Flashman and the Emperor

by Robert Brightwell

  “You mean you have met him?”

  “Several times,” I confirmed. “That is why I wanted to see his grave at St Helena. And I promise you, my doubting friend, that his hair was a dark brown.”

  “So that locket is worthless?”

  “Yes, but it would be best for us that Captain Garcia never finds that out. For all we know his share certificate is worthless too, but keep your ear to the ground for any mention of this Octopus silver mine.

  Chapter 6

  For the next few weeks not a lot happened in Valparaíso. A British frigate arrived in the harbour at the end of April: the HMS Doris, which was to oversee London’s interests in South America. This mission did not get off to a great start as her captain had died on the voyage out. All the British in port dutifully attended the poor man’s funeral in the old castle’s graveyard, where I discovered that the captain’s widow had also been aboard the ship. She leant heavily on the governor’s arm and as far as I could tell through the veil, was a pretty woman in her thirties, although her features were distorted with grief.

  We were given a house to live in on the outskirts of town and were quite comfortable. While much of the country was mountainous, the fertile valleys seemed to supply all the people’s needs. As well as a wide variety of meats, fruit and vegetables, there was even a tree whose bark was used as a soap. I watched an old woman use it as she did some laundry for us and it lathered up as well as any manufactured soap. When I examined a piece of the bark there seemed to be crystals of some sort in it. Any visitors to our new abode were spared the usual ceremonies involving maté. We were quick to send out for black and green tea and a decent teapot. There were plentiful wines and spirits too, most locally made from vineyards on some of the mountain slopes. But the best drink I tasted was something called chicha, which I was given on a hunting expedition. I had been riding up in the hills looking for partridge, which were plentiful, when I came across the homestead of some peasant farmer. He only spoke halting Spanish, being more of the native stock, but on seeing me he insisted on offering some hospitality. Having had a successful afternoon’s shooting, I gave him a brace of birds and in exchange he provided a bowl of meaty stew. It was May then and in Chile that meant it was bracingly cold up in the hills. The hot food was most welcome. When I was done he got out a stone jar and poured some of this chicha into an earthenware cup. I had not tasted anything quite like it, but it certainly warmed the cockles on a cold winter’s day.

  Cochrane finally returned with his fleet in June. We were awoken early one morning by someone hammering on the window shutters and shouting that sails were on the horizon. By evening the fleet was anchored in the bay and the town was full of sailors, many of them speaking English. The admiral had been one of the first ashore and beamed in delight when he saw Erskine and me waiting for him on the quay. We had last been together three years previously, before he sailed for Chile, and while I noticed he was now walking with a slight limp, that irrepressible energy was still there.

  “By Christ it’s good to see the pair of you,” he exclaimed before embracing both of us.

  “Have you hurt your leg?” asked Erskine.

  “What? Oh, you mean the limp,” Cochrane laughed. “It’s my back, I got injured when we cut out the Esmeralda,” and he gestured to a fine forty-four-gun frigate that was now part of his fleet. I had already heard of her capture – she had been taken at night by Cochrane and his crew in cutters and longboats. This was despite her crew being armed and ready on deck and while the ship lay under the guns of a nearby Spanish fortress.

  “How were you hurt?” asked his brother.

  “Oh, one of the Spanish crew was more alert than I hoped. As I climbed the side he knocked me off with a musket butt. When I fell, I landed on my back on a thole pin for the oars on the boat below. But never mind that, tell me about the Rising Star.”

  It was all we could do to stop him rowing out to see it there and then. But later that evening he insisted on being taken out to inspect the ship, even though it was nearly dark.

  “It is magnificent,” he exclaimed as he held up a lantern to view the two big engines. “We should steam her up to Quintero tomorrow; you must see my estate there.”

  “We can’t,” laughed Erskine. “There are no sails on the yardarms now and we have not yet re-filled the bunkers with coal or wood.”

  “And surely your men will want a few days ashore in town before you drag them off again,” I added.

