Flashman and the Emperor

by Robert Brightwell

  The emperor ignored the minister and leapt to his feet. “Come, Admiral, let us walk around the garden while you tell me what it is like in the British parliament.”

  Cochrane did not hesitate to spring up. “It will be my pleasure, sir,” he enthused as they descended the veranda steps to walk around the lawn. The minister excused himself and the rest of us sat there watching admiral and emperor patrol the flower beds. I was still fidgeting with impatience to get back to town, but the pair debating amongst the dahlias did not seem to be in any hurry. The emperor appeared to have the same vigorous and impulsive manner as Cochrane and they talked animatedly, with much waving of hands. Cochrane was old enough to be the emperor’s father, as Pedro was only twenty-four, while Cochrane must have been forty-seven then. The emperor was only nine when the royal family had been forced to flee Portugal to escape the invading French. Since then he had not left Brazil. He had enjoyed a very sheltered upbringing and now appeared to have all the confidence of youth as he found himself emperor of a huge new country. As I watched their discussion, I felt a growing sense of unease about what the pair of them could hatch up. With his usual reckless self-belief, Cochrane could hardly be considered a restraining influence.

  After nearly an hour of conversation the emperor finally departed, waving farewell to us on the veranda as he walked to the gate where a groom was holding his horse.

  “At last!” I exclaimed. “Let us get back to town.” My brother officers laughed at my impatience. Grenfell suggested that if my girl was half as good as I had claimed, she would already be entertaining.

  “It will be dusk soon and dark by the time we get to town,” he pointed out. “She will have hit the mattress already and you will either have to wait or come back tomorrow.” I suspected he was right and turned towards Cochrane, who was still showing no sign of haste as he strolled back to the veranda, lost in his thoughts.

  “Gentlemen,” he called as he reached us and then he stopped to look each one of us in the eye. “That man,” he declared, pointing to the now empty gate the emperor had just departed from, “is a ruler we can serve with honour. We have an opportunity here to help build a new country founded on liberty and justice. Brazil is rich in natural resources and humanity. We will protect her so that she can stand tall among the pantheon of nations.”

  The others were exchanging glances, puzzled at this sudden transformation in their commander. Just hours before we had been talking of plunder and getting rich; now we were apparently going to be nation-builders. But I recognised that familiar glint of zeal in Cochrane’s eye. I had seen it before when he had been a Member of Parliament, determined to rid Britain of corruption. It had been beaten out of him then with scandal and disgrace, but now he saw a new opportunity to build a Utopia. If I had possessed a shred of altruism myself, I might have warmed to his theme, but as it was, I was still mindful of reaching a much more personal paradise. “That is all very well,” I said. “But can we start tomorrow as I really want to get back to town tonight.”

  Cochrane simply shook his head in mock despair at my retort, while the others seemed glad I had lightened the mood. “The others can, Flashman, but not you.”

  “Why the hell can I not leave now?” I asked indignantly.

  “Because,” grinned Cochrane, “the emperor has arranged for his personal tailor to come here tonight to measure you for your new uniform at his expense.”

  They left me then, seething with impatience. As they strolled back to the carriage I distinctly heard Grenfell announce that as I would be otherwise engaged, he might go down to Madame Sousa’s himself.

  Chapter 10

  I did not get to see my Aphrodite that night or the two days subsequently. For when I sent word, I was told that the establishment had been hired exclusively for that period by a masonic group. During that time, Cochrane was still finalising the details of our appointment, as the minister of marine affairs was trying to haggle over rates of pay and seniority to other admirals in the fleet. Only after Cochrane threatened to take the issue to the emperor personally, was he finally confirmed as the First Admiral and Commander-in-Chief of the Brazilian navy. His command consisted of the Pedro Primeiro, four frigates and some corvettes and smaller brigs.

