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  When they part again, blood is beginning to show on the feathers of El Caballero. His step is not so sure and he shows signs of weakening. The sand is not halfway down the neck of the hourglass when El Conquistador, seeing an opening, leaps high in the air and brings his spurs straight down into the back of El Caballero.

  The Cowboy is done. He staggers, croaks out a last crow of defiance, and then topples over. He tries to rise, but he cannot. He lowers his head and dies. There is a great roar from the crowd. Ole! El Conquistador! Ole!

  The victorious cock is held aloft and paraded around the ring.

  "It was a good, clean kill," says a man near to me, plainly an aficionado of this sport. He is well dressed in a white linen suit and matching hat. "It was a thing of beauty."

  "Yes," says another. "And El Caballero, he fought well, and died well."

  However well he died, the fallen warrior's dead and bloody body is picked up by his owner with, I think, a certain amount of tenderness and taken back through those same doors he had come through alive not ten minutes ago. I go to collect my winnings.

  I hand over my chit and I get back my original two pesos and a peso and a half to boot. Hmmmm. Not so much as even money and not very good odds. El Conquistador is quite the formidable chicken, it seems. We shall see.

  As the next match is being set up, I cast my eyes about the place. The swells seem to prefer the balcony—there are several small groups of women seated there, their dark eyes looking out over the tops of veils—and many welldressed men, some of whom are soldiers and some of whom are naval officers. I do not see Juan Carlos Cisneros, which is good.

  Down here below, however, I see a much more diverse mix of people. Many men, of course, in various kinds of dress—planters, laborers, and free blacks, too—but many women as well. Some are with husbands and family, but some are plainly working girls. I also see a bunch of Spanish sailors leaning over the edge of the pit, and plainly well into their cups. They wear caps that have a headband that stretches across their foreheads, and stitched on that headband are the words San Cristobal.

  How convenient. Well, I'm supposed to be a spy, so I might as well get to it.

  "Lads," I say to my mates, "I'm going to sit out the next match and go over to talk to those sailors. Keep an eye on me, and if I draw my mantilla back up about my head, come and claim me. All right?"

  "But why?" asks Tink.

  "Because, Seaman Tinker, it might be handy to know when the San Cristobal will sail again and maybe cause us trouble. I'm sure those on the Dolphin will want to know, as they might have to fight that ship soon."

  "Ah," says Tink, nodding. I pull my mantilla from my head and let it fall on my shoulders, thereby branding myself as a bad girl, and then I head off. I wriggle through the crowd and plant myself in the middle of the Spanish sailors, and with my palm modestly to my lips, I pretend to be surprised at finding myself in their manly midst.

  I put the big eyes on the one who seems to be the leader of the group and say, "Cuánto lo siento, señores, but I seem to have lost my way."

  "Do not be sorry, señorita," he says, glancing at my uncovered head and winking broadly at his comrades. "Your way is not lost. You have come to just the right place. I have money and I have time and I have ... desires."

  For a common seaman, this one is pretty smooth.

  "Oh?" I purr in return. "And what brings you brave sailor boys to shore?"

  They glance at one another, sly grins all around. The glib one puts his arm around my waist and says, "We came here to see you, mi querida. You and your many sisters." That bit of wit is met with snorts of laughter. Men, I swear, no matter what the country, no matter what the culture.

  "But I do not often take up with sailor men, as they are never here for very long and they break my poor heart when they leave."

  "Do not worry, little one. We have plenty of time to attend to matters of love. My name is Eduardo Santoro and I have knowledge that the great and glorious ship San Cristobal will not move its fat ass for at least two weeks. There are repairs to be made and the Captain must tend to his mistress." More snickers. These lads have had quite a bit to drink.

  Well, that was easy enough, I'm thinking. I must be becoming quite the spy. Mr. Peel would be proud, I think. But, time to go now, girl. I flip my mantilla back up on my head and say, "I regret that I am here with others, Eduardo, and so I must—"

  "No, no, mi corazón, you are now with me," he says, not taking his arm from my waist nor his hot eyes from mine. Actually, he is not bad-looking...

  Davy and Tink appear at my side, looking hard at the Spanish sailors.

