Mathew Perry

 

1967-2023

Chandler Bing

Recovering Addict, Actor, 

Chapter 13 Sleeping under the cross

 Jaap Simonson closed his Bible with a touch of the dramatic. The Psalms had been sung. The Lesson read. Their duty to Heaven completed the Men could return to their Earthly tasks. The all seeing eye of the Lord of Hosts upon them all the first mate to the meanest cabin boy.

The Jasper slinked out of sight of land she would be returning north soon. The summer had been profitable. It was a goodly harvest that the summers labour had reaped The Jasper and a few other ships had made their way south to prey on the Spanish dominions in the New World. Now their Ships chests full of silver and plate. The Roman Hersey had been smote. The crew had dined on fine beef, and wheat. The Don’s had been there Quartermasters. Now the Jasper’s and her companions would be returning to their homes. To mimic the Hellenes after they had burned the topless towers of Ilium.

The words of Marlowe echoed in his head. It was a small role, Jaap the Master of the Jasper, played in the great theatre of the world. Perhaps a mere spear carrier or one of the Chorus. Yet Jaap strove to exert himself in the service of the Crown and Regent as the players of the Kings men did for their audience and Patron

Would he ever see a play again? From time to time, tumult and plague closed the theatres. Sometimes the Parliaments argued that the Theatres were ungodly. The Regent had settled the Question, with his fondness for Marlowe’s works. It had been whispered that the Regent or maybe his Father had been supplied intelligence by Marlowe before the playwright was murdered.

Jaap cast his eyes on the deeps, he was the Master, he could not indulge himself for too long As his father had, The Captain of the ``Jaspar’’ looked to the Sea to seek his fortune indeed his Grandfather had before that, and it had been a trade that the Simonsons had known before his father’s father had been born. An Uncle who was too fond of Bordeaux claret had insisted an Ancestor had been the helmsman on the White ship the legend aside It took no Thucydides to note that the family seat, in Devon, had been furnished with prize money and Romanist candle sticks. The sot of an uncle was not the only relative who committed the sin of Pride Had not his mother sworn his grandfather, had been a gunner under Drake, when lead against the Armada. When fair and Godly England herself had been but a silver streak away from the heel of the Dons.

It was wily old Elizabeth who had seen the Dons and Parma driven off as beggars would be from the Kitchen of an honest Housewife,. The Queen placed her faith in God, and in her ships. Elizabeth, whom Marlowe had called Queen and served with Wit. The She Prince whom with the last of her strength had given the sceptre to the Regent. Elizabeth was the Midwife at the birth of the English Empire. The division of power between the regent, appointed by the commons and lords, from the best of their number and the King, prevented tyranny and shared the burdens of leadership. Like the twin kings of Old Sparta, with an heir and Regent always ready the King was free to reign and to reign well. Royal Tyranny was held in check. England had blossomed free from the slavery of Rome, free from the strife of intrigue and courtly politics. The world knew a new rule of the Good Emperors the ancients had cherished. The English Imperium had stood up, to challenge the Don’s, The House of Valois and the Pope and his Wilde Irish dogs

Thus the lands, of the Friesians and Hollanders had been liberated, brothers of the English from the Romish terror. Then the Kings of Denmark, and German princes brought into a great confederation. The Hugonauts, when their cause seemed lost, had been renewed

``parcere subiectis et debellare superbos’’

Jaap smiled he had received instruction in the liberal arts. He had been a good student, devouring Greek and Latin like sailor would biscuit. First Caesar, and then Virgil and Homer, and after his lessons, he would study by the fire. His nurse attending her needle work, a mariner might call on the Simonson’s looking to speak to his father. Or even with news a victory off the coast of France. A battle beyond the Rhine

Sometimes, an old salt stopped by with a bottle of claret to speak with his grandfather. Then the elder Simonson would sit and whittle away at wood. While him and his guest, told tales

Jaap had enjoyed the stories of Drake most. Though his nurse from behind her aprons, disapproved of Drake for some reason. Looking back now, he thought it was because his nurse believed there was something disreputable about Drake relationship with well, his mistress. She had been fair of face, and gentle of spirit. Of course modest in spirit Jaap now in command of his faculties saw the truth in his memories view that his childish eye had overlooked Jaap knew she had suspected something amiss. Something unbecoming

A fondness for maudlin, and common ballads, had been where his Nurse had been dipped in the Styx

Her charge, years and miles away smiled, and looked out to sea. He had been a little indulgent...

The sky was as clear as the conscience of the justified man.

A thought crossed his mind. It would be some change for some fortnight’s sail to the North. To the Ports, they had recently won in arms. From there, they were able to strike at the traffic moving between the Spanish ports and the New World. There pieces had won, the centre of board, and now could pick of their opponents. In the great contention that raged for the soul of the world. The Godly had won a real prize.

In the distance a whale, raised it tail in salute of the enterprise. Jaap wondered if he should choose Jonah as the lesson next time. No, no. That was superstition. The path was seductive enough. The crew would see the whales, and been inspired. He would follow the correct services, and lesson. The Jasper would maintain. As the tide and the winds maintained everything to its season, has the philosopher had noted, thousands of years ago. ``A time to reap A time to sow’’ The wisdom of the first ages, held true into the last days of mankind

The whale raised another salute. The crew of the Jasper shunned such pleasantries. They served their rigging and sails. Sunburned, and seasoned. They would have coin in their pockets, when they returned to Port. One or two of the ships officers had discussed investing their stakes in the sugar Islands. A man could make a fortune his grandchildren would not be able to spend. Jaap had given the idea more than a little consideration. On one hand, he was a creature of tradition, true and honest tradition. Not the novelties the Papist’s had endeavoured to enshrine. To leave his family home grieved him in his heart. Did not the Regent bring change? That said he did not fear change. A Good Captain knew that a squall may blow in, on the calmest sea. Or that the winds would drop and the Jasper and all her company would be becalmed for days on end. With only the crews character and the powder barrel, to prevent his throat being cut. Oh, he had worked hard to avoid hiring cut throats and malcontents A few days drinking brackish water and dining with weevils, would break even a Saved man too. The country minister, a day’s ride away from the sea did not truly know the trial that Jonah had suffered at the hands of the Lord. The Latin poet had said it best reflected that the worst things happen at Sea

Would one last foray be worth it? Mused the master of the Jasper as she sailed north. The release it would give the men, would probably keep the Jasper’s crew sated until they docked in their new home. There the godly would give praise, and the dammed, would drink and fornicate until their coin ran out. The Admirals men, with their carbines and cutlasses would be there to help keep order.

He would consult the charts.

His cabin like his ship, a little maid but one who’s curves drew the eye. As a good sailor and a loyal subject Jaap’s Gods demanded order the door opened and the Captains refuge was illuminated. As befitted one of the saved, it was modest. There was a course a bible in the corner, and a cutlass on the wall. There were some smaller books, of moral and spiritual worth. A few rough cut newspapers, news of Europe was necessary for Jaap’s trade. Should the alliances change, a battle lost, or a bad winter or a second Nicas bring about a Truce. The crew of the Jaspar could be unwelcome in a port, or hung as pirates.

Even the Captain had to sleep in a hammock, however he did have a table, it had to be fixed to the deck, but it was good enough to keep his charts level, whilst he made his study.

He would have found his chart in pitch black. Indeed he had done before and would need to do again and seventy times after that. Weathered hands spread the paper out. The keen Mariner’s eyes followed the outline of the Silver coast. The Dons and there heretical kinsfolk had been pushing out from Buenos Aires for at least a generation. Now the stream of settlers was becoming a flood. Convoys of ships brought people from across the Papist realms. It was a tragedy to leave behind the superstition of the Old world only to plant it in the New

Before he was master on the Jasper. Jaap had been an officer on the Swift. As fine a ship that Portsmouth did see. One day the Swift had ran down a merchantman out from Lisbon. After the fighting, with the Portuguese vessel safely boarded and bested The Captain of the Swift ordered the vanquished up on to the deck. Where in full view of heaven offered the surviving crew and the passengers a chance at earthly as well heavenly salvation. The ship would be escorted to the English colonies in the Northern part of the Americas. There they would have the chance, to live out their lives free of Popery

Jaap remembered the Captains words. His blood had been hot, his shirt and hose wet with blood, but he had been astonished by the Captain’s mercy. He gave thanks and praise to God, when he heard it. The slaves were offered a chance to be lead out of Egypt.

A wife, a striking woman, perhaps the fairest Jaap had ever seen, clutched her child, to her breast and flung herself of the deck.

She was not the last

It still angered him. The waste, the waste was so senseless Could they not see how easy it was, how simple, and how liberating. A mere reading of the Bible and following its words were enough to be saved from damnation `Faith alone’’. A simple motto, it could be a rhyme taught to an lad apprenticing his trade to recollect how a knot was tied.`` Faith alone Fidel sola ‘’. What more did a man need? What else did Christ have in the Wilderness whence confronted with Satan himself?

