by Tom Williams
James had seen enough. He returned to his lodgings, uncertain what the morning would bring.
*
Maria Luisa was close to tears.
‘They’ve seized Godoy! The soldiers ran away and left him to the mob. God only knows what will happen now.’
‘He’s alive, Your Majesty.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The Queen’s voice was withering. ‘He’s alive. And held by a mob that is negotiating . . .’ Her voice dripped with contempt. ‘Negotiating with my husband. This band of puking peasants dares to make demands on their king.’
Then the haughtiness collapsed and she was again a frightened middle-aged woman, turning to an old lover for help.
‘Charles is talking to them. He says he’s trying to save Godoy but I don’t know what he can do.’
In fact, Charles had already agreed to dismiss Godoy. The question was whether, if the Prime Minister was humiliated enough, the mob might spare his life.
‘Madam, Sr Godoy is finished. His policies are finished. It is time to renounce the French and turn to the British.’
The Queen sat and looked hard at James. When she spoke, there was suspicion in her voice.
‘Why, monsieur, are you so anxious to convince me to turn against your own people?’
It was time to tell the truth.
‘I am not a Frenchman, madam. I am an agent of the English government.’
As he watched, the Queen’s face seemed to collapse in on itself.
‘I am surrounded by traitors,’ she said.
‘I am not a traitor, madam. I am here with your best interests at heart. The British want to help Spain and that means helping you.’
Maria Luisa drew herself up with a painful dignity.
‘I think you may be telling the truth, Alain.’ She paused, reflecting on what she had just called him. ‘I suppose your name is not really Alain, is it?’
‘No, Your Majesty.’
‘Never mind. I will call you Alain nonetheless.’
James nodded and the Queen continued.
‘I fear you are too late to help me, Alain. The people have rid themselves of Godoy. They have tasted power. They will rid themselves of Charles next.’ She smiled. ‘You should be pleased. With Charles gone, Ferdinand will be king. He will favour England. He has been plotting against his father and me for years, insisting that we break from France.’ She shook her head gently. ‘He has been a sad disappointment as a son.’
James knew that she was right. Charles was a weak king and this last blow to his power would destroy him. Ferdinand might turn to England as his ally against the French. The trouble was that he could never be secure if he were put on the throne by the mob. And with Napoleon already occupying half of Spain, a weak king could not expect to remain a king for long.
‘We can get you out. Your Majesty.’
‘I’m not worth it.’
James looked at the tired face of the woman who had ruled Spain for twenty years.
‘You are worth it.’
Without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed her.
‘I’ll talk to the king,’ she said.
*
That night, a French picket stopped a horseman on the road to Pamplona, a town now under French military control.
‘What’s your hurry?’
‘Urgent message from a merchant in Aranjuez. Says it has to be in Brittany soon as may be.’
An officer sauntered over and demanded to see the message.
Your goods are almost ready for delivery but will need to be collected soon, as they are highly perishable. Please ensure you have transport arrangements in place. I would advise shipment by river.
He snorted. These merchants – so convinced that everything they did was so important.
‘The man you are carrying this message for – French or Spanish?’
‘French, sir.’
The Lieutenant shrugged.
‘Better get on then. Never let it be said that the army got in the way of commerce.’
*
The next morning, James arrived at the palace early to find the gates closed and no one being allowed to enter. He waited with the crowds that were gathering in the plaza.
At noon, an officer crossed the gardens in front of the palace and read from a proclamation that he then fixed to the railings of the gate.
James could not hear the reading of the proclamation but there was no mistaking the chants of the crowd.
Viva el rey! Viva el rey Ferdinand!
He turned and walked disconsolately home.
*
‘I’d have thought you’d be pleased, sir.’
‘There’s enough republican sentiment about without people thinking they can get rid of a king whenever it suits them, William.’
‘He wasn’t a very good king, by all accounts, sir.’
‘King George is a pleasant enough man but hardly a shining star, William – but I don’t want to see a mob pull him from the throne. Britain stands for stability in these difficult times and abdications don’t bring stability.’
There was a long silence. When William spoke again, it was with an unaccustomed gentleness.
‘You care for her, don’t you, sir?’
‘Let us just say that my duty and my inclination both lead me to say that we should get her out.’
*
The next day a message came from the palace that James should call upon Maria Luisa. When he was shown in, it was obvious that she had been crying. She looked older than he had ever seen her.
James hastened give her his good news.
‘I’ve sent a message that we are to assist with your evacuation from Spain. We should be ready to move in a week.’
The Queen raised her hand to stop him.
‘It’s too late,’ she said simply. ‘I received word this morning that Napoleon’s troops will be here in Aranjuez tomorrow. We will, in effect, be his prisoners. I don’t expect to see you again.’
James felt as if he had been physically struck. To have come so far and then have failed. And never to see the Queen again.
