Flashman and the Emperor

by Robert Brightwell

  “Ahoy,” Erskine yelled to interrupt them. “Where should we anchor?”

  At this intrusion to their deliberations, they seemed to collect themselves and one of them shouted back the question that was patently uppermost in their minds, “Señor, what powers your ship?”

  “British engineering,” replied Erskine with a grin, clearly pleased with himself. “We are the Rising Star, bound for Valparaíso to deliver this vessel to the navy commanded by my brother, Admiral Thomas Cochrane.”

  The mere mention of Cochrane’s name was enough to have all three officers crossing themselves and I distinctly heard one of them mention something about the Devil. Even bearing in mind Cochrane’s well-earned reputation for annoying people, it seemed an extreme reaction. Nothing we said would persuade the officers to board the ship after that. Even when Erskine tried to explain through pidgin Portuguese and mime where the paddle wheel was situated, they still seemed convinced that witchcraft played a part in our propulsion. In the end, we just found a place to anchor ourselves, between an American and a British merchant ship. Their officers did come aboard and were soon exclaiming over the engines and the distance we had travelled. It was through them that we learned of the strange political events that had recently been happening in Rio.

  Portugal was unique during the Napoleonic Wars in that its royal family left the country to take up residence in one of its colonies: Brazil. In fact, not just the royal family, but the court and government and most of its wealthiest citizens fled across the Atlantic. I remembered visiting Lisbon in ’09 and finding the place virtually deserted by all but the poor and dispossessed. Until then, the Portuguese government had insisted that Brazilian merchants trade only with the Portuguese, so that the profits ended up in Lisbon. But with the French invasion of Portugal, the Brazilian ports were opened to all and many local merchants had got rich. It seemed that the royal family had also become comfortable in Brazil, for they were in no hurry to go back after Napoleon had been defeated. The Portuguese king had returned just the previous year, 1821, six years after Waterloo. He only went then as Portugal was threatening to declare itself a republic. He had left his son and heir, Pedro, to rule Brazil as his regent.

  In recent months King John’s government in Lisbon had been trying to re-impose the old restrictions in trade on Brazilian ports, which had not gone down well. There had been riots in the streets and Portuguese troops had been used to restore order, which had only built further resentment. In the end Prince Pedro, had persuaded the soldiers to withdraw from the city. The officers from the merchant ships told us that things were now much calmer in Rio, but that the population was still deeply divided between those whose first loyalty was to Portugal and others who felt an allegiance to Brazil.

  After weeks at sea, I was keen to spend some time ashore. The merchant seamen told us that foreigners were not in any danger from either faction. One wily old American even boasted to me that the fleshpots were ‘the best he had dropped his hook in’. Judging from the tattoos on his arm, he was a well-travelled man and he particularly recommended an establishment called Madame Sousa’s. Erskine had higher principled ambitions than I; he wanted to go ashore and meet the British envoy. He thought that a steam-powered trip around the bay in the Rising Star for selected dignitaries would impress them with the might of British commerce, while also allowing him to show off the ingenuity of the ship’s design. He was hoping that the Brazilians might order a ship of their own, no doubt with a suitable commission paid to him.

  So, it was with very mixed desires that we scrambled down the side of the ship into the waiting cutter. As I settled onto the stern thwart in the boat I patted my coat pocket to check that my own investment in new engineering was to hand. For with all this talk of riot and rebellion, I was taking no chances. The city might seem peaceable from the sea, but if tensions were high it would only take an over-zealous official to spark some new conflagration. I had learnt from long and bitter experience that such things invariably happened when I was stuck in the middle of them and so this time I had come prepared. In my pocket was an invention from an American gunsmith called Collier, who was working in London. It was a pistol with five revolving chambers. The weapon was being trialled with the British army and while it took an age to reload, it quickly fired off five shots, which would be invaluable in making an escape from a howling mob.

  We were just about to cast off when Jackson came tumbling down the side of the ship to join us.

