Tenacious (28 page)

A jabber of nervous Spanish greeted him and a woman’s voice cautioned, “Pons he say as ’ow we must not waste th’ time.”

Taken aback, Kydd muttered something and took the chest from Bowden. “Away y’ go, m’lad,” he said, “an’ thank ye.”

“Can’t do that, sir,” Bowden said quietly. “I’d be disobeying captain’s orders!”

“Wha—”

“He asked me to accompany you, sir.” Kydd realised that this was probably not the way it had happened, but already the anonymous figure in the bows had poled off and the comforting bulk of
Tenacious
was receding into the blackness.

“Y’r a rascal, Bowden, but I thank ye all the same.”

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“Pons ask you, do not spik—he listen for danger!” In the sternsheets the woman was close enough for him to be aware of her female scent.

A darker mass loomed and the boat stopped in the water. The fitful half-moon laid a fragile luminosity over the water, revealing a third figure, whom Kydd presumed to be Pons. He was listening with rigid concentration. At length he signalled to the rower, who skimmed the boat about and glided in to the shore.

There was just enough light to make out a rickety landing-stage. The boat bumped against it and the rower went forward to secure the painter. Pons stood and made his way clumsily up behind him while Kydd prepared to land on enemy soil.

There was a flurry of movement in the dimness forward—and in a sudden chill of horror Kydd saw the flash of moonlight on an arc of bright steel and heard a gurgling cry, then a dull splash echoing in the tiny bay.

“Wh-why did—”

“Is th’ only safe way,” the girl said flatly. “Even if he want, he can tell no tale now.”

Shaken, Kydd motioned to Bowden to help sway up the chest.

They took a barely visible path over the low scrub-covered hillock and Kydd could smell the scent of wild thyme and myrtle on the air. It led down to a wider bay with a small village of fishermen’s dwellings by a beach.

Pons held up his hand for them to stop. There was no sound on the cool breeze beyond the distant bray of a donkey and laughter from one of the white stone houses. The walk resumed.

A hundred yards short of the village Pons growled something to the woman.

“We wait,” she said. “Here!” she added urgently, moving into the scrub. They crouched down, Kydd’s senses at full alert. Pons entered a brightly lit dwelling, and emerged a few minutes later

with an imperious wave. The woman rose warily and gestured towards the village. “Es Grau.”

A smoke-blackened interior revealed it to be some form of tap-house, but the conversations ceased as they entered. Kydd followed Pons to a small room at the back, which reminded him of the snug in an English hostelry.

“Sit.”

Kydd slipped into a chair next to Bowden.

“Are we safe?” Kydd whispered to the woman. “Those people know we’re here.”

“Here you will not find th’ Spanish.”

“They are Minorcan?”

“Minorquin!”
the girl said impatiently. She wore a distinctive red cowl, which she let down to reveal black hair swept back severely into a queue, not dissimilar to the familiar tarry pigtail of the seaman. “The Minorquin do not love those ’oo seek to master them.” Then a brief, wistful look stole over her as she introduced herself. “Isabella Orfila Cintes—when I a little girl, you English sailor call me Bella.”

“L’tenant Kydd, an’ Midshipman Bowden.” Kydd was reluctant to release his boat-cloak to display his uniform coat beneath, but he was stifling in the heat of the room.

“That is Pons—Don Pons y Preto Carreras.” She threw the words at the sullen man opposite. “Our leader,” she added.

Pons snapped something at her.

“He ask, what do y’ want of him, that the gran’ navy of Englan’

send you to Minorca?”

Kydd felt disquiet. Why had they not been told details by Stuart’s staff? Were they trustworthy? And were they in possession of the secret of the invasion—its time, its place?

“I volunteered t’ come,” he mumbled. Without their help his entire mission was impossible. Surely he would not have been put in contact with the Minorquins unless he was expected to make
20

use of them. It was being left up to him to decide how much to reveal. “Do ye know what is being planned for Minorca?”

“Planned?” Isabella looked puzzled.

