A Pirate's Legacy 4: The Lions of el Bayadh

A Pirate’s Legacy – IV

The Lions of el Bayadh

by

Sean O’Mordha

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

Cover by: Bill H. Moore

Released on Smashwords by:

Celtic Publications

1412 N. Darlene Pl.

Vail, AZ. 85641

U.S.A.

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The Lions of el Bayadh

Copyright 2012 - 2020 by Sean Patrick O’Mordha

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Chapter 1

The Desert Child

François’ donkey set its own pace down the long, snaky road from Valverde to where two ships lay anchored off from the rocky coastline. No matter how many times the cart pushed his rump as if trying to hurry him along, the somber-eyed creature didn’t change pace. The driver wasn’t in any hurry either, enjoying the warm sunny day buffeted by a cool ocean breeze until approaching the docks. Storm clouds were boiling up in the form of an impending altercation as two young men harassed a diminutive boy.

I want to see if you heathen Arabs are really men disguised as women. I order you to remove that rag, the shorter of the two snarled, although he towered over the child.

The boy stood mute, back against a large stack of wool bales, eyes blazing defiance. François’ saw muscles tense, hands along his sides balling into fists. Even the casual observer could see he was on the verge of unleashing stifled anger like a volcano swelling before erupting. That he thought himself capable of taking on two, much larger opponents suggested only one thing to François, and it wasn’t stupidity.

Rip it off him, Leandro.

Not me. I’m not touching anything that filthy. He’s probably swarming with lice. Leandro was a behemoth next to the others.

Take it off! the aggressor now shouted at the boy.

A few quick strides brought François to the impending fracas. If he complies, you may remove your garments as well. I wish to see what kind of person is so brave to pick on someone much younger and smaller. Certainly not a man.

The aggressor spun around to face François, his black eyes glaring a consuming rage. Having left his jacket on the cart, François appeared not more than a peasant in a baggy, homespun shirt, trousers, and boots. He had come to work, not impress people.

This is none of your affair, peasant.

And who gives me this command?

I am Demetrio, the son of Don Alfonso Jiménenz Basilio, Patrón de la Iglesia of la Magdalena, Torrelaguna. Now, go.

Ah, so you are the son. François smiled. I heard you recently returned, and thinking to himself, and certainly now the most arrogant person on El Hierro I’ve had the misfortune to encounter.

I said, go away before I use my whip, Basilio threatened, holding a riding crop to François’ face.

I do not take orders from boys. François remained calm, his hand on the verge of wrapping fingers around Basilio’s throat. That was Hogshead Shaver’s manner, an effective way of ceasing verbal threats before throwing the offender overboard.

Better move along, Basilio, another’s voice called out, as a man in a formal military uniform approached from the side. His left arm rest in a sling against his chest. Don Evreux might throw a sword at you. Sarcastic anger edged the admonition.

While men of stature and those with pretensions wore an épée de cour , a dress sword with its ornate grip, François felt no need. In his altercation with Capt. Hildago, he was given the loan of one.

The bully’s mouth dropped open. With his companion tugging at his sleeve, he quickly moved off, casting a scowl at their intended victim as if to say the matter was not finished.

François glanced at the new arrival as a disgusting taste drifted across his tongue. Hildalgo, he said curtly, offering a bow, no more than a slight nod.

The first day he appeared in Valverde, the former garrison commander challenged him to a duel. Unable to defeat François with a sword and about to lose, the man grabbed for a firearm. Reflexively, François hurled his rapier, skewering Hidalgo’s shoulder. Thoroughly disliked by the populace and his own men, the encounter became an excuse for the Captain-General to relieve Hidalgo of command. He was now about to board a ship bound for the New World.

Never tire of being the people’s champion, I see. Come to see me off and gloat?

Not at all. I am here on business. Your departure is of no consequence.

Arrogant as always, Hildalgo sneered.

François ignored the offensive remark and began to walk away.

Someday we shall meet again, Frenchman.

François turned to face him. Perhaps, if I ever have reason to leave El Hierro to pursue fame and fortune in the New World, which is unlikely as I have both here.

In any event, the day will come that we play out our little game, though I shall not be so cavalier to underestimate your skill with a sword, and it will be my pleasure to split your heart.

Thank you for the warning, François replied flatly and left the man behind and walked out onto the pier.

