There follows an awkward silence. Eventually Rogelio Tizón gets to his feet.
“This is Cádiz,” he says with emphasis. “Smuggling is a way of life here. But espionage, now that is a different story … Help to fight it, and you are serving your country.”
Maraña laughs under his breath. The glow of the torches and the flashes from the distant lighthouse accentuate the dark circles around his eyes and the pallor of his face. The laugh ends with a hacking cough which he does his best to mask, quickly taking a kerchief from the sleeve of his jacket and bringing it to his mouth, and dropping his cigar on the ground. He returns the kerchief to its place without bothering to look at it.
“I shall bear that in mind. Especially the part about serving my country.”
The policeman watches him intently and Pépé Lobo has the disagreeable impression that he is filing the lieutenant’s face away in his memory. Insolent little shit—he can read the words in Tizón’s tight-lipped expression—I hope one day I have the opportunity to settle the score with you. Tizón certainly seems to be a heartless man, a cold fish. I only hope, thinks Pépé Lobo, that I never have to play cards with these two. It would be impossible to tell their hands by looking at their faces.
“Should you decide that you have something to tell me, I am at your disposal,” concludes the comisario. “The same applies to you, Captain … My office is on the Calle del Mirador, opposite the new jail.”
He puts on his hat and swings his cane, about to leave. He pauses a moment longer.
“One more thing,” he says, turning back to Maraña. “If I were you I would be careful about making trips at night. They might lead to nasty encounters. And consequences.”
Maraña looks at him with undisguised indifference. In the end he nods twice, very slightly, and leaning back in his chair pushes aside his coattail to reveal the varnished wooden butt of his snub-nosed pistol.
“Ever since they invented this, consequences can go both ways.”
The comisario bows his head a little, as though thinking about pistols, directions and consequences; he rakes the sand with the tip of his cane. After a little sigh, he gestures as if writing on the air.
“I shall make a note of that,” he says with deceptive suaveness. “And in passing, I should remind you that the use of handguns by individuals is forbidden in Cádiz.”
Maraña holds his gaze, smiling thoughtfully. In the flickering light from the torches and with the strumming of the guitar the shadows seem to dance across his face.
“I am not an individual, señor. I am an officer with a Letter of Marque from the king … We are outside the city walls, and therefore your authority does not extend here.”
Tizón nods with exaggerated formality.
“I shall make a note of that, too.”
“Well, when you have finished making notes, might I suggest you go to hell.”
The gold tooth glitters one last time. A promise of trouble to come, thinks Pépé Lobo, if ever the lieutenant’s path should cross that of the forces of law and order. The sailors say nothing and watch as the comisario heads back along the beach toward the reef and the city gate. Maraña considers his empty glass gloomily.
“I think I’ll order another bottle.”
“Don’t bother. I am leaving …” Lobo is still watching the policeman. “So did you go to El Puerto with the Mulatto?”
“I may have.”
“Did you know he was a suspected criminal?”
“Nonsense.” The young man pulls a scornful face. “Besides, it’s no concern of mine.”
“Well that bastard seemed to know what he was talking about. I expect it’s his job. To be informed.”
The two corsairs sit in silence for a moment. They can still hear the cheering and the music from the flamenco bars. The comisario has melted into the shadows under the arch of the Puerto de la Caleta.
“If there is espionage involved,” says Pépé Lobo, “it could cause problems for us.”
“Don’t you start, Captain. I’ve had enough for one day.”
“Are you planning to go over tonight?”
Maraña does not answer. He has picked up his empty glass and is toying with it.
“This changes things,” Lobo persists. “I cannot risk you being picked up two days before we put out to sea.”
“Don’t worry … I’m not planning to leave Cádiz.”
“Give me your word on it.”
“Absolutely not. My private life is my own affair.”
“This is not about your private life, it’s about your duty to the ship. I can’t afford to lose my first officer two days before we sail.”
