The Iberian Flame

Chapter 60

It was arranged: in the morning he would go ashore and she would take him to their stronghold in the hills. He was assured that the nearest French were in Santona, over the water, and long since had given up troubling them in their mountain fastness.

Just he and Dillon would be all that were needed: if there was trouble the handful in a landing party would make no difference and, in any case, that would suggest their hosts could not be trusted to look after them.

‘Should be aboard by nightfall,’ Kydd told a distrustful Bray, and set off ashore.

At the end of a long beach there was a twist of rock and in its lee a stone jetty where they disembarked.

‘Stand down the boat’s crew – remain within hail,’ he ordered. The men, blank-faced, complied. For them it would be a lazy day under the sunshine away from ship’s discipline, a valued perquisite of being captain’s boat’s crew. Kydd smiled to himself, remembering with a pang that when he had been a seaman he’d never been fortunate enough to claim a place in the captain’s boat.

They walked down the jetty until they reached the two pillars at its landward end. Noiselessly two men appeared from behind them and stood arrogantly in their path.

Swarthy, moustachioed and with glittering dark eyes, they snapped at Lucila, who shot back a rejoinder that had them tamely standing aside.

These were no soldiers that Kydd could recognise. They were not in uniform, simply a rough coatee, russet breeches and homespun cloak. A shapeless cap proudly bore a red riband and they carried their carbines with a lithe familiarity.

‘We go to the camp,’ Lucila said firmly. After a quick exchange, horses were found and they picked their way up a stony track into the mountains. Before the woods closed in, Kydd kept his bearings of the sea, comforted by knowing this.

Lucila smiled encouragingly at him but Kydd was unused to the strange saddle so, stiff and sore, he was glad to smell wood-smoke on the air and sight the rock-strewn clearing in the forest, men and women moving about the huts and tents that must be their destination.

Shouts of welcome sounded and a giant of a man strode forward to greet them.

Kydd swung down and straightened painfully.

‘This is Supreme General Koldo Uribe, Capitan,’ Lucila said shyly, and explained something to the man. ‘I tell him why you are here and he’s very pleased you come.’

The big man beamed.

‘I say that you’ve come from the English frigate, which he saw sail in three days ago.’ She pointed at the edge of the clearing, and Kydd detected a small building at the top of a ridge, presumably with a view of the sea.

‘He said how he swore I couldn’t swim to you, but I love to swim. It was not so hard,’ she said, with a toss of her head.

Uribe gave a friendly bellow, slapping Kydd on the back and sending his cocked hat askew, then moved off to the yellow-stone building on the ridge. As they followed, Dillon whispered nervously, ‘They’re all speaking a species of Vizcaya, the Basque, and I can’t understand a word they’re saying.’

‘Then we’d better hope that Miss Lucila keeps station on us,’ Kydd muttered. It was the last thing he wanted, to lose communication, but as they stepped into the building he was comforted by seeing Tyger at anchor far below, as neat and beautiful as an elaborate model.

Inside it was small, nothing much more than a habitation for hermits set into the rock. They went inside the largest room, its only window a high slit, and sat down at a plain table on a beaten-earth floor.

Refreshments were brought, sheep’s cheese and sausage, cider; rough but satisfying.

‘Please ask the general how many soldiers he has.’

‘He begs to say he has more than five hundred under arms.’ This was extraordinary – Kydd had seen a few score about the camp but surely not that many.

Lucila explained that this naturally included the outriders on guard, those out on forage duty, more in the adjacent valley and, counted among their fiercest warriors, the women.

‘Including you?’

‘Of course,’ she said, affronted.

‘I would like to address them all, to convey His Majesty’s sincere admiration at your remarkable bravery in standing up to the invaders.’ This, of course, would have them in one place at the same time, proof of numbers.

‘The general would rather you give them muskets.’

‘We’ll discuss that afterwards,’ Kydd said firmly, and arrangements were put in place.

Kydd could see that Uribe had not lied. Close to twice the number of Tyger’s entire ship’s company were packed into the area, a mass of individually dressed figures with sashes, embroidered jackets and pouches. Only a few had fire-locks; most carried pikes, long knives and other blades.

‘The general says to behold his magnificent guerrilleros, those he calls the Corso Terrestre – the Corsairs of the Land!’

