“Weren’t you afraid?” asks Miguel Sánchez Guinea.
Curra confesses that she and her husband shot out of the theater “like a cannonball.”
Lolita laughs. “I was intending to leave with them,” she says. “I rushed out of my box, but seeing that Fernández Cuchillero and Toño and the others were not moving, I just stood there like a fool. And all the time I was thinking, ‘Another bomb and that will be the end of all of us.’ Luckily there was no other bomb.”
“And what did you think of the play?”
“A little contrived, but it’s amusing and well worth seeing. The character of Don Melitón is very droll … You know Paco de la Rosa. He wrote it with his usual wit.”
“And his usual pomposity,” quips Curra Vilches.
“Don’t be so unkind … Those who stayed to the end gave him an ovation.”
“Of course they did; they were part of his clique.”
The banquet is being held in the Posada Inglesa, on the Plaza de los Pozos de la Nieve next to the Café de las Cadenas. Owned by an Englishman who has settled in Cádiz, and staffed by English waiters, it is one of the most elegant restaurants in the city. As they arrive, the guests are shown to the large, spacious first-floor dining room, its windows overlooking the bay and the house of the late, hapless General Solano, which is still in ruins after all the pillaging and the fire three years ago. For the ladies and the children, set out on large Mexican silver salvers belonging to the Sánchez Guineas, there is a cornucopia of almond and cinnamon biscuits, marzipan sweetmeats, Savoy cakes and cream tarts accompanied by orangeade and lemonade, French hot chocolate, English tea and Spanish cinnamon milk. In addition, for the gentlemen, there is coffee, liqueurs, and boxes of Havana cigars. In no time at all, the first floor of the posada is thronged with joyous friends and relatives drinking the health of the newly christened child and his family. The tables are piled with purses of satin and silver mesh, fans inlaid with mother-of-pearl, cigar cases of fine leather. The greatest merchant families are all here to pay tribute to the next generation of one of their own. They have known each other for centuries, and down the years they have gathered for baptisms, communions, weddings and funerals. They believe themselves to be the lifeblood of the city, the powerful muscle that drives work and wealth. The dozen families gathered on the top floor of the Posada Inglesa represent the real Cádiz: money and business, the risks, the failures and the successes that keep this city and its memory alive—Atlantic and Mediterranean, ancient and modern, reasonably cultivated, reasonably liberal, reasonably heroic. But reasonably worried too, not so much about the war—that, too, is merely business—but about the future. The ladies chatter about children and aunts and servants, about dresses they have had made for them by a seamstress on the Calle Juan de Andas, about the new fashions recently arrived from England and the stylish shops on the Plaza de San Antonio, the Calle Cobos and the Calle Ancha, about bed drapes and counterpanes in white muslin—the latest in bedroom fashion—and about the flag being sewn by the Society of Patriotic Ladies to present to the artillerymen of Puntales. Meanwhile, their husbands talk about this or that ship arriving, the dire financial situation and the upheavals, uncertainties and hopes brought about by the French siege and by the escalating insurrection in the American colonies, which has been cynically encouraged by the English—while in Cádiz, through their ambassador, they have spent months sabotaging constitutional progress and supporting the servile Absolutists.
“They should send more troops overseas to suppress this perfidy,” says someone.
“This barbarous obscenity,” adds another.
“The problem, as always, is that we would be the ones to pay. It would be our money,” a third man says sardonically.
“What else can they do? There’s no one else in Spain they can sink their fangs into.”
“They have absolutely no shame. Between the Regency, the Junta and the Cortes, they’ve bled us like stuck pigs.”
Don Emilio Sánchez Guinea—wearing a sober dark gray tailcoat, breeches and black silk stockings—has taken Lolita aside at the far end of the table, near the window that overlooks the bay. They too are discussing the grave financial situation. Having contributed one million pesos to the war effort last year, Cádiz once again finds itself forced to provide more loan capital, like the seven and a half million reales that recently financed the disastrous military campaigns in Cartagena and Alicante. Now there are rumors—and when it comes to taxes, rumors invariably prove to be true—that there is to be another direct levy based on a published list of company fortunes. Emilio Sánchez Guinea is outraged. In his opinion, to air such matters in public is just as detrimental to those who run their businesses well as it is to those who run them badly; the former because they will find themselves even more harried, the latter because business depends on the good name of a company, so making public the finances of certain houses will do little to help them obtain credit. In any case, calculating risk is a delicate matter at the moment, with colonial revenues stagnant and little capital about.
“It is madness,” the elderly merchant says, “attempting to impose direct taxation in a merchant city such as Cádiz where the only reliable measure of a business is its reputation … It would be impossible to calculate without allowing other people to poke their noses into our ledgers. And that would be disgraceful.”
“Well, they shall not get to see my books,” Lolita says decisively. Her face is grave, pensive; her expression tight-lipped and severe. “I shall make sure of that.”
