The Iberian Flame

Chapter 31

In the street the mob fell on Solano, tearing his ornaments of office from him, screaming hate and murder at the pitiable figure.

‘Hang him!’ a cry came anonymously from the crowd.

‘You can’t do that!’ Pedro gasped, suddenly troubled.

‘We can and we will, the French dog!’

‘Where?’ he demanded, playing for time.

‘Ha! There’s a gallows in the Plaza de San Juan de Dios.’

Solano was forced to a frog-march and the screaming throng made for the square in a frenzy of jubilation, Don Pedro caught up unwillingly in their wake. It had got out of hand, and someone would pay for it later, that much was certain.

The flood of humanity turned into the square – the small, grey-timbered gallows in shadows at the far end, its ropes tied neatly.

They jerked Solano’s head back so he could see it but his bloodied face wore an unnerving serenity.

The press carried him forward until he was at its base. While some swarmed over it to prepare the noose, a young man in a gaudy uniform came close to him. ‘You French traitor!’ he screamed, drawing a blade. There was a flash of steel as it was plunged into Solano’s back.

With a spasm of pain the governor jerked around. ‘You fool! You couldn’t even do that right!’ he gasped. His head flopped to one side as his blood trickled into the ground.

Not knowing what to do next they held him as he lost consciousness. Then one called, in a peculiar off-key voice, ‘We can’t hang him now.’

‘Why not?’ came a rough reply. ‘What law says you have to be in your senses when you’re twitched off?’

After arguing they compromised by taking him to the church – the priest would know what to do.

The Marques del Socorro, governor of Cadiz and captain general of Andalucia, died half an hour later.

The mob milled about, unsure, unsettled.

At the opposite side of the square a crash of muskets brought heads whipping round in fear. Soldiers were forming a line, and behind them, more. A volley was fired into the air and an officer rode into the square, the mob now cowering, frightened. The French already?

‘It’s General Morla!’ breathed Pedro in relief, recognising the impressive figure on his fine charger. ‘Sir, what should we do?’ he called anxiously.

The soldier looked about in contempt. ‘The town council to meet this instant!’ he shouted.

Inside the familiar chamber, spirits returned. ‘The French are coming. Only over the bodies of our slain shall they enter Cadiz!’

‘Silence!’ roared Morla, taking position at the head as though born to it. ‘I am now the captain general of Andalucia and you’ll take my orders.’

He waited until he had their complete attention. ‘And you’ll stand with me against the French as they do their worst.’

A storm of cheering erupted and went on and on. Don Pedro’s heart swelled with pride. What it was to be a Spaniard and a Gaditano, a true son of Cadiz, at this time.

‘They’re ten days away to the north-east. Our defences had better be good and they will be. Now this is what we will contrive …’

A mild-featured gentleman in neat, conservative dress held up his hand. ‘Ah, mi capitan.’

Morla gave way to the scholar and jurist of wide reputation, deciding to deal with whatever was troubling him at the outset. ‘Senor Ezquerra?’

‘Why are we fighting?’

That took Morla’s breath away and stunned the rest of the chamber into silence.

‘I mean, just what are we fighting for?’ he went on.

A shout of disbelief echoed from one councillor, but the rest held silent to see what point the sharp-minded man was about to make.

‘Should it be for the King – if so, which one? Or shall we simply say Fernando el Deseado, not the false French upstart?’

Uncertain cheers rang out but quickly faded.

‘If so, we are paralysed. We cannot move without His Majesty’s word on it.’

In the baffled quiet he went on, as though in a lecture hall, ‘Perhaps we are fighting for Spain, our native land.’

This brought roars of agreement but he held up his hand. ‘Her flag bears the royal arms, under which we cannot march in acts that do not bear the royal signature.’

‘We fight for our honour, senor, as well you understand,’ Morla said peevishly.

‘This may be your intention, but any act under arms to which you direct us may only be deemed treasonable, and must be seen as the actions of a warlord of no legitimacy whatsoever.’

‘Then, sir, you are desiring us to lay down our weapons and allow the French hordes to enter Cadiz and trample us down with no resistance whatsoever?’

‘I have not said that, mi capitan. My desire is as yours, to cast out the French, but within the bounds of legal practice. This demands that we find a way to empower our acts with the sanctity of the law.’

‘Good God! I’ve several times ten thousand French on their way here and you prate of the law!’

‘You ignore it at your peril, senor. Supposing you yearn to levy tax for your powder and shot, where is your warrant from the people? To conscript young men for your armies, to billet your battalions, to direct others to do your bidding? This is only the beginning, sir. Other provinces will rise up. Who then do you believe they will be speaking to when they desire to join us in our sacred task?’

Morla mopped his brow wearily. ‘Then what is the answer? What piece of paper do we clap our names to? Tell us, good lawyer.’

‘A form of assembly, of agreement. To which we bind ourselves each and severally. And swear due allegiance.’

‘What shall it contain?’

‘Ah. This is something only we may conjure for ourselves. It will not be a trivial matter. Shall we begin now?’