Kydd saw Bowden’s anxiety and knew he was thinking the same thing, but there was no help for it. “We mean t’ take this island from the Spanish,” he said quietly, “an’ very soon.”

“You—you will come wi’ soldiers an’ ships . . .”

“Aye. An’ we need your help.”

She stared at him then leaped up, knocking the table askew.

“God be praise!”

“¿Que? ¿Que?”
Pons seized her arm to force her round. She replied in low, urgent tones, then Pons stood to proclaim dramat-ically what sounded like patriotic slogans.

Kydd gestured frantically for him to sit. “There’s much t’ do before they come. We are here t’ signal to our general where the Spanish are an’ where they march to.”

Isabella’s expression sobered. “That is ver’ dangerous,” she said darkly. “What is your plan?”

“There is a big hill, a mountain called Monte Toro.” Isabella said nothing, her concentration growing intense. “We mean t’

climb up and see . . .”—something stopped him going further—

“. . . all of Minorca, and there we’ll set up a little mast an’ signal to th’ ships at sea.” She made no comment, so he tried to explain further. “Y’ can see these flags fr’m a long distance an’ send any message y’ like.” He pulled the chest over and threw back the lid, then held up some of the flags. “You see?”

“That is your plan?” she said icily. Pons affected disinterest at the sight of the bunting.

“It is.”

“You are all fools! Do you know what is up there on Monte Toro?”

“I’ve heard there’s a nunnery, a convent,” Kydd said warily.

“It is. An’ you know else? The army agree wi’ you—a fine

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place for flags an’ signals. They have their own post for flags.

Guarded by th’ heavy dragoons. So where is your plan now?”

Kydd tried to keep dismay from his face. “We will find a place out of sight, o’ course. Somewhere up there, on a roof—”

“Where is your money? In th’ box?”

“Money?”

She took a deep breath. “How you going to pay th’ soldier to look away while you wave y’r flags?” Kydd kept an obstinate silence, his face burning. “You must! If your ship can see th’ flags so can the Spanish Army.” Her shoulders drooped. “How . . .”

Kydd had no answer. Then she looked up into his eyes. “Ver’

well, I will help you. But first—”

She went to the door and opened it.
“Juan!”
she called loudly.

There was movement inside and a nervous pot-boy arrived, carrying a jug and mugs on a tray.

“When you English here before, you teach us abou’ gin. We learn well an’ make our own. To hell wi’ all the Spanish!”

The gin owed more perhaps to myrtle than juniper but it had its own attractive character. “Damn right!” Kydd responded.

The darkness outside seemed all the more intense as they stumbled along a beachside track and crossed a small stream. The chest was an irritating encumbrance and Kydd felt the effects of the gin fall away. He took off his boat-cloak and uniform coat and tied them to the chest, going in shirt and breeches alone.

What had become of his plan? If he could not signal the invasion would certainly still go ahead—and men’s lives would pay for his failure.

It was only a little more than four miles to Monte Toro but no map could take into account the endless dry-stone walls of small plots of land, the deep ravines in the limestone bedrock, the sudden thick woods.

At one point Pons stopped with a hiss of caution: ahead was a
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moonlit clearing and beyond a dark tower. “We go one b’ one,”

Isabella whispered. Pons crouched low and scurried to the other side to disappear into the shadows. He reappeared further towards the looming tower and beckoned. Hearts thumping at the unknown danger Kydd and Bowden complied, Kydd awkwardly humping the chest. Then Isabella flitted across swiftly and they resumed the march.

They reached a road. “How far, Bella?” Kydd gasped. The chest was taking its toll of his strength.

“Don’t stop here! Anyone is moving at night, he must be
ban-dido
.” She went to help him with the chest, but he brushed her away and crabbed across the road to the anonymous shadows of the other side.

“It is not s’ far now, Mr Keed,” she said. “We get to Sa Roca before the daybreak. There we fin’ a new plan.” Pons stalked on ahead at a merciless pace, the terrain growing ever steeper and rockier, the track leading through fragrant pine woods that pulled and snagged constantly.

