Chapter 17

There were gunners in the service, of his most catholic majesty. Who had studied the works of Euclid, since they had received the host. The fathers of the Artillerymen, had learned there trade, against the moors.  They slept and ate and prayed beside their guns, and not one of these men, no matter the skill and arts of the craft of gunnery could have caused such an explosion

The secret of gunpowder may have been reduced to a science.  Yet fear, the same green and yellow fear that, had gripped the wily Ithacan, could reduce towns, without the need for a baggage train.

Eduardo, had at least the sense to draw his sword, and beckon his chief back, another one of his men, fetched a horse. The villagers, were shouting and screaming. The children were now bawling. The ragged chorus of tears, and confusion performed with all its might.

The hens could smell the fox.                            

The women folk, were gathering up blankets. As much food, as they could carry. The men, were shouting at their wives, and children. Others with more presence of mind were fetching their nets and fishing lines. One of the villagers, blasphemed, and snatched a the flask of wine.  One fool, stood as still, as statue of a saint. The Horses, some people were looking at the horses.  Desperate thoughts, having invaded their minds Horses promised escape

Hughs hand was on his hilt.

``Hold!

``It’s the Henri!’’

``Hold, it’s the Henri. Look dam your eyes. Look you villains, and scolds.’’

An older fisherman voice rasping, above the din, he pointed. It is the Henri, out of Buenos Aires.

You dogs. Look! Look!...

Another voice, confirmed the identity of the , approaching vessel  Something about the rigging of the Dom Henri revealed it nature and essence.  ``The Dom Henri ‘’was well known for its rigging. Apparently sailors, and fishermen, from Buenos Aires to Brest knew of the titled Henri because of its unique and wonderful rigging.  There motion was carried, by general acclamation.

 As did the hunchbacks of the town enjoy a similar celebrity to the ships of the Ocean

 Someone struck, a small boy, to ease their wounded pride. The babies were soothed, and people went back to their little homes. Eduardo sent the man, who faced with death had sought shelter in wine, back to his little shack after passing judgement on his character honour and parentage.

The old fisherman received the compliments of the aristocracy on his nerves, eyesight, and experience.

Wait, it was not a heretic ship, but was it friendly?  And would Juan know the difference...

It was out of his hands...He was impotent. No, worse than that he was a cuckold.

Last night he had won a ship. In fair fight too, but before the sun set on the day, he would lose his prize / His mind strode home, like a man, who had heard gossip about his household, outside the chapel or in a tavern  He would not stand for this. . .

Juan, what about Juan.  If he recognised, the ship as being Portugese, he might let his guard down, or maybe he might fight. Good for him, but Gabriella, would die, not yet a widow. She would be confined to a limbo in the spheres of Women

If the Portugese had wanted a war, they would have one. The port could burn. He would not stand for the slight. He would drive them into the sea! Those whores!

Curse the sons of whores. As a crab in the cook pot, The Son of the O Neill raged, and raged, as the long boat slipped away from the Dom Henri

Eduardo, had brought a musket, to the shore.  He was lighting the match.

The field glass, fetch the eye glass, man! Demanded Hugh, he took the musket,  and delunged into the air, hopefully, Juan would hear it.

The bell! the bell! He demanded of a fisherwoman, who dragged up her skirts , and ran.  The woman, had probably not run since, whatever fool had seeded her, had been caught  by her brothers, and marched to the chapel

Damn them!

They would not rob him of his prize!

Eduardo was back, with the eye glass. Come on, he shouted, at his servant.  What are you waiting for? The eye glass, was kept in a wooden box, which was stored in a leather pouch, this was belted  on to the saddle, of        his horse. It was the last thing that was brought out, of Hughs home, when he decided to go hunting, or to visit a client or friend, on the plains. It had cost, good money, in Seville. Two men, from Innsbruck, had ground the lenses. It had been commissioned before Christmas, and received at Pentecost,

Hugh grabbed,  his expensive imported tool from his sworn man’s hands, as if was a beer from a bar strumpets tray.

Hugh‘s soul would be in mortal danger if he blasphemed again  unless he mentioned it to his confessor, however he scorned the pleas of heaven, and his eyes scanned for the craft.

There was a woman on the quarterdeck, of the Henri, a blonde, he had seen her, the night of the fire..

No, before, that Antonio, had been escorting, him, she had fired the pistol that had saved, him from that madman, after the fire, and now she was here...

What was she doing on the Portuguese ship?

She was still beautiful; her hair was so blonde, so fair. She was wearing a sea cloak, even though the day, was warm enough for a siesta. Her gown was modest, but she stood out on the deck, like the morning star.

There, was a boat being disembarked, from the Portuguese ship,

 There was shouting, on the Portuguese ship, as men and boys clambered down the ropes, to the boat. The movements of the crew were smooth and routine they struck up a song, as they moved to the shore.

Some of the fishermen began to sing the song too, they, were muttering at Hugh and his men. To the lower, orders, the deeds of mighty men must be like watching a play, or at least a troupe of street actors

A rowboat, with its own figurehead, was an extravagance, Hugh was not sure, even the pope could afford such,

The boatmen had reached the shore, their chorus, stopped and their oars rose. Hugh, and his sworn men, were at the surfs edge, there muskets, had a match, and power. 

Monsieur je suis desole, la Mer, she smiled. She could have been a coquette, asking to be excused by her father, at a wedding. She almost blushed a little

Madame, responded, Hugh, and raised his hat, and bowed. One of the Portuguese, bowed, at Hugh, and got out of the boat, slowly, he left his sword, in the boat.

Hugh, passed the musket, to one of his men...

In the surf, they spoke, The Irlandessa and the Portugese