  “You’re right,” agreed Cochrane although his eyes still burned with enthusiasm. “We will hold a celebration feast tomorrow instead.” He turned to his brother, “We’ll take her up the coast in a few days – perhaps I’ll invite the governor. But when we do, leave the yardarms bare to show our confidence in the engines.”

  The next day I spent a fair bit of time talking to Cochrane’s officers while the man himself reported to the governor and wrote a report of his actions for the government. I was not surprised to learn that relations between Cochrane and Chilean government ministers were strained, and that the admiral had nearly come to blows with General San Martín, who had commanded the Peru expedition. Cochrane had complained bitterly that the government had not been giving him enough money to pay his men. He also thought that San Martín had taken far too long with the liberation of Peru and accused the general of trying to set himself up as an independent ruler of the country.

  I caught up with Jackson, who was trying to make sense of a whole chest-full of letters, invoices and records that Cochrane had given him. It was going to take a lot more than double-entry book-keeping to sort that lot out. Cochrane’s men had been on the verge of mutiny in Peru due to the arrears of pay and prize money, which he claimed were due to be paid by San Martín. The general had captured Peru’s treasury, but still no funds were forthcoming. Eventually, while San Martín was in Lima, Cochrane had boarded the general’s private schooner, which he found laden with gold and silver. Declaring it government money, he took from the ship all he needed to pay his men. As you can imagine, San Martín was incandescent with rage when he found out. Since then there had been a furious exchange of letters between the general, Cochrane and the Chilean government over precisely how much had been taken and whom it belonged to. From what Jackson showed me, this was still going on, with the Chilean government disputing what further funds were owed.

  The secretary let me read a draft of a letter Cochrane was planning to send to the government to highlight the value of the fleet’s work. When he had taken over the navy it consisted of one frigate, two converted merchantmen and three small sloops. With them he had swept the Spanish from the Pacific, capturing at least ten ships which between them carried over two hundred and fifty guns, not to mention seventeen gunboats. He also pointed out that he had cleared the coast of pirates, which had infested many of the bays and inlets, preying on merchants and coastal shipping.

  “It will be weeks before this all gets resolved,” Jackson insisted as he sorted the paperwork into piles. “The difference between what the admiral took from the schooner and what San Martín claims is missing, runs into hundreds of thousands of dollars. Then there is the value of all the prizes and their cargos to be assessed.”

  “Surely it cannot take that long,” I pleaded more in hope than expectation. “I was aiming to be on my way back home before the end of the year. “Can’t they work it out and send the money on to England after us?”

  “I doubt that they will do that, sir, there are no proper accounts, you see. I have brought some ledgers with me and now I will have to create something from all these odd pieces of paper,” he said gesturing at the document-stuffed chest.

  Well if it took too long, I thought, I would just have to head home without Cochrane. There were British merchant ships that called at Valparaíso; I could pay for passage in one of those. I wished Jackson well and was just turning to leave when he called me back.

  “Wait, sir, I thought you would want to see this. I found it at the bottom of a
nother box of receipts.” He dropped onto the table a small cloth-wrapped bundle. Judging from the clunk it made as it hit the mahogany it was heavy. I pulled back the wrapping and there before me was a shining silver ingot. But what really took my attention was the image stamped into the top of it. “From the Octopus mine, sir,” Jackson added unnecessarily as I stared down at the picture of the creature imprinted on the metal.

  “Are there any more of them?” I asked.

  “Captain Crosbie says that San Martín’s schooner had hundreds of them. He told me that it’s a big mine. Apparently, it has eight shafts, hence the name. He thinks that it’s up in the mountains to the north.”

  “Excellent,” I said. I turned the metal over in my hand, feeling its weight. Perhaps I had a reason to stay a bit longer in Chile after all.

  That evening I joined Erskine, Cochrane and some of his senior officers for a celebration dinner. Most of them were staying in a large house overlooking the harbour and trestles had been set up to make the main room a large banqueting hall. A dozen people seemed to be working in the kitchen, roasting every conceivable animal and we had just sat down when Crosbie called for a round of maté. I caught the expression on Erskine’s face; I was not the only one dismayed by the notion.

