“Bad!” Bautista laughed. “Is that all you can say?”
It was all Sharpe had said to the Emperor on Saint Helena, but Napoleon had not needed to hear more. Bonaparte had given Sharpe a look of such quick sympathy that Sharpe had been forced to laugh, and the Emperor had laughed with him. “It was supposed to be bad!” Bonaparte had said indignantly, “But it was evidently not bad enough, eh?” But now, because Sharpe spoke to a man who did not know how the heart shuddered with terror every time a shot punched the air with pressure, flame and death, he could only offer the inadequate explanation. “It was frightening. The guns, I mean.”
“The guns?” Bautista asked with a sudden intensity.
“The French had a lot of artillery,” Sharpe explained lamely, “and it was well handled.”
“It was frightening?” Bautista wanted Sharpe’s earlier assertion confirmed.
“Very.”
“Frightening.” Bautista repeated the word meaningfully, letting it hang in the air as he walked back to his long table. “You hear that?” He shouted the question loudly, rounding on the startled audience. “Frightening! And that is how we will finish this rebellion. Not by marching men into the wilderness, but with guns, with guns, with guns, with guns!” With each repetition of the word he pounded his right feet into his left palm. “Guns! Where are your guns, Ruiz?”
“They’re coming, Your Excellency,” Ruiz said soothingly.
“I’ve told Madrid,” Bautista went on, “time and again to send me guns! We’ll break this rebellion by enticing its forces to attack our strongholds. Here! In Valdivia! We shall let O’Higgins bring his armies and Cochrane his ships into the range of our guns and then we shall destroy them! With guns! With guns! With guns! But if Madrid doesn’t send me guns, how can we win?” He was rehearsing the arguments that would explain the loss of Chile. He would blame it on Madrid for not sending enough guns, yet guns, as any real soldier knew, could not win the war.
Because relying on guns and forts was a recipe for doing nothing. It was generalship by defense. Bautista did not want to risk marching an army into the field and suffering a horrific defeat, so instead he was justifying his inaction by pretending it was a strategy. Let Madrid send enough guns, Bautista claimed, and the enemy would be destroyed when they attacked the Royalist strongholds, yet even the dullest enemy would eventually realize it was both cheaper and more effective to starve a fortress into submission than to drown it in blood. Bautista’s strategy was designed solely to transfer the blame for defeat onto other men’s shoulders, while he became rich enough to challenge those men when he returned to Madrid. No wonder, Sharpe thought, Blas Vivar had hated this man. He was betraying his soldiers as well as his country.
“Why have you come here, Mister Sharpe?” Bautista had suddenly turned on Sharpe again.
Sharpe, noting that he had not been accorded the honorific of his rank, decided not to make an issue of it. “I’m here at the behest of the Countess of Mouromorto to carry her husband’s remains home to Spain.”
“She is evidently an extravagant woman? Why did she not simply ask me to send her husband home?”
Sharpe did not want to explain that Louisa had not heard of her husband’s death or burial when he left, so he just shrugged. “I can’t say, sir.”
“You can’t say. Well, it seems a small enough request. I shall consider my decision, though I must say that so far as most of us are concerned, the sooner General Vivar is out of Chile, the better.” The quip provoked another outburst of laughter which this time Bautista allowed to continue. “You knew General Vivar?” he asked Sharpe when the sycophancy had subsided.
“We fought together in ’09, at Santiago de Compostela.”
Blas Vivar’s fight at Santiago de Compostela had been one of the great events of the Spanish war, a miraculous victory which had proved to many Spaniards that the French were not invincible, and Sharpe’s mention of the battle made many of the officers in the audience look at him with a new interest and respect, but to General Bautista the battle was mere history.
“Vivar was like many veterans of the French wars,” Bautista said sarcastically, “in his belief that the experience of fighting against Bonaparte’s armies prepared him for suppressing a rebellion in a country like Chile. But they are not the same kind of fighting! Would you say they were the same kind of fighting, Mister Sharpe?”
