Julian Stockwin - The Iberian Flame - Thomas Kydd 20

What deeds of useless heroism were being acted out at this moment? He’d seen much of war and his imagination supplied him with the details, but this was not war: it was punishment inflicted on the common people by a tyrant emperor who wanted nothing less than domination of the world.

He gulped with a surge of feeling. Dolores was somewhere out there in the carnage – or was her torn body to be left cold and lonely in some street, the scene of despair and vanquishing.

The sounds drew nearer, harsher, and suddenly the street was filled with the thunder of massed hoofs as a troop of cavalry swept past the door. Mamelukes? Some nameless division having no attachment or respect to the ancient kingdom? It left the street deserted, strewn with debris and one or two bodies.

Half an hour later the tramping of soldiers intruded into the quiet. A column of infantry swung into the street, in the darkness eerily menacing, the reality that Spain now lay under their feet as they marched on. Faceless numbers, the steel of bayonets glinting.

It went on and on, then faded.

Renzi had feared that Madrid would be given over to sack and plunder, as was the age-old way of invading armies, but he realised now that this would not be so. These were not conquering heroes: they were enforcing the will of the new sovereign of Spain, Prince Joseph, against those who would object to his rule. The kingdom’s chattels would remain inviolate – but the people would suffer.

The servants had long since fled so he went to the scullery to find something to eat for them both, returning with a little ham and wine. Mariano was still sunk in a stupor of melancholy but thanked him graciously, eating mechanically and silently. At one point there was a harsh screaming quite close until it was broken off in a chorus of vengeful shouts.

The night wore on. By degrees the occasional shrieks and wails fell away and Renzi drifted off in his chair.

It was still dark when he was jolted awake. Another crowd had gathered, quite different from the earlier one. This had a purposeful tread and, in place of the passionate shouts, there was an ugly growl, the menace chilling.

He went to the window and saw a sizeable group, at its centre a squad of soldiers with muskets. A wider line stood beyond them with bayonets fixed, facing outwards at the crowd. A sergeant in a high plumed shako had a sheaf of papers and halted his men, then stepped forward importantly, the crowd falling back.

Renzi strained to hear – the gist was clear.

It was an order-of-the-day from Marshal Murat to the effect that any person found under arms, making public speeches or otherwise opposing the authority of the state, would suffer the maximum penalty.

Then, in the flickering torchlight, he noticed a tightly guarded small group; men, women and children, weeping, cowering, praying, begging for life. It was a barbarous scene of horror for Renzi knew what must happen.

A pair of soldiers were sent off at the trot. Their musket butts made short work of the door opposite and from it was dragged an old man, a cripple. He was thrown forcefully in with the others.

Then the soldiers came straight for the house in which Renzi stood. They smashed the door into a splintered ruin and thrust inside.

‘The traitor Mariano Vicente de Lis!’ snarled one, his eyes flicking dangerously from Mariano to Renzi. ‘Quick! Who is it?’

Mariano rose slowly. ‘There are no traitors in this room, but I am he.’

Renzi was left, stricken with pity and helplessness, as Mariano was taken out.

He went back to the window to see the rest of the cruel drama play out.

Harsh orders were bellowed and the pitiful group was thrust before a wall. The children were wrenched from their mother’s despairing reach, then made to kneel and face their end. Soldiers formed in a line at near point-blank range. The shrieks and beseeching, moaning and weeping tore at Renzi, and in the centre he saw Mariano standing nobly, his arms aloft as he called for forgiveness. Then came the hoarse command and the crash and smoke of the muskets.

And when it cleared, bodies, bleeding and obscene. And very still.

The soldiers formed up and marched away without a backward glance.

Trembling, Renzi lurched back, fell into a chair and wept helplessly.

In the cold dawn he forced his mind to an icy calm. Alone and in circumstances that could not have been more hostile, he had to get away, every instinct tearing at him to flee, away from the madness, the insanity.

Outside was the stillness of horror, of spreading desolation. To go out into it was lunacy. He’d stay where he was until things had settled somewhat and then …

When evening came he went upstairs, found a bed and fell onto it, knowing that he had to endure many more hours before light returned.

Then his mind came to an abrupt focus. He’d heard something from below, a scrape, a moving of the wreckage of the door.

There was an intruder.

Without a weapon he froze. Then a small voice called. ‘Señor Mariano?’

Dolores!

‘Señorita!’ he called back breathlessly, and hurried down the stairs.

‘Excelentísimo!’ she gasped, and hesitantly threw her arms around him in a Continental hug. ‘You’re safe – but where’s El Erudito ?’

Renzi paused, letting his expression of grief reach out to her. ‘They came for him,’ he said simply.

Tears started. She bit her lip to stop them. ‘Where is he now?’

‘He still lies with the others. The death cart has not yet come.’

It took some time before they could talk, plan.

‘He was right,’ she sobbed. ‘So right. The French, they’re everywhere, Spain lies a corpse under their feet. There’s been no revolution, no great leader. Everything’s quiet – we’re finished, conquered, slain.’

There was no comforting her. Without a focus, a figurehead, there was no opposition that could be supported in a struggle for liberation, however much Britain might desire it. Spain must now be left to its fate.

‘Señorita,’ he said gently, ‘I fear to ask it, but will you help me leave Spain?’

She dried her eyes and looked up with a small smile. ‘Yes, Excelentísimo,’ she answered, at once.

‘I rather think Cádiz.’ The thought of stepping aboard one of the blockading cruisers in all its timeless naval order and tradition was intoxicating beyond belief.

Chapter 24

At anchor, Cádiz

One by one the captains of the Inshore Squadron filed uneasily into Conqueror ’s great cabin. Each had been abruptly summoned from his station up and down the coast by dispatch cutter and held in his own ship until all had arrived, all, that is, except one. They’d then been called to a meeting with Admiral Rowley – not the usual ‘all captains’ but an individually written order requiring their presence on board the flagship at this hour.

Even more disquieting was the absence of both officers and men from the after end of the big ship: no midshipmen at work in the coach, no seamen at their various tasks on the poop deck, no one coming and going into the cabin spaces about their business. A marine sentry at sharp-eyed attention stood at each door.

The captains sat in their usual places, murmuring guarded greetings to each other and avoiding any comment on such strange goings-on.

As soon as they were assembled the admiral swept in, taking his place in the centre. His complexion was flushed with an air of barely suppressed excitement and his fists oddly clenched.

He called for his steward. ‘A snifter for all these gentlemen – the Amontillado, mind – then get out.’

In a tense silence Rowley’s eyes darted from one to another as he waited impatiently for the refreshments to be served.