Maraña stares out at the lighthouse. His word of honor, as Pépé Lobo knows, is one of the few things he values. Maraña sets great store by something which most people—and the captain cheerfully includes himself among their number—consider a tactic or a ploy which does not commit you to anything. Keeping his word at all costs is simply one more aspect of his dark, rebellious character. Just one more form of despair.
“You have my word.”
Pépé Lobo drains his glass and gets to his feet.
“I’ll go and get more aguardiente. And have a piss while I’m about it.”
He crosses the sand to the bare-board floor of the nearest bar and asks them to bring another bottle to his table. As he does so, he passes the group of men Captain Virués is sitting with and realizes the officer has recognized him. The corsair carries on walking to a dark corner near the city walls that smells of filth and urine, beneath the San Pedro walkway. He unbuttons his breeches and relieves himself, one hand leaning against the wall; then he buttons himself up again and retraces his steps. As he crosses the floor of the bar, a number of Virués’s fellow officers stare at him, curious. Clearly the captain has said something about him and, seeing two Redcoats among their number, Pépé Lobo suspects he has mentioned Gibraltar. It would not be the first time; Virués evidently spoke of the matter to Lolita Palma. The memory of it makes him furious. It is difficult to forget her comment when last they spoke: “Some say you are not a gentleman.” He has never pretended to be one, but he does not care for the idea that Virués might be announcing the fact at society soirées.
As the corsair walks on, flashes of memory return from that night in Gibraltar—the darkness over the port, the stress of waiting, the danger and the whispers, the stabbed sentry lying on the ground, the freezing water before they clambered aboard the tartane, the muffled struggle with the Navy guard, the splash as the body fell into the black water, the hiss of sail being hoisted as the anchor was raised and the boat gliding across the bay, heading westward towards freedom. All this while Virués and his kind lay sleeping, dreaming of the exchange of prisoners that would send them back to Spain, honor intact, uniforms pressed, with their habitual look of superiority. They are all cut from the same cloth, like the young fop who had challenged him to a duel in Algeciras after the prisoner exchange only to have Pépé Lobo laugh in his face and send him packing. Things are different now. At least they seem to be. Maybe it is the aguardiente, the guitars. Maybe things would have been very different had it not been some beardless stripling who had challenged him to a duel in Algeciras, but Virués himself. That stupid, stuck-up son of a bitch.
Without thinking about what he is doing, or about the consequences of his actions, the corsair turns and heads back to the officers’ table. What the hell are you doing? he thinks. But it’s too late to change tack now. There are three Spaniards and two Englishmen with Virués. The latter, a captain and a lieutenant, are wearing British naval uniforms. The three Spaniards are captains: one wears the uniform of an artilleryman while the other two are dressed in the light-blue jackets with yellow lapels of the Irish Regiment. They all look up, startled by his presence.
“Do we know each other, señor?” he asks Virués, who looks at him, flustered. The group is silent; on tenterhooks. The only sound is the music of the flamenco show. Clearly the Captain of Engi
neers was not expecting this. Nor was Pépé Lobo. To the devil with it, he thinks again, what am I doing here, picking fights like some drunken tosspot?
“I believe we do,” answers Virués.
Pépé Lobo coolly appraises the captain’s face, impeccably shaven despite the lateness of the hour, his dark mustache and fashionable whiskers neatly trimmed. A fine-looking man, he thinks, not for the first time. Captain of Engineers, no less. A man with an education and a bright future, with or without the war, the sort of man whose path has already been carved out for him. A gentleman, as Lolita Palma would say—as she did say. Just the sort to offer a scented kerchief to a lady, or holy water as she leaves a church.
“I thought as much. You were one of the men in Gibraltar, sitting around on their asses waiting for a convenient prisoner exchange …”
The words hang in the air. Virués blinks, sitting up slightly in his chair. Unsurprisingly, none of the officers is smiling now. The Spaniards are open-mouthed; the English have not understood what was said.
“I was on parole, bound by my word of honor, señor. As were you.”
Virués stresses the last two words haughtily. The corsair gives him an insolent smile.
