The Iberian Flame

Chapter 27

On the road to Cadiz

The last miles from Jerez to Cadiz were a slow, grinding torment. Renzi was crammed next to a dust-smothered Dolores on the seat of a cart, Jago and the two servants packed in the rear with three others, part of the stream of refugees fleeing Madrid for the outer provinces.

Fortunately the encircling French had not troubled them but the carriage they’d taken to Toledo to recover Jago had been seized, and all they could find in the chaos was a country farm vehicle, now threading through the hostile mob. Ahead was the last range of hills above their destination.

Easing his aching limbs Renzi took in the passing countryside. The sight of Cadiz from the interior had been given to no one he knew and he tried to take an interest but there was nothing except olive groves, orange orchards and abandoned, crumbling farmsteads in the dry, ochre scrub.

He recollected hazily that Medina Sedonia must not be far from here, where the eponymous duke had retired after bringing the remnants of the Grand Armada straggling back, following their disastrous invasion attempt on Elizabeth’s England. The peace and loveliness must have been in his thoughts through the storm and bloodshed he’d endured, an impossibly remote dream that had finally firmed into a real presence.

Then Renzi’s eyes were caught by the scene opening up below, a long peninsula parallel with the coast, a close-packed city at its end enfolding a complex of inner harbours and settlements.

He breathed it in. Cadiz was of extraordinary antiquity – a thriving Phoenician trader a thousand years old in the time of Julius Caesar.

A fragment of Avienus came to mind:

Hic Gadir urbs est, dicta Tartessus prius;

Hic sunt column? pertinacis Herculis, Abila atque Calpe

The city Cadiz was formerly called Tartessus, here are the columns of Hercules, Abila and Calpe …

Mythical columns leading out to the vast unknown, and there below him, the ancient frontier of the known world – and was this not the Tarshish of the Old Testament? Both notions were the worry-bones of academics ancient and modern, but he absorbed the reality before him.

Several miles later, after grinding across reedy marshland, they were on to a broad foreland, the Trocadero, which aimed at the middle of the peninsula and divided the spacious Cadiz harbour in two – left and right, the inner and outer harbours.

He spied a dense cluster of ships-of-the-line in the outer harbour, and as they drew nearer, he noted their French ensigns. It was a sight that Collingwood and his squadron had never seen for all their years on blockade.

Now he was in an excellent position to describe what, at great peril, British frigates braved forts and tides to discover. Did they know that at this moment sail was bent on the yards, countless boats criss-crossing to the anchored ships, sure signs that they were putting to sea, in days at most?

He counted them: five, with frigates. A powerful force, which could conjure havoc instantly, should it get to sea unhindered.

And in the inner harbour, several miles distant at its furthest point in, there was a more scattered grouping with bare yards but too far off for him to make out any colours. Almost certainly he was seeing the Spanish Navy at their arsenal, their near impregnable base.

Unexpectedly the cart rounded to a humble hamlet on the foreshore under the frowning eminence of a medieval fort. As far as he could see it was in full working order, with another opposite, able to throw impassable fire to any attempting the inner harbour.

Groaning with aches and pains, Renzi helped Dolores down. ‘Over there,’ she said wistfully. ‘Cadiz.’

A bare mile across the water he had a view of the whole length of the peninsula, along its tip the thrilling mix of towers and miradors of every antiquity. While they waited for the ferry he savoured the moment, aware that the future for any one of them – Spaniard, French or British – was quite without knowing in a world of war and betrayal.

‘We stay with my friend, Benita. She’s in the old city in La Vina – we grew up together,’ Dolores added shyly. ‘Do not pay mind to her marido, her man. He is rough but kind to her so I like him.’

The door, with its cast-iron grille, was a long time being answered. Eventually a nervous maidservant made much of wanting to know who they were, disturbing her mistress in the hour of siesta. Renzi, a blank-faced Jago and the others waited in the street, a narrow, cobbled passageway, Corralon de Los Carros, atmospheric with its mustard yellow and dusky red stone dwellings.

When Benita appeared she dissolved into delighted squeals. ‘My dear, and I was so worried for you in Madrid! We’ve heard such dreadful tales and all these strangers running, hiding! Do come in … Oh, these are your friends?’ she said, in sudden suspicion.

‘Mi querido amiga, I’ve much to tell you. But, Benita, this is an English lord here to do pilgrimage, and is caught up in our disgraceful happenings. Do let us in!’

