Three French field guns boom in the distance—half a league away, somewhere in the upper stretch of the Zurraque canal. The shots are immediately answered by the Spanish cannons on the other side. This duel continues for a time while a flock of startled avocets wheel above the salt flats, then silence descends again. Pencil clenched between his teeth, Captain Virués has taken out his spyglass and is once again studying the enemy position, reciting details in a low voice as though committing them to memory. Then he returns to his sketchpad. Mojarra half-stands, glancing around to check that all is still quiet.
“How’s it going, Captain?”
“Ten more minutes.”
Satisfied, Mojarra nods. Depending on the when, where and how, ten minutes can seem a lifetime so, crouching down, he unfastens his fly and urinates into the canal. Then he lies back, takes from his pocket the faded green kerchief he usually wears knotted around his head and lays it across his face, sets his musket between his legs and falls asleep. Like a baby.
IT IS A small, shabby office with a narrow, barred window that looks out on to the Calle del Mirador and the corner of the Royal Jail. On the wall hangs a portrait—a crude painting, artist unknown—of His Youthful Majesty Fernando VII. There are two chairs upholstered in tattered leather and a desk with an inkstand equipped with quills and pencils, a wooden box filled with documents, and a map of Cádiz over which Rogelio Tizón is currently poring. For some time now the comisario has been studying the three points ringed in pencil: Lame Paco’s Tavern by the reef, the corner of the Calle de Amoladores and Rosario and the place where the first murdered girl was found—a narrow alley at the junction of the Calle Sopranis and the Calle de la Gloria, near the church of Santo Domingo, barely fifty paces from the spot where a French bomb fell the day before. On the map, it is immediately evident that all three crimes were committed within an arc to the east of the city that circumscribes the range of the French guns shelling from La Cabezuela on the Trocadero some two miles away.
It is simply not possible, he thinks again. Everything he has learned in his long years as a policeman tells him he should dismiss this intuitive connection between the murders and the locations where the bombs exploded. It is little more than a fanciful, improbable theory, one of many possibilities. A vague intuition devoid of any serious foundation. And yet this absurd idea seems to have undermined all of Tizón’s other convictions, leaving him inexplicably bewildered. He has questioned neighbors in the area where the first shell fell six months ago, and confirmed that, like the others, this bomb also exploded. And that there were fragments of shrapnel scattered everywhere: slivers of lead just like the one that lies in his desk drawer, half a palm in length, slender and twisted, like the hot irons ladies use to curl their hair.
He traces the line of streets and the ramparts with one finger, picturing these places he knows like the back of his hand: the squares, the alleys, the corners that are pitch dark when night falls, those places within range of the French bombs and those safely without. Tizón knows little of the military arts, still less about artillery. He knows no more than any man in Cádiz who has grown up cheek by jowl with the Army and the Royal Armada, with the cannons mounted on the ramparts and the ships. And so, some days ago, he consulted an expert.
“I want to know everything there is to know about the French bombs,” he explained. “Why some explode and others do not. Where they fall and why.”
The expert, an artillery captain named Viñals, who was a regular at the Café del Correo, patiently explained as he drew with a pencil on the marble tabletop: the positions of the enemy gun batteries, the role of the Trocadero and the Cabezuela in the siege, the trajectories of the bombs, the areas of the city within range of the French artillery and those beyond it.
“Tell me about that”—Tizón raised a hand—“about the range …”
The soldier smiled; this was his pet subject. A middle-aged man with graying whiskers and a bushy mustache, he was wearing the blue frockcoat trimmed with a red collar befitting his rank. He would spend three out of every four weeks under constant fire, manning the front lines at Puntales less than a mile from the enemy.
“It’s tough for the French,” he said. “So far, they haven’t succeeded in crossing an imaginary line that divides our city. Though it’s not for want of trying.”
“Where exactly is this line?”