  "Come on, Jacky, let's go," urges Davy, grabbing my arm and pulling me away. I'm a little amazed at just how hard he can look.

  Suspecting that knives will soon be drawn, I pull the fuse on the situation by laying my hand on Eduardo's arm and saying, "I will be at Café Americano tonight. I've heard that everyone in Havana goes to Ric's. Will I see you there as well?"

  Eduardo relaxes, taking his arm from my waist and casting an equally hard look at Davy. "You will," he answers, and turns away.

  Davy, Tink, and I go back to our former spot at the rail to watch the final matches. Davy says, "Why'd you tell him that? You lookin' for more trouble?"

  I sigh and say, "Davy, the San Cristobal is a great danger to us. The more we know about her, the better. These men can tell us. That is why. Now, let's watch."

  The next fight is between two novice birds who fight to a draw. When the hourglass sand runs out, Red Sash calls out, "Fight over!" so the handlers rush to collect their birds, both bloody but still living. One is declared the winner, but both will live to fight another day. I lost money on that one.

  The last battle is a mismatch. The first bird, El Matador, is big, strong, and plainly the veteran of many a fight. The crowd roars at the sound of his name. El Matador! El Matador! The other bird is named Pepino, and he does not last for even a minute before he lies dead on the sand with El Matador strutting around his body.

  The crowd pours out of the place and it is soon empty. I linger by the ring as the handler of Pepino picks up his dead warrior and heads for the door.

  "Señor!" I call out, pointing to the fallen gladiator. "Cuánto para el pollo?"

  He looks at me and then down at the cock in his hand.

  "How much for a dead chicken? You can have him."

  "But with the spurs, Señor?"

  "Ah," he says."Un peso, then."

  "Done," I say, and fish out the coin and give it to him. He hands me the corpse of the gamecock and I take it by the neck. The silver spurs jingle about the bird's limp ankles.

  "Let's go, lads," I say. "Back to the Nancy B."

  "You are one weird bint, Jacky," says Tink, shaking his head.

  "We shall rest up, and tonight we shall go to Ric's Café Americano," I say, unperturbed. "They say that everyone goes there."

  Chapter 25

  It is the morning of the second day of our Havana visit. I am in the chicken coop area, attended by a very curious Joannie and Daniel. I have taken two short pieces of batten and fastened them together in the shape of a cross and nailed it to the tip of a yard-long, cut-off broomstick. To it I will now tie the body of the recently deceased gamecock Pepino.

  Higgins looks on, not at all in approval. I sense his disdain and say, "Hey, the renowned and very beloved General George Washington liked his cockfights. I hear he even bred a line of gamecocks on his farm."

  "A true Southern gentleman."

  "And President Jefferson enjoys the sport, too, so there."

  "I hear there are many things President Jefferson enjoys," sniffs Higgins.

  "Don't believe everything you read in the papers, Higgins," I sniff back at him. Thomas Jefferson has been accused of fathering some children with one of his slaves. I don't believe it, but many do. Amy Trevelyne for one, but then she's always been ready to believe the worst of anyone, especially me. Plus, she's a Federalist in her political thin
king, and Mr. Jefferson sure ain't one of those.

  "There, that's done," I say with some satisfaction. I have tied the dead bird to the cross such that his wings are outspread and his head is held up by a piece of string around his neck. His legs swing free, but no longer wear the sharp silver spurs. "Let's get on with it. Joannie, Daniel, shoo the hens and peeps back into their coop and close the door. Leave El Gringo Furioso out here."

  They do it and soon my fighter is alone in the pen, strutting about and cocking an eye at me—an eye that I swear has a question in it: What is going on here, foolish but big, featherless thing?

  "That is what you have given him as a nom de guerre?" says Higgins, more a statement than a question.

  "Yes. I thought it had a nice fierce ring to it. And being he was from Boston and all—remember, it was you who bought him when you were bringing on supplies for our voyage—I felt he should have a North American touch to his name. Yanqui Doodle didn't have quite the right fearsome threat in it, nor did Boston Blackie."

  "I can imagine what Mistress Pimm would say about all this. The word unseemly comes readily to mind."

  "Just about everything I do Mistress finds unseemly."

  "I cannot imagine why."

