Free Viva Jacquelina! by L. A. Meyer Page B

happen to meet. Please write to Ezra and explain the situation. I have told you of my arrangements for Lord Allen. Please do what you can for him. Go now, John. Godspeed.”
    I push him out the door, sniff back a tear, and hand myself over to Comandante Montoya.
    â€œI am ready, Señor.”
    â€œGood. Will you require a coach? A carriage?”
    â€œNo,
mi patrón.
Just a good horse and a regular saddle.”
    â€œ
Bueno.
We shall be off, then.”
    Indeed we are, and as for what Fate has in store for me, I cannot imagine.

Chapter 9
    The light from the campfire flickers on the faces of those of us gathered about. I sit on the ground with my legs pulled up against my chest, my arms around my legs, chin on my knees. We have just eaten a very acceptable mutton stew out of tin containers, washed down with copious quantities of
tinto
—the local red wine—drunk from wineskins held high over open mouths. The moon is high in the sky, sentries are posted, and the gentle strumming of a
guitarra
is heard in the warmth of the Iberian night. It had been decided, mainly by Montoya, that we should travel to Madrid in a small group of his most trusted men, so as not to attract unwarranted attention.
    â€œThere are not only bandits out there, Señorita, but also bands of deserters from the French army, who can be even more dangerous than your common outlaw. It is best that we travel light.”
    And so we did travel.
    Montoya is stretched out beside the fire, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood and regaling me with tales of Madrid.
    â€œThe beautiful River Tagus runs through the city. Here is a verse from a song that sings of her, little one.” He lifts his voice, a voice that is surprisingly soft for such a rough man.
    Â 
Yes, my hair is turning white,

but the Tagus is always young,

She flows through Madrid as the very blood of life,

Till the end of all time.
    Â 
    â€œYou have something of the poet in you, Comandante,” I say. “May I ask what is your first name?”
    â€œIf I can have yours,
guapa,
then thou shall have mine.”
    â€œI was born with the name Mary.”
    â€œAh, Maria . . . How beautiful . . .”
    â€œBut now I go by Jacky.”
    â€œI shall call you Maria. It is a name that sits more easily on my tongue,” he says, sidling up a little closer to me. “And please, sweet Maria, you must call me Pablo.”
    Hmmm . 
.
 . It seems it is time for a little diversion here.
    â€œPablo, would you like for me to sing you a song?” I ask.
    â€œBy all means, Maria. It would give me great pleasure.”
    â€œThen, if I could borrow a guitar?”
    â€œJoachim! Be so good as to lend
nuestra chiquita bonita su guitarra.
”
    The instrument is passed to me by the young man I recognize as the very one who had picked me up when I had fallen on the battlefield at Viermo and taken my limp self to hospital. As he hands it to my waiting hands, he smiles and his gaze says to me,
Yes, beautiful English girl, Pablo Montoya is our esteemed leader, the strongest and bravest of us, but I think, pretty one, you would have much more fun with one such as me.
I nestle the guitar into my lap and return the gaze, silently agreeing with him.
    â€œI learned this song in Havana. I hope you will like it.”
And I hope you will like it, too, Joachim.
With hooded eyes and a glance to the young man, I strum the first chord and begin:
    Â 
Tú sólo tú

Has llenado de luto mi vida

Abriendo una herida

En mi corazón.
    Â 
    â€œMost beautiful, Maria, perhaps another, to warm a poor man’s soul?” Montoya reaches out to pull my mantilla a little bit from my face. “Pardon,
muchacha,
it is only so I can gaze upon your fair countenance in the firelight.”
    I launch into another of the few Spanish songs I know.
What’s going to happen when I run out of them?
    Â 
Malagueña salerosa

Besar tus labios