“The crew are ready, Captain.”
The smell of tobacco smoke is whipped away by the wind. The dark, slender form of Ricardo Maraña appears at the taffrail, the glow of his cigar lighting his face. The deck is alive with the sound of bare feet, men’s voices, the creak and screech of block and tackle.
“Then give the order. Let’s sail.”
“Yes, sir.”
The cigar glows briefly as the first mate turns.
“Ricardo … er, Lieutenant?”
A brief silence. Confused, perhaps, Maraña stops where he is.
“Sir?”
There is surprise in his voice. Just as they never speak in familiar terms in front of the crew, not even when ashore, so never before has Pépé Lobo called him by his first name.
“It looks to be a short, tough trip.”
Another silence. Then the lieutenant’s laugh booms out in the darkness until eventually it is strangled by a coughing fit. The cigar traces a red arc across the bow and drops into the sea.
“Just get us to Rota, Captain. Then let the devil take care of his own.”
IN HIS HUT, by the weak flame of a candle end, Simon Desfosseux dips his pen into the inkwell and sets down calculations and results in a thick notebook, a technical diary of the campaign which he keeps methodically. He does this at the close of every day, with his usual meticulousness, dispassionately noting every success, every failure. In recent days, the artilleryman has been satisfied: certain improvements in the specific gravity of the bombs, implemented after difficult negotiations with General d’Aboville, have increased their range. For two weeks now, using perfectly spherical grenades with no fuse and thirty pounds of sand in place of a powder charge, the Villantroys-Ruty howitzers have been managing to hit the Plaza de San Antonio, in the heart of the city. This implies an effective range of 2,820 toises, made possible by the extremely delicate balance of sand and lead which, carefully introduced into the projectile in successive layers, compensates for the 95-pound weight of the shells fired at a 45-degree angle. Admittedly, having no charge and no fuse, they never explode, but at least they land where they are supposed to land—more or less. There are occasional deviations—which worry Desfosseux—of up to 50 toises, calculated using the two spires of the church as reference. With things as they are, it is an admirable achievement, one that has allowed Le Moniteur to report—to Marshal Soult’s great satisfaction—that the Imperial Army are shelling the whole of Cádiz. As for the bombs that are intended to explode, an ingenious combination of fuses, primers and newly devised detonators—the fruit of endless calculations and laborious work by Maurizio Bertoldi—now means that, when the wind, temperature and humidity are favorable, one in ten will reach its target, and the fuse will burn long enough for it to explode. Reports received from Cádiz are enough to save face and to appease the marshal—though they stress the fear and damage caused, rather than fatalities. Desfosseux, however, feels deeply humiliated; he is still convinced that if his superiors would only allow him to use mortars rather than howitzers, and large-diameter shells with longer fuses rather than grenades, his success in extending range would be matched by increased destructive power, and his shells would raze the city to the ground. But, just like the absent Marshal Victor, Soult and his general staff, careful to pander to the Emperor, refuse to hear mention of the word mortar; all the more so now that Fanfan and his brothers are finally hitting their targets—or almost. In fact the Duc de Dalmatie himself—this is Jean Soult’s imperial title—congratulated Desfosseux some days ago during a routine inspection of the Trocadero. The duke was in unusually good spirits. A messenger, one of the few to cross the Despeñaperros gorge without being strung up from a tree and disemboweled by the guerrilleros, brought newspapers from Madrid and Paris containing articles about the bombing of Cádiz, as well as news that the convoy transporting the last consignment of paintings, tapestries and jewels looted by Soult in Andalucía had arrived safely on the far side of the Pyrenees.
“Are you sure you don’t want that promotion, Captain?”
“No, sir.” Desfosseux clicked his heels impeccably. “Though I am grateful for the offer. As my superior officers are aware, I would prefer to remain at my current rank.”
“Really? You said that to Marshal Victor in person?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you hear that, gentlemen? A queer fish.”