  “For God’s sake,” I exclaimed. “Why on earth would you want to suck on the juice of a compost heap when you can drink tea or better still wine to open the evening?”

  Crosbie, who was Cochrane’s flag captain, winked at his commander and turned to me. “I take it, Flashman, that you have not found Chilean drinks to your taste.”

  “Certainly not that one,” I retorted. “It’s disgusting stuff.” They laughed at that and I gathered that most of those who had been there a while had developed a taste for it. Dr Craig, the surgeon on the O’Higgins, claimed it was most refreshing.

  “Is there nothing you have found to like yet in Chile?” asked Cochrane with a grin.

  “Well, actually there is,” I replied thinking back. “Out in the hills the other day I was given a drink called chicha. It was very strong, but not at all unpleasant… What’s wrong, why are you all staring?”

  Apart from Erskine, the rest were all gazing at me in astonishment. It was as though I had just admitted to buggering a llama. Cochrane stifled a snort of amusement and then Crosbie roared with laughter and the rest followed suit, leaving just Erskine and I staring around in bemusement. Apparently, the fact that we did not know what they were laughing about, just made it even funnier.

  “He turns his nose up at maté and then drinks chicha,” gasped Crosbie, which then had them all guffawing again.

  “Will someone tell me what on earth you find so amusing?” I demanded.

  Dr Craig held up his hand for silence, “Tell me, Flashman, do you know how they make chicha?”

  “I have no idea. The peasant who gave it to me had made it himself in a big stone jar.”

  “He did that all right,” said Cochrane, still grinning.

  “They make it with berries and grains,” began Craig.

  “Well that does not sound so bad,” I interrupted.

  “Aye, well wait until you hear how,” he continued. “They chew on the berries and grains and spit the resulting mess into a stone pot. They keep on doing this until the pot is full and then leave it to ferment.”

  “Are you telling me,” I whispered, appalled, “that I have drunk fermented peasant spit?” Craig’s reply was lost in more roars of laughter.

  Chapter 7

  It was on the next voyage of the Rising Star that I finally met the widow of HMS Doris’s former captain. She had stayed in Valparaíso after her husband’s ship sailed to continue its mission. Evidently, she had already met Cochrane as he had invited her as his guest.

  “May I introduce Maria Graham?” asked the admiral presenting her to me as we stood on deck waiting to weigh anchor. “You should have a lot in common as she has also been to India and toured the Mediterranean. Tell her about our adventures in the old days,” he added. And with that Cochrane slapped me on the back and moved off to supervise our departure.

  Maria stared after Cochrane in astonishment. “I do hope I am not inconveniencing you, sir. I am afraid that the admiral did not give me the privilege of your name.”

  I laughed. “Thomas Flashman at your service, ma’am. Please take no offence from his omission; he is just anxious to try out his new ship. So tell me, where were you in India?”

  It turned out that the naval man had been her second husband – the first had been an official stationed for a while in Bombay. She was one of the most well-travelled women I ever met. She had roamed far and wide in the countries she had visited and had a particular interest in botany. She was also well read and if you want to know more of life in Chile at this time, you could do worse than read the journal she published some years later. I feature in it with just an initial on several occasions and she even describes this trip on the Rising Star. Having travelled extensively by ship, she was no novice on nautical matters either as she was soon pointing up to the bare yardarms.

  “Should we not have sails lashed to those in case the engine fails?”

  “We should,” I agreed, “but the admiral is keen to show his confidence in the engines, particularly with the governor on board.” Zenteno had come on the ship with his daughter, a pretty young thing, who was too busy squeaking about smuts from the smoke stacks marking her dress to show any interest in the means of our propulsion. In contrast, Maria did want to see the engines and so I gave her a guided tour of the ship as we moved out to sea. She showed a lively interest in everything and made me laugh with anecdotes of her travels; I was soon warming to her even more. It turned out that she was right about the sails too, for as we approached the bay at Quintero where we were to spend the night at Cochrane’s estate, there was an ominous rattling noise from the engine. A bolt had sheared and we would need a blacksmith to replace it.

