Later that day, I finally find Mateu and Francina. They tell me the British have sunk a fireship in the harbour at Port Mahon and their engineers are destroying the houses in St Philip’s Town. We hear too that the garrison has been driving in all the cattle they can find and have begun to break up the main road from Ciutadella. One could not leave the island now, as both ports are blocked. I am stuck here and must make the best of it. I ask my friends how they feel about the imminent arrival of the French on their island and they are equivocal. Francina explains Minorca is at a crossroads of many powerful nations and thus will always be trampled as one or the other passes through. They are accustomed to being stepped on.
Mrs Meredith simply carries on as usual, excepting the extra supplies of necessities she purchases, just in case.
The next day, I ride my mule cart over to the highest point on the island, the Monte Toro, and climb up it. I know from previous excursions that a good view of the port at Ciutadella is attainable from here. I am not alone, and find myself sharing the sight with several locals. We watch as the French ships are unloaded and their officers disembark. There seems to be little animosity, with many Minorcans eagerly assisting, and there is even music and singing to entertain the new arrivals, which sets my nerves on edge.
Later I tell Mrs Meredith what I have seen and she replies, ‘They’re all Catholics over that way. They don’t like the English much there.’
‘Where?’
‘In that Soo-da-della. Port Mar-hon is full of Protestants, so they won’t get much welcome there. Lucky for them they landed where they did.’
This puts my mind a little at rest, but only a little. How the local people respond to the invasion seems to me crucial in how it will be resolved. I perceive my position here is tenuous at best. Robin was right. War was coming and I chose to ignore it. As a natural philosopher, my mind is trained to see clearly, but it cannot withstand my own choice to ignore what I did not wish to see.
In the following days, there is little evidence that anything has changed on Minorca, up here in sleepy Fornells. We hear that the British ships at Port Mahon are preparing to leave, hopefully to return with a stronger fleet. This feels like desertion, again, just as the soldiers here ran away, whatever their reasoning. Surely the British ships could have stayed and used their guns against the French army as it moved about the island. They could have done much damage this way. I say this to Mateu, but he sensibly reminds me that they would soon run out of ammunition, and in the end would be forced to sink themselves in the harbour and be good for nothing. The tactics of war are beyond me, I see this. Fort St Philip is now packed with every British soldier on the island, shut up and ready for a siege. The French have tried to advance from the west, but the broken road has slowed them. We hear instead that they have sent their siege train by ship and landed at Cala Mezquida in the east.
The next day we have our first meeting at close quarters with the French soldiers; they cut a stark figure against the blue sky with their milk-white coats and black tricornes. They arrive by road from Port Mahon and take Sant Antoni for themselves. I keep to my room and venture out not at all. I do not wish to be revealed as English. I hear the French language drift across to my window from time to time and it sounds like verse. But I do not have any romantic concepts about these people and their invasion. They say there will be no looting, but who can trust an army’s word? News from Port Mahon is that the governor – a fellow in his eighties called Blakeney, apparently cheerful yet bed-bound due to gout – has received dried fruit as an offering from the French commander the Duc de Richelieu and in return has sent some bottles of English beer. After this civility, they have decided it is high time to begin fighting.
Over the next fortnight, I hear daily reports that the French are building batteries on the outcrop of La Mola, opposite the British entrenched in Fort St Philip. Now the guns will begin and time will tell how long our army can hold out until relief arrives. My only hope now is that the Royal Navy will come and the sooner the better. The artillery duel begins in the first week of May. Purple vetch, borage and the aptly named French honeysuckle are blooming in arcs across the island, as the guns of Richelieu and Blakeney blast at each other across the bay. For two weeks, our days are peppered by the boom-boom-boom of this battle held at arm’s length. I try to work, sifting through my notes on the early peaks of human endeavour, of art and architecture, while a few miles to the east the culmination of our development takes the shape of a mass of men hiding behind rocks hurling fire at each other. I wonder if we have progressed at all from the days we lived in caves.