Such pride and ignorance needed to be corrected.

The rage was a distraction. He had his duty to God, and his crew. He consulted his chart. As they sailed south, they had sent parties to scout the coast, and note the signs of settlement. The steeples could not be concealed, but a stone chapel could be defended. There would be a watch and a muster. There were fishing villages, along the coast. The trade of the Navarese, and the Sicilians, intelligences and informers said the two feuded in mimicry perhaps of the Irish and Portuguese gentry who dominated the port and the hinterland.

There was an old woman, in the Village Jaap had grown up in. They say her husband had been killed by an Irishe Kerne, in the last days of Elizabeth’s reign. Jaap remembered her sitting in church, she lived in a cottage, that a labourer might have scorned, but had the coin for the rent of one the better pews. The Regent, never forgot

There it was. There was a stream marked on the chart. If nothing else, they could fill some of the empty barrels with water. They had to be their own quartermasters. A nights fishing, and scavenging, would spare the biscuit

If they could strike a blow, against their foes than they should too

He took, a bearing, and said it again, and again. As he rolled up the chart, bound it with its leather strap, and restored it to its rightful station in life

Shutting the door, quietly, he relayed the Course to the helmsman. The sails would need a slight correction. The Men bounded up the rigging.

Ambrose Botranger coughed,

Jap answered his indirect inquiry. We will see if there is someplace open, for a drop of porter if nothing else. Have the boats made ready by the next watch.

The Master of the Japser related the plan Dusk fell, they would slip in, and make their way to shore, if they found one of the many fishing villages, than they would as night fell, slip in, cut throats and set fires

Anything they could carry, they would take with them. A goat, a few geese, and slip off. They had done the same thing, from Cadiz to Manila. They were beggars of the sea, they moved from house to house, and if the housewife, left the lamb unwatched, they would make off with it

They served one who separated the Sheep from the goats

The tides and wind’s, brought their servants the crew of the Jaspar closer to the shore. The day had risen, thanked it hosts and bid them a good night, it was about to turn and leave the drawing room

As a seducer would with a chambermaid skirts, they searched for the right spot to place themselves

With their anchorage secure, they could now exert themselves, indeed as a seducer would

As was his prerogative Jaap had chosen the Men himself a mixture of honest men, and veteran’s Indeed some honest veterans, and at least one ``old soldier’’ One Miles Glorious, that Terrence and Shakespeare would have recognised. At their Masters behest the landing party had their sea pikes ready, A few pistols to add to the pot and a musketeer should guard the boat. With Jaap the master it came to 12 men. That would be enough, enough for the Good lord, enough for a honest jury.

It was a goodly part of the crew. The Jaspar’s lot was but two score. It was only a village, and they had surprise on their side, and another score of men, and cannon, to call upon, should they be surprised

The padded oars, made their way to the shore. They could see the fires at least half a dozen. They could hear a bell, a tin or brass bell, and then singing. Latin it was. Popery Jaap muttered to himself, and his maker.

The locals had gathered for some festival, some act of Idolatry. The Lord had delivered them to be punished.

They were close to the shore now, two of the men got out, and ran the boat onto the sand. They slipped out one by one, waiting for the noise of the tide to conceal them

There were rushes, between them and the fires. Jaap whispered to one of his men, to stand sentinel over their boat. Allen Bontranger cousin to Ambrose, made ready with the Musket

Jaap loaded his pistol, now they were out of the spray like his maps; he knew where it lay even on the blackest night. The pistol was faithful companion to him, a most loyal servant. It had repaid him tenfold, from the two Guilders he had purchased it from in Amsterdam

The reeds were course, there was movement

``Hold

A of pain, and, he had fallen, he could not speak...There was blood, and hunting boots

Shots and screams...than.

Sleeping under the Cross chapter 12

 It would soon be midday. The church bells, would ring and betray the hour as had the cockerel the guilt of Peter. Juan made his way to the coffee house by the strawberry market. Juan was wearing a leather cloak which made him sweat, and he was wearing the hood high on his head despite the sunshine so he may move with more discretion amongst the ports folk.  The Galician also changed his gait, he set himself the strides of a nervous man, a servant or a day labourer, one with little position in society, one whose bread was earned at others pleasure. To this end, he had borrowed a servents tunic too. The gold he carried, however, would win the affection of the King and the Pope. The Gold would open doors, and hold or loosen tongues

The errand boy had reached the stables, Just as the bells pealed for midday, people would be taking their lunch now, the Portugese and others would be sleeping The place was at least respectable, at least at this hour. No wenches or cut throats were being served. There were some men, sitting at the far end, talking about the trade winds. They were Navarese men by their accent and dress.

The Coffee house keeper nodded to him, as Juan slipped in quietly and a serving girl, offered him, a bowl of coffee.

Juan waved away the beverage. He had never seen the point of it, let alone the taste. Why would anyone work all day, and then force themselves to drink something hot and bitter? Only a madman would to Juan’s mind, but if a madman claimed they did it in Madrid and claimed to have a title. Then the whole world would try to bark at the moon.

The Young Lord served coffee to some of his guests from time to time. His late wife, the mistress of the house, had a taste for it. The Portugese shipped it south from their countrymen’s Plantations to the North in Brasil. Caroline’s dowry had been grown there, with the sweat of slaves, and the trade winds as the principal investors.

Coffee was what the Portugese and the rest of the port set, The lawyers and the well to do and the odd traveller from Europe drank. If he ever made a honest women, of Gabriella, she would be forcing him to drink the swill in company. As well as moaning if he cleaned a musket by his fireside, such was the way of women Coffee apparently made one alert, why should that endear it, it to people. Did it make the heart gladder? No. No more than bowl of hot soup when it was cold. Did Coffee, win the hearts of the maids? Did a penitent abstaining from Ash Wednesday till Easter call for Coffee? Neither did a squadron of troopers who had chased the Indio’s into the plains for a fortnight. Coffee was an affection, not unlike a red ribbon Or a youth trying to make the feeble spray of hairs on his cheek appear a beard. It was a pointless one It was like most pointless things an annoyance

Come to think of it, the Governor had been brewing coffee, that day when the Master and his father had gone to see him. Before the heretics had burned the port, the Governor had been brewing coffee for his more respectable guests. The vile drink was unlucky. The Heretics had smelled it, and believed they were welcome

The serving girl could bring him some water and a little wine. He was still a Galician... for a moment his thoughts stumbled. He paused. The thought had vexed him. Once the priest had forgotten his place in the service, and the whole chapel felt a chill. He, Juan was still a proud Galego, but here he was sitting in a coffee shop, waiting for intelligence, on a woman, from God knows where. In the service of a great house, who had the origins in an Island, across the sea from the realm of the King. An Island, at the edge of Europe merely an brief memory

For a moment, he stumbled again, like a sailor on the quarter deck, in the swells, or a drunkard coming out of a tavern at the dawn. Another strange thought troubled him. Juan found himself in consideration of the Irlandessa. They looked a bit like Basques. They could be fair and ruddy. Strangely enough they blended best with the Basques. The two nations spoke gibberish The Irlandessa spoke Spanish, but they still fetched nursemaids, and though not the Master but the lesser branches of the family had sent for an occasional bride, from their ancestral Island. They were good Catholics even the ones who had just stepped of a gangplank, and were crossing themselves in thanks Men and Women who often spoke better English, than Spanish. They didn’t speak the tongue of the Irish at all.

It was than Juan remembered Maeve and not kindly, that nursemaid, of the Masters sometimes troubled him. She was too strident, and at least half a witch. The master and even his father seemed to tolerate her. She would give them advice, speak out of turn, and even rebuke them! The leaders of Irlandessa, with sworn men, with guns and horses, veterans of battles in Europe and the new world would smile weakly

It was a plain truth that the Irlandessa where more tolerant of their women, than Castilians. Even the Portugese, Irlandessa woman, did not hide from society. Juan had heard some idle gossip directed at his master's womenfolk and kin and normally replied by kicking the cur in the crotch and producing his pistol. Their woman had braved the winds and storms, of the sea crossing.

They were the first of many Buenos Aires, mixed blood, at first, but the Irlanda had been the first drops of rain that heralded a deluge from all over faithful Europe. Not just landless sons, and treasure seekers as in Peru, or Nueva Espanaga, not monks and mercenaries but here maids, and their families. Women with babes at their breast could be seen, walking gingerly down the gangplank, from the dock.....Followed by tradesmen.. A world on the move. 

Where was the wine and water?