  “There is no cause for alarm,” called the admiral, emerging half-covered in soot and grease from the hold containing the engine. “We will drift in on the tide.” His optimism proved ill-founded a second time that day as a wind now steadily grew. By late afternoon it was apparent to all that Quintero was receding on the horizon, rather than getting closer. Reluctantly, Cochrane ordered sails to be raised but by the time they were aloft the sea was decidedly choppy. The squall blew us back down the coast and we ended where we had started, in Valparaíso Harbour.

  While both Cochrane and Erskine were frustrated and embarrassed by this failure of engineering, I did not mind a bit. For the journey had given me plenty of time to get to know Maria. With months to amuse myself before we sailed for England, I thought she was worth making a play for. I was no novice when it comes to the art of seduction and I knew that Maria would be a worthy challenge for my skills. She was as sharp as a tack and would soon spot any clumsy approach. On top of that, she had only been widowed for three months. But her eye had lingered on mine more than once and I was sure that with the right encouragement she could be mine.

  So for the next few weeks I courted her assiduously, taking rides into the hills so that we could be alone without creating gossip amongst the women of Valparaíso. I showed interest in the endless array of plants that she wanted to study and occasionally escorted her to what passed for society gatherings. Seducing a widow is like playing a salmon; strike too soon and you lose your fish, but if you take too long it will find interest elsewhere. For my Maria, I was confident that I had the perfect ‘fly’ to use.

  Lord George Byron has got more women into bed than any other man I know. For quite a few he managed it personally, but his rambling verse has also proved an invaluable tool many a seducer. God knows how, for it seems barely coherent to me. It just shows the difference between the sexes. I have always thought that The Flea by John Donne is a persuasive argument for coupling. But whenever I have tried it, the object of my desires has ended up refusing me and scratching imagined insect bites. But show me a woman
who feels that she is of artistic passions and I guarantee Byron will have her lowering the ramparts.

  As readers of my earlier memoirs will know, Lord George is an old friend and I picked my moment perfectly to tell Maria of our acquaintance. We had just polished off two bottles of the local red wine in her cottage when I brought from my pocket the copy of his latest work that he had inscribed to me. She even mentions the incident in her journal, although she neglects to detail what happened next. I reeled my fish in with ease that night, for it seemed she was quite besotted with his work. I read her one poem, which, to be honest, I did not even understand, and the next thing I knew her lips were on mine. The only rhyming couplets after that were of a more ardent variety on her bed.

  I left before dawn to avoid scandalising Valparaíso society with our liaison and felt quite pleased with myself. Byron had worked again and now I had some female company to help me see out the remaining winter months. As I pulled my cloak up against the chill wind it seemed strange that on the other side of the world, at that very moment, it was a summer’s day in England.

  My satisfaction was short-lived as two days later I received a note from Maria. She thanked me for the copy of Byron that I had left with her. Then she wrote that she was leaving for Santiago to meet some leading society people and then would be travelling further into the country. Suspicion gnawed at me as I realised that this trip would have taken some time to arrange and she must have known of her imminent departure during our impromptu ‘poetry evening’. She had not said a word then and I began to wonder if my assumption as to who was the ‘fisherman’ and who was the ‘salmon’ had been entirely correct.

  Maria was not the only one to venture to Santiago that month as both Erskine and Cochrane headed to the capital as well. Erskine was still hoping to finalise payment for the Rising Star while Cochrane, laden with Jackson’s rough accounts, was still trying to justify payments of wages for his crews and prize money. The fleet in port was once again close to mutiny as they had not been paid since they had helped themselves to the fortune taken from Peru. There had been more than one ugly incident in the port between resentful sailors and port officials. Cochrane was all too aware that he had to come back from Santiago with something for his men.