Inside the cathedral, in reply to their question, a priest explained to them that the war raging on the Spanish mainland had not extended to the islands out in the Mediterranean, that the inhabitants of the city were not taking sides so far. “We are different people out here. Simpler, more traditional,” he said. “Less liberal and involved in politics.”
Wake wondered if that meant the Church’s view of the conflict, and therefore the Carlists’, was dominant locally, but he decided not to press the issue. The priest, a native Mallorcan, went on to explain with pride about the cathedral—that the golden sandstone structure’s construction was begun six hundred years earlier out of gratitude by a Spanish sailor-king who had just survived a near-death experience. Hearing the tale, the two officers exchanged chagrined looks.
“Well, I certainly understand that completely,” said Allen as they walked out into the sunlight. “Just might start a little chapel of my own back in Teignmouth when, and if, I return.”
“I wouldn’t bother, it’d probably crack open and fall down. . . .” quipped Wake.
“Quite humorous, old boy. Another example of your famed Yankee humor, I suppose—” Allen stopped in mid-sentence and touched Wake’s arm.
“Say, don’t look now, Peter, and keep walking. Is it my imagination, or is that army officer regarding us rather seriously? When you get a chance, see if you can nonchalantly glance back,” asked Allen as they passed by the Spanish army’s ancient arsenal and barracks across the street from the cathedral. An officer in full dress uniform, from the corner of his eye Wake guessed him to be the officer of the guard, was standing in front of the massive doors at the gate and watching them.
“Oh, Lord, I hope not,” Wake whispered. “Keep on walking and let’s go around this corner and duck into a taverna. See if we can spot if someone follows us.”
They moved up the Calle Palau, turned the corner and entered the Plaza Major in the center of the city, which was filled with hundreds of people walking in various directions. Wake scanned the buildings, looking for a taverna to enter. There were none facing the plaza, only government and church offices. He crossed over to the right edge of the plaza, with Allen following a few paces behind. At Calle Santa Clara they made another right and ducked into a doorway. Wake heard the ringing echo of hobnailed boots coming into the street from the plaza.
“¡Señor! ¿Un pasaje, por favor?” Wake quickly called out to the driver of an empty carriage going by toward the plaza they had just left.
The driver stopped and waved them over, then took off once they were seated. Wake had no idea of where to tell the man to drive, so he gestured toward the plaza. As the carriage clattered along the stone street Wake and Allen saw the Spanish officer striding toward them, having just turned the corner himself. He was middle-aged, a captain or major, and his eyes were looking far ahead, straining to examine the people walking away. He wasn’t eyeing the carriage coming toward him.
The naval officers gazed off to their right, hiding their faces as they rode by. Wake’s mind was reeling. Why was that officer after them? Had the Carlists in Sevilla discovered their prey was on the Trinidad? Had their description been given out to all ports on her route? But no shout came and the carriage continued past.
Moments later the driver stopped in the middle of the busy plaza, wondering where his fares wanted to go. “¿A dónde, señores?”
“To a pub, by God!” blurted Allen. “I don’t know about you, Peter, but I could damn well use a strong drink to steady my nerves!”
“Un pub. Sí señores,” said the driver with a shrug. Wake decided that was a good idea—lay low for a while and get some other local knowledge of the situation in Mallorca. Besides, he admitted inwardly, a stiff tot of rum sounded good. He let out the breath he’d been holding. Then he heard the boots again.
“¡Pare el coche! Stop!”
Both officers spun around in the seat, hearts sinking when they saw the Spaniard running toward them. The driver pulled in his reins with a jerk, glowering at the two foreigners in his carriage who had somehow gotten him involved with the military. The army officer slowed his approached. Wake saw that he didn’t pull out his sidearm, then saw the man smile.
“You are English navy man, yes?” the officer asked.
Allen bristled and sat at attention. “Navy? Most certainly not, sir! I am one of the Royal Marines of her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria. Lieutenant Peter Sharpe Allen, at your service, sir.”
Wake felt like shaking his head in amazement how his friend could be offended at this particular moment. The Spanish officer didn’t understand the subtlety and continued.
“Señor Allen, yes? I have a mensaje . . . a message . . . for you from your ship. They say you are to go to your ship.”
“My ship? I’m not aboard a Royal Navy ship here. I’m in transit.” Allen looked at Wake as the Spaniard held up his hands.
“I find you and give the message, señor. Go to . . . your . . . ship. There,” he pointed twice at the harbor. “Thank you.” With that said the officer left, shaking his head. Wake heard the man muttering in Spanish about the things he was sometimes tasked to do by the idiotas above him in rank. In the back of the carriage the two friends looked at each other and burst out laughing, confusing the driver.
“Good Lord, I thought it was over there for a second,” Wake declared. “I think I’m getting too old for this kind of thing.”
“Me too. Now I suppose I’ll have to go out to the ship and see what’s what,” said Allen. “They’ve probably changed my orders and want me assigned to that ship, but right