The Irlandessa were something new, something different, perhaps they were never supposed to be here? Perhaps if the Irlandessa had pressed onto Londres, Juan might be riding there, stealing kisses from pious English Maids and riding by the Thames, rather than the by the Plata

It was God’s plan after all, and they were his masters, they had prospered, as did he

The serving girl smiled and brought his wine and water, she bowed and produced a newssheet

It was the rough local version, of the Gazetta. Juan had picked up his letters something that surprised even the master sometimes. He had made a point of reading everything he could get his hands on. Or at least attempting to read everything, the master paid people good silver, to write in tongue of his ancestors. He had to make an effort to keep his hand of his hilt, when the master spoke to that nurse in that unholy cant

Besides, there were only so many times you can sharpen a sword. He could not play dice all day. Indeed he had to set an example. The stable hands, and the kitchen boys and the servants all looked to him. 

Juan’s eyes, followed the words across the paper, as a ploughboy followed his beast The news spoke of The King in Madrid, sitting in the Escadorial. Praying and dispensing Justice. The Moors were causing trouble, as were the Heretics. The twin plagues on the faithful There had been a battle near Biarritz. The heretics raiding and then returning to their ships

This was all for the good, Juan mused. Yet they were here, so far away from Spain. The Heretics had attacked them, and they had burned the town. The Master and the Portugese had attended to it. They might as well, as asked the Emperor of Cathay for help, fighting the flames.

There was news of the burning of the port. This was news to whom?

Perhaps more wine? he looked at the serving girl. Not a bad looking lass it must be said. No he would have to wait for his intelligencer, and that meant keeping his wit.

 In this fallen World, Juan would have at least the consolation of tobacco.

Smiling as he inhaled, as the blend they sold at the coffee house was rich. Probably smuggled from the Ingles plantations which were somewhere between Spain and the Port. No matter what the ills, a smoke and  the World seemed a much better place. The rhetorical musings that had troubled him evaporated, and he smiled his face, sunburnt his teeth yellow, but he smiled

The man he was waiting for arrived. Like all good intelligencers anonymous.taciturn and discreet  The Spy would have made a good monk. A better matchmaker and a fine chaperone. Even the man’s mother would have had trouble remembering his face.

Juan watched as his guest walked over to the bar, and ordered a drink, rather than waiting for the serving girl to pass. But on his way to the bar, the informer walked up the Galego whence he stopped and spoke quietly

``The woman you speak of arrived last month on Le Luna, she found respectable lodgings, accompanied by her widowed mother. There is a crazy rumour she killed a man, who tried to kill the young O Neill.

She has money, from somewhere. I would wager she is the paramour or the illegitimate daughter of some blue blood across the sea. The story about her shooting the man is false though. That’s what everyone is saying.

Gracias’’

Swiftly Juan, exchanged some gold pieces, with his source. The intelligencer offered brief and noisy thanks, for remembering his Father, and continued on to the bar. Where he enjoyed a coffee. Truly a professional, noted his paymaster. Whom had to go and speak with the young lord. Sighing and reaching for his purse gave the serving girl, a bit of silver, and fetched up his cloak. Something was afoot.

The coffee house was situated at the corner of the Church of St Colon. The Master called it by another name. Shaded by some pines the square in front of it was where the Strawberry vendors earned their  daily bread. It being summer the fruit was in season. The square was host to a herd of carts. The maids, giggling and modestly smiling at the youths The barrow boys calling out, who would buy their wares? There were womens buying the leaves for washes, the old wives told that strawberry leaves made maiden’s fair. Even if it didn’t umblemish the blemish, and pretty the plain the smell of a strawberry wash was sweet 

Here and there a parent treated their children  and a suitor bought a sweetheart a gift from the heart

The merchants smiled and doffed their hats. The strawberry sellers and growers were Irlandessa men. Juan had never understood why this was. Goodness know the Irlandessa knew nothing about Wine, so why did the grow strawberries, he had heard that Ireland was too cold for a good vintage. Yet the master, sent strawberry jam and hides to Madrid, every year, to the King and Cardinal's pantry

The Galego hastened on through the streets. Leaving his thought at the square. If his master had wanted a philosopher, he could have had a Jesu chaplain.

Irlandessa!!!

Juan turned his hand on his hilt, his other reaching for the dagger he kept concealed on his person. As a greyhound darted after a hare, the Galician sprang,

It was a man, an old man, a priest, who had called him. The man was in his cassock and hat, Juan stepped back.

 Buenos Aires could be a vipers nest, but the Portugese, would not stoop so low, as to murder him, dressed as a priest. A trick even the Moors would distdain

Surely, if this was the case, then it was time to send as many of them to hell, as possible.

The man, pleaded with him. Begged him for help, he was on his knees. He was hysterical, Juan moved back, from the padre, but didn’t loosen his grip. Something terrible had happened, he had been recognised as the sworn man of a great house. That may save him, or may damn him

A crowd gathered. Juan turned ajar slightly to face them. His eyes travelled along the faces of the strawberry sellers, meeting the eyes of many as he could Looking into their eyes squarely and honestly As a storyteller would to his audience in a Taverna. Juan hoped to move the passions of the theatre of the street, and to send the spectators home before the last act. The families among the throng were dragging their wayward sons, home, and hurrying their daughters along home. Some of the smaller children were crying. The older men were limping away,

God would have to protect, Juan and the small children from the drunks and fools

Then there were the usual idlers. The thieves and troublemakers were always present for a lynching but rarely got the rope they deserved

The Portugese were not the only people who could kill him. Neither were the heretics the only men with such capacity. A street rat or an Indio, could do the job, with a well aimed stone or a lucky blow.

One of the wives, ran to the priest carrying her skirt, she sprinted with a haste that Juan would envy in 20 summers time, she was a relative of the priest. His niece Juan guessed, she pointed them towards the Chapel. As a skilled fisherman she had baited the crowd’s curiosity.

For a moment, the crowd did not trouble Juan, as much as the thought that

The cold touch of horror traced its fingers down his back. Like the venom of a spider could not allow himself to feel it

He hoped there would be men, who feared God. Whom would hear his word’s To be the first to die in a riot, was not an honour Juan craved. If it was just thieves they could hang them and be done

``I am a sworn man of the O Neill. You know his name. He has been as a friend and a kinsman, to you. You know my master fears, God. As I do. I call upon the honest men, and their sons. I call upon the God fearing men, and their sons to rally to listen to me.

Something terrible may have happened! Look to your families’’

The crowd began to thin. Yet how did it thin? Juan did not want to see maids violated, and houses burned. The nieces, brothers and kinsmen, were approaching’’

``Listen to me, my friends. Listen to me, honest men, and my compatriots. The Fathers family are here My friends, look the Father’s kin are here. To not disturb them, in this time of grief for them, give them peace and respect you would wish. Will you stand around here, as gossiping women would? ‘’

The people dispersed. Some of the strawberry sellers began to persuade the onlookers and idlers to move along. To go to their homes, they were free to go elsewhere to Cathay or Rome if they must, but not to stay here. Others began to call out the virtues of their wares. One of the priests' kinsmen, stood glaring at the crowd.

Father, what is wrong..?. The Father’s niece read aloud the the words written across Juan’s face and mind. The Priests nerves were spent and he had to make a real effort to keep his wits He was old enough if not to have remembered the flood, to have gone to Mass with those who did.

A man who shepherded the flocks of Buenos Aires, did not blush like a maiden or a nun. He would have given penance to whores, to footpads, and wild shoeless Indios, and yet the priest was shaken

The chapel,

They would find something foul there. An affront to God,

He could not enter a chapel with a drawn blade. It would be wrong.

He closed his eyes, and prayed. With his eyes closed, he remembered the first time, he had fought. The heretics, had raided his village. The Ingles or perhaps the Netherlanders, it might have even been French heretics. There were rumours later it was Navarese men. Who had supported the heresy in their heart’s but feared the King and the Inquisition too much

They had ran, and ran, he had ended up hiding, in the inn. He had never been there before. His mother had always boxed his ears, when they walked passed there. Now he was upstairs, cowering in a small room An old man had passed him an even older musket, and sternly told him to point it outside a hole in the roof. he remembered the noise the shock of its report. The flash when he fired the musket, his aim wild and blind. He remembered the people praying. There were people running mad, and some struck dumb. They were throwing stones at the heretics, at the end. Then the storm passed by, the church candlesticks gone the chapel and barns burned, a virgin or two raped.

Juan had walked home, from the inn. The next day the Priest came and read the funeral rites for his parents. Juan walked two days to join the Army. There was nowhere else to go. 

A change of the winds the heretics would have hit another village or town and he would have been a farmer like Papa. Attending to vines and praying for sunshine and rain, rather than attending to muskets and intelligences

There was no fragrance. When he entered a chapel, which may just be the largest shack in a fishing village, or in the grandest of the churches of Buenos aires, the fragrance, of incense, and a feint residue of soap and perfume. It was not a modest building. The strawberry sellers were pleased to worship with good wax candles. There was a statue of St Anthony , in an alcove. Expertly formed in wood, shipped from the great forests to the North. Juan smiled. The Portugese had brought the wood, which the strawberry merchants had commissioned from the mighty Northern forests. The sight of the state stirred Juan's heart and heart alone to smile , St Anthony was as strong as St Jorge, or the Columba, that the Don remembered every summer in this Church. 

