Sharpe's Fury - 11 (20 page)

Sharpe looked scornful. “You’re on the side of the
serviles.
Of course you are.”

“Oddly enough, no. If anything we support the
liberales,
so long, of course, as their wilder ideas are not exported to Britain, God forbid that. But either faction will suffice if they continue to fight Bonaparte.”

“So where’s the confusion?”

“The confusion, Sharpe, is that men on both sides dislike us. There are
serviles
and
liberales
who earnestly believe that Spain’s most dangerous enemy is not France, but Britain. The leader of that faction, of course, is Admiral Cardenas. He’s a
servile,
naturally, but if he can scare enough
liberales
into believing that we’ll annex Cádiz, then he should get his way. He wants Spain under a Catholic king and with himself as the king’s chief adviser, and to achieve that he has to make peace with France and then where will we all be?” Lord Pumphrey shrugged. “Tell me, why did the redoubtable Sir Thomas Graham send me a gift of artillery shells? Not that I’m ungrateful, of course I’m not, but curious, yes? Good God! What are you doing?”

The question was prompted by the sudden appearance of a pistol, which Sharpe laid on the table. Pumphrey was about to protest, then saw Sharpe was looking past him. He twisted to see a tall black-cloaked man coming toward them. The man had a long face with a lantern jaw that somehow seemed familiar to Sharpe.

The man took a chair from another table, swung it around, and sat between Sharpe and Pumphrey. He glanced at the pistol, shrugged, and waved at the serving girl. “
Vino tinto, por favor,
” he said brusquely. “I’m not here to fight,” he said, speaking English now, “so you can put the gun away.”

Sharpe turned it so the muzzle pointed directly at the man, who took off his damp cloak, revealing that he was a priest. “My name,” he spoke to Lord Pumphrey now, “is Father Salvador Montseny. Certain persons have asked me to negotiate on their behalf.”

“Certain persons?” Lord Pumphrey asked.

“You cannot expect me to reveal their identity, my lord.” The priest glanced at Sharpe’s pistol and it was then that Sharpe recognized him. This was the priest who had been at Nuñez’s house, the one who had ordered him out of the alleyway. “I have no personal interest in this matter,” Father Montseny went on, “but those who asked me to speak for them believed you would take confidence that they chose a priest.”

“Do hide that gun, Sharpe,” Lord Pumphrey said. “You’re frightening the lawyers. They think you might be one of their clients.” He waited as Sharpe lowered the flint and put the pistol under his cloak. “You speak excellent English, Father.”

“I have a talent for languages,” Montseny said modestly. “I grew up speaking French and Catalan. Then I learned Spanish and English.”

“French and Catalan? You’re from the border?”

“I am Catalonian.” Father Montseny paused as coffee and a flask of red wine were placed on the table. He poured himself wine. “The price, I am instructed to tell you, is three thousand guineas in gold.”

“Are you authorized to negotiate?” Lord Pumphrey asked.

Montseny said nothing. Instead of answering, he took a scrap of sugar from a bowl and dropped it into his wine.

“Three thousand guineas is risible,” Pumphrey said, “quite exorbitant. But to end what is an embarrassment His Majesty’s government is prepared to pay six hundred.”

Father Montseny gave a slight shake of the head as if to suggest the counteroffer was absurd, then took an empty glass from the next table and poured Sharpe a glass of wine. “And who are you?” he asked.

“I look after him,” Sharpe said, jerking his head at Lord Pumphrey and wishing he had not because pain whipped through his skull.

Montseny looked at the bandage on Sharpe’s head. He seemed amused. “They gave you a wounded man?” he asked Lord Pumphrey.

“They gave me the best they had,” Pumphrey said apologetically.

“You hardly need protecting, my lord,” Montseny said.

“You forget,” Lord Pumphrey said, “that the last man to negotiate for the letters was murdered.”

“That is regrettable,” the priest said sternly, “but I am assured it was the fault of the man himself. He attempted to seize the letters by force. I am authorized to accept two thousand guineas.”

“One thousand,” Pumphrey said, “with an undertaking that no more will be published in
El Correo.
”

Montseny poured himself more wine. “My principals,” he said, “are willing to use their influence on the newspaper, but it will cost you two thousand guineas.”

“Alas,” Pumphrey said, “we only have fifteen hundred left in the embassy’s strongbox.”

“Fifteen hundred,” Father Montseny said, as if he was thinking about it.