  “I thought I would come along and do some sketching,” he announced as he stepped down on the gunwale of the boat, causing it to rock violently. He patted a satchel hanging over his shoulder, which presumably contained his drawing materials and would have fallen in if an oarsman had not grabbed hold of him.

  “For God’s sake, man, sit down before you have us all over,” barked Erskine.

  “Sorry sir,” apologised the secretary as he was pushed and pulled by several of the crew to a vacant seat. But he did not seem unduly perturbed as he looked about, grinning with excitement. “It is my first visit to the New World,” he announced to no one’s great surprise. “The conquistadors were told that there were lost cities of gold in the jungles of South America, but they never found them. They say that there are fabulous creatures here, birds of every colour, maybe unicorns, and one account I read spoke of tribes of murderous midgets. Do you think that is true?”

  The crew grinned at his enthusiasm as they leant back on their oars. “I met a murderous midget back in Spain,” I told Jackson. “Vicious little bastard he was, but I doubt that there are tribes of them in Rio.” Noticing the locket he had bought of Napoleon’s hair hanging round his neck, I added, “If anyone tries to sell you the horn of a unicorn I would ask to see the skull it came from first.”

  “And don’t waste coin on maps to El Dorado either,” grunted Erskine. We will be leaving in a few days.”

  Jackson looked a little crestfallen, but brightened up as he added, “At least I will be able to practise my Spanish ashore.”

  “Not really,” I told him. “They speak Portuguese here, which is quite different. But there certainly seem to be some colourful people you can draw.” I gestured towards a boat that was crossing our bows. Like most of the local boats in the harbour, it had slaves manning the oars, but a black man at the tiller was giving orders and was almost certainly not a slave. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, but wore a top hat of purple silk over which he held a large parasol of a yellow material. On seeing our incredulous faces watching him, he roared with laughter and swept off his topper to give us a most regal bow.

  “Welcome to Rio, gentlemen,” he shouted in perfect English. “If you need spare ropes and new spars, ask at the jetty for Lord Jim’s and I will see you right.”

  If we thought the self-proclaimed ‘Lord Jim’s’ dress was eccentric, it was nothing to the variety of colours and drapery we found as we climbed up the jetty steps. There seemed to be fashion from every continent and era in history, all mixing together as though it were perfectly normal, which for Rio it was.

  By far the most numerous were the black slaves. Brazil had its own slave colonies in West Africa and it seemed that they were the only ones doing any manual labour. Supervising them were officers from the merchant ships, but mingling amongst them was the most bizarre mixture of characters I ever saw. There were men from Portugal’s colonies in the Far East, dressed in Chinese robes and with their long hair in pigtails. Squat, half-naked Indians, with their faces covered in tattoos, sat by piles of fruit and vegetables. Harbour officials seemed to be dressed in the clothes of the last century, with some still sporting wigs despite the heat. Meanwhile freed slaves took care to dress as ostentatiously as they could, no doubt to emphasise their liberty and differentiate themselves from their bonded brethren. Some were figged up as French dandies of Louis XIV’s time, while others wore richly embroidered medieval tunics and one cove seemed to be dressed as an Elizabethan gentleman, complete with ruff.

 
After weeks with just our own company at sea, it was almost overwhelming. In the first hundred yards, I was accosted by traders trying to sell me a yellow monkey in a cage, a brightly coloured bird and strange food wrapped in a leaf. Then an old toothless crone had a go at selling either herself or some lumpy vegetable in her hand. Erskine grabbed Jackson, who was showing interest in a strange grinning creature hanging upside down from a pole, and we pushed through the throng.

  “Did you see that monkey?” shouted Jackson above the hubbub of noise around us. “It had huge claws like hooks on the end of its limbs that it hung from.”

  “Never mind that,” I replied. “Look over there, transport.” I pushed him on towards a fat man wearing a medieval robe, standing on a block. Beside the block were half a dozen wooden chairs, with long poles lashed to the armrests and slaves sitting between the shafts.