“No, sir.” Sharpe replied in all honesty, but even so he felt that he was somehow betraying his dead friend by agreeing.
Bautista, pleased to have elicited the agreement from Sharpe, smiled, then glanced at Harper’s bandaged head. “I hear you were sadly inconvenienced yesterday?”
Again Sharpe was surprised by the suddenness of the question, but he managed to nod. “Yes, sir.”
The smile grew broader as Bautista snapped his fingers. “I would not like you to return to England with an unhappy memory of Chile, or convinced that my administration is incompetent to police Valdivia’s alleys. So I am delighted to tell you, Mister Sharpe, that the thieves were apprehended and your effects recovered.” The click of his fingers had summoned two orderlies who each carried a bag into the room. The bags were placed on the table. “Come!” Bautista ordered. “Come and examine them! I wish to be assured that everything has been recovered. Please!”
Astonished, Sharpe and Harper walked to the table and, in front of the audience, unpacked the bags. Everything seemed to be there, but not in the same condition. Their clothes, which had been soiled and crumpled from the long sea voyage, had all been laundered and pressed. Their boots had been polished, and Sharpe did not doubt that their razors had been stropped to a murderous edge. “It’s all here,” he said, and thinking he had not been gracious enough, he made a clumsy half-bow to Bautista. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”
“Everything is there?” Bautista demanded. “Nothing is missing?”
It was then that Sharpe realized one thing was missing: the portrait of Napoleon. Harper’s small silver thimble, duly polished, was in one of the bags, but not the silver-framed portrait of the Emperor. Sharpe opened his mouth to report the loss, then abruptly closed it as he considered that the portrait’s absence could be a trap. Bautista was evidently obsessed with Napoleon, which made it very likely that the Captain-General had himself purloined the signed portrait. Nor, Sharpe decided, was the loss of the portrait important. It was a mere souvenir, as the French said, and Lieutenant Colonel Charles could always write and request another such keepsake. Sharpe also had a strong suspicion that if he mentioned the missing picture, Bautista might refuse to issue the travel permits and so, without considering the matter further, Sharpe shook his head. “Nothing is missing, Your Excellency.”
Bautista smiled as though Sharpe had said the right thing, then, still smiling, he clicked his fingers again, this time summoning a squad of infantrymen who escorted two prisoners. The prisoners, in drab brown clothes, had their wrists and ankles manacled. The chains scraped and jangled as the two men were forced to the room’s center.
“These are the thieves,” Bautista announced.
Sharpe stared at the two men. They were both black-haired, both had moustaches, and both were terrified. Sharpe tried to remember the face of the man who had aimed the carbine at him, and in his memory that man had sported a much bigger moustache than either of these prisoners, but he could not be certain.
“What do you do,” Bautista asked, “with thieves in your country?”
“Imprison them,” Sharpe said, “or maybe transport them to Australia.”
“How merciful! No wonder you still have thieves. In Chile we have better ways to deter scum.” Bautista turned to the fire, drew a big handkerchief from his uniform pocket, then wrapped the handkerchief around the metal handle of what Sharpe had supposed to be a long poker jammed into the basket grate. It was not a poker, but rather a branding iron. Bautista jerked it free of the coals and Sharpe saw the letter L, for ladron, glowing at its tip.
“No! Señor! No!?
?? The nearest thief twisted back, but two soldiers gripped him hard by the arms, and a third stood behind the man to hold his head steady.
“The punishment for a first offense is a branding. For the second offense it is death,” Bautista said, then he held the brand high and close to the thief’s forehead, close enough for the man to feel its radiant heat. Bautista hesitated, smiling, and it seemed to Sharpe that the whole room held its breath. Colonel Ruiz turned away. The elegant Marquinez went pale.
“No!” the man screamed, then Bautista pushed the brand forward and the scream soared high and terrible. There was a sizzling sound, a flash of flame as the man’s greasy hair briefly flared with fire, then the big room filled with the smell of burning flesh. Bautista held the brand on the man’s skin even as the thief collapsed.
