“For which sum, Father, your principals must give us all the letters and an undertaking to publish no more.”
“I think that will be acceptable,” Father Montseny said. He gave a small smile, as if satisfied with the outcome of the negotiations, then leaned back. “I could offer you some advice that would save you the money, if you wish?”
“I should be most grateful,” Pumphrey said with exaggerated politeness.
“Any day now your army will sail, yes? You will land your troops somewhere to the south and come north to face Marshal Victor. You think he doesn’t know? What do you think will happen?”
“We’ll win,” Sharpe growled.
The priest ignored him. “Lapeña will have, what? Eight thousand men? Nine? And your General Graham will take three or four thousand? So Lapeña will have command, and he’s an old woman. Marshal Victor will have just as many, probably more, and Lapeña will take fright. He’ll panic, and Marshal Victor will crush him. Then you will have very few soldiers left to protect the city, and the French will storm the walls. It will take many deaths, but by summer Cádiz will be French. The letters won’t matter then, will they?”
“In that case,” Lord Pumphrey said, “why not just give them to us?”
“Fifteen hundred guineas, my lord. I am instructed to tell you that you must bring the money yourself. You may have two companions, no more, and a note will be sent to the embassy telling you where the exchange will be made. You may expect the note after today’s oraciones.” Montseny drained his glass, stood, and dropped a dollar on the table. “There, I have discharged my function,” he said, nodded abruptly, and left.
Sharpe spun the dollar coin on the table. “At least he paid for his wine.”
“We can expect a note after the evening prayers,” Lord Pumphrey said, frowning. “Does that mean he wants the money tonight?”
“Of course. You can trust the bugger on that,” Sharpe said, “but on nothing else.”
“Nothing else?”
“I saw him at the newspaper. He’s up to his bloody eyes in it. He’s not going to give you the letters. He’ll take the money and run.”
Pumphrey stirred his coffee. “I think you’re wrong. The letters are a depreciating asset.”
“Whatever the hell that means.”
“It means, Sharpe, that he’s right. Lapeña will have command of the army. You know what the Spanish call Lapeña? Doña Manolito. The lady Manolito. He’s a nervous old woman and Victor will thrash him.”
“Sir Thomas is good,” Sharpe said loyally.
“Perhaps. But Doña Manolito will command the army, not Sir Thomas, and if Marshal Victor beats Doña Manolito then Cádiz will fall, and when Cádiz falls the politicians in London will fall over one another in their race to the negotiating chamber. The war costs money, Sharpe, and half of Parliament already believe it cannot be won. If Spain falls, what hope is there?”
“Lord Wellington.”
“Who clings to a corner of Portugal while Bonaparte bestrides Europe. If the last scrap of Spain falls, then Britain will make peace. If, no, when Victor defeats Doña Manolito the Spaniards won’t wait for Cádiz to fall. They’ll negotiate. They would rather surrender Cádiz than see the city sacked. And when they surrender, the letters won’t be worth a tin penny. That is what I mean by describing them as a depreciating asset. The admiral, if it is the admiral, would rather have the money now than a few worthless love letters in a month’s time. So, yes, they’re negotiating in good faith.” Lord Pumphrey added a few small coins to the priest’s dollar and stood. “We must get to the embassy, Richard.”
“He’s lying,” Sharpe warned.
Lord Pumphrey sighed. “In diplomacy, Sharpe, we assume that everyone lies all the time. That way we make progress. Our enemies expect Cádiz to be French within a few weeks so they want their money now because after those few weeks there will be no money. They make hay while the sun shines, it is as simple as that.”
It was raining harder now and the wind was gusting strong. The signs over the shops were swinging wildly and a crash of thunder rumbled over the mainland, sounding uncannily like heavy artillery shots traveling overhead. Sharpe let Pumphrey guide him through the maze of narrow alleys to the embassy. They went through the arch that was guarded by a squad of bored Spanish soldiers and hurried across the courtyard, only to be checked by a voice from high above. “Pumps!” the voice called. “Up here!”
Sharpe, like Lord Pumphrey, looked up to see the ambassador leaning out of a window of the embassy’s watchtower, a modest five-story structure at the edge of the stable yard. “Up here,” Henry Wellesley called again, “and you, Mister Sharpe! Come on!” He sounded excited.
Sharpe emerged onto the roofed platform to see that Brigadier Moon was lord of the tower. He had a chair and a footstool, and beside the chair was a telescope, while on a small table was a bottle of rum and beneath it a chamber pot. This tower had been equipped with windows to protect the upper platform from the weather, and it was plain that Moon had adopted the aerie. He had got to his feet now and, resting on his crutches, was looking eastward with the ambassador. “The ships!” Henry Wellesley greeted Sharpe and Lord Pumphrey.
A whole host of small ships was scurrying through white-capped waves into the vast harbor of the Bay of Cádiz. They were odd-looking craft to Sharpe’s eyes. They were single-masted and had one gigantic sail each. The sails were wedge-shaped, sharp at the front and massive at the stern. “Feluccas,” the ambassador said, “not a word to attempt when drunk.”
“Felucky to get here before the storm broke,” the brigadier commented, earning a smile from Henry Wellesley.
The French mortars were trying to sink the feluccas but having no success. The sound of the guns was muted by the rain and wind. Sharpe could see the blossom of smoke from inside Fort Matagorda and Fort San José each time a mortar fired, but he could not see where the shells plummeted for the water was already too turbulent. The feluccas thrashed onward, heading for the southern end of the bay where the rest of the shipping was safely out of mortar range. They were pursued by dark squalls and seething rain as the storm spread southward. A lightning bolt cracked far away on the northern coast. “So the Spaniards kept their word!” Henry Wellesley said exultantly. “Those ships have come here all the way from the Balearics! A couple of days to provision them, then the army can embark.” He was a man who looked as though his troubles were coming to an end. If the combined British and Spanish army could destroy the French siege works and drive Victor’s forces away from Cádiz, then his political enemies would be neutered. The Cortes and the Spanish capital might even move back to a recaptured Seville and there would be the rare taste of victory in the air. “The plan,” Henry Wellesley said to Sharpe, “is for Lapeña and Sir Thomas to rendezvous with troops from Gibraltar, then march north, take Victor in the rear, hammer him, and drive his troops out of Andalusia.”
“It’s supposed to be a secret,” the brigadier grumbled.
“Some secret,” Lord Pumphrey said sourly. “A priest just told me all about it.”
The ambassador looked alarmed. “A priest?”
“Who seemed quite certain that Marshal Victor is entirely apprised of our plans to assault his lines.”
“Of course he’s bloody apprised of them,” the brigadier said. “Victor might have started his career as a trumpeter, but the man can count ships, can’t he? Why else is the fleet gathering?” He turned back to watch the feluccas that were now out of range of the mortars that had fallen silent.
“I think, Your Excellency, that we should confer,” Lord Pumphrey said. “I have a proposal for you.”
The ambassador glanced at the brigadier who was studiously watching the ships. “A useful proposal?”
“Most encouraging, Your Excellency.”
“Of course,” Henry Wellesley said and headed for the stairs.
“Come, Sharpe,” Lord Pumphrey said imperiously, but as Sharpe followed His Lordship the brigadier snapped his fingers.