When the doors from the outside were finally closed, the tumult on the streets was cut off and a respectful hush descended. At the top of the sweeping staircase, to one side behind the balustrades where he could address the throng, Don Francisco Solano appeared.
‘I know why you’ve come, gentlemen,’ he began. ‘There’s no need to tell me that the situation threatening us is singular and demanding.’
Fervid cries of agreement rang out. Solano frowned slightly. This was unbecoming behaviour in such distinguished surroundings. ‘And you are here to ask counsel of your governor under His Majesty, as is right and proper in you.’
He chose to ignore the rumble of muttered discontent.
‘I am, of course, privy to the King’s desiring and my counsel to you is this: to be allied to the greatest and most powerful empire in this world is infinitely to be preferred to insulting it, and I do remind you all that we are in fact so united. That differences do arise from time to time-’
‘We will not be dishonoured by these pigs! In Madrid they’ve-’
‘Cadiz shall not fall beneath the boots of the cursed franceses!’ Pedro blared. ‘Never while I live!’
There was a roar from the council that turned Pedro pink with pleasure.
Solano, pained, waited for the bedlam to fade. ‘Gentlemen. I can sympathise with your feelings but there are a number of good reasons why this cannot be. Apart from the impossibility of standing against the legions of French on their way here, might I point out that firing upon our ally will be seen as illegal, the act of murderers and pirates, and they will then be quite within their rights to hang every last one of you.’
Hostility was now radiating up from the massed councillors to Solano, and he shrank back.
Emboldened, Pedro roared, ‘They’ll have to get past me first! Arm every man who can carry a gun and let their blood run like water!’
A savage growl erupted into an angry howl.
Solano, pale-faced, waited long minutes to be heard. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying!’ he said loudly. ‘This is an act of war and we’re not at war. Emperor Bonaparte will take a fearful vengeance upon you if-’
Pedro snarled back, ‘If we’re not at war, we should be. All those of my comrades who vote to declare war on the franceses murderers, say aye!’
There was a storm of joyous shouting and Pedro smiled wickedly. ‘So you see, Excelentisimo, we’ve declared war. What do you now counsel us?’
Solano tried to speak but had to wait for quiet. ‘Gentlemen. Recollect yourselves. You’re the Cadiz town council, and town councils do not declare war on nations. Only His Majesty the King may declare war and-’
‘And he’s guest of the French and can’t speak for himself. So who does? You?’
By now the news that Cadiz had declared war on the French had spread, and yells of riotous approval came from outside. A muffled chanting – ‘?Muerte a los franceses! Muerte a los franceses!’ – grew in intensity.
Solano glanced around uncertainly for support but saw only the seething riot that was now the town council in session. A look of despair came over him. Abruptly he turned and left.
The council, offended, cast about in confusion but then a massive roar sounded from the plaza. ‘It’s the cabron gone to the people. He thinks to ignore us, the elected town council!’ Pedro spluttered. ‘He’s on the balcony.’
There was a general surge out into the plaza and the crowd looked up to see Solano standing under the huge flag motioning for quiet. Grudgingly, they fell silent.
‘Citizens of Cadiz, I urge you with all my heart to pay no mind to those who’d drive you into the jaws of death. This is not the way to solve our differences. We shall find a means-’
‘We have a way! We fight – for our soil, our people, our honour!’ Pedro bawled, and was forced to his knees by the storm of acclamation. He staggered back to his feet and yelled hoarsely, ‘We declare war on the butchers of Madrid! Long live Spain and all those who love their country!’
The crowd roared again. Pedro looked about – the army and militia were nowhere to be seen and the mood was furious and excited.
‘Why doesn’t Solano listen to us?’ he dared. ‘Is he bosom friends with the French? Does he pledge obedience to the detestado French puppet Joseph, instead of to the line of true Spanish kings?’
The crowd went wild, venom and hatred in their shouts.
‘Declare war on the French, Solano, or we’ll know what it means!’
‘This is not something I can do, believe me! Only if-’
It was the end. Past reason, the huge crowd surged forward, knocking aside the ushers and flooding into the residence. Solano quickly disappeared from the balcony.
But as the mob invaded from below he came into view again, this time on the roof, where his appearance was met by a roar of triumph. Hesitating, he shot hunted glances about, then ran to the end, leaped across to the next building and vanished.
‘Quick! To the back! Stop him getting away!’
There was an atmosphere of insane exhilaration in the crowd and Pedro revelled in it. ‘Get him out, the bastard!’ he shouted, smashing at the front door with his fists. It soon fell inwards to a swarm of enraged men.
Minutes passed, then confused faces appeared at the windows. ‘He’s not here! Gone!’
‘He must be there – look again!’ Pedro shouted angrily.
There was no result. Then a beefy man shouldered his way through to Pedro. ‘I’m Manuel El Albanil,’ he puffed. ‘Bricklayer. I know where he is, the pig. With my own hands I built a false fireplace in there – that’s where he’ll be.’
Pedro was exultant. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Go to it! Drag him out!’
Chapter 31
In the street the mob fell on Solano, tearing his ornaments of office from him, screaming hate and murder at the pitiable figure.
‘Hang him!’ a cry came anonymously from the crowd.
‘You can’t do that!’ Pedro gasped, suddenly troubled.
‘We can and we will, the French dog!’
‘Where?’ he demanded, playing for time.
‘Ha! There’s a gallows in the Plaza de San Juan de Dios.’
Solano was forced to a frog-march and the screaming throng made for the square in a frenzy of jubilation, Don Pedro caught up unwillingly in their wake. It had got out of hand, and someone would pay for it later, that much was certain.
The flood of humanity turned into the square – the small, grey-timbered gallows in shadows at the far end, its ropes tied neatly.
They jerked Solano’s head back so he could see it but his bloodied face wore an unnerving serenity.
The press carried him forward until he was at its base. While some swarmed over it to prepare the noose, a young man in a gaudy uniform came close to him. ‘You French traitor!’ he screamed, drawing a blade. There was a flash of steel as it was plunged into Solano’s back.
With a spasm of pain the governor jerked around. ‘You fool! You couldn’t even do that right!’ he gasped. His head flopped to one side as his blood trickled into the ground.
Not knowing what to do next they held him as he lost consciousness. Then one called, in a peculiar off-key voice, ‘We can’t hang him now.’
‘Why not?’ came a rough reply. ‘What law says you have to be in your senses when you’re twitched off?’
After arguing they compromised by taking him to the church – the priest would know what to do.
The Marques del Socorro, governor of Cadiz and captain general of Andalucia, died half an hour later.
The mob milled about, unsure, unsettled.
At the opposite side of the square a crash of muskets brought heads whipping round in fear. Soldiers were forming a line, and behind them, more. A volley was fired into the air and an officer rode into the square, the mob now cowering, frightened. The French already?