Her mantilla is now draped around her shoulders, her hair swept up and pinned with a tortoiseshell comb. Next to her hands, which are crumbling an almond tart over the tablecloth, lies a fan, a velvet purse and a glass of cinnamon milk.
“People say you have been having problems,” says Sánchez Guinea in a low voice.
“That I have been having problems too, you mean.”
“Of course. Like myself, and my son … like everyone.”
Lolita nods, but says no more. Like many merchants in Cádiz, she is owed almost five million reales by the public treasury—of which, to date, she has not recovered more than a tenth: 25,000 pesos. If the debt remains unpaid, it could bankrupt her. It would certainly force her to suspend payments.
“I have it on good authority that the government has received payments from London and has neatly arranged its finances without paying a penny to its creditors … It did precisely the same with the recent revenues from Lima and Havana.”
“I can’t say it surprises me,” Lolita says. “But this is precisely why I am worried. Any serious blow and I would find myself without the funds to continue.”
Sánchez Guinea shakes his head despairingly. Lolita thinks he looks exhausted; not even his grandson’s christening seems to cheer him. Too much grief and worry have sapped the peace of mind of this man, once her father’s partner and dearest friend. “It is the end of an era,” she has often heard him say. “Cádiz as I knew it is dying, and I am dying with it. I do not envy the younger generation, those who will be here in fifteen or twenty years.” More than once he has talked about retiring and leaving the business to Miguel.
“What news of our corsair?”
The old man’s face lights up as he asks the question, as though a sea breeze has cleared away his melancholy thoughts. He even smiles a little. Lolita moves her hand toward her glass, but does not touch it.
“He is faring well,” she says, glancing out of the window toward the bay. “But the Prize Court has been moving slowly. What with Gibraltar, Tarifa and Cádiz, everything is moving at a snail’s pace … You know as well as I that the Culebra may be a boon, but it is no solution. Besides, there are fewer and fewer French and foreign ships prepared to brave these waters. They should sail out beyond the Cabo de Gata. They might find easier pickings.”
Don Emilio smiles, amused, remembering Lolita’s initial resistance to becoming involved in anything to do with corsairs.
“You hav
e clearly decided to take this business seriously, niña.”
“What choice do I have?” She smiles too, a little at her own expense. “Times are hard.”
“Well, we may have another capture to add to the list. A cutter was sighted this morning just past Torregorda, escorting another ship … It might well be our Captain Lobo with more prey.”
Lolita does not so much as blink. She has already had this information from the watchtower.
“If it is the corsair,” she says finally, “we must make sure she puts out again immediately.”
“Further east, you propose?”
“Exactly. Now that Alicante has fallen, there should be more French sea traffic in the area. They could use Cartagena as a base.”
“Not a bad idea … not bad at all.”
They both fall silent. Now it is Sánchez Guinea’s turn to gaze pensively out the window, then to survey the room. All around is the hum of conversation, the chatter of ladies, the laughing and shrieking of children. The celebrations carry on, oblivious to the harsh realities of a world that is crumbling outside—the only inkling of which is the occasional explosion of a French shell. Miguel Sánchez Guinea, who has been mingling with his guests, notices that his father and Lolita Palma are engaged in a private conversation; he makes a move to join them, smiling, a cigar in one hand and a drink in the other. But his father stops him with a warning gesture. Dutifully, Miguel raises his glass and turns on his heel.
“What news of the Marco Bruto?” Once again, Don Emilio speaks in a concerned whisper.
At this question, a shadow crosses the face of the heir to the house of Palma. For some time now, the mere mention of the ship has been keeping her awake at night.
“Nothing as yet. She is late arriving … She was scheduled to put out from Havana on the fifteenth of last month.”
“And you do not know where she is?”
Lolita makes an ambiguous gesture. “Not yet. But we are expecting her any day now.”
There is a long and pregnant silence. As experienced merchants, they both know that the ship may well be lost: some accident at sea; the French corsairs; misfortune. There are ships that can make or break a business with a single voyage. The Marco Bruto, by far Palma’s largest brigantine—280 tons, a copper-sheathed hull, carrying four 6-pound guns—is heading for Cádiz with a cargo of singular importance: a valuable consignment of grain, sugar, indigo and 1,200 copper ingots from Veracruz; indeed, a small part of the shipment is destined for Sánchez Guinea’s own business. What he does not know—friendship is one thing and business another—is that, hidden beneath the ingots, the brigantine is carrying 20,000 silver pesos belonging to Lolita, intended to restore her liquidity and maintain her local credit. Should it be lost, the blow would be almost insuperable—made all the worse by the fact that, given the delicate nature of the venture, the marine insurance has been covered by Palma e Hijos.
“I realize you have risked a great deal on this shipment, hija,” Sánchez Guinea says at length.
Lolita says nothing. She gazes into the middle distance as though she did not hear the last words uttered by this old friend of her father. After a moment, she shudders almost imperceptibly, then smiles a sad, worried smile.
“I don’t think you realize, Don Emilio … With things as they are, I have risked everything.”
