AN: As promised, this is the second chapter I publish at the same time as the previous one. Enjoy!

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Diego spent the entire night swimming, following the stars to orientate himself. By morning, he was exhausted, barely able to keep afloat. Had it not been for some Frenchmen, he would have certainly drowned. In fact, when they pulled him to the boat, for a few moments, they believed he had.

"What day is it?" he asked as he stopped coughing up some of the water he had taken in.

"The first of June," one of the men who had fished him out replied.

"1813?"

"1813.

"It's truly been five years then…" Diego muttered, just as the cannons from the Chateau D'If resounded.

The men glanced at each other, for they knew very well what that meant, just as they easily reached the conclusion that they had just fished out of the waters an escaped convict. On the other hand, being outlaws themselves, they were not particularly inclined to give the young man to justice, even if there was a chance that they might cash some reward on him.

In exchange for keeping his secret, though, they forced Diego to join them. He was given new clothes, had most of his long, black beard and hair cut to make him look decent again, then given a bucket and water, and asked to swab the decks, wash their clothes, help with cooking, and do whatever other menial job nobody else wanted to do. About a week later, after he jumped overboard to save a fallen sailor, they also decided he could help them more than by doing the most tedious of jobs on the ship.

So, they started teaching him how to sail. He learned how to tie knots nobody could untie; how to keep his balance while walking on the crosstrees; how to climb up to the crow's nest and come down by the use of a rope. They also taught him about cannons, firearms, and target shooting, and much about their trade, including their secret locations and ways to avoid being caught in the act.

"Why are you so keen on returning to land?" The captain of the ship, a man called Clisson, asked him one early morning when he saw Diego glancing longingly toward the French shore.

Since he had joined the crew, the young man they knew as Sebastian – Diego having refused to tell them his true name – had proven a fast learner and more than a little resourceful, having helped them navigate some rather sinuous situations that almost caused them to be caught by the coast guard quite a few times.

"I have been away from it for too long a time," he answered.

"There is nothing but death and destruction out there. Napoleon and his men proved as cruel and unjust as the nobles and the kings the Revolution beheaded." The man said. "Do you think any of us would do what we do if things were different?"

"You lost someone?"

"We all lost. Some, to those savages led by Robespierre – may he rot in hell – some, in the wars the Emperor has started. I was luckier than most on this ship. There was no one for me to lose…"

"I'm sorry to hear it… I, myself, have no idea who I might have lost by now… I haven't seen my family in over seven years." Diego said. "I don't know if my father is alive if my ward recovered his hearing, or if the woman I love is still waiting for me. For all they know, I'm dead…"

"Why were you locked away? Were you an insurgent? Fought against the Emperor?"

"No. I never was one to meddle in politics. I just wanted to be a scholar. Learn as much as I could before returning home, in the colonies, so that I might help improve life for the people there."

"Then why were you in that prison?"

"I am still not sure," Diego replied.

The man took pity on him not long after that conversation and, deciding he had earned his release from their service; about four months after having fished Diego out of the sea, the captain gave him some silver coins and left him on a beach, just north of the Spanish border.

"If you ever decide to rejoin our crew, you know how to find us!" the man told him before returning to the boat that was to get him back onboard.

"Indeed, I do!" the caballero said with a smile and a wave of his hand. "Be safe, my friends!"

ZZZ

From where the smugglers had left him, Diego made his way south, toward Barcelona. He made it there in a week, traveling for most of the night and finding deserted places to sleep during the day, dodging Spanish guerrillas and French soldiers on the way to reaching his destination.

His French having become quite perfect after his time with the abbot and the smugglers, passing himself for a Frenchman in search of work, he found his way to what had once been the home of his best friend from university, Emmanuel dos Santos. He found the place ransacked and half-burned down. His friend's uncle, who had raised him since he was 14 had been killed by the French, while the man, himself, had not been seen in years, and no one knew his whereabouts.

"It's like looking for the needle in the haystack," the caballero muttered as he considered his next steps. He needed someone he could trust in order to recover the treasure the abbot had left him, and the only one he could trust was Emmanuel.

Almost out of money, he decided to find employment, but there was no employment to find, no matter how much he searched, at least not for unskilled laborers, seeing how he didn't want to let others know of his true breeding. The war and famine had devastated the local economy, and people were hardly making it from one day to the next.

Resigned, he decided to head towards Madrid.

He was about five miles out of town when he stumbled upon an unconscious man, lying across the road, and he hurried to help him, soon discovering a gunshot wound in his upper back. Looking around first, he carried the man behind some boulders concealing them from those passing on the main road, then made a fire to heat his blade, before using it to extract the bullet. The injured man remained unconscious during most of that procedure, waking up only once before fainting again. After he finished, Diego used the same knife to close the wound by burning it, this time fully waking up his patient.