Almost every piece of shoreline around the island of El Hierro consists of rocky cliffs. Exceptions like Dolphin Cove were small and few in number and inaccessible. The only place near Valverde for ships to come close to shore was a small inlet, too narrow for a large ship to safely enter and maneuver. Anchoring in deeper water, smaller boats transferred cargo ashore, a tedious process, but the only way.

There were two ships at anchor, a lateen-rigged Caravel flying the flag of Spain, and an older Carrack with its high bow and stern castles flying the Portuguese flag. Their naked masts swayed as the swells rolled ashore, and François felt sorry for the crewmen. Such motion made it difficult to work, let alone keep anything important in one’s stomach — the difference of being stationary and moving ahead with the wind.

Walking out onto the pier to accommodate the transfer vessels, he approached two men in conversation — one a well-attired seaman, the other a soldier.

"Excuse me, señors, but do you know where I might find Capt. Galego of the Portuguese merchant Salamander?"

That would be me, the seaman said.

I don’t mean to interrupt. I am François Evreux. A messenger said you have a shipment that belongs to me.

Yes. It will take several wagons to haul the crates. Is that cart all you have?

François flashed a whimsical grin and chuckled. I have wagons and men on the way. That is my carriage. They shared a hearty laugh.

Excellent. Don Evreux, may I introduce Capt Estavan Santana de la Floridablanca, the new garrison commander.

Exchanging polite bows, François accepted the outstretched hand. It was a firm grip, suggesting a man of condition and confidence.

I hope you don’t take this as an offense, Capt. Santana, but were you sent here to be distanced from Madrid. That is what the people of El Hierro have become accustomed to.

Estavan laughed. I have not come as the condition of exile, although El Hierro has been considered the edge of the world for centuries. I was wasting away at court and volunteered for this assignment before losing my sanity. In his mid-thirties, Estavan had a light-hearted manner François readily related to.

The captain is a much-decorated soldier, Capt. Galego confided. He led the cavalry for Carlos de Amésquita when he sacked Penzance and won a great victory for Spain.

"The tercios already won the battle. My unit merely blocked the enemy’s retreat." Estavan was clearly a modest man.

And personally captured Sir Alverton. An undaunted Galego continued touting the new commander’s military virtues.

A gentleman and scholar, but not a very good tactician, I regret to say. Well, it seems my horse has regained his land legs. It has been a pleasure to meet you, Don François, but if you will excuse me, I must be off to report for duty.

François stood in awe as the young officer mounted the most magnificent horse he’d ever seen – an Arabian stallion the color of gleaming rust with a long mane and arching tail. Where Capt. Santana presented himself a humble man, the stallion flaunted its superiority. Snorting at François’ donkey only generated a bored glare in return.

Several weeks later, Capt. Santana began a tour of the island, Casa de St. Nazaire being his first stop on the way to the Bay of El Gulfo on the island’s western side. Clearing the trees before crossing the stream, he stopped to let his eyes feast upon the meadow’s beauty and serenity. The hacienda seemed to grow from a shear, black volcanic cliff and surrounded by a sea of emerald grass and trees. Although modest in appearance, the place held a regal splendor worthy of nobility. However awestruck he was with the manor, he was more taken by the beauty of the woman seated on the shaded porch.

Having come from a family close to the Spanish court, he was further surprised by his host and hostess’s dress. Attired in the loose, simple cotton garments of peasants and barefooted, they looked nothing more than rustics. However, the more he came to know François and Mariah, the more he respected their less formal and relaxed lifestyle — at least in this piece of heaven on El Hierro. He made it a point to become a frequent visitor.

Six months after arriving, Santana lead a beautiful, dappled gray stallion from the Arabian continent. Emerging from the forest and across the cold stream, he approached the hacienda. His horse’s neck arched as it trot, putting on a show.

Persons of our position, Don François, require more than a humble donkey for transportation, as splendid and reliable as they may be. I wish you to have this as a gift to celebrate our friendship. Unfortunately, its disposition will not condescend to draw a carriage, but you can ride alongside.

In a rare moment, François was speechless and overcome with surprise as he reached out a hand to stroke the warm, velvet nose, feeling the hot, moist air pass over his hand as it breathed out.

