The Spanish Exile (Islands of the Crown Book 1)

by Allen, Jewel

  The helpful nun paused by Raúl. “I will pray for you and your men.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” he said, smiling.

  Raúl and Mario took the rear and discussed the state of the fortress.

  “What an idiot Almeida’s governor is,” Mario grumbled. “Leaving these people here to fend for themselves. Governor Palhares is an ancient imbecile and has fired only those two cannons and a few shots. Otherwise, no one else has been manning their defense. Almeida has practically fallen, with small pockets of resistance.”

  “Probably best,” Raúl said. “Fewer casualties that way.”

  The refugees huddled together as they walked through their city, now reduced to rubble. They passed charred houses, smoke curling up over the debris, and gaping facades.The women cried and clutched at each other. They approached a white building whose doors were open. A flicker of hope lit the refugees’ eyes, like the lamplight that glowed inside.

  After the women got settled, Raúl walked out into the dark evening, lit up by fire and mortar explosions that shook the ground. Shots broke out nearby.

  Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a mortar shell landed just within a stone’s throw of where Raúl stood. He dove for cover as it exploded. When the smoke cleared, he tried to determine its source.

  He could tell, from its trajectory, where the shell came from: the artillery line. Raúl ran through the city and out the bastion, reaching the soldiers just as they were about to fire another cannon.

  “Who leads this unit?” Raúl asked.

  “I do,” Leandro replied.

  “Stop it,” Raúl said. “You nearly hit the hospital. We have refugees there.”

  Leandro frowned. “Someone was shooting from that direction.”

  As though Leandro was a half-wit, Raúl repeated, “There are women and children in that building.”

  Leandro’s expression hardened. “They’re just enemies. Dispensable. We want their full surrender. And I certainly won’t let someone use their women and children as a shield.”

  In one explosive moment, Raúl clutched Leandro’s lapel and yanked him forward. “There are women and children in that building,” he said, for the third time. “If you don’t call off this bombardment, I will,” he said through gritted teeth.

  A nerve twitched on Leandro’s face. Perspiration poured down his cheeks and his neck. A fever burned in his eyes, a fever of hatred for Raúl.

  “You?” Leandro sneered. “You have no authority.”

  Raúl clutched Leandro’s shirt tighter. “Call it off!”

  “Not until I have reduced this city to complete rubble.”

  Another cannon fired, this time from the far left. A deafening explosion rocked the hospital, leaving part of it in a pile. Silence cloaked the hospital for several heartbeats -- until the screams started. Flames licked the roof.

  “Good work, men,” Leandro crowed. “Now you may hold your fire.”

  Raúl snarled and hit Leandro on the jaw. He backed away, leaving Leandro splayed on the ground, looking stunned. Sprinting from the artillery line back into the fort, Raúl raced to the inferno.

  A long while later, Raúl staggered outside what remained of the hospital. His eyes burned from the smoke, from the fire, from lack of sleep. Definitely not from tears, though.

  The women and children were enemies. He assumed no responsibility for them. None whatsoever. War was ugly for everyone. Destruction, injury, even death, were a given.

  He collapsed to his knees as memories flooded his senses. Suddenly, scenes from the carnage of the past hour struck him like a blow.

  A wall of heat, engulfing him. Screams for help. Darkness. Women pulling at each other to get out. A woman who looked like Conchita begging for help, but it was just a Portuguese woman with long hair. The boy he had given the jerky to, stumbling and getting crushed in the melee. That boy’s face, looking up at him for help, before slumping in death. Beams falling and landing on the boy’s mother, who threw herself over her child.

  When it was all said and done, Raúl and Mario helped save maybe a fourth of the trapped women. Eventually, the black smoke chased him out.

  Earlier, when he helped rush the bastion, he raised his musket and shot a soldier. The soldier’s eyes widened with surprise before he slumped face down.

  I killed him, Raúl thought. It was either that soldier’s life or mine. I won that lottery.

