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...