He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Yes, she was vain and ugly and no longer young. But, as her world collapsed about her, what shone through was her pride and her fierceness in adversity. Now, as never before, she truly looked like a queen.
‘There is one thing you can do for me.’ There was a small table against the wall and on it there were two sealed letters. Now the Queen picked them up and gave one to James.
‘I fear that I will not be able to have any private correspondence after today. This is a letter to my daughter, Carlota.’ Burke nodded. Carlota had married the prince regent of Portugal and was among those evacuated to Brazil by the British. ‘As you are an English agent, I am sure you can arrange for her to receive this.’
‘I will be sure that she gets it, Your Majesty.’
Now the Queen passed him the second letter.
‘I know you have been in South America and, for all I can tell, you may yet return there. If you do, I would have you see my daughter and tell her I was well when you left me. I do not expect to see her again in this life, but you have tried to be a true friend to me. I would have a friend take her her mother’s love. This letter is an introduction to her Highness recommending you to her.’
James bowed.
‘I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave now.’ Maria Luisa shrugged her regrets. ‘There seems so much to do when one is being deposed.’
She took a step toward him and he reached out and held her. They kissed and he released her and he left.
He never saw her again.
*
James left Aranjuez the next day, as the French marched in. It seemed wiser to await events in the relative anonymity of Madrid.
In the weeks that followed, William was kept busy mixing his special inks, packing and unpacking cipher books from the secret compartment in the travelling trunk, or concealing the messages in whatever piece of
innocent merchandise was to carry it back.
A few days after the French arrived in Aranjuez, the King and Queen were taken under escort to France ‘for their protection’. Napoleon announced to the Spanish people that he would resolve the difficulties between Charles and Ferdinand and invited Ferdinand to join his father at a conference in France. To everybody’s astonishment, Ferdinand went.
‘His mother told me he was stupid,’ James said, on hearing the news. ‘But I really had no idea how stupid.’
Every day brought more news of French troops moving into towns around the country. William would prowl the streets of Madrid, complaining that the place was crawling with the blue uniforms of the enemy but that he was not allowed to do his soldier’s duty and attack them.
Ferdinand and Charles were still held at Bayonne, just over the border. It seemed that Napoleon was playing with the future of Spain for it was clear that neither of them was going to be allowed to return to Madrid. The country was rife with rumour and counter-rumour. Units of the Spanish army were said to be mutinying; the French were supposed to have looted San Sebastian; Charles had been assassinated.
Crowds would appear on the streets to boo and jeer at French troops. With no clear notion of what was going on and without any leadership these demonstrations never came to anything. After an hour or two of catcalling, people would drift away, sullen and resentful but with no idea of what they could do.
William’s frustration grew, as he and James lingered in Madrid, waiting, like everyone else, to see how things would develop. Waiting was not in William’s nature and he spent more and more of his time on the streets, listening to the complaints of the people and adding a few of his own.
So things were on the first Monday in May, when William attached himself to a crowd jeering at a squadron of Moorish cavalry, trying to force a way through the streets for the carriage they were escorting. The Moorish troops, exotic in their turbans, were led by a French general. William asked a woman standing on the fringes of the crowd what the fuss was about. ‘They say they’ve got King Charles’ son in that carriage. They’ll carry him off to France and he’ll be murdered like his father.’
The crowd was growing angrier and now William heard cries of ‘French assassins,’ and ‘king killers.’ The press of people had briefly stopped the carriage but now the cavalry were pushing forward with their horses. They made enough space for the carriage to move again and it began to make slow, but steady, progress on its way. William prepared to report that, yet again, the people were protesting and, yet again, the French, utterly confident in their control of the country, were simply going about the business of conquest with no sign that they even noticed the opposition.
William pushed his way forward to see if he could make out whether the carriage did, in fact, contain the young Prince Francis. The crowd was all around him now, shouting and shaking their fists at the soldiers. Ahead he saw a young woman reach toward the carriage and, as she did so, one of the escorts reached down and struck her with his heavy riding glove so that she fell back with blood trickling from her lip.
The crowd shouted more loudly but the Moors simply ignored them.
‘French bastards!’
William realised, in the heat of the moment, he had shouted in English. Curious faces turned to look at him and one of the riders seemed to be pulling his horse around toward him.
‘Oh, well,’ he thought, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ He bent to the cobbled street, worked one of the stones loose, and flung it at the cavalryman.
The Moorish soldiers did not wear armour and, though the cobble only caught him a glancing blow, the trooper cried out with shock and pain. His cry was met with jeers and laughter from the crowd and, furious, he drew his sword and spurred his horse toward William. William bent to pick up another cobble and, as he straightened, he saw other men doing the same. The crowd, which had been angry but directionless a few minutes before, had suddenly turned into a mob, raining stones onto the soldiers who responded by drawing their sabres and laying about them.
