Rapture of the Deep: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Soldier, Sailor, Mermaid, Spy (37 page)

Soon Red Sash leaves the holding area, and shortly we hear a trumpet blast and then:

"Señores y señoritas!
Welcome to La Pelea de Gallos Arena on the last day of the season! Tomorrow we shall all don our ashes and there will be no contests for forty days! But today, eat, drink, be happy, and place your bets! The first fight will be between El Pollo Feo of Rancho Verde, and Chucho from La Playa Hermosa! Handlers, to your positions!"

The doors swing open and the first two contestants are marched out. Through the open doors I can see that Tink and Davy have managed to worm their way to spots right on the rail.

"Joannie. When we go out, I want you to join Davy and Tink and Daniel. They're right there." The doors close. "And here"—I dig in my pocket and pull out a gold coin—"put this on El Gringo to win. You should get good odds. And I'll give you Gringo's vest when we get to the center."

She nods, and a roar goes up from the arena. The first two gladiators are definitely at it now.

I spy El Matador's handler sitting nearby with a cage next to him. He is a small man with a large mustache, and wears the loose white linen suit so favored in this country. I've heard him addressed as Señor Maza. I am sure he remembers me from the last match—female trainers are not all that common—and I know he is eyeing me with a certain smug confidence.

We'll see about
that.

I unlace Gringo's leather hood and pull it off. I had made it to look like the hoods that falconers put on their harriers, and the effect is not lost on the other handlers in the place. I have their undivided attention.

Gringo shakes his head and looks about, fierce as any hawk. Then he crows out his challenge, loud and clear.

"Hush, Gringo," I say, stroking his head, his uncut bright red comb a taunt to all the bald heads sticking out of cages. "Save it for the ring." I reach up under him and massage his legs and thighs to loosen him up, something I have been doing of late and which he seems to enjoy, or at least tolerate.

I have found that, in any game, be it cards or swordfighting or chess or whatever, part of the victory will be won by messing with your opponent's head in the lead-up to the actual battle. Make him lose his confidence, like.

In that spirit I remove the lead slugs from Gringo's vest, one by one, and drop them in my pocket. This also is not missed by the others, especially by El Matador's handler. Could it be that I have started a new kind of training for the gamecocks of Cuba? If so, I pity the poor things.

There is another roar from outside and then silence, which means the first fight is over. Sure enough, the doors swing open and two men walk in, one triumphant, holding his struggling gladiator with both hands, the other disconsolate, carrying a very limp and very dead bird in his. The men put their birds, both the quick and the dead, back in their cages, and the defeated pair make their exit through the back door, while the victors sit and await the awards ceremony that will happen when all the fights are done. The Spanish, like most of us, do love their ceremonies.

I pull another coin from my pocket and walk over to Señor Maza.

"Buenos días, Señor.
It seems our fighters are to meet again in combat," I say in Spanish. He nods. "Would you like to place a side bet on the outcome?" I hold up the piece of eight. "Even odds, even though your bird is heavily favored. Yes?"

He considers and again he nods, but he does not seem quite so confident now.

There is another trumpet call and two more men and their birds tromp out to meet their fates. I settle back down and undo the lacings on Gringo's vest, but I do not take it off just yet. Instead I reach in my pocket and pull out a few seeds and offer them to El Gringo. He pecks at them avidly. We didn't feed him this morning, wanting him to stay lean and mean and hungry. But I figure a bit of a treat now won't hurt, and it'll keep his mind off the other birds.

Again there is a roar as the second bout ends, so we stand up and get ready. The doors open, and two men come back in, bearing their now quiet burdens—both cocks are still alive, but just barely. Blood trickles down through the fingers of one of the men, and from his expression, his bird was clearly the loser.

The trumpet calls and we rise, and, next to Señor Maza and El Matador, we march into the ring.

When we turn and face each other, Red Sash gestures to me and calls out, "In this next bout, we present the challenger El Gringo Furioso from Rancho..."—here he squints at his notes—"Dove-coot..."

I raise Gringo up for the crowd to see and there are shouts of derision as well as comments on his peculiar garment.

