“Sir Thomas is good,” Sharpe said loyally.
“Perhaps. But Dona Manolito will command the army, not Sir Thomas, and if Marshal Victor beats Dona Manolito then Cadiz will fall, and when Cadiz falls the politicians in London will fall over one another in their race to the negotiating chamber. The war costs money, Sharpe, and half of Parliament already believe it cannot be won. If Spain falls, what hope is there?”
“Lord Wellington.”
“Who clings to a corner of Portugal while Bonaparte bestrides Europe. If the last scrap of Spain falls, then Britain will make peace. If, no, when Victor defeats Dona Manolito the Spaniards won’t wait for Cadiz to fall. They’ll negotiate. They would rather surrender Cadiz than see the city sacked. And when they surrender, the letters won’t be worth a tin penny. That is what I mean by describing them as a depreciating asset. The admiral, if it is the admiral, would rather have the money now than a few worthless love letters in a month’s time. So, yes, they’re negotiating in good faith.” Lord Pumphrey added a few small coins to the priest’s dollar and stood. “We must get to the embassy, Richard.”
“He’s lying,” Sharpe warned.
Lord Pumphrey sighed. “In diplomacy, Sharpe, we assume that everyone lies all the time. That way we make progress. Our enemies expect Cadiz to be French within a few weeks so they want their money now because after those few weeks there will be no money. They make hay while the sun shines, it is as simple as that.”
It was raining harder now and the wind was gusting strong. The signs over the shops were swinging wildly and a crash of thunder rumbled over the mainland, sounding uncannily like heavy artillery shots traveling overhead. Sharpe let Pumphrey guide him through the maze of narrow alleys to the embassy. They went through the arch that was guarded by a squad of bored Spanish soldiers and hurried across the courtyard, only to be checked by a voice from high above. “Pumps!” the voice called. “Up here!”
Sharpe, like Lord Pumphrey, looked up to see the ambassador leaning out of a window of the embassy’s watchtower, a modest five-story structure at the edge of the stable yard. “Up here,” Henry Wellesley called again, “and you, Mister Sharpe! Come on!” He sounded excited.
Sharpe emerged onto the roofed platform to see that Brigadier Moon was lord of the tower. He had a chair and a footstool, and beside the chair was a telescope, while on a small table was a bottle of rum and beneath it a chamber pot. This tower had been equipped with windows to protect the upper platform from the weather, and it was plain that Moon had adopted the aerie. He had got to his feet now and, resting on his crutches, was looking eastward with the ambassador. “The ships!” Henry Wellesley greeted Sharpe and Lord Pumphrey.
A whole host of small ships was scurrying through white-capped waves into the vast harbor of the Bay of Cadiz. They were odd-looking craft to Sharpe’s eyes. They were single-masted and had one gigantic sail each. The sails were wedge-shaped, sharp at the front and massive at the stern. “Feluccas,” the ambassador said, “not a word to attempt when drunk.”
“Felucky to get here before the storm broke,” the brigadier commented, earning a smile from Henry Wellesley.
The French mortars were trying to sink the feluccas but having no success. The sound of the guns was muted by the rain and wind. Sharpe could see the blossom of smoke from inside Fort Matagorda and Fort San Jose each time a mortar fired, but he could not see where the shells plummeted for the water was already too turbulent. The feluccas thrashed onward, heading for the southern end of the bay where the rest of the shipping was safely out of mortar range. They were pursued by dark squalls and seething rain as the storm spread southward. A lightning bolt cracked far away on the northern coast. “So the Spaniards kept their word!” Henry Wellesley said exultantly. “Those ships have come here all the way from the Balearics! A couple of days to provision them, then the army can embark.” He was a man who looked as though his troubles were coming to an end. If the combined British and Spanish army could destroy the French siege works and drive Victor’s forces away from Cadiz, then his political enemies would be neutered. The Cortes and the Spanish capital might even move back to a recaptured Seville and there would be the rare taste of victory in the air. “The plan,” Henry Wellesley said to Sharpe, “is for Lapena and Sir Thomas to rendezvous with troops from Gibraltar, then march north, take Victor in the rear, hammer him, and drive his troops out of Andalusia.”
“It’s supposed to be a secret,” the brigadier grumbled.
“Some secret,” Lord Pumphrey said sourly. “A priest just told me all about it.”
The ambassador looked alarmed. “A priest?”
“Who seemed quite certain that Marshal Victor is entirely apprised of our plans to assault his lines.”
“Of course he’s bloody apprised of them,” the brigadier said. “Victor might have started his career as a trumpeter, but the man can count ships, can’t he? Why else is the fleet gathering?” He turned back to watch the feluccas that were now out of range of the mortars that had fallen silent.
“I think, Your Excellency, that we should confer,” Lord Pumphrey said. “I have a proposal for you.”
The ambassador glanced at the brigadier who was studiously watching the ships. “A useful proposal?”
“Most encouraging, Your Excellency.”
“Of course,” Henry Wellesley said and headed for the stairs.
“Come, Sharpe,” Lord Pumphrey said imperiously, but as Sharpe followed His Lordship the brigadier snapped his fingers.
“Stay here, Sharpe,” Moon ordered.
“I’ll follow you,” Sharpe told Pumphrey. “Sir?” he asked the brigadier when Wellesley and Pumphrey were gone.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
“I’m helping the ambassador, sir.”
“Helping the ambassador, sir,” Moon mimicked Sharpe. “Is that why you stayed? You were supposed to ship back to Lisbon.”
“Weren’t you supposed to as well, sir?” Sharpe asked.
“Broken bones heal better on land,” the brigadier said. “That’s what the doctor told me. Stands to reason when you think about it. All that lurching about on ship? Doesn’t help a bone knit, does it?” He grunted as he lowered himself into his chair. “I like it up here. You see things.” He tapped the telescope.
“Women, sir?” Sharpe asked. He could think of no other reason why a man with a broken leg would struggle to the top of a watchtower, and the tower did give Moon views of dozens of windows.
“Mind your tongue, Sharpe,” Moon said, “and tell me why you’re still here.”
“Because the ambassador asked me to stay, sir, to help him.”
“Did you learn your impudence in the ranks, Sharpe? Or were you born with it?”
“Being a sergeant helped, sir.”
“Being a sergeant?”
“You have to deal with officers, sir. Day in, day out.”
“And you have no high opinion of officers?”
Sharpe did not answer. Instead he gazed at the feluccas that were rounding into the wind and dropping anchors. The bay was a turmoil of whitecaps and small angry waves. “If you’ll excuse me, sir?”
“Is it anything to do with that woman?” Moon demanded.
“What woman, sir?” Sharpe turned back from the stairs.
“I can read a newspaper, Sharpe,” Moon said. “What are you and that bloody little molly cooking up?”
“Molly, sir?”
“Pumphrey, you idiot. Or hadn’t you noticed?” The question was a sneer.
“I’d noticed, sir.”
“Because if you’re too fond of him,” the brigadier said nastily,
“you’ve got a rival.” Moon was delighted by the indignation on Sharpe’s face. “I keep my eyes open, Sharpe. I’m a soldier. Best to keep your eyes open. You know who visits the molly’s house?” he gestured through the window. The embassy was composed of a series of houses, gathered around two courtyards and a garden, and the brigadier pointed to a house in the smaller yard. “The ambassador, Sharpe, that’s who! Sneaks into the molly’s house. What do you think of that, then?”
“I think Lord Pumphrey is an adviser to the ambassador, sir.”
“Advice that must be given at night?”
