After closing his father’s eyes, he forced himself to continue, as if in a nightmare, to where the carriage had rolled to a stop. They must have overpowered the driver, Jack thought. Voices rose from not far away.
Jack arrived at the trees the driver had evidently been heading for, and struggled to a concealed position, where he commanded a full view of what was transpiring.
The sergeant and soldiers were gathered about his mother, clearly visible only fifty feet before him. Slumped over the driver’s seat next to where she stood was the body of the old man. “You bastards from hell,” Jack murmured. “God give me the strength to kill you all.”
The sergeant was apparently bickering with his men. They were talking about how they might take their pleasure with her before snuffing her life like she was a piece of meat.
My mother, you pigs! The woman who pulled me to her warmth a thousand times when I was hurt or frightened. You are talking about my mother.
A soldier grabbed Pilar by the hair and pulled her in the direction of Jack.
She was almost unconscious. The shock of seeing her husband killed and the sure knowledge that the same had happened to her son must have devastated her. The soldier released her from his grip just yards from where Jack was concealed. She sank to her knees, staring vacantly ahead, murmuring what Jack knew were prayers.
Though semidelirious, Jack had the presence of mind not to move. Even covered with mud and leaves in the bushes, he could still be spotted if someone looked his way. His eyes flitted about him in search of a rock, a stick, anything to use as a weapon.
The guardia were in disagreement over what to do with her. Some of them begged the sergeant to have some time with her “over the barrel.” They had already pulled the water cask off the carriage for that purpose, but the sergeant forbade them. “I have my orders and they don’t include that,” he snapped to one of the men who had started to tear off her bodice.
Jack was powerless. He prayed for strength but God seemed to favor him no more than had the guardia civil. The group quieted as another carriage suddenly appeared from the opposite direction. Through eyes lanced with despair, he saw a man emerge and advance to the sergeant. “¿Qué pasó, nombre del diablo, qué pasó?” The man was dressed in an elegant waistcoat and flowing cape.
“Nada, Señor de Silva. Es finito, todos estan muertos, solamente ella—” The sergeant pointed to Jack’s mother as the only unfinished business.
Jack’s limbs weighed him down. He couldn’t act to save his own mother! He was nearly paralyzed, but his mind still worked well enough to put things in place. The map, the list of names, the fresh wagon ruts in the road—de Silva had planned all this!
“God in heaven hear me,” Jack murmured. “You worthless Savior, I’ll forgive you everything if you just give me a blunderbuss and the strength to use it.”
His mother stopped praying and in wonderment stared directly into Jack’s eyes. He saw her slowly come to the recognition that her son was alive. The joy in her face was beyond description, as was something else following it—determination, cold fury, the look of a she-wolf given back a lost chance to protect her young. Jack sensed for the first time that although his physical strength might have come from his father, something deeper had been bequeathed to him from this woman. He felt she was willing, ordering her pup to remain still.
“So, Señora O’Reilly, you are enjoying your morning ride?” De Silva had come to her side. She stared at him with such fury that he turned away in Jack’s direction. Suddenly she pushed herself to her feet. Jack watched her purposefully complete the rip in her bodice. Her breasts fell out in full view of the count and all the men.
They stood transfixed by her nakedness as she raised her hand to the count’s cheek as in supplication.
“Ah, my dear lady, you enchant me, but alas—”
Pilar pushed her forefinger into the count’s left eye. His scream reverberated in the woods.
Taken totally by surprise, the sergeant jumped forward, grabbed Pilar around her waist, and threw her to the ground. He placed his foot on her back, her face once again pointed toward Jack, though he was hidden several yards away. The sergeant pulled her head back by the hair and pulled his dagger.
“No!” screamed the count. Clutching his eye in agony, he shuffled over to her. Jack watched the apparition pull his own knife and shove it into his dear mother’s throat. He heard the rip of flesh and saw her fall, face first, to the ground. For the last time she stared at her son, life draining from her. He saw in her eyes a flash of what could only be triumph. Triumph and love. Then her eyes glazed over.
He must have been unconscious, he knew not for how long. When he opened his eyes, the road ahead of him was empty; no mother, no guardia—of course, a dream. Yet he knew in his heart it wasn’t. There was the blood-caked dirt in front of him. He tried to move but pain shot through him; but he was stronger than before and struggled to his feet.
Must go, but where? He felt some discomfort in his left, uninjured side. It was—he started to laugh. Well, how about that for symbol, Paul? The Pilgrim’s Progress has been struck down, so what was left? Paradise Lost, of course. The laughing took his strength and he fainted again.
Some unknown time later he came awake and searched inside himself for strength. He rose, started to walk, began staggering through the forest, the fields. The cane cut him in a hundred places but he was barely cognizant of anything but the burning in his side. He knew only to head for Habana. Paul. Maybe he could reach the Perdido Star.
6
RETURN TO THE STAR
“LAY-MAR, Paulie Lay-Mar. You’re needed on deck ole chum. Hee-hee. Your presence is awaited, and even called for.”
It was Ole Hansumbob’s voice, calling out among his sleeping shipmates. “Your name drifts through the night. Paulie, arise, wherever you are.”
Grumbling and sharp words shot back from the darkness. But Ole Bob was impervious.
“Over here, you idiot.” Paul was awake and not in good spirits. “What is it? Am I on watch? What time is it? And the name is Le Maire. Le Maire.”
“The time is nigh, and your watch is at least close enough, and I swear I hear your name a driftin’ like the gulls in the mist. I thought I’d call you to work, it seemed a sign. A sign, lad.”
Paul had no idea what Hansumbob was talking about; but it seemed pointless to argue. He slipped on his soft shoes, thin coat, and hat, and started topside.
A light rain dampened Habana, but not her spirits. The decks of the Star glistened and a northerly tropical breeze kept the old ship tugging gently at her tethers.
Paul gazed at the city night. He had grown accustomed to life aboard ship and had in fact begun to enjoy these quiet hours on watch. It gave him time to contemplate. He had sent word to his father in Virginia via clipper ship that he was safe, a curt note that displayed neither anger nor love.
The night passed slowly. A distant guitar plucked a woeful song as taverns along the waterfront began to darken. Sailors and women of the night kept company, drifting along the streets. There were arguments; several drunks were helped by shipmates to find their proper billets.
Paul’s lids felt heavy. His thoughts grew confused and he was on the verge of drifting off when he thought he heard his name. Hansumbob was right! Instantly awake, he scanned the expanse of the ship. There was no one on deck. The sound of his name had been his own protective device, he decided, to keep him awake. A way God had of looking out for young sailors who lapsed easily into their civilian ways.