She turns away again and gazes out at the ocean from which Cádiz’s fortunes and disasters arise. In the distance, side by side, the sails of two ships swell in the nor’easter as they move into the bay, careful to give a wide berth to the French gun batteries as they pass Las Puercas and the Diamante.
Pray God the brigantine arrives soon, she thinks anxiously, Pray God she comes home safely.
LEANING ON THE port bow of the Culebra, spyglass to one eye, Pépé Lobo watches the sails of the ship rapidly approaching from Rota headland; two masts tilted slightly to stern, a spike bowsprit, triangular lateen sails taut from the wind on the beam.
“She’s a místico,” he says. “One gun each to port and starboard, and another in the bow. She’s flying no flag.”
“A corsair?” Standing next to the captain, Ricardo Maraña stares at the approaching vessel, shielding his eyes with his hand.
“Probably.”
“When I first saw her, I assumed she was the felucca anchored near Rota.”
“As did I. But there’s no sign of a sail in the inlet … The felucca has clearly found a new hunting ground.”
Lobo passes the telescope to his first officer, who carefully studies the boat, its sails shimmering in the late afternoon sun.
“We’ve not seen her in these waters before … Could she be the one from Sanlúcar?”
“Maybe.”
“What is she doing so far east?”
“If the felucca is off hunting elsewhere, she might have taken over. Just to see if there’s anything around.”
Maraña is still peering through the spyglass. At a glance, he can see what the místico is up to.
“She’s trying her luck … testing the water.”
Pépé Lobo looks to windward. Sailing in convoy with the Culebra, crewed by a boarding party, is the cutter’s most recent prize: a 90-ton Neapolitan schooner, the Cristina Ricotta, captured without resistance four days ago off Cires point, heading to Málaga from Tangier with a cargo of wool, leather and salt meat. Coming into the bay of Cádiz, and anticipating the presence of corsairs and the threat from the French fort at Santa Catalina, which fires on any ship that comes too close to land, Pépé Lobo has taken care to keep the schooner on the starboard side of the Culebra, two cables distant, the better to be able to protect her should there be any threat. The Culebra herself is sailing cautiously, flying no flag, her long bowsprit pointed toward Rota inlet, hugging the nor’easter; all sails are set, including the foretopsail, with half the crew manning braces and sheets and Brasero the bo’sun leaning on the windlass two paces behind the captain and the first mate. He has one eye on the maneuvers, the other on the eight 6-pound guns, which are primed and loaded. Meanwhile, the rest of the crew have been armed and ready ever since the sail first appeared from behind the headland at Rota.
“Do we come about, or keep a steady course?” Maraña asks, folding the telescope.
“Let’s keep things as they are for the moment. The místico shouldn’t cause us any trouble.”
The lieutenant nods, hands back the telescope and turns to look at the schooner sailing aweather, maintaining the agreed distance and dutifully obeying all signals from the cutter. Like his captain, Maraña knows that the enemy corsair does not have sufficient firepower to tackle them head-on; with only three guns compared to the Culebra’s eight, any attempt would be suicidal. But at sea, it is wise to take nothing for granted, and the French corsair, fearless by virtue of her profession, is doing precisely what they would do in her position: coming as close as she can, circling like a wary predator, waiting to see whether some stroke of luck—a change of wind, a false maneuver, a shot from Santa Catalina dismasting the cutter—might give her the opportunity to pounce.
“We can pass Los Cochinos and Fraile with a single tack,” says Maraña, “but we’d have to steer pretty close to Rota.”
He says this with his usual aloofness, as though observing the maneuver from land. It is simply an objective comment, not intended to influence his captain’s decision. Pépé Lobo looks out toward the enemy headland and the town beyond it, then turns back toward Cádiz, white and sprawling behind the imposing city walls. With a glance at the swell and at the weathervane fluttering at the top of the cutter’s lone mast, Lobo quickly calculates the strength and direction of the wind, speed, course and distance. In order to avoid the rocks at the mouth of the bay they will have to tack toward Cádiz, then Rota, then back toward the city again. This means steering dangerously close to the French gun batteries, with little margin for error. It might first be wise to teach the místico a little respect. Just in case.
“Stand by, Lieutenant.”
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Maraña turns to Brasero, still leaning on the windlass.
“Nostromo! Ready to go about!”
As Brasero turns and makes his way across the listing deck, getting the crewmen into position, Pépé Lobo tell his first mate the plan.
“We’ll launch a broadside at the místico, just to keep her at a safe distance … We’ll wait until the last minute and fire just before we come about.”
“One shot from each gun?”
“Yes. I don’t think we’ll dismast her with a broadside, but I want to give her the fright of her life … Can you handle the first shot?”
The lieutenant gives a faint smile. True to his character, Ricardo Maraña is staring out to sea as though thinking about something else, but Lobo knows that he is mentally calculating the conditions of fire and the range of the cannons. Reveling in the prospect.
The Siege Page 58