Kydd was satisfied. This band, living up here in their ever-shifting camp, leaving their homes to eke out a dangerous and hard life for a cause to which they had dedicated their lives – the least he could do was acknowledge it without wild promises.

‘Fighters for the motherland!’ he began; if it was a fatherland Lucila would have the sense to change it. ‘We two peoples, so long in misunderstanding, now march forward together, arm in arm against the foe!’

Her girlish voice rang with passion as she threw the words at the thronged guerrilleros, each with his eyes fixed on Kydd.

He went on, feeling the words rousing them, for here was the outside world, at last acknowledging their existence.

As he finished he bowed low, left and right, answering their cries with a wave of his hat but in his heart he felt guilt: just what could he do to help them?

In the heightened atmosphere, Uribe roared out a command, which was answered from five hundred throats. ‘It is a euskal jaiak, in your honour, Capitan.’ She laughed proudly. ‘A feast!’

‘Tell the general I’d be greatly honoured to attend.’

‘After he’s talked with you.’

They returned to the little room.

‘You want the help of the British.’

‘I want muskets. And ammunition.’

‘If – and I cannot promise it – you receive these, what is your intention?’

The guerrilla commander’s eyes glowed with satisfaction. ‘To use them against the enemy, to turn the tables so we change from a stinging wasp to a charging bull!’

‘If this can be arranged, and it is far from certain, what are your needs?’

‘One thousand muskets, a hundred thousand cartridges, flints, patches, tools,’ Uribe said instantly. ‘Clothing, boots, haversacks, kitchen pots …’

‘Thank you. You’ve made yourself clear.’

Uribe looked at him intently. ‘What price do you ask?’ he asked.

Kydd stiffened. ‘No price, General. Only that you put them to good use.’

‘That I can promise,’ the general said, with a rapacious gleam in his eyes. ‘When shall we-’

‘My ship sails this night to make report to my superiors. I shall return when I have your requirements – a slight delay might be expected only.’ If Lisbon couldn’t see that a force of five hundred well armed and motivated guerrilleros causing havoc in the French rear wasn’t a good use for their stock of weapons, he’d couldn’t conceive of a better. It might take a while to prise the shipment from the depot bureaucracy but it would come.

The evening was drawing in. A happy bustle was under way as he and Lucila wandered through the camp, and Kydd saw for himself how they’d adapted to their nomadic exile, clearly doing so for the long term. It was touching and deadly, domestic and war-like, whole families living here together.

At the same time he was aware of what a strange and romantic figure he must look to them. In his splendid full-dress uniform and imposing bicorne, its gold lace glittering in the firelight, he caught many darted glances his way as he strolled through their mountain existence, a being from the same outside world that had sent the French.

Darkness fell, and rough-hewn chairs were brought. Lucila sat between Kydd and Dillon and, to the sound of drum and tambourine, there was a stirring display of dancing. The women wore colourful long skirts and shawls, with kerchiefs covering their heads.

Uribe and his henchmen joined them with more Basque cider and, of a glow, Kydd sat back as a large dish of lamb and peppers was brought in.

In the flickering gold flame of the fires, the outlandish forest fragrance and alien babble reached out to Kydd. Naval service had taken him to strange and exotic places – and what wouldn’t Persephone give to be here with him?

Another sip of cider.

He’d be late back on board but he’d have plenty to remember of the day. Next to him Dillon was quiet and reflective and he knew it would be the same for him.

Without warning, distant shouts echoed up from the track followed by more from deeper into the forest. The gaiety fell away and Uribe leaped to his feet.

Then a shot, more – a tearing shriek and more shots.

It caused pandemonium. Uribe roared orders and men snatched up weapons and raced down the track, fanning out into the woodland.

A savage fusillade met them and Lucila screamed, then collected herself. ‘We’ve been betrayed,’ she sobbed and, snatching Kydd’s hand, she ran back with him to the little building, wrenching open the door.

‘Get in!’ she said savagely, pushing him hard.

Kydd didn’t argue and pulled Dillon in with him before the door slammed shut and there was the scrabbling of a key in the lock. They were left in the darkness but, for the moment, safe.