It was more than an hour before they arrived, the immense dark bulk of Monte Toro dominating ahead—a lone, rounded peak that he had last seen from the deck of
Tenacious
but whose brooding presence made Kydd’s heart quail. “Sir, quite the ticket for signalling,” Bowden said brightly. Kydd did not reply.

Their hiding-place was well chosen: a small shadow in the side of a craggy hill turned out to be a dank but secure limestone cave. From the smell of its contents, it was probably used for farm storage. Kydd let the chest drop thankfully as Isabella found a small lantern. “We will return in th’ morning. On your life, do not show ou’side!”

Sleep was a long time coming. Kydd had not counted on the presence of an army post on the summit. Rigging a makeshift signal mast was going to be impossible under their eyes and he despaired. Perhaps daylight would suggest a way.

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• • •

His beady black eyes watched them steadily as they ate, while Isabella waited impatiently and Pons stared out moodily.

“Now! What our plan?” she said, as the last of the meal went down. It was time to confront their situation—and, above all, the vital question of whether he could trust her with the secret of the landing-place. She was practical and intelligent, and if anything was to be rescued of the mission it would have to be through her.

Before he could speak she answered his unspoken question:

“On Monte Toro is my brother José. He cook for the dragoons.”

It was what Kydd needed; she would not have trusted him with that knowledge unless she believed in him and, therefore, in turn, he could trust her.

“There is a way
you
can visit him,” she added cagily, “but not wi’ your big box.”

“What’s it like up there?” Kydd countered. “That’s t’ say, how many soldiers? Where do they—”

“There are twenty-two soldier, an’ five sailor t’ work the flags,” she said crisply. “They are in a fort an’ barracks, not so big. The
monasterio
gate are closed, th’ nuns not interested in them.”

Now he just needed a reason to be up there and a hiding-place. He was on his way back with a chance. But without signalling flags? On the quarterdeck of
Leviathan
they would be expecting standard naval signals—without flags and a mast to hoist them, what use was it to get up there?

“How do ye pass the soldiers?”

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“Is easy—I wash th’ clothes for the soldier and ’is family,”

she said. “I must take them up—what soldier want to stop his washing?”

“Then can ye tell me how
we
will get past ’em?” Kydd asked.

“Easy as well. You are cousin of José, you deliver onion an’

garlic to him on a donkey. This young man not go.”

“But—”

“You cannot spik Spanish ’cos you are idiot of the village. Can you be idiot? Señor Motta will ’ave clothes for you.”

“Mr Kydd, sir,” Bowden said, in a low voice, “our flags an’

ropes?”

“They look inside th’ box an’ we are betrayed.” She folded her arms. “No.”

Kydd knew there was everything to win—if only his wits could come up with a solution. But without flags to signal . . . At the back of his mind something stirred. Flags—and something she had said. The idea struggled for form and consciousness. Fornells, Addaya—and the waiting fleet. Then it leaped into focus.

“Bowden!” he snapped. “I have an idea. I’d be obliged should you help me t’ reason it through.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Bowden, mystified. They moved deeper into the cave for more privacy.

“Do ye agree that . . .” The idea took shape: a plan was possible. He explored further, testing each part against Bowden’s loyal opposition.

He returned to Isabella. “We have an idea. Here’s what we’re going t’ do—”

“I won’t hear you!”

“You—”

“If I don’t know your plan, how can I tell th’ Spanish if they catch me?” There was nothing Kydd could say to that.

She looked at him squarely. “Jus’ tell me—when you wan’ to be on Monte Toro?”

“Before ten, tomorrow.”

“We will be there.”

There was one last matter. “My midshipman needs t’ return to the gen’ral. Can—”

“Pons will take ’im tonight.”

In the cool of the morning Kydd and Isabella set out over the steep tracks towards the rearing bulk of Monte Toro. Dressed in the homespun of Minorca, a waistband of faded red with abarca sandals and a low-crowned dull brown hat, Kydd led a donkey laden with onions in panniers, strings of garlic bulbs round its neck and two laundry baskets.