The Siege

  “The way to ensure that ties do not break,” he concludes, “is to make sure there is enough slack in the rope—not tighten it until it snaps.”

  “Leaving us to rot …” mutters Miguel Sánchez Guinea irritably.

  Lolita Palma fans herself, spellbound, eager not to miss a word of the debates. She finds it normal that Fernández Cuchillero, Mexía Lequerica and the other American deputies should argue in favor of their home countries—and that the reactionary deputies or those who are lukewarm about national sovereignty should be staunchly supporting the English, as they consider the latter to be the best defenders of monarchy and religion against the revolutionary rabble. But she also knows that, in the opinion of most people in Cádiz, Miguel Sánchez Guinea is right: equal rights to free trade would bankrupt the continental ports in Spain. She reflects on this as she listens to the Aragonese deputy, Mañas, who has interrupted to ask whether the proposed free trade would also allow the British free access to ports in America and the Philippines, reminding members of the competition between the Chinese silk trade and that of Valencia, though the latter is of superior quality. Fernández Cuchillero takes the floor again, insisting that the North Americans and the British have long been trading in that region clandestinely.

  “What we are proposing,” he says in summation, “is to legalize the existing contraband trade. To regulate the inevitable.”

  A number of other American deputies speak in support of the member from Río de la Plata, as does Capmany, the conservative Catalan deputy widely considered to be the voice of the English ambassador at the Cortes. Another deputy intervenes to suggest that it might be possible to authorize free trade between Britain and the Americas for a limited period, only for Mañas to respond—looking deliberately toward the diplomatic benches—that the phrase “limited period” is not part of the English vocabulary. One only has to think of Gibraltar. Or to remember Menorca.

  “Our trade,” he says categorically, “our industry, our Navy, will never recover if we permit foreigners to trade freely with our territories in the Americas and Asia. Any such concession would be a nail in the coffin for the ports of Spain … Mark my words, gentlemen, cities such as Cádiz would be wiped off the map.”

  Amid the applause—this time, Lolita Palma cannot help but join in—Mañas adds that he is in possession of letters from Montevideo proving that England has been supporting the rebels in Buenos Aires (at this, Ambassador Wellesley squirms in his seat); and that in Veracruz, the English are demanding a shipment of five million pesos in Mexican silver; and that, with or without the war with Napoleon, the British government will not rest until it has dismantled Spain’s overseas territories, a market it is determined to control. Amid murmurs of “Aye, aye!” and “No, no!” the deputy from Aragon concludes his speech by dismissing the proposals as “intolerable blackmail,” words that provoke uproar on the diplomatic benches and in the public gallery—almost resulting in a scandal when the English ambassador gets to his feet and storms out. The president of the Cortes rings his bell to restore order and announces a break in the proceedings, warning that the session will resume in camera. Talking animatedly, the public and the deputies file out and the guards close the doors.

  Out on the street, as a chorus of heated voices discuss what has just happened, Lolita and the Sánchez Guineas go over to Fernández Cuchillero, who is standing with Mexía Lequerica and a number of other deputies from the Americas. All are arguing in favor of the proposal.

  “Your new system would ruin us, señor,” Miguel Sánchez Guinea splutters angrily to the member from Río de la Plata. “If our American compatriots are able to trade freely with foreign ports, Spanish merchants will not be able to compete with their prices. Don’t you realize? This would force us to take ruinous measures at greater risk and expense … What you and your friends are proposing would be the coup de grâce for our business, it would mean the end for what remains of our Navy, and it would bankrupt Spain while she is fighting a war, without industry or agriculture.”

  Fernández Cuchillero roundly denies this. Lolita Palma barely recognizes in him the gentle, shy young man who visits her family. The subject confers on him a self-assured dignity, an old-fashioned gravitas. Authority.