I tire of my self-imposed gaol and begin to venture out. The French garrison up the hill keeps themselves to themselves, and, anyway, they do not know me or where I am from, as yet. I visit the Cardonas and go for walks to watch the late spring flourishing. One day, Mateu and Francina come with me and we walk in silence for some time. Then they stop and say they wish to talk seriously with me. Mateu makes a kind of speech, and Francina nods her assent throughout. He says that they do not know what will happen, what the French plans are for their island. They do not fear for themselves, but they think I should leave whenever I can.
‘There is no way,’ I protest in their language. ‘Where can I go? How could I get there?’
Mateu clears his throat and replies, ‘If the English come, and if you ask me to, I will take you in my boat to an English ship. They may think we are spies, they may fire upon us, but I will take you, if you ask me to.’
‘I would not ask you to put yourself in danger.’
Francina says, ‘For Pilar’s friend, we will do it.’
I take her hand and say, ‘I am sure it will not come to that. The English will arrive soon and drive out the French, I know it.’
But I fear this is a dream, based on a fleeting liaison with a Royal Navy officer – and thus a soft ideal of what our brave mariners are capable of – and not the hard facts of the craft of war. Will the navy come? What if the French threaten English shores with invasion? Surely all will be needed there, and Minorca must be sacrificed for the greater good. But what will the British public say if Minorca is lost? Perhaps the navy will come then. Oh, the agony of not knowing. I continue my daily walks and stand on any outcrop I can find to stare west at the sea, at the horizon. If French soldiers approach me, I excuse myself politely in Menorquí and hurry away. My dark colouring assures I blend in with the locals.
On the nineteenth day of May, I am strolling through the village when one of the Cardona sons comes racing down the street on horseback. He sees me, turns his black horse about abruptly and calls to me. He shouts across the road and a cart rumbling by drowns out his words. I rush across to him and then I hear it: ‘The English are here!’
The British fleet has been sighted off Cales Coves on the south coast of the island, the very spot where I stood and looked up at the ancient caves carved from the rock. My heart leaps in my chest and all I can think is, Will he be there? Will Robin’s frigate be one of them? It is a slim chance, at best. There are British ships stationed all over the world: in India, the West Indies, in North America. He could be in any one of those far-off places, quite easily. But the last I heard was from Mr Woods, that his ship was to blockade the French, which would mean the Channel, or perhaps even the Mediterranean. And from where would the navy amass their ships to form a fleet to relieve Minorca? Surely those nearest by, surely those already in local waters or along the way here. I have tried to put this idea from my head since the French arrived last month; I have forced myself not to think of it, not to hope for it. But now, now our ships are here, here in Minorca, perhaps I can allow myself to imagine Robin at the helm of one of them, gazing up at the ancient caves and wondering, Is she here? Is my Dawnay here and is she well?
I wish to jump on my cart and rush down to the south coast, but it is a day’s journey and by the time I reach Cales Coves the ships will have moved on. The word is that the English fleet is heading for Port Mahon, to
relieve the garrison by landing more soldiers, and thereafter will engage the French fleet. So I repair to my room and wait for news. It soon comes. That afternoon, we hear that our fleet has rounded the islet they call Aire – I envy the lizards there watching them sail by – and now the ships are to be found becalmed under the lee of the island. By nightfall, we hear that the fleets have spotted each other, but as neither wants action at night, each has stood off and they are waiting till morning to fight. Then I will take my cart and mule at first light and go down to Port Mahon to see what I can see. What on earth I may be looking for I do not know, as I am ignorant of ships, and of what manner of vessel my Robin would be on. But I cannot sit here and wait.
I begin to ready myself for bed this night, clearing away my papers, washing my face. I am about to undress when I hear a tiny noise. I think, It is an animal in the rafters, tap-tapping. But it goes on, and there is method to it, a rhythm. It is at my window. I go to the curtains and open one. And there is a face at my window. For a moment, I am taken aback, thinking the French have come for me, but I realise in the next instant that I know it, and it is the round young face of my old naval friend, the boy Francis. Here, at my guest-house, in Minorca! Has he abandoned ship? Or has he been sent?