The iron was pushed back into the coals as the second man was hauled forward. That second man looked at Sharpe. “Señor, I beg you! It was not us! Not us!”
“Your Excellency!” Sharpe called.
“If I were in England,” Bautista jiggled the iron in the fire, “would you think it proper for me to interfere with English justice? This is Chile, Mister Sharpe, not England. Justice here is what I say it is, and I treat thieves with the certain cure of pain. Exquisite pain!” He pulled the brand free, turned and aimed the bright letter at the second man.
“God save Ireland,” Harper said softly beside Sharpe. Most of the audience looked shocked. One uniformed man had gone to a window and was leaning across the wide stone sill. Bautista, though, was enjoying himself. Sharpe could see it in the dark eyes. The second man screamed, and again there was the hiss of burning skin and the stink of flesh cooking, and then the second man, like the first, had the big L branded forever on his forehead.
“Take them away,” Bautista commanded as he tossed the branding iron into the fireplace, then turned and stared defiantly at Sharpe. The Captain-General looked tired, as though all the joy of his morning had suddenly evaporated. “Your request to travel to Puerto Crucero and recover the body of Don Blas Vivar is granted. Captain Marquinez will issue you with the necessary permits, and you will leave Valdivia tomorrow. That finishes today’s business. Good day.”
The Captain-General, his morning display of efficiency and cruelty complete, turned on his heels and walked away.
“Who were they?” Sharpe challenged Marquinez.
“They?”
“Those two men.”
“They were the thieves, of course.”
“I don’t believe it,” Sharpe claimed angrily. “I didn’t recognize either man.”
“If they were not the thieves,” Marquinez said very calmly, “then how do you explain their possession of your property?” He smiled as he waited for Sharpe’s answer and, when none came, he opened a drawer of his desk and took out a sheaf of documents. “Your travel permits, Colonel. You will note they specify you must leave Valdivia tomorrow.” He dealt the documents onto the desk one by one, as though they were playing cards. “Mister Harper’s travel pass, which bears the same date restrictions as your own. This is your fortress pass, which gives you entry to the Citadel at Puerto Crucero, and finally, a letter from His Excellency giving you permission to exhume the body of General Vivar.” Marquinez smiled. “Everything you wish!”
Sharpe, after his flash of anger, felt churlish. The papers were indeed everything he needed, even down to the letter authorizing the exhumation. “What about the church’s permission?”
“I think you will find that no churchman will countermand the wishes of Captain-General Bautista,” Marquinez said.
Sharpe picked up the papers. “You’ve been very helpful, Captain.”
“It is our pleasure to be helpful.”
“And at least we’ll have fine weather for our voyage,” Harper put in cheerfully.
“Your voyage?” Marquinez asked in evident puzzlement, then understood Harper’s meaning. “Ah! You are assuming that you will be traveling on board the Espiritu Santo. Alas, she has no spare passenger cabins, at least not till she has dropped those passengers traveling to Puerto Crucero. Which means that you must travel overland. Which is good news, gentlemen! It will offer you a chance to see some of our lovely countryside.”
“But if we don’t have to catch the ship,” Sharpe asked, “why do we have to leave tomorrow?”
“You surely want to have your business in Puerto Crucero finished by the time the Espiritu Santo arrives there, do you not? Else how will you be able to travel back to Europe in her? Besides, we always specify the dates for travel, Colonel, otherwise how do we know the permits have been properly used?”
“But I need a tin-lined coffin made!” Sharpe insisted, “and I can’t do that and buy horses all in one day!”
Marquinez brushed the objections aside. “The armorers at Puerto Crucero will be pleased to make a coffin for you. And I’m sure Mister Blair will be happy to help you buy horses and saddles, as well as supplies for the journey.”
Sharpe still protested the arrangement. “Why can’t we sleep on the Espiritu Santo’s deck? We don’t need cabins.”
