times when there was something very young and slightly ridiculous about Jack; it was a side of him that Sophie loved beyond measure; but no one looking at him now, or in action, would have believed in its existence.
He led Maragall through his narrative again – the first trouble following a denunciation to the Spanish authorities, quickly settled by the production of an American passport and the intervention of the vicar-general: Señor Domanova was an American of Spanish origin. Then the interference of the French, their removal of the suspect to their own headquarters in spite of violent protests. The jealousy between the French and Spanish allies at all levels, administration, army, navy, civilian population – the French way of behaving as though they were in conquered territory, which was bringing even Catalans and Castilians together. Particular hatred for this alleged French purchasing commission, which was in fact an intelligence unit, small but very active, recently joined by a Colonel Auger (a fool) and Captain Dutourd (brilliant) straight from Paris, busily recruiting informers, as bad as the Inquisition. Growing detestation of the French, almost universal apart from some opportunists and the leaders of the Fraternitat, an organisation that hoped to use them rather than the English against the Castilians – to win Catalan independence from Napoleon rather than George III.
‘And you belong to a different organisation, sir?’ said Jack.
‘Yes, sir. I am the head of the Confederacio on the island; that is why I know Esteban so well. That is why I have been able to get messages in and out of his cell. We are the only organisation that has wide support, the only one that really does anything apart from to make speeches and denunciations. We have two men in their place in the day-time, and my brother, which is a priest, has been in several times: myself was able to take him the laudanum he asked for and speak him a few minutes through the bars, when he told me the words I was to say.’
‘How is he?’
‘Weak. They are quite pitiless.’
‘Where is he? Where is their headquarters?’
‘Do you know Port Mahon?’
‘Yes. Very well.’
‘Do you know where the English commandant used to live?’
‘Martinez’s place?’
‘Is right. They have taken it over. The little house at the back of the garden they use for questioning – farther from the street. But you can hear the shrieks from St Anna’s. Sometimes, at three or four in the morning, they carry bodies down and throw them into the harbour behind the tanneries.’
‘How many are there?’
‘Five officers now, and a guard quartered in the Alfonso barracks. A dozen men on duty at a time – the guard changes at seven. No sentries outside, no show, all very quiet and retired. Then there are a few civilians, interpreters, servants, cleaners; two of them belong to us, as I have say – said.’
Eight bells struck; the watch changed overhead. Jack glanced at the barometer – sinking, sinking.
‘Listen, Mr Maragall,’ he said. ‘I shall tell you my general course of action: be so good as to make any observations that occur to you. I have a French gunboat here, captured yesterday: I shall run her into Port Mahon, land a party say at Johnson’s Steps or Boca Chica, march up in detached groups behind St Anna’s to the garden wall, take the house as silently as possible and either return to the gunboat or behind the town to Cala Garau. The weak points are, entrance into the port, guides, alternative lines of retreat. In the first place, can you tell me whether there is any French ship in? How are French vessels received, what are the formalities, visits, moorings?’
‘This is far from my line. I am a lawyer, an advocate,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘No, there is no French ship in at present. When they come, they exchange signals off Cape Mola – but what signals? Then there is the pratique boat, for plague and health; if they have a clean bill of health it leads them to their moorings, otherwise to the quarantine reach. I believe the French moor above the customs house. The captain waits on the port-admiral – but when? I could tell you this, all this, if I had time. My cousin is the doctor.’
‘There is no time.’
‘Yes, sir, there is time,’ said Maragall slowly. ‘But can you indeed enter the port? You rely on their not firing on French colours, on confusing signals?’
‘I shall get in.’
‘Very well. Then if now you put me ashore before light, I shall meet you in the pratique boat or tell my cousin what he must do – meet you in any case, deal with what formalities there may be and tell you what we have managed to arrange. You have said guides – certainly: other lines of retreat, yes. I must consult.’
‘You take this to be a feasible plan, I collect?’
‘Yes. To get in, yes. To get out – well, you know the harbour as well as I do. Guns, batteries all the way for four miles. It is the only plan, however, with so little time. It would be terrible to run in, and then to arouse suspicion by some little nonsense that my friends could tell you in a moment. You are unwilling to put me ashore, are you not?’
‘No, sir. I am no great politician or judge of character, but my friend is: I am happy to stake my head on his choice.’ Sending for the officer of the watch he said, ‘Mr Fielding, we shall run in. To Cala Blau?’ – looking at Maragall, who nodded. ‘To Cala Blau. All sail she will bear; blue cutter to be ready at a moment’s notice.’ Fielding repeated the order and hurried out, calling, ‘Watch, watch, about ship,’ before he was past the sentry. Jack listened to the running feet for a moment, and said, ‘While we stand in, let us go over the details. May I offer you some wine – a sandwich?’
‘Four bells, sir,’ said Killick, waking him. ‘Mr Simmons is in the cabin.’
‘Mr Simmons,’ said Jack in a harsh, formal voice. ‘I am taking the gunboat into Port Mahon at sunset. This is an expedition in which I shall ask none of the officers to come with me; I believe none is intimately acquainted with the town. I should like those of the launch’s crew who choose to volunteer, but it must be represented to them, that this is an expedition in which – it is an expedition of some danger. The pinnace is to remain at the cave at Cala Blau from the coming midnight until the following sunset, when, unless it receives orders, it is to rejoin the ship at the rendezvous I have marked here. The launch at Rowley’s Creek, with the same orders. They are to be victualled for a week. The frigate will stand off and on to windward of Cape Mola, having sent them in, and close with the land at dawn under French colours, remaining out of gunshot, however; I hope to join her at that time or during the course of the day. If I do not appear by six o’clock she is to proceed to the first rendezvous without loss of time; and after cruising twenty-four hours there, to Gibraltar. Here are your orders; you will see that I have written clearly what I now repeat – there is to be no attempt whatsoever at any rescue. These orders are to be followed to the letter.’ The idea of these good, brave, but essentially unenterprising and unimaginative men plunging about an unknown countryside, with the frigate a prey to the Spanish gunboats or the great batteries of St Philip’s or Cape Mola made him repeat these words. Then, after a slight pause and in a diffident tone, he said, ‘My dear Simmons, here are some personal papers and letters that I will trouble you with, if I may, to be sent home from Gibraltar in the event of things going amiss.’
The first lieutenant looked down, and then up again into Jack’s face; he was profoundly troubled, and he was obviously seeking for his words. Jack did not wish to hear them: this was his own affair – he was the only man aboard, apart from his followers, who knew Port Mahon backwards,