“For which sum, Father, your principals must give us all the letters and an undertaking to publish no more.”

“I think that will be acceptable,” Father Montseny said. He gave a small smile, as if satisfied with the outcome of the negotiations, then leaned back. “I could offer you some advice that would save you the money, if you wish?”

“I should be most grateful,” Pumphrey said with exaggerated politeness.

“Any day now your army will sail, yes? You will land your troops somewhere to the south and come north to face Marshal Victor. You think he doesn’t know? What do you think will happen?”

“We’ll win,” Sharpe growled.

The priest ignored him. “Lapeña will have, what? Eight thousand men? Nine? And your General Graham will take three or four thousand? So Lapeña will have command, and he’s an old woman. Marshal Victor will have just as many, probably more, and Lapeña will take fright. He’ll panic, and Marshal Victor will crush him. Then you will have very few soldiers left to protect the city, and the French will storm the walls. It will take many deaths, but by summer Cádiz will be French. The letters won’t matter then, will they?”

“In that case,” Lord Pumphrey said, “why not just give them to us?”

“Fifteen hundred guineas, my lord. I am instructed to tell you that you must bring the money yourself. You may have two companions, no more, and a note will be sent to the embassy telling you where the exchange will be made. You may expect the note after today’s
oraciones.
” Montseny drained his glass, stood, and dropped a dollar on the table. “There, I have discharged my function,” he said, nodded abruptly, and left.

Sharpe spun the dollar coin on the table. “At least he paid for his wine.”

“We can expect a note after the evening prayers,” Lord Pumphrey said, frowning. “Does that mean he wants the money tonight?”

“Of course. You can trust the bugger on that,” Sharpe said, “but on nothing else.”

“Nothing else?”

“I saw him at the newspaper. He’s up to his bloody eyes in it. He’s not going to give you the letters. He’ll take the money and run.”

Pumphrey stirred his coffee. “I think you’re wrong. The letters are a depreciating asset.”

“Whatever the hell that means.”

“It means, Sharpe, that he’s right. Lapeña will have command of the army. You know what the Spanish call Lapeña?
Doña Manolito.
The lady Manolito. He’s a nervous old woman and Victor will thrash him.”

“Sir Thomas is good,” Sharpe said loyally.

“Perhaps. But Doña Manolito will command the army, not Sir Thomas, and if Marshal Victor beats Doña Manolito then Cádiz will fall, and when Cádiz falls the politicians in London will fall over one another in their race to the negotiating chamber. The war costs money, Sharpe, and half of Parliament already believe it cannot be won. If Spain falls, what hope is there?”

“Lord Wellington.”

“Who clings to a corner of Portugal while Bonaparte bestrides Europe. If the last scrap of Spain falls, then Britain will make peace. If, no, when Victor defeats Doña Manolito the Spaniards won’t wait for Cádiz to fall. They’ll negotiate. They would rather surrender Cádiz than see the city sacked. And when they surrender, the letters won’t be worth a tin penny. That is what I mean by describing them as a depreciating asset. The admiral, if it is the admiral, would rather have the money now than a few worthless love letters in a month’s time. So, yes, they’re negotiating in good faith.” Lord Pumphrey added a few small coins to the priest’s dollar and stood. “We must get to the embassy, Richard.”

“He’s lying,” Sharpe warned.

Lord Pumphrey sighed. “In diplomacy, Sharpe, we assume that everyone lies all the time. That way we make progress. Our enemies expect Cádiz to be French within a few weeks so they want their money now because after those few weeks there will be no money. They make hay while the sun shines, it is as simple as that.”

It was raining harder now and the wind was gusting strong. The signs over the shops were swinging wildly and a crash of thunder rumbled over the mainland, sounding uncannily like heavy artillery shots traveling overhead. Sharpe let Pumphrey guide him through the maze of narrow alleys to the embassy. They went through the arch that was guarded by a squad of bored Spanish soldiers and hurried across the courtyard, only to be checked by a voice from high above. “Pumps!” the voice called. “Up here!”

Sharpe, like Lord Pumphrey, looked up to see the ambassador leaning out of a window of the embassy’s watchtower, a modest five-story structure at the edge of the stable yard. “Up here,” Henry Wellesley called again, “and you, Mister Sharpe! Come on!” He sounded excited.