This may not have been the heart of the Buenos Aires, but a blow was stuck here, it could kill the man still

Juan was uneasy. His sword was a comfort, but would he draw it in the house of God, would he act like a heretic? He had heard it said, even the Moors might respect a chapel.

``Sacred Mother, the star of the sea...

The tabernacle, had been broken into, the host, cast on the floor. Someone had scrawled on the altar

``Scriptura sola, La papa est Antichristo, Iesus sola est ri’’

It almost unmanned him, trying not to vomit

 Later her remembered speaking with the Master, the master excused him from his duties. Several priests asked him, again and what happened. The Governor and the younger Don exchanged words, quietly and hushed like parents talking of illness in front of their children.

Garbiella asked after him, when he came home, he nodded, and went to his bed, and the next morning to confession

Chapter 11 Sleeping under the cross

 

Chapter 11

The sisters were proud of their library. As a mother would take pride in her children. They rejoiced in inviting visitors to inspect their collection. The sisters showed their books to everyone. They as close to shameless as nuns could be. There would be nothing lewd naturally. The sisters would die for their vows. A fate alas shared by too many of their cousins in Europe It was rather the brass neck of a wife who had married new money, and was trying to introduce her husband to society, did the wits of the town compare the sisters in their pride over their library

Like all good jokes. The target saw the truth in them. If the sisters had an excess of pride in their library they were humble in the eyes of their God. So they amused themselves with the thought that the armies of his most Catholic majesty did not dragoon with the skill of the Sisters, in bringing their collection to the attention of the learned and the good.

The Governor had pretended poorly to look interested at their priceless books He was but young in office and the last Mother superior had never forgiven him for such a slight. She was muttering afterwards. Of the more choice terms to fall from the Abbess lips were `` A mere clerk!’’. ``A sailors son!’’ ``Manners that would make even the Wilde Irish blush’’

The Order had begun the library, when they had expanded the convent a generation before. In those days the Irlandessa lived clustered in rough homes amongst their great house. As the first trickle of newcomers made it inland from the harbour. Their passage booked on the ships of the Portuguese who were but a few families who made their living from a few ships. There were the Indio’s, and the grasses. Yet before that, had the land changed since the flood? The strange Pagan chiefdoms of Mexica and Peru, were a long way away from Buenos Aires. Buenos Aires could have been part of Europe. Or perhaps a mirror to the colonies of the English further North. They were something of the Old world, in the New. Yet something New too

The Library had once been the main dormitory where the sisters would have slept. Now there was a score of shelves. Good strong southern pines. They were still women, and knew how to shame a merchant into the respectable price.

There was the old Bible from Seville. A legacy from a ship’s captain who had made a goodly profit selling cattle hides to Europe and then southern pines to the port. The man had spent his life following the North Star and compiling ledgers. Yet the devout Captain had not forgotten the prayers and works of the sisters. The sisters remembered his soul, on the anniversary of his passing

There were primers that had come from Nice. They had been worked on by men who had seen the dust of crusaders riding on their great steeds The Portuguesa had deposited with the sisters some works of Aristotle from Lisbon of great providence. The whispers were that it had been owned by a family of Jews, whom the inquisition had exposed and punished. The Portuguese had discovered that the Sisters loved books, as other women liked fine dresses. Like an adulterer learning a trick of womanly character, they had exploited it again and again

The Mother superior had been most attentive to their wives spiritual consolations afterward. The Sisters read to them lessons of Thomas A Kempis. ``The wisdom of Mother Julian of Norwich’’ a work from a land lost to the lord. In return Eloise had listened to the stories of little ones left to sleep in the earth forever. She had wept with their mothers she wept for their children, and tried to remember them always in her prayers

The Irlandessa, had returned the favour not to be undone, by their rivals. The Irish section of the library had been established. Works that St Patrick may have scribbled on his mountainside. Such tomes where now safe in the charge of the Sisters of Charity.

The lore and legends of a nation had been reduced to a few books. All which had been saved from the Regents armies. A copy of the Gospels which had once been the boast of a fine monastery, it had been hidden from the Vikings. The Normans had left it in peace. Though offered a stern correction to its scribes. Then the heretic’s had made it homeless. A brave soul had rescued it, and brought it aboard a leaky ship. From there it had been mouldering in the ports of Spain, it had been wrapped under a cloak, or stowed in a chest. It was a mercy it had not been sold for bread. Or not rather rudely tossed into a fire for warmth. The rats in several ports had been robbed of an easy meal. As had the fishes

After such trials and tribulations The manuscripts were now guarded by adobe wall and stout southern pines. Would they be safe here? Was she safe here? The war in the old world had finally come calling on Bunos Aires. They had have rumours of war, and now finally the horseman had crossed there threshold mercifully he had slipped away into the night

There were some secular works. The works of Caesar. Eloise smiled to herself when she saw those leather bound books. Not only did Caesar state that ancestors of the Irlandessa had been cannibals. There was an irony in that the heirs of long haired Gaul. Where now in the service of a Roman father. There was the Iliad of Homer. The tales of Charlesmage alas how Europe mourned him now. Where once a strong song of the Church had brought unity and fidelity there was now division.

There was a work on the recent wars in Europe. An account some hand had sketched of the battles and blood. The Irlandessa did serve in his most Catholic majesty’s armies across the sea.The Portugese had buried sons and lost fathers to pirates and the navies of the enemies of God and the Crown. Many of the new comers had been soldiers or were refugees. From this sieges, or that campaign

Even if the Pope and King should be victorious tomorrow It was the duty of the sisters to give instruction to sons, as well as daughters. The mind was as a garden to be cultivated and kept pure. A garden needed to be protected, against crows, and weeds. The harvest of heresy was war.

The tree that Luther had planted had brought the bitterest fruit.

The task in hand remained. The work she had wished to consult, was kept in the next set of shelves. It was a journal kept by a lady. She was the widow of one of the early governors of the town. She had acted as Grandmother or perhaps Durena in the towns girlhood

She was the midwife that had delivered the great marriage. Working quietly with the blessing of the Viceroy in Peru. His most Catholic majesty and even the holy father in Rome... The widow, as she had been known, had made a match. She had joined the hands of Karoline de Sousa, daughter of a merchant prince, and the son of the great O’Neill.

The union had been quietly happy. As had Buenos Aires. Trade bloomed and the streets were quieter. The contention between the two tribes healed. The Irlandessa flung themselves across the plains. The Portugese attention returned to the wares and ships. The Governor went to his bed, a contented man.

The union bore fruit. Marie the child of the two houses, the great hope of the south.

Who would never know her mother. One of the endless martyrs to the child bed.

Eloise now found herself in full remeberence of the funeral. Like a counting rhyme for children There was the big crowd of mourners a multitude the like of which the port only saw for a riot.

The chapel doors had been open, for the service to be head. An angel dancing on a pin, would have been told to hush, and had its heavenly ears boxed for making a show of himself such was the grief and silence over the city

The tall son of the O’Neill stood weeping at the grave. The day was perversely bright and favoured. Grief belonged with the winter. Some people fainted in the mourning clothes.

As Caesar and Pompey had never been reconciled again after the death of the woman that linked them so had the great houses of Buenos Aires been unreconciled. Mercifully Rome’s fate would not be shared. Fear checked even rumour

That Karoline, whose kinsfolk were born in Lisbon, had issue of the heiress of the O’Neill house indeed the honour of the best attended grave in the hundreds of miles was no comfort for the living.

The sisters had prayed for her, soul. They had prayed for peace. Then they had a pious smith cast a new bolt for their door. The storm passed. The younger O Neill drifted away from society. Preferring the hunt or his discreet mistresses Buenos Aires lapsed into faction.

Sister Eloise closed the book. Replaced it carefully, on its allotted shelf, and went off to pray

She opened the door, quietly. Good Mama was asleep. Indeed she was snoring. Indeed she just ..

Smiling to herself. She closed the door gently, and walked to her room. The rooms were quite pleasantly furnished. The house had been built by a prominent merchant whose love of cards had ruined him. The doors and walls were stout. It was close to the chapel. To one and all, it would quietly announce respectable.