Marquinez tried to soothe Sharpe. “The fault is entirely ours. We insisted that Captain Ardiles carry reinforcements for the Puerto Crucero garrison, and he claims he cannot cram another soul on board his ship. Alas.” Marquinez sounded genuinely sympathetic. “But even if you could change Ardiles’s mind, then you would still need new travel permits because these, as you can plainly see, are good only for land travel and do not give you permission to journey by sea. It is the regulations, you understand.” Marquinez offered Sharpe one of his dazzling white smiles. “But perhaps, Colonel, you will do me the honor of letting me escort you for the first few miles? I could bring some company!” Marquinez raised his eyebrows to indicate that the company would be enjoyable. “And perhaps you will do me the favor of allowing me to provide you with luncheon? It would provide me with an opportunity to show you some scenery that is truly spectacular. I beg you! Please!” Marquinez waited for Sharpe’s assent, then sensed the Englishman’s suspicions. “My dear Colonel,” Marquinez hastened to reassure Sharpe, “bring Mister Blair if that will make you easier!”
It seemed churlish to refuse. So far Marquinez had exacted neither payment nor bribe for the travel permits, indeed he had produced everything Sharpe had wanted, and the elegant young Captain seemed genuinely enthusiastic about showing Sharpe and Harper some of Chile’s most beautiful countryside, and so Sharpe accepted the invitation, and then, with the permits safe in his pocket, he went to seek Blair’s urgent help in buying horses and supplies.
They had just one day before they rode south to rendezvous with a corpse.
It was, Harper said, a countryside so lovely and so fertile that it seemed only fitting that he rode it on a horse of gold.
In truth the horse was nothing special, but the beast had cost more money than either Harper or Sharpe had ever paid for a horse, and Sharpe’s horse had cost just as much, yet Blair had been at pains to convince them that the animals had been purchased at something close to a bargain price. “Horses are expensive here!” the Consul had pleaded, “and when you leave Chile you should be able to sell them at a profit. Or something close to a profit.”
“At a loss, you mean?” Sharpe asked.
“You need horses!” Blair insisted, and so they had paid for the two most expensive lumps of horseflesh ever bred. Harper’s was a big mare, gray with a wall left eye and a hard, bruising gait. She was not pretty, but she was stubborn and strong enough to cope with Harper’s weight. Sharpe’s horse was also a mare, a chestnut with a docked tail and gaunt ribs. “All she needs is a bit of feeding,” Blair had said, then negotiated the price of a mule that was to carry their luggage as well as the box which, taken from Blair’s strong room, was now even more depleted of its precious gold.
What was left in the box was still a small fortune, and one that seemed increasingly unnecessary. So far, to Sharpe’s astonishment, everything had proved remarkably easy. “It
must be your reputation,” Blair had said. The Consul claimed to be too busy to accept Marquinez’s invitation, but had assured Sharpe there could be no danger in Marquinez’s company. “Or perhaps Bautista thinks you’ve got a deal of influence back in Spain. You’re a lucky man.”
The lucky man now rode south under a sky so pale and blue that it seemed to have been rinsed by the recent winds and rains. Sharpe and Harper rode with the exquisitely uniformed Captain Marquinez ahead of an ebullient pack of young officers and their ladyfriends. The girls rode sidesaddle, what they called “English-style,” provoking laughter in their companions by their loud cries of alarm whenever the road was particularly steep or treacherous. At those moments the officers vied in their attentions to hold the ladies steady. “The girls are not used to riding,” Marquinez confided to Sharpe. “They come from an establishment behind the church. You understand?” There was an odd tone of disapproval in Marquinez’s voice. Occasionally, when a girl’s laughter was particularly loud, Marquinez would wince with embarrassment, but on the whole he seemed happy to be free of Valdivia and riding into such lovely country. A dozen officers’ servants brought up the rear of the convoy, carrying food and wine for an outdoor luncheon.