"Look! He's already trussed up for the oven! Ha! Five pieces of silver on El Matador the Invincible!"

"Is El Gringo cold? Is he afraid? Does he even have any wings?"

"I think he is very handsome and dressed in the height of fashion," calls out one of the señoritas who lean out over the balcony. "Two pieces on him!"

Thank you, Sister.

I take off Gringo's vest and hand it to Joannie. "Go, girl." And she bounds across the ring and vaults over the rail and is collected by Tink and Davy. Gringo, freed of his vest, spreads his wings and crows out his challenge. The crowd cheers.

"...and on this side is El Matador, the champion! From Hacienda Maza!

There is a roar from the crowd as Señor Maza lifts up his fighter.

El Matador! Viva el Matador!

"Engage!" shouts Red Sash, and we shove our gamecocks against each other to get them good and mad. They both shriek and try to slash at each other, their neck feathers straight out.

"Ready!"

Señor Maza and I both crouch down and place our fighters on the sand.

"Fight!"

We release and stand back while the cocks leap at each other, spurs up and slashing, beaks thrusting at each other's necks and eyes.

"Olé!"
shouts the crowd.

"Get him, Gringo!" shouts Joannie from behind me. Gringo takes an early slash on the wing from El Matador, but the wound is not deep and he presses his attack. No longer the weaker one, he is relentless in pushing back the other bird, back against the rail. El Matador takes a cut to the neck, and the blood flows. But the wound is not mortal, so he fights on against Gringo's furious onslaught—he is not called
el campeón
for nothing—he's got depth and he's got bottom. He angles for a weakness and he strikes back as he finds it. He lashes out with his beak and finds Gringo's untrimmed comb, grabs it, and holds on tight.

Oh no! Was I wrong in keeping his comb uncut?

Maybe I was. El Matador has him in a death grip and he does not let go as blood seeps out of Gringo's torn comb and trickles over his face.

Come on, Gringo! You can get out of that! Fight!

Fight he does. Just like a cat when losing a fight will turn on her back and rake her opponent's belly with her open claws, Gringo brings up his spurs, and with his strong legs, drives them deep into El Matador's breast and holds them there.

El Matador quivers, but still he holds on. Gringo pushes his spurs deeper ... deeper ... Then slowly El Matador opens his beak, tries and fails to make a last defiant crow, and falls back, done.

"Fight over!" shouts Red Sash, and the crowd roars. The champion is down!

I scoop up the victorious Gringo and hold him up to the cheering crowd, then hand him off over the rail to Daniel. "Get him back in his hood and vest! We've got to calm him down!" I can feel his chest heaving and his heart pumping wildly under my hand. I hear Joannie whoop as she runs off to collect our winnings. The trumpet calls and I go back through the doors as the next two contestants come out, carrying their fighters. Señor Maza and what's left of El Matador go back through with me.

I watch him as he tenderly puts his fallen gladiator back into his cage for the last time. I think I hear him say, "Sleep, my son, you have died with honor," and I see something I didn't notice before—the sleeves and pant legs of his linen suit are frayed. It comes to me that Hacienda Maza is probably no more than a few cages behind an earthen-floored hut in the poorer section of this town, and that El Matador was feeding his master and his family.

Oh, why must I be so mean and thoughtless sometimes?

I approach him, intending to give my condolences, and he looks up and announces, his face a mask of shame, "Señorita ... the wager ... I cannot..."

I know he cannot cover the bet, so I say, "Put the money in the poor box at the Cathedral, a little at a time, over the year. And, here, add my bit for
los pobres.
" And I give him my piece of eight.

He nods gravely and takes it as I sit down next to him to await the end of these proceedings.

There are four more contests and then there is the final awarding of the prizes. I collect my two hundred pesos and rejoin my mates.

"Well," I say, "not a bad day all around. The drinks at Ric's will be on El Gringo Furioso. Shall we go?"

Go we shall, but something is wrong...

"Where's Joannie?" I ask.

We look around, and she is not here. I look at Davy.

"Last I saw of her, she was off to collect your winnings," says he.

Worried looks all around.

Joannie is missing and nowhere to be found.

Uh-oh...