She left her sleeping mother, and returned to her room. Taking her bible she sat down upon her chair. Her copy of the imitation of christ had been at her side, as she crossed the ocean. Along with Mama

She remembered very well the first time she had met both

For a moment she indulged herself. She had not done that since, oh since she was living in a town on that big river. Since what did the barbarians call it? Oh yes The Rhine. She remembered her house. It was always snowing there. Other people remembered their childhoods in summer. But she remembered hers in winter. The land laundered with snow and Papa riding on his big horse. It used to scare her. Oh and her naughty little kitten, Timosha! Her rogue Timosha! Whom would waste his days chasing the hens. Or if Timosha was feeling bolder he would stalk the sparrows. If Timosha had to hunt for his supper rather than wait, he would have been a beggar, a dead beggar

Mother used to scold her, about wasting scraps of herring on that silly kitten. She remembered mother now. Mother’s hair had been the colour of corn. Her skin, milk that still not spoiled, while the other matrons made good with cheese! In her mind’s eye across the ocean and rolling back the winters Her Mother working at her spindle again, Olya would hold the thread, and they would sing. Oh how she loved her sister voice. Olya. All the men, looked at Olya as she walked out of the chapel. Father always went with Olya to the well. For a moment her reverie slipped. Even at her mother’s knee she had learned a hard lesson. Olya was a prisoner of her beauty. The plainer girls could gossip by the well, or take a walk to see their neighbours, and kin. Olya was a like Helen. A quarrel that would one day spill blood.

Like a husband who slipped into the whorehouse, once or twice. Yet kept his virtue, and manhood in thrall for the rest of the year. She ended the indulgence. Her mind raced as her eyed began to survey the works of A kempis.

She had exposed herself, saving the Irlandessa Prince. That had been a necessary evil. The city would have been torn in two, such as it was. Her plans ruined. Scores dead, and thousands beggared. All so someone could claim their account on their vengeance

For a moment she cursed. If she was a man, her plans would have been accelerated and amplified by the act. Respectable ladies did not kill. They were supposed to retain the position of their sex, even in the face of assassins If they had been in a carriage, confronted by bandits

The aftermath of the fire would keep the mob occupied. Society would be attending to its civil a nd sacred duties. Though the horse had long since bolted, the Milita had mobilised. There would be calm throughout the Port The Idle hands were now patching shingles. The more foolish blackguards were swinging from the gallows. The Wives were consoling widows. There were funerals being arranged. Friends and Family were sheltering the homeless and the displaced.

Now was perhaps the time, for some piety and charity. ``Mama’’ would be pleased. There was a convent nearby. The sisters would be busy, but not too busy for the Gold and comfort of a Godly widow

Oh and they would need to buy wine. She would have to talk to one of the maids. The prices would be gorged after the fire. It was two mistakes she had made. She was getting old and careless.

Mama slept soundly if not quietly

Chapter 10

 

Chapter 10

She would have to mention it to her confessor. It was pride. Wicked pride

Pride the oldest sin. The first sin and the hardest penance Adam and Eve were driven out of Eden. Lucifer was cast from Heaven as punishment for his pride.

Would God forgive her, her vanity? Lucifer had been an Angel. Adam and Eve had been formed by the hand of God themselves. They had been subject to wrath

She was comparing herself to the Mother of God simply due to the species of her mount.

Her Mule was clearly more Donkey then horse. As her own form remembered her mother

It still was a mule. So the analogy was not even that accurate. The good Mule would have surely reared up and released itself of its burden. If it had the wit. If for a moment dumb beast had realised what sinner bestrode it.

If she had been born a man she could sit astride.....

Not Mary but Eve. Her pride would be her undoing. Eloise chastened herself. The shame was harder than a flagrante lash.

Was she ungrateful for the gift of life as a woman? Had not Elizabeth and Ann be content? Had not the women of Jerusalem been given the honour of wiping the blood from the head of Christ?

Unlike the Holy Mother or the common mother of all Mankind. She like her Mule would remain childless. They would not

Sister Eloise prayed inwardly for forgiveness, and strove to remember it to her confessor.

The sun was proud. It was not a day for dark thoughts. Her confessor would learn of her sins. He would prescribe her penance for her repentance. She would be forgiven

Her companion Sister Ines was refreshing her soul with the waters of the rosary. Eloise would have accompanied her sister. Her mind unquiet. She had been too long in the sun perhaps.

Two of the O’Neil’s tenants, rode just a little in front of them. A dark haired woman sharing her choice of mount (Eloise despite being able to recite Homer had forgotten her chaperones name.)She was a Vasco though. Like her Husband thus they were both fairer than the multitudes of the town. The Matron was approaching the autumn of her life yet she could look forward to a prosperous feast of the saints. The lady had married well her greying Husband had something of a pot belly. Though the lady’s taste was modest. It was clear she lacked nothing. Excepting conversation Antonio was a touch laconic. Though thoroughly respectable in manner, and breeding. The lady indeed refrained from the deplorable excess of vanity, unlike Eloise.

No, No it was, not the time for that. She would see her confessor in time The Pious Vasco lady was a blessing she should be thankful for. Her companionship had enabled Eloise and Ines to call upon their sisters. Offer there thanks, condolences and service

Thus the honour of the O’Neill and the dignity of the daughters of Christ stood fast

The brief spiritual crisis of its passenger aside, the Mule plodded onward. This traveller had the comfort of her cell to look forward to. There would be more of a welcome for her. Then the holy family had, in the seat of David the claims of the Irlandessa were grandiose yet despite their boasts the Irlandessa’s genealogy did not stretch that far back what they insisted on in their cups was myth and hearsay. Often pagan she suspected. Duels had been fought when such thoughts had been put into words

The caravan made its way to the town. Slowly and surely as the great river made its way to the sea. The herd of horses and their backstairs kin the mules were followed by a few carts, trundled on. Carts full of hides, wool and dried dung Mercifully Eloise was ahead of that cart, and well upwind too

The strong sunshine had one slight unfortunate side effect there. To the van of the travellers there were the carriages with whatever lumber could be found. That was worth more than her mistresses’ wedding ring at the moment. Behind her the drovers followed with a goodly amount of Cattle and sheep. The O’Neill’s tenants and sworn men riding guard kept beast and Indio’s at bay

She prayed for dry weather to last. The Lord had sent rain, to save the port of Buenos Aires. The downpour had smothered the flames of the heretic fireship. Was it one Fire ship or fireships?

In the plains rumours grew as high as corn. There were stories that the English had landed. That the churches were sacked by an invading army. That the Irlandessa and the Portuguese factions of Buenos Aires had fallen into stasis. There were even those who claimed it was the second coming. There had been some fretful hours. When smoke and rumour where the only reference to the events. Than the Vasco, and his old wife, had returned. They brought word from the O’Neill. The news of the terrible fire had lead the port and its people had been saved by the great saviour

Now his mercy would be shown in the broad sunshine. With the sun shining hands could carve and cut, in the open air. Under a generous sun men would be able to climb up onto roofs and thus the burned shingles and slates would be replaced. A dry night would preserve the health of those who slept under blankets of stars. The families sleeping on rushes had no door to protect them from flux and fever. Sunshine meant that the paths to bring cattle and sheep into the town would be dusty and firm, rather than a mire the labourer and craftsman would need meat.

The Irlandessa had opened their hand. Such generosity would be remembered by the King of Kings

Such generosity would be remembered by the poorest of the poor too.

The act was as politique as Constantine after the battle of the Bridge. It did not matter why the little children and peasants came to Mass. As long as they came they could be saved.

The axels groaned as the cartwheels span. The noise unfortunately resembled the sound of the bedchambers of a bride on her wedding night for the more demure ears of a bride of Christ. One of their escort took off his hood, and nodded to her. A pious man paying his respects to his sister in Christ The rider spurred his grey mare to the van of the procession. It was a relieving army in a sense, an army mobilised against want! A general who relived a city was remembered in schoolbooks, and statues

The ram would not strike the wall.

Rather they would feast on the fatted lamb

The drovers sang as they toiled. The song was based on a hymn. Their melody was simple, and the lyrics mercifully modest. The voices betrayed their origins, some were Irlandessa. The oldest and youngest voices, few Wilde Irish slipped into the town.

It was a point of pride for the old Irlandessa families. To have nursemaids who babbled in Erse. Some were the sons, or rather grandsons and great grandson’s of the first shiploads to land here. There lonely cottages and scattered farmsteads being little islands of Irish in the great sea of Spanish.

It was a form of Spanish. Eloise found herself, having to concentrate when she heard the young and common folk of the port speaking. They were as ignorant of grammar, as the millions of Cathay were of Jesus. The shouting and cat calling from behind the convent walls betrayed a great ignorance. The differences between Masculine and feminine speech never having been mastered, were discounted

The chorus revealed Galician and Navarese accents. There was one of two voices she could not place. The blond man, with the snub nose could be heard over the melody. His vowels where sheared when the others singers let theirs grow long

An odd Indio baritone could be heard in the chorus. The man driving the sheep before her was of mixed breed. There cattle would have made Papa sigh the calves were plump and healthy. If they had been women, they would have been goddesses or nymphs. A fitting subject for art

The song of the men Godly and humble inspired Eloise. She offered thanks to her Master in heaven

If nothing else, the cartwheels and cows, was muted. The Sun stood proud in the sky.