Outside the noise of battle swelled – demented screams and furious shrieks, death cries and the clash of weapons. This was a full-scale attack and the outcome couldn’t be known. They felt around in the dimness for anything that could be a weapon but there was nothing except the debris of feasting.

The tide of struggle ebbed and flowed around them. Kydd knew that with bloodlust up the attackers would not stop to consider who they were so he waited for the sudden bursting in of the door and their sordid end at the hands of some peasant guerrillero. Once or twice, heart in mouth, they heard the door handle roughly tried but both times the would-be killer moved off to find easier victims.

Eventually they heard the confusion and strife fade into the distance.

Shouts rang out nearby. It sounded like the crack of command but Dillon could only shrug helplessly, and from other parts shouted reports came. The door handle rattled uselessly. An angry hail was distantly answered and, at the approaching voices, Kydd fell back from the door.

There was the crash of a pistol and the lock hung down. In the smoke the door pushed aside.

In the doorway were three figures, more behind. They carried lanterns that illuminated them and, with a sickening surge, Kydd saw French uniforms on the soldiers who held their bayonets at the ready.

He knew better than to move and rapped, ‘Capitaine de vaisseau Thomas Kydd, officier de la marine royale de sa majeste.’

The officer pushed forward and sneered something in Basque. Kydd gave a tight smile and shook his head.

‘Tell them that in Spanish,’ he murmured to Dillon.

It brought a start of incomprehension, then a leer of disbelief. Dillon translated: ‘You’re French! I heard you myself.’

Kydd blinked in bewilderment. What was going on?

‘I’m an English officer – from that vessel to seaward.’ Too late, he realised that in the darkness of night Tyger would not be visible from the shore.

‘A ship, out there? What are you doing here, then? Answer me that!’

‘I came to see what help I could give these people,’ Kydd admitted stoutly.

There was a gasp of surprise and incredulity. ‘You confess freely before me, now, you want to give aid to these vermin?’

‘Any who are enemies of France are our friends,’ Kydd snapped.

The officer shook his head wordlessly. ‘You are making no sense, sir. We are the sworn enemies of Bonaparte and all he stands for. Why then do you throw in your lot with these?’

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Kydd demanded, ‘Who then are you, sir?’

‘Coronel Garcia Noriega, of the Bilbao Freedom Junta of Patriots.’

‘You wear French uniforms.’

‘We have none of our own so we strip the dead. We are on our own, sir, and must make shift.’

‘Then … then who are these people, that you attack them as they feast?’

The sneer returned. ‘These are not true patriots, if that is your question. They take advantage of our fight with the French invader to rebel against our rightful king and set up their own state following the old Basque ways. We have spies in their camp. They told of some plot to seize weapons and we thought to act first.’

With a flash of white teeth, he went on, ‘And we were right to do so. I dare to say you were going to give them guns, powder, shot to go against the French? A most gratifying gift for them.’

Kydd winced. The girl had been a master-stroke by Koldo Uribe and he had fallen for it.

‘Is not Bilbao under the French? Santander also?’

‘No, it is not. It still stands firm for Regent Fernando, El Deseado, sir!’

He had been lied to. Kydd snapped upright and bowed deeply. ‘I do apologise if there has been any misunderstanding, Coronel. It seems we are of the same mind and loyalty. I would wish I could make amends.’

Suspicion, hope, pride and satisfaction chased each other across Noriega’s face before he answered, ‘Capitan. Perhaps there is something you can do for us.’

‘Oh?’

‘The arms you were going to give the-’

‘Certainly. You will understand that my superiors must be satisfied that they are for good purpose. Shall we go to Bilbao at all?’

‘To see the junta? Of course, if you desire it, sir.’

If Bilbao was still in the hands of the Spanish, it proved the duplicity of the Basque rebels, and if this faction were actively fighting the French, he had a definite duty to them.

‘I have a boat-’

‘We know. The crew will be released immediately, sir.’

In a wash of relief he stepped outside. Moonlight now delicately touched the scene with silver and shadows. It lay as well on a still form among others near to the door: Lucila, her body grotesquely skewed but still with a heavy pistol in one hand, blood showing black against her girlish dress, her face mercifully shadowed.

It caught him off guard and, seized by a swell of pity, he felt the prick of tears at the extinction of a young and ardent life, now silent for ever.