  The fat man shouted something to us which I did not understand and then he must have guessed that we were English-speakers and called out, “Where to, gentlemen?”

  Erskine gave the man a coin and stepped over a shaft to sit in the nearest chair. “Wherever the British envoy is to be found,” he commanded. A moment later two powerful slaves had lifted the shafts up to their shoulders as though Erskine weighed no more than a child and were off bearing him down the street. I stepped into the next chair.

  “To the British envoy as well?” the man enquired.

  “No, no,” I replied. “Have them take me to Madame Sousa’s” The man grinned knowingly and in a trice my chair lurched up in the air. I gazed back to Jackson, who was staring longingly at the monkey hanging from a stick. “Wait,” I cried. I could not leave him behind; the bloody fool was bound to buy it and Christ knows what else besides. “Get a chair and follow me,” I shouted at him and reluctantly he turned to obey.

  A few minutes later and we were sitting beside each other, as our chairs swayed along the main street. I did not feel that comfortable being so high above the ground. If I had the first idea where Madame Sousa’s was, I would have preferred to walk. But the slaves were surefooted and gazing about, it seemed that all people of consequence travelled this way. There were dozens of such chairs moving around and so I relaxed and took in the scenery as we wound our way through the city. It was quickly apparent that Britain had been one of the main beneficiaries of the new open trading policy. There were British taverns with names such as The Red Lion offering beer from Burton-on-Trent. Shops advertised cutlery from Sheffield, crockery from Wedgewood and mahogany furniture in the latest English patterns. Presumably, the wood had come originally from Brazil as I saw plenty of lumber piled at the docks. It would be shipped to England for manufacture and then back to where it started for sale. There were English foodstuffs on sale too. Cheshire cheese, I recall, was incredibly popular and on sale at every cheesemonger, although whether this was made locally I could not say. But the British did not have a monopoly on trade; I saw French establishments offering couture dresses, although how they adapted these to the bizarre local tastes was beyond me.

  It was only when we reached one of the central squares that we saw any sign of the recent rioting. There was a large ornate theatre with many of its windows smashed and the blackened marks of a fire around one of the lintels. Jackson had prattled on throughout the journey, pointing out curiosities and exclaiming at the unexpectedly familiar sights. He obviously had no idea where we were going and only asked when we were set down outside a sizeable mansion along a narrow street. I did not need the slave to point to the building as our destination, for on the upper floor three decorous ladies were leaning over a railing and watching us with interest. It does not matter where you go in the world, and trust me I have researched this extensively, several beauties on a balcony always signifies a knocking shop. It is as reliable a symbol as a striped pole outside a barber.

  “I say, what is this place?” asked Jackson, goggling up at the three pairs of breasts peeking down at him from low-cut gowns.

  I shook my head in despair at the ignorance of youth. He had mentioned on the voyage out that he was betrothed to a girl called Penelope and the last thing I needed was him getting a dose of virtuous guilt. I doubted he would share my own liberal approach to marriage. I had a wife back home in England, but she would never discover what I was doing halfway to the other side of the world. Anyway, I suspected that she had been unfaithful to me at least twice, both with future prime ministers, as it turned out. Admittedly, she had thought I was dead for the first one and I could not prove the second, but it eased my conscience for my own dalliances. Looking back at Jackson and taking in the drawing satchel still hanging from his shoulder I replied, “It is an artist’s studio. The girls will let you draw them for a few coins. I thought you might enjoy it.”

  “That is very thoughtful, sir. I am much obliged to you.” He seemed slightly puzzled as I headed towards the door too. “Will you be drawing them as well, sir? Would you like me to lend you a pencil?”

  “I have my own pencil,” I replied, grinning, “and I am sure that they will give me something to work with.”

  We stepped inside where we were met by the redoubtable Madame Sousa. Whatever whale had died to provide the bone stays in her corset, it had not been sacrificed in vain. Her generous top hamper resembled the billowing sails on a man o’ war and she bore down on us with similar resolve. “How can I help you, gentlemen?” she enquired.