  Only after terms were agreed would Cochrane allow us to visit the ships. For all his talk of building a new world, he was also determined to receive his promised terms. But while we waited we were visited by an American officer, Captain Jowett, who commanded the frigate Piranga. While he was delighted with his new commanding officer, he told us that there were many in the fleet who were not. Until recently many of the officers and men had served in the Portuguese navy. It was partly through the accident of where their ship had been moored when independence was declared that they found themselves serving Brazil.

  Most had little stomach to fight their former comrades. Some sailors and officers had already left the fleet to avoid the imminent conflict and these had been replaced by inferior quality men. Jowett told us that the Brazilian government was paying less than half what a skilled seaman could get in the merchant service. As a result, it had attracted only the sweepings of the port that could not obtain a berth elsewhere.

  “The mess deck is full of stories that Cochrane is in league with the Devil, or that he will drag our ships into a disastrous battle against overwhelming odds,” Jowett told us. He then admitted that he had moved his ship further out into the bay after he lost half a dozen men who had deserted by swimming ashore the previous night.

  Our expectations were suitably lowered, therefore, when we finally got to board the Pedro Primeiro the next day. Even so the reality was still a shock. On the positive side, the timbers of the ship were sound and the cavernous hold held supplies for three months. But just about everything else seemed to portend disaster rather than an extensive career of plunder and instilling liberty.

  For a start, an admiral might reasonably expect a rousing cheer on boarding his flagship for the first time. But as piping from the bosun’s call died away, he was met with stony silence and a glare from some three hundred souls, with expressions that ranged from at best curious, to outright mutinous. Cochrane ignored the hostility, saluted the Brazilian flag and then raised his hat to the ship’s company.

  “I am pleased to have you all under my command. I am sure we will do important things together,” Cochrane announced in halting Portuguese, before making his way to the quarterdeck. If he noticed several of the sailors cross themselves as he walked near, he chose to ignore it. “Have my admiral’s pennant raised, Captain Crosbie,” he ordered as he climbed the steps to the higher deck.

  Captain Jowett on the Piranga must have been watching out for the admiral’s flag, for as soon as it broke out at the masthead, the guns of his ship started a seventeen-gun salute. Other ships in the fleet followed suit. With a nod from Cochrane, Crosbie gave the order to prepare to return the salute with seventeen guns from the Pedro Primeiro. “From the starboard battery, I think, as they face the fleet.”

  “With respect, sir,” spoke up one of the lieutenants. “It might be best to fire guns from both batteries.”

  “Why is that?” asked Crosbie.

  “The starboard watch is mostly Portuguese men, while the port guns are manned by the Carioca. To fire from just one side will be seen as a mark of favour to those gunners.”

  Cochrane and Crosbie exchanged a glance, but both could see the sense in the suggestion. There was no benefit in deepening a rift in the crew with their first act aboard. “As you suggest, Lieutenant, eight guns from both sides and fire the final gun from a bow-chaser.”

  Orders were shouted and with no great sign of haste, men went to do their bidding. Guns were drawn in, loaded and run out again ready for firing. It took twice as long as on a well-trained ship. The powder boys were not using the normal wooden canisters to carry the charges from the magazine to the guns, but instead running with the canvas bags containing the measured powder tucked under their arms. I noticed that
one of the sacks had split leaving a thick explosive trail of powder running the length of the deck, presumably all the way down to the magazine itself. Lieutenant Grenfell was quick to get men with buckets to clean it up.

  “Well,” said Crosbie with exaggerated cheerfulness, “I think if we don’t blow ourselves to kingdom come when returning this salute, we will be doing very well.”

  Even that eternal optimist Cochrane seemed slightly shaken by what he was observing. “We will need to mix the watches up once we are at sea,” he muttered so that only Crosbie and I could hear. “But we must have some more skilled hands to mould them into a proper crew.” He turned to Crosbie. “Tomorrow, have it made known all over the port that I will pay a bounty of eight dollars on top of whatever the Brazilian government is paying for every skilled British or North American seaman we can get.” Then he turned to me. “Flashman, go and see what state the marines are in, will you?”