Within minutes, there was chaos. The riders had cut down several civilians, including a young woman. Incensed, the mob had pulled soldiers from their horses, beating and kicking at them as they lay helpless on the ground. The General screamed orders and the remaining guards formed up in front of the carriage, striking at anyone in their path, as the coachman whipped his horses into a gallop. The carriage and its escort broke clear of the crowd and made its escape. By now, though, the anger of the mob was roused and people started toward the main square, looking for any Frenchmen unfortunate enough to be on the street.
William quietly slipped away to report to James that the people of Madrid appeared, at last, to be rising against the French. He decided not to dwell on his part in the incident.
That night, dozens of French soldiers were attacked and martial law was declared in Madrid. The next day, the French rampaged through Madrid, seizing any man found with a knife. Even boys with penknives or scissors were taken to the hill of Principe Pio on the edge of the city and shot. By the end of the day, the French had killed five thousand Spaniards.
On Wednesday, James made a tour of the city, careful to carry the papers that identified him as Monsieur Defarge. When he returned to his rooms, he started his last despatch from Madrid.
Sir,
I have the honour to report that the people of Madrid have risen against the French, who have retaliated with a brutality inconceivable among civilised nations. I am confident that as news of this massacre spreads throughout Spain, the people will unite to destroy the tyrant, Napoleon. Regardless of the outcome of the negotiations at Bayonne or the fate of the king, the Spanish people will call on our assistance. I am confident that any army that the British should despatch to the Peninsula will be welcomed as liberators and will enjoy the support and assistance of the overwhelming majority of the Spanish population . . .
Burke was recalled to London. There was, Colonel Gordon assured him, nothing more he could have done.
Back in Horse Guards, Gordon was brisk.
‘Spain’s a lost cause. Nothing you’ll be able to achieve there now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘On the other hand, I think there may still be a use for you in South America.’
To Burke’s delight, Gordon explained that, almost two years after Popham’s abortive attempt at conquest, an Army of the Americas was at last being put together. This time, the plan was for multiple landings, striking at all the key points of Spanish rule.
‘You’re to be a staff officer, Burke. You’ll be going back to Buenos Aires.’
It was, for Burke, a dream come true. At last there was to be a British intervention that was properly organised, and he was to be in a position to make sure that he mistakes of the past were not repeated. Even Gordon’s news that the army was to be assembled in Ireland and that Burke must return to the country of his birth could not diminish his delight.
James landed in Cork on a fine summer morning. It was his first visit back to Ireland in seventeen years. His father had died while he was away on some secret mission, and he had returned to London to hear that the old man had already been buried. His brother owned the farms now, and the precarious economy of their family life was recounted to him in a yearly letter.
He sniffed the air but it was no longer the air of home. He was only eighty miles from the town where he had grown up but he doubted he would visit. The James Burke who had spent his youth dreaming of adventure and advancement was no more. Major Burke had outgrown Kilkenny.
The Army of the Americas was to be commanded by Sir Arthur Wellesley, a rising star, with a reputation as a careful strategist, but rather dull company. Sir Arthur entertained his new major on the day of his arrival in Cork and, after an evening that confirmed that the Major General hardly drank and did not gamble at all, James concurred heartily with the general view of his character. However, Wellesley did seem to understand what was needed to drive the Span
ish from South America, and James considered that the fact that he was said never to have lost a battle was more significant than his lack of any social graces.
Wellesley believed in a scientific approach to warfare and made it clear that Burke was expected to produce detailed plans for taking Buenos Aires. Even more importantly, given Beresford’s failure, he was to draw up a memorandum on how Buenos Aires was to be governed and defended after the initial conquest.
For James, this was an ideal employment. He recalled every detail of de Liniers’ character and strategy to devise ways of outwitting him. He wanted to make it almost as easy to capture the city when de Liniers was defending it as Beresford had found it when Buenos Aires had been left open for the taking.
Even more exciting was the business of drawing up plans for British rule: plans that, he was sure could include a measure of self-governance. La Plata, he decided, with its dead Spanish bureaucracy, would be consigned to history. Buenos Aires would be the capital of a new Argentina that would go at least some way to fulfilling the dreams of men like Paco Iglesias, while still allowing Britain to benefit from the mercantile activities of the O’Gormans of this world.
For two weeks, James was almost entirely happy. Then a summons to Wellesley’s office brought all his dreams crashing down.
‘I’ve a message from the Commander-in-Chief.’ Wellesley was sitting upright at his desk, uniform jacket immaculate as always, the despatch from London neatly squared on the desk in front of him.
‘He mentions you by name. I understand you are to be congratulated on your work in Spain. The Duke considers your intelligence provides an important opportunity.’
James nodded, modestly.
‘The Duke, after consultation with Mr Perceval, has agreed with your suggestion that a military force should be sent to the aid of the Spanish people. Fortunately such a force is readily available.’
Suddenly, James realised what Wellesley was going to say.
The Major General smiled. ‘This one.’