  All those memories played out. Spying a horse trough, Raúl staggered to it and leaned over. He looked at his reflection in the foul-smelling water, lit by a smoky moon. He dunked his head in. Once, twice, until his breath came in ragged snatches and his body convulsed in sobs.

  Against the slimy trough, he slid awkwardly to the ground, a sharp edge of the metal snagging at his sleeve and tearing it, cutting at his flesh. He would take that as his penance.

  Yes, penance.

  A hysterical laugh escaped his lips. He punched the side of the trough, taking perverse pleasure at the pain that radiated from his knuckles to his injured arm.

  A footfall scraped the ground. He turned and stared into Mario’s eyes, sunken with dark circles. Mario fell to his knees and just sat there, mute. His glance flickered towards the horizon. Raúl followed his gaze.

  As the full moon continued to rise in the hazy sky, so did the French and Spanish flags over the vanquished fortress of Almeida.

  39

  Two months later, October 1762, outskirts of Lisbon, Portugal

  Raúl dreamed of a feast.

  He sat around a massive dining table, a large leg of ham sitting in the middle of a colorful supper. Purple grapes, glistening with dew; pomegranates cut in half, their juice dripping red on the tablecloth; chestnuts spilling out of a bowl; potatoes roasted in olive oil.

  In his dream, he leaned over to grab a handful of grapes. Laughter filled the room. Conchita stood by the table, smiling. She lifted the grapes just barely out of his reach. He caught a whiff of that maddening scent of roses. Forget the grapes. He wanted Conchita and reached for her.

  She wavered in his vision, like a phantom object. The grapes shimmered and disappeared, too.

  Raúl opened his eyes. The dream was gone. He was back in this bitter reality, a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

  Two months from the victory of Almeida, and the Spanish-French offensive took a seriously wrong turn. Even as they continued to march into Portugal, they hadn’t captured another city, and their only hope now was to occupy the Portuguese capital of Lisbon. The Spaniards had to do it by themselves. The French, stricken by disease, left camp, even that loudmouth Montmarte and his friends.

  The sky hung heavy with smoke, the handiwork of the accursed Portuguese. Before abandoning their cities, they razed them to the ground, leaving nothing but smoke, ashes, and destruction in their wake. Remnants of houses stood, charred and gaping open to the elements. Today, trees still smoldered, the remaining black silhouettes standing like a rag-tag army.

  Like this Spanish rag-tag battalion lacking sorely in provisions.

  How Raúl wanted to just leave the Portuguese their land. They could have it, for all he cared. It had nothing to offer anyone. The stench of death and sickness cloaked the air. Soldiers lay slumped everywhere, no longer watching the sky for a miracle. Many of them would be dead before the next camp move. Every day, their battalion left more and more of them by the wayside. With Father Zamora’s leadership, a few expended the energy to give the dead the dignity of a burial. The horses lay on their sides, weakened by sustained hunger from lack of fodder. Their bones protruded and flies swarmed their shrunken bodies.

  Bitter, unshed tears crowded Raúl’s throat.

  Rain clouds smothered the skies. A cool wind blew. More rain today. More mud. His clothes were still soaked from yesterday’s wretched march. With the cooler autumn weather, he couldn’t stay warm. His bones felt chilled through.

  A bugle sounded. Was it really time to get camp going again? He just wanted to lay there.

  Please, no m
ore moving. No more surviving. Somebody just send some food and water.

  He reached for his canteen, unscrewed the lid and tipped the opening to his lips. Nothing. No more water from the little bit of a spring they stumbled upon yesterday. He stared at his canteen and flung it to the scorched earth, where it bounced before landing next to Mario, who lay on the ground.

  Mario opened his eyes partway. “You missed.” Sores covered and cracks bloodied his lips. Anyone that knew him two months before wouldn’t be able to recognize him. His face was thin and gaunt, and his collarbones jutted out of his partially unbuttoned shirt. His body raged with a fever, like many of their fellow soldiers.

  “I can try again, if you want,” Raúl offered.

  “How about if you bring me food, instead?”

  “All right.” Raúl played along. “What would you like?”

