Her girlish voice rang with passion as she threw the words at the thronged guerrilleros, each with his eyes fixed on Kydd.
He went on, feeling the words rousing them, for here was the outside world, at last acknowledging their existence.
As he finished he bowed low, left and right, answering their cries with a wave of his hat but in his heart he felt guilt: just what could he do to help them?
In the heightened atmosphere, Uribe roared out a command, which was answered from five hundred throats. ‘It is a euskal jaiak, in your honour, Capitan.’ She laughed proudly. ‘A feast!’
‘Tell the general I’d be greatly honoured to attend.’
‘After he’s talked with you.’
They returned to the little room.
‘You want the help of the British.’
‘I want muskets. And ammunition.’
‘If – and I cannot promise it – you receive these, what is your intention?’
The guerrilla commander’s eyes glowed with satisfaction. ‘To use them against the enemy, to turn the tables so we change from a stinging wasp to a charging bull!’
‘If this can be arranged, and it is far from certain, what are your needs?’
‘One thousand muskets, a hundred thousand cartridges, flints, patches, tools,’ Uribe said instantly. ‘Clothing, boots, haversacks, kitchen pots …’
‘Thank you. You’ve made yourself clear.’
Uribe looked at him intently. ‘What price do you ask?’ he asked.
Kydd stiffened. ‘No price, General. Only that you put them to good use.’
‘That I can promise,’ the general said, with a rapacious gleam in his eyes. ‘When shall we-’
‘My ship sails this night to make report to my superiors. I shall return when I have your requirements – a slight delay might be expected only.’ If Lisbon couldn’t see that a force of five hundred well armed and motivated guerrilleros causing havoc in the French rear wasn’t a good use for their stock of weapons, he’d couldn’t conceive of a better. It might take a while to prise the shipment from the depot bureaucracy but it would come.
The evening was drawing in. A happy bustle was under way as he and Lucila wandered through the camp, and Kydd saw for himself how they’d adapted to their nomadic exile, clearly doing so for the long term. It was touching and deadly, domestic and war-like, whole families living here together.
At the same time he was aware of what a strange and romantic figure he must look to them. In his splendid full-dress uniform and imposing bicorne, its gold lace glittering in the firelight, he caught many darted glances his way as he strolled through their mountain existence, a being from the same outside world that had sent the French.
Darkness fell, and rough-hewn chairs were brought. Lucila sat between Kydd and Dillon and, to the sound of drum and tambourine, there was a stirring display of dancing. The women wore colourful long skirts and shawls, with kerchiefs covering their heads.
Uribe and his henchmen joined them with more Basque cider and, of a glow, Kydd sat back as a large dish of lamb and peppers was brought in.
In the flickering gold flame of the fires, the outlandish forest fragrance and alien babble reached out to Kydd. Naval service had taken him to strange and exotic places – and what wouldn’t Persephone give to be here with him?
Another sip of cider.
He’d be late back on board but he’d have plenty to remember of the day. Next to him Dillon was quiet and reflective and he knew it would be the same for him.
Without warning, distant shouts echoed up from the track followed by more from deeper into the forest. The gaiety fell away and Uribe leaped to his feet.
Then a shot, more – a tearing shriek and more shots.
It caused pandemonium. Uribe roared orders and men snatched up weapons and raced down the track, fanning out into the woodland.
A savage fusillade met them and Lucila screamed, then collected herself. ‘We’ve been betrayed,’ she sobbed and, snatching Kydd’s hand, she ran back with him to the little building, wrenching open the door.
‘Get in!’ she said savagely, pushing him hard.
Kydd didn’t argue and pulled Dillon in with him before the door slammed shut and there was the scrabbling of a key in the lock. They were left in the darkness but, for the moment, safe.
Outside the noise of battle swelled – demented screams and furious shrieks, death cries and the clash of weapons. This was a full-scale attack and the outcome couldn’t be known. They felt around in the dimness for anything that could be a weapon but there was nothing except the debris of feasting.
The tide of struggle ebbed and flowed around them. Kydd knew that with bloodlust up the attackers would not stop to consider who they were so he waited for the sudden bursting in of the door and their sordid end at the hands of some peasant guerrillero. Once or twice, heart in mouth, they heard the door handle roughly tried but both times the would-be killer moved off to find easier victims.
Eventually they heard the confusion and strife fade into the distance.
Shouts rang out nearby. It sounded like the crack of command but Dillon could only shrug helplessly, and from other parts shouted reports came. The door handle rattled uselessly. An angry hail was distantly answered and, at the approaching voices, Kydd fell back from the door.
There was the crash of a pistol and the lock hung down. In the smoke the door pushed aside.
In the doorway were three figures, more behind. They carried lanterns that illuminated them and, with a sickening surge, Kydd saw French uniforms on the soldiers who held their bayonets at the ready.
He knew better than to move and rapped, ‘Capitaine de vaisseau Thomas Kydd, officier de la marine royale de sa majeste.’
The officer pushed forward and sneered something in Basque. Kydd gave a tight smile and shook his head.
‘Tell them that in Spanish,’ he murmured to Dillon.
It brought a start of incomprehension, then a leer of disbelief. Dillon translated: ‘You’re French! I heard you myself.’
Kydd blinked in bewilderment. What was going on?
‘I’m an English officer – from that vessel to seaward.’ Too late, he realised that in the darkness of night Tyger would not be visible from the shore.
‘A ship, out there? What are you doing here, then? Answer me that!’
‘I came to see what help I could give these people,’ Kydd admitted stoutly.
There was a gasp of surprise and incredulity. ‘You confess freely before me, now, you want to give aid to these vermin?’
‘Any who are enemies of France are our friends,’ Kydd snapped.
The officer shook his head wordlessly. ‘You are making no sense, sir. We are the sworn enemies of Bonaparte and all he stands for. Why then do you throw in your lot with these?’
They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Kydd demanded, ‘Who then are you, sir?’
‘Coronel Garcia Noriega, of the Bilbao Freedom Junta of Patriots.’
‘You wear French uniforms.’
‘We have none of our own so we strip the dead. We are on our own, sir, and must make shift.’
‘Then … then who are these people, that you attack them as they feast?’
The sneer returned. ‘These are not true patriots, if that is your question. They take advantage of our fight with the French invader to rebel against our rightful king and set up their own state following the old Basque ways. We have spies in their camp. They told of some plot to seize weapons and we thought to act first.’
With a flash of white teeth, he went on, ‘And we were right to do so. I dare to say you were going to give them guns, powder, shot to go against the French? A most gratifying gift for them.’
Kydd winced. The girl had been a master-stroke by Koldo Uribe and he had fallen for it.
‘Is not Bilbao under the French? Santander also?’
‘No, it is not. It still stands firm for Regent Fernando, El Deseado, sir!’
He had been lied to. Kydd snapped upright and bowed deeply. ‘I do apologise if there has been any misunderstanding, Coronel. It seems we are of the same mind and loyalty. I would wish I could make amends.’