‘King Carlos leaves for his American colonies for his own safety in a very short while and is-’
‘He’s going nowhere. You’ve lost the game, Godoy!’
‘You think so? Then-’
‘The royal guard. We’re the real guardians of the Crown, not you. Now the people are speaking – you hear them?’
Outside there were confused shouts, angry exchanges.
‘I’ve told them it’s you who invited in the French, with that miserable treaty, you interfering with the royal will – they’re after your blood, vermin.’
Godoy paused, but only for a moment, then pushed by Montijo, who allowed him to pass, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.
‘Go on!’ jeered Montijo. ‘They’ll want to spit on the traitorous pig who’s taking their king away from them!’
Seeing the gathering mob, Godoy knew it was past time that he could influence matters. He wheeled about and ran into the palace, went through to the back, to the mews, and threw himself into his carriage, scrabbling to hide as it picked up speed for the race to his mansion.
The crowd had found their way into the palace gardens and forecourt and swarmed over flowerbeds, trampling ornamental hedges and raising a fear-driven howl of protest. From the window the terrified King goggled at the surging throng, completely at a loss, his queen wringing her hands and wailing piteously behind him. There was only the thin line of royal guards between them and the seething mob. Soon there would be scenes last witnessed when the French king had met his end.
‘Montijo, what should I do?’ King Carlos called out in terror.
The man sheathed his rapier and darted up the stairs. His face betrayed cruel exultation when he reached the King. ‘Majesty, only one thing will steady them.’
‘Yes, yes!’
‘Release the Prince of Asturias. Bring him out. Show him to the crowd, proving that he still lives.’
‘Y-yes. Do it now, if you please.’
Summoned from the Escorial, the King’s son stalked into the room, his glance contemptuous, his thin lips curling in triumph. ‘So, Father, you have need of me? A villainous felon who-’
‘That is over, my son. A mistake.’
‘Which you greatly regret, of course.’
‘Whatever you say, dear infante. Fernando, it would be of great comfort to me if you’d speak to that vile assembly below. Do calm them, will you? Say something or we’re like to be murdered, like poor King Louis!’
‘And I’m then fully restored.’
‘You are now, my son.’
Montijo threw open the window and bellowed down for silence. ‘Su alteza real, el Principe de Asturias!’
Fernando strode over to the window and held up his hands. It brought a happy roar from the concourse. ‘People of Spain! My people!’ With Montijo at his side he launched into a passionate diatribe, sympathising with their travails, the wanton trampling of the French over their lands and heritage. ‘But this day I bring you release! The author of your misfortunes, the villainous and accursed First Minister Godoy, is now dismissed from his post and from the royal presence entirely.’
The tumult grew and swelled into a thunder of ecstasy. In his hiding place in the attic of his nearby mansion Godoy quivered and trembled.
The crowd in the streets lessened but it was still there the next morning when it was joined by many more who’d come from Madrid, eager to be present at the incredible scenes.
In the palace the King and Queen hid in terror. A number broke into Godoy’s mansion, wrecking and looting in a murderous spree. He was discovered, but before the crowd could tear him to pieces, the royal guard found him and dragged him to the palace to display beside the distraught King.
The crowd roared but soon a shout went up. ‘El Deseado! El Deseado!’ The wanted one – Fernando the Hopeful, the young, the desired!
‘Then, Father, it seems it is I they call upon.’ His features bore an oddly serene expression, as the baying outside went on and on.
‘W-what shall I d-do?’ King Carlos gobbled, sunk in fear.
‘Why, that should be obvious, Father. You will yield your throne to me. Abdicate. Here, paper and pen. Write – I shall tell you the words.’
Kneeling in subjection on the floor, Godoy looked up slowly, a twisted smile on his face. Whatever lay in the future for him, this was not what Napoleon Bonaparte had bribed Montijo to do. Montijo had allowed a Spanish king to take the throne through public acclamation, not the Emperor’s appointing.
Chapter 15
At anchor, off Cadiz
Kydd reflected for a moment. This city, as his particular friend and former shipmate Nicholas Renzi, now Lord Farndon, would have reminded him, was a name that sprang from the pages of history, with the Phoenicians, the Romans, the Moors and Christopher Columbus. Here it was that Sir Francis Drake had singed the King of Spain’s beard, and the treasure ships of the Americas had poured out their golden cargoes. And where, over the centuries, so many officers of the Royal Navy had seen through their professional careers against the traditional maritime foe.
Cadiz lay now under Tyger’s lee, the long, low coast, with its distant jumble of white and terracotta buildings under the warm sun, set in a glittering turquoise sea, as unchanging as Kydd remembered from his first experience there many years before. And now he was joining the band of brothers who alone were halting Napoleon’s hunger for conquests at the very water’s edge.
Around him were the veterans of the southern blockade from the tense and dramatic days before Trafalgar, sail-o’-the-line that had seen admirals come and go, battles fought and won and now, after years of punishing service, ready for more. In recognition of their mastery of the seas there they were, lying peacefully at anchor across the enemy’s harbour mouth.
And the longest-serving of them all was ‘Old Cuddy’, Admiral Collingwood, in Ocean. At the height of the battle he’d taken the reins of command from the mortally wounded Nelson and since that time had never once been relieved or spared a homecoming to his beloved Sarah. It was said that no one of stature could be found to replace him in this, the most crucial diplomatic and strategic station, and therefore, bowing to duty, he remained aboard ship, his health slowly ebbing. Collingwood was fair, and just to a fault, and Kydd could not have asked for a more nobler commander-in-chief. He was gladdened when the signal was made for the traditional dinner, the fleet assembled as one.
It was a time for gossip, for newcomers to learn the eccentricities of a blockade squadron, old friends to meet again, fresh faces to take on character. And for all to make measure of each other.
Admiral Collingwood took his chair in the centre, with his subordinate admirals at either end of the cunningly extended table. ‘A right good welcome to you all, thou gentlemen of England,’ he said pleasantly. ‘As our little alarum is now concluded.’
The calm features and courteous manner were as Kydd recalled, but the face was exhausted, deeply lined, the eye sockets sagging at the corners. His sea-worn uniform seemed too big for him – a shrunken figure. This was a man who had tasted nothing but fatigue and tension for years beyond counting.
His words were met with a murmur of polite comment. Nothing had been lost as a consequence but it had been no occasion for congratulation: a powerful enemy battle-fleet had been at large for weeks on end in the politically charged Mediterranean.
‘Now, before we show appreciation of our dinner, for those who have not had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of my squadron commanders, allow me to introduce one and all.’
In the etiquette of the Royal Navy, it was never the prerogative of the junior to speak to a senior before he was addressed.
‘To my larboard is Vice Admiral Thornbrough, who in Royal Sovereign will be attending to Toulon. To my starboard is one who deserves general notice, for he’s my new-appointed commander of the Inshore Squadron, one whose flag in Conqueror is as equally new-hoisted. This is Rear Admiral Rowley, late of the Channel Squadron.’