Renzi noted, with more than a little alarm, that not only were they massing in numbers but many carried weapons – bludgeons, kitchen knives, rusty swords.
‘Who’s your French friend, then?’ a fat, sly-looking shopkeeper cat-called.
Pedro wheeled on him. ‘Watch your tongue, oaf, or I’ll cut it out and feed it to the dogs!’
The cry was taken up, ‘Frances, frances, frances!’
One closer yelled, ‘Let’s scrag the bastards!’
The crowd closed in.
Renzi faced them with a furious glare. ‘?Guerra al cuchillo! Mueran los Franceses traidores!’ he blazed.
Coming as it did from an unquestionable well-born, those nearest fell back, astonished, then delighted.
Standing defiantly with his arms folded, Renzi glared at them until, as quickly as it had come, the dangerous mood of the mob ebbed and was replaced by joyful rejoinders as each caballero strove to outdo another in violent and colourful curses on the French.
As they hurried on, Pedro sheathed his rapier and, with a suspicious glance at Renzi, thrust through to their residence.
Inside, he rounded on Renzi. ‘So you know Spanish, Englishman. What are you, a spy?’
Renzi smiled and looked helplessly at Dolores.
‘He wants to know if you are a spy. Are you?’
‘A spy? I think not. “?Guerra al cuchillo!” I heard day and night every damned hour from the crowds outside when locked indoors in Madrid. How can I not remember the words? Pray tell me, what does it mean?’
She looked at him, hesitating, thoughtful. Then said gaily, ‘It means, “War to the knife – death to the French traitors!” so, you see, it was the right thing to say!’
The realisation of how close he’d come to being exposed shook Renzi. Until now he’d been safe: the crackling passport document he kept next to his breast his sure protection, proof of his innocence on a certified pilgrimage. It protected not just him but Dolores and others who were giving him shelter as a displaced pilgrim.
But it also specified rules of conduct and one was that he would leave Spain the way he’d come – in a cartel ship from the port of Cartagena.
To him it would be far preferable to take a British man-o’-war back to England but if it was thought he was communicating with the enemy offshore it could be for one purpose only: to spy for opportunities while Spain was suffering her present travails.
That left a journey through a dismembered corpse of a country across all southern Spain to Cartagena, with French troops ransacking it an abominable prospect.
Goaded by news arriving from Madrid of betrayals and executions a visceral hatred was building for the French. There would be more scenes of barbarity, like those he’d seen in the capital, when Murat’s forces had fanned out to the further provinces.
Chapter 29
Renzi ate his breakfast in his room, from one window able to take in a seaward view touched by a shy morning gilding the sails of the Inshore Squadron, catching the sunlight with stark clarity. From a smaller pane, he could see the anchored French battleships, illuminated on the other side, ominously darker.
Then, as he watched, he nearly dropped his spoon in surprise. From first one of the French battleships, then quickly the others, sail appeared, topsails with courses ready in their gear. They were putting to sea.
He held his breath. In a very short while action would be joined off Cadiz for the first time since Trafalgar – and again the British were outnumbered.
It was a shocking sight. Longing for a telescope, he stood and watched it unfold before him, heart in mouth for what was about to take place.
With the gentle north-easterly it was fair for the open sea directly, and once under way courses were set and they picked up speed, taking station on one of the big eighty-gun ships-of-the-line and making for the centre of the outer harbour.
Renzi turned his attention to the British fleet. There were two hoists up on the flagship and as he watched another soared. The admiral was in a taking – no scouting French frigate had warned of the sortie. Were the enemy trusting to a surprise lunge to sea?
But then came an even more extraordinary turn of events. In the precise centre of the wide bay, the lead French ship-of-the-line put over its helm, unbelievably making not for the open sea but the passage leading to the inner harbour, deeper into the enfolding defences of Cadiz.
Renzi couldn’t sit down until he knew what was coming to pass – it made no sense, for the British could never enter the outer harbour against fire from the six massive fortresses.
The stately passage of the squadron took them within just a half-mile and he saw them in startling definition in the morning light. As they passed, he noted the straggling progress of some, gun-ports open, as if expecting an engagement, but also the dark streaks on their canvas that told of long stowage and little sea-time.
Then he understood. He was watching the last survivors of Trafalgar, still here after their fleeing those years before. And the admiral flying his flag in the largest had to be Rosily, whose dispatch by Bonaparte to replace Villeneuve for being too timid had precipitated the battle.
A shiver went through Renzi. This was the wreckage of history, left behind from a great event in the past. And a token of the ferocious effectiveness of the Royal Navy’s blockade that never once, over those years, had these vessels been let loose on Britain’s sea lanes.
They passed on, into the widening inner harbour. After reaching nearly to the opposite shore they shortened sail and all became clear: they were joining the small gaggle of masts and yards that was all he could see of the Spanish naval base.
But what did it mean?
Chapter 30
Pedro returned for the midday meal, by turns excited, apprehensive and boastful.
Word was that Murat had not delayed and at this hour near twenty-five thousand troops and guns were astride the road to Cadiz and expected in days only. This could only inflame a tense and angry situation, with the result that this afternoon the town council would go to Governor Solano, demanding he turn out the army of General Morla to defend the city, against a siege, if need be.
Sailors going ashore from the French squadron had been found murdered, the news and rumours from Madrid whipping up hatred in the local population that found release only in bloodshed. The ships had scuttled away for sanctuary in the well-defended naval base at Carracas until Murat’s forces could relieve them.
Renzi heard it all with growing unease. He’d been hoping for a relatively peaceful transfer of power and calm in the countryside as he’d slipped away from Madrid, but with hotheads like Pedro it would be a savage process that would set the whole region into seething hostility.
He had a short time only to come up with a plan to get himself away from the tidal wave of barbarity about to fall on Cadiz.
Pedro pirouetted before the women in his hip-hugging pantaloons and elaborate high-heeled boots, set off by a lavishly ornamented frogged crimson and gold jacket. ‘Ha! This is what I wear when we stand up for Spain’s honour before su excelencia - what do you think, mi corazon?’
Benita looked at him adoringly, then hugged him tightly and burst into tears. ‘You’ll be careful, Pedro, please tell me you will.’
He smirked. ‘There are times when sacrifice is demanded, mi amor, and know that I shall be always found there at the front.’
The streets were choked with even more excited, streaming crowds, for news of the deputation had got out. With bursting pride Pedro found he was recognised as a member of the town council and energetically cheered, lifted up and carried to the Plaza de los Pozos, before the stern nobility of the governor’s residence and office.
It was the greatest day of his life.
The curtains at the rear of the balcony were firmly closed but above all, huge and majestic, floated the ornate colours of the Bourbon King of Spain. With a full heart, Don Pedro joined the others in the marble-floored reception area.