I open my window and he climbs in. We execute this in colluded silence, as if we carry out this deed every day.
‘Oh, miss! I’m plaguy glad I found you!’
‘Tell me everything, Francis. I will not be angry with you, if you are a runaway.’
‘Oh no, miss. It’s nothing of the sort. I’ve come due to Cap’n Alex.’
A wave of emotions – elation, desire, then fear – courses through my very fibre and I struggle to compose myself.
‘Is he here? Is he well?’
‘Oh yes, he’s here and he’s very well. Don’t fret.’
Relief floods my senses and then confusion. What does he know of us? Oh, do I truly care in either case? Francis is our dear boy.
‘Tell me everything.’
‘Can I eat, miss? I’ve been on the road all day across the island and am fair fainting from lack of drink or food.’
He is breathing heavily, pink-cheeked and perspiring. If he came from Port Mahon or nearby, it would have taken him hours to get here. Poor thing. I first give him a glass of water from my dresser, then tell him to keep silent as I open my door. I tiptoe to the kitchen – my landlady already abed – and find bread, meat and Never Saw Plums for the boy. I watch with exasperated patience as he simultaneously gobbles and apologises for doing so. Then, at last he speaks.
‘I am come from Cap’n Alex’s ship, HMS Fox. He is a commander now. At Lisbon, he took me with him from the Prospect to his new command, as I believe he liked me a little and wanted a friendly face. So we goes back to England and then in the Channel, then we was called to this sea to relieve Minorca. We arrive this morning and three ships, including ours, is sent ahead to signal the garrison. We get so close into the shore that Cap’n Alex has to get the boats out to tow her clear. But before he does this, he gets me aside and tells me I’m going to take one of the boats and go ashore on my own. And I nearly fall over with shock, but then he tells me it is a secret and I must tell nobody but that Miss Price is here, on the island, and he has a slip of paper with the name of your village written on but I don’t know my letters so he tells me what it says and makes me say it over a few times so I won’t forget it. And he gives me a plan of the island and a compass and shows me the route to take. Then he gives me a few coins and tells me I must get ashore and hire a pony or suchlike and go up to the north of the island and find you. It took me all day, but I didn’t get lost once, and when I got here I said to a number of locals, “Englishwoman?” but each shook their heads or hurried away but then one man nodded and led me down a couple of streets and I put my hand in a fist ready if he was leading me a merry dance but then he stopped and he pointed to this window here. Thus here I am, miss! Oh, and Cap’n Alex says I must bring you back with me.’
‘Then there is no time to be lost!’ I cry and stand up, to ready myself and pack. ‘I have a cart and mule ready.’
‘No, miss!’ says the boy and holds up his hands. ‘Not yet. He says we must wait.’
‘Wait for what, for heaven’s sake?’
‘For the battle to be done, miss. Tomorrow morning our fleet will engage the French. We are about evenly matched, more or less. It will not be an easy fight but there is a bit of confidence we will win the day. But no one can know for sure, and the captain doesn’t want you on board in such a case, with the danger of battle, if we are damaged, or even sunk, or he is killed.’
‘Then that decides it,’ I say and begin to gather my things and pull out my box.
‘Whatever do you mean, miss?’
‘That if there is a chance he may be killed on the morrow, I must go to him tonight. Do you understand me, Francis?’
He blushes then, a strapping lad with magenta cheeks. ‘I have a notion.’
‘Will you help me then?’
‘But it’s not that simple, miss. The fleet will have moved away south for the night by now, and we cannot reach it by the rowboat I left onshore. It would take us all night. We’d need a proper swift sailing boat.’
‘And I know the very one. If I can persuade a friend of mine to take us, under cover of darkness, will you be able to direct us to the Fox?’
‘Yes, but miss, the captain was very clear in his instructions, he was. Not until after the battle. That was his express direction.’
Meanwhile, I am almost packed. ‘And I will follow my own direction, with or without you, my boy. You know me by now a little, I think, and that I will do what I will. I hope it will be with you, Francis? Will you help me?’