The creature with bright, flashing, black eyes and arching tail stood calmly, watching his new owner closely as he slid a hand over the smooth body. The muscles of the neck and chest were firm, the main exceptionally long and silky. Already saddled, Estavan handed the reins to François, expecting him to mount. He showed no inclination to do so.

Is there something wrong, Don François?

No. Oh, no. He is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Although he had seen such horses when the Fleurette visited some North African ports, this one’s’ elegance was mesmerizing.

I trained him myself. He is very smart with an unusually gentle heart. He just has an overabundance of pride.

Still, François hesitated. Being a member of an important French family, as he lead everyone to believe, horsemanship would have been part and partial of his education. François feared few things in life. Standing in front of a canon with a lit fuse and getting upon such a powerful creature fit into the same category.

I have a confession to make. Only you will know, other than my family. When I was very young, I was thrown to the ground. The animal was not to blame. It was startled, but I have harbored a fear of these beautiful animals ever since. I never learned to ride, François explained in a hushed voice. "However, perhaps it is time to put childish fears aside. Will you teach me how to manage?’

Estavan was surprised, and then excited. It would be my honor, Don François, discreetly, of course.

The two spent much of that day riding about until François and the stallion became comfortable with one another. By the end of the week, no one would guess the urchin from St. Nazaire had not been educated an expert horseman from childhood. François was now provided not only more appropriate transportation for a person of his stature, but also great joy. His donkey took advantage of the change and rolled in the grass to his great pleasure.

Three months later, another ship arrived with a special cargo — for Mariah — her own matching mare François purchased. Estavan delighted training this Arabian as well, not just for riding, but for something else, resulting from a conversation the two friends had over a glass of Madeira at the Conquistador Hostel.

She will undoubtedly enjoy riding by my side; however, my dear wife is forever getting with child. Perhaps a carriage would be in order, François said.

I totally agree, Estavan said.

Have you considered the cause of her on-going condition? Señora Cayo, the hostel proprietor, asked, joining the conversation as was her tendency.

I have wondered greatly about that, Señora.

Most likely staying too long on the beach at your little cove late into the night, she countered. François choked on a swallow of wine. Clearly, she and Mariah had been talking.

You are probably right. That is something we must stop.

The three stared at one another briefly, and then said in unison, No, and erupting into laughter.

Señora Cayo, a plump ball of joviality, bounced from one table to another. Dispensing wit, wisdom, or conversation, she never missed a customer or the opportunity to turn an extra sale and collect what was due. Widowed, she arrived on El Hierro with a babe, coming from parts unknown, and purchased the hostel. How a woman came by such a sizable sum of money, no one inquired, as if they would receive a straight answer. François recognized the Cayo name but discreetly said nothing. Many people came to El Hierro to make a new life.

When the laughter faded, François asked, Tell me, Señora Cayo, do you know anyone on El Hierro capable of building a carriage worthy of my Mariah?

As a matter of fact, I do. There is a livery near the wharf with a crescent moon. There you will find an old man who now spends his days whittling scrimshaw. He is called Renaldo. I have seen his work, and it is very good. Perhaps he will undertake your commission.

The following morning François rode to the wharf area and found Renaldo as described. A withered prune, he sat on an empty keg, deeply engrossed in the delicate work of carving a piece of whalebone. There was something familiar about him. Not far away, currying a horse, was the boy rescued from the bullies. He’d not changed, still dirty, and apparently wearing the same, soiled garment, a djellaba, the long, nightgown-like covering of Arabs.

After explaining his needs, the old man stroked the white stubble on his weathered chin then agreed. Come back in one month. Taking a purse of coins without looking inside, he continued carving.

François’ trips to Valverde became more regular, often twice a month, as developing his land into a productive plantation required more things from Spain. A month after contracting for the carriage, he was speaking with a shipping agent when the boy from the stable approach and stood quietly to one side. He obviously had a message. François concluded his arraignments and turned to him.

Master Renaldo of the Crescent Moon wishes to see Don François, he said. Clearly of Arabian descent, there was no accent as might be expected. Judging him not more than eleven or twelve, he was much like François, forced to be older by circumstance.

Appearing dustier than the ground he trod, François followed him to the rear of the stable where the old man sat as when last seen, still whittling a piece of bone. Sitting on a keg nearby, François waited to be recognized.

Ye asked me to build a carriage for yer lady, the old man finally