Sharpe’s Devil: Napoleon and South America, 1820–1821. Bernard Cornwell
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but if Lieutenant-Colonel Sharpe had been a friend of Don Blas Vivar, who had been Count of Mouromorto and Captain-General of Spain’s Chilean dominion, then such a friendship could also imply that Sharpe was a friend of the high London lords who, ultimately, gave Blair the privileges and honours that eased his existence in Valdivia. ‘A bad business,’ Blair muttered, vainly trying to make amends for his flippancy.
‘Where was the body found?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Some miles north-east of Puerto Crucero. It’s a wild area, nothing but woods and rocks.’ Blair was speaking in a much more respectful tone now. ‘The place isn’t a usual haunt of the rebels, but once in a while they’ll appear that far south. Government troops searched the valley after the ambush, of course, but no one thought to look in the actual ravine till a hunting party of Indians brought news that a white god was lying there. That’s one of their names for us, you see. The white god, of course, turned out to be Don Blas. They reckon that he and his horse must have fallen into the ravine while fleeing from his attackers.’
‘You’re sure it was rebels?’ Sharpe turned from the window to ask the question. ‘I’ve heard it might have been Bautista’s doing.’
Blair shook his head. ‘I’ve not heard those rumours. I’m not saying Bautista’s not capable of murder, because he is. He’s a cruel son of a whore, that one, but I never heard any tales of his having killed Captain-General Vivar, and, believe me, Chile breeds rumour the way a nunnery breeds the pox.’
Sharpe was unwilling to let the theory slip. ‘I heard Vivar had found out about Bautista’s corruption, and was going to arrest him.’
Blair mocked Sharpe’s naïvety. ‘Everyone’s corrupt here! You don’t arrest a man for breathing, do you? If Vivar was going to arrest Bautista then it would have been for something far more serious than corruption. No, Colonel, that dog won’t hunt.’
Sharpe thumped a fist in angry protest. ‘But to be buried three months ago! That’s long enough for someone to tell the authorities in Europe! Why the hell did no one think to tell his wife?’
It was hardly Blair’s responsibility, though he tried to answer as best he could. ‘Maybe the ship carrying the news was captured? Or shipwrecked? Sometimes ships do take a God-horrible time to make the voyage. The last time I went home we spent over three weeks just trying to get round Ushant! Sick as a dog, I was!’
‘Goddamn it.’ Sharpe turned back to the window. Was it all a misunderstanding? Was this whole benighted expedition merely the result of the time it sometimes took for news to cross between the old and new worlds? Had Don Blas been decently buried all this time? It was more than possible, of course. A ship could easily take two or three months to sail from Chile to Spain, and if Louisa had been in England when the news arrived in Galicia then it was no wonder that Sharpe and Harper had come on a fool’s errand. ‘Don’t you bury the dead in this town?’ he asked bad-temperedly.
Blair was understandably bemused by the sudden question, but then saw Sharpe was staring at the dead child in the Citadel’s ditch. ‘We don’t bury that sort of rubbish. Lord, no. It’s probably just the bastard of some Indian girl who works in the fortress. Indians count for nothing here!’ Blair chuckled. ‘A couple of Indian families won’t fetch the price of a decent hunting dog, let alone the cost of a burial!’
Sharpe sipped the wine, which was surprisingly good. He had been astonished, while on the boat coming from the harbour to the town, to see lavish vineyards terraced across the riverside hills. Somehow, after the grotesque shipboard tales, he had expected a country full of mystery and horror, so the sight of placid vineyards and lavish villas had been unexpected, rather like finding everyday comforts in the pits of hell. ‘I’ll need to go to Puerto Crucero,’ he now told Blair.
‘That could be difficult.’ Blair sounded guarded. ‘Very difficult.’
‘Why?’ Sharpe bristled.
‘Because it’s a military area, and because Bautista doesn’t like visitors going there, and because it’s a port town, and the Spaniards have lost too many good harbours on this coast to let another one go, and because they think all Englishmen are spies. Besides, the citadel at Puerto Crucero is the place where the Spanish ship their gold home.’
‘Gold?’ Harper’s interest sparked.
‘There’re one or two mines left; not many and they don’t produce much, and most of what they do produce Bautista is probably thieving, but what little does go back to Madrid leaves through the wharf of Puerto Crucero’s citadel. It’s the nearest harbour to the mines, you see, which is why the dagoes are touchy about it. If you ask to visit Puerto Crucero they might think you’re spying for Cochrane. You know who Cochrane is?’
‘I know,’ Sharpe said.
‘He’s a devil, that one,’ Blair, unable to resist admiration for a fellow Briton, chuckled, ‘and they’re all scared to hell of him. You want to see a dago piss in his breeches? Just mention Cochrane. They think he’s got horns and a tail.’
Sharpe dragged the conversation back to his purpose. ‘So how do I get permission to visit Puerto Crucero?’
‘You have to get a travel permit from army headquarters.’
‘Which is where?’
‘In the Citadel, of course.’ Blair nodded at the great fort which lay on the river’s bend at the very heart of Valdivia.
‘Who do I see there?’
‘A young fellow called Captain Marquinez.’
‘Will Marquinez pay more attention to you than to me?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Oh, Christ, no! Marquinez is just an over-groomed puppy. He doesn’t make the decision. Bautista’s the one who’ll say yea or nay.’ Blair jerked a thumb towards his padlocked strongroom. ‘I hope there’s plenty of money in that box you fetched here, or else you’ll be wasting your time in Chile.’
‘My time is my own,’ Sharpe said acidly, ‘which is why I don’t want to waste it.’ He frowned at Harper who was happily devouring Blair’s sugar cakes. ‘If you can stop feeding yourself, Patrick, we might start work.’
‘Work?’ Harper sounded alarmed, but hurriedly swilled down the last of his wine and snatched a final sugar cake before following Sharpe out of Blair’s house. ‘So what work are we doing?’ the Irishman asked.
‘We’re going to dig up Don Blas’s body, of course,’ Sharpe said, ‘and arrange to have it shipped back to Spain.’ Sharpe’s confident voice seemed to rouse Valdivia’s town square from the torpor of siesta. A man who had been dozing on the church steps looked irritably towards the two tall strangers who strode so noisily towards the Citadel. A dozen Indians, their squat faces blank as carvings, sat in the shade of a mounted statue which stood in the very centre of the square. The Indians, who were shackled together by a length of heavy chain manacled to their ankles, pretended not to notice Sharpe, but could not hide their astonishment at the sight of Harper; doubtless thinking that the tall Irishman was a giant. ‘They’re admiring me, so they are!’ Harper boasted happily.
‘They’re working out how many families they could feed off your carcass. If they boiled you down and salted the flesh there probably wouldn’t be famine in this country for a century.’
‘You’re just jealous.’ Harper, seeing new sights, was a happy man. The French wars had given him a taste for travel, and that taste was being well fed by Chile. His only disappointment so far was the paucity of one-legged giants, unicorns or any other mythical beasts. ‘Look at that! Handsome, aren’t they, now?’ He nodded admiringly towards a group of women who, standing in the shade of the striped awnings which protected the shop fronts, returned Harper’s curiosity and admiration. Harper and Sharpe were new faces in a small town, and thus a cause for excited speculation. The wind swirled dust devils across the square and flapped the ornate Spanish ensign which flew over the Citadel’s gatehouse. A legless beggar, swinging along on his hands, followed Sharpe and pleaded