  “The proposal is not mine,” he responds. “You are speaking to someone who, despite his place of birth, is loyal to the Spanish Crown. As you know, I do not approve of the treachery of the Junta in Buenos Aires … but history and the times we live in have decided matters. The Spanish Americas have needs, but they are helpless to satisfy them. The Creoles demand the profits legally due to them so the poor can escape their misery. But we are bound to a system decided here in Spain, which solves nothing.”

  The Calle de Santa Inés is filled with people arguing over what happened during the session, moving from one group to another, popping in to the little inn nearby where some of the deputies grab a bite to eat. The group that has gathered around the American deputies is still standing on the steps of the oratory. It is by far the largest group, mostly made up of local merchants. Their faces betray their fear and, in some cases, naked hostility. And though it directly concerns her, even Lolita Palma feels little sympathy for what she has heard this morning about free trade and the English. After all, the future of Palma e Hijos is at stake.

  “You people are simply trying to avoid paying taxes,” someone says. “Trying to steal our business.”

  One hand in the pocket of his frockcoat, Fernández Cuchillero turns calmly to the speaker.

  “Such a course of action would be entirely legitimate,” he says. “After all, that is what happened in the thirteen English colonies in North America. Everyone wishes to improve his lot in life, and being stubborn is not the answer … But make no mistake, the future will come. It is significant that a number of the loyal American administrations that previously claimed to be Spanish and complained that they were under-represented at the Cortes now call themselves ‘colonies.’ It is a short step from there to declaring independence. But you people do not seem to realize that fact … My country is a fine example. There, the talk is not of the reasons for the uprising, but of reconquering Buenos Aires.”

  “But there are those who have remained loyal, señor. Cuba, for example, the viceroyalty of Peru, and many others.”

  Now it is José Mexía Lequerica’s turn to speak. Lolita Palma knows him because of their shared passion for botany. She has met him on a number of occasions at Master Cabrera’s house, in the gardens of the College of Surgeons and the bookshops on the Plaza de San Agustín. A noted philosopher of the French school, a stalwart supporter of equality between the Americas and peninsular Spain, José Mexía Lequerica lives on the Calle Ahumada with Gertrudis Salanova, a striking young lady from Cádiz who is not his wife—as everyone in the city is aware. Lolita has seen them strolling brazenly, arm in arm, along the Plaza de San Antonio and the Alameda. Given his status as an eminent politician, the relationship is the subject of much salacious gossip.

  “Make no mistake,” says Mexía in the soft accent of his native Quito, “there are many in the American territories who have remained loyal to Spain because they fear an uprising by the Indians or the Negro slaves. They see the Spanish monarchy as a force upholding law and order … But if they felt confident enough to deal with such a situation themselves, that might change matters—”

  “What we need is a firm hand,” someone interrupts. “We must force the rebels to yield to legitimate authority … Have they no shame? Taking advantage of the war with France and the abduction of the king to sue for independence is not simply disloyal—it is a disgrace!”

  “No, I’m afraid I disagree,” says the American. “It is simply an opportunity. The chaos in Spain has brought things to a head … Even here, what with the generals, the Regency and the Juntas tripping over each other, no one seems able to decide how best to fight this war.”

  There is a sudden, awkward silence. Lolita sees people glance at each other. Even Mexía seems
to realize that he has gone too far: he waves his hand as if to erase the words he has just spoken.

  “That a man like you should say such a thing … you, a deputy at the Cortes,” splutters Miguel Sánchez Guinea angrily.

  Mexía turns to face the young man, as Miguel’s father pats him on the arm, urging him to let the matter rest. “That is precisely why I must say it, señor,” Mexía replies, a little haughtily. “Because one day history will judge us.”

  There is an angry roar from the crowd—Lolita recognizes the voice: it is Ignacio Vizcaíno, a leather merchant who has been bankrupted by the revolution in Buenos Aires. “This whole thing is a conspiracy engineered by the English to force us out of the Americas.”

  Mexía smiles scornfully, turning his back, as if this comment does not deserve a response. It is left to Jorge Fernández Cuchillero to answer.

