‘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 taphouse, 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 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 dramatically 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 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 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 bandido.’ 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. Rigg
ing a makeshift signal mast was going to be impossible under their eyes and he despaired. Perhaps daylight would suggest a way.
The grey of dawn stole into the cave turning sinister dark shapes to ordinary dusty kegs and sacks. It also brought Isabella and a wrinkled old man, with their breakfast of bread and onion soup. ‘This Señor Motta, an’ this his finca, his farm. He want t’ help.’
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?’
‘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.
They did not speak as they reached the base of the massive mount and began to trudge up the steep spiral road. A thousand feet to go – the surrounding country began to spread out as they rose and the glimmer of sea appeared on the horizon. Further still and the limits of the horizon extended until even without a telescope the unmistakable winding shape of the Bay of Fornells became apparent. The panorama of low, rolling country out into the far distance was spectacular.
The gritty noise of a cart sounded behind. Kydd snatched a look and saw it was an army conveyance. He let Isabella chat on incomprehensibly. She stopped to give a cheery wave to the soldiers, who responded with catcalls.
They wound round the last few yards of the road, and suddenly were on the airy summit, a flat area with a squat, square reddish fort and a line of barracks one side, a white stone building the other, well shuttered. A hut and signal mast was atop the fort.
Playing his part to the full, Kydd stood and gaped vacantly until Isabella tugged angrily at him to move forward.
Two sentries ambled across. ‘Oye! Isabella, para! Tenemos que registrarte a ti y la colada!’
As Isabella told her story Kydd shrank fearfully from the men, scrabbling to hide behind the donkey as the men fumbled among the onions in a perfunctory search, laughing at his clumsy consternation. ‘El Coronel dice que los ingleses están cerca y no quiere jugarsela.’
They turned to the washing baskets; Kydd started to whimper in distress at their behaviour. ‘Dejadlo en paz, cabrones!’ Isabella shouted, pulling them away. They complied meekly while she comforted Kydd with soothing words and firmly led him on.
At the sound of raised voices several people came into the courtyard. The cook, fat, jovial and impatient to see what they had brought, emerged from the barracks. He fingered the onions doubtfully and inspected the strings of garlic. They were apparently judged satisfactory; the donkey was unloaded and led away, and the cook promised to find a little something for the visitors after the long haul up.
Inside the cook’s quarters there was nervous chatter, but Kydd’s first concern was the room. To his vast relief there was a large jalousie window facing north. He looked out cautiously. It was one of many in the outer wall, whose face fell vertically from a dizzying height to the rocky flank of the mount. In the next room there was a smaller window. It would do.
He raised his eyes to the distance. Fornells was in plain sight, and shifting to the right he saw the complex of islands and bays that was Addaya. Perfect! He would not be seen while he did the observations and the signalling – it was all very possible.
Isabella brought the cook forward. ‘Mr Keed, this José.’ He shook hands, aware of a shrewd look.
‘What do we do now, Mr Keed?’ The door was thick and had bolts but if they were discovered in their nefarious activity there could be no exit through the window – they would be trapped.
‘My spyglass.’ It was covered in sacking at the bottom of a washing basket. He went to the window and settled down with a chair. To seaward there was a bright haze; this would conceal the approach of the fleet until it was about five miles offshore. He hauled out Renzi’s watch: in only an hour or so there would be sudden alarm and dismay as the rumours of an English fleet took on an awful reality.
He must work fast. Methodically he quartered the country along each side of the narrow Bay of Fornells. On one side of the entrance there was a medium-sized fort and on the other a town. An army encampment was easy to see, the regularity of the tents, the glitter of equipment and even a caterpillar of men drilling. He located and traced the road away from the base: this would be the avenue for reinforcement or retreat.
Then he switched his glass to Addaya where he saw little military activity; there seemed to be nothing but small fortifications and only one concentration of soldiery. He searched for and found the connecting road. Finally, he carefully scanned the countryside round and
about for any evidence of defences in depth. As far as a sharp seaman’s eye could tell there was none of significance.
As he had feared, most troops appeared to be at Fornells, and would cause grievous damage to the landing. There were some at Addaya but not enough to indicate that they considered a landing there to be in prospect. Tensely, he settled down to wait.
Less than half an hour later a trumpet sounded urgently outside. José started and hissed at Isabella. ‘They call th’ soldier to arms,’ she told Kydd.
Kydd lifted his glass seaward, but the bright haze lay uninterrupted in all directions. He searched in other directions, then realised it was probably Fornells signalling the approach of a hostile fleet, which he could not yet see in the haze.
Kydd waited, his glass trained out to sea, until his heart skipped a beat as the gossamer shapes of first one then several ships appeared close-hauled and standing steadily towards Fornells. The two 74s led the fleet; further out he saw the frigates and in the far distance the transports. There would be English soldiers aboard who, before the day was out, might owe their lives to Kydd’s actions in the next few minutes.
‘Isabella, bring y’r washing.’ He had just rigged an endless loop of washing-line passing out of one window and in the next.
‘I’ll have th’ red shirt, y’r lady’s shawl an’ the pantaloons, if y’ please.’ A deft twist to form two bights, and a clove hitch secured the shirt first by one corner and then spaced to the other. The shawl and pantaloons followed, then Kydd hauled on his ‘halliard’. The washing disappeared out of the window to hang innocently suspended along the wall outside.
He grabbed his glass and stared at Leviathan’s mizzen peak until his eyes watered. Had Bowden reached the flagship in time? Did they believe his improbable story? Minutes dragged.
There it was! The answering pennant hoisted close up. Feverishly, Kydd hauled once more on his horizontal halliard to rotate the clothing inside, around and out again, the ‘signal’ repeated. The answering pennant whipped down – he had been seen. Near delirious with excitement he focused on what was next: ‘troops are concentrated at Fornells’. ‘M’ dear, I’ll trouble you for th’ black bodice an’ that fetching yellow skirt.’
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