The Second Son

“Yes.”

“With a boy too young for a rifle?”

“Yes.”

“Then we eat and sleep, and I come for you later.”

At just after 1 a.m. the man shook Hoffner awake. They had laid a straw mattress by the trough, and the smell of garlic and chicken fat was still thick in the air. A dog or goat lay sleeping under the table, and Hoffner looked up to see the man and his son already with their rifles slung across their backs. The man waited until Hoffner was sitting. He then held out a small pistol to him.

“I have my own,” Hoffner said. His hand was throbbing.

“I’ll take it,” said Mila. She was standing somewhere behind the man.

Hoffner looked over. He hadn’t heard her get up. They had slept. There had been no questions last night. She had given him that.

She was in trousers and had borrowed a shoulder wrap from the mother.

The man led them to the back room. His wife was sitting on the bed with the two girls, each in a long nightshirt. The mother’s hair was down across her chest, and she looked much younger. She held out her arms and the father nodded the boy to her, but the boy shook his head. The father reached over, took the boy by the shirt, and pushed him to his mother. There were no tears as she held him, and the boy finally wrapped his arms around her. He then kissed his sisters and stepped back. Hoffner looked away as the boy ran his sleeve across his eyes. The father leaned in and kissed his daughters and his wife. The wife said something too low to be heard, and the father kissed her again and then stepped over to the window. He peered out and climbed through.

He led them across a field and into a gathering of trees. Hoffner smelled the horses before he saw them, two deep brown colts tied to a tree and gnawing at the grass. Each had a blanket where a saddle should have been, but at least they had bits and reins. Mila ran her hand along the nose of the first and then quickly pulled herself up. Hoffner found a stump and brought himself up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed himself into the shallow of her back as she took the horse deeper into the trees. The moon followed them through the branches, and Hoffner let himself find sleep.

They were on an incline of high grass and boulders when first light came. The horses had proved more than worthy, a steady canter for much of the night. No one had said a word. Now it was little more than a walk, the horses’ nostrils heavy with breath and their hides moist and glistening.

The trees had thi

Badajoz appeared across a valley as they crested the hill. Red tile roofs climbed haphazardly from the banks of a river and settled at the top of a hill, where a wide wood stretched up, then down another slope. Two stone towers, the color of wet sand, edged themselves beyond the tree line, no match for ca

The aeroplanes had already done their damage. Sections of the outer wall lay in rubble, with hastily positioned sandbags and trucks at the breaches. Roofs throughout had been torn away, while streams of smoke spooled up into the air. The father pointed to a larger cloud rising from a distant hill. It was from the east.

“Lobon or Guadajira,” he said. Hoffner imagined these were towns on the other side of the river. “They’re leaving nothing behind.” The man looked down into the valley. “It’s quiet. No aeroplanes. It means they’ll be here this morning. From the south. We need to cross.”

He led them down the path and spurred the horses to give what little they had left. The grass gave way to low shrubs, and the horses snorted as the ground grew more uneven. The smell of burned wood and gunpowder filled the air. At the bridge, not a single soldier was standing guard.

“There’s no reason,” the father said, as if reading Hoffner’s thoughts. “Yague and his Africans will be coming from the other side. If they take the city, we’ll need to defend this.”

They were on the bridge when the sound of a solitary motor stopped them. Instantly, the father brought them back down and pressed them close to the first of the stone stanchions.

They all peered up, waiting to see the aeroplanes. Instead, the echo grew louder off the water, and they turned to see the little Ford from Toledo driving through the gate. The car bounced its way across the bridge, until the thick-bearded captain at the wheel saw them and pulled to a stop. The father led the horses back onto the bridge, and the captain cut the engine.

“Salud,” the captain said.

“Salud.”

“I was wondering where those horses had gotten to.” It was the same easy voice from last night.

“My friend here was wondering the same about his car.”

It was a good answer. The captain nodded. “Two thousand from Madrid have come down to defend the city. Militia and Guardia. They’re setting up barricades.”

“It’s quiet.”

“The last of the aeroplanes came an hour ago.” The captain opened the door and stepped out. He turned toward the city and waved his hands above his head. A mirror glinted from somewhere on the wall, and the captain brought his hands down. “They’ll let you in the gate.”

“They would have let us in anyway.”

“Yes,” said the captain, getting back in the car, “but now you won’t waste so much time shouting up from the bridge.” He closed the door. “You choose to go in, it’s no coming out until it’s done. You know that.”

“So there’s a chance we’ll be coming out?”

The captain waited and then looked at the boy. “Your rifle is clean?”

The boy nodded.

“Good.”

The father said, “And they’ve brought guns from Madrid?”

“They have the high ground. It should be enough.” The captain looked at Hoffner. “You know how this might go, friend, and still you feel the need to get through.”

Hoffner said nothing.

“I’ve heard the stories of Coria,” the captain said. “The prison fortress. Terrible things.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner.

“Badajoz isn’t a place to find revenge for what they did.”

“I’m not looking for it.”

“Maybe revenge isn’t such a bad thing to be looking for.” The captain turned to Mila. He seemed to want to say something. Instead, he started the engine. “I’ll see you inside the walls.” He put the car in gear and headed off.

There was no escaping the silence. The streets stood empty, save for the occasional grind of a truck or a voice rising from somewhere behind the stones and brick. The horses moved slowly. Twice Hoffner saw young children-tears ru

Hoffner heard muffled laughter and peered down an alleyway. Two men, old and unshaven, sat on stools in the shadows, a wooden crate between them. They were drunk. Their heads rested back against the stone of the building. One was humming something low. The other looked over. For some reason he nodded. The man coughed and laughed again. Hoffner nodded back.

“This isn’t their fight,” said the father. “They’ve had theirs. At least they know it.”