"We'll go to Ric's. Whoever has taken her would look for us there. Daniel, you take Gringo back to the ship and tell them what has happened. Have Jim make the Nancy ready to go on a moment's notice. If you receive any word there, run to Ric's and tell us. If Higgins is not aboard, send for him. Tink and Davy, come with me."

Daniel flies off and the three of us march grimly across the plaza to Ric's.

"What do you think, Jacky?" asks Tink.

"I think it's surely someone who knows us—either Cisneros or El Feo or someone of that ilk. I can't believe that some random scoundrel would just snatch a kid who looks like a wharf rat and think she might be worth something to somebody." Joannie was dressed in her sailor garb—loose white shirt, canvas trousers, hair braided in a pigtail, feet bare. "Hope not, anyway."

Both of them nod. "The poor kid," mutters Davy through his clenched teeth. "If anyone hurts her, I'll—"

"Steady, Davy," I say, putting my hand on his arm. "Let's see how this plays out."

"It could be," suggests Tink, "that she was nabbed for the winnings she carried. They were considerable, you know, since the odds were so high against you."

Right, and if that's the case, we'll soon find her body in some alley with her head bashed in—please, God, NO!

"We'll see, Tink. We can only hope she's all right," I say. "Here we are."

The Café Americano sign looms overhead as we enter.

"Davy," I say, "stay here by the door. Lounge about—look casual and maybe a bit under the weather. I'll take a visible table off to the side there and send you a drink. If someone contacts me, we'll want to question him further. You understand? Good. Tink, you take the back door—same drill. All right? Let's go."

The lads split off and I go to receive Señor Ric's greeting. He is about to ask if I will play another set when I cut him short with, "Trouble, Señor Ric. The little girl who sang with me has been kidnapped and I suspect I will be contacted here. Has anyone given you a message?"

"No, Señorita, I am sorry." Señor Ric seems genuinely distressed. Well he might—he has daughters, too.

"Thank you for your concern, Señor. Just give me a table off to the side, thank you."

I am seated at a table off center but still very visible. I doff my mantilla, accept a glass of wine from Señor Ric, and order some drinks for Davy and Tink. I notice that it is the same dark-eyed girl I had noticed before who is the one who takes the glass to Tink. Under other circumstances, I would have rejoiced. Now I just wait. It is early afternoon and the place is filling up. Still no word from Daniel, or from anyone else. I begin to despair.
Oh, Joannie, you were safe back in London! Why didn't I leave you there?

Then I notice a man enter—a
campesino
by his dress—who looks around and then fixes his eye upon me. He comes over.

"Señorita Faber?" he asks, looking furtively about.

I nod and he drops a folded note onto the table, then turns and heads for the front door. I gesture to Davy and Tink and they follow the man out. I open the note and read:

Jacquelina—

I know you will be glad to hear that El Feo sleeps with the fishes, and I am once more Captain of
El Diablo Rojo.
I also have it on good authority that you have been very naughty and have been taking much gold from the
Santa Magdalena
and not handing all of it over to your English friends. I would very much like to share in some of that gold that you set aside, for old times' sake.

Yes, it is true that I also have your little girl. Fear not, she will not be harmed. Not yet, anyway.

We shall meet you off Key West to discuss things.

Till then,
querida mia...

Su amigo,

Flaco

I stand and put some coins on the table and Señor Ric comes over. He puts out his hand and I take it. "Thank you, Señor, for all your kindness," I say, "but I think this is goodbye for a while."

"So sad, Señorita," he says. "We did so enjoy your presence."

"I know I shall be back someday and we will sing more songs. Till then,
vaya con Dios, Señor Ricardo."

I present my cheek for his kiss and he delivers it, and I'm out the door and looking for the lads. I do not have to search far. I hear squeals of pain coming from a side alley and I follow the sounds.

"Señores. No me molesten, por favor! Soy solamente un mensajero simple."

Davy and Tink have slung the man up against the wall and Davy has his shiv at the man's throat.

"What's he sayin'?" asks Tink.

"That he is only a messenger. We'll see about that," I say, and then, in Spanish, I demand of the man, "Where did you get this note?"