Desfosseux closes his notebook and sits brooding. After a moment, he checks his pocket watch, then opens the empty munitions crate he uses as a desk and takes out the most recent message, received this morning from the Spanish policeman. After a silence lasting two weeks, this curious individual has now asked him to fire on a specific point in the city five days from now at 0400 hours precisely. The letter includes a penciled sketch of the area where the bombs are to fall; the captain, who knows the streets of Cádiz like the back of his hand, does not need a map to work out where it is: the little Plaza de San Francisco, situated next to the convent and the church that bear the same name. It is well within range of the exploding shells, as long as there is not a stiff westerly breeze. A relatively easy target to hit with a conventional exploding charge, providing the bombs do not decide to veer right or left—the cursed things sometimes seem to have minds of their own—or fall short and land in the sea.
A colorful character, this commissioner, thinks Desfosseux, putting a match to one corner of the letter and watching it burn. Not exactly likable, it has to be said, with that hawk-like face and those eyes that blaze with suppressed fury, fierce determination and a thirst for vengeance. Ever since their clandestine meeting on the beach, Simon Desfosseux has not replied to the Spaniard’s communications. Such a measure would be reckless and dangerous. Not for himself, since he can claim the man is an informant helping him to select targets, but for the policeman himself. This is not a time for misunderstandings or fine distinctions. Desfosseux doubts whether the Spanish authorities would accept the idea of one of their policemen colluding with the enemy, setting targets for some of the bombs that fall on the city, destroying property and lives. This man Tizón seems to blithely accept such risks, but Desfosseux has no intention of making them worse by some indiscretion. Not even the loyal Bertoldi, who helped with their meeting, is aware of what was discussed; he still believes that Tizón is a spy or an informant. As far as the captain is concerned, he has kept his part of their agreement, arranging matters so that at the appointed day and time, Sergeant Labiche and his men fire several shots at prearranged locations, always using grenades containing a powder charge and fuse. After all, they are simply shelling—they do not care where the bombs land. As for the story of the murdered girls, Desfosseux imagines that if Tizón is successful, he will send a message to this effect. In the meantime, Desfosseux is prepared to keep his promise. Not indefinitely, of course. He has to draw the line somewhere.
Getting to his feet, the artilleryman checks his watch again. He picks up his coat and hat, snuffs out the candle and, pushing aside the blanket that serves as a door, steps out into the darkness. The sky is filled with stars and the northeasterly breeze fans the flames of a nearby campfire, on which soldiers are warming a pot of the usual brew of toasted barley and “coffee grounds” that do not smell like, taste like or contain a single grain of coffee. The leaping flames cast a red glow on the barrels of the rifles, and shadows dance across their spectral faces.
“Fancy a beaker, Captain?”
“Maybe later.”
“There probably won’t be any left later.”
Desfosseux stops, takes the tin beaker offered to him and, careful about where he steps, carries it to the watchtower a short distance away. It is a mild night, despite the wind. Summer is coming, bringing with it scorching heat—as much as a hundred degrees in the shade—and swarms of mosquitoes from stagnant pools that torment the army day and night. At least, thinks Desfosseux, sipping the warm brew, the northeasterly breeze makes a change from the muggy heat of the wind the Spanish call sola
no, a sirocco that blows in from Africa, bringing terrible fevers and sweltering nights, drying up the riverbeds, killing the plants and driving people insane. People say that most of the murders in this country—which is criminal by nature—are committed when the solano is blowing. A shocking case took place in Jerez only three weeks ago. A lieutenant colonel in the dragoon guards who was living with a Spanish woman—many officers allow themselves this luxury, while the troops are left to vent their lust in brothels or rape women at their own risk—was stabbed to death by the woman’s husband, a normally peaceable local bureaucrat who had sworn allegiance to King Joseph. No motive could be determined for this crime beyond the personal, under the influence of this hot wind that boils the blood and unhinges the mind.
Simon Desfosseux finishes his drink, sets the empty beaker on the ground and climbs the creaking ladder that leads to the observation deck, converted into a blockhouse using thick planks of pine from the forests of Chiclana. Five minutes from now, over at Fanfan’s battery, Lieutenant Bertoldi will fire the last shots of the day at a range of targets including the Plaza de San Antonio, San Felipe Neri and the Customs House; in doing this he is observing what in recent months has become a ritual, by which several bombs are fired at the limit of the range at daybreak, lunch, dinner and shortly after midnight. It is a basic routine: the bombs now cause more damage than before, but no one expects that they will change anything. Not even the Duc de Dalmatie.