  “It is nothing of the kind,” he says calmly. “In fact, very few people in the Americas would go so far. That is why we are here, working to draw up a constitution which will benefit the peoples on both sides of the Atlantic. One that will put an end to the privileges of an indolent aristocracy, a feckless administration, and a fanatical and all too often ignorant clergy. That is why I am standing here talking to all of you … trying to get you to understand that if the ties between our countries are broken, they cannot be repaired.”

  The doors of San Felipe Neri reopen; the session is about to begin again, this time with no one in the public galleries. Miguel Sánchez Guinea raises his finger, determined to have the last word before the American deputies take their leave, when all conversation is suddenly interrupted by an explosion nearby that causes the ground and the surrounding buildings to shake. Lolita Palma turns and looks toward the Tavira Tower. Just beyond it, a cloud of yellowish smoke rises above the houses.

  “That was close,” says the leather merchant.

  The crowd quickly disperse. People scamper away, avoiding the middle of the street, seeking shelter in the houses nearby. News comes that the bomb exploded on the Calle del Vestuario, demolishing a house. Quickening her step, Lolita heads in the opposite direction, with Don Emilio taking her arm, and Miguel Sánchez Guinea leading the way. Glancing back she sees the deputies, dignified and unperturbed, walk deliberately toward the steps of the oratory.

  “I THINK YOU might like to come downstairs, Comisario.”

  Rogelio Tizón lays down the papers he has been reading on his desk and looks over at his assistant: six feet of deferential brute force standing in the doorway.

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Number eight. I think you might be interested in what he has to say.”

  The Commissioner for Districts, Vagrants and Transients gets up and leaves his office. Cadalso steps to one side to allow him to go first and they head down the corridor, footsteps making the rickety wooden floor creak, toward the stairwell next to a dusty skylight that overlooks the Calle del Mirador. The gloomy spiral staircase leads down to the cellar and the dungeons. When they reach the bottom, Tizón buttons his frockcoat self-consciously. The air is cold and dank and the light filtering through the narrow, barred loopholes high up on the walls does little to relieve the sense of confinement.

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s confessed to making trips to the far shore, Comisario, but there is something else.”

  “Something important?”

  “It might be.”

  Tizón shakes his head skeptically. Like the big old dog he is, Cadalso has little imagination, but is utterly dependable. This is useful when blindly following orders, but it has its limitations. Tizón’s deputy is hardly a genius when it comes to knowing what is important. But you never know.

  “Is the interrogation still going on?”

  “For more than two hours now.”

  “The devil … A hard case, then …”

  “He’s starting to soften.”

  “Make sure things don’t go too far, like they did with the suspect from the Calle Juan de Andas … If that happens again, you and your pals will end up breaking rocks in the penal colony in Ceuta.”

  “Don’t worry, sir.” Cadalso bows his head apologetically. “It’s slower using the tabla. But we’ll get there.”

  “I hope so.”

  They walk along the narrow passage—the cell doors, with the exception of number eight, are secured with hefty padlocks—and into a large, bare room. The sentry sitting on his stool leaps to his feet when he sees the comisario. They walk on, their footsteps ringing out in another narrow passageway, its walls grimy and cracked. At the far end is a door. Cadalso opens it with obsequious attentiveness and Rogelio Tizón steps inside. It is a windowless room with a table and two chairs, lit by a tallow lantern hanging from the ceiling. In one corner there is a bucket of dirty water and a flannel.

  “Leave the door open—get some air in here.”

  A man in underdrawers is lying face up, his kidneys aligned with the edge of the table, his bare torso arched backward into empty space, his head dangling inches from the floor. The prisoner’s arms are shackled behind his back, and he is flanked by two burly henchmen. One is perched on the table, gripping his thighs and his legs; the other is supervising. If only the fine gentlemen at the Cortes could see this, thinks Tizón, smiling to himself. The good thing about the table is that it leaves no marks. In this position, the prisoner slowly asphyxiates. It is simply a matter of time, as the lungs strain, the kidneys ache and the blood rushes to the head. When it’s over, you simply stand the prisoner up and he looks bright as a new pin. Not a single inconvenient bruise.

