idea. We usually try to avoid religion in the Lobster and Trident. The weather’s always a good topic.”

  “Tell me, Pilar. And I’m not with the church, I’m a simple soldier waiting to invade England and crush the heretics. Have you worked here for many years?”

  “Years. Since I was no older than that bar maid who served you, still in my teens. This,” she looked around and made a motion of despair, “this place, this swamp, has eaten up my life.” She downed her wine and García placed another gold coin on the bar.

  “During that time have there been fights, men killed in the heat of anger?”

  “Men and women,” Pilar replied, refreshing their drinks. Poncho was staring at her intently.

  “How about men run through with swords, a gentleman’s weapon?”

  Pilar sighed and frowned. “Sadly, twice.”

  “Did you know the victims?”

  “Yes, it’s an odd thing, don’t you know. Both of them worked the bar here and both of them were named Jose and both of them had the nickname Pepe, which is quite common.”

  “To have the nickname Pepe.”

  “Of course. You know why.”

  “Of course.” Paintings of Joseph, or Jose, head of the Holy Family, which hang in most Spanish and Portuguese churches, always have “PP” on the canvas.

  Pilar continued. “In both cases the swordsmen, young noble riff raff I’d call them, made advances to me in a crude way and the two Pepes came to my defense, only to be killed.”

  “The swordsmen were arrested?”

  “Of course not. They were of noble blood. I’m happy to say the other patrons beat the shit out of them before the police arrived. Hardly sufficient punishment.”

  “Did you care for these two Pepes?”

  “You mean in a romantic way? One I hardly knew, the other, yes, we were involved. He was wonderful and our future stretched out before us. Life’s a stormy sea.”

  “Did he have a last name?”

  “Yes and no. He was called Jose La Mancha, but La Mancha is a place. You know it’s not unusual for people to take the names of places or things. A man was in here early today and said a rich woman from Madrid is in town who is named after a bottle. I think she’s a wine heiress.”

  García nodded. Word gets around. He turned to Poncho and whispered, “Were you Jose La Mancha?”

  One blink.

  “Pilar, this may surprise you. In fact astound you, but Jose La Mancha has returned in the body of this small dog.”

  She looked at the dog and smiled. “No more drinks, gentlemen. When did the two of you start drinking, or the three of you? I saw the dog lapping out of a saucer at the table.”

  “I’m serious. And I can prove it.”

  “And I can prove the world is flat and that I am the Queen of Africa. I suppose this is leading up to your selling me this mangy mutt?”

  Jesus piped in. “The dog is clean and we can communicate with it. It can answer yes and no. Yes is one blink. No two blinks. Try it.”

  “I will.” She turned to the dog, then thought for a long minute. “Poncho, or Jose darling, did we serve baked lamb when you worked here?”

  Two blinks.

  “OK, you’re right on that one. But here’s another. Was the bar owners name Carlos?”

  One blink.

  “Right again.” She gave García and Jesus a look.

  “Why don’t you ask him multiple choice questions,” García suggested.

  “What would that be?”

  “Like your favorite color. Then say blue, green or red. Him blinking for each color. Something like that.”

  “OK. My favorite color, darling Jose.” She asked blue, green or red in turn and got a negative answer each time. “He is amazing. My favorite color is black.” Poncho wagged his tail frantically.

  “Now to get serious. I have a fair-sized birthmark. Is it on my back?”

  Two winks.

  “My butt?”

  Two winks.

  “My breast”

  One wink.

  She shook her head in wonder. “Left?”

  Two winks.

  “Right?”

  One wink.

  “Pepe, my dearest. It is you. She seized Poncho off the bar and dashed into the back room, shouting, “You have come back to your Pilar. Now we will never part.”

  She said other things, but they could not understand her in the depths of the rambling building. “We may have carried this experiment too far,” García said. “Jesus, could you try to retrieve Poncho?”

  “Yes, my Captain.” Jesus was gone ten minutes and returned empty-handed. “She has taken the dog somewhere. I know not where. It’s a rabbit warren back there. It might be best to let her have it. The two of them, they are lovers.”

  “Lovers, my ass,” García shot back. “That’s my dog. My constant companion. Also, it knows stuff. Stuff that I don’t know. It can help us when we go to England.”

  “It can?” Jesus asked, puzzled.

  “Yes. Poncho and I read together. I just realized it. The dog’s memory might be better than mine. There’s something I’ve been trying to remember that the dog might know.”

  “But, my captain, Pilar is gone with the dog. Tomorrow she should be back here. Then we will talk with her about the dog. It will come to no harm overnight.”

  García finished his wine and picked up the second gold piece that was still on the bar. “I don’t like this, but we’ll let it slide until tomorrow.”