Tenacious

by Julian Stockwin

  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."

  They turned to the washing baskets; Kydd started to whimper in distress at their behaviour. "Dejadlo en paz, cabrones!" Isabella shouted, pulling them away. They complied meekly while she comforted Kydd with soothing words and firmly led him on.

  At the sound of raised voices several people came into the courtyard. The cook, fat, jovial and impatient to see what they had brought, emerged from the barracks. He fingered the onions doubtfully and inspected the strings of garlic. They were apparently judged satisfactory; the donkey was unloaded and led away, and the cook promised to find a little something for the visitors after the long haul up.

  Inside the cook's quarters there was nervous chatter, but Kydd's first concern was the room. To his vast relief there was a large jalousie window facing north. He looked out cautiously. It was one of many in the outer wall, whose face fell vertically from a dizzying height to the rocky flank of the mount. In the next room there was a smaller window. It would do.

  He raised his eyes to the distance. Fornells was in plain sight, and shifting to the right he saw the complex of islands and bays that was Addaya. Perfect! He would not be seen while he did the observations and the signalling—it was all very possible.

  Isabella brought the cook forward. "Mr Keed, this José." He shook hands, aware of a shrewd look.

  "What do we do now, Mr Keed?" The door was thick and had bolts but if they were discovered in their nefarious activity there could be no exi
t through the window—they would be trapped.

  "My spyglass." It was covered in sacking at the bottom of a washing basket. He went to the window and settled down with a chair. To seaward there was a bright haze; this would conceal the approach of the fleet until it was about five miles offshore. He hauled out Renzi's watch: in only an hour or so there would be sudden alarm and dismay as the rumours of an English fleet took on an awful reality.

  He must work fast. Methodically he quartered the country along each side of the narrow Bay of Fornells. On one side of the entrance there was a medium-sized fort and on the other a town. An army encampment was easy to see, the regularity of the tents, the glitter of equipment and even a caterpillar of men drilling. He located and traced the road away from the base: this would be the avenue for reinforcement or retreat.

  Then he switched his glass to Addaya where he saw little military activity; there seemed to be nothing but small fortifications and only one concentration of soldiery. He searched for and found the connecting road. Finally, he carefully scanned the countryside round and about for any evidence of defences in depth. As far as a sharp seaman's eye could tell there was none of significance.

  As he had feared, most troops appeared to be at Fornells, and would cause grievous damage to the landing. There were some at Addaya but not enough to indicate that they considered a landing there to be in prospect. Tensely, he settled down to wait.

  Less than half an hour later a trumpet sounded urgently outside. José started and hissed at Isabella. "They call th' soldier to arms," she told Kydd.

  Kydd lifted his glass seaward, but the bright haze lay uninterrupted in all directions. He searched in other directions, then realised it was probably Fornells signalling the approach of a hostile fleet, which he could not yet see in the haze.

  Kydd waited, his glass trained out to sea, until his heart skipped a beat as the gossamer shapes of first one then several ships appeared close-hauled and standing steadily towards Fornells. The two 74s led the fleet; further out he saw the frigates and in the far distance the transports. There would be English soldiers aboard who, before the day was out, might owe their lives to Kydd's actions in the next few minutes.

  "Isabella, bring y'r washing." He had just rigged an endless loop of washing-line passing out of one window and in the next.

  "I'll have th' red shirt, y'r lady's shawl an' the pantaloons, if y' please." A deft twist to form two bights, and a clove hitch secured the shirt first by one corner and then spaced to the other. The shawl and pantaloons followed, then Kydd hauled on his "halliard." The washing disappeared out of the window to hang innocently suspended along the wall outside.

  He grabbed his glass and stared at Leviathan's mizzen peak until his eyes watered. Had Bowden reached the flagship in time? Did they believe his improbable story? Minutes dragged.

  There it was! The answering pennant hoisted close up. Feverishly, Kydd hauled once more on his horizontal halliard to rotate the clothing inside, around and out again, the "signal" repeated. The answering pennant whipped down—he had been seen. Near delirious with excitement he focused on what was next: "troops are concentrated at Fornells." "M' dear, I'll trouble you for th' black bodice an' that fetching yellow skirt."

  The flagship's quarterdeck was tense and silent. Ahead was the enemy coast, the narrow entrance of Fornells Bay dominated by a fortress with a huge Spanish flag flying defiantly. A single massive peak was visible inland, with a monastery or some such squarely on the summit.

  Duckworth stood with General Stuart, their expressions grim. A gun from the fortress thudded defiance, the sound and gun-smoke telling of a great thirty-six-pounder or more.

  The signal lieutenant of Leviathan clattered down from the poop and saluted. "Sir! We have signals established from shore."

  "Thank God," said Stuart. "What do they say? Quickly, man!"

  "Er, at the moment, only that they have correctly authenticated."

  "Then tell me when you receive anything useful."

  The lieutenant returned to his post but was back just as quickly. "Sir, signal received: 'enemy troops concentrated at Fornells.'"

  "Can we trust this?" demanded Stuart. "It would mean postponing the assault, and that I'm not prepared to do—"

  "Another signal, sir: 'negative,' and 'troops concentrated at Addaya.'"