  “Has he said anything else?”

  “He’s confessed to contact with the French,” says Cadalso. “Making trips to El Puerto de Santa María, to Rota and Sanlúcar. Once, he went all the way to Jerez to see a ranking officer.”

  “What was the purpose of these visits?”

  “To find out about the situation there. He also carried messages and packages.”

  “From whom? To whom?”

  A pause. The henchmen and Tizón’s assistant exchange worried glances.

  “That is something we have not yet ascertained, señor,” says Cadalso warily. “But we’re working on it.”

  Tizón studies the prisoner. The man’s negroid features are racked with pain, his eyes, half-open, have rolled back in his head. The Mulatto was arrested last night just as he was about to set off for the far shore—and judging by all the equipment he was carrying, he had no intention of coming back.

  “Does he have accomplices here in Cádiz?”

  “Absolutely.” Cadalso nods vehemently. “But we have not been able to get any names out of him.”

  Tizón approaches the prisoner, hunkering close to the man’s face. From here, he can see the curly hair, the pug nose, the sparse beard beginning to grow in. His skin is dirty and greasy. The Mulatto gapes, like a fish out of water, and Tizón can hear his labored breaths, a choking death rattle brought on by his position. There is a damp stain on the floor from which the sour smell of fresh vomit wafts. Cadalso, he realizes, had the grace to mop it up before coming to fetch him.

  “What has he said that might be of interest to me?” he asks his assistant.

  Cadalso moves closer, after another furtive glance at the henchmen, who are still pinning the prisoner’s legs to the table.

  “We managed to get a couple of things out of him … Something about pigeons.”

  “Pigeons?”

  “That’s what it sounded like.”

  “The kind that fly?”

  “I don’t know of any other kind, sir.”

  “What about these pigeons?”

  “Pigeons and bombs. I think he meant carrier pigeons.”

  Tizón slowly gets to his feet again. He has a vague, unsettling sensation in his mind. A fleeting, half-formed idea.

  “What else?”

  “At some point he said, ‘Ask the man who knows where the bombs are falling.’ ”

  “An
d who exactly would that be?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  An idea now appears to him like a long, dark corridor behind a half-open door. Tizón steps away from the table. He does so carefully, feeling that any sudden movement might cause that door to slam shut.

  “Put him in a chair.”

  With Cadalso’s help, the henchmen lift the prisoner, who howls in pain as they move him. Tizón watches him blink rapidly, confused, as though waking from a trance, as he is carried across the room, feet dragging along the floor. Once he is seated, hands still shackled behind his back, with a guard on either side, Tizón brings over the other chair, spins it around and sits, arms folded on the back.

  “I’m going to make this easy for you, Mulatto. People who collaborate with the enemy go to the garrote … and the case against you is open and shut.”

  He pauses, giving the prisoner a moment to adjust to his new position, to allow the blood to flow back—and giving him a chance to take in what he has said.

  “You can cooperate,” he says finally, “maybe save your own neck.”

  The Mulatto gives a loud, ragged cough. He is still choking. A spray of spittle lands on Tizón’s knees, but he does not flinch.

  “Maybe?”

  He has the deep voice of men of his race, but he has a curious complexion, thinks Tizón. A white Negro. As if someone scrubbed the color from his skin with soap.

  “That’s what I said.”

  The prisoner’s eyes flicker with contempt.

  The bull hasn’t been thrashed hard enough, thinks Tizón. But it would be better to leave him as he is for now—Tizón does not want the Intendant and the governor on his back. One body at the bottom of the bay is enough.

  “Tell your mother,” spits the Mulatto.

  Tizón hits him. A quick, vicious slap: palm open, fingers together. He waits three seconds, then gives him another. The sound rings out like a whip crack.

  “Shut your filthy mouth …”