The San Sebastian Chronicles, Part XVII
And the road leads uphill.
“Ah, here we are,” I said, waving ahead. “Desotto! Desotto!”
We arrived at the junction, in a small wood at the edge of the fields we’d been jaunting through. He had three mules with him, loaded with supplies.
“Ah, Charlemagne, good to see you!”
“Charlemagne?” Johnny asked himself.
I shook hands with Desotto and introduced him to Gus.
Continued from…
“Johnny and Gus will be our extra muscle should we need it. But if anyone from the army asks, they are stretcher-bearers.”
“Got it.”
“How are we provisioned?” I asked. I had my mountaineering gear from home in a rucksack but otherwise was only lightly outfitted.
“Quite well, quite well,” said Desotto, patting a mule.
“Rifles?” I asked.
“Yes. Five.”
“Pistols?”
“One for you.”
“Shotguns?”
“Two.”
“Whiskey?”
“Two or three large bottles.”
“Amari?”
“Three or four or five.”
“Michelberg?”
“One. A fine vintage.”
“Wine?”
“Flagons.”
“Sparkling wine?”
“What is breakfast without it? Every variety!”
“Water?”
“There are rivers.”
We laughed.
“Cigars?”
“Many.”
“Cigarettes?”
“Many more.”
“Tents, ropes, and the rest?”
“Sufficient, I would hope.”
“Good. And what about our bugle boy?”
Desotto turned to the trees and shouted, “Tomasso, you have crapped enough. Be careful not to wipe your ass with poison oak!”
Tomasso came bouncing out of the woods. “Hello, sergente.” He reached out to shake my hand.
I stepped away, “Tomasso, I have encountered enough shit on the way here. Where is your bugle?”
He lit up. “It is in its case on the mule now, but I will have it across my back at all times once we get going.”
“And your trumpet?”
Desotto and I laughed.
“I only have a bugle, sergente. A trumpet would not carry far enough in these valleys. And to keep its pistons, valves, and springs clean would be most cumbersome in the field. I can explain — ”
“That is enough, Tomasso. You know how to fire a rifle?”
“Yes, sergente.”
“Good enough then.”
Johnny, stepped up to us and spoke, “Hey, sargentay. I suppose now’s as good a time as any to ask. Just where are we goin’? What about that monastery?”
“Uh, yes, sergente. I am at your service, of course, but might was enquire as to our destination?”
“It is the monastery of San Romedio. It is up in the mountains before us.”
I paused.
“It should be no more than two days’ walk. It might be into a third day before we arrive given the late hour now, but it should be a light duty, as I’ve said.”
Gus and Johnny leaned in, eyebrows up.
“And that is all for now. I have some business to attend to there. It is no big mystery, I just do not want to delve into it now. It doesn’t affect your duties in the slightest.”
They didn’t seem satisfied, but kept quiet, glancing at one another. I turned to Desotto, “So, good corporal, is it just up this road then? Our route?”
“Actually, sergente, I have heard of another way, one that will save us much time and effort?”
“You don’t say. Have you used it before?”
“No, sergente, but I have heard about it at the tavern in the village. I’ve gotten several assurances. Wait until you see it. By all accounts it is quite the thing.”
I looked at him quizzically. “Is it far?”
“It shouldn’t be, no. We will take this road up a bit and then turn off toward the mountain. I have detailed directions. Just a few hours off the road, but we will make up all that time and then some.”
“Very well, but I am a little uncertain of this way if you haven’t done it before. I’ll depend on you to guide us rightly, Desotto.”
“Of course! Do not worry. I am quite confident. I have spoken to people who have gone this way and I trust them. They’ve all assured me it is the new best way. But we should get going. We need to get there some time before dark. We will eat lunch on the way. And in that regard, a vendor passed a bit before you arrived.”
Desotto stepped back and pointed behind him. Down a slope, in a pool in a stream full of icy, glacial runoff, sat several large, brown bottles, bobbing in the babbles.
“Beer, Desotto?”
“Indeed.”
“Good man.” I turned to the two volunteers, or stretcher-bearers, as they now were. “Desotto has gotten us beer. A toast to our journey.”
“Well, shit. We’re off to a good start,” Johnny said through a grin.
Gus couldn’t help but smile widely himself. “I’d usually prefer sherry,” he chirped, “but given the warm weather, I’d say this is the perfect way to start our little adventure.”
I agreed. But first I proposed a prayer asking for the intercession of Saint Christopher, asking him to watch over us on our journey. The three Sebastianos among us bowed our heads and I recited the saint’s chaplet. Lord Gus bowed his head respectfully, but remained outside of our semicircle. Johnny didn’t ask any questions but looked around wide eyed and like he was about to whistle, as if he’d open the wrong door in the back of a disreputable tavern. He backed slowly away a step or two.
Upon the adjournment of our prayer, Tomasso was then sent to bring up the lagers, some of San Sebastian’s finest, Barnatzer. Desotto handed out thick sandwiches, and the five of us began our walk up the trail.
The pea-sized gravel upon which we’d been trouncing gave way to more of an acorn-sized variety as we started to gain elevation. The mules, tied together, wandered along side us, needing no guidance to follow the road, so our hands were free for bottles and bread. A certain breed of bee was drawn to the scent of our suds and a few of the buzzing apids danced happily around us as we began our ascent.
Desotto began to sing again the San Sebastian national anthem. Tomasso and I joined in. Johnny and Gus tried gamely to mouth along, adding their voices when they could guess a word or two.
Roman rival, Gothic foe / in high peaks hung, in valleys b’low
Her men gallant through cent’ries, their wives not their kin
The hale and fine-fettled o’ San Sebastian
Continued…
