Flashman and the Emperor

by Robert Brightwell

  “Yes, and they are what is anchoring you to this pestilential shore,” I pointed out. “Think about it, if you do not have your guns, they must send you and your men back to Lisbon. In a few weeks, you could be strolling in the hills above the city and staring down at the Tagus Estuary in a cool climate, with no slaves or Brazilians in sight.”

  “I doubt that,” he snorted in derision.

  “What use is an artilleryman without guns? I’ll wager that there is no spare artillery park full of spare weapons anywhere near here. They will have to let you go home.”

  He thought about that for a moment and I watched the anger seep from him as he considered the possibility. “Do you know Lisbon well?” he asked, his voice softer now and I knew I had him.

  “Yes, I was in the army in Portugal for two years.” He obviously had fond memories of the place, whereas much of my time there had been when the city had been besieged by the French. Back then Lisbon had been hugely overcrowded and rife with disease. My memories were of a miserable place. Thousands of peasants died on the streets that winter; I often had to step around their corpses to get back to my lodgings. But for the colonel I conjured up happier memories of the coloured walls and red tiles of the city as you approached from the sea and the home of two sisters that I had stayed in for a while. By the time I had finished, he was piping his eye and readily agreeing that his guns had to go.

  It was dawn by the time we had finished. As the sun came up, just two sails could be seen on the northern horizon. One of those was probably the damaged merchant that had nearly run us down during the night. It had been arduous work hauling the gun barrels up from the hold with a block and tackle, and then swinging them out over the ocean to be released. The ship had been scoured for other weapons as well. Several score of muskets had splashed into the deep too. We had taken a dozen barrels of their powder over to the Emperor as it was decent quality, but the rest were rolled through a gap in their bulwark. By then, against the ship master’s protests, my marines had chopped down the mizzen mast, but we assured him that we would leave his other ‘sticks’ standing.

  Cochrane came over to the prize once the dawn had revealed that the surrounding sea was empty. He even apologised to the ship’s master for what we had been forced to do to his rigging. He checked the man’s charts were accurate and they discussed the best port for him to make for. Then, before I knew it, they had both disappeared below.

  “What are they doing down there?” I asked Grenfell when he came up on deck.

  He grinned. “One of our balls holed them above the waterline, but smashed the ship’s pump. The First Admiral of Brazil is currently in his shirtsleeves with the carpenter and the ship’s master working out how best to fix it.”

  A while later, with Cochrane still in his shirt and covered in oil and muck, we were making our way back to the flagship. He was pleased to have destroyed the enemy’s artillery, but now he was all for pursuing the infantry as well. “I want to be up with them by nightfall so that they know we are in the vicinity. I think we might try that again,” he announced. Then he pointed to something sticking out from under a canvas sail that had been draped over the bottom of the boat. “What is that?” he asked.

  I glanced over my shoulder to check that we were far enough away from the troopship before lifting the covering to reveal several long leather tubes and some black poles. “The colonel might have reluctantly agreed to abandon his guns,” I told the admiral, “but he would never have willingly surrendered these. I smuggled them out of the window of the stern cabin when he was occupied elsewhere.”

  “But what are they?” repeated Cochrane.

  “Why, they are his regimental flags. I have seen far too many good men sacrifice themselves uselessly to protect scraps of cloth like this. I thought you might want to present them to the emperor as trophies when we are finished.”

  Late that afternoon, we overhauled a damaged transport ship that had fallen behind the convoy. Under our guns it had no choice but to surrender. Soon a stream of muskets was going over the side as every soldier was ordered to jettison his weapon. While my marines went to work on the mizzen, I disappeared below. I searched the main cabin for any orders or other information of use, but found little beyond personal letters. But once again there was a rack of regimental flags and the coxswain brought the cutter under the stern cabin window, through which they were spirited away. By dusk we were underway once more and in sight of the main convoy, just as Cochrane had hoped. But there we found that the Portuguese admiral was employing a new tactic. Knowing that we only had one ship, he was splitting his fleet into two. The main group, including the flagship, was continuing to head north by north-east, but four ships were also breaking away to north by north-west.

  Cochrane spent ages studying both groups through his glass in the failing light and eventually decided that we would follow the smaller group. “They seem to be troopships and they are heading in a direction that will take them closer to the coast,” he announced. We altered course and by nightfall had discovered that this breakaway group was considerably faster than the main fleet, which was being held back by its slowest vessels. We crowded on sail, but were still a mile or two behind when the sun came up next morning. I could imagine the looks of alarm on the decks of the Portuguese vessels when they saw that we were still on their tail. The largest ship was the size of a frigate and we watched as signal flags rose to its peak. Then all four ships started to spread out, so that it would be hard to capture more than one.

  “Keep on the tail of that one,” ordered Cochrane pointing to the ship that had made the signal. If anything, that ship seemed the fastest of the lot. Our bow-chasers soon opened fire with chain shot in an effort to slow it down. It was extreme range for that sort of measure and there was no sign of anything slicing through their rigging. Instead, Cochrane started to give orders to trim the sails himself, squeezing every yard of pace from the ship. Grenfell and Crosbie were forced to join me as spectators in this demonstration of seamanship, as slowly but surely, we gained on our prey.

