Sleep was a long time coming. Kydd had not counted on the presence of an army post on the summit. Rigging a makeshift signal mast was going to be impossible under their eyes and he despaired. Perhaps daylight would suggest a way.
The grey of dawn stole into the cave turning sinister dark shapes to ordinary dusty kegs and sacks. It also brought Isabella and a wrinkled old man, with their breakfast of bread and onion soup. "This Señor Motta, an' this his finca, his farm. He want t' help."
His beady black eyes watched them steadily as they ate, while Isabella waited impatiently and Pons stared out moodily.
"Now! What our plan?" she said, as the last of the meal went down. It was time to confront their situation—and, above all, the vital question of whether he could trust her with the secret of the landing-place. She was practical and intelligent, and if anything was to be rescued of the mission it would have to be through her.
Before he could speak she answered his unspoken question: "On Monte Toro is my brother José. He cook for the dragoons." It was what Kydd needed; she would not have trusted him with that knowledge unless she believed in him and, therefore, in turn, he could trust her.
"There is a way you can visit him," she added cagily, "but not wi' your big box."
"What's it like up there?" Kydd countered. "That's t' say, how many soldiers? Where do they—"
"There are twenty-two soldier, an' five sailor t' work the flags," she said crisply. "They are in a fort an' barracks, not so big. The monasterio gate are closed, th' nuns not interested in them. "
Now he just needed a reason to be up there and a hiding-place. He was on his way back with a chance. But without signalling flags? On the quarterdeck of Leviathan they would be expecting standard naval signals—without flags and a mast to hoist them, what use was it to get up there?
"How do ye pass the soldiers?"
"Is easy—I wash th' clothes for the soldier and 'is family," she said. "I must take them up—what soldier want to stop his washing?"
"Then can ye tell me how we will get past 'em?" Kydd asked.
"Easy as well. You are cousin of José, you deliver onion an' garlic to him on a donkey. This young man not go."
"But—"
"You cannot spik Spanish 'cos you are idiot of the village. Can you be idiot? Señor Motta will 'ave clothes for you."
"Mr Kydd, sir," Bowden said, in a low voice, "our flags an' ropes?"
"They look inside th' box an' we are betrayed." She folded her arms. "No."
Kydd knew there was everything to win—if only his wits could come up with a solution. But without flags to signal ... At the back of his mind something stirred. Flags—and something she had said. The idea struggled for form and consciousness. Fornells, Addaya—and the waiting fleet. Then it leaped into focus.
"Bowden!" he snapped. "I have an idea. I'd be obliged should you help me t' reason it through."
"Aye aye, sir," said Bowden, mystified. They moved deeper into the cave for more privacy.
"Do ye agree that ..." The idea took shape: a plan was possible. He explored further, testing each part against Bowden's loyal opposition.
He returned to Isabella. "We have an idea. Here's what we're going t' do—"
"I won't hear you!"
"You—"
"If I don't know your plan, how can I tell th' Spanish if they catch me?" There was nothing Kydd could say to that.
She looked at him squarely. "Jus' tell me—when you wan' to be on Monte Toro ? "
"Before ten, tomorrow."
"We will be there."
There was one last matter. "My midshipman needs t' return to the gen'ral. Can—"
"Pons will take 'im tonight."
In the cool of the morning Kydd and Isabella set out over the steep tracks towards the rearing bulk of Monte Toro. Dressed in the homespun of Minorca, a waistband of faded red with abarca sandals and a low-crowned dull brown hat, Kydd led a donkey laden with onions in panniers, strings of garlic bulbs round its neck and two laundry baskets.
They did not speak as they reached the base of the massive mount and began to trudge up the steep spiral road. A thousand feet to go—the surrounding country began to spread out as they rose and the glimmer of sea appeared on the horizon. Further still and the limits of the horizon extended until even without a telescope the unmistakable winding shape of the Bay of Fornells became apparent. The panorama of low, rolling country out into the far distance was spectacular.
The gritty noise of a cart sounded behind. Kydd snatched a look and saw it was an army conveyance. He let Isabella chat on incomprehensibly. She stopped to give a cheery wave to the soldiers, who responded with catcalls.
They wound round the last few yards of the road, and suddenly were on the airy summit, a flat area with a squat, square reddish fort and a line of barracks one side, a white stone building the other, well shuttered. A hut and signal mast was atop the fort.
Playing his part to the full, Kydd stood and gaped vacantly until Isabella tugged angrily at him to move forward.
Two sentries ambled across. "Oye! Isabella, para! Tenemos que registrarte a ti y la colada!"
As Isabella told her story Kydd shrank fearfully from the men, scrabbling to hide behind the donkey as the men fumbled among the onions in a perfunctory search, laughing at his clumsy consternation. "El Coronel dice que los ingleses están cerca y no quiere jugarsela."
They turned to the washing baskets; Kydd started to whimper in distress at their behaviour. "Dejadlo en paz, cabrones!" Isabella shouted, pulling them away. They complied meekly while she comforted Kydd with soothing words and firmly led him on.
At the sound of raised voices several people came into the courtyard. The cook, fat, jovial and impatient to see what they had brought, emerged from the barracks. He fingered the onions doubtfully and inspected the strings of garlic. They were apparently judged satisfactory; the donkey was unloaded and led away, and the cook promised to find a little something for the visitors after the long haul up.
Inside the cook's quarters there was nervous chatter, but Kydd's first concern was the room. To his vast relief there was a large jalousie window facing north. He looked out cautiously. It was one of many in the outer wall, whose face fell vertically from a dizzying height to the rocky flank of the mount. In the next room there was a smaller window. It would do.
He raised his eyes to the distance. Fornells was in plain sight, and shifting to the right he saw the complex of islands and bays that was Addaya. Perfect! He would not be seen while he did the observations and the signalling—it was all very possible.
Isabella brought the cook forward. "Mr Keed, this José." He shook hands, aware of a shrewd look.
"What do we do now, Mr Keed?" The door was thick and had bolts but if they were discovered in their nefarious activity there could be no exit through the window—they would be trapped.
"My spyglass." It was covered in sacking at the bottom of a washing basket. He went to the window and settled down with a chair. To seaward there was a bright haze; this would conceal the approach of the fleet until it was about five miles offshore. He hauled out Renzi's watch: in only an hour or so there would be sudden alarm and dismay as the rumours of an English fleet took on an awful reality.
He must work fast. Methodically he quartered the country along each side of the narrow Bay of Fornells. On one side of the entrance there was a medium-sized fort and on the other a town. An army encampment was easy to see, the regularity of the tents, the glitter of equipment and even a caterpillar of men drilling. He located and traced the road away from the base: this would be the avenue for reinforcement or retreat.