They could see the smoke from the town on the horizon. The chimneys smoked the bonfires blazed. The tanneries and bakeries Mankind had not forgotten the gift of Prometheus. The smoke spoke of blacksmiths and coppersmiths sweating and cursing until they could take their lunch. Soon the smell would be overpowering. The dung that witnessed the hundreds of thousands of head of livestock that ended their days at the butchers, and tanneries the stench of rotting fish. The privies, chamber pots’s and piss of a busy port. Industry and squalor were bedfellows.

Alas there was no Hercules to cleanse these stables

The House of the sisters of Christ was towards the outskirts of town. Away from the temptation and troubles of a port. Yet close enough for the duties of charity. It was also under the eyes of the honest men of the militia. In case any Indio’s or the mob, should try to impose themselves on the sisters the house of women that had fallen to the lust of the heretics came to mind. The vengeance of the Lord was doubted by the proud and the Godless.

It would be good, to see her companions in Christ again. Her duties with the O Neill's had not been onerous. Indeed her charge had been blessed with some wit. The rod and a few raised eyebrows dealt with her childish excesses. The Mistress of the house had joined her and Sister Ines in their prayers. She had endeavoured to keep the conversation at dinner from digressing to the horses. The prospects for the corn harvest. The Don Neill’s house was full of music. Before the Nuns retired of evening, their hosts made an effort to keep their choices of song, if not Pious then polite

Her home was among her sisters. She had entered the order, as a novice not long after she had arrived in the port. The long journey had been difficult. Papa had been fearful for her virtue and never let wander too far. The ship was a Babel the seas were rough and the rations worse. She had been but an animated skeleton when they reached the port of Buenos Aires. She smiled remembering her determination to join the sisters. Father had wanted her to sell fish, or become a laundress in the service of some house. For a moment she considered her life. As a path which reached a fork. She had taken one path, the path of modesty of charity and of service. Suppose she had not listened to the voice inside her. Did not Samuel ignore the voice of God, for a few moments repose? What had she been but a mere girl? Suppose she had become a washerwoman for the O’Neill’s. The path of her life would have reached almost the same place. Like a river determined to reach the sea. She would have been here, in Buenos Aires, at the service and in the train of the Irlandessa

The sun shone brightly the song of the drovers began to ebb. They were close to the outskirts of the town. The steeples of the churches could be made out. As could the masts of the ships in the harbour be seen too. The O’Neill’s family seat was close by. It was bare rugged building a block of Atlantic stone defiant against the plains. The Convent where she resided was all the more elegant. She had heard that the O’Neill’s now had a town house. Where the son of the great house received polite society

She remembered he had a daughter... The young prince had mentioned it

Then she remembered

The girl’s s Mother had been Portuguese.

Sleeping under the cross chapter 9

 A rogue drew his sword and lunged wild at the master.

Juan did not feel himself think he breathed out and quietly put a bolt in the man’s shin. The man yelped, and fell. Another of the Portuguesa clients ran towards them. The blacksmith struck him a terrible blow. One that would have felled an ox

There was the flash of daggers being unsheathed in the light. The pikes were pointed and raised.

``Tomorrow you can kill each other. The realm would lose nothing but a score of fools’’

``In the name of his most Catholic majesty I command you. Cease your feuding at least until the morning. If you are here to help then I thank you. If you want to fight, do it elsewhere

The governor’s pleas were punctuated by the report of a pistol! A man fell never to rise till judgement

The braggart had crept up close to Juan. The Galician had not seen him. A swift touch of iron, and Juan would have been dead, and then perhaps the Master.

It was a woman who had killed the rogue a blonde woman. Fair like the portrait of his Master’s mother. An angel of death, with a strange accent and perfect aim. She had been to visit the master with Antonio, the Sheep rancher

One of the Portuguesa came forward. It was an older man. Juan knew him. He was probably the richest man in Buenos Aires. He owned the ships that brought the great flocks of men, and women from Europe to the town. Now his face ran with sweat and ash. Tomorrow he may be a beggar.

The Portuguesa bowed at the Governor and offered the master a polite welcome. Honour was for the moment sated if not satisfied

The two sides let their weapons fall.

The master looked at Juan. Juan looked back and shrugged he was good. Not perfect. Sometimes he was lucky. Sometimes, he wasn’t. The Don could dismiss him.

He would not be dismissed tonight

They set to work. They struck at the flames. The tore at houses with hooks they had to drag one family out of their little shack. The eldest daughter bit Juan. She bit him hard she cursed him in some babble one did not need the gifts of the Holy Spirit, to infer what the maiden believed about Juan’s mother and manhood

The fire fighters laboured like slaves in the mines. They sweated and bled. Their hands were sore and red. Yet there overseers pushed them on. With butts and curses. When kind words would not win the day

Juan had not worked like this since he was a boy. It was one of his oldest and dimmest recollections from the morning of his life tolling away in the fields. In the summers in Galicia, so far away! A time spent cutting at the vines. Pulling and picking the grapes from their homes. Then kneading them into wine. Then the war had come. There were no more harvests. He had learned how to fight.

The heat!

It was like catching the scent of hell itself.

They tore down another building. Poets would not sing about this battle. No Lords would pay good silver to hear about panicking horses and treachery.

A small child was pulled from one shack. The blacksmith passed him onto the housewives and daughters who were making the chain of buckets. They mewed and cooed over the urchin. Until the Governor, scolded them

Then they went back to their buckets.

Juan looked up for a moment. He did not really take much of an interest in politics. He knew he served the House of O Neill. He knew he was on the side of the Irlandessa. That the Portuguesa where his enemies. He knew that the young chief quarrelled and schemed, with his father and their kin. To beat the Governor into their tool as a good blacksmith is. Such had it been amongst the men of blood and breeding in his own town. Even amongst the Indios and the slaves. There was contention

Tonight, the Governor half naked and haggard as he was for once seemed to be master of all Buenos Aires. The Irlandessa and the Portuguesa where here engaged in one task. Even their wives where at his command as if he was the Sultan.

Like the fires of purgatory the fires had cleanses Buenos Aires of its pride and faction. Like the souls of purgatory, who know they shall be in heaven too. The townsfolk where resolved to one high duty, and under the eyes of God they worked through the night. The chains of buckets, and the hooks and shovels wore the fire down.

The Great God in heaven saw his servants on Earth and took pity on them. It began to rain.

The Governor shouted alleluia, alleluia. The rain kept falling. The crowd took up the chant. They could not rest yet. The enemy had been surprised by our allies. The battle was not yet over. The chain of buckets continued. The crash of falling timbers worn down by the flames would still be heard. The hooks could not rest either

A meek Sun rose in the East.

Rosy fingered Dawn. The voice of his tutor reading Homer and asking him to recite each line was a curious thing to remember on this night. The scion of the House of Niall of the nine hostages was black with soot and ash that he might have fetched a good price at the market sold and shackled alongside a sorry band of Africans and Indios.

The rain promised some respite. As the Sun rose they would be able to make a survey of the township. Begin to bury the dead, and rebuild. One of the houseboys had been sent by the steward with cloaks and blankets. The lad was exhausted having been told to run to the Master and not stop until he got there.

A Portuguese wife gave the lad a crust. Her daughter smiled at him. Momma clouted her daughter and the backstairs tragedy never was written.

Hugh walked toward the Governor, and bowed. The boy presented the Governor with a cloak. The Governor thanked him. The man would be lucky not to be laid up in his sickbed with a chill in spite of the fire. Fate had a comic poets taste for irony.

The rain was making the tracks and path wet. Some of the women wanted to go home. One of the Portuguesa berated them. The Governor and Hugh made their pleas too. The Lords were then exposed to several poisonous oaths and a multitude of curses. Yet the Masters managed to get the woman to go back to their chain of buckets. There army was prone to munity when it was not deserting. Or indeed looting. The odd coin, slipped into a boot. Or bottle of wine, was the price of fighting the fire. There was a limit. Church silver was Gods possession. That would stay his. His servants on Earth would enforce it.

The Portuguese hanged a man who had thrown down a girl in a back alley. The Governor and Hugh turned away from his pleas. The villain had got what he deserved. Now he would face the more terrible fires of the most terrible avenger

They had forced a path through the fire. The rain and the chain of buckets had worked. Now the flames could be surrounded and cut off. They still had work to do. Like the farmer who would labour after the wheat had been gathered up. They would thresh the land.

A ship was coming in. They looked to their weapons. Swords and pikes would be of little use against a ships cannon. At most the Portuguesa and Irlandessa would feel less naked as they went to their deaths. Even an old toothless dog barks.

A man with a spy glass shouted that it was a friendly ship. The flag it flew was the Royal standard.

