SIR THOMAS Graham discovered General Lapeña in an uncharacteristically cheerful mood. The Spanish commander had taken a farmhouse for his headquarters and, because the winter’s day was sunny and because the house sheltered the yard from the north wind, Lapeña was taking lunch at a table outside. He shared the table with three of his aides and with the French captain who had been captured on the way to Vejer. The five men had been served dishes of bread and beans, cheese and dark ham, and had a stone jug of red wine. “Sir Thomas!” Lapeña seemed pleased to see him. “You will join us, perhaps?” He spoke in French. He knew Sir Thomas could speak Spanish, but he preferred to use French. It was, after all, the language with which European gentlemen communicated.

“Conil!” Sir Thomas was so angry that he did not bother to show courtesy. He slid from his saddle and tossed the reins to an orderly. “You want to march to Conil?” he said accusingly.

“Ah, Conil!” Lapeña clicked his fingers at a servant and indicated that he wanted another chair brought from the farmhouse. “I had a sergeant from Conil,” he said. “He used to talk of the sardine catch. Such bounty!”

“Why Conil? You’re hungry for sardines?”

Lapeña looked sadly at Sir Thomas. “You have not met Captain Brouard? He has, of course, given us his parole.” The captain, wearing his French blue and with a sword at his side, was a thin, tall man with an intelligent face. He had watery eyes, half hidden behind thick spectacles. He stood on being introduced and offered Sir Thomas a bow.

Sir Thomas ignored him. “What is the purpose,” he asked, resting his hands on the table so that he leaned toward Lapeña, “in marching on Conil?”

“Ah, the chicken!” Lapeña smiled as a woman brought a roasted chicken from the farmhouse and placed it on the table. “Garay, you will carve?”

“Allow me the honor, Excellency,” Brouard offered.

“The honor is all ours, Captain,” Lapeña said, and ceremoniously handed the Frenchman the carving knife and a long fork.

“We hired ships,” Sir Thomas growled, ignoring the chair that had been placed next to Lapeña’s place at the table, “and we waited for the fleet to assemble. We waited for the wind to be in our favor. We sailed south. We landed at Tarifa because that gave us the ability to reach the rear of the French positions. Now we march to Conil? For God’s sake, why did we bother with the fleet at all? Why didn’t we just cross the Rio Sancti Petri and march straight to Conil? It would have taken a short day and we wouldn’t have needed a single ship!”

Lapeña’s aides stared resentfully at Sir Thomas. Brouard pretended to ignore the conversation, concentrating instead on carving the fowl, which he did with an admirable dexterity. He had jointed the carcass and now cut perfect slice after perfect slice.

“Things change,” Lapeña said vaguely.

“What has changed?” Sir Thomas demanded.

Lapeña sighed. He hooked a finger at an aide who at last understood that his master wished to see a map. Dishes were put aside as the map was unfolded onto the table and Sir Thomas noted that the map was a good deal better than the ones the Spanish had supplied to him.

“We are here,” Lapeña said, placing a bean just north of Vejer, “and the enemy are here,” he put another bean on Chiclana, “and we have three roads by which we may approach the enemy. The first, and longest, is to the east, through Medina Sidonia.” Another bean served to mark the town. “But we know the French have a garrison there. Is that not right, monsieur?” he appealed to Brouard.

“A formidable garrison,” Brouard said, separating the drumstick from the carcass with a surgeon’s skill.

“So we shall find ourselves between Marshal Victor’s army here”—Lapeña touched the bean marking Chiclana—“and the garrison here.” He indicated Medina Sidonia. “We can avoid the garrison, Sir Thomas, by taking the second road. That goes north from here and will approach Chiclana from the south. It is a bad road. It is not direct. It climbs into these hills”—his forefinger tapped some hatch marks—“and the French will have picquets there. Is that not so, monsieur?”

“Many picquets,” Brouard said, easing out the wishbone. “You should inform your chef, mon général, that if he removes the wishbone before cooking the bird, the carving will be made easier.”

“How good to know that,” Lapeña said, then looked back to Sir Thomas. “The picquets will apprise Marshal Victor of our approach so he will be ready for us. He will confront us with numbers superior to our own. In all conscience, Sir Thomas, I cannot use that road, not if we are to gain the victory we both pray for. But fortunately there is a third road, a road that goes along the sea. Here”—Lapeña paused, putting a fourth bean on the shoreline—“is a place called…” He hesitated, unsure what place the bean marked and finding no help from the map.

“Barrosa,” an aide said.

“Barrosa! It is called Barrosa. From there, Sir Thomas, there are tracks across the heath to Chiclana.”

“And the French will know we’re using them,” Sir Thomas said, “and they’ll be ready for us.”

“True!” Lapeña seemed pleased that Sir Thomas had understood such an elementary point. “But here, Sir Thomas”—his finger moved to the mouth of the Sancti Petri—“is General Zayas with a whole corps of men. If we march to…” He paused again.

“Barrosa,” the aide said.

“Barrosa,” Lapeña said energetically, “then we can combine with General Zayas. Together we shall outnumber the French! At Chiclana they have, what? Two divisions?” He put the question to Brouard.

“Three divisions,” the Frenchman confirmed, “the last I heard.”

“Three!” Lapeña sounded alarmed, then waved a hand as if dismissing the news. “Two? Three? What does it matter? We shall assail them from the flank!” Lapeña said. “We shall come at them from the west, we shall destroy them, and we shall gain a great victory. Forgive my enthusiasm, Captain,” he added to Brouard.

“You trust him?” Sir Thomas asked Lapeña, jerking his head at the Frenchman.

“He is a gentleman!”

“So was Pontius Pilate,” Sir Thomas said. He thrust a big finger down onto the shoreline. “Use that road,” he said, “and you place our army between the French and the sea. Marshal Victor is not going to wait at Chiclana. He’s going to come for us. You want to see your men drowning in the surf?”

“So what do you suggest?” Lapeña asked icily.

“March to Medina Sidonia,” Sir Thomas said, “and either crush the garrison”—he paused to eat the bean denoting that town—“or let them rot behind their walls. Attack the siege lines. Force Victor to march to us instead of us marching to him.”

Lapeña looked wonderingly at Sir Thomas. “I admire you,” he said after a pause, “I truly do. Your avidity, Sir Thomas, is an inspiration to us all.” His aides nodded solemn agreement, and even Captain Brouard gave a polite inclination of his head. “But permit me to explain myself,” Lapeña went on. “The French army, you will agree, is here.” He had taken a handful of the beans and now arrayed them in crescent about the Bay of Cádiz, running from Chiclana in the south, around the siege lines, and finishing at the three great forts on the Trocadero marshes. “If we attack from here”—Lapeña tapped the road from Medina Sidonia—“then we assault the center of their lines. We shall doubtless make good progress, but the enemy will converge on us from both flanks. We shall run the risk of encirclement.” He held up a hand to stop Sir Thomas’s imminent protest.

“If we come from here,” Lapeña continued, this time indicating the southern road from Vejer, “we shall, of course, strike at Chiclana, but there will be nothing, Sir Thomas, absolutely nothing, to stop the French marching onto our right flank.” He scooped the beans into a small pile to show how the French might overwhelm his attack. “But from the east, from—” He hesitated.