  "And look, Higgins, this chicken has a choice—the fight ring or the pot. I know what I'd say were I in his place. Plus, there are some pretty sweet prizes for the winners. El Matador won a purse of one hundred and fifty pesos yesterday. That's not chicken feed, pardon the pun."

  "There is no pardon for puns."

  "We've got payrolls to meet. I played a short set at Ri-cardo's Café Americano last night and got some good tips, and Ric liked my act, so I'm gonna do a full concert tonight. It'll help, but it won't be enough," I say, and ready my chicken-on-a-cross, which I've kept out of El Gringo's sight up to now. "So if my little gladiator here can add something to our coffers, then I will bless him for it."

  "And if not?"

  "Then he will die an honorable death. So be it."

  I bring my decoy around and put it full in Gringo's face. I shake the broomstick back and forth, making the dead chicken's feet, legs, and head fly about in a very realistic way. Visibly shocked, Gringo squawks and takes a few steps back. Then he goes completely berserk.

  He flies up in the air as far as his wings will take him and comes down on the intruder with beak, spurs, and claws, shrieking out his fury.

  "Whoa!" says Daniel. "He's a fighter, he is."

  "I'll say!" echoes Joannie. "Go get him, Gringo!"

  I withdraw the stick and Gringo struts around the ring, looking very, very pleased with himself. I give him a few moments of sinful pride at the retreat of his enemy and then shove the decoy against him again, and again he rises in anger and attacks, crowing for all he is worth, his neck feathers fully lifted in don't-mess-with-me-'cause-I'm-one-big-bad-rooster fighting fashion.

  "Now let's try it with the spurs," I say, and pull the decoy out and hide it behind the stove. "Come here, you." I reach in and scoop up the banty.

  "Ouch. Daniel, hold his head." I'm sure those pecks on my wrist are affectionate, but I want them to stop, anyway. "Joannie, hand me those scissors."

  Daniel's hands gently envelop Gringo's head, rendering him sightless, which is good 'cause he ain't gonna want to watch this. Taking the scissors, I quickly snip off his natural spurs from the backs of his legs.

  Squawk!

  "I know you didn't like that, Gringo," I say by way of apology. I tie the shiny and very sharp spurs on to his legs where the old ones had been. "But I think you'll like these much better. Besides, you oughta be glad I ain't gonna cut off your comb and wattles..." I decided to let him fight in all his manly glory, not having the heart—or the stomach—to do that particular job. And I don't think it really makes all that much difference. "There. All done. Now let's get you back in the pen. So, how do they feel, boyo? Pretty good, eh?"

  Grudgingly forgiving the indignity he has just suffered at the hands of the big, featherless things, he tries an experimental strut. Then he bends his head down, sees the spur bindings, and begins pecking at them.

  "Quick. Give me the decoy. Let's show El Gringo just what he can do with those new spurs, before he takes 'em off."

  Daniel hands me the stick and I shove poor limp Pepino back into the fray and El Gringo Furioso comes on furiously in a black blur of slashing spurs, ripping claws, and stabbing beak.

  "Whoa!" says Daniel. "I think he gets it!"

  "I'll say," says Joannie.

  "And I believe I shall leave you to your ... sport," says Higgins. "After supervising the loading of the water and other supplies, I shall see you later for a tour of the city, Miss? You did request that, I recall."

  "Yes, Higgins, and thank you," I say, turning my attention back to the matter at hand.

  El Gringo attacks again, and bloody streaks begin to appear on the decoy's breast, then more on its wings. One slash of Gringo's spurs cuts through the string holding the right wing of the dead bird to the cross and it flops down in seeming defeat. I decide to end it there for today and allow Pepino, now doubly dead, to lie down before the triumphant Gringo. Gringo himself casts a contemptuous eye at his fallen foe and strides off. I take the opportunity to pull the shredded decoy rooster from the pen and stand up.

  "Auntie!" cries Joannie, and she and Daniel rise from the coop and run to the door. "You came back!"

  I look up and see Jemimah entering the galley. She wears a new dress and kerchief and carries the largest frying pan I think I've ever seen.

  "You two get away and let Jemimah walk," she says. "Dan'l, I see a chicken there that needs guttin' and cleanin'. Save the heart and liver and get it in the gumbo pot. Joan-nie, put on a pot to boil so's you can pluck him." She gets to the stove and lays the pan upon it.