  When we were half a mile behind, Cochrane decided to chance a broadside to slow her down. It was a risk, as if we missed or did not cause enough damage we would lose several valuable minutes. The guns on the port battery were manned, loaded and run out so that not a second would be lost in preparations. Then with a flurry of orders, the Emperor slew around to point her port side at the enemy. Cochrane had already ordered all his gun captains to take their time and aim true. They did just that. As we wallowed about in the swell, gazing at the transport through our telescopes, in the first upswing of the guns only half a dozen fired, and with no noticeable effect. As the deck tilted again, more guns fired and this time her mainsail moved as one or more balls passed through it. It was on the third roll that the rest of the guns fired and at least some of those hit the hull. It was hard to see precisely what damage there had been, but the sun was now reflecting on only shards of glass in her stern windows. I tried not to imagine the effect of our cannonballs passing through the deck of the crowded troopship, as Cochrane gave the order to renew the pursuit.

  This time we came up on them handily, for several of their sails were holed and one was torn entirely. When we were just a hundred yards off, Cochrane turned our ship again to present a fresh broadside at what was effectively point-blank range. It had the desired effect: the Portuguese flag fluttered down in surrender. The ship was called the Gran Para and it was inadvertently to change the history of Brazil for ever.

  Chapter 27

  Grenfell and I were rowed across in the cutter and longboat respectively, for what was by now a familiar routine. But judging from the amount of gold braid on view, this time we were met with what appeared to be half of the Portuguese general staff. There were howls of indignation as my marines started to climb over the gunwales of the ship, with one stuffy lieutenant colonel swearing that he would go to hell in a handcart before he surrendered to ‘any damn slave’. I coolly pointed out that he was n
ot surrendering to slaves but to the forces of His Imperial Majesty, the emperor of Brazil. Then as Mallee leered on from the rail, I added that if he still wanted us to help him on his way to hell that could be arranged. There was a muttered conference among the officers at that, with several glances across to the Emperor, whose open gun ports were still pointed in our direction. For all their indignation, however, they could see that they had little choice. At length, the lieutenant colonel stepped back over, his nose wrinkled in disdain.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Madeira de Melo,” he announced himself. “I am the commanding officer of the former garrison at Salvador.” He swallowed and winced as though he had got a burr stuck in his throat and then added quietly, “I would like to discuss with you terms for an honourable surrender.”

  Well, if he thought he was going to walk away with his colours and weapons he was in for a disappointment. I pointedly stared down at the sword he still had at his hip. Tradition demanded that the sword be offered to the captor. If the surrendering party had behaved honourably it was normally returned. Madeira de Melo followed my gaze and after a moment’s hesitation he reluctantly unclipped the weapon and handed it to me. I turned it over in my hand. It must have been at least a hundred years old and had probably been in his family for generations. “You can have this back,” I told him as I started to clip the sword onto my own belt, “when you and your officers have signed a parole not to fight against the emperor again and your men have thrown all weapons and ammunition overboard.” He started to hop and gobble about at this, like a wild turkey shot in the arse, but I had not finished. “In addition,” I continued over his garbled objections, “my men will be cutting down the mizzen mast of this ship to force you to return to the coast west of here. There you will become prisoners of His Imperial Majesty to await his pleasure.”

  “This is outrageous,” the colonel squawked at last. “You have no right to demand such a thing.”

  “There is my right,” I countered, pointing to the flagship. “Now I require you to give the necessary orders to your men.”

  I almost felt sorry for him as he winced again as though in pain. A riot of emotions chased each other across his face. Twice he opened his mouth to say something but had second thoughts. Then at last he turned to face his subordinates, who had overheard the conversation and were watching expectantly.

  “Shall I give the order, sir?” asked the adjutant. All Madeira de Melo could do was nod. It was enough, for officers then moved forward to where their men were gathered and soon a steady stream of muskets was splashing into the water alongside.

  I left Grenfell to oversee the disarming and turned to Mallee and my marines, who, judging from their grins, had greatly enjoyed seeing the Portuguese colonel humbled.

  “Well don’t just stand there, we have work to do. You two come with me and the rest clear the quarterdeck and then get to work with those axes.”

  I went below, with one marine in front and one behind and the Collier in my pocket, not to mention the colonel’s sword at my hip. You never could be too careful when capturing a hostile ship. I went to what was left of the great stern cabin, which was now open to the sea on one side where the windows had been smashed. Having checked it was empty I left the marines on guard outside. It was patently the colonel’s cabin, and was dominated by an old, un-damaged desk that he might have brought out from home.

  I had gone below to find pen and paper with which to draft the document of parole for the officers to sign. But I was also hoping to find more regimental colours, which were normally kept in a commander’s quarters. To my delight, I discovered that we had hit what miners call the ‘motherload’ in that regard. There in the cabin was no less than a dozen of the long leather tubes used to protect a regiment’s flags. I went to the broken windows and yelled for the coxswain. In a moment, the longboat was at hand.

