‘It’s General Morla!’ breathed Pedro in relief, recognising the impressive figure on his fine charger. ‘Sir, what should we do?’ he called anxiously.
The soldier looked about in contempt. ‘The town council to meet this instant!’ he shouted.
Inside the familiar chamber, spirits returned. ‘The French are coming. Only over the bodies of our slain shall they enter Cadiz!’
‘Silence!’ roared Morla, taking position at the head as though born to it. ‘I am now the captain general of Andalucia and you’ll take my orders.’
He waited until he had their complete attention. ‘And you’ll stand with me against the French as they do their worst.’
A storm of cheering erupted and went on and on. Don Pedro’s heart swelled with pride. What it was to be a Spaniard and a Gaditano, a true son of Cadiz, at this time.
‘They’re ten days away to the north-east. Our defences had better be good and they will be. Now this is what we will contrive …’
A mild-featured gentleman in neat, conservative dress held up his hand. ‘Ah, mi capitan.’
Morla gave way to the scholar and jurist of wide reputation, deciding to deal with whatever was troubling him at the outset. ‘Senor Ezquerra?’
‘Why are we fighting?’
That took Morla’s breath away and stunned the rest of the chamber into silence.
‘I mean, just what are we fighting for?’ he went on.
A shout of disbelief echoed from one councillor, but the rest held silent to see what point the sharp-minded man was about to make.
‘Should it be for the King – if so, which one? Or shall we simply say Fernando el Deseado, not the false French upstart?’
Uncertain cheers rang out but quickly faded.
‘If so, we are paralysed. We cannot move without His Majesty’s word on it.’
In the baffled quiet he went on, as though in a lecture hall, ‘Perhaps we are fighting for Spain, our native land.’
This brought roars of agreement but he held up his hand. ‘Her flag bears the royal arms, under which we cannot march in acts that do not bear the royal signature.’
‘We fight for our honour, senor, as well you understand,’ Morla said peevishly.
‘This may be your intention, but any act under arms to which you direct us may only be deemed treasonable, and must be seen as the actions of a warlord of no legitimacy whatsoever.’
‘Then, sir, you are desiring us to lay down our weapons and allow the French hordes to enter Cadiz and trample us down with no resistance whatsoever?’
‘I have not said that, mi capitan. My desire is as yours, to cast out the French, but within the bounds of legal practice. This demands that we find a way to empower our acts with the sanctity of the law.’
‘Good God! I’ve several times ten thousand French on their way here and you prate of the law!’
‘You ignore it at your peril, senor. Supposing you yearn to levy tax for your powder and shot, where is your warrant from the people? To conscript young men for your armies, to billet your battalions, to direct others to do your bidding? This is only the beginning, sir. Other provinces will rise up. Who then do you believe they will be speaking to when they desire to join us in our sacred task?’
Morla mopped his brow wearily. ‘Then what is the answer? What piece of paper do we clap our names to? Tell us, good lawyer.’
‘A form of assembly, of agreement. To which we bind ourselves each and severally. And swear due allegiance.’
‘What shall it contain?’
‘Ah. This is something only we may conjure for ourselves. It will not be a trivial matter. Shall we begin now?’
Chapter 32
At least the crowds had thinned and dispersed since the recent bloodshed and sacrifice, Renzi reflected, pulling back from the window. No longer were rowdy processions cramming the streets and alleys, and since the town council had taken to meeting for hours on end, some semblance of order had returned.
The market was in vigorous progress and the fishing boats had put out for the evening catch. It was probably safe to walk abroad, catch a breath of air in the early-summer afternoon warmth.
Dolores and Benita were deep in conversation, catching up on gossip, and didn’t feel inclined to accompany him so, checking again that he was as similarly dressed as he could be to the locals, he stepped out.
In the aftermath of the confusion and drama of the day he was unnoticed and let his steps take him where they would. Soon he found he was threading his way directly west in the direction of the lowering sun – and the sight of the British fleet anchored offshore.
It wasn’t far to the edge of the old city and a pleasant beach that was the haunt of boats coming and going, some pulled up on the golden sand. And no more than a mile or so out the Inshore Squadron was at anchor.
He stopped and shaded his eyes, searching for one – and there she was, at the end of the regularly spaced line of ships: Tyger, and in her would be Captain Sir Thomas Kydd, his most particular friend, whose cool-headed and unruffled friendship he suddenly desired in this madness more than he could conceive.
Going to the railing along the top of the sea wall, he looked out at her longingly. In the mile or so that separated old Cadiz and the anchored ships, at least three or four boats were pulling out to them as though this were Portsmouth harbour itself.
Renzi guessed that this was a kind of informal and probably regular routine that he’d seen so often in harbours and roadsteads around the world – bumboats ferried by locals hoping to sell vegetables, fish and other fresh produce. It was a practice probably as old as the blockade itself, considerably helped by the fact that the customers were handily at anchor and it was of benefit to both sides to turn a blind eye.
Renzi smiled to himself. This was without doubt why the victuallers from England had seldom provided fresh foodstuffs.
And then he saw his chance. Casually, he went down the steps to the beach, joining the to-ing and fro-ing of the pedlars and porters until he found what he was looking for.
‘Hola, mi amigo!’ he called to a swarthy boat-owner, who was supervising the last loading of greens and potatoes.
The man squinted up but said nothing.
‘You’ll get the best price from that barky at the end,’ Renzi said confidentially.
‘Where you from?’ The man frowned, his broad Andalucian a considerable contrast to Renzi’s cool northern Castilian.
‘Bilbao, but does it matter? I’m telling you I know that one, idiot captain who’s always on at his crew to eat greens.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m in this line of business in Bilbao and Santander. Down here to see my poorly sister, wish I’d stayed. I tell you what – how much do you expect to get for this lot?’
‘What’s it to you? Naught beyond a hundred reales or eight English guineas.’
‘So if I can help you get a better price, anything above a hundred, we split. Fair enough?’
The man grinned. ‘Always up for a deal, Vasco. You’re on!’
‘Then, just to see fair play, I’ll come out with you. Here, I’ll give you a hand,’ Renzi added, expertly taking one side of the bow for launching into deeper water.
It was like a dream. The easy trip out, the looming frigate and casual hail from the waist. When they hooked on at the fore-chains, the purser and his steward were summoned to deal with a gabble of pidgin English.
‘I’ll see how the old bastard is,’ Renzi said casually, pulling his hat low over his face. In a practised swing he landed on the fore-deck.
‘’Ere, Manuelo, y’ can’t come aboard like that!’ an astonished seaman said, and advanced on the figure.
Renzi flicked up the brim to impale the man with his eyes. ‘Get me to Captain Kydd this instant, do you hear me?’ he hissed.
Outside the door to the great cabin he heard a familiar voice: ‘Come!’
‘Some Spanish cove wants t’ see yez, sir,’ said the sailor, doubtfully, and ushered Renzi in.
Kydd looked up from his desk, Tysoe in the act of pouring an afternoon whisky.