Sharpe emerged onto the roofed platform to see that Brigadier Moon was lord of the tower. He had a chair and a footstool, and beside the chair was a telescope, while on a small table was a bottle of rum and beneath it a chamber pot. This tower had been equipped with windows to protect the upper platform from the weather, and it was plain that Moon had adopted the aerie. He had got to his feet now and, resting on his crutches, was looking eastward with the ambassador. “The ships!” Henry Wellesley greeted Sharpe and Lord Pumphrey.

A whole host of small ships was scurrying through white-capped waves into the vast harbor of the Bay of Cádiz. They were odd-looking craft to Sharpe’s eyes. They were single-masted and had one gigantic sail each. The sails were wedge-shaped, sharp at the front and massive at the stern. “Feluccas,” the ambassador said, “not a word to attempt when drunk.”

“Felucky to get here before the storm broke,” the brigadier commented, earning a smile from Henry Wellesley.

The French mortars were trying to sink the feluccas but having no success. The sound of the guns was muted by the rain and wind. Sharpe could see the blossom of smoke from inside Fort Matagorda and Fort San José each time a mortar fired, but he could not see where the shells plummeted for the water was already too turbulent. The feluccas thrashed onward, heading for the southern end of the bay where the rest of the shipping was safely out of mortar range. They were pursued by dark squalls and seething rain as the storm spread southward. A lightning bolt cracked far away on the northern coast. “So the Spaniards kept their word!” Henry Wellesley said exultantly. “Those ships have come here all the way from the Balearics! A couple of days to provision them, then the army can embark.” He was a man who looked as though his troubles were coming to an end. If the combined British and Spanish army could destroy the French siege works and drive Victor’s forces away from Cádiz, then his political enemies would be neutered. The Cortes and the Spanish capital might even move back to a recaptured Seville and there would be the rare taste of victory in the air. “The plan,” Henry Wellesley said to Sharpe, “is for Lapeña and Sir Thomas to rendezvous with troops from Gibraltar, then march north, take Victor in the rear, hammer him, and drive his troops out of Andalusia.”

“It’s supposed to be a secret,” the brigadier grumbled.

“Some secret,” Lord Pumphrey said sourly. “A priest just told me all about it.”

The ambassador looked alarmed. “A priest?”

“Who seemed quite certain that Marshal Victor is entirely apprised of our plans to assault his lines.”

“Of course he’s bloody apprised of them,” the brigadier said. “Victor might have started his career as a trumpeter, but the man can count ships, can’t he? Why else is the fleet gathering?” He turned back to watch the feluccas that were now out of range of the mortars that had fallen silent.

“I think, Your Excellency, that we should confer,” Lord Pumphrey said. “I have a proposal for you.”

The ambassador glanced at the brigadier who was studiously watching the ships. “A useful proposal?”

“Most encouraging, Your Excellency.”

“Of course,” Henry Wellesley said and headed for the stairs.

“Come, Sharpe,” Lord Pumphrey said imperiously, but as Sharpe followed His Lordship the brigadier snapped his fingers.

“Stay here, Sharpe,” Moon ordered.

“I’ll follow you,” Sharpe told Pumphrey. “Sir?” he asked the brigadier when Wellesley and Pumphrey were gone.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“I’m helping the ambassador, sir.”

“Helping the ambassador, sir,” Moon mimicked Sharpe. “Is that why you stayed? You were supposed to ship back to Lisbon.”

“Weren’t you supposed to as well, sir?” Sharpe asked.

“Broken bones heal better on land,” the brigadier said. “That’s what the doctor told me. Stands to reason when you think about it. All that lurching about on ship? Doesn’t help a bone knit, does it?” He grunted as he lowered himself into his chair. “I like it up here. You see things.” He tapped the telescope.

“Women, sir?” Sharpe asked. He could think of no other reason why a man with a broken leg would struggle to the top of a watchtower, and the tower did give Moon views of dozens of windows.

“Mind your tongue, Sharpe,” Moon said, “and tell me why you’re still here.”

“Because the ambassador asked me to stay, sir, to help him.”

“Did you learn your impudence in the ranks, Sharpe? Or were you born with it?”

“Being a sergeant helped, sir.”

“Being a sergeant?”

“You have to deal with officers, sir. Day in, day out.”

“And you have no high opinion of officers?”

Sharpe did not answer. Instead he gazed at the feluccas that were rounding into the wind and dropping anchors. The bay was a turmoil of whitecaps and small angry waves. “If you’ll excuse me, sir?”