Tenacious

sun with Renzi on the road to Mahon, Kydd brooded; no doubt there would be other opportunities for dash and initiative but unless a similar conspiracy of circumstances came up how was he to be noticed? Duty was not enough: he must show himself of different timbre from the others.

They had landed below George Town, Es Castell as it was now known. From there it had been a precipitous pathway to the top—the harbour of Port Mahon was a great ravine in a high plateau, opening to a capacious sea cove three miles long. The town of Mahon was perched along the top, the skyline an exotic mix of medieval casements, churches, windmills and several inclined roadways to the water's edge.

A pleasant two miles of open country lay ahead. Wearing plain clothes in deference to the sensibilities of the inhabitants, they passed through Es Castell, a relic of past English occupation, still with its parade-ground four- square in the centre, and found the road west to Mahon.

'So grateful to the spirit,' Renzi mused. At sea there was a constant busyness; even in the most placid of days the flurry of waves, the imperceptible susurrus of breeze around the edge of the sails and the many random sounds of a live ship were a constant backdrop to life aboard. It was only on land, where a different quietude reigned, that its absence was noticed.

Kydd's naturally happy temperament bubbled to the surface. 'S' many windmills—you'd think it Norfolk or Kent.'

'Yet the soil is poor and difficult of cultivation, I think,' said Renzi, as they passed tiny garden-like plots and endless dry-stone walls. A little further on the wafting scent of orange groves filled the air. 'But there could be compensations ...'

In front of each white stone farm there was a distinctive gate of charming proportions, an inverted V, probably made from the ubiquitous wild olive wood. The road wound round the end of a deep cleft in the cliffs, a sea cove a quarter of a mile deep with buildings on the flat ground at its head. Kydd recognised it as the chief watering-place, Cala Figuera—English Cove. The English ships, Tenacious among them, were clustered there.

Mahon could be seen ahead, past a racket court in use by two rowdy midshipmen, the houses by degrees turning urban and sophisticated. The two nodded pleasantly to local people in their pretty gardens; Kydd wondered how he would feel if conquering officers passed his front door. Nevertheless there was more than one friendly wave.

Several paths and avenues led from the one they were on and it became clear that they needed directions. 'Knock on th' door?' Kydd suggested.

After some minutes they heard, '?Que quiere?' A short man wearing round spectacles emerged suspiciously.

'Ah, we are English officers, er, inglese,' Kydd tried.

Renzi smiled. 'Your Italian does you credit, my friend, but what is more needed now—'

'Goodness gracious me!' Both turned in astonishment at the perfect English. 'So soon! But—dare I be as bold —your honourable presence is made more welcome by your absence, these sixteen year.'

Kydd blinked. 'Er, may we ask if this is th' right road f'r Mahon?'

'Ah! So many years have I not heard this word! Only the English call it Marn—the Spanish is Ma-hon, but we Minorquin call it Ma-o, you see.'

'Then—'

'You are certainly on the highway to ciudad Mao—forgive me, it has been many years ... Sadly, though, you will now find Mao in the comfortable state we call siesta.'

He drew himself up. 'But, gentlemen, it would be my particular honour to offer you the refreshments of the road.'

'You are too kind, sir,' Renzi said elegantly, with a bow.

They were soon seated in an enchanting arbour in a small garden at the front of a Mediterranean white house, all set about with myrtle, jasmine and vines and with a splendid view down into the harbour. The man withdrew and they heard shrill female protests overborne with stern male tones before he reappeared.

'My apologies. I am Don Carlos Pina, a merchant of oil of olive.'

The officers bowed and introduced themselves. A lady wreathed in smiles appeared with a tray, murmuring a politeness in what Kydd assumed was Mahon-ese. On the tray he recognised Xoriguer and there were sweetmeats that had him reaching out.

'Ah! Those are the amargos. If they are too bitter, please to try the coquinyales here.' Pina spoke to the woman, who coloured with pleasure. 'My wife remember what you English like.'

The crunchy anisette indeed complemented the gin and lemon cordial but Kydd had to say what was on his mind: 'D' ye please tell me, sir, why you are not offended at our bein' here?'

Pina smiled broadly. 'Our prosperity is tied to the English— when you left in 'eighty-two our trade suffer so cruel where before we trade with the whole world. Now by chance it will return.'

'I'm sure it will,' Renzi contributed.

Pina flourished the Xoriguer. 'I toast His Majesty King George—King George th' Three! I hope he enjoy good health?' he added anxiously.

'He is still our gracious sovereign,' Renzi replied.

'Please! Gentlemen, you may toast to the return of Lady Fortune to Minorca!'

Renzi asked earnestly, 'Sir, this is such an ancient island. The Moors, Romans, Phoenicians—surely they have left their mark on the land, perhaps curious structures, singular artefacts?'

'There is no end of them,' Pina said brightly, 'but there are also the navete of the Talaiot—before even the Roman, they build boats of stone! No man know what they are. We never go near.' He