“From top to bottom,” explained the officer, “from the Alameda to the old cathedral. More than two-thirds of the city currently lies on the far side of this line, so you can see why the French have been trying to extend their range. Without much success. That’s why, until now, the bombs have all fallen in the eastern part of the city. Some three dozen, so far, most of which did not explode.”
“Thirty-two,” Tizón corrected him, having investigated the matter. “Eleven of which have exploded.”
“It’s hardly surprising. The distance is considerable so many of the fuses burn out. Sometimes the bombs fall short, or explode in midair. And Lord knows they have tried every possible type of fuse … I’ve personally examined the ones we’ve managed to recover: they’ve tried every possible combination of metal and wood and at least a dozen different primers to ignite the charge.”
“Are there technical differences between the bombs?”
“You have to understand, this is not just about the shells,” the officer explained, “it’s about the field guns used to fire them. They fall into three general categories: straight-shot cannons, howitzers and mortars. From the Cabezuela to the city walls is almost half a league, so straight-shot cannons are useless. They simply haven’t got the range, the shells just drop into the bay. So the French have been using guns such as mortars and howitzers that fire at an angle. This way the shells follow a curved trajectory.” The artilleryman’s hand described a parabola in the air.
“From what we’ve been able to find out, the first tests using eight-inch, nine-inch and ten-inch howitzers brought from France were conducted late last year, but the shells didn’t even make it across the bay. After that, they commissioned new howitzers from a man named Pere Ros … Does that name mean anything to you, Comisario?”
Tizón nodded. From his reports and informants he knew that Ros, formerly of the Barcelona Royal Foundries and the Academia de Sevogia, was a Spaniard, a Catalan from Urgel who had sworn allegiance to King Joseph Bonaparte. Now in the pay of the French, Ros was the man who oversaw the armaments factory in Seville.
“The gabachos ordered seven twelve-inch mortars from Pere Ros based on a design by Dedon—plate mortars with spherical chambers. But Dedon mortars are difficult to cast and very imprecise. When the first prototype shipped from Seville proved useless, production was suspended … So they went back to using Villantroys’ design—I’m sure you’ve heard of that, there was a lot of talk last December when they started firing from the Cabezuela—eight-inch howitzers that failed to exceed a range of two thousand toises … What was worse, every time those guns were fired their range diminished.”
“Why so?”
“From what we’ve heard, the inordinately large powder charge required to fire them damages the bush pins. A disaster … Our men have composed ballads about it.”
“So what are they using now?”
Viñals shrugged then fished a packet of tobacco and some papers from the pocket of his jacket and began to roll a cigarette.
“We’re not quite sure yet. Old news is easy to come by from deserters and spies, but finding out what’s happening now is a different matter … All we know for sure is that the Catalan turncoat Pere Ros is now casting a new type of howitzer under the supervision of General Ruty. A ten-incher, from what we can tell, that’s the caliber of the bombs reaching Cádiz.”
“Why do they contain lead?”
Viñals struck a match and exhaled a puff of smoke.
“Not all of them. The bomb that fell on the docks three weeks ago was solid iron. Others contain a standard gunpowder charge—they have the shortest rang
e and the greatest chance of failing. As for the ones containing lead, they’re a mystery … though there are various theories.”
“Tell me yours.”
The artilleryman, having drained his cup, called the waiter over. “Another coffee,” he said, “and put a shot of brandy in it. Aids the digestion. Over at Puntales we’ve all got bellyache.” He turns back to Tizón.
“The French,” he goes on, “have the finest artillery in the world. They have years of testing and experience in the field. And don’t forget Napoleon himself is an artilleryman. They have the finest technicians in the field. My theory is that they are using lead as an experiment. They’re trying to increase their range.”
“So, why lead? I don’t understand …”
“Because lead is the heaviest metal. The increased specific gravity of the shell makes it possible to extend the trajectory curve. You see, the distance a bomb travels is dependent on its weight and density, though there are other factors—the thrust provided by the initial powder charge and the weather conditions. All these things have a bearing.”
“What about the corkscrew shape?”
