The Iberian Flame

Chapter 32

At least the crowds had thinned and dispersed since the recent bloodshed and sacrifice, Renzi reflected, pulling back from the window. No longer were rowdy processions cramming the streets and alleys, and since the town council had taken to meeting for hours on end, some semblance of order had returned.

The market was in vigorous progress and the fishing boats had put out for the evening catch. It was probably safe to walk abroad, catch a breath of air in the early-summer afternoon warmth.

Dolores and Benita were deep in conversation, catching up on gossip, and didn’t feel inclined to accompany him so, checking again that he was as similarly dressed as he could be to the locals, he stepped out.

In the aftermath of the confusion and drama of the day he was unnoticed and let his steps take him where they would. Soon he found he was threading his way directly west in the direction of the lowering sun – and the sight of the British fleet anchored offshore.

It wasn’t far to the edge of the old city and a pleasant beach that was the haunt of boats coming and going, some pulled up on the golden sand. And no more than a mile or so out the Inshore Squadron was at anchor.

He stopped and shaded his eyes, searching for one – and there she was, at the end of the regularly spaced line of ships: Tyger, and in her would be Captain Sir Thomas Kydd, his most particular friend, whose cool-headed and unruffled friendship he suddenly desired in this madness more than he could conceive.

Going to the railing along the top of the sea wall, he looked out at her longingly. In the mile or so that separated old Cadiz and the anchored ships, at least three or four boats were pulling out to them as though this were Portsmouth harbour itself.

Renzi guessed that this was a kind of informal and probably regular routine that he’d seen so often in harbours and roadsteads around the world – bumboats ferried by locals hoping to sell vegetables, fish and other fresh produce. It was a practice probably as old as the blockade itself, considerably helped by the fact that the customers were handily at anchor and it was of benefit to both sides to turn a blind eye.

Renzi smiled to himself. This was without doubt why the victuallers from England had seldom provided fresh foodstuffs.

And then he saw his chance. Casually, he went down the steps to the beach, joining the to-ing and fro-ing of the pedlars and porters until he found what he was looking for.

‘Hola, mi amigo!’ he called to a swarthy boat-owner, who was supervising the last loading of greens and potatoes.

The man squinted up but said nothing.

‘You’ll get the best price from that barky at the end,’ Renzi said confidentially.

‘Where you from?’ The man frowned, his broad Andalucian a considerable contrast to Renzi’s cool northern Castilian.

‘Bilbao, but does it matter? I’m telling you I know that one, idiot captain who’s always on at his crew to eat greens.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’m in this line of business in Bilbao and Santander. Down here to see my poorly sister, wish I’d stayed. I tell you what – how much do you expect to get for this lot?’

‘What’s it to you? Naught beyond a hundred reales or eight English guineas.’

‘So if I can help you get a better price, anything above a hundred, we split. Fair enough?’

The man grinned. ‘Always up for a deal, Vasco. You’re on!’

‘Then, just to see fair play, I’ll come out with you. Here, I’ll give you a hand,’ Renzi added, expertly taking one side of the bow for launching into deeper water.

It was like a dream. The easy trip out, the looming frigate and casual hail from the waist. When they hooked on at the fore-chains, the purser and his steward were summoned to deal with a gabble of pidgin English.

‘I’ll see how the old bastard is,’ Renzi said casually, pulling his hat low over his face. In a practised swing he landed on the fore-deck.

‘’Ere, Manuelo, y’ can’t come aboard like that!’ an astonished seaman said, and advanced on the figure.

Renzi flicked up the brim to impale the man with his eyes. ‘Get me to Captain Kydd this instant, do you hear me?’ he hissed.

Outside the door to the great cabin he heard a familiar voice: ‘Come!’

‘Some Spanish cove wants t’ see yez, sir,’ said the sailor, doubtfully, and ushered Renzi in.

Kydd looked up from his desk, Tysoe in the act of pouring an afternoon whisky.

‘So?’

Renzi whipped off his hat and pirouetted, ending with a stamp, Spanish-style.

‘Wha’?’ Kydd blurted in amazement. ‘Nicholas! You’re … you’re …’

‘I’m here, if that is your meaning.’

‘Good God! What on earth …?’ He shot out of his chair, went to Renzi and clasped his hand in delight. ‘Never mind, as you say, you’re here, old trout!’

Tysoe was back with another glass, his celerity pleasing.

‘I won’t ask what the devil you’re doing in Spain, you’ll just pull me up with a round turn and serve me right.’ He surveyed his friend with concern. ‘But we’ve been hearing of some rum doings ashore, Nicholas.’