I am knocking gently on the door of the Cardona home, past nine at night and the moon is shielded by cloud. Mateu blinks at the door, his face creased with sleep. Fishermen are abed early and rise early. He glances down, sees my travelling clothes and notes the unknown boy beside me.
‘Now,’ I say.
Mateu nods.
24
I have never sat in a sailing boat at night. The air is chilled and the scenery spectral. We proceed through a cloudy night and listen to the snap of the canvas filling with breeze. I am wrapped in a thick blanket donated by Francina – who, in farewell, kissed both my cheeks so kindly and placed about my shoulders one of her own woollen shawls edged with Minorcan lace – and I am grateful for it, for the air is damp and cold, and when the sea mist descends I shiver until it lifts. Before we left, Mateu had nodded towards Francis and said, ‘Do you know the boy? Do you trust him?’
‘His captain is a dear friend of mine. And I would trust this boy with my life,’ I had said, and Mateu had looked at him pointedly. Then, that broad moustache lifted in a smile.
‘He has my wife’s name,’ said Mateu, and this seemed to settle it for him.
We have been sailing for a long time. We are fortunate to have the luck of the wind, and it drives us south down the east coast of the island. As we approach Sa Mola, and the French battery, Mateu carefully alters our course to take us out to sea further, where we are safely shielded by the mist, so the French on guard do not spy us. We pass by Fort St Philip and the English soldiers safely cocooned therein. Soon, Francis shifts over to me and whispers, ‘Tell your man we’re near. It’s south-south-west from here.’ I translate, and Mateu nods. He has not spoken a word since we embarked on this journey. He steels his face against the night and what may come next. Within perhaps a half-hour, the ashen shape of a sail looms in the distance, then another, and another. We have found the British fleet.
‘That one, there,’ – Francis points – ‘you see on the far right?’
Mateu guides us out to sea, away from the eyes on watch. Again we are lost to mist, but need to turn sharply to come round to our objective. Now is the crucial moment. We must get in close enough to call to the watch, to alert them to our presence without being fired upon. Francis p
uts his finger to his mouth and whistles, a curious pattern of toots, designed to identify himself I suppose. We hear shouting but cannot discern the words.
‘Able seaman Francis Noy!’ he shouts. ‘Permission to come aboard.’
‘Noy, you clodpate!’ comes a voice and I can see a man on deck, leaning over the side, with a gun pointed straight at our boat, but the fog descends once more and he is hidden from us.
‘Permission to come aboard,’ Francis says again, ‘with an English lady escaped from the French. Captain’s orders.’
‘In the middle of the damn night?’ calls another voice.
We are very close now. My eyes strain through the mist to see the men on board. I can only see vague shadows moving, then the fog lifts and I look up into the face of Captain Robin Alexander. As he sees me his eyes open wide with elation, quickly altered to business: ‘Permission granted,’ he says and I look at Mateu, who nods. He knows all is well. We come closer and Francis gestures to me to stand up. First I turn to Mateu; it is time for goodbye and I have so much to thank him for, yet I do not know how. But somehow, this man of few words has always understood me – just as his sister did before him – and I need explain nothing. He can see it in my face, and, as is his way, he nods and smiles.
‘Adéu, doncella,’ says he and I grasp his hand in thanks.
Then Francis helps me step over to the rope ladder hanging from the ship. I hand my blanket and shawl to the boy, grasp my skirts in one hand to sweep them aside and place one boot firmly on the bottom rung. I am stepping up and swaying somewhat, determined not to lose my grip. I do not fear accident as much as humiliation, if I fell and got a soaking or landed on poor Francis and broke his nose. There are hands grabbing my upper arms and in a trice I am swooped up and landed on deck, almost toe to toe with my Robin, dressed casually in dark breeches and white shirt, without hat or wig, and I must force myself to stand upright and not fall into his arms. I do not know what his men have been told of me, but I suspect Robin’s reputation depends on my discretion and fortitude. So I bow my head and give a quick sink to the captain.
Song of the Sea Maid Page 21
