The Thornside ran within a quarter mile of the burning merchantman. The rest of Cádiz harbor, placid under a gentle wind, seemed unconcerned with the burning ship. A whole fleet of British warships was moored to the south, and Pullifer ordered a salute fired to the admiral. The French mortars were firing at the Thornside now, but the massive shells fell harmlessly on either side, each throwing up a fountain of spray. There were three French forts on the marshy mainland, all with mortars just capable of reaching the waterfront of Cádiz that sat on its isthmus like a clenched fist protecting the bay. Lieutenant Theobald, the Thornside’s second lieutenant, was busy with a sextant, though instead of holding it vertically, as a man would when shooting the sun or trying to snare a star in the instrument’s mirrors, he was using it horizontally. He lowered the sextant and frowned. His lips moved as he made some half-articulated calculations, then he crossed to where Sharpe and Harper leaned on the midships rail. “From the burning ship to the fort,” Theobald announced, “is a distance of three thousand six hundred and forty yards.”
“Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, impressed. If the lieutenant was right, then the mortar’s shell had traveled more than two miles.
“I won’t vouch for the forty yards,” Theobald said.
Another mortar fired from the Trocadero Peninsula. The shell vanished in the low clouds as the smoke of the mortar hung above the fort, which was a low, dark mass on the marsh-fringed headland. Then a white splash showed very close to the city’s shore. “Even farther!” Theobald said in astonishment. “Must be close to three thousand seven hundred yards!” That was a thousand yards farther than any British mortar could reach. “The shells are huge too! Couple of feet across!”
Sharpe wondered about that. “Biggest French mortar I’ve ever seen,” he said, “is a twelve-inch.”
“Which is big enough, God knows,” Harper put in.
“They had these specially cast in Seville,” Theobald said, “or so prisoners tell us. Big bastards, anyway. They must use twenty pounds of powder to throw a ball that far. Thank God they’re not accurate.”
“Tell that to those poor bastards,” Sharpe said, nodding to where the Santa Catalina’s crew were climbing into a longboat.
“A lucky shot,” Theobald said. “How’s your skull today?”
“Hurts.”
“Nothing a woman’s touch won’t heal,” Theobald said.
A mortar shell landed off the Thornside’s port quarter, splashing the deck with water and leaving the faintest gray trail from its smoking fuse lingering in the small wind. The next shot was a good hundred yards away, and the one after that even farther, and then the guns stopped firing as it became obvious that the frigate had sailed out of range.
Thornside anchored well south of the city, close to the other British warships and the host of small merchantmen. Brigadier Moon stumped toward Sharpe on crutches that the ship’s carpenter had made. “You’ll stay on board for the moment, Sharpe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Officially British troops aren’t permitted into the city so if we can’t find a ship leaving today or tomorrow, I’ll arrange quarters for you on the Isla de León.” He gestured toward the low land south of the anchorage. “In the meantime I’m going to pay my respects at the embassy.”
“The embassy, sir?”
Moon gave Sharpe a look of exasperation. “You are looking,” he said, “at what is left of sovereign Spain. The French have the rest of the bloody country except for a handful of fortresses, so our embassy is now here in Cádiz instead of in Madrid or Seville. I’ll send you orders.”
Those orders arrived just after midday, sending Sharpe and his men to the Isla de León where they were to wait until a northbound transport left the harbor. The longboat carrying them ashore threaded the anchored fleet, most of which were merchantmen. “Rumor says they’re taking an army south,” the midshipman commanding the longboat told Sharpe.
“South?”
“They want to land somewhere down the coast,” the midshipman said, “march on the French, and attack the siege lines. Bloody hell, they smell!” He pointed to four great prison hulks that stank like open sewers. The hulks had once been warships, but now they were mastless and their open gunports were protected by iron bars through which men watched the small boat pass. “Prison hulks, sir,” the midshipman said, “full of frogs.”
“I remember that one,” the bosun put in, nodding at the nearest hulk. “She were at Trafalgar. We beat her to splinters. There was blood pouring down her side. Never seen the like.”
“The dons were on the wrong side of that one,” the midshipman said.
“They’re on our side now,” Sharpe said.
“We hope they are, sir. We do hope that. Here you are, sir, safe and sound, and I hope your eggshell mends.”
The Isla de León was home to five thousand British and Portuguese soldiers who helped defend Cádiz from the French besiegers. Desultory cannon fire sounded from the siege lines that were some miles eastward. The small town of San Fernando was on the island and Sharpe reported there to a harassed major who seemed bemused that a handful of vagrants from the 88th and the South Essex had landed in his lap. “Your fellows can find space in the tent lines,” the major said, “but you’ll be billeted in San Fernando, of course, with the other officers. Dear God, what’s free?” He looked through the billeting lists.
“It’s only for a night or so,” Sharpe said.
“Depends on the wind, doesn’t it? So long as it blows northwest you aren’t going anywhere near Lisbon. Here we are. You can share a house with Major Duncan. He’s an artilleryman, so he’s not particular. He’s not there now. He’s off hunting with Sir Thomas.”
“Sir Thomas?”
“Sir Thomas Graham. Commands here. Mad about cricket. Cricket and hunting. Of course there aren’t any bloody foxes so they chase after stray dogs instead. They do it between the lines and the French are good enough not to interfere. You’ll want space for your servant, I assume?”
Sharpe had never had a servant, but decided this was the moment to indulge himself. “Harris!”
“Sir?”
“You’re my servant now.”
“What joy, sir.”
“San Fernando’s a decent little place in winter,” the major said. “Too many bloody mosquitoes in the summer, but nice enough at this time of year. Plenty of taverns, a couple with good bordellos. There are worse places to spend the war.”
The wind did not change that night, nor the next. Sharpe gave his and Sergeant Noolan’s men a make-and-mend day. They cleaned and repaired uniforms and weapons, and for every moment of the day Sharpe prayed that the wind would go south or east. He found a regimental surgeon who reckoned that inspecting Sharpe’s wound would do more harm than good. “If that naval fellow fished the bone back into place,” the man said, “then he did all that modern medicine can possibly do. Keep the bandage tight, Captain, keep it wet, say your prayers, and take rum for the pain.”
Major Duncan, whose quarters Sharpe now shared, proved to be an affable Scot. He said there were at least a half dozen ships waiting to make passage to Lisbon. “So you’ll be home in four or five days,” he went on, “just as soon as the wind goes round.” Duncan had invited Sharpe to the nearest tavern, insisting the food was adequate and ignoring Sharpe’s plea that he had no cash. “The dons eat damn late,” Duncan said, “so we’re forced to drink until the cook wakes up. It’s a hard life.” He ordered a jug of red wine, and no sooner had it appeared than a slender young officer in cavalry uniform appeared at the tavern door.
“Willie!” Duncan greeted the cavalryman with evident pleasure. “Are you drinking with us?”
“I am searching for Captain Richard Sharpe, and I assume that you, sir, are he?” He smiled at Sharpe and held out a hand. “Willie Russell, aide to Sir Thomas.”