“Tea?” Linda offered.
“That would be lovely, thank you.” A nice hot cup was just what Albert needed.
Ten minutes later, Linda had set the table for a ‘smoko,’ a traditional Falkland serving of tea and toast usually reserved for mid-morning. She had even boiled a fresh egg for the weary Prince.
“Hope you don’t mind sheep’s milk,” she said as she poured it into his cup.
“Not at all,” he said, and thanked her.
Linda offered Albert a slice of thick grain bread and set out an assortment of preserves and honey. “All from the garden,” she added with a smile. There was a long quiet moment as both Albert and Linda sipped from their cups. “Annie,” Linda belted, jarring Albert from his tranquility. The delivery of the child’s name was enough to chase the little girl from where she had been peering between the banister rails and back to bed.
They detected heavy breathing from the living room. Henry was sound asleep again in his favorite chair. Its worn fabric and overstuffed pillows embraced his skinny body. Albert smiled and had another sip. He found the tea quite aromatic, dark, and hot, and it washed down the chewy bread nicely. “The butter is so sweet, is it not?” Linda queried. Albert hummed contentedly in answer. “Our only cow spends all day chewing grass and eating my flowers.”
“It’s delicious,” Albert declared. He had not tasted anything this good in some time. “The honey…it tastes of rapsflower blossom.”
“It’s pale maiden, actually. The bees love them,” Linda added thankfully with a smile. “When you’re done, I’ll find you some clothes. My Dad made up a bed for you, as well.” She saw worry spread over Albert’s face and read his thoughts. “Will they come after us?”
“Yes,” Albert spoke bluntly. “I should not linger.”
“We can care for ourselves,” she looked to the rifle propped beside the door, and then to the shotgun at her father’s feet. His gasping snore made them both laugh.
“I need to make my way back to base; back to Mount Pleasant.”
“I know a few fellows that may be able to help.”
“Your husband? Anne’s father?” Albert took advantage of the opening to find out more about his savior and host.
Linda did not answer. She just shook her head. Albert understood that her husband, whoever he was, was gone. From her expression, Albert also surmised the man had passed away.
“I’m sorry,” Albert offered uncomfortably, and took another bite of jam-smeared toast as he stirred his tea. She removed the tea cozy she had knitted, tipped the pot, and filled his cup again. When Albert sat back and rubbed his belly, Linda pointed the way upstairs.
In order to avoid waking Annie or her father, Albert and Linda were both careful to tread lightly when they climbed the creaky stairs. Linda guided the way to her bedroom. There was mostly silence as she went through the drawers of her husband’s dresser. She held articles of clothing up to Albert to judge their size against his body. Albert could see sadness and loneliness in the emeralds of her moist eyes. As she held a wool sweater over his torso, their gaze met and held. Albert wanted to kiss her, and suspected she would welcome it.
“This looks like it should do,” she turned away with a blush. “You are a little taller-” Linda sighed instead of finishing her sentence. “Well, then. Off to bed with you.” She pointed to the room just down the hall.
Albert peeled the smelly flight suit from his sticky skin, and crawled between the cool, soft, clean sheets. He stashed his Glock beneath the deep, fluffy pillow, lay his head down, and fell deep asleep.
Albert awakened to serene morning light streaming through lace curtains. However, a worrisome pounding at the cottage door jarred him. He bolted from bed and down the stairs.
7: ARAPUCHA
“Guerrilla war is a kind of war waged by the few but dependent on the support of many.”
“Quickly; in here,” Henry said, as he gestured toward an opening in the floor. The thunderous rapping at the door became even more insistent and was accompanied by yelled Spanish.
“No. Where is your shotgun?” Albert countered as the Glock in his hand would not suffice against an enemy breech team.
“Don’t be daft. Leave this to me. We need you to stay alive and out of enemy hands. Now, do as I say,” Henry left little room for argument.
Albert began to climb down into the hide. He paused on the rickety ladder.
“Where’s Annie and Linda?”
“Tending the herd,” Henry answered and pushed down on the top of Albert’s head. The hatch closed and he was swallowed by the pitch black of the old root cellar. Albert heard the carpet being dragged back over the hatch. He shivered.
The cottage door splintered. The soldier with the battering ram stepped aside to allow his armed comrades to enter in a practiced fluid motion. Once inside, they formed a semi-circle around the immovable Henry. Each soldier — Argentinian flags on their shoulders — pointed their assault rifles at his chest. Vargas strolled in, pistol in hand. Henry saw something unsettling in the cold stare of Vargas’s dark brown eyes. This one would kill without hesitation, Henry knew, and he swallowed hard.
In the black of the root cellar, the sounds of creaking boards and stomping boots echoed, and dust from the creaking floorboards overhead rained down upon him. Muffled voices, and then a stubborn shout from Henry: “God save the King.” As the last syllable of the old man’s battle cry was enunciated, Albert heard a single pistol shot, followed by the thud of Henry’s body as it collapsed to the floor. Albert was filled with equal parts fear and rage. He heard footsteps climb the staircase to the second floor of the cottage. When the sounds retreated, and Albert heard an engine turning over outside, he got up on the ladder and pressed his shoulder against the hide’s hatch door. With some effort, he raised it enough to roll Henry off, and peeked through.
Albert felt like a rat leaving a nest. He had hid while an old man stood his ground. As he scampered out, Albert resolved to never again accept sacrifice in the name of his position. He looked to Henry. Blood streamed from his mouth and nose, and there was a single red hole torn in his chest. While barely alive, he locked eyes with Albert, and, with a painful last breath, muttered, “Annie. Linda. Tell them I-” Albert closed the man’s eyelids and finished the sentence on his behalf:
“Love them. I will tell them, sir.”
Albert decided he would find Annie and Linda before the Argentinians did. With his rucksack, Henry’s shotgun slung over his shoulder, the Glock in its holster, and Linda’s .303 in hand, Albert ran from the cottage to the barn. He tried not to slip in the mud and manure as he made his way, and he then spotted the sheep trail that snaked up to the pastures beyond a rocky crag. He hiked that way.
Albert saw the herd wandering aimlessly in the pasture as Eight-ball the dog lay dead upon a grassy gnoll. Annie and Linda were not to be seen, though two muddy ruts told Albert that a truck had been there.
Someone yelled from behind him, and Albert turned towards the cluster of rocks. Several men stood with rifles pointed his way.
“Lay down your weapons,” the man with a grey beard, tweed jacket, and cockeyed hunting cap commanded in English. Though the accent was like nothing Albert had heard before, it was certainly British English. Albert lowered his rifle.