“Yes, on parole, and in the company of these upstanding English gentlemen … I see that you still count them as friends.”
The officer frowns, his initial puzzlement fast becoming irritation. Pépé Lobo spots him glancing down at the sword that leans against his chair. The corsair, for his part, is unarmed. He never carries a weapon when on land, and certainly not when drinking. Not even his sailor’s knife. It is a lesson he learned as a young man traveling from port to port, watching other men hang.
“Are you picking a quarrel with me, señor?”
The corsair thinks about this for a moment. It is certainly an interesting question. Eventually, having mulled it over, he shrugs his shoulders.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “What I do know is that I don’t care for the way you look at me. Nor for what you have been saying about me behind my back.”
“I have said nothing I would not say to your face.”
“For example?”
“That in Gibraltar you did not behave like a gentleman … That your escape, in direct breach of the rules, put everyone in an embarrassing position.”
“By ‘everyone,’ I assume you mean cretins such as yourself.”
Murmurs of indignation around the table. There is a rush of blood to Virués’s face. He gets to his feet like the well-bred man he is: slowly, serenely. Pépé Lobo sees the man’s fists clench and this gives him a thrill. The other officers remain seated, looking at each other, especially the English officers—clearly they do not understand a word of Spanish, but that is hardly necessary. The scene being played out is international and needs no translation.
Virués brings a hand up to his immaculate shirt collar as if to adjust his necktie. His struggle to maintain his self-control is obvious. He pushes aside the tail of his frockcoat, puts one hand on his hip and stares down at the corsair, over whom he towers by some six inches.
“That is a filthy slur.”
Pépé Lobo says nothing. Sometimes words offend, but he is an old seadog. He simply looks Virués up and down—as though carrying the knife he does not have—sizing him up like he is calculating where best to stab if the man should lift a finger. As though he has divined his intentions, the captain remains stock-still, staring at him curiously, politely menacing. Or barely menacing at all.
“I demand an honorable resolution, señor.”
At the word “honorable,” Pépé Lobo sneers. He all but laughs. Let’s leave military honor out of this, he thinks. Why don’t you kiss my ass?
“Spare me the propriety and the posturing. We’re not at Court, or even in a guardroom.”
The officers around the table are hanging on every word. Pépé Lobo’s jacket is unbuttoned; he holds his arms away from his body like a wrestler, which is exactly what he looks like just now, with his broad shoulders and powerful hands. His instincts as an old salt, together with a long experience of seedy harbor bars and what goes on there, make him alert, anticipating every movement, both probable and improbable. Calculating risks. That same experience now warns him of Ricardo Maraña’s silent presence behind him. Smelling trouble, the Little Marquis has come over and is hanging back, ready to wade in if there is a brawl. Dangerous as always. Pray God he does not decide to go for the gun tucked into the belt under his jacket, thinks Lobo. Because too much aguardiente can play tricks on a man, as it has done to me tonight. Here I am standing in front of this imbecile, with no way forward unless he makes the first move, and no way back without admitting defeat, for flouting a simple rule: never stir up trouble at the wrong time or in the wrong place.
“I demand satisfaction,” says Virués.
The corsair stares toward the reef as it sweeps out past the Castillo de Santa Catalina. It is the only place nearby that offers a modicum of privacy, but luckily it will not be uncovered by low tide for another two hours. Lobo feels a violent urge to punch the captain, but he has no desire to fight a duel, with seconds and the whole ridiculous protocol that would entail. The idea is absurd. Dueling is forbidden by law. He would probably lose his Letter of Marque and the command of the Culebra, something the Sánchez Guineas would take very badly. Not to mention Lolita Palma.
“I put out to sea two days from now,” he says neutrally.
He said it in precisely the right tone, staring straight ahead, as if thinking aloud. No one can accuse him of backing down. Virués looks at his companions. One of them, a Captain of Artillery with a gray mustache and a respectable air, shakes his head slightly. The captain is wavering, and Lobo can see it. This is my chance, he thinks. Better to leave this for another day, when it can be handled more discreetly.