  Mario stared at the sky. “Soup like my mother made. With potato balls and shrimp. Garlic, of course.”

  Raúl imagined Señora Benavente at the stove, stirring the soup and slapping away Mario’s hand as he tried to steal a bite. “Your mother used a lot of onions.”

  “Don’t I know?” Mario chuckled. “I had to chop them all.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You cried, like a girl.”

  “Conchita gave me a hard time about it,” Raúl said, wistfully.

  Both fell silent.

  “What are you thinking of?” Mario asked.

  Raúl was thinking of Conchita, but he said, “My mother.”

  “Well, then, let’s make sure you get back to her alive.” A coughing fit racked Mario’s body.

  “You all right?” Raúl asked.

  Mario nodded and coughed some more. “Listen,” he rasped. “I’ve been thinking. You need to leave me here today.”

  Raúl stared. “What?”

  “I’m too weak to go on.” Mario closed his eyes. “Too tired.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “This way, you won’t have to split your food with me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Raúl stood up. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “No. Listen to me. You are being ridiculous. You can make it out of here easier without me.”

  “We’re going out together, and that’s the end of it.” When Mario demurred once again, Raúl got up and pretended to not hear him.

  Raúl walked away so Mario couldn't talk any more nonsense. The army was on the move. Hobbling, staggering, crawling. But it was on the move.

  Father Zamora, bless the man, tended the sick. One doctor succumbed to illness and had to be left behind. Another doctor did his best under the circumstances. It was a terrible thought, but Raúl guessed that soon, the number of movable patients would drop off.

  Leandro strode around camp. He looked healthier than most, rumored to have access to choice portions of the food the regiment had transported. He paused in front of Raúl, then pointed at him. “Report to the count.”

  As Raúl followed Leandro into a tent, he saw Father Zamora giving someone his last rites.

  Raúl joined other men crowded around the count, who sat in a chair with rolled-up shirtsleeves.

  “The British enemy Count Lippe awaits us in the mountain passes to Lisbon,” Count Saldana said. “If we go there, it would be a slaughter. We must turn back. Before the winter comes.”

  Raúl leaned forward. “How close are we to Lisbon, Count?”

  “A day’s march.”

  That close! Raúl gaped in astonishment. “Then, why not go there?”

  Leandro eyed him. “Would you like me to give this Corporal a dose of reality, Count?”

  Count Saldana frowned. “No need to get combative, Lieutenant.”

  Leandro took a deep breath and told Raúl, “We may be close, but we have mountains in our way. We stand no chance of making it past Lippe’s force. They’ve already shown they will do whatever it takes to attack us, even if it means guerilla warfare.”

  “I can lead a force, Count,” Raúl offered. “We’ve been able to penetrate enemy lines --”

  Leandro laughed. “Do you think this is some chicken raid? The enemy has burned everything. Everything! We have sent a scout and there is nothing between here and Lisbon.”

  Raúl’s eyes narrowed. “When did you send a scout?”

  Leandro stared. “What?”

  “When did you send a scout? I didn't see anyone head that direction.”

  “Are you saying I’m lying?”

  Raúl turned to the count. “If Lieutenant Aguilar hasn’t sent a scout yet, we should. We need to give it one more chance.”

  The count looked from one to the other. “I admire your passion, Corporal Calderón, but Lieutenant Aguilar makes a good point. Unfortunately, we have no choice but to turn around, scout or no scout.”

  Raúl’s heart sank. The thought of marching back in defeat through a wasteland depressed him. At least going to Lisbon, they were working towards something.

  “You once said, Count, to fight with honor,” Raúl said. “Why should we turn tail now? You know that will spell death for many of our men. Lisbon will have food, at least.”

  The expression on the Count’s face changed, hardened. “Young man, there is no honor in walking right into a slaughter. This way, at least we have a chance of shoring up our troops in our own land.” He looked away. “This discussion is over. We’re marching back to Spain.” To Leandro, he said, “Let the men know, Lieutenant.”