‘Of course. Entra, caballeros – oh, they don’t understand Castilian. Tell them they’re welcome, Dolores, please!’

She glanced at Renzi, in whom any sign of competence in the Spanish language would suggest a spy, and said coyly in English, ‘Miss Benita invites you in, m’ lord.’

There was much discussion, resulting in Renzi being awarded the topmost bedroom while Jago and the servants would sleep on the kitchen floor.

The cold bath that followed was welcome, but what Renzi most appreciated was the view. From his window, a floor higher than the houses about them and not so far from the entrance of the outer harbour, he could look out to sea – and, wonderfully, make out the regular shapes of ships at anchor. There was the Inshore Squadron of Collingwood’s fleet under some admiral he couldn’t know but who was the direct inheritor of Lord Nelson’s mantle when he’d been the courageous leader of that squadron before Trafalgar.

He counted four ships-of-the-line and only one frigate.

Kydd had told him he was being attached to Collingwood’s fleet and, with his record, he would certainly find himself part of it. Was that Tyger? A pang of longing touched him: it was approaching the first dog-watch and the men would be looking to their well-earned issue of grog. They’d be gossiping about the day’s events, which on blockade would not be gripping or blood-curdling but in the warmth and fellowship would go far to make up for its tedium.

He returned to the present: the French had won. They’d turned the Fontainebleau treaty into a means of plucking the second largest country in Europe and now, with the Bourbon kings in their grasp, it was all over. The uprisings in Madrid had been leaderless, easily and savagely put down, and there was no opposition left worthy of the name.

He went downstairs. The women, it seemed, had much to talk about. Cadiz was far from Madrid and had yet to taste the bitterness of French occupation and control, certainly not the brutality of retribution, and Benita listened wide-eyed to what Dolores told her of the scenes in the capital.

‘Benita, mi alma. Hola!’ A deep masculine roar came from the entrance.

‘Oh! Pedro – I’m coming,’ she called.

She returned beside a powerfully built Spaniard, with deep-set, suspicious eyes. He started in surprise when he saw Renzi, but before he could move Benita purred, ‘Mi amado, where are your manners? I have a surprise for you. This is an English milord, excelentisimo senor, Conde de Farndon.’

Pedro gave a jerky bow, then suddenly exploded, ‘English? In my house? What are you doing, you stupid woman?’ His hand fell to his rapier.

She smiled. ‘No, not the enemy, this one. He does pilgrimage to Our Lady of Toledo under special protection, and was caught in all our trouble.’ Turning to Dolores, she said quickly, ‘Do tell your lord that my husband means no harm.’

Dolores curtsied prettily to Renzi and said in English, ‘You are enchanted to meet Pedro, are you not, sir?’

Renzi took his cue and answered politely with a bow.

It seemed to suffice and he went to his room to leave them to their talk – and find time to think.

There was no point staying any longer in Spain. He’d be telling Congalton that French occupation was spreading fast in the absence of a focus for resistance and therefore the British had no part to play in encouraging any kind of revolt. Under Bonaparte’s able generals, the subjugation of Spain would not take long.

But how to make his departure? He’d have to leave as soon as he could for, without doubt, the French would be bringing their garrisons here in the near future.

He went down to the evening meal, in the Spanish fashion held well into the night.

Pedro was the host and Renzi was made to know it, but was given a place at his right hand, resigned to an unspeaking role while happy chatter swirled around.

Unsuspected, he listened to it all, the gossip, what the day had brought, the rumours.

And then he heard something that brought him to full alert. Pedro, it seemed, was a fiery member of the town council, his opinions decided and acute. And this day the business was entirely dominated by what they were hearing of the atrocities in Madrid. It was believed that Cadiz, the ancient and second greatest city of Spain, would not fall prostrate before the tyrant, and no less a personage than Don Tomas de Morla, general of the army of Andalucia, had sworn in front of the entire assembly that, before God, with its position and defences it would stand.

Renzi saw there was a fleeting chance to bring about a common front. He wouldn’t trouble with the town council: they were representative of the feeling of the people, certainly, but at his eminence he could command the attention of the royal governor.

‘Dolores,’ he asked, at a break in the animated conversation, ‘my stay in Spain has been … eventful, yet it would be my pleasure and obligation to express the sensibility of my gratitude at its indulgence of my presence. To the governor in person would be my desire. Does Don Pedro think this at all possible?’

He had the measure of the man. It seemed it could be arranged for a town councillor to make introduction of English nobility at the highest regal level.