They sighed and thanked the most high God

They put their pikes and swords to rest. They then returned to the flames. The sailors would be gossiping about the Great fire of Buenos Aires. They would tell all of Spain about it. It would open the legs of whores, in Londres and Lisbon

There would be two shipfuls of sailors bragging about the flames.

Hugh cursed the thought and cursed the flames. Then handed a man a wine bottle, he had earned the drink. The man drank like a man who had heard the judge pronounce a sentence of death. Or had been told his wife had run off with a pedlar

Hugh wondered for a moment should they try to press the sailors into service. They would find little solace at the docks. The easy women and weak wine had melted away. A figurative and literal truth in this instance

Then again the sailors had been under rod for a good month. Pressing the sailors now may invite mutiny and riot. Perhaps they should not let them dock, but keep them at discrete anchor.

It may yet be fortunate that Buenos Aires had mustered for the fire. Indeed the Governor was at hand. Hugh nodded to Juan. The rogue sauntered over. There was the smell of tobacco. Juan had managed to forage some tobacco. Hugh wondered if his Galician had stripped the tobacco off a corpse. Hugh prayed silently to the holy Mother that the Portuguesa missed that little trick

Honour had to be satisfied even if one had to use dishonourable tools. Hugh instructed Juan to approach the Governor, and ask him to grant his master leave to speak to him, and the other leading citizens of the town. The Governor was actually speaking to two leaders of the Portuguese faction. The older merchant lord and their chaplain the parish priest of St Jorge.

Juan waited a few minutes for the Governor to deign to acknowledge him, and made his request. The bow was actually polite. The rogue could make a passing impression of manners when he deigned

Honour was satisfied and the young Lord joined his peers. Should the ship be let dock. The Portuguese looked askance at him for a second. Another time, they may have seen it as a question of honour. The fire had left its mark on the town and their bodies. Soot and scars they had been anointed in fire

They would need rest. The town would need rest

By nightfall the whores and thieves would have straggled back. The decent men of the outer parishes would see to it. Hugh would send word to his kin to drive some cattle and sheep in, to provide meat for the hungry.

Lumber would be worth more than gold, in the next few days.

It was a mercy that the fire had hit the Portuguesa clients and parishes hardest. If a fire had started among the fodder and hides, from which his family drew their wealth then the O Neill’s may be beggared

The ships master if he had the wit he could make his fortune taking an axe to his craft.

There was a fortune to be made here. Not in specie. The Portuguesa would feel the cold of the night. Their clients would want for meat. The same clients and families would be hungry for lumber, any lumber that could be spared. Lumber cost a king’s ransom. The wood to build and furnish the great houses of the Irish had to be dragged over the plains, where the cattle ran free. An open hand might win hearts and head. The flocks and herds of men of Buenos Aires would follow but one master

If there was one thing an O’Neill could do it, was steal cattle

There was a chance. A chance to end the game, the Irlandessa and Portugese had played for all of Hugh’s life. To be the first in Buenos Aires

The thought distracted Hugh a little. The young Don almost gave himself away. A mercy the Portuguesa Chaplain was fond of his own voice

They congress of the leading men of the town reached a consensus

The sailors would wait at anchor for a few days. At least until their town had washed the soot and ash from her face. Until some semblance of order and normalcy was restored

When it was restored

Perhaps then in the words of the poet

Let there be one master and one...

Chapter 8

 

Chapter 8

If that man coughed again then he would hit him!

The day had started well. Towards the evening it had taken to its bed. Complaining loudly of a chill in its chest

It should have been a good day. It had been a poor turn of fate that the fact that hunting trip had ended with a skirmish. That said the Master and his men had returned to the town.

Along with the Don Neil they brought to the Governor the dreadful news from the country. They had spent the morning dealing with the highest affairs. Juan himself had ridden to see the Governor, with his Master.

Juan knew in a better world he should have been relating the facts to Gabriella. Standing tall, with his chest out, and his hat cocked

Oh she was beautiful. Her hair was like drying corn. The strands of gold shone out. Her eyes were green. Those eyes promised paradise. They were lush but they held dangers. Like the great humid forests to the north. Juan knew Gabriella had got her letters from someone. Oftentimes Juan wondered if the maid’s wit was greater than his. For simple Gabriella parried his approaches like an expert duellist.

Juan never doubted that the great God in heaven has a plan. Yet he had oft spied that his Earthly Lord had trouble forging his scheme on earth. Someone needed to oil the muskets, and keep the street rats and Indio’s from running riot.

The Captain General relied on his Captains

A Captain should have a woman, to comfort him. For him to share his burden and bed with

Thus Juan would have been relating the importance of his role in the recent events. Juan would impress on fair Gabriella the dangers that he had faced both beast and man, whilst out hunting. The horrors he had seen. All of it! The he would catch her, hand in his, and tell he had worried about her. .. Then leaning in, to bring himself to flank the Maid. As Gabriella inhaled, and her breasts rose...As her teeth flashed

She would tell, him with as face as grave as a Bishop dealing with a heretic. She needed to make the prayer. That she had promised her departed Aunt. A rosary, on her saints day.

Her Aunt must have had many names....

Arggghhhh,

Or she had been wanton

The feast smelled wonderful. Then again, he could not eat. His duty was to keep an eye, on the townsfolk, and an eye, on the House. It was like being one of those slaves that the sultan kept. A Eunuch. A eunuch at the harem.

There was beef. . It would have been a good dowry’s worth of fat calves that had been slaughtered. There was Pork and lamb too. It was good meat. No Rats. No plains beasts. All freshly killed today!

A butcher served the housewives and widows. Then the maids wrapped the meat in thick leaves. The chief Cook, eyes never left Gabriella. As Aphrodite was envied amongst the goddesses Gabriella was envied among women. The men and the boys in the crowd all tried to catch her eye and be served by her. They all smiled and stood straighter when they. Gabriella kept her eyes down. At the table she was as modest as a statue of our Lady

No one was fool enough to say a lewd word. The maids, and the housewives, were safe. Some of the Townspeople had brought jugs, to collect watered wine.

The Great O’Neill hand was always open.

For a moment Juan wondered why there some with no meat. In a land where fat heifers roamed free. They were as common as hares, in the old country

Juan looked up and down the crowd again. So much good meat! Cleary it would be wasted on street rats, and idlers. Half of the crowd were Indio’s. The others were fools just off the ships.

No wonder they were hungry. They should be grateful to the master

One of the servants struck a man who started to relieve himself, in the courtyard. The vulgar fool yelped as he felt the rod across his back

Juan pointed his musket, at the man. Two of Don Hugh’s sworn men dragged him away.

The fool could do that elsewhere. He could foul someone else’s nest. The man would leave with a full bladder and an empty stomach.

The crowd quieted down. You could never take your eyes of the Mob. Someone was here feeding them. Feeding them good beef, if you pleased and people still took liberties.

The Steward of the House spoke.

``Remember my friends.

Your friend....

``The Young O’Neill, remembers you. He is happy to have you share from his table. No matter what dispute he may have with the governor. He will not let his good Christian neighbours go hungry, or undefended. ‘’

There was some polite applause. A few men took off their hats. One mother told her daughter, that the O’Neill’s, were always kind and generous. A widow, behind Mama agreed.

At least it was not going to rain.

The crowd, scurried away as darkness began to prowl. The Gates of the House were locked. The dogs were untied. The Watchmen took their places ready with their muskets and pikes. The Steward, and the chief cook oversaw, the cleaning of the courtyard. The floor swept. The tables were washed down. Then steward and the Cooks ushered the maids indoors. The mother hen watched and counted every head. She would lead them to their bed chambers, and watch them retire behind their bolted doors.

There were still some comforts of a great house. Juan mused, as he took a piece of tobacco from his pouch. Oh, it was sweet stuff. A ship from the Indies or smuggled from the lands the Ingles held in the North. A pity he had not taken it, off the sailors’ corpses. Juan cursed. The thought of the Woman’s house, would follow him for a long time. Like a scar, from a burn. Perhaps it would go away, next winter. Perhaps it would not. It would follow him, into bed with Gabriella

One the house servants, summoned him. The young Lord, asked his counsel

Don Hugh, was sitting just inside, his house. The young Lord fed his dog, some scraps from the table.

Their master’s face foretold a storm. The Dog was being indulged, coddled and caressed, as his master needed something to do. There was a blizzard in the young Lords heart.

``Juan I wanted to ask you something. Do you think that?’’

Juan would never learn, what his master inquired after

Noise

Was it the call of the trumpet? Was the Day of judgement upon them?

The ringing in his ears started. There was another flash.

The young master went to rise. The dog started to bark. The Dog was sure of the doom.

Juan pushed his master to the ground. Until, he knew what was going on. The Don could stay on the floor. The Dog tried to bite him. Juan kicked out at it. They were almost out of range, of cannon

Almost kept the gravediggers in bread.