“The slivers are twisted by the force of the explosion itself. Molten lead is poured into the bomb in thin layers such that, when it explodes, they break apart and coil … But don’t let yourself be taken in by the results—it can’t be easy working at such a distance. No Spanish artilleryman could do what they’re doing. Not for want of talent or ideas … We have men with the necessary knowledge and experience, what we lack are the means. The French must be spending a king’s ransom … Every bomb they manage to land in the city must be costing them a fortune.”
ALONE IN HIS office, thinking back over his conversation with the artillery captain, Rogelio Tizón stares at the map of Cádiz as though interrogating the sphinx. He has too little information, he realizes. None, in fact. He is groping in the dark. Cannons, mortars, howitzers. Bombs. Lead, like the twisted corkscrew he takes from his desk drawer and weighs gravely in his palm. What he is looking for is too nebulous, too vague. What he thinks he is looking for. This hunch he has that there is some hidden connection between the bombs and the murdered girls is unsubstantiated and perhaps unfounded. Though he has racked his brains, he still does not have a single clue, a single piece of evidence. Nothing but twisted lumps of lead. Specific gravity, those were Captain Viñal’s words. The feeling that he is standing, pockets filled with lead, peering into an abyss. Nothing more. Nothing of any use. Nothing but this map of the city spread out on his desk, this strange chessboard where the hand of some improbable opponent is moving pieces whose very nature Tizón cannot begin to grasp. He has never felt like this before. At his age, the uncertainty frightens him a little. It also angers him. A lot.
Furious, he drops the shard of lead into the drawer and slams it shut. He pounds his fist on the desk so hard that ink sprays from the inkstand, spattering one corner of the map. A pox on God, he growls, and on his Holy Mother. Hearing the noise, his secretary, working in the next room, pops his head around the door.
“Is something wrong, Señor Comisario?”
“Mind your own business!”
The secretary retreats like a terrified mouse. He recognizes the signs. Tizón stares at the hands gripping the edge of his desk. Broad, hard, callused hands capable of causing pain. And when necessary, they have been known to do just that.
One day he will get to the bottom of this, he concludes, and someone will pay dearly.
WITH INFINITE CARE, Lolita Palma places the three amaranth leaves in the herbarium next to a color illustration of the plant she drew herself. Each leaf is two inches long with a tiny, translucent thorn identifying it as Amarantus spinosus. It is a plant she has never seen before; the specimens arrived three days ago from Guayaquil in a package with other leaves and dried plants sent by someone she knows there. She feels the thrill of a collector at a recent acquisition. Hers is a modest pleasure. Restrained. When the drop of gum attaching the specimens to the card has dried, she covers them with a sheet of onionskin paper, closes the herbarium and slides it back onto one of the shelves in the large, glass-fronted case next to others bearing the names of extraordinary natural treasures: Chrysanthemum, Oeil de Boeuf, Centaury, Pascalia. The study containing her botanical collection, next to her office on the first floor, is small but sufficient to the needs of an amateur collector: cozy, well lit by a window overlooking the Calle del Baluarte and a second that opens onto the interior courtyard. In the study are four large chests with drawers carefully labeled according to their contents, a worktable with a microscope, magnifying glasses and various other tools, and a library of reference books including Linnaeus, copies of Cavanilles’ Description of Plants, Rabel’s Theatrum Florae, Icones Plantarum Rariorum by Nikolaus Joseph von Jacquin and a large, color folio of Merian’s The Plants of Europe. Growing in pots on the glassed balcony are nine different species of fern shipped back from the Americas, the Southern Isles and the East Indies. A further fifteen varieties adorn the ground-floor courtyard, the shaded balconies and other dappled areas of the house. The fern, what the ancients called filice, has always been Lolita Palma’s favorite plant, perhaps because neither classical scholars nor modern students of botany have succeeded in identifying the male of the species—its very existence is pure conjecture.
Mari Paz, the chambermaid, appears in the doorway.