Peering through an embrasure, Desfosseux stares out at the landscape, the vast expanse of the bay, the scattered lights of the sleeping city, the distant flare of San Sebastián lighthouse. There are lights in some of the windows near the Isla de Léon, and the campfires of both armies create a sweeping arc in the distance along the canals of Sancti Petri, marking out a front line that has not moved an inch in the fourteen months since the battle of Chiclana. Nor is it likely to move now, unless in retreat. With the bad news coming in from all over the Peninsula, the defeat of Marshal Marmont by Wellington at Arapiles as the English march into Salamanca, rumors of a general retreat northward are rife in Andalucía.
Nonetheless, Cádiz is still here. Removing the lens cap from the powerful Thomas Jones night glass mounted on a tripod, a wide-barrelled instrument almost a meter in length—six months and mountains of frustrating paperwork were necessary to get one for La Cabezuela—Desfosseux scans the dark city, pausing over the Customs House where the Regency meet. Together with the Oratory of San Felipe Neri, where the rebel parliament meet—farther off and more difficult to aim at—the Customs House is one of his favorite targets. After several failed attempts, Desfosseux has successfully managed to hit the building with a number of well-aimed shells. It is something he plans to do again tonight, if Bertoldi’s hand remains steady and the northeast wind does not play havoc with the trajectories.
Just as Simon Desfosseux is about to turn away from the telescope, he sees a dark shape pass slowly across the lens. Moving the glass to the right, the captain follows it curiously. Finally he realizes that the shadow, magnified and flattened against the vast black expanse of the bay by the powerful lens, is a ship, all sails set, hugging the wind, slipping silently through the darkness like a ghost.
IN THE TERRACE watchtower, cooled by the breeze from the north window, Lolita Palma is also peering through a spyglass. The line of the coast, where the constellations of stars piercing the blue vault of the firmament pass away, is barely visible against the black vastness of the bay. Below the horizon, darker still in this last hour of night, there are no lights save for the intermittent flare of the San Sebastián lighthouse to the left, and a few dim specks—the campfires at Rota—which look like low stars, faint and tremulous in the distance.
“Day is about to break,” says Santos.
Lolita looks right, toward the east. Beyond the darks hills of Chiclana and the peak of Medina Sidonia, a faint blue line is appearing on the horizon. It will be more than an hour before the light chases the shadows from the point on the bay on which her telescope has been trained for over an hour, attempting to penetrate the inky blackness. Her heart is in her mouth as she looks for any sign that the Culebra is close to its objective—but there is nothing but darkness; everything seems eerily calm. The wind may have delayed them, she thinks, forcing them to tack more often to reach Rota. Or perhaps it proved impossible to sail into the inlet, and they were forced to go out into the open sea—to abandon their attempt.
“If they’d been discovered, we would know,” says Santos.
The woman nods without replying. She knows the old sailor is right. The stillness means that wherever she may be, the Culebra has not yet been spotted. In fact, a little while ago, some of the French batteries at Santa Catalina and Rota shelled the city and the wind from the far shore carried the sound of the guns. The silence now seems absolute, except for the occasional howling of the wind across the bay.
“No easy task, sailing into that inlet,” says Santos. “It’ll take time.”
Lolita nods again, unsure. Anxious. When the fierce gusts blow through the open window she shivers with cold, in spite of the woolen shawl pulled over her robe; her hair is gathered in a silk coif covering and she is wearing leather slippers. She has been awake much of the night, and in the past two hours has not moved from the tower. The last time was when she went downstairs, but her sleep was brief and fitful, leaving Santos on guard with orders to wake her if there was the slightest news. Shortly afterward she was back in the watchtower, demanding the spyglass. Her hands and face are chilled to the bone; she feels exhausted by the long wait, and her eyes are wet with tears from the long hours spent pressed to the eyepiece of the telescope. She carefully scans the black line of the coast from right to left, pausing at the shadowy entrance to the inlet: there is nothing but darkness and silence. The thought that this one attempt might fail, that the Marco Bruto and her cargo could be lost forever, fills her with dread.
