Julian Stockwin - Tenacious

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. Rigging 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."