lurch forward as the hull struck the rocks, he wanted to see her canted and sinking, and he wanted to see her sailors floundering in the heaving seas, but of course she sailed serenely past the danger.
“It would be best,” Father Montseny said, “if we had the English gold and published the letters.”
“It would be treacherous, of course,” the admiral observed mildly.
“God wants Spain great again, my lord,” Montseny said fervently. “It is never treachery to do God’s work.”
A sudden boom of a gun sounded flat across the bay and both men turned to see a far white cloud of smoke. It had come from one of the giant mortars the French had placed in their forts on the Trocadero Peninsula and the admiral hoped the shell had been aimed at the British frigate. Instead the missile fell on the city’s waterfront a half mile to the east. The admiral waited for the shell to explode, then drew on his cigar. “If we publish the letters,” he said, “then the Cortes will turn against the British. The bribes will make that certain, and then we can approach the French. You would be willing to go to them?”
“Very willing, my lord.”
“I shall give you a letter of introduction, of course.” The admiral had already made his proposals to Paris. That had been easy. He was known to hate the British and a French agent in Cádiz had spoken to him, but the reply from the emperor was simple. Deliver the votes in the Cortes and the Spanish king, now a prisoner in France, would be returned. France would make peace and Spain would be free. All the French demanded in return was the right to send troops across Spanish roads to complete the conquest of Portugal and so drive Lord Wellington’s British army into the sea. As an earnest of their goodwill the French had given orders that the admiral’s estates on the Guadiana should not be plundered and now, in return, the admiral must deliver the votes and so sever the alliance with Britain. “By summer, Father,” he said.
“Summer?”
“It will be done. We shall have our king. We shall be free.”
“Under God.”
“Under God,” the admiral agreed. “Find the money, Father, and make the English look like fools.”
“It is God’s will,” Montseny said, “so it will happen.”
And the British would go to hell.
E VERYTHING WAS easy after the shot felled Sharpe.
The boat drifted down the ever widening Guadiana into the night. A hazed moon silvered the hills and lit the long water that shuddered under the small wind. Sharpe lay in the boat’s bilges, senseless, his head broken and bloodied and bandaged, and the brigadier sat in the stern, his leg splinted and his hands on the tiller ropes, and he wondered what he should do. The dawn found them between low hills without a house in sight. Egrets and herons stalked the river’s edge. “He needs a doctor, sir,” Harper said, and the brigadier heard the anguish in the Irishman’s voice. “He’s dying, sir.”
“He’s breathing, isn’t he?” the brigadier asked.
“He is, sir,” Harper said, “but he needs a doctor, sir.”
“Good God incarnate, man, I’m not a conjuror! I can’t find a doctor in a wilderness, can I?” The brigadier was in pain and spoke more sharply than he intended and he saw the flare of hostility on Harper’s face and felt a stab of fear. Sir Barnaby Moon reckoned himself a good officer, but he was not comfortable dealing with the ranks. “If we come to a town,” he said, trying to mollify the big sergeant, “we’ll look for a physician.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
The brigadier hoped they would find a town. They needed food and he wanted to find a doctor who could look at his broken leg that throbbed like the devil. “Row!” he snarled at the men, but they made a poor job of it. The painted blades clashed with every stroke, and the more they rowed, the less headway they seemed to make, and the brigadier realized that they were fighting an incoming tide. They must
“It would be best,” Father Montseny said, “if we had the English gold and published the letters.”
“It would be treacherous, of course,” the admiral observed mildly.
“God wants Spain great again, my lord,” Montseny said fervently. “It is never treachery to do God’s work.”
A sudden boom of a gun sounded flat across the bay and both men turned to see a far white cloud of smoke. It had come from one of the giant mortars the French had placed in their forts on the Trocadero Peninsula and the admiral hoped the shell had been aimed at the British frigate. Instead the missile fell on the city’s waterfront a half mile to the east. The admiral waited for the shell to explode, then drew on his cigar. “If we publish the letters,” he said, “then the Cortes will turn against the British. The bribes will make that certain, and then we can approach the French. You would be willing to go to them?”
“Very willing, my lord.”
“I shall give you a letter of introduction, of course.” The admiral had already made his proposals to Paris. That had been easy. He was known to hate the British and a French agent in Cádiz had spoken to him, but the reply from the emperor was simple. Deliver the votes in the Cortes and the Spanish king, now a prisoner in France, would be returned. France would make peace and Spain would be free. All the French demanded in return was the right to send troops across Spanish roads to complete the conquest of Portugal and so drive Lord Wellington’s British army into the sea. As an earnest of their goodwill the French had given orders that the admiral’s estates on the Guadiana should not be plundered and now, in return, the admiral must deliver the votes and so sever the alliance with Britain. “By summer, Father,” he said.
“Summer?”
“It will be done. We shall have our king. We shall be free.”
“Under God.”
“Under God,” the admiral agreed. “Find the money, Father, and make the English look like fools.”
“It is God’s will,” Montseny said, “so it will happen.”
And the British would go to hell.
E VERYTHING WAS easy after the shot felled Sharpe.
The boat drifted down the ever widening Guadiana into the night. A hazed moon silvered the hills and lit the long water that shuddered under the small wind. Sharpe lay in the boat’s bilges, senseless, his head broken and bloodied and bandaged, and the brigadier sat in the stern, his leg splinted and his hands on the tiller ropes, and he wondered what he should do. The dawn found them between low hills without a house in sight. Egrets and herons stalked the river’s edge. “He needs a doctor, sir,” Harper said, and the brigadier heard the anguish in the Irishman’s voice. “He’s dying, sir.”
“He’s breathing, isn’t he?” the brigadier asked.
“He is, sir,” Harper said, “but he needs a doctor, sir.”
“Good God incarnate, man, I’m not a conjuror! I can’t find a doctor in a wilderness, can I?” The brigadier was in pain and spoke more sharply than he intended and he saw the flare of hostility on Harper’s face and felt a stab of fear. Sir Barnaby Moon reckoned himself a good officer, but he was not comfortable dealing with the ranks. “If we come to a town,” he said, trying to mollify the big sergeant, “we’ll look for a physician.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
The brigadier hoped they would find a town. They needed food and he wanted to find a doctor who could look at his broken leg that throbbed like the devil. “Row!” he snarled at the men, but they made a poor job of it. The painted blades clashed with every stroke, and the more they rowed, the less headway they seemed to make, and the brigadier realized that they were fighting an incoming tide. They must
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