Julian Stockwin - Tenacious

A faint cry came out of the night and was immediately followed by a hail from the foretop. "Deck hooooo, an' it's three points t' larb'd."

"Mr Pearce!"

"Sir." He took his speaking trumpet and roared into the night, "God save King George!"

An answering cry came and minutes later a small fishing-boat appeared. The boatswain gave a signal for it to come alongside and Kydd prepared to board. Bowden was standing close. "Bear a hand with m' chest, Mr Bowden," he asked, trying to keep the tension from his voice.

Upturned faces in the boat watched as Bowden passed a hitch round it and went down the side to the boat to receive it from the seamen lowering away.

Kydd turned for a farewell sight of his ship and a handshake from the captain. Renzi waited until last—his grip was tight. No words were spoken.

"Good luck t' ye, sir," came a low cry from the anonymous darkness forward, and a lump formed in Kydd's throat. He lifted an arm in response and went into the boat.

A jabber of nervous Spanish greeted him and a woman's voice cautioned, "Pons he say as 'ow we must not waste th' time."

Taken aback, Kydd muttered something and took the chest from Bowden. "Away y' go, m'lad," he said, "an' thank ye."

"Can't do that, sir," Bowden said quietly. "I'd be disobeying captain's orders!"

"Wha—"

"He asked me to accompany you, sir." Kydd realised that this was probably not the way it had happened, but already the anonymous figure in the bows had poled off and the comforting bulk of Tenacious was receding into the blackness.

"Y'r a rascal, Bowden, but I thank ye all the same."

"Pons ask you, do not spik—he listen for danger!" In the sternsheets the woman was close enough for him to be aware of her female scent.

A darker mass loomed and the boat stopped in the water. The fitful half-moon laid a fragile luminosity over the water, revealing a third figure, whom Kydd presumed to be Pons. He was listening with rigid concentration. At length he signalled to the rower, who skimmed the boat about and glided in to the shore.

There was just enough light to make out a rickety landingstage. The boat bumped against it and the rower went forward to secure the painter. Pons stood and made his way clumsily up behind him while Kydd prepared to land on enemy soil.

There was a flurry of movement in the dimness forward—and in a sudden chill of horror Kydd saw the flash of moonlight on an arc of bright steel and heard a gurgling cry, then a dull splash echoing in the tiny bay.

"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.