A Fire!

There was fire from the docks. There were screams now, and shouts. Buenos Aires was a world of wood, wine and straw.

The heretics! They had returned, and they were firing the port.

That was why they never found the fishermen. The Sailors Dutch or Ingles had killed them and stolen their boats. They had towed the boats behind their ship or stashed them close to the port in some quiet cove. Then they filled the boats with pitch, powder, and rags. Set them alight with a fuse.

Fire!

The screaming accompanied the flames. Like the choir at Mass

The chill had become a fever

Fever spread so quickly

If only it would rain.

The season was wrong.

The horses!

Juan, told actually he demanded his master get indoors. The young Lord could check on his Daughter and the servants. It would give the Young lord, an honourable duty. It would also keep him away from the Horses. The Horses should be safe. The Master having played host to so many tonight. The groom’s would have put the horses, to their stalls. They were tied up, and braying and kicking. The smoke and the noise were scaring them. Like Indio’s with cannon. The Horses knew it was trouble. There was no beast so brute it did not fear smoke. The Horses panicked and panicked.

The grooms and the stable master had earned their bread and wine. The horses had been covered with thick blankets. They were made lie down in there stalls. The Horses were stroked and brushed. As safe and secure as a newborn at his mother’s breast.

Juan closed the stable door behind him. The groom’s would bolt it from inside.

The maid’s and horses were safe. No one would ride away with them...

His master waited for him in the courtyard. The sworn men were there. They had pikes, and axes. No firearms. There was no need for more sparks.

Juan flinched. Without powder, he felt naked. A sword was all very well. If he had been born a gentleman, he could have practised with a sword all day. There would have been some Milanese or Roman fop, to teach him the virtues of the code duello. A pistol finished matters

Juan remembered something. There was an old crossbow somewhere. One of the Portuguese had used in the street fights years ago. In those happier days when Buenos Aires only excited the passions of its natives. The old steward of the house a Vasco with very fair hair He had been a very thorough man. Juan had never even gotten a kiss, from a maid when the Vasco had run the house. Anyway the auld Vasco had snatched up the crossbow years ago. Then he had a blacksmith put some bolts together for it too. It was in the cellar, behind, the wines.

The fires had one mercy. Juan did not need a candle to descend the stairs. It was bright enough to see. They crossbow, and bolts were where they always where. On a notch over the Beer barrels and wines. Some kind saint had watched over the crossbows string. It would have made a good meal for a mouse and his sons.

The crossbow, would win arguments where a honest pike, or a rapier might stutter

The chief spoke. They would make their way to the docks. If they could help anyone they would. It would be better. To help others help themselves. They would rouse their clients, and friends.

The Steward, and the cook, had risen from the beds. The whole House would be mustered.

The Don called the steward, and the cook, to his side. Juan walked over, the crossbow slung over his shoulder.

Should we wake the maids? If water must be fetched and carried it would be as natural to them, as breathing. The maids would need to be protected. Men must stand by them with pike, and sword.

There were vagabonds who would use the flames, as license to commit rape and rapine. The virtue of the maids of a good house would be a prize sort by blackguards. Their tears and honour would mean nothing. A life’s reputation lost, for a few minutes fleeting lust and bragging in a low tavern.

The Chief counted his men.

No doubt, the decent citizens, of the Buenos Aires were mustering in an ideal world, there would be enough men, to guard the maids, and fight the fires. In an ideal world there would be no heretics

That said there was no way of knowing who would answer the call. Who would hide in their beds, and who would run for the plain. The fire was not a duel. Brave men, veterans of battles would panic, at the cackling teasing flames

No, the fires had to be fought. God would have to look after the maids.

The young lord spoke to the Cook. The Mare that led the herd’s philys

To the river, with as many buckets you can carry. The steward, will go with you. Those of you who have fathers and Brothers nearby r fetch them first. My steward will give honest men arms. The steward, will rouse the names of our clients and friends.

The O'Neill gave the steward a pistol. Take the maids, to the river. Rouse any honest men, you can. Look to our friends if someone troubles you shoot them

`` If a hand is raised against you know that the House of O’Neill will take terrible revenge on them.

Them and their families.

May God and Holy Mother protect you all!’’

A boy had been sent to the chapel. The parish priest had been woken.

The steward bowed, and brought the priest to the young lord. The O Neill kissed the priests hand, as if it was the Pope himself.

``Father, I am sorry you are forced to leave, your bed chamber. I need your help. I need the names of honest men, who will help fight the fires. I know tonight may be busy for you. People will need the comfort of their priest. If you can help me you and the sexton can save lives’’

The priest gave several names. Some of the boys who sleep by the church, made a few silver coins, running to wake the sacristans, and choir master. One of the men was a carpenter he had a strange accent. An odder look about him. Irlandessa even of the boat would be dark. This man was fair, with an odd nose. From one of the emperors further realms

The time for talk was over. The swordsmen would make their way to the docks. The womenfolk, a touch further upstream. The sun and the moon bowed and left the dance floor.

The walk to the docks would take a few songs

A thought crossed Juan’s mind suddenly like a bird darting between houses. His life here in the great lands of the South. Indeed his service amongst the Irlandessa. It had all begun, by walking from the docks to the house. Did clocks work backwards as well as forwards?

Well, they walked. Juan shouted. For all honest men, to join them! Some men met with them at the crossroads. They had brought crowbars, and a leather bucket. It was the local blacksmith, and his sons. They were good people. The master shook the blacksmiths hand. The Chief was not a small man, but the blacksmith hands made the Hugh’s look dainty.

Like the Israelites they kept on walking. They shamed a couple of street rats into joining them.

A crusade against the flames! They could have some honest work for once. The rats held their nerve as they watched people running away from the flames. The women and children were directed to the Church. The Men they urged them into joining them. Sword and shame, and silver bolstering duty A rider less horse bolted past it could have killed someone. Towards the docks, they kept on walking.

Juan shouted and shouted. ``For all honest men to come to their aid.’’ There were more honest men then unicorns in the parish of the Church of our Lady the star of the sea, but not many!

That said one fellow came out to join them.

A young lad Juan guessed a cabin boy who had jumped ship. Yet now the scion of Heroes slapped him on the back, and wished him well.

They could taste the smoke now.

The taste meant they were close to the waters now. The smoke got thicker it was as punch now, rather than wine. Now they finally had a view of the river. The brambles of Houses chapel’s taverns and shacks had made way.

It was quiet.

The docks were always full of noise. There was the shouting of stevedores. Calls of hawkers begging and bawling to get people to spend the coin in their pockets. There would have been the animals too. The smell of oxen and mules and the noise of Horses clattering about the streets. A dock meant the shouts of whores shouting to the sailors. Hubbub from the cheapest taverns where men would cut your throat for a shiny round piece of tin.

If it was not for the flames then Juan would not have ventured here without a pistol, he would have had several pistols. His hands checked the crossbow again

They could see the great river.

The fire ships had caught two vessels alight. One had been moored by a wharf, further upstream. The ship’s powder had surely exploded. The flames had spread to the eastern part of the town.

The sun rose over the homes of the Portuguese.

The blacksmith began the prayer to our Lady. As they crusaders walked towards the direction of the rising sun. The flames were a dim and dangerous reflection of the heavens.

There was never a war, without plague.

They did not come here

Maybe once or twice to attend a funeral.

Or for a quiet meeting on the steps of a Chapel. With safe passage and the word of the clergy, and the right sanctuary as their guarantee

Then they made haste back to their homes

The only more dangerous place would have been Londres. Amongst the Ingles

``Water! Water!’’ He demanded. ``Water! Water!’’ A cloak covering his nightshirt, and having lost his hat. The Governor of Buenos Aires seemed a pathetic figure. A tragic actor in Madrid charged with the role would have moved the crowd to tears.

``Water! Water!’’

The Governor shouted at the stream of maids and wives, who had made a chain of buckets. Husbands and sons fought the flames with hooks and other were beating the flames with damp blankets and stirring the earth up before them.

The night had already seen justice mooted out to one looter. The villain had been caught with a silver cup. Then babbled and lied in some strange tongue. As they put the rope around his neck

A wretched lord, perhaps but still a lord

``Water! Water at haste!’’ The Governor shouted

The heretics had struck a swift sharp blow, like a cutthroat at the docks

The fire had caught two ships and then spread to the wharves. Wharves full of leather and grain there was even wines now, and that awful drink the Irlandessa drunk. The fire was preying on them like a fox in a chicken coup.

It would hurt There city maybe the bastard child of the empire but it was growing tall and strong.

There was a clamour. The men had their hands on their hilts. A woman dropped a Bucket.

``Water! Water! ‘’The Governor like a fiddler in a cheap tavern knew only one tune.

The Irlandessa had shown up....