“I fear there is nothing to be done,” she murmurs. “Something must have prevented them reaching their destination.”
“Don’t say such things.” Santos’s voice has the age-old calm of seamen accustomed to the inconstancies of fate. “The captain knows his business.”
There is a pause. The wind blows in fitful gusts, causing the clothes hung out on the nearby terraces to shudder and flutter like the shrouds of ghosts.
“May I be permitted to smoke, Doña Lolita?”
“Of course.”
“I thank thee.”
In the brief flare of the tinderbox the manservant uses to light his hand-rolled cigars, Lolita Palma sees the hard lines etched on his face. Pépé Lobo must be surrounded by such men at this moment, she thinks, by weather-beaten faces chiseled by the sea. It requires no effort for her to picture the corsair—if he has not already abandoned his venture and sailed on—peering into the darkness beyond the bow of the cutter, attentive to the slightest noise other than the wind and the creak of wood and canvas, and the whisper of the leadsman perched on the cathead counting the fathoms beneath the keel, while the whole crew wait, tense and tongue-tied, for the flare of a cannonade that will sweep the deck.
A gust of wind howls across the terraces and whistles through the window of the watchtower. Shivering beneath her shawl, Lolita can feel, as palpable and precise as an open wound, the yawning emptiness of the gestures she did not make, the silence of the words she did not say while the gathering shadows—a few short hours have passed, yet they feel like years—shrouded the face of this man whose very memory causes her to tremble: the white slash of a smile against bronzed skin, the double reflection of his green eyes, pale, distant, staring into the darkness, as the night inexorably took possession of their emotions, of their lives. Perhaps when all this is over he will return, she thinks suddenly. Perhaps I might, perhaps I should … Then again, no. Perhaps never. Or yes. Perhaps forever.
“There!” Santos shouts.
Lolita Palma starts, then looks in the direction he is pointing. She holds her brea
th and feels her skin prickle. From across the bay, the wind brings a faint, monotonous rumble like distant thunder. In the cove at Rota, small flashes glitter over black waters.
TIMBERS SPLINTER, CANNONFIRE blazes, men scream. Every time it takes another hit, the Culebra shudders as though alive; as though dying. Since the cutter finally managed to swing her bow clear of the brigantine into the lee of the wind, Pépé Lobo has not had time to check how things are going with Ricardo Maraña and his boarding party. Barely had the last man clambered aboard the Marco Bruto—it was a miracle the bowsprit did not split during the final, silent approach, though she was sailing into the wind—than Pépé Lobo had to turn his attention to the unlit ship firing at them across the starboard bow. He had not expected to encounter anything moored to leeward of the Marco Bruto, and was surprised to realize at the last moment that there was a vessel—but by then it was too late to change course. It was a small armed vessel; perhaps the corsair místico that prowled the bay had recently dropped anchor here. Her one shot rashly revealed her presence, but by this stage, it hardly mattered; Pépé Lobo had more important things to worry about. Having broken her moorings, drifting in the stiff wind, the místico—if it is her—is now a flaming pyre. No sooner had Maraña and his crew of sixteen boarded the Marco Bruto than the Culebra launched a broadside from her four 6-pound starboard guns, setting her ablaze. The real problem Pépé Lobo notices, as the Culebra comes about to leeward, is off the port bow of the brigantine, where he can see the flare of cannonfire from the corsair feluccas anchored nearby. In the darkness Lobo cannot see his own rigging, but in the blaze of the místico still drifting in the wind, and the intermittent flashes from the Culebra’s guns, he can just make out the tattered shrouds and the canvas, gybing or tensed above his head: the mainsail is partially ripped, the gaff is broken, only the foresail is still intact. On the deck, amid the tangle of ropes and splintered wood, framed against the harsh glare of the cannonfire, the crew of the cutter are trying to fix braces and broken halyards to keep the ship on course while the cannon crew swab and charge the four starboard guns with a double shot. Pépé Lobo walks along the guns, cajoling, harrying, helping to maneuver the pinch bars securing the limbers.
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