  "No formations at Addaya? That will do. How far to Addaya from here, Commodore?"

  "But four miles. Say, an hour's sail."

  "We land at Addaya as provided for."

  It was hard for Kydd, watching a battle unfold yet having such a restricted role of activity.

  "They take no notice!" wailed Isabella. It was true: far from moving away from Fornells the two bigger ships moved closer, followed by others.

  Kydd's heart sank. Then, in the flat image of his telescope, he saw activity at the rear of the fleet. Ships were hauling their wind to the other tack, moving back out to sea.

  Inland he saw a line of dust arising. He focused on it: it was a column of soldiers marching fast on the road to Fornells. "Bella, quick—th' apron and that small curtain!" It would read, "reinforcements marching on Fornells."

  He took up his glass—and his heart leaped: they had not misread his signals. The ships at the rear were the transports, the soldiers, and they were heading to Addaya while the warships in the van made a feint against Fornells to draw forces there.

  It was all unfolding to those who had eyes to see it: some ships advanced on the fortress, others disappeared into the haze to reappear suddenly off the rock-strewn entrance to Addaya. Boats hit the water and through his glass Kydd saw them pass between two low islands and head for the shore. One or two scattered guns opened fire but two frigates were in position and, over the heads of the boats, thundered in their broadsides. There was no further firing.

  Kydd pounded his fist with glee and swung his telescope back to Fornells. There was chaos in the town—no doubt news had reached them of the landings in Addaya. It gave him a piquant thrill to think that while the signal station above them was frantically passing the dread news, his own signals beneath were having their contrary effect.

  What was more significant were the soldiers now pouring out of the fort and flooding down the road. Where were they going? Were they reinforcements for Addaya? Whatever, this called for a "negative" and "heading for Fornells" and Kydd briskly plied his red shirt, the bodice again and a woman's shift.

  When this had been completed he turned his attention back to Addaya. The experienced Highlanders had stormed ashore and he could catch the glint of their bayonets as they spread out in the brush. They were not meeting much resistance and Kydd saw why: the rough road away was streaming with soldiers in disor-der—they were falling back, not prepared to be cut off in a heroic last stand. That would be a definite "negative," "troops at Addaya," then.

  Now the road from Fornells was streaming with men moving away—no question that these were reinforcements for Addaya: this was a "negative," then "troops at Fornells," and suddenly Kydd realised his job was done.

  "Sir—they're abandoning Fornells."

  "Or reinforcing Addaya." Stuart was not to be stampeded. The landings at Addaya appeared to be well in hand—Duckworth had a repeating frigate relaying news from there—but there was every reason to expect the Spanish to throw everything into a savage counter-attack.

  The signal lieutenant reported once more: "Sir, they're on the retreat from Addaya." Stuart harrumphed and stalked up and down, but there was no mistaking his look of triumph.

  Commodore Duckworth, however, was not so easily satisfied. He left the general, moved to the lee side of the quarterdeck and called the signal lieutenant to him. "This is damned irregular, sir! I have not seen you refer once to your signal book and all the time you're advisin' the general of the conduct of the war. Where is this shore station you say is passin' the signals?"

  "Er, I think Mr Midshipman Bowden can answer to your satisfaction, sir."

  Bowden touched his hat
respectfully and explained: "Mr Kydd found it impractical to rig a mast and halliards ashore, sir, but conceived of a private code. If you'd take the telescope and spy out the top of Mount Toro—yes, sir, more to the top of the outside wall at the end—there you'll see his last hoist."

  "I see a Spanish signal mast, none else."

  "If you'd look a little lower, you'll find hanging out the three-flag hoist, 'negative,' 'at Addaya.'"

  "I see nothing of the sort! Only ..."

  "Yes, sir. A red Minorquin shawl, a black bodice and a blue pair of men's pantaloons."

  "Explain, damn you, sir!"

  "Mr Kydd reasoned that everything the general had to know could be sent by two significations, the first, location, being one of Fornells, Addaya or Mercadal, the other to be the military event, being one of marching towards, or massing at, the location. It requires then only a 'negative' prefix to reverse the meaning and the code is complete."

  "And the flags?"

  "We could not use our flags. It would have alerted the Spanish. And, as you can see, sir, the distance is too great to make out detail. Therefore he used colours: in this way he could make use of anything, as long as the colour could be distinguished. Red for 'negative,' white for 'marching towards,' blue for 'Addaya.'"

  "Yes, yes, I see. Most ingenious. Hmm—I look forward to making further acquaintance of Lieutenant Kydd."

  From his eyrie Kydd watched marines make their way ashore in Fornells; they would take possession of the forts and the English would be established irrevocably ashore. It was certain to be victory—and he had played a central part in it. With a welling of contentment he raised the spyglass again to watch the consolidation at Addaya.

  "We must go," Isabella said, distracted.

  Kydd could not tear himself from his grand view, and the thought of another night in a dank cave was not appealing. He remembered that the next planned move was a march on Mercadal close by. If the English forces had reached so far already then it was more than probable they would reach the town and Monte Toro the next day.