“If you please, señorita. Don Emilio Sánchez Guinea is downstairs with another gentleman.”
“Ask Rosas to have them wait. I shall be down presently.”
Fifteen minutes later, having returned to her dressing room to freshen her toilette, she goes downstairs, buttoning a gray satin spencer over a white blouse and dark green basque, and crosses the courtyard to that part of the building that houses the offices and storerooms.
“Good morning, Don Emilio. What a pleasant surprise.”
The drawing room next to the main study and the ground floor offices is old and comfortable, paneled in dark, varnished wood and hung with framed nautical engravings—scenes of French, English and Spanish ports—and furnished with armchairs, a sofa, a High & Evans pendulum clock and a narrow bookcase, its four shelves filled with works about commerce. Sitting on the sofa are Sánchez Guinea and a younger man with dark, burnished skin. As she enters, they get to their feet, setting down the delicate Chinese porcelain cups in which Rosas, the steward, has just served them coffee. Lolita takes her usual seat, an old leather armchair that once belonged to her father, and gestures for the men to sit.
“What brings you to see me?”
The question is directed at the old family friend, though it is the other man she is studying: he is about forty years old, with black hair and whiskers and bright, sparkling eyes. Intelligent, perhaps. He is not particularly tall, but broad-shouldered beneath a blue frockcoat—somewhat threadbare at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs, she notices—with gilt brass buttons. Strong, firm hands. Clearly a seaman. She has spent too much time in close contact with this world not to recognize a sailor at first glance.
“I wanted to introduce you to this gentleman.”
Don Emilio’s introduction is brief, pragmatic, to the point. “Captain Don José Lobo, an old acquaintance, is currently staying in Cádiz and has found himself, for various reasons, without work. The firm of Sánchez Guinea intends to engage him in respect of a pending business matter. The venture we spoke about some days ago on the Calle Ancha.”
“Would you excuse us a moment?”
Both men get to their feet as Lolita Palma rises and beckons Don Emilio into her private office. As she closes the door, she glances again at the sailor standing in the middle of the drawing room: he seems guarded, but his expression is relaxed, affable. He seems almost amused by the situation. Here, she thinks fleetingly, is a man who smiles with his eyes.
“What is the meaning of this ambush, Don Emilio?”
The elderly merchant protests. “It’s nothing of the sort, hija, I simply wanted you to me
et this gentleman. Pépé Lobo is an experienced captain. A worthy chap, highly competent. It seems an ideal moment to employ him, given he is currently without a vessel and prepared to sail on any piece of wood that will float. We have a cutter almost ready and the Letter of Marque I mentioned the other day. By the end of the month we’ll be ready to ship out.”
“As I told you before, I will have no dealings with corsairs.”
“You need have no dealings with them. It is merely an investment. I will take care of everything else. I plan to post the ship’s bond the day after tomorrow.”
“Which ship is this?”
Sánchez Guinea describes the vessel with a satisfied air: a 180-ton French cutter captured by a corsair from Algeciras and auctioned off three weeks ago. Old, but in excellent condition. It can take eight 6-pound cannons. Formerly the Colbert, it has been renamed the Culebra. Bought for twenty thousand reales. The equipment—new sails and rigging, light arms, gunpowder and ammunition—will come to a further ten thousand.
“It will do short campaigns: from San Vicente to Gata, certainly no further than Los Palos. With little risk and excellent prospects for a substantial profit. It is, as they say, money for old rope … You and I will receive two-thirds, the remaining third goes to the captain and the crew. All strictly aboveboard.”
Lolita Palma glances at the closed door.
“What else do you know about this man?”
“He has had a run of bad luck on recent voyages, but he’s a fine seaman. He captained a six-gun schooner in the Straits during the last war and made a healthy profit. I should know; I was part-owner of the venture … Eventually, he had a stroke of bad luck, he was captured by an English corvette off the cape at Tres Forcas.”
“I think I may have heard of him … Is he the man who escaped from Gibraltar?”
The Siege Page 10