  If I had thought the situation with the sailors was bizarre, it was nothing to that which I found when I inspected the quarters of the men who were supposed to be the soldiers onboard. Their commanding officer, Lieutenant Moreira, led me down to the deck where around half of the one hundred and thirty marines on the ship were resting and watching six sailors clean out their quarters. Apart from Moreira, all the marines were black and he told me that they were recently freed slaves. Quite what would possess a man to exchange slavery for the bondage of enlistment was beyond me. But it transpired that the government had not been buying slaves from owners, just offering freedom to those that enlisted. Consequently, most of the men on that deck were runaways. They had come from the brutal settlements on the outskirts of the city, where they survived in any way they could. They glared sullenly at us and whispered amongst themselves in some local patois I could not understand.

  “Why are they not cleaning their own quarters?” I asked. “They have nothing else to do now.”

  Moreira seemed embarrassed. “They refuse to clean their own quarters, sir. They say it is the work of slaves and the previous commander agreed to let the sailors do it instead.”

  “Good God!” I was astonished at the indulgence. “So are these precious buckos willing to get off their backsides to do any fighting? How many rounds can they fire a minute with the musket?”

  Moreira twisted the edge of his jacket before replying and refused to catch my eye. “We haven’t actually given them any musket training, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, I am sure that they would be willing to fight sir,” he said quickly, twisting his jacket again. “It’s just that we are not entirely sure who they would fight. Neither the Portuguese nor the Carioca watch are comfortable about having armed slaves on the ship. The families of several of them once owned some of these marines and they are fearful of retribution.”

  “So what possible use will they be in a fight if they are not trained with weapons? Do we even have muskets and ammunition for them?”

  “Yes sir, but they are kept under lock and key in the hold.” Moreira looked abjectly on as I surveyed my new command. Many returned my inspection with sullen glares, but I saw a few backs stiffen. I could not imagine what an escaped slave would make of this navy of conflicting factions. But I supposed the fact that they had refused to clean their own quarters proved that they had some pride in their new status.

  “Pick thirty of the best and join me on deck,” I commanded. It seemed long overdue that someone found out what these men were made of. Half an hour later I found myself in a cutter with a dozen sailors on the oars and thirty marines, complete with muskets and ammunition, heading for one of the sandbanks in the harbour that were exposed at low tide. When I explained to Cochrane what I was doing, he told me that I would have three hours before the tide came in again. Isolated in the bay, with no means of escape, I thought that the men would be more pliant to command. But Moreira still looked nervous as the boat ran up the little beach. For the marines to attack us on such an exposed piece of land would have been suicidal with the flagship nearby, so I did not really expect trouble. That said, I was still glad of the comforting feel of the Collier pistol in my pocket.

  I gave the order for the men to disembark, but nobody moved. They glanced suspiciously at me and at the weapons piled on the floor of the boat. Heaven knows if they thought I was going to leave them to drown on the sandbank or get the crew to shoot them, but I decided to lead by example.

  “Pick up a musket,” I called while obeying my own order, “and follow me.” They moved then and soon thirty marines were on the sand. Some stared apprehensively around them while others gazed in trepidation at the weapon in their hands. I had seen sergeants give musket drills to raw recruits countless times in my career and so I got Moreira to form them into a double rank. Then I demonstrated how to load and fire. A single gunshot rang out across the bay. Moreira repeated the instructions in Portuguese and I heard some of the marines translating in their own language for the others. I turned back to face the men.

  “Why do we not have spears on the end of our guns like the white soldiers?” It was a marine in the middle of the rank who had spoken; judging from the murmurs of men around him, he was one of their leaders.

  “Quiet, Mallee,” snapped Moreira. “You address the officer as sir and you don’t speak until given permission.”

  The marine ignored the rebuke. “You don’t give us the spears because you don’t trust us with them.” He glared at me, his chin jutting out, unmistakably challenging my authority.

