“Is he good with a sword?”
“I’ll say. He’s clever too and cunning.” Jaqueta stopped speaking to take a swig from the wineskin; I heard the gurgle of the wine as he poured it into his mouth. “When he looks at you with those ice-cold eyes of his, you’d better get out of his way and fast. I’ve seen him skewer and slash and generally do more damage than a bullet through a buff coat.”
There was a pause and more swigs of wine. I imagined they were looking at Alatriste, still sitting motionless in the bow, next to the master, who kept his hand on the tiller.
“Is he really a captain?” asked Sangonera.
“I don’t think so,” replied his friend. “But everyone calls him Captain Alatriste.”
“He’s certainly a man of few words.”
“Yes, he’s the sort who does his talking with his sword. And he’s even better at fighting than he is at holding his tongue. I knew someone who was with him on the galleys in Naples ten or fifteen years ago, on a raid in the channel of Constantinople. Apparently, the Turks boarded the ship he was on, having first killed most of the crew, and Alatriste and a dozen or so others were forced to retreat, defending the gangway inch by inch, finally holing themselves up on the half-deck, fighting like savages, fending off the Turks with their knives, until they were all either dead or wounded. The Turks were taking them and the ship back up the channel, when, as good fortune would have it, two galleys from Malta came to their aid and rescued them from life on a Turkish galley.”
“Sounds like a plucky bastard,” said one.
“You bet, comrade.”
“And he’s known the rack too, I’ll bargain,” added another man.
“That I don’t know, but for the moment, at least, things don’t seem to be going too badly for him. If he can spring us from prison and slap a
“Who were those three men in the other boat?”
“No idea. But they smelled like nobs to me. Perhaps they’re the people supplying the lucre.”
“And what about the man in black? I mean the clumsy clod who almost fell in the water?”
“No idea, but if he’s a fellow ruffian, my name’s Luther.”
There were more gurgling sounds of wine being drunk, followed by a couple of satisfied belches.
“Not a bad job so far, though,” said someone after a while. “Plenty of gold and good company too.”
Jaqueta chuckled. “Yeah, but you heard what the boss said. First, we have to earn it. And they’re not going to give us the money just for strolling up and down of a Sunday.”
“Oh, I can live with that,” said one. “For one thousand two hundred
“Me too,” agreed another man.
“Besides, he certainly deals a fair hand—I’ll be happy to have a few more gold’uns like the ones I’ve got in my pocket now.”
I heard them whispering. Those who knew how to add up were busy making calculations.
“Is it a fixed amount?” asked Sangonera. “Or do they share out the total among those who survive?”
Jaqueta gave the same low chuckle.
“We won’t find out until afterward. It’s a way of making sure that in the heat and noise of the fighting, we don’t stab one another in the back.”
The horizon was growing red behind the trees, allowing glimpses of scrub and of the pleasant orchards that sometimes grew down as far as the banks of the river. In the end, I got up and made my way past the sleeping bodies to the stern, to join the captain. The master of the boat, who wore a serge smock and a faded cap on his head, declined when I offered him some wine from the wineskin I’d brought for the captain. He was leaning one elbow on the tiller, intent on estimating the distance from the banks, on the breeze filling the sail, and on any loose logs on the shore that might be dragged downstream. He had a very tanned face, and up until then I hadn’t heard him say a word, nor would I thereafter. Alatriste took a draft of wine and ate the proffered piece of bread and cured meat. I stayed by his side, watching the cloudless sky and the light growing brighter on the horizon. On the river, everything was still very gray and hazy, and the men lying in the bottom of the boat remained immersed in darkness.
“How’s Olmedilla doing?” asked the captain, looking across at where the accountant lay.
“He’s finally managed to fall asleep after spending all night shivering.”
My master gave a faint smile. “He’s not used to this kind of thing,” he said.
I smiled too. We were used to it. He and I. “Is he coming aboard the
Alatriste shrugged. “Who knows?” he said.
“We’ll have to look out for him,” I murmured, somewhat concerned.
“Every man will have to look out for himself. When the moment comes, you just worry about yourself.”
We fell silent, passing the wineskin from one to the other. My master chewed on his bread for a while.
“You’ve grown up a lot,” he said between mouthfuls.
He was still watching me thoughtfully. I felt a sweet wave of satisfaction warm my blood.
“I want to be a soldier,” I blurted out.
“I thought after Breda, you’d have had enough.”
“No, that’s what I want to be. Like my father.”
He stopped chewing and studied me for a while longer, then, in the end, he gave a lift of his chin, indicating the men lying in the boat. “It’s hardly a great future,” he said.
We remained for a while without talking, rocked by the swaying of the boat. Now the landscape behind the trees was growing red and the shadows less gray.
“Besides,” Alatriste said suddenly, “it’ll be a couple of years before they’d let you join a company. And we’ve been neglecting your education. So, the day after tomorrow—”
“I read well,” I said, interrupting him. “I have a reasonably neat hand, I know the Latin declensions and how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide.”
“That’s not enough. Master Perez is a good man and he can complete your education once we’re back in Madrid.”
He fell silent again in order to cast another glance at the sleeping men. The easterly light emphasized the scars on his face.
“In this world,” he said at last, “the pen can sometimes take you where the sword cannot.”
“Well, it’s not fair,” I retorted.
“Possibly not.”
He had taken a while to respond, and I thought there was a good deal of bitterness in that “possibly not.” For my part, I merely shrugged beneath my blanket. At sixteen, I was sure that I would go wherever I needed to go and arrive wherever I needed to arrive. And as far as I was concerned, Master Perez had nothing to do with it.
“It isn’t yet the day after tomorrow, Captain.”
I said this with something like relief, defiantly, staring obstinately at the river ahead. I didn’t need to turn around to know that Alatriste was studying me closely, and when I did turn my face, I saw that his sea-green eyes were tinged with red from the rising sun.
“You’re right,” he said, handing me the wineskin. “We still have a long way to go.”
8. BARRA DE SANLUCAR
The sun was directly above us as we passed the inn at Tarifa, where the Guadalquivir turns westward and you begin to see the marshlands of Dona Ana on the right-hand bank. The fertile fields of Aljarafe and the leafy shores of Coria and Puebla slowly gave way to sand dunes, pinewoods, and dense scrub, out of which emerged the occasional fallow deer or wild boar. It grew hotter and more humid, and in the boat, the men folded up their cloaks, unclasped capes, and unbuttoned buff coats and doublets. They were crammed together like herrings in a barrel, and the bright light of day revealed scarred, ill-shaved faces, as well as ferocious beards and mustaches that did little to belie the piles of weapons, leather belts, and baldrics, the swords, half-swords, daggers, and pistols that each of them kept nearby. Their grubby clothes and skin—made grimy by the elements, and by lack of sleep and the