  Before I could stop him, the clot Jackson spoke up first. “I was hoping to do a girl in charcoal,” he informed her.

  “Ah, you would like a black girl,” replied the madam, unperturbed. “Well we cater for all tastes here.” She turned to me and added, “And you, sir, what is your preference?”

  “Madame Sousa,” I replied as Jackson was looking confused. “I think that there is a misunderstanding. My friend here is an artist and he just wants to draw a girl. I on the other hand wish to make full use of your… er... hospitality, with the finest girl you employ.”

  “Of course, gentlemen.” Madame Sousa beamed in comprehension as she rang a bell on a nearby desk. She turned back to Jackson with an amused smile and stood close in front of him, filling his gaze with an acreage of bosom that caused beads of sweat to break out on his brow. “Are you sure that you would not like to draw me?” she asked huskily.

  Jackson gave a gulp that could probably have been heard on the balcony above and stared, transfixed by the bounteous flesh before him. He was clearly doubting if he had brought enough charcoal with him and seemed to be casting around for an excuse to refuse the offer. “I… I am only an amateur artist,” he offered. “I, er, work for Thomas Cochrane, the Grand Admiral of Chile.”

  “Really,” purred Madame Sousa appreciatively. “We have had Spanish officers in here who have talked of Admiral Cochrane. They say that he must be in league with the Devil to have captured so many of their ships and fortresses. One claimed that his sailors swept in on the morning mist like ghosts, so that even if the Spaniards were ready for him and manning their guns, they were still defeated. Are you one of his spirit warriors?”

  “No, no, not at all. I am his secretary. He has had me learn double-entry book-keeping,” said Jackson, more confident now he thought he was on safer ground. “The Chilean government is charging him taxes on his prize money and I am to ensure that he pays as little tax as possible.”

  “Who would have thought that a double entry would be so useful,” murmured Madame Sousa, while arching an eyebrow at the hapless Jackson. She linked her arm through his and started to steer him away to a door at the side of the room. “You must explain to me how it works.” Jackson shot me a look of silent appeal over his shoulder, but before I could even think of helping him, my attention, and indeed my breath, was stolen as another door opened.

  Chapter 3

  Her name, at least her professional one, was Aphrodite, after the Greek goddess of love. If the deity was anything like this girl, then Christianity would not have stood a chance. She wore a loose-fitting tunic like t
he classical statues, but her skin must have been damp for it clung to her, revealing a curvaceous figure. I stood in slack-jawed wonder at her beauty. I guessed that she was at least half Portuguese and as I was half Spanish we had Iberian bloodstock in common. But there were other races there too; the high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes hinted at the native Indians while the light milky-coffee skin and curly hair suggested that there might even have been a slave or two in her lineage. I did not care, for whatever her makeup, the result was perfection.

  Evidently, this first impression was not reciprocated, for as I sprang forward with a growl of desire, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “You smell like a Portuguese,” she announced. “Come with me.” She led the way up the nearby staircase and, like a chastened disciple, I followed my goddess. She probably did have a point, as apart from a bucket of seawater on deck every now and then, I had not bathed properly for weeks. It might have been February, but it was summer in Rio, with a damp tropical heat. My clothes were sticking to me. As I watched her delightful buttocks move rhythmically under her tunic in front of my face as I climbed the stairs behind her, I rejoiced that hers did too.

  “Do all Portuguese smell, then?” I asked to make conversation.

  “They pride themselves on making slaves do all the work and so they think that bathing is unnecessary.” She had reached the landing now, which had several doors leading off it. I saw her chin rise proudly as she added, “We Carioca have more sense.”

  “What are Carioca?” I queried.

  “Carioca are those born in Rio,” she explained, pushing the door to a room open and gesturing to something inside. “There, you can use my bath. It is still warm and it has aromatic oils.”

  Well, they do say, ‘When in Rome do as the Romans do,’ and so I quickly stripped off and was soon soaking in the scented water. “Why don’t you come and join me?” I suggested, eyeing her hungrily.