  “They are called bayonets, not spears. And no, I do not trust you with them, or the muskets, until you can prove to me that you are worthwhile soldiers.” I looked him squarely back in the eye, “I want men who will fight with discipline, obey orders and beat the white soldiers that fight against our fleet. We will have to see if you can do that.” The marine gave a slow nod of understanding and I made sure that he was in the first group of six men to fire their guns. They had only seen me do it once, so we went through the steps slowly again. Even then, a couple messed up the priming, either putting too much powder in the pan or allowing it to fall out before the pan was closed. Mallee watched the others closely and did not make a mistake. Soon six more shots rang out. I was rewarded with six grinning faces. It is a special moment the first time you fire a gun, as you appreciate the power of the weapon in your hand. Soon all the men had fired once, those in the later groups learning from those who had gone before. They were clearly pleased with themselves, as though they now thought that they were soldiers. I formed them into a single rank.

  “A proper soldier is able to fire three rounds a minute and do so while other soldiers are firing at him.” As an officer, I had never completed the regimented drills that an infantryman does to make his fingers go through the loading process automatically. However, more than once I had fired muskets in battle. It is probably just as well none of the former slaves owned a watch, as I suspect it took me over a minute to fire off my three shots. My technique was rusty, but it was good enough. “Now,” I announced, turning to my audience, which seemed suitably impressed. “You will fire three shots as fast as you can, and anyone who fires their ramrod into the bay will be swimming out to get it.” Several grinned at that, especially when I added, “Don’t go swimming until the shooting has stopped.”

  It was deliberately an unfair test, as I wanted them to know that they had a long way to go before they were soldiers. Moreira had handed out the cartridges and gave the order to start firing, while I patrolled along behind the line of men to watch their progress. It was a disaster. The flints of two guns fell out and their owners spent the entire time searching for them in the sand. Half a dozen seemed to have problems with priming, opening another cartridge to prime the previous charge and then spilling much of the powder of their next shot. One man misfired with his first charge and then loaded a second one on top. He was lucky the gun did not blow up in his face. I only saw one ramrod arc into the air. But while most flailed around or panicked as M
oreira urged them to go faster, there were ten who were steadily and methodically firing. None were likely to finish in two minutes, never mind one. But as a member of the group was Mallee, I decided to teach the cocky bastard a lesson. I waited until he had just fired off his second shot and then, standing just behind him, I fired the Collier into the sky.

  He leapt a clear foot in the air, dropped his gun and whirled around. He seemed surprised to see my gun pointing into the air, but his hand had already dropped to a bone-handled hilt I now saw sticking out of his belt. I stepped back a couple of paces to give me room and dropped the muzzle of my gun to cover him. Moreira was at the other end of the rank of men and those on either side of Mallee had either not noticed what was happening, or had chosen not to get involved.

  “You have already fired your gun,” he grinned as he pulled out the blade.

  “Look again at the gun,” I told him calmly. “Are you willing to bet your life that the other chambers are not loaded?” I saw him examine the pistol again and notice for the first time its revolver action.

  “You are going to kill me anyway,” he stated, taking another step towards me and forcing me another step back. “They always kill a slave who threatens their master.”

  “Have you forgotten already, you are no longer a slave? You have your freedom.”

  He laughed at that and tugged on his red marine jacket. “Is this not more slavery?” he demanded. “I joined because I was a wanted man on the run. But stuck on that ship, I am no more free than when I was on the plantation. What can I do?”

  “Well, if you insist, you can die on this mud bank and have your body washed away on the tide. On the other hand, you could help your admiral. He is rather set on making this a better country.” He straightened up at that and watched me suspiciously as though expecting some trick. God knows what punishment they would inflict on a plantation slave who pulled a knife, but I did not want to kill him. For one thing, I would have probably jumped in the air and grabbed a weapon if someone had fired a pistol behind my head. For another he reminded me of an old Iroquois friend of mine, who was a very proud warrior. I suspected that Mallee was made from similar stock. I slowly put the pistol back in my pocket, but I was not foolish enough to take my hand off the grip. I could have fired through the cloth if he had come at me. I gestured at the fallen gun behind him. “I think you have one more shot to go.”