“Don Lorenzo is on duty early tomorrow,” says Gray Mustache. “We are heading back to the Isla de Léon before dawn, Captain Virués, myself and these gentlemen.”
Imperturbably, Pépé Lobo continues to stare at Virués.
“That makes things difficult, then.”
“So it would seem.”
Both sides are hesitating now. The corsair hides his relief. The time will come, he thinks, and then we shall see. He wonders if his adversary is as relieved as he is—his intuition assures him that he is.
“In that case, let us leave this conversation to another time.”
“I trust we will meet again soon, señor,” says Virués.
“You can dispense with the señor. It clearly sticks in your craw. But, yes, we shall meet again soon, my friend. And then I will wipe the smile off your face.”
The captain’s face flushes again. For an instant, Lobo thinks Virués is about to hurl himself at him. If he tries to punch me, Lobo thinks, I’ll smash that bottle and slash his face, and damn the consequences.
“I am no friend of yours,” growls Virués indignantly. “And if tonight I did not—”
“That’s right. You did not …”
The corsair lets out a crude, insolent laugh. As he does so, he slips a hand into the pocket of his jacket, takes out two silver coins, tosses them to the innkeeper, turns his back on Virués and stalks off. Behind him he can hear Ricardo Maraña’s erratic footsteps on the wooden planks, then on the sand.
“I don’t believe it … You dare lecture me about being careful and five minutes later you’re spoiling for a duel.”
Pépé Lobo laughs again, this time at himself.
“It must be the aguardiente.”
They walk along the stretch of red-tinted sand toward the boats beached by the walkway at San Sebastían. Maraña has caught up with the captain and now limps along next to him, watching him in the faint glow from the torches set into the sand. He looks at him curiously, as though seeing him for the first time.
“I’m sure that’s what it was,” says Lobo after a while. “The aguardiente.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It is
shortly before dawn. The east wind, blowing hard across the barren landscape of the salt marshes, whips up swirls of dust that blot out the stars. The dust, like a thousand invisible needles, stabs the eyes of the four men—three adults and a boy—who have been wading through mud and darkness for several hours. Armed with swords, hatchets and knives, they advance slowly; their faces are covered with cloths or kerchiefs to shield them from the blustering wind, which is blowing so hard that every time they have to leave the channels and the tidal creeks to walk for a stretch on dry land, it instantly dries the salt and mud on their clothes.
“There’s the main channel over there,” whispers Felipe Mojarra.
He stops and hunkers down, cocking his ear, between the branches of saltwort that scratch his face. All he can hear is the whistle of the wind in the undergrowth and the rush of water in the channel: a black streak, visible only by the faint reflections in the darkness.
“We’ll have to get wet again.”
Thirty varas, the salter reminds himself—that is how wide the channel is along this stretch. Fortunately, since they have lived all their lives in the salt marshes, he and his comrades know how to keep afloat. One by one they line up along the bank: Curro Panizo; his son Currito; Mojarra’s brother-in-law Cárdenas. Silent, single-minded shadows. They left the Isla de Léon at nightfall and, barely visible through the dust clouds, managed to cross the Spanish lines to the south of the Isla de Vicario, crawling on their bellies under the cannons of the San Pedro battery. From there, shortly before midnight, they swam across the Camarón channel and trekked through half a league of no-man’s-land, negotiating the maze of gullies and tidal creeks in the darkness.
“Where are we?” asks Cárdenas in a low voice.
Felipe Mojarra is not sure. The dust whipped up by the east wind has disoriented him. He is afraid of having miscounted the creeks they crossed, of going too far and stumbling right into the French trenches. So he stands up, pushes aside the dark bushes and peers into the darkness, doing his best to protect himself from the stinging sand and wind. When his poacher’s eyes have adjusted to the gloom, he sees a dark shape that looks like the rib cage of a huge skeleton: the rotting hull of a ship, half sunken in the mud.