two men accompanying Plummer were Spaniards themselves, embassy servants, and they protested when they heard Montseny’s order. Plummer resisted, heaving up from the floor, but Montseny killed him easily, sliding a knife up into his ribs and letting Plummer heave against the blade as it sought his heart. The other two died just as quickly. It was done with remarkably little noise.
Montseny gave his men five golden guineas apiece, a generous reward. ‘The English,’ he explained to them, ‘secretly plan to keep Cadiz for themselves. They call themselves our allies, but they will betray Spain. Tonight you have fought for your king, for your country and for the holy church. The admiral will be pleased with you, and God will reward you.’ He searched the bodies, found a few coins and a bone-handled knife. Plummer had a pistol under his cloak, but it was a crude, heavy weapon and Montseny let one of the sailors keep it.
The three corpses were dragged up the steps, down the nave and then carried to the nearby sea wall. There Father Montseny said a prayer for their souls and his men heaved the dead over the stony edge. The bodies smacked down into the rocks where the Atlantic sucked and broke white. Father Montseny locked the cathedral and went home.
Next day the blood was found in the crypt and on the stairs and in the nave, and at first no one could explain it until some of the women who prayed in the cathedral every day declared that it must be the blood of Saint Servando, one of Cadiz’s patron saints whose body had once lain in the city, but had been taken to Seville, which was now occupied by the French. The blood, the women insisted, was proof that the saint had miraculously spurned the French-held city and returned home, and the discovery of three bodies being buffeted by the waves on the rocks below the sea wall would not dissuade them. It was a miracle, they said, and the rumour of the miracle spread.
Captain Plummer was recognized and his body was carried to the embassy. There was a makeshift chapel inside and a hurried funeral service was read and the captain was then buried in the sands of the isthmus that connected Cadiz to the Isla de León. Next day Montseny wrote to the British ambassador, claiming that Plummer had tried to keep the gold and take the letters, and his regrettable death had thus been inevitable, but that the British could still have the letters back, only now they would cost a great deal more. He did not sign the letter, but enclosed one bloodstained guinea. It was an investment, he thought, that would bring back a fortune, and the fortune would pay for Father Montseny’s dreams. A dream of Spain, glorious again and free of foreigners. The English would pay for their own defeat.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Now what?’ Brigadier Moon demanded.
‘We’re stuck, sir.’
‘Good God incarnate, man, can’t you do anything right?’
Sharpe said nothing. Instead he and Harper stripped off their cartridge boxes and jumped overboard to find themselves in four feet of water. They heaved on the pontoon, but it was like trying to push the Rock of Gibraltar. It was immovable and they were stranded fifty or sixty feet from the eastern bank on which the French pursued them, and over a hundred and fifty yards from the British-held bank. Sharpe ordered the other soldiers to get in the river and push, but it did no good. The big pontoons had grounded hard on a shingle bank and evidently intended to stay there.
‘If we can cut one of the buggers free, sir,’ Harper suggested. It was a good suggestion. If one of the pontoons could be loosed from the others then they would have a boat light enough to be forced off the shingle, but the big barges were connected by ropes and by stout timber beams that had carried the plank roadway.
‘It’ll take us half a day to do it,’ Sharpe said, ‘and I don’t think the Crapauds will be happy.’
‘What the devil are you doing, Sharpe?’ Moon demanded from the raft.
‘Going ashore, sir,’ Sharpe decided, ‘all of us.’
‘For God’s sake, why?’
‘Because, sir,’ Sharpe said, forcing himself to stay patient, ‘the French will be here in half an hour and if we’re in the river, sir, they’ll either shoot us down like dogs or else take us prisoner.’
‘So your intentions?’
‘Go up that hill, sir, hide there, and wait for the enemy to leave. And when they’ve gone, sir, we’ll cut one of the pontoons free.’ Though how he would do that with no tools he was not sure, but he would have to try.
Moon plainly wanted to suggest another course of action, but none came to his mind so he submitted to being carried ashore by Sergeant Harper. The rest of the men followed, carrying their weapons and cartridge boxes over their heads. Once ashore they made a makeshift stretcher from a pair of muskets threaded through the sleeves of two red coats, then Harris and Slattery carried the brigadier up the steep hill. Sharpe, before leaving the river bank, collected a few short sticks and a scrappy piece of fishing net, all of which had been washed onto the rocks, then he followed the others up to the first crest and saw, looking to his left, that the French had climbed to the top of the bluff. They were nearly half a mile away, which did not stop one of them letting off his musket. The ball must have fallen into the intervening valley and the report, when it came, was muffled.
‘This is far enough,’ Moon announced. The jolting of the crude stretcher was giving him agony and he looked pale.
‘To the top,’ Sharpe said, nodding to where rocks crowned the bare hill.
‘For God’s sake, man,’ Moon began.
‘French are coming, sir,’ Sharpe interrupted the brigadier. ‘If you want, sir, I can leave you for them, sir? They must have a surgeon in the fort.’
Moon looked tempted for a few seconds, but understood that high-ranking prisoners were rarely exchanged. It was possible that a French brigadier might be captured soon and after prolonged negotiations would be exchanged for Moon, but it would take weeks if not months, and all the while his career would be stalled and other men promoted over him. ‘Up the hill if you must,’ he said grudgingly, ‘but what are your plans after that?’
‘Wait for the French to go, sir, detach a pontoon, cross the river, get you home.’
‘And why the devil are you carrying firewood?’
The brigadier discovered why at the top of the hill. Private Geoghegan, one of the men from the 88th, claimed his mother had been a bonesetter and said he had often helped her as a child. ‘What you do, sir,’ he explained, ‘is pull the bone.’
‘Pull it?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Give it a good swift tug, sir, and he’ll like as not squeal like a piglet, and I straightens it then and we bind it up. Would the gentleman be a Protestant, would he, sir?’
‘I should think so.’
‘Then we don’t need the holy water, sir, and we’ll do without the two prayers as well, but he’ll be straight enough when we’re done.’
The brigadier protested. Why not wait till they were across the river, he wanted to know, and blanched when Sharpe said that could be two days. ‘Soonest done, soonest mended, sir,’ Private Geoghegan said, ‘and if we don’t mend it soon, sir, it’ll set crooked as can be. And I’ll have