"No!" the man said in perfect French. "Don't kill me! Take everything, but leave my life!"

"I'm not going to harm you in any way, Monsieur" Diego replied in French. "I found you injured and extracted the bullet and stopped the bleeding. I have no wish to see you harmed, nor do I want to take anything from you."

It was at that point that the man dared turn around.

"Not that there's anything to take… I apologize for the pain I caused you." Diego continued. "I fear it was necessary. You were quite lucky, though. I expect you'll soon make a full recovery."

The man kept staring at him dumbfounded, so Diego just smiled innocently.

"You saved me? Why?" the stranger eventually asked.

"You needed help," came his answer.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I fear not. And I don't care, Monsieur. If you are feeling up to it, I can accompany you back to the main road, then we can each head our own way."

"You're a doctor?"

"Not exactly. But I do know some medicine."

"We could use you…"

"Use me?" Diego inquired, becoming rather nervous.

"Yes." As soon as he said that, the man whistled. Nothing happened for a few moments, then, soon enough, hoofbeats were heard and a brown horse appeared as if out of nowhere.

The man headed for the horse under Diego's inquiring glance and reached in his saddlebags to take out a gun. With a fast move, he directed it toward the young Californian.

"I do not want to seem ungrateful, Monsieur, but my friends and I could really use a doctor," the man said. "I would ask you to mount my horse instead of me, but I fear I am injured."

Diego inwardly cursed his luck but allowed himself to be directed south by the man he had saved, who had meanwhile mounted and continued to aim his gun at him.

"Where do you intend to take me, Monsieur?" the caballero inquired.

"Señor," the man corrected.

"You're Spanish?" Diego continued to ask in French.

"Yes. But I do speak your language rather well, don't I," the man asked. "A useful skill to have in these times."

"You are Catalan?"

"Born and raised. But my allegiance is to Spain, if that is what you are thinking of asking next."

"So is mine, Señor," Diego said in Spanish.

"Even better, then!"

A few miles away, they entered a ravine and, as they made their way through it, men started appearing on both sides of the hills.

"Antonio, is that you?" A man asked at some point.

"It's me, amigos."

"I saw you killed," another said.

"Only injured. And, as luck has it, I found us a doctor."

"I'm not a doctor," Diego pointed out.

"Could have fooled me!" came the reply. "He can take out bullets." The man then told his companions, many of whom gathered to receive them at the entrance to a cave.

To his surprise, one of them seemed more than a bit familiar to Diego. "Emmanuel?" he couldn't help but asking.

The young man glanced at him, then started looking more carefully.

"Dios!" he exclaimed. "Diego? Is that you? You're alive?"

"Emmanuel!" the caballero uttered, happy to finally see a familiar face and inwardly wondering how was it that it was precisely that of the man he had been looking for.

Moments later, the two friends were embracing each other.

"What happened to you? Where on earth have you been all these years?" Emmanuel asked.

"It's a long story, my friend. But, first, do you have any news of my family?"

"Not exactly news, and nothing good, I fear. After you failed to return to the university that day you went missing, your grandfather and I spent days searching for you, until some French soldiers tried to have me arrested. I escaped, but I could no longer return to the dorms. Not long after that, as I was hiding, news reached me that my uncle, who had raised me after my parents' death, had been arrested, so I headed for Barcelona. Alas, I arrived too late. All I had left when I got here was a new grave and the remains of a burned-down house.

I did not go back to Madrid after that, but I did write to your grandfather, and a servant replied that he had died. It was a heart attack, if what he said is true, one that happened during the visit of a young officer who had asked to talk to him. His last words, as per the letter, were, "Diego is no traitor." I don't know what that man had told him, but I believe he died of grief."

His friend nodded. "A young officer…" Diego said, a mixture of sadness and anger in his voice.

"I asked about him, but the servant never knew who he was, and only remembered he was almost as tall as you and wore a similar mustache. She also said that he had informed her that her master was unwell as he came downstairs, and seemed almost glad about it."

The Californian said nothing, just clenched his fists till his nails dug into the flesh.

"I was sorry to hear about your uncle, Emmanuel."

"As I am sorry to give you the news of your grandfather's death. Darn those traitors! May they rot in hell! My uncle was not even part of the resistance. They just executed him for being a Spanish officer. He was retired, Diego… When they set the house on fire, I lost even the couple of portraits I had of my parents and him. There's nothing left but my own faint memory of them.

"I did take some revenge, though. I set two of their garrisons on fire, even shot a few of those bastards. Since then, I've been on the run…"

"I, on the other hand, spent my days wishing I could run, even if only so that I might see the clear blue sky again."

"Join us for a meal, and tell me everything!" Emmanuel said, guiding him inside the cave as his companions followed them dumbfounded.