  “Just keep these hidden,” I told him as I bundled the tubes down into the boat amongst the grinning sailors. “And pass them up on the far side of the flagship.” Seeing his colours disappear would probably give the colonel on deck apoplexy. It took several trips from the racks in the cabin to the shattered stern windows. While I was passing them over I saw several evil grey shapes appear and start to circle the boat: sharks. I hated those bastards; it would have been the splashing of muskets into the water that had attracted them. In the past I had seen them fight over the contents of a swill bucket. Once, at a burial at sea, we had all tactfully ignored the sight of one of the monsters with part of the shroud caught in its teeth. It had splashed to the surface a few moments after the dear departed had been tipped over the side. I shuddered at the thought. Give me a quiet English country churchyard when my time came, although if I croaked my last on this trip, it would doubtless be the denizens of the deep instead.

  Having overseen the trophies covered in sailcloth and on their way to the flagship, I turned my attention to the contents of the colonel’s desk. While there were just a few hundred soldiers on this ship, the papers I found confirmed that there was a division of three thousand divided amongst the fleet. There were manifests and regimental returns and details of supplies and rations, the latter having been reduced over recent weeks. As this was the garrison commander’s desk I had hoped to also find some orders from the governor, but none were among the papers. A drawer in the desk was locked but a stout letter opener soon solved that problem. Inside I found a small purse of gold coins, which I pocketed. I was about to start drafting the parole when I noticed that the drawer was shallower than it should have been. Sure enough, there was a hidden compartment accessed underneath the drawer. As it sprang open a bundle of papers fell to the floor. A quick inspection showed that these were the missing orders and letters from other Portuguese officials. They showed that instead of returning to Portugal, the army was indeed heading back to Brazil. But instead of returning to Bahia as Cochrane had feared, they were going another one thousand five hundred miles to the northern Brazilian province of Maranhão. The letters included one from the army commander at Maranhão, which confirmed that there was already a sizeable force there. If the two armies were to combine, these professionally trained soldiers would be too strong for any force of Brazilian irregulars.

  I went to the door and sent one of the marines for Grenfell. When he arrived, I showed him what I had found.

  “But if they regroup in Maranhão Province, we can just drive them out as we did at Salvador,” he suggested.

  “No, it will not be as easy,” I explained. “At Salvador there were already irregular Brazilian soldiers obstructing the main supply route over land. That is why they had so few supplies when we blockaded the port. But at Maranhão they will have enough troops to sweep aside any opposition and ensure food and other supplies get through from the interior. We can blockade their ports for a year and they still would not need to surrender.” I pulled out a map I had found. “Look, they have a long coastline that we could not hope to cover fully. Ships could still get to and from Portugal. If we are not careful they could use Maranhão as a springboard to regroup and then retake other regions.”

  “It’s such a huge bloody country,” agreed Grenfell, suddenly sounding quite depressed. “It took a month to sail from Rio to Salvador and it would be another month before we reached Maranhão. So if we did get to Maranhão, it would take at least four months to get a message to Rio and bring some troops back, even if some were available.”

  “And all that time we will be missing the ships that are going back and forth,” I concluded. Grenfell was not the only one feeling down about this recent discovery. I had now been in South America for over a year and had been relishing the prospect of chasing the Portuguese all the way back to Lisbon. Once we were back in European waters, I was sure to find a way home to England. Then it would be on to Leicestershire and my wife and son, with prize money to follow that would return me to prosperity. But now everything had changed. I knew Cochrane; he would want to do whatever he could to thwart the Portuguese plans. T
he admiral was still enthused about his new emperor and the ideals and government he wanted to install in this new country. There was no way that he would be persuaded to run out on his monarch.

  I cursed myself for showing Grenfell the plans at all, for now I saw that things would have been much better if I had not found them or had destroyed them. But Grenfell hero-worshiped his commander and would never agree to keeping information from him. Well Cochrane might be my oldest friend, I concluded, but even friendship has its limits. I had come halfway round the world at his invitation, at considerable risk to my precious skin. I had spent more than a year risking disease, tempest, earthquake and enemy action. Enough was enough. They say that a friend in need is a friend indeed, but in my book a friend in need is generally a pest. If Cochrane thought that I was going to spend another year of my life blockading another godforsaken port in this backwater of a country, he was sorely mistaken. It was time to start to engineer my departure. We were bound to come across a homebound British merchant ship somewhere, perhaps around Maranhão, as it seemed to have a sizeable port. I was going to make damn sure I was on it.

  But all that was for the future, for now I just had to get off this troopship. So I told Grenfell to put the papers in his pocket and then go off and continue to supervise the disarming of the troops. Then I sat down and finally started to draft the letter of parole.

  An hour later and the mizzen mast was down, the muskets and most of the powder was over the side and the last of the officers were adding their names and signatures to the parole declaration. Things had gone surprisingly well. I had already unclipped the colonel’s sword in anticipation of its return, when a Portuguese officer came up on deck from below and whispered in the colonel’s ear.

  “You treacherous lying rogue!” the colonel shouted at me. “You have taken our regimental flags.” Then, to my astonishment, he reached into his pocket and took out a pistol. I heard a rattle of muskets behind me and knew that my marines must be levelling their weapons, but I held up my hand to stop them.