  Raúl stared at the Count, then turned at his heel just as Leandro replied, with relish,“Gladly, Count.”

  Outside, Leandro announced, “We march in an hour. If anyone cannot move on their own strength, leave them.”

  Raúl paused in his step, but didn’t look back.

  40

  “Get ready to move,” Raúl told Mario.

  Mario blinked. “But someone said all the sick should stay.”

  Raúl frowned. “I don't care what the king of Spain says, I am taking you home with me. You think I could face Conchita if I left you out on the field?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Raúl. You will get booted out of the army.”

  “So be it.” Raúl rubbed his unkempt beard. “At least I won’t turn my back on my friend and subordinates like a coward.”

  Father Zamora came over. His balding head was leathery brown, his shoulders stooped, but his eyes held that same caring expression Raúl had always admired in him.

  “Is it true, Raúl? We’re retreating and leaving our men behind?” The priest’s arm gestured towards the field of prostrate men.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Father Zamora shielded his eyes from the sun. “I must stay then.”

  “No, Father.” Raúl touched his shoulder, which jutted out sharp and bony. “That’s not necessary.”

  The priest covered his mouth with a trembling hand. “At least I know that I have tended to His flock until the last.”

  “We have no medicine anyway.”

  “I am not talking about only the physical.”

  “Isn’t that all that matters?” Raúl burst with pent-up frustration. “Your God cannot make these men whole just as I cannot undo this pathetic war!”

  A sad expression came over Father Zamora’s eyes.

  Guilt gnawed at Raúl. “I’m sorry for my outburst, Father.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “But these times, it’s hard to believe in anything anymore.”

  Father Zamora placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “All the more we need it.”

  “We still need you, Father,” Raúl said in a conciliatory tone. “Listen. We’ll help as many of the men out of here as we can.”

  “But Lieutenant Aguilar said --”

  “I know what he said.” Raúl lowered his voice. “I am disobeying orders.”

  “How will you do it?”

  “We’ll have to rig up some sort of a conveyance.”

  A few minutes later, Raúl came back with two charred posts. “From a barn,” he said, throwing
them down to the ground.

  “What can you build in time?” Mario asked.

  “You’re right.” Raúl raked his fingers through his hair. “There’s no time to do anything. Except eat.”

  Mario blinked. “You are delusional.”

  Raúl took a burnt chicken out of his coat. “Nice of the enemy to burn their still-full chicken coop, don’t you think?”

  Grinning, Mario accepted a piece. He sniffed it first before popping it into his mouth, his expression ecstatic. When he opened his eyes, he froze. “Raúl, everyone is staring.” A crowd of dirty-faced, haggard soldiers advanced towards them, like the dead coming to life.

  “There’s more where that came from.” Raúl pointed north. The soldiers hesitated, then staggered that direction.

  The first bite of roasted chicken was so delicious, Raúl almost cried.

  Fed at least for another day or two, some of the sick felt good enough to hobble with the army.

  Father Zamora gazed at the stragglers forming the rear. “I guess since many can still come with us, I will stick around.”

  Raúl was glad. Having Father Zamora around felt like divine insurance.

  During the day, the army made its way back on the roads they’d come from. A wasteland met them. The dull sky mirrored the pallor of death, vultures circling overhead – for the battle dead and their retreating army’s casualties. Raúl’s fist clenched with anger when he thought of all the senseless destruction rendered to the towns, all the fields destroyed by the Portuguese just to keep them from the Spaniards. He kicked at the ash-covered earth, watching the soot blow in the wind.

  At night, he and a few other of the healthier men left camp to raid and hunt for food and water. The effort yielded little, but enough to keep them going. They found tubers left in the ground and a little spring.

  A week passed, and the army at least could still sustain themselves. Once, Raúl returned with a sheep that he’d found trapped under a fallen log. Someone else brought back a crate.

  “Rum, my friends,” the soldier said. With that, the men passed the bottles around. Raúl was about to put a bottle to his lips when he thought to ask, “Wait, where’d you find this?”