  Then she looks over at me, and I say, "I'm glad you're back, Jemimah."

  "Huh! They got ten t'ousand Nigras over there and they don't need another old black woman, no, they don't."

  I had a suspicion Jemimah would be back, 'cause I had noticed she'd left her apron hanging on a hook next to the stove, which apron she now takes down and wraps around herself. I had the feeling that she went off just to prove it to herself that she actually could. And now she knows.

  "Also I gotta keep an eye on these two young'uns else they gonna go bad, you know they will," she continues. "And you, girl, you could stand some watchin', too. Here I come back and find you crucifyin' chickens. What's with that?"

  I still have Pepino-on-a-stick in my hand.

  "This look like some of that hoodoo—that conjure stuff. Shouldn't be messin' with that, you."

  I hand the dead chicken off to Daniel, who unfastens the strings, takes a kitchen knife from the rack, and begins dressing the bird. Joannie shoves a few more sticks of wood into the stove to get it going good and puts the kettle of water on top.

  Jemimah steps away from the stove and goes to the other end of the mess table. I get the feeling she wants to talk with me out of the kids' hearing, so I follow her.

  "Nice dress," I say.

  "Yup. Bought me some nice stuff, stayed in a good hotel, had me a fine bath with perfumed soap, and ate some good food that was cooked by someone other than me for a change."

  "So you like the high life, Jemimah? So do I. Stick with us and maybe you'll enjoy some more of it."

  She considers for a moment and then says, "Right, it's fine. But that ain't it, girl. That ain't it at all." She pauses. "I know you lookin' for gold down there under that water."

  "That's right, Jemimah. I hope you didn't say anything about that when you were ashore."

  "One t'ing a slave knows is when to keep that slave's mouth shut. I ain't said nothin' to nobody."

  "That's good, Jemimah, 'cause there're ears everywhere and some people around are suspicious about us and what we're doin'."

  "You find that gold, what I get? 'Fore you said somethin' about shares..."

  "Right. Here's how it works: After a voyage, w
e total up what we have made and split it up this way—Faber Shipping, which is me, gets half right off the top. I gotta pay for the upkeep of the boat and buying supplies and meet the payroll for the crew's regular pay. Plus I gotta pay my lawyer who, because of my ways, is generally kept pretty busy. The other half of the take is divided up into shares. Mr. Higgins gets three shares and Mr. Tanner two. One share for each for the seamen, a quarter share for each of the kids, and a half share for you. After you've been with us for a while, you'll be moved up to a full share."

  "So if the boat get a t'ousand, I get..."

  "At a half share..." I say, calculating in my head, "about thirty dollars, above your usual pay."

  "Umm ... And how much you t'ink is down there?"

  "A lot more than a thousand, Jemimah," I say. "A lot more ... 'Course King George gets first dibs 'cause his men is sorta in charge of this expedition. But there should be enough to go around."

  "Umm. Why this King git you to do all this—a little scrap of a girl like you what should be fussin' about in crinolines and tryin' to git herself married off?"

  " 'Cause he'll hang me and cause trouble for my friends if I don't doit."

  "Huh! Caught 'tween the Devil and the whippin' post, you."

  "Just so, Jemimah."

  "All right," she says, turning to go back to the stove. "I'll go with that. Let's see what happens."

  "You want the money to buy other fine things, Jemimah?" I don't blame her for that. I like fine things, too.

  She pauses on her way back to her duties. "No, that ain't it," she says. "If I get enough money put t'gether I want to buy back my kids. As many of 'em as I can find. And the only way I see to do that is t'rough you."

  Oh.

  "All right, you two," Jemimah says, back at her station in front of the stove, "you got that chicken ready?"

  "Oh, yes, Auntie, now tell us how Brother Rabbit got out of that pot!" demands Joannie.

  The warrior Pepino has been stripped of his worldly raiment and has been cut up and put in the gumbo pot. Least he didn't suffer the indignity of having his lifeless corpse dragged three times around the walls of Troy behind the chariot of his killer, Achilles, like poor Hector. But in the way of indignities, it was close. Sic transit gloria mundi.