‘Don’t worry your kind self about me, dear fellow. I’m perfectly secure, just caught up in my, er, pilgrimage, as it were.’

‘Well, you’re now safely aboard but I can’t say when we’ll next be in England. However, we’re off north, and then I can probably get you passage on a victualler.’

‘That’s kindly said, m’ good friend, but I’ve Jago and some others I should take care of first. I mustn’t stay long. Oh, I need this to be added to your payment for the fresh vegetables before I leave.’ He passed some coins to Tysoe.

Kydd’s forehead creased. ‘What’s going on ashore, can I ask it? We’re hearing all kinds of rumours about the Dons taking against the Frogs or something.’

‘Yes, there’s just been a mort of unpleasantness against their own man, the governor of Cadiz. He was a moderate, reasonable kind of fellow but now they swear that, after Madrid, they’ll stand against the French columns sent to subdue them. Bonaparte won’t let it go, and all will end in nastiness, I fear.’

‘But you’ll be out of it.’

‘Soon, I do hope. Yet I’ve a yen to see how it all ends.’

‘Well, you can be sure Tyger will be here for you when you give me a hail. Er, can I beg you’ll give me your address – in the case there’s a need for, um …?’

Renzi scribbled it down and asked, ‘And may I know what can worry the lords of the sea?’

‘Ah. The main trouble is we haven’t any idea what’s afoot. We thought the Dons and the French were friends, even if they’ve got their differences, and now we’ve heard there’s bad things happening in Madrid. Why?’

‘Dear fellow, don’t ask. What’s plain is that Bonaparte has comprehensively fooled the Spanish and is now in the process of taking and pacifying the country, and anon we’ll be seeing the tyrant Emperor with a brother on the throne of Spain. It’s all but over, Tom.’

‘Well, Whitehall’s in a wretched moil. They know there’s a fair-sized French squadron here and whoever ends up with it is going to be a right worry to us. They’re saying to Collingwood that he’s to deal with them as soon as they show themselves.’

‘There’s no chance of that, dear chap. I’ve seen them with my own eyes scuttle to the naval base at the inner harbour. You’ll never get them there.’

A knock at the door interrupted them. ‘Sir, the trader’s asking where’s his friend?’

Renzi got up. ‘I have to go, Tom. You’ve no idea how soothing to a worry of spirits it is to know you’re here. We’ll see each other soon, I’ve no doubt.’

In the now-empty boat the vegetable-seller was exultant. ‘You were right, Vasco. Here’s your twenty reales.’ The coins clinked into Renzi’s hand. ‘And I’m to wait on ’em again. Ha!’

As the sun was setting in a glorious golden blaze out to sea, Renzi made his way back and found that he hadn’t been missed. Pedro was sprawled in the best chair, his feet on the table, eating an orange with coarse, tearing bites and regaling the women with his triumph.

‘You’re missing the fun, Ingles.’

Dolores explained that in their wisdom the good folk of the town council had come together in a quite different assembly. This was the Cadiz junta – and, by masterful command of words, they had created a form of sovereign assembly that was outside the direct rule of governance, releasing them to rise against the French in their own name. The inflammatory document would be rushed to wherever there were those who’d swear to stand together to throw off the yoke.

Most importantly, eventually there would be created a Grand Cortes, with representatives from all of Spain, which would convene to produce a constitution and government with comprehensive national legitimacy.

And they were declaring war in their own right on the greatest military power in the world.

Renzi listened politely. Was this the usual bombast of a warlord in rebellion, or something much more profound? ‘How will your junta stand against Murat and his thousands?’ he asked, hiding his doubts.

It seemed General Morla, now captain general of all Spanish forces in the south, had definite views on the defence of Cadiz and, by the simple device of requiring sworn allegiance to the junta, was raising a militia, a voluntary band that would eventually be numbered in their tens of thousands.

Renzi’s attention grew. This was, in effect, a rebellion, but not of the usual kind. Not against the King, but in support of an ideal, whatever was laid out in their constitution, sovereignty apparently to reside in the nation, not in the person of the monarch. And, interestingly, this was not one man’s work, no revolutionary figurehead leading it, and therefore it was free of the taint of personal ambition.

And, significantly, it promised to spread over all of Spain.

A general rising, no single head to be lopped off – the French would find the swallowing of their conquest far harder than the winning of it.

But by now all the fortresses, arsenals, military stores and highways would be firmly in Bonaparte’s hands. How could they survive, let alone prevail?

Of course, if they found help, it might be another story.

He had to see Morla.